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A Rake by Starlight - Chapter 13

Submitted by Christopher Wright on
WHEREIN Our Hero Survives, Though the Condition is Assumed to be Temporary

Amys woke up to see Grif’s semi-blurry face peering down at her.

“Urgh,” Amys said.

He grinned. “That was pretty much my reaction when I woke up, too. Except I also threw up a little.”

“Urgh,” Amys said again.

“Short version: apparently we’re not dead. The bug pulled it off.”

Amys decided against saying “urgh” a third time and tried to sit up instead. An unpleasant wave of vertigo washed over her. She tried to keep her balance, but the room felt wrong.

“Whoa.” Grif grabbed her arm and helped her sit. “Yeah, the vertigo is really annoying. The good news is, drinking helps.”

Forces Gather: Part Two

Submitted by Christopher Wright on
Crossfire Safehouse

Street Ronin sighs, rubs his eyes, and leans back in his chair. His computer has been analyzing the files from a USB thumb drive for the last hour, and it’s boring.

He and Red Shift have been in the safehouse Tactical Room for most of the night, trying to piece together all the information they received from their new partners. He’s tired; Red Shift is bored. As far as Street Ronin knows, Red Shift doesn’t sleep.

“You know how TV shows always have computers showing you a search in progress? Like, they have a graphic of a file being put next to a graphic of another file, and then big blocky letters say ‘no match,’ and then it does it again?” Street Ronin reaches for his coffee, sees the mug is empty, and frowns.

“Yep.” Red Shift takes the empty mug and sets down a fresh, full one. “Almost as dumb as the bomb always being disarmed three seconds before it goes off.”

“You’re a saint,” Street Ronin says, grabbing the mug gratefully.

Red Shift snorts. “No saints in this neck of the woods. Except maybe the cop.”

Forces Gather: Part One

Submitted by Christopher Wright on
Jacob K. Javits Federal Building

The New York offices of the Federal Bureau of Metahuman Affairs take up four floors of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building in the Civic Center district of Manhattan. Peter Raphael Travers’ office is on the 28th floor—the lowest of the four—and it’s small compared to most of the others. Technically he should have moved up to a much larger office in the Department of Homeland Security floors a decade ago, but so much of his work is with the FBMA it didn’t make sense to move him out of his old space. Travers doesn’t mind. Once upon a time, before computers were standard business equipment, the office might have been a little cramped. Now it was more than adequate: large enough for his desk, his chair, two guest chairs, and a file cabinet with an old coffee maker sitting on top of it.

Travers leans back in his chair, sipping his coffee while he stares at the monitor, and frowns as he considers the report on display. It’s going to be a rough week.

His desk phone rings. It’s Sally, the unit receptionist.

“Agent Travers, Agent Henry is here to see you. With… others.” Sally sounds nervous.

Travers raises an eyebrow. “Send him in.”