Walking up the steps to the Paris City Hall building, Marcel glanced back over his shoulder nervously, his eyes drifting up and down the street. Traffic had already started to increase, people on their way to work for the day. Not unlike himself, though still he was unclear of exactly what he was supposed to do. The instructions had been vague to the point of incomprehensibility – he had only been told to report to city hall and await further instructions. And the worst part: he hadn't even filled out an application for this position!

With a sigh, he pushed the large doors open and entered the building, looking up at the large entryway, the broad marble staircase leading up to the second floor. Footsteps reverberated on the stone above and below, adding to the cacophony filling the building. A dozen people, most of them looking like aides and pages, ran up and down the stairs without slowing down, moving between offices, important-looking documents in hand – the dance of the REMFs. He shook his head ruefully, studying one girl as she elbowed past him. She looked barely older than his own daughter, but she was working at city hall.

When had he gotten so old?

"Buteur!"

Marcel cocked his head to one side, his eyes darting around the atrium quickly to locate the familiar voice. His eyes widened, spotting the sandy-haired man walking toward him, a broad grin on his face. Marcel grinned in return, meeting the man halfway and giving him a bearhug. "Œil de Lynx! So you're here, too?" He laughed in relief at seeing a face he recognized. "How'd they rope you into this thing?"

Wilson grinned, clapping Marcel on the back. "You remember I got out… five years ago, was it?" He furrowed his brows for a moment. "Got back to Paris, sat on my ass for a week or two, and almost immediately got bored." He chuckled ruefully. "Nothing like doing nothing to make you miss the excitement, you know?"

Marcel hummed in agreement, shaking his head. "Don't I know it."

"Fortunately, the police training wasn't that different from basic," Wilson continued. "A little less of the physical; a lot more of the mental: learning the law, investigation, the like. Then this came up last year, and the boss recruited me over to the 'Mayoral Security Team'."

Marcel cocked his head, giving him a nervous look before glancing around the atrium. "Oh. I thought–"

"Don't worry. You're in the right place," Wilson assured him, giving Marcel a meaningful look. "Just like Algiers."

Marcel blinked. His eyes widened in understanding. "Of course." He chuckled. "It's been ages!"

"Sorry I missed your retirement party last year," Wilson apologized. "I wanted to attend, but things were… a little wild that weekend."

"No worries." Marcel waved a hand dismissively. "I should've looked you up when I got out. I thought I could just… jump back into civilian life – be a husband and father and be content with that." He grimaced. "There was just one thing I forgot."

"The last time you were a civilian was nearly twenty years ago?" Wilson supplied knowingly. "Believe me: I know. Why do you think I jumped into this with both feet the moment I got the chance?"

Marcel hummed. "So, how's the family? What did… Gabrielle? What did she think of you taking this job?"

Wilson let out a breath. "She…" He frowned. "She decided not to wait," he admitted, his face falling. "I guess – I think that last tour was too much for her to handle. I tried to reconnect after I retired, but…"

Marcel's eyes widened. "I'm… I'm sorry; I had no idea."

Wilson shrugged. "The price we pay to serve our country, right?" He coughed, clearing his throat. "But what about you? Um… Noélle, right?"

"Noémie," Marcel corrected him. "And she's doing very well – we both are, now. During the Chaos, she got stuck in Paris – she was at work when it all happened, and she couldn't get to the apartment. One of the Heroes – King Monkey, it was – rescued me and Ondine and got us to the portal to Angola, but Noémie ended up staying here." He frowned. "It… it was a hard month."

Wilson nodded in understanding, working his jaw in frustration. "We lost several good men that day."

"There were a lot of good people who died in that," Marcel agreed, frowning guiltily. "And I was sitting at home on my ass while it happened."

"Not much you could have done, Sarge," Wilson pointed out. "Not much any of us could do."

"Yeah… I know."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "But, then, what about your daughter? She's…"

"Eighteen," Marcel answered, his face brightening. "And I don't know if I could be prouder!"

Wilson blinked. "Is she really? But the last time I saw her, she was, what, ten?"

"That would have been before our last deployment together," Marcel mused. "And yes, all those things they say about fathering a daughter, they're all true." He shook his head ruefully. "The day I knew I was in trouble was probably when Noémie sent me a picture of Ondine leaving for collège and I had to ask where she'd gotten that skirt – and where the rest of it was!" He sighed. "I can't complain, though," he admitted. "She was boy-crazy for a couple years, but she's only ever had one boyfriend – at least that she's told us about."

"Good kid?"

"He'd better be: he's marrying her next year!"

Wilson laughed. "Feel old yet, Sarge?"

"You have no idea…"

Glancing around the atrium, Wilson hummed. "We'll have to catch up some more – I haven't kept up with all the guys from the old unit as well as I should have, though I did recommend Magnier and Allard for the Department, also. But we'll have time for that later. Right now, they're expecting us. Or rather, they're expecting you."

Nodding, Marcel followed Wilson across the atrium, toward a door marked "Records Office." He cocked his head in confusion, staring at Wilson as he opened the door and marched straight in, acknowledging the woman behind the desk with a nod and leading Marcel across to another door. "I… thought I was joining the police," Marcel observed hesitantly, giving Wilson a dubious look.

Wilson smirked, swinging the next door open. "You are."

Through that door, Marcel found himself in another office, this one with a different woman sitting behind a different desk, this one only about five years older than Ondine.

"Good morning, Élodie," Wilson greeted her. "This is Boiteux, my old sergeant. Is the boss around?"

"Hello," Élodie answered, smiling warming and holding out a hand for Marcel to shake. "You just missed Prefect Raincomprix; he's down in the lab at the moment. He and Lieutenant Ramus are expecting you."

"Thanks," Wilson told her gesturing for Marcel to follow.

"It's nice to meet you!" Élodie called after them.

"Um… likewise," Marcel agreed hesitantly, just before the elevator door closed.

Wilson quirked an eyebrow at Marcel as the elevator rushed downward. "I can tell you have questions," he observed.

"Just a few."

Wilson chuckled. "So, the Superhero Liaison Department technically doesn't exist," he began. "Officially, we are members of the Mayoral Security Detail – we've actually pulled the occasional security shift on the Mayor or his family, just to keep up the appearance – good thing, too, that day the city practically caught fire! But rather than be assigned to a single precinct or arrondissement, our department operates throughout the city, pulling resources as necessary from the traditional police. We operate out of the Records Office to avoid notice – just in case the bad guys don't know about us yet. Élodie is our dispatcher – she listens in on dispatches and emergency calls around the city for any super-criminals causing trouble."

Marcel hummed. "I was wondering about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff."

"You'll get your shoe phone next week."

After only a few minutes, the elevator arrived on the bottom floor and opened onto a large space lit from above by sterile white lights. Two structures roughly twice the size of the office upstairs stood not far from the elevator, their walls composed of a transparent plastic, though one seemed opaque at the moment. Marcel's footsteps reverberated off the stone floor and walls as he and Wilson walked toward them. Beyond the two cubicle rooms, Marcel could just make out what appeared to be a large firing range, with an assortment of targets set at various distances in front of the righthand wall, and a trio of shooting benches close to the center of the space. On the wall opposite where they had come in was a second elevator door; built into the wall beside it were a pair of large containment cells with glass windows taking up most of the side facing the interior. Both cells appeared to be empty.

Marcel looked around in surprise, his eyes wide as he took in the space. "And all of this is under City Hall?"

Wilson quirked an eyebrow at him. "This used to be just one floor of the City Hall's Archives. They cleared it out just for us."

Marcel nodded slowly, following Wilson between the two cubicles toward the firing range.

Four figures stood near the shooting benches, speaking quietly as they approached. The larger red-haired man nodded slowly, his brows furrowed, to something the slight, darker-skinned, grey-haired older man told him. Marcel's gaze was drawn past them to the third figure, leaning against a shooting bench, one of his arms entirely missing from the elbow and replaced with a large, silvery cylinder. Marcel opened his mouth to ask Wilson a question, only to freeze on spotting the lithe, green-skinned fourth figure. The snakelike creature, resting on its coiled body, holding a tablet in its hands, turned toward them, its eyes blinking, and its mouth turned into an approximation of a smile. As it did so, the other three glanced in their direction.

"I take it you're Boiteux?" asked the redhead, holding out his hand and giving Marcel a firm handshake. "Good to meet you."

"Likewise, sir."

"Raincomprix," the man told him. "Roger Raincomprix. "I understand your daughter was in my daughter's year in school."

Marcel furrowed his brows in thought but quickly nodded. "Yes; she did mention that." His eyes shifted toward the snake, and he swallowed anxiously.

The older man smiled. "You may ask."

"Sorry," Marcel apologized, grimacing. "But… what are you?"

The snake creature blinked at Marcel, studying him carefully. "I am… Sssarsssavat."

Marcel stared at him nonplussed.

"Sarsavat is… extraterrestrial," the older man explained. "He is a Sssinulian who crash-landed in Paris several months ago. Since then, he has been assisting me here and learning our language."

"Vernant is our lab tech," Wilson told Marcel.

"Welcome to the Superhero Liaison Department," Raincomprix informed Marcel, giving him a broad smile. "Our department exists to liaise between the Paris Police and the Heroes of Paris. We will assist the Heroes of Paris in their duties when the need arises, coordinating between them and the regular police; occasionally, we are called upon to handle situations that the regular police are unequipped to deal with."

Marcel nodded. "Hence the reason for all the secrecy?"

Raincomprix's voice took on a somber tone. "The Heroes of Paris discovered last year that the Paris Police Prefecture had been infiltrated by dozens of moles working for a criminal calling himself the Lynchpin. If they were going to work with the police, they needed to know that they could trust those they worked with. That is where we come in. And that is why you can never tell anyone exactly what you do here."

"What about my wife? My daughter?"

Raincomprix frowned. "Wives are permitted," he allowed. "Beyond that, I would be extremely cautious. You can tell your daughter that you work for the Paris Police, but that is it – at least for now."

Marcel let out a breath. "Very well."

Glancing down at his watch, Raincomprix pursed his lips. "I have a meeting with the Mayor shortly, but I will be around. You will need to stop by my office later today; Jeanne will have a packet of forms for you to fill out. But for now, I will entrust you to Lieutenant Ramus for the rest of your training," he told Marcel, nodding to the others and moving toward the elevator.

As the man with the prosthetic stood up and folded his arms, giving Marcel an evaluating look, Marcel arched an eyebrow dubiously. "I should warn you, I don't have much in the way of police training. Investigation, observation, and the like."

Ramus waved his hand dismissively. "I understand," he assured him. "Those skills can come in time. For now, what is most important is this–" Picking up a rifle off the shooting bench, he handed it to Marcel.

"HK 416," Marcel responded immediately, checking the chamber immediately before turning the rifle over in his hands. "Chambered in 5.56 NATO… adjustable for semi- and automatic fire… four and a half kilos… red-dot sight – this one's slightly better than RPIMa's standard issue," he added, holding it up to his shoulder and looking through the sight at one of the targets. Popping open the barrel under the barrel, he hummed. "Underbarrel grenade launcher – not standard issue."

"You know your weapons," Ramus observed, raising an eyebrow.

Wilson grinned. "I told you Buteur was good."

Ramus nodded pensively and held out a hand to take back the rifle. "That's what we're looking for." To Marcel, he explained, "A couple of our officers have the ability to go toe-to-toe with a super-powered threat. But during the Chaos, we realized that we couldn't just rely on BRI for backup when something major happens – we need our own response team. That's where you come in. With your military experience, our plan is for you to lead a Special Response Team: three or four officers with extra weapons training who can provide more… specialized support."

Marcel nodded slowly and gestured toward the rifle. "And is that what we're expected to use?"

Vernant grinned in amusement and shook his head, as Sarsavat picked up another rifle and handed it to Marcel. "Actually, you will be using this."

Marcel's eyes widened on examining the device – roughly the same size as the HK 416, but little more than half the weight. Like the HK, it also had an underbarrel device, but smaller than the grenade launcher. Holding it up to his shoulder, Marcel sighted down the barrel toward the targets along the far wall, keeping his finger off the trigger. "What is it? And how is it so much lighter?"

"This is the latest version of our proprietary energy rifle," Vernant explained. "We have spent most of the last year working on developing it, using the HK 416 as a basis. Most of the controls are functionally identical to the conventional rifle, to facilitate the transition from one to the other. Instead of a grenade launcher, however, this rifle will fire an array of proprietary pulse projectiles – nonlethal rounds capable of incapacitating a target. Although we are also developing more powerful projectiles for use on the most powerful targets."

Marcel's eyes widened. "May I?"

Vernant nodded. "By all means."

Slowly, methodically, Marcel lined up the sight on the closest target, shifting his stance slightly, and depressed the trigger. A single pulse of energy darted out, faster than the eye could follow, and burned straight through the cardboard. Two more pulses followed in quick succession, and Marcel activated the safety, dropping the stock from his shoulder. "Not bad. Almost no recoil."

"Excellent!" Vernant sighed in relief.

"Weapons training will be a major part of your job," Ramus told him. "Once we hire the rest of the team, you'll be responsible for making sure they practice."

Marcel replaced the rifle on the table and nodded his acceptance. "Sounds go–"

"Alert!" A speaker mounted in the ceiling chirped to life, drawing Marcel's attention upward. "Potential super-crime in progress," Élodie's voice announced. "Robbery, 17th Arrondissement. Reports of at least four suspects, highly dangerous."

Ramus raised an eyebrow at Marcel. "Stay here; we'll continue your training after this."

"Can I come with you?"

Ramus glanced over at Wilson, who gave a firm nod. Sighing, Ramus agreed. "I guess your on-the-job training starts now."