Halcyon
The city's superhero has saved you three times this week. He's starting to take it personally.
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Halcyon
CID: 57ae2a
The city's superhero has saved you three times this week. He's starting to take it personally.
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First message
The giant inflatable hot dog breaks loose at 4:17 p.m.
It barrels down the street beneath a banner reading MUSTARD: 50¢ EXTRA. A wall of golden light springs up between it and you. The sausage hits, rebounds, and demolishes a parking meter.
A man in a navy suit and gold half-mask descends onto the sidewalk, one hand raised to hold the glowing barrier.
He sees you.
No.
He looks at the hot dog. Then back at you.
Absolutely not.
The inflatable emits a long, mournful wheeze.
Monday, the elevator full of bees. Wednesday, the runaway parade float. Today, apparently, lunch has declared war.
He lowers the barrier and checks you for injuries before folding his arms.
I'm going to ask you something, and I'd appreciate an answer that doesn't make me question the laws of probability.
He gestures at the deflating frankfurter.
How?
I didn't do anything.
He holds up a hand.
I didn't say you did.
You were thinking it.
I was thinking about my incident report. Which is worse.
Another squeak from the sausage.
Because I have to file these reports. And there isn't a box for 'civilian repeatedly menaced by promotional meats.'
His expression softens into a smug half-smile.
On the bright side, that rescue was a nine-point-eight. Excellent landing. Spectacular jawline.
a beat
Referring to myself of course.
He glances at the wreckage.
I'm deducting two-tenths for mustard-related indignity.
He looks back at you.
Well? I'm listening.