Fooly-Cooly: The Pennsylvania War

by BigCountry75

Jeff 'Rig' Carson has a busy to-do list: Train G&R's new apprentice Naota Nandaba, hunt for Atomsk, prevent a Medical Mechanica incursion from becoming a war, keep an eye out for Haruko, resolve a decades-long family feud, battle his own demons AND keep his sanity, while all of these forces converge on his hometown of Osceola Mills. Knowing FLCL, 50/50 odds on the sanity, at best.

44. Chapter 44

. . .

"That's all, it's done!" Didion announced to Canti. He pulled the last USB drives and hard drives from his computer. "Everything you wanted copied is on there. Are we leaving now?"

"Thank you very much." Canti accepted the drives and put them in his jacket pockets. "And perfect timing. We need to leave now." He stuck his head cautiously out the door and looked for trouble. He didn't see any police or mercenaries but did see Kamon come skidding around the corner. That meant half-trouble at least. Canti gave a thumbs up as the man approached at top speed.

"Got everything?!" Kamon barreled past Canti and into the server room. "Oh, pardon me sir! Canti, who's your friend?" Kamon gave Didion a glancing look-over and continued to the servers.

"This is Didion, the head of IT here." Canti introduced. Kamon stopped rooting in his drawstring bag to enthusiastically pump Didion's hand, then went back to rummaging. "He also was the operator, or caretaker rather, of the traffic camera system."

"Is that so?" Kamon located what he was looking for: the pack of road flares. "Then I'm sure you'll have lots and lots to discuss, you'll be close colleagues by this time tomorrow."

"What does he mean by that?" Didion asked Canti. The robot's screen flashed a rough face, grinning with an intimidating stare.

"It means that I am far from done with you." Canti's hand curled around Didion's shoulder, tightened and lifted. Didion felt his weight shift to just his tiptoes so he was barely supporting his body. No amount of wriggling would get him loose. "Please stop struggling. I can make this hold much tighter if you insist upon it. Kamon, please hurry."

"You can't rush an artist, don't you know?" Kamon jammed the last flare into place and popped off its cap. He had the flares wedged around the gaps and spaces between the servers, their racks, and cable bundles. Kamon struck the first flare with the cap. It began burning with the fierceness of a thousand suns, spitting flames and warming the room with 3,000 Fahrenheit degree heat. The rest Kamon struck in quick succession and now five flares burned bright. Plastic, rubber, and silicon began to melt, bubble and warp and the server lights began flickering as their temperatures shot up. Kamon dusted his hands and hefted his bag. "That's that! Time to make ourselves scarce! After all, they can't miss us if we never leave!"

"That's that, indeed..." Didion sighed as Canti ushered him away. He had a last look at his life's work before being distracted by new stimulus. An alarm kicked on that rose and fell in a wailing screech. "That's the fire alarm! What else did you do?! Melting some plastic isn't enough to set it off! W-why aren't the sprinklers working?! What have you done, did you set the building on fire too?!"

"You don't think I kept my handsome and ruggedly masculine face hidden behind this gas mask to make a fashion statement, do you?" Smoke was gathering along the ceiling tiles as they walked, and the air became noxiously foul to smell and taste. The linseed oil Kamon had christened various parts of the building with had been exposed to oxygen long enough that it had self-ignited. The oil inside the armory was more of a slow burner, but the Evidence Room had been choked full of ready tinder. While this had been part of his plan and Kamon figured it would be easier to get out of a building with its fire alarm blaring, since everyone else would want to get out too, he had underestimated his enemy's value of the building and its contents. They rounded a corner, and the exit was in their sight. Then that door popped open and in spilled a troop of Red Terran police and mercs.

"Intruders!" One yelled and hip fired his shotgun. A brace of buckshot skated along the wall inches from Kamon's arm and dusted him with brick flakes. In the narrowness of the hallway only one officer could shoot at a time. Kamon had a split-second window to draw his own gun and he let off a trio of nine-millimeter from his P38; one shot hitting an officer's bicep, another's hand, and the last the end cap of the first officer's shotgun ammunition tube. The magazine spring popped out of the broken tube and seven unfired shotgun shells went tumbling onto the floor.

"What now?!" Didion despaired as they fled through a building quickly becoming a chimney. Smoke now hung from the ceiling to down around their shoulders while the alarm blared, showing no sign of subsiding. Another burst of gunfire echoed outside, near one of the last. It seemed most personnel were too busy dodging rounds and looking for gunmen to put out fires.

"I've got the layout to memory, mind like a steel strap!" Kamon confidently took a corner but instead stopped as he was presented with, not a single hall, but a four-way intersection. "Or...I did. Huh."

"I do seem to recall the date on those drawings you had." Canti brought up the image on his screen. "It was from the nineteen nineties, before the remodel in two thousand two."

"Remodel?!" Kamon stopped and rounded on Canti. "What're you talking about, what remodel?!"

"It's the..." Didion began.

"Wasn't askin' you. Canti, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"...No. Not at the moment. Why?"

"You didn't think to tell me that the building had been remodeled and that our floorplan of this place was out of date?"

"In my defense, I only just found out. I do not think you are being fair with me." Canti's screen flashed to a frown.

"And you didn't think to tell me?!" Kamon hotly demanded.

"You did not ask." Canti flatly replied. Kamon's eyes narrowed in a seething glare behind his mask. He raised his Walther like one might raise a finger, once, thought about it, raised it again, then shrugged.

"Gah! You got me there." He spun around and faced the intersection again. "Has to be one of these. Let's keep moving." Pistol at ready Kamon lead them down the center hall, unknowingly deeper into the building. He tried several doors, all locked or leading nowhere. With the smoke growing thicker, down around Kamon and Canti's waist, Didion was forced to walk doubled over to get at clear air; Canti's grip still tight on his shoulder. Canti had no need for air and Kamon with his mask still breathed easy. The next door they came to had been recently upgraded and the border around it painted bright yellow, red, and black. This door was adorned with the sharp, sickly circles of the biohazard symbol. Another label warned to keep away at all times. Unable to see inside, Kamon's curiosity took him. He pressed an ear to the door, plugged the other with a finger to block out the fire alarm and listened. He could make out the hum of large industrial fans, some machine or contraption was operating in there. Kamon still had a wealth of unused space on his cameras and a desire to use it. He beckoned for Canti.

"Kamon, are we not in a hurry?" Canti examined the door and recognized why it had grabbed Kamon's attention. He turned to Didion and pulled the man forward. "Continue being helpful, please. What is in there?"

"Honest to God, I don't know!" Didion gave several coughs and ducked to get some clean air.

"Then what do you know?" Kamon pressed for any information.

"That The Man and one of the Kauffman Brothers use it, and the other day the D.R.S. guys rolled in a bunch of these big drums; looked like oil drums maybe?"

"Why couldn't you lie and say it was for storing expired lunches from the breakroom fridge?" Kamon reached for his crowbar. "Now I have to see what's inside. Canti, would you be a gentleman?" Kamon inserted the crowbar into the door jamb by the deadbolt.

"Certainly. It would be my pleasure." Canti hammered a fist on the crowbar as Kamon held it steady. The sharp blow shattered the deadbolt and busted the door open. As it swung, Kamon was grateful he had worn a gasmask. Inside was a chemical laboratory stuffed with machines, flasks, tubes and all the like; many filled with a yellow-green gas that was being pumped through the system. There was another setup not running but with its last machine looking to be some kind of pill press. Kamon cautiously entered and had the good sense to resist the urge to touch anything. He took out his camera and began snapping photos of it all. He found the mentioned collection of drums in the 55-gallon size. He had no idea what their labels meant, but snapped pictures of them in case someone at home did.

"Kamon! Trouble!" Canti stepped into the room, pulling Didion with him. Rifle shots cracked from down the hall and thudded into the reinforced steel doorframe. "We have overstayed our welcome, we are behind schedule."

"How very rude of us!" Kamon took a last picture and stowed the camera. "I assure you, Mister Didion, that this never happens."

"Yeah, sure whatever. Just don't get me shot, okay?!"

"Get ready to bail." Kamon sidled up to the door. He took one of the lenses off his camera, about the size of a tin of beans and readied to throw it. "Hey-ah Coppers! Have some of this!" He chucked the lens down the hall and followed it with shots from his Walther. Seeing a short, cylindrical object rolling and bouncing along the floor towards them, the officers made the reasonable assumption to what it was.

"Grenade! Get back, get back!" Men braced for the explosion while Kamon's bullets whizzed overhead. No blast of heat and shrapnel came. One very embarrassed mercenary walked over to pick up the object.

"Fuckin' camera lens. God damn it, I gotta admit that was clever." While Kamon, Canti and Didion fled down the hall and out of sight, the mercenary hurled the lens at the wall, shattering it to dust.

'I can't believe that worked!' Kamon congratulated himself as they finally found a hallway with windows. Now they had to follow this edge of the building hall to find a door.

"Did you know they would fall for that?" Didion asked as the sight of a door mercifully emerged.

"Of course, I did! Do you doubt me, Kamon the First?!" He cracked the door, letting in a cool breeze of fresh air. His watch showed that they still had two rifles to go off. From the narrow sliver he could see it looked like outside was utter chaos. "Just a few more seconds..."

"Seconds until what?"

"Three...two...one...GO!" A distant burst of automatic fire cooked off, eliciting much ado and swearing on the nearby receiving end. The trio exploded out the door, running down a clueless sheriff's deputy and leaving footprints on his back. Like Bats out of Hell they sprinted through the camp and across the road, sliding down the hill on their backsides. Just as they jumped down the hill someone spotted them and fired a wild shot, hitting a by-standing tree. They had no time to catch their breath after stopping at the bottom of the gully. With his heavy load and pounding heart Kamon began regretting having taken up smoking again. But he soldiered back up the hill with Canti and Didion on his heels. Back at the bread truck, Kamon opened the back door, pitched his drawstring bag in and indicated Canti do the same with his ill-gotten goods. Didion too was tossed in, a little more gently than Kamon's bag, and the door slammed shut and latched behind him. Wheezing from their uphill sprint, Kamon leaned on the driver's door to catch his wind. He and Canti both saw a D.R.S. vehicle, what looked to be a kind of APC, fire a burst from its cannon into the woods opposite the police barracks from them. Trees, bushes, and clods of earth were blasted into the air from high explosive rounds and the gunner seemed confident he had scored a kill. No further rounds went downrange. The building now had a soft glow to it and thin columns of smoke were rising from the roof. Figures around the building became more visibly agitated and some rushed inside.

"I think we are done here." Canti turned away from the barracks and opened his door.

"I think I agree." Kamon finally got his wind back. "Well! That's enough excitement for at least today. Certainly, a far cry from airsoft games down by the river! We'll have to think of something else to entertain ourselves tomorrow, but in the meantime..." He started the bread truck and put it in gear. "I think it's time to call it a day." Alarms and sirens blaring, smoke rising, the very last rifle giving them cover fire, and a camp of shattered nerves left behind them, Kamon began maneuvering the little bread truck down the access roads, meekly making their way home.

. . .

As the bread truck tip-toed away from the police barracks, Caleb Kauffman was rolling in for another day's work. Carl had assigned men to drag Caleb out of bed and, by force, if necessary, ensure he was bathed, dressed and got moving at a halfway respectable hour. Carl knew if left to his own devices Caleb would sleep until two in the afternoon. Yawning and cursing his task mastering brother, Caleb pushed in his car's lighter until the coils glowed cherry red and lit his cigarette.

"Another fuckin' day, another day of disappointment..." He dragged hard on the cigarette to make sure the initial light caught and sucked down that first good drag of smoke. "Another morning where I wake up and find I didn't die in my sleep. Already this day is off on the wrong foot..." He swung his 1997 Corolla around the last turning hill before the police barracks and was shocked clear-headed by what he saw. The encampment was a stirred-up hornets' nest, and a growing column of smoke was coming from the barracks. He stepped on the gas and blew through the gate, coming to a dirt-throwing stop just shy of the brick walls.

"What in the hell is wrong with you Kauffman?!" One of the troopers recognized the young man as he kicked his car door open and sprang out of the aging vehicle. "You nearly hit three people on your way in and broke the gate arm! What the fuck's your..."

"Get help! Get help now! Right goddamn fucking now!" Caleb ordered while grabbing anyone in arm's reach. "We have to put that fire out; we have to get it out!"

"We were just getting shot at a minute ago, we haven't cleared the area yet!" One of the officers tried to explain as Caleb, wild-eyed in panic, dragged him along and continued to cry out for help. "There's also someone in the building with a gun, we've taken casualties inside; it's not safe!"

"Kauffman, let go of him!" A sergeant tried to intervene on his trooper's behalf. "I understand your work is important, but you need to let us handle..."

"My work..." Caleb turned on this new officer, seized on his lapel and laid into him with such ferocity he let his cigarette fall. "Is going to get everyone in half a mile of here killed if fire gets anywhere near it! And not only will all of us die slowly, but it will also be excruciatingly painful the entire time! Are you starting to get with the fucking program, you utter retard?! Get in there and help me put this fire out NOW!"

"When you put it that way..." Immediately a team was assembled and clearing the building of any hiding gunmen was stopped. Always prepared, the D.R.S. supply had a complement of firefighting gear to deploy. The fires were extinguished, and catastrophe averted. But it was too late for several areas of the building. The Server Room was filled with acrid, sharp fumes and waterfalls of melted plastic. The stubby ends of burnt-out road flares were glued to the sticky mess and deep gouges had been burned into the server racks. Nothing was going to be recoverable from this mess. The Armory was found trashed and ransacked, and the gunpowder cabinet had heated until the powder cooked off. But it had emergency blowout panels that vented the bulk of the fire. Still, the cabinet and everything inside was a complete write-off. Worst was the Evidence Room. Decades of evidence, files, documents, photos, all burnt to ash or drowned when sprayed down with a fire hose. Now water soupy with grey bits of burned paper was flowing down the hall and seeping into the carpet. Meanwhile, already in a state from seeing the fire when he arrived, Caleb was on the verge of a mental breakdown when discovering his laboratory had been breached.

"Out, out, out! Everyone get the fuck out!" He had been followed in by an unwitting firefighting team. "Se... secure the hallway or some shit, I don't care..."

"Hey, we're just trying to help. Do you need us to...?"

"GET. OUT. NOW." With them removed from the room Caleb began conducting an inventory count of every item he could think of. So far nothing seemed to have been touched or out of order. Even his machines and processes were running smoothly, seeming untouched by whomever had broken in. What kind of intruder would break in, but not steal anything? That worried and concerned him more and he collapsed against the wall, sinking to the floor.

"What the hell is this?" Meanwhile, Carl arrived on scene. On call and 'at the office' so to speak, he was not in his suit but khaki and black fatigues, a basic battle belt and suspenders. "You, Nichols, yes? Nichols..." Carl snagged one of his sergeants. "Talk to me, what's going on?"

"It's an absolute shit-show, that's what's going on Sir." The man reported. "It was an average night, quiet, no activity. Then we took automatic small arms fire from that position on the hill..." Nichols pointed out a squad clearing the area. A pair of men had cut something from a tree and held it up: a rifle of some odd model. "Then there, there, then there..." He traced the positions of fire around the valley. "We were responding with small arms of our own, then someone began throwing grenades: smoke, frag and distraction. After that there was some noise and shooting inside the building, but I figured I'd let the cops handle it since it's their house. You'll have to ask them what went down in there."

"Fair, that's fair." Carl walked with Nichols as he described the battle. "Then what?"

"We got one of the ACV's cranked and maneuvered around to put fire on the hill. One of, whoever was up there, opened up and we put five rounds of H.E. in his face, and that shut the rest of them right the fuck up. There was one more burst, probably cover fire and then everything seemed to calm down. Then about a minute or two later..." Nichols pointed to a faded white '97 Corolla. "Your brother rucks up, losing his damned mind, and goes off about something in his lab. I didn't hear what it was he's got in there, but whatever he said to the cops, it motivated them to drop everything else and pull our firefighting gear. That is the summation of things, Sir."

"Excellent, thank you very much. You're doing very well. Are any of your squad injured, killed?"

"Nothing but some lost sleep. Sir, do I need to be aware of what's in your brother's lab to do my job?"

"No. You do not."

"Understood." Nichols dropped all curiosity about the Kauffman's laboratory. He was already scrubbing his asking about it from his memory. "I would recommend starting now that we organize patrols, at least in a one-mile zone around the camp. My squad is willing to volunteer for the first patrol if asked. Otherwise, I have nothing further to report and no questions to ask."

"Very well. Thank you for the update. Your suggestion is sound, I will see that patrols are organized. But for now, pull your guys and go get breakfast as thanks. Tell them I sent you." Carl then dismissed Nichols, organized his thoughts, then proceeded into the barracks. His first step into the hall came with a soft squish under his boot. Water grey with ash flowed out the door and saturated the carpet. "Gross." He navigated the flushed-out barracks station. Passing him were grumbling state troopers carrying partially burned or water-soaked papers to lay out to dry in the rising sun. Another equally cross group were hauling ruined electronics. He peeked into the armory and saw troopers on their hands and knees gathering up thousands of spilled bullets and throwing them into ammunition canisters. Finally, he reached Caleb's lab and knocked on the door. There was no response. Carl shouldered the door open and found Caleb stalking about the room, muttering to himself while chain smoking.

"...containers, still sealed, yes. Six of the small scales, yes. Four of those, unopened, yes. Nine of those, in their place, yes..." Caleb was pointing out to himself each item in the room and taking inventory. From what Carl guessed, nothing was missing but Caleb was still greatly disturbed that his workspace had been breached.

"Caleb."

"...Four of those, yes. Twenty of those, yes, yes...yes. Ten of..."

"Caleb."

"...A dozen of..."

"CALEB."

"WHAT?!" Caleb spun around; eyes fraught with panic. "Can't you see I'm having a meltdown here?! Kinda busy!"

Carl ignored the outburst. "I noticed. Can you wrap it up? There is still work to be done, whether your things have been touched by someone else or not."

"Ohhhhh...what're you gonna do?" Caleb waved his hands in mock despair. Trails of cigarette smoke hung around his head and shoulders, falling to the floor slowly like an ethereal cape. "Beat me up, like you always did to the rest of us?"

"You keep runnin' this fuckin' shitty attitude and I just goddamn might."

"Yeah, yeah... that's all you're good for..." Caleb knelt at one of his instruments, tucking his smoldering cigarette behind his ear so its smoke wouldn't get on the device, even at the expense of some singed hair. Satisfied with the instrument he stood and put the cigarette back in his mouth. "OKAY...some way, somehow... they broke in here and didn't touch a single thing. And I don't know if that worries me more or less than if they had stolen something."

"Either way, this will not go unanswered." Carl checked his radio mike. "Comms check. Yote-1 requesting comms check."

"Dingo-2 reads Yote-1 loud and clear." A mercenary hailed back.

"Jackal-5 confirms Dingo." Another confirmed.

"Yote-1 requesting Boxer and Corso squads to report in. Double-time. Yote-1 out." Carl signed off and turned to leave. Before exiting he gave the barrels labeled "DONE" a last look. "How soon will you be ready?"

Caleb was now flipping through his books of notes. He wasn't finding anything out of place but still felt his nerves fraying. "Uh, uhm... probably a week or two. I mean, are we really in a hurry? What's the rush all of a sudden? I thought I was going to get to work at my own pace?"

"Yes, we are in a hurry. Our enemy thinks they can hit our main base and get away with it. They must be reminded that actions have consequences and the sooner, the better. Don't let me catch you slacking off."

"Don't get caught slacking... got it..." Caleb was hardly paying attention and was losing himself in his notes and reference books again. Carl left Caleb to his work and embarked on his own trade. Along the way he snagged some idling police officers to attend this meeting and provide 'local insight.'

"Be at ease gentlemen, we're conducting a counter-raid." Carl addressed his Boxer and Corso squads. Inside the D.R.S. map and communication tent pinholes from fresh bullet holes let small shafts of sunlight into the otherwise artificially lit room. "In response to this morning's festivities we are striking back at our enemy to inflict severe morale damage, to establish that we do not tolerate their actions, and should they not change their ways... the beatings will continue until their behavior improves." Small grins and smiles were hard to hide around the room. The invited police officers were unsure what was going on, but the mercenaries seemed to know the secret lingo of their commander. "Now, officers. It has been several years since I've lived around here, and a lot can change in that kind of time. You know your areas inside and out, especially Philipsburg. On this map, tell me what could be considered a focal point, a pillar of the community so to speak. My information is years outdated, so I need your help."

"Ah...well..." One officer overcame his awkwardness and tapped the map. "The Y.M.C.A. is always popular, that's, that's ah, really good one. Uhm..." The police found they were uncomfortable in such proximity to the mercenaries but were especially nervous of Carl. Waves of cruelty and sinister spikes were radiating from the man as he hungrily paced the room.

"The ball diamonds are also a big gathering place, for baseball and softball." Another state trooper added. "You'll find people from all corners of town there."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh..." Carl nodded, then gave a slow, sweeping look at the line of Red Terran officers. Blue, forward facing, predator eyes cut at them all. "Is there anywhere else? Somewhere that would be, heart wrenching, if it were to disappear?"

"Uhm..." No one seemed to be comfortable answering.

"Today gentlemen." Carl prompted. "I'm a busy man. Places to go, things to see, people to kill. Anybody think of anything else? Or are the rest of you useless?" Seconds of confused silence crawled by.

"There's..." An officer at the end of the line spoke. "There's uhm..."

"Speak up now, don't be shy! Which one are you, who are you?" Carl went down the line. "What's your name?"

"It's Hynen. Patrolman Hynen."

"Alright, Hynen. What do you have for me?"

"Here." Patrolman Hynen put a finger on the map and pressed down to conceal his tremor. "You should know it; it's been around before we were all born: Hi-Way Pizza."

"Yes... yes. How could I have forgotten?" Carl put an arm on Hynen's shoulder and patted it in a job well done. "Do Jerry and Sara still run the place?"

"It wouldn't be Hi-Way Pizza without them."

"Of course. Good. Good, very good." Carl looked the line of state troopers over once more. "Thank you very much, gentlemen. You've been most helpful. You're all dismissed. Last one out, close the flap." As they filed out and Patrolman Hynen made to secure the door, he looked over his shoulder. He saw a pack of wild dogs on their hind legs, drooling while scheming what their next kill would be. He blinked, the vision left him, and he secured the door flap. He then threw himself into filling sandbags, trying to forget the last few minutes.

. . .

The Nandaba's and Canti finally came back around daybreak. Naota made it first and could barely stand on his jelly legs. His initial debriefing was a jumbled, garbled mess of excitedly stammered gibberish going about a mile a second. Johnny and Mike managed to settle him down long enough to get his guns and gear off him and sent him to rest in the office. Kamon was a bit better put together but still as excited and nerve wracked as his son. Canti was the only one who could be counted on to make sense and tell a reliable story. We sat enraptured around a table in the shop and listened to Canti talk about their raid on the State Police Barracks. All took extensive notes; both for official reports and personal consumption. I was impressed with the haul Kamon had brought back. The loss of these tools would throw a major wrench in the police ability to maintain their firearms. More so, I was ecstatic that Kamon had placed the specialty rounds I had given him. Meanwhile Josh ignored all of us, pouring through the reams of paper from Kamon's bag while the hard drives Canti had filled copied to Josh's computers. Josh must have been finding things of interest because he had his headphones on to block us out and was taking his own extensive notes. The two most awe-inspiring things though were how Kamon and Canti not only got in and out with a plan that was envious of any action film but did so unharmed AND had secured a prisoner to boot. This newest guest of ours, calling himself Didion, was in one of the storerooms under the shop. Tommy and Commander Amarao were entertaining him.

"This's all incredible." Johnny and I were fawning over one of Kamon's drawings of his take on a Drip Rifle. "You didn't come to any of us for help. How did you figure all this out?"

"Well, Johnny-Boy, you see..." Kamon helped himself to another drag on a cigarette and chased it with a victory swig of Day Grog. (Old family recipe: combine random cheap beers and odd-end almost empty bottles of liquor, black tea, lemonade, lemons and limes, water and a few shots of Fireball into gallon jugs, shake vigorously, chill and allow to marinate in fridge overnight, serve in whatever watertight containers are handy. It's a great waste reduction program.) "There's really no figuring involved, it's all an exercise in artistic interpretation, going by the seat of your pants and beat of your heart...none of you are buying that, huh?"

"I'm sorry my disbelief interrupted your prose." Mike peered down his glasses at Kamon's positioning map for the rifles. "But no, we're not buying that lemon."

"In truth I spent several weeks thinking it over and days reading a dozen of my father's books; he had an extensive collection I inherited. The most compelling lessons were things I wanted to avoid. First was do not complicate things, make it simple. Second was to study, study, study the area so even if things changed, I would not get overwhelmed with the new information. Third was to keep a brisk timetable, to be in and out as efficiently and quickly as possible. Fourth, I prepared for every step assuming it would go wrong and what I would do when it did. The only thing I didn't plan on, which was an audible Canti called, was if we captured someone. But even with the extra passenger, we made it just fine; didn't we?"

"We did, except for having outdated floor plans." Canti's addition poured water on the fiery tale Kamon was stoking. "Apart from that oversight, we managed to come out on top."

"I thought we agreed to not mention that little bit." Kamon kicked Canti's leg under the table, regretting it with a wince.

"I said I would take it under consideration." Canti's screen display angled its eyebrows down. "I never agreed to lie on behalf of your ego. I will say, however, I am glad you asked for my help. It was overall an enjoyable experience. Although, I am anxious to interview Mister Didion about his work." Robotic as his voice and expressions were, I would bet honest money there was a hint of excited anticipation in Canti's voice. There would be no way to prove it, but I'd swear it was there. "I hope Commander Amarao and Captain Carson do not take much longer."

"It's coming up on two hours." I checked my watch.

"Yeah, they'll be getting done with their initial round of interrogation soon." Josh's selective hearing kicked in. He saw concern at his choice of words on Kamon's face. "Don't worry, I mean interrogation in the academic sense of the word. No thumbscrews or breaking wheels here. And if you know what you're doing and how to have a conversation, your charge will gladly talk you to death. It's just a matter of finding what they can go on and on about for hours and using that to get your foot in the door. But, doing it that way takes time. Which, in this case of, Didion, was it? We have plenty of time."

"Didion? Who the hell is Didion?"

"Hey, Naota! You're awake." We made space around the table for him, a chair was put under his butt and an Altoona Curve souvenir cup of grog was put in his hand. "Come in and sit the hell down. How's it hangin', how's thing's shakin', and how tha fuck are yah?"

"Better, better now, that I've had time to unwind." He slugged down half his cup and began his own recounting of deeds. Once more a Nandaba impressed me with his ingenuity and ability to think on the spot while under pressure. I had sent him in with all the tools I could give him on short notice and what was authorized, and he still got things done. But as he described how the state patrol car had gotten caught in the power lines, his words slowed to a stop. His gaze dropped away from us and into the liquid swirling his cup.

"And then what?" Mike pressed for the next step. I already knew, or at least had a good guess. Naota had brought my rifle back with two less cartridges than I had sent him out with. And as I had cleaned and oiled the gun, I could tell from the black gunk on the cleaning patches that he had fired them at something. Based on his sudden silence, at least one of these shots could have resulted in a hit.

"Hey, before I say anything else." Johnny saw the look on Naota's face and recognized it right away. "You are amongst friends here, and none of us are going to judge you, or think any less of you. Understand?"

Naota rattled his head enough to indicate a nod. "Understand."

"Okay." Johnny gently pressed. "Now, you do not have to tell us what happened next. You will have to write it up in your report for Sergeant Carson and Captain Carson. But I have found that talking through it with people you trust can help you find some strength. Nothing you say will leave this table. Okay?"

Naota took a heavy breath to steady himself and nodded again. I remembered back to the fight in Clyde's basement greenhouse: blood and grisly gore, my hands slick with it, ears blown out and ringing from gunshots, and the unique sensation of jamming a revolver barrel into a man's eye socket I will never be able to forget. In the aftermath and my coming to terms with what I had survived, I had been blessed to have Naota and Haruko there to comfort and distract me. Now it was all our turns to do the same for him. Placing trust in us Naota continued.

"And then, they were getting ready to jump out of their car. I had a thought of 'what if I made the area look like a sniper was operating in the area?' so the intersection would be impassable that much longer as they cleared the entire area; and taking out two troopers would help end all this that much faster. So, I lined up on the one farthest away and... and I... hit him in the head. He went straight down; I don't think he felt a thing. The second one made his jump and heard my shot. But the sound bounced all around and I don't think he saw the flash, so he had no idea where I was. He drew his gun and was shouting for... shouting for his partner. He then started moving around their car and I hit him just above his plate with my second shot. It looked like it was quick for him, I think...I hope it was, because he fell right away and didn't move. Immediately after that my nerves started to get the better of me, so I threw all my things together and, everything blurs out here, at some point got on my bike. I must have had some sort of conscious blackout where I was moving, but have no memory of it, because when I came to my senses, I was somehow at what I figured out later to be Wolf Run... and no idea how I had gotten there. I took some time to calm down, then began working my way back... and here I am."

"That's quite the night out." Johnny acknowledged. "How do you feel about it all?"

"Horrible... like I'm caught between throwing up, rolling into myself, or exploding in a thousand pieces. But mostly horrible." Naota put his cup down and stared at the floor. "I killed two people... I know I did; I saw the blood and everything... I've killed two people... I'm, I feel horrible... just... horrific..."

"My son, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that." Kamon placed an arm over his shoulders. "I wouldn't expect you to feel good about what you've done. In fact, I would be quite concerned if you felt joy or elation about taking two lives. And I hope that it is something that you never become used to or comfortable with; and I know none of us want you too either. But the reality of the situation we find ourselves in cannot be ignored. I've heard Sergeant Carson say a small comfort can be found in doing your job properly to make a quick, clean shot with the minimal amount of suffering possible. And if what you've told us is true, then that should be where your heart can find refuge."

"Th... thanks, thank you." Naota thanked Kamon and looked at the rest of us. "It never gets better, does it?"

"No, it never does." Johnny spoke from his career's experience. "Nor should it; and further, nor should you want it to. What you've done, what we've all done here, is undeniably ugly. But at least, for me I hope and pray to whoever listens, what you've done might change someone's mind or convince them what they're doing isn't worth their life and they'll walk away; saving themselves and possibly even more lives by doing so. One man with a good rifle can bend history, but a Good Man with a good rifle can rewrite it completely and change an outlook from despair to hope. Does this make sense?"

Naota pressed at his eyes and took a few breaths before nodding and croaking out "Yeah, it does. It still feels just... shitty. But uhm...I'm glad you're all here so I, don't have to do this alone. It won't be today, prob'bly not tomorrow, but I think I'll be okay. Thank you, all of you. Sorry for being such a, y'know."

"Don't worry about any of it." Mike added. "We're all here for you. All we've ever had was each other. That's how we've survived, and how we're going to pull through. So, if you need any help, just let anyone know."

"Thanks again, really." Naota took down the last of his grog and finally seemed to begin truly relaxing. "Sooo... what now?"

"Not much I'm afraid." I nodded over at Josh's computers, running in the background. "It depends on what Josh finds in the data Kamon and Canti brought, how things go with that Didion guy, and how the cops react to all of this."

Mike put in that he agreed and added. "At this exact second, the ball is in their court. Although, between the two of yahs, I reckon they're too shellacked to make reasonable, thought-out decisions. They may use this time to regroup, figure out what the hell just happened, and reorganize. There is also the possibility they lash out and do something reactionary. Whatever that looks like, Kamon and Canti, I'm sorry to say but you'll probably never get to pull off another raid on the barracks. We'll know for sure in the next twenty-four hours." As Mike concluded two sets of footsteps ascended the ramp from the supply rooms below the shop.

"Hey there ladies." Tommy grinned and was followed by Commander Amarao. "How goes the knitting circle?"

"Swimmingly." Johnny answered. "How about yours?"

"Commander?" Tommy deferred to Amarao.

"Didion, for being an IT man..." Amarao put away a notebook which many of us at the table eyed with feverish desire. "Is quite the orator when given a chance. How much of what he says is true, and how much of that is useful, remains to be seen. In the meantime, Canti." Amarao eyed Canti with withering suspicion. Since the last time these two really interreacted was four years ago when Canti had been connected to The Activation Hand's terminal core, Amarao giving Canti the Stink Eye was understandable.

Canti, seeming incapable of giving a shit what Amarao thought of him, unflinchingly stared back. "Yes? Commander?"

"Until Captain Carson and I resume our discourse with Didion this time tomorrow, he's all yours. Don't... damage him."

"I would not dream of it."

"Very well. Captain Carson, if that would be all?"

"Until tomorrow morning!" Amarao bid us all good day and exited the shop. Tommy meanwhile joined us at the table and poured his own grog. Before he could get a sip in, another order of business poked its head in.

"Tommy, you in here?!" In our dark cave hangout that happens to be the shop, we couldn't see the face against the backlight of that pesky sun. But we all recognized the voice. The proprietor of Hi-Way Pizza wanted a word.

"Yeah Jerry, what's up?"

"Bread's all done up for the day, should be plenty to make runs to all the other bases. Sara and I are gonna drive up and check on the place. Shouldn' be more'n an hour."

"Sounds fine, let me get some guys together to go with you." Tommy reached for the radio on the table.

"Ahhh, nah, nah, don't worry about it." Jerry waved the escort off. "We're just goin' up to Hi-Way and back. Not like we're going off on some great journey."

"Jerry." Now Tommy was standing. "There are a lot of very unpleasant people out there, who surely by now have figured out where your loyalties are and are very unhappy with you; and will do very unpleasant things should you cross their path."

"Oh, we don't want to be a bother. Don't worry about an escort for us old duffers."

"I was not asking." Tommy walked over to Jerry and took him outside, just out of sight. I knew better than to eavesdrop but is it my fault I have selectively perfect hearing?

"It's nothing personal, we're more than happy to help in any way we can; it's the least we can do. But Sara and I are feeling like we're prisoners under escort, with everyone walking around with guns at all hours. I'm not pretending I don't understand what's going on, I really do. But we're not soldiers or militia or whatever. We need some time away from barbed wire and bunkers, where it's just the two of us."

"I get that, I really do. Now I need you to get something. You might think of yourself as just another pizza spinner in a little town. But you and Sara both mean a lot to everyone here. More than just your ovens and bread. YOU and HER both, personally, as people. I mean, if you guys closed up shop and moved to Myrtle Beach like Sara threatens to every winter, I'd put money down this town fuckin' dies without you."

"We'd find someone else to run Hi-Way if something ever happened."

"It'd be Hi-Way in name only, and you know it. So again. I'm not asking. Do not move, from this spot. I am going to get an escort organized, and then you can go. Or you ain't goin' at all. Is that clear?" It was quiet, and then there was a resigned sigh.

"I am going to complain, loudly, the entire time. And you'll never hear the end of it from Sara; let me tell you."

"Thank you. Go get Sara, then come right back here." A few minutes passed, some breeze got shot, cigarettes were smoked, tobacco was spat, more grog was drunk, lies and tall tales were told, and finally three trucks departed: two up-armored and one a plain Ford Ranger between them. Seeming drained from the experience, Tommy slumped at last into his chair and emptied his cup in one go.

"Some people, huh?"

"Some people. But good people." Tommy agreed and took out his tin to take tobacco. Lip packed, he turned to Kamon, Canti, and Naota. "Remember that good people are always worth the effort. Now! I'm sure this lot have dissected your stories from front to back, and inside to out, but I'm feeling selfish and would like my own crack at 'em. So, who wants to go first?"

. . .

During the shop roundtable, Mana Kitsurubami was in her quarters and wearing out her keyboard. Continuous education and professional development for I.I.B. officers kept even her free time busy. This dissertation was on when a field officer is to press an advantage or exploit an opportunity, or to pursue a slower, methodical approach to a situation, how the two could change multiple times in a matter of minutes, and how these approaches must fit into the overarching tactical and strategic doctrine. After working on it for the better part of the morning she was making her closing remarks. She paused to review what she had composed so far:

This historical review allows a trend to be seen. The two chief attributes seen in successful field commanders across different times, planets, and eras of technology are: communication and adaptability to change. An officer that cannot communicate cannot lead. They cannot direct responses to new events, or initiate changes based on updated information. Further still is the ability to communicate succinctly, that is knowing the proper amount of information and direction to those under their command. To use gross terms, simply pointing in the vague direction of enemy lines and bellowing 'Charge' is good communication in simplicity only. Conversely, dictating the exact ways and means an order is to be carried out down to the number and spacing of paces to be marched leads to at best confusion. Orders must be detailed enough to avoid this confusion or panic but given enough vagueness to allow for adaptation and improvisation as sudden events warrant. This leads into the second attribute, adaptability to change.

Commanders armed with superior technology, bolstered by overwhelming numbers, ensconced within impenetrable fortifications, and sometimes all at once, have lost battles because an unforeseen threat, unprepared for, manifested itself outside of their ability to react in a timely fashion. This not only applies to intimate actions up close, such as clearing a building or storming a trench, but also to wider strategy and doctrine. The failure to adapt from line-formation into squad-based fire and maneuver when inaccurate smoothbores gave way to pinpoint rifles. Refusing to adopt new technologies because what was on hand was 'familiar', proven to be 'battle hardened' and 'rugged' despite all end-user experiences in the field proving these assertions false. _lll_

"Hmm... I know I'm going somewhere with this; I swear I am..." Mana pensively pressed her fingers to her lips, tip-tapping them while trying to head off the question she knew would come when reaching this section of her future presentation: 'What is your point?' This was always the hard part. How to bring all these examples and lessons together and condense them into a paragraph that would impress a stuffy and detached review board. Therein lay the real pathway to promotion. Not how many planets and battlefields she had fought on, how many of her soldiers came home in the same way they left, the number of headshots she nailed. No, sadly she was learning it was much more mundane: her ability to process and produce quality paperwork.

"Almost makes me not want to get promoted... go too high and you don't get to do anything fun anymore. When was the last time a captain got to go Red Star hunting with their rifle? Never, that's when. Anyway... Haaa...time is it?" Her clock read several hours past time to take a break. Feet in boots, pistol belt buckled, garrison cap on just right, out the door and down the freighter's cargo ramp to take in some much-needed sunshine. Proving that Humans can adapt to anything and make even warfare mundane; the Auxiliary camp and surrounding area was going about its daily routine. Nowhere to go and nothing to do, and until past dinner time to get it all done, Mana wandered the forest's edge. Some of the leaves had flashed to color as the season began turning over. Castra had become so peopled and developed as the central hub of the Galactic Republic that true wilderness was reduced to rare pockets. But here it was all around, right at her fingertips. Just two hundred yards away from the freighter and she could drop off the map, disappear into an uninterrupted forest that ran beyond the horizon. Breeze rattled its way through the leaves and the leaning trees seemed to be beckoning Mana to come closer and get lost among them, just for a while...

Pah-pah-pah-pah-pah-powww... Pah-pah-pah-pah-pah-powww... Pah-pah-pah-pah-pah-powww...

'Machine gun.' The distinct firing pattern pulled her back. 'North. Faint. About... four klicks out. We don't have anyone out there. Wonder what's going on?' She began making her way towards the G&R shop, where most likely the answers to the nature of the echoing machine gun would be found. Several other, distinct weapons joined in and rapidly hit a crescendo, then stopped as soon as they had begun. Interesting, odd, but not unusual in her experience. It was either an ambush or nervous troops getting spooked over a shadow. In the time it took her to reach the shop no further gunfire popped off. She found another party enjoying their downtime, the Overwatch Station crew, Kamon and Canti, all partaking from several gallon jugs filled with a suspicious brown fluid and floating chunks of unknown fruits. Several more fruits of the same colors but un-chopped were in a bowl at the table's center with a kitchen knife lain atop them.

"Greetings and good morn, Lieutenant!" Captain Carson hailed. "How does this fine Pennsylvanian day find you?"

"It finds me very well, thank you. Ah, is this for me?" Without looking up from his computer, Sergeant Copenhaver used his good leg to push a rolling chair over for her. The sitting cushion had once been split open but successfully stitched back together with duct tape. A fine throne.

"Unless you're more comfortable standing." Sergeant Copenhaver answered and went back to work without missing a beat. Mana took her seat, and a large red cup was placed in front of her. It was filled with the mystery brown fluid and bobbing with a yellow and a green fruit.

"Things are slow right now and we're helping the Nandaba's here unwind after their wild night out." 1st Sergeant Shaw explained as he tapped cigarette ash into a scorched and gritty Pibb Xtra can. "So be at ease, relax. You're from..." 1st Sergeant Shaw drew on his cigarette to think. "Castra. Right?"

"Born there, yes." Though told to take it easy she still sat properly and minded her manners. "My great-grandparents, mother and father sides both, were from Earth."

"They must have been part of the outreach program, right?" Corporal DuBois inquired. "You have trail-blazing blood in you, and very adventurous ancestors."

"Correct on all accounts!"

"What's Castra like?" Naota had only heard second-hand descriptions through Staff Sergeant Carson. And he had only heard those from Captain Carson and Master Sergeant Shauffner. "Is the gravity weird? Can you breathe the air like you can here?"

"The gravity is right about the same as here, different only by an academic sense. The air where I live is good, but I am lucky to be far out from my city's center, and on the opposite side from an office complex. There is a lovely park between there and my unit. It has some fields, ponds, a small forest, that sort of thing. Although, because it's the Republic's capital you can see all different kinds of peoples from vastly different planets that have to use breathing assistance. Some can get away with a mask or respirator, some have to wheel around a battery powered filter."

"Do you get to meet a lot of these, for lack of a better word I guess, aliens?" Naota followed up. "I've only met one and, well. They're not all like her, right?"

"No, they're not like her, if I think we're talking about the same person." Mana was puzzled by the latter half of this question. 'He doesn't know anything about Haruko's planet or people; does he?' She decided that story wasn't hers to tell and continued. "Because of my profession, I do, and do not, get to meet them. I do in that I see and exchange dialogue on a regular basis. But I don't because that dialogue is overwhelmingly through work. And more often than I like our verbal exchanges devolve into an exchange of gunfire. That and my personal hobbies don't put me into a lot of social settings out and around the city. But if you ever do go to Castra, I can point you in the right directions if meeting exceptionally new people is your activity of choice."

"Dialogues and negotiations breaking down into gunfire?" Corporal DuBois pulled thoughtfully on his beard. "Hmmm... have we ever had that happen here?"

"Oh, I could be convinced it's happened here a time or two..." Captain Carson looked up at the rafters in mock retrospection. Meanwhile Mana's throat was dry from talking. She desperately wanted a drink but had no idea what was in the cup in front of her. It terrified her to death thinking about what might be swimming in the murky depths. While Mana agonized and resigned herself to die of thirst, Kamon excused himself for a trip to the 'gentlemen's lounge'. As he exited the great bay door, he stopped to puzzle at something out of the table's eyesight. Captain Carson saw Kamon's sudden stop.

"What's got your eye?"

"Tommy... I'm not sure what's going on... but you might want to see this..." Kamon walked out of sight for a better angle. Captain Carson hauled himself out of his chair and excused himself.

"What'cha got for..." His voice cut off as he too walked out of sight.

"Uhm, uh, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Staff Sergeant?"

Sergeant Carson indicated at her cup with his. "Somethin'...ah, excuse me. Ahem. Is there something not to your liking with your drink?"

"Oh, no, no, it's fine, really." Lying had never been her strongest suit.

"If there's something wrong, don't suffer trying to not offend us."

"It's...it's that... I don't know what these are." Mana showed Sergeant Carson the floating objects in her cup. "I think they're some kind of fruit?"

"Yes, they're fruit. Wait. You don't have lemons and limes on Castra?"

"I suppose not, because I have no idea what those are." Mana admitted. One of them, the yellow one, rolled over and showed a stringy, pulpy and dense webbing under its solid exterior. She looked back up and saw Sergeant Carson struggling to keep down a laugh. "What, what's so funny?"

"Oh man, you've never had a lemon or lime. Oh no, no, no, no! This cannot be, this cannot stand. Here, come here." Sergeant Carson took a yellow and green fruit from the bowl. "The yellow ones are called lemons; the green ones are limes. Both are good for you; they have lots of vitamins; especially vitamins good for long journeys. Otherwise, if you don't get these vitamins your health goes downhill fast, and you'll get Scurvy."

"Scurvy? Yeeuggh. That sounds..."

"Horrific, yes." Carson took the knife from the bowl and sliced each fruit in half. "A most nasty and terrible condition, and so easily preventable with..." He picked up another pair and began cutting those, tapping them with the knife tip. "Sufficient application of these."

"W-what happens if I don't? If I get...scurvy?" Mana's fear of the unknown and exotic sounding disease began to override her initial fear of the mystery fruits and drink.

"The worst laundry list you ever did see." Carson casually explained the bodily horrors. "You'll become anemic, your very bones will ache, you'll break out in red spots from bleeding under the skin, your hairs will grow in corkscrews, and your teeth will fall out!"

Mana slapped a hand over her mouth, lest all her teeth rocket out of her head. She managed to squeak out a "And... then what?!"

Sergeant Carson leaned closer and gently laid the cut halves next to Mana's cup, then uttered one single ghastly word: "DEATH."

Mana scarcely breathed out. "Not death!"

"If that's a fate you'd rather avoid..." Sergeant Carson picked up his half of a lemon and held it up as if making a toast. "Then your morning refreshment is served. Cheers, to your health!"

Picking up a lemon half Mana returned the toast, tapping the fruits together. "Cheers, to our health, and our teeth!" And at the same time, she, and Sergeant Carson bit into their lemons. Practiced in this art, Carson pulled out the pulp and slurped out the juice in one go. Mana, on the other hand, felt her entire face scrunch in around her mouth as it, her tongue and lips were curdled by the sour acids. Eyes watering, she managed to get some of it past her mouth and kept it down. It was bitter and sour, but once the shock wore off, she found lemons also tangy and refreshingly bright.

"Lieutenant, is something the matter?" Sergeant Carson chased his lemon half with drink. "You appear distressed."

"I'm trying to decide if scurvy is worth it." Mana wiped her eyes. The lemon juice stung at the small cracks in her lips she had not known she had but was now acutely aware of. "Tah-baem*, that is sour! Carson, did you not warn me on purpose?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that allegation." Carson held up half a lime. "Perhaps you'll prefer the lime better. Or perhaps instead, you'd prefer instead the blood-red spots and your body hair in corkscrews?"

He made a compelling case and Mana raised a lime half in toast. Biting in she found the lime acidic as well, but tart and slightly sweet. Having tried both now and not dead, yet, she turned her attention to her cup. 'If I back out now, I'll not only look rude, but cowardly.' Before proceeding she asked what was in it.

"Black tea, lemonade, that's a semi-sweet drink made from lemons, water, sugar, lemons, limes, whatever beers were leftover in the garage fridge, the odd bottom dregs of various vintages, and some Fireball."

"There...there's alcohol in this?!" Mana immediately checked over her shoulder for any blue uniforms. No I.I.B. personnel were in eyesight, but one could be right around the corner. Her reputation couldn't allow her to be caught dead with alcohol in hand while in uniform; even a uniform as haphazard as this. "And... that means you're all drinking...in the middle of an active combat zone! Staff Sergeant Carson, I thought better of you!"

"Lieutenant, if I may interject." Corporal DuBois stretched an arm to reach one of the gallon jugs and refill his cup. "This is a combat zone, but it's also our home, and we have to allow ourselves to relax sometimes, even if just a tiny bit. Besides, if you wanted to get drunk off this, you'd have to shotgun a gallon or three in the span of mere minutes. It's like the gravity difference between here and Castra in that it's alcoholic in the academic sense only."

"One glass isn't going to find you wandering the runway with a lampshade on your head." Sergeant Carson raised his receptacle of choice, a tankard sized coffee mug with a "CAUTION: USED OIL" label. "Before you report us all to the Uniformed Code and Conduct Board, one more toast?"

"Oh, I don't..." Mouth and throat still parched, but now singing with sour citrus, a drink was needed. Mana looked Sergeant Carson in the eyes, seeing an odd, strange gleam that hinted to honest mischief and something else as well, but that she wasn't sure of. What she did not see was deception or any ill intent. She also noticed this time that he was able to maintain sustained eye contact. When she had first shaken his hand, she'd seen Carson determined to look anywhere but at her eyes. 'Hmm...progress there. Alright, one sip can't hurt. It's to maintain a cordial relation with an allied group, yes, that's it.' Mana raised her red cup. "Okay, I'll try it."

"Here's to you!"

Day Grog, surprising to Mana, was as easy to drink as it was to breathe. Sweet, sour, bright from the fruit and lemonade, hearty and a hint of Hopps from the beer, and though the liquid was chilled, there a comforting warmth was just under the surface. "Oh. Oh my. That's..." Before she could continue, she went back for a second, still restrained, sip. "That's actually quite good. What's that warmth though? Is it... some kind of... spice, I think?"

"Oh, that's the cinnamon from the Fireball you're tasting."

"Fireball? That sounds, dangerous. What is that?" Now that their flavors were muted some, Mana found she rather liked the lemons and limes.

"It's cinnamon whiskey." Sergeant Carson casually explained.

"Sergeant Carson! There's hard liquor in here too?!"

"No, it's Fireball." He made a pinch with his index finger and thumb. "Hardly what could be seriously called 'hard liquor'. There's barely just enough to get the cinnamon flavor. And please, if we're just sitting like this, Jeff is plenty fine."

"Very well, Jeff." Mana felt her mouth and tongue tingle with the light fuzz from a misting of cinnamon whiskey. Despite her best intentions, she found the sensation delightful. "You and your... crew here..." She waved her cup across the table, receiving bright, honest smiles and raised high cups in return. "Are treading a fine line, let me tell you! You may be able to get away with this here, but it would never fly on Castra."

"Are they really that uptight there?" Jeff shifted his chair closer.

"Like you wouldn't believe." Mana took another, deeper drink. "This's really good. But yes, since it is the seat of the Republic, everyone feels obligated to put on their most professional, upstanding, and proper behavior. Which, to be fair, does make sense in professional setting, in the course of professional duties. But it's been that way for so long, and we Castrans take it so seriously, that some never know when, or I suspect even how, to turn the professionalism off. Not going wild and crazy or anything, but just letting the tension off while in private with friends."

"That sounds, suffocating. And here I was, excited to visit. Is that why you joined the I.I.B.? To get away from it all?"

"Well, I suppose in a way..." Mana adjusted her positioning in her chair to find a more comfortable posture. "You might accuse me of..."

"Lady and Gentlemen, we have a problem." Captain Carson and Kamon returned to the shop. Captain Carson had a radio in his hand that was playing static. Seeing his changed demeanor and tone, conversations stopped, and all pairs of Overwatch boots hit the floor in unison. "Gear up for Q.R.F. We're going out." Without question all Overwatch hands immediately threw on their armor, battle belts and suspenders, snatching up rifles and helmets.

"What's going on, what's wrong?" Mana found herself on her feet with the rest, ready for whatever was coming their way. "What do you need of me?"

"No idea, Ma'am." 1st Sergeant Shaw plonked his helmet on his head. "But if'n you're curious, you're welcome to come 'long and find out. Private." He pointed at Naota, who was pulling his own gear from a table piled high with equipment. "Arm the Lady properly, if you would please."

"Aye, 1st Sergeant!" Naota made a quick glance of the table and pulled from it a belt of magazines, two bandoliers of ammunition filled with magazine reloading clips, and an NH-47C rifle. "Ma'am, Kitsurubami, here you are. Salut!" Mana buckled on the belt, crossed the bandoliers over her shoulders and loaded the rifle. Everyone made for the door with Mana bringing up the rear. Just before setting out, while everyone had their back turned, Kitsurubami chugged down the remaining Day Grog in her cup, suppressed a massive belch, then hurried to keep up.

"Ohhhh...that don't look good." An Auxiliary remarked, one of the several dozen Captain Carson had hurriedly organized. As Mana followed Naota into the cargo bed of a waiting truck, she looked north. A pillar of smoke and flame was painting the sky black. "It's like a backwards rainbow. Whatever is at the base of that has gotta be cursed."

"Private Nandaba, what is all this, what's going on?" Mana asked as a fleet of trucks departed the driveway at top speed for the main road.

"Honestly Ma'am, your guess's good as any of ours." Naota clung to the cargo bed railing for dear life as the trucks careened through the hills towards Philipsburg. "Whatever it is, it's got Tommy rattled."

"And I imagine that's concerning in and of itself?" Mana's hunch was confirmed by Naota nodding, unable to make himself heard over the engines and Staff Sergeant Carson's...ah, encouragement of the vehicle's driver. Carson was insisting that he 'get a move on man, drive it like you stole it, let's go!'. This land still foreign and strange to her, Mana had no idea what to expect. As they neared the growing pillar, actually several pillars of smoke joining to one, Dread pressed its dank, clammy hands on her shoulders. The trucks seemed to have driven into a wall of crawling, pins and needles foreboding and no passenger was left comfortable in their seat. By the last quarter mile no one spoke and held their breath.

"Holy fuckin' shit..." Naota stood to look over the truck's cab. Mana got to her feet and stood next to him, and immediately regretted it. A quaint sized brick building was fully engulfed in flame with part of the roof already caved in. The sign by the road marked this as "Hi-Way Pizza". Around the restaurant, rammed up against the doors to prevent entry or egress, were the three pickup trucks from earlier. All three were burning as well and had been shot full of bullet holes from stem to stern. No bodies were immediately seen. But the rivers of blood and carpets of spent casings covering the asphalt parking lot all lead to the restaurant's front door. A restaurant emitting among the fire and smoke, Mana hoped she was imagining, a series of pitched, agonized screaming. The new arrivals screeched to a halt and disembarked. Captain Carson saw Lieutenant Kitsurubami had joined them and immediately tasked her with setting up their perimeter and guarding against another ambush. She seamlessly shifted gears and began directing in her brisk commanding tone. An arc of trucks was arrayed across the parking lot and used as cover, possible positions were pointed out, and part of the team was sent around behind the building to cover their rear. Satisfied with the perimeter Mana allowed herself a moment to watch what the Overwatch team was doing.

They were fighting both the fire and burning trucks to get inside the building. Several grabbed volunteers and ran to the nearby gas station for the fire extinguishers and the hoses connected to the emergency water tanks. Another group led by Sergeants Carson and Copenhaver, both furious they were limited by injured legs, worked with their team to douse enough fire to get chains on a truck and pull it away from a door. After a tightening of the chains, the truck was pulled clear of the door. But then the door collapsed, no longer held up by the truck. A wall of fire billowed out the door as fresh oxygen surged inside the building. Several men leaped or rolled out of the way, a few nearly lit aflame themselves. Captain Carson went to see this side of the building. Over the idle of trucks and the roaring fire she couldn't hear any conversation. But a quick glance at body language told her everything. Captain Carson's shoulders were slumped. Sergeant Copenhaver walked to a truck and sat on the tailgate as if entranced, staring off at nothing. Sergeant Carson wildly paced in front of the restaurant just outside the reach of the flame's fingers. Those with fire extinguishers and water hoses kept up their efforts but no more attempts were made to enter the building. The effort now was to contain the fire and ensure it did not spread. For anyone somehow still alive and trapped inside, rescue was impossible.

Half an hour later no follow-up ambush had come, and the fire had been subdued. The falling in walls and collapsed ceiling still smoldered and pools of melted metal glowed red hot. In the rubble were discovered several bodies. The number of corpses did not add up to the number of people sent out. Either the difference in numbers was because they had been captured and hauled away as prisoners, or they had been turned to ash. The second theory held weight as all present bodies were charred and blackened beyond recognition save two. The only two bodies holding each other in their arms, assumed to be Jerry and Sara. Dread tightened its grip on everyone further. A smothering blanket of sickly horror layered over the Hi-Way Pizza parking lot. Several though were too far outraged to keep silent.

"You want us to just go home?! Are you fuckin' serious right now?!" Sergeant Copenhaver waved his arm at the hissing and popping heap. "You want me to just go back to my computer after seeing THAT?! No fuckin' way, Jose. What we need to do is mount up, follow those tire tracks and..."

"Don't you try and make it look like I don't want to skin the fucker's alive that did this!" Captain Carson shot back. "I want to find them just as much as anyone else here. If it were any other day, we'd be halfway there by now. If it were any other time, we'd already be castrating them with dull butter knives. And if it were any other place than this stupid fucking bullshit of a war, I'd already be putting them feet first into a rock crusher."

"Then what are we waiting for?!" Sergeant Carson paced as fast as his cast allowed. "Jesus-Tap-Dancing-Christ Tom, the cops burned down Hi-Way and murdered Jerry and Sara! And we're supposed to just chalk this up as a loss and go home?! What am I supposed to do with that? Say 'golly-w'all-gee, guess the bastards pulled a fast one on us today! Better luck next time!' Is that how I'm supposed to deal with this?!"

"Are we supposed to take this lyin' down Tommy?" One of the Auxiliary asked. "That raid Nandaba was tellin' us about is one thing I can get why the Pigs are fuckin' pissed about; and they're surely boo-hooing and crying about it to anyone who can muster half a fuck to care. But this is way too goddamn far. Whoever did this needs to be found, found right now, and have his guts pulled out through his dick."

"And do you want us to wait around while these scum-fucks just roam our countryside?" Another of the Auxiliary found his voice. "There's a few people who've helped us, and the cops have to have figured who they all are. Are we going to wait for them to torch Shantz Hardware next? What about all the supplies we've gotten from Centre Bearings? They're on the burn list too, I'd wager. Then anyone who's given us clothes, food... probably even burn down and lynch Doc Heyward for daring to take care of us and our pets."

"We've got to cut this reprisal fuckery off at the knees!" A third man threw in and was received well by a crowd warming to the ideas being tossed around. "I was more'n tickled to fight like real a Man, face to face; like the cops would know what that's like. But if this's how the cops and their mercenary freaks want to throw down, I'm good with that too. We know where all these psycho's live, and their houses burn just as easy as Hi-Way. Shit, one of 'em you can almost see from here! Why don't we get a start right now and burn that bitch down to the slab?!"

"No, we are not doin' that! It is out of the question!" Captain Carson sought to regain control over the group.

"Oh, so we are supposed to just take this. What? Turn the other cheek? Something about 'eye for an eye' and making the whole world blind?" Sergeant Copenhaver threw back his head and laughed. "You're hardly a Godly man, why are you getting so righteous now?"

"Guys, if you won't listen to him, listen to me." 1st Sergeant Shaw defended his commander. "This is not a road we want to go down. It leads nowhere good."

"Fuckin' stop it, both've yah!" Staff Sergeant Carson spat tobacco that sizzled on still hot pavement and squared against both his superiors. "Is this how we're gonna fight the rest've this war? We kick some sand in their face in a raid, and they get to throw Molotov's at the house?"

"Jeff, it's not the same..."

"I DO NOT FUCKING CARE." Staff Sergeant Carson grabbed both men by their suspenders and pulled them to face the smoldering building. "LOOK! Look at that! They just cut a piece of this town's, this county's fuckin' heart out and burned it alive. Burned it ALIVE! That's a part of my childhood, that's a part of your childhood, of everyone's! And it's gone, fucking gone to ashes! We cannot let this slide! We must do something! And if you don't have the balls, Captain Carson, then I'll get my rifle and go hunting all my fucking self."

A tripwire went off in Lieutenant Kitsurubami's head. 'That's insubordination. This needs to stop. It needed to stop five minutes ago.' She turned on her heel and marched over to the group. "Staff Sergeant Carson, walk back your last."

Staff Sergeant Carson rounded on her. His eyes flashed white hot while fire spat from his mouth and lines of crimson burst from his head. His voice strained and veins in his neck rippled as he fought to maintain a calm tone with her. "Lieutenant, Ma'am. This is, a local, Overwatch...matter. Your input… is not requested here. Please excuse yourself… and return, to the perimeter."

"No, Staff Sergeant. My input may not be requested and is certainly not welcome; that much is obvious. It is…"

"Miss, you'll pardon my interruption and… crudeness." An Auxiliary eyed her blue fatigues, the uniform strange to him. "But your opinions not wanted, Space Ranger. Fuck off."

"It is not requested, welcome, nor wanted, but I assure you it's needed. I am, as Staff Sergeant Carson pointed out, not local. Hear me out as an unbiased onlooker. If I do not sway you, leave me here and go out to do as you will. I won't stop you."

The group's gaze swung back to the Overwatch team. "Well... are we gonna let the Outlander lecture us, or what?"

"Do you have an Elevator Pitch?" Captain Carson indicated she would have to make her case quickly. "I say we can at least be gentlemen and grant the young lady that much." There was much grumbling and under the breath curses, but no one raised a voice to stop her. Aware she had one chance and was speaking off the cuff, Lieutenant Kitsurubami sternly cleared her throat.

"I have seen this before. The solar system, the planet, the people, all were different. But I have seen this before, and too many times. The people that did this are not going to get away. In fact, they're not going to leave at all. They're going to hang around now that they have the taste of blood in their teeth. But if you go now, you won't find them. At best you'll catch a random fireteam on patrol who knows nothing. You'll string them up, butcher them alive, whatever it is you'll do. Then you'll pat yourselves on the back for a job well done and forget about it, considering the matter over. All the while, those who are really responsible have faded back into the ranks and will never be found. There are ways, means and methods plenty to catching people who have committed war crimes. I've caught a few myself. I'll open my private personnel file to anyone here who doesn't believe me and wants to read it. And in my experience, the first crucial step to catching war criminals is to not become one yourself. Gentlemen, they have us surrounded, cut off. They are not going anywhere as they must devote all their time to keeping us penned in. You have all that time to systematically hunt these people down, and you have the best resource in the galaxy to do so. You have THE FIRST! Special Weapons Company, Second Battalion, Third Division of... The! Interstellar Immigration Bureau, completely, wholly, and humbly...at your service and disposal. Gentlemen, you have at your beck and call years of experience, combined decades of talent. You have allies, friends. But only if we are used wisely. Please let us, let me, help you find who did this and see proper justice done."

'For no prep time, I think that went rather well.' Lieutenant Kitsurubami thought as everyone glowered at her. 'Even if they don't go for it, I should write that down. Polished up a bit that is a winning paper for the review board. I really, really realllly hope I talked some sense into them.' She looked around for any sign of a receding rage. 'They're just normal people having the worst year of their life, I'm sure good at heart. Please, if any of you can read thoughts, don't do this...'

"Alright... FINE... Blueberry." Sergeant Copenhaver snarled. "We'll do it your way. You'd best deliver. Don't make empty promises." Without elaboration he turned and walked towards the gas station. He motioned 1st Sergeant Shaw to follow, saying something about getting tarps for the bodies. With time to cool off and their heads to clear the Auxiliary crowd broke up and fell back into their previously assigned duties. They still spoke with bitterness and seething bile, but no more was a lynch mob forming. As she turned to rejoin the perimeter, she heard the Carson's talking.

"Do you understand what she was saying, and why she said it?"

"Yeah Tommy, I fuckin' do."

"I don't like letting this wait until another day any more than you. But we're the better people, we must be. And doing that isn't easy. It takes time to do things the right way. Resist the urge for immediate gratification. It's a..."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh... Revenge is best cold and all that horseshit. Can I go back to fuckin' work now, Captain, Sir?"

There was a restrained pause. "Yes, Jeff. You're doing a fine job. As you were."

Lieutenant Kitsurubami committed to filing that conversation into the "I was not supposed to hear it - Ergo, it did not happen" folder in her mind and resumed her post. Uneventful minutes rolled by, the last of the embers were put out and the unfortunate bodies removed. The remains were loaded into trucks for transportation home. Only a few were needed for the task, so the rest reverently stood by. Watching from a distance, she saw Corporal DuBois humbly make his way to her; as humbly as a flame-haired, tattooed, and muscled mountain could.

"A moment of your time, Ma'am?" The great bearded man towered over her in height and bulk, but his polite demeanor put her at ease.

"Of course, Corporal. What can I do for you?"

"Permission to speak freely?"

"Granted. What's on your mind?"

"I'd just like to say thank you, for what you said. I know the other guys, 'specially Rig, ahem, I mean Staff Sergeant Carson, are a bit too proud to admit it, but we needed to hear that. If you hadn't spoken up, well... I won't entertain those thoughts."

"I work for the I.I.B. Conflict resolution is what we do, just a day's work I'm happy to provide. Although... I must pry a little beyond perhaps what is my place. But what happened? Are these the same men I have interacted with the past few days? So far, even though we, being myself and the rest of my company, are mostly odd and bizarre to everyone here we have been treated well. Everyone respects his fellows, regards them with, perhaps a rough and unorthodox but fair courtesy, and treats them according to what I see as earned merit and kept promises; deserved honor I suppose you could say."

"But today we embarrassed ourselves." Corporal DuBois took off his spectacles to clean them. "I'm sorry you saw us so low."

"Yes, that's what I wondered. Where did that anger come from? To me it seems out of nowhere, and especially from Staff Sergeant Carson."

"You heard him say it himself. Today Jeff and everyone else each had a piece of his heart cut out and burnt. A lot of these guys, Jeff included, have never lived anywhere else. They're not what you'd call, traveled. All this, all you see..." Corporal DuBois waved an arm over a wide arc, tracing the rolling horizon of green-topped mountains. "Is all they've ever known. It's more than just where they happen to live. It's their livelihood, their culture, their life, their identity."

"And they, like was said, had a part of it attacked. But is that all there is to it? Or is there something else?"

"There is." Corporal DuBois checked his glasses for any remaining blemishes. "I wouldn't expect you to know this. There are many areas in this country, across our planet, that feel... left behind, or abandoned... some might say maliciously neglected by those in power and authority. Nowadays 'coal' is a dirty word that isn't acceptable. But when it's all your area has, you are at best, forgotten. Enter our rogue and corrupted police: a perfect example of the power and authority that wishes these men, places like this, would just dry up and blow away with the winds of history. Then finally, this power and authority has declared open war. An unbelievable once in a lifetime chance to inflict even just a fraction of the pain and frustration this area and these men have felt their entire lives. To be honest Lieutenant, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner."

"I see. I have no frame of reference and cannot honestly claim I understand all you have said. But it does make sense. It doesn't make it right, but I can see the point. I did notice you were rather quiet during the whole exchange. Why?"

"I didn't say a word, and that's what you noticed?"

"It's my job to notice such things."

"They must teach that in officer school."

"They do. Why the silence?"

Corporal DuBois hemmed and hawed. He gave his explanation a try. "Fear... but of myself. You see, I'm not originally from here. I only moved here at sixteen, eight years ago. I haven't the foundation nor time to sink roots as deep as the rest of the guys. Certainly not the Carson's; their family has been here over two hundred years. And before I was here, I was a military kid, so never in one place for long. But the small roots I do have here, have made these hills my home. And seeing the passion, the righteous indignation they had, I wished that for myself. And I could feel them lifting me along, carrying me on this rising emotional tide. And I feared I would lose myself, my dignity and reason. We in Overwatch are supposed to be the level-heads in the room, the calm example for everyone else. And… I could feel myself giving in to anger; letting that hate grow. So, I tried to keep myself in check by keeping quiet."

"I admire your effort to keep your wits about you, especially when it would have been easy to go along with your peers. Hold on that, maybe you'll be the foundation someone else needs when they find themselves rootless."

"My thanks again. I make no promises, but I'll do my best. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm needed elsewhere."

"Thank you for the thanks, and for the insight. As you were, Corporal." Both gave swift salutes and Corporal DuBois took his leave. The last remains were loaded up and the perimeter ordered to collapse. Riding back to base was done in silence where a distraught crowd met them; informed of the grisly event over radio. Without orders, Mana made her way back to the freighter, exhausted. She forwent a shower and uniform change and collapsed on her bunk. Only once she had lain down and tried unwinding did she realize she was tense as piano wire. It had been a topsy-turvy day and it wasn't even noon. What she needed was a nap. Just a nap to let her subconscious untangle all the knots in her mind. She started to drift off and began the slip out of consciousness, letting her subconscious wander wherever it's drifting took her...

. . .