The wait, thankfully, wasn't long. When the call came, Mark and Paul were standing on either side of the car, discussing what their next course of action would be. Paul reasoned that if was better to be prepared in case the Critic pulls something on them and doesn't pay out. They talked about alternate jobs, maybe working with another anartist group or one of the other Exploiter gangs. Hell, they even considered superhero work for a moment but between the both of them, their criminal record was long enough to fill an entire chapter of a very long book. No, superhero work was out of the question.

It was Mark who picked up and answered.

"Took you long enough. I thought you wanted our help." Said the woman over the phone.

"Sorry," Mark said, "We were busy with... stuff."

"Well get un-busy and listen up. CCTVs in your area have revealed a few possible locations of the anomaly. We can't exactly narrow it down, the thing moves like lightning."

"Well, I guess we better catch it before you guys do."

"For your sake, let's pretend you didn't just say that."

The line died. 

"Do you really think it's a good idea egging them on like that, Marky?" Paul asked. He got in the passenger seat after Mark took his seat behind the wheel, "I mean, this is the Organization."

Mark shrugged, "Organization Shmorganization. They can and will kiss my ass for my Exploit. Plus, don't forget Pauly, we have this."

He flashed the eraser at Paul. He still wasn't entirely sure what the thing was fully capable of, but if it worked at all like his paintbrush did, the effects on the human body would have been catastrophic. There was a small part of Paul that wanted to experiment with it, maybe erase some of the aristocracy and give himself a bit more peace of mind. Or even harm one of the invincible supes. Options for later, he supposed. 

Mark's phone vibrated, and the maps app was automatically loaded when he unlocked it. A destination was preset, somewhere on Fifth Street. Not too far from where they were. There was a red, blinking dot on the interface that Mark nor Paul had ever seen before. Organization interference, most likely. The dot moved erratically through the streets of New Glasford, going from building to building in an almost systematic pattern. It dashed down Main Street from Fifth Avenue, heading toward Park Avenue, away from them. It doubled back down Park Avenue, then went east toward Fourth Street, still in the opposite direction of the car. 

Mark looked at Paul and shrugged, "Guess that's our guy."

Paul nodded and they started the drive toward Fourth Street. It would only take a few minutes from where they were, assuming that giant naked man stayed in one spot for more than a few seconds. Only, he wasn't doing that in the slightest. He was on the move, slowly, but still on the move. Paul held up Mark's phone for him as they drove.

As they got closer and closer to the red dot, the naked man, the trail of destruction became more and more apparent. Missing car doors, knocked over mailboxes, uprooted trees, overturned concrete. It was a cacophony of shit that would drive whoever the city planner was, and his army of public workers, mad from trying to clean it up. Paul almost felt sorry for them, but he was too focused on his current lack of rent to care that much. A pang of resentment struck Paul's heart as they started to encroach on the red dot. 

They wouldn't be in this situation if it wasn't for Mark.

The pair heard the naked man before they saw him. The distinct tearing of metal was a difficult noise to get out of your head after you hear it for the first time. It became louder as they continued down Fourth Street, getting closer to that red dot. As they did, Paul noticed a pattern in the trail of destruction the naked man left behind, something he didn't see at first because his mind was elsewhere. He was half zoned-out, half-paying attention when something shocked him out of his stupor. There was a pattern to this after all. Car door. Car door. Mailbox. Street light. All things made of metal.

But why? The question lingered in Paul's mind as the noise of the giant naked man grew louder. Mark stopped the car when the red blip stopped moving. They hopped out and followed the red blip on foot, keeping their eyes peeled just in case the naked man got the jump on them.

They walked with trepidation down an alley where they heard metal being torn and trash being discarded. Paul heard grunting, the owner of the voice sounding particularly gravelly, like a chain smoker who got lost in a coal mine. The voice grunted and groaned, muttering to itself over and over about pieces not fitting right and needing more metal. The mention of metal was enough to clue Paul in that they had finally nailed the naked man.

The giant naked man was sitting on top of a closed dumpster, shoving his fist through a car door and bending it around his arm. Paul made a mental note to update his description; to the giant's credit, he was no longer naked. The masculine form of the statue was now hidden by makeshift metal armor he had collected and affixed to himself as best he could. It wasn't going to offer much in the way of protection, but then again he was made entirely out of marble. There wasn't a sword or bullet that could bring him down easily. The armor's primary purpose, it seemed, was to cover the sensitive areas of the naked man.

It took him a minute to notice the pair. He drew a makeshift spear and shield, a reshaped stop sign that looked like a buckler and a street post with the street names folded into points. The giant pointed the spear at Mark and Paul, switching his attention between the two of them rapidly.

"Stay back!" He ordered, "You don't touch me!"

Mark looked at Paul and put his hands in his pocket. He titled his head toward the giant ever so slightly, rolling his eyes at the same time.

"Just let me do the talking, alright, Pauly?"

Paul shrugged. No harm in agreeing, plus if Mark got hurt that would more than make up for the destruction of his grandmother's rug.

Mark smirked, "Relax, bud, we're not gonna touch you. We just need you to come with us is all."

"Come where? Is it safe?"

Mark shrugged, "For the most part."

"No, you don't understand. Is it safe? From people, from hands?"

Mark shook his head, "That much I can't say for sure. All I know is that I need you to come with us, peacefully. You could resist but..."

Mark waved his hand in the giant's direction. The giant blocked with his shield, trying to cover his face from an attack. Only Mark was aiming for the shield the entire time. With his Exploit, he twisted the shield's image, no, its very existence, into that of a rattlesnake. A powerful illusion, Paul remembered seeing it for the first time. Just like back then, Mark's work with his Exploit was incredible. Mark waved his other hand in the opposite direction, morphing the giant's spear into a tadpole.

Of course, there wasn't really a tadpole or snake there. The giant's weapons were still very much real, and still very much present. It was only Mark's Exploit that made the mundane seem like something it was not. 

Thankfully the giant didn't notice the free-floating tadpole or living, albeit stationary snake affixed to his arm. All he did notice were that there were creepy crawlies on his person. He screamed and dropped but the snake and tadpole, who both attempted to slither away. The giant looked at the small creatures and lifted a leg up, trying to minimize his presence as to not step on either one.

"Hey, hey bud?" Mark asked the giant.

The giant turned his attention to Mark and nodded.

"Why don't you get in the fucking car?"

"Okay," The statue said, hanging his head low.

After the statue climbed in the back seat and made the car drop a few inches lower, Paul gave Mark a look that should have read: Did you really need to do that?

Unfortunately for him the intent was lost. It was like Paul was just looking at him with this weird, half frown, half scowl strewn across his face. Mark offered a sheepish grin and shrugged before turning the key in the ignition and backing out of the spot. They turned back the same way they came, heading toward the Loft.

It was when they were about halfway there that Paul turned in his seat, looking at the statue. He regarded the thing up and down, trying to size him up. He had seen his destructive capabilities in person at the art gallery, so he knew that he was perfectly capable of turning both of them into a fine red mist at a moment's notice. Why he hadn't done so yet was beyond Paul's comprehension. Maybe the statue was more terrified of Mark than Paul initially suspected. Maybe it actually liked them. Who knows.

Paul decided to try to maintain the peace and tranquility for as long as he could, starting the conversation with the statue with, "Goliath, right?"

The statue shook his head, "Please, don't call me that. That's the name he gave me. You want to end up like him?"

Paul held his hands up in a placating manner, "I'm not trying to die any time soon," He tilted his head in Mark's direction, who looked at the statue in the rearview mirror, before adding, "Are you?"

The statue met Mark's gaze and flinched, as if struck by some hidden, invisible force. The guy that made him was an Exploiter, no doubt, a Constructor given this sentient object made out of what should have been inanimate material. Constructors were funny that way, building living creatures out of things that have no right to be alive, at least in Paul's eyes. It was wrong to endow a creature with sentience, only to strip it away at a moment's notice if the creature did something you didn't like, acted in a way you didn't program them to. The whole philosophy most Constructors followed was not something Paul agreed with at all.

Most of them were as bad as the aristocracy. 

"So, what should we call you then?" Paul asked.

"Jimmy," The statue replied, holding the name on his tongue, "I like that name."

"Jimmy," Paul repeated, "Well, it's nice to have you on board. You play any games?"

"I don't know what a 'game' is."

Paul shrugged, "Well I don't know what I expected. You're made of rock."

"I'm sorry...?" Jimmy let the question hang in the air.

"Paul," He pointed to Mark, who glanced at Jimmy in the rearview, "and that's Mark. We're anartists, we make anomalous art."

Jimmy regarded both of them intensely, his expression rigid despite being made entirely out of marble. He folded his arms over one another and leaned back in his seat.

"So, you're like him," Jimmy half-asked, half-stated. 

"Look bud," Mark chimed in, "If you're going to compare us to that whack job, know nothing hack, Igor Hadid, at least be prepared to back up your claim. What have you made?"

Jimmy gripped the "clothing" he made, loose fitting sheets of metal and debris that was reshaped into a toga and pants. He flashed a grin at Mark, the first positive gesture he'd made since they first saw him at the art gallery. Clearly the statue was proud of his work, despite Mark and Paul's confused looks.

"Yeah, that's not impressive, bud," Mark said.

"Everyone's a critic." Jimmy said, his smile turning into a dejected frown.

"But not everyone is the Critic. There's only one of her," Mark said, "We're here."

Mark parked the car on the side of the street and got out, followed by Paul and Jimmy. They entered the elevator and went into the Loft, where the other anartists and the Critic were waiting for them. The Critic exclaimed something between a yowl and a roar when she saw Jimmy, making a beeline for him and nearly tripping over her own feet as she did so. When she descended the stairs, Mark and Paul tried to greet her but she moved passed them and took Jimmy's hands in hers. The statue recoiled at first, but after a silent moment, he relented and gave the Critic his hands to examine.

She looked them over thoroughly, probably using her Exploit. Paul wasn't exactly sure what her Exploit was, only that she knew two of them when most people only knew the one they got. There were exceptions to this, like the Wonders, but there were only a handful of them in the country, and the number of people that knew two Exploits wasn't much larger. 

When the Critic was done, she asked Jimmy his name and he gave it to her. She squealed like a preschooler at recess and clapped her hands together, saying, "You're perfect! Oh em gee. I love you so much!"

"Thanks Misses...?"

"The Critic, and it's Miss. Single and proud, baby. At least for now." She winked at Mark.

Mark shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. Jimmy looked at him with his head tilted at a fourty-five degree angle, eyebrows raised. Paul tried to put his hand on Mark's shoulder, but Mark moved away when Paul made contact.

"I'll take my money now," Mark said.

For an infinitesimal second, so short a window that if you blinked you'd miss it, the Critic's smile faltered. Then, in that very same second, she turned her attention back to Jimmy and her glowing smile returned. Paul wondered what that meant. 

Couldn't be anything good.

"You're right, you need to get paid," The Critic whipped out her checkbook from her back pocket and scribbled down some big numbers. It was more than enough to cover rent and then some, judging by the look on Mark's face when she showed it to him.

Before Mark could take the check, she dangled it in front of him just out of arm's reach. A taunt. 

Mark snatched the check from her hands viciously and stashed the paper in his pocket. The Critic fake-pouted, like you'd do to a friend you were teasing, before saying, "You're no fun anymore."

The black guy from earlier came up to them, giving a quick nod to Mark before speaking to the Critic, "Someone say something about fun? How's about you let me take you out to dinner instead of hanging out with these losers?"

"H-hey—" Paul started but Mark stopped him by jabbing him in the shoulder.

A throbbing vein grew visible on the Critic's temple as she slowly, methodically said, "Lucas, I am not interested. Thank you for your time, but please, kindly, from the bottom of my heart, fuck off and die."

"But I—" Lucas couldn't finish his sentence before the Critic's fist connected with his nose. The same nose Mark broke not so long ago. 

Apparently it hadn't completely healed because Lucas doubled over in pain and fell to the floor in a sobbing, crumpled pile. Throughout his cries he managed to stammer our, "AhfuckinyouIgoddamnfuckyouohfuckinyoushit!"

Paul couldn't contain his laughter.

"FuckthisplaceahhhfuckyoutooImfuckindone!"

Lucas rose to his feet slowly, carefully, as if the very act of standing was painful for him. It might have been, given his twice broken nose. Blood dripped from his face and onto his shoes and the floor. He scowled at Mark and then turned to the Critic, flipping her off and walking backwards into the elevator. He tried to press the button but couldn't, as he was facing away from them. Lucas instead awkwardly slapped his hand against the panel where the buttons were for a moment or two. He was holding his nose with one hand and cycling between finding the button and flipping off the Critic with the other. Eventually, he got tired of this shit and turned around, finding the button immediately upon using his eyes.

He slapped the down button and the door opened, the elevator having been called by Mark and Paul just moments ago. Lucas entered, still flipping off Mark, Paul, Jimmy and the Critic now, before the doors closed and he let out a painful scream. The scream was drowned out as the elevator descended to the street level. 

"Pussy!" The Critic yelled after him, loud enough that he surely heard it through the elevator door. To Mark and Paul she said, "He'll be back. You two did good work, bringing this hunk of a man here."

"You gonna hurt him like you hurt me?" Mark asked, glancing at Jimmy. 

The statue squirmed in place, nervous, uncomfortable, "What does he mean? I thought you said it was safe here!"

The Critic blew a kiss at Mark, saying, "My heart only belongs to you, Mark Lambert. I'd never dream of cheating on you."

"You're... really something, Critic." Paul said, shrugging his shoulders and looking at Mark.

Mark just stared at the floor, keeping his hands in his pockets.

"I am, Paul Montijo. Hey, look, if you guys are looking to earn some extra cash, I have some genuine supervillain type shit you can do."

"Not interested," Mark said immediately after she finished speaking.

The Critic cracked a wide smile and raised one of her eyebrows, "You? Not interested in money? Since when?"

"Since I stopped fucking working for you, that's when. Come on, Pauly, we don't need her or her damn supervillain work."

Mark headed toward the elevator, pressing the blood soaked button and waiting for it to come back up. The Critic moved passed Paul and Jimmy and wrapped her arms around Mark, hugging him from behind.

"What if I asked you really, really nicely?"

"Not happening."

"What if I told you what was at stake?"

"Still. Not. Happening."

"It's a million dollar deal, working with Vii. They're trying to—"

Paul chimed in, cutting the Critic off with, "The Ten? They're like... Fuck, woman, the Ten?"

"Yeah," Mark added, "They're serial killers."

The Critic sighed, a satisfied look forming on her face, "So are you. It's perfect! And you won't even be doing a murder this time. Vii just wants to rob the GSA."

"You make it sound like stealing from the greatest super hero organization is light work for a couple of Exploiters, even if the Ten were in on the job," Paul remarked, "This is dangerous."

"But what if I asked really nicely? The money's good, and you get to work with me again, Mark Lambert. Last time, scout's honor."

The elevator door opened and Mark stepped out of the Critic's grip. He made eye contact with Paul, who followed him into the elevator. 

"A million dollar deal and I never have to see you again?" Mark asked.

"Not unless you want to." The Critic winked.

Mark thought for a moment, then pushed the button for the first floor and said, "We'll do it."