Otto shrugs. "On occasion." He's pitched in a lot lately, what with all the large-scale disasters, but he's not one of those who spends his nights fighting crime on the streets. Maybe he should...it's what Peter or Doreen would do, any of those kids he's going grey over. But he's old and tired, and far from invincible. One thing gets past those arms, one day, and he's toast.

It's what he tells himself. Maybe it's wrong. Wouldn't be the worst thing he's ever done.

At the thanks, he gives Mark a tight smile. "My wife was a poet. She was smarter than I've ever been."