The secondary location is a warehouse in Camden that we've used exactly twice before, which makes it perfect - familiar enough that we know the layout, unfamiliar enough that Kingdom won't have it on their radar. Dead Drop parks the van in the loading bay and we haul our very angry, very muffled prisoner inside.

  The space is mostly empty except for some old pallets and industrial shelving, but Monkey Business has been here ahead of us. There's a chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room - metal, sturdy, the kind of thing you'd use for welding work if you weren't using it for significantly less legal purposes. A single light hangs from the ceiling on a chain, and I grin when I see it.

  "Nice touch with the light," I tell Birthday Suit as we maneuver Mr. Polygraph into the chair.

  "That was your idea," she points out, unlocking the chains enough to transfer him from Dead Drop's hold to the chair's restraints.

  "Was it? I'm a genius."

  "You suggested it last week. You said it would be 'atmospheric.'"

  "Like I said. Genius."

  Mr. Polygraph is making sounds through his gag, probably some variation of the "eat shit and die" theme he started with earlier. Dead Drop secures him efficiently - arms behind the chair, legs strapped to the chair legs, torso locked down with enough chain that he can barely move. She's done this before. We've all done this before, honestly, but she's got the best technical execution.

  The gag comes off last. He immediately starts yelling.

  "You have no idea what you've just done. The Kingdom will-"

  "The Kingdom will what?" I interrupt, leaning against a nearby pallet. "Mobilize? Sure. Look for you? Probably. Find you? Doubtful. We're very good at our jobs."

  "You're insane. All of you. This is kidnapping, assault, probably a dozen federal charges-"

  "Okay, Mr. Law and Order," Birthday Suit says, sounding bored. "Save the indignation. We know what we're doing is illegal. That's kind of the point."

  "What do you want?" He's trying for controlled anger but I can hear the fear underneath. Smart man. He should be scared.

  "Information," I start to say, but then the warehouse door opens and Monkey Business walks in, followed by Snake Oil and Elias in his wheelchair.

  The temperature in the room shifts. That's the only way I can describe it. Monkey Business has this presence - not physical intimidation, he's not particularly imposing, but something about the monkey mask and the way he moves makes people instinctively nervous. Snake Oil's floppy snake mask is just funny to me at this point. And Elias gets... a domino mask and a spare birthday hat perched incongruously on his big afro.

  Okay.

  "Mr. Polygraph," Monkey Business says pleasantly. "Thank you for joining us."

  "Fuck you."

  "Direct. I appreciate that." Monkey Business pulls over a folding chair - where did that come from? - and sits down about six feet from our prisoner. Close enough for conversation, far enough to be unthreatening. "We're going to have a very brief chat, and then we're going to part ways. Permanently."

  "You're going to kill me." It's not a question.

  "No." Monkey Business sounds almost offended. "We're going to release you to police custody. Alive, mostly intact, and in significantly better condition than you deserve given your organization's recent activities."

  Mr. Polygraph's eyes narrow. "What do you want?"

  "Nothing you know," Monkey Business says, and I see confusion flicker across Polygraph's face. "No interrogation, no information extraction, no lengthy torture session to get you to reveal Kingdom secrets. Honestly, we don't care about any of that."

  "Then what-"

  "We want your power."

  Silence. The kind of silence that happens when someone's brain is trying to process something that doesn't make sense.

  "My... what?"

  Snake Oil steps forward, and Mr. Polygraph finally seems to notice him. Short, stout, thick glasses, looking like someone's disappointed chemistry teacher. He's rolling up his sleeves methodically, revealing arms that are covered in old scars - thin white lines crisscrossing from wrist to elbow.

  "Your power," Snake Oil says in that dry, clinical tone he uses when he's explaining something he finds tedious. "Your metahuman ability. The lie detection, specifically. We're going to extract it."

  "That's not-" Mr. Polygraph stops, and I watch realization dawn across his face. "You can't. That's not possible."

  "It's extremely possible," Snake Oil corrects. "Uncomfortable, certainly. Painful, absolutely. But possible and, more importantly, reliable. I have been doing this multiple times a day for many days."

  "You're lying."

  "I'm really not." Snake Oil moves closer, pulling on latex gloves with practiced efficiency. The fingertips have all been cut off. Some fucking gloves, man. "The process takes approximately ninety seconds of continuous physical contact. During that time, your power will crystallize and emerge from my hand in physical form. It hurts. Both of us. But you'll survive, and I'll have your ability."

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  Mr. Polygraph is pulling against his restraints now, chains rattling. "No. No, you can't- this is insane, you can't just take someone's powers, that's not how this works-"

  "It's exactly how this works," Monkey Business says calmly. "Snake Oil's ability allows him to extract metahuman powers and preserve them in a stable form. We grind them down, process them, and create our product. Jump. Fly. You've heard of them, I'm sure."

  I can see the understanding in his face. It's delicious.

  "The Kingdom will come for you," he says, and now the fear is open, undisguised. "They'll tear this city apart to find me."

  "Probably," I agree cheerfully. "But by then you'll be in police custody explaining how you got abducted by persons unknown, and we'll be conducting business as usual. Don't worry though, we're not trying to get you in any more trouble than you already are. We're giving you a local anesthetic. It'll sting, but it's better than the alternative."

  Elias wheels forward, a medical kit in his lap. He's quiet, has been since we arrived, but he starts prepping a syringe with the kind of focused competence that suggests he's done this part before too.

  "Novocaine," he explains to Polygraph, though I'm not sure why he bothers. "For the extraction site. It won't stop all the pain but it'll help."

  "I don't want your fucking novocaine," Polygraph spits. "I don't want any of this. You can't do this. You can't just-"

  "We can," Monkey Business interrupts, and there's something almost gentle in his voice. Almost. "And we are. This is happening, Mr. Polygraph. The only variable is how much you suffer during it. I recommend accepting the anesthetic."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then Snake Oil performs the extraction anyway and you experience the full intensity of having your metahuman ability forcibly removed from your body while fully conscious and aware." Monkey Business tilts his head slightly. "It's your choice. We're not monsters. We're offering mitigation."

  The laugh that comes out of Polygraph is borderline hysterical. "Not monsters? You're kidnapping people and stealing their powers to make drugs. What the fuck do you call that?"

  "Business," Monkey Business says simply. "The Kingdom attacks teenagers. They destroy community centers. They operate through fear and violence and the consolidation of power in the hands of a select few. We're democratizing access to that same power. You might disagree with our methods, but don't pretend your organization occupies any moral high ground."

  "We're not-"

  "You shot a cop," I interject. "Like, personally you. Three months ago during that thing in Kensington. I saw the body cam footage. So maybe save the righteous indignation."

  Polygraph goes quiet. He's still pulling against the restraints but it's weaker now, more automatic than purposeful. The fight's draining out of him as reality sets in.

  "How attached are you to your powers?" I ask, and even I can hear how the question lands - not cruel, exactly, but clinical. Matter-of-fact. Because it doesn't matter what his answer is.

  He looks at me, and for a second I see something raw and human underneath the Kingdom lieutenant facade. Fear, yes, but also grief. Like he's already mourning what he's about to lose.

  "You'll still be you," Elias says, surprisingly gentle. "Just normal. Like most people."

  "Fuck you, eat shit, and die," he responds.

  "Too bad," Dead Drop says from her position by the door, chains clinking softly. "Should've thought about that before your organization decided to fuck with kids."

  "Fuck her too," he growls.

  Snake Oil is done waiting. He approaches Polygraph, one gloved hand already extended.

  "Last chance for the novocaine," Monkey Business says.

  Polygraph is breathing fast, shallow breaths that sound like they're being pulled through a straw. His eyes are wide, darting between all of us, looking for an exit that doesn't exist.

  "Fine," he finally gasps. "Fine. Whatever. Just- just get it over with."

  Elias moves in with the syringe, finds a spot on Polygraph's neck - hard to reach his arm with how he's restrained - and injects. Polygraph flinches but doesn't pull away. Can't pull away. We wait about thirty seconds for it to take effect.

  "Ready?" Snake Oil asks, and it's not clear if he's asking Polygraph or himself.

  "No," Polygraph says, but Snake Oil is already reaching out. His hand clasps over Polygraph's neck. For a few seconds, nothing happens.

  Then Polygraph screams.

  It's not a scream of pain - not yet, anyway - it's a scream of wrongness. Of something fundamental being pulled away. His whole body goes rigid against the restraints, muscles locked, tendons standing out in his neck.

  Snake Oil's expression doesn't change. Clinical. Focused. But I can see sweat starting to bead on his forehead, see the muscles in his arm tensing.

  And on the back of his hand, something starts to grow, emerging from a slit cut into the glove.

  It looks like a crystal at first - clear, geometric, catching the light from the hanging bulb. But as it grows, expanding from the size of a pebble to the size of a walnut to bigger, it takes on a faint blue-green luminescence. Polygraph's scream cuts off into a choked gasp, his eyes rolled back in his head.

  The crystal keeps growing. Fist-sized now, jutting from Snake Oil's hand like a grotesque tumor. His jaw is clenched so tight I swear I can hear his teeth grinding.

  Ninety seconds, he said. I start counting in my head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi-

  Birthday Suit looks away. Even she can't watch this part.

  Sixty seconds. The crystal has stopped growing. Polygraph is making sounds that barely qualify as human - high-pitched, continuous, like an engine grinding itself to pieces.

  Ninety seconds.

  Snake Oil yanks his hand back, and the crystal comes with it - not pulling free cleanly but tearing, separating from both his hand and from whatever metaphysical connection it had to Polygraph. There's no blood but Snake Oil staggers backward, cradling his hand, and Polygraph slumps in the chair like someone cut his strings.

  The crystal falls, and Elias snatches it out of the air like a baseball catcher. For a moment, nobody moves. Too valuable to let it hit the floor. Then Elias wheels forward, holding it up, examining it in the light. "Successful extraction," he says quietly, like he's confirming a lab result.

  Polygraph is breathing. Shallow, ragged, but breathing. His eyes are open but unfocused.

  "Is he-" I start to ask.

  "He'll recover," Snake Oil says, his voice strained. He's wrapping his hand in gauze that Elias hands him. "Shock, mostly. The novocaine helped but it's still traumatic. Give him thirty minutes and he'll be conscious enough to understand what happened."

  Monkey Business stands, looking down at our prisoner with something that might be pity if he were capable of that emotion.

  "Thank you for your contribution to our cause," he says.

  Then he turns to me. "Get him ready for transport. Anonymous tip to the police in forty-five minutes with his location. Make sure he's secured but not injured further."

  "Got it, boss."

  Monkey Business picks up the crystal - Elias hands it to him carefully - and examines it in the light. Blue-green, luminescent, containing everything that made Lucas Donovan special.

  "Beautiful," he murmurs. Then, louder: "Snake Oil, start getting this as Fly ASAP. I want this shit in my veins yesterday. Any leftovers you can... do whatever you want with, I don't give a shit."

  "Yes sir."

  They leave - Monkey Business, Snake Oil, Elias - taking the crystal with them. The door closes with a hollow metal sound.

  I look at Birthday Suit. She looks at Dead Drop. Dead Drop looks at Polygraph, who's still slumped in the chair making small sounds.

  "Well," I say, trying to inject some levity into the moment and failing. "Alrighty, then."