After Rosa had finished her extremely thorough interrogation disguised as casual dinner conversation—which had successfully extracted Harry's entire romantic history, his views on polyamorous relationship dynamics, his coffee preferences, and probably his thoughts on the current state of international economics—the evening settled into the kind of comfortable domestic chaos that made it easy to forget someone was actively planning to murder one of the people currently arguing over the last egg roll.
Eugene had emerged from his room carrying what appeared to be the unholy offspring of a Roomba and a military drone, complete with spinning brushes, tank treads, and what looked suspiciously like a small cannon that he claimed was "just for pest control, but like, really big pests."
"Okay, so I've been working on optimizing household efficiency through automated systems integration," Eugene announced, setting his creation down on the living room floor with the pride of someone unveiling a masterpiece. "Meet the Chore-Bot 3000. It vacuums, it mops, it can detect intruders, and if necessary, it can lay down suppressing fire while you escape through the back door."
Pedro, who had been quietly working on homework in the corner like the responsible member of the family, looked up from his textbook with the expression of someone who'd just realized his little brother had built a weapon of mass destruction out of spare parts and good intentions.
"Eugene," Pedro said carefully, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone trying to prevent a potential disaster through the application of gentle reason, "why does a cleaning robot need what appears to be a grenade launcher?"
Eugene's eyes lit up with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for explaining complex scientific theories to people who definitely weren't going to understand them but might appreciate the passion involved.
"Oh, that's not a grenade launcher," he said, waving dismissively. "That's a multi-purpose projectile delivery system. It can shoot cleaning supplies at hard-to-reach places, launch air fresheners for scent distribution, or deploy emergency snacks if someone's trapped under furniture. Very versatile. Very practical. Completely safe unless you're a hostile intruder or a particularly stubborn stain."
Harry, who had been watching this explanation with the fascinated attention of someone witnessing engineering genius combined with questionable safety protocols, leaned forward with obvious delight.
"Eugene, my brilliant young friend," Harry said, his voice carrying that warm British accent that somehow made everything sound both sophisticated and slightly dangerous, "that is absolutely magnificent. Have you considered a career in defense contracting? I know several governments who would be very interested in automated systems that combine domestic utility with tactical applications. The pay is excellent, the benefits include diplomatic immunity in most dimensions, and you'd probably get to work with budgets that would make NASA weep with envy."
Eugene's face lit up like someone had just told him Christmas was being moved to tomorrow and he was getting everything on his wish list plus a few things he hadn't dared to dream of.
"Really?" Eugene asked, his voice jumping about an octave with excitement. "You think my inventions are good enough for actual government work? Like, the kind where they give you unlimited funding and let you build whatever you want as long as it's sufficiently intimidating to hostile foreign powers?"
"Eugene," Harry said seriously, his emerald eyes sparkling with mischief and what appeared to be genuine admiration, "I've seen military equipment with worse design specifications and significantly higher failure rates. Your approach to combining practical utility with defensive capabilities shows exactly the kind of innovative thinking that modern warfare requires. Plus, your safety protocols are actually better than most professional military contractors, which is saying something considering your target demographic appears to be 'suburban families with above-average tolerance for controlled explosions.'"
Mary, who had been trying to follow this conversation while simultaneously attempting to look casual about the fact that she was hanging on Harry's every word, suddenly straightened with the realization that he'd just complimented her little brother's engineering skills while also managing to sound like he personally knew people who worked in international defense contracting.
"Harry," she said, her voice carrying that particular note of someone who'd just had an interesting thought and wasn't entirely sure whether it was fascinating or terrifying, "when you say you know governments who would be interested in Eugene's work... are we talking about like, normal governments with normal military applications, or are we talking about the kind of governments that have departments for dealing with supernatural threats and probably keep their budgets classified at levels that require security clearances just to know they exist?"
Harry's smile was absolutely devastating, the kind of expression that probably caused international incidents and definitely made teenage girls reconsider their entire understanding of what constituted an appropriate crush on older men.
"Yes," he said simply, which was both completely unhelpful and somehow more informative than a detailed explanation would have been.
Mary's brain appeared to short-circuit momentarily, because she just sat there staring at Harry with the expression of someone who'd just realized that the charming British businessman she had a massive crush on was probably involved in the kind of work that required security clearances and possibly diplomatic immunity.
"Oh my god," she whispered, her voice barely audible but definitely carrying enough awe to suggest she'd just had a religious experience. "You're like... actually mysterious. Not just 'I have an interesting job' mysterious, but 'I probably have passports from countries that don't officially exist' mysterious."
Billy, who had been watching this exchange with growing amusement and the dawning realization that Mary's infatuation with Harry was reaching levels that might require intervention from qualified professionals, decided to take pity on his foster sister before she hyperventilated herself into unconsciousness.
"Mary," he said gently, "maybe save the international intrigue analysis for later? Harry's always been mysterious. That's like his thing. Right after 'impeccable fashion sense' and 'brings really expensive food that makes our kitchen smell like a five-star restaurant.'"
"Right," Mary said, clearly trying to regain her composure while probably still processing the implications of Harry's casual admission that he knew people in governments who dealt with supernatural threats. "Right, of course. Mysterious is normal. Mysterious is... actually really attractive. I mean, intellectually interesting. From an anthropological perspective. Obviously."
Harry's laugh was warm and genuine, the kind of sound that made everyone in the room feel like they were part of an inside joke that was both entertaining and slightly exclusive.
"Mary, darling," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone of fond amusement that suggested he was genuinely charmed by her reaction, "I do appreciate your anthropological interest in mysterious government contractors with excellent fashion sense and access to exotic pastries. Though I should probably mention that most of my work involves significantly more paperwork than you might expect. International consulting requires an appalling amount of forms, signatures, and diplomatic correspondence. Very tedious, really. Not nearly as exciting as it sounds in spy novels."
"Paperwork," Mary repeated, nodding seriously like this was crucial information for her ongoing research into Harry's professional life. "Right. International consulting paperwork. With governments that have supernatural defense departments. That's... actually probably really complex paperwork. The kind that requires understanding of interdisciplinary regulations and probably multiple classification levels."
"Exactly," Harry agreed solemnly, though his eyes were dancing with barely contained laughter. "Mountains of paperwork. Forms in triplicate. Interdimensional customs declarations. You know how it is with bureaucracy—it's the same everywhere, regardless of how many dimensions are involved in the jurisdiction."
Billy raised an eyebrow, because Harry had just casually mentioned interdimensional customs declarations like that was a normal thing that happened in regular government work, and Mary's expression suggested she was filing this information under 'additional evidence that Harry is the most interesting person who has ever existed.'
That was when Darla burst through the front door like a small tornado wearing a soccer uniform and carrying enough grass stains to suggest she'd been personally wrestling with every blade of grass on the field.
"We won!" she announced at a volume that probably carried to the neighboring apartments, her voice bright with the kind of pure excitement that could power small cities and definitely make everyone in the immediate vicinity smile despite themselves. "We won seven to three, and I scored four goals, and Sarah made this amazing save that was like something from the World Cup, and Coach Martinez said I have 'natural tactical awareness' which I think means I'm really good at figuring out where the ball's going to be before the other team does!"
She paused just long enough to breathe, then continued with the kind of enthusiastic momentum that suggested she'd been saving up all her excitement for the entire bus ride home.
"Oh, and Jenny's mom brought orange slices, but they weren't very good orange slices, not like the ones Rosa gets that actually taste like oranges instead of disappointment and artificial flavoring, and Marcus tried to say that girls' soccer isn't as competitive as boys' soccer but then I nutmegged him during practice scrimmage and he fell over and everyone laughed, so I think he learned an important lesson about gender assumptions and also basic physics!"
Rosa, who had been listening to this report with the kind of fond attention that suggested she genuinely enjoyed hearing detailed analysis of ten-year-old soccer victories, smiled with obvious pride.
"Four goals, sweetie?" she said, moving to give Darla the kind of hug that managed to be both celebratory and practical, since it also involved checking for injuries and grass stains that might require immediate attention. "That's amazing! Did you remember to pass to your teammates when they were in better positions, or were you too busy being a soccer superstar to share the ball?"
"I shared!" Darla protested, though her grin suggested she was pleased that Rosa had asked because it gave her an opportunity to demonstrate her understanding of team dynamics. "I had three assists too, which means I helped other people score goals even when I could have scored them myself. Coach Martinez says that's what makes a good team player—knowing when to be the star and when to help other people be stars."
Harry, who had been watching Darla's enthusiastic victory report with obvious delight, stood up from his chair with that fluid grace that made simple movements look like they'd been choreographed by someone who understood physics as a form of artistic expression.
"Darla, my dear champion," he said, his voice carrying that warm British accent that somehow made everything sound more important and impressive, "congratulations on your victory. Four goals and three assists is genuinely impressive, especially in a match that competitive. Have you considered that your tactical awareness might extend beyond soccer? Those kinds of strategic thinking skills are quite transferable to other areas of life."
Darla's eyes widened with the kind of excitement that suggested she'd just been personally validated by someone whose opinion clearly mattered, and Billy could practically see her mentally filing this compliment under 'evidence that I might be good at more things than just soccer.'
"You think so?" Darla asked, her voice carrying that particular note of a child who'd just been told something wonderful about herself and wanted to make sure she'd heard correctly. "You think I might be good at strategy and stuff? Not just sports strategy, but like, real strategy for important things?"
"Absolutely," Harry said with complete sincerity, crouching down slightly to be closer to her eye level. "Strategic thinking is strategic thinking, whether it's predicting where a soccer ball will be or analyzing complex situations that require quick decision-making and resource allocation. The fundamental skills are remarkably similar, just applied to different contexts."
Mary, who had been watching this interaction with the focused attention of someone taking notes on Harry's interpersonal skills and probably adding them to her growing list of reasons why he was perfect, leaned forward with obvious interest.
"That's actually a really good point," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd just had an academic insight. "Athletic tactical awareness and strategic planning both require pattern recognition, predictive analysis, and the ability to adapt quickly to changing circumstances. The cognitive processes are essentially identical."
Darla nodded seriously, clearly pleased that her soccer skills were being recognized as evidence of broader intellectual capabilities.
"Does that mean I could be good at other kinds of strategy too?" she asked hopefully. "Like the kind Mary studies with all her charts and organizational systems?"
"Different applications, same fundamental skills," Harry confirmed, his smile warm and encouraging. "Though I should warn you that Mary's approach to strategic analysis involves significantly more paperwork and considerably fewer orange slices."
That was when Freddy limped through the door, moving with the kind of careful determination that suggested his physical therapy session had been both productive and exhausting. His crutch moved with practiced efficiency, but Billy's enhanced hearing picked up the subtle changes in his breathing that meant he was trying not to let anyone know how much his leg was bothering him.
"Hey guys," Freddy said, settling into the nearest chair with obvious relief and trying to make it look casual instead of medically necessary. "What's going on? Did I miss anything interesting, or just the usual domestic chaos involving Eugene's increasingly sophisticated weapons of household convenience?"
Rosa was already moving toward the kitchen, her nurse instincts activated by the subtle signs of fatigue she'd learned to recognize in all her kids.
"Ice pack," she called over her shoulder, her voice carrying that particular tone of maternal authority that brooked no argument. "And don't even think about telling me your leg feels fine, because I can tell from here that you're favoring it more than usual, which means either the therapy was particularly intense today or you've been pushing yourself harder than your therapist recommended."
Freddy's expression shifted to the kind of resigned acceptance that came from years of living with someone whose medical training made it impossible to hide minor injuries or overexertion.
"The therapy was fine," he said, though his tone suggested there was more to the story. "It's just... Dr. Richardson thinks I might be ready to try going without the crutch for short periods. Like, really short periods. Like, 'walk across the room and sit down immediately' short periods. But it's progress, right?"
Billy felt that familiar surge of pride mixed with protective concern that came from watching his foster brother work so hard to recover from injuries that never should have happened to someone as genuinely good as Freddy.
"That's amazing, man," Billy said, his voice carrying genuine enthusiasm for what he knew represented weeks of painful, difficult work. "How does it feel? The walking without the crutch, I mean?"
Freddy's grin was the kind of expression that could probably power renewable energy systems and definitely made everyone in the room feel better about the general state of the universe.
"Weird," he said honestly. "Like, really weird. Good weird, but weird. It's been so long since I walked without some kind of support that I keep expecting to fall over, even when I'm standing perfectly fine. Dr. Richardson says that's normal, that my brain needs time to adjust to trusting my leg again."
Harry, who had been listening to this conversation with the kind of focused attention that suggested he was genuinely interested in Freddy's recovery progress, moved to the couch with that fluid grace that made everything look effortless.
"Recovery is as much psychological as physical," Harry observed, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who might have some personal experience with the subject. "Learning to trust your body again after injury requires the same kind of courage that the original healing did. Quite admirable, really."
Freddy's expression grew more serious, the kind of look that meant he was processing something important and probably trying to decide whether to share it.
"Can I ask you something?" Freddy said, his voice carrying that particular note of someone who'd been thinking about something for a while and had finally decided to bring it up. "You seem like someone who's been through... stuff. Like, serious stuff that required recovery and figuring out how to trust things again. Is that... am I reading that right?"
Harry's expression grew thoughtful, the kind of look that suggested he was considering how much to share about experiences that were probably complicated, potentially dangerous, and definitely not the kind of thing you discussed over leftover Chinese food with teenagers.
"Everyone goes through things that require them to rebuild trust," Harry said carefully, his voice carrying that particular British diplomacy that managed to be both honest and completely evasive. "Some people recover from physical injuries, some from emotional trauma, some from situations that challenge their understanding of how the world works. The process is remarkably similar regardless of the specific circumstances."
Mary, who had been listening to this exchange with the focused attention of someone cataloguing additional evidence of Harry's mysterious past and probably complex personal history, leaned forward with obvious curiosity.
"What kind of situations that challenge your understanding of how the world works?" she asked, her voice carrying that particular note of someone who suspected the answer would be fascinating and possibly slightly terrifying.
Harry's smile was the kind of expression that managed to be both charming and completely uninformative.
"Oh, you know," he said with casual understatement that somehow made everything sound both more and less dramatic simultaneously, "professional complications. Career challenges that required significant adjustments to personal worldview and possibly relocating to jurisdictions with more flexible approaches to international law."
Billy snorted, because Harry's description of his work complications made them sound like the kind of professional setbacks that might require updating a résumé and possibly networking at industry conferences, rather than the kind of interdimensional magical crises that usually involved people trying to kill each other with exotic weapons and questionable applications of theoretical physics.
"Professional complications," Billy repeated, his voice carrying fond amusement at Harry's talent for making dangerous situations sound like minor administrative inconveniences. "Right. The kind that require relocating to different jurisdictions. With flexible international law. Nothing dramatic about that at all."
That was when Victor came through the door, moving with the kind of cautious optimism that suggested his job interview had gone better than expected but he wasn't quite ready to celebrate yet in case the universe decided to balance things out by making something else go wrong.
"Hey everybody," Victor said, hanging up his jacket with practiced efficiency and immediately moving toward the kitchen because Victor's approach to family gatherings always began with checking to see if there was food that needed to be shared or dishes that needed to be handled. "How's everyone doing? Eugene, is that a new robot, or did you upgrade the one that almost took out the mailman last week?"
"Completely new design," Eugene said proudly, gesturing toward his creation like an artist unveiling a masterpiece. "This one's got better target discrimination protocols and improved safety features. It shouldn't attack any more municipal employees unless they're actually hostile intruders rather than just people trying to deliver mail while wearing uniforms that confused its threat-assessment algorithms."
Victor paused in the kitchen doorway, looking at Eugene's robot with the expression of someone trying to calculate the probability that their foster brother had built something that would require apologizing to city officials and possibly paying for property damage.
"Should I be worried that you just said 'improved safety features' like that was a new addition rather than a basic design requirement?" Victor asked, though his tone suggested he was more amused than genuinely concerned.
"All my designs have safety features," Eugene protested, though his voice carried that particular note of someone whose definition of 'safety features' might not align with conventional safety standards. "They're just... calibrated for different threat levels. This one's designed for suburban household defense rather than urban warfare, so the safety parameters are much more conservative."
Harry, who had been watching this family dynamic with obvious delight, stood up with that fluid grace that made simple movements look like they belonged in an expensive action movie.
"Victor," he said, extending his hand with the kind of warm professionalism that suggested he was genuinely pleased to see him, "how did the interview go? Based on your expression, I'm guessing it went better than you expected, but you're trying not to get too optimistic in case the universe has a sense of humor about these things."
Victor's smile was the kind of expression that could probably improve property values in the immediate vicinity and definitely made everyone feel better about the general state of local employment opportunities.
"Actually really well," Victor said, shaking Harry's hand with obvious appreciation for the fact that someone had bothered to ask about his interview and actually seemed interested in the answer. "It's with the city electrical department, working on infrastructure maintenance and modernization projects. Good pay, excellent benefits, and the kind of work that actually helps people instead of just making rich people richer."
"That sounds perfect for you," Rosa called from the kitchen, her voice carrying that particular note of maternal pride that meant she was genuinely happy about Victor's employment prospects and probably already planning how to celebrate if he got the job. "When will you know if you got it?"
"They said they'd call by the end of the week," Victor replied, settling into his usual spot at the kitchen table with the kind of comfortable familiarity that came from years of being part of a family that actually functioned properly. "The supervisor seemed really impressed with my experience, and she said the department needs people who understand both the technical side and the practical applications of electrical systems maintenance."
Harry's expression grew more serious, the kind of look that suggested he was thinking about something important and possibly calculating whether this was the right time to bring it up.
"Victor," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who was about to say something significant, "before you get too comfortable with the idea of a nice, safe job maintaining municipal electrical systems, I should probably mention that this might not be the best week for anyone in this family to be making plans that assume the immediate future will be peaceful and predictable."
The comfortable family atmosphere in the kitchen suddenly shifted, the kind of change that happened when everyone realized that the mysterious family friend who brought expensive pastries and had connections with governments that dealt with supernatural threats had just suggested that their peaceful evening was about to become significantly more complicated.
Billy's enhanced hearing picked up the subtle changes in everyone's heartbeat that meant people had just realized something important and potentially dangerous was about to be discussed.
"What do you mean?" Rosa asked, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd just switched from 'enjoying family time' mode to 'potential crisis management' mode with the practiced efficiency of a nurse who'd learned to handle emergency situations both professionally and domestically.
Harry's emerald eyes grew cold in a way that made the temperature in the kitchen seem to drop several degrees, and Billy recognized the expression as the one Harry got when he was thinking about people who made the mistake of threatening the safety of people he cared about.
"Someone's been systematically attacking members of the Justice League," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular British understatement that usually preceded someone discovering why making enemies of interdimensional wizards was traditionally considered a poor life choice. "Coordinated assassination attempts using detailed intelligence about their personal vulnerabilities and tactical weaknesses. It's not random villain-of-the-week nonsense—this is professional, well-funded, and precisely targeted."
The kitchen fell silent except for the distant hum of Eugene's robot, which was apparently still running its diagnostic cycles and occasionally making soft beeping sounds that suggested it was either functioning properly or preparing to launch air fresheners at perceived threats.
Mary leaned forward with the focused attention of someone who'd just heard confirmation of her worst analytical fears and was already running probability calculations in her head.
"When you say systematic attacks," she said, her voice carrying that particular note of someone who wanted to understand the scope of the problem before deciding how worried she should be, "are we talking about individual incidents that might be connected, or are we talking about a coordinated campaign with multiple phases and probably a comprehensive strategic plan?"
"The latter," Harry confirmed grimly, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that suggested he'd already done considerable analysis of the situation and didn't like his conclusions. "Five League members attacked in the past forty-eight hours. Each assault specifically designed to exploit their individual weaknesses, moral codes, and predictable response patterns. Someone has access to extremely detailed intelligence about their personal lives, psychological profiles, and tactical capabilities."
Billy felt his stomach drop like he'd just stepped off a cliff, because he could already see where this conversation was going and he definitely wasn't going to like the destination.
"And you think Billy's next," Rosa said, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd just realized that her foster son's superhero activities were about to transition from 'dangerous but manageable' to 'actively targeted by professional assassins with extensive resources and questionable moral standards.'
"I don't think," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "I know. The pattern is clear, the targeting methodology is consistent, and based on the intelligence they've demonstrated about the other League members, they almost certainly know about Billy's civilian identity, his family connections, and exactly how to manipulate his heroic instincts to ensure he responds to whatever trap they've prepared."
The silence that followed was the kind of quiet that felt like being buried alive, except instead of dirt it was the weight of everyone realizing that their peaceful family evening was about to become a tactical planning session for preventing the assassination of a teenage superhero.
Darla, who had been listening to this conversation with the kind of serious attention she usually reserved for important soccer strategy discussions, raised her hand like she was in class.
"Question," she said, her voice carrying that particular note of a child who'd just processed some very adult information and wanted to make sure she understood the situation correctly. "When you say they know about Billy's civilian identity and family connections, does that mean they know about all of us? Like, specifically us? As in, they might use us to make Billy do what they want?"
Harry's expression grew even grimmer, if such a thing were possible, and Billy could see the protective fury building behind his emerald eyes.
"That's exactly what I mean," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular British accent that somehow managed to sound both civilized and absolutely deadly. "They've demonstrated a pattern of using heroes' emotional attachments against them. Family, friends, innocent civilians who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's psychological warfare at the most personal level."
Eugene, who had been listening to this explanation with the focused attention of someone rapidly calculating technical implications, suddenly straightened with obvious alarm.
"Wait," he said, his voice jumping about an octave with excitement and concern. "If they're planning to target Billy using his family connections as leverage, and they've got detailed intelligence about his personal life, then they probably know about our address, our daily routines, our school schedules, and basically everything they'd need to plan either kidnapping operations or home invasion scenarios."
Mary nodded grimly, her analytical mind already working through the tactical implications.
"They'd want to control the circumstances of the engagement," she said, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd been reading military strategy guides and was now applying theoretical knowledge to a very practical and personal situation. "Force Billy to respond to a crisis on their terms, in a location they've prepared, with variables they can control and contingencies they've planned for."
"Which means," Pedro added quietly, his voice carrying that particular note of someone who'd just realized something important and unpleasant, "they're probably going to stage some kind of emergency that looks like it requires immediate superhero intervention, but is actually designed to separate Billy from his support systems and put him in a tactically disadvantageous position."
Harry looked around the table at the faces of Billy's family, taking in their expressions of concern, determination, and the kind of protective fury that came from people who'd realized that someone was planning to hurt a member of their chosen family.
"You're all remarkably perceptive," he said, his voice carrying genuine admiration for their analytical capabilities. "Yes, that's exactly what they're planning. And yes, it's probably going to happen tonight, because the pattern suggests they're working on an accelerated timeline and they've already committed significant resources to this operation."
Billy looked around the table at his family—Rosa with her concerned nurse instincts and practical crisis management skills, Mary with her increasingly comprehensive understanding of tactical planning and strategic analysis, Eugene with his engineering brilliance and questionable safety protocols, Darla with her natural tactical awareness and unshakeable optimism, Freddy with his courage and determination despite physical limitations, Pedro with his quiet intelligence and steady reliability, and Victor with his practical skills and genuine desire to help people—and felt that familiar warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with magical powers and everything to do with the realization that these people had chosen to be his family despite his tendency to attract cosmic-level problems and interdimensional complications.
"I have to go," Billy said simply, because there really wasn't any point in pretending otherwise. "When they make their move, when they stage whatever emergency they've planned, I have to respond. I can't let innocent people get hurt because someone's using them as bait to get to me."
"Of course you do," Rosa said, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd already accepted that her foster son was going to walk into danger despite her preference that he remain safe and uninjured, because that's who he was and that's why she was proud of him even when she was terrified for his safety. "That's who you are, Billy. That's why you're a hero. But that doesn't mean you have to face it alone."
Harry stood up from the table with that fluid grace that made simple movements look like they belonged in an expensive action movie.
"Absolutely not alone," he said, his voice carrying that particular British accent that somehow managed to sound both reassuring and absolutely menacing. "I'll be going with him, obviously, because there's no chance in hell I'm allowing him to walk into a trap designed specifically to exploit his heroic nature and moral code without backup from someone whose moral code is significantly more flexible regarding the application of creative violence against people who threaten children."
Mary suddenly stood up from the table with the kind of determined energy that suggested she'd just made a decision that everyone else was probably going to have opinions about.
"I'm coming with you," she announced, her voice carrying that particular note of teenage certainty that usually preceded either spectacular success or equally spectacular disaster. "Not to the actual fight—I'm not completely insane—but you're going to need tactical support, communication coordination, and real-time analysis of whatever situation they've constructed. Someone needs to monitor emergency services, track civilian evacuation patterns, and provide backup communication if your primary systems get compromised."
Billy started to protest, because the idea of Mary anywhere near a situation involving professional assassins and dimensional instability made his protective instincts go completely haywire, but Harry held up a hand with the kind of diplomatic authority that suggested he'd already considered the tactical implications and reached a conclusion that everyone else might not like but would probably have to accept.
"She's absolutely right," Harry said, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who'd just realized they needed logistical support and were grateful to have it offered by someone demonstrably competent. "We'll need coordination, communication backup, and someone monitoring the situation from outside the immediate tactical area who can provide real-time analysis of changing circumstances. Mary's strategic planning skills are genuinely impressive, and her understanding of resource allocation under pressure is better than most professional military analysts I've worked with."
Mary's face lit up with the kind of expression usually reserved for Christmas morning, winning the lottery, and being personally validated by the most attractive and mysterious person she'd ever met, all happening simultaneously.
"Really?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless with excitement and probably a healthy dose of terror at the prospect of participating in actual superhero operations. "You really think I can help? With actual tactical support and not just theoretical analysis from a safe distance?"
"Mary, darling," Harry said, his smile warm and genuine despite the circumstances, "I've seen professional intelligence officers with less comprehensive understanding of strategic coordination and crisis management. You'd be an asset to any operation that required analysis, planning, and the kind of organizational skills that keep complex operations from dissolving into chaos."
Mary's brain appeared to short-circuit completely, because she just stood there staring at Harry with the expression of someone who'd just been told they were brilliant, useful, and personally appreciated by the most perfect human being who had ever existed, all while being invited to participate in something that sounded like the most exciting and terrifying adventure of her life.
Rosa looked between Harry and Mary with the expression of someone trying to calculate the relative risks of allowing her foster daughter to provide logistical support for interdimensional magical warfare versus the risks of trying to prevent her from participating in something she was clearly qualified to help with and desperately wanted to be involved in.
"Safe distance," Rosa said finally, her voice carrying that particular note of maternal authority that brooked absolutely no argument about terms and conditions. "Minimum five blocks from whatever's happening, with multiple escape routes planned and confirmed, constant communication check-ins every fifteen minutes whether the situation seems stable or not, and if things start going badly—and I mean the first sign that the situation is deteriorating beyond your ability to provide useful support from a safe location—you get out immediately and let the professionals handle whatever's left to handle."
"Deal," Mary said immediately, clearly willing to accept any conditions that allowed her to participate in her first actual superhero operation as a support specialist rather than just someone who watched the news coverage afterward and wondered what it would have been like to help.
---
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