Last one for now! :)
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Glow Sticks/Redrum
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McGee had talked to several people about the strangely popular gravestone. What he had learned made him feel sick. Literally. He wanted to throw up. First, the person buried there was the kid that had been found in the park. Second, the locals had made him into a cult figure practically overnight.
Or, at least, a tourist trap figure. These people had no shame.
On the other hand… Didn't they say that Daily person was in charge of cults? Did Amity Park have a cult problem on top of everything else that was going on? Was the cult the problem, the root problem? If there even was an actual cult…
Cults were dangerous and took vicious advantage of legal loopholes. Maybe he should call the FBI. They were the ones that were supposed to deal with cults.
He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. No. This was his case. His job. He didn't know that there was a cult involved, not yet. Besides, it didn't matter if they were religious so long as they were breaking the law. Yeah.
"Are you okay?"
McGee almost jumped out of his skin, his hand twitching towards his firearm before he realized that the person who snuck up on him was a kid. The kid from earlier, to be precise.
The boy's eyes narrowed. "Were you about to pull a gun on me?" he asked.
"No," said McGee.
The boy blinked, suspicion still evident on his face. "You've got to be more careful with guns," he said. "There's no reason to go for one just because someone surprised you."
McGee didn't grace that with a response. "What are you doing here, anyway? Weren't you across town, earlier?"
"Yeah. So were you," said the boy. Danny. His name was Danny Fenton. "Why are you here?"
"I asked first."
"You shouldn't ask questions you aren't willing to answer yourself."
What the hell was up with this kid? "I'm just trying to get a better feel for the town."
"Hm," said Danny. "I help out here at the cemetery, sometimes. Got to lay all those ghosts to rest, you know?"
"Don't you think that's a little much?" snapped McGee. "Death isn't supposed to be a roadside attraction."
"Oh, don't worry. We take death very seriously around here," assured Danny. "But seriously. I do help out. The caretaker lets me take that stuff away when it gets to be too much." He nodded at the blank headstone and all the offerings around it. "Mom likes the flowers. Jazz is making a collage of some of the cards. You know. Stuff like that." He shrugged, angling himself away from McGee. "Someone left a tiny copy of the Tempest once. In one of those teeny tiny books. Post. It had that one passage from Ariel's Song decorated. It was nice. I liked it."
"What?"
"Ariel's Song. Full fathom five thy father lies;/Of his bones are coral made;/Those are pearls that were his eyes;/Nothing of him that doth fade,/But doth suffer a sea-change/Into something rich and strange. Shakespeare. I think it's supposed to be a commentary on ghosts, but the guy in the play isn't actually dead, people just think he is. So, I'm not really sure how to take it. You're a detective, right? What do you think?"
McGee stared at the teenager. The kid who was buried there was his age. "This isn't a joke," said McGee. "A person is dead."
Danny tilted his head. "I'm not joking?"
"How are you even connected to all of this?" McGee waved his hand, frustrated.
"I just told you how I'm connected to the cemetery. If you mean the town… Well, I do live here."
"Why do Patterson and Collins know you?"
"I know everyone," said Danny. He started backing away. "You should go get something to eat soon, if you don't want to be late." He turned and disappeared in the crowd.
What the hell.
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McGee did not go to get food. He went back to the station. He had some questions to ask Cameron Daily, and he got the impression that the man was the kind of person to practically live at work.
When he opened the door, though, he had to stop.
"What is this?" he asked, loudly.
"Glowsticks," said one of the secretaries. "You have seen them before, right?"
"Yes, but why?"
As much as the police department had been infested with Christmas decorations before, it was now covered with glowsticks of all varieties.
The secretary shrugged. "You'll find out. And, no, this isn't hazing." She broke a new glowstick with a snap.
"Right," said McGee. "Where's Daily?"
"Cameron Daily is in the computer bay," said the secretary, pointing.
"Thanks," grunted McGee, once again wondering why there was a separate computer bay when everyone had their own desks, computers, and, in some cases, additional laptops.
Screw it, he might as well ask.
"Hey, Daily."
"Mm?"
"Why's there a separate computer bay?"
"Oh, it's shielded," said Daily.
"Shielded."
"Yep. No signals, and the Fentons did some pretty neat stuff to the walls. Bunch of, ehm, nasty hackers. We learned our lesson, eventually."
"The Fentons."
"Yeah. And Foley did the firewalls."
"They're the ones who did the computer filing system."
"Uhuh. Kids are geniuses. The parents aren't too shoddy, either."
"The—" No. There was no way. "Are they the same Fentons that hunt ghosts?"
"Yeah. You wouldn't think it to look at them, but apparently they live off of their patents. Made a bunch of fiddly little things that every other mass production factory in the country uses. Also, they own a toilet paper company. Not my favorite brand, but it isn't the worst, honestly. Kind of wish we'd buy it here, but, no, we get that gross single ply. I swear, that stuff should be classified as a crime against humanity."
"You let the ghost hunters deal with your computer security."
"Oh, I know that tone. You met them, huh?"
"Just the kid."
Daily looked up at McGee over the computer. "What?"
"I only met the kid. Danny."
Slowly, Daily uncurled from his hunch in front of the computer. The man was taller than McGee thought.
"Then what's your issue? Danny's a good kid."
A good kid whose parents were allowed to run roughshod over the town, who was allowed to steal from graveyards, and knew all of the police officers. For some reason.
"I heard you're in charge of monitoring the cult?"
Daily snorted. "You make it sound like there's just one."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, after all the ghosts, most religions had to modernize, you know?"
Oh, god, this was part of the tourist trap. Or the tourist trap was part of this. Did they recruit from people who actually believed this nonsense?
"There's more than one cult?"
"Yep."
"Sounds like quite a job."
"Eh. I'm mostly just keeping track of their online activity."
"So, how are the Fentons involved?"
"They aren't. They're pretty areligious, overall. Danny's been almost kidnapped a few times, though."
"What?"
"What?"
"Kidnapped. By a cult."
"Cults. Gotta remember the plural, man. Cults." Daily was hunching again. "But, hey, if you're interested in the subject, I can give you a thorough run-through of this new group that started up last week. Their philosophy is wild. I can't even tell you—"
"Hey. You're early," said Patterson, leaning through the door, her braid swinging. "Great. Have you eaten?"
"Yes," lied McGee.
"Get better at lying," said Patterson. "Come on, let's go."
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Patterson and Collins weren't the only ones there. In fact, there were more people in the station than there had been that morning. All with glowsticks. Said glowsticks were being loaded into unmarked cars while office staff and police officers whispered back and forth.
"Did you get the green stuff?"
"Yeah, don't worry. Gave me more than enough." Glowing green milk jugs were loaded into a car. The car McGee would be riding in with Collins and Patterson.
'Green stuff.' Was this some kind of bizarre drug smuggling ring? McGee had fallen behind in drug slang, if so. 'Green stuff.' Were they lacing it with glowstick fluid?
Never before had he felt so lost on a case. Amity Park was messed up.
"You've got the howlers hooked up?" asked Collins.
"I asked Daily to do it this morning."
"But did he do it?"
"I mean, it looks like it. Are the howlers really that important?"
McGee had no idea what was going on.
The cars all started off in a group. Their car was the last to leave and soon peeled off to trundle slowly down back roads.
"You probably have questions," said Collins.
"You could say that," said McGee.
"You've been a good sport about them," observed Collins.
"So," said McGee, drawing out the word. "What is this about?"
Patterson swallowed a laugh. "Ever hear of the Men in Black?"
"Look, I'm humoring the ghosts. Conspiracy theories are where I draw the line."
"Keep telling yourself that. Maybe it'll stick. Anyway, here in Amity Park, we deal with their less intelligent cousins. The Guys in White!"
"That's not their actual name," said Collins, glancing back over his shoulder. "But, well, their appearance fits."
"Alright, let's say I believe you. What does this have to do with the jugs of glowstick fluid in the trunk?"
"Oh, that's not glowstick fluid," said Patterson. "It's waste from the reactor that powers the town."
"Don't worry," said Collins, hastily, the car swerving somewhat. "It's completely harmless! Not radioactive at all!"
"That's not what—" started Patterson.
"You absolutely will not get cancer from it!"
McGee raised a hand. "You have nuclear reactor fluid in the trunk?"
"It isn't nuclear reaction fluid," protested Patterson. "It's—"
"Back on track," interrupted Collins.
"Yeah. Anyway. It'll trip the Guys in White's sensors—"
"Eventually," Collins grumbled.
"—so we can lead them on a chase."
"And… why do we want to do this?"
"Because it's a quiet month," said Patterson. "Don't want the Guys to get antsy."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means what it means. You'll see in January."
McGee looked between his two 'partners.' "Are you trying to get me to quit?"
"Because you're a spy for the county?" asked Patterson. "Oh, no, never."
Before McGee could process that statement, the car's radio crackled to life.
"We've got a class-3 northbound on Orion at 35 miles per hour. Ectosignature suggests an amorphiform ghost—"
"Hah!" shouted Patterson. "That's us! Punch it!" She twisted the dial on the radio as Collins slammed his foot into the accelerator. "Bogey to Redrum! We've got followers!"
"Copy, Bogey, this is Redrum. We need a few more minutes to set up. Can you stay out of sight?"
"The hell?"
The radio crackled. "Forgot you had the new guy! Don't shake him up too much, okay? Over."
"Copy. Collins you catch that?"
"Yeah, don't worry, I'm taking Pan and Laurel. The holiday tour."
"Ooh, good choice." Patterson held up the radio again. "Yeah, we can manage. Over."
Collins went faster. For the next several minutes McGee occupied himself with not throwing up. He succeeded. Barely.
"Bogey, this Cam," said the voice of Daily, "followers are gaining. They're on Brassica, just passing High Street. Triggered the speed cameras. Over."
"How many and what type? Over."
"Three gliders. Don't think they've spotted you yet, though. Over."
Gliders? Who did these people think they were kidding?
"Copy, over," said Patterson. "Not like those guys care about speeders, though," she muttered. McGee could barely hear her over the beating of his own heart.
"Sharp right, brace yourselves," said Collins, split seconds before matching action to words.
"Redrum to bogey, we're moving out now, over."
"Copy. We're on our way. Over. Head to the park, Collins."
"Gotcha."
It didn't seem possible, but Collins somehow pushed the car to go even faster. Then, just as quickly as the whole ridiculous thing had begun, the car skidded to a halt in a parking lot. Seeing his chance, McGee clawed at the door handle and dragged himself out onto the pavement.
Collins and Patterson, meanwhile, were pulling the almost-certainly-toxic waste out of the trunk and launching it into the glowstick-filled woods with—
"Is that a bazooka?" demanded McGee, so far past his wit's end that he couldn't even see it anymore.
"Nah, just a modified T-shirt canon," said Patterson, stowing the object away again. "Fentonworks special."
"I don't believe you," said McGee.
Three – Three things – McGee did not want to call them gliders – raced overhead, jets roaring and wind whistling. They came to a stop approximately where the 'reactor waste' had fallen.
"What the hell?" whispered McGee, passionately.
"Come on," said Collins. "Time for us to go."
"Yeah, better to spectate from afar," agreed Patterson.
"I agree," said a third voice.
"Oh, Danny," said Patterson. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight."
The boy walked into McGee's field of view and glanced down at him before shrugging. "Couldn't sleep." He looked up, at the park. "Thanks for this."
"Had to get them to blow this month's budget somehow," said Collins. "But, really, we should all go before the fireworks start."
Danny sighed. "Hope they don't blow up the fountain again. It just got fixed."
"Same," said Patterson.
"Well, see you later."
"Yep, we've got that wellness check tomorrow," said Collins. "You don't have any excuse to forget, this time."
"Yeah, yeah," said the teen, waving over his shoulder as he walked straight into the dark.
"What," said McGee.
"That's just Danny for you," said Collins. "Great kid. Super creepy."
"Yeah."
"How'd he even know we're here?" asked McGee, trying to keep his voice even.
"He did give us that eeeeehhhhhhh—reactor waste," said Patterson. "Come on, get up, we've got to—"
A small explosion sounded from the park.
"Seriously. I don't want to have to pick you up."
"I'd wind up doing most of the lifting," grumbled Collins, who was sliding into the driver's seat.
Patterson put her hands on her hips. "Excuse you?"
There was another, larger explosion. McGee climbed back into the car.
As they drove, he realized that no one had made fun of his name. Not even once.
Amity Park was weird.
