Agent

Terrence here.

I spoke to "Algeria" earlier about that crazy ice bullet of hers.

"Just what is that thing?" I asked. "Some kind of magic?"

"I told you," she said. "It's a last resort, and I don't want to get into it."

"Oh, come on," I said. "We're teammates, aren't we?"

"Temporary teammates," she said. "I don't have to tell you anything."

I sighed. I decided it was probably time to stop playing stupid.

"Whatever," I said. "Still, it's pretty crazy to think  the SMSC has the budget to make hat kind of ammunition..."

Next thing I knew, she had her gun out and pointed at my head.

"How did you-?" she started to asked.

"Oh, please," I said. "You're not named after a country. The name you gave me is short for Algeria Touchshriek. Honestly, not Bowie's best work."

Explanation time. There's an anti-Fear organization called the SMSC. All the agents use the titles of David Bowie songs as aliases.

"So, you know who I am," she said. "Good for you."

"And I assume you've got me all figured out too, right?" I asked.

"You're acting awfully calm, Timberwolf," she said.

"That's because I know you won't shoot me," I said.

"What makes you think that?" she asked.

I raised a cheap glass jar full of water into the air. Floating in the water was a stoppered vial filled with a powdered substance.

"Because if you do, I'll drop this," I said.

"What's in there?" She demanded.

"Oh, in the vial?" I said. "That would be rubidium. And that's some pretty low quality glass. Easily breakable."

I smirked at her expression.

"You do know what water does to rubidium, right?" I asked.

"You're bluffing," she said.

"Am I?" I asked.

She slowly lowered her gun.

"That's better," I said. "So, now that we know each other a bit better, shall we get moving?"

"You think I'm still gonna side with you?" she asked.

"You've known I was a Timberwolf since we met," I said. "I'm not asking you to trust me, but it would be mutually beneficial if we stuck together.

"Fine," she said, holstering her gun. "I'll stick around. For now."

"Good," I said. "By the way, I was bluffing.

I casually threw the jar some distance away. It shattered, and a couple seconds later, the chemical reaction occurred, and the powder exploded in a small puff of white smoke.

"There wasn't enough rubidium in there to do any real damage," I said. "Might've had to dig some glass shards out of your shins, but that'd been the worst of it."

"I see," she said. "That being said, you just wasted a potential smoke bomb/shin destroyer."

"Eh," I replied. "That only cost me like, 25 points to throw together. Not a huge loss."

We started walking again after that.

"So," she asked after a while. "Does your family know about it?"

"Know about what?" I asked. "My sick chemistry skills?"

"You know what I'm talking about," she said.

"Why do you care?" I asked. "They don't, if you must ask."

"I see," she said. "So you never felt the need to tell mommy and daddy McCleary that you're a cold, ruthless murderer?"

"There is no 'daddy McCleary'," I told her. "It's my mother's name."

"Why'd you take her name instead of your father's?" Algeria asked.

"I don't have a father," I replied.

"If that's your idea of a Freudian excuse, it's a pretty poor one," she said. "Not to mention cliché as hell."

"Whatever," I said. "Does your family know you're wasting your life fighting a losing battle against literal gods that you can't hope to kill?"

"Get fucked," she replied.

So that was the end of that conversation. By the way, we came across a shop recently. It was ran by a guy with a club mask and the number 8 on it. We're still in that general area, so if Sal knows it, then get here fast, Justin.