I've never been much of a comic book fan. I mean, of course, if I have some money and I happen to be by a bookstore, I might buy a manga, because I'm a sucker for fantasy and foreign things. If it comes from another country, it's cool, in my opinion, just because I've always been interested in traveling, just never had the opportunity. But things like Superman, Spiderman, Batman, et cetera never really appealed to me, so this was my first time inside the Karma Comics comic book store. It's actually not that far from my apartment, but I've never felt the urge to go inside and look around.

Even so, this case clearly resides in my territory. Brennan and Booth would be able to navigate their way around the neighborhood on their own, but I'm obviously the master of it, since I live around here. Brennan and Booth are both good at handling themselves out of their comfort zones but I felt strangely proud of knowing the area well.

"Wait a minute. Warren Granger was the skeleton corpse those kids found?" The store manager, a guy in his late twenties with a nametag in white and red that read Ellis, was surprised and really kind of missing the point of the question I'd asked. Then again, his friend is dead, so I suppose I could cut him some slack.

"Yeah," I nodded briskly. "Were you close?"

Ellis didn't answer. He was still caught on the whole skeleton corpse thing. "How long was he laying there, all… dead and stuff?" He had a slight detachment to his words, but more from a lack of English class than an effect of alcohol.

I glanced back to Booth for a moment. It's pretty much a given not to give specifics to anyone who didn't have a legal connection (such as his parents, or his siblings if he'd had any). "A while," I answered vaguely. "How well did you know Warren Granger?" I asked again, rephrasing what I'd asked three times already and growing slowly more irritated.

Ellis seemed to snap out of the spacey place where he'd been since we came in. "He came in here all the time. You know, he… uh, knew his stuff. He was a nice kid. Really, a nice guy," he repeated. Looking over the counter I could see that he was rubbing his palms together.

"Is there something you're not telling us?" I asked, raising my eyebrows in warning. Another perk to working near where I live is that my reputation precedes me. I'm not a bully or a gangster, but I do get into fights if I see someone else that needs help or if someone won't leave me alone. Being sort of a loner gives you a name when you oppose the social quos. It's like a dangerous version of high school.

"What do you mean?" Ellis asked quickly.

Booth picked up on it too, and thankfully, he wasn't making me do all of the questioning. "You seem a little nervous," he pointed out by means of explanation.

"Well, you just told me that someone I know is this rotting skeletal corpse that's been all over this morning's news!" He defended with bewildered looks and a slight stutter. "What do you expect?"

I managed to keep myself from jumping as a huge thump came from the second floor of the shop. It's not open to normal customers but sometimes it's a place for a party or hangout. There's no merchandise up there. With a muffled thud like speakers being turned up to full volume, a pounding rhythm of rock music started.

I turned back to the manager and raised my eyebrows in question. Brennan looked up to the ceiling. "Is there a party upstairs?" She asked with a frown of distaste at the music.

Ellis winced and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Oh… it's the, uh, Doomsday Group. I rent it out Thursday nights…" he explained quietly, looking uneasily between the ceiling and myself. I sighed and turned to go to the stairs, but he stopped me by calling out. "Hey, wait. Uh… Warren was actually… one of them," he finished uncomfortably.

I twitched and took a deep breath. "Oh. Well, if that's all you conveniently forgot," I sneered.

"Anything else you forgot to mention?" Booth demanded sharply. Now he was just as annoyed as I was by the stupid man's forgetfulness.

"No," Ellis said quickly, shaking his head rapidly. "That's… that's it, I think."

"You think," I repeated, shooting Ellis a scathing glare.

I slammed open the door leading to the attic. The upstairs wasn't furnished nearly as well; representing this part of the city, it seems kind of like it's an abandoned or run-down (or both) place, unlike the brightly-lit, personable comic store downstairs. Wallpaper was peeling and instead of carpeting, the floor was wood that had been tiled and polished at least ten years ago - hell, probably even before I moved back to D.C..

What? I love D.C., it's one of my favorite places, as far as residences go. But the foster system kind of goes all over America. I've lived in every region, including a place in Hawaii for a few months, and one time a foster family went to Alaska to celebrate their Christmas. I had to go with them because it's illegal in every state to leave a preteen in a house alone for an entire fortnight. No one was very happy, but we worked out an arrangement where the father gave me some cash and a curfew and I entertained myself out in the town before coming back to get yelled at and hit. But at least I got a souvenir tee shirt.

There was one time the family I was with actually went on a trip through the major cities closest to the States' border; I got a trip to Canada and Mexico as well as a drive through California. The travel was great, even if I spent the majority of the travel time getting my hair pulled by a six-year-old brat and getting yelled at whenever I snapped at the brat to leave me alone. I understand a child being unruly but that's just ridiculous. There's a difference between being a six-year-old and being a spoilt brat.

When I was thirteen, I spent late June through the end of September in New York. The foster family then was a mother, father, little sister, and a brother who was nearly eighteen. It wasn't too bad; no one hurt me, just screamed and bitched occasionally. I went to school in the daytime and when school wasn't in, I got a job mowing lawns to get money and then I'd go to museums and see the sights. It was a good time, until 9/11.

I'd been running errands and picking up the little sister from her daycare in the World Trade Center. The little girl was only four, and she'd gotten sick so they sent me to get her, since I walked by anyway. My school had been canceled because of a potential security threat when a window was found broken early in the morning.

I had just gotten the mail and had it tucked in my bag. It really did seem like a nice day. The sun was out, there wasn't bad weather - it was a bit warmer than I usually like, but it wasn't like I was going to get heat stroke.

I picked her up from the North building, but the teacher had to call the house to confirm with her mother that I was allowed to take her. While she was out of the room I took over the reading for her (she asked and I didn't want to seem rude). I happened to look out of the window halfway through one of the pages and I actually stopped reading. There was an airplane outside - I could barely see the American Airlines symbol on the tail - that seemed like it was flying awfully low to the ground. I passed it off as a misperception and continued reading.

About a minute later I looked up again and alarm bells went off. I could see the plane flying straight at the South tower. I jumped up from the rocking chair and ran to the window to see better, and then the airplane just flew straight into the side. I literally dropped the children's storybook onto the floor in horror, watching as the side of the building gave in.

I saw smoke first. It came out of the ruined building in swathes that danced up to the sky with a beauty that didn't fit the scenario. But then there was the red and orange of the explosion as the flammable materials in the South tower and the airplane blew up. Through the tower's windows I saw glass shatter in the opposite building and the plume of smoke and color exploded outwards.

I could already hear the screams.

I truly didn't know what was going on or what to do - I was only thirteen. But I left the window's blinds open even though I knew the children were scared. I could hear the fear in their voices as they yelled for their teacher in the office and they asked me what was going on and I couldn't even answer. The only think I could think was oh my God! The South tower was hit with an airplane!

I went to the phone on the wall and dialed 9-1-1, and for a moment all I got was the busy signal. No doubt, everyone else who saw was clamoring to report what had happened to the authorities. After a minute or so, during which I stared transfixed through the window with tears pricking my eyes, I got to an actual person. "9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

"My name is Holly Morrison," I had quickly spat, knowing they would ask sooner or later. Morrison had been the surname of the foster family. "An American Airlines flight was just crashed into the South tower of the World Trade Center!"

"Yes, we're aware," the strained voice of the operator had said grimly. "Can you tell us where you are? Is anyone with you hurt?"

"I - I'm in the North tower," I stammered, looking around the children and waiting for the teacher, who had quickly hung up upon hearing the screams, to come attend to them. "I'm thirteen, I was getting my sister home from the daycare early, no one's hurt but the children are all terrified - do the police have any idea what's going on?"

"I'm sorry, miss, I can't answer that," he said, which I knew was code for we have no flippin' idea. "I'm going to have to put you on hold, we have other calls coming in."

I had slammed the phone onto the receiver in a fit of frustration, jumping to the worst scenario. The airport was a long way away from here, so it seemed likely to me that the attack had been on purpose. The teacher and I ushered the children together and started to try to get them out of the room and we got down several floors, nearer and nearer to the doors, when I looked out the window again.

And this time I saw a United Airlines flight, low over the city and not far away and heading straight for the North tower, where we were. It got so close and loomed up high and then it crashed at an angle, the entire airplane flying itself directly into the side of the building and-

The singing to the music coming loudly from the stereo system snapped me back to reality and out of the horrific flashback. I couldn't remember ever being so frightened, a child in the middle of the al-Qaeda attacks on the Twin Towers. Four teenagers were in the room and relaxing, jamming out to their rock music. They were all dressed weirdly, like they were in cosplay, and there was only one girl. Her outfit was silky and light, and a streak of blue was dyed in her black hair.

I wrapped my arms around myself in a hug, shivering slightly. I hadn't relived it in so long. I suppose it comes from thinking about New York so soon after being involved in another bloodbath.

One of the boys, with a fake plastic shield who looked like he was trying to be a slightly modernized viking, noticed our triad and glared at Brennan. He paused the music from the stereo set. Seeing the hostility I stepped slightly in front of her, glaring right back at him as he leered. "Excuse me. This is a private function, so goodbye."

"Go ahead!" Brennan waved her arms at them to continue, not catching the rude 'get out' meaning. "Don't let us stop you from…" she trailed off uncertainly, frowning and narrowing her eyes at them. "...What are you doing, exactly?"

I looked back to her and shrugged, shaking my head. "It might be best not to ask," I advised.

Booth sauntered forwards, chuckling. Hands in his pockets, he nodded to Brennan and I. "Guys, these are actually real, live women, something that you don't see very often," he said by means of a lousy introduction.

The first man, who had shown us the door, so to speak, was not very impressed by us women. "And like I said, this is a private function. So-"

"It's the FBI," Ellis interrupted from where he lurked in the doorway. "Just cooperate for a moment. Please," he added, cowering slightly under a glare that the men sent him and looking down to his shoes.

"FBI?" The third man I'd noticed repeated in surprise.

The first stood up arrogantly, haughty. "I'm Yasutani the Terrible," he announced, stretching his arms down in front of him and cracking his fingers. "I speak for this clan!" Dear God. What have we walked in on?!

Booth and Brennan actually exchanged a look, unsettled. "Okay," Booth agreed easily, not willing to start an argument out of that. "Well, we'd like to ask you a few questions, if you're not too… uh…" He trailed off and coughed into his arm awkwardly. "...Busy."

Brennan didn't pick up on the tenuous attempt at respect. Instead of addressing the people, she spoke just to Booth and I. "The costumes, the social awkwardness, the active fantasy life…" she listed off. "The victim would fit right into the subgrouping," she finally concluded.

Booth cast an uneasy glance at Brennan. "Okay," he agreed with her. I had the feeling that he was just trying to get her to stop while she was ahead. "Hey, uh, Yakitori the Horrible," Booth called, snapping his fingers when he got the name wrong. "What's your real name?"

Yasutani tossed his head in irritation, annoyed at having his costumed party ruined. "Jeremy Kuznetsky." Good, now I can call him Jeremy instead of a crazy fantasy title.

"Do any of you people know Warren Granger?" I asked, carefully enunciating the real-life name.

The girl with blue highlights seemed much calmer than the rest of the three guys in the room. She cocked her head and her eyes went wide. "Something happened to Warren, didn't it?" She asked, blinking her big doe eyes at us.

"Warren's dead," Ellis interrupted from the doorway before Booth, Brennan, or I could get a word in edgewise. "He was murdered."

I rounded on the manager in frustration. Just when we manage to get a balance of calmness and he goes and announces that there's been a murder! "I never said anything about him being murdered," I growled, taking several swift steps back towards him. To my delight, he shrank back meekly behind the door frame. "Neither did the press!"

Jeremy scoffed at us rudely and looked away like we weren't worthy of his attention. "Well, obviously, if you're the FBI, he was murdered. You guys don't investigate people getting hit by a bus." I was kind of disappointed I couldn't argue that.

Booth shoved his fists in his pockets, already bored with the group. "When's the last time any of you have seen Warren?"

Jeremy looked longingly over at the speakers like he wanted to continue to deafen himself with them instead of answer our questions. "A couple of months ago, when he left."

"Left?" Brennan repeated in intrigue.

"Citizen Fourteen was one of us," Jeremy stressed. Then he rolled his eyes "Until he went psycho and bugged out. He called us all posers."

"Pathetic fantasists," the third man corrected.

I clenched my fists and gave a very sugary sweet smile. "Okay. Well, he's not wrong." We want to know about WARREN. Not a silly character.

Brennan looked between them but she recognized Jeremy as the leader, so her attention kept going back to him. "Was he wearing his, um…" she pulled at her shirt collar while she tried to think of the term. "Outfit?"

"His identity," Jeremy corrected quickly, pulling nonchalantly at the end of his cape. "Yeah."

"Why do you wear these identities?" Brennan asked, quickly adjusting to the new term. I think she was glad to have something to call it.

"For the game," the third guy I'd noticed stated it like it was obvious.

Booth and I both shared a look. It was pretty much a given that the next words out of his mouth had to be asked, no matter how ridiculous it seemed to us to kill someone over a fantasy game. "How seriously do you take the game?" The FBI agent asked, coughing slightly over the word 'game.'

Jeremy smirked, several strands of his hair falling down in front of his face in what served to make him look like one of those TV villains that think that looking ungroomed also makes them look sexy. "It's only fun if you take it seriously," he drawled. I was seriously beginning to want to punch him just to get that leer off of his face.

Brennan looked around the room of juveniles with a little frown. "Do you always play here?" She asked curiously. She seemed to almost be profiling the little cosplaying community - a true anthropologist. I should be ashamed of myself for having taken so long to figure that out.

The second guy, who didn't seem quite as inclined to be a smart mouth as the other two, scowled at Brennan and I took a protective step closer to her, warning the seventeen or eighteen year old to lay off the hostility. "You know, play isn't exactly the right verb," he complained, shooting me a 'lay off' look.

I reciprocated by balling my hands into fists. "You'll have to excuse her," I said with sarcasm coating my voice. "She doesn't quite grasp the stupidity of the less highly evolved and their primitive cultures." I'm all for some cosplay, but these guys are just taking it way, way over the top. They practically launched via cannon over the proverbial line.

Jeremy scoffed and looked over at Guy No. Two. "Don't even try to explain it to them," he ordered with an air of dismissal.

I thought that things couldn't get more rowdy if the entire staff of the Shanghai circus crowded in the room with us, but was unfortunately proven incorrect when the only female of the group (with admittedly cool blue highlights) jumped to her feet, swaying only slightly. "Shut up!" She screamed, her black nails marking into her pale hands. "Who cares? Didn't you hear? Warren is dead!"

Guy No. Two rolled his eyes in annoyance as the girl freaked out. "It's okay, Minnow!"

"You, what's your name?" Booth asked sharply, withdrawing one hand from its pocket in order to point at her for interest.

She swallowed as she went straight from background to foreground. "Blue Minnow."

I groaned in intense frustration, and I could tell that I was not the only irritated one by the way that Brennan sighed and shook her head and how Booth half turned away and closed his eyes, wishing for patience. "Okay," I growled, crossing my arms. "When we ask for your names, we want your names, not fantasy aliases!"

The girl bit her lip for only a moment. "Abigail Zealy," she supplied reluctantly. "Citizen Fourteen was my partner."

"Is that what you called Warren? Citizen Fourteen?" Brennan asked. I could see the thoughts move across her face as she tried her best to understand the subculture she was observing.

"Citizen Fourteen was my partner," Abigail repeated, sounding more insistent. "Warren was my friend."

Jeremy and Guy No. Three snickered as Jeremy wolf whistled. "He was a little more than that," he crowed.

Abigail was, understandably, bothered by this. She squeezed her eyes shut and took long strides around Brennan to get to the door. Ellis tried to stop her, putting out his arms and repeating the word 'hey' in what was intended to be a soothing tone, but the girl just shoved past. Brennan's eyebrows drew together as she turned to me in confusion, wondering if she should have tried to stop Abigail.

"We know her name. We can find her if we need to," I told the anthropologist calmly. "Let her go for now." I threw Jeremy a dirty look for good measure.

Brennan shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking sideways out of the SUV window to the comic store. "I don't like to judge an entire subculture, but those people gave me the creeps," she confided.

I raised my eyebrows and nodded. "That's probably because they were creepy," I advised. "I spent a majority of my time in this neighborhood before meeting you, and they still made me uneasy." I frowned after a moment when I realized that I sometimes set people on edge, too. "When I say that, I mean that they aren't the 'math and science tutor' geeks. They seem more like the 'wear all black and become arsonists' geeks."

"She's right," Booth agreed with a sigh, twisting the keys in the ignition. "They're the dark nerds, the columbine nerds."

"Columbine?" Brennan repeated in surprise. She looked back over to Booth quickly. "You think Yasutani the Terrible's actually capable of murder?"

"I think, you know, they get high, they play these games, they lose their grip on reality. And they start to believe that they are these characters." Although he didn't seem the most comfortable talking about it, the theory made reasonable sense. I could buy it.

Brennan looked over and sighed. She propped her head back up onto her knuckles, pressing her elbow against the window. "You mean, like Warren, out fighting crime." She was saddened by the thought - I understood that. An isolated, antisocial kid killed trying to seek justice - however misguided his methods.

"You know, maybe Warren and that guy, the leader, Yasuhama-"

I interrupted Booth quickly, raising up one hand in the rearview mirror for a moment. "Yasutani," I corrected.

"Yeah," Booth agreed quickly, probably just wanting to not cause dissent in his ranks. "Yasutani the Terrible. Maybe him and that guy, they got into this, uh, magic fight, and it became real."

I smiled for a brief moment - I just love having these conversations. Even if it didn't last it was still great to feel like part of something better than everything else that I've lived with. "So, it wasn't Warren Granger who was murdered. It was his alternative ego, the Citizen Fourteen from his comics."

Through the rearview mirror, Booth's eyes looked to me for a brief moment before he switched back to looking at the road. "And they're so delusional, they don't even know that they've committed a crime." He agreed.

"I'll get Hodgins to see if there's any signs of drug use in Warren's hair," Brennan volunteered, before going back to looking out the window, seemingly transfixed by the passing buildings.

We announced our presence in Angela's office with the echoes of our footsteps, which I noted were all fairly distinctive. Brennan wore dressy shoes with a bit of a heel and they clicked on the tile. Booth's made sharp thuds when the soles of his neat, collected black flats hit. I walked slower, staying behind them, and my sneakers just thudded dully aside from when the rubber squeaked slightly. Goodman and Angela were standing close together, both leaning over Angela's touch pad. One of the reconstructed comic pages was covering the monitor of Angela's big computer.

"Can you really pull all that information from a comic book?" Angela asked, sounding very impressed. Booth and Brennan pulled apart and I moved in between them, thinking for a moment how easily we had gotten used to moving around each other.

When Goodman replied, there was a bit of pride in his voice. "Absolutely. All writers reveal more of themselves than they intend on every page."

Booth shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head. "You know, I have to tell you that I never bought all that English 101 stuff. Sometimes a river is just a river."

Brennan nodded along with Booth in agreement. "All due respect, but my writing, for example, is pure fiction."

Goodman raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms, making himself more comfortable. "Dr. Brennan, I fear you reveal much more of your world view in your writing than you realize."

Brennan's eyebrows drew together and she cocked her head. "Such as?"

I bit my lip. There were plenty of ideas indirectly expressed in her most recent book alone that spoke about her personal beliefs and values, but I really didn't want to be the first one to tell her that. Thankfully, Goodman spared me by doing it himself. "Such as, archaeologists make good administrators because they enjoy tedium."

"Such as, artists are doomed to a life of loneliness because they aren't able to think beyond instant gratification," Angela offered, giving her friend an apologetic but honest half-smile.

Saved from self-sacrifice, I gave Brennan a little smile to show that I wasn't offended when I added, "Such as, adolescents raised without matured models to influence behavior have delinquency trends and juvenile attitudes."

Booth had a very masculine smirk as he shrugged one shoulder casually. "Such as, you know. FBI guys are hot, and Angela here wants to have sex with me."

I rolled my eyes when Angela nodded emphatically and said, "Yeah." She didn't even bother denying it.

Brennan frowned and let her hands fall to her sides, realizing that we wouldn't just make that up and also probably finding the statements congruent with her perspectives. Uncomfortably, she tried to change the subject away from her by moving the focus back to the case. "All I'm suggesting is that while Dr. Goodman goes through Warren's writing, we should concentrate on the hypothesis that are congruent with forensic evidence." The other four of us all exchanged knowing looks, but none of us stopped her. "I'm going to take another look at Warren Granger's remains."

Brennan stood over the exam table, bent in half with a pair of latex gloves and an open lab coat. Now, her hair was tied up in a messy bun at the nape of her neck, several rogue strands defying her orders and falling around her neck. On the other side of the table with the bones, Zach sat on a stool, his heels pressed against the lowest bar with a D.C. Comics graphic novel in his hands. His coat was on but he was letting Brennan work on her own for the moment.

As for me? I had my hands full with the reports pertaining to the evidence found at the crime scene. I was reading over it and occasionally asking Zach about the quantities, but nothing really seemed any more out of place than Warren Granger's superhero costume.

Zach poured himself over the comic like it was the most important thing he'd ever seen. "In the last twenty-four hours, I've read several dozen comic books and graphic novels."

Brennan wasn't quite as interested in the comic and manga world. "Did Hodgins find any sign of drug use?"

I shook my head in the negative. "Not a trace."

"They've quite interesting," Zach continued, regardless of Brennan's clear disinterest. "The graphic novels, especially."

Brennan must have heard, but she didn't reply to it. "After you clean the bones, look for scoring on the occipital condyle and the inferior nuchal line," she instructed, turning one of the cervical vertebrae over to check for damage.

Zach nodded, but he still had that sort of distant half-smile. I made a mental note to remind him later in case he wasn't actually hearing it so that he wouldn't get in trouble. "They're basically a retelling of the Greek myths, with all the superheroes standing in for Hercules, a half God, half human."

"Okay, be very careful here," Brennan advised, setting the vertebra back down in its place. "X-ray shows fragmentation of the cervical vertebrae consistent with sharp force trauma."

"Invulnerability, super strength, heightened senses, telekinesis…" Zach listed off with a dazed smile. "I would love to have some of those powers."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Are you in your teens or your twenties?" I asked rhetorically with a little smirk. "Daydreaming is what the unprofessional seventeen year old is supposed to do."

"Is it an odd desire?" Zach asked me in confusion.

I sighed a bit before resigning to have one of those rare moments when I actually let people see emotions other than anger and happiness. "Why would you fantasize? You're smart," I emphasized. "It's normal to have some odd incidences because of media we're exposed to. When I was five or six, I pinned some celery to my jacket because I thought it looked cool. I'd seen it on Doctor Who." I blushed. I hadn't ever told anyone that. It wasn't too ridiculous, given my age at the time, but… wearing celery? I'd lost that childhood naivety a long time ago. "Lots of boys wear capes in their youth and run around because they've seen it in a superhero comic or cartoon. But you have so much more potential than that."

Zach frowned at me. For what it was worth, we were alone. Brennan was listening but she was letting us have our moment. She did look up when I mentioned the celery accessory and stared at me for a minute, but made sense of it when I said it was a TV thing. "In some ways, my intelligence is a handicap. For one thing, I'm weird. For another, I tend to make people feel stupid, and they resent me for it."

"And you think it's any different with superpowers?" I countered softly. I let that float for a moment as Zach frowned at the floor, realizing that I was right.

Brennan straightened abruptly and I looked over to her in question. "The victim was stabbed here, at the base of the spine. The spinal cord was severed. That's what killed him."

I nodded slightly to Zach, signaling that finding the cause of death marked the end of the emotion-revealing conversation. Zach nodded to me in turn with a degree of gratitude. "I'll clean the bones and try to match a weapon to the damage done," he said.

"Which will make you a real hero in the real world," Brennan told Zach honestly, resting her hand on his shoulder reassuringly for a second on her way past him.

I joined Angela and Goodman up in Angela's office again while Brennan went to fill out cause of death in the official report and Zach prepared the bones to be cleaned by his pet beetles. After telling them how Granger had been killed, I looked to the screens and stood slightly off to the side while they continued their work, going through and interpreting Granger's comic.
Currently, we were looking at the digital recreation of a page. A beautiful blonde woman wore a dark leotard and levitated, long hair blowing behind her. Her skin glowed a soft, eerie blue and she cowered from a much larger figure, colored only with blacks, greys, and browns.

"ln this restored panel from the second and final volume of Citizen Fourteen, we begin to see a female presence - beautiful and ethereal - whom he calls the Opalescence," Goodman explained patiently to me, not seeming bothered by having to backtrack for my benefit.

"A girl he literally can't approach," Angela added, then frowned slightly. "What if Warren was only… you know… supplying his own masturbatory materials?" She suggested.

Goodman inclined his chin, considering it. "Yes," he mused. "A lonely, adolescent boy."

I sighed and shook my head. "It goes beyond bedroom fancy, though." I pointed at the figure looming threateningly over the Opalescence. "A pretty woman wearing next to nothing, sure. But the antagonist is unnecessary and takes the story to another dimension of fiction."

Angela nodded in agreement. "Here, we see the idolized female Opalescence cowering before a dark male figure referred to only as 'the Twisted.'" She used her touchpad to make the computer zoom in on the Twisted.

"And Citizen Fourteen wants to rescue the Opalescence from the Twisted," I clarified. "Could that be his mother and stepfather?"

Goodman frowned. l took that as a no. "There are elements of romantic love." Oh. Well, definitely a no, then. "This girl, surrounded by blue."

I snapped my fingers suddenly in realization. "There was a girl in Warren's club with blue highlights. Her costume name is Blue Minnow. Her real name is Abigail. She seemed most upset about his death."

Goodman nodded quickly, looking at me in slight surprise. "I'd say she's definitely worth questioning."

A/N: I WAS NOT in the attacks on the Twin Towers. Out of respect for the victims that were, I am keeping it as historically accurate and realistic as I can. If anyone is offended by how I attempted to use the horrific events of 9/11 in my story, please, PLEASE let me know so that I can delete the flashback in this chapter immediately.