Spicy pondered whether or not she lived in a world with a fourth wall as she pulled Tree Boy along to her agency’s HQ, Stevie following close behind.

“Why am I following you again?” Stevie asked, rippling into invisibility as HQ came into sight.

“We still need to play that game of Egytian Rat-Slap.”

HQ didn’t seem like much. At least, not at first. It was located in what seemed to be an abandoned row house on an empty street. Spicy pushed the door open and led them inside the run-down front, slipping into the secret elevator.

“Hah! Now I know where your lair is!” Tree Boy glorified.

“Yeah that’s not gonna matter much after we’re done with you,” said Spicy.

“And I also know your name, mysterious vigilante! It’s Stevie. I’ll remember that name. With a terrible grudge-istic grudge!” Tree Boy continued, as if Spicy hadn’t said anything.

“Uh huh. Sure. Come on,” Spicy pulled him out of the lift as the doors opened.

As they walked, Stevie grasped Tree Boy’s shoulder. “Only my friends call me Stevie.” She whispered ominously. “Try it again and I’ll remove your mouth.”

Under his breath, like a little kid told not to touch something, he whispered to Spicy “Stevie’s a butt-face.”

Spicy’s eyes widened. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering where Stevie actually was. This invisibility thing was spooky. The vigilante had only been joking around, right?

They entered the atrium of the underground facility, where junior agents and trainers hustled and bustled about on secret government business.

“This place is shady.” Stevie said.

Spicy looked around. She was right, they needed to get the lights replaced. “Yeah. we don’t exactly have the best budget. Follow me,” she led them down the curved double staircase.

Whoever designed this piece of architecture was a master, because the main office was nestled between those double staircases, and somehow it looked like a dome getting a hug (which was a little wholesome and Spicy loved it). She pushed the doors open and Tree Boy gasped.

“Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?”

The head directors, were in fact, Tree Boy’s parental units.

“Brandon!!! You’re safe!” His maternal unit enveloped him in a hug, smothering his forehead and cheeks in little kisses.

“Mom! Not in front of the government agent!”

“Too late for that Brandon,” Spicy chuckled. Tree Boy had such a dweeby name.

“Great. Now she knows my secret identity. Thanks Mom”

“Why would you need a secret identity son?” His father approached, menacingly

“Because I was gonna be a super villain! I had a place for a lair and equipment on the way and EVERYTHING!!! And you guys ruined it by calling me my name in front of this Government spy! You guys are the worst!”

“What do you mean you were going to be a villain?” his Mom looked at her husband with a worried look.

“I meant I was gonna be a villain. I literally just said that. I could not have been clearer.” His father’s face twisted.

“Now listen here, young man. You are not, under any circumstances, participating in villainous activities. I mean, what would our boss think? The head directors of the junior spy agency in Wales, having a villain son? How are we supposed to manage juveniles, when we can’t even handle our son? No, this is not happening. Now go to your room and think about what you’ve done”

“But Dad. I don’t have a room. You guys make me sleep on the living room couch.”

“Did I stutter?”

Brandon’s face fell. “No.”

“Then go. We want to have a word with Spicy.”

Brandon’s head fell like a sadness cake as he exited the room. Spicy was in shock at how terrible of parents these people were. Maybe their reputation should be ruined.

“Thank you for bringing our boy safely home Spicy.” His mother said softly.

“Do you really not let him have his own room?”

“He lost that privilege when he was young. I don’t exactly remember what he did, but I’m sure it was awful.” Brandon’s dad responded.

“He was hiding things under his pillow dear.”

“Ah yes. That’s what it was. Now Spicy, for the excellent work you’ve done, Here’s your reward,” he handed her an envelope. “Now on your way. Someone will brief you on your next mission.”

Spicy left hesitantly. She walked up the stairs, and into the elevator. When she reached the surface, she looked around and realized she hadn’t heard Stevie at any time during her short journey. The doors to the elevator opened and closed, and Stevie appeared next to Spicy. She was holding a file full of papers.

“What’s that?” Spicy asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay then. Well we still need to have that game of rat-slap. You got time right now?”

“I always have time for egyptian rat-slap. And violence.”

“Alright then. Follow me. I know a great place.”

The gentleman’s club was rich with the scent of tea and cologne. There were plush leather armchairs ensconced between oak tables and bookshelves. They made their way over Persian rugs to a small, round table in the corner with two of the aforementioned chairs placed in glamorous positions nearby.

Spicy, who clearly counted as a gentleman with her mustache, pulled out a deck of cards. She dealt half the deck to Stevie and they started playing.

Stevie went first, laying down a two from the top of her deck.

Spicy did the same, except this card was a queen. Stevie glared at her, slowly laying down two cards, one after the other, hoping to get a face card to counter Spicy’s queen. No luck. Spicy triumphantly picked up the four cards and laid down another.

A few turns later, Stevie noticed a sandwich and quickly slapped it before Spicy even noticed.

“Hah,” she said smugly.

“Hah yourself. You might’ve won that battle, but I will win the war and all the deck will become mine.”

“Hubris, Hercules, hubris. You may be strong— but I am a god!”

“This isn’t pride. It’s confidence. Now if you’re a god at this game you should lay down a card. It’s your turn.”

Stevie obliged, and the game picked up its pace. They were both excellent players, and spent a long time neck to neck in the competition. There was a great deal of slapping. Both girls were soon nursing bruised fingers.

But luck was a devious mistress. Or mister. ( It was a gentleman’s club, after all, and Stevie had put on a mustache to get in.) And she (or he) was not favoring Stevie as much as she would’ve liked. As she laid down her last card, she could see no sandwiches or doubles made. She sighed in defeat as Spicy picked up the thick stack of cards.

“Good game Stevie.” Spicy held out her hand for Stevie to shake, as was customary in games.

“Oh, woe is me.” Stevie put a bruised hand to her forehead. “Poor maid— ahem, gentleman, abandoned by fate.”

Is this what Americans do when they lose a game? Spicy thought to herself, a little confused. Wallow in self-pity? “You gonna shake or…?”

“No,” Stevie replied. She got up. “Good game.”

“Uh… yeah.” Spicy put her hand down.

Stevie stroked her fake mustache thoughtfully. “I think I want a friend,” she said.

“You don’t have friends already?”

“No.”

“Well um… okay. Do you want me to be friends with you or… I don’t know much about friend stuff either.”

Stevie patted her head condescendingly. “We should both make our own friends, little mustachia—”

“Mustachia?”

“-- because I can’t be friends with someone who beat me at Egyptian rat-slap.”

“Uh… fair point. See ya around then. Unless I don’t.”

“You won’t,” Stevie promised. “But the name’s actually Glass. The Looking Glass.”

“Wait— you mean you lied to me?”

“Obviously.” Glass brushed her eyes as if wiping a tear, but it was likely she was just being dramatic. “Until never, little mustache girl.”

“Look here— my name is Spicy—”

But Glass had already disappeared into the cologne-scented air.

When the conference ended, Glass made her way to the park in San Tanoga. There was a white handkerchief tied to the statue of Washington there, and Glass took it, and smiled. It was time to find a friend.

And who knows, maybe they’d become a crime-fighting duo?