“And then they pull this goddamn crap!”

A hard-helmeted head nods slightly in recognition, but the owner just listens, says nothing.

“It’s fucking bullshit, is what it is.”

Honest dust is released from his heavy work coat as the speaker moves his arms about, agitated. The two men tramp on, down the street, headed perhaps for a drink and some TV at a nearby sports bar, or maybe just for the SkyTrain station and home.

Above them, two other men cling to the twelfth story, locked in a desperate struggle. Caveman is all hair and big hands, with his legs and one arm wrapped around his foe, and the other arm gripping the closest sill. Squatting like a silver spider, three of Technarch’s ancillary limbs have drilled straight into the brick. A fourth hangs limp. Technarch’s legs kick at the air, trying to find purchase, but his arms are pinned at his side, energy crackling at his matte-black fingertips.

Both of them grimace, faces mere inches apart. Yet neither hero nor villain makes a sound.

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