When Katrina Patrick joined the Air Force, she hadn't expected to stay long. She'd do a tour or two, see some interesting parts of the world, and get out in a few years with college tuition paid and some stories to tell. Even after training and assignment, it seemed like a perfect plan. Sure, Anderson would be in the crosshairs if the ball dropped with North Korea or China, but if that happened Katrina wouldn't be safe in the States, either. Besides, nuclear deterrents and the silent pull of trade were stronger than any war hawk, right?
She'd never know. Guam was hit, not by a swarm of ballistic missiles, but by a horde of supernatural monsters with naval artillery.
Katrina's war had ended in less than a week. An Abyssal shell had removed her leg, earning her a ticket on one of the last C-17's out of Guam. Now, she was sitting in the states with a free ticket to any college she wanted, an amazing health plan, and a shiny new prosthetic leg.
All nice, and people told her it was well earned, but Katrina had found it difficult to agree. Her friends had died to get her out of there, just like she'd fought to keep the Abyssals off of the last convoy out. Now, others were doing the same, putting their lives on the line so she could worry about small stuff like grades and rent.
Making a better life for herself was important, sure, but with a war bathing the world's oceans in fire and blood her own life seemed so small.
Her job as a 911 dispatcher helped with that. It was horrifying, it was stressful, and it was punishing, but she was helping. That knowledge helped her work through the rough calls, get to every class she was in, and stay awake these long nights in the call center.
Even at this hour, MAECOM was fully staffed. The sound of quiet conversation and telephones ringing filled the office, as the various dispatchers handled this or that crisis which was unfolding in Mason County. Another dispatcher told her the call center used to be a lot more spacious, but with refugees flooding in they'd had to add several more work stations.
Now, Katrina was nursing a cup of coffee, her array of monitors sandwiched between a wall and a photocopier. They seemed to be overstaffed tonight, which was fortunate, but a thirty-minute lull in calls brought its own problems.
After finishing a call, one of her coworkers left the room for a cup of coffee. The man at the station next to her was trying to calm someone down, and his repeated questions were only setting Katrina further on edge. It was just hot enough to make Katrina uncomfortable.
When her phone finally sounded its monotone tattoo, she couldn't help but relax a little.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Uh… Hello." A woman replied, her voice slow and wavering. "I'd like to report a robbery."
"Are you in danger?" Katrina queried, glancing at the caller ID. Hadn't Fred Meyers been closed for several hours now?
"No. Not anymore." Good news there.
"Alright, you're at the Fred Meyers on Wallace Kneeland, correct?"
At the caller's response in the affirmative, Katrina turned her attention to the computer. There seemed to be an idle car nearby, meaning the caller wouldn't be alone for long.
"Alright, an officer is on its way." The dispatcher assured. "Could you describe the suspect?"
"Uhh…" The woman started, pausing for a moment. Judging by the slurred way she spoke, Katrina judged she was dealing with someone who was only awake because of adrenaline. "A woman, with white skin, white hair, and glowing eyes. I think-" The woman stopped for a moment, warring with fatigue or sudden doubts. "I think I've been robbed by an Abyssal."
Katrina froze, her blood going cold. An Abyssal? In Shelton? Forget the police, she had to contact the military, and even then the closest base was miles away. Memories from Guam flooded back to her. A burning city, refugees dying in the hundreds as enemy aircraft strafed the fleeing column. An explosion catching a taxing fighter, the aircraft she'd worked hard to arm disappearing in a fireball. The numb feeling of detachment as meds prevented her from properly saying goodbye to her friends.
Except that wasn't happening here, was it? If there had truly been an abyssal at the local Fred Meyers, she'd be dead already. Not waiting for a phone to ring.
Not funny, asshole.
"Ma'am." She started, fighting to keep her voice even. "Abyssals don't rob people. They kill them." The anger started to subside as her discipline and professionalism fought to keep it under control. The caller was tired, so mistakes were bound to happen, especially in observation. Malice versus incompetence, as Haddock's Razor states. Or was it Hammond's Razor?
"I know it sounds crazy," The caller replied. "But I don't think she could be anything else. Her eyes were glowing, and she was very strong."
That was a very easy statement to say, so although skepticism wasn't in her job description Katrina found it very hard to believe her caller.
"Are you certain?" She asked, rubbing her brow. It was probably some teenager leveraging her costume for free stuff. Worst case, they'd contact the Navy and some mischievous shipgirl would get disciplined.
"Yes."
"Are you hurt?" Katrina repeated, trying to get the conversation back on track.
"I- I don't think so."
"Good." She replied. An ambulance was also on its way. If the caller thought she saw abyssals there might be a chance something was wrong with her. "Could you tell me what happened?"
"Right. She snuck up on me after I locked the building up and grabbed the door of my car. I tried to close it on her, but…"
As the hysterical woman relayed her story, Katrina found it increasingly difficult to follow. It was her duty to believe the caller- it would be up to actual investigators to determine the veracity of the claims, but as it got more and more fantastic Katrina's incredulity grew.
She could justify an Abyssal stealing food and maybe books, but clothes? The abyssals had burned down hundreds of clothing stores by now, and hadn't shown interest in one. When the woman said the Abyssal thanked her before fleeing, Katrina managed to pass the supposed information on without really registering it.
"Ma'am, when the uh…" She checked her dispatch log "...Carrier fled the premises, what was she wearing?"
"She had a… green shirt?" The voice replied. "Jeans, as well. She also had this cowboy hat she wore. It's tan, almost white. Should be really easy to spot, but I don't think anyone should approach her."
"Because she's an abyssal." Katrina finished the caller's thought, failing to mask her disbelief.
"Yeah."
"Alright," Katrina started. It wouldn't be long before the officers arrived, and while she was tempted to keep the woman on the line until they did, if she was faking it she wouldn't have time to get away from the police anyways. "Please stay where you are until officers arrive on the scene."
"I need to get my phone, first." The woman added. "Let my husband know I'm okay."
"As long as the officers can find you." Katrina reassured. She normally didn't follow up on cases she'd been involved in, but she made a mental note to do so. "Is there anything else?"
"Not that I can think of, no."
"Alright." Katrina added, checking the dispatch info she'd sent. "Stay safe, ma'am."
"I'll try. Goodbye."
"Goodbye." Katrina replied, terminating the call perhaps a little too soon. The dispatcher fell back in her chair, groaning. She'd never felt less sympathy for a caller before. Sure, if an actual perpetrator had called her things would be different, but claiming there was an abyssal in the town? Relating it to calling 'fire' in a theater wouldn't do it justice, especially if the rumors about abyssals being attracted to negative emotions were true.
On the slim chance it was true, however, the SPD would be terribly outmatched. Abyssals were the military's job. Perhaps passing a warning to them would be prudent?
She groaned, removing her headset and standing. Katrina wouldn't claim to be an expert in abyssals (she doubted such a thing existed), but she knew enough to know that whatever the caller had spotted wasn't one. If the military got reports from everyone who thought they spotted an abyssal, especially in towns this far behind human lines, they'd have to hire half the country to go through them all. Better not waste their time unless the officers on scene found good evidence.
Besides, after a call like that?
She needed a cup of coffee.
It's Hanlon's razor, in case you want to google.
This chapter was difficult, partially because there's no Wo shenanigans to mess around with, and partially because researching 911 dispatching is really draining. Google does not give you gentle 911 calls to listen to.
As such, this is probably one of the least authentic chapters yet. I had to relate to a slow and steady approach to getting words out, and that's not conductive to good research. Hopefully I got it good enough it isn't distracting.