Then, something lurched definitively in Roman’s stomach.

The next thing he knew, he was breaking away at a half-run, Victoria calling after him. Roman shoved through a crowd, realizing only afterwards that it consisted of North Enders. They jeered after him with the sort of words one reserved for an unfaithful lover, or a secret-spiller.

But Roman didn’t hear them, or his sister. His next sensory intake was the sound of toilet water receiving the partially-digested remnants of Mary’s eggs. He gripped the toilet paper dispenser for dear life, as if afraid he might fall forward and be devoured by his own stomach juices. Someone in the next stall was knocking politely, asking him if he was okay. He didn’t reply—he was still expecting Victoria or Nimbus to come crashing in after him. Outside, Lisbon Foil droned ever on.

Spitting out the taste of the revisited eggs, Roman straightened up and leaned back against the wall again. The broken bathroom AC chilled the sweat on his forehead.

The knocking came again. “Yo, you alright in there?”

The Samaritan’s voice was deep, and bore an accent that Roman didn’t recognize—only that it held some similarities to Aodh’s in its warmth and informality.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m good,” Roman managed. His mind raced for an excuse. “Shot-gunned that vodka a little too fast.”

“Damn, brother!” The Samaritan was laughing. “Better drink some water and avoid kissing anyone for a while. Hey, excuse me…”

The Samaritan promptly went back to pooping without allowing Roman an opportunity to respond—not that Roman had been looking for conversation anyway, especially with someone in mid-bowel movement. His focus was now on what he could hear from the Brewery, from which only the chorus of voices now emanated. Lisbon Foil was breaking down. In a few minutes, Boltcoil would emerge for sound check.

As Roman stepped out of the stall, his stomach heaved again, and the hairs on his arms beneath the gloves prickled suddenly. He gripped his forearm, dubious that he could feel his charge through the gloves—and so soon after the release of vomiting had spent much of his pent up bioelectricity—only to realize the sudden spike wasn’t his own.

“Dammit!” cried the Samaritan. “Hey, vodka kid—you there, man?” Roman tried to eject a startled reply—but between his stomach and the panic in the Samaritan’s voice, he was hardly able to draw a breath. “Hang onto something—I’m about to blast a lightning storm!”

“Wh—.”

“Naw man, dun worry! I’m with the band.”

Any chance Roman might have had to comprehend the excuse was obliterated by the sensation of every follicle from shins to neck thrusting up to military erectness. In a matter of seconds, the fillings in his back molars were ringing from the charge coursing through them. Whirling to the stall, he saw bolts of bioelectricity firing off and striking the ceiling and the bathroom tiles with fizzling crackles, accompanied by the sound of sewage being dumped at high velocity into a swimming pool. All of this, along with the smell, was like a momentary clip of what the apocalypse would have been like if the universe had magically struck a brown note, damning the human race to death from a lightning storm of feces.

The display, however, was mercifully brief. The toilet flushed and the Samaritan emerged. Roman’s first impression of the alarmingly large teenager was that he looked far too young to be so tall and wide. Three-pronged outlets covered his body, an output that Roman remembered had once been used to power appliances on Earth. These days there were used in the homes of the charge-deficient, and connected to batteries leading to the town Auxiliaries, but Roman had never seen them on a human before.

The Samaritan moved to the sink and began washing his hands. He cast a sidelong grin at Roman.

“Pretty brave of you to stick around,” he said, small static bolts jumping away from the backs of his hairy hands as the water fell around them. “How’s your throat?”

“Burns a bit,” Roman lied shakily. “You’re… with the band?” The question embarrassed him, but it was the least automatic one he could muster from beneath his shock at the Samaritan’s almost comical appearance.

“Yeah, I’m with Boltcoil. I play guitar.” He finished washing, wiped his fingers on his sleeveless shirt, and extended a browned paw. “Dante.”

Roman shook, uncertain if his silence was still surprise, or out of the realization of who he was talking to. Something in his eyes focused, and he realized all of a sudden how clear it was. Dante’s dark, mop-like hair, contorted into odd licks and sweeps could be recognized almost anywhere. Had it not been for the plugs peppering him—they were typically covered by a long-sleeved shirt in band photos —he’d be the spitting image of the portraits on their website.

“Hey,” Roman managed at last. “What was that back there? Stage fright?”

Dante laughed again. “Something like it, yeah. We got distributors here tonight. Everyone’s shit-scared. Me, just shitless.” He motioned over his shoulder at the stall, then fixed Roman with an inquiring look. “You here for Chaodrone?”

“Actually,” Roman said, “I’m here for you guys.”

“Really!” Dante’s face lit up. “Box! That really means a lot, man! Thanks!” He gave Roman’s arm a playful whack, then realizing, mumbled, “Wait a second…”

His eyes narrowed, and Roman realized he was putting two and two together. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s Roman.”

“Oh, get out! Kyrie’s Roman?”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Roman nodded. “Yeah.”

“Fuckin’ box!” Dante snapped his fingers, emitting a spark. “And I thought I was shitting bricks tonight! Man, she’s gonna be so happy when I tell her you showed up. We were starting to think like you were the Frame Beast, or something.”

“Oh, yeah?” Roman laughed and tugged on his hair. Until this meeting with Dante, he hadn’t imagined anyone in the band would have known who he was—much less how many strikes he had counted against him.

Dante slapped lazily at the air. “Yeah, but s’all good, now. She prolly won’t want to quit any more and we won’t have to worry about our distributors walkin’ on us.” He grinned. “Well, I gotta go set up. Pleasure to meet you, man.” He gave Roman’s arm another rough whack. “See you after.”

Only after the bathroom door had swung shut and Roman had time to reflect on the sudden collision of his world with Kyrie’s did the words “prolly won’t want to quit” registered. The relief in Dante’s voice had made the connection clear. As a result, two emotions flared within Roman—one, a happy jolt at the confirmation of her reason for joining the band, and second, the feeling of slow, cold molasses seeping into his still-turbulent stomach at the realization of how close he’d come to losing her.

Roman’s initial reaction was to dam this off—to clutch at the feeling he’d come here with, the one of safe, thoughtless evasion, but he could feel the charge in his bones now and knew that wouldn’t work. For a few more moments, he lingered in the bathroom, washed his hands again for the hell of it, and walked out into the Brewery.

The crowd inside had thickened considerably since Roman’s arrival. People wandered to and fro in the stark glare of the arclights lining the walls, illuminating more stripped down brick and floating dust from the hundreds of bodies crammed into the space. By the entrance, two beer brewing tanks stood sentinel, the bar arranged to the right, fenced by a red glare that Roman was forced to clip as he skirted a group of North Enders, his shoulders glowing yellow from the iridescent tag.

He found Victoria and Nimbus up front near the stage, which was now crawling with black-shirted Brewery personnel carrying the finishing parts of a drumkit.

“There you are!” cried Victoria, seeing him. “I thought you were gonna ditch. Way to fucking scare me!”

To his surprise, she put an arm around his neck, then, smelling him, pulled away. “Did you puke?” she asked incredulously.

Roman nodded grimly. Behind her, he caught Nimbus’s eyebrows flick in amusement.

Victoria groaned, and began fishing in her pocket for something. “She was on stage a second ago, you know.”—Roman stared at her—“I don’t see what you find so scary about her.” She winked. “She’s actually pretty cute.”

“You saw h—.” Roman began, but his sister had found what he was looking for: a tiny pink canister with floral patterns and swirling letters. She brandished it before him, and Roman, who remembered an occasion when she’d maced him for not getting off the computer, automatically recoiled. The next thing he knew, a sweet, melon-scented substance was raining down across his cheek and shoulders.

“Victoria, stop!” he cried, fearing that somehow, Kyrie might be watching from the wings, but it was already over. His sister had pocketed the canister again.

“There you go,” she said happily, not seeing Roman’s gaze of murderous intent, or Nimbus stifling a guffaw.

She began to say something else in the same tone, but the sudden dimming of the arclights and the scattered cheers that followed silenced her.