. . .

Tom pushes Linus. Linus staggers forward into the field of fire.

Maria picks up the gun. She points it at him. It begins charging.

Linus looks helplessly at Tom.

“Go,” Tom says.

“Go?”

Tom rolls his eyes.

“Oh,” says Linus. He blinks. He shakes his head once to clear it. “Oh. Right.”

He walks to the pile of kettles and mittens.

He walks out in front of the space gun.

He isn’t suave yet, for clarity. He isn’t confident yet, isn’t artistic (horribly or otherwise) yet; he isn’t Mr. Enemy yet at all.

He isn’t even Lethal.

He’s just an ordinary boy.

“How long,” says Tom. The gun veers to point his way. Tom sweats. “How long does it take for that thing to charge?”

“Seventy-five seconds,” says Maria.

“Really?”

“It’s a weakness,” says Maria. She gestures vaguely at the line of devastation that an earlier shot left through Britain. “There are corresponding advantages. Of course I have needle darts and kicking people to death, too, but that wouldn’t hardly be sporting.”

Linus searches through the pile. He finds his favorite pair of mittens. He puts them on.

“Linus!” says Tom.

Mr. Enemy wouldn’t have done that.

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