[Author's note: This story takes place soon after Season 5 Episode 10, when the gang acquires the Grimm books. I think it reads better if we spread out the timeline of events on the show a little. So, pretend that Nick and Adalind are living together, but have not yet begun a romantic relationship. And Renard has not yet discussed getting Diana back with Adalind. And Adalind's 'biestiness has not yet reemerged.]
Trubel was on her favorite mode of transportation – her motorcycle – going to her favorite remaining place in Portland: the Spice Shop. Nick and Juliette's house had made her feel safe and cared for, for the first time in almost as long as she could remember, and the trailer full of Grimm books and weapons had filled her with awe. But both those places were gone now. What she had left was the Spice Shop. Although she was going there on official Hadrian's Wall business, she was looking forward to seeing Monroe and Rosalee.
It was now two days since the debriefing. The first day afterward, Meisner was on leave. While members of Hadrian's Wall didn't officially get sick days, they were allowed time to recover from injuries. Today, he showed up for regular hand-to-hand combat training with Trubel. Although, for some personnel, Meisner gave structured martial arts lessons, with Trubel they basically just tried to beat the hell out of each other. At first this had been quite painful for Trubel, but later it got to be fun. His technique was better than hers, but she was learning fast. Today, it hadn't gone so well. Meisner's timing was off. It might not have mattered against a lesser opponent. Against a Grimm, it did:
Meisner aimed a kick at Trubel's midsection, but she saw it coming, spun inside his striking range and clocked him hard with her elbow to the side of his jaw. He stumbled, but was up again instantly, driving her back with quick jabs. Not quick enough. She got in a kick of her own, and when he grabbed her knee, she pivoted and pulled up her other leg, causing him to lose balance. They hit the mat, both of their weight coming down on his shoulder. He rolled with the fall, getting to his knees before she did, but leaving an opening for a well-placed kick to his ribs. She took the shot, but pulled it, lessening the impact.
That pissed him off. "You don't have to take it easy on me!" he snapped.
"Apparently, today I do," she shot back, silently fuming: Jesus! His ribs are still wrapped. What the hell does he expect me to do?
Anger flared in his eyes, but faded quickly into fatigue. "Fine," he conceded, "Let's just run."
'Running' meant racing through a parkour-like obstacle course, which was among Trubel's favorite training activities. So, at least one of them was having a good day.
Trubel took her worrying over Meisner's welfare to be a sign of her own crappy work history. Hadrian's Wall was her first steady job. Before that, when she wasn't locked up, she'd done odd jobs under-the-table, working for employers who were either dirtbags or out to exploit her – usually both. Chavez and Meisner had abducted her and kept her locked up at first, but once she was on board with the organization they treated her decently. And Meisner had come to save her when she was in the hospital, at the mercy of Black Claw. Maybe he was just protecting his investment. Still, however low her "bosses who don't suck" bar was, Meisner passed it, and that was a new experience for Trubel.
She pulled up to the Spice Shop and headed inside. Monroe and Rosalee greeted her with their typical enthusiasm. Not usually a huggy person, she found she was okay with it, as long as it came from them or from Nick – the people who had become like family to her. Plus, she spotted Chinese food on the counter and, judging from the smell, it wasn't all vegan. Score!
After she'd scarfed down a plateful and was working on her second, they got down to business. "You got the location set?" she asked Monroe.
"Yeah, yeah. My cousin Sandra's ex-husband, he's got this hunting cabin a couple of hours north-east of the city. Don't know what he needs with a hunting cabin, seeing as he's a Klaustreich, and for them hunting just means torturing whatever is nearby. Yeah, that marriage went over real well with the family, but don't get me started. Anyway, my cousin says they hardly ever use the place anymore, and it's fine for us to have it this weekend. I'll text you the directions."
"You'll bring the books?"
"Half the books," Rosalee put in.
"I nearly threw my back out hauling the whole lot of them to a secure spot. Not looking forward to doing that again," Monroe said, "Plus, you know . . ."
'You don't trust us,' Trubel supplied mentally. That was OK. It was kind of the point of their upcoming expedition: building trust, or at least familiarity, between Hadrian's Wall and Nick's support people. They had agreed to look through a portion of the newly acquired Grimm tomes together. After what happened to Aunt Marie's cache of books and the threats surrounding the new batch, it was clear that this resource was too fragile and valuable to just sit on. Monroe's uncle had the right idea to scan some pages, but they didn't want electronic copies to fall into the wrong hands. The first step toward deciding what to do was to survey the books in an organized way.
The plan was for Trubel and Meisner to work with Monroe and Rosalee, to outline the contents of the books. Trubel was included because she was already part of the gang, so she could serve as a bridge. Meisner was included because he had become the face of the local chapter of Hadrian's Wall. Plus he could read German. Monroe and Rosalee got to pick the location and maintained possession of the books. Nick had some party he had to go to with Bud's family, but might drop in for a little while.
As they wrapped up the details and leftovers, Adalind arrived with little Kelly. Much cooing and fussing ensued, more from the adults than the baby. Trubel liked kids just fine, but always felt like she might accidentally drop or injure small infants. She also wasn't sure how she felt about Adalind. Nick seemed to have made peace with her, and she trusted Nick's judgment, but at the same time she couldn't forget what the blonde woman had done. Still, for Nick's sake, Trubel was willing to give her a chance.
An idea occurred to the young Grimm. She followed Adalind into the other room, when she went to lay Kelly down, and said, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure." Adalind replied, sounding a little wary.
"Are you and Meisner friends? I remember you asking about him."
That took Adalind by surprise. "I . . . I don't know exactly. He saved my life a bunch of times, took care of me through the scariest week of my life, and delivered my child. I like him a lot. But it's not like we've spent any time together when people weren't trying to kill us. I don't even know his first name. Why do you ask?"
"It's 'Martin'. There's a nameplate on his desk. Never heard anyone call him by it." Trubel told her. Adalind smiled at that, but held out for a more substantive answer.
"A couple of days ago, he had a pretty awful experience. He says he's fine. But I was thinking, if you were a friend, maybe he could use one."
Adalind looked genuinely concerned, and Trubel found herself liking her a little bit. She liked her a little more when Adalind asked, "Can I come along on your camping trip?"
By 7pm Saturday, Trubel thought her head might explode. They had been poring over the Grimm books for hours. It wasn't like their usual use of the books—skimming until they saw a picture that looked like whatever beastie they were after that week, then reading a few relevant pages. This time, they had to read scads of text with an eye to timelines, geographical threads, common authors, narrative inconsistencies, etc. And this batch of books was older and more heavily European than Aunt Marie's, with a lot of entries in German and some in other languages, which made it slow going.
"Why is this print so small?" Monroe moaned.
"I think it's getting smaller," added Rosalee, sighing, "and more ornate."
The cabin consisted of two big rooms—a sleeping area and a living room/kitchen—plus a bathroom. Monroe and Rosalee were at one end of the rectangular kitchen table, a book spread between them. Meisner and Adalind were set up similarly on the adjacent side of the table, with Trubel and Wu at the other end. A few books were open for reference in the middle of the table. Monroe had only recently stopped flinching each time someone touched a book with ungloved hands; he still scowled at insufficient gentleness with the pages. Wu had come along to consult on the technical aspects of scanning and encrypting, and also so that he could give Adalind a ride home if Nick's first overnight-alone-with-baby didn't go so well. That was nice for Trubel, as she and Wu could team up to look at some of the later volumes, written in English. Wu joked that they made up the monolingual end of the table. Of course, Wu wasn't really monolingual; it was just that his extra 'lingua' weren't particularly helpful right now.
The multilingual end of the table was more interactive, with Monroe frequently calling out to the universe in general (and Meisner in particular) when he hit an obscure German word, "What the hell does _ mean?" Once or twice, it went the other way. Meisner was a native speaker, but he didn't have Monroe and Rosalee's geeky appreciation of language and culture. To him, 'Torschlusspanik' meant the fear of life passing you by. Rosalee had more insight on how, at the time the text was written, it literally referenced the fear that the town gates would close with you outside—perhaps being dismembered by a pack of Hollentier.
"OK, I'm fried," announced Monroe. "Aren't the rest of you fried? I'm gonna check on the chili." He got up and gave the concoction on the stove a stir. For an otherwise run-down cabin, the kitchen was in good shape.
"I've actually been in a coma for the last hour," said Wu, "I was hoping nobody would notice." Trubel groaned in agreement.
"We could all use a break," Rosalee suggested. Adalind gratefully sat back in her chair. Meisner shrugged noncommittally.
Monroe caught the latter gesture as he returned to the table. "Yeah, you could keep going 'cause you don't have to force your rusty brain to tap into a language you only sort of remember. For you, it's like reading comic books—you've got your illustrations, your snazzy captions, the works."
Wu noted that he didn't recall quite so many beheadings in Betty and Veronica. Meisner smirked, but didn't comment.
Adalind addressed Meisner, "You didn't read comic books when you were a kid?"
"No, I did. But mostly I read them in English."
To questioning glances, he elaborated, "American comic books are better, or so we thought. But expensive. My brother nicked them from the corner store."
"'Nicked' as in 'stole'?" Rosalee teased.
"Yeah, I was worried about keeping him alive and out of sight of the Royals, not so much about the petty theft." He added, with a brief grin, "Besides, I got to read them too."
Trubel thought there were some obvious follow-up questions to be asked here, but nobody asked them.
"Well, the U.S.A. may win on comic books, but Deutschland wins on beer," Monroe said, bringing a six-pack of bottles over to the other side of the room, where a couple of old loveseats and threadbare upholstered chairs marked the living area. He identified it as "Weihenstephaner dunkelwizen," adding, "Rosalee would only let me bring one pack."
"That's because we're supposed to be working," said Rosalee with mock sternness, "There's Coke in the cooler."
With the veggie chili cooked "to exquisite perfection" (as Monroe put it) and the cornbread done, they moved over to the living area to eat. Trubel thought about suggesting that they eat at the table with the books, just to see if that would make Monroe woge from outrage, but she was hungry and didn't want to delay dinner.
The beer was suspiciously dark-colored. Trubel grabbed a coke instead. Wu was more adventurous. He took a slug, made a funny grossed-out face, then took another slug. "The things we do to get alcohol into our bloodstream," he grumbled.
Meisner sipped his beer slowly and closed his eyes. Trubel thought she detected a slight smile, but he also looked exhausted. Then his eyes snapped open and both impressions vanished. "Something's wrong," he said.
"Yeah, it's warm and—," Wu cut himself off mid-snark, cocked his head a little and listened intently.
Rosalee slipped over to a window and opened it about an inch. She woged and sniffed, then whispered, "Someone's out there."
Monroe joined her. "A whole lot of someones," he added.
Wu had his handgun, Trubel her machete and various other concealed items. Meisner never traveled anywhere without a duffel bag full of weapons. He unzipped it and nodded to the others to help themselves. "I'm good," Monroe said, woging.
"Is it Black Claw? Maybe they're after the books. But how did they find us? Could they have followed one of us up here?" Rosalee said, squinting out into the darkness.
"Didn't follow me," said Wu.
"No way," said Trubel. She and Meisner couldn't both have missed someone following their car. Wu's skill as a cop belied his goofball nature, so she believed his assertion; Adalind had ridden with Wu. Monroe and Rosalee could be distractible, but they were the first ones to arrive at the cabin and they brought the books. If someone had tailed them, why not attack them right away, instead of waiting for the rest of the group to arrive? A horrible thought started percolating up through Trubel's brain, but she was distracted by a crash and the sound of breaking glass coming from outside the front door.
"Get down," Meisner barked, pulling Adalind down to the floor with him. They all covered their heads, as the sound triggered visions of a Molotov cocktail spewing explosive flames. But the flames never came. Another crash, and another collective flinch, followed.
Monroe sniffed the air. "I don't smell gasoline. I think . . . I think they're just throwing empty beer bottles at us. Well, mostly empty." Another sniff, "Pabst Blue Ribbon."
"We need numbers and locations," said Meisner. He looked at Trubel and continued, "See what you can detect from the back porch."
Wu was crouched near a front window, fiddling with an infrared scope from Meisner's weapons stash. Meisner and Monroe positioned themselves on either side of the door, in case someone or something crashed through. Rosalee and Adalind hurriedly packed the books back in their crate.
Trubel took a quick look around the rear of the building, and found . . . nothing. All the action seemed to be out front. And quite a bit of action, judging by the sound of it—as if there were a dozen or more combatants. No, that wasn't right. This didn't sound like a regimen. It was more like a small group that was disproportionately loud because, instead of using radios or cell phones, they were communicating by shouting at each other.
She got back inside in time to hear Wu say, regarding the infrared device, "Uh guys, I'm not sure I need this." He peeked over the windowsill. "They're waving around flashlights. I see five . . . maybe six."
Another boozy crash at the front was followed by, "What the fuck you playin' at, Jack? Get your fat ass out here!"
A second voice, which sounded like it had participated in emptying the flying bottles, added, "We had ourselves an agreement—you wasn't gonna cook no more out here, and we wasn't gonna break your legs."
"They've got a problem with my chili?" Monroe wondered, perplexed. Then he said, "Oh . . . OH! Sandy's ex is named Jack."
"Might he have been cooking something a bit more exotic than chili?" asked Wu dryly.
Trubel put the pieces together: dumpy cabin with a great kitchen; a couple of years worth of dust on everything, but before that someone had done serious cleaning; nice big table with good lighting; locals trying to run them out of town. Meth dealer. Crap.
"Did I mention that Sandy's ex is an idiot?" Monroe groaned. Then he cracked the front door and yelled, "Jack's not here. I'm his wife's cousin. And I'm not cooking anything here but chili." Pause. "Would you like some?" Adalind gave him a 'WTF' look for inviting their attackers in for dinner.
Neither the explanation nor the invitation made much of an impression. There continued to be shouts for Jack, threatening various kinds of bodily harm. The small mob was now just off the front porch, with one climbing the steps. By the security light and flashlights, they could see that only two of them held firearms, while the others brandished clubs and bottles. Rosalee quietly slid a side-front window open so that Wu could keep his gun trained on the most dangerous two.
"Let's settle this," said Meisner, nodding to Monroe and Trubel. Monroe un-woged and Trubel slipped on a pair of sunglasses. No need to put all their cards on the table up-front. But Meisner kept his rifle and Trubel her machete, both held down at their sides.
Monroe opened the door and the three of them slipped out, arraying themselves on the porch in front of the door. "Guys, guys, I think there's been a misunderstanding," he said, in a conciliatory tone, "I haven't seen Jack for years. His ex-wife said we could use this place. We don't want any trouble."
It seemed to be dawning on the group that Jack might really not be present. They started murmuring about checking to see of he'd left any "stuff" behind. "Let us look around. Maybe we'll find something we like," one of them slurred.
"Yeah. You two and the little girl gonna stop us?" shouted another from the rear of the pack, a pot-bellied guy with bad teeth, "You're outnumbered. Get outta the way, and maybe she can come party with us tonight."
Did they not notice the big-ass knife she carried? Trubel thought of various ways she could behead him, but aloud she said, "There's more of us inside."
The front-most assailant stepped up onto the porch. Big mistake. Meisner swung the butt of his rifle in an uppercut to his chin. The force of the blow spun the man half way around. In a quick, fluid motion, Meisner grabbed the back of his jacket, spinning him the rest of the way around, and slammed him face-first into the porch column, then pushed him forward toward the steps. They all watched as the guy walk-stumbled down the porch steps before falling flat on his face, unconscious. "Want me to even the odds some more?" said Meisner.
OK, so maybe they could have coordinated their messages a little better. From inside, the sound of weapons being cocked bolstered Trubel's we're-not-really-outnumbered statement.
Seeing their buddy so casually dispatched, along with the threat of being outgunned, penetrated their drunken belligerence. Three of them woged in fear—Klaustreich—and they all scurried backward a few paces. A gun fired and wounded a tree. Trubel was pretty sure it was accidental. The idiot had been waving the pistol around with his finger on the trigger; when he panicked he squeezed. Losing a hand might teach him better gun safety, but it might also prompt a police report. So Trubel just brought the flat side of her machete down hard on the top of the man's wrist. She heard a satisfying crunch. He dropped the weapon, whimpering.
"Great. Now that we've got your attention," said Monroe, a hard edge creeping into his voice, "let me make this clear: get lost"—he woged then roared—"or we start chasing you mangy cats up trees!"
They fled, dragging their wounded with them.
"Well, that was fun," said Monroe, returning to his normal visage, "Who's ready for that chili?"