[Ever since some asshole sent out a bomb threat, it's been just like old times. The bastard thought he could just brag without giving anything away, but one thing was distinctive: those bomb parts had to come from somewhere. Blake's been hitting the streets, going to every hardware store and anyplace that would sell the raw materials that an enterprising lunatic could cook up into something that goes boom.

Behind him Steve Buscemi walks purposefully, a Snubbull on a mission. He's got her doing the rounds of the Pokemon they run into. Everybody around here has their own animals all over the place, and they paid more attention than you'd think. His Musharna is floating along, too. It may be a poetic weirdo, but shit, for all the times Blake has wished he could just reach right into somebody's head and take out what he needs, like hell if he can ignore the chance to have a psychic on his side. Maybe if he shakes things around in somebody's memory, it can skim something useful off the top.

There'd been a shit-ton of bombs; that meant either he'd gotten a lot of ingredients from one place, or smaller batches from a bunch. Either way, somebody had to remember.

So far nobody has.

The bell on the door clatters as he walks into the next place and strides up to the counter. He holds out his Gear, displaying a still from the broadcast that shows the bombs and detonators the wannabe-terrorist had cobbled together.]

I'm looking for a man, about average build, who's been going around picking up the shit to make these. Timers, glycerine...

[He rattles off a list of your usual Anarchist's Cookbook shit.]

Sound familiar?