Ramus tensed, his prosthetic raised, leaning against the police cruiser in front of him, a green-tinged mist swirling about the scene. Every muscle of his body was rigid with fear and tension. Gouger crouched next to him behind the same cruiser, holding a handgun for only the third time since they had been reassigned together. She glanced to one side, meeting Ramus' eye with a doubtful look before returning her attention to the street before them. Around them, the rest of the Superhero Liaison Department's officers stood in a row lining the street from one sidewalk to the other, with their vehicles parked sideways, bumper-to-bumper, to provide what cover they could. Civilians raced in between the cars, shepherded by a group of regular police and a couple of heroes that Ramus didn't recognize. Someone in a metal suit reminiscent of Mecha-Man flew overhead, unleashed a volley of missiles, and shot up into the sky, arcing over them backward toward the south. A yo-yo whipped above him; a flash of red-and-black swung over his head.

His eyes narrowed, Ramus set himself, knowing what was about to come but simultaneously dreading its appearance.

The earth shook beneath his feet as the enormous Lion's head rose above the buildings and let out a torrent of fire from its eyes, melting through steel and glass, setting wood and brick on fire. Acrid green smoke poured from both nostrils, blanketing the street below. Slowly the Monster moved forward, its enormous, muscular Ox shoulders snagging on the phone and electrical lines stretching across the road and pulling at them until they all snapped with a loud twang.

"Hold the line!" bellowed Prefect Raincomprix, standing near the center of the SLD barricade, pistol in hand, his gaze focused straight ahead. "We must slow it down!"

Ramus' earpiece crackled, the words distorted by interference. "Even a few minutes' delay will allow hundreds more civilians escape!" Pegasus instructed them urgently.

"We will give you what we can!" Prefect Raincomprix promised.

Ramus swallowed back bile. How were they supposed to buy time for the Heroes against this?

As it came fully into view two blocks ahead of them, one of the massive Bear legs stomped down in the center of the block, crushing the building that had been there and grinding it into fine dust. The Scorpion tail flicked back and forth above its head, lashing out repeatedly at a red-and-blue figure that sent a beam of white energy at it from her eyes. The figure dropped lower, below the tail's strike, before rising higher, sending another shot at the base of the tail, and rocketing backward in a high arc. The Beast let out a deafening roar, shaking windows to either side.

"Fire!"

As one the SLD opened fire on the Creature, dozens of energy beams lancing out from their line of vehicles. The regular officers whom Prefect Raincomprix had "recruited" to supplement their numbers added the din of conventional weapons to the crackling ozone of the energy rifles. Bullets and energy beams ricocheted off of the Turtle shell in all directions. Ramus fired with the others, aiming for the shaggy mane which rippled as it shook its head. The Tarasque drew its head back and roared in outrage, rearing back onto its back two pairs of legs, the claws of its front feet – each one longer than a man – extending to grip into the pavement. A pair of beams struck the Tarasque in its eyes, and it reared back, its mouth open in a bellowing roar. Ramus shifted his aim up, pumping energy into the roof of the Tarasque's mouth. A wave of acrid green emerged from its mouth and nose, bathing the street with poison. Without slacking his fire, Ramus fumbled one-handed for his gasmask and pulled it over his mouth. It caught on his ear and hair, settling in place slightly askew, one side not fully sealing against his cheek. He could taste the poison invading his lungs. His eyes watered. On his other side, Girardot collapsed to the ground, gagging and gasping for breath. Gouger dropped to one knee beside her, slapping her cheek.

Then the Tarasque lumbered forward.

"Hold!" Prefect Raincomprix ordered, his voice almost drowned out by the Tarasque's roar. "Hold!"

Slowly it began, moving ponderously down the street on its large paws but building momentum with each step. As it crossed half the distance, the tremors running through the ground intensified, and Ramus clutched the car, barely holding himself upright. At that, the regular officers broke rank and fled, leaving the SLD to their fate. Another round of fire struck the Tarasque from pointblank range. Then, reaching the line, the Tarasque stomped the first car, crushing it into the pavement and spilling gasoline everywhere. Behind that car, Moreau stumbled backward and fell. Gas splashed up on his uniform. The Tarasque charged forward, raising its foot over Moreau's head. He yelled in terror, covering his head with one hand, trying to crabwalk away but slipping on the slick pavement.

"Dan!"

Ray grabbed Moreau's arm and tried to pull, but the Tarasque's foot dropped. Ray screamed, collapsed to the ground. Ramus couldn't hear the crunch over the sounds of gunfire and screaming around him.

Ramus gasped, sitting straight up in bed, his prosthetic raised and trembling before him, the built-in targeting laser activating almost automatically. His heart raced. His bed sheets were soaked through with sweat. He turned wildly, pointing his prosthetic in all directions, searching for the Tarasque, still hearing the sound of its rampage echoing in his ears, still feeling the earth shake beneath him from the violence of its transit. But after a moment, his breathing began to return to normal, and he blinked, recognizing the familiar surroundings of his own bedroom. Slowly, his senses returned. He was in his own bed, in his apartment, sitting up in the dark. The building around him was still eerily silent, with only the ticking of a distant clock audible. He let out a breath, collapsing back into his pillows with a groan.

It had been just over two weeks, and he was still having regular nightmares about that day.

He could try to go back to sleep, but what would be the point? If he closed his eyes, he would only see the Tarasque again, relive that moment of absolute terror. Resigned, Ramus instead pushed himself out of bed, stumbled into his small kitchen, and hit the button on his coffeemaker – his was one of the lucky buildings: they had restored power to his apartment last week. After struggling into his wrinkled, torn uniform, he returned to find his coffee finished. He winced on tasting it – after two days it was time to replace the grounds, though he didn't have much left and there were few prospects for new ground coffee to be delivered to the city. Grabbing a granola bar for breakfast, Ramus made his way out to his patrol car – one of the few to survive – and started maneuvering around the debris piles littering the streets of Paris, en route to City Hall. As he went, he passed a pair of small work details trying to push the rubble from destroyed buildings off the streets, filling potholes where possible. Two men stood at the base of a ladder that leaned up against an electric pole, while another man worked on the transformer. Another group was picking through the remains of a collapsed apartment building. Last week, he could call it a search for survivors; now it was only a recovery effort for the dead. Ramus' jaw clenched.

Aside from official workers, however, the streets remained largely deserted. His was the only vehicle on the road; one of the Emergency Council's first directives had been a ban on vehicle usage apart from official business in order to conserve gasoline. With Paris all but cut off from the rest of the world, there was no way of knowing when they might be resupplied with fuel, and the Prefect had been concerned about keeping enough gas on hand to maintain police patrols.

Not that the patrols had proven overly effective so far.

Finally, after a commute that had taken ten minutes longer than before, Ramus stopped in front of City Hall, killed his engine, and walked straight up the stairs, past the officers guarding the front entrance, who nodded on seeing him. Pushing through the front door, Ramus' footsteps echoed loudly on the stone floor – he was the only one in the atrium at this time in the morning. Turning left he pushed open the closest door to see Jeanne Berléand, the Prefect's executive secretary, sitting at her new desk, juggling two phone lines while making notes on her computer.

"He's in a meeting," Jeanne warned Ramus without looking up.

"I'll be quiet." He moved past her to the door and pushed it open as silently as he could.

Roger waved at him dismissively as he entered but didn't take his attention off of the conference phone sitting on the desk in front of him. "I assure you, Minister," he was in the process of saying, "we are attempting to restore the phone lines as quickly as we can. As you can see, we have operational nodes in most arrondissements currently, and that work should be finished in the next couple days, provided that we do not have any more setbacks."

"That's not fast enough!" another voice, which Ramus recognized as that of Interior Minister Faure, insisted. "We should have had this done a week ago! What is the hold up?"

"Clearly Roger doesn't have it in him to manage something like this," observed a sardonic voice, Sub-Prefect Morillon. "His people haven't done anything about the civilians who've turned to vigilantism."

Roger's mouth set in a thin line and he glared down at the phone. "As I have attempted to explain to you repeatedly, Bernard, my people are stretched thin enough as it is just trying to maintain the level of order that we have. Our situation here is tenuous at best. I do not have the resources to devote to tracking down every vigilante out there!" Morillon scoffed. Roger's eyes narrowed, glaring down at the phone. "If you think that it needs to be done, then I suggest that your men be the ones to go after the vigilantes – and while you're at it, arrest, and process, and hold, and guard all of the vandals and looters that they have been keeping in check! Because without these civilians, the crime situation will deteriorate far more."

"I don't have the men for that!"

"And I have less than you!"

Faure cleared his throat. "Very well," he decided. "I leave the situation in your hands, Roger. Above all else, we must maintain peace and order in the city. Keep me informed."

The phone line clicked, and Roger lifted the handle and replaced it twice before checking for a dial tone. Finally he slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a relieved breath. "I'm getting too old for this crap," he muttered before pushing the intercom button. "Élodie, contact Captains Serero and Lescot. Have them double security for the utility workers and at the power plant. Then check with Rodin in the 18th Arrondissement for an update on the rioting there. Finally, tell Morillon to have his men focus their attention on those civilians outside of their designated zone; if people are close to home, we can give them a pass for now."

"Of course, Prefect," she responded promptly, before the line clicked and silence returned.

Ramus raised an eyebrow at Roger. "Still wish you had refused the promotion?" he asked.

Roger glared at him halfheartedly. "Only every five minutes," he retorted curtly. "Although if I had, then Paris would be left to the whims of a jackass womanizer who couldn't keep it in his pants long enough to make the goddamn evacuation!" He paused, glancing past Ramus at the closed office door. "You don't tell anyone outside this room what I just said."

Ramus nodded. "Yes, Pr–" Roger's eyes flashed. Ramus coughed. "Of course, Boss." Roger gave him a deadpan look. Ramus quirked an eyebrow. "So why put up with him?"

Roger sighed heavily. "Faure is a necessary evil to keep the government nominally functional," he explained sourly. "He's a connection to the official government of Paris. It's better for the citizens to have him to look to as the nation's leadership, rather than us. I prefer to keep our Department's name out of people's mouths as long as possible."

"That might not be possible long term." Ramus hummed. "What are our orders?"

Roger arched an eyebrow. "For now? Keep doing what you're doing. If you catch people looting, arrest them; if you catch people trying to stop the looters, arrest the looters." Ramus frowned, and Roger let out a breath. "I understand your reticence on this. But I wasn't lying: we don't have the manpower to maintain order on our own. And with the Heroes of Paris largely out of the picture, we need help. So if civilians are going to protect themselves and their neighbors, I'm not about to dissuade them."