The house looks...horrible. Utterly horrible. Ghastly, to be exact.

The dull porch complains with a shrieking wheeze whenever any amount of weight's been introduced. The stained walls are down to their final fragile layer. And, the flaky roof seems, well about to topple down any second.

But Tony gazes at it with the widest, glittering eyes: nobody would even dare to enter this house; the house that is now his.

Almost his.

Tony wishes the roof would fall off right this second, and land over Mr. Eggface's head.

But Tom wouldn't let that happen, if it ever did. Rookie Hero of the Year. Maven Academy's Golden Boy.

His annoying older brother.

12-year-old Anthony "Tony" Banks clenches his jaw, his hazel eyes now glaring at the old estate agent who flips through the thick yellow pages of this house's contract, his bare head creased throughout. Just give us the key, Eggface!

Tony lets out a seething exhale, calming his barbecued brain by glancing at the parched lawn. He brushes the beige-green grass with his dull red 1972 Nike Blazer, a hand-me-down from the Golden Boy, casting a very proud smirk.

Stinky Cruella, known to others from Saintsburg Church as Sister Margaret, would never ever come here, and will definitely not say, 'What in the great God are you doing to our garden? Stop, you disgraceful twit!'

Tony shakes his head when he hears the sound of Cruella's jute snake cut through the quiet air of this neighborhood. Happy thoughts, Tony. You just got out of there.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Banks," Mr. Eggface, estate agent Berkeley says, the porch hitting a wobbly E# as he steps down from it and onto the cobblestone pathway. The top of his head reminds Tony of the plain Easter eggs that would sit there in the orphanage kitchen, away from his reach and rotting under the fierce afternoon sun.

Berkeley puts up his best smile, the one displaying all five of his golden teeth. "No. 62 of Claremond Street is yours."

Finally, Tony squeals, though burying his smile in his soaked turtleneck when Eggface's gaze falls on him.

Estate Agent Pete Berkeley coughs out his ever-growing curiosity; it's not his problem anymore. No. 62 Claremond Street is out of his list for the first time in two decades. He should be glad, he's getting a hefty commission from this creepy house.

But the red-haired widow in front of him, raises a feeling he hasn't felt since his youngest kid secured a job six years ago.

Worry.

Mrs. Nicole Banks, ravishing at fifty one, tosses her silky auburn hair behind her shoulders; the scorching May sun having no effect on her whatsoever. She extends her right hand, her left resting on her blue handbag strap, casting a heart-melting smile.

Tony exhales sharply, watching Eggface being captivated by his mother's "everlasting beauty". He gulps down the rising remains of the sandwiches he ate five hours ago.

Nicole seeing this, clears her throat. "Can we get the key, Mr. Berkeley?" Her voice is divine.

Berkeley snaps out of his daze, nodding quickly as he fishes out a twisted bronze key from his brown jacket. "Yes, sorry." He approaches her with three long steps. "Here, Mrs. Banks."

A rush of adrenaline surges through Tom's veins as he senses the cold metal in his palm. Yes, we got it. We own a house, he squeaks. But that reduces to a mumble the second he realizes the slight wrinkles covering his hand, and the cherry red nail polish glimmering on his long nails.

This stinging reminder jerks him back to reality: he's not the 16-year-old Thomas Banks. He's some random lady pretending to be his mother.

Tom, or Nicole in this case, takes in a deep breath when he spots a number of minute bumps arise all over his smooth arms. He clutches on to the key in his right palm, casting a restricted grin.

"Mrs. Banks, are you sure you don't require our renovation services?" Berkeley asks, retrieving a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his sweaty forehead. "Like I've mentioned earlier, there are a lot of problems with this house, even though it's located in Henwrich's prime neighborhood. Well, nobody's lived here since the late fifties. So it's been more than twenty years-"

"Thank you for the offer, Mr. Berkeley," Tom says, in Nicole's sweet voice. "But we have plans of our own."

"Very well, then," Berkeley sighs, rolling the contract. "You'll receive a copy of the contract through post, by next Monday. If you have any issues or queries, please reach out to our agency." He shifts his gaze to the boy, retrieving something from his trouser pocket. "You must be tired shifting houses." He hands him a small green lollipop. "Here, have this."

Tony shakes his head, hiding behind the lean tower that's supposed to be his mother. Will he just go already?

Nicole nervously chuckles, beads of sweat beginning to lace her forehead. "Anthony's a very shy boy. He's just not used to people."

"Ah," Berkeley nods. "You also have another son, right? What was his name again, Thomas?"

Tony rubs his forehead. This is getting nowhere. He notices the redhead's shaky hand. Uh-oh. He checks the watch around her wrist, eyes squinted to find the difference between the slim hour and minute hands. It's twelve...no, almost one. God, that's two hours past his limit... He glances up at the redhead. What do I do?

"Yes," Tom says in Nicole's voice, feeling every ounce of his skin crawl, begging him to revert to its original state. Not yet, he says to himself, managing to take a deep breath under Berkeley's annoying gaze. I can do this.

Berkeley checks his watch, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's been a while...since the move-in truck's usual time." He looks out at the empty street. "I wonder what's taking them so long."
Nicole sighs, "It would take another few hours for them to arrive, Mr. Berkeley. If you're just waiting for this, then you may leave. You still have your other clients."

"But you'll-" Berkeley stops, clearing his throat. He won't meddle in anymore. He puts up a small smile. "Okay, then."

Nicole steps away, giving space to Berkeley who starts to head toward the recently whitewashed gate. Tony stands near this wooden gate, quickly opening it. He pulls it back with a grunt. How heavy is this?

"You're such a good lad," Berkeley says, ruffling the lean boy's hair. Tony scrunches his nose. Wish I could crumble your hand with my hair like Hairy.

The boy didn't make this up; he's referring to Harry Morenson, curator of Henwrich's Artes et Scientia Museum by day, ICJ agent by night. Any convict who blabbers that their limbs were broken by a middle-aged man's long blonde hair, Harry or Hairy is the guy behind it. Everyone from the global superhero agency, the International Corporation of Justice, would mostly agree.

Berkeley glances one last time at Nicole, her gaze on her new house. He nods, stepping out of the fenced front yard of No. 62.

Tony peers at Eggface entering his 1957 Ford Styling, holding his breath as the black car totters across the clear street and swerves right, disappearing behind the decent houses of this neighborhood. "Phew!"

Tony closes the gate, wiggling it to check if it's locked, and turns back. His smile fades when he sees the redhead.

Panicking, he races toward her, mouthing the word "Brow!"

The shapeshifter crinkles his forehead. "Bow?" He nods when his brother points to his own forehead. He touches his brows, eyes widening when he finds them rough and thick.

The opposite of Nicole's.

"Scrambled cheeseeggs!"

Tony grabs the key from the alarmed redhead's shaky hand, darting to the porch.

"Hey, you don't know-" The shapeshifter stops, covering his mouth when his voice comes out squeaky.

Definitely not Nicole.

The transforming Mrs Banks' stilettos clack against the cobblestone pathway as she sprints toward the dark front door, the porch crying a shrill C# as she pounces on it.

"Move Tony," the shapeshifter says in his wobbly tone, spotting his brother struggle to open the door while scratching his prickly arms.

"I did unlock the door," Tony says, wringing the door handle. "But this stupid door won't budge."

"You don't know how to open it," Tom snaps, shoving him away from the door.

Tony gasps as he collapses on the floor, face pale by his brother's sudden outburst.

The shapeshifter kicks the door open, the wavy red hair shrinking to a short black, the nails reducing to their original gnawed off state. If it weren't for this dark house and its overarching roof, Tom would've certainly been caught.

And then, the deal with Diselhock would be broken- No, he can't afford to break the deal. They've just got here.

He didn't mean it. Tony catches his breath, wincing as he gets up. He takes a glimpse of the deep grazes scarring his palms, biting his lower lip; now's not the time to think of himself.

It's time to take care of his brother.

Tony looks back, finding the blue handbag fallen on the porch stairs. He picks it up, glancing at the street. Thank God no one's here. He opens the bag, finding a small plastic cylinder, displaying multiple corked vials bundled together. Each containing the orange serum that would bring Tom back in one shape.

Not that Tom would come back as a busted doll; it's been a total of eleven hours of him being Nicole Banks. The highest any shapeshifter's been in their disguise.

Their dad could barely make it for four hours without the stabilizing serum, and he was one of ICJ's top agents.

Tony flinches when he hears a loud thud from inside. "Tom?" he calls, his voice cracking.

He rushes in, shoving the cylinder in and wearing his real mother's handbag, the orange serum jiggling within their vials. He kicks the door, which slams shut with a creak.

Tony takes in a deep breath, slowing his pace as he moves in deeper into the dark, desolate hallway.

"Tom?"

No response. Just deadbeat silence.

Tony enters the nearest room, sighing when his free hand finds the switchboard. He flicks the switch, squinting his eyes when the white lights blind him.

"Tom?" he calls, louder.

"O-over h-here," a voice answers.

He's back. Tony turns to his right, gasping when he sees his brother laying sprawled on the floor. Nicole's clothes are spread around the shapeshifter, leaving him in a sleeveless grey bodysuit.

Tony rushes to Tom, opening the plastic cylinder. He's done this before, but not when his brother's skin is as red as the apple he munched on last night. An obvious sign of delayed transformation, he remembers his mom scolding his dad, when he had appeared with reddish arms at the clinic one time.

Thank God they're not here to see this, Tony muses, almost dropping the cylinder as he tries to pull out a corked vial.

"Careful," Tom pants, trying to raise his hand. "T-that's a-all we have."

"Shut up," Tony says, for a moment proud of being so mature. Maybe his parents should've been here. Then he wouldn't have gone through hell in the past five years.

Tony places the cylinder down, surprised when he uncorks the vial in a single attempt. His brother manages to lift his head as he brings the vial to him.

Tom chugs down the serum, his face scrunched up as the bitter aftertaste sinks in. His skin returns to its original color, a tanned peach. The 16-year-old shapeshifter sighs as he drops to the ground, a relieved smile forming across his thin lips. "Now, that was close."

Tony shakes his head. "I told you to transform back this morning."

"How could I?" Tom replies, turning to him. "We needed Nicole for the house."

Tony grunts, throwing the empty vial back in the bag. You scared the hell out of me!  His gaze falls on the wall in front of him and his brother, eyes widening. "WHAT?"

Tom flinches, seeing Tony crawl back, his face white in fear. "What happened?"

The 12-year-old slams his eyes shut, clasping his eyes and ears with his stubby fingers. "Not real. Not real."

Tom gets up. "Tony, what's-" He stops, seeing a dark rotting slime on his left sleeve. What the- He turns back, gasping as he collapses on the floor again.

A decaying corpse is buried deep into the cracked wall, every inch covered in ivy.