A/n : Detailed author's notes for this story appear at the end of each chapter. General notes about my "Dredd" fanon setting (and links to inspiration pictures etc.) appear on my profile.

This story takes place immediately following "Flash The Bronze" and continues my fanon stories.

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Gunpowder & Lead

Prog 1 : Preparation

Sector House 119 was an oasis of orderly calm and structured authority in the center of the sector. It was a squat, armored building with only three of its five levels above ground, sitting in the middle of a compact blacktop plaza ringed with a plasteen palisade fence topped with coils of electrified razorwire. It occupied the corner of a city-block, secured and guarded gates on the sides where the roads ran, electronic-eye surveyed alleys kept conspicuously clear of trash and vagrants on the other two sides.

Anderson flicked her head upwards at the bored-looking auxiliary in the armored guard-booth, but he didn't raise the barrier and the robot brain behind the machine guns mounted on the gateposts swiveled the heavy weapons, tracking and bracketing her in a potential killing-zone. "Name, sector and business, please," the auxiliary's crisp voice said over the external speaker. The mind she felt buzzing beyond the glass was careful, undistracted, focused on following process. She smiled, more impressed than inconvenienced.

"Anderson, Cassandra J, Psi Division," she said. "Filing paperwork with SectComm." She saw the auxiliary tap at the terminal in front of him, psynsing his curiosity about the unusual assignment well-controlled behind efficiency. He leaned into the microphone.

"Approach scanner for gauntlet read, please, Ma'am," he asked. Obediently, she edged her bike forward – the guns swiveled to track her – and held her arm out. Her lawscreen beeped metallically, a blue progress bar moving along as it analyzed her DNA on the order of the gate-scanner. Red lights flashed to green and the guns faced away, pointing to the street behind her, automatically tracking the vehicles moving past. The barrier lifted. "Please park in red section, Ma'am," the auxiliary said. "Blue and gold are reserved for operation vehicles." Anderson lifted her foot off the ground and eased forward, glancing at the markings stenciled on the asphalt. Red section was tucked away to the side of the building, blue and gold occupying the prime positions in front of the main entrance. She slid her bike into a space, killed the engine, flipped down the kickstand and swung herself off it. She automatically removed her helmet as she jogged to the front of the building.

The blue and gold zones were filled with vehicles and their riders – a half-dozen lawmasters, two catch-wagons modified with metal grilles over the windows and run-flat tires for riot duty, and a snout-nosed urban tank in heavily-scuffed matte black. Three driver auxiliaries – for the two vans and the tank – and six Judges were standing around; their minds hummed with intention, a buzzing mixture of eagerness, discipline and focus. She could have read the signs – big op, just about to go down – from a mile away. The youngest Judge – his thoughts a bright arrowhead still with the Academy's gloss on it – was seated astride a gleaming lawmaster, diligently scrolling through information on the screen. She psynsed the protective, paternal connection between him and a stocky, husky Judge with a rugged face. Rookie on assessment, Anderson realized.

A slender Judge with close-cropped blond hair and a handsome, aquiline face that gave him a youthful appearance at odds with the experience in his ice-blue eyes lifted his chin at her. "Help you, Ma'am?" he asked from where he was leaning against the flank of the tank.

She smiled at him – the weight of his attention was refreshing; there was no critical assessment of her beauty or speculation about her abilities as was, sadly, all-too-common. "Sector chief?" she asked. He raised his hand and pointed.

"I think she's inside, Ma'am," he said. "Probably in the foyer. Best hurry," he added as she flashed a salute in thanks and turned away, "we deploy in five."

Compared to the summer brightness of the morning outside the foyer was dim, coolness radiating from the plasteen walls, refreshing after the heat inside her uniform and coming off the blacktop. Anderson didn't wait for her eyes to adjust, instead using her psynses to navigate. At the far end of the foyer two auxiliaries sat behind the reception desk, a Judge pressing a handcuffed perp's face into the surface of the table as one of them booked him in. Off to one side two Judges stood in quiet conference. Anderson attracted the woman's attention with the merest shove of her mind against hers. Without really understanding why, the tough-looking, hard-bitten Sector Chief turned to face her. "Chief Daz," Anderson said crisply.

The Sector Chief was at least a head-shorter than any of the men outside, around Anderson's height and seeming even shorter with the long widowmaker in her hands. She studied the younger Judge, reading her expression with years of street-experience. She nodded once and half-turned to address the heavy-set Judge hovering over her shoulder. "Mount up, Reynolds," she said. "I'll be right out."

Reynolds didn't even try to be subtle about looking Anderson up and down, his expression only-just this side of contemptuous insubordination. "I can wait here, Chief," he said. She didn't need to be a psi to know what he was thinking – jowly, bulky, set in his ways, he was every stereotype of something the Academy strove to stamp out but never could. It was inevitable, Anderson reflected – although recruitment was gender-blind, the percentage of women in the Judges was lower than in the general population. And, of those, a significant proportion served in Tek, MediDiv, or administrative roles. Street Judges were one of the last bastions of sexism in the city – notwithstanding the current Chief Judge and SectComs like Daz. Even, Anderson guessed, Street Judges like her.

Division-Chief she reminded herself with a faint smile.

"But us girls wanna talk secrets, Reynolds," she said sweetly. The flare of anger from him did not seem like a reward – it concerned her. He and Cornelius would butt heads – perhaps more than heads. He didn't seem a fit for this sector, with its female chief and officers like the polite man outside. Reynolds' thoughts were raw and unfiltered, bobbing on the surface of his mind. Anderson probed a little deeper and got her answer – he was newly-transferred to this sector. For the second time that day, her psynses prompted a name – Calitri. Of course – he was a sector 24 Judge, experienced with Calitri's organization, moved here to help Daz deal with the new-perp-in-the-'block.

Reynolds folded his arms and addressed Daz. "I can lead the op, Chief," he offered, "if you and . . ." He glanced at her briefly "Anderson want to chat." It might have been effective theater for others, but to Anderson it rang hollow – she knew he'd noticed her name when she first spoke.

Daz looked at Anderson, her green eyes hard and smoky like chips of forgotten wintergreen candy, assessing what she saw there. The senior Judge was Dredd's age – maybe a little older; at least a twenty-year vet, likely twenty-five, and her experience was visible in the careful crows-feet at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hair was black streaked with gray, drawn back in a tight ponytail. She was wiry beneath the bulk of her armor, quick in her movements, handling the big shotgun as easily as a lawgiver. She didn't turn behind her. "You still here, Reynolds?" she asked as if he hadn't spoken.

To his credit, he was wise enough to know when not to press the issue. "No, Ma'am!" he barked, snapping to attention and saluting. His boots stomping on the tiles, he marched out of the doors. The two women could hear him barking orders as they swung shut.

To her credit, Anderson managed not to smile triumphantly. Partially, that was because Daz was still looking at her and even the psi found herself quailing a little before her flinty gaze. It was obvious why Daz had been chosen for the sector 119 assignment – Anderson found herself standing a little straighter, wondering if she'd got the paperwork just right, very aware of the irregulation variations in her equipment and uniform. She was clearly a capable Judge, fit and tough and still leading door-kicker ops herself, but she'd been selected for her ability to not only lead but mold a team. Privately, Anderson felt a very faint swell of pride that the Chief Judge had thought the sector 119 project worthy of such a SectComm. "So golden boy said yes, huh?" Daz asked with a very faint smile.

The title she gave Cornelius was a superficial dismissal – of them both – but Anderson didn't let it bother her. She flitted her awareness over Daz's consciousness – it was a supremely-disciplined mindscape, perhaps deliberately so in the psi's presence, but the teasing, testing undercurrent was clear. "He did," was all she said. "Again, thank you for . . ." Daz cut her off with a shake of her head.

"Thank you for not going over my helmet, Judge Anderson," she said. "Powdervine says you've got an in with CJ – I've lost good men before and . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I appreciate being asked," she finished. Anderson didn't really know how to respond to the kindness or the implication of politicking – she made a non-committal noise and didn't say anything. Daz jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "File the paperwork at the front desk – auxiliary's got orders to post it with HOJ immediately." She shifted the weight of the shotgun in her hands, glanced at her chronometer. "I've got time to give it – you got the inclination to hear it?" she asked bluntly.

Anderson smiled, kinked her own butcher-blue eyes. When on duty, she was as immune to insult as Dredd was to pleas for clemency. She wasn't a green-helmet by any means, but Daz had more years on the street than she had alive, and she'd worked with Cornelius for five months. It would be the acme of foolishness – not to mention pure hubris – to refuse. "Advice?" she asked. "Always – might not take it, though," she admitted.

"Don't get too close to him," Daz said. "He's a good Judge – one of the best I've seen, and he was a natural fit for here. He'll be missed, and he'll be good for your division. But he doesn't know when to let go, he gets too close to cases. I won't say a pretty face'll turn his head, but a sob story will. You're both young – and I know what that's like," she said with more than academic detachment. "Just be careful, Judge Anderson," she finished.

Anderson nodded. "Thank you, Judge Daz," she said simply. She didn't care for the implication being made, but she suspected Daz had reasons unconnected to her and Cornelius. She didn't want to probe too-deeply – everyone was entitled to their secrets if they didn't jeopardize justice. "I know you're worried – but those things are why I chose him for PsiDiv, and neither of us are idiots. We know the rules." Daz shook her head indulgently.

"Neither of you are green Rookies, but you've both got a lot to learn," she said, not unkindly. "It's not just a matter of not knocking boots; hot as he is – and I've seen him in the locker room, remember – you're not about to make that mistake, nor he with you. Speaking candidly – and this is advice from one commander to another – a couple of horny kids making a single mistake is sometimes less of a problem than two people who actually give a damn about each other. And that's the point I'm making," she explained. "Cornelius cares, deeply – oh, he'll swear on The Law he doesn't and twist himself into a pretzel trying explain why it isn't what it looks like, but we're both women of the world and we know the truth. It's why you requested him and why I was going to put him in charge of a shift just as soon as a slot opened up. It's his greatest strength – but don't let it become his weakness. You get me, Judge Anderson?" she asked.

The psi nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I do – again, thank you, Judge Daz. For everything." Daz shrugged it off.

"I've got to bounce," she said. "Op isn't about to lead itself. We're hitting a guy called Giuseppe Calitri – local gangboss." She narrowed her eyes. "How reliable is that intel, Judge Anderson?"

Anderson shrugged. "Cornelius trusted it," she said shortly.

Daz nodded. "Good enough for me," she said with a smile. She gestured at the desk. "File the paperwork there," she repeated, shouldering the shotgun and striding towards the door.

"Any objections to me adjudicating in your sector?" Anderson called from the desk. Daz half-turned back, shaking her head. "I've got a zonejump booked for twenty-one hundred – couldn't get a flight out earlier," she explained. "Might as well make myself useful 'til then – who assigns patrols?" Behind her, the auxiliary opened the long blue envelope and busied himself with the forms inside, very deliberately not looking at either of the Judges.

Daz stretched the widowmaker over both shoulders, hanging her wrists from it as she turned all the way to face Anderson, walking towards her. She narrowed her smoky-green eyes, a half-smile on her thin lips as she considered the younger woman's mix of moxie and kindness. She'd phrased the question cleverly – asking if Daz had any objections, rather than asking if the sector needed any help. It gave Daz no opportunity to refuse – nor any opportunity to be offended. "You could talk to Giant," she said slowly. "He's deputy chief of alpha shift . . . or you could come along to deal with Calitri," she offered. "The patrols are covered, but I could use more manpower on the raid."

Anderson nodded. "And I did just cost you your best door-kicker," she said. Daz laughed shortly.

"Don't tell Giant I agreed with you," she smiled, "but, yes, you did." She flicked her head. "All of this is your fault," she reminded the psi with a grin. "You in, or out?"

Anderson didn't even really need to think about it; despite the fact Daz was clearly ribbing her, she felt she owed the sector chief one for Cornelius. And it was true; it was her fault – they were hitting the gangboss because of her intel. If it was inaccurate and the op went south, she should be there to take the fall and shield Daz and her men from any blowback. She nodded. "Sure," she said lightly.

Daz was already moving towards the door as she spoke, the younger woman's acceptance assured, and Anderson had to jog to catch up with her. It was suddenly bright outside, the sun just-cresting the buildings to the east. "Alright, listen up!" Daz's voice snapped the men to attention. "This is Anderson – she got us the Calitri intel. She's riding with us – any questions?"

Reynolds lifted his chin. "She should ride widowmaker in the tank with you, Chief," he suggested. "Safer when the bullets start flying."

"Suggestion noted," Daz said evenly, "and dismissed. She rides her lawmaster – extra biker." Reynolds didn't look convinced, but neither did he say anything more.

"You implying riding in the tank is a cushy job, bro?" asked the blond Judge. His grin seemed genuine enough, but his ice-blue eyes were suddenly colder. "You wanna do it? Anderson and I can secure the exit." He faced her and smiled, pushing himself off the flank of the tank. "Chris Taylor," he said, offering his hand.

She shook it, the sudden flash of connection telling her an intimate detail she didn't need to know but which revealed his offer was politeness rather than unprofessional interest. "Cassandra Anderson," she said. She kept hold of his hand for an awkward second as something flashed into her mind. "Daz?" she asked, letting go of Taylor's hand. "Can I make suggestion? Have Reynolds in the tank with you – you're op leader, and he's got intel on Calitri's organization. It's a waste to have him guarding a door." She flicked her chin at Taylor. "Put Chris in the assault, have Hamilton and Jordan watch the back." She turned to the Rookie. "No offense, Jordan," she said, "but . . ." The Rookie shook his head, flattered by the fact she used his name but determined not to show it.

"None taken, Ma'am," he assured her. He faced Daz. "If I might be permitted an opinion, Ma'am?" he asked. "I believe Judge Anderson's suggestions make the most effective use of our available resources. Judge Reynolds' knowledge is what makes him most valuable, and Judge Taylor's experience . . ."

"Bro," said Taylor briskly. "My blushes. Shut the drokk up."

Daz considered for about a second – it made perfect sense. Reynolds had been eager to put the longer-established Judges in the prime door-kicking roles (and even give the senior Taylor the safer position inside the tank), taking the dull duty of securing the exit before the rest of the squad arrived. It was a kindness, doubtless designed to ingratiate himself with them and stop him from looking like a glory-hound, but unnecessary. Sector 24 might do it differently, but 119 was all about efficiency and the end result. Reynolds would learn that soon enough, if he stuck around. She nodded. "Let's do it," she said. "Reynolds, you're with me. Hamilton, you and your Rookie watch the back door."

"I can handle the exits, Chief," Reynolds assured her. Daz shook her head, but it was Anderson who spoke.

"Exits?" she asked. She looked at Taylor. "Chris said exit, singular. You scouted it?" Reynolds looked flustered – he actually gave Anderson the respect her bronze deserved.

"No, Ma'am," he stammered. "No eyeballs on it, I mean – read the report. But it's a big warehouse – probably a couple of back doors, you know?"

Daz nodded. "Probably right," she said. "All the more reason to put two Judges on it – Hamilton, you and the Rookie are up. Get moving. Don't be seen – but if you need to go loud . . ." She left the sentence unfinished. Hamilton nodded grimly.

"Me and the kid can bring the noise, boss," he assured her. He flicked his head at Jordan, and he and the Rookie started their engines and peeled away. Anderson knew they would switch to the backup electric motors once they got within range of the warehouse. Daz watched them go and then turned back.

"Taylor," she said, "take Reynolds' bike and lead the assault with Anderson."

Taylor nodded and grinned. "Yes, Ma'am!" he said. He actually winked at Anderson. "Blondes have more fun, amirite?" he asked. He stepped past her, beckoning at Reynolds. "Gimmie the keys, bro," he said.

Reynolds didn't look happy. "Aw, Chief, c'mon!" he moaned. "I just had her tuned and she's got fresh battenburg."

Taylor spread his hands. "You don't trust me, bro?" he asked innocently. "I'll treat her like she was my own."

"Yeah," said Reynolds. "That's what I'm worried about – where is your bike?" Taylor looked sheepish.

"In the shop," he admitted, "but that wasn't my fault, bro. Claymore mines coulda happened to anyone."

Reynolds turned to Daz. "Let him take one from the pool, Chief," he begged. "I've got her just the way I like her, she looks so good . . ." His voice trailed off as Anderson tried – and ultimately failed – to suppress her snicker. With that, the rest of the Judges laughed.

"Request denied," said Daz with a grin. "Taylor?" she said mock-seriously. "Take her out, show her a good time, but . . . treat her right, okay?" she added with a grin that collapsed into a snorting laugh. Reynolds scowled, but obediently swung himself out of the saddle. As he and Taylor crossed, they banged their forearms together, transferring the digital 'keys' from one onboard computer to another.

Reynolds wrenched the tank door open and hauled himself into the passenger seat. He perched there, loading an extended mag widowmaker with unnecessary force, glaring as Taylor actually sauntered over to the bike.

"Hey, baby," he murmured. "Come here often?" He slapped the rear paniers with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Ooo, yeah," he purred, "you like that, don't you, baby?"

There was general laughter, even from Reynolds. "Drokk you, man," he said without particular malice.

"Alright, enough," ordered Daz with a grin. "Simple op, you know the drill. We got probable thanks to Anderson's intel – she tied Calitri to the Lucido heist. Objective is grabs not slabs – suppressor and stun rounds, and gentle with the daystick, Carter!" she said with a smile. Carter, a surprisingly meek-looking Judge who might have seemed less out-of-place in Accounting, shrugged apologetically.

"I still maintain those creeps had brittle bones or something, Chief," he opined.

"I want Calitri," said Daz. "and evidence to put him away for time. Any of his men are gravy – if you need to, let them run. We can pick 'em up later."

"What about Kim?" asked a short, stocky Judge with olive skin and a shaven head. His badge said his name was Gomez – even with the corners rubbed off by the Academy's tuition, his accent was obvious. "She likely to be there?"

Reynolds shook his head. "Man, Kim don't know nothing about Calitri's business," he assured him. "She's just some bubble-headed bimbo spending daddy's money."

"Then we nail her on receipt of stolen goods, living on the proceeds of criminal enterprise, that kind of thing," suggested Mitchel. Anderson could sense the connection between him and Gomez that suggested they were partners. He shrugged. "She's all over the TV, her and that teacup robopoodle. The premieres, all the nightclubs, turns up for the opening of an envelope – can't open a screamsheet without seeing her in a bikini. Public viz, Reynolds," he explained. "We've gotta send her down just for the look of the thing if nothing else."

Reynolds shook his head. "Chief," he said, "I joined the Judges to bust perps, not celebutants."

"You joined the Judges to obey orders, Reynolds," Daz said sharply. "Kim Calitri's a legitimate target. Any questions?"

"Yeah," said Anderson slowly, looking carefully at the male Judges, very deliberately including Taylor even though she didn't need to. "Kim Calitri. Like Mitchel said, we've all seen her in a bikini – hot little brunette thing with a killer tush, right?" She smiled as all the guys except Taylor had the decency to look embarrassed. "Maybe you boys should leave her to Daz or me," she suggested. "Don't want her lawyer muddying the waters by saying the grab got a little too grabby, know what I mean?"

Reynolds scowled. "We're professionals, Anderson," he snarled. She shrugged.

"Sure you are," she said. "But don't you want to see me and her catfighting, Eliot?" She didn't wait for an answer, instead slipping her helmet on and jogging towards her bike. The other Judges exchanged puzzled glances.

"Your name is Eliot, bro?" Taylor asked.

A/n : Some notes on details in this story; I've tried to show Anderson's use of her psychic powers here as something she is using all the time, but without it being intrusive to the narrative. I've coined the word "psynses" to refer to her psychic senses – feel free to borrow it if you think it is cool!

The reference to "battenburg" (also the reference to "blues-and-twos" in other stories) is a reference to British police forces. Battenburg is a kind of (delicious) checkered cake – it is the name given the checkered markings on the side of emergency vehicles. "Blues-and-twos" is blue lights and two toned sirens; another British police reference. And no, before you ask; I have no idea what a lawmaster looks like with checks on the side in my headcanon!

Sector 119 is the sector Cornelius requested (detailed in "Aegis" and "Flash The Bronze"). The reference comes from "Dredd 2" by aaron.92 (story faved on my profile) which is canonical for my stories (and is an EXCELLENT story – seriously, you should read it). Basically, this sector is used as a proving ground for a new strategy for policing.

Judge Daz is inspired by Starsurfer108 (or, at least, the biographical notes I asked for as a favor!) Starsurfer108 is very active in the fandom, and reviewed my stuff very nicely, and is just a generally all-round good egg. So, get reviewing the Surfer-of-Stars' stories!

In fact – why not review this story too? Lookit; the review box is right there! Just under here. All you've got to do is type what you thought in there and hit a single button. If you review, I will write back and promise I will review something of yours. And, who knows? Maybe you too can get a character inspired by you! It'll be a heroic one, I promise (unless you want to be a perp!)