Chapter 3 - Strange Happenings
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Notes/Disclaimer: The Discworld and all its characters are the sole property of Terry Pratchett. If I could worship him as a God, I would, but I'm not quite sure how he'd take that. At any rate, no money is being made off of this.
Warning: Little bit of Greebo/Vimes, little bit of Greebo/Vetinari, possibly a little Vetinari/Vimes, probably not.
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Deep in the dark alleys of the Shades, something evil lurked. It was very good at lurking; that was really what it had been designed for. That and exuding darkness. It exuded rather well also. It was little more than a menacing presence at this point, but it was growing. Its entire being trembled with anticipation as it grew. The Fight was coming.
Vimes stared at the papers on his desk and didn't really see them. He was trying very hard not to think about his encounter in the alley. He was not really succeeding.
He wondered if he wanted the strange being to have been a vampire. On the one hand, undead, which meant he had been in real danger of being turned himself. That thought made him shudder and want to vomit. On the other hand, if it wasn't a vampire, then he had almost been raped in an alley. That thought made him shudder and want to vomit. It was really a no-not-vomit situation.
There was a polite knock on the door.
"Yes Carrot?" said Vimes tiredly.
Carrot opened the door a crack and poked his head in. "How did you know it was me, Sir?"
Vimes didn't have the heart to tell him that he was the only person who every knocked politely. Probably he was the only one in the Watch even capable of it.
"A good commander knows these things," he said instead. "What can I do for you?"
"We've just received word that the Patrician would like to see you in his office, Sir."
"Now?"
"As soon as it is convenient for you, he said Sir."
Damn, thought Vimes darkly. Ah well. It wasn't like staring at his desk and trying not to think about his encounter in the alley was producing anything like real work anyway, no matter what he tried to tell himself. He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Be right there," he said.
Carrot nodded and saluted. Vimes wondered how long it would take the kid for that to wear off. Probably never, unfortunately.
The walk to the Patrician's office was like a walk to the gallows. Granted, it was usually like that, but this time even more so. He knew exactly what Vetinari would say, too. He could picture the folded hands, the ever-so-slightly quirked eyebrow. Could hear the icily polite voice, "It seems crime levels are on the rise, Commander Vimes."
He sighed when he reached the waiting room in front of Vetinari's office and sat down in one of the stiff wooden chairs. To his surprise however, the secretary made a waving motion at him. "Lord Vetinari said you were to go right in," he said.
Vimes stood skeptically. Lord Vetinari never said he was to "go right in." No one was to "go right in." He made you wait out in the hallway in uncomfortable chairs, so you had time to think about what you did like a bad little boy. He made you sweat. He didn't tell you to "go right in."
Vimes went over to the door and knocked. "Come in, Commander Vimes," came the muffled voice. He could hear the icy politeness already, even through the wooden door. He opened the door with a sigh of resignation. "You wanted to see me, Sir?"
Vetinari's desk was covered in a miniature Ankh-Morpork of paperwork. There was even a little surrounding wall of it that sprawled around the edges of the desk. There were two piles on the floor next to his desk, one of neatly stacked papers, and one precarious stack emerging from his over-flowing waste bin. Lord Vetinari himself looked immaculate and alert as always, but also a little… overwhelmed? Vimes shook his head, wondering if he really had hit his head too hard in the alley yesterday. Vetinari never looked overwhelmed. It must have been a function of the paperwork, not anything particularly about the man himself.
"I am afraid I do not have very long to speak with you today, Commander," said Vetinari. "As you can see, I am rather busy. 'Swamped,' I believe, is the term." He looked up briefly at Vimes, like he was daring him to question his terminology. Vimes said nothing. Vetinari continued. "I have been getting rather disturbing reports from all corners of the city, Commander. All sorts of crimes, from petty thieving to rape and murder. I want to know what you're doing about it."
"The phenomenon is under investigation, Sir," said Vimes curtly. He bloody well knew these problems were coming out of the woodwork. What, did he think he was the only one these people complained to?
"I do hope you conclude it swiftly then, Commander," said Vetinari. "Because if things continue to escalate at this rate, the city shall have a complete breakdown within the next week."
Vimes blinked. "A week? How'd you figure that?"
"There are graphs, Commander," said Vetinari. "Very complicated. I'm sure you do not wish to be bored with the details."
That was probably true, Vimes conceded mentally.
"Anything else?" Vimes asked. Had Vetinari really dragged him down here just to tell him that? Well, Vimes wouldn't put it past him.
"Quite," said Vetinari. He paused and very precisely drew out a piece of paper from the Shades equivalent of the paperwork city. "There have also been apparently unconnected reports of a vigilante in the city. Mustache, large facial scar, one bad eye? Generally naked? Sound familiar?"
Vimes felt his blood run cold. "Ye-yes. I do believe I've seen him before, Sir."
Vetinari frowned. "Is he one of yours, Commander?"
"No Sir!" Vimes hastened to assure him.
Vetinari continued to frown at him, waiting for him to volunteer more information, but when he did not, Vetinari put the paper back down on his desk. He steepled his hands in front of him, just as Vimes had pictured. "I do not want a vigilante running around my city, Commander Vimes, rising crime or not. Uncontrolled heroism is dangerous. Find him and arrest him, if you please."
"Yes Sir," said Vimes. As though he wouldn't have done that anyway.
"Now, I'm sure you have lots of work to do, as I do, and I wouldn't like to keep you from it," said Vetinari, and went back to his paperwork.
"Sir." Vimes saluted and, with a mental shrug, left the room.
When he had gone, Vetinari's gaze drifted back down to his paperwork. He had never seen anything quite like it before. Of course he was used to receiving complaints; it was one of the many less-than-pleasant duties his office entailed. But usually it was thinly-veiled hate mail, implying that if he were doing his job, none of this would have happened in the first place. This was not usual.
Vetinari picked up a paper at random and looked at a single phrase near the end that he had underlined in red. The same phrase that was now underlined in red on nearly every other piece of paper that covered his desk:
"We need a hero."
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