Recoil Pt 4-6 (Patreon)

I had been partly prepared for Kinsey's question; not for that exact one, but I'd been aware that something was troubling him. And so, I only hesitated for half a second. It was almost half a second too long; his eyes were starting to narrow when I replied.

“Kindly explain the question, Sergeant. What, exactly, do you mean by it?”

He smiled very slightly, and the dance began. I was a trained PRT Intelligence officer; before he came into my service, he had been an MP with years of experience under his belt. We each knew how the other thought; my poker face was almost the equal of his, but that didn't mean that he couldn't read me anyway.

“I mean, Captain, that certain things fail to add up regarding our trip.” He spoke evenly, directly. We both knew that there would be no fallout on him, no matter how this conversation turned out; he and I had that kind of working relationship.

“Indeed? And what might they be?” My hands were clasped behind my back, and I met his gaze unflinchingly. He may have nodded fractionally at how my hands were out of sight to prevent tells and other unconscious gestures.

“I found it interesting that you attempted to prevent my accompanying you on this vacation,” he began. “First, from Chicago, and then the camping trip itself. However, today you suggested a follow-up camping trip, and invited me along, so it can not have been my presence, as such, to which you were objecting.”

“Interesting, Sergeant, but hardly conclusive evidence of anything amiss,” I pointed out. “Please, go on.”

The crows-feet around his eyes crinkled almost imperceptibly, which I took as humour. But why was he amused; something about what I had said, or what I had not said?

“Of course, Captain,” he replied courteously. “Following that, your apparently spontaneous suggestion of a walk around the lake, accompanied by your friend Mrs Knott, but not the delightful Ms Campbell.” He paused, and we could hear the aforementioned Andrea splashing in the shower, accompanied by the words of what might have been a rather raunchy song.

“To ensure that I did not come along as well, you primed me with the information that Ms Campbell was amenable to, and interested in, a liaison with myself.” His brows drew down fractionally at that. “I have to ask; was this her idea, or yours?”

“As I informed you at the time, Sergeant,” I replied formally, “Andrea is her own person. I would no more consider asking – or telling – her to do that, than I would consider ordering you to do the same.” I allowed a brief smile to cross my face. “She was, however, very interested in such a concept, and still has trouble understanding why I have not slept with you myself. Military regulations, it seems, are very much a closed book to her.”

“Indeed.” He paused. “Thus, having successfully separated yourself from my presence, you and Mrs Knott presumably hiked around the lake, covering an unspecified distance. I had originally considered the idea that you may have been simply seeking a sexual liaison with her, but while there is comradeship between you, you do not strike me as that sort of pairing.”

Again, I allowed myself to smile. “Indeed we are not, Sergeant. Gladys is very straight and very happily married. We have been close friends for years, but in no way are we that close.”

“As I surmised,” he agreed. “Which raises the question of what you two were doing, while I was … distracted.”

“I believe that you were told that we were hiking around the lake, Sergeant,” I suggested.

“I was indeed told that, yes.” A raised eyebrow indicated how much he thought of that concept. “However, I do recall hearing vehicle noises on the road, some little time after you left in the morning, and some little time before you signalled for help, in the evening. A suspicious man might conclude that you might have been picked up and dropped off by a third party, in the meantime spending the bulk of the day elsewhere.”

I was impressed, although I tried not to show it. Kinsey had not only noted the noise of the SUV that had been our transported, but he had also tied it in with the rest of what we had done. “It's a road, Kinsey. Vehicles travel along it all the time.”

“This is indeed true, ma'am,” he agreed. “The timing, especially of a vehicle stopping and starting off again, could be noted as suspicious, however.”

“You seem to have acquired a great deal of surmise, Kinsey.” I raised an eyebrow of my own. “Did you intend to pass this on to anyone else?”

“Hardly, ma'am,” he assured me with a genuine snort of amusement. “As you say, it is built largely out of surmise. But it is enough to make me wonder. Which is why I am asking you now, ma'am. Did you do something while you were at the lake, that you did not want me to know about?”

I eyed him for a long moment, constructing my next statement in my mind. I had to decide whether or not to trust him, and if the former, how much to trust him with. Finally, I nodded.

“Yes, Kinsey, I did do something, while you were at the lake.”

His eyes narrowed, and he nodded once, very slightly. “Yes, ma'am?”

“In time, you may figure out what it was. For now, I will merely assure you that it was a matter of the utmost importance, and that it will in no way reflect back on the PRT.”

He raised his chin slightly. “Was it a sanctioned mission, ma'am?”

I shook my head. “It was not. The PRT has no knowledge of what happened. Or rather, that what happened had anything to do with me or Gladys.” A pause. “However, if they had been aware of the urgency of the situation, I have no doubt that I would have been given the go-ahead.” Or taken on the job in their own fashion, and screwed it up royally.

“Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, ma'am?” His smile was dry, but I fancied I saw a hint of approval in it.

“Very much so, Kinsey,” I agreed. “Very much so.”

He nodded once, consideringly. “Well, ma'am, I hope you enjoyed your walk around the lake. Because that's what happened. Isn't it?”

I smiled. “Indeed, Kinsey. Indeed.”

Dusting his hands off, as if having dealt with a difficult task, Kinsey looked around. “Well then, I believe that I will see about cooking something up for dinner. Did you have any requests, ma'am?”

“Not particularly, Kinsey,” I replied. “You know my preferences; I trust your cooking.” My tone of voice indicated that I trusted a lot more than just his cooking; from the eye contact, he got my meaning.

His smile was brief but genuine. “Always good to hear that from an officer, ma'am.”

I smiled back. “Always good to have a sergeant I can say it to.”

-ooo-

By the time Andrea emerged from the shower, wisps of steam still floating behind her, Kinsey had the meal well started. She leaned in and sniffed rapturously. "Seriously, Jim, I'm thinking of kidnapping you just for your cooking skills."

"I might object," I observed from the living room, where I was relaxing on the sofa. "He's kind of my responsibility."

"I'll bribe you with sex," she offered with a playful grin, pretending to tug at the belt holding her all-too-brief robe closed.

"You realise that for that to work, I would have to be the one bribing you with sex," I pointed out.

"Okay, I accept the bribe," she retorted promptly, climbing on to my lap. "Now, where do I start ... ?"

“Oh god, do you never stop?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

“Not if I can help it,” she assured me cheerfully.

I let her kiss me once, then held her back. “Well, there is no sex bribe going, so you can sit beside me.”

“Okay, fine,” she agreed readily, moving off my lap and snuggling up next to me.

“Ladies,” Kinsey reported discreetly from the kitchen doorway, “dinner will be served shortly.”

“Which means I need to take a shower now,” I noted.

“I'll come with,” Andrea declared immediately.

I rolled my eyes. “You just had a shower.”

“And you weren't there. So whose fault is that?”

I looked at her mischievous expression and shook my head. “I will be showering alone. You can stay out here and keep Sergeant Kinsey company.”

She looked from me to Kinsey and grinned. “Okay.”

Sighing, I got up and headed down the corridor to get clothes from Andrea's bedroom. She was so refreshingly direct; I couldn't help but appreciate her candour, even if fending her off got just a little exhausting at times. But she never sulked or got upset if I turned her down; she just bounced back like a rubber ball.

On the other hand, Andrea Campbell was also my closest confidante, and was just as sincere in her love for me, and her dedication to what I was doing. She had given me emotional support when I needed it the very most, and continued to do so, even over the distance between Brockton Bay and Chicago. For all of her little quirks and flaws, she was a very real part of my life, and I forgave her her foibles, for what she gave me in return.

-ooo-

In the shower, I scrubbed myself down, washing the grime of two days in the woods – and a running firefight in Canada – off of me. We had bathed using the lake water, but those were sponge baths; no-one, not even Andrea, wanted a second dip in that freezing cold lake. A hot shower, by comparison, was the very ambrosia of the gods.

Two minutes after stepping into the shower, I was out again; one minute after that, I was dried and dressed. My hair was still quite short, despite not having been cut since Boot, so a brisk rub with the towel sufficed there.

“Shower's free,” I announced, stepping out of the bathroom. Kinsey and Andrea glanced around as I re-entered the living room; he was still standing by the stove, while she hadn't moved from the couch. From the grin on her face, however, she had been chatting with him. Or flirting shamelessly, which more or less amounted to the same thing with Andrea.

“Wow,” she commented. “It usually takes me that long just to get the temperature right.”

“You learn not to worry about things like that in Boot,” I advised her. “Some places, warm water's a bonus. Kinsey, I left some for you.”

“Appreciate it, ma'am,” he acknowledged. “I'll shower after we eat and unpack.”

-ooo-

The meal was delicious; Andrea archly asked Kinsey if he was certain that he didn't want to be kidnapped. The fringe benefits, she intimated, were quite worth it. He smiled briefly, and advised her to talk to me about that.

After dinner, we unpacked, started a load of laundry, and Kinsey headed off to shower. Andrea and I settled down in the living room to snuggle on the couch and watch TV.

“It's weird,” she observed. “I barely think about TV most times, but two days away and I'm wondering what shows I'm missing.”

“It's the modern world,” I agreed. “We have so many modern conveniences that we just don't notice them till they're gone.”

She leaned comfortably against me. “I don't know if I'd count you as a modern convenience, but I surely do miss you when you're not here.”

“I miss you all the time, sweetie,” I told her honestly.

“Aww, really?” she asked. “That's so sweet.”

I laid my head atop her riotous curls. “Really,” I assured her. “So many times, I think to myself, 'It's just too quiet around here. Oh wait, Andrea's not here.'.”

She giggled. “Darn tootin'.”

By the time Kinsey came out of the shower – he used no more time, or water, than I did, and even less time drying his hair – Andrea had managed to coax her way back on to my lap, and was sitting across my legs as we both watched TV. He made no comment, and even fetched soda from the kitchen when Andrea mentioned that there was a cold bottle in the fridge.

I wasn't quite sure what time Careers Day started at Winslow, so at eleven, I suggested that we go to bed. Kinsey was agreeable, and Andrea was positively enthusiastic at the idea. Snuggling with her in a full-sized bed, I discovered anew, was much more convenient than attempting the same act in a sleeping bag on an air mattress. I half-expected her to try for more than just snuggling, but as it turned out, we were both too tired; she fell asleep in my arms.

-ooo-

I looked around, as a uniformed young man ushered us into a long, low gallery, our feet sinking into the rich, thick carpet. Seats were spaced along it, giving a good view down through a series of solid-looking glass panes. Lisa picked a seat almost at random, and I sat down beside her. The seats were soft, comfortable, almost armchair-like. Soft music played throughout the gallery, in counterpoint to the steadily deepening rumble of what I recalled were the engines.

We're on that plane, I recalled. Looking down through the thick glass, I could see the ground, some distance below. It was stationary, which indicated that we hadn't gone anywhere yet. Wow, that's a long way down.

“Yes, we are, and yes, it is,” Lisa replied, sounding rather pleased with herself. She looked up as a steward materialised beside us. “Yes?”

“Would the ladies like something to drink during takeoff?” the steward asked deferentially. I glanced around; the other side of the gallery consisted of a bar. They were serving drinks to passengers, even as I watched.

“Why yes, thank you,” Lisa told him graciously. “I'll have a brandy Manhattan, and my friend will have … “

“Chilled milk, if you have it,” I decided.

The steward bobbed his head. “Of course. I will only be a moment.”

As he moved away, the gallery seemed to lurch very slightly, and the ground through the viewing windows began to slide away, moving sideways in a manner somewhat disturbing to the inner ear. I knew, of course, that this was just the gargantuan aircraft releasing its brakes and rolling on to the runway, but still, it beggared the imagination that something this huge could move, let alone get its tremendous bulk into the air.

We paused at the head of the runway, as the pilots (I hoped there was more than one pilot for something this big) no doubt conferred with what air traffic control there was. I wondered if they were using radio, or something more basic, considering the retro-tech feel of the aircraft. Maybe they were using a semaphore, or playing charades out the cabin window.

A gentle tone sounded, drowning out the music for just a moment. “Takeoff in thirty seconds,” a warm contralto sounded through the speakers. “Takeoff in thirty seconds.”

I counted down the seconds in my head; when I reached 'ten', the steward reached us with two cut-glass tumblers on his tray. “Ladies,” he greeted us once more. “Your drinks, if you please.”

Lisa took her drink, and I snared mine. Just as I took my first sip – it was both chilled and delicious – the tone sounded once more. I moved the glass from my lips just as the jolt told me that the brakes had been released. The sound of distant thunder, which had gradually been ramping up, reached a crescendo, and the gigantic flying wing began to move forward.

After the first jolt, the acceleration was smooth, and the movement over the concrete airstrip was entirely devoid of bumps. Of course, I realised, with tyres twenty feet or more in height, it would take a major irregularity in the runway to even register on the suspension. I sipped at my milk as the speed built up; beside me, Lisa was grinning with enjoyment.

There seemed to be a little extra acceleration, but then I realised that the ground had tilted away; the nose was rising. The plane had almost reached flying speed. And then the ground was falling away; we were definitely higher up than we had been before.

Even with the distant roar of the engines – they must have some serious sound insulation, I decided – the conversation among the other passengers in the observation gallery was brisk. I caught Lisa's eye.

Some way to ride, huh?

She grinned. “Beats hell out of your usual airline seats.”

Just a bit more leg room, I agreed. With some surprise, I found that I had finished my milk. Wow, that was really nice. Just as I began to look around for the steward once more, I found him at my elbow, with his tray ready to receive the empty glass.

Lisa was still working at her drink, so I ordered a second chilled milk. When it arrived, Lisa looked up at the steward. “I'm curious. Do we have meals served to us here, or in our cabins?”

“Either, if you wish, ma'am,” the steward told her politely. “But the dining room will be open in ten minutes, if you do not mind waiting.”

Lisa and I shared a glance, then she looked back at the steward. “Dining room?” she enquired carefully.

“Yes, ma'am,” he confirmed. “When you wish to go there, just ask a steward.”

He moved away to take another passenger's order, and I shook my head slowly. Are we on a plane, or a cruise ship?

Lisa grinned. “When you find out, let me know.” She sipped at her drink. “They make a really good brandy Manhattan, though.”

I drank more of my milk, gazing down at the landscape passing far below. Forest and farmland, with the occasional town. I heard that the old zeppelins were like this, really luxurious, back in the day. Before the disasters, the Hindenberg and that other one, the British one.

“Yeah,” Lisa agreed. “Like the ones we saw, back at the airfield. But they wouldn't have anywhere near the passenger space this monster has.”

I became aware of an odd intermittent buzzing sound. Can you hear that?

Lisa nodded. “But it's not here. It's your alarm clock.”

Great, I muttered. I must be waking up.

“Kiss before you go?” Lisa leaned over; I kissed her. Her lips tasted of what I presumed was brandy and vermouth, as well as dust and blood. I closed my eyes and let the world fall away.

-ooo-

Monday Morning, April 3, 1994

Andrea circled me as I stood in the middle of the living room. “Wow, seriously, your dress uniform is gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” I told her. “It's not the most comfortable, or practical, thing in the world to wear, but it does the job.” I pulled at the cuffs of the midnight-blue jacket, against which the gold braid on the epaulettes stood out brilliantly, but the fit was already as good as it was going to get.

“And what job's that?” she asked. “To stand out in a crowd?”

“To show off the fact that the Captain is a decorated officer in the Parahuman Response Teams,” Kinsey replied for me, as he came back in from the kitchen. “Your medals, ma'am.”

I took the freshly polished decorations from him and carefully pinned them on, one at a time; against the dark cloth, the coloured ribbons stood out dramatically, and the mirror-bright brass gleamed in the overhead light.

Kinsey was looking scarcely less impressive in the enlisted dress uniform, a shade lighter blue than mine, with red cords looping through his epaulettes. He had his own medals, acquired during his years of service, each as carefully polished as mine were.

I picked up my peaked cap from the side table and turned it over in my hands. It had been carefully brushed of lint by Andrea, and the badge on the front shone as brightly as the rest of the brass on my uniform. Fitting it on to my head, I turned to Kinsey, who had just placed his beret on his freshly-trimmed scalp.

He looked me up and down, his eyes dissecting every element of my dress uniform, from the mirror-bright shoes to the gleaming badge on my cap. In my turn, I observed the razor-sharp crease of his trousers, the gleaming leather of his pistol belt, and the millimetric placement of his own medals.

Our eyes met; he clicked his heels to full attention, and his white-gloved hand came up in a salute. “Reporting for duty, ma'am!” he barked, making Andrea jump.

I returned the salute. Our hands snapped down to our sides at the same time. “At ease, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” he responded, in a more normal tone of voice.

Andrea looked from me to Kinsey and back again. “So all that saluting and shouting and heel-clicking, that's what really happens all the time?” she wanted to know. “Or were you just putting on a show for me?”

“The saluting does happen, unless you're uncovered,” I told her. “Or indoors, unless you're reporting to a senior officer. Which is what Kinsey just did. Personally, I think he just likes to salute me.”

Kinsey chose to ignore my last statement, and carried on what I was saying. “When the Captain refers to being 'uncovered', she means not wearing headgear. Were either of us not wearing headgear, that person would offer a verbal salute instead.”

“Ah,” Andrea noted, looking somewhat enlightened. “Rules. Weird.”

“That's the way of the world, sweetie,” I told her. “As for the rest of it, including dress uniform, they are generally only brought out on ceremonial occasions. For the most part, it's more comfortable uniforms, and people speak in normal voices.”

“Don't you get a sword or something?” Andrea's mind had flitted on to the next subject. “I saw a movie where they were wearing dress uniform, and they had swords.”

“That was probably the Marines,” Kinsey informed her. “They've got a history that goes back far enough that they did once wear swords. The PRT is less than two years old.”

“You get a pistol belt,” I pointed out. “I still think I should be able to wear my Glock.”

“A weapon belt is not an accepted part of PRT dress uniform, at least for officers,” Kinsey replied blandly. He turned to Andrea, and continued in a very slightly reduced tone of voice, “This shows who they actually trust with loaded guns, you see.”

Andrea giggled. “Are you actually going to let him get away with saying that?”

“Saying what?” I inquired. “I heard nothing.” Pushing up my sleeve slightly, I checked my watch. “And on that note, I believe that it is time to attend Careers Day.”

“Yay!” Andrea headed for the door. “You're gonna knock their socks off, I just know it!”

“Well,” I sighed as Kinsey and I followed her, “we can only do our best.”

-ooo-

The Winslow parking lot was full of cars by the time we got there, even though it was still relatively early. However, Kinsey managed to find a parking space just a little way down the block, and we got out and started walking. Habit and training let Kinsey and I fall into step almost automatically; we slow-marched toward the school, while Andrea trotted proudly alongside. Parents were just starting to arrive with their children, and we drew more than a few surprised glances.

The front doors were propped open, and a large signboard within showed a simplified map of the school. Certain classrooms were mapped out as places where talks would be held, but the main venue seemed to be the gymnasium. The restrooms and cafeteria were also prominently noted on the map.

“I'm thinking the gym,” I decided. No-one argued, so I led the way.

On entering the gym, Andrea stopped short. “Whoaaa … “ she breathed, looking around eyes wide.

I had to admit, the place looked nice. Far, far nicer than it ever had during my first go-around at Winslow, and it still matched up pretty well to my second tenure there. The walls had obviously been scrubbed, and possibly repainted into the bargain. Gaily coloured bunting hung everywhere it was possible to be hung, and large colourful signs advertised the various types of employment that could be had for the asking. Kiosks and stands had been set up; what had previously been an open, echoing space was now almost crowded. People were starting to filter through, though not as many as would be here later.

“Nice gym,” Andrea commented.

“What, didn't you have a gym where you went to school?” I asked.

“Oh, we had one,” she replied. “Just not this big.”

“So where did you go to school anyway?” asked Kinsey. “In Brockton Bay, or elsewhere?”

“Oh, here in Brockton Bay,” she assured us. “I … uh, I attended Immaculata.”

I shared a glance with Kinsey, then turned back to Andrea. “I didn't know you were Catholic.”

She grinned. “I'm not. My parents are. Especially my dad. They put me in that school to try to teach me how to be religious, modest, demure, restrained and, you know, straight.”

Kinsey snorted. I was trying not to laugh myself. “I take it that it didn't really work?”

“Well, let's just say that when I went in, I was only bi-curious,” she informed us blithely. “I certainly got an education there, but not all of it was on the curriculum.”

“Sounds like it,” I agreed, working at keeping a straight face. “And you still got into college?”

“Oh, I was in no way a model student,” she assured me cheerfully. “But that's not to say I didn't actually do the work. As for the rest of it … well, I looked at the way they were trying to force me to be, and I decided that I liked the other way better. First year of college, I met Anne-Rose, and the rest is history.”

“Now that's a story I'd be interested in hearing,” I told her. “But … ah, here comes Gladys.”

Gladys was done up to the nines; I must have spotted her just after she saw me, because she had only just started over toward us. Kinsey turned as well; Gladys stopped in front of us.

“Wow,” she observed. “Nice. I'm almost jealous that I didn't go into the service myself, now.”

“I know, right?” asked Andrea. “I mean, how awesome do they look?”

Gladys smiled at me; I returned it. “I'm glad you could be here, Taylor,” she told me, her voice only just loud enough to reach my ears. “It means a lot to me.”

I tilted my head. “Well, I told you I would,” I reminded her. “And hey, that's what friends are for.”

Our eyes met, and we shared a glance of understanding. Over the last few days, we had undergone more, faced dangers, taken risks, and it had strained our friendship almost to the breaking point. But we had emerged from the other side, hopefully stronger than ever.

“Come on,” she told me. “Principal Woodbine's over here. He'll want to see you.”

We followed her, the crowd parting around Kinsey almost like magic. Woodbine was talking to a man I recognised; Joe Campbell, the ex-Marine sergeant who had handled the JRTOC training course when Gladys and I went through it. Both men turned to look at us at the same time, and Woodbine's eyebrows rose. Then he came over to greet us, Campbell following behind.

“Captain Snow, good to see you,” Woodbine greeted me. I shook his hand, then Campbell's.

“Sergeant Kinsey,” I stated, “I'd like you to meet Principal Paul Woodbine, and Joseph Campbell. Joe did my JROTC training.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant.” Woodbine shook Kinsey's hand, followed by Campbell.

The latter stared at me for a moment. “My god,” he murmured. “I thought he was pulling my leg. Taylor Snow, as I live and breathe. Captain already.”

“Special circumstances,” I assured him. “Very special circumstances.”

Woodbine eyed my medals. “So I see. Is it just me, or are these joint-service issue?”

I nodded. “Yes. We – that is, the PRT – haven't had the time to design and strike medals of our own, so, given that our core officers were drawn from all the services, we're using the joint-service medals for the time being.”

“That makes a certain amount of sense,” he agreed. “I recognise the Defense Meritorious Service Medal, but not the other one, with the 'B' on the ribbon.”

I went to answer, but my throat closed up; I couldn't speak. Kinsey glanced sideways at me. “If I may, ma'am?”

I nodded silently. Kinsey cleared his throat and went on. “That is the Defense Distinguished Service Medal; do you recognise it now, sir?”

Woodbine nodded, his eyes widening. “How in God's name did she get that?”

Kinsey lowered his voice slightly. “Captain Snow works for the PRT as an intelligence analyst. She received the medal for her contribution to the early detection and defeat of the Behemoth when it emerged in New York nine days ago. Thus, the 'B' device on the ribbon.”

He looked meaningfully at the two men. “She prefers for the story not to be spread around.”

Campbell's eyes opened wide, as did Woodbine's. “Good God,” choked the former, staring at me. “You were there?”

“No.” I swallowed, forcing the lump in my throat down and away. “I was in Chicago. People who faced the Behemoth got a special medal of their own. I just … contributed.”

“From the look in your eye, young lady, you did a sight more than just 'contribute',” Woodbine told me. “And they don't hand out medals of that level for just doing your job. I'm proud of you. Very proud indeed.”

I nodded. “Thank you, sir. I … wish I could have done more.”

“I'm sure you did all you could,” Woodbine assured me.

“I hope that's true,” I told him. “Can we … not talk about that any more? Please?”

“Of course, of course,” he agreed. I saw him looking around, as if to find something else to talk about, and his eye lit on Andrea. Immediately, he smiled. “Ah. Joe; this is the young lady I was telling you about. Andrea Campbell, correct?”

Andrea perked up. “That's me,” she declared. She and the JROTC trainer sized each other up; the blocky ex-Marine and the petite redhead.

“Can't say I know you,” Joe admitted eventually.

Andrea grinned. “I'm kind of the black sheep of the family. My parents' names are Gerard and Donna. That help?”

Something registered in Campbell's eyes. “Wait a minute. You're their daughter? I heard they disowned their kid.”

She shook her head cheerfully. “Nope. But they don't admit to me, either.”

“Damn,” he observed. “That's rough.”

“Ahh, it's okay,” she told him. “I've got friends who like me, and that's better than family who doesn't.”

The grizzled veteran held out his huge paw; she took it, her hand more or less engulfed by his. “Well, I wouldn't do that to you, kid. So if you ever want to talk to family, you can come talk to me.”

Andrea smiled. “Thanks, cousin Joe. I might just do that.”

“We've got to move along now,” Woodbine told me, “but I'll see you around.” He gestured to the temporary stage that had been set up along one side of the gym. “Maybe you can say a few words later, about your time here, and about the PRT?”

“I … maybe,” I temporised. This Careers Day had not yet turned out to be the unmitigated disaster that I had expected, but it was still early. No-one had suggested that a speech might be needed. In any case, I didn't much like making speeches; I was much better at just telling people what the hell to do. Back in the day, when I was Skitter, people did what they were told. It was much easier all round.

Woodbine obviously noted my discomfort with the idea. “Well, if you could just consider it, please?” he asked.

I nodded. “I don't promise anything, but I will consider it,” I assured him.

“Thank you. Captain. Sergeant. Mrs Knott. Ms Campbell.” He nodded to each of us, and moved off; Campbell went with him.

“Well, that was interesting,” Gladys noted. “When were you going to tell me that you had something to do with the Behemoth fight?”

“I really don't like to talk about it. And I, uh, had other things on my mind at the time,” I confessed.

“Such as a camping trip,” Gladys observed. Where we went and assassinated someone. She didn't say it, but I could almost hear her thinking it.

“Well, I know that I'd rather think about camping trips than the Behemoth,” declared Andrea. “Oh hey, check it out!”

I followed her gaze, and saw, in one corner, a series of recruiting booths for the military. All the branches were represented; the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, Coast Guard … and of course, the PRT.

As I had mentioned to Mr Woodbine, all of the original PRT officers and NCOs had been drawn from other services; after all, people were needed in place to handle the recruitment of new members. This would have had the unfortunate side-effect of creating an 'us vs them' mindset; the other services would have been worried that the PRT was drawing away their best prospects.

Which was a very real concern; in my day, international conflict had been almost at a standstill, given that Endbringer attacks and parahuman conflict had made a mockery of national differences. Defence spending had been directed away from the original five branches of the military, and poured into the PRT's discretionary budget, to pay for parahuman-caused damage, Endbringer attacks and the like. Of course, given the amount of damage caused by the Endbringers, or even a parahuman on a rampage, quite a lot of money was required by the PRT to keep things running.

Drawn more by curiosity than anything else, I approached the PRT booth, flanked by Kinsey and Andrea, with Gladys walking alongside the latter. The recruiting sergeant looked up as we approached; his eyes widened as he took in the uniforms. Coming to his feet, he snapped to attention and saluted.

I returned the salute and looked the man over; he seemed to be reasonably well-presented. “As you were, Sergeant,” I greeted him. “How's business?”

He relaxed a little. “Not too bad, ma'am,” he replied. “I get a bit of interest at things like this, but the return is about one in ten.”

“That'll happen, I guess,” I agreed. “People change their minds all the time.”

He was frowning at me. “Captain … did you join up here in Brockton Bay? Because I have the strangest feeling that I've met you before.”

I nodded. “Yes, Sergeant, I did. At the College.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Andrea suddenly; we all looked at her. “It's him!” she told us, pointing at the recruiting sergeant. “It's the same guy! He's the guy who signed you up!”

I frowned, studying his face. “Really? That was you?”

Tentatively, but with growing certainty, the sergeant nodded. “I believe so, ma'am.” He indicated Gladys and Andrea. “You had longer hair, but these ladies were with you then, as well.”

I remembered the day, of course. Signing up to join the PRT had been a very large step in my life. But I could not recall the features of the recruiting sergeant; those of the drill, who had done his best to make our lives a misery in Boot, were much more firmly imprinted on my memory.

Still, I nodded. “If you say so, Sergeant.” I extended my hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you again.”

He shook it firmly. “And you too, Captain.” A brief smile creased his face. “I recall being very impressed by your application. It looks like I was right to be.”

The handshake over, I clasped my hands behind my back. “We all do what we have to do, Sergeant. You've got your job, and I've got mine.”

“That's very true, ma'am.” The sergeant nodded toward my uniform. “And may I say, meeting you has made my day.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” I nodded to him, and we moved off again. As we did so, I saw two boys and a girl approach the booth; they began speaking to the recruiting sergeant while flicking glances my way.

Kinsey had also seen this. “You appear to be quite the advertisement, ma'am,” he commented quietly. I knew him well enough to detect the note of amusement in his voice.

“Maybe it's not me they're looking at, Sergeant,” I replied lightly. “I think those boys want to grow up to be you.”

“The girl certainly wants to grow up to be you, Taylor,” Gladys chimed in. “Or marry you, I'm not sure which.”

There was a long moment of silence between the four of us, then Gladys, Kinsey, and I all looked at Andrea.

“What?” she asked innocently.

I raised an eyebrow. “What, no comment about marriage or threesomes or something? I can think of several you can use.”

She grinned at me. “Why bother? You've already done all the hard work. You're all thinking about it, and I don't even have to say it.”

Gladys' expression was just as chagrined as my own must have been. “You know, she's right. Just by having her here, I thought of all the off-colour things that she might have said.”

“Yes!” Andrea pumped her fist in the air. “I'm so good, I can tell dirty jokes without ever saying a word!”

That's not all you can do without ever saying a word. But I refused to say it out loud, as it would only prove her point.

"Hm." Kinsey's voice was thoughtful. "You never said that there would be reporters here."

All thoughts of Andrea's more esoteric talents vanished from my mind as I turned to look. "I didn't know. Gladys?"

"I wasn't told about it," she replied. "Must have been a last-minute thing."

"Which was why Woodbine wanted me to get up on stage," I realised. "I can just see the headlines; 'Winslow Girl Makes Good'. Great PR for the school."

I could see the reporters now; the crowd had thickened somewhat since we had entered the gymnasium, and they were circulating, talking to the older students, getting comments and recording soundbites for later. As such, they weren't particularly obvious, until a photographer got a picture of several students in front of a stall.

“So what's the problem?” asked Andrea. “They talk to you, you get your picture in the paper, it's a great way to spread the word about the PRT.”

“Except that I'm not supposed to do any interviews without specific permission from my chain of command,” I pointed out. “If I say something that's then taken out of context, all the trouble in the world then lands on me from a great height.”

“The Captain is essentially correct,” Kinsey added. “The PRT is still a very new organisation, and any adverse publicity could cripple it. So the media only gets access through authorised sources.”

“Heads up,” Gladys warned us. “Incoming.”

I looked over; a couple of the journalists had spotted us, probably from my uniform, and were headed our way. “Great,” I muttered.

“I'll stall 'em, you make a run for it,” volunteered Andrea.

I sighed. “No, I'll handle this. Thanks, though.”

“I thought you weren't supposed to talk to them?” she asked.

“No, just interviews,” I corrected her. I couldn't say any more then, as the journalists had arrived. The taller one, a redhead, carried a notebook and a tape recorder; the other had several cameras on straps around his neck. He was stockier and older, and going bald on top. I made myself a private bet that the cameras were all of the film variety; like cellphones, digital cameras had yet to become mainstream in this day and age.

What worried me more was the bulky-looking video camera that was slung around the neck of the guy with the tape recorder. Pictures of me had to be vetted before they made it into the paper; footage had much more potential to be taken out of context.

“Hi there,” the taller one greeted us. “I'm Les Jennings, and this is Carl Fogarty, from the Brockton Bay Bulletin. We're here doing a piece on the Careers Day, and when we saw you, we just couldn't resist coming over to say hello.”

“Hello,” I replied cautiously; after a moment, I added, “Captain Snow, PRT.” I was fairly certain that while they could probably read rank insignia, they were unlikely to be able to figure out that I was Intelligence.

“Well, Captain, I'm very pleased to meet you,” Jennings told me. “Is it all right if I interview you for the paper? After all, we don't have much of a PRT presence here in the city.”

I took a deep breath. “Sorry, boys, but I'm not authorised to give interviews. Permission denied.”

“All right then,” he responded gamely. “How about we get some pictures of you in front of some of these stalls?”

I shook my head. “Again, sorry, no. I would allow photos with a neutral background, but nothing that would suggest that either of us is looking for new employment.”

He was beginning to look a little frustrated, and I really didn't blame him. “Okay, just from personal curiosity. Why are you here? Like I said, Brockton Bay doesn't have a real PRT presence, and yet here you are, at a high school Careers Day, in what I would assume to be your dress uniform.”

“It's a fair question,” I allowed. “You don't print this, mind.”

“Scout's honour,” he agreed.

“Well, the truth is -”

I had been about to say I'm here as a favour to a friend, but I was interrupted by a spreading series of gasps in the crowd. Kinsey, Gladys and I turned. “Well, shit,” I muttered.

“Indeed, ma'am,” agreed Kinsey.

“Fuck me,” Gladys added.

“What's going on?” asked Andrea. “I can't see.”

I took a deep breath. “Marquis is here.” 

 [Author's Note: I would have written more for this chapter, but to leave it here would be a cliffhanger, and evil. So that's what I'm doing.] 

Part 4-7