Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

Recoil

Part 4-6: Careers Day​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I smiled. “Indeed, Kinsey. Indeed.”

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She giggled. “Darn tootin'.”

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

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

-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some way to ride, huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great, I muttered. I must be waking up.

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

-ooo-​

Monday Morning, April 3, 1994

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

“Nice gym,” Andrea commented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn,” he observed. “That's rough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” she asked innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scout's honour,” he agreed.

“Well, the truth is -”

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

“Indeed, ma'am,” agreed Kinsey.

“Fuck me,” Gladys added.

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

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

End of Part 4-6

Part 4-7​

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

 

Parahuman Response Team Guidelines:

(Unofficial & Unspoken Rules of the Chicago PRT Edition)

1) Taylor Snow is no longer allowed to go on vacation.
A) Addendum: Taylor Snow is allowed mandated vacation days, but must be escorted by now less than one full strike team and two PR personnel.
B) Addendum II: AT ALL TIMES.
C) Addendum III: ESPECIALLY TO THE TOILET. Finding a hydrokinetic cape hiding in a Hawaiian resort toilet should testify to the seriousness of this rule.

2) Normal rank applies at the Chicago PRT, except when Taylor Snow is running. Then she outranks everyone. Don't get in her way.
A) Addendum: Especially at Endbringer battles.

3) Master/Stranger Protocols do not have exception. They apply universally when in effect.
A) Addendum: Except for Taylor Snow. See documented immunity towards Master effects at [Redacted].

...just some funny stuff that popped into my head, given the way Taylor's career is going. Eventually, something like this is probably going to become well-known gossip at the Chicago PRT base.

 

Recoil

Part 4-7: Enemies Within and Without​

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 Winfield. “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?"

End of Part 4-7

Part 4-8​

 

4) Anyone who bets money on a pistol shooting match against Taylor Snow gets what they deserve. Seriously. Don't be so stupid.
A) Addendum: Betting newbies that they can't outshoot "that skinny Captain in Intelligence" is prohibited, as it constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.
B) Addendum II: Unless the base commander okays it.

5) Choosing to face a known supervillain alone and with just a pistol is grounds for instant dismissal, if you survive.
A) Addendum: Unless you're Taylor Snow. Then it's, you know, par for the course.
B) Addendum II: Actually, the pistol's probably overkill at this point.

6) Most PRT specialists defer to their security details when it comes to the use of weapons. Taylor Snow gives hers pointers.
A) Addendum: That aside, do not mess with Sergeant Kinsey.
B) Addendum II: The first rule about Sergeant Kinsey is, we do not talk about Sergeant Kinsey.

 

Taylor found herself in a funk after her vacation, and strolled the halls of the PRT building semi-aimlessly. Lisa said I'd be able to find something to lift my spirits around here, I'd just have to keep my eyes open.

Walking around a corner, she saw several deskjockies having an animated discussion... No they're just sharing a laugh, and one of them's waving a piece of paper around. aaaaaan yoink!
she thought as she snagged the paper out of the luckless jocky's hands and walked on.

Let's see 'PRT Rules: Chicago edition' As she read the rules she burst out laughing.

"Oh god.. that's too much..." mmmm I feel like I should add to this. Maybe something like 'Taylor Snow knows everything, even that maggot and you should be ashamed'

She searched for a pen to write with but couldn't find one; and a trip to the nearest empty desk revealed a lack of pens as well, though it did yield a paperclip. She then proceeded to pick the lock on the drawers of the desk, grab a pen, and lock the desk again

"ahha!" Taylor crowed as she wrote on the bottom of the list: 7) Taylor Snow is prepared for anything, even especially if she isn't.

 

Poon of Contention

omake by Luan Mao, with inspiration from KingHoborg, who was inspired by Luan Mao, who was inspired by ack1308, who was inspired by wildbow

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Taylor was too startled to respond at once. She opened her mouth to tell Kimball that she wasn't interested, that she was leaving town soon, that she was in a long-term relationship with a woman who loved her truly, that she had her eye on another man. The few seconds it took for Taylor to sort out her thoughts and untangle her tongue were plenty enough for a low growling to become audible over the street noises.

Kinsey looked about ready to rip Kimball into little pieces. Before she could ask him what that was all about, a cab came screeching up, the door burst open, and a woman burst out. "I knew it! Get away from her! She's mine!"

Everyone turned to stare at Andrea. True to form, she didn't look the least bit embarrassed. She simply glared at Kimball as she stomped up to Taylor and wrapped her arms possessively around her.

Kinsey had returned to his normal alert posture, constantly scanning for threats, but Taylor thought she saw something behind his expressionless expression.

Andrea saw it, too. "I won't fight you for her, Kinsey. I'm a lover, not a fighter. What do you say we share?"

That startled Taylor out of her silence. "What?! Wait a minute, don't I—"

Andrea laid her finger across her love's lips. "Shush, you. This is for your own good."

Unnoticed by the others, Kimball slipped back into the police station. PRT people were crazy!

 

Recoil

Part 4-8: Developments​

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.”

End of Part 4-8

Part 4-9​