Emily was handed to Phil's care, or perhaps vice versa, with the understanding that neither of them were trusted to be on their own, nor were they welcome at practice. They mutually commiserated over this as they walked through the empty parking lot in front of the Pond’s main doors. She dressed for outside, or at least in a manner that looked less threatening than walking around in armor.

Phil ushered her into the decrepit thing he called his car. It was dark blue on the outside, and a sweltering inferno on the inside. He assured her the air from the vents would turn cool, eventually.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Emily said, as she fussed with a seat belt that was nearly too hot to touch.

“I’m a people person,” he explained, and it had the infuriating quality of not explaining anything.

“Is… that right?” she said, cautiously.

He tossed a black book into her lap, which she picked up with trepidation. It was bound in animal hide, worn. It opened up to pages and pages of scrawled notes, in different colors of ink but all in the same hand, she thought. She couldn't read any of it.

“What's all this?” Emily frowned.

“Battle plans,” he said, cheerfully, putting the car in gear, and setting them on their way. “Everyone has a weakness. Everyone,” he grinned, the self assured smile of a cunning plan. “Even Wildwing.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Scampi.”

They arrived at another parking lot, which looked very much like the one they had left, only the building at the center was smaller and squatter. There was a smattering of cars close to the entrance, but the windows were too dark to see into. Phil led her to the door. The daylight vanished behind him, the air became much cooler, and there was a strong smell in the air when she entered. It rankled her, the feathers on her neck standing on end as she realized where he had taken her.

A restaurant.

The host of the establishment noticed them, and rather than be seated, Phil had prepared a large list of food he intended for them to carry out and bring back to the Pond, for lunch. There was some argument over whether or not this was a service the establishment offered. The host, and Phil, and a growing collection of kitchen and wait staff embroiled themselves into a knot of dispute.

Emily found Phil’s claim of being a ‘people person’ tenuous when presented with this evidence.

Three patrons sitting at a table had turned to watch the commotion, as well as a bartender, who was leaning over his station with a scowl. Emily stood at the host’s stand, abandoned, attempting to remain uninvolved.

“Hey!” one of the men at the table called, and it was a moment before Emily realized he was trying to get her attention. She glanced at him.

The man at the table gestured at Phil. “Whatever he's paying you to wear that costume I'll pay you double to take it off.”

The other two men at the table audibly laughed.

Emily looked again at the argument that showed no signs of conclusion, and sauntered to the table. All three patrons whooped as she approached.

“Want to see a magic trick?” she asked, snatching the solicitor’s drink from his hand.

They whooped louder. She set the glass on the table, leaning down close do that she was at eye level with them, fingers on the brim of the glass. He had been drinking from it, and there was a fine, unpleasant film of saliva on it, but under that the clear, solid, and sharp form of the glass itself came to the forefront of her awareness.

She pushed every ounce of contempt she could find down through her arm, into her wrist, and the glass roiled under her hand, turning black and brittle. It exploded into a cloud of dust, mixing with the liquor inside, and smearing all four of them with ooze the consistency of black bile.

“No, sure, this is fine, too,” Phil leaned against the wall. “I need to get out more anyway.”

They had been asked, probably more politely than was deserved, to leave the building, but Phil had been able to negotiate still getting his order if they waited outside for it. He looked thoughtfully into the parking lot, the air wavering above the pavement. Emily stood nearby, sulking in the heat.

“I won’t tell anyone about it if you won’t,” he said, gesturing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Deal,” Emily said.

“So,” he said mildly, “I’m going to guess that’s why you’re not invited to practice?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“No, it literally is,” he said, and when it appeared that no response was forthcoming, he sighed. “Okay, okay, this is my fault. I’ve been very unprofessional. Let’s start over,” he held out his hand for a handshake.“Hi, Phil Palmfeather, I’m your manager.”

She stared at the hand, then up at him, otherwise unmoving.

“Nice to meet you,” he retracted the arm as if the handshake had been executed flawlessly, unwilling to let his smile fall. “Now, why are you here with me and not practicing with my team?”

“Your team,” she said incredulously. Before he had walked in on them eating breakfast, several weeks after their arrival, she had never heard of the man.

“Well, I do admit a sort of metaphorical and spiritual ownership, if not exactly literal.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then what is it you do?”

“Excellent question!” he pointed to her, as if she were a student that had raised her hand in class. “Now, as I understand it, you’re used to living in a weird space future socialist utopia-”

“A what-”

“But here, you see, everything needs to be earned and paid for. That includes,” he counted on his fingers as he spoke to emphasize each item, “Giant secret bases, lunch, and the dry cleaning bill you’re going to receive for your magic trick.”

Emily shook her head. “You’re saying a lot of things at me and none of them make sense.”

“You are not the first person to tell me that.”

“I’m sure,” her bill was an unamused flat line.

“Okay, how about this?” Phil ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. “The stuff you guys do, the costumed overdramatic heroism?”

She cracked just a bit of smile. “Yeah?”

“It tends me to be rather destructive.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Agree.”

“All of that needs to be paid for somehow. To fix it.”

“Right?”

“Where do you think that money comes from?”

She stared blankly for a moment, before shaking her head.

“The hockey pays for it,” Phil adjusted his suit jacket, and in the motion must have realized how ridiculous an item it was to wear in the heat. He took it off, and folded it over an arm. “That’s my job.”

“We pay for saving the planet?” Emily responded, her face feeling tight.

“Yeah, it’s not a great deal,” and then, after reading her expression, he let out a small laugh. “Not quite what I thought I was signing up for either.”

“That’s stupid,” she concluded.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Phil said. “No one really believes the whole alien thing.”

Emily gestured wildly, in a movement that, perhaps without grace, was meant to encompass everything.

He dismissed her with a shrug. “I know, I know. Wildwing insisted on being transparent. He did try. He was pretty dumbfounded when we told people they were from another planet and they asked for his W-4.”

Phil let that hang in the air, though he seemed like the sort that was uncomfortable with long silences. He checked a watch on his wrist, shuffled the jacket from one arm to the other, and occasionally looked back over his shoulder, to the door of the restaurant that remained shut.

“I don't think I like it here," Emily said, at last.

He should have been offended, instead he laughed a bit more. "I know you guys have a concept of money. I mean, wealthy people exist on your planet, right? What do they spend it on?"

She thought for a moment, before saying: "Things that no one really needs.”

“Ah, see, we do have some things in common after all!" he grinned broadly. "The dream! But being virtuous and responsible turns out to be a lot harder on the earnings projections than I would have guessed."

There was a word that Emily could not remember, but Winterwing would have, that could have summarized this conversation to her. At some point in the future, she may have asked, and he might have told her what she was probably looking for was cynical. She was not sure she could see herself sharing the ideals of the rest of the ducks, but if the opposite side of the scale was to consider the mission against Dragaunus in strict terms of budget considerations, that left a sour taste in the mouth.

Phil must have sensed that he was losing her interest, and changed his tone, to something quieter and sincere.

"I told them, once, that I would be out on the street if I didn't figure out how to turn my life around,” he said. “I meant that. I'm not sure they really believed me. Probably because ‘out on the street’ doesn't mean anything to someone who can just ask for a home. The hockey pays for a lot. A lot. And I'm not saying I'm ungrateful, it is very nice to own more than one pair of shoes.

"And hey, if the world doesn't explode, maybe I'll even get to waste a bit on things no one really needs," he grinned at her previous phrasing.

Emily voiced a leading "Buuuuut?"

"But if you insist on blowing things up and flying around a supersonic jet, I would recommend some additional streams of income," he said, regaining the previous cheer. "Which is why I asked, perhaps without an appropriate amount of tact, if you play hockey."

"I don't think I have anything that is worth anything," she said.

"We're going to take baby steps when I introduce you to the internet," he sighed.

“Do you think future space whatever utopia doesn’t have porn?” she asked, flatly.

“You know, now that I think about it? I guess it must.”