Whistler returned from Chicago with two people in tow. They were assassins sent by the Mutual Aid Society to help, one man and one woman. They looked like master and apprentice, or simply a veteran showing a newcomer the ropes.
Their names were Cross and Fox—both obviously aliases. But Henry appeared before them in Black Super's guise and under his name, so neither side had gained anything over the other.
Posing as father and daughter, the two found their own place to stay in Hell's Kitchen. They neither moved in with Whistler nor settled in Harlem. Still, Whistler's rented place became the operational base where all four gathered.
Cross was older, looking to be in his forties, composed and restrained. Fox, however, looked like an underage delinquent. Her reddish-brown hair hung loose like the mane of a lioness, and she made no attempt to hide her edge.
The moment they met, the bubblegum-chewing delinquent looked Black Super up and down as though he were something filthy. "You're the one who brought us together? Don't you know that showing your face is the most basic courtesy you owe a partner?"
"Then it looks like you'll have to get used to a rude partner. Of course, you're free to leave. I won't punish you, and I have no right to." Black Super had no intention of indulging a woman who picked a fight the moment they met, and fired right back.
Apparently dissatisfied with that outcome, Fox quietly moved into Black Super's blind spot while maintaining an outward air of composure. As he prepared some equipment, she suddenly lunged, reaching out to pull off his black hood.
Black Super himself couldn't understand whether he was having a run of bad luck or what, but everyone he had met lately had such a