Disclaimer: Own nothing, make nothing, all copyright is of the original creators.
Thanks for the review Baddogg, there will be a few other little cameos here and there. Fun as the 'main' Evo characters are, I like to add some newcomers now and again.
CHAPTER III: Room 101
"Slow down will you? We've already caused a fight in the middle of the street in the process of kidnapping a well known figure, the last thing we need is to get pulled over for speeding!" James barked at his driver. Guido's massive chest and shoulders filled most of the front of the van and James had to flatten himself against the seat to avoid an elbow to the face every time the van cornered.
"Fine," Guido muttered and eased off on the accelerator until they were 'only' doing seventy, and in an urban area that was still too much. At another warning glare from his leader he rolled his eyes and slowed the down until it was back within the speed limit. James tried to ignore the muttering of his team-mate, which mainly revolved around the terms 'killjoy' and 'glorious leader,' and turned to the others in the back.
"How's Liebewitz?" he asked.
"Unconscious," Monet deadpanned. James glared at her until she elaborated. "He's out until I say otherwise. It's just a simple stun job; I don't want to try anything more complicated in the back of a bucket of rust driven by a maniac with a speed obsession."
"It's not a bucket of rust, it's a very reliable machine," Guido grumbled from the driver's seat. He deliberately added a brief burst of speed and was rewarded with a yelp as a distracted Monet banged her head against the side of the van.
"Don't think I won't come up there and-" Monet began, but she stopped as she noticed the previously comatose Liebewitz was stirring feebly and muttering.
"Why, Ms. St Croix… you look delightful… why don't we…" she put her hand on his forehead and gave him the telepathic equivalent of a rabbit punch, and he lapsed back into silence. She noticed that Teresa was looking amused and Julio seemed curious.
"He's unconscious, dreaming, it doesn't mean anything," she snapped, but neither of them bothered to stop smirking at her discomfort. Guido cut a large chunk out of another corner and everyone was thrown sideways. Liebewitz's head banged against the window and he started murmuring again.
"Oh yes, just like that… don't stop now…"
It was too much for Teresa who burst of laughing; that started Guido chuckling in the front seat and even Julio sniggered to himself in a manner Monet considered distinctly dirty. James managed to refrain from laughing out loud but did go rigidly poker-faced as he fought back laughter. Monet glowered at them all and applied another psychic blow to try and make sure things didn't get even more embarrassing. Seeing they were almost back at what passed for their headquarters, Guido eased off on the speed and parked up, pretty neatly by his standards.
"Well, what do you know? We all survived a trip with Carosella at the wheel," commented Monet. The others suspected she was trying to deflect attention from her own rather embarrassing situation, but had to admit she had a point. Julio for one was seriously wondering whether he had just managed to find a mode of transport he hated even more than flight. At the moment he thought flying probably still edged it out, but it was a very close matter.
James was the first inside, followed by Guido, who was carrying Liebewitz, and without any particular gentleness. He knew as well as the girls what the seedy businessman had been up to and liked it about as much. He stumped off towards what the investigators had taken to calling 'Room 101' in honour of its role as interrogation centre. Tonight they full intended for it to live up to the name. Guido dumped Liebewitz in the chair and walked back out, locking the door behind him. Much as he would like to start 'questioning' the corrupt businessman, he knew that this was still at heart a professional job, and that whatever there own feelings on the matter, the questions they had to answer were those of their client. He found the others gathered in the room that served duties as kitchen, briefing room and occasionally battleground when the group suffered 'creative differences.' Currently it looked as though this was edging towards one such occasion as they debated who got to take part in questioning their new guest.
"I think I should do it," Monet said. "I mean, he knows I'm involved, and he knows what I can do- that's going to worry him a little bit."
"Yeah but he knows what you can do," Teresa countered, baffling several of her team-mates. "Whereas if he's faced with a totally unknown figure and doesn't know exactly what I- or rather, they can do… that would worry him, right?"
"I say we just punch him until he tells us what we want to know," said Guido. Everyone looked at him, more in exasperation than shock; Guido's favoured means of persuasion almost always featured him repeatedly applying extreme force to whatever was the problem at that time.
"Why does that not surprise me?" Monet sighed.
"What? I like punching things. I'm good at it," he excused himself.
"No, we need to try something a little more subtle, to begin with anyway," James decided. "I'm going in first and Monet will be backing me up. If that does not work, then we'll see what the next move should be."
"Oh boy… he's got his leader face on," Guido muttered. The others protested the decision but not particularly vociferously; they knew Guido was right and nothing was likely to change his mind. Monet made sure to flaunt her position in the face of the other members.
"Never mind, I'm sure eventually you'll get a chance to try," she said in a tone that completely belied her words. She strutted after James, ignoring the glares of the others. All of them were bemused as to how even her retreating backside could appear arrogant, although Julio for one acknowledged that for all that, it still remained a rather nice bottom. They watched the door click shut behind the two. Guido leant back, making his chair creak alarmingly.
"So… Who's up for a round of poker?"
Liebewitz was still unconscious when they walked in. James slumped into a chair across the desk and nodded to Monet. She placed herself behind the unconscious man then lifted the psychically induced trance he was under. He moaned and twitched his way back into the realm of consciousness. The first thing his eyes fell on was James, slouching in his seat but still wearing the white shirt and red tie he had worn in his guise as the waiter.
"What… you were the... you're…" To his credit, he mastered his shock very quickly and made a valiant attempt to take charge of the situation. "You're going to let me go right now or so help me God I'm going to-"
"You're going nowhere," James cut across his bluster. "And you're doing nothing. You give us the answers we want and we let you go minus your memory of the last week."
"And if I refuse?" The question was defiant but the courage behind it was brittle and unconvincing. Liebewitz was a powerful man, but powerful in the sense he could order people and spend money until problems were taken care of. Alone, surrounded and unable to contact people, he was as vulnerable as the next man, maybe even more; he was not in the prime of life and took no great care with his health.
"If you refuse, well, that's when things get interesting. You probably gathered when we abducted you, but my colleagues and I are all mutants. I mean, we could get the telepath to rip the knowledge we need right out of your brain. Sure, it would probably permanently destroy your higher brain processes, but on the plus side, it would be physically painless. On the other hand, we could go for leaving your brain intact but with plenty of pain instead. I mean, Ms St Croix here could pull off your limbs and not even feel it, and we've got a guy here who makes her look positively puny. The choice is yours." James leant back again, every line of his face and posture radiating menacing sincerity. Even Monet, who knew James well and had worked alongside him on similar interrogations, was impressed and a little intimidated.
"St. Croix?" Even in the long list of explicit and implicit threats and warnings, that name had clearly struck Liebewitz, as well it might; after all, he had been working with a girl of that name for several weeks, in fact only earlier that night they had been at a restaurant and then she had… had… his eyes widened as Monet circled around into his line of sight.
"That's right," she confirmed. Normally her French accent varied between insulting and alluring depending on what mood she was in, but right now it was as dangerous as James had ever heard it. "You arrogant, slimy, disgusting little excuse for a man. I've seen inside your head… and I'm begging you, give me an excuse to wipe it clean."
"You've been lying to me! The whole time… all the promises you made and the plans we came up with together-"
"Were to trick you and get you to confess," she snapped. She smirked at the look of confusion and bereavement on his face. She was fully aware of her own attractiveness and had absolutely no compunction abut using it to her advantage. In fact she found the piteous expression on his face now nearly made up for the shock and embarrassment of when his hand had slid around her waist earlier that night. Nearly... but not quite. It was time to tighten the screws a little, she thought. "We've got records on everything you said and copies of all the plans you wrote. Give us answers and we can leave it there… my boss is insistent that we can't hurt you more any more than necessary. Of course, if you refuse…"
"Then it's a matter of working out just how much is necessary after all," James cut in. He was vaguely aware that he was supposed to be in the role of the friendly, conversational half of the team but supposed that thanks to Monet's attitude he was filling that role by default.
"Oh, I get it. The old good cop, bad cop routine. It won't work on me… Daniel Liebewitz is made of stronger stuff," Liebewitz told them, summing up reserves of courage and defiance that neither of the investigators had expected. Of course, they were much too experienced and canny to allow that surprise to show.
"Really? Well, thanks for saving us time wasting with that old trick," James said. "I suppose that means its right onto the bad cop, worse cop instead." He nodded to Monet who grabbed one of Liebewitz's wrists and twisted it up behind his back. He could not hold back a grunt of pain, which brought a cold smile to the lips that Monet placed to one of his ears.
"Does that-" she yanked it again- "hurt? Does this?" She did it again, even harder, eliciting an agonised yelp. "You feel that? Because I don't. I'm not even trying here. You want me to try and hurt you? Just say the word and I'll be happy to oblige."
"You wouldn't dare," Liebewitz contradicted her. "If I should suddenly appear with injuries then not even mutie freaks like you can wriggle your way out of it."
"Cracking out the old 'mutie' line huh?" James asked aloud. "Got to hand it to you… you've got balls to try that here."
"I can correct that," Monet chipped in menacingly. "You turning up with injuries would certainly cause problems for us… so I guess we'll just have to make sure you never turn up again."
"Not in one piece, anyway," James added. Liebewitz had proven himself to be much braver than either of them had suspected but his breaths had been growing more and more ragged as they cranked up the severity and danger of the threats they posed, and a cold sweat was dribbling from his forehead and balding cranium. James had seen this kind of behaviour before and knew there were two likely outcomes: either Liebewitz would crack like a fractured eggshell or he would figure that he was screwed either way and decide to resist as long as he could and at least salvage his pride.
"I'm not afraid of freaks like you," Liebewitz snarled, clearly choosing option B. James did not look perturbed by the defiance, in fact he was wearing an expression similar to that worn by teachers faced by unruly pupils; for all the bluster and the shouting, only one of them was ever going to come out on top, and both knew which it would be.
"Maybe. But what about freaks like him?" As soon as James finished speaking, the door smashed open, right on cue. What little light that had suddenly poured in from the corridor beyond was blanked out with equal suddenness as a massive, hulking shape loomed in the doorway. Guido, alerted telepathically by Monet, had arrived with perfect timing and now stumped slowly towards the increasingly petrified Liebewitz, who seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech in his terror. The shadows of the room enhanced Guido's not inconsiderable menace a dozen-fold. The low light cast shadows up his arms and across his chest, adding definition to the great slabs of muscle, and the glasses that Guido wore hid meant that all that Liebewitz could see of his new interrogator's expression was a distinctly menacing glint where eyes should be.
"You left or right handed?" the massive mutant demanded. "Just so's I know which arm to tear off first."
Liebewitz regained a certain degree of speech, but only enough to make incoherent gagging, gasping sounds.
"Gah guh gar? What's that supposed to mean?" Guido demanded. Normally he injected a jocular tone into his immensely deep bass voice, but without its presence he sounded just as much an angry, vengeful titan as he looked. He reached out one immense hand, but instead of grasping either arm it closed on Liebewitz's face. It was so big that the finger and thumb met on the far end of the businessman's skull. Liebewitz fainted to the accompaniment of a quiet spattering sound as his kidneys gave out in fear. Guido dropped him in disgust.
"Now what do we do with the creep?" He asked.
"Well, we tried playing nicely. Guess we'll have to do it the hard way," James said grimly.
Further down the corridor was the flight of stairs that connected it to the main building. Currently occupying said steps were Julio and Teresa, who although had not been privy to Guido's mental command had guessed its nature due to his dark expression and purposeful tread. They had overheard most of the interrogation and Julio was grappling with a sensation he generally avoided completely, in fact it was so unfamiliar it took him a while to put a name to it. Finally he realised what it was: doubt about what he was doing. Although technically he himself was not doing a thing he was privy to and compliant with of what his friends and team-mates were doing to their prisoner. He had never before doubted the righteousness of what they did, even the more questionable actions they performed and assignments they accepted (and there were plenty of examples of both) he justified with the fact that sometimes they needed doing… and if Cortex Investigations didn't, whose to say a more unscrupulous individual or team wouldn't do it instead? But this seemed different for some reason. He knew that Liebewitz was not a nice man by any means but this was not questioning some two-bit would-be gangster about yet another street crime; this was forcibly abducting a man who could not defend himself and subjecting him to techniques and threats that Julio would previously only associate with the Bad Guys, the tag he applied to their every enemy du jour. He could not help a bitter laugh. They were about to question and almost certainly bring down an immoral, unscrupulous, manipulative exploiter and abuser of their fellow mutants, and he was questioning their cause… why not just break the damn guy out if that was how he was going to react?
"What's the matter?" Teresa asked, not mistaking the laugh for a happy or content one. Somehow her Irish lilt made her obvious sympathy and concern for her friend and colleague seem even more sincere and kind. Julio looked at the redhead with a bitter smile twisting his lips.
"You're probably going to think I'm pathetic for saying it, but… it's just… Liebewitz. I mean, I know he's an asshole, and god knows he had this coming; it's just, I don't know… who are we to do this to him? We would never even have heard of the creep if we hadn't been tipped off, and now we're… torturing… him? I… it just doesn't… forget it. Forget I said anything." He turned and stormed off, feeling embarrassed at his perceived weakness and unfair anger at Teresa for being there to discover and remember it. He lit up one of the cigarettes he'd promised everyone he'd given up. Mostly he had, but in circumstances like these he felt the situation validated him. He didn't hear Teresa coming until she spoke to him.
"You alright, Julio?" She asked. Even in his anger and shame, Julio had to admit she had one hell of a sexy voice. One of the side effects that her power had on her vocal chords was that in conversation at normal talking volume her voice was peculiarly husky, which suited her accent well. He felt a new wave of self-recrimination sweep over him. First he was coming over all weak and doubtful about a cause he'd followed with passion, now to distract himself he started sexualising his friend as a diversion. Although, how could he not? With her red hair and generous breasts emphasised and enhanced by her choice of black corset, she was… no, it wasn't her, it was him. Instead of distracting himself he had only made himself feel worse than before.
"Fine." He deliberately looked the other way, hoping she would take the hint and leave him alone to wallow in his self-pity until his head cleared. She didn't. In fact, such was her worry she didn't even bother making a scathing comment about his smoking, and that had to be a first.
"Julio Richter, professional badass, is worrying for the health of a scumbag like Liebewitz? Something's not right with that. Come on, talk to me. I can help you."
"Yes, by minding your own business," Julio snapped. It was unlike the perpetually laid-back Mexican to snap at anything, let alone a good friend. Teresa was almost too surprised to be hurt. Julio instantly regretted the sharp tone he'd taken but did not apologise. If she could not take a gentle hint, maybe a forceful one would work instead. "Let me handle it on my own," he growled and stalked off.
"Fine, on your own it is you bloody idiot," Teresa told his retreating back. "But you can put that damn cigarette out right now!"
Julio's only reply was to toss the half-smoked cigarette over his shoulder, followed by a rude gesture. Teresa watched him go, her expression unreadable but inwardly trying to balance concern, anger and surprise at his actions. Hopefully as soon as the others got what they wanted they would dump a suddenly amnesiac Liebewitz and never see him again, then Julio would be back to his usual sardonic self. She sighed and headed back to the interrogation room. The sooner it was over, the sooner the whole sorry case could be consigned to a brief report on a computer and never read again.
Down in Room 101, the trio of interrogators were discussing their next move. For one thing, Liebewitz had shown more resolve than they would have guessed, and if he could surprise them like that once it was not inconceivable he could do it again. Of course, for that to happen they would have to wake him up again, and it was possible he would go the opposite direction and prove enough of a coward to faint at the mere prospect of pain.
"I could hit him," Guido offered hopefully. Monet gave him her best scathing look.
"We want him to wake up, you moron," she said snidely. Guido did not look put out by the rudeness of her voice or actions.
"Just saying," he said affably. "So if brutal but richly deserved violence is out, what's the next move?"
James paced uncertainly back and forth. There was no carpet in the room but if there had been he would have worn right through it in his constant pensive strides. He was trying to balance the potential outcomes of his options. He could not treat Liebewitz the same way he would most of the people they ended up questioning. If a street thug ended up with injuries or a slightly warped memory then no-one would think twice. There were many worse fates awaiting would be criminals out there. On the other hand, Daniel Liebewitz was wealthy, influential and reasonably well known. Despite their contradictions, he had had a point when he said his status protected him. They would have to be careful with him.
"Right," James decided. "Monet, just get into his head and get what we need. Try not to cause too much damage but if there's a little bit don't sweat it, we're going to need his memory wiped anyway."
"Done," Monet agreed. "I'm going to need privacy to get this right, so if you could give me and this creep a bit of alone time I'll have the information as soon as possible."
"Okay. Come on Guido, let's leave her to it." The two men strolled out of the room and left the Algeria-born mutant to deal with her prisoner. She performed a few brief calming exercises and concentrated on clearing her mind of extraneous thoughts. Her telepathic powers were not particularly potent and she would have to concentrate hard to make sure she was successful. She put a hand on Liebewitz's forehead and imagined an electric shock passing down her arm. The captive businessman gasped and fell unconscious. Monet imagined tendrils of thought growing from her forehead and plunging into Liebewitz's; she found it much easier to use her powers when she had a visual image to focus on. The 'thought tentacles' burrowed deeper into the brain of her captive and she felt the familiar shock of connecting minds. Non-telepaths could never comprehend the sensation, and on the one occasion she had tried to explain it she found words could never fully do justice to the feeling. The closest she could come was to liken it to feeling a huge adrenaline rush while in a busy canteen: a sudden surge of energy while sights and sounds bombarded her senses. But that could not begin to describe the vivid complexity of the feeling. She heard every half-finished thought and question that ran through his mind, but at the same time his emotions pulsed through the link back to her until she was not sure if it was her own fear and confusion she felt or his own, or was it he who was for some reason confident in his abilities and she the cowering wretch? She had only once met another telepath, a red-haired woman calling herself 'Jean Grey' who had made a laughable attempt to convince Monet to work for a 'Professor X' and his team of mutant mercenaries. Needless to say, Monet had dismissed it out of hand, but Grey had communicated with Monet telepathically and seemingly with ease, apparently not feeling the same strain Monet did.
Monet realised that in extending her mind in this way she was losing control of it, her thoughts rambling and disconnected to the task in hand. She focussed and resumed scanning Liebewitz's psyche for what she needed. She eventually pinpointed his memories and from there it was simple to find the specific one she was after. She yanked at it until it fell open and the scene played out before her mind's eye.
She was looking through the eyes of Liebewitz as he sat around a table with several other men, and even one woman. Most of the men had the same fleshy, seedy appearance as Liebewitz himself, and these faces she consigned to her memory with ease. Her main attention was on the two men who sat together and noticeably apart from the others, with the woman sat at the side of one of them. Each of the trio looked distinctly more menacing and dangerous than the fat corporate pigs they were dealing with. The woman was dressed in a neat business suit, as was the man on the left, but the third man, the one at the centre and clearly the leader, was dressed in a suit that somehow looked old-fashioned, but on him appeared intimidating in its incongruity. She tried to see there faces but for some reason her eyes kept slipping to one side or above and below them instead of focussing, and every time she made the attempt she felt the eyes back in her body start to water painfully. She realised that the memory she was currently exploring had been tampered with somehow, presumably by one of the trio, or by a powerful telepath on their behalf. Now no-one, not even Liebewitz himself, would work out who the three were without being told. The middle man spoke and his voice brooked no interruptions; it was a voice used to being obeyed and that commanded attention.
"I trust that we are all in agreement as to our next move," he said to the room at large.
"After what happened to Palloni, how could we not be?" muttered one of the businessmen under his breath, but the commanding man heard the comment.
"I'm sure if Mr Palloni's unfortunate injury had not prevented his presence here today he would agree with it too," he said smoothly. It was clearly both a threat and a challenge to the dissenter, and Monet was sure that the 'unfortunate injury' was no accident. An image flashed through her mind of a body covered in bruises and with several limbs in plaster, the face so swollen to be unrecognisable. She realised the thought had actually come from Liebewitz, and she guessed that this poor soul must be Palloni, post-'accident.'
"People are going to start noticing if we keep up the current rate," another voice pointed out. "Mutants or not, all these disappearances won't be ignored forever."
"Our workforce is in constant need of fresh recruits," the commanding man said. "Unfortunately the rate and nature of the work means very few have the lasting rate we would desire."
"I too require new subjects," the man on his left said. His voice was smooth and cultured, and Monet thought she picked up a trace of an English accent. "My research is of a highly… experimental nature. The survival rate leaves a little to be desired, I admit."
"But can't we at least try new, uh, techniques for recruitment? My clubs are highly popular but only a lucky tip-off from one of my sources prevented a police raid on one of them getting some rather incriminating evidence," one protested.
"Deal with them, or be dealt with," the commanding voice said coldly.
"I have often found my methods to be perfectly adequate," another voice chipped in. Monet managed to work out who this new speaker was; the accent fitted only the Chinese man sitting across from Liebewitz.
"Some of us are too well regarded to be seen dealing with mutants," another man pointed out. The jibe about regard obviously stung the Chinese man and the expression on his face suggested swift and painful retribution would be visited upon the speaker.
"If you gentlemen would care to cease your squabbling?" the commanding voice suggested, and both men shut up immediately. "Mutants are the basis of our workers, we need as many as we can safely afford."
"It will be done," said one of the men, and was soon followed by variations on the same theme.
"Excellent," said the commanding voice. "Very well, gentlemen. Please do not let me detain you further…"
The businessmen filed out and one of them approached Liebewitz. He was a particularly repugnant specimen even amongst this crowd, his diminutive height emphasising his fatness.
"I take it our new enterprise is still going well?" he asked. Monet recognised the oily voice as that of the man who had mentioned a raid on his 'club.'
"Extremely," Liebewitz affirmed. "I would never have guessed such a high demand for mutants in this line of work. I guess there really is no accounting for taste."
"I myself have recently come into possession of a particularly fetching young lady," the oily man replied. "I was going to break her in myself, but if you would like to assist…"
"Possibly…" Liebewitz avoided committing himself, but his next words proved Monet's darkest suspicions were completely accurate. "I have managed to find a new partner myself. Miss St. Croix is exceptionally beautiful herself, and fortunately not too bright. I daresay once our business partnership flourishes our personal interaction can… proceed."
The fat man laughed loudly. "I see. Possibly we can make a trade once you tire of your new pet."
Monet felt a new surge of rage, and with her powers already extended to the limit she felt the weave of her mental connection start to come apart. She considered renewing it but decided against it. She had the proof she needed and the information required by their client. She concentrated hard-
-And her body juddered and gasped as her consciousness returned to its shell. She found that she was trembling as much from anger as from exertion and had to make a concerted effort not to take out her rage on the unconscious body of Liebewitz. James burst in, clearly overhearing her distress. Monet prided herself on her self control and composure but could not help briefly clutching at him. He seemed to understand and drew her close. Despite the intimacy of their pose it was not physical attraction or release Monet required, only the soothing presence of a real human- and humane- being after her contact with such despicable people as those in the memory.
"You ever mention this and I swear I will tear off your arms," she whispered into James' ear. He smiled softly and whispered back.
"Your secret is safe with me." He pushed her away and looked at the unconscious body lying half on and half off the seat. It seemed Monet's intrusion had drawn energy from her subject just as much as her own body, as Liebewitz's skin was dripping with sweat and his face was contorted with an expression that managed to convey shock, fear and exhaustion at the same time. "Did you get the other names and faces we wanted?"
"Yes... Well, as best I can. I'll fit up some pictures for when Lucas arrives. I'd better wipe this… this…" words temporarily failed her. "… His memory."
"Okay. I'll get onto Bishop."
Monet turned back to the body and put a hand on his forehead again. She visualised a waterfall pouring through the link and into Liebewitz's mind, scouring it of thoughts and memories. She had originally thought to just remove the details pertaining to herself and her colleagues but she was so disgusted that she decided he did not merit her exerting herself to that degree. The brutality of the action was such that not only was his memory of recent events gone, so was his very memory of identity. Being psychically induced, it was not simple amnesia he would suffer. The memories were not forgotten; they were gone completely. David Liebewitz was dead; now there was just an empty shell of a body that bore his face. She turned to James and nodded that it was complete. They left the room and headed up the stairs. Neither of them looked around as the body slid off the chair and to the floor with a meaty crunch.
It was some time later that Lucas Bishop turned up at the headquarters of Cortex Investigations. The big African-American detective was a regular cop and technically should not associate with private eyes like Cortex Investigations, but he had found their help very useful in a more personal matter several years ago, and now often traded favours with them. They had told him the nature of the case and he had promised that should they accumulate enough evidence he would try and make sure Liebewitz was prosecuted legally. That was clearly no longer an option, but the folder that was shoved into his hands and the computer drive James handed him made sure that the other faces Monet had seen would soon be within the reach of the long arm of the law. When the cop had gone and a rambling, apparently insane man in a neat suit had been slung into an anonymous back alley, the young private investigators gathered together to congratulate themselves on a job well done.
"God I'm glad that's over," Teresa said, expressing the thoughts of all of them. Julio in particular had brightened perceptibly after the closing of the case, possibly because of how much harder he had taken it in the first place.
"On the plus side, the only from here is up," he commented.
"You ever heard the term 'tempting fate?'" Guido asked wryly.
"Have you ever heard the term 'shut up,'" Julio countered quickly. James sensed an argument coming on.
"Come on guys… Anyone else up for pizza? I'll even cook it myself!" he interjected. The statement was met with groans rather than the appreciative cheers he'd hoped for.
"What did we do to deserve your cooking?" Monet demanded. Suddenly James started to laugh and then Guido started to chuckle. Before long the entire group was laughing like maniacs, with the exception of Monet, who had been completely serious.
"How did I end up with these idiots?"
