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The lab hums with its usual mechanical heartbeat, a low vibration under the morbid stillness of the examination table. The squinterns cluster instinctively close — not just colleagues, but a five‑person gravitational field. Colin leans in first, theatrical as ever, his shoulder brushing Vincent's in a way that earns him a quiet, familiar sigh.
“Remarkable,” he murmurs, brow furrowed. “The desiccation is… too complete. Too fast.”
Zack’s gaze sweeps the mummy with precise, almost reverent focus. Wendell stands just behind him, a steadying presence at his shoulder, ready to catch Zack’s thoughts before they spiral.
“No evidence of natural decay,” Zack says. “No insect activity consistent with typical mummification.” He gestures with a gloved hand. “It’s as if the process was accelerated.”
Vincent practically vibrates beside Fisher, who subtly shifts to give him space — a practiced dance. “Precisely! This isn’t the work of time or elements. This is… an artifice.”
A confident stride echoes down the hallway. Cam enters, posture crisp, presence commanding — but her eyes soften when they land on the team, a warmth that’s grown since Seeley started slipping into her life in quiet, steady ways.
“Alright, listen up, squinterns.” She claps her hands, bright and festive. “Halloween party. Donors, benefactors, the whole shebang. Everyone’s expected to be there.”
Zack frowns. Wendell nudges him gently, a silent go with it, man.
“A party? With… donors?” Zack glances at the mummy. “Given our current subject matter, I don’t know if I’m in the mood for festive.”
Cam’s eyebrow arches — the same expression she gets when Seeley texts her something that makes her pretend she’s not smiling. “Mood or no mood, Zack, you’re going. And you’re going in costume.”
Zack’s shoulders slump. “Fine. I’m going to be the back end of a cow.”
Sweets snorts — an unguarded sound — and Vincent lights up like a Christmas tree. “The back end? Excellent! Then I shall be the front end!”
Fisher mutters, “Of course you will,” but the corner of his mouth betrays him. Sweets bumps his shoulder, earning a reluctant smile.
Colin adjusts an imaginary captain’s hat. “I, on the other hand, am going as Edward John Smith. Captain of the Titanic.” He sighs dramatically. “Full steam ahead, into the iceberg of social obligation.”
Before Wendell can announce his costume, Cam’s attention snaps back to the mummy. She leans in, curiosity sharpening her features. “Hold on.” She touches the linen, fingers brushing a subtle sheen. “Is this… lacquer?”
Vincent is already bouncing. “Yes! And the clothing! It’s likely from a church thrift store!”
Zack blinks. “A church thrift store? Vincent, there’s no bug evidence, no slime. How could you possibly know that?”
Wendell is already kneeling, fingers deft. “He’s right, Zack.” He points to a tiny tag. “See? Not ancient linen. Surprisingly recent.”
The polycule leans in together, five minds clicking into place like gears.
Meanwhile, Angela’s lab is a different kind of battlefield — bright, bustling, and emotionally charged. Amber Kippler stands opposite Angela and Jack, posture sharp, stance confident. Sweets hovers nearby, quiet intensity in his eyes, reading the room with the ease of someone who’s learned to survive by doing exactly that — and who’s had Seeley teach him how to stand his ground without raising his voice.
“Look,” Amber begins, “Lance and I are handling the footwork on this. Your husband, Angela. We’re on it.”
Angela crosses her arms, skepticism and old hurt flickering across her face. Jack shifts closer, protective without thinking.
“Footwork?” Angela asks. “What exactly does that entail?”
Sweets steps forward, voice calm, steady. “It entails understanding the intricate dance of human relationships. The way you chew your lip when you’re stressed. The flowers you doodle when you’re designing. The specific shade of blue you prefer for your coffee mug.” He pauses, softening. “It entails knowing you’re fiercely loyal, even when someone’s hurt you.”
Jack stiffens — not jealous, but startled by how much Sweets sees. Angela gently bumps his shoulder, grounding him.
Amber cuts in. “We found Grayson. He’s accessible. We’ve made contact.” Her gaze sharpens. “You need to talk to him. Get him to sign the divorce papers.”
Angela’s voice softens. “Can’t you get him to sign them?”
Amber arches a brow. “By ‘get him,’ do you mean…?”
Sweets finishes, clinical. “Force him?”
Jack leans in, voice low. “If necessary. Do you have a gun?”
Angela throws her hands up. “Or just remind him who I am and ask politely.”
Jack scoffs. “What are you, Canadian?”
Before Angela can retort, a hush ripples through the lab. All heads turn. Brennan stands in the doorway — Wonder Woman incarnate. Confident. Radiant. Unapologetically herself. The costume fits her like armor and revelation. Her gaze sweeps the room — and pauses, just briefly, toward the hallway, as if checking whether someone is there to see her.
“Who’s stronger?” she asks, voice ringing. “Catwoman or Wonder Woman?”
The squinterns and investigators answer in perfect unison — a chorus born of awe and fear of disappointing her. “Wonder Woman!”
Brennan smiles, triumphant. “I concur, vehemently.”
And then—a soft footfall echoes from the hall. Hannah Burley appears, leaning casually against the doorframe, dressed in a sleek, unmistakably Catwoman suit — practical, tactical, and somehow still devastating. Her eyes warm when they land on Brennan.
“Well,” Hannah drawls, “I’d say the debate’s rigged.”
Brennan’s entire posture shifts — a subtle, delighted straightening. “Hannah. You arrived.”
Hannah steps forward, lips quirking. “You told me to come see the costume. You were right. You absolutely pull it off.”
The room watches — amused, charmed, a little stunned — as Wonder Woman and Catwoman meet in the middle of the lab, an orbit forming between them that’s impossible to ignore.