Somewhere beneath downtown Hexapolis, the tunnel walls sweated candle wax and bad intentions.
At its end waited Mischief: a den where a spellcaster and an assortment of traps had turned the word “unlicensed” into a way of life.
Hexcel studied the doorway.
“Okay, plan.
I snare the spellcaster.
Bubble Gurl hacks their sonic traps.
Everybody else stays quiet.”
Miriam adjusted her goggles.
She glanced toward the enormous armored figure at the rear of the group.
“He’s going to yell it.”
“Edgar,” someone warned.
The balloon golem’s helmet tilted toward the entrance.
His chest swelled.
“EDGAAARRR!”
“Well,” Miriam said, as his voice thundered through the entire underground district.
“There goes stealth.”
They charged.
A doorbell gave a dainty ding-fwoop, then a pink puff of magic deposited a baby in the path of a furious old man.
“Who?” he began.
A beat later he was shouting that he was too old for balloon-baby nonsense.
Aboveground, a house floated past its startled owner, who called to his wife that it was drifting again.
Astrid grinned at the chaos.
Edgar raised one metal fist.
“EDGAARR UPPERCUT!” The blow settled whatever argument the doorway had been making.
Getting away required transportation.
Their choice was a giant red balloon dog, soft enough to bounce and uncomfortable enough to make every passenger reconsider the word “ride.” Astrid straddled its back as it bounded through Hexapolis.
Birds passed overhead.
One left an insult on the dog’s nose; the dog reacted by inhaling another bird.
Astrid coaxed a ridiculous bubble out of the mess.
Miriam spotted something green underfoot.
“What’s an alligator doing here?” she asked.
Edgar looked down at it.
“What’s alligator?”
He was, in fairness, approximately a day old.
His memory-foam brain expanded with experience, but his working vocabulary still centered on punching, friends, snacks, and the victory cry of his own name.
Stairs were enemies.
Fire remained a question.
Nobody wanted to test the latter.