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Alice, she repeated. Alice on the telephone.

What telephone? Where?

He tried the thing where he thought of something, to humor his hunch. Because this was weird so very weird. And—

She commented about honey.

And then she said she should stop talking.

”Hrm.” Ashton grimaced. ”So you can read minds. First Alice, then the damn honey.” He paused, caught himself, and corrected his error. ”Dang honey. Sorry. Don’t need to be rude, now do I?”

A mind reader. Don’t blame her for it. He thought. Mutant girl. Probably not her fault. She’s innocent. And she was way too cute for him to just flat out get pissed at.

What had she even done so far, anyways?

Overheard a couple stray thoughts. Said them out loud. Not like you said anything damning. Nothing shameful. Not like you pictured—

He had to stop himself right there. Before he thought of something embarrassing. But you know, when you’re trying not to think of something, it gets really difficult not to think of the thought. Or think about not thinking about the thought. And then, things got confusing.

Ashton kept his face neutral. Tried to think about nothing.

Her blush was cute though... God dammit.

”I should probably stop thinking.”

There he was again, flying over the city. Ashton has seen him do that several times recently. The people on the street had told him, “that! That right there is an x-man.”

“Really?” He’d thought. The Asian guy on the white triangle platform in the blindingly white tuxedo, with the stunningly white smile? The one who flew... on the triangle... in order to patrol the city and fight crime? Was that supposed to be a deterrent? Yes, he felt soooo safe.

Apparently, his older self had felt the same about the X-men. From his journal, he knew. Did not like. Freaking vigilantes.

How was he any different than them, with his desire to find the person that had deaged him... and punish them? He had no idea. But he had no powers, so far. And he was not a vigilante. He wore no costume. And so far, he had made no real progress. More and more he thought he might just outsource this to a real private detective.

What had the man been searching for, anyways? Now his curiosity was piqued. Had he been following reports from police? Was there a criminal in the area? He had once been a cop, so was he maybe slightly, just a little bit... responsible to help with this?

Eh. He wasn’t a cop anymore. But still...

Hey. Who was that guy, stumbling into an alley? He looked like he was covered in something. Looked hurt. Maybe he had been attacked by... whatever it was the X-man guy had been looking for? Maybe that other vigilante he had heard about, Cheshire? Maybe he would find the baddie before Shard did? Though didn’t he usually operate out of Hell’s Kitchen? Or had that just been a year ago? He only had rumors to go on.

Whatever. Ashton shrugged and strolled into the alley after the guy, in his red Coca Cola shirt and blue jeans and black leather jacket.

“Ow...” He heard, from deeper within the alley.

”Hello? Anyone there? Are you okay? You’re not hurt right? I can call an ambulance.” Ashton called. A slight Irish accent flavored his words.

Cautiously, he stepped further into the alley. Into view of the person slumped against the wall.

No. He had not found who he was looking for yet. Yes, he had blown a perfectly good night searching for clues. He had not blown the night itself. That part had been good. But as far as forward progress went, he had hit a brick wall.

He might just have to go back to the bar and find the source he had been looking for. Or, look other places. Or— whatever. He was no detective. Maybe he needed to look into getting one. Ashton sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Then, he stepped into the clothing store.

He needed more clothes that fit him. So, sue him. Being deaged back about 20 years will do that to a guy. And apparently, his older counterpart liked the same damn grey suit. He had like five of them. But street clothes? Eh.

About a half later, Ashton stepped back out of the shop carrying two large bags of clothing. Much better. His credit card had gotten a workout, but now he had more things to wear.

He glanced around, then saw the bus station nearby. He’d rode the bus out to go shopping, he would ride it to get back. He walked his butt to the station and got a ticket to a station by Old Ashton’s apartment. Then, he sat down in the waiting area next to a hot blonde in a long red coat. He rested his bags on the floor by his feet.

>> “ Hopefully it won't rain today “ the girl said, to herself.

Ashton glanced at her. He pulled out his cellphone. A mind-blowing device. Modern technology made so many useful things he had not had growing up back in the day. He brought up the weather app his sister Alice had introduced him to... because she knew he would be out and busy, and never checked the damned news for the forecast.

”Weather report says cloudy, but the percentage chance for rain is only 20%.” He said to her. ”So we got the odds on our side, I guess.”

He had a weak sort of Irish accent. The kind that you get from your parents, and kill over time. Not the kind you get from living in Ireland. Wouldn’t that have been a treat? Ireland had lots of bonnie lasses. Cute redheads. He wasn’t sure why, but he liked girls with red hair. It was a thing. Blondes were okay too, he guessed.

Ashton glanced back from his phone, at the woman sitting next to him. ”Sorry.” He smiled at her, suddenly embarrassed. ”Just sorta barged in there, and you were just muttering to yourself. Not asking a question.”

Neck, smooth and fair. He’d have to wet it, would he? How ever would he do that?

We’re her eyes twinkling? She was enjoying this. But then, was there anything wrong with that? Well. Maybe. If one held getting a guy red in the face (from the hot sauce) against someone. Or was not something HE would do. No. To him, she was blameless. But someone else, who had a bit too much pride and ego to be led by a pretty woman like a lamb to the slaughter. Maybe his dumb older self, for instance?

He smirked when she showed her neck, and told him how unfortunate it was that they’d need to dampen said neck in order to get this little truck to work. How unfair, how unfortunate, how did it sound?

”Sounds like a fair excuse to kiss your neck to me,” Ashton said warmly. As she smiled her innocent little smile, he matched action to words and hoped he had not misread the entire situation.

Once her neck was suitably moistened... he held up a nearby salt shaker and juggled it at her. ”Want me to do you? You can do me next.”

He was offering to salt her neck, people. Get your minds out of the gutter! And if she wanted to lick the salt off his neck and take a shot after him, that was perfectly fair. A perfectly balanced arrangement. Like the old saying... you scratch my back, I’ll scratch your itch. Yeah. That was how it went.

Juniper. He liked the name. Liked her response, too.

In the background of the bar, a man with a face like a rat walked past. Like, literally like a rat. Ashton didn't notice.

Endorphins? He recalled what those were. Plenty of ways to rev up endorphins. He was listening more acutely, now.

He had to be honest, though.

"I honestly have not," Ashton said. "There's always a first time though, right?"

From the connection she made, and the name, it sounded pretty spicy. He could guess at the contents. What? Probably some tequila, right? For the tequila part. And the furnace, tabasco sauce... or hot sauce, maybe Frank's. He couldn't have guessed at the salt on the hand, or the lime wedge in the mix. The whole thing... it'd probably make his cheeks hot. Which seemed to be the point.

He held the glass in his hand, and turned it.

"I could get behind a couple of those." He said.

Click.

The main lock was disengaged. The door crept open an inch... and stopped in place. The dead bolt held it back. She stared at him through the crack in the door. He was irate.

"You knew." Ashton said. "About all of it."


His sister was tall and blonde, and the bucket of chicken and the soda pop weren't impressing him at all. For a moment, he flashed back to a slamming a half a hundred doors in her face, over the long course of their lives. The temptation to add another to the pile was great.

"Ashton... let me in. I have to talk to you about--"

"He was miserable. I was miserable. And you knew. And you knew I'd find out." He said, voice low and dangerous. "He wasn't happy, dammit. I wasn't happy. He had a fssskked up life... who the hell are Eve and Quin?!"

Alice winced.

He stared at her. "Well?" He tapped his foot.

"They were... your partners..." She said.

"Aaaaand?" Ashton replied.


His sister bit her lower lip. "Ashton. Let me in. There's more to this than a couple of women."

"And a rip in space and time. And cop cases. And one of them is dead. And, we are apparently caught up on some woman. One of them? Another woman?! And am I a MUTANT? Because I sure don't feel like one of those. Sis--"

She interrupted him, quickly cutting in. "This is so much more than them. And that. Ashton, someone did this to you. And they're still out there. And Archer is connected, and--"

"What the hell, Alice? Come on in," He slammed the dead bolt to one side and tore it out of the hole to let it swing and dangle. "You got some 'splainin' to do." In perfect Ricky Ricardo voice, he let her through the door.

Something smelled in New York, and it wasn't the bar. The bar was pretty nice, actually. Pretty nice, for a place full of rats.

He'd asked around... kind of. He wasn't a detective any more. He didn't remember being a detective. He didn't have the skills. But he could pretend to have the skills, and fake it until he made it. That had been his life for so many years, it scared him to think of being anything else.

He needed to know, needed to know why it had happened. The freaking de-aging thing. Why, and who had done it to him. His sister had pushed him in the right direction. And what she'd said, he had not liked. Because it sort of shook his world view. Or maybe, it would have shaken his world view if he'd been forty-something and a little bit fat. Old man fat. Beer belly fat. Old, old, and not young. And fat. So, not like him.

... Maybe he was a little critical over what he'd become. Or at least, his perceived image of what it was he had become.

What he'd become, hadn't been great. And he would have to do some real life thinking about what he would do next with his new life. But first, yeah. Rat. He was searching for a rat. Super important. Very important.

Also, he was 20. Not 21. So technically, he was breaking the law to get into the bar. But the driver's license freaking said he was old enough... and he kind of looked like the guy in the pic. If you squinted, and the lighting was bad. And you figured the man in the photograph had been having a bad day. So, he was in a bar, breaking the law to investigate someone who had broken the law. Did two wrongs make a right?

Hell with it, he was getting a drink. Maybe it'd help him focus. Or forget his problems. Were these his problems, even? Who would blame him if he just dropped the whole case and peaced the hell out and moved on with his new life? Got a job at... I don't know, Olive Garden? And went back to... college. And hit on college-aged women who were theoretically half his age.

Don't think about that.

He sat down at the bar, in his red sriracha sauce t-shirt with a rooster on it, dark blue jeans, and black leather jacket. Ran a hand through his unshaven reddish-brown beard, and ordered a drink. Jack and coke. Wasn't his first drink. He'd drunk with friends. Wasn't like he was some pretty boy Lightbringer Law-Abider. He could DRINK A JACK AND COKE. His head hurt. Shut up. This whole day, this whole week. This whole thing. Leaving his head full of contradictions and ideas of who he'd been, and who he was. And what he was and what he'd be and what he'd been and wanted to be, and would be. And wasn't. And-- Christ. Yeah.

"And keep 'em coming." He added, and rubbed at his eyes.

It had been... a hell of a week. Hell of a month. And he'd only been there for the last 24 to 48 hours of it. The rest, he'd all learned of, second-hand. It was enough to make any young man have a headache.