Wade went down to the basement, which was kept immaculately messy.

  He reached out to his mark, just feeling it like a regular Were would. Then he pushed. His wild talent was hard to describe. For years, he hadn't known he was using it. As far as he could tell, it just let him do more with his mark. It seemed to let him butt against a few limits of the magic and temporarily remove them. One of those limits was his own ability to comprehend what his mark was doing and the information it brought him.

  He did not necessarily have more power than an average were—not until his mark was strong enough for him to steal ambient energy to use. He just used what he had over and over again, whereas most only got one shot.

  Wade sometimes thought of it like every Were could magically conjure up some blocks to build with. However, there was a limit to the space they had to build in. Not for him. He could temporarily suspend those limits and keep building the blocks into something higher and more complicated. Others could build a nifty block fort for their action figure. He could create a full-sized city from scratch. Sure, at first, he could only summon as many blocks at once as the average person. But, one brick at a time, he built structures that included functional strip mines, refineries, and everything needed to construct skyscrapers. Given enough time, the two outcomes of the magic looked like they came from entirely different abilities.

  Still in the basement, he reached his will into the home. He had claimed it and the space it existed in, very deeply with his mark. Everything, the materials of the land, the wavelengths of magic, and even the energy that moved through the domain, all traveled through his mark.

  The mere fact that he could sense all of this would have made him immensely valuable. But he had one more trick. He reached out, feeling the usual wall greet his mental touch. Trying to control all of this was beyond even the scope of his wild talent. So he drew from elsewhere.

  It was a small trick some weres used. Funnily enough, it often came up in therapy and mediation classes as a way to kill rumination and be more mindful. All you did was brush against the potential of your alternate form and let your mind be tinted by the way it viewed the world.

  The nanosecond where Wade was stymied by the limits of his mark, even with the support of his wild talent, never went away. He could touch all he possessed, but the world knew that a were did not supersede the demands of reality. At least, not on this scale.

  As he greeted the familiar wall, something in his mind shifted. He touched his second form, the one that had earned his Jasque as a minder. It was minuscule contact: not even the amount of change it took to process scents in a way the human mind wasn't built to.

  But that tiny adjustment to his mind was all it took. The wall blocking him shifted from an unshakable reality to a matter of perspective. Something easy to move around if you just knew how to wiggle in more than four dimensions. He went from sensing all his mark touched to owning it.

  The more powerful weres who excelled with the mark gained some extra sensory benefits, indefatigability, and very subtle environmental influence, as well as general enhancements to their cognition and healing while on claimed land. Some few standouts might even be able to apply twenty or a hundred pounds of diffused pressure via telekinesis.

  Wade was living proof that there was a difference between 'more powerful people' and 'the most powerful person'.

  He did not move into the realm of preternatural skill and capability. Preternatural was too low a bar. It meant nothing to exceed the edicts of a law that held no authority over you. Wade ordered all the dust in the room to gather into a ball. Reality said 'no'. Natural law argued that was not possible.

  Wade spoke louder.

  The dust obeyed him. Boxes pressed themselves against the wall and stuck there. He told the concrete it was fluid and then split the grey seas, stepping down from the stairs to the thin layer of poured stone that he allowed to remain solid.

  At the other side of the room, a short but broad trunk revealed itself. Most of it was still embedded in the ground, but just enough showed for him to open the lid.

  He did so slowly and carefully. There were a variety and depth of protections on the trunk that meant even he couldn't be casual about opening it.

  Finally, the lid folded back on its hinges, and he extruded a miniature plinth of concrete to hold it level, allowing him to use the inside as a tray while he sorted through its contents.

  There were books of codes, protocols, tools, and sealed orders in case of various emergencies. He set aside enchanted objects of such rarity and power that he could fund the local police station for a year by selling even two of them.

  Then, at the bottom—and locked in a secondary box with even more powerful protections—was his uniform. He had a variety of all black outfits suited for multiple climates and environments. If he put them on, then his body shape would shift subtly in people's perceptions from one blink to the next. It would also become incredibly difficult to scry him or form any recording.

  Beneath the black clothing were two objects. One was a mask. It was featureless porcelain with two eye holes. Over the left eye was a stenciled broken infinity sign. Some of the earlier versions of the mask had false blood leaking from the broken infinity. The lines they made were artfully arranged to imply the contours of an imagined face.

  That had been phased out in favor of a standardized template, which made it much easier for body doubles and decoys.

  Wade liked his simple version. He knew that Jasque did too. Some of the other decoy Banes disagreed. They didn't understand what it meant to serve the mantle of Godkiller.

  Those more ostentatious body doubles also tended to have small marks inside their masks. Counters to show how many battlefields they had survived.

  Wade did none of that. The point of decoys and standardized masks was to leave no information or evidence for an intelligence officer to work with. The only unique thing his kit held was under his mask. It was a scale the size of a small plate that he had taken from his first incursion sight with Thresher.

  For a brief moment, he laid a finger on it and remembered that day, the mist of boiled blood, and the feeling that had moved him to swear his life to this program.

  But he kept the nostalgia brief—only a silent few moments to add another layer to the stratigraphy of his resolve.

  Then he proceeded to sort through everything in the trunk and remove a few small tools that he always tried to have with him whenever he knew he would be leaving his territory.

  Odd to think that Shilloh, the cute, smart cartographer, would be going to meet Thresher soon. That the man would look at her the way he once had at Wade, and decide what she would be allowed to give the program.

  He left the outfit and mask locked away. He wasn't precious about them. Somewhere up north, Godkiller would be preparing to fight something big. If they needed him in a mask, then there would be plenty of decoy outfits for him to use.

  First comes mask and mission. And by that, he knew The Mask came first, and his particular mask was a distant last place. No need to carry around unnecessary sentiment or things that would cause trouble if stolen.

  At that moment, Jasque made a point of letting the upstairs floorboards creak so that Wade knew he was coming down the stairs.

  Using his mark, he telekinetically flung open the door as an acknowledgment. He continued sorting, setting aside everything he would need on one side of the lid, and carefully depositing everything that would stay on the other.

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  When his minder arrived, Wade only shifted a bit to the side so Jasque could review. The slayer was carrying a scythe and a hand saw, both covered in blood. To speed things along, Wade obliterated the blood, sanitized both tools, and ignored the feathers and other signs of crypto battle.

  Though they both had everything memorized, the dark-haired man with his dead-shark eyes still took a three-ring binder out of the trunk and reviewed everything.

  The list was read out loud with both of them audibly acknowledging each item bullet point and touching the physical object it corresponded to. The tool was then checked to ensure it was in working condition before proceeding to the next step.

  It was not a ritual; it was standard operating procedure. They would do this with his personal bags as well. Though not Jasque's bags; Jasque was reliable.

  When they finished and the trunk was secured, they moved to the upstairs bathroom to review the remaining equipment.

  His minder took out the usual spiral notebook. He added a highlight to the row they were about to fill out so it would be clear that this was a pre-trip evaluation rather than their usual weekly one.

  Wade stripped naked. Jasque had him step on a scale, then lift his arms so they could measure his skin via calipers. This was paired with bioelectrical impedance, so they had multiple measures of his fat percentage.

  Then came other checks: his teeth, a cortisol measure done via spit, a look at his nails, a check for sloppy shaving, and even a glance at the color of his urine to evaluate hydration.

  Wade remained stoic through it all. The bathroom they used had a mirror, and he stared at himself impassively. He was tall, but not exceptionally so. His hair was brown, and his eyes a sort of uninteresting blue-grey. He had scars. Jasque had decided which ones he was allowed to keep or remove so it would match his backstory. Jasque had almost added new ones to enhance his cover, but Scotty had raised a ruckus, and someone higher in the chain of command had intervened.

  Wade had been relieved when the scarification was vetoed and then embarrassed at his own weakness. He tried to be stronger now. They were going to leave this Wade behind soon. Without the need to maintain cover, the only thing left should be the mask and the mission.

  Staring himself down in the mirror, he refused to shiver or flinch as he was efficiently, though not gently, quantified. The mirror showed him no one special. He was not pretty, his eyes did not shimmer with intelligence, and his hands held blue-collar calluses that meant he was a craftsman rather than an artist. At most, he was sturdy. But not in the way Shilloh was. She looked like someone who was able to do things. You imagined hiking to waterfalls with her: building doghouses, or trusting her with the horse while you step up for a picnic. Her strength was a beautiful thing that inherently shone with the potential for joy and laughter. His was meant to execute tasks and endure work.

  Jasque wanted him forgettable and insisted that large musculature and visible ab muscles were a liability. A six pack was a 'mating display' and dating was a waste. Plus, Wade needed enough fat to survive for a while in the woods. And who needed big, heavy muscles when force per unit of weight was a significant predictor of sprint speed?

  Jasque spoke as he measured how far behind his back he could reach, "If Sam's information is good, we need to be involved in guiding Shilloh to the right choice. But I still expected you to find a way to eat out without shoving trash down your maw."

  Wade didn't say anything. This was not a request for reasons or excuses. It was an order.

  "I can't imagine how many carbs and sugars you ate to jump your water retention this much. It will make the calculation much harder."

  "Understood."

  "Your weight training schedule will also need to be adjusted. If you don't go lazy again, we can stop your numbers from dropping too low while traveling."

  "Understood."

  "You know, usually I would think you do. But this time? I'm not so sure."

  Jasque snapped the notebook closed and walked up to Wade, ignoring his nudity, to stare him straight in the eyes, "Shilloh will be given beneficial experiences that increase the likelihood of her joining the program. That goal will not inhibit your training."

  "Of course not."

  "Of course?" Jacque's face didn't move, but his tone conveyed doubt. His cold eyes bored into Wade, searching for deception or reservation.

  It took uncomfortably long, but eventually the dark-haired man sighed. Some of the coldness fell away, and he slapped Wade on the shoulder.

  "I get it. I really do. But we need to bring her to the cause without letting her ruin us. Remember, Wade, she isn't a human. And even if she were, she would take away time from life-saving training. Worse, she'd give you life-ending habits. You can't afford it. We can't afford for you to let anything that will make it harder to stay on the path."

  The were nodded, eyes down, as he went to put on his clothes. He put them on quickly and efficiently, even as he spoke. "First comes mask and mission."

  "Exactly," Jasque said. "The mission is for humankind. So they don't have to get measured like a prime steer like you are," the other man gave him a rueful grin. But his face reverted almost immediately to a solemn cast. "We're preparing for who knows how many more layers of The Vault breaking all the rules. We prepare for the unprepareable. So what does mask and mission demand of you?"

  "Competency and sanity."

  "Exactly, and it's not too late to make you competent. But only if you manage to stay sane. And that is a jobs worth of work. No need to add complications."

  Wade's instincts told him to keep his head down. To take the feelings he was trying not to pay attention to and shove them into a little pressurized container that he could use for fuel later on.

  But he had to say it. He couldn't let this opportunity pass. It was what the mission demanded. "Jasque, I actually think she might have information we don't. The ideas she has about supplementing buffer species—"

  "They're nothing new. In fact, they're even possible if you have enough trustworthy full dryads. Problem is, we don't have enough of them, let alone enough of them on our side. So, for us, it is a fantasy. It's too far off, and bigger brains need to manage it. The only real thing for us is training, and how many people will die if we're a half second too slow."

  The smart thing was to stay silent, but Wade had never been the smartest, and his gut said this was important, "Is it really a fantasy, though? With what I can do? If she has the knowledge, then I can be the ultimate force multiplier I can—"

  "You can shut up."

  His teeth clicked together. Son of a mother fucking succubus. He, of all people, should know better than to trust his instincts.

  "Shilloh has ideas we will pass on to smarter men. But if she gets in the way of your goals, in the way of our fight to keep your edge while we travel, then I will bring in the healer and put you both through the kind of training that will leave you no time for mistakes."

  Wade found himself unable to speak. His hands shook before he closed them into fists.

  Shit. He hadn't looked into the healer. He should have, but never did. Otherwise, he might have learnt they had the skill to heal him often enough for that training. But still…

  Jasque sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Just," the slayer stepped forward and grabbed Wade's shoulder, making him look up from where he had been fidgeting with his shirt. "Just trust me. You listened before when you were in doubt. The big feelings passed, the training let you do better than ever, and you were glad you ignored the gut feelings. Remember that?"

  He nodded. Those big victories and near misses were on his mind more often than not.

  "Exactly. Trust the process, trust me, and trust the people who put me in charge of you. Any extra," he waved his hand in a fluttering way, "feelings and knee-jerk reactions can be handled. Plus, we'll have Scotty. He's not a good influence, but he knows the mission. Get all this out of your system with him. Then we can keep focused. Alright?"

  "Alright."

  "Good man," Jasque said, patting him on the back. He leaned in, voice quiet but intense, and forced Wade to meet his black eyes. "You are strong. You are focused, and the pressure you're under is what we need to make you into something. We'll bring Shilloh to the cause, then we'll move on, just like with all our other missions. Keep the momentum, keep the pressure, and don't let her throw grit in the machine. Just think about how many men, how many warriors, trained to the levels you are at now and then quit because they found someone with a bleeding heart who wanted to spend afternoons sitting on their ass. They all failed at this point. You though, you have unlimited potential. It would be a waste for you to end your growth as one of them, and crushing this challenge will only take a few months of extra focus."

  "You're right, Jasque."

  "Steering you through temptation and irrationality is why I'm here."

  "Thank you," Wade said, eyes down as he wrestled with the shame that was still tying knots in his stomach.

  The smaller man paused, his warm smile freezing for just a second. Then it came back. "Why don't we give you a few extra nights with Scotty?"

  "Really?" Wade's eyes all but jumped to his minder.

  "Yes. I know that some people need that sort of rest and recovery as part of training. I still want us to work on your socializing, like we did your sleep: make it efficient so you can recover fast and spend more hours doing the work. But, for now, I'll plan on giving you extra nights off with him when you're away from territory and there is reduced utility per minute."

  Wade wanted to thank him, but carefully hid his glee so he didn't seem like a slacker. "You're sure?"

  "Yes. This caravan may actually offer some great opportunities. In fact, I'll make a study and reading list for you and for Shilloh. Away from town, we'll be her main social circle. She'll be more interested in fitting in with us and more adverse to conflict. It'll be a great opportunity. Nice and controlled with no cavorting or drinking to distract anyone."

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