I resumed my duties with all the fervor of a energized and intent man back from vacation. Energetic, because this was routine; it required little thought and solace from the chaos of Vacation. Focused, because an air of frustration wasn't a bad thing to have. It wasn't wrong, either, the best actors are able to mix truth with their performance. For me, everything in the past two weeks had been frustration incarnate. First the Osborn job had gone well, with the sighting of a semi-pro Hero in the uneasy range. That lead to an uncertain contract with the Brotherhood; that chaos, wound up with my having to contact said semi-professional Hero to help counter a professional Villain.

My life was a soap opera. Only without the romance, doctors, and fun stuff. Just tension and bad actors, pretending everything was normal.

The front desk was open, right on schedule. Paying employees the wages they earned was a great way to maintain personnel. It worked better than all the parties, congratulatory stickers, and motivational posters I'd ever seen used; who knew? Giving them time off made them more willing to take extra time at odd hours, say when I needed a quick break for another job. Flexible hours, time off, and all the appropriate holidays just made it easier, and rendered Gladheim Glen a reputable place amongst the working class.

That was, the class that worked jobs paying less than enough to buy solid gold sinks. I could afford gold sinks, but only if the world at large ignored someone flashing money around. No, the best way to avoid problems was to avoid looking like a potential target.

With a restrained sigh, I pulled out the license forms. Every public facility – or at least, semi-public – is required to have licensed utilities, elevators, safety inspections, and so forth. The number of forms requiring submission are about as interesting as drying paint with a rotary fan, but it's necessary. At the same time, it builds cover; a diligent manager must do the paperwork necessary, should he not? It might make more sense to do it in an office, but doing it at the main desk suggested an air of efficiency, that the owner is willing to do the dirty work.

That didn't mean it wasn't boring. By now the only thing keeping the insanity-inducing activity from driving me that last little distance into full villainy was the mental calculations. Calculating the next inspection date, checking the investigator license numbers, verifying quality control checks. Sure it would've been faster to run everything through software, but … there's no need to beat upon that particular drum. Again.

In the middle of cross-referencing a water-purity schedule with the apartment calendar, something triggered a sixth sense. It wasn't anything like a Hero's personal radar or the mystical-mumbo-jumbo preventing the Sorcerer Supreme's domicile from being burgled. This was a result of experience, prior events giving gentle reminder that my home was not always safe.

In short: I was being watched.

This was not a new sensation. Anyone living in a crowded city understood the feeling, and grew used to a million eyes perceiving all. The general public, in its million acts of adorable stupidity, encouraged such an attitude in social media, trying to focus attention into their own lives, flinging images, quips, and videos into the ether. It was as if they truly believed someone was interested in their toasted bagel, or wanted to have a chat with them in a swimming pool, all the while hoping that if they could be just a little more engaging … the world would fall into their laps. Such behavior felt akin to some villains I'd seen.

Jealousy was not the issue here. I couldn't post on any social media if my life depended on it. Well … I could, but my particular curse would fry the hard drive in a New York Second.

'Getting far from the point here. Who's watching me?'

That was an interesting question. The Glen was a private apartment complex, built to withstand almost anything short of nuclear bombardment. That's why the cellar was constructed with more exacting standards, and the actual cellar could sustain my brother and I for decades before running out of initial supplies. Power alone wouldn't be a concern for over a century, given the care we'd taken in that regard, plus myself.

So how was I being watched when all I was doing was my usual rounds? Not even that; I was checking over license printouts, boring upon boring. Or perhaps the paranoia was just in my head. The last few days had been intense beyond almost anything I'd done before, risking identity and health for stupid heroic acts.

'Not heroic, just taking a bad situation and giving it to someone else.' The clarification was helpful, bringing my thoughts back on track. 'Another definition of hero: expensive funerals. Avoid that. Avoid that like a Goblin's rampage.'

Still, the fact I felt antsy in my own center of operations meant I needed to relax. Perhaps I needed to visit a good museum, some place with work-related themes, without actually working? I could work on my artistry too, bring a sketchpad, some pencils? Working with my hands was calming, and having samples of what the local supply had on offer was always nice. Maybe I could work on my forgery skills too, copying the signatures of famous artists.

'Not work,' I assured myself. 'Play. Get a few ideas, make a few sketches. I should use that artist student identity, a little mix of Unlucky-Celebrity with Academic-Snootiness. Yes. Sounds fun.'

The planning stage took a bit of time. Rushing jobs meant squeezing deadlines, rendering efforts for casual actions moot. The key to a successful disguise was to disassociate everything with it; no connected jobs, friends, nicknames, and whatnot. Those without my particular blessing were far worse off, having to create new social media accounts, abandon old contacts, reprogram new devices with complete identities … there were some aspects that I considered more of a blessing to myself.

'A French tourist,' I decided. There were enough stereotypes going around that the classics would be accepted. 'Art student, on break from college. No, l'université. A private school near the Alps, or Pyrenees? Maybe a reference to Andorra? Yes, a few stories about hiking would be good. Goats, avalanches, fair mademoiselles and dashing monsieurs. Throw in a pirate or two – no. Too far. A good friend whom's ancestors were pirates, yes.'

Such cogitations made the time fly by, although the air of being watched failed to end. I needed this break more than I thought.

Decision made, I filed the licenses back in the cabinet, along with a few books I'd checked out for studying, and headed for the stairs. It had been a while since I'd portrayed an artist. Perhaps a touch of French snobbishness would be entertaining? Yes. The character's physical traits fell into place, assembling in my mind as the doors closed behind me. Fun would soon commence.

Collecting my disguise took perhaps forty-five minutes, that time again to put it on. An exceptional disguise meant spending hours in prep, dying hair and molding bits of artisan-safe polyvinyl chloride into convincing flesh simulacrums. Half of that time was making sure the bad wig was almost not a bad wig – the hair beneath the wig looked authentic by comparison. A little color around one eye, mis-matched colored contacts, and the physical form of the mental persona was born.

"Going out?" my brother rolled to a stop outside the bathroom. It was a big one, large enough for his chair and all my cosmetics.

Don't judge. Wheelchairs are hard to maneuver.

"Ayup," The second contact stung going in, but I blinked it off. "Headed to the art museum."

Tyler made an interested noise. "Should I … prepare?"

"Nope," the word finished with a popping sound. "Doing some practice, that's all."

"Good," Tyler backed a little, then re-angled away. "They are having an exhibit on Impressionistic art this year. The lobby could use a Monet or two."

I chuckled.

Amongst all the art museums in the world, the Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of my favorites. Its very design reminded me of an ancient castle, combined with a warehouse and a little bit of a temple. The pillars in front were reminiscent of some ancient shrine, dedicated to the muses whose fruits rested therein. Modern art was worth a lot, if the right sucker could be located, but everyone adored the works of the masters.

Today I portrayed Pierre Alconne, art student from a foreign land, bright-eyed and interested in all the bounties my travels could bring. To that end there was a sketchpad in hand, with which I would be paying my respects to those who had gone on before.

In that respect, a museum was a temple indeed. How many petitioners had sought instruction from the Masters? How many jobs had I perfected while walking amongst their works? In truth art was indeed a thing of beauty, an inspiration to the well-honed mind.

The museum's main entrance stood in what they called the Great Hall, an open passage filled with a main desk and gawking tourists. Bypassing that edifice to monetary fecundity, I strolled further back and past the Met store. For a moment I pondered observing their medieval armor; there was a little hankering in the back of my mind to try my hand at blacksmithing. But the urge wasn't strong enough to override my urge to see the masterpieces again.

Climbing the staircase brought back the sensation of a humble supplicant, seeking to give homage, a pilgrimage, as it were. On the second floor rested my targets, paintings from before the nineteenth century, works by Albrecht Durer, Monet and Rembrandt, names that commanded more respect than those of the five most powerful living rulers. These Masters had stood the test of time, living politicians had to prove they were worth the air they breathed before they could even begin to work on their legend.

I sat down in a wide leather seat, pulling out my sketch pad with a happy snap. The paper rustled while I found my pencil, a nice HB to begin the outlines, which would then be followed by the 2B and 4B for shading.

For a moment I considered working on the painting itself. I'd be doing it anyway, but to start without putting myself in the mental framework of the original artist? No, practicing the last applied ink would put me in the right frame of mind, and provide excellent practice for future endeavors. A good signature was worth its weight in rare earths, far more valuable than mere gold. Monet then, an examination of his 'John Hancock.'

I snickered to myself. How many wouldn't even know where that saying came from? More people needed to study their own history. 'Enough giggling. Work.'

'Even loops, tall ascenders,' copying a decent signature took practice. Monet preferred to blend his in with the artwork, dark blacks on deep green, dry brush work adding another layer of difficulty. His earlier works lacked a first name, and many lacked a name period. 'Four digit year or two? Let's practice two. Later. Can't have only signatures visible in public.'

Shoving thoughts unworthy of Alconne to the back of his – my – mind, I began the rough sketch. Light strokes began to fill the paper's surface, bringing faint images into focus. Impressionistic art specialized in conveying the subject through indirect depiction, like pointillism, but done well.

Visitors drifted close to see the funny man performing his tasks, then departed. A few children lingered, only to be chivvied away by nervous parental figures. Some went more willing than others, as in the custom of international youth. Receiving a blow to the leg just allowed me to practice my French nomenclature, and resolve to acquire another few bolts of Kevlar-weave fabric. It did nothing to stop energy, but sharp edges could be blunted at least.

Time passed.

I lost myself in the art, in the moment. Though the mediums were different, I could gain a sense of the Master's long since passed, observing their toil in each brushstroke, emulating their styles. Through their artwork hanging on museum walls, Monet's character showed a deep certainty, thin strokes depicting light and its contrasts. By comparison, Renoir's attention to shadow conveyed enthusiasm, bold strokes and a sensual intensity. Narrow precision and broad power, different methods from men at the apex of their craft.

Both had their strengths. To be fair, I preferred both of them over Degas's umbral tones. The man was obsessed with ballet – or perhaps it was just the culture expected in a different time? I wouldn't judge.

When portraying someone else, strengths are brought to bear; the subject of the imitation, or to be more accurate, what I could become, became my own. To become the role meant to let go of Knut's failures, and gain the successes of the intended role. But, as with everything, there was a catch: in order to gain the strengths of the role, the weaknesses were acquired as well.

To lose one's self meant to be vulnerable, leaving myself open. Weaknesses Knut could never dream of having spread wide-open in the role of another. Characterizations ironed out of my personality formed exposed wrinkles, out in the open for anyone to see. If my new character were a genius, focused on art, then a genius I would emulate – to the detriment of my own strengths. Say, spatial awareness.

A hand touched my shoulder, jarring my concentration.

"It is beautiful," an almost familiar voice murmured. It belonged to someone that shouldn't have been here, that belonged in another place. Where?

"Oui," I resorted to pure charm, smiling at the masterpiece hanging beyond. "They are incroyable, no?"

"Incredible indeed," the speaker moved into sight. She was easily recognizable, to someone that had cleaned up the consistent damage done to windows – damage from the outside in, in all oddness.

'Felicia Hardy,' my grasp of the art student remained intact, but I had to focus. My tenant wore what could be described as a crop-top shirt, supported by a denim shortened jacket. It was clear she had money, given the bangles on one wrist, necklace, and large pendant which dangled before my eyes. Yes, my eyes were focused on the pendant, not on anything else behind it. 'What is she doing here?'

I let my grin broaden. "Madmesoille, you have good taste."

The blonde women flashed a teasing grin. "So I'm told. Are you new to this country?"

"Ah, no," I laughed. How could I spin this? Did she recognize me? "I visit quite often. My maman is of here and would not forgive me if I not did pay respects to my fellow countrymen – ah, did not, of course. The best art is French, as you know."

The woman sat down, angling so one knee almost touched my own. "Art and France seem to go together. I love to visit the Trianon Estate when I'm there."

She was familiar with France. Shoot. Murphy's Law was strong with me this week.

"Versailles? The jewel of Europe?" Where had that come from? Memorizing book after book of specialized literature paid off, even if the conscious mind remained ignorant. My next phrase came out with a little too much feeling. "I am fortunate indeed."

"Oh?" her expression had an interesting pout, as if she were playing. "How is that?"

"Surrounded by beautiful art, talking with a beautiful woman about the beautiful wonders of my homeland?" That was over-the-top. Very much so. But the only thing to do in this case was to sell my act, and sell it hard. Up the ante, push the envelope, and then run like hell before she saw the bill. "Tell me how my luck is in any way poor."

She giggled. "Merci beaucop. I am Felicia Hardy. A pleasure."

"Pierre Alconne," muscle memory was a fabulous thing. It kept my hands moving, drawing her own hand close for an air-kiss over the knuckles. "Enchanté."

Twice. Twice in two days Miss Hardy had found me. How was this possible, and why was she doing it? Once was an accident, twice was no coincidence. Anyone could pass it off as a mishap but staying safe assumed nothing.

Felicia scooched closer, leaning a shoulder against my own, treating personal space as if such a concept were a mere rumor. "I find hobbies interesting. So many different interests, such little time. Do you like music?"

She knew. That was a definite giveaway. How had she found me? No – had to stay in role.

"The best music, yes. Debussy, Ravel, Lully, Saint-Saëns …." My body remained relaxed; tension ruined an actor's talent faster than a lawsuit. "Although I must admit," my voice dropped, as if sharing secret confidence. "Bach is étonnant in any country."

The woman nudged my side with surprising force. Her arms were muscled, more than most heiress's I'd seen; more than some, less than others it had to be said. It was a strange fact but young fools with much money tended to work out, most often to appear attractive. Celebrities and professional models acquired muscle with care; excessive lumps of muscle appealed to perhaps a few niche groups, but rolls of fat were attractive to none. I'd acquired materials from enough over-paid establishments to understand this basic premise, and Miss Hardy possessed far more muscle tone than the average brat living off her parent's inheritance.

That lead to another thought: what did I know about Felicia Hardy? Wealthy, attractive, daughter to a single mother, no father known. Tyler had run multiple background checks, multiple times since she was the owner of the penthouse floor. But things didn't correlate.

"- and I thought I might run into a friend or two if I went to the Met," her blue eyes gleamed in amusement. The woman knew how to control herself, the way she'd contorted her back to make her impressive bosom approach-but-not-touch, all while balanced on one thigh, other leg extended. It was teasing, inviting, all calculated to entice and distract. I was in the presence of a true master.

I shifted forwards, instead of away from the hovering décolletage. A vague sense of heat passed my left rear pocket, an 'accidental' arm missing direct contact. This was on purpose. That had been a professional fluff-and-flirt, pickpocketing technique. Different facts fell into place like a domino column. It made sense on so many levels; rich heiress's could go anywhere and excuse it as supposed eccentricity, view anything they wanted, buy the best equipment and training, the list went on and on. But it summarized thoughts into a single point.

Felicia Hardy was a thief.

A mild diversion of my own – gesturing at the painting with my sketchpad – allowed me to shift the wallet into another pocket, out of range. But that left my bricked cell phone vulnerable, which Felicia targeted on another attempt.

That, too, was moved. This was starting to feel like a thrice-damned game of 'find-the-button'. I could feel another burst of warmth brush over another pocket, prompting an immediate shift of my forged credentials into the first pocket.

A thief indeed. And she was playing with me.

'She knows. She knows. She knows.' This was grounds for a full-throttle extraction, complete with body removal service. I didn't go for that sort of thing, but protecting my secrets took priority. 'She's a thief, using her position to avoid notice; very clever. So clever she never hit our filters. Got to get away – no. She takes pictures of everyone and everything, how many viewers does her blog have? Too many, even if I can't see the damn thing. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. How long until she notices I'm not in them? She has to have been taking pictures coming in.'

Planning while communicating wasn't hard. Planning while conversing with what amounted to an undercover operative, trying to gain information while giving away none? Much more difficult. Planning an escape, while avoiding interrogation, by a professional escape-artist and interrogator? Exponentially more difficult.

'Think. Adapt. Evade.'

Logic clicked through its dependable circuits. This was an attractive woman of prodigious capabilities. Perhaps the Hardy line was a family of thieves, but it was more probable she was an individual that had happened on the practice. The Hardy lineage held fame for their philanthropic efforts, definitely not signs of theft. They'd been robbed multiple times, which suggested victim, unless a sham? False trails, loose pocketbooks ….

'Best way to shake accusations: throw money at charity.' It was an obvious method. I practiced it in moderation myself. 'No. Get out as soon as possible. Before she tries to take a picture and proves everything. Nothing like a ghost in the frame when there's a body next to you.'

I'd have to pull a fakeout. There was a single surefire way to distract someone, although I hated to do it. But this way I'd be able to retain the identity for another event, given how many I'd burned the past week, that would be a relief. It wasn't like Hardy was important, right? She just had money.

"By the by," I concentrated, relaxing control for once. It was easy, like releasing a sigh after an afternoon's formal conversation. The tickling sensation began, rippling down my arms before the main event. "Do you the time have?"

Felicia looked confused at my phrasing – a typical grammar accident in the European Romantic languages. Then she raised an arm to check her wristwatch.

'Now.'

A quivering pulse fired out of my body. It reverberated against the electrical implements in the area, a sensation I could feel like a shouted echo in a cathedral. I heard people curse as cell phones died, felt a light buzzing sensation as that power transferred somewhere, and saw flickering lights overhead. A generator kicked in somewhere, stabilizing the rooms.

'Damn. Harder.'

I tried again, focusing my gift on the immediate surroundings, impressing upon myself the need to eliminate all electrical motion. For a moment time stood still, faint blue-ish shadows enveloping everything.

Sparks flew, lightbulbs shorting out, even the fluorescent variety making popping sounds and shooting streaks of light. The building's power systems ground to a halt, prompting security overrides to kick into gear.

"Ah, Miss Hardy?" my look of concern wouldn't have fooled an amnesiac toddler. "Perhaps we should leave?"

The young woman had jerked back, head whipping to one side as if expecting an attack. She turned back a moment later, nodding. "That's a good idea. Will you be all right?"

I put on a bright smile. "For you mademoiselle, I would wish to be called anything you desire."

Her distracted giggle served as a farewell so far as I was concerned. I managed to pull back, losing myself in the crowd. This was no time for polite manners, but my persona demanded such behavior. The last scene I saw of her was a mischievous look, and a smirk, as if she knew what I was doing.

Worrisome.

Slipping away was easy; the museum was in chaos. Well, relative chaos; a true chaotic museum would've required statues animating themselves and attacking random visitors, and perhaps the more venerable employees displaying secret martial artist techniques, and it'd all have some massive backstory. Heaven only knew how often that happened everywhere else in this half-cursed city.

But the museum remained blessedly populated by screaming children, agitated parents, and teenagers excited about this new adventure. I made my way through the crowd and broke free, just as the doors were closing – apparently one of the hard-wired systems had been connected to something valuable, and an enterprising individual had tried to make off with it.

Counting my blessings, and hopeful that the individual's stupidity hadn't rubbed off on me, I headed back up the street. There needed to be a council of war with my brother. We had a potential leak in the top floor.

A/N: Once again, a bit of a rewrite from the prior setup. This chapter was blended with the prior Chapter 8, but the whole interplay felt too clunky. Ergo, after some confirming opinions from Misfit Delta (thanks again!), this is the new chapter, modified with a longer arrangement. I like the quality much better now, and you don't have to suffer through a painful POV hop!

Another chapter coming soon, hopefully. Definitely want to get it out before classes start again, and I am stuck grading papers. That too is interesting, seeing all the different writing styles, but it doesn't get the fanfic written!

Excelsior!