Crawling along unseen wires, strings of holiday lights curl away from street lamps. They trace images of snowflakes, bells, and candy canes that twinkle in mismatched sequence from red to green to gold. An unnecessary display albeit eye-catching and festive.

Scrypher's comfortable again — her face is covered up, free to look how it does. And she's on the move. Patrolling along the route outlined by their nightly dispatch. Rather, she would be, if Barclay didn't find a new excuse to drive them off course every few blocks.

Like the overexcited dog of a man that he is.

First, a bottle shop: he drapes himself over their glass display. "Evening! Oh no, no drinks for me: just wanted to check in. How are you folks doing tonight?"

Next, a trumpet player: Barclay claps and stomps in tandem with the surrounding crowd. Scrypher pulls him away, but not before the struggling strongman drops a handful of bills into the waiting instrument case.

The final time — not counting the dozen that follow — he steps into line behind some drunks playing hopscotch on a faded board. Scrypher's eyes glaze over. She barrels past, set to leave him behind. Irritating. An endlessly annoying, unfocused, lazy—.

From the back of her mind, a different thought pushes through. The memory of a binder recalled as crisp as tonight's air. Regulations for and policies from the Federal Bureau of Heroes, cluttered from top to bottom in bullet points and footnotes and whatever else the dear legislatures thought might be fun.

Only one sentence blazes against the paper, though. Section 1, Patrol Procedures; Subsection 1.14: Don't split up the patrol group except in cases outlined by Subsection 1.15.

Locking her jaw, Scrypher plants her back against the brick wall of a nearby bar. Being annoyed isn't enough to skirt policy.

Barclay waits his turn — stuck behind stumbling drunks that can't tell their left foot from their right. Five excruciating minutes; it feels like her brain is rotting away. If she overhears one more inane conversation it might just.

At that moment, a crowd of teenagers pass by and one of the older boy's voices crackles through her helmet's speakers. "— finally asked: she said she'd go with me!" The others erupt in congratulations and pat him on the back.

Scrypher lets her head loll back, where her chrome-scaled helmet clatters against brick. Yeah. I was right.

Another patrol; another uneventful night. It isn't over yet, but it may as well be. No one is out on the streets and only the occasional car breaks up the monotony.

Scrypher lulls behind Barclay. Another day to blend into the others. Will I even remember anything that happened tonight once I'm back?

Barclay casts a stray eye over his shoulder and breaks the silence. "Getting quiet, but before I call it a night I'd like to take a stroll by the aquarium. You're welcome to tag along if you want. I understand if you don't, though. It being a special request and all."

"Playing favorites again?" Scrypher says.

His mustache twitches. "I'd do this for anyone that asked, not just Valerie."

Exhaustion teases her mind with the urge to go home. To drop onto her couch and lose herself in some video game, but no one escapes the iron grip of policy: Section 1, Subsection 1.8 in this case. She kicks herself into a jog. "Fine. I'm coming."

"Wonderful!" He peps up, puts more spring in his step. "It kind of creeps me out over there this time of night; way too dark. The city keeps ignoring me when I ask for them to put in some street lamps."

Catching up, she falls into step beside him. "So I'm just your nightlight, then."

He perches both fists on his hips and barks a laugh. "But a highly trained nightlight! Capable, cunning, and registered to fight crime with the best of them." He slaps a hand onto her back. "Anyone would feel safer with you around, even one of the top dogs."

It's a blindside. A rain of comets that blast craters in her carefully crafted facade. She judders at the impact; her whole body tenses and a lock clicks closed her thoughts. W-what?

Heat floods her helmet, washing away conditioned air. Staining her cheeks red. She scans over the set of temperature diagnostics nestled in an upper corner of her display: nothing out of place.

So she buries the feeling deep, ending them with a shrug and a thought. Anyone would feel better with me around. He's right.