Oppenheim's wall screen was filled with a larger-than-life video feed from NORAD, currently displaying President Georgiou's frown in high definition. Ross shuffled his feet uncomfortably. It felt like the man was looming over him.
"What do you mean, the refugees won't leave the hospital?" the president demanded.
"I apologize, sir," Ross corrected himself hastily. "I meant they won't leave each other."
"Ah." The president and the ARC director both relaxed a fraction. "This is the group you found walking to Denver on foot, yes?"
"That's correct, sir. They are, uh, 'strenuously declining' to be placed in separate housing allotments. They say they'd rather camp out on the grass at the soccer stadium than be apart."
"I thought you said none of them know each other."
"They didn't know each other before starting out. Now that they are safe, they refuse to be separated."
The president's handsome face softened. "I see. Bonding through shared trauma. There's a lot of that going around."
"Yes, sir," Oppenheim explained. "Similar to those plane crash survivors from a few decades ago. The attachments they form can be quite strong."
"How many are there?"
The director nodded to Ross that he could answer the question. He'd learned that Oppenheim preferred a tag-team style of approach when addressing the president.
"Seventy-six, sir. There were over eighty when we found them, but some died from shock or injury."
"How did they make it so far while mortally wounded?"
"They weren't injured during their trek, Mr. President." Oppenheim explained. "When The Slayer's team landed, an Imp and a Prowler got through. Several of the runners received mortal wounds when the group attacked the demons en masse."
Georgiou's eyebrows climbed. "They took on two demons? With their bare hands?"
"Yes, sir," Ross said, remembering his aerial view of the bloody frenzy, and how his mouth had hung open in shock. "An angry mob can do quite a lot of damage. A few more chased down a third demon that The Slayer had wounded and, uh, forcibly separated its head from its body. I almost felt sorry for it. … Almost."
"Surely we could find several large houses for these brave individuals, Dr. Oppenheim." The president sounded sympathetic and authoritative at the same time, the very qualities that had gotten him elected. He also spoke as if every word were being recorded with the possibility of future broadcast. Which was probably the truth.
"We would need four or five houses that size on a single block, and there isn't an arrangement like that in the residential portion of the city."
"Make an arrangement. They've been through enough, and we have a policy against separating families."
Ross decided that he liked President Georgiou.
"Understood, sir," Oppenheim said. "We will move some existing refugee groups over a few blocks, or repurpose one of the office buildings into high-rise apartments." Martial law meant that Oppenheim could reassign people, equipment, and even entire buildings however he liked. With his pale skin, thick silver hair and dark-rimmed glasses, the director looked as if he could step right into a role as a supervillain.
Ross shook off that thought. It was unfair, and the director had done nothing whatsoever to abuse his power.
So far.
"The high-rise option," Georgiou ordered. "Let them convert it into living quarters themselves. It will keep their minds busy."
"Very well, sir." Oppenheim made a note on his data slate.
The president raked a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Moving on. The encryption devices should be delivered to all living heads of state by tomorrow afternoon. Then we will assemble and expect a detailed report on The Slayer." He looked up from his pile of data slates and old-fashioned paper documents. "How is our walking enigma, by the way?"
"The accumulator is stable, the Gate sections are almost solid, and he is slightly more communicative than previous weeks," Ross reported.
"He's talking to you?"
"Not exactly, sir. He's still communicating non-verbally, but any communication at all is progress."
"Agreed," Oppenheim said. "Well done, Friedmann."
Ross allowed himself a pleased smile.
"What have you been communi–"
Oppenheim's desk beeped insistently. He leaned over the glassy surface and peered at the horizontal display. It was a top-down diagram of the ARC complex. A glowing red dot moved swiftly along one of the passageways.
"He's actually on his way here, Mr. President." Oppenheim's surprise was as genuine as Ross's. He looked up at him. "Friedmann?"
Ross shook his head. He had no idea what had prompted this visit.
The president furrowed his brow. "You didn't know he was coming? The Slayer can force his way through your security measures?"
"No, sir," Oppenheim said, flicking his VR glove so the seven floors of the ziggurat-shaped main building expanded up over his desk where the president could see the moving dot. "We gave him full clearance."
"Full clearance? Black Diamond? We barely know anything about him!"
Ross made sure he wasn't anywhere near the doors.
"Mr. President, when The Slayer comes upon a locked door that he wants to get through, he gets through it. Whether that's by kicking it down, wrenching the doors apart or simply punching it until it breaks, he gets through. Then we're wide open to a Cultist breach while that section is down for repairs. Frankly, sir, we're fortunate that he chooses to use doors at all. He could simply break through the walls to get where he's going."
The doors to Oppenheim's expansive office whooshed open and admitted The Slayer, striding at full speed. The big man halted at the edge of Oppenheim's desk and drew an object from one of his ammo pouches.
Georgiou was speechless for a moment. Most people were tongue-tied upon first seeing The Slayer, especially in contrast to normal-sized people and furniture.
"Agent 'Slayer', I am Emrys Georgiou, President of the Uni– … Is that a cat collar?"
The Slayer slapped a pink collar down on the glass top of Oppenheim's marble desk. Then another, blue with a tiny bell attached. Then some kind of sparkly harness that might have fit a ferret or a rabbit. A doggy Christmas sweater. A perch for a small bird. A hamster's running wheel. The leash for a very large dog.
The pile of companion-animal paraphernalia grew and grew as they watched in fascination at the sheer number and sizes of objects coming out of a leather pouch meant to hold a single magazine. It took several minutes, and The Slayer finished with an entire saddle that appeared out of thin air under his outstretched hand. The cantle had "Black Beauty" etched into the leather with hearts on either side. He laid it on top of the pile, which now covered most of Oppenheim's large desk. Many of the items featured dried bloodstains.
'What's the point of killing our pets? A pony is no threat to a demon, and a hamster wouldn't even be a mouthful.' Ross couldn't think of any reason except sheer cruelty. 'Wow, Friedmann,' he snarked at himself. 'You've deduced that demons are mean. What a revelation. The ARC is lucky to have you.'
The director looked sheepish and grumpy at the same time. "I suppose we do have more supplies than originally projected. We could allow new refugees to bring in their pets."
The Slayer nodded slightly, as if that were the right answer to a question Oppenheim shouldn't think too deeply about if he wanted to sleep tonight.
Before Ross or the president could get a word in, The Slayer turned and strode out as abruptly as he'd come.
Oppenheim's intercom beeped in a specific sequence and he answered it. "Yes, Catherine?"
"Director Oppenheim, sir," came the communications expert's smooth voice. "Officer Davis found a tractor-trailer half a mile outside the north gate that's chock full of dogs and cats, all looking a bit worse for wear. I think there's even a parrot or two. Not sure who dropped them off. What do you want us to do with them?"
The director lifted a hand in the direction the supersoldier had gone. "Perhaps now you can appreciate the difficulty of managing this 'special project', Mr. President."
"Indeed."
Ayers arrived right on time to help Lizzie take over the baby skunks' hourly routine from the exhausted Vincent and Harry.
The mercenary had informed them that Delta-22, whose company insignia he wore on his shoulder, was being paid to clear landmines from the newly-safe zones around Boulder. It was delicate and intense work that required a lot of rest between shifts, so he was only on duty in the afternoons and had the rest of his days and nights free. Excellent timing, as far as the skunks were concerned.
Vincent had insisted that Lizzie carry on as normal during the day while he and the boy looked after the fragile newborns. He said it was character-building for Harry to learn that animals were hard work to take care of properly, no matter how small and cute. Vincent had been making noises about Harry taking over for him on the farm, and those offhand "someday we'll …" comments told her volumes about Vincent's mindset. She had to admit that the month-long lull in demonic activity around Denver had started to lift her spirits as well. There was still a planet-wide war going on, but for the moment they were in the eye of the storm.
Lizzie laid out the place settings on the picnic table, ignoring the warm, fuzzy feeling of putting four plates on the wooden surface instead of three.
Harry was as thrilled as ever to see his favorite soldier, but so tired that he nearly faceplanted into his mashed potatoes after only ten minutes. Vincent took the boy up to bed and Lizzie fed Charlie the rest of his dinner before shutting him in the den.
Lizzie couldn't think of anything to say with Vincent gone, so she simply smiled awkwardly at the mercenary.
Ayers tilted his head to the side and indicated the oversize plaid shirt Lizzie was wearing. She pulled the hem out and examined the pattern like she'd forgotten she had it on.
"Oh, yeah, this is one of Vincent's. Obviously I didn't plan ahead for hiding out in my neighbor's bunker, so I literally came here with only Charlie and the clothes on my back. It's a good thing I don't need medical equipment from my house or something like that, because Vincent's cameras show that it's a pile of ashes and twisted rebar now."
She tried to make it sound flippant, but the loss of her Tolkien book collection bled into her voice.
"We'll get you some more stuff in town," Vincent promised as he returned. "Denver's got this kind of bazaar going on in the evenings now, and they take stuff in trade, or so I hear on the radio." He slipped back into his seat and finished his last few bites. "We've got plenty of stuff we can barter with."
"That's not necessary, Vin. You've got acres of cloth in storage, and I can learn to sew."
Vincent patted his mouth clean with a handkerchief. "What about your books?"
"Your digital library puts New York's to shame."
"I mean real books. Real paper."
She shook her head briefly and stood to collect the dishes, pushing Vincent's hands aside as he tried to help her.
"Thanks, Vin, I got it."
"Liz –"
"Actually, having so few possessions is nice," she insisted. "You have more space to move around, there's less to clean, you don't have to dust or tidy up as often, no problems with laundry piling up at the bottom of your closet and getting extra stinky because you were too depressed to wash it for a couple weeks and your dog decided it's a good place to stash half-eaten beef knuckles –"
Lizzie noticed they were both blinking at her in silence.
"That's not a real story." She hurried away with the dishes.
Ayers looked questioningly at Vincent.
"Like I've said before, her life hasn't been all sunshine and roses. Not my place to share details, but …" Vincent decided it was time to come right out with it. "Listen, Ayers: Lizzie has bad luck attracting the wrong kind of men."
The merc tilted his head, curious.
"I've only seen a couple pictures of her from before the accident – for reasons I won't get into – but she was very pretty."
" 'Was'?" Ayers rumbled in a dark tone.
" 'Is'," Vincent corrected himself quickly. "Definitely still is."
Ayers's eyes were narrowed. He looked about as friendly as a medieval gargoyle.
Vincent cleared his throat. "Anyway, she's kind, funny, generous, and easily hurt. She's also like a daughter to me, and I have a ridiculous amount of explosives. So you'd better not be married or anything."
Vincent was learning to read Ayers's subtle expressions, and this one was definitely 'amusement'.
The hired soldier shook his head. Not married.
"Good. I'm glad we cleared that up …"
Yes.
"... Heathcliff."
No.
"Damn." Vincent took a folded paper and short pencil out of his breast pocket to cross off a name. "Quincy?"
No.
Vincent crossed that one off too.
Lizzie came back out with an overly bright smile and declared, "Skunk time! That's not a metaphor!" as she crossed the cave floor to the infirmary set into the wall.
As the men stood, Vincent recaptured Ayers's attention. "I like you, kid," he said quietly. "So does she. But that doesn't mean I won't keep an eye on you. An eye … and a couple of machine gun turrets."
Ayers looked amused again, but nodded that he understood.
"Ayers," Lizzie called through the open door.
In the infirmary, the mother skunk was balancing on her hind legs, waving her tiny forepaws in their direction as they approached.
Lizzie smiled and stroked the small creature's back. "She wants her favorite space heater."
Ayers obliged, scooping the delicate animal off the table. Veronica snuggled into the crook of his elbow and began sniffing the grooves in his armor as if he'd been somewhere very interesting.
Lizzie joined Vincent at the back of the long storage closet.
"Well?" she asked.
"Not Quincy or Heathcliff," Vincent reported.
"Shoot." She pulled clean rags off the shelf. "What about Claude? Sebastian? Any reaction to those?"
"Haven't gotten there yet."
"Put Thaddeus on the list. I read that in a book earlier."
"Good one." Vincent wrote it down.
When they returned to the infirmary proper, Ayers was leaning on his folded arms along the edge of the operating table. Veronica climbed around on his bent back, and the three healthy kits were doing their best to explore the tabletop even though their eyes were still closed. He held the weaker three in his heated gauntlets.
Lizzie smiled affectionately. "Definitely a Disney princess. What do you think, Vin? Which one would he be?"
"Let's see … dark hair, independent, athletic, likes animals, doesn't talk much …"
They looked at each other and said in unison, "Pocahontas."
Ayers tilted his head.
"Native American princess."
He shrugged. I wouldn't know.
"Well, if we're sitting here all night, we might as well subject Ayers to some classic Disney movies." Vincent clicked on the projector they'd set up for Harry to watch his cartoons.
Their merc looked a tiny bit concerned.
'… all the colors of the wiiiiiiiiiind …'
"Liz." Vincent bumped her elbow as he returned to his seat on the floor next to her.
"What?"
He jerked his chin in the marine's direction.
Ayers's head had dropped forward and his eyes were closed. Veronica was licking the fingertips peeking out of his dark gray gloves.
"Oh, oops," Lizzie whispered. "I didn't realize he was so tired. I imagine the stress of clearing landmines takes a lot out of you." She looked at the side of his sleeping face for longer than necessary before turning back to Vincent. "I'll go check on Charlie and Harry. Don't wake Ayers."
"No problem." Vincent stopped the playback of Pocahontas.
Lizzie trotted toward the house with a light step.
Vincent turned to the soldier. "Okay, she's gone."
Ayers picked up a bottle and one of the skunks. He shared a smirk with Vincent.
"Smooth," Vincent admitted as he picked up a different kit. "Should have thought of that myself during Harry's last Transformers binge. I swear I lost IQ points from that drivel."
Ayers huffed through his nose in that almost-laugh that he'd perfected.
"You got a favorite movie?"
No.
"Really? You seem like a guy who'd enjoy Westerns."
No.
"Anything else you're interested in watching?" Vincent gestured to the six newborns. "We're going to be here a while, and I've got a second wind, so I won't be sleeping anytime soon."
Maybe.
"Action movies?"
Sort of.
"Sci-fi or fantasy?"
Ayers held up two fingers and then waggled his hand. Fantasy. Sort of.
"Something in particular?"
Yes. Ayers put on a gauntlet and opened his hand. A preview of a 2D film popped up above it. Vincent squinted at the title card.
"Ohhh," he said in understanding, then was quiet. Ayers watched him, waiting for his answer.
"It's worth a shot," Vincent decided.
He went into the house and found her drying the kitten bottles.
"He's up again. Wants to watch some old TV show to stay awake." Vincent scooped more popcorn into a large bowl and drizzled caramel over it.
"Really?" Ayers didn't communicate many preferences, and this would certainly be the first about a form of visual entertainment. "What is it?"
"Dunno. Something 2D from the early 2000s with a blonde chick." He didn't want to give too much away.
"Oh."
"What?"
"I didn't realize he likes blondes. That's all." Her voice was soft and lacked inflection.
'Shit. That was the wrong thing to say.'
"I think it's less the actress, and more the monster-hunting."
"Huh," she said with a bit more color in her tone. "Monsters, eh?"
"You coming? It looks cheesy," he cajoled. "You love B-movies."
"Sure, Vin. Could be interesting."
Back in the infirmary, Ayers showed her one of those blocky data tokens. The blue contact wires meant it was for a media player just like Vincent's.
"Please tell me it's your personal copy of The Little Mermaid," she teased.
His eyes crinkled.
Vincent put it in the projector's slot, and up popped the start screen for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
She looked at Vincent, vulnerable and confused.
Vincent admitted, "You mentioned you don't like the S-word, remember. Seems like someone thinks immersion therapy might help."
Lizzie bit her lower lip gently, and Ayers watched her mouth as though he'd very much like to be doing that for her.
"Have you seen it before?" she asked him.
No.
"How do you know this will help?"
He tapped the floating preview button, and the projection on the infirmary wall showed a small blonde woman in a cute outfit roundhouse-kicking a werewolf.
"It's a lady –" She cleared her throat like someone preparing to give a speech. "A lady slayer? I mean a slayer who's a lady, not someone who … uh …" She didn't finish the rest.
Yes.
She chewed on a fingernail, watching the preview switch to a montage of the teenager doing a lot of martial arts moves.
"I'm guessing she has superpowers? Because she's even smaller than I am, and I for sure can't donkey-kick a bad guy through a brick wall like that."
Yes.
"Root beer?" Vincent asked brightly. "I made it myself."
"Sure, Vincent," Lizzie mumbled, watching the previews with a wrinkled brow.
As Vincent went to fetch their drinks, he heard Lizzie tell Ayers, "I guess it's worth a shot. Looks pretty low-budget. At least the rubber masks will be good for a laugh."
'That's my girl,' Vincent thought. 'Always willing to give life one more try.'
The show did turn out to be painfully cheesy, but somehow the cheesiness made it easier for Lizzie to hear 'the S-word' over and over. Three episodes into the series, she wasn't flinching anymore.
"So, whaddaya think, Liz?" Vincent asked her as they paused for him to collect their empty mugs.
Lizzie was moving her kit's paws in teeny-tiny physical therapy motions. It was supposed to compensate for the fact that the babies didn't move around as much as their three healthy siblings. It was good for them, and as a side bonus, it looked absolutely adorable.
"I don't like it when someone hits Buffy," she said quietly. "I like it even less when they throw her across the room."
Ayers and Vincent traded glances.
"But," she continued, "I do like it when she gets back up again and kicks their asses." Lizzie paused, staring at the tiny creature in her lap, then continued with more confidence. "The acting is amateur, the dialogue's not bad but the plots are too predictable, and it's a strong contender for Worst Special Effects I've Ever Seen."
The projection defaulted back to a silent preview of the tall, bald vampire and the girl. His subtitles declared, You were destined to die! It was written!
Hers proclaimed, What can I say? I flunked the written.
Lizzie pursed her lips in thought.
Finally she asked, "So ... how many seasons are there?"
Happy Easter, y'all.
