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The Old Party Hall was a skeletal remain of a building, filled with dusty streamers that looked like cobwebs. Thanks to a "leak" Pebble claimed to have found, Stone had been tricked into a back room where Skipp and Vinnie were waiting with a heavy trunk.
"Put it on, Stone. It’s stealth gear," Skipp lied, holding up a moth-eaten, velvet suit jacket they’d scavenged from a dumpster.
Stone squinted at the purple fabric. "This looks like a dead magician’s skin. Why am I wearing this?"
"High-level camouflage for... fancy shadows," Vinnie added, shoving a clip-on tie onto his hoodie. "Now get out there. The target is in the main hall."
Meanwhile, Macroon had done her part at the station. She’d told Tre that the "disturbance" at the Hall was a high-society gala being crashed by squatters. "You can’t go in looking like a beat cop, Tre. You’ll blow your cover. Wear this—it was in the evidence locker from that tuxedo heist last year."
Tre, still rubbing the bruise on his head from Pebble’s sneak attack, sighed. He pulled the oversized dress shirt over his uniform. It was three sizes too big, making him look like a stressed-out penguin.
Tre kicked open the double doors of the ballroom, hand on his baton. "Freeze! Police—"
He stopped. Standing under a single, flickering chandelier was Stone. The "stealth gear" looked ridiculous; the sleeves were too short, and Stone had paired the velvet jacket with his usual grimy bottles of beer.
Stone stared back, his eyes widening. "Tre? Why are you wearing a shirt that looks like a sail?"
"Why are you wearing a... is that a clip-on tie on a jacket?" Tre countered, lowering his baton.
Before either could retreat, the heavy iron doors slammed shut. CLANG.
A small, glowing face appeared in the high transom window above the door. Pebble hissed with delight, holding a heavy padlock in his claws.
“Table for two!” Pebble shrieked, his voice echoing through the hollow hall. He dropped a single, half-melted candle from the ceiling, which landed perfectly on a rickety wooden crate between the two boys.
“Pebble, open this door!” Stone growled, kicking the wood.
The acid demon just blew a raspberry. He reached into a bag and started pelting them with "appetizers"—which turned out to be hard, stale croutons.
"Ow! Stop that!" Tre shouted, shielding his face with his oversized sleeves.
"Eat! Talk! Or I . . . er I don’t what I’ll do, But I will make you pay!" Pebble threatened.
Skipp’s voice drifted through the keyhole: "We’ve got a three-course meal out here! But you don't get the canned ravioli until you both admit why you've been acting like such jerks!"
Stone and Tre looked at each other—one in a moth-eaten suit, one in a stolen tuxedo shirt—as Pebble began to hum a very off-key, romantic violin tune while hanging upside down from a rafter.
The ravioli was cold, served in a rusted tin, but the silence between them was heavier than the meal. Pebble was now perched on a high balcony, his glowing eyes fixed on them like a judge. He occasionally hissed if one of them moved too close to the locked door.
"You look ridiculous in that shirt, Tre," Stone said, finally breaking the silence. He poked at a piece of pasta with a splintered popsicle stick. "It’s too big. You look like you're trying to hide from your own shadow."
Tre stiffened, his face flushing red. "It’s a disguise for a 'high-stakes investigation.' Not that a street rat like you would understand protocol. At least I don't look like I fell through a theater's costume bin." He paused, looking at Stone’s velvet jacket. "Actually... wait. That’s a Silversmith cut. My mother has an usher at her theatre who wears that exact style."
Stone’s hand tightened around his popsicle stick. "Don't talk about 'cuts' and 'theatres' like we’re at some garden party. I left that life behind for a reason."
"Left it?" Tre leaned in, his usual "policeman" persona slipping for a second. "You were one of them? You had the clean clothes, the tutors, the... the security? And you chose this? Chose to drink energy drinks out of trash cans?"
"Security?" Stone let out a harsh, dry laugh. "Tre, my sister used to lock me in the cellar to see how long it took for my hair to turn green from her chemicals. My parents didn't even notice I was gone until the maid realized the violin wasn't playing anymore. I didn't 'choose' the streets. I just chose a different kind of monster."
Tre looked down at the rickety crate between them. "At least they didn't care what you did. My dad... he’s the Chief. Every time I breathe wrong, it’s a 'stain on the badge.' I don't even like musical theatre, Stone. My mother makes me do it so I have 'poise' for the force. I’m just a puppet in a uniform."
Pebble let out a low, mournful trill from the balcony. He hopped down, landing softly on the crate. Instead of hissing, he nudged the tin of ravioli toward Tre, then looked at Stone with a rare, quiet worry.
"You're both just sad kids in stupid outfits," Vinnie’s voice muffled through the door. "Can you stop being dramatic and just be friends so we can go home? Skipp’s starting to eat the drywall!--”.
“No I’m not”.
Stone and Tre shared a look. For the first time, it wasn't a glare—it was just... tired.
The moment of vulnerability was broken by a sharp, high-pitched giggle.
Pebble was no longer a shadowy creature; he had shifted into his usual self—a teen with glowing cyan hair and a pink flannel shirt, floating cross-legged in the air. He was tossing a piece of contraband candy into his mouth, his green eyes shimmering with a chaotic light.
"Oh, look at you two! Bonding over your childhood trauma! It’s positively delicious," Pebble chirped, his voice smooth and teasing. "But Stone, buddy, you’re getting too soft. You need a little... spark!"
With a snap of his fingers, Pebble didn't leak acid—he shifted his form. His hair and clothes turned a threatening, angry red. In his sugar-fueled frenzy, he didn't just knock over the candle; he willed the shadows around the streamers to ignite.
"Fire! Fire! The roof is on fire!" Pebble sang, spinning in a circle as the old vintage streamers caught a spark and roared into a wall of orange flame.
"Pebble, stop it!" Stone yelled, clutching his head. "Get out of my skull and stop this!"
"Can't stop what's already started, Stoney-boy!" Pebble laughed, his form flickering like static. "Though, I suppose the Officer here can't see me, can he? He just thinks you're yelling at the air while the building burns!"
Tre coughed, waving his oversized tuxedo sleeves through the thickening smoke. "Stone, who are you talking to? We need to get out! The door is jammed!"
"The balcony," Stone choked out, pointing. "Window behind the curtains."
The two of them scrambled together—the "Officer" providing the boost and the "Scrap" vaulting up his shoulders—while Pebble floated above them, heckling. "Careful, Tre! If you drop him, his dad will have to fill out so much paperwork!"
As they tumbled out the window into the damp alleyway, Pebble let out one last cackle before vanishing into the smoke, leaving Stone and Tre coughing on the grass, soot-stained and exhausted.
Skipp and Vinnie ran over, eyes wide. "Are you guys dead?" Skipp asked.
Stone sat up, glaring at the burning building. He could still hear Pebble’s faint laughter in the back of his mind. "I’m fine," Stone muttered, ripping off his clip-on tie. "I just need a very long nap... and zero sugar for a month."