A roaring grumble echoes across the dark hallway of No. 62, making Tony look around. He stands at the dining room entrance, leaning on the doorway frame. What was that?

He peers at the room near the end of the hallway, the dim light coming from it, falling on the wooden front door. It's been five minutes since Tom left the room with Grandma Sue's mirror.

"Is he checking on the Ivy Man?" Tony whispers, recollecting his brother's encounter with the cocooned corpse. He shrugs his shoulders, "He can't. He promised he would just change his clothes and get Mom's handbag."

Another grumble, this time deeper and more grumpier, reverberates across the hallway. Tony lets out a seething exhale, finally realizing the source of this sound.

He places a hand over his empty stomach, pressing down when it protests with a third grumble.

Tony turns over his shoulder, gazing at the dusty cabinets in the dining room. They have to restock on food, and clean the mess that Eggface Berkeley's agency left behind.

Tom steps out of the living room, wearing a loose black t-shirt and jeans. His mother's handbag hangs over his left shoulder, the antique mirror held in his right hand. He frowns, staring at the greyish black screen.

Something's wrong. Grandma Sue would've returned by now.

"Grandma Suzanne," Tom calls, tapping on the mirror for the millionth time. He raises his gaze, meeting his brother's eyes. "Tony, do you know-"

He exhales slowly, watching his brother dart back into the dining room with crossed arms. "Why is he so mad?" he mutters.

The shapeshifter walks along the dark hallway, entering the dining room. He sees his brother seated in the same chair as before.

"Do you know any way of bringing Grandma Sue back?" he asks.

Tony turns to the sole window of the room, the tethered curtains barely able to cover the dusty glass. He presses his crossed arms to his stomach, his eyes narrowed. Why should I help now?

Tom sighs when he gets the squeak of the wooden chair as his answer. He resumes to his task of shaking and tapping on the mirror.

As Tony watches an agitated Tom trying to bring their grandma back, of course through the corner of his eyes, he hears a distant jingle that seems to emerge from outside.

The jingle of an ice cream truck.

Tony looks down at his shoes, shaking his head as the jingle gets louder. I've got to stop hallucinating.

Tom stops, glancing at the window when he hears the nine-beat jingle. When he reaches the window, the shapeshifter presses his nose against the clear portion of the stained glass, his eyes squinted to make out the white truck that appears on the far end of the street.

"It's an ice cream truck," he says, seeing the polished strawberry ice cream cone perched on top of the truck.

Tony raises his head, "What?"

Tom smiles, though he doesn't turn back. "An ice-cream truck's coming." He leans closer, his forehead now pressed against the glass, reading the text on the visible side of the approaching truck. "Hillbough's Ice Cream."

He leans back, rubbing his forehead, "Wanna go?" His shoulders slump when he doesn't get a response. He turns around. "What's your problem, Tony?"

Tony steps out of his seat. "Nothing. And I don't want to go."

"Why?" Tom asks, stopping his brother who's halfway toward the door.

Tony shakes his head. "I can't go out alone right now."

Tom takes in a deep breath. "Who says you're going alone?" He approaches his brother. "You have me."

His brows furrow when he sees his brother scoff. "What?"

"How do we explain how you came?" Tony asks.

"The back door," Tom answers, astonished. "Tony, we've talked about this before." He pauses, taking a full glimpse of his brother. "Are you still mad about not getting the mirror?"

Tony glances at his hands while recollecting the time his brother pushed him; he's surprised to find them uninjured. He rubs his hands. "No. What about the Cob-Covert? Shouldn't we wait for them here?"

"We can wait for them outside," Tom replies, taking a step past his brother. "Come on, don't you want to celebrate today? We moved in, and you have invisibility powers."

Tony glances at him for a moment, not able to help but smile when he sees the excitement on his face. "Okay, fine." He heads toward the door. "I get to choose the flavors."

"We'll see," Tom replies with a lopsided smile. He darts out of the room.

"Wait," Tony calls, finding himself alone in the dark hallway. He rushes toward his older brother's silhouette that appears near the front door.

Tom places his hand on the cold door handle, when a jolt of realization strikes him. He turns over his shoulder, seeing Tony approach him, his shoes squeaking against the tiled floor.

"They're here," Tony says, over the now loud and clear jingle of Hillbough's Ice Cream Truck.

Tom drops his gaze. I pushed him.

"Tom?"

He flinches when he sees his younger brother beside him, confused when he sees him holding the door handle. Breaking it, to be precise.

"Need some help here," Tony says, his face scrunched up as he tries to open the jammed front door.

Tom slowly approaches his brother, rubbing the back of his neck while his de-transformation incident plays in his mind. Why did I have to push him?

Tony sighs as he takes a step back. He turns, pointing to the stubborn door. "Why won't this open?"

"Sometimes you have to slowly rotate the knob," Tom replies. "Like this."

He takes a moment, glancing more at his brother than the door handle. The front door opens. "Tony, I didn't mean to-"

"Oh, it's here," Tony says, racing out the door before his brother can complete his sentence.

"To push you," Tom mutters. He follows Tony who jumps about the porch that shrieks a double F# in response, while rummaging for pennies in the blue handbag.

His gaze falls on his worn-out black sneakers, a 1955 Pro-Ked, its untied laces stepped over by it. Tom bends down to tie his shoelaces, smiling when he hears a squeak from his brother.

The very same as the one made when he told him they were finally moving out of Saintsburg Church.

Tom looks up to see the ice cream truck parked right near their gate, the strawberry ice cream cone glinting under the harsh afternoon sun. He then slowly notices the neighboring houses, the windows and doors that previously open, now bolted shut. Nobody's come out for ice cream?

Meanwhile, Tony stands behind the gate, waiting for his brother. He turns when a creak is heard from the truck.

The shutter of the ice cream truck raises, revealing a tall man dressed in black, standing behind the counter of various tubs, filled with different flavors of ice cream; including blueberry chocochip, Tony's favorite.

The man looks much younger than Tony expected. Maybe four or five years older than his brother Tom. He also looks like he's never gone on an ICJ mission before, his face belongs to movie posters than the agents rank scoreboard of ICJ.

His dad always bragged of the 47 missions he was recruited for while he was a teenager. Other than this and talking about the best and upcoming superheroes, Tony doesn't remember his dad doing anything else while he was at home.

The next moment, Tony gasps, recognizing the young man's blue mohawk. Nobody other than his cherished hero has that funky hairstyle.

"Hi," the Mohawk says, placing his hands on the counter's empty space, ducking as he leans his tall frame forward. He looks around when he sees the two boys only. "Is this where Thomas Banks lives?"

"Y-you're M-M-Mich-chael" Tony stops, clearing his throat. He smoothens his turtleneck, his goggled eyes fixated on his favorite superhero.

Tom furrows his brows. How does he know my name? He glances at the young man. "Who are you?"

"Michael Olmsted," Tony answers before the Mohawk could introduce himself. "You're him, right?"

The Mohawk, 19-year-old Michael Olmstead, raises a brow. "Do you know me?"

The 9-year-old boy steps forward, extending his hand. "Hi. I'm Tony Banks, and I'm your biggest fan."

Tom chokes upon hearing this. Biggest fan? He tries to erase the big frown on his face; he was Tony's biggest fan just two years ago.

"I've heard all about you from Vanderbuild Orphanage," Tony continues. "You saved everyone from the kitchen fire there."

Tom crinkles his forehead, now glaring at the man. Why can't I remember you?

Michael clears his throat. "I didn't do much. There were others too." He clasps his hands together. "You introduced yourself as Tony Banks. Your full name is Anthony Banks, right?"

Tony's jaw drops. "How do you know-"

"Who are you?" Tom cuts in. "I mean, how do you know Thomas and Anthony Banks?"

"Wait," Michael says, retrieving something from his pocket. "I missed something." He pulls out a round, white device, and presses the sole button on it. The device flashes a blue light as it switches on with a ping.

Tom stares at Michael who steps away from the counter, wavering the device around. Michael Olmsted...have I met you in school? And, why are you holding a Tracker? Unless...

Tony, on the other hand, gazes at Michael with utmost awe. He's never met an Electro before. Since they can control and generate electricity, stable Electros have been rare to find in the last century.

Of course not like shapeshifters, and definitely not like his diamond-in-the-rough brother who can transform into any living object. But still rare.

A huge bang makes Tony flinch. He catches a glimpse of the same reaction from his brother.

"Very sorry for that," Michael says, eyes fixated on the device while rubbing his shoulder. "I bumped into something here."

Tom looks back at the house. But another sound came from there.

His eyes widen when he sees the front door open.

A lady - no, a girl his age - walks out of No. 62, dusting her sleeves. The porch doesn't make a single creek as she walks on it, her purple coat brushing against its surface.

That's when Tom realizes....

His sneakers squeak as he turns around, facing Michael who steps out of the ice cream truck though the back door.

"You're from the Covert?" he asks, placing his hand inside the blue handbag over his shoulder. He exhales sharply when his fingers meet the vibrating bronze mirror.

They're trying to track us, the shapeshifter muses. He steps forward. "It's me. I'm Thomas Banks."