Sam snatched the steaming paper cup of black coffee off the counter. His palm crawled at the heat from the cup as he stepped outside. He set the coffee down carefully on the wrought-iron tabletop where legal pads and heavy historical tomes teetered in unstable stacks.
The barista was a loser.
The shop had
Ronnie wedged his armored fingertips under the heavy stone concealing the control box. He yanked and the slab cracked apart, the noise thunderous in the tomb-like corridor.
“Oops.”
Not that he felt bad about breaking anything in Emperor Thallia’s creepy castle, but the louder he was, the better chance the mechanical samurai patrolling
“Here’s your pay, kid.” The foreman of the road crew dropped a few crumpled bills into Karl’s hand. “Now scram.”
“Come on, man.” Karl moaned. “What does it even matter? I’m sixteen. So what? I can scoop up dead raccoons better than anybody else on your crew.”
Magic samurai armor made everything cooler.
Grocery shopping became an epic battle between the forces of good and asparagus.
Restaurant dining became a chance to eavesdrop on fans of San Francisco’s samurai superheroes.
Going to school was… going to school. Not even armor could change that.
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