Recoil Pt 4-8 (Patreon)

I stared at Kimball. “Say that again?”

“I said -”

Abruptly, I shook my head. “No, don't say it again. I heard you the first time. You want to take me to dinner?”

He nodded cautiously. “Yes.”

I sneaked a glance at Kinsey; he was glowering at the police detective. Kimball was looking more nervous by the second. I had to ask the question. “Why?”

“Um … “ Kimball was caught on the back foot. “Because you're interesting. Because you're good looking. Because ... I want to get to know you better?” He trailed off.

I snorted. “You just spent quite a while interviewing me on the Marquis thing. If you don't know me well enough by now … “

“More to the point, ma'am,” Kinsey interjected, “Detective Kimball is involved in a case in which you are a person of interest. There is the potential of conflict there.”

“No conflict,” Kimball assured me. “I've signed off on the case. I was pretty well sure you were on the side of the angels, and the interview settled it for me.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “So if I say no, there'll be no sudden and mysterious discoveries in the case that require me to be called back to the precinct?”

“No,” he stated with finality. “This is separate. You're an interesting person. I just want to get to know you.”

Is this what it looks like, or is it a plot by Marquis to kidnap me? Then another thought occurred to me. Or is this one of Lisa's head games? I wouldn't put it past her to have seen this coming and not warned me. She'd put me in Andrea's way; that had turned out fairly well, but she was also nudging me toward Kinsey, with which I was less than comfortable, given our current status. And now, this.

I had no idea if he was legitimate or not; until I got the chance to speak to Lisa, I couldn't fathom his motives. With Lisa's coaching, I was reasonably good at reading people, but Kimball would have made a pretty fair poker player himself.

While I considered that, I looked him over; looked at the man, not the police officer.

Like Kinsey, Kimball was about average height for a man, which made him slightly shorter than me. However, unlike Kinsey, the police officer was only middling fit; he looked to be in his thirties, clean shaven, light brown hair just starting to recede. He was friendly, polite, reasonably well-spoken … and a police officer.

This last bit didn't bother me as much as it might once have done; as Taylor Snow, my identity was well and truly established, and I doubted that even a trained police detective would be able to figure out that something was awry with my presentation. But there was still the lingering wariness, the recollection of the careful path that I'd had to tread, back in the early days of my return to Brockton Bay. I didn't need someone thinking I was 'interesting', wanting to know more about me.

Still, his features were pleasant enough and it was just a little flattering to be asked out to dinner. I tried to think back to the last dinner invitation I had been offered, and as far as I could recall, that had been Danny and Anne-Rose's wedding reception. That went well … not.

Of course, I had dined many times with Kinsey, but that was to be expected; I was an officer, and he my orderly. Officers and NCOs had to eat, after all. We were comfortable within one another's silences.

Kinsey coughed, and I realised with a start that I had not given Kimball an answer. “You'll forgive me if I don't say yes or no straight away,” I told him. “It is kind of sudden, after all.”

“Sure, sure,” he agreed readily enough. He held out a card. “My number, so you can give me the bad news, or good news, or whatever.”

I took it and looked it over; as he had said, it had his number on it. “Thank you, Detective Kimball. I'll get back to you on that one.”

He smiled, even though I hadn't said yes yet. Or at all. “No, Captain Snow. Thank you.” Turning, he trotted back up the steps and re-entered the police station.

Bemusedly, I turned the card over a couple of times, then tucked it into a pocket. “Well, that was different.”

“I find it hard to argue, ma'am,” Kinsey replied impassively. “Do you believe that you will be accepting his invitation?”

“I'm going to have to think about that for a bit,” I decided. “After all, it could be a kidnap attempt by Marquis.”

“Do you think he would do that?” asked Kinsey. “You did tell us that Marquis didn't make war on women.”

“Oh, he wouldn't hurt me,” I assured him. “But he would almost certainly be interested in finding out more about me, and the PRT.” I rolled my eyes. “And hey, this might be his way of inviting me out to dinner.”

Kinsey snorted. “If I may be so bold, ma'am, you were supposed to be in Brockton Bay for rest and relaxation, not the dating scene.”

I laughed out loud, startling a couple of pigeons into flight. "Especially as far as supervillains are concerned, right?”

He barely cracked a smile. "As you say, ma'am. Now, I'll see about getting that cab."

-ooo-

When the shots went off, they didn't quite manage to drown out the screams of the people cowering on the floor. The video camera had obviously been a little shaky, but the picture was recognisable; Captain Snow, kneeling on the stage, firing a large automatic pistol two-handed. Not at Marquis, not at any of his men, but at the dull grey disks homing in on her. Three stabs of flame were accompanied by a single rolling thunder of sound, as the reports echoed from the walls. Each disc exploded in a puff of white powder before it ever got close to her.

“Damn fine shooting,” observed the colonel, as Captain Snow, on the screen, climbed to her feet once more. Chief Director Costa-Brown ignored him, choosing to concentrate on the screen. “Why doesn't she just drop him?” he asked rhetorically. “If she's such a good shot … “

That leaves twelve armed men with no-one to hold them back, and lots of people who can get hurt in the meantime, she noted silently. The model of pistol that Snow was holding – undoubtedly handed off from Sergeant Kinsey – wouldn't have held enough bullets to kill all of Marquis' men, even before she had fired those three shots. The colonel should know that. But then, her head of PRT operations in DC had always been a proponent of 'cut off the head' style tactics. She found him a little short-sighted in that regard.

Instead of retaliating, Snow just stood there – a threat implicit in the weapon she held, and the skill she had just employed to defend herself – and ordered him to leave. He didn't take her seriously at first, but she merely reiterated the direction more firmly. In the face of his attempts to distract her, she didn't get flustered, didn't threaten, just kept her cool and repeated the order.

And then he asked the questions. The first was of her name; she gave it, calmly and clearly. The second was …

“Oh holy God,” the colonel muttered, sitting up straight in his chair. “Snow, you idiot. You don't tell people that your job isn't to arrest parahuman criminals.”

Again, Costa-Brown refrained from comment; Snow's words rolled out of the speakers. “ … is to stand between humans and parahumans.”

“Christ almighty,” he groaned. “She's just set us back months in public perception. People will be watching this drivel and thinking it's official PRT policy.” He got up from his chair. “Where's the phone? I'm putting an end to this, now.”

“Sit. Down.” Costa-Brown did not raise her voice, did not move her eyes from the screen. But he sat down again, after a startled glance in her direction.

“ … 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.”

“Chief Director,” stated the colonel firmly, “we need to rein this in now. Get spin control on it. Captain Snow does not have clearance to discuss PRT policy, especially with a supervillain. She shouldn't even be engaging him; she's an analyst, not a field agent!”

Costa-Brown waved him to silence again. On the screen, Snow asked, “Now, have I answered your question?”

“Not really,” the supervillain responded. “It doesn't explain why you aren't attempting to arrest me.”

“What's she doing?” he hissed.

“Keeping him talking,” she replied. “Now shut up.”

“My focus is not on arresting you; it's on protecting them. So it's better for everyone all round if you just leave.”

Almost predictably, Marquis threatened to take hostages; her immediate response was to threaten to kill any man who tried. Costa-Brown had no doubt that Snow could and would carry out the threat; she had viewed the report on the Batavia incident.

And then, wonder of wonders, Marquis actually did leave. He took his time doing it, but there was no doubt in Costa-Brown's mind that, no matter the theatrics and flourishes, Snow had backed him down, forced him to leave.

The footage cut away to a newscaster, looking just a little flustered. “Ladies and gentlemen, that was Captain Taylor Snow of the Parahuman Response Teams, and her faceoff against the supervillain known as Marquis. We can tell you now that no bystanders were harmed in the encounter, and that Marquis did indeed leave the premises peacefully.” He shuffled papers on his desk. “Captain Snow then gave a brief interview -”

Costa-Brown raised the remote and clicked the TV off; the colonel frowned. “Uh, Director, I wanted to watch that.”

“It'll be on again; you can watch it in your own time,” she told him. “I already have the transcript. I just needed to see the encounter itself.”

He restrained himself from making a possibly unwise statement. “May I see the transcript, Director?”

She nodded. “Of course.” Stepping back to her desk, she picked up a manila folder and handed it to him. “There's not much to it; the questions are pretty softball, and she answers them well.”

“Still,” he replied with a frown as he skimmed the questions and answers. “She shouldn't have even said this much. She had no clearance to -”

Walking over to the sideboard, she poured herself a drink. Notably, she didn't pour him one. Her body digested food, but alcohol didn't have any real effect on her; however, she had taken the opportunity to try various drinks at receptions and other events, and found that she didn't mind the taste. It humanised her in the eyes of others, which was the main reason that she did it.

He finished reading and looked up. “Director, Captain Snow is a loose cannon. I know that Hamilton currently has priority on her services, but this proves that she needs closer oversight. I -”

“You probably don't know that your man Travers has failed to acquire her,” Costa-Brown informed him, and took a sip from her glass. “And in fact, is currently in custody for instigating a brawl within a police station.”

He acquired a sudden hunted expression. “I – Travers?”

“Travers,” she confirmed. “You know that I want Snow for my think-tank here, and so you set out to acquire her by some fairly dubious means. Did you happen to ask yourself what would be the result of having an analyst on the team who didn't actually want to be there?”

He frowned, as if not really understanding the question. “Her orders would be to work with the team,” he replied.

“And would you have given her any breathing room once she arrived here?” Her tone was quiet.

Again, the frown. “Breathing room? She's an analyst. She would be given material to analyse. She would be of no use to anyone just sitting around.”

“Despite the fact that she's barely a week into a mandated four-week convalescent leave?” she prompted gently.

His response was a snort. “Hamilton coddles his people far too much,” he told her. “Toughen up and soldier on; that's how you get past that sort of thing.”

“Colonel.” Her voice now held a definite edge.

Instinctively, he straightened into a brace. “Ma'am?”

“When Major Travers manages to get disentangled from the Brockton Bay police, you will have him return immediately. You will also pull back the other two people you have observing Captain Snow. You will, in fact, cease attempting to poach her altogether.”

“Ma'am?”

She took a step closer. “Did I stutter? Is there any part of what I said that you do not understand?”

He took a quick breath. “No, ma'am. I understand perfectly, ma'am.”

“Good.” Her lips held a smile that owed little to humour. “It is my considered opinion that Captain Snow is better left where she is, to have her pulled suddenly back to DC would exacerbate the current interest in her activities, and raise questions that we really do not need.”

“But what she said -”

She nodded. “Yes. I will be having words with Captain Snow. We cannot, of course, have mere analysts setting PRT policy.” She gestured at the door. “Dismissed, Colonel.”

Drawing himself to attention, Colonel James Tagg saluted; she returned it almost absently. He turned and marched from the room, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Chief Director Costa-Brown rounded her desk, took a seat in her office chair. It was comfortable – one of the perks of the job – although she didn't pay any attention to that. The glass was set down and thereafter ignored as she considered the ramifications, both of what had happened in Brockton Bay, and what had transpired with Tagg.

It was true that Snow's public description of PRT policy wasn't the same as the official version; this was mainly because the official version took up a dozen closely-typed pages. But, ignoring specific cases and all the legalistic verbiage – unfortunately so necessary in this day and age – the two could be brought into line if one squinted carefully enough.

But this was not Costa-Brown's main concern with Taylor Snow. The first time she had encountered the young analyst, Costa-Brown had been interested in finding out what sort of person Snow was; her initiatives to do with operational security had been inspired, and her work in other areas was equally impressive. In the event, however, Snow had come across as self-effacing and a little unsure of herself; the Chief Director had decided to let her be for the moment.

Following the Behemoth attack on New York, Rebecca had revisited the idea of recruiting Snow into a high-powered think-tank; even if the girl's claims of being unpowered were true, her analytical skills and dedication to the work would be enough to get her the place. Some were even suggesting that she be assigned an effective power rank of Thinker 0; Rebecca wasn't quite sure she wanted to go that far, although she had to admit to being extremely impressed by the feat.

However, upon visiting Snow, she had found the girl to be an emotional wreck. Again, she'd had to shelve the idea of immediately recruiting her for the think-tank; any sort of pressure on her at that point would likely burn her out altogether, rendering her useless and wasting a still-valuable resource. Not everyone, Rebecca had decided with regret, was cut out for the big leagues.

But then there were the reports from Batavia and Brockton Bay. On each occasion, Snow had chosen to act promptly, effectively and decisively in the face of immediate danger; in one situation, she had used lethal force without hesitation, while in the other, she had refrained from doing so. In both cases, Costa-Brown considered that she had acted correctly, which begged the question; was Captain Snow so mentally fragile, after all? She had not frozen and she had not panicked.

Rebecca Costa-Brown, as a Thinker of some note, tended to trust her own judgement. But in this case, her three separate impressions of Captain Taylor Snow were widely at odds with one another. She recalled the images of Snow standing on the stage, facing Marquis down, and compared them with her diffidence in the Blue Room, and her near-hysteria following Behemoth. Either her judgement of Snow had been badly flawed, or she had been played each time she had met Snow in person. She didn't quite know which one it was, and she wasn't sure which one she wanted it to be.

Either way, Taylor Snow was proving herself to be a huge asset to the PRT, but she was also someone to keep an eye on. Preferably at arm's length.

As for Tagg, had he succeeded, she may well have let his methods go by the wayside. It seemed that Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton shared a rapport with Captain Snow; the work coming out of the Chicago office was of the very best quality. As such, Hamilton had done his best to block transfer requests for Snow, and Costa-Brown had accepted this for the time being. They worked well together, after all. But she had still itched to be able to work alongside such a brilliant young mind; the girl's insights would have made her welcome in the think-tank.

And so, had Tagg's machinations worked out – once Snow was safely in DC, any request to have her transferred back would have been slow-tracked – Costa-Brown may just have looked the other way. But Snow had proven to be both sharper and more decisive than Tagg and Travers had counted upon – not, Costa-Brown mused, a total surprise – and so the attempt had fallen through.

She would have to have Hamilton speak to Snow about what was permissible to say to journalists in a public forum, she decided. Perhaps some minor administrative discipline, for form's sake. And as for Tagg … well, she had been intending to cut him loose, move him out of the DC office sooner or later anyway. The man was too uncompromising, too them-and-us. This was as good a time as any to send him on his way, and Travers with him.

Tagg would probably consider this a punishment for trying and failing, she knew. He may even be resentful for being punished for attempting to carry out her wishes. What he probably would not realise, she figured, was that the punishment was not for trying and failing.

It was for being caught.

-ooo-

Kinsey paid off the taxi driver, and we climbed the steps to Andrea's floor. He got out the keys to let us in – Andrea had given us spares – but before he quite managed to open the door, it was unlocked from the inside. Andrea pulled it open, and flung herself into my arms.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she repeated, holding me close. “I was so worried!”

I scooped her up into my arms. My spine creaked, but I was able to hold her as we entered the apartment; Kinsey was thoughtful enough to close the door behind us.

“What were you worried about?” I asked, mildly amused, as I navigated across to the sofa, then sat down with her still in my arms. “I was only questioned by the police.”

“I was worried that the PRT would come and take you away,” she confessed. “Drag you away for firing off Kinsey's pistol.”

I met Kinsey's eyes; Major Travers had tried almost exactly that. If he was even a Major. “It's okay,” I assured her, lowering my face so that she could kiss me. Which she did, somewhat enthusiastically.

When I looked up again, Kinsey was in the kitchen assembling a scratch meal. “Tea, ma'am?” he called out.

“Yes, please, Kinsey,” I replied. “Andrea, have you eaten?”

She shook her head. “I've been too worried.” She cupped my cheek with her hand. “Nearly as worried as I was when you were up on that stage, talking to that horrible man.”

“He wasn't going to hurt me,” I assured her. “That's one thing Marquis doesn't do. Women and children are sacred to him. That's why I had Kinsey back off.”

“But still,” she insisted. “he's a supervillain. You're an analyst. You shouldn't be going up against him. You should be telling other people how to go up against him.”

I held her close. “If the world was better organised, that's how it would work, sweetie,” I told her. “But I was there, I was on the spot, so I did what I had to do.”

“Well, I think you did really good,” Andrea assured me, exhibiting one of her mercurial mood-changes. “You showed him who was boss.”

“I strongly suspect that the Captain has improved the standing of the PRT in this city, at least temporarily,” Kinsey noted, carrying through a tray of sandwiches. Placing this on the coffee table, he went back into the kitchen. “However, I do not look forward to the interview that I will be having with Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, once we return to Chicago. I believe that he may wax somewhat sarcastic.”

“You and me both, Kinsey,” I agreed. As grandfatherly as my commanding officer could be, he was also able to summon some rather fluent language, when it came to dressing-down his subordinates. I wasn't looking forward to going through that experience for myself.

Andrea reached out and snagged a sandwich, then offered it to me; I took a bite as Kinsey returned with the tea and coffee. We had to necessarily separate once the hot beverages were poured, as a slip there would result in more than a few crumbs spilled on my uniform.

While we were eating, Andrea turned on the TV; I found, to my dismay, that the one with the video camera – I couldn't recall his name for the life of me – had indeed been filming while I had been facing off Marquis. The sound was fairly tinny; I guessed that they'd cleaned up the echoes. But it was still altogether too dramatic for my tastes.

“Well,” I remarked with false cheer, “at least I don't have to worry about when Hamilton's going to find out about it.”

Kinsey nodded. “Indeed.” He didn't look altogether thrilled, either.

-ooo-

“Holy shit, check this out!”

Lieutenant Calvert looked up from where he was field-stripping his rifle, to see … Lieutenant Snow. Firing an automatic pistol that looked too big for her. Hitting her targets. Talking to Marquis. Facing him down.

No, not Lieutenant Snow; Captain Snow.

The film clip repeated, this time in slow motion, giving everyone time to gather around the TV set and whoop encouragement to the slender girl in the Captain's dress uniform, picking off her targets as though they were clay pigeons.

“God damn,” Holman stated after it finished running. “That's what I call point defense.”

“What branch is she in, anyway?” asked Drummond. “Infantry? Snipers?”

Calvert shook his head. “No,” he replied without thinking. “Intelligence.”

“No shit?” asked Holman. “You know her or something?”

“Or something,” Calvert agreed. “Met her at that White House reception back in January.”

“Well, shit,” Drummond commented. “That's some badass moves, right there. That's one intel weenie I'll listen to, any day of the week.” He grabbed his crotch. “And give her an in-depth briefing of my own.”

“You want to be careful, Drum,” advised Caprelli. “She doesn't like your moves, she's like to shoot it right off.”

As the general laughter overtook the barracks, Calvert went back to stripping his rifle.

So, Snow made Captain, huh? Well, well. I wonder how that happened.

I might have to get back in touch with her.

Because Lieutenant Thomas Calvert didn't believe in letting an opportunity go by.

-ooo-

After lunch, I stood up and brushed myself off. “I think I'll shower and change now.”

“Not a bad idea, ma'am,” Kinsey agreed. “I'll go after you.”

“You know, you could just shower together,” Andrea suggested, a definite twinkle in her eye. “It might save my water bill.”

Part of my brain tried to imagine Kinsey in the shower, but I repressed the image, avoided Kinsey's eye and shook my head firmly. “Nope.”

“As the Captain says,” Kinsey agreed. “No.”

“Aww, you're both no fun,” Andrea protested, pouting adorably.

“It's not about fun, it's about regulations,” I pointed out reasonably. “We have a duty to uphold them.” I headed along to Andrea's bedroom, where my belongings were stored.

“But you're not on duty,” she pointed out playfully, following me into the room.

I shook my head. “Doesn't matter.” Pulling out a change of clothes, I stood and turned, to come face to face with her. “Regulations are regulations.”

She put her arms around me. “Well, we could shower together,” she purred. “That's not against any regulations, is it?”

I kissed her gently. “No, but it would wreck your water bill,” I pointed out. The last time we had showered together, in college, the water wasn't the only steamy thing that was going on.

“Fuck my water bill,” she declared bluntly. “I want some you-and-me time.” She held me more tightly. “When you were up there … I thought you were gonna die. I thought I was never gonna hold you again.” She raised her face to mine, her green eyes huge, filled with unshed tears.

Now, and only now, did I see the strain upon her face. She hadn't shown it once while we had been eating, while she had been cheerfully flirting with both me and Kinsey. I had not realised that Andrea had been suffering, how much she had been suffering, until now.

I was struck by surprise; normally, it was me who suffered the strain, and Andrea who was my rock. She had held me, comforted me, carried me through the worst of it. Today had barely even registered on my radar as being problematic; I had faced down bigger menaces with less to go on with, and the last time I had been taken in by the authorities had involved considerably more death. But to Andrea, it was a taste of my world, of the world that was to be. The world that I was trying to avert. And she didn't like it; not at all.

She had been my rock, my sanctuary, many times over. It was time I returned the favour.

I dropped my clothes back into the suitcase. Raising my voice, I called out. “Kinsey!”

“Ma'am?”

“You can take the first shower. I need to speak to Andrea about something.”

“Ma'am.”

Picking Andrea up in my arms, I bumped the bedroom door shut with my butt. She watched my face as I walked her over to the bed and placed her on it. By the time I had my uniform off and hung up, the shower had started. Andrea watched silently as I joined her on the bed, and gently began to help her remove her own clothes.

“You don't have to,” she murmured, before I shut her up with a kiss.

“But you don't,” she tried again. “I'd feel guilty.”

“Hush,” I told her softly as the last of her clothes came off. I gathered her into my arms; the shakes came then, and she began to cry almost silently, clinging to me fiercely. Gently, I caressed her, not in order to excite her, but to soothe her, to calm her down.

Andrea needed me, just as I had needed her, so often. And so, we lay together; sharing not passion, but comfort. In my arms, she fell asleep, comforted, still holding me. And I held her close, treasuring her love, her warmth, her unrestrained humanity.

I would have need of that, in time to come.

-ooo-

Tuesday, April 5, 1994

Fountains sprayed delicate skeins of water into the air before the memory palace. Lisa, still dressed in the 'Honourable Annalisa Wilbourn' costume, got up from the patio chair and came to meet me. “Not staying for long?”

I shook my head as I hugged her. Just need you to help me with something. I described what I wanted to do.

She was nodding before I was halfway finished. “Ah, right. That's easy. Five days?”

Six. Friday, then Monday through Friday again.

“Well, that should get his attention.”

Especially if we show up just around the time he gets it.

Lisa grinned. “I can give you the delivery time easily.”

I grinned back. Figured as much. I love it when a plan comes together.

“Anything else you need?”

I shook my head. I really appreciate this.

In the end, I stayed for a chat, and a round of delicious-tasting fruit drinks, before allowing myself to ease out of the trance, assisted by a kiss from Lisa.

-ooo-

With the taste of dust and blood upon my lips, I opened my eyes. Andrea was sitting beside me, watching me intently. I had my finger on the Enter key of the keyboard of her computer, and as I watched, her printer slowly extruded the first sheet of what I had created while in the trance.

“I never get tired of watching that,” she told me honestly. “And Lisa's fun to talk to while you're doing it.”

“I'm almost worried to ask what she talks to you about.”

She pulled me down for a kiss; I didn't struggle. “She tells me about what it was like for you back in the other time,” she revealed, once we had both caught our breath. “How she pushed you toward that other guy, Brian, because you both needed it.”

“Yeah, well, we only really got together because he got so badly hurt by Bonesaw,” I muttered. “It wasn't really him, after. There was something missing.”

Andrea nodded. “It's like a weird alternate history story or something. How scary you were with your bug powers, and how people like Emily kept screwing you over.”

“Yeah, well, I'm trying to change all that, this time around.” I rested my cheek on top of her head. “Fix stuff so it doesn't break. Or not so badly, anyway.”

“If anyone can do it,” she declared, holding me close, “it's you.”

I didn't answer; just closed my eyes and enjoyed the closeness. Thank you. I need this.

-ooo-

Wednesday, April 6, 1994

“Brockton Bay Police Department, Detective Kimball speaking.”

“Detective,” I responded, grinning. “Captain Snow speaking.”

There was a pause, then he replied hastily. “Uh, Ca- uh, Taylor?”

“That's what I said,” I reminded him. “So, did you still want to go out to eat?”

“Uh, yeah, that would be great. I was thinking -”

“Oh, I've got it all arranged. All you need to do is show up.”

Another long pause. “ … you have? I do?”

“That's correct. What time do you get off work?”

“Five. Why?”

“Perfect. Meet me down at the Boardwalk, six o'clock. The Cafe Hawaii. Dress casual.”

I could almost hear the gears stripping in his head as he tried to make sense of this. “Cafe Hawaii? Casual?”

I sighed. “You wanted to get to know me?”

“Uh, yes?”

“This is how. I'll see you there. Eighteen hundred, on the dot.”

I put the phone down and turned to Andrea. “Are you sure this is such a great idea?”

She bounced in place. “Sure I'm sure!” A roll of the eyes. “And you were just going to throw the card away!”

I sighed. “I just don't need any more complications in my life right now.”

She glanced around; Kinsey had gone out to post the envelope containing the printouts that I had made the previous day, and we were alone in the apartment. “What, like saving the world?”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. “That's different.”

Grabbing my arm, she lifted it so that she could slide under it and snuggle up to me. “Yeah, but that's what makes life interesting. So, you called ahead to this guy you're going to see Saturday?”

I nodded. “He knows I'm coming. Doesn't know why.”

“Know what you're gonna say to him?”

“More or less, yeah.” I leaned in to her. “Andrea … “

“Yeah?”

“I want to say thanks. That I appreciate everything you do for me.”

She snuggled a little closer. “That's okay, Taylor. You know I love you.”

“Yeah. I love you too.” It felt so odd to say that, but it was true, on so many levels.

“So, this Kimball guy.”

I blinked, wrong-footed by the conversation turn. “What about him?”

“What's his name?”

“Uh, Kimball?”

She giggled. “No, silly. His first name.”

“Oh, uh … hang on.” I still had the card in hand from when I had called the number. “Uh … it says Detective H. Kimball. Doesn't say what the H stands for.”

“Harry.”

“Maybe, I don't know.”

“Horowitz.”

“Possibly.”

“Hunter.”

“Andrea … “

“Humperdink.”

“Oh god.”

“Hugglepuss.”

“That's not even a name.”

“Is now. I just made it up.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure his name isn't Hugglepuss Kimball.”

“Okay then, Hastur.”

“What?”

She giggled. “Say his name three times, and an Elder God appears.”

“Andrea, what have you been reading?”

“Never mind. Let's see … uhh … Handlebar.”

I had to shake my head. “Andrea. Please stop.”

She pulled me down for a kiss. “Okay.”

I sighed. Kinsey had been right; this was not going to be a boring time.

-ooo-

The Cafe Hawaii occupied the space which, seventeen years hence, would be taken up by Fugly Bob's. It was a fairly unoriginal beachfront cafe; an open plan dining space with faux-islander décor, and waitresses wearing imitation grass skirts. Lisa had informed me that they would be folding in another year or so, when one of the burgeoning gangs got its hooks into them for protection money. This was kind of depressing; it looked like a nice place, if just a little tacky.

“So, you think he'll show?” Andrea, seated across the table from me, wearing T-shirt, shorts and sandals, posed the question.

“Probably,” I told her. “I don't know. I'm not going to stress either way. These calamari rings are great.”

“I know, right?” She hooked three of them on her finger. “I could sit here and eat these all day.”

Kinsey coughed meaningfully; I looked around. “Huh. He showed.” Raising my arm, I waved.

Detective Kimball looked almost adorably out of place, in rumpled Hawaiian shirt and jeans; he came on over, then paused as he saw Kinsey and Andrea already at the table. “Oh, uh, I didn't know it was going to be more than you and me.”

“It's not,” I assured him. “They were just leaving.” Kinsey took the hint and got up; Andrea stuck her tongue out at me, but followed suit. They sat at the next table, and Kinsey waved to catch a waitress's attention.

Kimball sat and eyed the basket of calamari rings. “Have you eaten already?”

“Just been nibbling.” I gestured to the menu board. “Did you want to order, or shall I?”

He glanced around at the cafe. “When I offered to take you to dinner, I had in mind a more, uh … “

“Expensive?” I offered. “Formal?”

“Something like that,” he agreed, as the waitress showed up. He gave his order, then I gave mine. After the waitress had sashayed away – she could really work that grass skirt – he turned back to me. “I wanted to take you to dinner and dancing. Show you a good time.”

“I don't dance much,” I told him. “Mind you, the last time I did go dancing, it was in the East Room of the White House. And the time before that, I got into a brawl. Put three people in the hospital.”

He blinked at me. “You're not serious.” A pause. “You are serious.”

“I am indeed,” I agreed. “If you think you can top that, go right ahead.”

“I … yeah, no,” he replied, grinning ruefully. “I'll scratch dancing off the itinerary.”

“Also, drinks,” I noted, as a waiter arrived with the tray of drinks. I took the water with lemon, while he had some sort of complicated fruit concoction. “I don't drink, as a rule. Bad things have happened when I drink. So I don't.”

“ … okay,” he responded. “You've definitely had a different life, I can see.”

“Really?” I asked archly. “Have you been checking up on me, Detective?”

He looked pained. “I was hoping this could be a personal-time thing, not professional.”

I nodded. “Okay, so what's your first name? All it says on your card is 'H. Kimball'.”

At the next table, I saw Andrea grow alert, waiting.

Kimball looked at me. “Really? I didn't tell you?”

“Nope.” I sipped my water. The tang of the lemon juice was just right.

“Oh, uh, it's Humphrey,” he confessed. “Dad was a real Bogart fan.” He frowned as Andrea face-palmed. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Heh. No.” I grinned at him. “Ignore her. She was trying to guess your name, earlier. Badly.”

“Really? What names did she come up with?”

“Trust me,” I assured him, “you do not want to know.” I looked up as our waitress sashayed back toward us. “Oh, good. Food.”

-ooo-

Andrea ran through the shallows, happily splashing herself and everyone else who got too close. I carried her sandals and mine, strolling through where the waves lapped on the shoreline, covering my toes and then dropping away, over and over, my knee-length skirt well clear of the seawater. Humphrey Kimball paralleled me, just a little up the beach. He was reluctant to take his shoes off and paddle in the water as I was doing; I suspected an ankle holster. But I didn't say anything; men need their secrets too.

Kimball cocked an eye at Kinsey, prowling along farther up the beach, his attention ostentatiously anywhere but on us. “So I'm guessing that he's your security detail.”

“No,” I told him cheerfully. “He's my orderly.” A tilt of the head toward Andrea. “She's my security detail.”

He blinked a couple of times. “You're kidding.”

I wondered how long I could string this out. “Not at all. She knows six different forms of martial arts. She can shoot better than I can. Don't let the 'cute and playful' exterior fool you; she's scary.”

He looked from me to her and back again, bewilderment growing on his face. “You're telling me that she -”

I couldn't help it any longer; I burst out laughing. He stared at me, chagrin evident on his features. “You were playing me the whole time.”

“Yup.” I nodded cheerfully. “She's a good friend from college. We hang out every chance we get. Which is basically whenever I get back on leave.”

“Huh. Okay.” He paused for thought. “You know, this is not how I imagined our date going.”

I shrugged, lightly. “You wanted to get to know me. This is me.”

A nod, to concede the point. “Okay, so about you. You said you're in Intelligence. What do you do there?”

I chose my words carefully. “I'm an analyst. I specialise in analysis of cape behaviour and trends of parahuman activity.”

“Cape … oh, parahumans?”

“A cape is a parahuman who goes out in public with a costume of some sort,” I explained. The term was catching on, so I felt safe pointing it out. “Or really, technically speaking, anyone who goes out with a masked identity. But doing that without powers, or technology, is kind of asking for trouble.”

“And a parahuman is just someone who has powers, no matter what he does with them?” he ventured.

“Exactly correct,” I agreed. “A cape is almost certainly a parahuman, but a parahuman is not necessarily a cape.”

“And your analysis of this sort of thing covers what, exactly?”

I raised an eyebrow. “So, your latest big case, what are the precise details?”

“I'm not allowed to talk about … oh.” A look of revelation crossed his face. “Your stuff is confidential as well?”

I snorted. “The exact classification level is classified in and of itself, but rest assured that it's above Top Secret. Mostly it's Eyes Only material.”

He frowned. “How can a classification level be classified?”

“I could tell you,” I suggested, “but then … “

“You'd have your big scary bodyguard shoot me?” he replied whimsically.

“No, actually,” I told him. “I'd have to notify my superiors, and they'd whisk you away to an interview room in an undisclosed location, where you'd be very extensively interrogated, then required to sign a great many documents regarding the various penalties that would befall you if you spoke of this matter ever again, and then you'd be let go again. And probably watched for the rest of your life.”

“Hah, wow,” he chuckled. “Joking again, right?”

“Not so much.” I gave him a serious look. “I don't talk about my work. Okay?” I had been exaggerating, but just a little.

“Okay, got it.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “So what do you do for a hobby?”

Spend time in an imaginary dreamworld with my dead best friend. Make plans to save the world. Murder parahumans who are likely to be a problem in the future. “Oh, nothing much. You?”

“Much the same, I'm afraid,” he sighed. “We're kind of boring people, aren't we?”

Boring is what I want to be. “On the contrary. I'm apparently interesting enough for you to want to ask out. You're interesting enough that I didn't say no.”

He brightened up at that. “So a second date isn't out of the question?”

Down, boy. “So long as there's no expensive dining, drinking or dancing involved, that's a definite maybe.”

“Movies sometime then?” I had to give it to him, he was almost as persistent as Andrea.

“As long as you don't mind Kinsey looming in the darkness, and Andrea throwing popcorn,” I pointed out.

“Do they have to come along?” He obviously wasn't thrilled by the prospect.

“Yes,” I told him promptly. “Kinsey's my protective detail. He never leaves my side, in public, so he has to come along. It's not fair for him to not have a date, so Andrea comes along. And she will throw popcorn.”

“Hm.” He seemed to be considering that. “I've got some time off next week. I'll let you know when I'm free.”

“No promises.”

He nodded. “Understood. No promises.”

We continued walking along the beach.

-ooo-

Friday, April 8, 1994

The corridor had been blocked off, and the Captain had come down to see what was going on. Lisa and I each held a heavy mug of coffee; strong enough, I imagined, to stand a spoon up in. Or dissolve one. My head was, of course, clear. I saw Lisa wince a couple of times, but she was also on point.

The Captain of the Ad Astra Per Aspera – it was the name I had seen inscribed around the rim of the plate, without realising that it was the title of the aircraft as well – was uniformed in white, as per a naval officer's dress uniform, with an impressive collection of gold upon his shoulders, chest and cap. He was an older man, with a greying beard, and a solid presence.

“Captain Edward Smith,” he introduced himself. “And you would be the ladies to whom my steward referred? The consulting detectives?”

“Indeed we are,” Lisa confirmed. “I am the Honourable Annalisa Wilbourn, and my companion is the Honourable Taylor Anne Hebert.” She offered her hand; the Captain took it and bowed over it, doing the same a moment later with mine.

“Those are British titles,” he noted. “You do not speak like subjects of the Imperial Crown.”

“We are not,” Lisa told him. “We are both loyal American citizens. The titles were bestowed for a small matter we attended to in our travels to that part of the world.”

As far as I could tell, she was spinning the sheerest of horse-hockey; however, Captain Smith – and where had I heard that name before? – was questioning not a bit of it.

“Then we are lucky to have you aboard, ladies,” he declared. “We do not land for another twenty hours; we need to have the culprit in hand by then. How may my crew be of assistance?”

“We will need a couple of your men to do the heavy lifting, and perhaps the use of your sickbay, if your doctor is willing,” she told him. “I am curious about how this man died.”

“But surely he died of that stab-wound to the chest,” the Captain protested. “The knife is yet in him.” He gestured to the hilt that protruded downward from the breastbone of the corpse.

“So it would seem,” Lisa told him enigmatically. “But I suspect that there is a story here, one that does not immediately strike the eye. And it is one that I intend to uncover.”

She knelt beside the dead man; I followed suit, on the other side. From her luggage, she had unearthed a large magnifying glass; whether it had been there before all this happened, I had no idea. Slowly, carefully, she began to examine the body.

The Captain and crew-members leaned over, trying to see what we were doing; I straightened up and gestured to them. Please, I told them. We need all the light that we can get, here.

“Back away, men,” the Captain ordered the stewards. “About your duties, except for you, you and you. Do whatever these ladies tell you.” He turned back to me. “Is there anything else you need, ma'am?”

I considered for a moment. A list of your stewards, and who had their duties in this area at the time of the murder, I told him. Also, a list of all passengers who have their suites in this part of the aircraft. Quite a few of them were dining at the same time as we were; we should be able to clear many of them simply by speaking to them.

He frowned. “You don't believe that one of our stewards did this, do you?”

I don't think so, no, I replied, although I did not rule the idea out altogether. But they would be able to tell us which passengers were wandering the corridors around this time. We need to build up a timeline for each passenger, to determine who could have done this.

“I see,” he replied, looking somewhat relieved. “I will give orders to that effect immediately.” He moved off, with the bulk of the stewards, who hung back away from where Lisa and I were bent over the corpse.

Consulting detectives? I asked. Really?

She gave me her best mischievous grin. “Really,” she replied. “I've always wanted to be one, deep down. And you've got training in analysis and criminology. So do your thing, Watson.”

I snorted. Watson, hah. But I set to looking anyway, checking the man's clothing, examining his pockets. Huh, that's interesting.

“What is?” she asked, looking up from the magnifying glass.

Trouser pockets were pulled almost inside out. Someone searched him.

“Good. Keep looking. Hopefully, whatever it is that they were looking for is still on him.”

I did as she said, feeling down the trousers for anything strapped to his legs and finding nothing. But I hit the jackpot when I unlaced his right boot. As I eased it from his foot, something fell to the carpet; a white square of paper, folded over several times. Bingo.

Almost at the same time, Lisa let out a triumphant yip. “Hah!”

Turning to her, with the paper in hand, I asked her, What did you find?

She said the same thing at the same time; we shared a chuckle. Well, what? I asked her.

“You first,” she told me.

I showed her the paper. It was in his boot.

She grinned. “Nicely done.”

Thanks. What did you find out?

Her grin became positively fox-like. “Well, I'm going to need to get him to the infirmary, but I think this man was murdered twice.”

I blinked. Wait, what?

She opened her mouth to explain, but at that moment, a shudder went through me. What was that?

“Oh, fudge,” Lisa muttered. “You're waking up.”

I rolled my eyes. Just as it was getting interesting, too.

“Always the way,” she sighed. “Kiss before you go?”

You know what the worse bit is?

“What's that?”

This isn't the weirdest place we've done this.

She tilted her head. “True.”

Leaning over the corpse, I kissed Lisa. Her lips tasted of dust and blood; I closed my eyes.

-ooo-

“Wakey wakey!” Andrea shook me again.

I stirred, levering my eyelids open. “I'm awake, I'm awake.”

"You were talking in your sleep again," she informed me, eyes bright.

"Great," I muttered. "Did I say anything embarrassing?"

"Just something about getting a passenger list. And right at the end, you distinctly said, 'It was in his boot'. What was in his boot? And for that matter, whose boot? Jim's?"

It took me a moment to figure out who she was talking about. "You mean Kinsey?"

"Yeah, Jim," she replied. "Wow, Taylor, are you still asleep in there?"

"No," I told her. "For both. I'm awake, and it wasn't Kinsey's boot."

"Then whose?" she asked.

At the same time, Kinsey asked, “What about my boot?”

Before I could answer either one, our entire frame of reference tilted, and the rest of my surroundings came into focus. We were on an airliner, one far less spacious than in Lisa's dreamworld, and it was tilting. Banking. Also, nosing down, if my inner ear was any judge.

Despite the fact that I was securely strapped in, I grabbed for the armrests anyway. "I'm guessing that you woke me up because we're about to land?" I asked, somewhat belatedly.

"Good guess," she told me, leaning across to look out the small window. "Wow, the runway looks really tiny from up here."

"Not something I really wanted to hear," I grumped.

"Oh, don't be such a wuss!" she chided me.

"I am not a -" The plane shuddered and jolted as we went through a patch of turbulence, and I grabbed for the armrests again. "- wuss," I concluded, my knuckles white.

"Hey, the wings just flexed," she observed in tones of deepest interest. "I never knew they could do that."

I mentally added that to the list marked 'things I never want to hear while I'm in the air'. "Andrea, please. No more commentary. No matter how fascinating it is."

Deliberately, she paused, then went on in an overly casual tone, "Is it me, or does the runway just sort of trail off into that lake ... ?"

And that's number three on the list.

"Andrea." This time it was Kinsey, in the aisle seat; his voice came out as a growl.

"Okay, fine. Sheesh." She rolled her eyes, grinning at me. "Big bad PRT, scared of flying. What's the world coming to?"

"Andrea." I did my best to keep my expression from breaking into an answering grin. "Please refrain from any more comments, or you'll be travelling back in the overhead locker."

"Yay!" she responded immediately. "Does that mean I don't have to pay for a ticket?"

"Seriously," I muttered, as the wheels touched down. "You're incorrigible."

Andrea settled back into her seat, bracing against the deceleration. "Darn tootin'."

-ooo-

Eventually, we deplaned; with what must have been a monumental effort of will, Andrea managed to behave herself until we had our feet on the tarmac. Then she threw her arms around herself. "God!" she managed. "It's cold!"

Kinsey and I traded a glance over her head; we were, of course, wearing our winter-weight jackets. Among other things, I'd checked up on the temperatures where we were going; Kinsey, it appeared, had done exactly the same thing. Andrea ... hadn't.

White vapour pluming from our mouths, Kinsey and I watched Andrea doing the hundred-yard nonchalant stroll – perhaps the fastest I'd ever seen it done – into the airport terminal. We followed along behind, somewhat more casually, almost but not quite in slow-march cadence. While our presence and status as members of the PRT wasn't exactly a secret, we didn't want to advertise too widely, either.

Andrea confronted us once we were inside the terminal; her nose and the tips of her ears were almost as red as her hair. "You knew!" she accused us. "You knew it would be this cold, and never told me!"

"I seem to recall that I hinted it might be a little cool," I reminded her as I unzipped my jacket in the warm air. "What was it that you told me, again?"

Kinsey cleared his throat. "Something along the lines of, 'what, can't you take a bit of cold, you wusses?', I believe, ma'am."

Andrea stared at him, an expression of betrayal on her features. "Why are you taking her side?" she demanded.

"She is my superior officer, after all," he pointed out. His face was as expressionless as always, but I thought I caught a twinkle in his eye. I got the impression that he was grinning broadly; it just wasn't showing on his face.

"Not fair," she groused. "I'm being ganged up on."

I wrapped her in my arms and gave her a hug; she slithered her arms under my thick jacket and snuggled up to me. "Now this is warm," she murmured. "Can we stay like this?"

"Ma'am, if you want to give Andrea your jacket, I can give you mine," Kinsey suggested.

It made sense; while my jacket would be a bit long on Andrea, and his would be wide on me, it would be better than putting his jacket on her, where it would be both wide and long. But that left a problem.

"Kinsey," I objected, "that leaves you without a jacket."

"I'll be fine, ma'am," he assured me. "I've been colder."

I couldn't argue with that; I'd been colder. "All right," I told him. “We'll switch after we get through Customs.”

-ooo-

After some discussion, Kinsey and I had decided that it would be too much hassle to use our PRT status to get our pistols through Customs into Canada, so we left them at home. Thus, all we were bringing into the country were our personal effects; wallets, clothes, keys, and that was about it.

The fact that Kinsey could be more dangerous with a set of house keys than most people were with a knife was something else altogether, something that no-one but he and I needed to know.

Once we were checked through, our passports stamped, we strolled over to a hire-car counter. Kinsey shrugged out of his jacket, and I gave mine to Andrea before accepting his. It was certainly voluminous; however, I got my arms into the sleeves, and my hands came out the ends, so that was good enough.

Looking carefully at the cars on offer, Kinsey turned down two before selecting the third; as he said, he wanted one with plenty of leg room. Wrapping our jackets around us, we exited the terminal into the hire-car park, locating the one we were after by the simple expedient of pressing the auto-lock button and looking for the flashing lights. Andrea had my jacket zipped all the way up; the length of it made her look as though she was wearing a very heavy gown. A wind had whipped up, and I was glad for Kinsey's jacket; Kinsey himself strolled along as if unaware that the wind chill factor was dipping below freezing with every gust. We reached the car; Kinsey hit the unlock button one last time, we opened the doors, and piled in.

The interior of the car was just as frigid as the exterior, but with the engine started, the heater began to add some warmth to the air. I unzipped Kinsey's jacket and pushed it aside, then realised something.

“Crap, we should've asked for a map.”

“I did ask, ma'am,” Kinsey assured me. “They said there was one in the glove compartment.” Leaning across, as I was in the back seat with Andrea, he opened it and located the map almost immediately. Closing the glove compartment, he handed the map back to me and put the car into gear. By the time he had navigated out of the parking lot, I had my bearings.

“Okay, once we're out of the airport, turn left,” I instructed him. “Then right. That'll get us on to the Trans-Canada Highway. That'll get us the rest of the way. It's about … “ I eyeballed the map. “Maybe a three hour drive.”

“Unless we hit a moose,” Andrea stated almost immediately. I knew she was feeling better.

“We're not going to hit a moose,” I told her.

“We might,” she insisted. “Moose are really stupid.”

I sighed. “Kinsey.”

“Ma'am?”

“Don't hit any moose.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Turning back to Andrea, I raised an eyebrow. “Feel better now?”

“Yup.” She grinned at me. “Where would you be without me here to remind you of important stuff like that?”

In response, I grabbed her and began to tickle her; she was overmatched due to my longer arms, but went down fighting anyway. Every now and again, she would call out “Moose!” while continuing her losing battle. Of course, whether she won or lost the tickle war, she still had plenty of close contact with me, so she pretty well won either way.

Kinsey, in the driver's seat, ignored our back-seat shenanigans, and drove on.

-ooo-

The pine-clad landscape outside the car looked cold and desolate; I shivered as we passed under a trio of electrical cables, each trailing its own collection of icicles. I imagined that, had it been earlier in the year, there would have been a buildup of snow on both pines and wires.

“Lots of lakes around here,” I pointed out to Andrea. “Want to go for a dip in them?”

“Yeah, no, screw that,” she retorted, snuggling up to me; we had been overheated by the tickle war and had shed our jackets. Kinsey had even turned off the heater for a while, at our request. “Jumping in freezing water like that? You'd have to be nuts even to think about it.”

I snorted. “Not disagreeing. But you did just that on the camping trip.”

“And so did you,” she replied promptly. “So who's nuts now?”

I gave up; unlike the tickle war, I wasn't going to win this one. “Okay, Kinsey, I'm going to need a map of the town. So if you can get that while we're getting gas, that would be great.”

“Can do, ma'am,” he responded. “If the Captain could pass my jacket through, please … ?”

“Certainly, Kinsey,” I replied, doing as he had asked. “Got it?”

Driving one-handed, he reached back and pulled the jacket through between the seats. “Yes, thank you, ma'am.” He paused. “I do have a question.”

“Yes, Kinsey?”

“Why are we here, ma'am?”

The question hung in the air. The answer – the proper answer – was something that even Andrea didn't know. It would take a long time to explain properly, and I wasn't even sure that Kinsey would accept the answer. “How … do you mean, Kinsey?”

He didn't look around. “I mean, is this another off-the-books operation like the camping trip? Are you here to pass something on, take something, or kill someone, ma'am? I just need to know what might happen.”

I took a deep breath. “It's another operation like that one, yes, Kinsey,” I confirmed. “No-one's going to get hurt. I just need to talk to someone. But I need you to stay in the car while I do it.”

He nodded slowly. “So, this person you're going to talk to. One of the good guys or one of the bad guys?”

“Good guys,” I assured him. “Definitely good guys. We do not threaten him.”

“Roger that, ma'am,” he agreed. “Good guy, just talking.”

“And this never gets back to Hamilton, or anyone else in the chain of command,” I added flatly. “Ever.”

He turned then, and gave me his best impassive look. “What never gets back to him, ma'am?” he asked blandly.

I smiled slightly. “Exactly.”

-ooo-

I sipped at the coffee that Kinsey had fetched, as I studied the map. I knew the address I was looking for, a house in the nice part of town. Lisa had shown me on a virtual map inside my head; I knew the spot as soon as my eyes fell on it. Looking up, I figured out where we were. “Okay, take a left up here.”

The town wasn't large; it didn't take long before we were cruising past the destination. I checked my watch; ten minutes too early. “This is the place, but keep going,” I told him. “Find a place to park; we need to be back here in nine minutes thirty seconds exactly.”

“Huh?” asked Andrea. In the rear-vision mirror, I saw Kinsey frown slightly.

“It'll make sense soon enough,” I told them.

We pulled over, just down the block, and finished our coffees. I got my jacket back from Andrea, and slid my arms into the sleeves.

“You will be careful, right?” she asked anxiously.

“Definitely,” I told her. “This is Canada. No-one's going to be shooting at anyone.”

Kinsey roused. “I hope you're correct. But it's go time.”

He started the car once more, and we cruised back down the block. Kinsey pulled up just behind a Canada Post truck which had stopped at the curb. Pulling my jacket closed around me, I climbed out of the car; the truck moved off as I headed for the front gate. It was just closing behind a tall, somewhat lanky individual. He would have looked a little like Danny, save for a shock of messy blond hair.

“Excuse me, sir,” I called to him. He turned to me, frowning.

“Do I know you, ma'am?” he asked.

“Not as such,” I replied, “but I did call you a few days ago, to tell you that I would be coming to speak to you about something very important to the both of us.”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. I recall now. I was curious about that, so I checked up on you. And imagine my surprise when I found out that Taylor Snow is actually a Captain in the Parahuman Response Teams.”

“Yes, that's me,” I confirmed. “But what I need to talk to you about has nothing to do with the PRT. It's entirely in my private capacity. And it's about something that the PRT as a whole knows nothing about.”

“Really?” he asked. “And what might that be, Ms Snow?”

I smiled. “Mr Richter, I'm here to talk about Dragon.” 

Part 4-9