I enter the supervillain’s kitchen. Stood nose to the floor is a 1950 A-bomb.

“No wonder we’re dead in space!”

“Please help me,” Amy asked, approaching cautiously. “I need a ride.”

“It’s a spell?”

His suit is impeccable, the physique under it attractive. His head is a skull.

“Isn’t this a paradox?”

“I don’t do changing back,” Circe says.

Power is restored with a smoky haze of ozone.

It turns. It sees him.