You promised a dying superhero that you’d keep something safe. And besides, secret identity shenanigans are part of the job description, right? As you open the door, several more missiles pop out of your shoulder plates and a high-pitched whine starts to come from somewhere in your armor. Just calm down, you think. All you need here is a decent cover story.

“Warning!” you say. Okay, that was maybe a little too Lost in Space. “The citizen who resides here is under the protection of the Cosmic Guard. Please return to your home and stay there until you receive notice that this area has been secured.” There, that should do it.

Mrs. Pinkett just stands there, staring. “I know it’s you,” she says. “You don’t think I recognize your voice from when you have people over and stay up all night making sex noises?”

“That was one time, like three years ago!” Crap. “I mean, danger, Will Robinson!

She starts wagging her finger. “I didn’t say anything when you had that cat in there,” she says. For the record, you know for a fact that Mrs. Pinkett called the landlord several times about the cat and tried to have you evicted. “But this is going too far! I’m calling the police right now.”

If she makes that phone call, your secret identity is as good as blown. Your armor is shaking now, and in addition to the missiles, crackling balls of blue energy are starting to form in the palms of your gauntlets.

Screw it. If you just blast her, turn to page 192.

What? No! If you believe that being a superhero means even the smallest amount of casual murder is unacceptable, turn to page 205.

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