Recoil Pt 4-7 (Patreon)

He strode into the room like a conquering hero. Bony plates covered him like a living suit of armour, framed his face while obscuring a good part of it, and added to his height; he stood about seven feet tall, with crown-like protrusions around his head. Jagged spurs decorated his forearms and shoulders, making him look even more imposing.

Around him fanned out a dozen men, pushing the crowd back. They were snappily dressed in suit coats and ties, and wore black domino masks. Each of them carried a pistol or a shotgun in gloved hands. I had no doubt but that they wore body armour under the coats; the bulk was subtle, but it was there.

“Ma'am,” murmured Kinsey, his hand on my arm. “We have to get you to cover before -”

“He's more likely to hurt you than me,” I told him. “Give me your firearm and go make sure the recruiters don't do anything stupid. Gladys, Andrea, go with him.”

“But -” began Andrea.

“Go,” I snapped, keeping my voice low. She gave me a hurt look, but didn't argue; Gladys was already moving her away from me. I felt the worn grips of Kinsey's heavy semi-auto as he pressed it into my hand, then he was gone as well.

More and more people were realising what was going on. The closer people were falling back, while the ones farther back were hampering them by trying to rubberneck. This could get bad, and the presence of minions with guns wasn't going to improve matters in any measurable way. I had to get control of the situation, and fast.

Holding the pistol close to my body, I pushed my way through the steadily thickening crowd until I reached the makeshift stage. It was toward that which Marquis had also been making, I realised a moment later. However, I had gotten there first.

Scrambling on to the stage was the work of a moment, although my dress uniform made it more difficult than it should have been. Standing up, I surveyed the area; now I was a good four feet above everyone else, which gave me a view of everything that was going on. It also gave everyone a good view of me; this was something I was counting on. Plucking the microphone from the stand, I switched it on and turned toward the oncoming supervillain. In my right hand, I raised the pistol to point at the ceiling; I didn't want to look as though I was threatening anyone with it. Specifically, not Marquis himself; I didn't know exactly how far his code against hurting women extended.

“Marquis!” I called, the speakers booming the name across the room. “That's far enough.”

He had spotted me already, of course. His men were closer to me than he was, and I saw gun muzzles swing my way.

“Everyone, sit down,” I ordered. “Lie flat, if possible. This is for your own safety.”

People were staring at me, but not actually moving, so I waved the pistol, once more not actually pointing at anyone. “Now!” I snapped.

Like wheat falling away before a scythe, people began to sit; those who found themselves on the edge of a steadily growing crowd of seated people sat down themselves. I turned my attention back to Marquis and his minions. “Not one step farther,” I warned them. “And lower your guns. If I see a gun pointed at me after I've counted to three, I will shoot that man. And I'm a good enough shot that I can pick which eye I shoot out.” I paused for effect, then continued. “One.”

Marquis stared back at me, as if trying to call my bluff. He said nothing.

“Two.”

We matched gazes; I raised my arm, sighting on the nearest minion. I would have to headshot him, then drop flat.

Drawing a deep breath, I opened my mouth. “Thr-”

“Lower your guns!” shouted Marquis. Some hesitated, and my gun arm straightened. “Now, you idiots!”

Slowly, the guns were lowered, and he looked back toward me. I lowered the pistol, holding it alongside my leg. Even as I did so, his hands blurred, and suddenly there were three grey-white discs in the air; one heading directly toward me, and two arcing around to the left and right. I supposed that he was changing their shape on the fly, to alter their flight characteristics.

But that wasn't important; what was important was that if those bone discs reached me, they would doubtless expand to enclose me, thus imprisoning me without doing significant harm. Fortunately, not all the target-shooting I had ever done was with static bullseye targets. Shooting skeet with a pistol is much harder than with a shotgun, but it can be done.

The discs went high, in ballistic arcs aimed to converge on me; this was good, because I needed to shoot over the heads of the crowd. I could have dodged, but he was equally likely to be able to alter their aerodynamics to follow. There was a loud boom through the sound system as I released the mic; dropping to one knee, I brought the pistol up, my left hand joining the right on the grip. This wasn't my favoured weapon of choice, but I was still reasonably good with it; Kinsey had made sure of that.

I fired three times; the report echoed back from the far walls each time. It was louder, the recoil heavier, than my little Glock, but it did the job. Each disc burst apart under the impact of a heavy slug; none had come closer than five yards. Down on the ground, people were screaming and cowering. Good, I thought. Stay down. Keep out of the way.

Hot brass rolled across the boards of the stage as I retrieved the microphone, stood up once more and returned my full attention to Marquis. He could have thrown more bone discs; I could have shot him. Neither of us acted for a long moment.

Then he nodded slowly, and folded his arms, a bone sceptre growing from his right hand. Very well, he seemed to be saying. You are that good.

“What happens now?” he called out to me. “Are you arresting me?” His tone was almost amused.

“No,” I replied. “I'm telling you to leave. Take your men and go.”

A murmur ran through the crowd; it quieted immediately when he spoke once more. He could project his voice well; it helped that everyone was sitting. I, of course, had the advantage of a public address system.

“I believe that you're an officer of the Parahuman Response Teams,” he called back to me.

“You believe correctly,” I answered curtly.

“Where's the rest of your team?”

“I don't need it,” I retorted. “Now, you need to take your men and go.”

“Not until I've done what I came here to do,” he told me.

“Which is what?” I asked, then immediately regretted it. He'd drawn me in, engaged me.

“This is Careers Day, of course,” he responded immediately. “I wanted to put it out there that there are lucrative opportunities available in the employ of an alternatively styled businessman such as myself. I -”

“If you're going to do that,” I interrupted him, “then you should have booked a kiosk. You didn't, so you're going to have to leave. Now.”

“Who's going to make me?” he asked, faintly mockingly. “You?”

“If I have to,” I responded grimly. “But in the meantime, someone will have called the police, and they will be on the way. Once they get here, this becomes a hostage situation, with women and children in the line of fire. Are you really going to chance that?”

I saw his expression change, behind the obscuring bone helmet. I had put my finger on his unwillingness to make war on women and children, and he didn't like it at all.

“Very well, if you're not going to give me a fair chance to speak my piece, then I shall indeed take my leave,” he stated, managing to sound as though he were the injured party here. “But answer me two questions, Ms PRT officer, if you will?”

I eyed him. “Two questions, and then you leave.”

“Without further delay,” he assured me. “Because you don't want a hostage situation any more than I do.”

I nodded; he had me there. “Fine,” I replied. “Two questions. But I reserve the right to refuse to answer either one.”

“That's fair,” he agreed. “First question; what is your name? I have never met a PRT officer before, and you have raised my opinion of the organisation somewhat.”

“I'm Captain Taylor Snow,” I told him flatly. It would come out in the papers anyway, so there was no reason not to tell him. “Next question?”

I imagined that he was going to ask how I knew so much about him, but he managed to surprise me.

“Tell me, Captain Taylor Snow of the Parahuman Response Teams,” he called to me, “you are an armed, trained member of a law enforcement agency. Why are you not attempting to arrest me? Isn't that the job of the PRT?”

Dammit. Everyone was looking at me now. This had somehow turned into a debate. And I was damn sure that the journalists were recording everything. I doubted that I could legally confiscate those recordings before they made it into the media. So whatever I said next would have to sound good.

I took a deep breath, and looked him in the eye. “Despite what you may have heard, arresting parahuman criminals is not the primary goal of the PRT."

Another murmur swept through the crowd; Marquis looked a little taken aback. Good.

“It's not?” He sounded confused. “Then what is?”

“I'm glad you asked me that,” I told him, thinking fast. How do I say this? “The purpose of the PRT is to stand between humans and parahumans.”

“That's a very vague statement,” he challenged me, obviously feeling more confident. “It could mean anything.”

“No,” I responded. “It means something. It means that when parahuman criminals such as yourself threaten normal people with harm, we stand in the way. It also means that when ignorant people victimise parahumans who only want to live in peace, we defend the parahumans.” I took a deep breath.

“That's very -” he began.

“I hadn't finished,” I snapped; my voice, electronically amplified, rolled over his. “It also means that we stand between them in more peaceful arenas. If a civilian organisation wishes to contact a particular parahuman, then the chances are that we have his contact details on file. We will make the contact, and mediate the outcome. And if a parahuman wants to talk to someone in government, well, we're a government body. We can make that happen.” I paused. “Now, have I answered your question?”

“Not really,” he replied. “It doesn't explain why you aren't attempting to arrest me.”

“Because right now there are a lot of civilians at risk if any sort of firefight breaks out,” I told him flatly. “My focus is not on arresting you; it's on protecting them. So it's better for everyone all round if you just leave.”

“What if I instructed my men to take hostages?” he asked, mocking again. “No women or children, of course.”

“I would shoot your men. You know I'm that good.” My voice was flat and uncompromising. “Now, for the last time, leave this school or I start shooting them anyway.” I began to lift the pistol. "Or perhaps you. Your choice."

He raised a hand. "You would shoot us, when we're not threatening you?"

My voice was hard and flat. "I'm authorised to use lethal force in the defence of others. And I will use it."

A tilt of the head. “You've made your point, Captain Snow. My men and I will be vacating the premises. You won't attempt to attack us?”

I shook my head. “I just want you out of here.”

He nodded toward me, almost a bow. “Very well, I shall take my leave. It has been an … interesting experience, meeting you. Perhaps we will meet again, someday.”

“Maybe we will,” I agreed. “And maybe on that day I will arrest you.”

“We shall see, Captain Snow. We shall see.” He gestured his men out first, then gave me another slight bow, before stepping out of sight.

Camera flashes went off, outlining me on the stage, before I could put down the microphone, or lower the pistol. Great, I told myself. That's going to look really good on the front page of the paper. Me with a gun in my hand. So much for keeping a low profile.

“Captain Snow!” called out one of the journalists. “Can you -”

“Not now!” I called back, vaulting down off of the stage. People were starting to rise, moving toward me. I waved them away. “Stay in this room!” I told them. “Do not follow me!” Then I tossed the microphone back on to the stage.

Pistol in hand, I made for the doors. Pushing through them, pistol up and ready, I found the corridor empty. However, I could hear retreating footsteps, so I followed along. I didn't think that Marquis would pull any trickery, but nor was I willing to bet that he wouldn't. As it happened, my fears were unfounded; as I reached the main exit to the school, the last of his men were piling into a pair of nondescript vans. They roared out of the parking lot; I tried to make out the license plates, but they were obscured.

-ooo-

When I got back to the gymnasium, Kinsey was waiting for me, along with Principal Woodbine and Joe Campbell; the latter held an automatic pistol that could have been twin to the one that I carried. The doors were closed; inside, I could hear agitated voices.

"They're gone, ma'am?" asked Kinsey.

"They're gone, sergeant," I affirmed, handing his weapon back. "Thank you for that." I gestured to Campbell's weapon. “You're not going to be needing that, Mr Campbell,” I advised him.

“Oh, good,” he replied, looking more than a little relieved.

“In fact,” I added, “you might want to go and put that away before the police get here.”

Woodbine nodded. “Go on, Joe,” he agreed. “Captain Snow and I can handle it from here.”

As the ex-sergeant hurried away, Kinsey turned to me. “You took a tremendous chance there, ma'am,” he told me reprovingly as he replaced his pistol in its holster. “What if he'd had his men shoot you?”

I shook my head. “He wouldn't have. Marquis doesn't make war on women or children. It's a code he adheres to most strictly.”

“Really?” asked Woodbine. “How do you even know that?”

I shrugged and gave him a small smile. “PRT Intelligence. I am actually good at my job.”

From the look on his face, he knew that I was trying to pull the wool over his eyes, but he let it go. “And what if one of his men had fired without orders?" asked Kinsey. "Because you know that happens too, ma'am.”

“Unlikely,” I decided. “He keeps a very strict control over his men. They don't screw up twice.”

He frowned. “Still, you took a chance. You could easily have gotten hurt.”

“Civilians were at risk,” I told him. “Innocents. I couldn't let that happen. Not again.”

He shook his head. “Innocents are always going to be in danger in our line of work, ma'am. We have to establish priorities. You and your work are a priority.”

He was right, of course, even if I didn't want to admit it to myself. If I was going to get the job done, I would have to learn to accept that innocent casualties were a fact of life. In fact, I would be inflicting some of those casualties myself. I had inflicted some, on the Heartbreaker mission. The men I had killed had, one and all, been Mastered by Vasil, and had no choice in the matter. And what I was planning to do in the future ...

I didn't want to think about that right now, so I looked at Woodbine. "The police have been called, right?"

The principal nodded. “Joe and I were just coming back from the cafeteria when we saw them going in. He realised something was wrong, so I called the police. We heard the shots, but Sergeant Kinsey says that nobody was hurt. What happened?"

"That was me doing the shooting," I explained. "Self-defence, you might say. You'll have bullet-holes in the walls to deal with, nothing more.”

He rubbed his chin. "Much easier to deal with than bullet-holes in people." A frown. "Still, I'm not thrilled that you opened fire in the middle of a crowded gymnasium."

"I'm not happy about it, either," I agreed. "But I didn't see an alternative."

"An alternative to what?" he asked.

"Letting him take me prisoner."

"That's what he was trying to do?"

"If I hadn't fired, I would currently be encased in a block of bone on that stage," I stated, "and Marquis would still be in there, playing to the crowd."

"And you're sure -"

Kinsey cleared his throat. "Sir, if the Captain says that's so, then it is so." He indicated the doors to the gymnasium. "They're getting fairly restless in there. You may want to think about going in there and talking to them."

“You're right, of course,” I told him. “Stay out here, sergeant, and make sure nobody leaves.”

“Ma'am,” he acknowledged.

Woodbine and I pushed the doors open and almost immediately, we were faced with dozens of concerned faces; a babble of voices swept over us.

“What's going on?”

“Are they gone?”

“Where are the police?”

I tried to speak, but couldn't make myself heard over the din. Woodbine straightened his back, inflated his lungs, and bellowed, “QUIET!”

I spoke into the shocked silence that followed. “Thank you, Principal Woodbine. Yes, Marquis is gone. It is safe. I would, however, suggest that you all stay here for the moment; the police will be arriving soon, and they'll be wanting to get statements from everyone.”

“Talking about a statement,” a familiar voice arose, as the red-haired journalist pushed his way to the front of the crowd, “can you give us one now, on your opinion of what happened just before?”

“Mr Jennings,” I replied, not letting my exasperation show. “I told you before; I'm not giving interviews.”

“But you've already given one,” he pointed out. “Or at least, you've espoused your opinion of the PRT's role in parahuman affairs in a public forum. Which I kind of recorded. I was just wondering if you wanted to give us anything on the record regarding what you said, or your opinion on Marquis' motives.”

I gritted my teeth. “What if I told you not to publish what I've already said?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It was spoken out loud in a public forum. I have no doubt that others also recorded it, and they will likely be publishing it. Even if you tell them not to, that won't have force of law.”

“Great,” I muttered. “So how do I get out of this with the least damage to the PRT?”

He gestured behind him, at the stage. “Get up there and make a statement. Take a few questions. Explain why you did what you did. Take charge of public opinion and turn it to your side.” His eyes met mine. “Trust me, what you did up there? I think it was all kinds of badass. But others might decide that you were grandstanding, and risking everyone's lives. So don't ignore them. Give them something to think about, instead.”

I grimaced, and glanced at Woodbine. He shrugged very slightly, but it was certainly not a negative gesture. Jennings had a point; the can of worms was well and truly open, and my best bet was to add some shape to what people were going to say about what had happened.

I nodded. “Fine. Just a short interview. But I'll ignore any questions I don't like.”

Jennings grinned engagingly. “That's okay. We just make up our own answers to questions like that, anyway.”

Suddenly deciding that I would answer each question to the best of my ability, I headed over to the end of the stage where steps had been set up; this would have made it much easier to get up there, before. As I climbed the steps, with Woodbine following me, I wished that it didn't feel quite so much like walking to the gallows. The microphone was still lying where I had dropped it. I picked it up and tapped it; it responded with a hollow thud from the speakers. It was still live.

Taking a deep breath, I eyed the crowd. They were milling about, watching me a trifle warily. I moved my foot, and kicked an errant shell-casing, which rolled a foot or so before stopping.

“It's okay, folks,” I told them. “There's not going to be any more shooting.”

A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd, and I could see the journalists in the front row pointing cameras and their own microphones at me.

“Why were you shooting?” asked Jennings. Oh, good; a softball question.

“Marquis is a bone manipulator,” I explained. “Those discs he threw at me were composed of that material. If they had reached me, they would have expanded into a cage, trapping me.”

That question released the floodgates; there was a babble, until I pointed out another journalist, a severe-looking woman. “Yes?”

“Surely he could have thrown more than those three discs, or imprisoned you in some other way,” she declared. “Why do you think he did not?”

“I believe that it was in the way of being a test,” I replied thoughtfully. “I had claimed to be a good shot; if I was bluffing, he would have found out. I wasn't bluffing, so he decided not to press the issue.”

“If you're such a good shot, why didn't you just shoot him?” This time, the question wasn't from one of the journalists, but from a man farther back in the crowd, perhaps from one of the business kiosks.

“He was armoured in bone," I explained. "The only part of him showing was his face. I couldn't count on shooting him somewhere non-lethal, and he was going out of his way not to harm me. Besides, if I'd shot him, there would be nothing holding his men in check. I preferred to make him leave instead. That way, no-one got hurt.”

Another babble of questions. I pointed down at Jennings. “Yes?”

“Why do you think he didn't use an immediately lethal attack on you? Or stay to make this a hostage situation?”

I knew why, of course, but it wasn't something I was willing to just put out there for everyone to hear. “He wasn't here to start a fight, or to kill anyone,” I temporised. “He was here to do exactly what he said; to put the word out that he was hiring, that working for a supervillain is a valid alternative to more legal work, and pays better.” I knew, but didn't say, that the formation of the Boat Graveyard would make this sort of thing much more common in years to come.

“And you're saying that it's not a valid alternative?” asked the severe-looking woman.

“Oh, it's an alternative,” I told her. “But working for any criminal gang has its risks. The Teeth aren't people you want to go anywhere near. The Empire Eighty-Eight demands that its members prove their loyalty by beating up a member of a minority, and sometimes the victim dies. Galvanate was Mob, back in the day, and he treats his men the same way. Marquis' organisation may be the most civilised, relatively speaking, but if any member of the gang disappoints him in any significant fashion, they disappear. They're never seen again. You might say that it's an extremely final retirement plan.”

There were thoughtful looks throughout the crowd at this; I wondered how many teenage boys had been pondering the option of supervillain employment. Then I wondered if Marquis even took on women as minions; they would be hard to discipline in his traditional way. It was something I would have to ask Lisa about.

“Marquis asked you where the rest of your team was,” posited another journalist. “Is the PRT establishing a presence in Brockton Bay?”

“Not right at this very moment,” I replied. “In a few years, once we have our numbers up, certainly. You understand that I can't give you any more details than that, but the PRT will be coming here.”

Jennings again. “So why are you here, today, in dress uniform, if you aren't here as part of an official PRT contingent?”

I recognised the question from before; I had just been about to answer it when Marquis had interrupted us. “I attended Winslow myself, a few years ago,” I answered him. “A friend of mine, who attended at the same time as myself, is a teacher here. When she found out that I was back in town on leave, she asked if I would attend Careers Day, as a favour to her. And so, here I am.”

The severe woman was back. “You look very young to be a Captain in any organisation. May I ask how old you are?”

“Only if I can ask how old you are,” I shot back; there was a titter of laughter around her. “My age is in the official record, as are other details about me. I will not answer personal questions, nor any that pertain directly to my service with the PRT; those, you're going to have to go and find out for yourselves.”

“But what if they won't release that information?” That was the third journalist.

I fixed him with a stern gaze. “Then they doubtless have a reason for it. The PRT was not formed on a whim, sir. There are real dangers out there in the world. The job of the Parahuman Response Teams is to protect humanity from those dangers and from each other. We're here to protect you. Do not begrudge us the tools to do so.”

Another babble of questions was thrown at me, but I waved my hand, cutting them off. “That's all, thank you. I believe I hear sirens now; the police are almost here. They will probably be wanting statements from everyone. I myself will be speaking to them, probably at some length. So if you'll excuse me.”

I handed the microphone to Woodbine, who began speaking immediately. “And that's Captain Taylor Snow, ladies and gentlemen. I remember when she first came to Winslow. She got in trouble for fighting with other girls – protecting a friend from bullies, as I recall – so I suggested that she join our JROTC program. Well, as you can see … “

I tuned him out as I bent and retrieved the spent brass, cupping the cartridge cases in my gloved hand. They reeked of burnt propellant, as no doubt the pistol did. Looking around, I could not see the exact places where my bullets had struck the walls, but they were there, I knew.

When I stepped down off the stage, with Woodbine still talking me up, they made way for me. Gladys and Andrea were waiting, worry evident in their eyes. I was just glad that Danny and Anne-Rose had not been here as well; I did not need more of my friends in danger.

“How much trouble are you going to get in for this?” asked Andrea, cutting straight to the chase.

“That remains to be seen,” I evaded, moving toward the doors. Kinsey was still outside; as I got closer, someone opened the door, came face to face with my burly orderly, and decided that he didn't need to go outside quite so badly after all.

Andrea wasn't being fobbed off so easily. “So are we talking slap on the wrist bad, or booted out of the PRT bad?” she pressed.

I gave her a wry grin. “Probably not the latter, but yeah, I'm thinking the slap on the wrist is gonna sting pretty badly.”

Gladys grimaced. “I wish I'd never asked you to do this. Now you're in trouble for doing the right thing.”

“I'm not in trouble yet,” I told her. “It all depends on how seriously the local police take it. They may also do a wrist slap, or they may decide to make an example out of me. Hopefully, the fact that Marquis is a known supervillain will work in my favour.”

“Or because he's a local, it might not,” Gladys added pessimistically.

“I'm a local,” I pointed out. “Well, mostly.”

“You're also a member of the PRT,” Gladys noted. “Which hasn't been around long enough to get much of a good reputation.”

“Or a bad one,” I replied.

She shook her head. “I'm willing to bet that there's already a whispering campaign. The PRT's treading on a lot of toes with its mandate. And if public opinion decides that you're a gun-crazy maniac, the PRT might just opt to cut you loose rather than let you drag them down.”

I couldn't see them doing that. I could, however, see them putting me under much stricter oversight, which I needed as much as I needed a nine millimetre hole between the eyebrows. To avoid that particular fate (or, in much worse circumstances, the other one), I was going to have to be as polite and cooperative as I could, and hope that it was good enough.

-ooo-

I blinked and looked around. Lisa and I sat in a well-appointed dining room; silverware clinked against delicate china as those around us applied themselves to their meals. A cellist in the corner added soft, gentle music to the background hum of light conversation.

Before me was a plate bearing the White Star logo, along with the Latin phrase Ad Astra Per Aspera around the rim. On it, surrounded by artistically arranged salad, and with some sort of sauce drizzled over it, was a large fish; the odour that arose from it was heavenly. To one side was a wineglass half full of white wine.

Wow, holy crap, I murmured, doing my best to keep my voice down. Are we still on the plane, or did we land?

“Still on the plane,” Lisa confirmed cheerfully. “See these wineglasses? Crystal, no less.” She flicked hers with her fingernail, and it rang pure and clean.

I looked around again. The room wasn't huge, but nor was it particularly cramped. The chairs were elegantly crafted from a fine-grained wood, and each table was covered with a snow-white linen cloth. Waiters moved among the diners, bearing silver trays of drinks. Above, on balconies surrounding the lower section of the dining hall, I could see more tables and more people eating.

I wouldn't have believed it. I shook my head, then looked very closely at the wine in my glass. There were the faintest of concentric ripples in it; vibrations of the engines, transmitted through whatever deadened the sound, showing up in the subtlest of forms.

“Try the fish,” Lisa urged me. “It's delicious.”

Reminded once more of the delicious odours, my stomach growled loudly; Lisa grinned. I actually felt hungry as I picked up my knife and fork; Lisa's dreamweaving capabilities were getting very impressive indeed.

The fish – I thought it might be salmon, or something like that – fell apart under the slightest pressure of my fork. It was firm enough, however, to lift to my mouth, where my tastebuds exploded in glorious ecstasy. Several more forkfuls followed in quick succession; the texture was smooth and rich, the sauce delicious.

“Try the wine,” Lisa suggested. “It's supposed to go well with it.”

I was dubious – my experiences with alcohol had rarely been positive – but the fish was heavenly, and so I was willing to try the experience. Besides, this was all in my head. Not much was likely to happen here.

Picking up the wineglass, I took a sip, and my eyebrows rose. That's really good, I murmured. The wine complemented the slight spiciness of the sauce, and my estimation of the meal rose several more notches.

We sat, and we ate, and we sipped at our wine. The atmosphere around us was convivial, and I heard more than one person make comments about the fish that echoed my own opinion. Had it been a real fish, I decided, it would not have died in vain.

So tell me, I commented. Marquis. Why didn't you give me a heads-up?

“Would it have made a difference?” she replied with a mischievous grin. “You still handled it.”

I don't like being blindsided like that, I grumped. Then I popped another piece of fish in my mouth, and immediately felt better. It was that good.

“Look, in the original timeline, he showed up, intimidated everyone, made his speech, and left. The Brockton Bay PD took a PR hit. So did the PRT, for not having people on site at the time. With you there, the PRT actually shows up in a good light.”

So does the PRT end up in Brockton Bay sooner now?

She tilted her head. “Not really. But they're seen in a better light. The gangs won't be quite so defiant toward them.”

I suppose that's a good thing. Something occurred to me. When I leave, will the PRT take a hit?

She grinned. “It depends on how they choose to spin it.”

Always comes down to that, doesn't it?

“Indeed it does.”

I recalled something else. About Marquis' recruiting practices -

Lisa rolled her eyes. “He doesn't recruit women. Except, you know, as girlfriends. He treats them well, until he tires of them, then he sends them on their way.”

My tone was sarcastic. Great guy.

“Well, at least he doesn't kill them and disappear their bodies.”

There is that.

-ooo-

Every meal, however delicious, does come to an end; the time arrived when I lifted the last forkful of piscine delight to my mouth, downed the last of the wine. The plates, along with the remnants of our meals, were whisked away by a discreet waiter, while another one placed dessert before us.

This appeared to be a peach-flavoured concoction soaked in some sort of brandy. My initial tasting was tentative, if only because I wasn't sure if I had room for anything else inside me. And then the dessert hit my taste buds, and they declared that there'd better be room for this, or they'd go down and make room.

I ate the dessert slowly and steadily. I'm not the biggest eater – I'm not the biggest person – and so I had to let things settle. In addition, it let me savour the taste of every spoonful. Lisa powered through hers, and got seconds; I was intensely envious. When at last I finished mine, and let out a discreet belch, I could distinctly taste peach and brandy on my breath.

I think, I murmured to Lisa, that I'm going to need to have a lie down after this. Or maybe just curl up and hibernate for the rest of the trip.

She chuckled. “What, and miss these meals?”

I thought about that. Good point. Just a lie down then.

She went to rise, and clutched at the table, before sitting down again. “Wow, did the plane just bank then?”

I was still sitting, working at mustering the resolve to rise. Nope. Perfectly steady. I think you had too much brandy peach whatever it was.

“Huh. Wow. Whoo.” She tried again, and this time made it to her feet. “I think you're right. I've had a little too much.”

I made it to my feet the first time around. My head was spinning a little, but apparently not as much as Lisa's. I'd been drunker than this before now. Not that I was thrilled with the idea of being this drunk, even in a dream.

Probably those brandy Manhattans you had earlier, too, I pointed out. You lush, you.

“Oh, shut up, Taylor,” Lisa told me, then promptly hiccuped. To her increasing annoyance, and to my increasing amusement, she kept hiccuping, so much so that I was the one who had to summon a waiter to fetch a steward for us.

“Hiccuping is a psychosomatic reaction,” she declared between hiccups as we weaved down the passageway behind the impassive steward; or rather, Lisa weaved, and I corrected her trajectory. “It should be simple for the prepared mind to overcome it, and stifle the reaction at its core.”

Well, it doesn't seem to be working so far, I remarked with a grin. Are you sure you're applying all of your mind?

“Taylor,” Lisa hiccuped – I hadn't known that it was possible to hiccup someone's name - “if you weren't my dearest friend, I would smack you.”

That and if you weren't plastered on brandy Manhattans and peach desserts, I replied, grinning even more broadly.

We had attained a familiar stretch of corridor; I saw our door ahead of us. Between ourselves and the door, however, was another passenger, currently leaning against his own door, apparently trying to fit his key into the lock.

Looks like you're not the only one the worse for wear, I commented to Lisa as the steward moved forward to ask the man if he needed help.

Blearily, Lisa focused on him. “He's not drunk,” she stated clearly. At that moment, the steward touched the man on the shoulder. It was only a light touch, but it disturbed some sort of equilibrium, so that the man twisted away from where he had been leaning into his door frame, and landed with a muted thud on his back.

Protruding from his abdomen, angled downward, was the hilt of some sort of knife. The man's hands were clutching at it, and there was a large bloodstain in the clothing around it.

He's -

“Dead,” Lisa confirmed.

I helped her closer; the steward was staring, obviously not sure of what to do next. Reminded of our presence, he tried to gesture us away. “No, this is no sight for a lady,” he protested.

“Nonsense,” Lisa declared with drunken enthusiasm. “I am the honourable Annalisa Wilbourn, and this is my travelling companion, the equally honourable Taylor Anne Hebert. We are consulting detectives, and we have seen more dead bodies than you have had hot meals, my good man.”

Well, the 'seen more dead bodies' part was probably true, I mused. An Endbringer battle or two will do that for you. As for 'honourable', that was up for debate.

He blinked. “Well, I'll have to tell the Captain for sure. And find something to cover the body.”

Block off the corridor, I suggested. There may be evidence.

“ … evidence. Right, yes, yes, at once,” he agreed, and hurried off.

I looked at Lisa. Consulting detectives? I asked. Really?

“Well, I'm the closest they've got to a Holmes, here and now,” she pointed out.

But you're plastered, I countered.

“So get me into our room and get me sober,” she told me.

That'll take way too long.

She grimaced. “Yes, it will. We're going to have to cheat.”

Cheat? How?

“You're going to have to wake up. When you come back, I'll be sober.” She grabbed me and kissed me; her lips tasted of brandy dessert. Nothing else happened.

She stared at me. “You were supposed to wake up when I kissed you.”

You surprised me. I wasn't ready. This time, I kissed her; again, the taste of the brandy dessert. But as I closed my eyes and let myself sink away, there came the taste of dust and blood.

-ooo-

I opened my eyes; I was leaning back in a chair in the corner of a police interview room. For a moment, I was confused, and then memory flooded back. The police had arrived at Winslow, and I had presented myself to them. They had been understandably unhappy about the firearms aspect, and had taken me into custody.

However, they had been polite about it, and I had not been put in a cell. Instead, I was in an interview room, in a reasonably comfortable chair. They hadn't handcuffed me, and I didn't even think that the door was locked. However, Detective Kimball had left me alone, and so I had decided to meditate to pass the time. Before I began my meditation, I had moved the chair into the corner so as to distance myself from the microphones built into the table.

Now that I was back in the real world, I found myself noticing a few twinges in my muscles. Standing, I began to stretch and twist, within the limits imposed on me by the dress uniform, working out the cramps. I was halfway through one such twist when the door opened; I completed the twist, popping two of my vertebrae, then turned to see who it was.

It was a man in a suit; I didn't recognise him. He wasn't one of the officers who had attended the school, and he wasn't the detective who had questioned me.

“Yes?” I asked.

“You're free to go,” he informed me. “The paperwork's all sorted out. Come with me, and we'll get you out of here.”

I walked around the table, then paused. This seemed suspiciously easy. “Who are you, exactly?” I asked.

“What?” He stared at me. “You're honestly asking who I am, when I'm telling you that you're free to go?”

“Yes, I am,” I confirmed. “You're not a police officer, and you're not a detective, or you would've shown me a badge by now. So who are you?”

Frowning in annoyance, he dug out his wallet, and showed me an ID. It was a PRT ID, his name was Travers, and he was a Major.

I came to attention, but I didn't salute, as my cap was currently on the table behind me. “Major Travers,” I acknowledged.

“Captain Snow,” he responded. “Now that we have established relative pay grades, I am ordering you to accompany me from this police station. Is that clear?”

“Sir, it is clear, except for a few points,” I replied, retrieving my cap. “What's happening to Sergeant Kinsey?”

“The police are holding him for the duration,” he informed me. “Now come on, Snow.”

“Sir, I can't leave,” I protested. “Kinsey is my orderly. I'm responsible for him. More specifically, I'm responsible for him being in this mess.”

“For God's sake!” he snapped. “Kinsey is no longer your orderly, by my authority, as of right now. Now I'm ordering you to accompany me. You'll be assigned another orderly when we get to where we're going.” He seemed to be really anxious for us to be going; my suspicions increased.

I decided to try an experiment. Moving alongside him as we left the interview room, I asked a question. “Where are we going to, sir?”

He pretended not to hear me. So that's how it is.

I stopped dead, in the middle of the police station. He stopped also, and turned, with an annoyed expression. “Snow, God help you, you're this close to being up on an insubordination charge.”

“Sir,” I stated firmly, “you didn't answer my question.”

His annoyed expression intensified. “One, you don't need to know. Two, these civilians definitely don't need to know.”

“Is it Chicago?” I challenged. “Because they know I came from there. Sir.”

His lips tightened, and his face began to turn red. “Snow!” he barked. “Attention!”

Automatically, I came to attention. Travers came and stood within inches of me. “You will not ask questions. You will not query orders. You will do as you are told. Is that absolutely clear, Captain?”

“Sir, no, sir!” I barked back. He stared, and I took advantage of his momentary confusion. “If I am being transferred from Chicago, then I need to know, sir!”

Travers ground his teeth. “Then yes, Captain, you are being transferred from Chicago.”

I spoke quickly. “Is this a valid order, sir?”

He stared at me. “What in God's name – of course it's a valid order, Snow! I am your superior officer, and I'm relaying it to you.”

I met his eyes and held them. “Is Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton aware of this order, sir?”

His gaze flickered, just for an instant, and I had my answer. “He's not, is he?”

“It doesn't matter, Captain Snow,” he snapped, recovering his composure. “I'm here, and he's not. I'm ordering you to accompany me to our destination.”

“No, sir,” I told him softly. “His orders predate yours, and he outranks you. I will not accompany you, not unless the Lieutenant-Colonel is contacted, and does not countermand the order.”

“Oh, for God's sake!” he snapped, and grabbed my arm.

No doubt he considered that as a tall man – a few inches taller than me – and broad in the shoulders, he would easily be able to force me to go with him. What he didn't take into account was the fact that for some time, I had been taking regular sessions with Kinsey, who had once been responsible for training MPs in hand to hand combat.

I broke his grip, grabbed his arm, and threw him. It wasn't a perfect throw, given that there were desks in the way, and I was somewhat hampered by my dress uniform, but it did the job. Travers ended up on the floor, on his knees. I released his arm and stepped back.

“Back off, sir,” I warned him. “Until I find out what's going on around here, I'm not going anywhere.”

Breathing heavily, he clambered to his feet, glaring at me. “That's it, Snow,” he grated. “By the time I've finished with you, you're going to be court-martialled down to private. Insubordination plus assault on a superior officer, with witnesses.” He moved toward me.

I stepped back. “I'm not so sure that you're really a superior officer,” I warned him. “You're not in uniform, and it's not so hard to fake a PRT ID. Take that away, and this becomes attempted abduction of a PRT intelligence officer.”

“Hey!” came a shout across the room. “What the hell's going on here?” It was an older guy, balding and paunchy. He wore the same sort of suit as Travers, but with a much more generous cut.

Travers turned his head, while keeping me in his line of sight. “Who wants to know?”

“Captain Peterson! I run this precinct! Who the hell are you, and why are you brawling in my station?”

Travers flicked out his ID. “Major Travers. PRT business, Captain. Stay out of it.” He made a move toward me; I backed away again.

“Like hell I will.” Peterson gestured to the officers in the room; up until this moment, they had been standing, staring, at our altercation. “Take them both into custody. We'll get this sorted out.”

“Uh, Captain?” I ventured. “I was already in custody. Detective Kimball was talking to me.”

Peterson focused on me. “Oh, right. You're the PRT officer who faced down Marquis. Go back to your interview room and wait; I'll send someone to find Kimball.” He gestured at Travers. "Take him into custody until we find out who he is and what he's doing here."

I watched Travers' eyes; for a moment, it seemed that he was going to do something dramatic, but then he reined himself in. “This isn't over, Snow,” he told me coldly, as two officers closed on him.

“Actually, it is,” I heard from behind me. I turned; the amused voice belonged to Detective Kimball, who had spent some time interrogating me. He raised an eyebrow. “Why, Captain Snow,” he greeted me. “What are you doing out of your interview room?”

-ooo-

Kimball handed me a cup of tea, which I accepted gratefully. I sipped it; it wasn't great, but it was hot and sweet, so I drank it anyway. He sat down opposite me and dropped two folders on the table; Kinsey stood off to the side, hands clasped behind his back.

“Sorry about the delay,” Kimball told me. “I spoke to Sergeant Kinsey at length, and then I interviewed several of the people who were there. Finally, I had to get in touch with your commanding officer. He filled me in some more about who you were, what you were like, and just how important you are to the PRT.”

I felt a flush rising in my cheeks. “So what's the overall verdict?”

Kimball's tone was wry. “It was his considered opinion that if you chose to fire off a pistol in the middle of a crowded room, whilst confronting a supervillain, then you undoubtedly had a very good reason for doing so. That's a direct quote, by the way.”

“It does sound like the Lieutenant-Colonel, yes,” I murmured, and sipped at my tea.

Kimball cleared his throat. “While there are those among us who are less than pleased at the firearms discharge, the fact does remain that you are obviously well-trained with pistols, and are authorised to carry concealed. Also, I am informed that PRT regulations allow you to use lethal force at your discretion when facing parahuman threats.”

“Subject to the amount of force that I'm facing, yes,” I agreed.

He nodded. “On the other hand, you are currently off duty. In addition, you're on leave. Medical leave, in fact, following a minor mental breakdown.” His look conveyed curiosity.

I swallowed. “Behemoth,” I whispered.

A double blink. “Oh. Of course. Well, then. That would be enough to give anyone a breakdown. However. I question the wisdom of going armed when you're currently recovering from such a traumatic experience.”

I roused myself. “I wasn't armed. Kinsey was. I -”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he interrupted. “But I've also gotten the report about what happened in Batavia. Killed one man, crippled another. You're very quick to resort to firearms, aren't you?”

I took a deep breath. “Detective Kimball. I'm an officer in the PRT. We're a paramilitary organisation, designed to deal with – and work with – people with parahuman abilities. Usually, very dangerous abilities. I'm trained to assess a situation and respond accordingly. Sometimes, talking works. Other times, I've got to make the call to pull a trigger, and I have to hope I get it right every time. I don't like killing. I don't enjoy it. But I won't shrink from it if I have to do it.”

“Well, you did hand over the firearm and cartridge cases, and submit yourself for GSR testing immediately,” he admitted. “It's not like you were trying to hide the fact of what you had done. And both your commanding officer and your sergeant have assured me that the only way you were going to hit someone in that crowd was if you intended to hit them. So I'm inclined to accept that you were as responsible as you could have been in the situation, and if you hadn't acted, then it may have been a lot worse.”

“Thank you,” I began. “I -”

“I'm not finished,” he interrupted. “What's the situation with this Major Travers? Where does he come into it? And why were you fighting in the middle of the precinct?”

I sighed. “One of two explanations. One is that he's a phoney. Someone pretending to be a PRT officer, so he can abduct me clean out of the station.”

He frowned. “Who would do something like that?”

“I have a certain amount of notoriety within the PRT,” I informed him. “If that got out, some criminal element or another might want to snatch me, to pump me for information on the PRT, or to even force me to use my analysis skills on their behalf. Or maybe just to deprive the PRT of my services.”

“That's something that happens?” he asked. “In real life?”

I tilted my head toward Kinsey. “It's why the sergeant's with me,” I told Kimball. “He's my security detail. Which was why Travers was so anxious to avoid having him along.”

“And what if his ID checks out?” asked Kimball. “What if he's the real deal?”

“Then that's a whole other matter,” I replied. “What I'm going to say to you now is off the record, okay? It doesn't leave this room.”

Kimball frowned. “Okay, off the record it is.” He reached under the table, and I heard a switch being flicked. A tiny red LED on the microphone before me winked out.

It could all be a ploy, I realised. The switch could simply turn the LEDs on and off, leaving the recorders running. But I couldn't worry about everything, all of the time. Besides, what I was about to tell him wouldn't really help anyone, and if it leaked, I knew exactly who to look for.

“Okay,” I told him. “If he's really a Major in the PRT, it'll be a case of poaching instead. The DC office wants me so badly they can taste it. But Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, in Chicago, has me, and he's not letting me go. I like working in Chicago; I'm doing enough good work there that they can't justify ordering him to transfer me, but that doesn't mean they can't use more underhanded tactics.”

"And that's Travers," Kimball noted.

"That's Travers," I agreed. "Now, if he's legit, what he's doing is legal, just extremely sketchy. So you can't actually arrest him for it. And now that he's been made, he's likely to go back to DC, where he'll just get smacked on the wrist for screwing matters up with me."

"You think they'll try again?" asked Kimball, his expression as fascinated as his tone.

I considered that. "Probably not. I'm unlikely to be arrested again while I'm here, and they're not about to try a straight-up abduction; that sort of thing draws attention. Plus, I've made Travers, so they know we'll be on our guard from here on."

Kimball shook his head. "Politics," he muttered, in a disgusted tone. "Where does it end?"

"I try to avoid it, myself," I observed. "Either way, I'd be interested in knowing whether he's really PRT or not. It'll tell me what we're up against."

"I can see that," he agreed. "Was there anything else of that nature that you wanted to let me know?"

I shook my head. "I'm done with that subject for the time being."

"Okay, going back on the record ... now." As he spoke the last word, he flicked the switch again, and the red LED lit up once more.

"Okay," I asked. "What happens now?"

Kimball sat up. "Well, in my opinion, the firearm discharge counts as a misdemeanour at worst, given that you were under some pressure, did what you were trained to do, and acted with restraint. However, just to make it look like we're doing something, I'm going to recommend to your superiors that you sign up for a firearms safety and recertification course, and that you refrain from handling firearms until you have attended and passed the course. Your superiors, of course, are under no obligation to enforce this on you. Do you see any problem with that?"

I shook my head. "I'll take the course. I probably need to recertify anyway."

Kinsey snorted. I audited courses like that, in my spare time.

Kimball grinned. He probably didn't know that about me, unless someone had told him, but I suspected that he'd guessed something of the sort.

"Well, that's settled then," he noted. "I'll update your file when I get back to my desk." Standing, he gestured to the door. “I'll just walk you out and make sure you get a cab.”

“Uh, we're perfectly able to get a cab on our own,” I told him.

“Hah,” he replied. “You don't know our Brockton Bay cabbies. A breed of their own.”

I tensed, as did Kinsey. What does he want with us? His eyes met mine, and he shrugged, very slightly. He had no idea either.

“Okay,, sure,” I agreed. “Let's go.” Kinsey's firearm had been returned to him, and we were both capable infighters, so I doubted that Kimball could catch us off guard.

How wrong I was. As soon as we were out of the front doors of the precinct, I turned to him. “All right,” I demanded. “What's going on?”

He raised his hands defensively. “Nothing bad, I promise. I just wanted to ask you a question, away from prying ears.” His gaze flicked to Kinsey.

“If you can say it to me, you can say it to Kinsey. Spill.”

He took a deep breath. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Part 4-8