One month today, Leon thought to himself as he stood at the tiny window in the bathroom of his equally tiny apartment, his toothbrush busily buzzing away as he
stared out over the gritty streets of King's Row.
He turned and spat, watching the toothpaste swirl and vanish down the drain.
"One month," he repeated aloud, and rinsed his mouth with black coffee, hot and steaming from the mug in his hand. He frowned at his reflection in
the mirror, sighed, and tugged open the reluctant drawer under the sink to retrieve his shaving supplies. Voices from the TV in the other room rose and fell
in cadence, extolling the virtues of some product or another. He ignored the noise as he lathered up and began to scrape industriously at the two-day stubble.
An explosion outside rattled the building. He sighed again and gripped the edge of the sink tightly. His head bent and he shook it slowly.
"Just one morning in peace," he remarked, turning his face up to stare at the ceiling. "Just one?"
As the rumble died down, car alarms began to wail, and the staccato pop-pop-pop of gunfire took the place of the boom. Leon took two steps to the right, which
put him into the main room of his studio apartment, and lifted his weapon from the stand by the door. Then he crossed to the window, threw it open, climbed
out on the fire escape, and shouted,
"PPD! KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF DOWN THERE!"
A bullet sparked off the fire escape next to his hand by way of reply, reminding him that he was dressed only in a towel and shaving cream, rather than the
usual body armor. Grumbling to himself about the injustices of the world, he raised his rifle, sighted carefully, and fired three times.
Then he ducked back inside and resumed his preparations for the day.
Outside, a brightly-costumed hero looked around in puzzlement, then shrugged and began tagging the three Skulls at his feet, all clutching at the mangled
remains of their weapon hands.
* * * * *
It was with considerably better cheer -- the coffee had kicked in -- that Leon entered the Special Investigations division headquarters. It was a cozy affair,
tucked away underground somewhere -- he wasn't quite sure where -- and decorated in Ragged Office Modern. Crates in the corners did double duty as storage
space as well as work surfaces, and the cubicles were hand-me-downs from the PPD Logistics Division, and hadn't come with proper fasteners; duct tape and
prayer were holding them together until the right parts could be scrounged.
Couple all that with the ratty furniture in the visitor's area -- complete with a scarred-top coffee table holding magazines from four years ago, plus
today's PARAGON TIMES -- and the bare-concrete floor, and it looked like an office building that was overdue to be condemned.
Still, Leon reflected as he hopped down from the teleporter platform, it was a damn sight better than the cramped nine-by-nine storage room that had, until
only a week ago, been their official home. He stopped long enough to fill his mug with the thick black ooze from the industrial-strength coffeemaker, grinned
at the Post-It stuck to the metal above the pot with "COFFEE?" scrawled on it, and proceeded to his desk, ignoring the four-day-old donuts next to
the coffee machine. He personally figured that by this point they were best suited as chew-toys for Fuzzy, their resident psychotic police
werewolf-on-a-leash, and not for actual human consumption.
He and his fellow members of the Special Investigations division kept wierd hours by any sane standard, so he wasn't surprised to find the base unoccupied.
He brought up his terminal, futzed a bit with email and suchlike, then opened a nondescript file and stared moodily at the pictures and data scrolling slowly
by on the screen. He leaned back and sat there for a time frowning, taking occassional sips from his mug.
A brief 'ding-dong!' issued from the overhead speakers; Leon leaned further back in his chair, his head popping out of his cubicle, and watched as
HE-AT, the division commander and nominally his boss, faded into view on the teleporter platform.
"Mornin', boss lady," Leon called.
"Greeting: good morning to you as well, Detective." HE-AT stepped down lightly from the platform and crossed the room, stopping at his cube wall and
politely keeping her eyes -- optics, he wondered? He wasn't sure if she was purely robotic or some form of cyborg -- averted from his screen.
"Query: What brings you in so early?"
Leon glanced at his watch -- 8:17 -- and shrugged. "I couldn't sleep, so I figured I'd come in and get some work done."
"Statement: You did plenty in Faultline last night. Mr. Temblor called to commend your performance."
Leon grinned. "Jim's an okay guy. Needs to keep a better eye on his girlfriend, though. She's trouble and a half."
"Statement: Agreed."
"Anyway, that's not what I'm working on at the moment." He rubbed at his temples. "It's that case we talked about before. I'm
not getting anywhere with the kid gloves on, and so far I don't have a reason to take them off. Not a legit one, anyway." He frowned. "To be
honest, I don't even have an illegimate reason. They haven't pulled anything any other licensed hero hasn't." He shook his head.
"Something stinks, and it isn't my dirty socks."
HE-AT cocked her head. "Statement: You suspect something."
Leon nodded. "Too damn right I do. Check this out." He sat up in his chair and tapped at the keyboard. HE-AT moved into the cube and took a seat
in the visitors chair, watching over his shoulder as he pulled together bits of the puzzle and put them on the screen.
"Look!" he said, stabbing a finger at the monitor. "We have data showing that there are several registered Sabres. They're working
together, it's obvious. That's nothing special, supergroups form in this city like weeds form on a lawn. But there's something funny about their
targets. Look at the list."
HE-AT did so. Leon could almost see her make the connection. "Statement: The distribution is skewed. Crey appears much less often in that list than
would be expected."
"Exactly! Now, check THIS out." Leon threw up a graph on the screen, showing a bar for each group that had been targeted by the Sabres.
"Observation: Crey is again skewed. The estimated value of their losses is much greater than the other groups."
"Bingo." Leon leaned back and shook his head. "I dunno for sure what the deal is, but they -- the Sabres, I mean -- they avoid Crey like the
plague for the most part. But when they DO hit Crey, they hit 'em HARD, and where it hurts. Or should." He cocked an eyebrow. "Don't
suppose you know any way to get Crey to cough up actual values, do you? I'm having to guess based on what little makes it to the media or trickles down
from upstairs."
"Statement: Negative."
"About what I figured." Leon snorted. "What makes all this more confusing is, I've worked with a couple of these girls. Robots. Whatever
they are. And I don't get any sense that there's a problem there -- not any more than with any other hero. All heroes are crazy, it comes with the
territory."
HE-AT looked askance at him. Leon shrugged.
"Hey, we're cops. We're crazy too, we're just trained for it."
"Statement: That is not reassuring."
"Truth usually isn't," Leon replied. He sighed. "Anyway, none of this adds up. It's bugging me. And that's why I haven't
filed my report yet."
"Query: What is your concern?"
Leon looked up at HE-AT. "I think we're being used. The PPD, and the Sabres." He scowled. "One of us is a catspaw, and right now I'm
damned if I know which one, or for what."
He returned to glaring at the evidence on his display, and might have stayed there all day lost in thought had another arrival chime not chosen that moment to
sound. HE-AT took a step back to clear the way as Leon unthinkingly leaned back in his chair to peer at the portal platform.
"Oh, great," Leon muttered as the hulking figure of MACH II faded into view, the spotlights above blazing off his polished white carapace. The large
red cross on his chest seemed to wink as the robot took a smooth, steady step forward. The coffee in the pot jiggled uncertainly as his massive foot came down
on the concrete floor.
"How'd he know I was here?" Leon muttered as he ducked forward again, trying to remain unseen. HE-AT regarded him, then cocked her head and said
nonchalantly,
"Statement: I authorized the installation of a tracking unit in your armor, sidearm, and motorcycle."
"WHAT?!" Leon stared up at his supervisor in outrage. "Now wait a minute, that's going too far! You don't have the right--"
"Rebuttal: Refer to PPD Special Investigations Procedures Manual, section five, paragraphs eighteen through twenty-two." HE-AT stepped back and
turned to leave, pausing only long enough to add, "Statement: Don't make me employ paragraph twenty-three, Detective."
"GOOD MORNING, MA'AM. GREETINGS, DETECTIVE MCNICHOL." MACH II loomed over the cube wall, stepping aside politely as HE-AT nodded a greeting and
continued towards her 'office'.
Leon fumed.
"SENSORS INDICATE YOUR STRESS LEVELS ARE ABOVE NOMINAL LEVELS. THIS UNIT IS CAPABLE OF REDUCING THEM THROUGH MANY MEANS." MACH II leaned down to
bring his cycloptic eyeplate closer to Leon's face. "STANDARD PROCEDURE IS TO EMPLOY PHYSICAL THERAPUETIC TECHNIQUES FIRST."
Leon glared into the unwavering optics of his partner. "Tell me you did -not- just offer me a massage."
"IF YOU PREFER, THIS UNIT CAN SKIP DIRECTLY TO THE APPLICATION OF TRANQUILIZERS."
"Unless that means you're buying the beer, I'll pass," Leon said, snorting.
MACH II remained silent.
Leon stood and yanked his jacket off its peg. "Let's get out of here. I've got my own way to blow off some steam."
"AS YOU DESIRE." MACH II fell into step behind him. As they reached the teleport bays, Leon spoke.
"Hey, Ed, you heard the boss lady back there. What's in paragraph twenty-three?"
MACH II regarded Leon steadily for a moment, then extended a massive manipulator gauntlet. A panel opened and a set of surgical implements popped out,
polished steel glinting with a dull sheen of disinfectant.
Leon scowled again. "I didn't sign up for this."
"THIS UNIT HAS A COPY OF YOUR AUTHORIZATION ON FILE. WOULD YOU LIKE A PRINTOUT?"
"Can it," Leon growled. "C'mon, let's go bust some Skulls."
* * * * *
BLAM.
Leon fiddled with the sights on his new rifle, then raised it to his shoulder again. He took a deep breath, let half of it out, and eased back on the trigger.
BLAM.
Nodding in satisfaction, he swapped in a new magazine, raised the weapon to his shoulder, thumbed a switch, and held the trigger back.
FWOOOOOSH!
"Son of a --!" Leon released the trigger hastily, watching the thirty-foot tongue of flame curl upwards and vanish. The targets on either side of
his lane rippled with smoky fire, burning entirely to ashes within a few seconds. The PA speaker behind him squawked angrily, but he ignored it.
"Nice shooting!" said a perky voice. Leon set his rifle down and turned. A redhead whose proportions matched the voice stood there, eyes looking
comically big behind yellow-tinted shooting glasses. She was leaning against the partition separating his lane from the one next to it, eyeing him amusedly.
"My, but that's a big gun you've got there, mister."
Leon grinned. "Well, it's all in how you use it."
"Doesn't bode well for you, then, does it?"
"That?" Leon affected mock suprise as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Oh, I meant to do -that-. Need to test these things carefully,
you know." He nodded sagely.
"Uh-huh." She straightened up. "Well, was it successful?"
"I'm not sure yet," he replied, "but I hope to get the chance to find out." Behind him, the ashes of the targets he'd fried
drifted slowly to the floor.
She shook her head, chuckling. Leon grinned and raked fingers through his hair, refusing to let himself look embarassed. "I'm Leon," he said,
offering his hand. She took it in a firm grip and shook it.
"Nene."
* * * * *
"I'm Leon," the all-too-familiar man in front of her said, extending a hand. She knew him, down to the smallest detail, even to the black shades
dangling from the front of his blue t-shirt; all of it matching with unnerving similarity her memories of another Leon.
It was crazy. It wasn't possible. But here he was.
"Nene," she heard herself say, accepting the handshake. He didn't recognize her, she could tell, and silently congratulated herself for her
self-control. When HE-AT had contacted her, requesting her expertise now that the fledgling Special Investigations division had a proper headquarters and
would need logistical and technical support, she'd of course jumped at the chance. Her own private kingdom, sequestered away within the vast bulk of the
PPD network, with all those resources to play with but without the antiquated oversight that working in TechDiv had? It wasn't even a question.
"Statement: You'll report to me, miss Romanova, but other than that it's all yours."
And it was glorious. She'd wasted no time in settling in, getting the equipment orders processed, overseeing the installation (often as not ordering a
tech aside to do it herself so it would be done The Right Way), and more. And then HE-AT dropped the unit roster on her desk.
Leon McNichol. There it was, staring out at her.
She'd known she had to check it out, of course, which was why she was at the range in the first place -- electronic sign-up systems were efficient and
cost-saving and altogether too easy to monitor... but she hadn't been expecting a perfect match. It should have been a coincidence, just someone with the
same name, that's all.
Leon was gazing at her expectantly, and she mentally rewound his conversation and played it back to herself:
"... as it happens, I'm fairly new in town, and could use a friendly face to show me around the city. How about Friday at eight? You pick the
place."
Nene blinked. Was he asking her out on a -date-? Oh, this was going to be -too easy-.
She cocked her head and smiled at him. "There's this place I've been thinking of, but it's probably too expensive..." Gently, gently
set the hook....
Leon beamed at her. "Nah, it's okay. Least I can do."
Well, that was easy. Reel him in, girl. "Weellll... it's that new place, over in Talos...."
She watched him blink for a moment, but he pressed on, as she'd known he would. Leon never could pass up a challenge like that. She could practically
read his thoughts -- "Well, how much can a girl like that eat, anyway? Right? No problem." -- as he took her hand in his and gave a little bow.
"It will be my pleasure."
Nene disengaged her hand and beamed at him. It was that or burst into giggles, which would totally spoil the joke. "Great! You can meet us there.
I've got to get back to work now, though, so I'll see you then. Bye-bye!" She waved and backed away as she spoke, ducking through the door and
trying not to burst out laughing until she'd gotten far enough away that Leon couldn't hear her. The look on his face had been -priceless-; he'd
frozen with the word "Us?" locked on his lips.
As she walked, she took out her cellphone and dialed a number. After two rings, Ifrit picked up, and before she could say anything, Nene was off and running.
"You need to meet me down at Sylia's in fifteen minutes. We're going to that place in Talos we've been talking about night after tomorrow,
and we need to look our best!"
"... um, okay?"
Next up: Double date?
(Oh, and, Bob, I'll try to get Nabeshin in, there's certainly room, but without having teamed with him I'm at a
bit of a loss for his voice. Hint. Hint. *grin*)
--sofaspud
--"Listening to your kid is the audio equivalent of a Salvador Dali painting, Spud." --OpMegs