The Law of Averages

The bar stank like Satan's ass-crack and looked twice as ugly. A light pall of cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling, leaving behind yellow plaque. The lights were dim and the music was loud, a pulse pounding beat that made Dan's ears bleed. He huddled in a small corner table, defensively cupping his beer as people bustled past him, trying hard not to stare at the dizzying array of upgrades and body mods on display, even as he did his best to take them all in.

The Sinner's Saloon wasn't exactly his scene. Like most things in Dimension A, the bar was themed in the most obnoxiously over-the-top manner possible. In this case, Dan suspected that they'd borrowed heavily from the seedy portrayals of criminal gatherings that most movies in this parallel tended to favor. A dark, dank building filled with booze and men of ill-repute, smoke in the air and enough noise to drown out a quiet conversation. The perfect place for villains to gather, or for the protagonist to hunt down a tip from a sultry but penitent waitress, who just wanted to leave her past behind.

No doubt people came here to imagine themselves in that scenario, either playing a dashing police detective who steals the girl away from the dastardly villain, or indulging in that most taboo of fantasies: a criminal planning out some masterfully evil deed. At least half the people in attendance were wearing dark jackets and fedoras; Dan counted no less than ten pairs of sunglasses affixed to faces, despite the dim light and indoor bar. Dozens of hushed, conspiratorial flirtations were being murmured at any given point in time, neither party really understanding what the other was saying, but both leaning enthusiastically into the fantasy. Nobody in the bar was over the age of thirty, and it showed.

Well, except for one man. Cornelius Graham cruised through groups of pretty coeds, flashing charming smiles and eliciting vivid blushes. The man fisted a rack of mugs as he twirled between each gathering, sloshing beer over his thin white shirt without a care. His police badge—an oval APD sigil with a sharp triangle emblazoned at its peak, to denotate a SPEAR team member— hung around his neck, tucked beneath his increasingly translucent shirt, and he received more than a few hungry looks from both sides of the isle. The man was practically a celebrity, not to mention an outrageous flirt, and perfectly happy to revel in both of these things.

Despite being over twice Daniel's age, Cornelius barely looked out of his twenties. His face blended in perfectly with the majority of the bar. Dan found the whole thing intensely creepy, but forced himself to push it aside. Cornelius, by his own admission, was unwilling to go any further than flirting in places like this. "To keep one's skill sharp, one must practice," Cornelius often said with a wink and a smile. It didn't make Dan any less uncomfortable, but at least the old letch wasn't taking advantage of any of these doe-eyed college girls.

Cornelius eventually made his way over to Dan's table, soaked in alcohol both physically and metaphorically. The dopey smile on the man's face said that he'd drank at least half again as much booze as he was wearing. He clapped down a handful of empty mugs onto the table, and managed to slide himself into the booth without vomiting.

"Whaa's the coun'?" he slurred, blinking owlishly at Dan.

Dan sighed. "Up seventeen since you left."

"Tha's it?" Cornelius... well it looked like he attempted to raise an eyebrow, but it came out as more of a beleaguered wink. Dan idly wondered if the man was having a stroke.

He quickly ran a tally in his head once more. People moving in and out of the bar, faces and shapes, shadowed figures. His count was right, he was sure of it. Dan nodded. "Up seventeen."

"Good!" Cornelius flailed across the table in an attempt to clap Dan's shoulder. He missed and slapped against the hard wood surface, leaving behind a vivid crack. "Now... show 'em to me!"

Shit. Dan tried not to furrow his brow as his eyes drifted across the bar. He trudged through his memory, searching for familiar faces. A few pinged in his mind: a maroon shawl and purple lipstick, a cat's tail poking out from beneath her skirt. A dark trench coat and dark aviators, over a dark shirt and dark boots. A lit cigarette dangling from his lips, even as he coughed between every other word, and another tucked behind his ear. A man with silvery skin and broad shoulders. Dan pointed out each of them to Cornelius, mentally tracking where he'd seen them come and go.

Dan managed to find twelve of his seventeen. Not bad, given the shit lighting and oppressive huddle of bodies. Hard to make out much of anything in the bar without being nose to nose with the person.

"Three of 'em are humpin' in the faculty— no. Fass— facilties. Fa-cil-i-ties," Cornelius slurred, jabbing a thumb over his back, towards a distant RESTROOM sign. "One's flirtin' with a girl in the corner o'er thar, and one's in tha' booth behin' you."

Dan blinked incredulously, as he followed Cornelius' directions and saw...

"Son of a bitch!" Dan exclaimed. "You can barely keep your eyes open and it's almost pitch black in here! How is it you can keep track of all these people?"

"Darkness sets the mood," Cornelius replied unhelpfully, sweeping his arm around in what was probably meant as a meaningful gesture, but practically speaking only knocked down his mugs and spilled more beer all over himself. The drunkard watched the liquid pool at the edge of the table then drip down over his pants with a look of absolute confusion.

This was a man who could honestly claim to be more observant than Dan.

"There's got to be some trick you're using," Dan insisted. "Some sort of super secret police technique to keep track of everything in a room."

"Juss instinct I guess," Cornelius replied with a shrug. "An' practice. Lotta practice." He blinked, slowly. "Now, what're they wearin'?"

Dan swore, because he was an adult now, and adults didn't scream if they could help it.

Then he swore again, just for good measure, and tried his best to answer the damned question.

Dan left the Sinner's Saloon at only six o'clock in the afternoon, stuffing a thoroughly blitzed Cornelius Graham into a cab and vanishing into the Gap. He knew from experience that the man would simply pop a sobriety pill upon reaching his home, and be right as rain in time for his graveyard shift at the precinct.

Dan had no access to police-restricted pharmaceuticals, and therefore nursed nothing more than a light buzz. Even that was all but washed away by the familiar numbness of t-space. He floated listlessly, almost napping, letting his body drift in nonexistence. He watched the not-stars twinkle at him in the distance, and felt not-air brushing past his face. He turned his eyes upwards and saw his navigator, what was once an eldritch horror composed of eyes and teeth, now seemed no more threatening than a passing cloud. A human could only look upon something so many times before growing numb to it.

"Let's go home," he said to it, he said to himself.

He reappeared in his home gym, quickly stripping out of the jeans and t-shirt he'd worn to the bar, and changing into exercise-appropriate clothing. Dan owned an elliptical trainer that Abby had recommended. It wasn't any kind of fancy super-tech, but it got the job done. One of the few disadvantages of having nigh-limitless teleportation was the fact that Dan was heavily disinclined to walk places. Or get much physical exercise at all, really. Only Dan's sincere desire to not end up like some sort of milquetoast, ultra-pale Violet Beauregarde ensured that he got his daily dose of cardio.

An hour later, and Dan was showered and changed. He sat down at his desk and popped open his laptop, as Merrill crawled up his leg to greet him. The tiny mouse settled on his shoulder, and gazed down at the screen while Dan scrolled through his emails. There wasn't much to see. A few things from Connor and Gregoir, spam from Cornelius and one or two inquiries from Officer Ito about Dan's professional goals. Bank statements as well. Once a month, on the dot, a large transfer of funds to the account that Marcus had set up for Dan. Another had arrived just this morning.

It had been over three months since Dan had last heard from Marcus. He was too scared to visit the station now; its systems had appeared to be failing the last time he'd left, and Dan had no desire to experience the vacuum of space. The station might still be there, or it might have imploded and showered Neptune with bits of slate-grey shrapnel. He just didn't know, and Marcus wasn't telling. It was... a disappointing end to their acquaintance. He'd have liked to have believed that he and the old man were on better terms, but apparently that hadn't been the case.

Ah, well. Time marches on. No point in dwelling on the past.

Dan was happy with his life here. He had finally gone about expanding his business, renaming it to Dan's Deliveries—deliveries in a blink!— and picking up a few clients here and there. Business was slow, given how specialized his services were, but Dan wasn't exactly hurting for money. Worst case scenario, he could always be a sugar baby. Abby was a rich heiress, even if she didn't act like it.

She'd taken a job in Austin and they'd officially moved in together. That... wasn't really news to anyone who had met them before. Abby had basically been living with him already, they'd just made it official. She was in Georgia, now, finalizing the sale on her old house. Not that she needed the money, but Abby had always been resolved to make it on her own, without her family's help. The cheerful girl had even found herself a job in Austin, working at a rehab clinic for poor souls whose mods or upgrades had gone wrong.

It was strange being a homeowner. In some ways, the hassle was more trouble than it was worth. Dan's house was old and more than a little decrepit. The wallpaper was peeling in places, the floors needed refurbishing, and the A/C's only setting was arctic. He had to mow the lawn now, something he couldn't really use his power to skip. Not that he hadn't tried. Somewhere floating in t-space were thousands of blades of grass that he'd snipped with his veil. He'd given that up within minutes. The effort and focus required simply wasn't worth it.

Despite its many problems, Dan wouldn't give up his home for anything. That wasn't just because it had a secret basement, though that obviously played a huge part in his resolve. The inside might be crumbling, but the outside was sturdy and strong. The previous owner had been a vigilante, and had reinforced both the walls and windows. Bulletproof glass, and some sort of ultra-dense brick meant that nothing short of a eighteen-wheeler slamming into the house at full speed would leave a dent. That level of security hadn't been necessary in Dan's old life, but in this dimension it felt invaluable. Dan knew that he was being irrational, the odds of anything happening to his house weren't exactly high, but damn if it didn't make him feel safer.

Just one more thing to alienate him from his neighbors, but that was fine. Not like he had many neighbors to begin with. The houses on either side of his had been abandoned for years, a trend that continued down nearly the entire stretch of street, all barely maintained and only supplied with fresh 'for sale' signs every now and then. The house across the street was some kind of winter home for a rich old couple that Dan had seen exactly once. The rest of the neighborhood consisted of middle-aged busy-bodies that gawked at him whenever they thought he wasn't looking, but fled his gaze like roaches did daylight. He found it funny, if not particularly flattering.

Dan's phone chimed, and he instinctively tensed in anticipation. He was now a certified disaster-relief volunteer, and was technically on call at all times. Anastasia, in a rare act of non-malice, had even properly updated the details of his mutation. Should anyone check his demonstrated abilities against the official record, Dan was covered.

Given the particulars of his registered mutation, he was a responder for the entire state of Texas. His home state was absolutely humongous, so that meant he spent an average of twice a week responding to some sort of emergency, minor or otherwise. It was incredibly fulfilling work, odd as that was to think. But not fulfilling in a weird or needy way. Dan liked the idea of making a difference, but looking forward to such things seemed a little creepy. Barely a step down from rubbing his hands together and cackling maniacally.

He glanced at his phone, and the anticipation in his body was replaced by irritation. It was a text message. A power play, of all things. The person on the other end seemed to think making a phone call, like a normal goddamn human, put one at some sort of disadvantage. Dan clicked his tongue, and made it anyway.

"Newman," a woman's voice picked up after a moment.

"What do you want?" Dan replied tersely.

He could clearly picture Anastasia Summers' cold smile. "I've got another cache for you to crack."