Scion: Sins of the Children

by Syreene

As the rest of the world becomes aware of the existence of Scions, those in New Orleans are finding they need to beware those who fear and covet what they don't understand...

4. Death Becomes Her

The luxury resort was well-removed from civilization, but guests could hardly be described as wanting for creature comforts. There were staff to open doors, carry your luggage, arrange day trips to neighboring islands and entertainment venues, as well as masseuses and stylists. One could even order custom-tailored clothes. Still, the trappings of humanity were somewhat incongruous to what was taking place in the poolside meeting room. It was a meeting of the gods, for good or ill.

"What comes next is for the mortals to decide," rumbles the All-Father.

Most of Odin's colleagues, male and female, nodded sagely. Apollo and Aphrodite were lazing about the pool, while Dionysus was amusing himself at the tiki bar.

"More sake!" Raiden pronounced.

"Agreed," said Zeus. He was dressed in sharply-creased slacks and a sky blue polo shirt. "What the All-Father was speaking of, not Raiden's drink order."

A tiny paper umbrella flicked through the air, accompanied by a basso laugh that was openly mocking. "You'll need this, then."

"You have something to say, Loa?" sneered Poseidon.

Baron Samedi's smile beamed from amid his traditional death-mask makeup. He took a long draw from a Cohiba. "A storm is coming. A fucking big one, too. A gentlemen's agreement will not be worth much … and even if it were, we are hardly gentlemen."

"Speak for yourself," Artemis said coldly. Samedi tipped his hat to the huntress.

Horus nodded in agreement. "He is correct. We are not given to … sitting things out."

"We all have horses in this race," Samedi grinned. "Some of us, more than one."

"Horse racing! Now you're talking!" Raiden pounded on the table in approval, then belched. "Let's have some fun!"

"And you accuse us, hok gwei?" Shihuangdi looked down his nose at Samedi.

"You're not listening," Baron Samedi rolled his eyes. "What happened in Las Vegas was very nice, but … what's the saying? What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. We are gods. Power and passion are in our blood ... and that of our children. Our children. Perhaps it's been so long that you've all forgotten what it means to be flesh and bl-"

"We were never 'flesh and blood,'" countered Ra.

"Shush," purred Bast. "I want to hear what he has to say."

"Do not presume to 'shush' me, child," Ra warned.

"Samedi," Bast smiled. "Please continue."

"Their passion is ours. It is what has made them what they are today" Samedi said. "But if we deny them this gift, slam doors in their faces, we assure that we are the ones who will be left behind. I, for one, will not go quietly."

"Have you ever?" laughed Maman Brigitte. "You're one of the loudest, noisiest bastards I know."

Samedi grinned at his wife, laughing. "And proud of it, m'dear."

"And what would you have us do?" Zeus demanded.

"Change the rules," Samedi said solemnly.

---

Near Beaumont, Texas

"And the Lord told Gideon, 'With these 300 men I will rescue you and give you victory over the Midianites.' It is also written, 'I am the Lord, Thy God. Thou shalt have no false gods before Me,'" Gabriel said sternly. He spread his hands in a gesture of benediction. "Through our actions, we will lay bare the sins of the disbelievers."

The assembly nodded in agreement.

"You have your assignments," Gabriel told them.

Michael Westlake gathered up his teammates and approached their spiritual leader. "Brother Gabriel? Your blessing, please?"

"Michael," he said. "Thomas. And Paul. Of course. Bow your heads."

The three men did as they were told.

"Lord, we beseech Thee; bless these men, your servants, and the mission they undertake in your Name. Armor them in your Wisdom and Righteousness. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen."

"Amen," the three men intoned.

Gabriel clasped the forearms of each man in turn. Nor were they the only ones who came forward to seek their leader's blessing. Three hundred men and women, divided into cells of one to three members, and tasked with the mission of opening the nation's eyes to the threat. An act to which some would stridently condemn Gabriel and the Wolves of God for, but one that was necessary to combat the lies defaming the Glory of God.

"We've got a timetable," Michael told his team. "But if either of you want to go home, say goodbye to your families …? We can make up the time on the road."

"Been on missions before," Paul said. "Though not quite like this. My Sarah understands. I appreciate the offer, Paul, but I'm good."

Thomas glanced down at his shoes. "I'd like that, if Paul doesn't mind?"

"One hour," Michael said. "We'll pick you up."

Paul waited until the younger man had left. "He's not ready, Michael."

"Young man just got married three months ago," Michael said. "Can't judge a man for being in love with his bride. If Thomas isn't ready for the task ahead, you and I can work around it. Let's load up, get some gas, and some food for the drive. We'll be in New Orleans on schedule."

---

New Orleans

"Goddamnit!" Detective James Ashton swore as he slapped a folder onto his desk. "Almost had the little bastard."

"What case was that?" Kate Spinelli asked, even though she had her suspicions. She glanced over at her colleague's desk and confirmed them. It was a folder from Ashton's 'usual suspects' drawer. "Oh. Robinet. What's he done now?"

"Skated on a B&E on Magazine Street," Ashton snarled. "He just happened to be several blocks away and visible on a security camera."

"That's not a crime, Jim."

"He's dirty and you know it, Kate," Ashton tapped the folder before putting back in his file cabinet. "Kid's got more misdemeanors than there are letters in the word. He's a pickpocket and I'll bet you good money that he's hip deep in that string of burglaries you've got in your in-box."

"I'll handle my own investigations, thank you," Spinelli frowned. "Robinet's not a suspect."

"Take a harder look."

"Jim, look. I understand he was a thorn in your side when you were a beat cop, but let me give you some advice. You bring this grudge match to a courtroom, the public defender will make sushi out of you, and the Department walks away with a black eye. Hell, I'm surprised the Chief hasn't spoken to you about your personal 'most wanted' list."

"Fuck off, Spinelli. 'I'll handle my own investigations, thank you,'" he retorted.

---

Thursday was all-you-can-eat spaghetti night at Mama Benedetti's, and always packed by the locals. Tourists didn't come to New Orleans to eat Italian food, even good Italian food. Chicken Parmesan that wasn't a frozen chicken patty with a Kraft Single of mozzarella laid overtop and drowned in marinara, but a chicken breast pounded flat and breaded in a mix of seasoned bread crumbs, with shredded mozzarella and Mama Benedetti's slow-simmered marinara.

Fixer was there with his friends. Like him, they were college graduates, but the truth was that there weren't jobs for graduates. At least, not anything that wasn't slapping burgers together or bussing tables for minimum wage. So a until-you-bust pasta dinner for $12 (less if you skipped the meatballs, but only a crazy person skipped those) was damn near a Golden Ticket.

The truth was that it cost Fixer considerably more than $12. Dining here allowed him to slide an envelope with a quarterly payoff for the Scorselli Family to a server or busboy, who would promptly deliver it to the right people. It was the cost of doing business in New Orleans. The right palms had to be crossed with silver. It was true when Jean Lafitte's privateers sailed the Gulf, and it was true now, with the Mafia. The payment gave Fixer and his friends permission to work certain areas in town, and was an informal partnership between Fixer and Giovanni Scorselli III, the heir to the Scorselli criminal empire, and a former high-school classmate.
It was the same kind of dance they did on the street, Dre watching the crowd for unfriendly eyes, Kassia and Taymon pretending to be boyfriend-girlfriend, Taymon standing up while Kassia excused herself to go to the ladies' room. And while they shielded Fixer from direct view, the envelope was affixed to the underside of the table, tucked inside the dessert menu, or even sandwiched between two plates as the table was cleared. Nothing was said, no names were spoken, and the money was clean.

---

Thursday night...

"She's 26, works for an internet startup," Kenari says as she pulls up on a motorcycle next to an apartment building. "Boyfriend, too. She drives a Tesla. And judging from the rock on her hand, he's a possible mark down the road."

"Don't do them too close to one another," advised a voice in her ear.

"You know me better than that," Kenari told her friend and co-conspirator. "One mark will set up several more. The cards told her that there would be loss in her future, and there will be. When she tells her friends the cards predicted it, some of them will be curious and pay a visit to the wise and wonderful reader who warned her."

"The cards," said Mouser. "You mean you."

"Actually, I mean the cards," Kenari laughed. "The Five of Cups and the High Priestess both came up."

"Betokening loss and yours truly," Mouser said. They'd worked together long enough that he was conversant on the cards and their meaning. Or, he had reference material hot-linked. She knew he was very much the spider in an electronic web.

"It can also be suggestive of a happy marriage and my client," Kenari said. "Hold on, bypassing the alarm."

"Make & model?" Mouser asked.

"Graves 210," Kenari replied. Mouser kept track of such things. "And, presto." She jimmied the window and slipped inside. "I'm in. Give me fifteen," she said.

"You're on the clock," Mouser said.

"Nice place," Kenari said, not bothering with the living room. She - and Mouser - preferred small things that could be carried off easily, and whose absence might even go unnoticed for days. That would be the bedroom or bathroom for most women, and that was where she went.

A tortoiseshell cat looked up as she entered the bedroom, giving her a somewhat demanding yowl.

"Where is she?" the cat was asking.

"Your owner, little one?" Kenari asked. "I do not know. Did she not come home?"

A frustrated mewl. No. Three days. I am out of food.

Kenari frowned. She was burning up time.

"Where's your dish?" she asked.

Another yowl. The cat hopped off the bed and strode towards the kitchen. Kenari broke off from her search and followed the animal, finding an empty bowl. The cat pawed at a cabinet door; a bag of kibble was inside. Kenari filled the bowl to the brim.

"I do not know where your owner is," she told the cat. "Will you be all right?"

"For now."

"Time check," Kenari said.

"Five minutes left," Mouser reported.

"Crap."

"What is it?" he said, concerned.

"I'll tell you later. This might be a wash."

"Don't take chances. Get out of there," he said.

"Shit... I hate coming away empty handed," Kenari mutters to herself as she moves quickly back to the bedroom to check the closet. "There's got to be something...anything I can just grab..."

There's a jewelry box on the dresser, containing the usual assortment of decorative baubles, but also a couple of soft pouches in baby blue. Tiffany.
"Jackpot," she breathes.

There's a delicate chain with a small amethyst pendant, and a sterling and rose-gold bracelet, roughly $2,000 of portable goodness. The items were slipped into Kenari's own carry bag, the Tiffany pouches left in their original places.

"Two minute warning," Mouser says.

"On my way," Kenari whispers as she turns to see the tortoise shell cat looking at her.

"Know my scent, little one," she says as she bends down to scratch the cat behind her ear. "If your human does not return, come to me and you will be welcome with open arms. In the meantime... it's time for me to go."

She moves quickly down the hallway and crawls out the window into the shadows to perch on the ledge. " I'm out," she whispers as she quietly closes the window.

Kenari sat on the roof and did a more detailed examination of her prize as she listened to the music from One Eyed Jacks drifting upwards from the open doors below. She wanted to enjoy the shining jewels in her hand that she knew had to be worth a pretty penny... but she just couldn't shake the feeling that something was off tonight.

"Grey... think you can do a check on that woman for me? If her cat is right, she's been gone for 3 days and didn't bother to pack or make arrangements for her pet."

She hefts the necklace in her hand as she bites her lip. "When I told her to expect loss in her future, I might've been more right than I realized."

"Running a check, hold on," Mouser says. "Works for a social media company, should have a decent footprint. Huh. Yeah, she's all over - Instagram, Twitter ... and, zap, nothing since Wednesday night. No morning coffee pictures, no weekday memes, nothing. Let me ... ah ... check the police blotter."

There's a longer pause, and you know Mouser is accessing the police computers.

"Nothing. No missing person's report yet. I can cast a wider net, look at phone records and email if you want."

"Yeah... go ahead and do that," Kenari replies as she holds up the amethyst to the light. "If the hubbie got tired of her expensive tastes, he might not have reported it to the cops. Last thing I want to do is play patsy for some rich asshole tired of his wife, you know?"

"Martinez isn't married, she's engaged to the CEO of the company she works for," Mouser tells you. "I'll let you know what I find. Maybe take a look-see at her bank records. That always works on Law & Order."

"Wonderful," Kenari replies dryly as she puts the jewels back in her pouch. "Guess you can add corporate espionage into that potential can of worms." She moves towards the fire escape to make her way down to the street but hesitates as a thought strikes her.

"Who does she work for, anyway?"

"Social media start-up called Socialize!," Mouser tells you. "Oriented towards smartphones. New digs in the Uptown tech sector. You might want to leave it for the cops. Because I certainly wouldn't want to recommend you take a look at the corner office on the third floor, even if you bypassed the alarm on the northeast stairwell and avoided the camera in the elevator lobby."

Kenari chuckles as she lands in the alley. "Your caution is duly noted, but I'm afraid to say my curiosity is peaked. Sex or money, you think?"

Isn't it usually both?

"Too right," she mutters as she unzips her black hooded jacket and turns it inside out to reveal a colorful pattern of blues and golds. "Either way, I think our grieving fiancee and his company bear further investigation."

She puts the jacket back on and shakes out her hair. "Let me drop some things off, and then you can tell me more about those things you wouldn't do."

There's a chuckle over the earpiece. Looking up the floor plans now...

The night is young. It is just after midnight as you find yourself regarding the corporate headquarters of Socialize! If you were more of a computer hacker, the treasure trove of personal data on their servers would be a tempting target, indeed.

"Loading dock, dumpsters in the back. Shredder bin," Mouser says. "And a security guard that goes by on the quarter-hour."

Kenari looked up at the glass walls of the building and smiled to herself as she noticed that the moldings between the panes of glass created a small ledge... and look at that, the designers of the building were even considerate enough to make the corner edges of the moldings stick out from the building as they joined together.

"Did I ever tell you how I used to get in trouble climbing up to the roof of our home as a kid? I was jealous of the cats and wanted to see what they saw..."

There's a sigh over the earpiece. That's a new one, actually. Let me check the roof entrance...

She raises her turtleneck over the lower half of her face and pulls up her hood before checking her gloves. "You've got 10 minutes," she replies before running towards the building.

You stifle an expression of frustration. It looks easier in the movies, thieves equipped with fancy climbing rigs, rappeling down from the heights, bypassing laser beams and disinterested guards. It's more like free-climbing a mountain, a process of handholds and leverage, knowing when to press and when to pause.

Nine minutes, forty-eight seconds. Nice job, you tell yourself.

"Standard locks, electrical," Mouser tells you. "You know the drill."

"What's the situation inside?" Kenari asks as she pries open the face plate of the keypad and pulls a set of tools out of her pouch. "Poorly paid college students working as night shift security guards?"

"Top-of-the-line system, monitored cameras, keycard access to elevators and the server farm. Nothing we can't hack, bypass, or disable," Mouser says. "Guards are a private company, good rep."

"Nothing we can't hack, bypass, or disable," you smirk. "Hey, this is nice. Landau 5150."

Eeny meeny miney moe / You can't see me / Here I go / All your secrets I'll soon know / Eeeny meeny miney moe

LEDs blink three times, then flash a telltale standby pattern. The system is offline, for now. The door yields to a moment with a diamond pick.

"I'm in."

"Ditto. Camera on the landing, clear. Go now."

"Third floor."

"Fisheye over the elevators. Pick your way through the cubicle farm."

"Which corner?"

"Northeast."

"Got it."

"I'm so going to start calling you Morpheus now," Kenari whispers as she crouches low and moves from cubicle to cubicle as she makes her way towards the offices of Catherine Martinez. "Door security?" she whispers.

"Standard lock. Her workstation will be token-protected," Mouser says. "Lemme see what I can do."

You glance about the empty cubicle farm before slipping into Martinez' office. There's a dozen roses in a vase on her desk, with a card that reads, "I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry."

So much for the high drama of a murder-for-money scheme.

Standard executive desk, a small conference set-up in the corner, a fancy big-screen monitor with real-time performance specs. A collection of stuffed penguins on the bookcase: Linux, Bloom County, Happy Feet.

None of the locks on the drawers are worth mentioning. Routine files. Some security-clearance type stuff, including a folder on Twylla's company. No memos or blackmail files.

But the desk has an old-fashioned sideboard. You slide it out to its full extension, and there's a 3x5 card with a set of usernames and passwords. Her own terminal, and the servers, no doubt ...

"I just love it when people are predictable," Kenari chuckles before reading off the list of usernames and passwords to Grey Mouser. "See if any of those are the keys to the kingdom while I look around."

Kenari crouches down next to the bookcase and begins to search for anything out of the ordinary that might be slipped between or behind the books on the shelf. "We'll see if I'm the only one who's watched too many movies..."

There is nothing behind the books, or even behind the shelf, proper. But amid the technical manuals, Schneier's Applied Cryptography, there are several novels, including a well-worn hardcover of The Secret Garden, still bearing a library catalog number affixed to the spine.

Which means a pocket inside ...

Sure enough, there's a small pocket inside the cover, holding the original check-out card, a dog-eared library card for 'C. Martinez,' and a card key.

Jackpot.

"Speaking of keys," Kenari whispers as she taps it against her hand with a smile, "I wonder what the head CIO's will get me into?"

There's a low whistle. That's like the One Ring of key cards right there. I'm still going through the password and username combinations, so hold tight.

Kenari plasters herself against the solid wood door and slowly reaches up to activate the lock as she sees the movement of a flashlight through the frosted glass of the office windows. "I'm not going anywhere right now," she whispers.

Evading the security guard is literally a game of cat-and-mouse. You don't want to get too eager and move before he's out of range, but your sideline is always mindful of the clock and that narrow window of opportunity.

The guard concludes his rounds, and you're on the move, retracing your steps through the damned cubicle farm and upstairs to the server farm. Use of the CTO's cardkey is likely to leave an electronic footprint, but it's unavoidable.

Rack upon rack of RAIDs (Redundant Array of Inexpensive Disks) comprise the 'cloud' that is the backbone of Socialize! - a perfect net in which to collect and collate enormous amounts of personal data. It's a pity you can't run a search routine to winnow out potential targets for future larcenous outings.

But it's the the burnished black tower of removable storage units that draws your attention, seven pairs labelled alphabetically, in some form of chronological order. A multi-terabyte drive and a backup for each day of the week.

You have neither the time nor carrying ability to take everything, but a pair of the drives would be just within the realm of the possible.

"Decisions, decisions..." Kenari whispers to herself as she runs a finger down the rack. "Who wants to come home with me? The cat said her master had been gone for three days..." she grabs the unit and back-up that she hopes from the labeling is from three days ago. "Let's see if you can provide some answers."

The Scion of Ptah should be able to help. Between her and my skills we'll crack this cookie and find our fortune.

"I'd settle for some answers," Kenari whispers. "Hands are going to be full so heading out the same way is out. What's the safest route out of this rat maze?"

Checking cameras now...

Well what do you know... looks like an anonymous prankster gave the address for the building when ordering half a dozen pizzas and they're giving them the food for free. Lucky, huh?

Kenari chuckles as she slips through the stairwell door and listens as the guards below talk about what kind of toppings they hope the pizza has before the heavy door clicks behind them.

"Yeah... imagine that."

She silently makes her way down the stairs and past a conveniently malfunctioning security camera before deactivating the fire alarm and sneaking out the emergency exit.

"That reminds me... I should pick up some more food for Matit on the way home," she says to herself as she straps her prizes to the back of her bike and puts on her helmet.

You should hit the Stop & Rob over at the corner of Toluse and Bourbon street. I hear they've got a lockbox for goodwill donations out front. You know how I feel about worthy causes...

"I'll be sure to make a donation," Kenari says with a smile before revving the motorcycle engine to life and driving off into the night.

---

Friday Morning, Stormwatch Hangar

Sebastian was concerned when he saw airfield security outside Stormwatch's hangar.

"Morning, Mr. Vogel," said the officer.

"Glen," Sebastian said. "Is there a problem?"

"Someone cut the lock down at the north end of the field," Glen told him. "We're just checking with tenants to make sure everything's ship shape."

"Just got here, myself," Sebastian said. He keyed in the alarm code and opened the door. On first glance, everything was where it should be. The plane was ready to go, the lockers where their equipment and drones were, secure.

"Everything looks like it's here. If I find a little blond girl sleeping on the crash couch in the office, I'll holler," he told the security officer.

"Blond girl? With y'all, I expect some bear wrestling," Glen laughed. "Have a good day, Mr. Vogel."

Sebastian pulled out his phone as he did a walk around of the hanger. After two rings a woman's groggy voice answered incoherently.

"Hey Kylia, sorry to wake you early but I need you to get in ASAP," he said. The reply was still incoherent and decidedly grumpy. "Looks like there were some break-ins at the air-field. Everything looks normal but I want you to give the plane a once over before we're in the air." he spoke slowly, to help it ease through her morning funk.

The line was quiet for a few moments before she responded with significantly more alert, "I'll be right there." After the call, he sent out a mass text to the rest of the team with an update and then headed into the office to start the coffee.

"Anything missing?" Diana asks as she gets out of her car.

"Still checking," Rob Wilkins said. "Cameras are all present and accounted for, so are the drones. I was worried we were going to be on the list of snatch-and-grabs the newsies have to put up with."

"The newsies have to put up with it because they're driving around in brightly-painted vans and parked outside major events," Kylia rolled her eyes. "They're easy targets."

"Nothing on the horizon, Boss," Ryan said, approaching with the day's weather forecast. It was still hurricane season, but there was only a tropical storm off Cuba, likely to be downgraded in a day. His eyes brightened as he looked at Sebastian. "Which means ..."

"It's wingsuit time!" Rob crowed.

"Your arms are going to get tired. Ain't done with my preflight," Kylia pointed out.

Sebastian grinned at his team's enthusiasm. "Man this season has been weak. Network's gonna be pissed if we can't get some good footage." Despite the early start it had been a really mild season, with a decent number of storms but all of them fairly weak and no major land falls. The team was good at coming up with filler footage for the network to slap into time blocks, but the lack of any real storms felt wrong. _It's like the calm before a storm,_ Sebastian mused, thinking back to the events earlier in the summer and his discovery of his parentage.

He had expected shit to hit the fan immediately. His private hanger was stocked with emergency supplies and he kept the burner cell phone on him at all times. He had even built a concealed sword rack into the trunk of his car so that Arashi would be close at hand if needed, but nothing had come of it yet.

And then there are the people who, no matter how much warning they have, always manage to get caught short. Stranded behind fire lines, stuck on the roof in a flood, whatever, you chide yourself. Just because you don't see it doesn't mean it isn't just off the coast.

"We could drive out to the coast and run the submersible camera through its paces," Rob suggests. "I know the big piece on the 5th Anniversary of Deepwater Horizon was earlier this year, but we just hit the 'official' end date. Or, like I said, we test out the wingsuits. Maybe do a HALO jump."

Skies are clear but maybe what's coming is below the surface, Sebastian pondered, plus I've been meaning to test my watery powers in more... heh... depth. "Let's take that water camera for spin," he announced out-loud, "We haven't done much with that piece of equipment yet." He patted Ryan on the back, "Besides Ryan's doctor still hasn't cleared him for any of the fun stuff yet and I'd hate to leave a member behind."

"Fine by me," smiles Kylia. "Gives me the rest of the day to work on my girl. I take care of her, she takes care of us."

She pats the fuselage of the Stormwatch plane.

"All right, Rob, let's load up the Explorer," you tell him. "And Ryan, no jumps for you until the doc says so, okay?"

Ryan rolls his eyes and waggles his fingers to emphasize that he's going more than a little stir-crazy. But he wouldn't be part of the group if he was a take-it-easy sort, would he?

The team rushed around loading dive gear and wet suits into the massive armored vehicle, Explorer. Really it looked more like something from a Mad Max film than anything a simple weather team would drive. It was a heavily modified SUV, reinforced to nearly military standards and painted in the Storm Watch's white and blue. The team usually spent a few weeks chasing tornadoes in the Midwest during the early spring off season and it served that purpose well.

The team, minus Kylia, was loaded up and ready to go within 15 minutes. They'd be beach side within the hour.

You've been diving in the Gulf several times since Deepwater Horizon, and the reality beneath the surface doesn't match the slick PR job about how everything's been cleaned up and life is back to normal, please, drop on by for some jambalaya and slow-smoked baby back ribs.

But the ecosystem isn't entirely open for business-as-usual. The impact of the spill is ongoing and not entirely understood. Today's dive will yield some stock footage that TWC will be able to use, as well as form the basis for a segment in an upcoming show.

"State Troopers up ahead," Rob says. He slows and comes to a stop as an officer flags him down. "Morning!"

"Morning, Sir," the trooper says. "I'm sorry, but the beach is closed."

"Is there something wrong?" Diana smiles. "We're with The Weather Channel and were hoping to do some taping."

"Well, you can pull over and wait, but I think we'll have the area closed off well into the afternoon," the trooper says. "Sorry."

The beach shut down entirely. Now Sebastian really wanted to get to the beach. He rolled down the back window and put on his best TV smile. _Hopefully he watches the show_. "Surely you guys don't need the whole beach. We just need to get our camera in the water and get some footage under the waves. We'll stay well clear of any cordons if we can just go around."

"I'm sorry, it's a crime scene. You'll have to take it up w-" the trooper pauses, making a face as he considers something. "An underwater camera, eh? A drone, too, I'd bet. Let me get the captain down here. You might be able to do us a solid."

"Stormwatch. My kids love your show," the Captain says. "Got a dead body, so the beach is closed. But, and that's a very large and vague but, if you can help us with a drone flyover and nosing around in the water, you'll save us some time. We can't pull divers out of our hats. You're here, and there's still plenty of daylight.

"You work with our people, and we get first shot at your video."

Looks like the beach was the right call, Sebastian concluded as the chief was speaking. "That seems more than fair," He responded to the chief with a nod and a smile, "We're in the weather business not the news business. Plus if we can help, it's our civic duty. And we'll see if we can't get something for you to take home to your son as well."

The chief gave them specific directions on where to park and told them to wait for an escort. As Diana carefully followed the instructions, Ryan turned from the front passenger seat, his face a bit pale, "A dead body? Maybe we should just leave this to the police." The rest of the crew had grim faces as well.

Sebastian gave the rest of the team a warm smile, "Hey I know this isn't our normal deal, but we are here and have what they need, so maybe it's fate. If anyone is uncomfortable with it, I'll cover you a taxi back to town." All three of them shook their head at the offer.

"Fate, huh?" Diana mused, "That's not something I expected to hear coming from you."

He shrugged, "I know it feels a bit weird saying, but our timing seems awfully convenient."

"What we'd like, if you have the gear for it, is a flyover of the immediate area with a drone," the Captain said. "Looking for anything that might stand out - weapons, a tire track, whatever. And then, since she was lying right at the surf line, a small grid-pattern search."

"How ... how'd she die?"

"Messily," is all the Captain said.

"You heard the man," Sebastian barked, "Ryan and Rob, get two drones airborne and comb the beach for a mile in each direction. Just like when we survey a storm's aftermath. Let the chief know if you find anything that shouldn't be on the beach." They both react immediately and begin to undock two of the team's camera drones from their charging stations in the wall of Explorer. He turned back to the chief, "We only have 1 underwater camera. I'm the strongest swimmer here, so I can take that out and run a zig-zag pattern in case there is anything under the waves. Diana will act as mission control."

Everyone nodded in agreement and Sebastian sliped into the van to suit up. While he did he took a moment to punch in a quick message to the burner phone: Dead woman on beach. Cops spooked. SW helping survey site.

He emerged a few minutes later in wet-suit and diving gear.

The drones are airborne inside of fifteen minutes, Rob and Ryan working them with their usual ease - and a bit of Stormwatch flair. Most hobbyists spend their first few weeks trying to make their videos not look like a GoPro mounted on a drunken camel.

"No sign of other vehicles," Rob noted. "Someone dumped her out here and drove off, or dumped her at sea and she washed up this morning. Wonder who spotted her, and if there's sea water in her lungs."

"Hey, easy on, Jethro," Ryan said, referring to the lead investigator on NCIS. "Let's not clutter up the picture with our own wild-and-crazy ideas. She probably got found by someone on their morning run, or even a park ranger."

"Messily," the man said. "Hey, Dee, can we parlay this into some PR? Stormwatch helps local law enforcement? I bet TWC would gobble that up."

"Maybe. We'll see," she answered. "No point promoting it if we come up empty-handed."

The rover dove into the waters of the Gulf, the gleam of its searchlight visible from above.

"Okay, starting my dive," Sebastian said, checking his chronometer and toggling his GoPro. He swept his head back and forth to establish where he was, then slid under the surf.

It was quiet, as always. The absence of a larger storm system meant good visibility. Sebastian began a methodical search, occasionally brushing aside sand and silt with his hand.

Nothing.

Until he came across something that shouldn't be there.

It was a dagger. A broad, flat blade, a handle of horn wrapped with a leather thong. Balanced enough that, tossed into the water, its weight had brought it down point first. Submerged, it would be difficult to detect blood or other trace evidence. But it wasn't a diver's knife at all.

Pulling out one of the evidence bags the chief had given him, Sebastian started trying to pull the blade out without touching it. _This is a lot harder than it looks on TV,_ he mused after a few minutes of trying to use the techniques one of the detectives had drilled into him before going under. To aid in the safe retrieval, he called on his influence over water to make a gentle current to help clear the dagger of the floor, but subtle enough it shouldn't look unusual on the video. Once it was free he sealed it in the bag, along with a fair amount of sea water, and held it in front of the camera.

You surface with the knife in its bag, waving at one of the troopers.

"Winner winner chicken dinner," he says as he takes note of the contents. "Okay, let's pour out the excess water and let the Captain know."

Rob and Ryan have had a similarly fruitful time of it, if you could call it that, with the discovery of some horse droppings. No tire tracks because they hauled the victim out here on horseback. A lot of trouble for - what, exactly?

Not wanting to push the cops too far with questions, Sebastian let them work while he headed back to the van to dry off. While he was there he checked the burner phone. _High ranking member of a tech company killed by a practically archaic dagger and dragged here by horse? What is this some kind of luddite extremist?_ he pondered as tapped out a reply. _Killed with an old knife, dragged here by horse. Money says this is the storm front._

Stashing the phone, he grabbed a T-shirt and baseball cap bearing the team's logo from their swag box as well as one of the dozens of pre-signed photos. Out of the van he found the chief. "For your son," he said handing over the memorabilia, "Looks like we were able to help out after all. That knife might have been impossible to find after the tidal change. Anything else we can do?"

"My son thanks you," the Captain says, removing his Smokey Bear hat and tucking the goodies in it. And then he looks at the bag with the knife.

"Why me, Lord?" he asks under his breath. "All right, let's canvass the area, find out if anyone owns a horse. 'Cause otherwise we got a cowboy with no cattle running around."

"No purse, no wallet, but those would be harder to find in the sand," says another trooper.

"Give us twenty to recharge the batteries, and we can do a nap-of-the-earth run," Rob says.

"Thanks, but that's one we'll have to do the old-fashioned way," says the Captain. "Like doing a FOD walkdown on an airfield."

Sebastian nodded to the officer. "Well if you need anything else let us know. I'll go put a copy of the videos and put them on some memory cards you can take with you." Sebastian headed back to the van to do just that. He also grabbed a few screenshots that showed off the key clues and stored them on a separate micro-SD to send out to the other Scions. _I'm amazed Twylla even found phones that take external memory these days,_ Sebastian mused as he slipped the card into the back of his phone and sent out the pictures.

"I really appreciate your help, Mr. Vogel," the Captain says. "We might have found the horseshit, but the knife? That was you being in the right place at the right time, and it might even be critical to cracking this case."

"Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves, Captain," says a woman with dark, shoulder-length hair and cool grey eyes. She's wearing a no-nonsense set of khakis with a powder-blue blouse and black half-boots. A shield is clipped to her belt, and a dark blue NOPD windbreaker announces her affiliation and reason for being here. "Kate Spinelli, NOPD."

"Detective," the Captain smiles. "Body's by the orange flag, and Mr. Vogel's people helped us with two pieces of evidence. A knife ..."

He holds up the bag. Spinelli frowns.

"... and the ... um, droppings."

"Relax, Captain, I've heard worse. Even been called worse," Spinelli smiles. "Slow day for you, Vogel?"

"Somewhat. TWC might have us chase Joaquin if it turns into something, but there's nothing right now, so we were going to put a new camera through its paces, maybe do a five-years later on Deepwater."

"All right, I'm going to go take a look."

"It's bad," the Captain says.

---

"Morning, Campers," Sven Merrick greeted his staff. "The Councillor has a meeting with the Chief of Police at 2PM, so the usual dog-and-pony show for the press."

"Friday news hole?" asked Faren, referring to the period on Friday afternoons where less-than-favorable news stories went to die. People were leaving the office, making plans for the weekend, and didn't give a shit about what politicians happened to be doing ... or not doing.

"More than likely," Sven nodded. "There's a rash of burglaries that have been drawing attention, and the police are at an impasse."

"Is it the Scorsellis?" asked another staffer.

"I doubt it. Might be a little pay-to-play going on, but it's probably not one of their people," Sven said. The Mafia was very traditional. Protection, prostitution, drugs, influence. Over the years, vending machines and video games. Sooner or later, it would be Wi-Fi hotspots. They guarded their rackets jealously, but petty theft wasn't their style.

"Could we be looking at a gang war?"

"This isn't New York," Sven frowned. Still, the days of Sam Maceo and the Balinese Room in Galveston, Texas, weren't that long ago. Sam had died from cancer in 1951, but the Balinese Room had been around until Hurricane Ike in 2008. Seven years wasn't even two full terms for a council member or mayor.

"Regardless, it sounds like a good opportunity to press him on his hiring policies again. City Hall will likely redouble their pressure on him to fill out their ranks if they've been coming up short on simple robberies, and the more we can push them away from arming a bunch of high school bullies, or carting in more loaners, the better. Let's put together some fresh materials for her, build something around the effectiveness of community relations, et cetera."

Sven tried to think of ways they could shoehorn other police-oriented platforms into the meeting - body cams, sensitivity training, boosting IA. But their political capital is still pretty thin when it comes to the Commissioner, and while the Chief hadn't been opposing their suggestions outright, even after 3 long years they acted as though Christine was too much of a newcomer to sit at the big kid's table.

Better to keep it simple and direct, then. The NOPD lost almost a third of their force due to desertion after Katrina, and since then not only have they failed to revitalize the force, they've been losing even more to resignations and reassignments.

"There's a lot of 'get it done now' going on," a staffer told Sven. "Community relations, new procedures, that all takes time, and it will never be 100%. Not when the department has detectives like Jim Ashton playing at being Elliot Ness."

Sven frowned. It was no secret that Ashton had a personal hit-list of people and organizations he blamed for New Orleans' problems, which included the local mob as well as the City Council, all of which were the result of liberal and/or progressive policies. The guy hit all the conservative high notes. He derided the prison system as a revolving door for repeat offenders and shelters as a hotel for professional vagrants. The city was hurting for funds because it was throwing money away on those who would never reform and never contribute to society.

"I'll massage the numbers, gin up a nice package for the media," Faren said. "Have it ready for you by lunch."

"Can someone find out how closed-room the meeting is after the babies are all kissed? If we can corner the Chief on doing something about Ashton's vendetta we might actually get somewhere. The last thing we want is for the media to start painting him with the whole 'Maverick McClane' brush. Also, see if we can find someone on the force who is actually doing something productive, let's make a hero out of him."

"Make a hero out of her, you mean," said Faren. "Detective Kate Spinelli. Father's a detective with the SFPD. Top of her class at the Academy. She's the one who made the 'submarine' bust last year, where they were running coke in low-profile boats."

"Meeting is totally closed-door. City Council, the Chief, Assistant Chief, District Attorney," a staffer told Sven. "Toss Ashton's vendetta into the Friday news hole, it'll give the NOPD the weekend to decided how they want to play it. Or, we hold our own newser Monday morning, just blow their doors off."

"Are either her or Ashton actually assigned to the robbery issue? If not, I'd rather make the case for angling her onto the case first during the meeting. If they play ball, then great. If not, we'll hit them from the flank on Ashton on Monday. We'll need two pieces prepared - a hit piece on Ashton and a fluff piece on Spinelli. Tie the community outreach bit with her if you can, I want Christine dropping her name at least 3 times in front of the press. The whole 'we need more like her' argument."

Sven hadn't been keeping notes this whole time, relying on his staff to keep up with the discussion, but he started ticking notes for himself to look into Detective Spinelli. He vaguely remembered the drug bust but not the maneuvers behind it. Vice wasn't exactly his top concern.

"A piece on Ashton should be easy enough, find whoever he's pissed on lately and get some quotes. If we don't get what we want today, let's get it in the hands of our people at the Times-Picayune and get ahead of any conservative support he may have. Be sure we paint him as bucking authority and a public menace, I don't think their readers are going to care as much about any criminals with black eyes.

"For Spinelli, I'd like to meet her actually." Sven thought a moment. "Yeah, get a me a meeting with her. Scratch that - let me know where I can find her, I don't want to tip this move to anyone before the meeting. And fuck it, let's run that hit piece no matter what happens. Let me know if we face any resistance and I'll pull strings."

"Pretty sure Spinelli is on the burglaries, she was on the news the other day," came the answer. "I'll make the call, set up a meeting. Ashton, if he's got a private hit list, someone's gotta talk. Let's scratch anyone from the Scorselli family, and the City Council. Art Berger over at Times-Picayune might know who else is a target. You want to meet with him?"

Sven shivered at the thought of trying to leverage the Scorselli's. There are few truer evils in this world than these soulless syndicates, I'd rather give them as wide a berth as possible. The Scorselli's have already made it clear that they didn't agree with Sven's economic revitalization efforts, and he's done his best to shy away from any direct altercations. Whatever pressure they've been putting on various local businesses, they've been kind enough to keep out of his line of sight - for now.

"OK perfect, that's half the battle won already then. Don't make a formal meeting with Spinelli, I want to scope her out first, make sure she's the poster child we're looking for. Find out where she is now and I'll 'bump' into her before Christine starts singing her praises. Prep two packages for her, one with Spinelli and one without, just in case.

"I'll call Art on the way, put some feelers out in case he doesn't want to cooperate. See if you can get me some dish for him in case I need a little quid pro quo."

"Gimme a moment with the police scanners, I'll have a location on Spinelli ASAP," Faren tells you.

"Here's what we have on Ashton," says a staffer, handing you a folder.

You leaf through the sheaf of pages. Ashton is a decent enough cop; he's just a prime candidate for an EEO lawsuit.

"Spinelli is working the burglaries, going to interview another victim," Faren tells you. Here's the address. Little old lady who doesn't trust banks. Lost several thousand she had tucked in a shoebox."

"OK great, send me the address, I'll catch her there. See if you can follow up with anyone who's submitted a complaint against him, or at least dox them so we can sick Art on it. Email me whatever you dig up, the juicier the leads the more likely we'll pique his interest."

Sven left City Hall and typed the little old lady's address into his GPS. As he drove, he dialed up Art's desk phone and plugged his bluetooth headset in his ear. Sven liked Art - he might be a sleazy journalist for a conservative fish rag, but he was his sleazy journalist. Sven didn't make many friends, but he did form solid working relationships based on the premise of backscratching and favor trading.

Somehow conflated into some sinister machination practiced by hackers, the truth was that 'doxxing' was political SOP, known by different euphemisms throughout the decades. It was only when Richard M. Nixon's political cronies botched the break-in at the Watergate Apartments that the nation sat up and took note.

And the term had quickly been diluted to include the public release of any name-and-number data, as well as the prank phone calls and pizza orders, or the script kiddies who were easily cozened into conducting DDOS attacks.

"Times-Picayune," answered a nasal voice. "Berger."

"What do you know about Detective James Ashton?" you ask. Berger isn't one for cocktail party talk, unless he's actually at a cocktail party - and even then, he's like something out of Greek mythology, Argus eyes and ears, winnowing out political dirt as if he were panning for gold.

"Ashton, Ashton," Berger snorts. "Oh, yes. The King of Excessive Force. Why is he on your hit list, Merrick?"

Sven snorted in return, "Oh, you know, just trying to make New Orleans great again. Evidently some small time burglars have been doing laps around the NOPD and we aim to take advantage."

He didn't want Art sniffing too close to his own operations, and especially didn't want him connecting any dots between Spinelli and Ashton. The cat would be out of the bag after the press conference, but the last thing he needed was Art posting something on that would preempt Sven's plans.

"Speaking of hit lists, I heard he's got one of his own. I was wondering if you've happened upon it? Or, perhaps, are interested in opening Monday's news cycle by letting the good people of N'awlins know they're funding a personal vendetta with their tax dollars?"

He got an email alert, glancing at the push notification it looked like his staff had already passed him a first brush at people who've been slighted by Ashton in some way.

"What have you heard?" Berger asks, a standard enough opening gambit. Admit to nothing, go fishing.

And it's a well-stocked pond, that's for sure. Ashton was a beat cop before making detective, and noted for having a heavy hand. There's a list of repeat offenders (names and last-known addresses) - all misdemeanors - in his wake. A couple of grainy photos showing an officer slamming someone against the wall, a boot heel on a wrist - but poor enough that you can only guess at the officer's identity.

Sven didn't want to pull over to go through the list he had received in detail, and he also didn't care to play footsie with Art. If he were too eager it would trigger Art's bullshit-o-meter, but assuming there are at least a few good leads in there he should go for the bait.

He went ahead and forwarded the information his team had compiled to Art's inbox, going through an email anonymizer as a matter of course to scrub any record of his office's involvement. His team would know not to leave any fingerprints in the excel file or the image attachments either.

"Off the record of course, but I think someone just sent you a few interesting tidbits. An anonymous source in City Hall has voiced some serious concerns about Ashton's quixotic decisions on who the persons of interest are for these burglaries." Sven was flagrantly lying at this point, but it didn't matter. A lead was a lead, and if Ashton was half as bad as he was trying to get Art to paint him as, it was a safe assumption that his collection of usual suspects probably had nothing at all to do with silly things like evidence.

He also hoped the list included a few people in the force, or other local agencies, whom Ashton had burned bridges with. Nothing spells incompetence like the inability to work well with others.

"An anonymous source, riiiight," Art sneered.

"Ah, I love the smell of scandal in the morning," Berger quips. "You'll want to note that most of these people were actually convicted. Except ... yeah, his name's on the list. Kid named Robinet. Well, not really a kid anymore, but he was a thorn in Ashton's side as a juvenile."

"Robinet. Dad's a big-shot pastor, isn't he?"

"Ayup, that's him. Robinet, Senior," Berger chuckles. "Junior's nothing like his father."

"So are we talking 'runs with scissors' or 'doesn't play well with others'?"

"A little of both. Him and Ashton deserve each other."

Pastor Robinet was one of those community leaders with whom change didn't sit well. Sven hadn't really turned his attention to him yet - meaning he hadn't become a problem - but Christine's ran into him a few times at social functions and he had made it clear he was, at the very least, suspicious of an outsider coming in promising wealth and prosperity for the Common Man.

"Sounds like quite a tale. I can see the headline now, Cop Quixote Stalks Son of a Preacher Man. I'm sure it would just fly off the newsstands."

Sven made a mental note to have Faren look a little closer at this Robinet Junior. Right now he was just a convenient protagonist, but he might also be more... directly leveragable against Ashton in the long game. Especially if he'd been living under this kind of scrutiny and is still walking the streets.

Conservative and old-fashioned, in political speak, often meant stubborn.He'd seen the elder Robinet at Council meetings before, bringing the fervor of the pulpit to his political ambitions. It wasn't hard to imagine a child rebelling under that kind of unyielding authority, and why Junior might chafe at Ashton's attempts at remediation.

Your phone meeps with a text.

Spinelli heading out to coastline, dead body.

Dammit, I just got here too. Sven had literally just pulled up at the address on his GPS before getting the text.

"Art, I gotta go. You should have everything you need."

"No guarantees, Sven," Art replied, who then abruptly hung up.

Sven emailed Faren to get him a more thorough dossier on Robinet's kid. He briefly considered asking the old lady some questions about her experience with Spinelli, but he'd probably end up sipping tea for hours and not getting anything useful. Sven had a bit of a soft spot for little old ladies, and was completely unable to bring his usual brusqueness to bear with them.

If there's a dead body, there's probably a cordon. Sven started driving towards the coast, and dialed up the office on his bluetooth.

"Hey, I'm giving chase to Miss Spinelli, go through the scanners, see how close I can get before I hit a barricade. Also see how crowded it's getting over there, if it's swarming with cops I may have to wait it out, I need one-on-one time with her."

Sven's burner beeped as he was driving, so he started pulling over to give it his attention. It beeped again by the time he stopped the car.

Reading the texts, he replied Guess there's a beach party. I'm OMW too, tracking a det named Spinelli. He switched his Bluetooth to connect with the burner and made sure speech-to-text was ready if he needed it. He hadn't really played with the phone's features yet, but Twylla had loaded some impressive tools on it for them.

Sven got pretty close to the coast before he finally ran into a blockade manned by a few State Troopers, but it was still too far away for him to try to hoof it around them. When they signaled for him to stop, he rolled down his window and flipped out his government ID. Before they could say anything he coolly said, "Yes I know, there's a dead body over there. I'm from City Hall, we got word that this could concern us, please let me pass."

Sven was gambling that these State cops didn't really know much about the local politics and would take him at his word.

"City Hall?" asks a trooper. "Oh, great. Okay, okay. Captain's down by the body. You didn't happen to pass a coroner's van on the way out, did you?"

"No, but I wasn't looking for one," you reply. You wonder if it would be worth your time to query the troopers about the case, or be more effective to get a look for yourself.

He matched the trooper's change in posture and shifted to being much more congenial. "How's it looking down there? I didn't bring my blood-stomping boots with me. Also has a Detective Spinelli come by you by any chance?"

"It's pretty bad," says the trooper. "But it's pretty clear she was killed somewhere else, 'cause cutting out someone's heart should leave a lot more blood than that. Still ... you know. I mean, you could tell she was a pretty lady. Either someone really, really hated her, or we got a fucking capital-p psychopath in town, so I can see why the Mayor's all hot and bothered."

"Detective Spinelli? Oh, yeah, she got here about a half-hour ago, down at the crime scene," he adds.

Wait, her heart got cut out? Sebastian hadn't passed along that little detail. That definitely sounded like something on the scion side of things. So this is no mundane murder mystery after all. And I didn't even come here to play Sherlock.

"OK, thanks Officer, hopefully they won't keep you standing out here for much longer." Sven drove onward to the beach and started scanning the area for Spinelli, referencing a picture his staff had passed on to him.

As you drive closer, you see an SUV with the recognizable emblazon of Stormwatch. He's conversing with a man in the green-and-khaki of the state troopers, and a woman wearing an NOPD windbreaker. Spinelli.

"Oh, great, another party guest," the Captain says. "Are you with the media? Hold up, there - we have an active crime scene."

Awww crap.

Sven quickly parked and approached the trooper, getting glared at the whole time. Glancing at the double bars on the man's shoulder he said, "Good morning Captain," and giving a brief nod to Spinelli, "Detective."

Time to see how sharp she is - and if we can use her. I only need a few minutes.

"No, I work for Councilwoman Porter. We heard there was an incident and wanted to get ahead of any... politically disadvantageous situations." Sven played at being overly anodyne, the same way City Hall intersected with NOPD officers. ((Using Social Chameleon))

"And good morning to you Sebastian, I didn't realize Stormwatch covered murders now," he said wryly, with a slight tick of an eyebrow to indicate he more or less knows what's going on.

Sebastian nodded to Sven. "Turns out the boys in blue don't have drones, underwater cameras, and trained divers. Seems like a budget issue," he called back jokingly. He turned back to the chief and said, "The team and I are going to plan out our shoot. Give us a shout when we're clear to go in or if you need any more help."

Back at the van, he turned to Diana, "Start getting a press release drafted for this, but don't release anything until you've cleared it with the troopers. See if we can get a group shot before they leave too."

"Already half-way done," she nodded, "I also made sure to get some photos of us setting up and Rob and Ryan on drone duty. Combined with some non-compromising footage from the underwater camera, I'd say we probably have a great episode for next season."

"Are we heading out soon?" Ryan asked, sounding a bit disappointed.

Sebastian shook his head, "Nah we're just on hold until they can clean up. I still want to get that Deepwater footage, just in case we the rest of this gets locked into evidence or something. Plus it is a damn good day for a swim."

"All right," Spinelli frowned. "What do we have, Captain? And where the hell is CSI? I can't do much of an investigation until the scene's been photographed."

"Just cleared the cordon," the Captain tells her. "Body is lying on its side. Business wear, blouse torn open for obvious reasons, no obvious defensive wounds."

He nods to the deputy standing guard over the tarp-covered body. The deputy schools his expression before peeling the yellow sheet back to reveal the body of Catherine Martinez. She's pretty much as the Captain described ... and yet, there's something odd. Each of you looks at the other as if to ask,You feel it, too, don't you?

The CSI technician hustles to join you, making his apologies to Spinelli and the Captain before getting started taking photographs of the crime scene, the position of the body, the wound, and the sparse handful of evidence markers. He also photographs the knife, laid against a ruler for an idea of its size.

Sven stepped back respectfully and let the CSI team do their job. As they all watched, with Spinelli more or less patiently waiting her turn, he went through his remaining texts on his burner, and noticed Sebastian already sent them photos of the crime scene. He tried to put the pieces together as best he could. ((Using Instant Investigator, Sven isn't aware he has this ability yet))

Leaning towards Spinelli, he said demurely, "So have you folks figured out that it's Catherine Martinez yet?" Let's see how she reacts to that particular bombshell.

---

Sebastian let Sven handle the police. His burner buzzed and he pulled it out to see Twylla's message. _Meet at the hangar at 6pm, something is definitely wiggy on this case_ he sent out before tucking the phone away.

"New phone, Sebastian?" Diana's spoke quietly from right behind him. Sebastian turned to see her holding his normal phone in her hand and suspicion on her face. Before he could say anything she stepped in close and spoke softly so that nobody over heard, "You've been acting strange lately. Missing bar night, skipping out of group workouts to do your own thing. Then today you decide we should head to the beach and blunder on a murder scene which you then insist we help out on. Now you have a secret phone that you've been sending messages on all day. Give me one good reason I shouldn't take all this info to the cops right now."

He withered under her stern gaze for a moment before speaking. "I can't tell you all the details here. You wouldn't believe me and I don't have any good proof on me." She started to open her mouth to respond but he held up a hand. "I very recently learned something unusual about myself and met some other people who share that uncommonality. We use those phones to stay in-touch. Showing up here was just dumb luck or fate or something, but it is becoming increasingly clear it is relevant to our group."

She shook her head, "Not good enough. You're making it sound like a group of terrorists."

He sighed and then took on a confident stance. "I didn't have a parachute when I landed in the lake the day Ryan broke his arm." he said calmly.

The apparent change in subject caught her off guard, "What? Of course you did. No one can survive a fall like that without a chute."

"I can. And there are other people in this group with equally unusual talents. We are meeting at my private hanger tonight at six to discuss what we found out today. There are 4 of us. Myself, Sven," Sebastian nodded at the city hall official talking with the police, "Twylla, and a fortune teller named Kenari. Come tonight and I'll spill the whole truth. Hell bring the whole team. They might as well know."

---

"Catherine Martinez?" Spinelli asks. "Do you know the victim, Mr. Merrick? Because we obviously haven't run fingerprints or dentals on her."

You stall for time by studying the dead body ...

... and somehow, you know that she was murdered elsewhere, the body dragged out here for disposal. She was unconscious at the time of death, so there won't be any defensive wounds or DNA under her fingernails.

"Is that a 'no,' Mr. Merrick?" Spinelli asks.

Your head is still reeling from the assessment of the crime scene. You know where the person stood in order to be able to throw the knife into the Gulf. You know where he came from, and the direction he left, because of the horse manure lying in the scrub brush and Pampas grass.

You know it.

It's not an educated guess. You'd wager good money on your read being an accurate one - but you don't have any forensics to back it up, not even a Sherlockian bit of deductive reasoning.

Sven snapped himself out of his reverie before Spinelli started adding him to her list of suspects, keeping his expression neutral. "You don't need fingerprints when you're looking at her face. And it's my job to recognize people." Of course, Sven didn't know who the hell Catherine Martinez evenwas, all he had was the name Twylla had texted earlier. And even that could easily have been a guess.

What the fuck was that? Another super power or whatever? Investigating live crime scenes didn't fall in Christine's training regimen.

"So Detective Spinelli, Miss Porter is going to be speaking with your Chief this afternoon. I understand you're heading up the investigation into the recent rash of robberies, are you here in connection with the case? Or are they just having a hard time finding competent detectives to cover unexpected murders?"

He put a little emphasis on the word 'competent.' He wasn't quite sure what he was fishing for - would she fall in behind the thin blue line and bark at this nosy outsider? Would she bemoan budget issues? He didn't want to obliquely throw Ashton's name at her but he did want to see where her loyalties lay.

"On the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia," Spinelli quipped. "But when the FBI calls the Chief, and the Chief calls yours truly, it doesn't matter what I had planned to investigate or where. I haul my butt out to the beach to see what has the Feebies all hot and bothered."

"The robberies are still on my desk, of course, but if it comes to chasing a killer and chasing a burglar, well ..."

The FBI is involved? This is getting juicier and juicier.

"How much of it is a resource problem? Miss Porter has been very concerned with fixing the NOPD budget, from new technologies to attracting more... qualified personnel into the force. Anything I can take back to her for you?"

"Monies directed towards updating our crime lab would go a long way," Spinelli says. "It's not a manpower issue, or even boots-on-the-ground, but how much time it takes to process evidence. It's not like it is on television. Pretty much everyone in the Department and in City Hall knows this, but it's always treated as a cops-on-the-beat issue."

Sven nodded his head. The issues they take to the court of public opinion are hyper-simplified, after all if it doesn't fit in a Tweet then no one will care. But increasing their forensic resources, especially for seemingly simple things like rape kits, was definitely one of their concerns. I think we've found our poster girl.

"Absolutely, we'll be sure to bring that up today. Here, take my card. Would it be okay with you if I had some of my staff do a more thorough talk with you? I think we could use some further valuable insight from a Detective's perspective." Sven handed her his card, and made a note to ensure that crime labs were addressed in today's meeting as promised. He hoped to form a closer relationship between Spinelli and his office.

"Ms. Delacroix?" asked the secretary.

Twylla rose from the lobby sofa. She'd been waiting for over thirty minutes, during which she'd begun scanning the building's networks on her tablet. She had two intrusion attempts running; it was doubtful they would be productive, but determined hackers could take the most insignificant of exploits and leverage them into something much bigger.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Delacroix," the secretary said. "Ms. Martinez won't be able to meet with you this morning. I'm sorry. I think she's come down with the crud."

It'd have been nice to know that before I dragged myself out of bed at 5AM,Twylla thought.

"Well, I hope it's nothing serious. Have Catherine call our office to reschedule when she's feeling better," Twylla told the secretary.
She stepped into the outer lobby, a buffer zone where one could continue a phone conversation while not being on the sidewalk or in the lobby, proper.

"Martinez cancelled," she told her own secretary. "That blows my morning. I'm going to find some coffee and do some coding."

"Okay, boss."

"All right, the consultant from Delta Tech is gone. Where's Kate?" asked the secretary.

"She's missing," said Trey Panelli, the CEO ... and Cate's fiance. "I don't know where she is. Doesn't answer her home phone, her cell rolls right to voicemail, and she's not answering texts."

"You don't have a key?"

"No. Besides, the wedding is in two months," Trey pointed out. "Hold my calls. I'm calling the police."

Twylla climbed into her old El Camino and buckled in, running over the locations of nearby coffee shops in her mind. As she recalled, there was a little, family run shop that did custom blends not far from here. Hopefully, they also have wi-fi. If not...eh. No big deal. She could afford to steal 15 minutes to enjoy a cup of joe.

The Good Earth was the name of the boutique coffee shop. Well, it wasn't frou-frou enough to be a boutique. It was a small-scale roastery that got its start with the blossoming of the farm-to-table movement. A brick oven and a simple motorized reservoir allowed the owner to produce small batches and unique flavors. Add a handful of tables, pastries from a local bakery, and you had a hidden treasure that held its own against landmarks like Cafe du Monde.

"Do you have Wi-Fi?" she asked the server.

"I'm sorry, we don't. I've asked Dad about it several times, but he's worried about security, I guess."

"No worries," Twylla replied with a smile. "Completely understandable. And, it gives me an excuse to unplug for a few minutes."

Not that Twylla was ever truly unplugged. Just because she can't (legitimately) connect to the work servers doesn't mean they can't still get her on the phone. If she really wanted, there are plenty of nearby unlocked wi-fi signals she could use. And, she had coding that she could be working on from her laptop's hard drive. But...pfft! Coffee, now. Code, later. She had all day ahead of her for work.

She looks over the menu and finally settles on something with "chocolatey" in the description, "That sounds delicious!"

Part chocolate, part smooth Colombian roast, all delicious. And it was dark chocolate, not sugary milk chocolate. It made the steaming mug feel like a sustaining beverage, not a child filching a sweet treat before dinner.

And, on cue, her phone rings.

"Twylla! Holy shit, you're not gonna believe this," one of the junior techs says. "You know how we always run a spider on clients? We just got a hit on Catherine Martinez. She's gone missing!"

"Huhwhat? Yeah, her secretary said she had the flu or something."

"No, I mean missing-missing. Without a Trace missing," the tech continued. "Fiance called the FBI, not the locals. I guess you can do that when you're a millionaire."

"I wonder if we'll get a call back, in this case," the junior tech wonders. "Do you think they'll want someone to come in and do some tracers to try and figure out what she was up to before she disappeared?"

"Probably not. If they are calling in the FBI, they have their own people and resources for that sort of thing," Twylla says thoughtfully. "More than likely, we'll be dumped by the wayside."

But, why would the FBI care? she wonders. Sure, it's their job to investigate things, but why would they agree to this instead of turning things over to the local authorities as a missing person case? Not that I would want to turn anything over to these yahoos...but the FBI might not know what kind of assholes we have, here.

Twylla decides that this might be something worth watching. It might be something, it might not. As sad as it is, people do go missing and this might be just another case of someone pissing the wrong person off or being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who knows? Can't hurt to put some feelers out, though.

"Thanks for the heads up, Scott," Twylla says. "I'll keep an ear to the ground. Also, have Kellie let me know if any new calls come in, this morning. Since the cancellation, I'm killing time doing miscellaneous coding until my next appointment."

"Will do!"

"Thanks, man," Twylla hangs up and immediately pulls out her laptop. She flips it on and looks for a local, unprotected wi-fi signal. Sure enough, there is a signal from a machine imaginatively named "SpazMonkey."

She connects up and starts setting up searches/watches for Catherine Martinez.

Do people still do the whole kidnap-and-ransom thing? Twylla thought as she savored another sip of her coffee. Establishing and maintaining a zero digital footprint was a challenge even for people like her. She didn't think it would be possible for a mere kidnapper to hide their tracks for long.

Catherine Martinez, IT queen for Socialize! a social media startup in newly-refurbished digs. Twylla certainly wouldn't object to something like that for Delta's storefront, but there was a certain charm to the loft. No cubicles; people used good headphones if they needed to isolate.
Socialize! was the brain child of Trey Petrelli. It was a social network built for mobile platforms, a novel enough idea, but it still had the same vulnerabilities as any social media outlet, the struggle to monetize client data while keeping it secure.
Ah, there's the link. Petrelli's father was a programmer for a non-descript firm in Virginia, which meant he worked for some alphabet soup agency. Getting the FBI involved was a favor, then ...

"Huh," Twylla sips her coffee and mentally shrugs. She doesn't see how it has any real bearing on herself or the possible coming battle. Still, she puts a mental tab on the matter. Let's see what happens in the next few days. It might be something worth mentioning to the others.

Setting her coffee down, she turns her attention back to work. A client had asked for a custom program a couple of days ago, and this seems like the perfect time to knock it out. She slips her headphones on, sets her phone to vibrate and cranks up the music as she sets to creating.

"Can I get you a refill?" asks the server.

You blink, your thoughts slightly disjointed. "Um, yeah," you say. Your MP3 player has gone silent, the playlist you'd triggered long since finished. And then you look at the screen. It's glorious, and it's a bit frightening. The screen is filled with code, procedures and functions and calls flowing in elegant, precise order. But it's more than good code; it's pure, elemental code, as if the idea had burst from your head like Athena in her full and complete power. All within three hours of work. And you know it's solid code, that it will compile without error. You just have no real idea how you did it.

Twylla slowly pulls her headphones off, letting them slide down and dangle around her neck. Leaning back in her seat, she gazes at the code in wonder. She's done plenty of programming since her father's visit, but this is the first time this has happened. It's...it's beautiful! She makes a small, soft sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

How did I do this? How do I do it, again? she thinks in amazement.

She's not sure how she slid into whatever mindset it took to create this code but she definitely wants to do it more! However, as she glances at the clock, she realizes that she's been sitting in this cafe a long time and has no real recollection of anything that happened around her.

Oh, crap...that could be dangerous, she thinks. And, aw geez...I've been sitting in this spot forever, taking up room in the cafe...oh, gawd. I am an inconsiderate doof.

Twylla quickly closes her laptop and puts it away. She gathers her things and bustles up to the counter with an apologetic smiles, "I'm so sorry! I completely lost track of time while I was working. Ummmm...here...let me get a few cups of coffee and couple of bags of blends."

Twylla figures that giving the owners a bit more business is the least she can do for loitering in their shop all morning. She orders a variety of flavors to take back to the people at Delta Tech, along with a couple of bags for later.

"Beware of Geeks bearing gifts!" you declare, entering the office.

"M'yeh, coffee doesn't count," Scott says, easing the tray from your hands. "Got it."

He sets the tray on the general purpose table - meetings, pizza, boardgames - and the cups are quickly snatched up by the others. You place the bags of freshly roasted and ground coffee near the machine.

"Good Earth?" Kellie asks. "Is that where you've been hiding all morning?"

You are again reminded that you were somewhere else, mentally. You doubt you'd have noticed that your phone rang, and the glowing tally showing several voice-mails confirms that suspicion.

"I was ... working on the Grayson account," you say. "Got caught up in coding, but it's done."

"Done? As in done? I thought there were enough hoops to jump through that it'd take us most of the next two weeks."

"Um, yeah. I still have to compile and debug, but ..."

Debug, a corner of your mind scoffs.

"Cool," Kellie says. She's an organizational wizard, but doesn't think and breath code like other core staffers. And, if you can riddle out how you did it, none of them can code like you can.

"So, what did I miss? What's the word, hummingbird?" Twylla grins at Kellie, plopping down behind her computer and opening her laptop. She begins the process of moving the Grayson code over to the company server so that it can be properly compiled, debugged and processed before it is turned over to the client. Twylla knows that it'll run flawlessly, but procedures have to be followed.

"Well, I called to see about rescheduling the Socialize! appointment, but there's a 'closed until further notice' recording on their phones, and a similar auto-response to emails. Network is running, no outages or blackouts anywhere in the region," Kellie said. "Something's funky. Maybe someone was playing loosey-goosey with their stock?"

"I don't know exactly what's up," Twylla says, her tone turning more serious. "All I know is that Catherine Martinez, their IT person, has gone missing. Scott clued me in, earlier. Sounds like Petrelli is pulling in a favor from the FBI to have them search for her."

"Who knows what's up?" she shakes her head and glances at her screen, monitoring copy progress from the laptop. "She's the IT head of a social media company. I imagine there's a lot of opportunity to snag personal info in that position. Maybe she snooped where she shouldn't have?"

The burner phone is Twylla's purse lets out a plaintive beep from where it is buried in her massive purse. Fortunately, Kellie didn't seem to notice. She was in the middle of talking.

"...certainly hope it's not something like that! Maybe she found true love with some hot, Latino guy and made a break for Vegas, you know?" Kellie says.

"Hot Latino guy certainly would be preferable to pissing off someone like the mob," Twylla agrees with a smile. "Let's hope for the best."

"Back in a sec..." Twylla stands and picks up her purse, headed for the bathroom. Kellie pays it no mind, figuring that Twylla simply needs to change her pad. That's why most women lug their purses to the bathroom.

Once alone, she pulls out the phone and reads the message there. Aw, shit... A tiny knot of dread forms in her stomach.

Probably Catherine Martinez. Went missing recently. Head of Socialize! Was scheduled to run tests for them this AM. Was cancelled, Twylla types in reply.

Welp Twylla places the phone back in her purse and thinks. Perhaps this is something that bears more investigating. But, it'll have to wait until I'm on my own equipment. Don't want to go snooping, maybe futz up and get Delta in trouble.

She exits the bathroom and goes back out, ready to grab some lunch and tackle the rest of today's work. Tonight will be the time for busting into Socialize!'s system and seeing what was going on...

"I'll keep the spiders running," Kellie tells you. "Hope this doesn't mean the contract is going south."

"Well, if they went bankrupt, we'll be on the creditors list," you tell her. "Fraud, any other kind of financial hijinks, we're SOL." At least until I find their bank in the Grand Caymans.

Hearing the burner beep again, Twylla turns to Kellie and says, "I'm going to head home to grab some lunch and take care of Roscoe. If anything pops up while I'm away, you can catch me there."

"Have you found a new place, yet?" Kellie asks curiously. "How much longer do you think you can keep the big lug hidden?"

"Not yet. I have my eye on a couple of places that have nice yards but they're asking a little more than I can afford. I'm hoping to see the price drop, at some point...and it better be quick," Twylla laughs and shakes her head. "Roscoe is a good dog, but he's huge. There's no stealthily sneaking him out to potty. Thank goodness he's quiet and Mrs. Cho likes him."

Twylla's elderly neighbor, Mrs. Cho, was always at the apartments tending to her flowers or sitting out on her stoop in the sunlight. There was no hiding him from her. But, Roscoe is a big, gentle dog who adores the old lady, as she always sneaks him treats. Thankfully, she thinks Roscoe is the cat's pajamas, too.

"Alright! Just...you know...answer your phone, this time," Kellie teases.

"I will, I will! I promise," Twylla laughs and waves as she heads out to the old Camino. Once in the driver's seat, she checks the burner, again.

Ugh. Okay, I can't wait on this, she thinks. I need to check things out before the Feds come in and start locking everything down, which should be soon. I'm going to have to hack in during lunch...

Thus, Twylla makes her way home, prepared to make a netrun as soon as she can.

"Ruffro," opines Roscoe. He peers at the open door, but apparently knows better than to go barreling down the hallway.

You make yourself a sandwich and settle down at your 'office,' the suite of computers and not-quite legal modifications that comprise your hacking array. You spend twenty minutes bouncing between other systems to hide your actual IP address, and when you finally orient your efforts towardsSocialize's computers, it's from a non-profit community garden in San Francisco ...

"Alrighty, Ms. Martinez...let's see what's been going on in your life," Twylla mutters as she starts making her way into the Socialize! systems.

First things first. Hit the emails. She's not going to have time to read everything, so she'll just pull it all down to her hard drive for later perusal. Even if there is nothing too crucial in the work communications, it should give her personal addresses that she can work with, later. Who doesn't forward things to themselves at home or email back and forth with family and friends?

Next, will be Catherine's personal computer. She's familiar enough with the inner logistics of computers to recognize when a folder is special and when it's just another system folder. Oh, she's sure to grab a few that have nothing at all of interest. After all, people can name their folders whatever they want and some people are better at choosing names than others. The more clever of them know to set their folders as invisible and to lock them. And, those, of course, are ones that Twylla finds very interesting.

And, then there are finances. Oh ho! Finances are always where people screw around. Cooking the books, maybe a little embezzlement...tax evasion...you name it. Any of those things would be a reason to send turn Catherine into shark bait. Unfortunately, while Twylla is a computer wizard, she's not quite up to speed on all the financial magic. Oh, she can do the math easily, but laws and juggling loopholes would be something she may have to get someone else to look into.

There's a string of emails from the CEO - Martinez' fiance - asking where she is, and what he did to piss her off. So he's not likely to be a victim of the Ashley Madison hack, though a smile to the cutie in the secretarial pool at the wrong time might send the wrong message to my One and Only.

Finance? Grab it, comb through it later.

It's when you're examining the system's layout that your telltales beginkronking at you. Not the usual penny-ante counterintrusion stuff, but government-level pave-the-jungle black ice. Someone else has been here, orSocialize! is the kind of set-up conspiracy theorists wet their pants over. The company could be in bed with the government, even selling user data to the NSA. A valuable resource that some fairy godsenator wants protected.

You glance at the trace-back. Whoever it is is still tracing the line from the non-profit to a public library in San Diego ... though the further they get, the faster they'll burn through the line of bounces and redirects.

You've got perhaps five minutes if you push it to the last second.

Shit Twylla thinks. Time to smash and grab. Don't have time for finesse.

Twylla begins soaring through folders, looking for anything that looks even vaguely interesting, especially now that she knows the government is interested in Socialize! beyond Catherine's disappearance. If Petrelli just called in the Feds, they worked awful fast...No, no. This was probably here before the death.

She licks her lips, her heart beating faster as she types and clicks, sorting as quickly as she can. I can remember it. If I see it, I can remember it. I just need to see this stuff... Her eyes flicker across the screen madly, taking it all in.

At this point, if a folder looks interesting, she pulls it down. She knows she doesn't have time to be picky.

You check for invisible folders and find several, copying them along with the financials. And then you meticulously back out of the system before killing your line. The trace effort was still bouncing around the public utilities in Idaho, but no sense taking any chances. Both the non-profit and the utility company were off-limits for now. No sense giving the federales a head start on her next run.

Financials. Hell, all you really know is how to stash ill-gotten gains in a Cayman Islands account, and how many zeroes are in a million. Forensic accounting is not your forte. You'll have to ask around.

The invisible folders include a code library - what looks to be the bare bones of the Socialize! front end; and a set of user profiles and an amalgam of data, with no clear thread linking any of them together.

"Ruroof!" Roscoe interjects. He's tall enough to rest his head on your desk, and a cold nose bumps at your hand.

"I'm sure you have food, you big lummox," you chide.

"Ruroof!" he barks again. Another nudge.

The pointer just happens to be resting on the second folder, labelledvastagos.

At first, it didn't seem odd that a woman with a Hispanic surname would label files in Spanish. But it's easy enough to fire up a translation algorithm and get ...

Oh, shit.

Vastagos. Scions.

"Good boy, Roscoe," Twylla mutters softly, her hand going his head and giving him a good scratching. "You're getting your own roast beef sub, tonight."

She leans over and kisses the top of his furry head before opening the Scions folder to see what it contains.

There are scholarly documents that appear to be research about Scions. Of course, while you are one, you don't have to be a lab rat to know this is largely guess work and anecdotal in nature, as if someone were looking for the needle-in-a-haystack. Accounts of unexpected good fortune, of superior strength and skill, or outcomes that cannot be discounted as mere chance are graded by likelihood and even stab-in-the-dark guesses at affiliation.

The other folder contains a long list of names, matched with their Socialize! profiles. Someone is looking for the children of the gods, and you're cynical enough to suspect it's not so they can chat them up on social media and seek enlightenment...

Twylla frowns, reading through the lists of names, seeing if there are any that she recognizes. She also looks at the time-stamps on everything pertaining to scions, trying to get a rough idea of how long this search has been going on.

As you read through the list, the earliest time stamp you can find is six months before Socialize! was officially launched. But, it's possible the underlying framework was called something else, just as the monstrosity that became America! Online was once Apple Link Personal Edition.
The list of names, however, is both daunting and largely meaningless. You can do a quick text search to see if ...

Oh.

_Delacroix, Twylla Evangeline_

Automatically, you search for the names of the rest of your group and, not surprisingly, find some of the others. Sometimes it's just a name and address. Sometimes there's a photo and assorted news clippings. But while Kenari's name isn't on the list, her father and brothers are. Each brother has apparently been the subject of recent surveillance, and there are NEGATIVElabels appended to each of their names.
You broaden your search, looking for anyone within New Orleans, and turn up a woman named Gabrielle Martine and a Francis Robinet, both with addresses and phones. Robinet's dossier also mentions a possible link to organized crime.

Twylla pulls out the burner phone and quickly texts the others, We need to meet, ASAP. Got info.

Twylla reads Sebastian's message and nods to herself. 6PM. Not a problem. Her work day is usually done by then unless some emergency rears its ugly head. In the meantime...

Twylla calls the office and gets Kellie on the phone, "Hey! I need to scootch for the afternoon. The ol' Camino is acting up. I'm going to take it in to the garage. If anything major comes up, I can always work from home."

"You got it," Kellie replies. "Hell, I don't think anyone will say anything about it, today. Scott's been compiling that last program you brought in and it is golden. If Swanson gets his knickers in a twist, we'll point him to that."

"Thanks! I'll see you tomorrow," Twylla smiles and hangs up the phone. She turns her attention back to her own computer.

"So, the Feds are all up in this, then? Well, looks like I need to do a little embellishing, in case I need to crack Socialize, again," Twylla mutters softly as she pulls up a screen to start coding.

She begins my adding a subroutine to her normal connection jumps, a program that will watch for the tracer. Once they hit Computer A (or whatever she designates as the point along her connections) it will start running and redirect the trace to another set of computers, sitting in an infinite loop off her normal line.

She's not sure if her idea will work but, it might be able to buy her some time. Certainly, once the Feds see the trace looping around to a computer that they have already visited, they will know what is up and back out of the loop. But, all she wants from the program is a few extra, precious minutes to work with...

---

Elsewhere in New Orleans...

Unlike some of the other actors, Tommy didn't need a caffeine kickstart to his day. Instead, the discipline of years of martial arts practice made rising early and completing several katas almost inconsequential. Thus, here he was by the makeup trailer, practicing the upcoming fight scene. He wasn't just a stunt double; his lucky number had been drawn. He was the arch-nemesis for the hero of a police drama set in New Orleans, a recurring role that was entering its second season. His character was a smuggler, a Triad kingpin, who dealt in weapons and drugs, as well as backing the efforts of hackers looking to compromise the American government.

"Tommy!" called out one of the makeup artists. "Ready for you."

Tommy finished the last two beats of the fight sequence, then waved to show he'd heard. He wiped his face off with a towel and went to the trailer. At least this wasn't an alien-of-the-week gig where he had to wear facial prosthetics and costumes that weren't designed for any form of martial arts. Twenty minutes in the chair, then fifteen in wardrobe, and he'd be camera-ready.

Tommy makes his way towards the makeup trailer, his step picking up a bit more swagger as he starts getting into the head of this particular character - one of the movers and shakers, no mere Red Pole but a 438, second only the Mountain Master himself. He should have some swagger. (Breaking into the Axe Gang dance was pure Tommy, though - even if the mindset was right, this isn't the sort of show where serious gangsters have dance numbers.)

He reaches the trailer and steps in with a grin. "Keisha! I'm sorry you got the job of trying to make this mug beautiful today," he says to his assigned makeup person (he makes it a point to know the crew's names) as he takes a seat. "We're just doing the peekaboo tattoos today, right?"

"No, some blue pages were circulated this morning," Keisha tells you. "Forearms. You roll up your sleeves before the fight."

You nod and slip out of your shirt. Keisha stipples the edge of a stencil with some Skin-Tite, then presses the stencil against your skin. A stylized Tiger and Dragon will be airbrushed onto your forearms - not the traditional Shaolin designs, but more aggressive and feral.

There's nothing else to be done but sit back and relax. You close your eyes and lose yourself in the stillness ...

GONG

Goddamn, that's loud. Not 'rap music in the quiet neighborhood' loud. More like 'I'm gonna take that leaf blower and shove it up your ass' loud. So much for a quiet respite before having to be on-point all morning. The other stuntmen seemed to take their pace from you.
You open your eyes slowly, just to make sure it's not someone pranking you into leaping out of the chair and into a bucket of water or tripping over a garden gnome.
But you're not in the trailer.

You're in a mist-filled clearing, sitting in a stone chair amid a ring of trees. Opposite you, there is a helmeted monk silently going through a martial kata ...

Tommy gets up out of the chair, working his jaw a bit to get his ears to pop from the gong, and takes in his surroundings.

Since the monk seems to be the only one around, Tommy starts by talking to them. "Excuse me," he asks. "Not to be rude or disrespectful, but is this spiritual journey or whatever going to take long in real time? Because I've got to be on set in less than an hour."

"Tch. Mortals, always in a rush. Rush, rush, rush," chides the monk. He turns and you see a somewhat wizened and pinched face, dark eyes looking you up and down. "Rush to be born, rush to grow up, rush to work themselves to death, rush to die. But you ... you are different, hmm? You feel it, but do not understand it, yes?"

The monk cackles and does several, surprisingly quick cartwheels that brings him right in front of you. And it isn't an old man who regards you, but ... well, he looks like a monkey. Right down to the tail that flicks out from under his robes.

"Sun Wu-Kong am I, and my son you are," he says. "Show me what you know."

The blow catches you across the face. Sun Wu-Kong laughs. "Aiya! You must do better than that, leuhn-juhn*"

(Leuhn-juhn - Cantonese for clumsy.).

Tommy decides that lucid dreaming is highly overrated as he gets rocked back from the Monkey King's first strike. "Clumsy, am I?" he retorts, attacking as he parries the next blow in classic Jeet Kune Do style - he's good, and he knows it, but he's fairly confident trying to stop-hit here would be pushing things a bit too far. "So who's fault is that, oh Great Sage, Equal of Heaven? If I'm your son, why wasn't I raised on the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, or at least by monks or something?"

He does his best to seize and control the initiative of the fight, aware that any ground he gets is being given to him by his legendary opponent and somewhat irked by that. "Oh, something we need to be clear on - I may be your son, but I already have a dad, and you're not it."

"How do you know?" Wu-Kong says, wagging a finger at you. He waves a hand before his face, and it is your father looking back at you. Except your real father doesn't have a monkey's tail bobbing about behind him. The caricature is both amusing and somewhat offensive, as it captures some of your father's mannerisms in exaggerated fashion.

You meet a renewed flurry of blows with a series of fluid, almost effortless blocks.

"Better!" Wu-Kong laughs. "Faster!"

He continues to put you through your paces. You feel a euphoria that hasn't been there for some time. Your stunt work is challenging, but notchallenging. This is more like riding on the razor's edge, the buzz of the Olympic trials you'd gone for several years back ...

"The tail, for one," Tommy says, grinning almost despite himself at the joy in this fight. "Also, you'd have been a lot more enthusiastic when I got into the martial arts than he was." He takes a step back, opening up the space to draw an attack, ready to strike at the opening that will provide - the Intercepting Fist that Bruce Lee named his philosophy of fighting after.

Part of Tommy knows this is insane - he's fighting Sun Wukong, for Pete's sake, who basically kicked people's ass until they made him a god to get him to stop - but then, this is a dream, right? And even if it's not, why not go all out? The worst that seems likely to happen is that he'll lose to the Monkey King, and frankly, that's not a bad club to be in when it comes to fighting. So when that momentary opening, that moment when the opponent is fully committed to the attack comes, he strikes.

WuKong mirrors your movement, taking a step back. The gambit dissolves, and he bows.

"A bold move, but predictable," he says. "How are you with the bo?"

You're not sure where he pulls the two fighting staves with, but you're not about to stand there like a dope while a legendary figure beats you silly with a pole ...

Tommy snatches the staff out of the air, spinning it around his neck before grounding one end to bow in the traditional salute. "I've done more with thejian and dao, but I can get by," he says, and then launches into the offensive, kicking the end of his staff up from the ground as he pivots into his first strike.

This isn't a fight he can even hope to win, but it's not about winning or losing at this point, is it? It's about showing (and/or seeing) just what he can do, he's realizing, and if there's one thing for sure, it's that Tommy's never been one to hold back when it comes to testing his limits.

You begin feeling a dancing-on-the-razor's-edge buzz as WuKong pushes you to the limits of your ability, and beyond. Neither of you are keeping score, your staves twirling and slicing through the air. The Monkey King is laughing, and you realize that you are, too ...

"Hey! Tommy, hold still!" Keisha chides you. "Almost done."

"Sorry," you mumble distractedly. Damn. Had it been a dream? You're back in the makeup trailer, with only minutes having passed. And, yet, you can still smell the mulch of the forest floor, feel the chill of cold, mountain air.

Keisha gently peels the stencil away, revealing a snarling tiger stalking down along your arm. The coils of the Dragon steal around the other. Just seeing the simulated tattoos puts you more in touch with your character and his history. You know that as you rise from the chair, your walk has changed slightly, as has the set of your jaw.

"Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse," Keisha teases. "I am so getting a technical award for makeup this season."

You step out the door ...

... and find yourself launching into a somersault, up and over the staff cutting through the air, then spinning around the haft of your own staff as you plant it, but your feet barely brush the ground before you are dancing up a staircase of swirling leaves ...

Tommy falls out of character as he leaps skyward. The Dragon of New Orleans is many things, but (unlike, apparently, the actor playing him) he's not a freaking wuxia hero!

He lands on a rooftop, staff at the ready (and where had that come from, anyway?) and looking for his attacker. "This is all great," he says, assuming it's Sun Wukong again, "but I'm serious about having to be on set. Some of us know how to honor our obligations without having a magic crown stuck on our heads."

"No less important is this," WuKong cackles. "I do not give gifts on a whim. If you wish to be nothing more than mortal, even a successful TV star, I can arrange that. Or, you can see this through and be something more."

There is another exchange of blows, but even with your concerns about call times and upcoming scenes, you find yourself crossing the line between human excellence and the fanciful world of wuxia. The two of you are dancing on falling leaves, balancing on the ends of branches, sliding across water without breaking the surface.

"Yes! Much better!" WuKong crows. "I am satisfied. If you choose to accept, speak to Yue Fei! But whether you walk through this door or turn away, it is a choice that comes but once. Consider carefully!"

And you are back in the real world, just coming down the last step of the trailer ...

The Monkey King, of all people, advising him to consider carefully? Tommy laughs. "I can give you my answer now," he says. "And anyway, I don't know any Yue-"

And then he's back outside the trailer. "...Fei?" he finishes to the apparently sans-Sun Wukong air, before someone starts shouting at him to get his butt to wardrobe. He hurries off, making a mental note (underlined 3 times in red) to figure out who the hell Yue Fei is. Tommy went into show business because he wanted to do more than just teach the next generation kung fu and tai chi, and there weren't many other options. There was never any chance he'd turn this down.