Erik slumped into the apartment, his head still throbbing from philosophy. He dropped his bag on the floor and watched with disinterest as two text books and half his notes spilled out over Ray’s shoes. He poked at them with one foot, but actually picking them up seemed like too much effort, even when the notes were quickly beginning to soak up the muddy snow that was collecting on the carpet without actually soaking into it. Which meant Ray had only just arrived home.

Except Ray’s classes were all over by early afternoon. He could have been at the arcade, of course, but Ray was in the middle of Fantasy Dictator. It was taking precedence over sleep for Ray; he would definitely not be wasting time in the arcade until he was done it.

Erik pushed his hair away from his eyes and squinted into the dimly lit apartment.

Fantasy Dictator wasn’t being played. The TV wasn’t even on. But Ray’s feet were visible hanging over the edge of the couch, clad in wet socks that were dripping slightly.

“Y’know, there’s a reason people wear boots during Canadian winters, Ray,” Erik said was he pried his own off over two pairs of itchy socks. After a minute of grappling with them, all four socks followed, and he stepped carefully over the puddling snow.

“I know what boots are for,” said Ray, his voice muffled. “I made a conscious decision to not wear them, that’s all. They’re clumsy. Not stealthy. When you’re doing stealthy ninja things, you tend to eschew footwear that’s going to give your position away.”

Caught in the act of removing his jacket, Erik froze. “What ninja things?”

“Very relevant ninja things,” Ray said, behind the crinkling of paper.

Erik dropped his coat on the floor. He considered pushing Ray’s feet off the end of the couch, but decided against the whole messy physical contact thing. He stepped over Ray’s books and sat on the edge of the swivelling computer chair. His muscles were tensed apprehensively, in case Ray’s revelation of “ninja things” was going to be his cue to leap out the window and avoid the police or angry mobs. “Spill, Ray.”

Ray tilted his head back to peer, upside down, at Erik. “Competition.”

“Eh?”

“Competition!” Ray enunciated loudly and lifted a newspaper high over his head. He shook it with obvious annoyance.

Erik stared. “Your stealthy ninja thing was stealing a newspaper?”

“From Mark Anderson. But he’ll live. This was a necessary theft for information recognisance. About the competition.” Ray shook the newspaper again. The paper shivered and twisted, looking near to being pulled in two.

“Is this about a girl?” Erik asked in a resigned tone. Whatever the reason, it was only a newspaper. Newspapers were stolen all the time, even if they didn’t usually get stolen by ninjas.

“No! The other kind of competition!”

Erik sighed. “Ninja competition?”

“Exactly!” Ray rolled over and scrambled to the end of the couch. He thrust the newspaper at Erik. Surprised, Erik recoiled before taking the section of the paper that Ray furiously waving at him with tentative fingers. “Just look at that!”

Erik swatted Ray’s frantically pointing fingers away from the relevant page and read. The further he went down the page, the higher his eyebrows rose. Finally, he folded the paper and handed it back to Ray, who just shook it open again in agitation. “It’s about a vigilante.”

“That’s what it says. You have to read between the lines, Thor.”

“It’s about a vigilante in Saskatoon. So . . . not a very ambitious vigilante.”

“Named?” Ray prompted. He was leaning over the edge of the couch, invading far too much of Erik’s personal space.

“Says something about the Tomatogunner.” Erik shrugged, leaning as far back as the chair and desk would let him. “I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s probably just a joke or something. The world’s dumbest gang. I dunno.”

“People being shot with paint ball guns packed with tomatoes is – ”

“Insane. A practical joke. You’re freaking out over this?” Even for Ray, Erik thought, paranoia over what was obviously a surreal practical joke was a bit much.

Ray scowled. “Read between the lines! The Tomatogunner! This is clearly the moniker of a devious individual.”

“With a tomato obsession.”

“Cover. To hide the inherent evil.”

Erik rolled his eyes. “Ray, at most this is a vigilante. Not some kind of supervillain. Not in Saskatoon. Not anywhere. This isn’t a videogame or a comic book or something.” He spun his chair around. “Give Anderson back his paper, eh?”

In the glare of the monitor, Erik could see Ray pull a horrible face. “Thor, your naivety is sweet and all, really good for pulling in the girls in some ideal universe where all women are really desperate, but that’s not going to help you when you get killed in your sleep.”

“By a guy who’s only method of attack involves vegetables.”

“Fruit, Thor. Tomatoes are fruit.”

Erik glared at the monitor and opened the word processor. “Whatever, Ray.”

“I promise not to mention your produce confusion when I read your obituary, Thor. I figure it’d just be rude to bring it up at a funeral that’ll be so well-covered. Due to the whole bit where this guy is clearly a force of evil, and you’ll probably be the first of his casualties when he takes his first real step toward his inevitable reign of terror.”

Erik grabbed a pen from the desk and threw it over his shoulder, aiming awkwardly for Ray’s head.

The pen hit the wall and slid behind the couch, leaving a red mark on the wall.

Ray grinned and shook the newspaper with less anger. He settled back, with all apparent intent to actually read it before returning it to Mark Anderson.

Or using it to make throwing stars.

“And that,” said Ray from behind the paper, “is why the Tomatogunner will be able to kill you without breaking a sweat. Poor reflexes and nonexistent aim.”

Erik groaned and hit the keyboard with his head in frustrated resignation.