"What do you mean Violet lied to us?" Paul asked incredulously.

The Critic started tapping her foot, "We're not here for the syntax bomb. We're a distraction."

"A distraction? For what?" 

"I'm not sure yet, I haven't figured it out. All I know is that whatever Violet Cooper and Aleara Winters are up to is going to end catastrophically."

Paul's heart skipped a beat, and his mind raced. If things were going to be as bad as the Critic was suggesting then there was a non-zero chance that he and Mark could get hurt, or worse. He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind. Maybe the Critic was wrong? 

Stupid. He thought to himself. When has she ever been wrong before?

"You didn't tell me it would be this bad! I'm not risking Marky or myself for the sake of the Ten."

The Critic sighed, "No, Mark Lambert cannot know. I'm not omniscient, Paul Rengifo. I can only see a few hours or so into the future at a time. When I proposed the idea, all I saw was Mark Lambert agreeing to it, and us being here. But then we met with Violet Cooper and... things changed. If you tell Mark Lambert, he is guaranteed to die."

Paul whisper-yelled, "What the fuck, Critic? You know what, we're done. I'm telling Mark everything. It's time for us to go."

Paul got up from the toilet and left the stall. Shortly after he did, he heard the Critic open her stall and follow him. She was half-running, catching up to him before he had the chance to leave the bathroom entirely. She placed both of her hands on his shoulders and spun him around so he was facing her. 

The usual smile that accompanied the Critic's face was gone now, replaced with wide eyes and a quivering lip. She glanced behind Paul, ensuring no one was coming in. Then she looked behind herself, making sure they were truly alone.

She whispered slowly and distinctly, "If we leave, you, and everyone else will die. The syntax bomb can be detonated remotely, and they will detonate it if we don't comply."

Paul shook himself from the Critic's grasp, "Who the fuck is 'they'?"

"The Ten." She said, looking down at her feet. 

The Critic ran her hands through her hair fervently, grabbing and pulling at it. She was hyperventilating now, her breathing rapid and uncontrolled. The once intimidating semi-omniscient being before him was now reduced to this sniveling, panicking mess of a person.

"You're not making any sense, Critic. Why would the Ten ask us to retrieve something they could just detonate themselves?"

"Argh, you're not seeing it, Paul Rengifo. It's a set up. A set up we have to fall for, otherwise we die."

Paul folded his arms. The door opened behind them, and a woman in a superhero costume walked in. She was wearing an all black body suit made of Kevlar, with broad shoulder pads that covered both her shoulders and some of her bicep. On her chest were the letters "C" and "G", placed above an anvil, with sparks and other bits of flame emerging from either side of them. She looked at Mark and the Critic before smiling and offering a polite, "Hello."

Paul's eyes widened when he realized who had just walked in the bathroom with them; Cool Gangstar, one of the superheroes from Legion.

"H-hey," Paul said back, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice.

Cool Gangstar flashed a smile and a soft chuckle, "First time meeting a superhero?"

Paul nodded.

"Everything okay with you guys? Your friend looks—and please don't take this the wrong way—a bit frazzled. What's wrong?"

This time the Critic spoke, her voice even shakier than before, "My boyfriend just..."

Then she burst out in hysterics, letting waterfalls of tears spill from her eyes. She sniffled and sobbed, choking on air all the while. She looked at Paul, who instinctively wrapped his arms around her, following her lead. Cool Gangstar gave an empathetic sigh and frowned before gently putting a hand on the Critic's shoulder.

"Hey, it's gonna be alright. Breakups happen. They suck, but we're women. We're gonna get through this, alright? You have your friend, and you have my support."

The Critic sniffled again, wiping her nose, "Thanks, Cool Gangstar."

Cool Gangstar took out something from her utility belt, a small package of tissues, and handed them to the Critic. She took them, opened it, and blew her nose. Paul shushed her gently, saying comforting words under his breath.

Cool Gangstar smiled again, "You're stronger than this. You don't need him anyway, I mean look at you! Who in their right mind would fumble you?"

"I guess you're right," The Critic said, starting to regain control of her breath, "Mark's such a dumbass."

"Mark is a dumbass. Fuck that guy, right?" Cool Gangstar said, looking at Paul.

Paul stuttered, thrown off by the fact that this was the first time the Critic didn't refer to someone by their first and last name, "R-right. Fuck Mark."

Cool Gangstar gave the Critic an affirmative pat and said, "Now if you'll excuse me?"

"Of course, Cool Gangstar," Paul managed to say, "Sorry to keep you!"

Cool Gangstar chuckled, "It's not trouble at all." 

Then she walked away from them, into one of the stalls, and started fiddling with her suit. The Critic still looked downtrodden, but she straightened herself and wiped the snot and tears from her face. Her usual aura of confidence returned, and she left the bathroom with Paul in tow. 

Mark greeted them as they left with, "About time. What took you so long?"

The Critic touched Mark's cheek, trailing her finger down his chin and giving him a smile, "Girl stuff, don't worry about it."

Mark turned his head from the Critic and looked at Paul, eyebrow raised, "Pauly? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Marky. We were just talking, you know, about the job?"

Mark narrowed his eyes, "Alright Pauly. Look if there's something you're not telling me..."

"No," Paul said, a little louder than he meant to, "Just trust me on this, okay? I don't ask you for much and it's your fault we're in this mess to begin with, in case you forgot."

"I trust you. I just don't trust her."

The Critic beamed even wider than she already was. She winked at Mark and touched his arm, "You don't have to trust me, I know what your heart really wants, Mark Lambert."

Mark forced his arm away from her and took a step back, "I want you to die a horrible death. I hope the Vaporizers get you, and I hope it's violent."

"Aw, baby, stop with the dirty talk. We're in public."

Mark shuddered. Paul walked to his side and stood between him and the Critic, whispering, "So, the syntax bomb?"

"Of course, Paul Rengifo, let's get back to business." The Critic said, leading them toward a set of stairs.

The three of them climbed the stairs, passing by civilian and superhero alike. They truly blended into the crowd, and no one suspected a thing. Some of the supers waved at them, said their hello's and what's up's, just like they did for the people that were there for actual, normal reasons. They were totally inconspicuous. 

The Critic stopped them when they approached the fifth floor of the GSA headquarters, she turned back and looked at Mark and Paul, winking at them as she opened it. 

The fifth floor of the GSA building was publicly accessible, unlike the higher floors which were reserved for the superheroes or those working in close conjunction with them. Here you'd be able to find all sorts of trinkets and mementos to various superheroes, commemorating their efforts against the villains, criminals, and vigilantes. It wasn't unlike a museum in that regard, and there was even a woman near the stairs and elevators of the fifth floor that offered complimentary tours to anyone or any group who asked. 

The Critic approached the desk, sizing up the woman who sat in front of it. She was tall and brunette, with eyes that read 'I am not paid enough to deal with this shit'. She wore a GSA uniform, with her badge pinned to her right breast, a bronze metal piece with the GSA insignia on it that was far too gaudy to be practical. The insignia was a shield with angelic looking wings on either side of it. Encrusted on the shield were the letters "G", "S", and "A" in a bold, offensive font. Thankfully it was all in monochrome. Paul had seen the color scheme for the actual insignia on the flags they hung inside of the building; it was puke green with virulent purple, accented with gold. Whoever their emblematic designer was should be fired.

"Hey pookie," The Critic said to the woman.

The woman looked at her, sighed, then picked up a phone nearby and pressed a button, triggering the intercom. 

"Would Jenny please come to the front?" She repeated the sentence once more over the intercom, then set the phone down and said, "Someone will be with you shortly for the tour."

"Oh," The Critic interjected, "We're not here for the tour."

The woman raised an eyebrow, "That's what everyone's here for."

"Right but, we really just want to see the stuff involving the Ten. My friends and I here, we're villain historians, and we heard about a recent GSA operation involving them. We wanted to learn about that!"

The woman sighed, "Jenny will be with you shortly."

The Critic put her hands on her hips and started to say something, but she was interrupted when a short El Salvadorian woman with big, brown eyes and a pep in her step approached them from behind. She wore a glossy name tag that read "Jenny" on her left breast pocket. 

"Hi!" She said enthusiastically, "Are you guys here for the tour?"

"We don't want the tour," Mark said this time, "Can you just show us the Ten stuff? We're uh... enthusiasts."

Jenny flashed the biggest smile that Paul had ever seen before gesturing for the three of them to follow her, "Right this way!"

As they followed Jenny, Paul took note of all the superhero mementos that the GSA were keeping on display. Given the amount of crime fighting these people do, as well as how many superhero teams there were, the displays had to be rotated out on a regular basis. Either that, or only the most prominent victories were given the honor of being in this museum. Paul saw a pile of ashes with a plaque labeling it as "Kozar's triumphant victory over the Iron Syndicate. May they rest in peace.". He winced at the thing, at how macabre it was to have the remains of one's enemies on display for people to look at and take pictures of. 

He saw the tattered remains of a red cape with a single, giant star embossed on it. The plaque underneath it read "We remember Wish Master. Gone too soon." Paul sighed as he saw it. He remembered Wish Master. The superhero was part of the Junior League a few years ago, had an Exploit that allowed him to grant the wishes of anyone who asked him to. It was a power he didn't use particularly well, Paul remembered, with Wish Master's wishes always having a sort of monkey's paw effect to them. One wished for a million bucks, and suddenly there would be a stampede of one million male deer heading toward them at breakneck speed. Paul wondered how he went. It couldn't have been pleasant if this was all that remained of him. A part of him felt bad.

But mementos to the dead were not all that they passed. Some of the mementos were Exploited objects, like Dollface's mask. Dollface was a member of Smiling Blight, a supervillain team. From what Paul understood about her Exploit, her mask was like a microphone that amplified her power. She used her song to control people into doing her bidding, manipulating their minds. Paul shuddered at the thought; it was truly nasty work.

The next few exhibits they passed were from some of the out of town superheroes, ones Paul didn't know, victories and deaths he had no knowledge of. He read the plaques, but couldn't recall any of the faces they belonged to. Looks like New Glasford natives weren't the only ones allowed in this hall of glory.

When they reached the area dedicated to the Ten, Jenny started talking to them. She spun on her heels, clasped her hands together with a rather loud clap, and smiled wide.

"Okay!" She began, "This section of this floor is where the GSA keeps its mementos for the Ten. We have items stored here from all of them, each under heavy supervision by both our local security team and certain heroes alike! No two objects have the same hero watching over them, so we can keep the bad guys guessing. An uncertain villain is less likely to steal from us, especially when they know our heavy hitters are in the guard rotation!"

"Thank you for that information, Jenny," The Critic said.

"Okay, so, we're going to start in order of acquisition, rather than the Ten's official internal ranking system. That alright with everyone?"

Mark, Paul, and the Critic looked at one another and nodded in agreement.

"Great, this way!"

Jenny led them to one of the displays, one with a Tinker made device that resembled some sort of futuristic toilet brush. The plaque underneath it read "IX". 

"This object is known as the Chronokenisis Amplifier," Jenny started to explain, "It belonged to IX, and was originally acquired by the GSA in 2019 after an attempted coup led by the Ten. So many lives were lost, but we prevailed! We keep this and many other mementoes from that day to remember the deceased. It has been... difficult... to maintain possession of this object. IX keeps trying to interfere with causality and rewrite history. He's been unsuccessful so far, and we can only hope it stays that way."

"How do you know it's protected right now?"

"Well," Jenny said, her eyes darting to the floor, "We don't, not really anyway. It's still here, and that's about all the confirmation we have that our teams have been successful in stopping IX so far."

The Critic walked passed Jenny and leaned over, wiggling her hips ever so slightly. It was a subtle thing, the kind of thing you only really noticed if you were paying close attention or knew the person doing the act. She glanced over at Mark and winked, urging him to come closer with a tantalizing finger. 

Mark sighed heavily and took his place beside the Critic. She wrapped an arm around him and Paul could practically see the chill run down Mark's spine. He wondered why Mark was letting this happen, but thought it better not to ask. Better to not blow their cover, he had told himself. 

"What about that?" Paul said, breaking the silent tension that was building in the room.

The that Paul was talking about was a strange device that seemed to defy the laws of the universe as it lay there, folding inside out of itself across that admittedly rather thin line between realities. It hurt his eyes when he found himself staring at the thing for too long. Silently, Paul thought to himself how audacious it was to have something that punished people with headaches on broad display for everyone to see. The GSA was proud of its accomplishments, sure, but this was all the more evidence that they didn't really care for the common people. 

The placard underneath the headache inducing object read "III".

"That, well, we haven't really figured out what exactly it is, only that it belonged to III and she used it to really add some power behind her Exploit. The GSA acquired that particular object in the late summer of last year, August 20th, if I can remember right."

"What about the most recent acquisition?" The Critic asked, exaggerating her enthusiasm, "You know, I heard that X really gave the GSA a run for their money during their last encounter. Kinda makes you wonder if the GSA is taking it easy on the Ten for one reason or another. Either that or they're growing soft, of course."

Jenny folded her arms and frowned, "Between you and me, it hurts my soul to sell the GSA as the impenetrable fortress of superheroes that it claims to be. The organization is, you know, corrupt to high hell and back. They do a lot of shady things on the daily and get away with it because they've got the lawmakers in their pockets, but you didn't hear that from me. The benefits, though?" She whistled long, "My wife and I are huge fans of Wonder World, and since I work here I get life time admission free of charge." She added the last bit with a wink and a bold smile plastered on her face, "But then again, the GSA has never been better! We love our superheroes and admire them for all of their hard work that they do to protect us civilians."

The Critic placed her hands on her hips, "Is that so?"

"That's what we tell everybody! Now, about the most recent addition to our collection; X's syntax bomb."

Jenny led them to where they wanted to go, to the manila folder encased in glass. It was such a simple, unassuming thing, the kind of folder you'd see in an office setting or some other boring workplace environment riddled with bureaucracy. There just wasn't anything special about it. Beneath the folder was a placard that read "X". 

"Inside of this folder," Jenny began, her voice suddenly dark and low, as if for dramatic effect, "is the most dangerous object in the GSA's possession currently. The syntax bomb is a written on a piece of paper contained within the confines of this humble, unassuming manila folder. We acquired it just last week, actually. Allegedly, X was planning to unleash this at the American Dream mall, causing mass casualties and forcing the GSA and other superhero organizations to comply with his demands."

"Well what makes it so dangerous?" Paul asked.

Jenny smirked, "You're literate, right?"

"I'd like to think so," Paul responded, tilting his head to one side, "What's that got to do with that paper? You read something and like, explode or whatever?"

Jenny waggled a finger in front of him, "Not quite. It's not that kind of bomb, what it is is a logic bomb. The sentence written on that piece of paper exploits a kind of vulnerability in your system, the very essence of your being, and causes a... how would you put it... an error."

"An error? What do you mean, lady?" Mark asked, folding his arms.

Jenny scratched her head, "It's like you stop being able to rationalize your sense of self. You stop believing in your own existence, and because of that you kinda of sorta maybe go a little bit insane."

"I've dealt with a lot of insane people before," The Critic said, "It can't be that bad."

"From what I heard—and these are just unsubstantiated rumors, the GSA does not condone Exploiter experimentation anymore—the syntax bomb was tested on Exploiters before its re-acquisition. The effects were horrific, and once again the GSA does not condone the actions of its previous Director or their affiliations, that's why we interfere when we can. But those poor people were driven to suicide. Each and every one of them, moments after they succumbed to their madness, after they had lost their sense of self, after their self preservation was destroyed, they all died in horrible ways. Some of them took their families with them, wives and children, you know? It's messed up. That's why we have it here, so that nothing like this can ever happen again."

"The Ten can access the syntax bomb remotely," The Critic whispered to herself. Then, to Jenny she asked, "Thank you for your help, Jenny. If you wouldn't mind, me and my entourage here would like to examine these exhibits on our own for a bit longer. We have a lot to talk about!"

Jenny flashed a big smile and half-bowed, "Of course. If you need anything just give me a hollar!" Then she made her way back where they came from, talking to some other shmuck that was looking at Dollface's mask.

The Critic pulled the three of them into a small circle. She didn't raise her voice above a whisper before repeating what she said to herself to them. 

"They can?" Mark whispered back, his voice strained with exasperation, "Then what the hell do they need the thing for?"

"Doesn't matter, they're paying us to steal it," The Critic offered, shrugging her shoulders, "Do you really want to cross Violet Cooper and Aleara Winters of all people?"

Mark scoffed, "If they kill me then at least I'll never have to see you again."

"Marky," Paul said, "Don't say shit like that. What is wrong with you?"

"Oh don't act like you're on my side on this, Pauly. I overheard you talking in the bathroom earlier. 'Fuck Mark', right? Am I recalling your conversation correctly?"

Paul stuffed his hands into the lining of his skirt and looked at the floor, "It's not like that. Cool Gangstar was there, we had to—"

Mark cut him off, "I don't care what you had to do, you know how I feel about her. You shouldn't have agreed to whatever bullshit she pulled you into. Matter of fact, this whole job is fucking stupid. We shouldn't be doing this."

"Maybe if you hadn't gotten seven people Vaporized, we wouldn't have to. And yet here we are." Paul grumbled.

"Oh, you worked with the Vaporizers, Mark Lambert? I didn't know you were into that kind of thing." The Critic said, tucking hair behind her ear.

"Please, it was for artwork. I'm not a serial killer."

The Critic raised an eyebrow, "You really know how to turn a woman off, don't you?"

"Pauly," Mark said, ignoring her, "It's you and me forever. But I need to know what you and the Critic talked about."

A bead of sweat coalesced on Paul's temple, "Why?"

Mark's eyes went wide and he leaned back a little, "What do you mean, why? You guys were talking about me. What the fuck did she tell you?"

Paul looked at the Critic, who shook her head.

"Mark, please just trust me on this," Paul said, his voice low and serious, "If I tell you, you're going to die. I don't want to lose my best friend. I can't."

"I don't know." Mark said, half to himself, half to Paul. He turned away from both of them, "I just don't know."

"Marky..."

"Let's just snag this thing and get out of here." He said, walking toward the syntax bomb. 

Paul followed him and once he was closer to the display case, he noticed the locks on it. He figured there would be something there to keep it in place, but silently he hoped that actually stealing the syntax bomb would have been as simple as taking the glass off and sneaking away.

Mark tapped the glass, then looked to his right where a sign hung from the wall that read "Do not tap the glass". He looked back at the glass, and then back at the sign. Then he looked to Paul and flashed a quick smirk before shrugging his shoulders. He leaned on the glass and slapped it twice with his hand.

"Well, it's not gonna be easy." Mark said. He was looking at Paul, "Got a hammer or something?"

Paul patted his skirt and chest, "I forgot my hammer at home, actually."

"Well, that sucks." Mark said. A frown formed on his face, and he looked at the syntax bomb dejectedly. 

"What do we do, Marky-poo?" The Critic asked, her voice light and sing-songy.

Mark looked at the glass case again then to Paul, "Still got that eraser?"

Paul nodded and put his hand in the lining of his skirt. He'd brought the eraser they stole from Donovan Carter's art gallery, just in case something came up on the job. He handed it to Mark, but Mark gestured at the glass instead. Paul nodded again and started rubbing the eraser on the glass.

He half expected what would happen, but was still surprised at how easily the glass was swept away. There were no cracks that formed in the untouched areas, no splinters or fragments left on the floor or inside of the display case. The only residue that remained from Paul erasing the glass were the eraser shavings, which he had the wherewithal to scoop up when he was finished. The glass was there one moment, and then gone the next, as if it had never existed in the first place and there was a large, gaping hole in the middle when it was manufactured. 

Then Mark stuck his hand inside and removed the manila folder. He kept it closed tight in his hands, then used his Exploit to give it a glamour that made it look like a playing card. He flashed it to Paul and smirked. Paul shrugged sheepishly and followed Mark as they walked past the Critic. The Critic smiled at them, following in step. She eyed Mark carefully as he put the playing card in his shirt and held it in place with his arm. He put his hand in his pocket and the Critic locked her arm around his, nuzzling up to him as they walked through the museum-like floor.

"You're so good at this, Mark Lambert." She said, "We should do this more often."

Mark ignored her. He ignored Paul. He just focused on walking past the desk at the floor's entrance, walking passed the security of this floor, and heading toward the elevator. Paul sighed a breath of relief when they got in the elevator and the doors closed behind them. They had gotten away with it. 

Then a deafening alarm started to blare.