Chapter Seven

Artwork by Keith Elder

There was a flapping of wings on the outside landing, and Gadget tiredly stumbled into the light to investigate. Gadget had pretty much exhausted any ability for surprise that day, so she didn't even startle at yet another odd visitor on her doorstep. A pigeon perched on the deck, hopping impatiently from foot to foot and trying to shake a message off its leg, frustrated by the rubber band.

"Hey, rat, come get this letter off my foot," the pigeon insisted.

"I'm a mouse," offered Gadget.

"Rat, mouse, whatever," screeched the infuriated bird, turning its head from side to side to look her over. "I'm not exactly big on binocular vision here, kapeesh?"

Gadget grimly stalked closer to the bird and whipped the rubber band off its leg and taking the slightly oversized, rumpled scrap of paper. The pigeon sighed with relief, strutting around the small deck and stretching the leg out. "I mean, what am I, a refrigerator for some bozo to come and stick Post-It notes on? Do I have the word 'Frigidaire' tatooed on my forehead? I don't think so."

"Thanks for the message," Gadget managed to get in edgewise.

"I'll give you a message. Here it is: I quit. I'm never working for a cat again. Wrapped me up in rubber bands like yesterday's newspaper. Unh-uh, forget it." Before Gadget could ask him about the cat business, the pigeon had scrabbled his way into the air, hauling tail as fast as he could from the treehouse hideout, and away from the city by the looks of it.

Shaking her head in confusion, Gadget retreated into the dark recesses of the Rangers' desecrated stronghold, amazed again at how little it felt like home now. It struck her that it had never been only the place that had captured her heart, but the rare combination of people in it. No more, the empty rooms spoke to her. No more.

Gadget and Devin sat down to the sad task of taking inventory. As a side project, Gadget hoped to scrape together enough odds and ends to rig up a makeshift viewscreen. Actually showing the destruction to the paper-pushers back at Rescue Aid Society was a goal she pursued with grim determination. Devin kept a close eye on her, warning her to rest a few times when her efforts took too much out of her. In Devin's troubled mind, a phrase kept repeating itself. "Pretty spooky, huh?" That had been Gadget's severe understatement. Devin hadn't seen the place at its best—hadn't seen the pillowfights and card games, late-night movie marathons. He hadn't been a part of the life that went on in the Rangers' hideout between times of trouble. But he guessed at what the good times might have been like, and considered himself almost lucky he'd never become attached to the place. Devin sorted through the piles of shredded cloth and broken glass, keeping himself safely apart from the evidence with latex gloves and a stranger's vision. Gadget, Devin realized as she brushed a discreet tear away, could not separate the rubble and ruin from the happy home it had once been.

"Shouldn't Special Teams bring their equipment in?" Gadget grimaced, pulling back from her unpleasant task and stretching on a new pair of gloves. She'd been sorting through shards of viewscreen glass for a while, the paw bandages keeping her from getting sliced as often as Devin. It was painful work for her, but she wasn't about to let Devin take on the mess by himself.

"Special Teams will have their paws full," muttered Devin, holding a large jagged piece of glass carefully by the edges and breathing on it. Fogging, the glass revealed a nearly complete paw-print. He whipped a Zip-Loc out of his doctor kit, and bagged the piece. "We're after evidence that might not hold up long enough for S.T. to run it through the mill. 'Sides, look at this place."

Devin had a point. Gadget had carefully stretched string across the main lounge in a grid pattern, and had filled a notebook with observations and locations of evidence. It looked for all the world like a proper police crime scene, and Devin could see Gadget hated the effect. "I know it's tough to see your home all broken up like this, but you're doing the best you possibly can to avenge and honor your friends. We've mapped out and protected the scene, and given everybody a head start on catching the bastards responsible for all this." Devin absentmindedly bagged a patch of brown cloth with three ragged, bloodstained scratches ripped through it. Maybe the lunatics had been fighting each other... Devin dropped the evidence into his medical bag for safekeeping.

"What do you think will happen to—" started Gadget, choking up. "—do you think they'll let me fix the place up? I mean, me and the boys built this place with our bare paws, but Rescue Aid paid for everything. There's a lot of damage, but I'm sure with a little time I could patch things—"

Devin gulped, and opted for the truth. "Rescue Aid will probably want you to take a long—leave of absence. They'll find work for a Ranger of your talents, I'm sure..."

Gadget groaned, plunging her hands back into a pile of shredded and smoke-stained papers next to a filing cabinet in one corner. "You mean they'll stick me behind a nice safe desk while the 'real' crime-solvers do my job."

Devin frowned. "Hey," he nearly barked at her. "You're for real. This is the front lines. It's just not going to do anyone any good if you overwork yourself."

Gadget blushed a bit and spread her paws apologetically. "Okay, so you've got a point. Don't get so hot under the collar. Get yourself a drink or something." Devin shrugged his shoulders and stood, whipping off his gloves. He was pretty thirsty.

"Get you anything?" he ventured.

"Just a glass of water, thanks." Gadget grinned. "Remember, you're at B-20 on the grid." Devin raised an eyebrow and stepped carefully out of the square of string. Scooping up his medical bag out of unavoidable habit, he resisted an impulse to high-step through the squares on the way out—this was no place for a football drill.

Button images by Keith Elder