Paul walked into the apartment with the paintbrush sticking out of his back pocket. He could feel Mark's art-starved eyes catching glances at the thing, it's allure almost too much for Paul himself to resist. They narrowly escaped the disaster at the auction house. If it hadn't been for that ten foot tall statue breaking the wall down with his creator's face, the Organization might have caught them. 

The "heist" wasn't a complete success, but it wasn't an abject failure either. Between the two of them, Mark and Paul managed to snag a whopping two of the seven art supplies from the art kit. There was only one body between them, and in the chaos Paul was confident that he couldn't be pinned for the death of an aristocrat. At least he had done some good for the world.

However, standing inside of their apartment were two people dressed in military grade combat gear. A tall black guy, and a short black girl. They were talking to each other, the guy's rifle hanging loosely in his hand as he spoke. The cigarette dimmed loosely in between his breath.

If that wasn't enough, Mark's glamor over his "art piece" was dispelled. All seven of the severed heads turned their gaze from the military people to him and Mark. The military pair stopped talking, and turned their heads toward them. The heads mouths moved like they were laughing, and two of them spit on the floor. 

Fucking aristocrats.

"Ah, saved us the trouble of hunting you down," the woman said. Then, to the man, she added, "Pay up."

The man, disgruntled, reached into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. He thumbed through the bills before handing the woman a small stack of them. 

"A deal's a deal," the man grumbled.

Mark folded his arms over one another, glancing at the pair in turn. "I hate to interrupt whatever you got going on right now, but what the hell are you doing in our house?"

The woman turned to face them, her arms folded, her face a stone cold visage that betrayed no emotion, "It's come to our attention that your building manager has stopped."

"Stopped?" Paul chimed in. He looked at Mark, then back at the woman, "Stopped what?"

The woman answered, "Being alive."

Mark huffed, "And how does that lead to you being in our house?"

"Your building manager was Vaporized. The exploit keeping this place off our radar went along with him. One of you two shmucks is an Exploiter, right? Or is it both of you?"

Paul looked at Mark, who stared at the woman with vitriol on his face. He scowled, not offering her anything more. Paul mirrored him.

"No idea what you're talking about," Paul said, "You have no right to be here, legally speaking. Now get the hell out."

This time, the man spoke, " 'Fraid not, thin-lips. Some people might consider seven counts of murder a pretty big number. In our line of work that's just your average run of the mill type shit. Now, you're criminals, Exploiters on top of that. I could have you arrested, tried, and probably executed if I really wanted to."

"Then what's stopping you?" Mark said, his voice quivering with rage.

The woman answered, "Nothing, really. Just the glamour. It's a good exploit, a great one if I'm speaking unofficially. Hard to dispel cause fights back when you try to, and it's impossible for me to replicate. The Organization would be interested in learning your techniques for a very specific, very important operation."

She handed Mark a card with her and her partners information on it. The letters shimmered on the paper as Mark read them. Paul tried to look at the information as well, but all he saw was a blank page.

"What operation?" Paul asked.

The woman ignored him. "You can keep your freedom if you comply, or you can surrender and die. Up to you."

"What gives?" He asked, tilting his chin toward the paper.

"Only works for the recipient. Give us a call when you feel like helping the greater good. Oh, and we are willing to pay. I'll give you a week or two to make a decision".

The woman turned and nodded to the man, who gathered the pikes with severed heads on top of them in his hands. One of the heads, Paul's original head, looked at him and frowned. The other six aristocrats were beaming with glee, however. Probably pleased to be out of their household. 

In the next instant, the man and woman were gone, teleported to some far off location. They took the heads and Paul's grandmother's rug with them, leaving nothing behind. The room was spotless once again, minus the heirloom.

Paul let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Fuck!" Mark screamed, "That was the rent money!"

"My grandmother's rug..." Paul lamented, head in hands, "I'm gonna kill you, Mark."

Mark sputtered, "What, kill me? The Organization knows about us, Mark. They know we're Exploiters. They know. We have bigger problems than your old lady's rug."

"This is your fault. You just had to rob Donovan Carter of all people! Just had to spend all our money on getting those rich assholes Vaporized and put on some sticks. You're an irresponsible, selfish fucker."

"Donovan Carter was shot dead, Pauly, we ain't got a worry about him anymore."

"No, we just have to worry about the fucking Organization breathing down our necks instead. So much better, right? Might as well call in a Wonder too!"

"Pauly..." Mark's hardened expression softened. He reached a hand out, gripping Paul's shoulder. He looked him in the eyes and said, "What do we do?"

Paul shrugged, "The Critic?"

"No."

Paul frowned, "What other choice do we have? We need the rent. Unless you have another heist planned, the Critic's the only one that can help us right now."

"Think of something else."

"She's the best choice we have to make rent on time."

"Think of something else."

"She's the only choice we have, Mark. It's fast money, you know that."

Mark pressed his face into his hands, pulling down as he sighed. Paul knew how much he hated the Critic, both of them did. She was stuck way up her own ass with her expectations of art and what "true art" was. Her definition was ever-changing, never giving anyone any time to adapt or evolve according to her ideologies. Still, she was the wealthiest Exploiter that they knew, and the figurehead in the underground art world. If anyone was going to help them make rent, it would be her.

Paul sat in the passenger seat of the car, and Mark drove to the Loft.

"No way," The Critic laughed to herself, reeling back in her recliner on the second floor of the Loft. She was a small woman, a little over five feet tall, but her presence was monumental. The other artists in the Loft turned their attention to Mark and Paul, who stood there awkwardly while this diminutive woman laughed at them.

Eventually she stopped, wiping the tears from her amber eyes. She brushed her hair out of her face and stood up. Paul instinctively took a step back. New body or not, the Critic could and would still hurt him if he set her off. He wasn't sure how the intricacies of his interactive art piece worked, but taking care of the new vessel seemed like the right thing to do. 

The Critic looked at Paul, then at Mark, then laughed again.

"We're not kidding, Critic," Mark grumbled, "Do you have work for us or not?"

"Work?" She said in between breaths, "You want to work for me again, Mark Lambert? What happened to never coming back? You hurt my feelings, you know. Hit right in here."

She made an exaggerated gesture, cupping her left breast in one hand and squeezing.

Mark looked down at his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I don't appreciate being disrespected, Mark Lambert. I might invite you back to the cool kid's table if you beg for it."

"What, do you want me to get on my knees for you?"

"I knew you missed me."

"You're disgusting. This is literally why I stopped working for you. You're a monster."

The Critic shrugged and lit a cigarette. She blew the smoke in Mark's face and said, "A matter of perspective. What are you gonna do, call HR? Try again, Mark Lambert. Everyone worth anything reports to me. All of your outs work for me."

Paul saw Mark shift his stance. It was something he would have missed if he wasn't paying attention. His arms, once folded across his chest a moment ago, now hung loosely at his side, fingers in his pockets. He was reaching for the other art piece that they'd stolen from the auction. It was a small eraser that, when rubbed on any solid surface, removed the affected area from this plane of reality. Thankfully the holder of the eraser had to use it with intent, a lesson they learned when Mark placed it in his pants' pocket. He'd come prepared.

"The Organization robbed us, and the rent is due. You got anything for us, or are we gonna have to look elsewhere?" Paul said.

The Critic took another drag from her cigarette and held it in. She thought to herself for a few moments, nodding her head. She exhaled, again blowing the smoke in Mark's face. 

She smiled, "Is that a threat, Paul Montijo?"

Paul nodded.

"I like your style. Unlike Mark Lambert here, you seem to have a spine. Matter o'fact, I do have a job you two chuckleheads can probably handle. If you screw it up, it's no skin off my nose."

Mark relaxed, taking his fingers out of his pockets and letting his hands hang loosely at his sides. He sniffled and wiped his nose, then said, "Details."

"What was that?" She taunted, "Could you say that again?"

"Details," Mark paused for a while, before begrudgingly saying under his breath, "Please." 

The Critic broke into a smile, reveling in Mark's anguish for a bit, then spoke to Paul, "There's a naked man running around town making a huge mess of everything. He's bringing down my property value, which means he's screwing up my money."

The Critic rose from her seat, ashing the cigarette on a fancy ashtray nearby. She opened the blinds, letting the sunlight flood the room. Her brown hair and pale blue eyes radiated, and she seemed to glow with the light. Paul swallowed and followed her gaze toward the window.

Outside was quiet, as it usually was. The streets were in disarray, however. Mailboxes were knocked over, cars were upturned, windows were shattered. It was like looking at the aftermath of a really loud and rambunctious block party. The aesthetic matched the rest of the city, only there were giant footprints embedded in the concrete. 

The naked man.

Paul raised an eyebrow, "He wouldn't happen to be about ten feet tall and made entirely out of marble?"

The Critic smiled, "You've seen him already? He's an exclusive, a truly rare find. How did you...?"

"We robbed Donovan Carter."

The Critic spun on her heels, glaring at Mark. For the first time in this entire interaction, her smile faded, "Donovan Carter is not 'some people', Paul Montijo. My Exploit lets me see through a lot of things, including bullshit. You and Mark Lambert didn't rob jack shit, you stole two pieces of an archaic anart kit and high tailed it out of there the second you could before anyone important caught you."

Paul muttered, "It was a bit more involved than that."

The Critic 'tsk'd three times and waggled her finger at Paul, "Don't lie, it's not a good look."

"How much?" Mark asked.

The Critic winked at him, "A hundred kay if you get him back here in one piece. I'll dock a hundred bucks for any and all imperfections."

"And if he's already got imperfections?" 

The Critic raised her hands and formed a small rectangle. She lifted her index finger and pressed down on an imaginary button, "Snap a 'before', I'll compare that to its current state, 'kay? That enough to..." She looked Mark up and down, "satisfy you, Mark Lambert?"

Mark said nothing

She pouted, "Aw, pookie, cat got your tongue now? Well, I know you love me. I know you still feel it sometimes, how good it was. How much fun it was. Now, if you would be so kind as to...?"

She lazily waved her hand, shoeing them away. Mark stared at her for a minute longer, fists clenched. Paul steeled his nerves and prepared for a fight. He knew there were a handful of guys in the downstairs part of the loft, probably loyal enough to the Critic herself if they're hanging out with her. With both of their tools, they should be able to handle themselves, or at the very least take a large portion of people down with them.

But, instead of fighting Mark unclenched his fist. His shoulders and his face slacked. He suddenly looked older, more tired, as if this conversation took years off his life.

They descended the stairs into the Loft proper with the other anartists. There were five of them in total, the Critic's personal entourage. Paul flashed a weak grin at the lady with blue hair and arm tattoos as she looked at him. She returned the gesture with a disgusted look and continued painting on her canvas, pushing Mark and Paul squarely out of her mind. Another anartist, a black guy that was as short as Paul and build like an angry cricket, approached them as they reached the elevator. His torso was long, and his arms were almost disproportionately short compared to the rest of his body. He wore only a plain white T-shirt and a pair of ripped black jeans.

"Hey, I overhead upstairs."

Paul spoke, "Yeah, and?"

The guy looked at Paul, answering, "This guy fucked the Critic?"

"Yeah," Mark spoke, his voice dry.

The guy looked him up and down before playfully jabbing Mark in the shoulder, "Nice."

Mark punched him in the face. The guy cried out in pain, blood dripping from his nose. It had been a solid hit. A look that was a cross between confusion, anger, and fear crept on the guy's face as he stared at Mark, holding his bloody nose. When the worst of the pain dulled, and the guy's finally stopped whining, did he address Mark again.

"I think you broke my nose you god damn lunatic," He said.

"Yeah well, there's a couple other places I can break too," Mark said.

The guy looked at Paul, probably hoping that he would reign Mark in. Paul met the guy's gaze and shrugged. When Mark turned around and called the elevator, Paul mouthed an apology and left it at that. As they stepped into the elevator, Paul heard the Critic laughing.

Back in the car, driving to who knows where, Paul finally worked up the courage to talk, "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

"None of your business, Pauly." Then, after a minute or two, he added, "I'm sorry. I don't want to talk about this right now. Let's just focus on finding that statue."

"Fair enough," Paul said, not wanting to argue.

There were more important things to worry about, after all. Rent was due, and they had a giant naked man to catch. Paul didn't know the first place they would even begin to look. The auction house was out of the question; the place would be crawling with scavengers and the Organization by now surely. The statue looked afraid and would probably try to avoid all of the major public areas, which left all the thousands of hidden areas that would be nearby. That is, if one of the super teams picked him up and recruited him. It was likely, but Paul really hoped it wasn't true. 

They were following the trail of destruction from last night. Buildings with chunks missing out of them were along the street the naked statue turned down. There were federal mailboxes on the right side of the street that were either flattened or torn open. At least the statue was walking on the side of the road as opposed to directly in it. 

Paul tried to pick out anything unusual among the destruction, but to an untrained investigative eye like his, finding uniquely displaced debris in the city was like looking for a grain of salt in a pile of sugar.

"How the hell are we supposed to find this thing?"

"I thought about that actually," Mark said, pulling out the slip of paper the woman in their apartment had given him. He handed it to Paul, and then gave him his phone, "Might be a good idea to make a call."

"I can't read that."

"I memorized the number."

Mark cited the number from memory as Paul typed it in. The dial tone didn't get a chance to play before someone on the other line picked up. Mark pulled over near a park and Paul handed the phone back to him.

"What's your decision?"

"How badly do you want to know how my Exploit works?"

"I fucking knew it! Pay up!" The man's voice rang out in the background.

The woman audibly groaned, "It would help with our operations tremendously if you co-operated."

"I haven't decided anything yet, it's only been a few hours."

"Then why are you calling me?"

"To see if the Organization knows anything about a missing naked statue on the loose in East Capital City."

Paul shot him a look. Mark shrugged and held his phone away from his face, saying, "Better than nothin', right?"

"The Organization does not discuss the status of its assets with civilians, let alone actual killers. You have no bargaining power here."

At that, Mark smiled, "Oh don't I? You know what I can do with my Exploit. If I wanted to, I could disappear, move to another city with my roommate here, and start my life over."

"We'll find you," She said.

"And we will disappear again. Do you really want to spend the next seventy-something years of our lives playing cat and mouse with one another, or do you want to help me help you help me?"

The line was silence for a time.

"Asset collection isn't my department. Let me make a phone call, find out some things. I'll be in touch."

The line went dead.

"So we wait, then." Paul said. 

Mark nodded, turned the car back on, and started the drive back to their apartment.