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They were back on the rooftop—a dark, tall one made for skulking. Perfect vantage point to watch the cops leading Two-Face and his men away. Not that they were watching. “You think one of his balls is normal and the other is scarred?” Roxy asked, giving her cycle a quick going-over with a spray-bottle and rag. The bullets hadn’t dented it, but they had left some nasty stains. Tim seethed inwardly. And, not so inwardly. “That was reckless and stupid. You could’ve gotten yourself—“ “Oh, can the responsibility speech. I got it from Steven Spielberg, I don’t need it from you.” Roxy took off her jacket, throwing it across the rocket’s saddle. “That was fun, wasn’t it? Charging into danger, dodging bullets, thrashing bad guys! Fuck, I am energized—better than cocaine!” Tim’s trained eyes tried to shy away from where her nipples pressed erectly through her tanktop. “This isn’t some thrill ride.” “Oh, that’s exactly what it is—don’t play Batman, kiddo, you’re too young for that. In fact, you look just ripe, barely legal, and all you’re doing is parroting some middle-aged nonsense. What kind of nerd bullshit is that?” Roxy peeled off her flight cap in a waterfall of auburn hair. “Don’t you feel alive! Don’t you wanna fuck?” “Wait, what?”