The problem with being a fugitive from justice in twenty-four nations, Ed reflected, was that sightseeing was basically impossible. Especially given how ingrained the whole “hero scene” was in Japan, it was a near-certainty that their cover would be blown the second they were seen by a civilian. That, at least, was what Sam thought. And none of them were particularly interested in disputing that interpretation.

At least they’d been set up somewhere cushy.

He tipped his head back, makeshift hammock swaying gently as he kicked off against the wall, and looked over at Eri. She was nose-deep in a book about – what was it about? He asked.

“American black sites in Mesopotamia.”

A hint of patriotism flared in Ed’s breast, egged on by ironic outrage and the prospect of an unproductive argument to liven up the monotony. “C’mon,” he complained. “That’s ancient history.”

“Dajjal in Mosul was a descendant of a detainee.”

“Dead and buried.”

“Not if we hadn’t done the burying,” Eri corrected.

“Like I said, ancient history. Look to the future, why don’t you? Money to make. Girls to fuck.” And chases, too, hundreds of them; leading G-men and gangsters alike on wild goose chases through the cramped, winding streets of Kyoto, staying just out of reach as the others picked them off one by one. The chase, and its attendant adrenaline: that was what Ed lived for.

“– not like you, anyway,” Eri continued, turning a page, and Ed returned his attention to the conversation with some effort. “Some of us are capable of sticking with something for more than five minutes, you know.”

“That’s why I’m the decisive one. What do you do? Follow in my wake, mumbling about how stupid I am, and how we’re all going to end up dying painfully – and then, when it turns out fine –”

“That’s the thing! It never turns out fine.”

“I’ve fucked up once or twice in the past –”

“It’s in the three digits, AT MINIMUM –”

“– but, but, but, and this is crucial, we didn’t end up dying painfully. We didn’t end up in jail, or detained, or even remotely injured in a significant, career-ending fashion.” Ed flickered away, and when Eri looked up from her book, he was in front of her, lips pulled back, teeth exposed. “See? Never happens. We’re the fuckin’ Five, Eri. We fuck shit up and get away scot-free. We have our cake and eat it. Getting caught, getting killed – that happens to other people. Not us.”

“You’ve only been here two years.”

Ed whipped around as the lights came on. Sam was standing in the doorway, though it would have been more accurate to say that Desolator was standing in the doorway. Because Sam could take a joke. And Desolator couldn’t. “Oh, hey,” he greeted, hands going in his pockets, aw-shucks attitude on full blast. “Didn’t know you were there, Sam. Eri didn’t – well, she’s like that, you know how she is –”

(Behind him, Eri slid her spectacles on over her nose and smiled into her book.)

Desolator stood there and listened as Ed yammered on. Eventually, his motormouth stalled, then juddered to a resonant halt. The two of them stood there, Ed trying to avoid his gaze, Desolator looking at him with that awful glint in his eye, and then he raised his hand –

And laid it on his shoulder.

“You,” Desolator said, softly, “should be glad that I am in a good mood tonight, Edmund. Because if I were to catch you saying that on any other night, you’d be up till sunrise from the pain.”

Then his hand whipped out and broke Ed’s nose.

Ed hissed through his teeth, a low, keening sound of agony, and Desolator left. He sat down hard on the ground, bruising the base of his spine, and tipped backwards. The fight with Miracle may have taken him down a peg, but the inflicting of pain remained a core competency of Desolator’s, and it had been a very clean (and thus painful) break.

Eri removed her spectacles. The lights on the ceiling flickered, then went out completely, obscured by a thick, cold fog that leeched all luminosity from the room. It stopped at the partition separating their shared quarters from the rest of the residence, but the second they were in darkness once more, Ed rolled his shoulders and realigned his nose, his indistinct, shadow-wreathed self so much easier to heal than his fleshy, fragile body.

“He always says that,” he told her, voice curiously muffled by the darkness. “Up till sunrise from the pain. Ha! Who does he think he’s kidding?”

Eri rolled her eyes and reopened her book. “You need to be more careful.”

“I was careful. You should use your quirk more often.”

Without looking up, Eri flicked her finger through his intangible nose. “Not even for you.”