Professionals - Inquisition

[Punkey]

JS Consulting
September 3rd, 6:05 AM
---------------

For Azuriel, his morning exercise routine is more than just a way to keep in peak physical condition. Somewhere in between weight training and the two mile run, the worries, stress and demons of the previous day melt away, carried away on the few ounces of sweat that evaporate off his body. With all that's happened in the last week, the angel is definitely feeling the need to unburden himself, and so he's pushed himself up to his limit, even allowing his bonds to loosen slightly to exceed what his physical form is capable of, trying to free himself of the thoughts, doubts and emotions rolling around in his head.

Az runs up the garage steps back into the apartment, collapsing into a chair at the dining room table. As he sits there, he checks his pulse and tries to catch his breath when he hears something stirring from inside Sharon's room. The shift of focus from tracking his exercise to the waking demon causes a pang of guilt. Damn, Az thinks, and stands up to change out of his running clothes into his morning cool-down outfit.

Sharon walks out of her door and intercepts Az as he heads for his room, clothed in a grey sweatshirt and underwear. She walks up to Az and takes his head in her hands, causing a brief moment of panic before she presses her lips against his and kisses Az, adding just a bit of tongue at the end.

"Good morning," she says after she's finished with her unprovoked romantic assault.
"...why?" is all that Az can manage to say once he gathers his wits again.
"I've decided that I'm not going to accept what you said the other night."
"I don't think that's something up for negotiation, Sharon. My reasons still stand."
"Yeah, but I don't agree with them," she says, a smile on her face. "I think that they're bullshit and that you think they're bullshit too. So, I'm going to kiss you first thing every morning until you come to your senses."
"You don't really understand the concept of 'subtle persuasion', do you?"
"I prefer the 'shock and awe' strategy in emotional warfare," Sharon says. "Speaking of which..." She turns and walks towards the kitchen, adding a bit more sway to her hips as she walks away.

Az watches her walk away for a moment, then catches himself staring as the demon walks off. Double damn, he thinks, and walks back into his room shaking his head.

---

Karen's sitting in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal when Sharon walks in. She quickly averts her eyes when she realizes that Sharon's not wearing anything but panties below the waist.
"Pants! Pants, please," Karen says.
"Relax, they're in the laundry room," Sharon says, and opens the door to the laundry nook under the stairs.
"Don't you ever take your clean laundry out of there?"
"Why, when it's right over here?" Sharon says from inside the room.
"Some of us aren't comfortable seeing each other walking around in lacy underwear, scavenging for clean clothes," Karen says.
Sharon steps out of the laundry room, sporting a matching pair of sweatpants. "There, happy now?" she says with a mischievous smile, and cracks open the fridge.
"Yes," Karen says. "You're in a much better mood than last night. Anything good happen?"
Sharon pulls a plate stacked with three uncooked steaks out of the refrigerator, and takes a seat at the table. "You could say that." She picks up a steak and bites a chunk out of it. "I've figured out how make Az change his mind."
"About falling in love with you?" Karen asks. "It must be a good one, I don't think I've seen you just eat raw meat at the table before."
"Yeah, normally I just feel so self-conscious about it, and it's not an everyday craving, but sometimes I just want to sink my teeth into some red meat, you know?"
"I hear you," Karen says. "So, the plan?"
"I'm just gonna hunt him down and make him admit that he's in love with me," Sharon says. She swallows the second half of a 16 ounce steak whole. "I'm starting slow, giving him a taste of what he's missing every morning, a few looks here and there, and we'll see where it goes from there."
Karen smiles, adding a predatory edge of her own. "Good."
Sharon almost coughs up the hunk of meat she just swallowed, but manages to keep it down. "What? I thought you'd have more of a problem with this plan, that you'd tell me to take it slow, avoid the blatant sexual harassment charges."
"Are you kidding me? I wish I had the guts to go after a guy like that," Karen says, leaning forward. "Az is into you, you just need to convince him that it's the right thing to do, even if you don't have that much time left. "
Sharon smiles, a drip of blood from the steak escaping from her mouth. "Oh, I've got a clear message for him. It's not the time, it's what you make of it."
"Speaking as the only mortal present, damn right," Karen says, raising her glass of orange juice. "So, are you ready for the Kirschner funeral?"
"They making you go too?" Sharon asks.
"As the public face of our city's efforts to curb metahuman crime and crimes against the metahuman community, I'm officially obligated to make an appearance, according to the DA," Karen says.
"Yeah, well, I'm not a big fan of paying my respects to someone who took a shot at me and then outed me to the whole damn city," Sharon says. "But the whole SCU is turning out to keep the peace, which includes us. Helsing has a briefing for us in two hours, and then we roll out."
"Well, I've got a speech to deliver on the church steps after the ceremony, and then I'm heading off to Federal Plaza to debrief Camille," Karen says. "You did a good job bringing her in, Sharon. I think she'll be able to crack the rest of this thing open for us."
"And Golgotha?"
"It's my top priority." Karen shivers. "A government breeding program for metahumans? It's my worst nightmares come true."
"It's not the first time," Sharon says, tossing down the last chunk of meat. "Well, I've got to find my dress blues and iron them out. I'll see you at the church."

---
Special Crimes Unit Squadroom
September 3rd, 8:28 AM
---

The squad room is packed to the proverbial rafters, as most of the Special Crimes Unit has assembled for a briefing by Lt. Helsing. Jack and Chrome are sitting on folding chairs right next to the entrance, looking worried. Az is leaning against a desk in the back, looking very self-conscious behind a pair of shades. Sharon's shooting the breeze with the marksmen of the unit, but occasionally sends a smile Az's way. Finally, Helsing walks in, remote for the room's projection system in hand. He clicks the first slide in before he even takes off his coat.

"Short and sweet: today is Kirschner's funeral. As the unit that investigated his case and made the arrest, we're expected to show some presence."

The slide shows a picture of Kirschner just after his release from custody, walking out of the court room triumphantly. Nobody in the room likes seeing him like that, but the only other pictures of note are from his booking and the parking garage where Jack shot him to death.

"The service begins at 11 AM sharp at St. Paul's Chapel," Helsing says, and clicks in the second slide - a picture of the church. "Raecher, Marcos, you're with me. We'll be in the front to pay our respects. Hansen, Schaefer, I want you in the back, watch the entrances. Torres, O'Neill, you help Hansen and Schaefer with that. I don't need to mention that this is a proper wake, so dress uniforms all around. For the outside, we have three teams to work security. We're expecting some picketing action from both pro and anti crowds, so we'll have to coordinate to keep them away from the church and from each other. We'll have some reinforcements from the two-seven, so I expect you guys to lead by example."

Third slide shows a rather pastoral field of green dotted with graves, with the skyline of Manhattan in the background.

"One of the anti groups is paying for Kirschner to be buried in a plot out in Long Island, so that's where we'll be heading when this is done if everything goes well. We have escorts for the hearse and some locals on station at the cemetery. We don't think that the picketers at the church will follow the convoy, but I'm fairly sure there'll be more of them at the cemetery. We'll figure out a plan for the burial once we arrive at the plot and coordinate with the Nassau County police. Any questions?"

There's a pause, then one of the SCU detectives raises his hand. "Why the fuck are we doing this, sir?"
Helsing's attention snaps to the detective in question. "What's that, Esposito?"
"With all due respect sir, this is a fucking travesty," the detective says. "We're being forced to attend the funeral of a hump who killed three people, shot at one of our own, got bailed out on a bullshit technicality and then got put down after almost killing another cop. Why the fuck are we doing this?" Rumbles of agreement sound from around the room.
Helsing sighs. "Because this is the only shot we have at calming this down before it gets really bad," he says. "I don't know if you've read the papers lately, but things haven't exactly been quiet recently. The media is watching us like hawks. There's been too much action, too many things that went loud in the last few weeks, and we're just a few notches away from being publicly crucified as loose cannons. We have to show that we're cops, that we respect the obligations that our department has, and most of all that James Kirschner's death is a tragedy, not an assassination by the NYPD's freak squad. We can't let the antis monopolize this, and we can't look like a bunch of vigilantes with badges." He pauses. "No matter how much of a fucking scumbag he was. Got it?"

--------
St. Paul's Chapel
September 3rd, 11:15 AM
--------

The wake of James Kirschner - and the service for him - is a strange one, because it is conducted absent any family or close friends. Instead, the pews are packed with acquaintances from high school, city officials, several prominent antis and, of course, Az and Chrome right in front, listening to the pastor's speech. Both of them would rather be somewhere else: Chrome feels distinctly unwelcome in her dress uniform, which in her career she has worn just enough times to need two hands to count, while Az finds that his attitude towards the standard-issue speech built around Psalm 23 has, over time and repetition shifted from appreciation to boredom to irritation to, finally, resignation.

It's a show. And the only thing that matters is who'll be seen walking out of this place, Az thinks. Church steps make great photo ops.

In the back, Jack and Sharon toss a glance between each other. They're standing near the front entrance of the church, ostensibly as a security measure, but the Chapel is small enough that they're still getting most of the speech clear and loud. Sharon looks around every few minutes like she's not sure when she'll spontaneously burst into flame from being in a church, while Jack reflects on the case and the media circus that followed, and comes to the conclusion that the best he can do is keep quiet and count the hours until it's done and over with.

Jack shifts his stance so while it still looks like he's standing at ease, he's actually leaning against the back wall of the church. "I never liked the boring parts of Mass."
"I wouldn't know, really," Sharon says. "Fell before Mass existed. So, you went to church a lot back in the day?"
Jack nods. "Family was Catholic. Eventually, I found something to do to make Sunday mornings pass faster."
"What was that?" Sharon asks innocently.
Jack clears his throat and scratches the back of his head. "Umm...choir boy."
"Oh," Sharon says. "That's nice. You sang a lot, then?"
"Yeah. I even did a bit of glee club in high school." Jack braces himself for the mocking to come.
"Cool."
"Cool?"
"Yes," Sharon replies. "I approve."
Jack looks at Sharon, surprised. "You approve of me wearing a big gown and singing 'Hallelujah' every Sunday? No mocking me, calling me a girl?"
"No, I like singing. I think it's a great skill to have." Sharon grins. "And now I know my ears aren't playing tricks on me when you use the shower."
Jack's face turns bright red. "Well...err...thanks?"
"No problem. But a bit less Cheap Trick, okay?"
"Yeah, sure." Jack looks back to the front of the church. "I'm gonna pay for this later, aren't I?"
"Funny," Sharon says, stealing a glance at a crucifix hanging from a nearby wall. "That's what I was just thinking."

---

After the ceremony, Karen leads the team and Helsing down the steps to the waiting crowd of media standing on the sidewalk, cameras aimed at the precession following Kirschner's casket. Across the street, protesters from both sides of the metahuman debate shout at each other, a tactful and contractually agreed upon distance away from the ceremony. Behind her stands Craig Sherman, one of the leaders of what he prefers to call the public protection movement. Karen has a name for them as well, but it isn't nearly as politically correct, or publishable for that matter.

As agreed upon before the ceremony, Karen gets to address the press first. "First, I'd like to thank the members of New York City's Special Crimes Unit that are here today." Listening live on radios across the street, the anti-metahuman protesters shout curses at the mention of "the freak squad". "Without their tireless service, the streets of New York City wouldn't be safe for anyone, metahuman or not. But let us not forget why we're here today. The goal of any police officer is the successful apprehension of the suspect so they can face their accusers in a court of law. The death of James Kenneth Kirschner, or any suspect, is not the final goal of police work. It is unfortunate that his choices forced Detective Schaefer to use lethal force to protect himself, but we can't change what has already happened. What we can do is remember those that have died, and take this opportunity to move forward, away from the hate that lead James Kirschner to commit the actions he confessed to. Metahumans, even the powerful ones, are still people. They have a choice between good and evil, just like any other person, and it's that distinction that we should be focusing on."

There are some polite claps from the part of the audience that hasn't been booing Karen since she started talking. Karen walks back to stand in front of the team. As she heads up the steps, Sharon nods towards her with a slight smile on her face, while Chrome just grins. Jack and Az continue to scan the crowd while Sherman steps up to the array of microphones.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, "first of all, I'd like to thank all of you who showed up. That the SCU is here, I consider merely professional courtesy. We're all here today because James Kirschner is dead. Not because we are taking the opportunity to move forward. Not because we had a choice. He was a human being and we owe it to him to be here and remember him. Remember how James died - with no sentence, no judgment leveled against him, alone and scared, crawling on the ground. That is no way to die, for nobody. Did he make bad choices in his life? Of course! But I challenge you to come forward and call yourself better than him! The mistakes we all make are no smaller than James's - the only difference is that we were spared the ultimate consequence. Perhaps it is simply that our time has not yet come. I look at the Special Crimes Unit, and I am sad -" he pauses for the crowd's reaction to die down - "I am sad that so many good officers of the New York Police Department, who joined the force to protect and serve the community, are at the mercy of the few who cannot marshal their impulses. The shameful few who shoot first and ask questions later, who use their powers to terrorize the good citizens of this city. I've no quarrel with the NYPD, ladies and gentlemen - only with those who hide behind it! And I say that we have endured enough. We have endured! We have stood by the sidelines and let those who hide their incredible capacity for harm and danger behind the color of authority! We have not changed our minds. We cannot, and we must not. We are the constant voice of conscience in this city, and I say - it is time we make ourselves heard!" The anti-metahuman crowd erupts in cheers from across the street. "We have organized a protest in memory of James Kirschner in front of Federal Plaza today! Come, join us in telling the federal government that no more will we accept dangerous living weapons in positions that they might abuse to protect their own! Join us in standing up for our right to safety, not only in our own homes, but in our society!"

The pro-metahuman half of the protesters across the street has become strangely quiet over the course of Sherman's speech, either from shock at what's being said or the increasingly belligerent and aggressive actions of the opposition. At Sherman's rallying call, the anti protesters follow him towards Federal Plaza.
Back on the steps, Chrome looks at the crowd with a horrified look on her face. "My God. Do they...do they really think that?"
Karen's face is simply a hardened mask at this point. "Most people, no. But those that do...let's just say that Sherman's friendlier than most."
Helsing's phone rings, and the lieutenant answers. "Helsing. Yeah, we saw the speech, we're there right now. How many? Alright, we'll be there in five." He hangs up and turns to the line of SCU officers standing on the steps. "That was the Chief of D's, he wants Schaefer, Raecher, Hansen and Marcos down at Federal Plaza right now, along with you and me, Karen. Keep things civil. Everyone else follows the precession, got it?"
"They want us to try to stop the East River, while we're at it?" Jack asks Az.

------
1 Federal Plaza
September 3rd, 12:32 PM
------

After the short drive to Federal Plaza, the team enters through the rear of the complex and parks in the underground garage. Helsing and Karen are already waiting for them upstairs. According to Helsing, the situation "is not good".
"You have any experience with riots, Sharon?" Jack asks.
"Instigating them, yes. Stopping them, not really." Sharon checks her sidearm in anticipation of the worst. "I'm thinking I should hang towards the back. Calming down angry mobs isn't really my thing, and I don't think that they'd be particularly happy to a big scary 'Other' out there."
"Good idea. I'll take a step back, too. Az, Chrome, you two still up to being the public face?"
"I don't know," Az quips, "I think I'd prefer wearing something more casual before stepping in front of that crowd."
"Oh, really," Chrome replies, "so you want the paint bombs all over your favorite shirt, then?"
"...maybe not. You know what? I'll just stand behind Karen and look solemn, this is what she's good at," Az says as the elevator doors open to reveal Karen and Helsing standing in the lobby, looking rather nervous.
"What am I good at?" Karen asks.
"Talking in front of angry mobs," Jack says. "At least, better than the four of us. We'll keep an eye on the protest, let you know if things are about to get out of hand."
"Sounds like a plan to me," Helsing says.
Karen swallows hard and looks out towards the crowd. They can't really see the protests from here, but it certainly sounds loud out there. "Yeah, sure. We'll see once we get out there, okay?"
"You sure?" Jack says. "If you don't want to -"
"Let's just get out there before this gets out of hand, alright?" Karen says.

---

Once they clear the doors, the six of them fan out like a well-rehearsed strike team. Az and Chrome escort Karen and Helsing towards the front of the protest, while Sharon and Jack each head off in different directions, looking for the best vantage point to observe the situation. The protest has swollen from a few dozen picketers with hand-made signs to over a hundred people, shouting and swelling back and forth behind wooden barricades and a line of increasingly nervous-looking NYPD officers.

Karen arrives at the front of the crowd and is handed a megaphone by one of the officers manning the protest line. They're all dressed in black riot gear, full armor with Lexan face shields and helmets. Her eyes switch between the defensive line and the protesting crowd; inside the mass of people who look like they walked here on an early lunch break and decided to spend the rest of their hour railing against metahumans, while others are waving spray painted banners and swinging their fists against the heavens. The shouted chants of the picket line overwhelm the protest, but the growing crowd is beginning to strain the limits of the barricades, and the crowd is becoming more unruly. Her vision flashes with premonitions, people chanting slogans, two protesters bumping against each other and starting a fight, her own voice over the megaphone, distorted beyond understanding. And more people.

Karen's glance falls to the side, and she sees people parking their cars in the distance and walking towards the protest. Her eyes wander yet further, scanning windows, rooftops, and eventually her head follows as she almost spins in place, trying in vain to locate the acute danger her gut is warning her about. Her mind starts spinning, imagining what could happen next. The crowd moves closer, pushing against the barricades, past the cops, a kid - just a damn kid - has a gun. Karen reacts instantly, before the kid takes aim, before anyone else sees him, she grabs the sidearm from Chrome's holster, takes aim and -

"You can start calming the crowd any second now," Az says.
Karen snaps back to reality, ashen with fear. "Uh...what?"
"You know, the speech thing?" Az replies.
"Yeah, maybe Chr - Cass should get this one," Karen says. "I don't feel good." The adrenaline in her veins usually helps her face these situations, but right now all it's telling her is that she needs to get the hell out of there, now.
"You sure?" Az says. "Cass?"
Chrome picks up the megaphone from Karen. "Yeah, I got this." She looks at Karen's pale complexion with concern. "Hey, how about you go back inside? We can handle this."
Karen takes a deep breath, and feels a little better. "No, I just need...I just need some air."
"Okay," Chrome says.
Az leans over to Chrome. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he whispers in her ear.
"Hell no," Chrome whispers back. "But who else is going to do it? I don't think you can use your powers to calm down a crowd this big, and you're not exactly the reassuring type otherwise."
Az starts to object, then just shrugs. "Just don't screw it up."
She gives him a nervous smile. "Don't plan on it."

---

Sharon's taken position behind some of the trees growing on one side of the plaza, and is watching the crowd in the streets below. There must be well over a hundred people standing in the street by now, the organized marching circle of the protest broken down into a mass of people standing about with banners and signs, shouting slogans and pumping their fists in the air. She wonders what's taking them so long to get out there, when she sees Chrome step up to the stairs and address the crowd. Oh, God, she thinks. This has to work. Come on Chrome, make it work.

"Excuse me!" Chrome says, managing to avoid the stereotypical megaphone feedback. The crowd quiets down, either out of respect for her and the uniform or out of Pavlovian response. "My name is Detective Cassandra Raecher, and I'm here on behalf of the New York City Police Department. We have no intention to interfere with your rally or protest in any way, but only if it remains peaceful, so please, stay back from the barricades and respect the orders of law enforcement."
"I saw her earlier! She was with the freak squad back at the church!" someone shouts.
"Yes, I am a member of the Special Crimes Unit," Chrome says. "We are here to make sure that you are allowed to express your opinions in a safe and orderly fashion, and to provide protection for this protest."
"You're just here to shut us down!" another shouts.
"All you care about is helping the freaks take over this city!"
"That is not what the SCU is here for," Chrome says, shaking her head. "The job of the Special Crimes Unit is to prevent and investigate crimes involving metahumans. That means crimes both committed against and by metahumans. We're here to make sure that everyone, both metas and non-metas, can feel safe, which includes this protest. We are not here to shut down this protest, we are here to make sure that you can express your opinions safely. Now please, everyone back away from the barricades, and there won't be any problems."

The crowd actually seems to believe her, and the front few rows turn around and start taking a few steps away from the defensive line. Sharon exhales a breath she didn't even realize she was holding. Great job, Chrome. She smiles, and takes a step out from behind the trees.
That's when the one thing Sharon's trying so very hard to prevent happens. "That's her!" someone shouts from the crowd. She turns, and sees a 40-something man pointing at her, a horrified look on his face. "The Others cop! She's here!"

The reaction this produces in the crowd is diverse. Some simply drop whatever they were holding and try to push out of the protest. Others push forward, against the line of officers. Still others shout and holler and hurl whatever's handy at Sharon, at the cops and at the federal building itself. Sharon's unsure of how to react for long enough to get some of the blast of a paint bomb on her, covering her dress uniform and face with red. Some protesters force themselves to the front, throwing bottles - both glass and plastic - at the riot cops. Sharon retreats back towards the federal building, trying to put some distance between herself and the budding riot before her presence makes the situation even worse.

Chrome brings up the megaphone again, but she can't summon the words to calm the crowd. She looks to Az, who shoots the same helpless glance back at her.

---

In the middle of the now roiling sea of people, a small group gathers, protected from the eyes of the police while they try to get the crowd under control. They've been joining in the protest, shouting the slogans and holding a few signs, but now, they crouch down and unzip three large duffle bags that they've been protecting. Others make their way through the panic, and each is handed a gas mask and body armor. Some grab a shotgun and shells from one bag, others assault rifles, all concealed under jackets, coats or other long clothes. They fan out again, and prepare to strike.

---

Karen managed to regain some composure during Chrome's attempts to pacify the crowd, and remarkably, actually started feeling much better once things started to fall apart. Her mind kicks into gear again, and she immediately realizes that there's no use trying to get the crowd under control again.
"Cass, Raphael, get back!" she shouts. "We need to get inside and let the riot teams do their jobs!"
Helsing's already on the radio, calling in for backup to their location. "We need every available unit to Federal Plaza, now! Put all riot teams on alert!"
That's when Karen's vision completely blinks out, and for a moment, she's blind and deaf. She knows what this is, that premonitions this strong are rarely good news. Her senses click back on like a television set.

She sees a man in his twenties kneel down in the crowd, surrounded by people running by him in fear on all sides. He drapes a bulletproof vest over his t-shirt and puts his jacket back on, as if he's simply heading out the door to buy a quart of milk. He adjusts the AK-47 he has hidden under a long trenchcoat, and starts walking towards the front defensive line. When he reaches the front of the crowd, he looks up and sees Jack trying to coordinate the riot police in front of him. He smiles, and wraps his finger around the trigger. With his other hand, he slowly clicks the assault rifle up two notches to full-auto.

Just as quickly as they were taken away, Karen's senses return to her. She sees Chrome standing directly in front of her, hands on her shoulders.
"Karen? Are you alright?" Chrome asks, concern in her eyes. "We've got to go, now."
"There's a man," Karen says. "In the crowd, he's got an assault rifle and body armor." She runs towards Jack's position, scanning the crowd as she does so.
"What?" Chrome shouts, running after her.
Az follows the two women, looking at the crowd himself. He's been around precognitives enough to know to trust them when they start acting like Karen is right now. "What does he look like?"
"Six feet-ish, brown hair, slender face," Karen says, and then she sees him. The man from her vision steps out of the bulk of the crowd, stops just beyond the people shoving to get past the barricades and sticks his hands in his jacket. "Him! Right there! He's the one with the gun!" Karen points at a man in a long trenchcoat, and starts running towards him.

Jack hears Karen shout "he's the one with the gun," and turns just in time to see him start to raise the rifle. The moment is terrifying. Jack feels his hand reach for his gun, trying to bring it up. The man's coat swings aside, and the AK comes up, straining against the sling to get on target. Jack has just enough time to realize that his shots could hit anyone in the crowd, but not enough to get behind cover. The gunman's weapon is almost on target, Jack has his finger on the trigger - and then a flash of dark blue tackles the man from the side, pushing him to the ground. Jack keeps his gun raised and runs forward, just in time to see Az pummel the gunman into submission.

Az pulls the assault rifle out of the man's hand and gives it to Jack. The angel quickly pats the man down and doesn't find any other weapons, then cuffs him. "He's clean. Karen, you see anything else, any other attackers, anything like that?"
"No, I -" Karen zones out mid-sentence, then comes back with a gasp. "Get everyone clear, now! There's a bomb in the TV van!" She points at a panel van with the logo of a local news network on the side, parked maybe twenty feet away from the crowd. "There's no time to disarm it, we have ten, maybe fifteen seconds!"
"Right," Jack says. "Get him clear, Chrome and I will take care of the crowd!"
Az grabs the restrained man and throws him over his shoulder. He grabs the radio off his belt with his other hand. "All units at Federal Plaza, there is a imminent bomb threat, clear the area, now!"

Chrome and Jack shout at the people to get back, but they're all too panicked to listen, and the sudden takedown hasn't improved the situation any, either. Frustrated and running out of time, Jack closes his eyes and focuses, then telekinetically shoves a ten foot length of the crowd back at least five feet, knocking most of them to the ground but still getting them out of harm's way. Chrome grabs a long wooden barricade, and using a level of strength she didn't think she's capable of, shoves the rest of the crowd back, using the barrier as a battering ram.

Maybe Chrome is imagining it, but she thinks she hears a click - and nothing else, in that moment, but the click. It sounds right. A heartbeat later, the overpressure wave hits and throws her to the ground. She doesn't hear much after that.
_________________
Gatac: Disco Jesus is a dick.
Punkey: Yes.

[Gatac]

For Karen, the explosion seems to go in slow motion the second time around as the blast peels open the van like a red-hot flower, sending a plume of flame into the air. The blast knocks her down, and she lays there for a moment, stunned by the explosion. She's still on her back, staring at where the fireball melted into the sky when she hears Jack shouting orders. She can't quite make out what he's shouting, but it seems to rally the nearby cops as they desperately attempt to contain the growing pandemonium that the explosion has left in its wake. She can see Az get on the radio, presumably to call ambulances and backup, and the circle of riot police surrounding them, protecting them from the panicked crowd.

What just...

A hand grabs her from behind and helps her on her feet; she turns around to see Chrome, who's carrying a shocked expression Karen can easily imagine on her own face.

"Are you okay?" Chrome asks emphatically, having to raise her voice to be heard over the shouts and screams of the panicked crowd around them.
"Yeah!" Karen shouts, and checks herself for injury. The unruly sea of people at the protest has burst into a flood of bodies running to and fro, desperately seeking a place to get away from whatever is going on. Some run up the streets, some into the buildings, and some even force their way past the guards into the federal building.
"Where's Az?" Chrome says, looking at the part of the crowd where the angel wrestled an attacker to the ground just moments ago. For a few seconds, it looks like there's nobody there, that brief glimpses of the ground between the people show nothing - and then he emerges a few meters to the side of it, attacker handcuffed in front of him.
Az looks like he's taken a bit of a beating wrestling on the ground and fighting through the crowd, but he's still in one piece. Struggling with both the suspect and the crowd, he takes a few more hits, but finally manages to drag the man and himself into the protective circle of riot cops. "All here," he gasps. "No thanks to this fine gentleman."
Chrome unhooks her radio. "Sharon? Where are you? We lost track of you when things started to go bad."
"Got myself to a better vantage point," Sharon's voice comes in. "Look up. Building across Duane." Chrome and Karen look in that direction, and see Sharon hanging from the side of the building, claws dug into the concrete, but otherwise unshifted. Below her, protesters flood away from the intersection, oblivious to her presence. "That bomb strike you as a bit small?"
"It looked big -" Chrome says and flinches as a man bounces off a cop's riot shield and almost bowls him over. "Big enough standing right next to it."
"But look at the federal building," Sharon says. "No damage. It wasn't close enough to do anything more than bust a few windows, much less inflict any structural damage. It wasn't even big enough to hit more than a quarter of the protest. You want to bring down a building, you get more explosives closer, or you use the underground garage, or..."
"It's a distraction!" Karen shouts, and grabs Chrome by the shoulder. "Camille's in the Federal Building!"
Sharon arrives at the same realization, and has to resist the urge to launch off the building and glide full-speed into the front of the federal building. She realizes she can't get there quickly without making things even worse, and punches a dent in the building in frustration. "Fuck, this could be a hit." She sighs. "Chrome, get in there and get her out, now!"

---

The guards in the lobby of the federal building never had a chance. Seconds after the bomb went off outside, it seems like all of them try to cram through the doors and broken windows of the Federal Building's lobby. They dive behind counters and into bathrooms and storage closets, powerless to stop the horde of panicking protesters from flooding into the building. Inside the crowd, people bounce off each other like ping-pong balls in a paint shaker, some managing to stay on their feet, while the unlucky ones fall to the black marble floor to be trampled by the crowd. A brave security officer uses a metal sign holder as a shield, and makes his way to a downed woman, carrying her to safety as she bleeds from a nasty head wound.

Three men run with the crowd, moving through it like sharks through a school of sardines, looking for their target. They push towards the stairwell, shoving their way through the door. The rest of the group makes their way into the stairwell with them, fourteen in all. Once they're all inside, one of them nods, and they all head up the stairs to the second floor. They head straight for the second floor elevators, as the first floor has been locked down to keep the riot from spreading through the rest of the building. They just need to get to the elevators, and then -

"Hey! You're not supposed to be up here! Go wait by the stairs until this thing is over." A security officer is standing by the elevators! The group freezes in a moment of panic. "Did you hear me? This area is off -"

He sees their AK-47s and pump shotguns, and his eyes go wide. His pistol barely clears the holster when a blast from a 12 gauge blows his uniform shirt open in a spray of blood. He's dead before he hits the floor, the wide-eyed expression of surprise frozen on his face.

"I thought there weren't supposed to be any fucking guards on this floor!" one of them says.
The shooter pumps her shotgun. "He was in our way."
"So what, we're gonna kill fucking people, too?" the first one says. "That's bullshit. I didn't sign up for that."
"What, you think the FBI only hires freaks for their freak squad? Not even the NYPD's that stupid," another one says. "Some people have to die for our message to be heard. Now stop bitching and put your masks on." Gas masks are retrieved from jackets and donned as the group walks around the guard's body, and one of them presses the button marked "Up".

"We need to go over the plan again," the first one says. "You guys are off the plan."
"Shut the fuck up, Green," the shotgunner says. "I know what I'm doing. Long as you don't get us killed..."
"Less talk, more attention," the leader says. "Weapons check, everyone."
Green pulls the bolt on his AK-47 back; a single cartridge flies out of the ejection port and clatters to the ground. "Check!"
"Check," the shotgunner says, without doing anything. Green glares at her.
The rest of the group fumbles about with their weapons; in the tight space of the (admittedly big) elevator cab, it's difficult to work the controls, but eventually eleven more "Check!"s ring out.
"All check," the leader says, checking his own assault rifle and glancing at the elevator's display. "We hit in five - four - three - two -"

DING!

The shotgunner is the first out of the elevator. It opens in a small hallway stretching to both sides of the elevator lobby. Directly up ahead lies the glass wall and door that leads to the Metahuman Crimes Unit of New York City's FBI contingent. The shotgunner makes her way to the next corner, setting up covering fire for the next attacker to exit.

"Man, hurry the fuck up," Green says to himself. "Got better things to do than die in this deathtrap."
"You got the other side?" the leader asks.
"Sure, just as soon -"

The shotgunner takes her left hand off the gun and raises it in a thumbs-up gesture; Green takes a deep breath, then exits the elevator, AK raised to his shoulder. With his back to the shotgunner, he scans the hallway in the other direction before taking cover behind the corner. He glances over to the elevator, then gives a thumbs-up of his own.

---

The FBI-MCU (NYC) office is set up on an open floor plan, a large central area ringed by separate offices with glass walls toward the center. The center is a virtual mess of desks and 3/4 height partitions, covered in people, case notes and cabling. If only three phones were ringing at any one time, it would count as a slow day. But since there's a riot going on downstairs and a bomb just went off, every phone is ringing off the hook. People are running, trying to get a handle on who could have done this. File folders are telekinetically pulled into hands, one person disappears from one cubicle and appears in another.

To this barely contained chaos, a flashbang is added.

It's brighter than the sun shining through the windows, louder than the muffled explosion downstairs was, and the pressure wave throws people to the ground and scatters loose papers over the floors.

The shotgunner goes in first, after a five-second delay; she finds the entire office in pandemonium, people clutching their heads and writhing on the floor. Before she can call for the others, one FBI agent just pops into being out of thin air right in front of him with gun in hand, having apparently escaped the blast; the gunner shoots him out of reflex, and a cloud of shot pellets shreds the agent's pelvis and left leg. He tumbles to the floor, adding his screams to the general cacophony. He fades into thin air before hitting the ground.

"Teleporter loose!" the shotgunner shouts. "But he won't get far!"
"You fucking psycho!" Green screams, right behind the shotgunner.

Green rushes past the prone agents in the main office and sweeps the farthest office, dragging a cowering agent back out into the open. The other attackers follow Green's maneuver, clearing the offices and herding the people into the central area. One of the clerks regains his eyesight and balance just enough to telekinetically push Green into a water cooler, forcing the gunman onto the ground and spilling the water bottle onto the carpet. Before Green can bring up his gun to shoot the attacker, another agent sticks his hands in the pool of water as sparks leap from him, through the water and into Green, who screams and seizes until another masked terrorist hits the electrically-charged agent with the butt of his shotgun.

More gunshots. The leader's in the room, and he empties half his magazine into the ceiling.

"Enough!" he shouts. "White, help Green. Red, bag the bastards." As the attackers get to work, the leader climbs onto a desk.

"Ladies, gentlemen and freaks!" he shouts. "This office is now under my control. Fuck with us and you will get shot, no ifs or buts! If you got powers, well, you might want to know that we hate you - so don't go showing off, unless you like pain! Your colleagues who have already blown their wad will serve as demonstration! Everyone else, would you kindly turn over your weapons to my qualified assistants? If you all play nice, you might just survive this day. Now -" he says, casting his look across the room, "any more heroes?"

---

Az, Jack, Chrome and Karen run into the lobby, now barricaded and emptied of the rioters that overwhelmed the guards. Outside, things still aren't over yet, but the rush of police to the scene is helping things calm down. Helsing is still outside, coordinating the sweep of the area for more bombs. The lobby is littered with trash, benches and potted plants knocked over and kicked around in the melee. An impromptu triage area is set up towards the back, with injured protesters being looked at, bandaged and sutured by EMTs both from the Federal Building and elsewhere. The screams and shouts of the wounded echo through the usually empty space.

"That certainly could have gone better," Az says.
"I'm sorry, my crowd control skills are no match for a bomb going off," Chrome says sarcastically.
"That was not a knock against your abilities, my dear, merely an observation," Az replies.
"You did great, babe," Jack says, giving her a peck on the cheek.
"Thanks," Chrome says. "Karen, we've got to get Camille now."
"Right, fourth floor." Karen and Chrome run down the lobby towards the elevators.

In all the noise, the sound of flapping wings from outside goes mostly unheard. Az only notices it when the EMT who's helping him stops and stares towards the door, slack-jawed. Az's eyes follow the man's look, and he sees Sharon in silhouette, folding up her wings against her body. After a second where her silhouette shrinks, she walks forward and enters the lobby, wings still draped over her shoulders. Together with the dress blues underneath, she looks like a cloaked knight errant entering the throne hall of the king, save for the claws, horns and red skin. Even those retract and fade away, leaving no evidence of her demonoid form except for two holes torn in the back of her uniform.

"I'm going with them to get Camille," Sharon says, having never broken her stride after landing.
"They've got it handled," Az says as she walks past. "You have to stay here and help with the bombing."
"The Hell I do," Sharon says.
Az nods to the EMT, then runs up next to her. "I know that you see yourself as her protective mother Sharon, but you need to stay here for now, alright? Chrome's got this, let her spread her wings a little."
Sharon stops, and sighs. "Fine. I suppose she did a decent job with the crowd earlier."
"Yes, she did."

As Az and Sharon turn back towards the main floor of the lobby, a prone man suddenly pops out of thin air a few feet above the ground in front of them, and hits the floor hard. He screams in pain, and Az can clearly see that his leg isn't just broken from the fall, but also littered with gunshot wounds. He rushes over to the man, and after a moment of uncertainty, Sharon follows. The man is barely hanging on, and Az sees that unless he stops the bleeding right now, he's going to be lucky if a leg is all he loses. Laying his hands on the wound, he knits flesh and bone back together just enough that the joint will heal properly and the man isn't in danger of bleeding out. The agent shouts in pain as Az heals him, then Az and Sharon pick him up and carry him to the triage area.

As they set him down, the agent grabs Az's sleeve. "You've got to -" he gasps. "They're in the office!"
"Where? Who are?" Az says. "Which office? Where did you come from?"
"FBI...metahuman crimes..." He starts to drift into unconsciousness, but then the EMTs start working on his leg, and the pain shocks him back awake with a shout. "AAH! Eleventh floor! I teleported out after one of the bastards tagged me with a shotgun. Thought there were only a few of them. Stupid..."
"Shit, it wasn't a diversion to go after Camille, it was to hit the FBI metahuman offices. How many attackers?" Sharon asks.
"Twelve, give or take a few," the agent says, gritting his teeth. "There's at least twenty hostages."
"That is very bad," Az says.
"No fucking shit," Sharon says, and grabs her radio. "Helsing, we need ESU here, right now. The guy we grabbed outside has friends, and they've taken hostages on the eleventh floor."
"Goddammit," Helsing says. "They're already en route, but I'll need to radio for the hostage situation gear."
"Alright, thank you, sir," Sharon says, and runs over to the nearest security officer and grabs him by the shoulder. "Take me to the security office, now."

---

Chrome and Karen run down the hallway to the office where Camille was supposed to meet Karen today. The floor is already ominously empty, having been evacuated almost the second after the explosion downstairs. Karen notices with a glance that Chrome has her hands on her duty weapon's holster, ready to draw.

"What are you expecting?" Karen asks.
"I don't know," Chrome says. "I just hope we're not too late."

Karen steps up to the door and calls out, "Camille? Are you there?" There's no response from inside, so Karen grabs the door handle and pushes the door open. That works as far as undoing the lock and pushing the door out of a position that one would call "closed", i.e. in full contact with the frame, but does not actually swing the door very far into the office, as its path leads it against a heavy object. "Camille?" Karen shouts again. "Are you okay in there?"

Together, Chrome and Karen manage to push the door open, and shortly find the culprit for the resistance - the secretary's desk had been placed against the door, and to judge from the spilled mug of coffee, rather abruptly. The door to the main office is similarly barricaded with file cabinets, boxes and the room's hatstand.

"Camille?" Karen tries again, walking closer to the main office's door. "It's okay, you can come out."
"Everything's fine," Chrome adds. "The bomb was from a couple of protesters downstairs. You're safe."

Chrome looks around the place. The windows are fixed and can't be opened; the biggest piece of furniture, the desk, is against the entry door, and that just leaves pictures, a scared woman and a few shelves in the room.

Wait a minute...

Chrome has to actively force herself to look back and concentrate on the space between the windows and the shelves. Her brain tells her that there's nothing special there, just a scared woman, move along now. She manages to look at the nothing special long enough to call out to Karen.

"I've...I've found something," Chrome says. Karen stops sweet-talking to the door and walks up beside Chrome.
"Where?" Karen asks.
"She's here," Chrome says. "Right...nearby."
"Okay," Karen says. "Camille? You can come out now. There's really nothing wrong." After a moment's pause, she adds "Canada."

Before Chrome can question the geographical vocabulary, Camille steps out of her hiding place. Her eyes dart between Chrome and Karen, and she's got...a weapon in her hands. A glance at the desk later, Chrome realizes that it's the blade of a paper cutter - hey, there's the wingnut on the floor.

"I'm okay," Camille says self-consciously, tries to put her right hand up to rub the back of her head in a "I'm harmless, really" gesture and realizes she's still holding the blade. She puts it down on the neighboring shelf and flicks her eyebrows up briefly. "Thanks for, uh, coming to get me. I was kinda worried."
"'Barricading yourself' worried?" Chrome asks.
"Ah," Camille begins, "no, first I thought I should hide but then I realized they'd take the room apart anyway, so I needed a weapon to overpower one and take their gun, but then I thought if I can keep them out long enough they might not risk it so I barricaded myself, but then I thought they'd break through with explosives, so I thought I should create a decoy, and I blocked off the main office, so they'd go in, go for the main office, and I could slip past them and..."
"Hold on," Chrome says, "who's they?"
"Sanctuary," Karen says. "Right, Camille?"

Camille just nods, and her smile is half sheepish embarrassment and nervousness.

"I guess everything is fine, huh?" she says. "No Sanctuary strike team staging a distraction to kidnap me right out of a federal building."
"No, but there is a terrorist attack going on. We need to get you out of here and up to JS Consulting right now," Karen says. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay," Camille says, holding up her left hand. "Got a little cut when I wrenched the blade out, but it's nothing. Didn't bleed-"
"No, I mean are you...okay?"
"I -" Camille sighs. "I barricaded myself in here with the blade from a paper cutter when I thought they were coming for me, Karen. I...I don't think that's 'okay', no."
Karen hugs Camille, then stands back with her hands on her shoulders. "Well, backup's here now, alright?"
"I think this calls for a hot chocolate," Chrome says. "Anybody with me?"
Camille sucks in a sharp breath and looks away briefly before her smile comes back. "I'd like that," she says.
Karen smiles. "We got instant in the kitchen in the apartment. Shall we?"
Camille tries to reply, but can't get the words out. She's still smiling, but a handful of tears stream down her face. Karen places her hands on her shoulders again, and Camille wipes her face with her left hand.
"Yes, let's," Chrome says.

As they leave the office, Chrome turns to Karen. "Canada?" she asks.
"We arranged a code-phrase," Karen explains. "In case I get taken hostage, or something. Mexico if things are bad, Canada if things are fine."
"...of course," Chrome replies.

---

The doors to the service elevator slide open, and two carts loaded with hardcase boxes roll out, pushed by ESU team members in full tactical gear. They pause briefly when they see Sharon ordering people around, but keep coming. There's a gaggle of riot cops and ESU specialists around Sharon, who has - somehow - managed to scare up a large flipchart and drawn a fairly accurate floorplan of the besieged FBI office on it.

"I'm expecting sentries here, here and here," she says, adding a third color to the plan. She looks up to see the boxes roll in. "Good, the fiber gear is here. I want those run through the vents and eyes on targets."
"Yes ma'am," one of the ESU techs says, and heads for the elevators with the boxes.
"They haven't made contact yet, so if they don't call in the next ten minutes, Detective Schaefer will be making the phone call, he'll be our negotiator for this one. Detective Raecher will be our eyes and ears in there once she gets back, and I'm tactical lead, unless any of you ESU guys want it."
"This freaky shit's all yours, Hansen," one says.
"Good call, Sucre," Sharon says. "I'm more bulletproof than any of you guys, that's for sure."

The doors to the lobby swing open with a dragging screech. Sharon stops talking, and Sucre turns around. A few men and women in heavy tactical gear with scowls on their faces are making their way over to the impromptu briefing session, and they don't look happy with how the day has gone so far.

"Special Agent Donovan, Hostage Rescue Team," the middle man introduces himself. "Who's in charge of this mess?"
"That would be Lieutenant Helsing," Sharon responds, "but if you mean the hostage situation, I am. Detective Irene Hansen, Special Crimes Unit. Glad to see you, we could use some more firepower from you guys if this goes south."
"I don't think so," Donovan says. "This is a federal building, which means the FBI has jurisdiction here. We'll be executing the rescue mission, you local LEOs need to just take a back seat."
"With all due respect, Agent, but we don't have any solid intel on the situation yet. We've been planning for an emergency breach, but -"
"They've got FBI agents hostage upstairs, and they already blew up one bomb outside. The longer we wait, the more likely it is that they'll start executing hostages. We go in now, hit them hard and fast before they have a chance to get set up," Donovan says.
"Whoa, slow your roll there, hotshot," Sharon says. "We go in now without knowing what's going on or where anyone else is, everyone could get killed, including you guys. Why don't you just let us do our jobs?"
"I'm not taking shit from beat cops, Detective. This is my job, and if I say that we don't have time for your touchy-feely crap, then we go in now and save the day before you've finished your scribbles there."
Sharon steps right up to Donovan's face. "Why don't you just take a fucking seat, Agent." The smell of hot sulfur on her breath and the red glow to her eyes strikes a primal fear in him, and he takes a step or two back. With the agent sufficiently cowed, Sharon calms back down. "We've got this, and if things go sideways, it's all yours, alright?"

Before Donovan can make the objection that this really isn't a very good deal for him, he finds himself sitting down on a folding chair next to Sucre. Sharon continues with her briefing, and Donovan shoots Sucre a 'Is she for real?' look.
"Welcome to my life, amigo," Sucre says with a smile and a shaking head.

-------
Broadway
September 3rd, 1:56 PM
-------

Camille sits in the backseat of Karen's car, staring out of the window. Strands of brown hair stick to her cheeks, and her right hand rests against her mouth, curled into a fist. Chrome looks over to her and puts her hand on Camille's shoulder; the young soldier flinches, turns her head to face Chrome and affects a smile.

"Still thinking?" Chrome says, putting on her friendliest smile.
"Oh? Oh, yeah," Camille says. "Still thinking."
"What about?"
"What I did back there, in the office," Camille says. "Half 'My God, why am I doing this', half 'That wasn't tactically sound'. It just feels like...out of all the things I could have done, I went straight for the dumbest one."
"You were under a lot of stress," Chrome says.
"Hah," Camille says, a short, stifled laugh. "I've been under a lot of stress since...uh, it's been a long time. I should be used to it by now. I got the training, years of experience in the field - come to think of it, I've never been in an actual field, poppies or corn, you know? - and I...I just collapse."
"Hey," Karen says, coming back from being lost in her own thoughts. "you know that's not fair. There's some things you can't train for. Things that no matter how much you've experienced...you're just not ready for." Chrome gives Karen a concerned glance. "Sounds nice," Camille says. "When you say it like you believe it. But when you're in a bad place, my experience is that saying it's not your fault doesn't help. You have to have a plan."
"A plan for turning double agent against the evil conspiracy that holds your parents hostage?" Chrome asks. "You've got to give yourself a break, Camille. No one is ready for that. We're all proud that you're holding together as well as you are."
Camille pokes a smile out from behind her fist. "I guess that was a little too much to ask of myself, yeah."
Chrome smiles. "Even Sharon's impressed, and she's never impressed by anything. I think the last time that happened was...years ago, at least."
"That's - I don't know her like you do," Camille says, "but it sounds like an achievement or something. Thanks for the pick-me-up. I really - I feel like I can relax, here. Stop looking over my shoulder for a minute."
"Aw, shucks," Chrome says, and laughs. "Everyone needs someone to lean on every once in a while. That's what we do best." Camille giggles at that while Karen rolls her eyes. "What? I think that's a good thing."
"Do we hand out puppies and kittens with each conviction, too?" Karen asks.
"I could go for a free puppy," Camille says.
Chrome turns around and sinks into a fake-pout. "Maybe you two aren't worth the trouble, then." Karen and Camille both laugh.

After a few more minutes of trying to navigate the already-clogged downtown traffic, which has only been made worse by a organized protest, bombing, riot and subsequent hostage situation, Camille has comfortably drifted off into her own thoughts, while Chrome notices that Karen's seem to be all too preoccupied.
"Something bothering you, Karen?" Chrome asks.
"Why?"
"Because you're quiet," Chrome says. "Karen-quiet, even."
"Just thinking about the last few weeks."
"What about?"
Karen hangs her head and sighs. "This is what talking to me is like, isn't it."
Chrome smiles. "Yes. And I'm going to pester you until you talk, so spill."
"I'm thinking about freezing up in front of the crowd today."
"I thought I remembered someone giving a good speech on the topic of preparedness and the limits of it not too long ago," Chrome says. "It came from one of the front seats..."
"That's not why I froze up, Chrome," Karen says. "I wasn't afraid of the crowd, I was...I was afraid of what I might do if things went wrong."
"Like...what?" Chrome replies, puzzled. "Judo them all to the ground? Prosecute them in a court of law?"
"I was afraid I was going to kill someone, and not out of self-defense. I saw someone break through the barricades, and I just gunned them down before they even did anything."

The silence that follows those words stretches from awkward to uncomfortable and all the way back again before Chrome can condense her thought process into a word.

"...why?"
"Fighting in that warehouse with Mark. I killed at least five or six people that night."
"God," Chrome says. "That - have you talked to Monica? Are you having flashbacks? If you need help -"
"It's not PTSD," Karen says. "The part that bothers me is that I'm not traumatized by it, that it feels so...not right, but not wrong, either." Karen looks over at Chrome, shaken from just the thought. "I was standing right next to him. Killing people with him. I always felt like I understood how he thinks. What if there's a simple explanation for that? What if we're not that different?"
"Oh, come on, you can't believe that," Chrome says.
"It was easy, Chrome!" Karen shouts. "It was just so fucking easy, and it didn't feel wrong at all! It felt like I belonged there all along, killing people with him. I don't know, maybe that's how people like Mark get their start. It's just easier than what I do, their powers let them do it really well, and then the next thing you know, I'm out there, seeing a minute ahead so I can snipe people in a moving car from a block away."
"Karen!" Chrome says forcefully. After waiting a moment for the ADA to cool down, she continues softly. "You're not like Mark. You're not like him at all. Mark killed people because he wanted to punish them for what they did, because that's how he solved his problems. You know better, just being this messed up over the idea that you might be the same as him means that you're better than that. Just because you can do something doesn't mean you have to do something, you just gave a speech about that this morning. Your powers don't determine who you are, you do." Chrome pauses for breath. "And you really should talk to Monica."
"I told you, it's not -"
"No excuses. I'm making an appointment for you as soon as I leave the office."

After a moment, Camille speaks up.

"So, uh, about that hot chocolate..."
_________________
Gatac: Just making sure you are aware of life-saving buttsex.
Punkey: I've always been aware of life-saving buttsex. Best Red Cross training weekend ever.

[Punkey]

1 Federal Plaza
September 3rd, 2:20 PM
------------------

Chrome takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out of the stairwell and scaring the crap out of the EMT and uniformed officer standing guard over the triage area, earning herself a Glock 17 pointed in her face.
She throws her arms in the air. "Whoa, SCU! Check the uniform!"
The beat cop, "Shaw", according to his nameplate, lowers his gun and shakes his head.
"What?" Chrome asks, and straightens out her uniform as she walks over to Sharon's impromptu folding table command post in the middle of the lobby floor.

In the intervening forty-five minutes or so since she's left, the lobby of the federal building has been converted into a combination field hospital/police command center, with police and FBI milling about, waiting for orders, boxes of equipment, and a few banks of folding chairs. Someone's even managed to bring in a few large pots of coffee and boxes of donuts and bagels, which is where most of the idle law enforcement officials can be found. Smartly, Sharon placed it far away from the command center.
"Jeez, jumpy much?" Chrome says as she walks up behind Sharon.
"Terrorists already blew up a bomb in the plaza and bum-rushed a federal building today, sweetie," Sharon says, still staring at the 11th floor plans on the flipchart. "So, yeah, most people are a little on edge."
"Good thing we're not most people then, huh?" Chrome says with a smile, and ever-so-lightly mock punches Sharon on the shoulder, then quickly jumps back, pretending to be on guard. "So, what's the situation? How's the surveillance setup?"
Sharon cracks a smirk at Chrome's comment, cliché though it may be. "Typical fed. Cameras cover the main work area from all sides, and get some of the side offices, but there's no coverage of the rest of the bullpen, except for the conference rooms. We're in the middle of setting up the monitors, if you care to be useful, and fiber cameras should be up soon."
Chrome drops her pretend defense and nods. "You can count on me!" she says, giving Sharon a thumbs-up gesture, then jogs off towards the security office.
Sharon shakes her head, and turns to Jack, who's sitting in front of the telephone setup on the table. "She's not being this sweet just to annoy me, is she?"
Jack shrugs. "You learn to love it."
"When?" Sharon asks.
Jack looks up and thinks for a second. "About the second week of waking up next to her in bed. She's a great morning person."
For a moment, Sharon looks past Jack, weighing the pros and cons of such an arrangement, but finally she just shakes her head once.
"...nah, too much work," Sharon says, and goes back to planning.

---

In the security office, worlds collide. A wrap-around glass desk houses an array of off-white keyboards and wall-mounted flat screens, all hooked up to a large cable tree descending through a pillar near the entrance. Under the desks, sleek rack mount blade servers do their duty, with quietly whirring fans and hard disks. In a free corner of the office, several carts with somewhat less modern police surveillance gear are being unloaded. Chrome spots a signal multiplexing setup and several coils of coaxial and Cat5 cable, and a mess of cables leads from one of the blades to the multiplexer, with a few black boxes and their respective power cables and plug packs hanging of those. Chrome's seen worse, but not much worse.

"Well, that was a big fucking waste of time," one of the cops from ESU's technical division says from behind the security console.
"Shut up, Dylan," another officer replies. She sees Chrome wander in and gives her a brief smile. "Hello, Detective. Any news from the front?"
"Not yet," Chrome says. "And what's a waste of time?"
The female cop rolls her eyes, but the first cop continues. "Setting up down here. We just managed to get a video feed out of the system, which isn't easy when your equipment is a pile of crap..."
"So, what's the problem?"
The first technician pulls himself out from under the desk. "The problem is that all our surveillance gear is eleven floors up. And I'm not running fucking coax through the stairwell, we don't have enough to even get to the third floor. I can't use the house wiring because that's all Cat 5."
"Okay," Chrome says. "Do you have wireless transceivers?"
"Sure do," the cop says, "but they're crap, too. They don't reach far enough to cover the distance."
Chrome thinks for a few moments. Just as the cop turns away from her, she pipes up. "The transceivers are set up for coax over N connectors, yes?"
"Yes..." the cop replies. "Same as the rest of our gear."
"And do you have enough cable to reach the stairwell?"
"Like I told you, Detective, I'm not running cable eleven floors up -"
"You don't have to," Chrome says. "The wireless transceivers can cover the distance. You just need a pair of directional antennas. I'll see if I can scrounge up some Pringles cans -" Chrome smiles - "so just sit tight and I'll be right back, okay?"

Chrome turns and walks out of the office.
"I would've come up with that eventually," the male cop says.
"Yeah, sure."

---

After hacking together two quick cantennas and fiddling with the system for a few minutes, Chrome runs a single data cable from the security office to the command center, where a high-tech computer security monitoring system is waiting.

"...and when I flip this switch..." Chrome says, and dramatically presses a button on the security monitor setup. Two screens change from the blue "No Signal" screen; one to a rotating view of the building's existing security footage, the other to one of the fiber camera's point of view, showing the officers on the eleventh floor preparing to slide it into a ventilation shaft.
"Voila! All the video you could ever want. Except cable." Chrome hops up from the chair, smiling and obviously very proud of herself. "You guys need anything else?"
"Thanks for showing us the light," the male technician mutters.
His partner gives him a friendly elbow to the ribs. "Thank you, Detective," she says. "We can take it from here."
Sharon nods her approval. "Head on up to the tenth floor," she says. "I need you to work on the fiber camera installation. I want eyes on them before we throw the phone."
Chrome nods, and heads for the elevators.

Sharon looks over the security monitors as Chrome gets on the elevators. "I can't see a good way for us to breach. The lines of sight are too good. If we go in there, it's going to be a blood bath. We'll lose cops and hostages. You're going to have to make the negotiations work, Jack."
"I'd hate to think that training week in Quantico was all for nothing," Jack says with a smile, and pauses. "I got this, Sharon. Don't worry about it."
"Worrying about this happens to be my job, Jack," Sharon says, and fixes Jack with a weary look. "And I'm trying to find a way that all this ends happily, but I'm having trouble seeing it."
Jack reaches over and puts his hand on Sharon's shoulder, then checks his watch. "We've got a few minutes before the fiber cameras will be in place. Why don't you go outside and take a walk, clear your head?"
"I'll do that," Sharon says. "Don't let the HRT blow up the building while I'm out."
Jack nods. "I'll call when they're ready to throw the phone."

---

Sharon takes a seat on a bench outside, leans her head back as far as it will go (that's a fair bit), closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. In. She waits for a second, then slowly breathes out. In again, pause, out.
Az drops onto the bench next to her. "Trying out that breathing thing everyone's been talking about? You haven't been taking much time to do that recently."
"Are you here to help me relieve stress?" Sharon asks, never opening her eyes. "Because there's a knot just above my left wing that's been bothering me all day."
Az tries to come up with another witty line, but fails. "Fine, turn around."
Sharon sits up and turns sideways on the bench. The conveniently pre-torn holes in the back of her dress blues sprout the tips of her wings, and as they work their way out, she wraps them around her body. Soon, Az can see the base, about where the middle of the shoulder blades would be for a human. His fingers probe the skin for the knot, which isn't all that easy, given her skin's natural toughness, but soon he finds what he's looking for. She groans loudly as Az starts kneading the point with his knuckles.
"Could you make this a little less embarrassing?" Az asks, his face turning red. "People are starting to stare, you know."
True to his word, a few of the police officers and FBI agents guarding the exterior of the building are staring at the scene unfolding in front of them. One of the FBI agents closest to them seems to be having problems keeping his eyes from falling out of his head at the sight of Sharon's wings. Az sheepishly nods at the agent, as if to tell him it's alright.
"Don't care. Feels too good," Sharon says, eyes closed, soaking in the moment. "It's just been one thing after another these last weeks, the Killer cases, Mark, my hearing, and then getting back to work and that Aztec case - ow - I think this is the first chance I've had to slow down."
"Do we need another vacation?" Az asks.
"Only if we stay away from apocalypse cults this time," Sharon says. She scoots forward and turns around, a smile on her face as her wings vanish back into her uniform. "Thanks. I needed that."
Az returns the smile. "Any time. Feeling ready to save some lives now?"
"Oh yeah," Sharon says. She takes Az's hand. "You coming in and joining the party?"

"Actually, I'd like to borrow him." Sharon looks to the side and sees Lt. Helsing standing a few yards away from them, wearing a wry smile on his face. "If you don't mind."
"What for, sir?" Az asks.
"I've just received a hot tip about a drug deal," Helsing says. "MCDs, too. The whole SCU is either dealing with Kirschner's funeral detail or stuck here working on the terrorist situation, so they're making me get my ass out from behind the desk and do some legwork for a change. I need someone to watch my back, and, well, I don't run that fast since Love Towers, so I thought of you, Raphael."
"I am flattered that I would be your first choice for backup, sir," Az says, and stands up. "I'm ready to go whenever you are." Sharon mimes a soldier marching and saluting from her seat on the bench behind Helsing, but Az ignores her.
"Good, let's head out, then." Helsing walks off towards the stairs down to the garage levels.
"I guess I'll see you later," Az says. "You sure you're ready to go?"
"Yeah, I'm feeling much better. Thanks," Sharon says. She gives Az a wicked smile. "At least now I know how to get a date with you. I wonder how hard the detective-sergeant's exam is..."
Az rolls his eyes. "If I was that easy, things would have been very different between Mark and me."

Sharon tries to spit out a comeback, but she sputters and locks up as she thinks about what Az just said. The angel smiles and shakes his head as he walks off.

-------
Karen's Apartment, JS Consulting
September 3rd, 2:25 PM
-------

Camille walks into the apartment's living room with her arms crossed in front of her chest and her shoulders dropped, as if fighting a slight chill. The place looks both more orderly and lived-in since Karen first moved in; the heavy crates of weapons and equipment have been removed and replaced with actual furniture. The only untidy part of the space is a small pile of dusty boxes propped against a closet door. Camille's eyes linger on it for a second; Karen catches her glance.

"I just found those yesterday," she says with a smile.

Camille nods wordlessly and walks towards the living room windows. They're relatively small and fitted with locks that don't let them open all the way; the skyline outside looks a bit dreary. She steps closer and looks down onto the street, where a few cars pass.

"Bulletproof glass," Camille says.
"Sharon likes her security," Karen says from the kitchen. "How do you take your chocolate?"
"Low-fat milk, please," Camille replies. Her eyes flick to the couch that dominates the living room - a large piece of cream-colored fabric, wide and deep enough to seat four people with ease. A strange series of black streaks and spots stain it in various places. Camille walks closer to the couch and stands next to it.
"You can sit down," Karen says. Camille looks at the couch a bit longer, then turns around and sits down experimentally. After a second of sitting on the edge, she scoots back until she hits the backrest, and slowly leans back into it, sinking into the fabric for a bit.
Karen walks into the room, mugs in hand. "Haven't found a cleaner that takes out demon tears yet," she says with a smile, and sets the mugs down on the glass-topped table. "Az says that I'd be better off tossing it and buying a new one, but I don't know. I think it's a nice touch."
"It's very - comfy," Camille says. She looks at Karen for a moment, then at her mug. Finally, she leans forward, grabs it and raises it to her lips. She takes a single sip and winces, but then she smiles lightly.
"Too hot?"
"Just a little," Camille says. "But it's really good." After a moment's pause, she adds "You could have a thing with that, if the DA career doesn't work out - you know, Karen Ayers, chocolatier?"
Karen laughs. "Thanks, but it's just instant. Heating liquids is about as far as my cooking abilities go."
"Better than me, I suppose," Camille says. "I can't boil water without burning it."
"Well, you'll have time now," Karen says. She stands up. "I need to go get my pocket recorder, but we can start whenever you're ready."
"I'm - okay. Just give me a minute, I want to collect my thoughts."
"Of course," Karen says. She smiles, trying to be as warm and comforting as possible. "I'll be right back, I just need to go into my office."
"Okay," Camille says, and tries to do that smile thing again.

As Karen walks into the next room, Camille takes another sip from her mug. Her face shapes as if she should be closing her eyes to savor the taste, but instead her eyes flick through the room. The windows are closed. The doors are locked. Karen is right in the next room. She takes another sip. Not a lot of sunlight in here, she finds. Camille briefly contemplates getting up to switch on the lights, but instead she just puts down the mug and leans back again.

Karen walks back over to the sofa and takes a seat next to Camille. She puts the recorder on the table, then looks at Camille. "We can start whenever you're ready. If you need more time, that's okay."
"No," Camille says, taking another look around. "That's fine. We can start."
Karen puts her hand on Camille's forearm. "It's okay," she says. "You can relax, we're safe here."
"Yes," Camille says, "we're safe here. Run the tape, please."
Karen doesn't know what to say for a moment. "Okay," she says, and presses the record button on the digital recorder. "This is Assistant District Attorney Karen Ayers, taking the testimony of Camille Belton on September 3rd, 2:34 PM. Camille, start wherever you want to."
"Yes," Camille begins. "My name is Camille Belton. I hold the rank of Specialist in the 3rd Special Circumstances Regiment, United States Army. The Regiment is also known as 'Sanctuary'. I have been an active duty member for the past six years. I was born in a place called Golgotha, 24 years ago. Golgotha is a community for...people like me. My parents were brought there in 1980. They were told it was the only safe place for them."

"Golgotha is set up like a town. There are houses, shops, businesses, a school, a church...everything you would need to live your life. When I was little, I thought it was a big place." Camille smiles. "One time I ran around the housing blocks, all fifteen of them. I was really out of breath when I made it. I never wondered about the towers in the distance, or the fences. My parents, my teachers, the guards - they all said those were there to protect us. Hah, I thought they were talking about wild bears. I had this book, about bears...but, no matter. I didn't think about it too much when I was a child. I thought every town had a fence and towers to watch out. The world's dangerous, you know? But Golgotha was a safe place."
"Safe? How?"
"Just, you know - safe. Like nothing bad could happen to you. I was a lively kid, you know? One time, I thought I'd go outside. I didn't even make it to the fence before someone grabbed me and scooped me up. He was a guard, and he was smiling. He told me that I could get hurt trying to climb the fence, and he took me home. My mother was so mad...so angry. And the guard kept trying to tell her that it wasn't a big deal, nobody got hurt, but she was really mad at me. I met that guard the week after. His name was...Corporal Nesbit. He asked me if I wanted to see the world from above, from up in the towers."
"Did he take you up there?"
"Oh, yes, he did. I think my mother almost had a heart attack when he told her where I'd been. And the view! It was a great view. I could see the whole town from up there! But outside, there was just...forest, and a single road. Corporal Nesbit told me that they'd have trucks over every day, to bring everything they needed. But it was in the morning, so there were no trucks when we were up there."

Camille pauses for a moment. "But you're not five years old forever. You grow up, and the questions you ask become more serious. Are there other places, towns? What are they like? I asked my Dad about where he came from, and he told me about Boston - like, the whole evening. Nothing but my Dad talking about the streets, and the people, and the sounds. I thought Boston must have been the biggest city on Earth, if they could fit all that into one place. I asked if we could go to Boston - maybe, for Christmas? Or my birthday. And when Dad said no...I think I understood it a little bit there. That Golgotha wasn't like other towns or cities." She sighs. "He seemed so sad when I asked about it. I never asked him about Boston again."
"What was school there like?"
"Boring," Camille says with a grin. "But I think it's supposed to be boring everywhere. We did a lot of PE, a lot of exercises, a lot more than we studied other things sometimes. I do remember learning all about history - the way different people treated each other. About the riots, the wars. They never came right out and said it, the 'People outside will hate you and mistreat you' line they were trying to sell us - but it was in every sentence, in every book. There was a world out there, but it was a sad place - where people weren't nice to each other. And of course, Golgotha - perfect little Golgotha - came out smelling like roses. It was all so easy to understand, why we'd never fit in outside. I thought I understood why my Dad was so sad about Boston - because it was a bad place."
Karen gets up and walks back into the kitchen. "Do you remember any of the other kids there?"
"I remember them all," Camille says with a wistful sigh. "Paul. Steve. Jan. Tara. Zöe. They were all my age..."
"Had you all started to manifest any abilities by that point?" Karen asks, searching through the fridge.
"All I knew is I never got into trouble. We did things - so many stupid little things, stealing chalk, hoarding balloons to make water bombs, climbing trees, hiding under cars, painting on walls - and when we were caught, it was never me on the line. Steve usually got the worst of it, because he had a mouth on him - but I never got caught, punished. I just...wasn't there. When I was eight, it got stronger. I remember this one time, in class - I put up my hand for a question, and after a few seconds, the teacher called on Tara, but Tara hadn't even raised her hand. And the next question, it was Jan, then Zöe, then Tara again - never me, no matter how much I fidgeted. It was like the teacher was looking right past me. I came up to him after class, and I took all my courage and asked him why he didn't like me. And he just looked at me like it was the first time that day that he'd noticed me being there."

Karen sits back down, a bottle of water in each hand. "How did Sanctuary react to finding out your ability?"
"The teacher sent me straight to the school counselor, to tell her that I was special. I asked if I'd done anything wrong, he said no, just talk to the counselor, she'll explain. And the counselor, she was...happy, I guess, or at least she had this bright cheer. She told me all about the gifts that many people at Golgotha had, how I should be proud of it, and that I would be getting special lessons starting next week."
"How did your parents react to that?"
"Well, I came home...and I didn't really know what to say. I had this, uh, kind of a diploma thing they'd printed out for me at the school, but I didn't know what to say. My mother kneeled down, and I looked away, and finally I said 'I'm special, mommy.' And then she just drew me into this hug, this tight hug, and she held me for a long time. She said, 'I know, sweetie. I know. We're all special.'"
"What were their abilities?"
"Oh, my Mom called my Dad over, and they put on this little show for me, they sat me down on the couch and then they started. My Dad, he does cryokinesis, so he got a little glass of water from the kitchen, dipped his fingers, and then he made it snow from his hand. And my Mom, she can imitate people, really well, everything but how they look. So she did impressions for me. I closed my eyes, and it was Martin Luther King - 'I have a dream!', and it was Dirty Harry - 'Well, do ya, punk?'. And we went for ice cream after that. I remember them being really quiet for a few days after that."

Karen takes a drink of water. "So, what were these special lessons?" she asks, leaning forward.
"At first, it was general stuff - techniques metahumans use to control their abilities, meditations, codephrase and gesture conditioning, the basics. But I also got grouped into another class, with older kids - they called it the snoop class. Those were all kids who had abilities that were useful for intelligence work - shapeshifters, listening to radio frequencies, technopathy, and me. Our homework assignment for the first week was to find out a secret about our parents. It was like this big game, they had prizes for everyone who could do it on the first day, for embarrassing things - the teacher joked that it would be things like watching old musical movies, and harmless things like that." Camille pauses for a moment. "I got it in one night. I snuck into my parents bedroom, and I found a hidden box with photos - my Dad and other, older people were on them. I was looking at them - they must have been my grandparents - when the light comes on and I see Daddy in the door, looking like he's about to die."
"What did you do?"
"I cried," Camille says. "I saw him and I knew that I had done something wrong. I cried and I pushed the box back, and I shouted that I hadn't seen anything." A few tears escape her eyes. "I didn't know what I was doing! I just knew you shouldn't snoop around, and I'd done that. I told him about the assignment, and I must have said sorry so many times, just sorry, until he reached down and hugged me. And he told me to tell my teacher that I was searching Mom and Dad's room when Dad and Mabel Pavlov, from the drug store, walked in together. I hid against the wall and snuck out without them noticing me. That's the secret, he told me. Mabel Pavlov."
Camille takes a few seconds to wipe her eyes.
"And the next day, I felt really bad. I didn't want to go to school, but my Dad told me that I had to. It was the homework, he said, you did it and you should go back and get your reward. I know now that he didn't mean to make me feel bad, that he wanted me to go through the motions...but I felt horrible. Really, as bad as I'd ever felt. And I went, and I don't know how I did it, but I went to the front of the classroom and I told them all - the other kids, the teacher - about Mabel Pavlov. And there was silence, until the teacher clapped, and told me that it was a good secret and that I'd done well. He gave me my prize, and I got my applause. I thought I'd done it, I watched the other kids tell their secrets - awful things, awful, worse even than what I was hiding, but after every one there was applause and a prize. I wanted to die. But I made it through, at least I thought I did. After class, the teacher told me to stay behind. It was just him and me, in that room. He reached into the drawer on his desk - and he pulled out the box, with the photos. I started crying again. Really, just crying, I didn't say anything because I couldn't. But he stood up, and he came over to me and gave me a napkin. And then he said it."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'That was very brave of you. You hid it very well. But you shouldn't lie to me, Camille. I'll find out.'" Camille shivers. "I'll never forget that. Ever."
"So, what were things like after that?" Karen asks, reluctantly getting back on track.
"I never got caught again," Camille says, steel in her voice. "School didn't change that much after that, classes were classes, but the special lessons, those changed a lot. The homework assignments got more complicated, more difficult, sometimes we had to infiltrate the guard facilities, sometimes we had to break into other people's houses, but they were never about our families again. I was top of the class, if you can believe it. I aced them all, all the tests, all the exams. And I, I guess I got a little proud of myself, even with that feeling in my gut that this wasn't right. But I never got a scare like that again, not at school. But - when I was seventeen, they told us that we'd be leaving Golgotha for the summer. Summer camp."

Camille draws in a stuttering breath, and she starts to cry again. Karen wraps her arm around Camille as she starts to tear up herself. "Why don't we stop here, okay? We'll take a break."
"Okay," Camille chokes out.
Karen stops the recording, and just sits there with Camille, holding her up as she leans on Karen's shoulder, both of them silent as more tears fall down her face.
_________________
Gatac: Disco Jesus is a dick.
Punkey: Yes.

[Gatac]

Federal Building
September 3rd, 3:02 PM
-----------

Jacob Edelman, Special Agent for the FBI, is currently gauging how far he can scoot up against the partition corner - it might be fractions of inches, but anything that gets him a little further away from the psychos that have taken over the office. The zipcuffs bite into his wrists, and this is really not a good time for having to take a piss.

But what can he do?

If the terrorists knew that Edelman was a metahuman, they'd probably have beat him until he was senseless and bleeding, like Cassady and Weir. He can hear the two in his head, the weird staticky noise he gets from people who are knocked out or hallucinating, but the entire thing has a disturbing vibe to it. Even in the blessed embrace of unconsciousness, he can feel their pain and fear put a sharp, red edge to the sound.

Donny, he thinks, looking to his friend, Donny Laughlin, across the room. I'm going to try to contact someone outside. There's gotta be someone down there by now, right?
Donny shrugs his shoulders. What do you have to lose? Jacob hears. Do you know anyone down there? Shit, there's Ben, but...damn.
Don't know his last name, either, Jacob replies. Think, Donny. Full names.
I don't know anyone from HRT or NYPD. Donny looks up towards the door. Shit, one of them's coming in here!

"And where do you think you're going?" the shotgunner shouts, grabbing an FBI clerk by the hair and pulling him to his feet. He winces in pain and keeps his eyes closed while she continues to scream at him. "Eyeing the door, are we? Getting away, that's what you're thinking, you fucker! Sizing me up for some kind of freak trick? Go on, motherfucker! Try me!" All the MCD metas know who each other are through training and Bureau-required meetings, and Jacob's never seen this guy before.
"Easy, Red," the terrorist leader says. "Sit the asshole down."
"Fuck that," she replies with a grin. "You're taking a walk, sonny. I'm gonna load a shell and chamber it. Think you can fry my ass before I blow your head off?"
"No, no," the clerk stammers. "I don't -"
"The fuck do I care?" the shotgunner says. "We're gonna find out, real scientific like! Live or die, motherfucker, show me what you got!"
"Red!" the leader shouts, poking the crazed woman in the back of the head with his pistol. "Calm the fuck down! We can't start shooting hostages yet, so put your fucking toy down and keep it in your pants, alright?"
She briefly considers plugging the terrified clerk anyway, then lets her shotgun hang on the sling. "Fine. You want to get fucking blown away by one of those freaks, it's on you." She leans against the wall, her crazed look flashing from person to person in the room.

Jacob looks back at Donny, eyes wide. It's fucking amateur hour up here. Jesus Christ, we're gonna fucking die if something doesn't happen quick.
Donny simply looks coldly determined. I know. Jacob can hear the resignation yellow out his thoughts. This is not good.

---

The federal building has what a contractor would describe as "fucking big" main air vents. That specific "fucking big" size is just big enough for a lithe adult to squeeze into. It is one of those moments where Chrome really, really doesn't like having the smallest frame on the team. She's spent the last few minutes staring at the vent she has to crawl through, trying to psych herself up for running the fiber camera and not thinking about the vent imploding inwards on her, trapping her forever in a pressed aluminum grave.

You can do this, Chrome, she thinks. It's just a vent, it's anchored every two feet, it's completely safe. It's nothing like being buried in a coffin for a few centuries. These thoughts do not help with her breathing, which is still flirting with hyperventilation.
She yanks on her harness again, checks her pull line. "M-maybe we should add a backup line, just to be sure, you know?"
"That would just add more snagging risk," the technician replies. "And you don't want your gear to snag on anything in there, trust me."
"Besides, where would they attach it?" Avenger says, sliding silkily out of the vent. She finishes her backwards handstand dismount and leans smugly against the nearest ESU member. "This harness is just so tiny..."
"Shut up," Chrome whispers. She takes the few shaky steps between her and the vent very slowly, but she manages to grab ahold of the edge. As Avenger holds her breath in mock-suspense, Chrome pulls herself into the vent. She feels like she's about to pass out, but then she remembers to start to breathe again. "F-fiber c-c-camera," she says. The ESU tech feeds the fiber line up and over Chrome's back, and she grabs ahold of it.
Avenger looks up at Chrome, head resting on folded arms, an accusing look in her eyes. "S-s-stuttering p-problem? Feeling like you need to b-back out?"

Chrome hears a groaning noise from deep inside the building, and her heart almost leaps out of her chest. The walls start closing in, and her mind is screaming at her to get out, get out now. Desperately shutting out the dank scent of moist earth and the pricking sensation of bugs under her skin, Chrome closes her eyes and grips the cable as tight as she can, breathing in and out, exhaling the panic like Monica taught her to, fighting the urge to scream, cry and try to dig her way out with her bare hands.
After a bit, Chrome hears her radio, off in the distance. "Detective? You okay in there?" It's the ESU tech.
"Y-yes, I'm f-fine," she says, exhales one last big breath, and opens her eyes. Avenger's still there, the same grim look on her face. "I told you to shut up," Chrome hisses at her. "This is hard enough without you mocking me for trying."
"Oh, pardon me," Avenger says. "Then I'll just leave you alone in this dark, tight cave system. Don't get lost, sweetie."
"It's a vent," Chrome says as she pulls herself forward, and when she looks up, Avenger is gone. She was polite enough to still let Chrome see though, something that Chrome counts as an improvement in their relationship.

"What was that?" Jack asks over the radio.
"Just talking to myself," Chrome says.
"And how is she?"
"A bit of a bitch, as usual, but she's gone now."
"Think this is a bit of that 'trust' thing she and I talked about?" Jack asks.
"No, it's just fucking nasty in here," Chrome hears Avenger say from nowhere.
"I'd like to think so," Chrome says. Avenger starts making gagging noises, and Chrome smiles.

---

Sharon's watching the surveillance monitors when suddenly a few new feeds click on. One of them shows the inside of the break room, another the large conference room. Both have hostages and terrorists inside them. "Alright Cass, that's perfect, you can come back out now," she radios.
"Thank fucking God," Chrome whispers.
"You want to have some real fun in air vents, bring a plasma cutter and go through ten grates on the way to the exit," Sharon says, and changes radio channels. "Element Alpha, you ready with that throw phone?"
"Ready to toss on your go, Lead."
"Alright, let's see what they have to say," Sharon says. "Go for phone."

Sharon watches one of the ESU members jog over to the corner from the elevators, throw phone box in hand. He pauses for a second, his mask concealing exactly what he's saying, but it's probably something along the lines of "throwing a phone". After a second, he reaches around the corner and heaves the box into the offices. One of the terrorists carefully approaches the box.

"That's right, dumbass, it's just a fucking phone, pick it up," Sharon says.

He carefully unlocks the top of the box, and quickly flips it open to reveal a phone handset sitting innocently in the box, with battery lights and a speaker keeping it company. Relieved that the box didn't contain whatever it was that he thought it contained, the terrorist carries it into the middle of the office and puts it in front of the man that Sharon immediately memorizes as the leader of the group.

He picks up the phone, and the set in front of Jack buzzes. He lets it sit for a second, then picks up.
"You taking a fucking piss break up there, or what?" the terrorist leader asks.
"This is Detective Jack Schaefer, who am I speaking to?"
"Let's call me Mr. White for now."
"Alright Mr. White, I'm the negotiator, my job is to help make sure everyone up there walks out of here safe and sound, you and your compatriots included. What can I do to help make that happen?"
"Oh, just the usual, Jackie-boy. Don't do anything stupid like sending in any of your men. Don't lie to me. Don't stall me. Get me 14 million dollars, non-sequential small bills, before dinner. I also want televised statements from the President, the Secretary of Defense, the Attorney General, and the governor of every state that all metahumans in positions of power and influence in government, federal, state and local, will be fired tomorrow, and all such positions will be closed to metahumans from now on."
"That's a pretty tall order with only three hours left to do it in, Mr. White," Jack says.
White checks his watch. "Tell you what. Right about now, radio stations should be getting a taped message from our group. It lays out our agenda in more detail. Call back once you've heard it, and maybe it'll help you understand what's going on here, and you'll be a little more helpful." White hangs up the phone and walks away.

Jack looks up at Sharon. "You heard anything about a message going out to radio stations?"
Sharon grabs an AM/FM radio out of the kit and turns it on. "No, but I think we're about to."

---

This is Lisa Miller, with a WNYX breaking news announcement. A hostage situation has developed at Federal Plaza in downtown Manhattan. An unknown number of FBI agents and workers have been taken hostage, and we have just received a tape supposedly from the group responsible. A note left with the tape promises that hostages will be executed if the tape is not played immediately, and so, with the blessing of the NYPD, we will play the tape for you once.

Good afternoon, my fellow Americans, a deep male voice says. I speak to you today from regrettable circumstances. A spectre is haunting America. Our great nation is under threat, and is being corrupted from within by an insidious force. I speak, of course, of these so-called 'meta-humans'. Oh, they look human. But they are nothing like us. Like rats, they have made their nests in our midst, carrying their taint into our homes, our schools and our churches. And while we have done what we can to tolerate them, there is no doubt in my mind that we cannot abide by them. For I now understand, my friends, that there can be no compromise with them. They may feign weakness, brothers! They may appeal to your mercy, sisters! But make no mistake: all they are doing is building their strength and sapping ours. Who among you has not met one? Has not seen one on TV, speaking the words all appeasers use: tolerance! Open-minded! Respect! Do they have a place in your heart? Have they convinced you that they are not a threat? Harden your hearts, America: for things are not well. They have infiltrated our government at all levels; even now, they consolidate their power. NYPD, FBI, CIA, ATF, the Congress and the White House, they control them all. We are standing before a great chasm, and our destiny will be made by our choices. Will we wait passively while they plunge us into the darkness, piece by piece, in their 'great evolutionary leap forward'? Or will we fight back, and return America to the real children of God it is meant for? This action today is merely the beginning of our great struggle to free ourselves from the oppression these meta-humans visit upon us every day, and to make our nation safe again from their vile influence. Thank you, and good night.

A pause. Well, that was certainly...something. We will be taking calls on this new anti-metahuman manifesto after this break.

---

Jack and Sharon listen to the manifesto in stony silence. Chrome, having just arrived from upstairs, shakes her head in disbelief, unwilling to process what she's hearing. The cops, agents and other personnel around the command center, metahuman and otherwise, have similar reactions.
"He's lucky I've got my family to take care of," one of the cops says. "I'd cave his fucking face in..." Over in the triage area, one of the injured workers starts to cry.

The phone buzzes again, and Jack picks it up. "So, have you heard the message?" the terrorist leader says.
"Yes, we did." Jack's voice is cold. "It's still going to be difficult, getting TV time cleared for all of those announcements. At the very least, it'll take an hour or two just to get through them."
"Yes, yes, and I suppose you need to contact them all, have their speechwriters come up with some nice words, all of them want to deliberate the choice...it looks like we're stuck for a while with each other, Jackie-boy. So, what's for dinner?"

-----------
Christian's Charms
September 3rd, 3:15 PM
-----------

The drive to where Helsing's tip placed the metahuman combat drugs proves to be one of the more uncomfortable times in Azuriel's week. It's not often that the Lieutenant and he spend time together, much less alone, and so the car is filled with a silence that never becomes comfortable. Is it supposed to be a guy moment? Does convention hold that they must now talk about manly things like sports cars or football?

Az never quite manages to spit out the "So, how about them Yankees?" line he's holding back. It's just as well that they're at their destination before the entire thing warps around itself in its awkwardness. Az throws a glance at the glittering neon sign of the business they're double-parked in front of.

"Christian's?"
"Yep," Helsing says, throwing the car into park. "Got a call about some shady shipment being dropped behind his store."
"Damn," Az mumbles under his breath. He grabs Helsing's arm as he starts to get out of the car. "Christian's a lot of things, but he's never dealt drugs, especially metahuman combat drugs. This tip has to be a mistake."
"One of your sources?" Helsing asks. Az averts his eyes, but the Lieutenant just nods. "We still have to check it out. If he's clean and it's just the neighbors jerking him around, no harm done, right?"
Az tries to protest, but just lets go of the Lieutenant's arm. "Let's just do it, then."

Every time Az visits Christian's - admittedly, not that often - there's a new chime on the motion sensor for the front door. On the annoying jingle scale, Az rates this one as a mere 5.5 out of 10. With Helsing behind him, he strolls past the displays, noting the one case by the door covered with cardboard and plywood. Inside the cage, Christian's got his feet up on the counter, reading a magazine that seems to be about half-naked mages and creative applications for spell wands. The broker looks up at Azuriel's approach and gives the angel a nod, but eyes Helsing.

"Heya," Christian says. "Anything I can do for you - Detective?"
"Security system on the fritz, Christian?" Az asks, nodding towards the broken display.
"Hey, nah, you know what? I was just cleaning up, slipped and broke the case," Christian says. "I've got the glass on order. You looking for some sanctified bone dust? Cracking cases is gonna be much easier with Papa Legba on your side."
"We're here on a tip, Christian," Helsing says.
"Oh, hey, Lieutenant," Christian says, visibly nervous at Helsing's presence in the conversation. "What kind of tip would that be? The damn Chinese knick-knack store next door complaining again?"
"It's more serious than that," Helsing says. "Pursuant to your license to sell magical items within the boundaries of the city of New York, it's time for your monthly search, Christian." He knocks on the gate. "Open up."
"You could at least call ahead," Christian says, getting up from his chair and walking to buzz the two cops into the cage. "I would've thrown out the old kebab styrofoam boxes."
Helsing leads the way into the mess inside the cage, with Az reluctantly following behind. "That's alright, no need to tidy up for us," Helsing says.

While Helsing starts poking around the shelves, Christian slides next to Az.
"Az, what the fuck is going on?" Christian whispers.
"Someone called in a tip about you dealing MCD's out of your shop," Az says. "Christian, tell me you're smarter than that."
"MCD's? No fucking way, man. Those things radiate one seriously fucked-up aura, not to mention get you and everyone else you know killed. I'd rather deal in enriched uranium. Speaking of which, I still got that piece of trinitite -"
"Sharon and I don't do rituals that require Prussian blue afterwards," Az says. "If you're clean, just sit tight and everything will be fine."

Helsing pokes at a bulletproof plastic box containing a dash-top hula dancer, then looks back at Christian. "Everything seems to be in order here, Mr. Lambert. Shall we check outside?"
"What, making sure I'm compacting my cardboard boxes properly?" Christian asks.
"Recycling is everyone's responsibility, Mr. Lambert," Helsing says. "Let's go."

---

Az volunteers to keep an eye on Christian while Lt. Helsing puts on his latex gloves and starts searching the alley near the shop's rear exit. With Helsing looking away, Az loosens his bonds slightly, taking in the motif of the alley. From behind a nearby dumpster, Az can hear a dissonant bassy buzz, bubbling up and down.

Az shoots a "You are that stupid" glance at Christian, who shakes his head furiously, mouthing "Don't tell him!" Az mouths "I have to, it's drugs", to which Christian only manages a surprised "What?" before Helsing's voice snaps both of them back to paying attention to the Lieutenant's efforts. He's down on his hands and knees, peering behind the dumpster, looking at a section of the brick wall.

"Marcos," Helsing says, "help me move that dumpster."
A final look is shared between Az and Christian before the angel walks over to the dumpster. Between him and Helsing, the trash receptacle moves from its place with an aching groan. Helsing steps behind it, squats down against the dumpster and pinches a bit of powder from a small pile of it at the base of the wall. He rubs it through his fingers while eyeing the wall.
"This look like grout to you, Raph?" Helsing asks.
"Maybe," Az says. The pulsating buzz sound is leaking out from around a section of bricks at around waist-height, which Az is trying very hard not to stare at.

Helsing leans right up against the wall, and pulls out a pocketknife. He runs his finger along the wall for a second, then sticks the blade into a crack. Slowly rocking the knife back and forth, he prises out the false wall cover, revealing a plastic freezer bag filled with metal-capped vials of a green viscous fluid.
The Lieutenant pulls the bag out and holds it up for Christian to see. "What is this, Christian? Looks like pure, uncut MCD vials to me. Real lab-grade, you could probably make a few hundred doses with what's in here."
"That's got to be at least two million -" Christian blurts out before stopping himself. He takes a deep breath, then speaks again. "You have to believe me, Lieutenant, I do not know where that came from. I don't deal in this crap."
"But you do know the market price," Az says.
"You know how much that shit's worth too, Helsing," Christian shoots back. "That isn't mine. Somebody must have stashed them there."
"They're on your premises, Mr. Lambert," Helsing says. "Not yours, you say? Well, if they're not yours, surely you wouldn't mind if we search your store. This kind of weight? We could get a warrant to tear your store down brick by brick. We'll find whatever it is you're not hiding in there."

"I - I..." Christian looks desperately at Az, who looks back with a combination of confusion and resignation. Desperation leads to an epiphany, and Christian looks back to Helsing. "It was Sanctuary!"
Helsing chuckles, a bemused smile on his face. "Really? You think you can just drop their name and all of this goes away?"
"I have them on fucking tape! They came into my store and...well, they weren't there on a social call, I'll tell you that."
"An argument you're free to make at your trial," Helsing says. "Let's take him inside Raph, and get a judge on the phone for a warrant."
"Well, it can't hurt to check, sir," Az says. "Christian's got a pretty extensive camera setup, let's see if any Sanctuary goons show up on it."
Helsing checks his watch. "Fine, we've got time. But you keep the warrant hotline on speed-dial."

---

Az is one of the people who knew how to set a VCR's clock; consequently, jockeying Christian's surveillance equipment through the tapes of the day of Sanctuary's visit is easy enough. Soon, they're on one of the cameras that hangs above the cage, walking into the store and having an "animated discussion" with Christian. The video shows them leaving after three minutes. Az steps backward through the tape frame by frame until he catches one of them looking straight at the camera. The last time Az saw his face, it was trying to put a few 9mm rounds in him in the exploded remains of a cheap Staten Island motel room.

"This guy," Az says. "I know him. He was with the strike team that kidnapped Stead at the motel. Definitely Sanctuary."
Helsing leans closer to the monitor, peering at the image on the screen, then lets Christian go. "Okay, fine. Care to tell us why Sanctuary was paying you a visit?"
"Uh," Christian stammers. "Collecting for the Salvation Army?"
Az rolls his eyes. "Let's fast-forward, see what we can see, hm?"

Spinning the playback dial up to triple-speed, it takes a few minutes before anyone else shows up on screen, but the moment when someone smashes Christian's display case is unmistakable. "Ah-ha! Got you," Az says. He reverses the tape to reveal who committed the robbery, and immediately regrets it. Oh no.
Helsing practically pushes Az out of the way in his rush to the monitor. "Is that Mark fucking Simmons?" he asks. "What the hell was Simmons doing in your store, Christian?"
"Taking whatever he fucking wants again," Christian mutters. "Look, he was a fucking psychopath, what should I have done?"
"Maybe called the SCU?" Helsing says. "He was a wanted fugitive!"
"No, he was dead, and was very clear about making me the same way if I told anyone about him," Christian says. "Look, no offense, but if I called you guys on him...I don't know if you would have caught him, but I'd be fucking dead, that's for fucking sure."

Az takes a step back from Helsing and Christian. His mind races. What was Mark doing here? The time...oh shit. That was just before he went to - Helsing steps up to Christian. "Do you know what he took?" the Lieutenant asks.
Christian sighs. "He took a Stygian."
Fuck, Az thinks.
"What's that?" Helsing asks.
"It's like, kind of - well, brass knuckles."
"- brass knuckles?"
"Magic brass knuckles," Christian says. "They're very effective against -"
Az's heart stops.
"- some metahumans," Christian finishes. Az lets out a sharp breath. "But he wasn't there for that, he wanted info. I figured he was heading over to Constantine's."

Az tunes back into the conversation a second too late to stop Christian from dropping a dime on Gamariel. It almost seems like it happens in slow motion, and he turns around just in time to hide the wince playing over his face. This is spinning out of control, and fast.

--------
Karen Ayers' Apartment
September 3rd, 2:30 PM
--------

Karen comes back into the living room with a can of diet cola in each hand. Camille takes one, and Karen sits back down next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure you're feeling better? It's okay if you want to take more time."
"No, I - I'm okay, Karen, but I need to get this out," Camille says. "It's just - harder than I thought it would be."
Karen nods. "Just take your time, we can stop whenever you want to." She flicks on the recorder. "So, they told you that you'd be going to summer camp?"
"Yeah, summer camp," Camille says, sounding incredibly bitter all of a sudden. "I don't know what to call it, it's more like...elimination. They start by randomly assigning you to one of four groups, and from there on it's war." She pauses for a moment. "It's where I killed for the first time."
Karen's mouth hangs open for a second as she tries to think of what she could possibly ask next. "What...how was the camp organized?"
"It's somewhere in the woods, maybe two hours away from Golgotha - we couldn't see out of the truck that brought us there, so I don't know where exactly we went. It's...like if you took out the core of Golgotha, I guess. Large perimeter, with four small camps in each of the corners. Like I said, when you get there, you go to one of those camps, Red, Blue, Yellow, Black. I was...I was assigned to the yellow camp. They explained that we would be getting more training there, and that small groups were more efficient. We didn't - there was a rule. You couldn't see kids from the other camps or talk about them. They made sure to split up groups of friends, put some of them in other camps. They said it would help with the competition."

"You mentioned some kids before, were any of them at the training grounds with you?"
"Yes, but in other camps."
"Oh." Karen's having a hard time processing what she's hearing, and pauses to collect her thoughts. "Um, what happened there at first?"
"Marksmanship," Camille says. "They trucked us to a firing range and taught us how to shoot rifles. The camps were there on different days of the week, so we never met with the others - but that didn't mean we didn't interact. I remember, the second week, we came to the range and it was just a big mess. Target stands blown apart, food wrappers, everything. And our instructor told us that must have been the red camp, they were there the day before and obviously didn't clean up after themselves, so we'd do it. I want to tell you something, Karen. Because it took me a while to figure out, even after I was out of camp."
"Yes?"
"They were doing this to every camp. It was...easy. We were kids, we weren't hard to manipulate. They made us clean up a mess all day, and told us that it was from another camp, getting off scot-free. It didn't take long, really, just a few of those kinds of stunts, and we were getting really fed up with it, with the other camps not pulling their weight, always messing things up that we had to fix."
"You said it was a competition. What do you mean by that?"
"There were points," Camille explains. "Everything was tested, you got points for that. If you didn't have enough points at the end of the week, you washed out. That was it, go home, we don't want you. But it wasn't that simple. You could also get camp points if everyone had their bed made correctly, and stuff like that, but if just one member of the camp screwed up - no points. And those camp points, well, you could either 'spend' them on amenities, like hot showers, or to boost someone's score. At the end of the first week, we had a handful of camp points and two kids who were gonna be failed out. What do you think we did, Karen?"
"Uh..."
"We got candy, Karen. We had a big pow-wow, and I voted for candy. The two kids failed out. They left the camp. They didn't go home."
"What? Where did they go?"
"They had shown themselves to be useless, Karen," Camille says, trying to stay calm. "Sanctuary had something special planned for us. If they couldn't keep up - they were useless. The instructors told us that. I don't remember the names of the two kids...and I'm pretty sure there are no names on their grave."

Karen's hand shoots to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. "Oh - oh my God." She looks around the room for a second, trying to reassure herself of where she is. "What happened next?"
"After the second week, they issued us paintball gear and a flag for each camp. They only gave us two rules: if you're hit by a marker, you have to lay down, and if the camp loses its flag, we have to vote out a kid. All of that, of course, was on top of the normal tests and points. They stopped taking the entire camp out for training. It didn't take long before we figured out how to play War. You take away sleep, you take away comfort - you'd be surprised how quickly kids come up with defensive strategies, raiding plans, covert operations. I mean, we were trained for this. We were angry. And above all, we wanted to win the game."
"How long did this go on?"
"Two weeks," Camille says calmly. "The first two days, it was chaos, everyone trying to figure out how to do this, but after that you could quickly see the strategies emerging, depending on what powers each camp had. Black camp was all about blitzes, they had two superspeed kids and they'd try to just overrun you and get the flag before you could take them all out. Red camp actually did diplomacy. They allied with black early and together they kept each other safe. It was after they talked green camp into giving them their flag without a shot that we figured out that one of them had a...a convincing ability, I guess. Green preferred sieges, they improvised paint grenades and slingshots and they had this kid who was one hell of a sniper. Our tactics were more covert. We turtled up at camp, and I was the scout, literally walking into other camps, noting their movements, and sometimes I even got the flag out. Like I said earlier - people don't notice me. I already knew how to use that to do whatever I wanted. And so we dominated the game from pretty early on, and won. I felt pretty good about myself until I found out how many people I'd killed."
"How did you find that out? Did you find out for yourself?"
A sad laugh escapes Camille's mouth. "They told us. At the end of it all - after two weeks of this - there was a ceasefire, and a big meeting of all the camps. I wish I could say I was shocked at how few we were...that more than half of the kids had been eliminated. But I knew. I was the scout. I knew how strong the other camps were. I had the math put together. The other camps, they didn't have intel as good as ours, or maybe they hadn't figured it out, but they were scared. So what does the head instructor do when he steps up to the podium? What's the first thing he tells us? He reads a list of names. Every last kid that had washed out, everyone who was no longer there - until he got to the last name. It was Jan, my friend. He'd been with red camp, he must have gotten voted out on the last day or maybe he failed a test, I don't know what happened. They grabbed him out of the crowd and brought him forward, and the instructor took out his pistol - I hadn't even noticed his holster, every guard and soldier in Sanctuary wears holsters - but he opened his holster, and he took out his pistol, and without a word they forced Jan onto his knees, and he shot him in the back of the neck, and -" Camille trails off.

Karen looks visibly ill. She hates herself for speaking, but she has to ask her to keep going. "What happened after that?" she manages to whisper.
"Jan was dead," Camille says. "He fell over and didn't move. I think nobody took a breath for a minute. Then some kids started crying. I heard sobbing behind me. I couldn't cry. I was so tired, I hadn't slept well, I couldn't...I just couldn't cry. But I understood. I got it. They had just told us what they did with the failures. What they did to everyone who didn't measure up. And then I heard my name. The only thing I wanted to do was scream. I...I didn't have the words to say what I wanted to say, I didn't have anything to shout, just this...wrongness eating my stomach. I wanted to let it all out. But instead of grabbing me, the guards clapped. The instructor smiled. And then he announced loudly that I was the top performer. Most captures of any kid in the camp. Almost a record, even." Camille spits the words. "Something to be damn proud of. After that, he said that we would be shipped out to basic training the next day."
"It was over, then? That was it?" Karen breathes a sigh of relief that the horror show seems to be finished.
"I'm sorry, Karen," Camille says. "That's what I thought when I walked away. It was horrible, but it least it was over. That they would all forget me anyway. But after the meeting, I wanted to see the rest of the camps, take a look at how the landscape looks when I'm not watching out for ambushes. And of all the days - " Camille pauses. "It was Steve. You remember, Steve?"
Karen thinks for a second, then nods. "Got caught with you a lot as a kid."
"Exactly. And he'd made it to the finish, just like me. One of the heavy hitters of black camp. All I could say was - 'Hey.' I thought, now, it's all over, and at some point we'd be able to talk about this, but. Not Steve, no. He had a speech. He told me what a horrible person I was. Standing up there at the podium, smiling about being the winner. I - I didn't know what to say! I guess I must have smiled, I don't know, I don't remember. Maybe."
"That's horrible," Karen says, then immediately regrets it. Out of all the things that Camille's described, she picks this moment to say that. "What happened next?"
"He told me that he knew me. That he could see me for who I am. That he would never forgive me for what I had done. I was still trying to come up with something to say. I said - I said I'm sorry. It was all reflex. You do a bad thing and you apologize. I wasn't thinking. I just said I'm sorry. And there was this look in his eye - he didn't like this. He didn't want to remember. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a shiv, a sharpened tent stake." She closes her eyes, the tears starting to come again. "'I need to kill you now, Camille,' he said. 'Before I forget what you did.' Then he came at me. It was a clumsy attack, he put all his weight behind it, and when I got out of the way, he couldn't stop himself and lost his balance. I tried to run away, but he tackled me to the ground, and tried to stab me again. We rolled over the ground until I was dizzy, my arms in front just trying to keep the stake away. And on the last turn, we crashed against a tree, and he hit his hand against it. He dropped the shiv. I grabbed it, and sat over him, and then I just stabbed down into him," she says, miming her actions. "Once, then again and again, until someone came and pulled me off him. Later, when - when I was in the hospital, the instructor said I was just screaming 'Stop! Stop!', over and over, when they found us."

Karen is just out of words at this point, staring at Camille blankly. The young soldier opens her eyes.
"I did what I had to do," Camille says, staring at the table. "They told me. I did what I had to do."
Karen slowly reaches across the table and clicks off the recorder. "I...I think that's good enough for right now."
Camille grabs Karen's hand, tears in her eyes. "Tell me I'm a good person, Karen. Tell me this wasn't my fault, that I did what I had to do."
Karen takes Camille's hand in hers. "You are a good person, Camille. You didn't know what they were doing, you didn't kill those people. You did what you had to do."
"I did what I had to do," Camille repeats.
Karen lets go of Camille's hand and wipes her eyes. "Umm...why don't you make yourself something to eat, we kind of missed lunch. I'm...I'm not too hungry, I just need to lay down for a bit, alright? We'll pick this back up later on." She pats Camille on the back. "You get something to eat, watch some TV, try to clear your head."
Camille nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good." She manages to give Karen a smile. "Thanks, Karen. For everything."
Karen returns her smile. "No problem," she says.

As Camille walks into the kitchen and cracks open the fridge, Karen slowly manages to will herself to her feet. She shuffles down the hall to her bedroom, bracing herself on the wall with one hand, the other over her mouth as her head spins and her breath goes shallow. Somehow, she manages to walk into her room, then carefully closes and locks the door. Then she collapses onto her bed, buries her face in her pillows and weeps.

---------
Federal Building
September 3rd, 4:12 PM
---------

Jack hits the mute button on the phone console he's been anchored to for the last forty-five minutes while Mr. White continues his rant about the inequality of powers that exist between metahumans and "normals" in modern society and the socio-political implications thereof. He rubs his eyes and looks up at Sharon as she walks back up to the command tables. "Something tells me that all this could have been averted if someone just listened to this guy rant for a day or two."
"You don't take hostages in a federal building for something you could let off your chest in a bar in Hoboken," Sharon says. "He's twisted, but he's serious."
"Yeah, still, something's weird about this," Jack says, and punches the mute button to chime in with his regularly scheduled indiscriminate sound of agreement.

Chrome's monitoring the security feeds, making a roster of terrorists and hostages. Freshly bandaged, the FBI agent that made his dramatic teleporting escape in front of Az and Sharon, now ID'd as Agent Ben Pattison, sits propped up on a cushioned chair, helping Chrome ID the workers in the MCD.
Chrome freezes the camera feed on one of the hostage's faces. "And him?"
"That's Donny," Pattison says. "Donald Laughlin."
"Any metahuman abilities?"
"No, he's a muggle," Pattison replies, managing a weak smile.
Chrome smiles at the nickname. "Do you recognize anyone else in this shot?"
"No, not by name, sorry." While Chrome ever-so-slowly rotates the fiber camera around, Pattison wiggles around a bit to cushion his wound a little better, and inhales sharply with pain for his efforts.
"You alright?" Chrome asks. "You need to lay back down? We can get a cot in here-"
"No, it's alright, thanks," he says. "You know, if you're looking out for metas, you can just pan the camera around. I know all of them from the stupid 'Empowered Choices' seminars we have to go to twice a year. I bet the NYPD has something similar, right?"
Chrome shakes her head and smiles. "Ours is called 'Powerful Responsibilities'. 'Where our number one job is-'"
"'Making abilities safe and useful for everyone,'" Pattison says, and laughs. "I guess you do know what I'm talking about. I wonder how many more names with 'power' in them they came up with for other customers."
"Dozens," Chrome says.
"So, you're a meta too?"
"Err, no," Chrome says, looking back to the screens. "But the rest of JS Consulting is out, so I've heard them whining about it."
"Really?" Pattison leans towards Chrome in interest. "You're one of them? I've heard of you guys, you make a lot of noise but you do good work. It must be really interesting working there."
"Interesting, yes," Chrome says. "That word comes up a lot around us."
"I'd love to get a tour of your offices some time," Pattison says, but before Chrome can respond, his attention is drawn back to the monitors. "Is that Jacob?"
Chrome stops panning. "Who? Where?"
"Jacob, right there," Pattison says, pointing to one guy up against the break room wall, looking scared out of his mind. "Jacob Edelman, he's a telepath. Keeps to himself mostly, probably because of his ability. I wonder why he hasn't tried to contact anyone down here..."
"There's a bunch of reasons," Chrome says, taking down his name, ability and marking his position on a map. "Still, if we can make contact, he could really help us out."

When she looks back up, she sees motion through the break room windows, the terrorists are moving around in the background. "Jack, something's happening."
She flips back to the main office floor feeds, where the terrorist Chrome has labeled "Mr. Blue" is rapidly approaching Mr. White.
"Yeah, this is not good," Chrome says.
As Chrome watches but does not hear the angry approach of Mr. Blue, Jack hears the loud bootsteps of someone running up to the phone. "White, what's going on up there?"
"You've been naughty, Jackie-boy," White says. "Sitting and scheming. How many of the people on my list have you called while we've been waiting here? But don't run off just yet. I'll be right back, and then we can continue this discussion."
Chrome watches White hang up the phone and run off with Blue. "Come on, where are you going..." she says as she flips between cameras, tracking their progress through the bullpen.

The two men run into the conference room, and Blue points at something on the far wall, shouting something at White. Chrome leans forwards, peering closely at the screen, then she sees it. "Oh no," she says, and flips over to the conference room fiber camera. From this perspective, it's obvious that Blue is pointing right at it. In the other angle, she can see that in the process of moving it about to get a better angle, one of the ESU techs must have pushed it out too far from the vent.
"Oh no, what?" Sharon asks, walking up behind Chrome.
"Yeah, what's going on?" Jack adds.
"They've spotted the conference room fiber camera," Chrome says. She watches as White storms up to the fiber camera, and before she can get on the radio to tell ESU to pull the cameras, he grabs the camera and yanks on it, hard.
The feed goes blank, and an instant later, ESU comes on the radio. "They've pulled the conference room camera! We're retracting the break room camera now!" Immediately, the break room feed retreats back into the vents, then goes blank as well.

"Shit, shit, shit," Jack says, watching over Chrome's shoulder. White runs back into the bullpen and snaps up the phone. Jack grabs it before it finishes its first ring.
"I'm sorry," White says, "I'm sure what I just broke was very expensive."
"White, let's just talk about this for a second, okay?"
"Talk? We can't talk, Jackie-boy. All this time, you've been lying to me, stringing me along, nodding your head while your freaks sneak up behind us. I was going to give you a chance to make this a civil discussion between two people, but it seems you're not interested in that." White stands up. "The time extension, it's gone. I want my $14 million and public statements by 6:00 PM, and a helicopter on the roof to evacuate my men. But there's an or here, Jackie-boy. Seeing as you like not doing what I say, I think I'm not giving you the right incentives. So let's dip into the old cliché, shall we? If you don't have my stuff by 6, a hostage dies. And every hour after that that I don't get what I want, another hostage dies."
"White, you don't want to do this," Jack says. "If you go down this road, it's gonna make helping you out even harder."
"You've hardly been helping me so far. Now nod slowly, Jackie-boy. I want to be sure you understand me."
"I understand you, White. But I need you to consider what you're saying, if you just start killing hostages, what message does that send? All the stuff about equality you were telling me, it won't mean a thing."
"Equality? Between us? Please, Jackie-boy. There's no equality here. I can't see you. You can see me...but then, that's easily fixed."
"White, wait, we can still talk this-" The line goes dead.

Jack turns back to the monitors with Chrome and Sharon, and watches as White turns back to his men, and shouts something. Suddenly, gunfire erupts from upstairs, as all the camera feeds quickly blank out one by one.
"That's really not good," Chrome says, and starts furiously typing on the console, trying to resurrect the dead feeds.
The phone rings again. Jack looks at it with trepidation for a second, then picks up. "White, you just made a big mistake by doing that. If we can't see, the people down here with the guns, they get really nervous. Can you at least tell me if the hostages are alright?"
"All I did was level the playing field, Jackie-boy," White says. "That's all this is about. Isn't it great? Our first real step toward equality. And don't worry yourself too much, the hostages are fine for now. But if you don't get me what I want by 6:00 PM, that will change." He slams the phone back down.

"That's really, really not good," Chrome says, and gives up on bringing back the camera feeds. She looks up at Sharon. "What do we do now?"
Sharon looks across the room to the HRT team, who are also patched into the negotiation loop. Donovan returns Sharon's look as he lifts his M4 from hanging off his shoulder to a ready position. "Prayer wouldn't hurt," she says.
_________________
Gatac: Just making sure you are aware of life-saving buttsex.
Punkey: I've always been aware of life-saving buttsex. Best Red Cross training weekend ever.

[Punkey]

Federal Building
September 3rd, 4:15 PM
-----------------

As much as the situation on the eleventh floor has deteriorated, the atmosphere down in the police command center can't be said to be much better. The whole HRT team seems to be surrounding Sharon and Jack, with Agent Donovan leading the charge to push upstairs and start shooting.

"We don't have time for you to play patty-cake with these assholes anymore," Donovan says, holding his M4 at the ready. "They've broken off communication, they've shot out the cameras, and the next thing they're gonna start doing is executing hostages. We go in hard and fast now, maybe we can save some of our agents upstairs."
"And how exactly do you think that will go?" Sharon counters. "There's one entrance into the office, the approach is easily visible from inside and it makes for a perfect chokepoint. Even if you somehow manage to close, it'll be more than enough time for them to actually start killing hostages and finish the job before you're in position for a breach. Oh, let's not forget, you can't see a damn thing, so you'll be going in blind. Do you have any idea how many potential hiding spots there are in the office? You're walking straight into a deathtrap, and neither your attitude nor a couple of flashbangs are going to fix that."
"Well, unlike the NYPD, we actually have equipment from this decade," Donovan shoots back. "We have a doorframe charge, we'll blast a hole in through an interior wall and breach that way. We can do it right next to the break room, so we'll be able to reach those hostages almost immediately."
"If they're still in that room," Sharon says. "Smart money is they moved everything after destroying our surveillance. You really think they're gonna let you come in with any accurate intel on their setup?"
"This isn't the fucking Vietcong, they're a bunch of first-timer morons with guns in our building," Donovan says. "I've seen enough hostage situations to know the type."
Sharon fixes him with a glare. "Oh, the Vietcong. Your Daddy tell you about those, Agent? It was underestimating your opponent that got our guys fucked back then, too. But maybe they don't teach history at Quantico."
Donovan's not going to be cowed this time. "Yeah, and you know what else they teach?" he says, and steps right up to Sharon's face. "Jurisdictional authority, and you're standing in ours. I've humored you local LEOs until now, but I'm about five seconds from kicking all of you out and doing this the right way."
"Good, that's five more seconds where you don't get the hostages killed. I'm grateful for small victories, too."

"Hey!" Jack shouts, stopping the argument for a second. He steps in from the side, putting his hand between their faces, then pushes them a few inches apart. "Alright, children, let's see if we can figure out how we can all share, there's more than enough terrorists for every -"
Jack suddenly stops talking, his mouth hanging open and his arms go slack. His eyes suddenly shake from side to side and then roll back into his head, and then his right leg gives out. Chrome sees him sway and runs over to him, grabbing his arm and steadying him as he slowly falls backward.

"Really?" Donovan says, throwing his arms up. "This isn't fucking high school." He looks at Sharon. "Do you have anyone here who's capable of doing their job?"
Chrome shoots Donovan a harsh look. "I think he's really hurt, you jerk," she says, and takes Jack's head in her hands. "Jack? Jack, wake up."
His eyes snap back open. "What happened?" He looks up and sees Chrome's concerned face. "Hey," he says with a smile.
"Are you alright?" Chrome asks.
Jack sits up. "Yeah, I'm feeling -"
Sorry. Shitty part's over now, I promise. Metas are always the worst to tune in to.
"What was that?" Jack asks, and looks around as he hauls himself to his feet. "Who said that?"
Sharon and Chrome look at each other. "No one said anything," Chrome says.
"Great, now he's crazy, too?" Donovan says.
You're Jack Schaefer, SCU? Trust me, you're not going crazy, you're just -
Jack figures out what it is the second time around, and motions for everyone else to be quiet. You're not the first voice I've had in my head, Jack thinks. Trust me, I know the routine. Who is this?
Special Agent Jacob Edelman, MCD, Jacob says. I'm on the eleventh floor. It's a good thing I managed to finally contact someone, because things up here are...not very good.

---

"Get the fuck up!" Green says, waving his assault rifle at the hostages, their ears still ringing from the bursts of gunfire that took out the security cameras. "Get up now!"
After seeing the terrorists in action, few of the hostages are in any mood to disobey. Doing what they're told comes easily, and the handful who don't follow orders right away are treated to assault rifles aimed at their faces. Within a minute, everybody's moving as directed.
"Alright, everyone, it's time for a change of scenery," White says, standing on a desk in the center of the room as the hostages leave the conference room and break room. The half-height cubicle walls and desks have been moved aside, making a big clearing in the center of the office. "You're all going to sit in a big circle around us. Office chairs have been provided for your comfort, but just to make sure you don't go anywhere, my men will zip-tie you to them. Just cooperate, and everything will be fine."

The hostages take their seats and are zip-tied one-by-one. Jacob looks out of the big windows to the exterior of the building and the afternoon Manhattan skyline. These guys aren't as dumb as they look, Jacob says.
Yeah, but they sure as hell don't act like any terrorists I've ever seen, Jacob hears Donny think from somewhere behind him. With the exception of psycho shotgun bitch over here, they're barely holding onto their guns.
And they just keep on stalling, Jacob says. It's weird. He sees one of the terrorists on a laptop in one of the still-standing cubicles. Hold up, something's going on.

"Hey, White!" he shouts. "There's something you gotta see!"
White hops off the desk. "What is it?"
"That negotiator? You said his name is Jack Schaefer?"
Bingo, Jacob thinks.
"Yeah, what did you find on him?" White asks, and leans over his shoulder.
"He's from the fuckin' freak squad, man! Not only that, but he's one of them!"
"Does that surprise you?" White says coolly. "You need only hit one of them and the rest comes scurrying out of their holes. Did you find out what Jackie-boy's talent was?"
"NYPD website says telekinesis, but you know how trustworthy that thing is."
"Yeah, well, we'll just see what happens when he and his friends come up here and try to take us out," White says. "I think he'll be in for a big surprise."

You hear that, Jacob?
Yeah, I got it. Trying for him now.

Jacob's eyes open wide and flutter from side to side, with his pupils blowing wide open. The name "Jack Schaefer" ricochets through his head, and he tries to pin it in place. It's like a fly trapped inside a balloon, and Jacob has to focus on shrinking it. Mentally, he readies a piece of string and lays it around the balloon, tightening it down. He crosses the string over the balloon again, tightening the draw constantly. With every move, the presence shrinks, gains more substance and precision, until it finally ends up as a single point in his mind.

Sorry, Jacob thinks at the point. Shitty part's over now, I promise. Metas are always the worst to tune in to. He hears the familiar buzzing sounds of speech on the other end of the connection, like listening to a cell phone with a bad connection through a big metal fan. He waits a second, then tries again. You're Jack Schaefer, SCU? Trust me, you're not going crazy, you're just -
Suddenly, he hears Jack's voice loud and clear. Usually, it takes a few minutes of coaching on Jacob's part to be able to understand someone, but this SCU guy nails it right away. You're not the first voice I've had in my head, trust me, I know the routine. Who is this?
Special Agent Jacob Edelman, MCD, Jacob replies, blinking his eyes in surprise. I'm on the eleventh floor. It's a good thing I managed to finally contact someone, because things up here are...not very good.
What's the situation?
They've moved us into the middle of the bullpen, and, uh, they know who you are. I heard them use your name, so...that's how we can talk. Jacob tries to look to his sides and behind him without being seen, but the zip-ties hold him in place. But I think that's about all I can tell you. I can't really see very much from here.
What can you see? Jack says. Anything might be helpful.
A shitload of wasted electricity, Jacob replies. They've got me facing the windows, so all I can see is the outside.
Well, HRT wants to go in, so keep your head down.
Shit, no! Jacob says, his eyes going wide. They've got us in a big circle, and I think they're sitting in the middle with us. If they come in now, it's gonna be a fucking disaster.
Great, Jack says. I'll let them know. Hold tight, Jacob. We're gonna get you out of there.

---

Yeah, Jacob says. Hold tight. I can do that.
Jack opens his eyes and looks around. "You sure you're okay?" Chrome asks, still looking at him with concern.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Jack says, blinking his eyes. "That was Jacob Edelman, he's a telepath on the eleventh floor. He says you can't go in, that they've moved all the hostages into the middle of the room and he thinks the terrorists are using them as cover."
"Really," Donovan says. "That's your story. Just when I'm about to do something your girlfriend here doesn't want me to, you have a stroke and suddenly you can talk to one of the hostages in. your. mind. That's not even convenient timing. And your drama club performance didn't fool me for a second. Now, why don't you go back to not wasting my time?"
"I think I would know when I'm being talked to by a telepath," Jack says.
"And his real girlfriend knows that there is a telepath upstairs by that name," Chrome says, glaring at the FBI agent.
"And he's still a detective with the NYPD, so I'd give him a bit more respect than some hump off the street if I were you," Sharon says, keeping up her own steely gaze.
"Sure," Donovan says. "And I'm certain you'll come up with some clever plan that saves everyone if I just give you yet more time to 'talk' to your new friend. Your five seconds are up, DT. Now do me just one little favor and shut the hell up, all of you. I'm taking charge, and I say we go in now."

Sharon, Chrome and Jack look at each other, trying to figure out what to do next, when Jack has an idea. "What's your first name?"
"Thomas," Donovan says. "Why? Is this another one of your 'tricks'?"
"It'll just be a second," Jack says. Jacob, you still there?
Yeah, what do you need?
Contact Thomas Donovan. He's in charge of HRT on the scene, and he's the one that wants to go in and start shooting. Convince him that I'm not crazy, and I can buy some time.
Can do, Jacob says.
Jack refocuses on where he is and looks at Donovan. "You'll get your answer any second now," he says, a slight smile appearing on his face.
"What will -" Donovan locks up mid-sentence, and repeats Jack's performance from earlier. He comes to on the floor, his right hand tapping out Morse code on the floor apparently by itself. His first words are "Well, shit."
"Believe me now?" Jack smugly asks.
"This is just going to be one of those days," Donovan says, and closes his eyes with a frustrated sigh. "Fine. You know more about dealing with this freak shit than I do, I'll give you one more shot at this." He pulls himself to his feet and fixes the team with a hard gaze. "But the instant you fuck this up, we are going in, no stalling."
"Done," Sharon says. "Now, go back to the donut table and let us do our jobs."

As Donovan and the rest of the HRT walk off, Jack hears Jacob come back in. How was that?
Good. What did you tell him?
Just name, ID number and that if he comes in now, he'll get us all killed, Jacob says. So, what now?
Let me ask the team, Jack says. "So, anyone got any bright ideas?"
"Edelman's our best asset at the moment," Sharon says. "I mean, he's a telepath. Can't he just read a terrorist and tell us what they're planning?"
"He needs to know their name in order to make a connection," Jack says.
"Right," Sharon says. "Then we need a name. What we do after that, I have no idea."
"Better than nothing," Chrome says. "We can't negotiate with them through the phone, maybe..." She smiles. "That's it."
"What?" Jack asks.
"Maybe he can talk one of them into telling him what's going on, maybe even end this thing altogether," Chrome says. "We can negotiate through him."
They both look at Sharon, who pauses in thought for a moment. "What the hell," she says. "It's not like we have any other options, besides Agent Beefcake's plan. Let's do it."

--------
Karen Ayers' Apartment
September 3rd, 4:15 PM
--------

Camille is sitting at the table, enjoying a fresh cup of cocoa. This one, she made herself, after spending a few minutes gathering her nerves back up. Take part in enough stakeouts, you get to know your way around how to make instant stuff taste okay. A little cream and vanilla went a long way for this cup, and Camille sips it carefully.

She still remembers the last five seconds of Steve's life. The look on his face, his eyes wide open. The last breath. And without Karen by her side to provide the cues, with nobody to tell her how bad this is...it's okay. It's not good, but it's okay. And that, more than anything, makes her feel like a monster. You can't be okay with what she's done and not be a bad person.

Karen left for her room a few minutes ago, but now Camille's getting anxious. Her gut tells her that this is taking too long, too much time, what's going on in there, Specialist Belton? Her ears perk up automatically. Like a doe that can tell when the birds stop singing, Camille slowly turns her head, looking around the living room. Something's wrong. Something is off. Karen. Camille has to see Karen.

She puts the cup down and looks to the door, then the windows. She slowly gets up, looking behind herself. A whispered "Clear" escapes Camille's lips without her noticing. With soft steps, she moves to Karen's bedroom. After another look over her shoulder, she raises her hand to knock, but thinks better of it and instead presses her back against the wall next to the door, then knocks with her outstretched arm.

Camille hears some shuffling around inside, then the door opens. "Camille?" Karen asks, then sticks her head out of the door. The makeup she had on from the funeral this morning lies in ruins, streaked and smeared on her face. Despite the tear-ruined state of her face, Karen smiles warmly at Camille. "What's up?"
"I -" Camille says, "I, when I'm alone, I - I don't do so good alone."
"Well, come in, then. I just have to clean myself up a bit." Camille follows Karen into her bedroom, and as Karen walks into her bathroom, she notices the smeared mascara and blush on the pillows of the bed. "Just gotta get the rest of this makeup off. Is there anything you want to talk about?"
"Girls and their makeup," Camille says to the room, already busy with stripping the pillowcase for cleaning. "I - I don't know. You were in here for a while and I thought I - I thought I should see if you're okay. I didn't mean to...upset you."
Karen puts down the wad of tissue paper and sighs. "It's not your fault. It's Sanctuary's. What they made you do was...things like Golgotha have been my worst nightmare for decades, that we'd be rounded up and exploited, and to hear it happen to you...I lost it, and I'm sorry. You shouldn't be ashamed of what's happened to you, you're a hero for just surviving it like you have. I've just had a lot on my mind recently."

"I - Karen?" Camille asks. "Do you think I'm a bad person?"
Karen looks back at Camille in the mirror, surprised. "What kind of question is that? Of course you're not, why would you even need to ask?"
"Because I know you're a good person, and when I told you about this you were so sad, and I cried because you cried, but just then I thought about it again and I didn't cry, and some things should make a good person cry, I think, but I didn't, so -"
Karen walks up to Camille while she's talking, kneels down and shakes her. "Camille. Trust me, the fact that you're so worried about this is all I need to know. You're a good person. It's just a lot to hear, and a good person would either get really angry or cry when they hear that something like that happened to someone as good as you are."
"Just - just good to hear that from you, Karen. That sounds right. I'm just nervous. I'm new at this. You must have heard a lot of bad people telling you bad things in your job. And I wondered - what they sound like when they tell you."
"Just like everyone else does," Karen says. She lets Camille go and walks back to the mirror. "What makes them bad people is why they did what they did, and what they do about it afterwards. Make sense?"
"Sure," Camille says.
"Besides, if you're looking to me as an example of stability and calm emotional reactions, I'd look elsewhere right now," Karen says.
"What you were talking about in the car with Chrome?"
"Yeah." Karen finishes cleaning her face and sits down on the bed with Camille. "I was in a tight situation, and I had to kill some Sanctuary soldiers to get out." She stares straight ahead. "I know I had to do it, but I just can't stop wondering if that's something I can stop doing, if that's all it takes for me to become like the people I prosecute. A killer."
Camille looks over at Karen. "The fact that you're so worried about this is all I need to know," she says. "You're not a killer, Karen. You lock them up, that's what you do."
Karen shakes her head. "Chrome said the same thing earlier. I still don't know if I believe it."

There's a silence between them, then Karen smiles. "God, we're both so pathetic, aren't we? Both terrified of being something everyone tells us we're not."
"Um, yeah," Camille says, her gaze dancing over the wallpaper. "I - urm - maybe this is just a little too heavy for us right now, Karen. I think we should, you know, we should do something to cheer ourselves up." After a short pause, she adds "So, how do you cheer yourself up?"
"Take a break from whatever's depressing me, go home, watch a movie and relax," Karen says. She looks at Camille, grin still on her face. "I could do with a break from the deposition, how about you?"
"Sure," Camille says, finally returning the smile.

The two women stand up from the bed and walk down the hall to the living room.
"How do you think Sharon and everyone else is doing down at Federal Plaza?" Camille asks.
"They're the best," Karen says. "I'm sure they've got it under control."

-------
Federal Building
September 3rd, 4:35 PM
-------

With Jack placating the HRT, Sharon planning the assault and Az out running around with Helsing, most of the grunt work has fallen to Chrome. Help with the security feeds, run the fiber cameras, and now, searching the van for clues. It's a big change from when she was just the 'secretary' for their little cover, and she's loving every second of it. The CSU techs aren't precisely enthusiastic about one of the "freak detectives" trucking around on their crime scene, what with their reputation for gunfights, unstable metahumans and other evidence-contaminating events, but at least Chrome knows the score: no touching, no souvenirs, no dumb questions. She's suited up in a white Tyvek painter's jumpsuit over her street clothes, happily whistling to herself in the breathing mask as she carefully picks through the split-open remains of the bomber's van.

"I hate it when they use ANFO," one of the techs close to Chrome says, by way of conversation. After a second, Chrome takes the hook.
"Why?" she asks.
"Because it stinks," the tech replies.
"Don't have to tell me twice," Chrome says. The intrusion into her sensitive nose is arguably worse than for the tech, but she's professional enough not to get into that. The smell isn't a clue. Any yokel can make ANFO.
"Anderson, I need some lights over here," the tech says. "I think that's the dashboard."
"You think?" comes the reply from a second tech - presumably Anderson.
"It's a chunk of ABS torn apart by an explosion at close range, so yeah, I think, that's why I need lights."

Chrome doesn't need lights. She can see the metal VIN plate. But after how upset she saw the SWAT techs were after she solved their camera problem earlier, she decides to be content with scribbling down the van's VIN number and letting the CSU techs do their job.

"I think I've seen enough," she says.
"I hear you, DT," the tech says. "This crime scene stuff can be a little much. You go back to catching the crooks, eh? We'll tell you if we find something hot."
"Thanks," Chrome replies. "I appreciate that."
"You have a good one."
"You too."

She flips open her phone as she walks back towards the federal building and speed-dials the SCU squad room.
"Hey, Ryan. I need a VIN ran for me..."

---

Jacob Edelman's not in the best position. He's at the very edge of the circle on the windows side, so he can't see a damn thing that's going on. The terrorists have been wigging out ever since they shot out the cameras, which in Jacob's experience is never a good thing, and the squirming of the agent next to him is becoming stronger by the minute.

God, just tell them you have to pee, Jacob says to Donny, who cracks a desperate little smile at that.
Maybe you'll get lucky and she'll piss herself right here, Donny cracks.
Wouldn't that just be the fucking cherry on top of this shitty day, Jacob says. Hang on, I've got to check in with Schaefer, see what's going on.

Jacob cuts contact with Donny and concentrates on listening to the distant voice of Jack Schaefer. What's the news, Detective? The natives are getting restless up here.
Okay, we've got a plan. Have you ever done any crisis negotiation?
Did a bit in training, done lots of interrogations and talked a few suspects out of apartments, but nothing like this, Jacob says.
Well, now's a great time to start learning.
Jacob shakes his head. This is your brilliant plan? You talking me through crisis negotiation like I'm landing a jumbo jet? I'm sorry, but there's no way that's going to work.
It's either that, or the HRT guys get all shooty, Jack says. They're not answering the throw phone anymore, and unless something changes fast, we don't have a choice. We've got one of their names, and if you can get him to listen to you, we'll go from there. You on board?
Jacob sighs. Sure. Give me his name.
Frank Wright, Jack says. We got the name off the bomb van's rental agreement, so we don't think he's the guy in charge, but see if you can convince him to try to talk whoever is in charge into maybe letting some of the hostages go, or even just picking up the phone again.
Alright. Any advice?
Just introduce yourself, be friendly. You want him to want to trust you, Jack says. It's like picking up a woman in a bar. You FBI guys do date, right?
Jacob smiles. Yeah, but we don't pay for them by the hour like you NYPD guys.
Jack laughs through the mental link. Some of us are lucky enough to pay for it every day, he says. Also, use small words. The kind of guy who puts his name down on a van he's planning to blow up doesn't strike me as all that bright.
I'll think slow thoughts at him, Jacob says.
Good luck.
I'll report back how it went if it goes well, Jacob says. If not, I suppose you'll know the same time I do.

Jack's thoughts fade into the background, and Jacob breathes out. The agent next to him has upped her quivering to the next level.

The faster the better, Jacob thinks. He closes his eyes, holds his breath for a moment, then exhales. His eyes snap open, pupils fully blown out, and feels his thoughts cast throughout the room. Frank Wright...

Mr. Green is busy staring out of the window at the police presence parked outside the building when he feels it. It's like a roofing nail being driven through his skull, no pain but a whole lot of pressure on a small point. He takes his left hand off his gun and rubs his temples. More nails, quicker this time, until it feels like a serious headache without the, well, ache.

Frank Wright, a voice tells him, I want to talk to you.
Green moans, as if that could stop the voice and bring the pain, like a proper migraine should.
This is important, Frank. We need to talk about this situation. Just focus on my voice, and picture thinking to me like I'm standing right next to you.
Green rubs his eyes, trying to make the voice go away, and when he opens them again, Red is staring at him. "What's the problem, fish?" she asks, eyeing Green's 'ow my head' stance nervously. "This shit turning you on too hard?"
"Shut the fuck up, Red," Green replies.
Frank, please. I want to talk to you.
"I said, shut the fuck up." Green growls. Red's giving him a full blown crazy stare.
"What's your fucking problem, fish?" Red says. "You been bitching all day, what is your fucking deal?"
Frank, talk to me. I know you can hear me, I just want to talk. Please, think about what you're doing.
"Get out of my face," Green says, "you all best get out of my face. Leave me the hell alone."
"You want a fucking time-out or what?" Red says. "We're doing this now, no backsies, oops-my-bads or any of your fucking bitch-talk. We all soldiers now, assface, and that means you better unfuck yourself right pronto."
Frank, I know you think that what you're doing is the right thing, but these people haven't done anything to you. Please, listen to me.
"I told you to shut the fuck up!" Green turns away from the window and runs off into the break room, holding his head. Everyone stares at him as he shuts the door.
Red's about to follow him in when White steps in. "Leave him alone, Red," he says. "Let him get it out of his system. Some nerves should be expected at the beginning of a fight like this."
"Don't like this, boss," Red says. "I tell ya, that ain't nerves, that's crazy."
White nods. "I'm keeping an eye on the situation. If more action has to be taken, I'll let you know."

---

Green heads straight for the break room fridge, grabs a bottle of water and starts chugging it, but he almost chokes when the voice comes back.
You're not going crazy, Jacob says. I'm really talking to you, Frank. Please, I didn't mean to scare you. I just want to talk about this. See if we can't figure this out.
"There's nothing to figure out, you're a voice in my Goddamn head," Green says.
Jacob sighs. I'm not, I'm just a metahuman with the FBI, trying to get you to think about what you're doing. Your partners out there aren't picking up the phone anymore, and this is our last-ditch effort to try to get you guys talking again. Otherwise, we're going to have to start shooting, and no one wants that. If you can get them talking, maybe even release a few hostages, things will get easier for you.
"Get the fuck out of my head!" Green shouts. "You're not gonna brainwash me, or fry my brains, or blow up my head, you freak!"
Frank, please, I can't hurt you, all I can do is talk, so let's talk.
Green paces the room. "Nuh-uh, no no no, you shut up, you shut the fuck up right now!"
I'm not going away, Frank, Jacob says. Lives are at stake here, and you and I, we need to work this out, need to reach some kind of understanding here. If you keep this up, HRT is going to come in there, and people are going to die, both your people and mine. Just talk to me, alright?
Green leans into the corner of the room, trying to hide from the voice "No, no, no..." he repeats, sliding slowly down the wall.

----------
Constantine's Rare Books
September 3rd, 4:36 PM
----------

Helsing knocks on the front door to Constantine's, and waits patiently for an answer. He's got a file folder in his hand, something that they detoured back to the SCU squad room to pick up.
Az, in contrast to Helsing's relaxed demeanor, is practically hopping from foot to foot. "We really should have called ahead first. Constantine prefers that we call ahead."
"I think he'll open the door up for us," Helsing says. "We come to him enough, he knows who I am."
"Maybe. It's just...rude," Az says.
Helsing looks at Az, a curious look in his eye. "I'll be sure to apologize for the inconvenience."
Az nods towards the file. "What's in the folder?"
"My Simmons file. Just some papers, things that might help us out."
"I don't think he knows that much about Simmons," Az says. "He's just an occult expert, it's not like he's an arms dealer, he just knows about old magic and legends."
"Then why did Simmons come here?" Helsing asks. "Even guys like Simmons need to know about a spell or ritual every now and again." He knocks on the door again.

Before he finishes, the door opens to reveal Richard Constantine. "Ah, hello, Lieutenant Helsing," Constantine says, shaking the cop's hand. "What an uncommon pleasure to see you! Do come in."
He leads Helsing and Az into the bookstore. The place looks empty, if neat, with just a folded book and a cup of tea on the counter as signs of someone's presence.
"A thousand apologies for the delay, but this book - it's quite the page-turner, I just had to finish the paragraph."
"Oh? What's the book?" Helsing asks.
"One Hundred Years of Solitude," Constantine says, walking around behind the counter. He takes a seat on the stool in front of the book. "It rewards a careful reading pace."
"...I'm sure it does," Helsing says.
"But my reading habits are not why you are here, Lieutenant."
"No, I'm here about Mark Simmons," Helsing says. He puts his file down on the counter. "Did you know him?"
"Now that is an interesting question, Lieutenant," Constantine replies. "But I'm not sure what reading habits, if any, Mr. Simmons possessed. He would have been hard-pressed to have any interest in my store."
"That's not the question I asked, Mr. Constantine," Helsing says, forcing a smile.
"Indeed. I suppose it's no big secret anymore, and I should come clean. Yes, Mr. Simmons was an...acquaintance. He would engage in some research and tap me as a source on occasion, though to what goal I could not even venture a guess. He was a careful man, and for the longest time I had little inkling that it was, indeed, him."
"Admitting that you were in contact with an escaped fugitive is very serious, Mr. Constantine," Helsing says. "Your relationship with my squad is dependant on trust between us."
"Hey, let's not get too crazy," Az says. "He didn't say he knew that Simmons was still alive after Stonegate, alright?"
"Raphael, please," Constantine says. "I am perfectly capable of defending my own actions when it is merited. As it turns out, I had met with Mr. Simmons a few times after his release from Stonegate. I can not deny Lieutenant Helsing's anger at my silence, but I can only beg that he understands the fear and inertia of an old man. After all, Mr. Simmons was a dangerous man of long grudges, and his association with Sanctuary - who, I must add, had assaulted me in my home before and destroyed my store - did nothing but add to my intimidation. Discretion has always been my policy, so when Sanctuary was exposed and Mr. Simmons found dead, this fool said in his heart that there was nothing to be gained by painting a target on myself. I thought it had all gone away, never to bother me again."
"You could have told us about them," Helsing says. "We could have protected you and your store from Simmons and Sanctuary. I'm sure you saw the news about Hansen and Marcos in Central Park, we can take care of ourselves."
"Not to put too fine a point on it, Lieutenant, but the contractors can take care of themselves. As I recall, your department did not procure grenade launchers as standard issue after this incident."
"They are part of my squad, Richard," Helsing says. "I trust them, and they would have gladly helped defend you if you had simply come to us." Az winces at Helsing's statement of trust.
"I suppose they would have," Constantine says. "But that is all in the past, and I suspect you have not come here on the wild chance that it would stir my conscience. What is the real purpose of your visit today, Lieutenant?"
"On August 12th, Simmons stole something from Christian's, something called a Stygian. Christian says he was looking for information, and he thought that thing would help him get it from you. Do you know what he was after?"
"The Family Killer, of course," Constantine says, "though what measure of desperation drove him to seek information from me, I cannot say. He was looking for old newspapers, of which I do keep a small collection, and a Stygian...can be persuasive."
"What happened?"
Constantine sighs. "He threatened me. He wanted information about who the Family Killer might be, I refused. He then proceeded to beat me, and broke my nose. After which, I told him what I knew, and he left."
"What did you tell him, Richard?"
"A list of names, that is all. One of them, Victor Smith, was later found murdered, I believe, by Mr. Simmons's hand, an occurrence that I deeply, deeply regret." Constantine's eyes briefly flick over to meet Az's. "That is all I can say. I had no involvement in what happened next."
"And your...associate, or employee, Dante Vecci? He was working with Marcos and Schaefer at the time. Does he know anything?"
"I would not bring him into confidence, no," Constantine says. "His frequent contract work for the police meant that it would have been naught but a matter of time before he gave it away. I thought it best to not put him in such a shameful trap. Anything else, you will have to ask of him when he returns from his expedition in Russia."
Helsing nods. "Alright. One last thing, Richard. You've got a lot of contacts in the metahuman underground groups, right?"
"I know a few people, Lieutenant, though whether they would appreciate being referred to as 'metahuman underground' is a matter of some doubt."
"Simmons had to stay somewhere while he was out, and what we've seen of Sanctuary's files and gotten from testimony was that he wasn't with them for very long, and rarely was in any of their bases," Helsing says. "He had to sleep somewhere, Richard. Any ideas where that would be?"
"I've no idea," Constantine says, "but I must admit my lack of thought about Mr. Simmons's lifestyle over these last few years. Where did he sleep? Most vexing, indeed."
"Yeah, well, that's what I'm gonna find out," Helsing says. "If you hear anything, you give me a call, Richard. I'm serious, anything at all, I'd better be your first call, or you and I, we're done."
"I see little joy in deceiving you, Lieutenant Helsing. You have my word that you will know what I know."
"Good," Helsing says. "Good to see you, Richard."
"Take care, Lieutenant."
Helsing picks up his file, taps it on the counter a few times, then turns and walks towards the door.
Az doesn't move from the counter, and watches Helsing walk towards the door. "I'll be out in a second, Lieutenant. I've got some questions for other cases to ask him."
Helsing nods, and steps outside.

Both angels wait until the door fully closes, then turn back to each other. "Good Lord, Gam, are you trying to get us made?" Az says, exasperated.
"I'm answering as truthfully as I can without endangering you," Gamariel replies. "Our problem is larger than my conversation just then. Do you really think I had the power to sway Helsing from his course? It was all I could do to contain the damage."
"That's what I'm trying to do here. Every clue he gets in this brings him one step closer to our door, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't make things any easier for him."
Gamariel's face darkens. "I will not be derelict in my duties, Azuriel. Even for you. I do believe that I have given him enough information that he will leave me alone for now, but not anything that he could potentially use to further endanger your disguises."
"At this rate, it's just a matter of time, Gamariel. We need to stop him now, before he gets any closer."
"The best I can manage is a delaying action. I lack the...contacts for more drastic action. But that would be the forte of your superiors, is it not?"
"Lucifer is trying to keep a low profile, and I think we should keep Heaven out of this," Az says. "This requires a light touch, something that they're not particularly good at."
"Agreed. But to what end shall your chain lead Helsing? What conclusion will you allow him to draw? It would seem that your time to think of such things is running out, Azuriel. You had best act swiftly before his search narrows further."
"Mark had plenty of blind alleys in his life, I just need to lead Helsing down one of them," Az says. "I'm dancing as fast as I can, Gamariel. Wish me luck."
"Then luck it shall be," Gamariel says. "Fare thee well, Azuriel."
"The same to you, Gamariel," Az says, and jogs out after Helsing.

--------
Federal Building
September 3rd, 5:02 PM
--------

Mr. Wright? I know you can hear me, just please, say something, anything, Jacob pleads.
Frank "Mr. Green" Wright has his eyes clenched shut. It's not quite obvious whether that's from a genuine effort to mentally block out Jacob, or because that's what they do on teevee when they're trying to fight off a telepath. He's soaked in sweat, quaking with fear, and wishes the freak would just fry his brain and get it over with.
Just...just come out here where I can see you, and you can see us, Jacob says. Look at us, look at who you're taking hostage. We're not monsters, Frank, we're just people, and we're scared, and we want to go home. You can be the hero, Frank. Help us, Frank. Help us go home.

Jacob's words do have an impact, but one he definitely did not intend. Frank's eyes light up, and he hauls himself to his quaking feet. Muttering a constant stream of "Shut up, shut up, shut up" to himself in the vain hope of blocking Jacob's voice, he shambles back to the break room's door.

"You park your ass right back there," Red says, accentuating the command with pumping her shotgun. Green looks up to find her standing in the doorway, blocking his exit.
Hey, Frank, where are you going? Jacob asks. Let's not do anything crazy here, alright?
"He's in my head," Green pleads, "I need to take him out before he -"
"Shit, don't get your crazy on me!" Red snarls. "You're done. Sit over there and be a good boy until we got this shit settled!"
"I have to, he's in my head, he's -"
"I said sit. the. fuck. down!"
"He's...he's..." Green babbles, then takes a step back, looking away from Red. "Of course. Stupid! Stupid! Of course!" He looks back at Red. "He's got you. I shoulda known! He's got you! He's got you and I'm next! That's the plan, ain't it! That's his plan!"
Whoa! Hold on, I'm not talking to anyone else but you! Jacob says.
"...okay, someone needs a fucking time out," Red says, more puzzled than angry. She reaches for Green's weapon before he kills himself or, more importantly, her.
Green backs away from her, snapping his rifle up to aim at her. "Get out of my fucking way," he says. She raises her shotgun in response. "I have to kill him!" Green shouts. "I have to save us!"
"Last chance, motherfucker," Red says, calmly staring Green down. "Sit down or I'll seat ya."
For fuck's sake, Frank, listen to her! Jacob shouts.
"I'm sorry, Red," Green whimpers, "but -"

BLAM!

Shotguns might not blow you across the room, but some people, when they're hit by nine 00 pellets, reflexively jump. Green's jump leaves him sliding to a stop just inches from the circle of hostages, and in full view of the rest of the terrorists. Red coolly racks the slide on her shotgun, shell rattling on the tile floor.

"Anyone else wanna try me?" Red asks the room, letting her gaze sweep the bullpen.
"What the hell?" White shouts. "What the fucking hell?"
"He was out of fucking control, top," Red says. "I tried to take his weapon, and he drew down. I put him down before he took me out."
Blue pumps his shotgun and walks up next to Red. "Drop your fucking shotgun, Red."
She slowly turns her gaze towards Blue. "You gonna fucking make me?" she asks.
"You give me that shotgun or I'll blow your head off, Red," Blue says.
Red slowly moves the muzzle of her shotgun up to point straight at Blue's chest. He's so focused on looking down the barrel of his gun at her face, he doesn't notice. She smirks at him. "I'd like to see a fish like you try."
"Both of you need to calm down before this escalates even further," White says, climbing up on a desk. "We are here to fight the metahumans, not each other."
"Fuck you, White, he came at me!" Red shouts. "I'm gonna give you five seconds to get that idiot -" she glances at Blue - "out of my face before I do it for you."
"Blue, Red, both of you stand down!" White says.
Neither one budges. "Four," Red says.
"Fuck you, you psycho bitch!" Blue says, shoving his barrel an inch from her eye.
"Three." The hostages closest to the standoff start to shout and scream, knocking over the chairs they're secured to in their attempts to get away.
"Two," Red says.

On the count of two, Red pulls the trigger on her shotgun. At less than a foot away from her target, the 12 gauge shell blows a plate-sized chunk out of Blue's chest like he was hit with a small hand grenade, splashing the hostages and Red with blood and bits of flesh and t-shirt.

With Red having just killed two of her own men, it's obvious to everyone on the eleventh floor that Mr. White is no longer in charge of the situation. The other terrorists give each other "What now?" glances, and within seconds it hits the hostages. What started as a brief moment of panic and fear from the hostages with ringside seats to Blue's execution spreads to all the hostages, with some desperately trying to roll themselves into cubicles and offices, some falling to the ground, and others simply frozen in place, paralyzed with fear. Their leader powerless to stop the murder of two of their own, the terrorists' attitudes shift from "fighting the metahuman menace" to "free for all" in a flash. They quickly divide into two factions, guns are pointed as the two sides shout at each other over who was right, who's in charge and what the fuck they're going to do now.

Jacob managed to get himself and the crying agent next to him into one of the side cubicles. The shock of the last minute or so finally settling down, he reconnects to Jack.
Jacob, what the fuck's going on up there? Jack asks. We've heard two shots, are any hostages down?
Jacob's in shock, the gunshot that killed Green still echoing in his head. It - it's all gone fucking wrong up here. I fucked it up.
Jacob, focus, what's the situation?
I drove him fucking crazy! I was just trying to talk to the guy, but I fucking broke him! My God, Jack, what have I done?
Hey! Jack shouts. The simple fact that Jack just mustered up enough mental energy to be that loud is enough to shock Jacob upright for a moment. You did your fucking job, that's what you did. You're an agent with the FBI, and you did your job. Now, keep on doing that and tell me what the hell's going on up there.
Right, Jacob says, shaking his head. Uh, Green lost it, Red put him down, Blue and White tried to make her stand down, and she killed Blue. The hostages all scattered, the terrorists are shouting and pointing guns at each other, and I'm hiding in a cubicle.
Okay, stay there and keep me informed - Oh shit, the HRT guys are coming over here. I'll be back, Jacob.

Jacob refocuses on the world around him. "I want to go home," the agent next to Jacob mewls. "I want to go home."
"Me too," he says, and spins around in his chair, looking for something he can use to get out of his restraints. "Don't worry, I'm talking to the guys downstairs, they've got a plan."
"I want to go home," she sobs.
"Just hold on," Jacob says, sliding open a desk drawer. He feels around inside, and finds a pair of scissors. "We'll be out of here soon." He works the scissors up and into the zip-ties around his wrists and slowly starts working through the plastic. Come on, Jack, get us out of here.

---

Downstairs, it's like thunder's finally breaking out of a dark cloud that's been hanging in the sky for hours. Immediately after the first reports of shots fired from the ESU teams positioned on the tenth floor, the HRT agents started gathering their kit, loading their weapons and checking their spare magazines. Jack looks on with concern as Donovan walks up to the command station.

"What do you think you're doing?" Sharon says.
"What I should've done an hour ago," Donovan says. "We got shots fired up there. I suppose you want us to wait until blood seeps out from underneath the doors."
"Agent Edelman has told us that the situation upstairs is incredibly unstable," Jack says. "We don't have a clue where any of the hostages or the terrorists are."
"And we don't have any more fucking time to figure it out, do we?" Donovan says. "Tell you what, you and the Others bitch can sit on your asses down here and try to figure out every last detail of the situation, while my team and I go up there and save the hostages. Deal?" He turns and walks off, securing the last of his gear. "Alright boys, let's move!"

Sharon lets her head hang a little and sighs. "I hate hostage situations," she says. "Brings out the dumbass hero in people."
"What do you think their chances are?" Chrome asks.
"If they're lucky, they won't take losses," Sharon says. "The HRT, I mean. Hostages? All bets are officially off, ladies and gentlemen."
Jack sighs. "I'll let Jacob know." He closes his eyes. Jacob? The HRT is on their way up. Tell anyone you can to keep their heads down.
Shit, Jacob says. I'll try, Jack.
Good luck, Jacob. Hope to talk to you soon.
Better you than God, Jacob says.

---

Moving through the stairwell up to the eleventh floor, the HRT team doesn't have any time to spare. They pass by the ESU teams standing by at critical locations. A few cops give them grim smiles and thumbs up. This has to work, first time.

No pressure.

Donovan's on point, his four-man element behind him, right at home. When he hits the eleventh floor, his M4 comes up, buttplate against his shoulder, eyes on the front sight. He takes careful steps to the first corner, just outside the hall that connects the elevators to the FBI office. The other team members stack up behind him, securing the approaches. All vectors covered. Good to go.

Tactical mirror comes out. There's a figure in the hall, a single terrorist, AKM, holding what looks like a hostage as a human shield as he backs towards them. Donovan takes a second to check details. No weapon aimed at the hostage. No wires or anything held by the hostage.

"FBI!" Donovan shouts. "Release your hostage and lay your weapon on the ground, now!"
"Fuck you!" the terrorist shouts back, his voice quaking. "I'm - I'm getting the fuck outta here! Anybody try anything, this asshole gets it!"
"Trombley!" Donovan whispers. "You got a shot?"
One of the HRT agents is inching around the corner, M4 raised and ready. "In two."
"Release your hostage and lay your weapon on the ground!" Donovan repeats.
"Fuck you!" the terrorist screams. "Fuck you, fuck you all, I'm -"

One shot. The bullet enters just below the terrorist's nose and slams all the way through his head, exiting in a tumble through the top of his spine. He drops to the ground like a sack of warm meat. Donovan surges ahead into the hall while the rest of the HRT stays a few steps behind to cover him.

"Over here!" Donovan shouts, beckoning to the hostage. Reluctantly, the man runs over, taking position behind Donovan. "Beckett! Cuff and secure! The rest on me!" Donovan barks. On command, one HRT agent commands the hostage to get onto the ground and places zipcuffs around his arms. After a brief pat-down, he helps the hostage back to his feet.
"Get down the hallway, ESU is waiting to pick you up," Donovan says. "Team, let's move!"

---

"What the fuck was that?" Briggs says. He looks away from the empty hallway on the eleventh floor and over his shoulder to Madera, who's hacking away at the console.
"Fuck if I know," Madera says.
"Hey, boss, we might want to find out if those idiots have finally lost their shit completely," Briggs says.
The leader of the team picks up the second radio. "Fucking amateurs," Drake says, and keys down. "Williamson, this is Drake, you got any more loose cannons in there we need to be aware of?"
"No," White says. "Things are calming down in here. The gunshot was outside in the hallway, Milo's down, but no one's there now."
"Copy," Drake says, and tosses the radio back onto the desk. "Looks like the cops finally decided to come and play, guys. How close are we?"
"Need another hour or two, there's a hidden trigger in here that's being a bitch," Madera says.
"Right," Drake says, picks up his M4 and checks the chamber. "Carden, Young, Glaze, you're with me, Briggs, watch Madera's back." Drake tightens the straps on his vest and armor. "This shouldn't take long."

---

The rest of the team forms up behind Donovan, who's now at the corner of a T-intersection just down the hall from where the plans say the break room exterior is. Aiming around the corner, Donovan shouts "Bound one!" In response, the rearmost of the agents runs past the entrance to the other side, takes cover behind the corner and aims his gun at the entrance.

"Bound two!"
"Bound three!"
"Bound four!"

Donovan draws back his gun, takes a few steps back and finally runs past the entrance himself. With a few hand signals, the team forms back up behind him, and they proceed to their chosen point of entry - a weak wall, ready to be made into a new door with a few breaching charges.

"Setting explosives," Donovan says, sliding several pre-made charges out of his tactical vest. He carefully places them against the wall, one by one, creating a rectangular area in between them. After another quick check, he takes a step back. "Beckett, flash. Trombley, gas. I'll blow on Bravo. Everybody ready?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Donovan sees a small metal sphere sail through the air in slow motion, heading into their little niche from around the corner. With a slow thump, it bounces off the wall once, flying right into the middle -
- Trombley doesn't notice -
- Beckett tries to shout -
- Donovan turns away, too slow -
- BANG!

The sphere explodes, sending a cloud of hard rubber balls all through the niche. The impact knocks the wind out of Donovan, and the pain of three high-velocity balls pinging against his jaw drops him to the floor. Through some kind of miracle, Trombley's the only one still standing, stumbling about and waving his hands looking for something solid to grab on to.

Then the gunfire starts.

Four men in black uniforms walk into the niche, easily shooting each of the HRT agents with a precise burst of fire. The last thing Donovan sees is one of them looming over him, aiming his rifle at his head and -

Bang.

The commandos look around the niche, checking the fallen bodies for signs of life. There's none to be found, and with a few satisfied nods, the ambush ends as quickly as it started.

"Back to work," Drake says, securing his rifle. "And somebody get that crap off the wall."
_________________
Gatac: Disco Jesus is a dick.
Punkey: Yes.

[Punkey]

With the HRT team seconds away from blowing the wall, all that Sharon can do is sit and wait for the echo of a blast eleven floors up and the sounds of gunfire over the tactical radio. She stares out into space, focusing on every scratch, thud and breath coming through the headset, waiting for the moment when it all goes wrong. Jack weaves his way through the crowd of ESU and other NYPD officers, coffee and bagels in hand. He holds a bagel out for Chrome to take; she smiles a little, takes it and resumes fiddling with the video console, nibbling at the bagel with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Jack slips his headset back on, and joins the vigil for the moment of entry.

"Setting explosives," Donovan says. Everyone around the command center straightens up at the sound of those words. "Beckett, flash. Trombley, gas. I'll blow on Bravo. Everybody ready?"

Sharon holds her breath in anticipation of the go-code, but before she hears the magic word, a deafening BANG rips through the radio. Chrome rips the headset off and holds her ears, wincing in pain; Jack and Sharon get away with just closing their eyes and grinding their teeth. Once they've recovered, all three of them manage to get a few moments of confusion before they hear the unmistakable sounds of gunfire from upstairs echoed in their headsets. Screams and shouts briefly ring out over the radio, but are quickly silenced, along with the weapons that stifled them.
Jack looks over at Sharon. "What the fuck was -"
"Shh!" Sharon hushes Jack with a raised finger.

Footsteps come over the radio, combat boots to Sharon's experienced ears. "Back to work," a voice says. The action of a gun is cycled. "And somebody get that crap off the wall."

Jack's face shifts from a look of confusion to anger in an instant. Chrome has the headset pressed to one ear and sadly shakes her head, mouthing a silent 'No'. Sharon's jaw sets, cold determination the only emotion on her face. For a moment, no one moves.

Then the moment ends. Sharon jumps to her feet, motions for the waiting ESU officers to come over and starts sketching a plan on the flip chart. "Okay, we've got an unknown number of roving hostiles with automatic weapons. Jack, check with Jacob, find out how many terrorists are left with the hostages."
"On it," Jack says. Jacob, what's going on up there? He can hear Sharon talking next to him, laying out the situation in brief, but he can't listen to what she's saying.
I've got no clue, Jacob says. One second, they were pointing guns at each other and shouting, then there was an explosion and gunfire, and now it's just complete chaos. White's trying to get the situation under control.
Any hostages hurt? Jack asks.
Not that I can see, whoever that was, it wasn't anyone in here. All the bad guys are still here.
Alright, tell me if anything changes, Jack says. He can hear Jacob say Will do off in the distance as he tunes back into the conversation taking place outside of his head. "He says that whoever this was, it isn't the hostage-takers."
"Shit," Sharon says, and bangs on the flip chart. "Who the fuck are these guys?"
"How are we supposed to arrest these assholes if we can't even find them?" Sucre asks.

Sharon stares at the flip chart for a second. "Marathon."
"Excuse me, detective?"
"A pincer movement," Sharon says, and draws two arrows, moving inwards from the exterior stairwells towards the MCD offices. "Cover all possible routes of escape and push in from the outside. We drive in hard and fast, squeeze them towards the middle, where we corner and cuff them," she says, finishing her diagram with a big X in front of the MCD. "Doesn't matter where the fuckers are hiding, this'll flush them out."
"Sounds like a plan to me," Sucre says.

Chrome hustles up to the table, armor and vest slung over her dress blues and M4 in hand, along with two more of each for Jack and Sharon. "Gear's here, get it while it's hot!"
Jack flips a vest over his uniform. "Who's going where?" he asks Sharon.
"You and Cass take the near-side stairwell, I'll lead the other element up the far side for the big push," Sharon says, cinching down the armor straps. "Sorry Jack, but it's a further push to make, and we'd leave you in the dust."
Jack smiles. "Wanna bet? Ten bucks says we make it to the MCD entrance before your element does." Chrome rolls her eyes.
"This is a hostage situation, not a horse race, Jack," Sharon says, a serious look on her face that quickly breaks into a similar bent smile to Jack's. "Twenty or go home."
Jack flicks on his radio and drops his tactical goggles over his eyes. "Deal."
"Children, please," Chrome says.
"Alright, Red element with me, Blue with Jack and Cass," Sharon says. She slides a magazine into her rifle, pulls back on the bolt to check the chamber, then lets it slam a round home. "Stay together, keep an eye on the office doors, and move hard and fast. We hit them now, we might catch them napping. Let's roll!"

---

Rifle balanced on her left hand, Sharon throws the stairwell door open, catching it an inch away from the wall. Her rapid exit is followed just as quickly by the other five members of the element. They hustle in pairs to check each office next to the stairwell, finding each to be clear. Sharon motions for them to restack in two columns, and each goes down the hall, checking each office in turn as they pass. The long hours of training, training again and training some more have elevated their sparse hand signals to the next best thing after telepathy, and so they barely make a sound as they quickly and efficiently clear a path to the front doors of the MCD.

As the elements approach the first intersection, Sharon's gut demands her attention, telling her to clear away from the left side of the hall. She motions for the two ESU officers following her to move with her to the other side, and they press up against the wall as she creeps forward towards the 90-degree kink in the wall. The faint whispers at the bottom end of her hearing that got her attention in the first place resolve themselves into the sounds of issued orders.

"Finish wiping this place down, it's gotta be fucking spotless before we clear out, and we've already outstayed our welcome," a voice says, a voice Sharon recognizes as the man who spoke after massacring the HRT agents. Sharon raises her left fist to signal for the ESU officers to stop behind her; they raise their rifles and shift sideways to cover her.

Sharon cautiously slides the edge of a mirror out, and sees a clear hallway, with shadows moving around inside one of the offices. Four doors down, unknown hostiles, proceed down far wall, she signals to the team, and starts a count. Three seconds later, she springs to her feet and heads for the wall, keeping herself stuck to the wall as she approaches the far door, viewing the hallway through the sight picture of her M4.

The red dot crosses over the doorframe, then inside as the angle decreases with Sharon's approach; she sees just a sliver of the room when a man dressed in black fatigues steps into the doorway. Sharon's trigger finger stiffens momentarily, but her reflexes hold it back while the rest of the brain catches up for a positive ID. She never gets the chance for a visual identification, but the man announces who he is loud and clear when he hops back inside as quickly as he walked out and shouts, "Fuck! Cops, right side! Open fire!"

Sharon has time to think "Oh shit!" but not to shout it. The all-too-familiar sound of a light machinegun action being operated rings out from inside the office. Sharon drops to the ground, landing on her back with a prime view at the drywall before her exploding into shards and dust by the bullets passing through. She throws her view behind her, sees the ESU officers skedaddling back to cover and turns her attention back to the matter of the machinegun. The first arc of fire has passed just over her; her combat boots dig against the floor and she pushes herself backward as quickly as she can manage, firing a few shots from her carbine to hopefully keep the heads of the attackers down.

After a second or two, she flips around, pushes off the ground and just runs for it back down and across the hall, trying to find a position with cover and a shot. She hears the machinegun roar behind her again and drops down, sliding onto the floor just outside one of the cleared offices. She rolls again and pumps a few more rounds into the now shredded drywall before a strong hand grips her by the vest and drags her into the office amidst more automatic gunfire. Sharon nods to the ESU officer who pulled her in and crouches next to the door, back against the wall.

When the latest burst of gunfire stops, she calls out. "NYPD! Cease fire and drop your weapons!" The reply is another burst; Sharon's curses are drowned out by the noise, but she slips the mirror free from her vest with her left hand and angles it to get a look out into the hallway. She sees nothing but pulverized drywall, activity inside the office and a long trail of smeared blood leading into one of the side offices.

"Shit," Sharon mumbles, then hits the transmit button on her radio. "Red leader to element, who's hit?"
"Sucre here, I caught a round in the leg and I'm behind a desk in one of the offices." She can hear the grimace on his face through the radio.
"Hang tight, we'll come to you," Sharon says.
Two of the soldiers step out of the door back-to-back. "Hey, one of them's hit!" the closest one shouts. "Hallway's clear! They're in this office over here!" Three more soldiers join them in the hallway.
"Oh, fuck me," Sharon says, unslings her rifle and starts working the straps on her tactical vest and armor, feeling the rush as she starts to shift.
Another ESU officer, Langone, looks at her with disbelief as she flips her armor off over her head. "What the fuck are you doing, detective?" he hisses. "They'll cut you to shreds!"
Sharon's eyes are already blood red, with the beginnings of her fangs and horns poking through. "They're gonna rush him, I've got to get to him now," she says, her voice dropped to a low menacing rumble. She shivers as her wings once again work their way out through the slits torn in her uniform, now bulging with the muscular bulk of her fully-shifted form, and wraps them tightly around herself. "I need whatever cover you can give me through the door on three."
"You got it," Langone says, raising his rifle. "Good fucking luck. You'll need it."
Sharon nods quietly, reslinging her rifle. She steals another look outside, takes a deep breath and starts the countdown. "One, two - three!"

Sharon springs out of the office, racing down the hallway to Sucre's position. Snap shots from the soldiers follow her - many miss, some flatten against her armored wings, one just barely misses taking the skin off the side of her neck. Halfway across the hall, she jumps, smashing her way through the door to the office where Sucre's hiding. The bullets follow her for a few more seconds before Langone's blind fire forces the soldiers to take cover themselves.
"Oh, fuck, they've got a demon!" someone shouts.
"You know what to do then, right?" the leader's voice says.
Drop your fucking guns and surrender? Sharon thinks. "Sucre!" she shouts, following the scent and sight of the blood trail in the darkened office. She rounds a desk and feels the sting of a three-round burst against her wings as Sucre screams. Instinctively, she takes a step back, outside of Sucre's line of fire. "Friendly!" she shouts. "Dammit, Sucre, it's me!"
"DT?" he replies weakly. "What the -"
"Told you I'm bulletproof," Sharon growls. She slowly steps back into his view, hands raised. After a second, he lowers his own gun, and she helps him back onto his feet, slinging his left arm over her shoulders. "Okay, can you walk?"
"I won't be doing the 100 yard dash, but I'm still good to go," he says.
"Right, then you'd better hold on tight," she says, and starts to wrap her wings around the two of them. "Stay calm, I'm just giving you an extra set of armor."
"Smells like Hell in here," Sucre says, voice muffled by the layer of demon skin surrounding him.
"Sorry, not much I can do about that," Sharon says with a smile. "Ready?"
Sucre coughs. "Not getting readier."
"Alright, and go!"

Sharon grabs the sling of her dangling M4, stretches it up to her mouth and bites straight through it, releasing her gun from its tight fix to her right side. She easily hefts it with her left hand, sticks it out of the doorway in the rough direction of the troops and starts firing as she steps out, pumping the rest of her magazine downrange before turning to sprint back across the hall and through the door to the safety of the rest of the ESU element. The machinegun roars behind her as she runs, half-dragging Sucre with her as he hustles on his injured leg, and she barely throws herself into the safe office before the bullets catch up to her. After a second on the ground, she rolls onto her back and unhooks her wings, releasing Sucre. Langone fires a few more rounds down the hallway, then retreats inside while another ESU officer takes his spot near the door.
Sucre rolls off of Sharon's wing and pulls himself to his feet. "Thanks."
Sharon stands up and shakes the spalled lead and copper off her wings. "Usually you have to buy me flowers and dinner first," she says, a smartassed edge making it through the guttural sound.
Another long burst from the light machine gun outside shreds more drywall and sends the ESU element scrambling for cover. "Any ideas what we're gonna do about that?" Langone shouts.
"I didn't get a look at where it is," Sucre says. "And there's not enough room for suppressive fire out of that door."
"And you're not running anywhere on that leg, gimpy," Langone says.
"Fuck you, Langone," Sucre shoots back.

While the intellectual debate over strategy rages on, Sharon's more worried about the soldiers that are no doubt stacking up outside right now. She looks around, trying to find another way out. Ceiling's a drop, won't support the ESU officer's weight, let alone hers, and she could probably break down a wall, but Langone's right, Sucre isn't running anywhere right now. She knows what her gut's telling her to do, but...

"Okay, idea," she says. "I'll draw their fire, get them turned around, give you a clear shot."
"And you're gonna do that without getting ventilated by that machine gun?" Sucre asks.
Sharon brings her wings back around herself, thumb hooks latching together tightly while she loads a fresh magazine in her M4. "Better me than your ass, Sucre," she says. "Everybody ready?" Turning towards the wall facing the mysterious soldiers, she tenses her legs and prepares for the pounce. "On three."

The ESU officers give Sharon a thumbs up; she takes a deep breath, rocks back one last time, then launches herself at the wall. 350 pounds of high-speed demon flesh blow a massive hole in the drywall and aluminum bracing, and Sharon slams to a stop on the other side against a row of cubicles. You're an idiot, Sharon, she thinks as she scrambles to her feet, shoulder sore and covered in gypsum dust. The machine gunner in the office must have seen her break out, as a long burst blows shreds of papers in the air and rocks her wings. She dives behind a desk overturned in her burst through the wall and bullets ricochet off the metal surface, but one punches through an inch or so from her head. Her instinct says to just let them get in close and fuck what happens to the ESU team. She blindfires half a magazine in the direction of the soldiers to keep their heads down, and charges across the hallway. She smiles. Fuck instinct.

She strafes out the door, looking for targets. Whatever plan the opposing force had was shattered along with the wall Sharon just pounced through, and they're all retreating back to the stronghold they had set up in the office they were hiding in. She snaps her peep sight on target and squeezes the trigger, barely feeling the triplet of blows from her M4. The unlucky last man in line catches the burst in the chest, blowing a sticky smear of red across the wall behind him, and he drops straight to the ground.

The weakened wall outside the stronghold office bends with the impact as Sharon slams into it, but the soldiers are ready to answer back. Sharon's back and tail ignite with the pain from the impacts of a half-dozen bullets as the machine gun roars again, some of them penetrating her tough hide in between her wings. Once again she drops to the ground and slides back, emptying her rifle into the wall as she does. She looks back and sees the rest of her element hustling forward under her cover as she adds a green smear to Sucre's red trail on the floor. Letting her empty rifle drag next to her, she draws her sidearm to cover the rest of her retreat as an M4 pokes around the corner to spray her down, but an eruption of concentrated fire from the ESU element blows the rifle and the hand attached to it to pieces. She smiles at the screams of pain as she rolls into the office for cover.

Sharon snaps the magazine out of her pistol and reloads with a spare before reholstering it. She stands up and fixes her gaze at the wall this office shares with the soldiers' defensive position. This is gonna suck, she thinks, takes a few steps back and launches herself into a dash, every footstep a heavy thud as the talons on her feet dig into the floor for every bit of traction. With her wings wrapped tight around her and her eyes closed, she hits the wall left shoulder first and goes straight through it - the drywall splinters, and the aluminum bars holding them bend and tear before the raw momentum of her approach. She drags a whole cloud of dust and ejecta with her, exploding into the other room and taking one of the soldiers straight with her across the room, slamming him halfway into the next wall and leaving his unconscious body hanging by the mangled aluminum wall studs. The remaining soldiers snap up their rifles to shoot her, but Sharon quickly unhooks her wings and spreads them, knocking two more soldiers to the ground.

She quickly folds her left wing back in front to defend herself against incoming bullets from the two remaining upright opponents. The rifle fire rips holes through the stretched demon skin; she charges the first of two remaining soldiers, and through one hole he catches a brief glimpse of her eyes before the wing whips out again into an arc, the momentum carrying her right arm forward into a haymaker strike. In the fine arts of demon close combat, anything that doesn't use the claws counts as a pulled punch; the soldier isn't in a position to appreciate that, though, as the raw force of the impact is enough to shatter his jaw and knock him to the ground with a solid helping of whiplash. The last standing soldier runs out through the door, knowing that the machine gun he's slinging isn't mobile enough to bring to bear inside the room. Once outside, he runs smack into the ESU officers advancing on the room; another quick burst sends them scrambling for cover, but the gunner isn't aiming any more, just trying to put bullets into the air.

Sharon hears the gun roaring outside and rushes to the door to take him down, but more bullets stitch her back, teasing an annoyed bark from the demon. She whips around to find the two soldiers she knocked down with her wings back at it. One's close enough that she simply lets her momentum continue her spin; she brings her tail up and whips the soldier in the face with it, the slap spinning him around and sending him to the ground for good. With her turn nearly completed, she puts foot against wall and pushes off towards the other soldier, taking a few more bullets, but finally she reaches him and simply grabs him by the vest, lifting him off the ground. A quick slam against the wall crushes more of the decor and shakes the gun loose from his grip; Sharon turns doorwards again, runs for it and slides out to see the machine gunner walk backwards down the hallway, still spraying sporadic fire. With a mighty heave, Sharon whips the arm holding the soldier back and then hurls the screaming soldier at the machine gunner. The gunner sees the windup; it's not enough time to bring his weapon around, but it is enough time for his eyes to go wide and for him to dive through an open door into another, still untouched empty office. The hurled soldier, by contrast, slams against the far wall of the hallway, leaves a nice big dent and falls to the ground, out of the fight.

"Pin him!" Sharon shouts as ESU restacks behind her; guns are aimed at the door to the office the machine gunner is hiding in, but his return fire keeps them from closing in to seal the deal. Sharon's not done, though: she reaches up, sinks her claws into the tiles of the drop ceiling and pulls, ripping a few square feet of asbestos tile down onto her. She quickly brushes off the debris, bends her knees and jumps up, sinking her claws into the real structural ceiling. With a grunt of effort, she pulls the rest of her weight upward and sinks the talons of her feet into the ceiling for a full grip. To the sound of demon claw digging through concrete, she rushes toward the gunner's last stand with frightening speed, taking some cables - and with them, more drop ceiling - down on her path. To his credit, the gunner quickly catches on to what the rumbling sound from above means and angles his weapon upwards, but it's too little, too late: Sharon drops down on him, bursting through the ceiling tiles and burying him under a pile of aluminum, asbestos and demon flesh. With a mighty groan, she stands up, dragging him with her; the machine gun dangles from its strap and discharges a few more times in response to his frantic trigger pulls, but finally runs dry. Undeterred, the gunner fumbles for a combat knife strapped to his leg; Sharon simply raises him up and looks at him. With a manic grin, the gunner frees his knife and stabs it at Sharon's arm, but the blade simply glances off her skin.

"Nice try," Sharon says, grinning wide, each tooth more than a match for the soldier's blade. Then she slams him through a desk, adding wood splinters and a veritable army of ballpoint pens to the room's decor.
Sucre limps through the door, followed by the rest of ESU. "Hey, DT," he says, and tosses Sharon a pair of flexcuffs. "Secure that suspect, will you?"
"10-4," she replies, and flips the soldier's unconscious body over, binding his arms behind his back. As she cinches down the plastic ratchets, the fire raging inside Sharon calms back down to a smolder as her wings, talons and tail pull back to form her disguise and she shrinks to her human form. She looks back to the ESU element. "Sorry about shifting like that, it's just -"
"No problem, DT," Langone says. "We got the job done and everyone goes home, that's what counts."
"Right," Sharon says, grinning, this time with a row of human teeth. "So, what do you say we split the repair bill six ways?"

---

Jack and Chrome slide out of the open stairwell in sync, covering each other back to back as each visually checks each doorway for threats. Finding none, Jack waves for the rest of the ESU element to come out, and they stack up single file as they proceed down the hallway. Turning the corner down to the entrance to MCD, they move quickly, each office checked and cleared in turn down the line.

As they methodically clear each office on their way across the building, the roar of automatic gunfire sounds out from the other side of the building. Jack and Chrome immediately stop clearing the accounting office they're standing in and go for their radios.
"Red element, what's going on?" Jack says. No response, but more gunfire comes from the general direction of Sharon's element, this time with the pitched back and forth beat of a gunfight. "Red element, status report!"
The noise of the battle raging on the other side of the building tells them far more about their situation than the silence over the radio does. "Okay, do we back them up, or do we go for the hostages now?" Jack asks.
"The hostages," Chrome says. "Sharon can handle her part."
"Right, I just hope the ESU guys can too," Jack says. "Blue, we're heading to MCD, double time!"

Blue team makes a run for it, passing by a handful of closed offices. Jack gives each door a short glance, but they're running out of time. Jacob, I need you here!
What the fuck is going on out there, Jack? Jacob asks. It sounds like World War 3 out there and everyone's starting to look really nervous in here.
HRT's dead, we're on our way in now. Give me the the location of all the terrorists you can see, relative to the entrance.
Ah...okay, we've got most of them over by the break room to the left of the entrance, White's in there with most of them trying to keep them all calm, there's six or seven others out here on guard, put all around the room.
Shit, too many to take out at once, Jack thinks.
I can hear that, Jacob says.
Okay, I've got a plan, Jack says. Keep your head down.

After a tense half-minute, they reach the MCD's barricaded main entrance; Jack signs for the team to take position behind him.
"We're ready," Chrome says, bringing her weapon to bear.
"We have to be," Jack mumbles. "We open with a flash in the break room and more for the bullpen, I throw anyone who gets in my way. You focus on getting anyone who's directly threatening hostages. Move, clear and secure. Everybody got that?"
"Sounds good to me," Chrome says. The ESU officers nod along.

Jack lets his carbine dangle from its assault sling and takes a half-step back, anchoring himself. He takes a deep breath and raises his arms, putting his hands forward aimed at the doors. With a look of intense concentration, he slowly closes his hands into fists and draws his arms back. The strain is visible in his shaking arms, as if he's engaging in a tug of war with the barricade and only making slow progress. Finally, he has his fists drawn back to his shoulders.

"On three," he says between breaths. "One, two, three!"

Jack opens his hands. Immediately, he's hit by a wave of force, pushing him back and almost off his feet. Within a millisecond, the focused totality of his psychokinetic power travels the distance to the doors - and blows them wide open, sending debris clattering to the floor behind them. It's like an invisible battering ram slammed against the entrance: the laminated glass of the doors is spiderwebbed, their frames almost ripped off at the hinges. Jack's arms drop, and the rest of the Blue team rushes around him. After another breath, he snaps up his own rifle and follows right behind them.

Flashbangs, prepped and readied before the telekinetic breaching charge blew the doors open, rattle and clank across the floor as the element advances to cover and braces for the blast. Before they have time to process their carefully prepared barricade being blown to pieces, the burning aluminum explosions render them completely useless. Taking advantage of the few precious seconds the flashbangs have bought them, Jack and Chrome immediately charge the terrorists out on the main bullpen before they recover enough to start shooting hostages.

Three terrorists are clustered next to where the hostages are tied up; Chrome lets her rifle drop into its sling, increases her speed from sprint to dash and launches herself into the air, bringing her elbow down straight onto the head of the first terrorist, his body going limp as his brain registers the crushing impact. The second one swipes for her, but she grabs his rifle near the muzzle and pulls it down while granting his face a series of lightning-quick punches. With a final spin and elbow to his face, she shoves him at the third terrorist, and both of them end up on the floor. Chrome pounces on number three and gives him both fists to the head until he's subdued, too.

The ESU officers concentrate on covering the break room, briefly exchanging fire with the bad guys inside before another flashbang gets lobbed in that direction. With the precision of a major-league pitch, it clanks off the open door, sails into the break room and detonates, sending an ear-splitting pressure blast out of the room, carrying a shower of tempered glass and a terrorist with it. Jack's right behind the officers on their way, one hand keeping his rifle up, the other free for using his power. The three terrorists still standing - well, swaying and clutching their eyes - are behind partial cover. Jack jogs up to one of them, shifts the grip on his rifle and gives the terrorist a faceful of stock. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees another terrorist fumble for his rifle - Jack reaches out with his power, and Mr. Bad Guy gets a bookshelf pulled down on top of him, pinning him under the weight of every major published FBI regulation.

The final terrorist - Red, but Jack doesn't know that - in the room has regained her wits enough to yell and charge at Jack. She tackles Jack and takes it to the ground, sending the two of them rolling. Red ends up on top, straddling Jack, and pulls her fist back for a punch, but Jack whacks her in the side of the head with his rifle, knocking Red off onto the floor next to him. Jack flattens his hand for a knife blow to the terrorist's windpipe; his strike ends up hitting the woman's chin. Both Red and Jack scramble onto their knees quickly; Jack brings his arms up just in time to block the terrorist's next punch, thought it smarts real good. The second punch is telegraphed enough that Jack not only deflects it, but manages to grab Red's wrist; he rotates and uses his weight to pull her off her knees and send her face-first to the ground. Red's head bounces off the floor on impact; Jack draws his left fist back and pummels her with two more strikes, dribbling her head on the hard tile floor each time before she finally goes down.

"Everyone get the fuck back!" Jack looks up to see Mr. White holding a struggling FBI agent at gunpoint in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the MCD, bleeding from dozens of tiny cuts from flying glass after the flashbangs. Jack climbs up off Red's unconscious body and hustles up Chrome and the rest of ESU, guns pointed at the injured terrorist.
"Okay, let's think about what's going on here," Jack says. "How do you think this is going to end?"
"With my dick between your white teeth, Jackie-boy," White says. "That is you, isn't it? Funny, you sound taller. Must be the magic of telephones." He shoves the pistol deeper under the agent's chin. "Drop the fucking guns."
Jack motions for Chrome to lower her M4. "Back off guys, we've got this." As the rest of ESU steps back, Jack puts his hands in the air. "Okay, it's just the three of us now, and I want you to think about what you're doing, Mr. White."
"What I'm doing?" White spits back. "What I'm doing? I'm listening to you prattle on, as usual! Now get out of my way or Mr. Special Needs Agent here gets it!"
"You know I can't do that, Mr. White," Jack says. "Just put the gun down, there's no need for anyone else to get hurt."
White laughs. "Says the guy with all the power in the world." He shakes his head. "So I guess I can't have the world I wanted - but I can make a start!"

White rips the gun away from the hostage's chin and tries to bring it to bear against Jack, but he's prepared. The moment the gun moves, Jack's hand shoots up and TK-grabs onto the gun, pulling it up over White's head as he dangles the terrorist from his own sidearm. The instant the gun is in a safe direction, Chrome dashes towards White, tackling him to the ground. The hostage makes a run for it, but the ESU officers intercept him and lead him off. Chrome wrestles White onto his belly and slides flexicuffs over his wrists, securing him.

Jack lets the pistol hover in the air. White stares slack-jawed as the pistol's magazine drops free and the slide seems to rack itself. Finally, the weapon clatters to the ground, completely useless. White looks back at Jack, who bears a grim smile. "Monsters isn't what people are," Jack says, glaring at the bruised and bleeding terrorist. "Monstrous is what people do."

-----------
3 Romer Road, Staten Island
September 3rd, 5:23 PM
-----------

It speaks to Mark Simmons's skill in evading capture that even after the NYPD raided his Staten Island safehouse, it still looks like the very picture of normalcy. Despite the red paper seal on the cheap door that was put up to replace the steel-reinforced version that ESU knocked down, it blends in perfectly with the neighbors. The grass is even neatly trimmed, no doubt an effort on the neighbors' part to keep the crime scene next door from lowering property values even further. It looks like a thing of the past, in every sense.

Lieutenant Helsing steps up to the door, draws a pen knife, cuts the paper seal on the front door and pushes it open. Az follows in his footsteps, hefting the CSU report for the house. Through the entrance hall, they walk into the living room; Az steps inside to take a look around, while Lieutenant Helsing drops onto the dusty couch, one of three remaining pieces of furniture in the room. Most everything else has been photographed, tagged, bagged and shipped off to the labs in the desperate hopes of finding anything that could explain Mark Simmons, but the report only paints a vividly detailed picture of nothing.

"This just creeps me out," Az says, looking around. "We got Mark Simmons's TV somewhere in evidence. I can see where it stood. It's like we robbed the place."
Helsing kicks his feet up on the Formica table and opens the file. "The TV had a few thousand dollars stashed inside it, actually," he says as he lays out the pictures from before CSU emptied the house on the table.
Az rubs his temples. "Of course. Wouldn't be Simmons without money squirreled away everywhere. Did we check the cookie jar?"
".45 Auto," Helsing says. He leans forward and stares at the pictures, then looks at the room, then back to the pictures again.
"I never figured him for the suburbia type," Az says. "You'd think he'd go for something less...hiding in plain sight."
"That's what let him get by for so long, right?" Helsing says as he walks around the room, flipping from photo to photo. He starts opening the cupboards in the kitchen. "Doing the opposite of what people expect him to do." He tries to climb up on the counter for a better look, but grimaces and leans against the counter, rubbing his hip.
"Careful with that leg, Lieutenant," Az says, rushing over to see if Helsing needs help standing up.
Helsing waves him off. "I'm fine, just don't move like I used to, that's all."
"Well, if you told me what we're doing here, I might be able to help."
"Simmons couldn't have stayed hidden for so long without someone helping him stay hidden, probably more than one person. This was the biggest of his safehouses, so I'm thinking that if this is where he was living, maybe something about this place will be different and tell me something about who was helping him out," Helsing says. He slams a cupboard door shut. "But there's nothing."
"He was a freak," Az says. Helsing shoots him a glance, and Az waves it off. "I mean in the 'weird person' way. All that trickery, the preparation, the hiding - I don't know. Doesn't sound very social to me."
"Everyone's got friends, Raph," Helsing says, limping back over to the couch. "Simmons was a big deal in the vigilante community before Love Towers, and who knows how many of his old buddies would have helped him out if he asked."
"Love Towers," Az mumbles to himself.
"And I want to find the bastards who helped Simmons stay out and killing and stick them in a cage," Helsing says, flipping through the photos again.

Helsing leans back into the couch, rubbing his hip some more, and tosses the photos back on the table. "But there's nothing here. Simmons cleaned his tracks too well."
"And we can't exactly ask him," Az says. He drops onto the sofa with Helsing. "What's so important about finding them, anyway? It's not like we're sitting on our asses without working a cold case."
"Simmons was a bad guy, Raph. People who help out someone like that? Probably aren't exactly volunteering at soup kitchens in their spare time," Helsing says. "Simmons was tied into the whole vigilante underground back in its heyday."
"If there's two words I hate, it's 'vigilante underground'," Az says. "But most of them have crawled back into their holes or gone legit. The wild days are over."
"Were you around here back then, Raph?" Helsing asks.
"Not exactly," Az says. "I was places, doing things -" Az says, then pauses for a moment. "But no, not here."
"Back before Love Towers, it seemed like every two-bit metahuman with delusions of heroism showed up in New York. Constantine used to run one of the biggest national vigilante networks, if you can believe that."
"Oh, I remember that. Guys like The Flag, or Tumor! Back when they were all trying to be a walking comic book."
Helsing shakes his head. "Yeah, that's one way to put it. Things were really bad back then. There were a lot of really bad metahumans out there, and we let the vigilantes have free reign in the city to clean up the messes that we thought we couldn't handle."
"Are things any better now?" Az says. "We traded supervillains for terrorists."
Helsing's eyes set into narrow slits. "Yes. Yes it is." He looks at Az. "What do you know about the weeks leading up to Love Towers?"
"Not too much," Az says. "What did you see, Lieutenant?"
"I was de-facto lead on this investigation into a big vigilante fight with anti-metahuman terrorist group. Bombing and running gunfight at rush hour, lots of innocents got caught in the crossfire. I was working with Jack and this crazy mercenary, Dieter something or other." Helsing rolls his eyes. "Jesus, the police hiring an assassin to solve cases. We really were idiots."
That eurotrash jerk, Az thinks, but keeps it to himself.
"Anyway, we had a lead on a group of magic-using ninjas working in the US that were tied into the attack, and I knew a samurai vigilante who ran in those circles." His jaw tenses. "Wataru."
Yagyu, Az thinks. Nice kid, not much of a planner, though.
"So I got a ESU team together and we went to serve an arrest warrant on him. That was standard procedure with most meta vigilantes if we needed an interview, you know, they wouldn't come in on their own, and most of them were too fucking dangerous to be approached with anything less than ESU behind you, so it's how we got the clearance to bring them along for field interviews. You roll up with ESU, call for them to come out, arrest them on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon, talk with them for a few hours, and let them go."
"So, you went to talk with that Wataru guy. I take it he didn't want to see you?"
"You could say that," Helsing spits. "We didn't know it at the time, but he was neck-deep in this huge fight with the ninja clan that was behind the attacks. So when we knock on his door and call for him to come out, he thinks we're some kind of fucking hit squad and cuts my whole ESU team apart. Murders all of them right in front of me, and then he fucking gets away."
Lord! I didn't - damn. We were all too paranoid, Az thinks. Killing our way out of every problem. "Did you ever catch up with him?"
"No. Jack and Dieter went off to deal with some other problem, and the next time I see him, I'm at Love Tower." Helsing shakes his head. "And you know what a complete disaster that was." He rubs his hip again. "That's where I got this. Got hit by a car thrown by one of the big metas. Crushed the woman I was running out of the area, and shattered my hip into five pieces."
We didn't pay any attention, Az thinks. We just wanted that demon dead, no matter what. We just wanted Sanctuary gone, no matter what. We didn't care. "I'm sorry," Az says.
Helsing laughs. "And you know what the icing on the fucking cake is? He's fighting the leader of the fucking ninja clan I'm investigating, with Dieter, Jack and those masked Sanctuary psychos! They were all involved with the Love Towers attack, and I just gave them a free pass!" Helsing looks off across the house. "That's why this is so personal, Raph. More than three thousand people died the day Love Towers came down, and we lost more than a hundred in the running fucking battle that went on the weeks before everything went completely to shit, but things had been bad for a while before then. Gunfights in the streets, mages slinging fireballs at each other in Central Park, bombings and all different sorts of shit. Things were bad, people were dying, and we just stood by and let them do it because we were afraid to go after the bad guys ourselves. So we turned the power over to the vigilantes. We - I - failed everyone, and people died."
"I - I'm sorry," Az repeats. We didn't take responsibility. We were gone when the dust settled. All we left was the rubble and the bodies.
"And Simmons was the cornerstone of the whole underground. He was the big dog, and everyone took their cues from him. We were more afraid of him than we were most of the dangerous criminal metas, so we just let him do whatever the fuck he wanted. Everyone else thought the rules didn't apply to them, either." Helsing sighs. "If we had just cracked down on him, everyone else would have gotten the message and maybe things wouldn't have gotten to the point where we had a full-on war downtown."
"Yeah, I guess - maybe that would have worked out better." Maybe if I had reined him in, you wouldn't have had to, Az thinks. I had one damn thing to do down here, and I couldn't have done a worse job.
"And now that we know he's been alive this whole time? That people know he got away with it? We have to let them know that we're not going back to the way things were, that law and order are still in charge here. If we can't hold Simmons accountable, maybe we can get those who helped him."
"Big fat maybe," Az says morosely.
Helsing smiles. "Yeah, maybe. If anyone can do it, it's Jack, Cass, Irene and you, Raph. The rest of the squad are great detectives, but without JC Consulting, we wouldn't have been able to get things under control after Love Towers, let alone start to put a serious dent in metahuman crime. It might take a while, but we'll get them. Right?"
"Sure," Az says with a half-smile. "We'll find them. Even if I have to turn over every bag of trash in the city myself."
Helsing slaps Az on the back. "Good, since if we don't start to get any leads, it might just come to that."

Helsing starts to gather the crime scene photos back together, and notices one on the floor over in the corner. He crouches down to pick it up, but then he stops and just looks at it for a second. "Huh. Raph, hand me the evidence log, would you?"
"Sure thing, sir," Az says, and walks over with the file in hand. "What are you thinking."
Helsing starts flipping through the unusually thick evidence log. "Where's the trash, Raph?"
"Presumably, Simmons took it with him on his way out, cleaning house."
"No, I mean, where's any trash? No plastic wrappers crammed under sofas, food crumbs in corners, nothing." Helsing flips the file closed. "He didn't even have any trash bags in the house." He sits down on the floor and leans against the wall in thought. "That sound like a house that someone's spent the last three years living out of?"
Oh shit, Az thinks. "Well, the man was paranoid, but -" Az swallows his last thought. "You're right. That doesn't add up."
Az helps Helsing to his feet. "This wasn't his main safehouse. It's just a place he stored weapons and cash." He rushes back to the table and starts quickly cleaning up the rest of the file. "And if this wasn't where he was staying, maybe he had more help than we thought. We've found all of his safehouses - the ones on his computers, anyway, and there wasn't any evidence he spent any time in them, maybe because he wasn't living in any of them. Maybe...maybe he was living with the people who were helping him hide!"
"What?" Az asks, pretending to not quite follow Helsing's chain of thought. "Why would he do that?"
"It's a shell game, Raph," Helsing says, a broad smile spreading across his face. "All of those houses, they're nothing but a distraction. The man had a real home, and we haven't found it yet. Because if this is it, if this is really his last refuge, I'll eat my damn badge. No, he had help, people hid him, and we're going to find them." He throws on his coat and starts jogging for the front door. "Come on, there might be something we missed in the Simmons files back at the station."
I could save us both some time, Lieutenant, Az thinks to himself. "Let's get to it, then."
_________________
Gatac: Disco Jesus is a dick.
Punkey: Yes.

[Gatac]

Federal Building
September 3rd, 5:36 PM
----------------

Sharon winces as she walks into the remains of the MCD offices, her uniform pulling at the tacky green clots binding it to the skin of her back. Langone helps Sucre into a chair next to an upturned desk as the rest of her ESU element helps Jack and Chrome with processing and moving the terrorists and hostages downstairs. Knocked over partitions and scattered papers carpet the floor and the FBI crime scene techs are already processing the break room, their shoes crunching on shattered glass. Sharon stands there for a second as the scene slowly sinks in and sighs.

"This wasn't how today was supposed to go," she says.
"I don't think this was how any of us thought today was going to go," Jack says as he picks his way through the room towards her. "You look like Hell."
"Oh, that's a new one," Sharon quips. The action of the day has left her uniform completely beyond the point of salvage. The holes in her uniform shirt, both from bullets and her wings, are connected by tears and stretched seams, the result of it failing to contain her fully transformed bulk. Her pants seem to have increased several sizes at first glance, but instead have blown nearly every stitch, the waistband split in two places, the entire ensemble held together only by a few bits of thread and her stretched-out belt. Her patent leather shoes are nowhere to be found, having burst apart as her taloned feet emerged from them.

"What's our final count?" Sharon asks, looking around. "I haven't had time to make the rounds yet..."
"Eleven bad guys cuffed and accounted for. Two were shot by one of their own," Jack says, motioning towards a woman in flexcuffs and seated against the back wall. "Roberta Searles, ID'd as Red by the hostages, and one was shot by HRT before they were ambushed."
"Civilians?" Sharon asks.
"A few broken noses, two of the MCD metas were beaten pretty badly and they're on their way to Sacred Heart, but aside from that, we got lucky," he says.
"Thank God," Sharon mumbles. She looks at Red sitting in the distance and her eyes narrow. "Do we have anything solid on the attackers yet? Group affiliations, training, gear?"
"No, that's the weird thing," Jack says, walking next to Sharon and showing her his clipboard full of notes. "Searles is a reservist going to CUNY, one of the guys she shot works in a Midtown accounting firm, and the rest of them don't raise any red flags either. No known affiliation with any anti-metahuman extremist groups, nothing. There's zero indication why any of these people were here at all."
"What about White?"
"Meet John Williamson," Jack says, and flips back to the first page on the clipboard. A NY driver's license is taped to it, and a few lines of remarks in Jack's familiar chicken scratch writing. "Teaches political science at CUNY, we're checking right now to see if he had Searles in any of his classes."
Sharon snatches the clipboard and starts flipping through it. "So we've got a bunch of people with no known associations, no background that explains methods or where they got the gear. Brilliant. I love it when a case starts off at a dead end. Anything on the people they were smokescreening for?"
"We've printed the ones that were arrested, the coroner hasn't released the body of the guy you shot," Jack says, turning his clipboard to the correct page. "They all were ex-military, special forces washouts for the most part, matches with the tactics you said they used and how they managed to ambush the HRT. One guy, Arthur Drake, was actually a sergeant in the 3rd Special Forces Group before he was dishonorably discharged for the 'interrogation tactics' he used on a few captured militia members in...some sub-Saharan African war that was redacted on the copy I managed to get from his military record." Jack hands Sharon the clipboard. "Sounds like a perfect recruit for our favorite paramilitary organization, doesn't he?"
"Groups like Sanctuary always pick up the losers with more anger than brains." Sharon counts the length of the redacted word in Drake's file and takes a guess. "Angola? I was there for that, rough neighborhood. He didn't do time, though...must've been a hell of a deal with the brass if he got out of it without a stint in Leavenworth." She gestures at the surroundings. "So, when can this SNAFU move down the hall to my crime scene?"
"Take a look around, Irene," Jack says. "We've got our hands full with this one, and I'm gonna need Cass to help me conduct interrogations of the suspects. Sorry, but until Raph gets back, you're on your own."
"Come on, Jack. We both know these amateurs were screening for Sanctuary, we just don't have the proof yet," Sharon says, "unless there's another group of armed ex-military psychos with a hate-on for metahumans running around."
"I'm doing what I can; CSU is sending everyone they can find down here right now. Just give me an hour or so."
"And what if we don't have a fucking hour, Jack?" Sharon says, and pauses for a second to make eye contact with Jack. "We need to stop them. Just look at this fucking mess. We have to take these fuckers down now."
Jack nods. "And I want them as bad as you do, Sharon."
"I highly doubt that," Sharon says, a guttural growl accompanying her words.
"Okay, maybe not, but regardless, this is the bigger crime scene. I've got CSU techs cloning the computers they messed with, but that's all you get for now." Jack takes his clipboard back and flips it back to the front. "And I believe you owe me twenty dollars," he says casually.
Sharon sighs. "Right," she says, and reaches into her pocket, but her hand just comes out the bottom of it. "Uh...as soon as somebody finds my wallet."

In the MCD conference room, Chrome has the unenviable task of collecting statements from the hostages. Most of them are seasoned FBI agents who just knew when to keep their heads down and shut up, but there's still some who were badly shaken by the experience, and Chrome's tried her best to give them support and the space they need to recover from their traumatic experience before asking them to relive it for her interview.

A tallish FBI agent sits down in front of her, a grim look on his face. "Special Agent Jacob Edelman," he says. "Where do you want me to start?"
Chrome's eyes light up. "Oh, you're Jacob? Thanks for being our fly on the wall. Jack Schaefer's my partner; he'd love to meet you after your interview. You know, meet for real."
"So would I - I think I owe the man who saved our lives a drink, at least," Jacob says and smiles. "So, do we know anything yet?"
"Not really," Chrome says. "We're busy just trying to get everyone in the right place; we haven't had a chance to figure anything out yet." She motions to Jack and Sharon outside, both of them staring intently at Jack's clipboard. "We don't even know who's going to be interviewing the suspects. I'm interviewing your coworkers, Jack's managing the crime scene, and...Irene needs new clothes," Chrome says as Sharon moves to tighten her belt to keep the tear where her tail burst out from getting any larger.
"Actually, I think I can help with that," Jacob says. Chrome looks at him, head cocked to one side. "The interrogations, not with your detective's clothes. I mostly do interviews at the MCD; my ability really helps me get in their heads."
Chrome giggles a bit at that. "I'll bet."
"Think you could convince your partner to let me sit in on the interviews?" Jacob asks.
"Well, let's go ask!" Chrome says, and grabs Jacob's hand and starts to lead him out of the conference room.
"Wait, I meant that you should go ask-" Jacob starts.

"Jack!" Chrome shouts across the office. "This is Jacob! He thinks he could really help us out with the suspect interviews."
Jack turns to Chrome, and looks at the FBI agent she's dragging along behind her. "Really?"
Once Chrome lets him go, Jacob walks up to Jack and offers his hand. "Good to meet the man who saved all our asses today."
Jack shakes his hand. "Yeah, it's good to meet you too, but you really should stay with the other hostages. The FBI's got a lot of questions for you and your division, and -"
"Forget the FBI for right now, Jack," Chrome says.
"I'm an interrogator, Jack, and you need the manpower," Jacob says. "I don't think the FBI would mind all that much if you borrowed me for a few hours."
"You really should stay with the other hostages, though."
"I don't see a problem with it, Jack," Sharon says. "You and Jacob handle the interrogations, and Cass and I will look into what those paramilitary fucks were doing down the hall. If they tampered with the FBI's servers, I'll need her to find out what they were looking for, anyway."
Jack looks over at Chrome, who's perked up at the mention of the change of responsibility. "Sounds like a good enough reason to me," she says, and skips over to Sharon. "What do you say, Mister Detective in Charge?"
"Alright," Jack says. "But when the FBI wants you back, you go back," he says to Jacob, and hands him his clipboard.
Jacob starts thumbing through the stack of loose papers and photographs on the board. "Deal."
"Come on, Irene," Chrome says, pulling on the demon's hand. "I can't wait to see how they got around the badge swipe system."
"Oh, me neither," Sharon says sarcastically, and follows Chrome out of the room.
Jacob watches the two women pick their way out of the MCD. "Are they part of your team? That JC Consulting outfit?"
"Yeah," Jack says. "See where I got my negotiation skills from?" Jacob and Jack both laugh at that. "We've got White in an office down the hall, it's this way," Jack says, and they start to make their own way out of what's left of the MCD.

---

A small office nearby serves as a makeshift interrogation room, the federal building thankfully not short on small, windowless offices with thick walls. Jack nods to the cops standing guard outside the room and passes through the door, Jacob in tow. A few more chairs have been wheeled in from other offices, the desk has been moved back a little, and a camcorder from downstairs has been placed on a tripod in the corner. The blandly generic pictures of forests on the walls, navy blue carpet and plain eggshell paint on the walls are different than the cinder block and institutional green interrogation rooms Jack's used to, but it's passable in its own numbingly corporate way. John "Mr. White" Williamson is already inside, having been given medical attention for the dislocated shoulder and bruising he received at Chrome's hands. He gives Jack a cold sneer, but it's hard to be threatened by a man with a black eye, one arm in a sling and is flexcuffed to an office chair.

"Hello, Jackie-boy," Williamson says. "I'd clap, but..."
"First, the legal formalities," Jack says. "You're a political science professor, I'm sure you know the routine. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you by the state of New York. Do you understand these rights as read to you?"
"Yes, I do."
"Also, you have the right to know that you are being interviewed by police officers with metahuman abilities, and that you have the right to halt the interview at any time and invoke your right to counsel, do you understand this right?"
"Yes, I do."
"Alright, good. So, Mr. Williamson, I think you made it abundantly clear why we're here today."
"So abundantly that I wonder why you're here talking to me, Jackie-boy," Williamson says. "Haven't you wasted enough of my time?"
"Well, the next question should be obvious to someone like you," Jack says. "Are there any other attacks coming? I'm charged with protecting the public, and here you are, someone who just was arrested for threatening the people I'm supposed to protect. It seems like a smart place to start, don't you think?"

Jacob's looking for it, that emotional response from Williamson. It'll make it easier to zero in, grasp that distant spot in the vastness of nothing. Jacob's eyes glaze over a bit, but Williamson pays him no more than a vague sneer.

"You've got me," Williamson answers. "And you've got the men and women who followed me into the lion's den, right? That doesn't seem to leave anyone unaccounted for, by my math." You do know how to count, don't you? Williamson thinks. Jacob hears it faintly, like a weak radio signal. He focuses, trying to bring it more into tune.
"Yes, but what about these guys?" Jack says, sliding a collection of printed photos from Sharon's battle down the hall. "What were they doing here?"
Drake's men! What the hell... Williamson thinks, but manages to hide most of the surprise in his facial expression. "Took the tour and got lost? I don't know, Jackie-boy, but last I heard figuring that out was your job."
"Yes, it is," Jack says. "And my experience tells me that when you have two attacks in the same building, on the same day, at the exact same time, one carried out by men with military special forces backgrounds and the other by the Bridge and Tunnel Volunteer Militia, the second is very likely a cover for the first." He slides a picture of Drake's unconscious form laid up against a wall in front of Williamson. "Now, we think he was the leader, Arthur Drake. This is a very bad guy, Mr. Williamson, discharged from the military for torturing prisoners. How did you wind up with him? You're a professor at CUNY, how did you wind up holding an AK-47 and taking FBI agents hostage?"
No, I'm not. I'm fucking not. They hung me out to dry, meta-loving fuckers. The college, the judge, my fucking lawyer... "He friended me on Facebook," Williamson says. "You should try it, Jackie-boy. You could use a few friends."
"Well, if we want to compare friends -" Jack starts, but Jacob suddenly focuses back in on the conversation.
"And he's a good friend, right?" Jacob asks. "The kind that's there for you when everyone else thinks you're something you're not."
More psychobabble crap. "I don't know what you're talking about, Special Agent...what was it? Feinstein? Edelweiss?"
"Agent Edelman," Jacob says, then shifts gears. "What was it like, being fired from CUNY? We have it in your file from the college." Jack's eyebrows raise, and he glances at Jacob for a moment, but gets his expression under control.
"What do you think it was like?" Williamson shouts, suddenly flaring up. "I lost my job. I can't get hired anywhere that doesn't serve fries, my wife left me, my life was completely and utterly destroyed by this meta-PC bullshit." Took the fuckers to court, didn't even see a whiff of justice...they took everything from me... "So what? You wanna share your moment of overcoming adversity so we can fucking bond?"
"Well, I know how important that friends can be when the shit hits the fan like that, someone who understands what's going on with you. Was that what Drake did?"
Drake took me and aimed me in the right direction, that's what he did, you freak idiot. Curbing that freak was the best I'd felt in months. Jacob's heart races, and he barely manages to contain his rage at Williamson's thoughts. "Friends, feelings, what the fuck is this shit?" Williamson mumbles.
"Just trying to understand your relationship with Drake, that's all," Jacob says, trying to think about his next move through the red haze in his eyes. "He's a pretty violent guy, Mr. Williamson. Likes to hurt people. Is that what the two of you did together? Went out and beat on some metahumans? Smacked some freaks around?"
Williamson snarls at Jacob, trying for that 'I'm going to remember your face forever' look. "I'm done answering your questions, Edelstein. Why don't you find a nice window and fly home?"
"Why, because I'm one of those freaks?" Jacob shouts. He jumps out of his chair and stomps around the desk to tower over Williamson. "What would you do to me if you weren't cuffed to that chair, huh? Would you beat me like you did that guy you did with Drake?"
"That's fucking right, you Goddamn genetic disaster area! You want to try me, Uberman? I've got a bum arm and a hell of a beating in me and I'll still take you, I'll take you and all of your freak friends until I run out of skulls to crack on the pavement! You think you can scare me with your meta mind-reading shit? I will fucking end you, boy, and with your last breath you will beg for the favor of a God that cursed you!" Williamson looks at Jack, seething. "We are fucking done here. Both of you. Out."
Jacob immediately calms himself down and straightens out his dusty and stained shirt. "I think we've got enough, anyway, right, Jack?"
He looks over at Jack, who slowly nods. "Yeah, we're done here."
"Good! Get me my fucking lawyer on your way out!" Williamson shouts.
"Can do," Jacob says, then almost runs out of the room.

---

Jack catches up with Jacob a few doors down the hall. He's bracing himself against the wall with both arms, breathing heavily. As Jack approaches, Jacob pounds a fist against the wall. "I do not hate metahumans, they didn't ruin my life, I don't hate metahumans..."
"I don't think the wall did anything to you," Jack says, trying to lighten the mood a bit. "So, you got into his head? Is it as nasty inside as I think it is?"
"It's not even that," Jacob says. "When I'm tuned in, it's...I can see how they think. It becomes a part of me. I can keep it separate, but it's still there. So if I tune into someone who really, really hates me..." Jacob shakes his head. "I fucking hate tuning into minds like that," he says. "They're so angry, so paranoid, so..."
"Stupid?" Jack says, smiling. "Hey, I was raised Catholic. I know all about self-loathing."
Jacob cracks a smile himself, and releases the tension from his body. "Yeah, I'd say stupid's the right word."
"Maybe we should take a break before talking to Drake," Jack says. "You get anything else we can use against Drake besides Williamson's confession?"
"A few things. He helped Williamson out with some legal trouble, something about him getting fired from CUNY."
"Good. Let's run that down, and then we'll take a swing at Drake, alright?"
Jacob turns around and leans against the wall. He closes his eyes, turns towards the ceiling and takes a deep breath. "Alright. Yeah, let's do that."

--------
Lieutenant Helsing's Office
September 3rd, 5:48 PM
--------

The Special Crimes Unit generates a lot of paperwork, even with the push towards digitizing the NYPD. The standard day-to-day influx of reports, requests and updates have been piling up for what looks like a week, and with Helsing the de facto head of the NYPD's efforts to shut down Sanctuary, there are more boxes with Sanctuary files than there is room to put them. The parts of the wall where the actual wallpaper is still showing are so rare that they probably qualify for endangered habitat protection from the New York State Assembly.
Helsing navigates the obstacle course with a fatalistic grace - it's not like he can make the mess worse at this point. Az, however, is much more intent on not being the asshole who causes a pyramid of paperwork to spill out onto the floor, so he treads very carefully indeed.
"What, exactly, are you hoping to find that makes attempting to disarm this paper death trap worthwhile?" Az asks.
"Fresh eyes, Raph," Helsing says, and drops a heavy box marked "Simmons" on his desk with a thud and a complaining groan from the floor underneath. "Now that we know that Simmons wasn't living at any of his safehouses, maybe some of the discrepancies in the files will start to make sense." He motions towards what Az guesses is a chair that's been cleverly disguised with a few extra boxes of Sanctuary files. "Go on, take a seat."

While the Lieutenant climbs over and sits down in his own chair, Az weighs the likely results of touching anything against his austere needs for comfort and decides to simply keep standing.
"I'm good," Az says, smiling politely.
"Suit yourself," Helsing says, and hands Az a folder marked 'Brooklyn-6'. The angel opens the folder and looks at the photos within, trying to keep a neutral expression on his face. I was there. The whole place reeked of beer and gun oil. "Another safehouse?" Az asks.
"Yeah, that one didn't look like it had been visited in months, maybe years, except to change the batteries in the surveillence equipment," Helsing says, leaning back in his chair with his own file, "but it never had any real connection to the Staten Island house. Maybe there's a connection to where he was actually staying in there we missed."
"Maybe if we put pins in a map where the safehouse are, it'll form a giant arrow pointing to his home," Az quips. Fire spirits are vengeful bastards,[i] Az thinks, [i]we didn't set foot out of that place for a week. A day or two more and Sharon would've eaten Chrome whole to shut her up.
Helsing chuckles at the thought. "Maybe." He flips through the folder for a minute, and comes up with a lab report. "Says here they found dirt ground in the carpet from the rock faces on the north end of Manhattan. Anything like that in yours?"
"Only Brooklyn soil," Az says. I don't think you can do a trace of year-old beer stains, anyway. Anything Mark did was worth a bottle to him. He really didn't take good care of himself. Hey, heavenly power heals everything, right? But none of us took good care of him...
"Got a lipstick stain on a glass." Helsing holds up a photo of a drinking glass with the classic red lipstick kiss on the rim. "No DNA, but they ID'd the color, Firefall Red from some discontinued line. Any luck over there?"
"No lipstick, Lieutenant," Az says. Victory sex. I don't know what it was about them, but she'd show up looking nice, and then they'd disappear for hours. Hey, we killed that demon, let's have sex. That was the last thing on my mind. Then again, it wasn't like I was too worried about whatever they got up to, either. Not like I should have been, at least.
"Oh, this is good," Helsing says. "Crumbs in the couch. Some kind of spicy shrimp crackers."
"Huh," Az says. What could I do? What did I do? Sit on my ass and watch TV. My job was done, right? Nothing left but the occasional assist in demon slaying, because clearly Mark had his shit together, right? I looked away. I literally looked the other way. That's not what I was supposed to do. Not what my duty was. We gave Mark all this power, all this responsibility, and I was supposed to watch him...and I looked away. Stupid, stupid, stupid! You have one thing to do, Azuriel, one thing, and you fuck it up!
"Hey, Raph!" Helsing says, waving at Azuriel. "I said, did the forensics guys find anything else at the Brooklyn place?"
"Hm?" Az says, startled into making eye contact. The question hangs in the air for a few seconds before Az gets his wits back together. "Uh, no. No, Lieutenant, the Brooklyn safe house came up clean otherwise. Nothing there to find."

Helsing sighs and tosses his file back in the box. "Well, then we've got shit." He grabs another file and flips it open. "Maybe we're doing this wrong. Maybe we've got this ass-backwards."
"Uh-huh," Az says, flipping through the photos in his file with a look of morbid fascination on his face.
Helsing looks up from the N. 8th Street folder. "Raphael? You alright over there?"
"Huh? Oh," Az says, getting that deer-in-the-headlights look again. "Oh, yeah, I'm alright, I'm fine. It's all kind of a lot to take in, you know, we didn't catch this guy for years but now we're trying to get into his head and there's just nothing, not really, to work with here, in those files."
"I've got a few other ideas about that," Helsing says. "It looks like you've got something else on your mind, that's all. If you want to get back to the federal building and help out Irene, Cass and Jack, that's fine by me, I've got this for right now."
"Oh, are you sure? I don't want to leave you hanging or anything, Lieutenant, I mean, we did get something at the house, maybe if we go over the files again we'll spot something..."
"No, you head on back," Helsing says. "Maybe you can give Irene another back rub." He smiles. "In a way that doesn't violate NYPD protocol, of course."
"What? Me and...Irene? That's ridiculous," Az says. "I mean, we're good friends, don't get me wrong, but we're - we're fundamentally different. It's not even hurtful, it's ludicrous, it's just...a weird rumor to start. I mean, she is my friend and we like each other well enough, but -"
"Okay, okay, I get it," Helsing says, putting his hands up. "Get out of here, Raph. I think I've got a good angle here, I'll tell you if it pans out."
"Alright," Az says. "I'll be leaving, then, I'm sure they could use my help down there, play a little good cop for their interviews...I'll check back in later when we're done. So, uh, take care, Lieutenant, and see you later."
Helsing nods, already flipping through a few other files.

"Alright!" Az says one more time, then turns around and climbs back out of the office. After a few steps outside, the smile slides right off his lips. Well, crap. How am I going to keep an eye on him now, I can't exactly walk back in there. I'm really brilliant at watching people, right? Fuck. I need someone else on Helsing...but who? The sign on the wall pointing the way to the Special Victims Unit squadroom catches Azuriel's eye. Hmm...maybe I can rope them in? He stands in the middle of the intersection, weighing the risk of letting Helsing run around unsupervised against the headache of convincing the Avatars to play along. Needs must when the devil drives. This is your duty, Azuriel, suck it up. He turns sharply on his heels, and quickly heads towards the SVU squadroom.

---

Sheppard and Chapell are eating some kind of greasy Italian take-out at their desks amidst filling out case reports when Az steps into the SVU.
Sheppard looks up, sees Az, and goes back to eating. "Go away," he says in between mouthfuls of spaghetti and meat sauce.
"Hello to you, too," Az says. "Chapell," he says, nodding to the other avatar.
She at least manages a polite nod and a smile before returning to her meal. "Hello, Detective Marcos. We're a bit busy at the moment, so if you could come back in a half-hour or so..."
"Actually," Az says sheepishly, "it'd be really great if you guys could help me with something. Like, right now."
"It can wait until I finish my dinner," Sheppard says. "And these reports. And, if you don't leave now, Rapture."
"We'll have time in a few minutes, Raphael," Chapell says. "I just have to finish this page, and then I'll be free."
"No, we're fresh out of favors right now," Sheppard says. "Go back to the SCU and get one of your buddies to help you out."
Az looks around the office, notes the casual disinterest of the other cops, then bows over Sheppard's desk.
"Both of you," he whispers. "I need you outside, now. I'm not asking as a cop, I'm telling you...as a fellow celestial."

Sheppard stops chewing and looks up at Az's face, inches away from his own. "Well then," he says, unfazed by Az's threatening posture. "If you're going to put it like that." Sheppard and Chapell stand up simultaneously. "Lead the way, detective," Sheppard says, take-out in his hand.
"Sheppard!" Chapell hisses softly.
"Hey, I'm hungry, and you're not in charge of my diet."
"It's rude," she says. "Put it down."
Sheppard rolls his eyes and sets the aluminum tin on his desk. "So he gets to waste our time while my dinner goes cold? That isn't fair."
"Deal with it," she shoots back, then looks back to Azuriel with a smile. "So, shall we?"

---

The chill of a Manhattan autumn is settling in for the night as the three celestials make their way down the front steps of the precinct and over to an isolated corner of the motor pool. A few mechanics are taking a smoke break under the overhead lighting, but a polite but firm request from Chapell later, they quickly disperse, the sodium lighting hiding the brief golden glow in her eyes.

"Okay, we're alone now," Sheppard says. "Make it quick."
"Helsing's taken up the whole Mark Simmons crusade," Az says, "and I think he might be close to figuring out where Mark lived before his death. Needless to say, that exposes us. I can't hang around him any longer without looking suspicious, so I need someone to keep tabs on him and tell me if he finds something that could lead him to the truth. He knows you, you're here, and you know what the score is. That quick enough for you?"
"So, you have a problem," Sheppard says. "This problem is very much your problem, and you come to us, wanting to make it our problem."
"It already is our problem," Az says, "and you'd see that if you thought a little further than getting back to your pasta. Our problem, you, Chapell, me, hell, even Gamariel. If this blows open...it's not gonna stop with JS Consulting. It'll take down everything. Do you want to bet that the shitstorm somehow misses you, or do you want to help me stop it before it kicks off?"
"We'd love to," Chapell says, "but directly interfering with a lawkeeper's investigation into the truth - that's outside of our purview."
"We're due for new hosts, anyway," Sheppard says. "So when this blows up in your face, we'll be long gone."
"Still, maybe we should, Sheppard," Chapell says. "They do a lot of good, it'd be a big loss if they went to prison and Azuriel had to be replaced."
"Look, this isn't hard," Az says. "You do nothing, it won't just blow up what's here now, it'll practically announce our presence to mankind, and it'll hose your timetable for replacing the Paladin completely, since I'll be stuck who-knows-where after being put in a new host. You help me, worst case you've wasted a couple afternoons."
Sheppard and Chapell look at each other, then Sheppard turns back to Azuriel. "Give us a minute."

The two Avatars stare deep into each other's eyes, seemingly expressing nothing. Az, however, recognizes this as an intense conversation between the two celestials, communicating through the Symphony something not meant for mortal ears. He listens to the composition of the moment more closely, but all he can gather from the subtle tonalities and microscopic shifts in their facial expressions is that it's a pretty heated argument that ends with Sheppard agreeing with Chapell.
Sheppard breaks off from Chapell first, rolling his eyes as he turns to Az. "Fine, we'll keep an eye on him for you and try to save your asses if he gets too close. Alright?"
"If it looks like he's getting too close...call me," Az says. "I just need a little more time to figure out a strategy. Try to keep him busy, okay?"
"We'll just keep him going in circles, Azuriel," Chapell says with a smile. "Don't worry, we'll step lightly, and you'll be my first call if things go wrong."
"Thanks, Chapell," Az says, making a point of not looking at Sheppard. "I really owe you for this one."
"It's my pleasure to help you out," Chapell says. "And it's his too, even if he won't admit it."
"Whatever," Sheppard says. "Can we get back inside before maintenance tosses my dinner out?"

---

Helsing has managed to clear-cut enough clean space on his desk to lay out several file folders by the time Chapell knocks on the frame of Helsing's open office door.
"Good evening, Lieutenant," Chapell says. "May we come in?"
Helsing waves them both into the office and indicates for them to shut the door behind them. "Evening, Detectives. What are you doing down here in SCU?" he asks.
"Raphael told us you could use some help with the Simmons case, Lieutenant, and we owe him a favor," Chapell says. "So, what seems to be going on?"
"Oh," Helsing says. "Well, it's like this. Raph and I were beating our heads against trying to find a connection between Simmons's safehouses, going nowhere fast. So, I thought I'd try something else, go back to basics a bit."

Sheppard steps behind Helsing and looks over his shoulder at the array of files. "Damn, Lieutenant. You branching out into archeology?"
"Yeah, these were all that the archives had," Helsing says. "Some of these date back a few years, but they're all suspected Simmons crime scenes that occurred after he was supposed to be executed by the feds.”
"Suspected by who?" Chapell asks, joining Sheppard behind Helsing.
"Karen Ayers, she's the big expert on Simmons. She got the state's conviction on him, but after his execution, she thought he was still alive, and kept a bunch of files of crimes she thought he could have committed and potential associates that might be helping him hide." Helsing looks over the folders for a second, then starts gathering them up.
"Uh, Lieutenant?" Sheppard begins, but Helsing cuts him off.
"Now, come to think of it, I should talk to her about this. See if she can take a break from getting the Belton deposition and help me make some sense of the files. We can compare notes and maybe narrow down the list of suspects a bit." He sticks the files into his battered brown leather briefcase. "Thanks for the help, I've got it from here. Good night, detectives."
"We'd like to come with you," Chapell says. "If you don't mind."
"Yeah," Sheppard adds, "I could stand to hear some more about this."
Helsing looks at them curiously for a second, then shrugs. "Fine by me." He smirks at the two detectives as he puts on his coat. "What exactly did Raph do for you two for this favor, anyway?"
"Oh, he helped a friend of ours," Chapell says.

--------------
Federal Building
September 3rd, 5:50 PM
--------------

Chrome and Sharon step over the green blood stain in the doorway, and Chrome winces slightly as she sees the damage that Sharon, ESU and the invaders did to the FBI server room. There's standard computer center look of off-white walls with the favorite memes of the staff taped to them, multiple racks of softly blinking machinery with data cables strung between them in grand, cable-tied branches, and the soft hum of an industrial AC system keeping the room cool. There are also bullet impacts, toppled racks, and a fine layer of drywall dust over pretty much everything that hasn't been touched since. A dented support column, more green and red smears on the walls, ceiling and floor and a demon-sized hole in the wall mark Sharon's contribution to the room's decor. The NYPD techs from downstairs are here, packing up their computer forensics gear.

"Jeez, is there anything that you didn't break?" Chrome asks as she picks up a server blade with a bullet hole in it.
"Yes, all the stuff that's still humming," Sharon says. "What, you think this room is destroyed? I could show you pictures..."
"We'd appreciate it if you didn't," Sargeant Caplan says. "Gotta leave something for the Feebs to sift through."
"Are we all properly documented up here?" Chrome asks.
Officer Bartle nods. "Drives are ghosted, RAM images duplicated, everything's been checked for booby traps and we've got the registry dumps."
"Flux capacitor replaced?" Sharon asks, picking at the scabs on her hands.
"Doesn't need it for another 20,000 miles," he shoots back. "Changed the Any key, though."
"Irene..." Chrome says. "So, are we clear to take a look?"
"Sure, have fun", Bartle says. "Don't know why you'd bother doing it manually, though, we have to run this through the forensics software anyway. That should give us results in a couple of days."
"They came in here for something," Chrome says. "Maybe we can figure out what it was without having to go through all of the FBI's files."
"Be my guest," Caplan says. "We'll let you know if we find anything. At least it's not kiddie porn this time."

The police techs shortly leave Chrome and Sharon to their work; Chrome grabs a chair and sits down at the terminal in the back corner of the room. She reaches under the desk and retrieves the keyboard, then starts orienting herself on the database interface. Sharon stands behind her, looking with the same vague disinterest at both the screen and what Chrome is doing on it.
"So, is this the moment when you type on that thing for a few minutes and magically come up with our next lead?" she asks.
"In the real world, it's a bit harder than that." Chrome squints at the screen. "Like trying to figure out how the hell this UI works. Hey, you've got government experience, right? Maybe you can initiate me into this madness."
Sharon bends over and looks at the server under the desk. "I don't see the handle for the filing cabinet, sorry.”
"No computers in your day and age?" Chrome asks. "Seriously?"
"Hey, you're no twenty-something either," Sharon says, then thinks for a moment. "I think I saw a punchcard once."

"Oookay..." Chrome says, and starts digging around. "So, they had to be looking at this thing for a reason. They changed something, looked at something, or added something."
"Right, that would make sense. With Sanctuary, it's probably all three," Sharon says. "I don't suppose we dust the keyboard for prints or figure out which files were freshly disturbed?"
"Ah! Close!" Chrome brings up a new window. "I can run a search for what files were accessed or changed while they were in here." She clicks a few times and runs the search.
"Well?" Sharon asks. "Simple, job done? How many files are we talking about?"
"Err, it's usually a live server, so..." Chrome's search finishes. "About five thousand. And that's from everywhere in the FBI, and all the computers with remote access."
"Huh," Sharon says. "That's just the last few hours?"
"Well, the users in the building stopped once the building was evacuated, but that doesn't stop the offsite users. If I knew what user name they were under, I could take a look."
"So you can see what files someone looked at?" Sharon asks.
"Yes," Chrome says.
"Okay," Sharon says, thinking. "Okay, how about this. They went through all this trouble, I doubt it was just for something they could have just walked up and asked for."
"Right!" More keyboard taps. "Alright, filtered out the public stuff, and anything that doesn't relate to Sanctuary. That takes us down to a few dozen files and a hundred users or so."
"You know, back in my day, we had to log what files we took in and out of the cabinets. If I had a list of what files a person pulled, for everyone in my department, and I had to find a spy," Sharon muses out loud, "I'd look for the guy who goes right for the gold. A spy doesn't have time to waste, and wouldn't know what else to pull, anyway, outside of what their assignment is, I mean. So, he'd go straight for the paydirt, as much as he can get, and then try to get away. Is there some way you can do that?"

"Yes...I think so," Chrome says. "I think they have some kind of user auditing setup here that can do that, give me a sec." She dives back into the interface, moving far too quickly for Sharon to keep up. After a few minutes, Sharon considers going to get a soda or maybe just eating the end of her Desert Eagle when Chrome claps her hands together. "Got you!"
"Got what?" Sharon says, snapping to attention and walking over to look at the screen for a few seconds before she realizes that she still can't tell what's going on. "What do you have?"
"Our spy!" Chrome says, pointing at a name on the screen. "lt accessed nearly every file having to do with Sanctuary."
"So?"
"No internal emails, no Internet, nothing else. Just FBI files. That's your spy."
"Swanky," Sharon says. "Well, what now? What did they do?"
"Looks like they just looked at a bunch of stuff, trying to figure out what we knew about them. Added a few things too, I'll print out a list for the forensics techs, there's just too much for us to go over right now." Chrome keeps scanning down the list. "Huh, that's weird. They looked at personnel files."
"What, all of them?" Sharon asks, leaning over Chrome's shoulder
"No, just two."
"Then those are two people I want to know more about," Sharon says. "Can you look at their files from here?"
"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem." Chrome brings up the files, placing them side by side. One shows a picture of a man in a standard FBI-look suit, Special Agent Aaron Palmer, while the other is in a NYPD uniform, Officer Jack Henke.
"Why would Sanctuary care about this Fed and a cop?" Sharon asks. "What's it say?"
Chrome scrolls down the FBI agent's file. "Whoa, maybe this is why. According to this, he's been under investigation by OPR."
"Hm," Sharon says. "So, looks like we've got a mole there. And the cop?"
"Not much here, but they were looking at him for a reason." Chrome looks up at Sharon. "Maybe he was just better at not being caught."

Sharon's eyes narrow, and she pulls out her cell phone. "Let's find out."
"What are you doing?" Chrome asks, getting up to grab the printout finishing up on the other side of the room.
"Finding out where Special Agent Palmer and Officer Henke are right this moment, and having them brought to the SCU," Sharon says. She points at the images on the screen. "If they're smart, they'll know that Sanctuary got blown here, and they'll be trying to leave town as soon as possible."
"With the way Sanctuary's been operating lately, they must be feeling the heat already," Chrome says. "You know, if they checked on their moles, maybe they checked on their safehouses, too. I'll get the techs to take a look at that." She looks over at Sharon, who doesn't respond. "Irene?"
"What? Yeah, do that," Sharon says, pacing back and forth. "I hate traitors. Whatever Sanctuary has on them, they're gonna wish they just let them spill it by the time I'm done with them."
"Uh-huh," Chrome says. "Is this the new, nicer you? Because it seems a lot like the old, scary, tear-you-in-half-because-you-looked-at-me-funny you."
"It'll just be a legal mangling," Sharon says, and grins at Chrome. "No limbs torn off, I promise."
_________________
Gatac: Just making sure you are aware of life-saving buttsex.
Punkey: I've always been aware of life-saving buttsex. Best Red Cross training weekend ever.

[Gatac]

The Twilight Zone
September 3rd, 6:21 PM
--------------

The plain steel door slams shut behind Camille as Karen leads her and the pair of plainclothes officers escorting the DA's vital witness down the steps into the Twilight Zone for a late dinner. The Twilight Zone's reputation as a safe haven for metahumans earns it a brisk business most nights, as the tourists and the curious rub elbows with those looking for work, a meeting, or just a safe place to let down their guard and tuck into a good steak. Karen puts their name down for a table and moves over to the bar to wait, Camille trailing behind her, head on a swivel as she tries to read the whole room at once. The two officers take up positions at the opposite sides of the bar, both with a clear view of the restaurant and their protectee.

"Nervous?" Karen asks, pulling out a stool for Camille.
"Uh, no," Camille says, still looking around. "Just, you know, staying alert."
Karen waves for the bartender. "That's the training, right? Sharon's the same way when there's more than ten people around, she says that spy training takes the fun out of being in public places."
"Ah," Camille says, not committing to any specific position on that issue. "So, uh, where's the food?"
"We can order appetizers here, if you're really hungry, otherwise we should have a table soon." Karen turns back to the bar and the waiting bartender. "Diet soda, please. Camille, do you want anything?"
"I would like a ginger ale, please," Camille says.
"One second, ladies," the bartender says.
"Did they let you go out to places like this when you weren't undercover with Sanctuary?" Karen asks, turning back to Camille as the bartender pours their sodas. "Or did they keep you locked up with the other conscripts?"
"We didn't get out much," Camille says, still keeping her eyes on surveillance.
"Because you look nervous, that's all. We're pretty safe, people know not to start any problems in here, and we have the two officers with us. You can calm down, Camille."
"Uh-huh," she says, scanning a couple that just walked down the steps.
"Camille," Karen says, putting her hand on her shoulder and turning her away from the rest of the restaurant. "Relax. No one's going to hurt you in here, alright? Worst case scenario, I'm a precog, I'll see it coming," she says, giving Camille a grin.
Camille looks like she's getting ready to explain to Karen several doctrinal ways to assault fixed locations with suspected precog-capable defenders, but after a moment's thought she chokes it back and smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. It's silly. I'm sorry, I don't get out much..."
"It's fine," Karen says with a wave. "You have every right to be cautious. Just don't let it make you crazy, hm?"
Camille smiles. "I'm already crazy," she mumbles to herself. "So, uh, do we just sit here, have drinks and look around?"
"Well, theoretically, we have drinks," Karen says, standing on the base of her stool to look for the bartender, "but yes. We can talk too, if you like.”
"Can I just," Camille says softly, "can I just take one more look around?"
Karen smiles. "Sure. But just one more time, alright? Let the officers do their jobs. You just think about enjoying yourself for once, okay?"

Camille looks to Karen, nods, then makes a bit of a a show of giving the whole place one sweeping look. After that, she turns back to Karen and raises a glass.
"Alright," she says, "done."
"'scuse me," comes a male voice from behind Camille. She turns around on her stool, glass still in hand, and lays eyes upon a young man with an impish grin, unkempt brown hair and a Cambridge University sweatshirt. "That's my drink, luv."
"Oh," Camille says. "Oh, sorry! Here you go." She hands the glass to the man, who takes it with a smile.
"No harm done," he says. "So, you're one for ginger ale and vodka, too, eh?"
"Yeah, I - it's my favorite," Camille says with a coy smile.
"And your girlfriend?" the man asks. "Well I'll be - you're that woman on the news, aren't you? What's your name...Karen Ayers! What's your drink, luv?"
"Diet soda," Karen says, trying to appear as disinterested as possible. "Sorry about my friend here picking up your drink by accident."
"It's alright, I'll share a glass with a nice couple of ladies in a bind," the man says, grinning. "Oh, I'm sorry, you must think I'm the rudest bloke in the world. Name's Steve, pleasure to make your acquaintance." He takes a sip from what is most certainly his glass. "So, what are you doing out here, just a night on the town?"
"Something like that," Karen says, looking around for the bartender. "Just taking my friend here out for dinner, ladies night, just the two of us. Alone, talking."
"Ah, don't be like that, luv," Steve says. "It's my last night before I'm back, just trying to enjoy it. What do you say we skip the water and move up to something that'll perk you up a little?"
"Thanks, but I'll pass," Karen says. "Just want to spend some time with my friend here. Thanks for the offer, though."
"Hey, now, that just doesn't sit right with me, you two lovely ladies here all by yourself with nobody keeping you company," Steve says. "Think about what you're missing out on, luv."
"That's okay, really," Karen says, looking back to the bar. "We're just fine."
"What's the matter with you girls, then?" Steve asks. "Is the whole bloody place packed with dykes tonight or what?"
"No, we just want to be left alone," Karen says, standing up from her stool. "If you don't mind."
"I do mind, you silly cunt," Steve says, standing up to match her. "Here I'm trying to get friendly with the weirdoes but apparently the bloody lot of you only suck peckers that sparkle!"
"I think that it's time for you to go," Karen says, looking over to their police escort.
"Oh, that's just tits. You have your own fucking private army, is that it, luv? Well, come on, lads! Have a go at old Steve!"
"You should sit down, Steve," Camille says without looking up. "You're making the wrong kind of impression."
"Nobody's talking to you, luv," Steve spits back.
"Alright," Camille says. "Let's change that." She puts down her glass, turns around and climbs off the stool, then steps in front of the drunk Brit.

Karen, surprised by Camille's sudden entrance to the situation, takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, the room in front of her has frozen, Steve glaring down at Camille, who is caught mid-breath. She focuses, and everything accelerates in fast-forward, Camille glaring up at Steve, the two of them exchanging angry but indecipherable words until Camille steps closer to him, says something else, and then he backs away, terrified of whatever she said, and leaves in a big hurry. Karen pauses the scene and smiles. Way to go, Camille. The scene replays itself in reverse, and then rejoins the present. As the world starts moving at a normal speed again, Karen waves off the two officers, telling them to stand back.

Camille looks up and meets Steve's look with her eyes. "Then I'll talk to you, Steve. Put down that glass, shut your mouth and sit back down."
"Or what?" Steve asks, but he takes a step back. "Or what, you cunt?"
"Put it down," Camille repeats. "Sit down. Shut up. You will not speak to my friend or me in this tone, do you understand? You will stop being an asshole right this second, finish your drink and walk out of here like you never walked into this place, do you understand?" She takes a step forward. "Are your ears on receive? Do you hear what I'm saying? Do. You. Understand?"
"Woah, easy there, luv," Steve says, taking another step back.
"And would you do me a big favor," Camille says, "and stop talking in this horrible impression of a British accent? I know who you are, Earl, and this isn't fooling anyone."
"What..."
"Earl, that is your name, right?" Camille says, taking another step forwards, pushing him one step closer to the bar. "Your driver's license expired in February but that doesn't matter since your car got towed, all you've got on you are about ten bucks in ones and some change for the bus, and - let me guess - a passcard from a cheap Newark business hotel, you don't sound local, even through that ridiculous accent. You're here for your "business trip", Mr. Magazine Salesman. Does your wife know you're trying to pick up cheap floozies with that pawn shop sweater and ridiculous impersonation? You really should just leave your wedding ring back at the hotel, Earl. And you shouldn't drink so much that you'll be out of cash to afford a taxi ride back to the hotel. After all, your bonus is riding on that presentation you're giving to your loser friends tomorrow, isn't it?" Camille steps up again, almost pinning the man against the bar. "How am I doing, Earl? Is that about right?" She leans in closer and snarls at him. "Get the fuck out of my place, asshole."

"Steve" doesn't need to be told twice. He shimmies out from behind Camille and circles around her, almost bumping into Karen as he stumbles backward. He takes a look at her, then at the cops who are watching him very intently, and skeedaddles for the exit.

Karen and the rest of the bar clap their hands in congratulations after "Steve" makes his way out the front door. She hugs Camille, who seems to be amazed at what she just did. "That was amazing, Camille! Wow!"
Camille isn't listening to Karen at the moment. Instead, she looks around the bar area and sees the smiles of those who are cheering for her. She raises her right hand under Karen's hug, as if to wave, and turns away before her cheeks transform completely into red. She returns Karen's hug after a second; when the two separate, she sits down, turns toward the bar and takes a big gulp out of her ginger ale.
"Oh my God," she says. "Oh God. I can't believe I just did that." She buries her face in her hands. "I did not just cuss out this man." She drops her hands back down and turns to Karen, cheeks flushed and a genuine smile on her lips. "I always do that when I get angry."
"No, that was great," Karen says, sitting back down next to Camille and taking a drink of her soda. "I didn't know you could read minds, too. That was a great trick."
"Reading minds, hah, no," Camille says. "It's is a trick, you do my work, you get good at profiling people quickly. And, uh, I did get a short look at his wallet. That was cheating."
"The wedding ring? I didn't notice him wearing one."
"There was a ring-shaped wear mark on his wallet, it's from him putting it in there every time he goes out of town."
Karen nods, impressed. "And the business meeting?"
"I, uh, I guessed," Camille says. "But I guessed right. I knew I was on a roll, so I bluffed - and the second he started to think that I was really reading his mind, yeah, ah, he was done." Camille takes another sip from her drink. "So, useless talent number 47: I can smell magazine salesmen from a mile away."
"Are you kidding me, that's not useless at all. I'd kill to be able to do that in my line of work," Karen says. "And they taught you how to do that in Sanctuary?"
"I also do accents," Camille says with a grin. "So, uh, Karen, is it always this...busy here?"
"Busy, yes, assholes, not really," Karen says, returning the smile. "And you were worried about whether or not Sanctuary made you into an evil person." She shakes her head and laughs.
"Karen, please, the people," Camille starts, looks around some more, then finally sighs and chuckles along. "Yeah, I was worried. I was worried he'd take a swing at you, but, uh, well, between the two of us and the cops...I guess he really wouldn't have stood a chance. I never thought I'd save someone a beating by scaring the living daylights out of them."
"That's the way the good guys do it, Camille," Karen says, bumping her shoulder into Camille's. "Deescalation, mind games, convince the other guy to throw in the towel before it gets violent and people get hurt, even the bad guys. See, I told you that you were a good person after all."
"You keep saying that," Camille says, and takes another sip from her drink. "And I guess maybe you're right," she mumbles to herself with a smile.
"What was that?" Karen asks.
"I said I need to take a leak," Camille says, snapping back into soldier mode.
"Restrooms are at the back, up the stairs," Karen says, motioning towards the back of the restaurant with her drink. "We should have a table by the time you get back."
"Okay, great," Camille says. "I'll find you. Be back in a minute!"

Camille walks out of the bar, drink in hand and one of the police officers in tow. She makes her way through the maze of wooden tables and chairs, each lit with their own halo from the drop lighting, everything kept at a low brightness to help keep the ambiance of the establishment and the anonymity of its guests intact. Business suits and baseball caps, powerful mages and suburban housewives, Manhattanite, bridge-and-tunnel and just plain under the bridge, it looks like they're all represented here to Camille, the only common denominator seeming to be a desire to be around like-minded individuals.

You know, that was fun, Camille thinks. That felt pretty good, and it wasn't that hard. Maybe this "good person" thing isn't something you have to try to do, maybe it's something you just are. I wonder what Sharon's doing right now, probably chasing down some bad guys or interrogating a suspect. I wonder if she needs any help, I bet I'd be pretty good at that stuff...

Camille pushes open the door to the ladies room at the top of the rear steps, the restroom empty, dark but clean-smelling. She walks into the first stall and is in the process of undoing her belt when she hears someone else walk into the bathroom. Hard-soled men's shoes on the antiseptic tiles, a plodding rhythm she still recognizes. Her hand shoots for a holstered weapon that isn't there.

"Specialist Belton," says a voice that Camille knows instantly as Bill Kurland, her Sanctuary handler. "Zip up and step out."

Camille takes a deep breath, redoes her belt, turns around and walks out of the stall. Kurland - a man built like a fridge with a black buzzcut and cold eyes - leans against the row of sinks with his arms folded in front of his chest.

"Nice show, Specialist," Kurland says. "You doing party gigs, too? Civilian life keeping you busy?" He pushes off and takes a step toward her; Camille shrinks back defensively. "You mind explaining to me what in tarnation you think you're doing, Specialist?"
"I - I'm still, still deep cover, Sir," Camille says. "Establishing trust with ADA Ayers, getting closer to her investigation. Just a few more days, and I'll have all the intel you could ever want on her case into Sanctuary."
"Change of plans, Specialist," Kurland says. He pulls a file folder from his jacket and hands it to Camille. Inside is a list of names and photographs, Karen, Helsing, Jack, Chrome, Azuriel, and Sharon. "You're going to liquidate instead of just watch."
The color fades from Camille's face. "But...Sir, I can't - I don't have the means to fulfill that kind of mission. I'm Observation, not - I'm not Wetworks."
"We did train you how to kill, Specialist. If it's tools you're worried about, here." Kurland pulls a handgun out from the small of his back and a silencer from his pocket and puts them both on the counter. "They're clean. Priority on the metahuman targets, especially Ayers, we're setting up a larger capture op for the celestials, but extra credit will be awarded if you manage to take out the demon and the angel."
"Sir..."
"What," Kurland says with a smirk, "you thought I'd send you directly against a demon with just a pistol? Get creative, Specialist. You're good at that."
"Sir, I'm...Sir. I'm very close to Ayers's investigation. They have almost compromised our strongholds in the area, including Golgotha. We...in my opinion, Sir, we, we should be withdrawing all operational assets and regroup while we still have time. I can stay behind to provide intel, I'm - they don't suspect me, Sir."
"Or we can just kill the bitch and stop the investigation in its tracks long enough to relocate," Kurland says. He steps forward, crowding Camille up against the stalls. "They're not going to keep you around once they're done with us, Specialist. They'll pump you for all the intel they can get and throw you to the wolves. You think they're your friends? You're just an asset. Assets get treated nicely while they're worth something. Real friends tell you the truth, Specialist, and the truth is that we can't afford to let you mess around and go to fucking bars with your new best friend anymore. You've got your mission. Execute and we'll take care of the rest. Hell, I've even got good news for you. You get out, you'll be done with us for good."
"Sir..." Camille says. "What about my parents?"
"Management's authorized their release, too. We need to shed weight after this phase of the operation, and you've earned it, Specialist." Kurland smiles, like a miser dropping a penny into the hands of a beggar. "Once the extraction team picks you up from the hit, you'll be taken to a secure location in New Jersey, where you'll meet your parents with their belongings and an agency vehicle, and you'll all be free to go wherever you want." He chuckles. "I just don't recommend sticking around here."
"Sir -" Camille begins, then swallows her words. "Yes, Sir," she says.
"There's a meeting coming up between the DA's office and the SCU on coordinating their investigations, I'd conduct the hit afterwards, when Ayers and the rest of the primary targets head back to their base together. Sixteen rounds, five targets, plenty of bullets to go around." Kurland smiles that ugly smile again. "Do you understand your orders, Specialist?"
"Sir, yes, Sir," Camille says, stiffening up.
Kurland turns for the door. "Take your piss and get back out there, Specialist. We're counting on you."

The door glides shut behind him, leaving the hit list in her hand and the pistol on the countertop. Camille stands, still shaken, but slowly her feet take her to the sinks. She picks up the pistol, ejects the magazine and racks the slide back to clear the chamber. With a quick look and a dry-fire, she confirms that the pistol is in working order, then loads the single cartridge back into the magazine, slips the magazine into the pistol and sets it back on the counter. Then, she picks up the suppressor, looks through it to check for major baffle deformation. It's all real, so the mission must be, as well. The sick feeling she has multiplies a hundredfold as she pockets the suppressor and feels the pressure of the pistol against the small of her back as she slides it into her waistband. The file gets torn up and dropped in the trash. She takes another look at the toilet stall and simply walks out of the restroom.

As she comes down the back steps of the Twilight Zone, Karen waves to Camille from a floor table, their police escort seated opposite her. Camille starts to feel light-headed and pale as she sees Karen beckoning her to the table, which only worsens as she approaches. "Are you sick? Took you long enough, was about to have one of the officers check on you," Karen says, then peers at Camille, concern on her face. "You okay? I was just joking, but you really don't look too good."
Camille looks at Karen, thinks about the pistol digging into her back, and manages a weak smile. "A bit, I guess. I'm just not really hungry, not any more. I think it's, it's the adrenaline, you know? From telling that guy off."
Karen nods. "I know what that's like. Order whatever you want, and if you don't eat, we'll take it back home for you later, okay?" She smiles, and Camille feels a bit better. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us," Karen says.
"Uh, Karen, I'm...okay. I mean, I'm - I'm not okay, I don't think. I'm sorry, but this is freaking me out a little too hard. Can we just get something to go?" Camille looks at Karen with a pleading expression. "I just really want to go home now," she half-whispers.
"Of course," Karen says. "Whatever you want, Camille. I'll take you home."
"Thank you," Camille says softly. "Thank you, Karen. I'm sorry, I'm being difficult and...and you're a real friend."
Karen's smile grows a little wider. "Aw, thanks. You're not too bad, either."
Camille struggles to return the smile as she feels her gut adds on another overhand knot. "Well, I try," she says.
_________________
Gatac: Just making sure you are aware of life-saving buttsex.
Punkey: I've always been aware of life-saving buttsex. Best Red Cross training weekend ever.

[Punkey]

JS Consulting
September 3rd, 6:34 PM
------------------

Helsing and the Avatars wait quietly in the waiting room of the JS Consulting offices, and much like the people who work there, the waiting room at the front of the JS Consulting office makes only a perfunctory attempt at appearing like a typical consultancy business. A row of professional-looking chairs, black leather cracked and dry from lack of use, a plastic plant in the corner, a steel and glass table with long-expired magazine subscriptions on top. The lieutenant takes a seat and leafs through last year's issues, while Chapell and Sheppard lean against the waist-high counter and bulletproof glass partition that separates the waiting room from Chrome's office.

"Nice," Sheppard says flatly. "Where's the metal detector and the cavity search?"
"I hardly think that the security here could be considered excessive, after today," Chapell says.
"Paranoid people get mugged, too," Sheppard says, "doesn't mean they were right all along." He looks around a bit more. "Can you imagine actually working here?"
"I don't think Irene can, either," Helsing replies, and looks up from his magazine as Karen opens the door.
"Sorry, we just got back from dinner," Karen says. "We'll talk in the conference room, Ray."

As Karen unlocks the door to the office, Camille follows behind her, half cautiously waving to everyone, half looking around and taking in the view.
"I see you brought another fan of Israeli architecture," Sheppard says. He fixes Camille with a stare. "And who might you be?"
"I'm, uh, I'm Specialist...I'm Camille. Camille Belton, I'm kind of - I'm the big witness. Against Sanctuary."
Chapell shakes Camille's hand and smiles. "It's a very brave thing you're doing, Camille. Thank you."
"Just telling the, uh, what happened to me," Camille says. "I'm sorry, you are..."
"Detective Sofia Chapell -"
"- Nicetomeetcha -"
"- and Detective Marlin Sheppard," Chapell says. "The pleasure is ours."
"Oh, gosh, I'm just...you know, walking with Karen. Trying not to get lost." She looks over to Helsing, who stands up and nods to Camille. "Oh, hey, Lieutenant Helsing. Didn't mean to intrude on anything, whatever you guys are doing here."
"You're not intruding, Camille," Karen says. "Helsing and the detectives are just here to ask a few questions about another case. You'll have to hang around the office for a bit, but then we'll go back to my apartment and relax, alright? You'll only be by yourself for a few minutes."
"Uh, okay," Camille says. "I'll just - look at the posters."

The front door swings open again, and this time it's Jack who walks into the increasingly crowded waiting room. He looks exhausted and is so preoccupied with simply getting back home that he doesn't notice the others in the room until he shuts the door again. "Oh, hey...everyone," he says with muted surprise. "Just got back from taking a run at Drake. Guy fucked around with us for an hour before shutting down completely. I told Jacob to go home, we're gonna take another run at him when we've got something more concrete to tie him to Sanctuary, it's not like the asshole's going anywhere, anyway."
Karen nods. "You've both had a really long day, Jack, you deserve some time back here to relax. You've met Camille, right?"
"Uh, hey," Camille says. "I'm kinda - you know - tagging along with Karen, for now, so...you know. I'm here, with nothing to do. Well, I was gonna look at the posters in the office, but - I don't have to."
"I've got to talk with Ray about another case," Karen says, "and I don't mean to impose, but if you could keep her company while I do that -"
"No problem," Jack says. He looks over to Camille and manages a smile. "It'd be my pleasure. Have you got your stuff moved down to the apartment?"
"Uh, no," Camille says. "You've got an apartment for me? I thought I'd, you know, I'd take Karen's couch, or something. That would be, you know, totally okay, you don't have to give me a whole damn apartment to myself, I got nothing to put into an apartment anyway..."
"No, no," Jack says. "We live below the office, we have an apartment downstairs, and you'll be staying with us." Jack smiles. "Probably the safest apartment in the city."
"Oh," Camille says. "Oh. Right, I was wondering where you guys live."
"Just downstairs," Jack says. "Irene says you get...the spare room we have. It's a mess, but we'll take care of that later for you. Do you have any bags that we need to move from Karen's?"
"Just, uh, a backpack and a duffel upstairs with a few changes of clothes, and a book, and some toiletries," Camille says. "Thanks for asking, though."
Jack smiles. "Cass won't stand for that. She'll probably insist on taking you out the first chance she gets. Let's get you situated, okay?"
"Okay," Camille says and returns the smile, then follows Jack back out into the hallway.

"She seems almost too nice to have been a Sanctuary conscript," Chapell says.
"Still able to take us both down, but nice," Sheppard says.
"I think she prefers to emphasize the second part," Karen says, and looks over at Helsing. "So, what do you need, Ray?"
"Got a few questions about Mark Simmons," Helsing says, tapping his files in his hand. "Got a big break on his associates today, and I need to pick your brain about the crimes he might have committed while he was supposedly dead."
Karen stops cold for a moment. "Uh, sure." She motions towards the conference room. "Shall we?"

----

In contrast to the willfully corporate sterility and paranoia of the offices upstairs, the living quarters' off-white plastered concrete walls and mottled industrial carpeting under bright full-spectrum fluorescent lighting is slightly more inviting. Little touches attempt to lighten up the area here and there: wooden baseboards, a bulletin board covered with notes, photos and letters mounted on the wall. The kitchen is still littered with the remains of the busy morning, with dishes in the sink and an open box of cereal standing on the table, surrounded by the eviscerated remains of the morning paper. More papers and magazines sit on the table in front of the big-screen TV, and a discarded sweater drapes over the back of one of the sofas that form the boundaries of the living room area, but it still looks and feels more like a bunker than an apartment.

"It's a little rough," Jack says, "but -"
"Better than the hotel rooms the Marshals had me in," Camille says as she descends the stairs behind Jack. "It's, uh, it's actually kinda nice. I like it."
"Well, just put your bag anywhere, we've gotta clean up the room you'll be staying in before you can settle down," Jack says, opening the fridge. "It's the room at the end of the hall. Do you want something to drink?"
"I would like a ginger ale, if you have some," Camille says. "I'll just put my bag into the room real quick, okay? I don't, you know, want to clutter the place up."
"I think we have a twelve-pack in the laundry room," Jack says, and walks into the alcove under the stairs. "You really should wait until we clean out that room, it's a disaster in there. The soda will just be cool, not cold, is that alright?"
"That's...cool with me," Camille says with a smile, scanning the row of half-open doors that lead to the bedrooms.
"Oh, you and Chrome are gonna get along great." A grunt and some shuffling come from the laundry room. "It'll take a minute, I've got to move some of Sharon's laundry out of the way."
"Oh, no, don't -" Camille manages to say, but she's already dropped her backpack. "You don't have to make such a mess of it for me," she says and kneels down. With a quick reach of her hand, she pulls the hidden pistol out of her waistband, opens the snap on her backpack with her other hand and shoves the gun inside. A quick readjustment on the tugstring later, she snaps the ruck closed again and gets back up.

Leaving the ruck behind, she walks over to the open door to the laundry room and looks inside, where she sees Jack digging through stacks of folded clothing. "Come on, I'll help you," Camille says, and takes some clothes from Jack's hand to put them in a neat stack outside. "I didn't know you, uh, you guys hide your ginger ale. I wouldn't have asked."
"It's not a problem," Jack says, shovelling a loose pile of bras into a basket. "And we don't, usually. It's just almost at the critical mass where Sharon can't even put together enough clean underwear to not be naked for the walk from her room to her laundry, and that's when she cleans it all out until the next time." He bends over and lifts a cardboard pack of cans out of the pile. "Hah! Ginger ale, just for you."
Camille looks at the basket, with her eyes dwelling for a bit on a red and lacy bra on the floor that escaped the sweep. "I think you missed one," she says. She picks it up to put in the basket, but it's noticably smaller than the others. "Karen or Chrome?"
Jack blushes. "Err, Chrome's, actually." He grabs the bra and puts it in another hamper. "Come on, let's get out of here before her laundry starts fighting back."

Camille feels her cheeks flush in sympathy, but the embarassment fades when they exit the laundry room and aren't knee-deep in Sharon's button-up shirts, work suit pants and commando sweaters. Jack pulls the case of soda open, and Camille accepts a can of ginger ale with a bright "Thanks!". She cracks it open and throws her head back for the first gulp, the most forward thing Jack's seen her do so far.
"So, uh," she says, "you live here?"
"Yeah, I used to have my own room over there," Jack says, pointing to the closest door to the stairs, "but that's more the armory and work space down here now, since everyone got tired of Sharon leaving assault rifles on the dining table. Now I sleep with Chrome, over there." He points at the next door over, which is noticably thicker than the others, made of steel, and double-deadbolted.
"You sleep in a holding cell?" Camille asks.
"No," Jack says, confused. "Ah, well, kinda, before. Not anymore, though." He gazes at the door for a second, then moves on. "Anyway, after that it's Az, Sharon, and then where you'll be staying. Each room has its own bathroom and shower, so you don't have to worry about privacy."
"Oh," Camille says. "That's, ah, that's alright. I don't need much room."
"Don't worry about it," Jack says. "If you need anything or have any questions, just ask one of us and we'll help you out, okay?" He gives her a warm smile. "Welcome to our home, Camille."
"Thank you, Jack," Camille says, and slowly runs her hand along the back of the dining room chair. "You are - you guys are great."

----

"So, what do you need to know about Simmons, Ray?" Karen asks, taking a seat at the epicenter of the sprawl of papers that has taken over one half of the conference room table. Over the past few weeks, her habit of taking her work into the JS Consulting conference room when sitting alone in the Nest becomes too claustrophobic has expanded into a full-on takeover of half of the conference room, with a reproduction of the SCU's Sanctuary murder board standing opposite an array of evidence reports and statements, organized into neatly spaced file folders by potential cell. On the board, each cell and Sanctuary lieutenant is connected back to a central cell, one with a blank spot where the mug shot should be and "GOLGOTHA?" written inside. Karen reaches over and grabs a folder labeled "REAPER Cell". "Got his Sanctuary file right here. Well, what's left of it after the Sanctuary redactors finished with it."

Helsing takes a moment to admire her handiwork, while Chapell and Sheppard move against the far wall. "My question's a little to the left of that issue, actually," he says. "See, Karen, me and Raphael have been going over all the safehouses we found, the reports on them - and it doesn't seem like he spent a lot of time at those. So I'm wondering, where the hell did Simmons rest his head? Guys like him don't exactly hang out with polite society, and maybe they're a new part of the Sanctuary rat maze. At the very least, they were harboring a dangerous fugitive and aided and abetted in who knows what."
Karen slowly nods. "Yeah, I can see that. Nothing on that in his Sanctuary file, though. They redacted the Hell out of it, so I don't know what help I can be on that."
"Okay, let's forget the Sanctuary angle for a moment, then," Helsing says. "I mean, you investigated this guy for years on the assumption that he was working alone. Didn't you ever try to find him, narrow it down a little where his hunting grounds are?"
"Uh, yeah, I did," Karen says, looking over the file. "Nothing came of it, there wasn't any one pattern to his appearances, he just seemed to appear at one safe house, and then vanish. Nothing indicating where he was staying, no records, no one remembered his face."
"Simmons was able to slip away from being completely contained by police at least twice. He was always one step ahead of us, somehow knew exactly where not to be when the heat came down for his crimes, and the guy never left so much as a fingerprint or stray hair behind. I think that's a lot of running all over town and covering his tracks for one guy, Karen."
"I guess."
"So, either he could teleport, was invisible, knew what we were going to do before we did it, and never left a single bit of trace behind, or he had help."
"Sanctuary's still most likely," Karen says. "After all, he was working for them as this REAPER cell, up until he decided to turn evidence against them."
"Except nobody there seems to have seen him in all those years," Helsing says. He takes a seat in the chair next to Karen. "Look, we've been arresting Sanctuary's people by the dozen and none of them knew any details about what Simmons was up to. The most we could get out of them was that REAPER cell received no support from Sanctuary at all, no equipment, no money. So, where did he get his guns, tech, and information? Where was he staying? Someone had to be giving this stuff to him."
"Well, Simmons had a lot of known associates back before we convicted him," Karen says. "It could be any one of dozens of different people. Most of them have vanished straight off the map in the years since Love Towers." She shuffles about in her chair, scooting slightly away from Helsing. "Why all of this right now, anyway? Doesn't the SCU have enough on its hands with Sanctuary?"
Helsing leans over the table, looking at the open REAPER file. "Whoever helped him is a part of his crimes, Karen," he says. "And they're still out there. These are the people who helped him assassinate Bou back in the Holston case, who helped him hunt down and murder Victor Smith, and wound up getting Kirschner set free to blow a load of buckshot into your best friend's back, Karen. I want to take these scumbags down before they find a new hobby."

Helsing sits upright in the chair again and looks at Karen. "You know that he only really trusted a few people out there. Back before he contacted you, you had a list of candidates, people you were almost certain were helping him. Just give me their names so I have a place to start."
Karen's eyes flick from side to side. "Uh, I don't think that's such a good idea, Ray. You've got enough on your plate with this Sanctuary thing. We just had them attack the Federal Building, I don't think this is a good time for us to be focusing on this."
"When is it going to be a good time?" Helsing asks. "The trail is getting colder, it's taken long enough for us to get this lead and start looking in the right direction. If we wait any longer, these people are just going to vanish and get away with everything, Karen."
"I just don't think chasing after Simmons is a priority anymore, Ray," Karen says. "The man's dead, just...leave it alone."
Helsing says nothing for a moment. "And that's it? The last five years of your life, just a big waste of time? How is it that you - you of all people, Karen! - are giving up?"
"I'm not giving up, I just...I just don't see a need to pursue this any further, Ray. It's not important anymore."
"You were on my ass for years about this, Karen, about how letting the people assisting Simmons slide was leaving a bad impression on the rest of the metahuman underground out there," Helsing says. "And now, it's just no big deal, let's forget about making sure that everyone involved with Simmons gets what they deserve?"
"No, it's not that, it's just..." Karen stops short, unsure of how to continue. "I just don't think this is such a good idea, Ray."
Helsing shakes his head and stands back up. "Well, I don't know what to think. I figured that you, of all people, would jump at this case." He gathers his files together. "Call me when you figure out if you abandoned your principles for convenience's sake over this Sanctuary case, or if you still give a damn about justice," he says coolly. "But if you don't - I'm not here to beat a dead horse. See you later, Karen." Helsing stands up and stomps out of the room, followed quietly by Sheppard and Chapell.

The conference room doors silently swing shut, and Karen sits in her chair, hands over her mouth in shock at what just happened. She looks down at the picture of Mark in the open REAPER file. "What have you done to me?" she asks. The picture says nothing, and she angrily slams the folder shut.

----

As Jack turns to lock the office door leading to the apartment stairwell, he hears the conference room door slam shut. Both Jack and Camille quickly turn to look to the source of the sound, and they see Lieutenant Helsing storming out of the conference room, Chapell and Sheppard following behind him. Jack decides not to get involved, and turns his key to lock the deadbolt. The loud click of the bolt catches Helsing's attention, and his eyes lock onto Jack. After a second's deliberation, Helsing changes course and heads directly for Jack, his frustration obvious to both Jack and Camille. Sheppard and Chapell hang back in the middle of the office, trying to look like they're paying more attention to the discount office decor than to the conversation.

"Hey, Lieutenant," Jack ventures as Helsing approaches. "What's up?"
"I'd like to talk to you, Jack," Helsing says. "In private."
"Sure..." Jack looks over to Camille, whose grip is starting to put dents in her can of soda. "Camille?"
"- yes?" Camille says, reflexively sizing up Helsing.
"Maybe you should go with Karen for right now," Jack says. "Just for a minute, and then we'll finish getting you set up."
"That's a great idea," Camille says. "Lieutenant, you'll excuse me." She walks off, making a berth around Helsing and keeping her distance from the avatars until she's in the conference room.
"Why do I feel like I just avoided a beating?" Helsing asks. "I hope you know what you invited into your home there, Jack."
"She's just nervous, Lieutenant," Jack says. "So, what do you need?"
"It's pretty simple," Helsing says. "We're hurting for evidence in the Simmons case, but I believe that there's a place out there that has everything we need to nail the people who helped the bastard. I'm looking for where Simmons lived, and I need your help to find that."
"I don't know what I can do to help," Jack says. "It's not like I knew the guy, Lieutenant."
Helsing's face grows more serious. "We both know where you were when the towers came down," he says quietly. "Is this your line, that you really know nothing at all?"
Jack puts his hands up. "Hey, I spent less than twelve hours with Sanctuary and Simmons, it's not like I had time to crawl into his head. Why don't you talk to Karen, she lived and breathed the guy for years. He blew up her apartment, not mine."
"Yeah," Helsing says. "Guess what I just did. Turns out she doesn't think Simmons is relevant anymore. I think she's getting into this forgive and forget thing now that Simmons is dead. Mostly the 'forget' part."
Jack shrugs. "Maybe it's for the best, Lieutenant. What do you want to know?"
"The underground," Helsing says. "Anybody who might have worked with Simmons that's not in the Usual Suspects lineup. I figure I've got a better chance tracking his moves if I go off the beaten path."
"I wouldn't know anyone from Simmons' old days, Lieutenant. I was just a medical examiner who got tangled up in a prison riot before Love Towers and Sanctuary. I did my best to keep my head down and stay out of trouble."
"Of course," Helsing says, "then you somehow get yourself shanghai'd into a Sanctuary strike team." Helsing pauses for a second. "How about Sanctuary, then? Simmons ever tell you why he picked you? You weren't that involved with all that metahuman vigilante bullshit back then, so maybe you both knew someone, someone who was at the Gardenview riots and vouched for you. Could be a decent place to start."
Jack shrugs. "Like you said, I was just a medical examiner. After Gardenview, I didn't want anything to do with those psychos and I kept to myself, until that week. I was out trying to help calm things down while everything was blowing up, and then Simmons calls me up and says he wants me with him in Sanctuary."
Helsing blinks at Jack. "Just like that? Out of the blue, 'hey, come join my top secret paramilitary metahuman squad'?"
"I guess."
"Then what about this?"

Helsing flips open the manila folder he's been carrying around all day, and thumbs through the papers inside until he reaches what he's looking for - a printout, obviously pulled from grainy surveillance footage. The image shows Jack, dressed in his Sanctuary gear in the plaza outside of Love Towers, hunkered down behind a concrete planter with another man dressed in the black ballistic nylon and leather tactical getup that Sanctuary preferred. "This is the most footage we've got of the Sanctuary cell that you were a part of. You're behind that planter for a good ten or twenty seconds, talking about something."
"It was a firefight, Lieutenant, we were probably trying to decide how to not get killed."
"Yeah, but then you and the masked man here smile and laugh about something. Any idea what?" Helsing asks.

Jack is beginning to lose track of how many ways he's out of his league at this point. Joining up with Sanctuary, running with Mark and his buddies, and now he's in the middle of a full-on war zone. Azuriel seems almost comfortable though, and the knowledge that the one familiar face in all of this is still relaxed is helping Jack keep it together.
"Hell, I think Gardenview was worse than this, Jack!" Az says, reloading his shotgun. Machine gun fire from Sharon, Dingbat and Deadeye echoes into a cacophony in the plaza.
"How do you figure?" Jack shouts to be heard over the low-flying Sanctuary helicopter and the rockets from the robot exoskeleton. Bullets and magical bolts skip off the concrete planter, and Jack ducks out of reflex.
"Four bad guys and two backstabbing paramilitary goons instead of a whole prison? And neither of us has been shot yet?" Jack sees Az smile through the mask. "Piece of cake!"
Jack laughs nervously. "Let's hope so!"

"Nope, no idea," Jack says.
"And you have no clue who this guy was? Not even a Sanctuary codename, nothing at all that we can go on?" Jack's about to answer when Helsing cuts him off. "I get it, Jack. He was a friend before Sanctuary, and you both made it out of there together. You don't want to jam him up, but this guy, whoever he is? He's the one link between you, Sanctuary, and Mark Simmons. He helped Mark Simmons escape, and he helped him cover up murders. You're a good man, Jack. That's why I gave you a second chance, and why you want to think really hard before you answer." He taps on the masked man in the photo. "Who is this?"
Jack stands there for a moment, staring at the photo. Helsing can see his face twitch slightly as he thinks about his answer. Jack takes a breath, and looks Helsing in the eyes. "I don't know who that is, Lieutenant."

Helsing stares at Jack. For a minute, neither one of them moves. Sheppard coughs in the background, while Chapell simply focuses on looking in a different direction than Jack and Helsing.
It's Helsing that breaks the silence first. "Well, that's too bad. Anything else you can think of, Jack?"
Jack's jaw is set hard. "Nope."
"Fine," Helsing says, and closes his folder. "I'll see you tomorrow. Bright and early, we've got to get started on those new Sanctuary leads."
"10-4, sir."

Helsing starts to turn away, then pauses as if to say one last thing. He thinks better of it, shakes his head, and walks towards the front door, with Sheppard and Chapell falling into formation at his side as he walks past the two Avatars. A second later, Jack hears the front door click shut, and he immediately walks into the conference room. Inside, he finds Karen still brooding over the REAPER file.
"Hey," Jack says, "Helsing just questioned me about Mark. What did he want from you?"
It takes Karen a second to look up. "Oh, uh, the same."
"What exactly did he ask you?"
"He wanted my list of Simmons' associates, he said he needed it to find who was hiding him outside of Sanctuary." Karen shakes her head. "I didn't give him anything."
"Well, he asked me if I knew anyone that connected me to Sanctuary or Mark. I didn't tell him anything either, but he made it pretty clear he knew I was stonewalling him," Jack says, digging in his pocket for his cell phone. He turns the screen on and dials Azuriel. "We've got to get out in front of this." He looks across the conference room table. "I'm sorry, Karen. Mark shouldn’t be your problem."
"No, Jack, he’s been our problem for a while now," Karen says, and looks at the picture of Mark in the file. “I made my choice.”

-------------
SCU Observation Room
September 3rd, 6:44 PM
-------------

Azuriel is leaning up against the painted sheetrock wall next to the intercom to Interview 1 in the SCU, listening to the FBI strike out in their interview with soon-to-be-ex-Special Agent Aaron Palmer. With the Federal Building still declared an active crime scene, what seems like half the FBI has moved into the SCU squadroom, and their presence is felt in the interview rooms, as they insisted that they interview the suspected mole in their own agency.

“Agent Palmer, we are giving you a chance to confess before we have you brought up on charges,” one of the OPR agents says.
“We have to warn you. You’re in a substantial amount of trouble here, Agent Palmer,” the other agent adds.
“Really?” Palmer says, and leans the metal folding chair back against the wall. “You don’t say!”

Az rolls his eyes. After a half-hour of watching Agents Johnson and Johnson roll out every tired interview cliche they could find, Chrome wandered off to make Az and herself some coffee while he stayed behind to monitor the interviews. Only one of the FBI agents is actually named Johnson, but their performance so far put the joke within easy grasp.
Chrome walks in, holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. “They moved on to how much trouble he’s in yet?” she asks, blows a puff of steam off her cup and hands Az his cup.
“Yes,” Az says. “It is, apparently, a substantial amount.”
Chrome nods and takes a sip, holding her cup with both hands. “That’s a lot of trouble,” she says.
Az moves to take a sip himself. “So they seem to think -” Az stops and coughs mid-sentence as the taste of his coffee hits him in the face. “...you made this yourself, did you?”
“Yep,” Chrome says.
“...that’s good.”
After a second, she sighs and looks at Az. “Just say it.”
“You used too much steam,” Az says. He holds back for a second longer, then continues. “And the espresso machine needs to use fresh espresso roast beans, not frozen drip coffee grounds. And why did you use so much sugar?”
Chrome sticks her tongue out at Az. “Well, maybe you should make your own coffee next time, Mr. Fancy-Pants. I just drink it for the caffeine.” She raises the mug to her lips and takes another sip. “And I like sugar.”
Az opens his mouth to lecture Chrome about the bouquet of aromatic oils that well-prepared coffee possesses and the careful balance between bitterness, sweetness, and milk flavors a perfect cup requires. He then thinks better of it, and just pours his coffee out into an unfortunate potted plant.

“You need to think about yourself, Agent Palmer,” the FBI agent actually named Johnson says. “If you turn evidence against Sanctuary, we can get some kind of deal for you with the US Attorney’s Office.”
“I’m pretty sure I am looking out for myself here, since I don’t know anything,” Palmer says. He looks at his watch. “You know, I think we’re just about done here. It’s been fun, but I want my attorney, now.”
The two FBI agents give each other a “Well shit, what now” look, and stand up. “We’ll make sure your attorney arrives as soon as possible,” FBI agent Not-Johnson says, and the two of them exit Interview 1.

Az waits for the door to close behind them before speaking up. “That’s a very unique method of interrogation they teach at the FBI. I’ve never considered just talking at the suspect until they spontaneously confess.”
Chrome turns to Az and takes another sip. ”I think the secret is in the worn-out phrases somewhere,” she says. “I mean, they did talk to him for half an hour before he lawyered up, that’s kind of a success.”
“Very funny,” Agent Johnson says. “Let’s see if you local LEOs can do any better.” He reaches over and turns up the volume on Interview 2, where Sharon has spent the last ten minutes with Officer Jack Henke. She still hasn’t taken the time to get changed out of the loaner sweatclothes she picked up at the Federal Building, which are now probably permanently stained green by the injuries to her back. For his part, Henke is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed and staring at the table as Sharon hammers away at him.

“I’ve got your problem figured out,” Sharon says, sitting across from Henke with her hands folded in front of her face. She’s still wearing the green-stained sweatclothes from the Federal Building, complete with drywall dust mixed in with the caked demon blood in her hair.
She knocks on the table and leans forward. “You’ve got no spine. You’re one of these wishy-washy go-with-the-flow kinda types, Jack. Someone comes up to you and says, ‘Hey, give us the inside scoop on the Sanctuary investigation,’ or ‘give us the NYPD files of metas in the department or we’ll let everyone know about that bad arrest,’ and you just go along with it. What’s the harm?”
Henke says nothing. He licks the inside of his lips and shifts slightly.
“It’s only your fellow officers you’re fucking, right?” Sharon says, standing up. She flips open a file folder on the table and starts pacing back and forth. “Access logs to the NYPD personnel database. We know you accessed the entries for every metahuman in the department. Those NYPD metas are men and women that have your back on the street every single day, and you fucked them by handing them over to Sanctuary to do who knows what with.”

She leans over the table and gets up close to Henke. He automatically backs up a bit away from her, the chair squealing on the concrete floor. “Well, now it’s time to pay the price of deceit. You’ve fucked up, and I am the only thing standing between you, and the full power of the city and state of New York and the DoJ.” Sharon stands upright again, crossing her arms and glaring down at him. She towers over Henke, even from across the table. “The only thing that’s gonna get me to cut you any sort of break is some goddamn honesty, some fucking integrity, and I don’t see it. I just. Don’t. See it. If you were a cop, maybe. But I don’t know if you are one.” She flips her badge onto the table. “You know what that stands for? Fidelis ad Mortem. Faithful unto death, that’s the motto of our department. Well, I guess we know where you stand on that issue. Somebody’s sitting across the table from me, but he’s not a cop.”

“She’s laying into him pretty good,” Az says.

On the other side of the glass, Henke shifts his gaze from the table to the wall behind Sharon, still not meeting her eyes. “Why should I tell you anything, then?” he says.

“I see it’s going so well,” Agent Real-Johnson replies.
“Well, it sometimes takes a bit for the full impact to sink in,” Az says.

“Because you’ve got to convince me you’re not the meta-hating selfish traitor that I think you are,” Sharon spits. She starts slowly pacing around the table towards Henke. “Here’s how I see it. Sanctuary comes to you, asks for a list of metahumans in the department. You figure, ‘hey, it’s a chance to get rid of those freaky fuckers,’ and gave them everything they want. ‘Anything that gets those big, bad metahumans off the force’, right?”
Henke shifts about in his seat. Chrome pauses with her mug just below her lips and leans forward, watching as Henke slumps down and scratches at his nose.
“Did they tell you what they do with metahumans in Sanctuary? Nathan Kettner, Louis Tilton, Burt Peters, all of them were taken right off the street by Sanctuary, implanted with a kill switch and forced to fight for them, and they were the lucky ones. They just wanted to cut Ryan Stead open like a fish as a human-fucking-sacrifice.”
Each name drives Henke a little deeper into the chair. “How long until they start abducting NYPD officers for their little army? All of that is on your head, Henke.”

As Sharon continues to rant, Chrome puts her mug down on the counter behind them and starts to walk out of the room. “Raph, I need you for a second.”
“What’s up?”
“I need to make some more coffee,” she says.
“I think we’re pretty good in here.”
“Not for us,” Chrome says, “for him.” She points at Henke through the glass.
“Ah! Yes, that’s probably for the best, then.” Az follows Chrome out of the observation room, leaving the Johnsons wondering exactly what is going on.

----

Jack Henke needs a moment to realize he’s holding onto his chair’s armrests for his dear life. Sharon’s taking a break from her tirade, taking deep breaths and brushing the hair out of her face. But the respite does not last long, and soon she rolls in for another run.
“Here’s what gets me,” she says. “You swear to protect and serve the public, but you sell us out. It’s just...it’s a bit confusing, you know? I just have to know, what drives someone to fuck over their fellow officers like that?”
Sharon stops right next to Henke and squats down to get back to eye level with him. She leans right up next to his face, close enough that he can catch the slight scent of sulfur on her breath. He tries to hide it, but the sudden appearance of flop sweat on his face and the disappearance of all color from his face shows just how terrified he is to be this close to Sharon.
“I bet you just hate metas,” she says. “How about it? You have a problem with metahumans? You one of those antis, protested outside my reinstatement hearing, hate the idea of us metas walking about without a bell around our necks? Or is it just me? Worried I’m gonna lose my shit any second, turn you inside out?”

Henke is about to reply when the interrogation room door swings open and Chrome backs in, mugs of coffee in hand. “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but -”
Sharon’s anger snaps from Henke to Chrome in an instant. “What do you think you’re doing?” Sharon barks at her.
Chrome can feel her heart skip a beat as Sharon glares at her. “Um...I thought you two could use something to drink,” Chrome says, and carefully lowers the mugs onto the table. “And...err...your grandmother called, Irene.”
Sharon stalks up in front of Chrome and stares down at her. “What?” she snorts at Chrome, and a little bit of red glow appears in her nostrils to go with it.
Despite an intense desire to hit the floor and crawl away before something bad happens, Chrome stands her ground. “Yes, your grandmother. So...maybe you should go answer the phone. Now.”
Sharon seems to be considering whether or not shifting and tossing Chrome out of the interrogation room right then and there would be worth the disciplinary action for a moment, then she calms down a notch or two. “Fine. I’ll go talk to my...grandmother.”

Sharon steps out of the room, leaving Chrome and Henke alone with their coffee. The door closes behind Sharon, and she turns around to see Chrome drop into the chair and breathe a sigh of relief. “Wow, I’m glad that’s done with. I work with her every day, and she is just so scary, you know?”
Henke doesn’t reply, but at least he can stand to directly look at Chrome.
“I mean, it plays a lot more often than you think, but sometimes she acts like that over stuff like leftover pizza, and...” Chrome shivers. “Makes me a bit sick just thinking about it.” She pushes a mug in front of Henke, and takes a sip out of her own. “Try the coffee, I got a friend of mine to make it. He says he knows what he’s doing.”
Henke cautiously moves for the coffee. “...and you are?” he asks.
“Oh! Sorry,” Chrome says. “Detective Raecher, Special Crimes. So, what do you think of the coffee?”
Henke lifts the mug to his mouth and takes a sip. He swallows the coffee quickly and puts the mug back down. “It’s good,” he says, not quite sure what this Detective Raecher is expecting him to say.
“That’s what he says, but I like more sugar in my coffee. And tea. And most things,” Chrome says with a smile. “That’s just kinda how I see things, but when I make coffee for him, he’s polite, but I know he doesn’t like it. And even though I don’t just, you know, come out and tell him, I still feel kinda bad about it.”

Chrome takes another sip, and drops a bit of the bubbly attitude in the process. “I feel guilty that even though I tried to do what I thought was right, it still turned out a lot worse than I thought it was going to. You know?”
“Yes,” Henke says, “but...we’re not talking about coffee here, right?”
“No, Jack, we’re not,” Chrome says, putting her coffee down. “That’s what this was, right? With Sanctuary? You didn’t know about what they were doing, right?”
“Sanctuary,” Henke scoffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He takes another sip of the coffee. “You know? I think I like my coffee a little sweeter, too.”
“Jack, come on,” Chrome says. “I’m trying to help you here. We’ve got you giving away NYPD personnel files to somebody. Was it Sanctuary?” Chrome leans towards Henke. “Tell me you didn’t know what they were doing, Jack. You didn’t know what they were doing, right?”
Henke looks down at the table.
“You were just doing what you thought was right,” Chrome says. “You didn’t know what they were going to do with those names, and they were going to ruin you if you didn’t turn them over. You just did what they told you, and hoped for the best.” She reaches out and takes his hand. “How did it feel when you found out what they wanted those names for? What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Henke says quietly. “I did nothing.” He looks up at Chrome. “I kept my head down and my mouth shut.”
“Why?” Chrome asks. “You could have prevented what happened today, you could have saved lives.”
“I didn’t know!” Henke says, suddenly agitated. “I didn’t know this was going to happen, okay? I did. Not. Know. I thought -” He takes a breath. “The harm was done. I thought I’d...if I kept quiet, I wouldn’t make it worse.”
“But you know that’s not true, Jack,” Chrome says. “You might not have known about what happened today, but you do know about what they plan to do with that list you gave them. Right?”
Henke nods. “Right,” he echoes, the weight on his mind apparent in his voice.
“You’re caught, Jack, that’s a fact,” Chrome says. “Now, you have to choose. You can save lives, right now - you can make up for what you did. Tell me, Jack. Who did you give the list of NYPD metas to?”
Henke begins shaking his head. “I -” he says, and then hesitates. “I...I gave him the list. Him, my...contact. His name was Paul Griffis. He gave me a number to call, I...I wrote it down, it’s in a notebook in my desk. I never met him in person, he just told me where to leave the list, said he’d pick it up...” Henke trails off.
“Good,” Chrome says. “Thank you, Jack. You’ve done a great thing today, and hopefully, we can save some lives before it’s too late.”

Chrome tries to let go of Henke’s hand, but he grabs on tight. “I just wanted to make things safer,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

----

Chrome steps out of the interview room to appreciative nods from the FBI agents; Az holds out his hand, and Chrome gives him an understated high-five. Sharon stands close to the one-way mirror, arms folded in front of her chest.
“So I guess we got him after all,” she says.
“Nicely done, Detective Raecher,” Not-Johnson says.
“Hey, it was a team effort,” Chrome replies. “Couldn’t have done it without the coffee, or you, Irene. Thanks for softening him up.”
“No problem,” Sharon replies, eyes fixed on Chrome’s forehead.
Chrome slugs Sharon on the shoulder and jumps back a bit. “I think we made a pretty good team, huh? You scare them half to death, then I come in and, you know, get them to talk?” she says, grinning.
Sharon keeps up the harsh look for another second or two, then lets a small smile loose and shakes her head. “At least you’re finally using that sweetness of yours for good.”
“Okay, we need that notebook,” Az says. “Cass, you ready?”
Chrome stretches her arms behind her head and yawns. “Actually, I was about to head back and shower,” she says. “It’s been a long day.”
“Fine, Irene and will go pick it up,” Az says, and motions towards the door. “Are you ready, my dear?”
“Yeah,” Sharon says, turning to Az with a wink and a grin. “Always - my dear.”
Chrome snickers a bit at that, but Az’s face flushes red. “Err, maybe I can get a uni to come with me, instead. Why don’t you head back to the office and, well, get changed into more proper attire?”
Sharon looks curiously at Az at his sudden change of plans. She starts to say something, then thinks better of it and looks down at the filthy sweatclothes. “What, you don’t think this is an appropriate look for police work?”
“No, I do not,” Az says. “I’ll be fine, you head back and do...whatever.”
“Fine,” Sharon says. “Come on, Cass, we’ll leave Raphael alone, for now.” Azuriel can’t quite manage a full-strength glower back at Sharon. She flashes him one last smile and walks out of the observation room behind Chrome.

--------------
JS Consulting - Apartment
September 3rd, 6:59 PM
---------------

“Finally!” Chrome says, and stretches her arms out wide as she walks up from the garage. Sharon edges around Chrome while she starts unbuttoning her dress uniform shirt and stops behind the sofa, where Jack is watching reruns on the DVR. Chrome loses patience halfway through the procedure and pulls her uniform shirt over her head and white undershirt, and tosses it down the hall in the rough direction of the kitchen. “Thought I’d never be able to get out of this thing,” Chrome says.
“Hey, we already have to pay for a new uniform for Sharon, try to keep yours in one piece,” Jack says without looking behind him.
“I think it’ll be fine after the abuse it took today,” Chrome says, and sniffs the air. “Is that...”
Jack holds up a bowl of popcorn over the edge of the couch. “Sugar and cinnamon, too.”
Chrome squeals and lunges over back of the couch for the bowl, but Jack jerks it out of her reach just in time. She growls a little and leaps again, but this time tumbles head-first over the sofa. “Whoa!”
“Hey!” Jack shouts, and popcorn goes flying into the air. After a second, Sharon hears Jack’s laughter and Chrome giggling on the other side of the couch as she digs into the mess of popcorn now no doubt scattered all over the sofa.
Sharon makes a show of expelling what small amount of the scent from the overly-sweetened popcorn managed to make it into her nose. “Smells like diabetes,” she says. Chrome throws some popcorn over the back of the sofa in response. “You’re gonna get sick from all that sugar one of these days, Jack.”
“I don’t know, she hasn’t made me ill yet,” Jack replies.
Sharon rolls her eyes and makes a gagging motion out of sight of the other two. “Right, I gotta get out of here before I get sick. Where’s Camille?”
It takes a second for Jack to respond. “What?”
“Camille. You know, she came back here earlier, we’re looking out for her?”
“Oh, Karen said she’s up in her apartment. She said she wanted some time alone.”
“Great. Well, I’ll leave you two alone then,” Sharon says. She waits for a second for a reply, but doesn’t get one. She hears a quiet moan from Chrome, either over Jack or the popcorn, and takes that as her cue to leave.
As she heads towards the stairs, she hears Jack say something. “God, I though she’d never leave.” Sharon looks back over her shoulder, and sees Chrome laying on top of Jack, propping herself up with one arm while flicking a kernel of popcorn into her mouth with the other.
“The popcorn was a nice touch,” Chrome replies. “For more than one reason...” Sharon sees Chrome start to move in, and she shakes her head and turns her attention back to finding Camille.

----

Upstairs in Karen’s apartment, Camille sits on the couch in the living room. She’s bowed forward, elbows resting near her knees, and the tips of her right hand tap against her thigh in a strange rhythm. Her head is fixed forward, and her gaze burns holes through the wall above the TV.

It’s impossible, right? she thinks. But what if it isn’t? Can’t crack a demon with a pistol. There’s ways around Karen’s ability, I can take Jack, Chrome or Azuriel, if I go first...then Sharon’s gonna kill me.

She takes a deep breath.

I can figure this out. I can do it. Everything will go back to normal. I can do it. I can kill the only friends I’ve made. I can sit here and think about it and I can do it, because that’s who I am. Sanctuary. Bad. But... She thinks back to Karen and the bar. Am I? Then she remembers the gun in the bag in her lap, the lack of regret. No, you can’t be okay with what I’ve done, what I’m planning to do, and not be a bad person.

Finally, her head slumps down. After a second, she brings her hands up to bury her face in, and sobs quietly.

My friends...Sharon...my parents. I don’t want any of this! Why am I here? What the fuck are you doing, Specialist Belton - no, Camille - no, Specialist! She takes a sobbing breath in. What the fuck am I doing?

The heavy steel-reinforced front door slowly edges open, and Sharon carefully pokes her head in through the gap. “Camille?” she asks the empty hall, but as soon as the door opens enough to let her see into the living room and Camille’s heaving body, she throws it the rest of the way open and covers the distance quickly.

The demon stops just short of Camille, however, unsure of how to proceed.

“Sharon?” Camille says, in a voice so low Sharon has to strain to hear it. “What are you...why are you...I didn’t, just...”
“Hey, hey,” Sharon says. “What’s the matter?” She reaches down to rub Camille’s back, but withdraws her hand in an instant when she sobs again at her touch.
“I’m -” Camille begins, then trails off again. “It hasn’t been a good day.” She finally looks up at Sharon and flashes a forced smile. “I’m...I’m just going to take a shower, okay?”
Sharon tentatively puts her hands on Camille’s shoulders. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you can tell me, Camille. Okay?”
Sharon smiles, but Camille’s shoulders tense up, and she pulls away from her again. Sharon feels a stab in her gut, but manages to keep up her smile. “No, I’m -” Camille starts, and looks to the side, crossing her arms tight. “I’m just tired. I’m tired, and I’m filthy, and I need to take a shower.” She gets up and takes a few steps towards the bathroom. “There’s chicken,” she says without turning to face Sharon. “I got it because Karen said it’s good, but then we took it to go because we had to leave and I’m not hungry, and you must be hungry so it’s, if you want it, you can eat -”
“Camille,” Sharon says, walking back in front of her as she rambles, “please, talk to me. I don’t care what it is, just...” Sharon slowly inhales, and she can feel her fingers ache from the fists she finds herself involuntarily making. “Please. Talk to me. It doesn’t matter what it -”
Camille pushes past Sharon. “I really have to shower, okay, so, uh, later.” In a flash, she’s in the bathroom and closes the door.

----

Sharon stands frozen, unable to move from when Camille pushed past her. She hears the sound of a deadbolt being turned in the lock, and only then manages to force her feet to carry her into the kitchen. Her vision is swimming in red and she feels her wings itch in her back. For the first time, she hates the reminder of what she really is.

Who are you trying to fool, Sharon? You’re a fucking demon. Corrupter of innocence, destroyer of all that is good and just. You’re not fucking made to do shit like this, it’s not what you’re for.

She feels the fire build inside her and the sudden tightness of the sweatclothes on her shifting form. The old red-misted rage grabs her, and she feels the urge to break something, anything. Two mugs, stained with hot chocolate, sit on the counter next to her and she reaches a clawed hand towards them.

No. No. Fuck that. Get a hold on yourself, Sharon. You’re better than this, better than who you used to be. Detective Sharon, NYPD. Protect and Serve, and right now, Camille needs you to do just that. So knock this shit off, right this fucking instant.

She forces her hand away from the mugs, and grabs a dish towel instead. She takes it with both hands, black claws stabbing holes in the thin fabric, and tears it to shreds, then heaves the shreds across the kitchen with all her might. The rag confetti scatters against the wall and slides to the floor.

She feels the rage start to smolder down and her body returning to its human disguise. There. You’re still a demon, but you don’t have to act that way. Nothing wrong with sublimating that anger away. Still breathing heavily and shaking, she pulls a chair out from the dining table, lowers herself onto it and waits for Camille to finish her shower.

----

Camille slams the door behind her, throws the deadbolt and crouches down. Her sobs have turned into fast breaths as she takes her bag and upends it, spilling the contents on the floor. She fumbles for the pistol on the floor, finally gets a grip on it and spins around, aiming it at the door. Her hands shake as she backs away from the door all the way into the bathtub, until she’s finally huddled in the tub for cover, pointing her gun at the door.

No no no no no! What are you - what am I doing? She just wants to help - unless she suspects - unless she knows. What if she knows? Maybe I should - no.

The breaths slow down.

I can’t. I won’t. She won’t. I’m safe. She doesn’t know. I can’t tell her. Can’t tell anybody. Oh God.

With a snap move, she draws the pistol close to her chest and lies down, now completely hidden within the bathtub. Her right hand still clings to the pistol while her eyes fix upon an imaginary point just beneath the ceiling, and she starts to feel light-headed from hyperventilating.

What am I doing?

The tears come rolling, but there’s no relief, no feeling of weight lifting from Camille’s shoulders. This isn’t for her. It’s her body, just reacting to stress. She knows that. That’s what Sanctuary taught her about herself.

With a shaky hand, she maneuvers the pistol onto the nearby toilet seat and puts it down, then pulls herself up. Sharon is still outside, and she expects Camille to take a shower. If she doesn’t, then...Camille doesn’t know what would happen if she didn’t take a shower. But the risk isn’t worth it, so she draws the shower door closed and starts the water. It’s only after she does so that she remembers she’s still dressed. The clothes take on water quickly in the following seconds, but finally something snaps into place and she starts stripping her clothes off and tossing them, one by one, over the top of the shower door.

The water’s a little too hot. Camille turns it down. And then she just stands there and takes it.

----

Az takes the stairs to Karen’s apartment one step at a time. It’s been a very long day for the angel, and he’s still not done. The after-image of walking down the stairs to see Chrome, in an uncomfortable state of undress, straddling Jack’s chest while ordering him to throw kernels of popcorn into her mouth is still fresh in Az’s head, and that’s as good a primer for a serious talk with Sharon as he can imagine.

Only with her, it’d be sliced beef, he thinks.

He finds Sharon sitting in the kitchen, hands folded in thought. Last chance to back out, he thinks, but knocks on the wall after a moment of hesitation.

“Hey,” he says. “You got a minute?”
Sharon looks over to Az as if it was the first time she noticed he was in the apartment. “Uh, yeah, sure. Camille’s taking a shower, what’s up?”
“I thought we could talk about -” Az begins. He scratches the back of his head and looks to the side, where he notices the mess on the kitchen floor. “Did the towel jump you?”
“What?” Sharon follows Az’s eyes. “Oh, that. Just a...I’m fine now, thanks for asking.” She manages a small smile for Azuriel. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Uh, actually, there are a few things,” Az says, still stealing the occasional look at the remains of the dish rag. He lowers his voice slightly. “For example, why did I have to hear that Camille’s moving downstairs from Karen?”
“She needs to stay somewhere, Az, and we’re better than the Marshals,” Sharon says.
“I like her as much as the next guy,” Az says, “but we’re not exactly running a shelter for strays here, are we? Much less with the place where we sleep, where we’re supposed to be safe. And you know what? Rooming a Sanctuary assassin whose superpower is appearing harmless, that doesn’t make me feel very safe.”
“Camille is not Sanctuary, Az. Not anymore. You know that.”
Azuriel’s eyes narrow. “We also had a good feeling about the last assassin.”
“We were both blind to Mark because we were too used to him running off for days at a time,” Sharon says. “Camille, she really wants to make a change, I know it. Gamariel knows it too, Az. She needs to stay with people who care about her, so she’s staying with us.”
“And putting her up downstairs, with us - in Mark’s room, no less - that is the best place for her?”
“We don’t have anywhere else for her to sleep,” Sharon says. “You want me to put her out on the sofa?”
“I’d feel safer that way!” Az says. “We haven’t even cleaned out his room, who knows what she’ll find in there.”
“We can do that in a little while, Mark kept all the incriminating stuff in just a few places. Don’t worry about that.”
“Wait a minute,” Az says. “You know where his crap is hidden? And it’s still there? What were you thinking, Sharon?”
“I was thinking that we have time before she has to go to sleep to clean it out!” Sharon says. “Besides...I only know where most of it is.”
“Oh, that’s just marvelous,” Az says. “Just great. You know, I got a call from Jack, Helsing’s practically knocking down our front door about Mark, and now you’re letting someone who may or may not be a Sanctuary assassin sleep in his old room? At least tell me you put another lock on the armory.”
Sharon stands up and takes a step towards Az. “She’s not an assassin, Az! She’s a fucking scared and lost young woman, and she needs our help! Not you throwing accusations around! And we are going to help her!”
“You know what I think?” Az starts off coolly, but then raises his voice. “Her real superpower is making you stupid, Sharon. You’re just so reckless, and now you’re so in love that you’re making stupid decisions and just jumping in without considering the consequences to anyone else!’”

Az’s brain catches up with his mouth at that point, and he stops in the middle of his tirade. Sharon raises an eyebrow. “You know what? Fine,” Az says. He turns away and starts for the door. “I’ll start tossing the room, maybe I can get the worst of it out there.”
“Great!” Sharon shouts after him. “I’ll be up here, undoing the damage that hearing you rant just caused!”
“Perfect!” Az punctuates his reply by slamming the apartment door shut.
Sharon drops back down into the chair and crosses her arms in a huff, but then she hears that the shower isn’t running anymore. She gets back up, walks down the hall and puts her ear to the bathroom door. “Camille? You okay in there?”
The reply takes a few seconds to materialize through the sounds of crying behind the door. “I’m...I’m okay, I think, but - Sharon, I think I - could you, could you get me some new clothes?”
Sharon restrains herself from asking any questions just yet. “Sure, I’ll be right back.” She finds the duffel bag Camille packed from the Marshal Service hotel, and manages to almost make a complete change of clothes, but can’t find a shirt for her. Sharon grabs one of Karen’s blouses out of her closet and heads back to the bathroom to find the door still locked. “Camille, I had to steal some of Karen’s clothes, but I got a fresh change here for you. Just unlock the door and I’ll hand it to you, you don’t have to let me in if you don’t want to.”
“Okay,” Camille says quietly. Nothing further happens.
“I promise, I won’t come in until you ask me to,” Sharon says, then tries a different approach. “It’s either that, or you just stay wet and naked in there,” she jokes.

Again, nothing seems to happen for a few seconds. Finally, the deadlock retracts, and Camille opens the door a crack. Her face shows dozens of small traces of fear, but she holds out her right hand in a silent “Gimme” gesture. What Sharon can’t see is the gun Camille’s hiding behind the door in her left.
Sharon passes the clothes through one at a time, then Camille quickly shuts and locks the door again. Sharon doesn’t quite know what to do for a second, then slides down the wall next to the door and takes a seat. “Did you hear Az and me?”
“...yes,” Camille says. “I was showering so I didn’t hear all of it, because the shower’s pretty loud and it echoes with the door, it’s much louder than the open showers I know...I heard you.”
“He’s wrong,” Sharon says. “Az is wrong. And he doesn’t believe what he said, either. He’s just...he’s got a lot on his mind, and he’s putting those worries on you. He doesn’t think you’re a threat, not really. He trusts you, we all do. Jack, Chrome, Karen, Az, we all believe in you, Camille.”
“Thank you,” Camille says. “That’s - that’s a nice thing to say.” There’s a pause as Camille shuffles about in the bathroom. “But how - I mean, I just don’t see why, what I did to - how can you be so sure?”
“Because...” Sharon gets lost for a moment. “I...it’s hard to - I just am, Camille. I can’t explain it, but I just know. And the same is true with everyone else here. They all took one look at you, and they just knew that you were a good person, someone we could trust. Maybe Constantine could put it better, but I can’t.”
“Thank you,” Camille says. “For the clothes, and the room, and...you know. I’m uh - I think I need a moment, meet you downstairs?”
“Can I wait for you here, and we’ll walk downstairs together?” Sharon asks.
“...yes,” Camille says. “Yes, okay.”

Sharon nods, and waits.
_________________
Gatac: Disco Jesus is a dick.
Punkey: Yes.