Part Three

One of the more interesting - because the responses of those affected were so variable - tasks for members of the Bureau was delivering powers testing results to someone. Policy stated that the results of tests given by Bureau personnel or someone certified by the Bureau, and were not to be sent through the mail if there was a Bureau of Special Resources office within a three hour drive of the person. Further away and the test results would be mailed. They were never given over the phone or by e-mail.

Just now, Vic was sitting in the Detroit apartment of a man who knew he had powers but few details about them. That was the usual case with powers testing results. Of course, some people didn't take kindly to being told that their powers were minor or that they had no actual powers. Most, though, were like this guy: Curious, excited, maybe a bit anxious. At least, that was the way he was at first. As their time together advanced, though, he became increasingly nervous.

"So, they asked me to come by and deliver the results personally," said Vic, forcing a smile, once the two of them were sitting on the couch in the man's apartment. She felt a bit awkward, being a woman alone with a man in his apartment. Which likely explained her next revelation. "I'm a super, so I get the job."

Fortunately, she had been allowed to wear her usual office garb of a pants suit. That bit of familiarity helped reassure Vic. She had been told that the normal mode of dress for women performing this duty was more formal; typically a dress, blouse, heels, makeup and jewelry. Vic was wearing a bit of makeup; Michelle wouldn't let her out of the apartment without that. Her hair was also neat, if simply arranged. She wore no jewelry beyond her wedding band.

"You're a super?!" said the man, obviously dubious.

"My powers are pretty low level and not very spectacular, but are useful for law enforcement work."

She pulled out the papers, checked to confirm that he was the actual subject, then went over what the testers had discovered. Like most people with powers, his abilities were mediocre, a combination of low-level physical and mental enhancements. Vic finished, handed him the papers and made the usual pitch for the Bureau. He didn't seem interested in working for the government, though. In fact, he seemed very worried about something.

"So now that it's official, the FBI will come after me," said the man, suddenly concerned. "Well, unless I agree to join the government somehow, ahead of that."

"No, that's a myth," said Vic, quickly. "The tradition is that if someone wants to help and has powers, they put on a costume. If they want to help and don't have powers they put on a uniform. Some, like me, have powers and put on a uniform, though in my case the uniform is usually a suit. Just remember that there's an international treaty against using supers in combat. Though there are certain exceptions, such as alien invasions.

"Most people with powers, though, just carry on with their lives. Which you can definitely do if that's what you want."

"Then what about that guy, right here in Detroit, that the FBI shot just for being a super?!" he demanded.

"News to me," said Vic, startled.

"It was only a couple of days ago. A guy named Kubiac."

Vic didn't just leave, though she did hurry the rest of the process a bit.

* * *

"Yes, I only found out about this today," said Special Agent in Charge Drake, obviously irritated. "Not long after you left, in fact. Lancelot Kubiac was shot and killed by members of a special FBI task force. The event in question is part of a pattern of suspected abuse of authority by the same, small group of FBI agents. We - this office and the Bureau as a whole - are investigating the matter. So are several other state and federal agencies. Though if you want to conduct the first federal LEO interviews with the next of kin for this local incident, that can definitely be arranged. The family members of the deceased might be more open discussing what happened with another super."

Or with a woman, thought Vic, appreciating that Drake didn't mention that.

Which is how Vic came to be speaking with a middle-aged woman - a widow - in her nice living room in a nice house in a nice, older neighborhood. Much nicer than Vic or even her parents could afford. According to records, the woman's husband, father and both sons had felony convictions... and strong connections with organized crime. The father and her youngest son were dead - the latter only very recently - and the older son was missing and presumed dead. Vic treated her as a grieving mother. Which may be why the woman opened up to her.

"The FBI agents involved say your son resisted arrest," said Vic, carefully, almost timidly, after speaking with the woman for a while.

"If that were true, how would any of those FBI agents still be alive?" demanded the sobbing mother. "Lance had powers! If he weren't cooperating he could have killed all of them! No, he was cooperating, and they shot him by surprise with a big rifle. Then shot him a whole bunch more when that didn't finish him! While he was face down, on the ground! I saw the whole, terrible thing!"

She gave few additional details, and Vic was understandably reluctant to press her. Vic had stopped at her home first, but would definitely check with the neighbors who saw what happened, and also speak with the Detroit cops who had been involved in the cleanup, about what the special FBI team had done.

"You have my word I will check into this," said Vic, somberly. "Oh, and there will be follow-up interviews. Maybe conducted by someone else. Just be aware that a lot of people have a lot of questions about this."

* * *

"He wasn't quite as formidable as she's making him out to be," said Drake, when Vic made her verbal report. "That would be his older brother. However, no-one has heard from him - the brother - in over two years."

"Ow. So, she's all alone?"

"She has family and friends in the area. Don't worry about her. Worry about whoever killed her youngest son. I mean that, too. Take measures to see that they don't do this to anyone else, including you; and make sure they can't do this to anyone else."

* * *

Locating the FBI special agents behind the shooting was not easy, and most of the work was done by the local FBI office. Once the team was found Vic learned that they were, conveniently, still close to Detroit. Though they were FBI they were not from the local office, and did not report to it. However, after three days the members of the group were tracked to a hotel in a nearby city. A task force of FBI and Bureau agents plus plainclothes Detroit cops was quickly formed and sent to question them. Vic was glad to see that she was not the only female, but she was the youngest - and not just in appearance - by a large margin.

By mutual agreement, Vic - in her armor - was the speaker. She had the distinct impression that this was not only due to her being the only super in the group, but to her being the only "outsider" in the group. Perhaps those with her considered Vic a neutral party. Perhaps they thought she, in the armor, was more intimidating than they were in their suits. They might also have been hoping that in the unlikely event things turned violent that Vic would be the main target. However, another matter was also on her mind, as they approached the double doors to the suite where the agents were staying.

Why does so much of my life involve hotel suites?

As they reached the door to the suite the members of the mixed party could hear the end of some joke or tall tale.

"...and yeeted him clean off the planet!"

There was general laughter.

Vic knocked firmly on the rightmost of the double doors. There was a sudden silence inside. Then someone approached the door and opened it. The man's eyes widened at the sight of Vic in her armor, and even more when he took in the suit-and-tie wearing people with her. Vic held her ID in the man's line of sight.

"I'm Victoria Peltior, Special Agent with the Bureau of Special Resources."

That was a lot of "special" but nevermind. Vic introduced the others.

"We'd like to ask your group as a whole and your commander specifically some questions."

"Hang on," said the man. He closed the door, and there was some hushed, heated discussion on the other side.

The visiting group had no warrant, no official mandate which would force the men of this specialist team to speak with them. However, professional courtesy would call for them to do so. What remained to be seen was just how professional - and how courteous - these men were.

Finally, the door opened again. This time a different man - older, and more neatly dressed - was there. He checked Vic's ID, then that of the others. With a tired sigh, he let them in.

"Some feds and Detroit cops here to see you, boss," he announced, as he led the visiting LEOs into the suite. There were far fewer people in the room than had been heard a few moments before. Even the man who had answered the door was missing. They were probably all waiting quietly behind the closed doors into the other rooms. The remaining occupants didn't seem the least bit unnerved over being confronted by half again their number of assorted LEOs.

Vic repeated her previous statement, emphasizing the presence of the federal law enforcement members of their group. There was a checking of IDs all around.

"What can we do for you?" said Charles Ormond, the head of the FBI SWAT team, finally.

"We have some questions about your shooting of Lancelot Kubiac."

"Take that off," said Ormond, gesturing at Vic's helmet. "I like to see who I'm talking to."

Vic removed her helmet, holding it carefully upright and facing forward under her left arm. Ormond looked surprised. Perhaps because of her apparent age.

"That's the fifth super you've shot in the past year," said Vic, angry but keeping a calm demeanor. "Three of them died! Yet none of them were accused of violent crimes. If a situation involves a super, you call us!"

"You mean your Bureau?" said the agent, also angry, only in his case not hiding it. "That's useless. All you do is coddle supers!"

"We defend supers when necessary," said Vic, now even more angry, and also not hiding that. "We also arrest them when necessary. I, personally, have put a couple of dozen supers in jail, many of them people with a history of violence."

"I'm supposed to believe that a little girl like you arrested a super?!"

"I am a super! I have regeneration, so I look younger than I am! I'm also a civilian veteran of the Shilmek War! Got a medal and everything!"

"You have powers," said agent Ormond, blankly.

"I just told you I have regeneration," said Vic, sternly. "My powers are pretty low level and not all that spectacular, but are very useful for law enforcement work."

"Well, you better stay out of our way!" the special agent snapped. "Fed or not, if you try to stop us from stopping a dangerous super, you'll get the same treatment! We'll tell people you were a danger to us!"

"You just threatened me," said Vic, obviously amused. "In front of law enforcement witnesses."

"Yeah, just try to convince anyone of that, though!" Ormond made a quick, sweeping gesture, taking in the city detectives and federal agents backing Vic. "They know what it's like out there!"

"Oh, convincing people will be easy," said Vic airily. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, at the same people the agent had just indicated. She didn't need to look at them to know they were glaring at the leader of the FBI SWAT team. "As for them, they all hate what you've done in their city. Also, my helmet records stuff."

With that she turned and walked out. Making a show of putting her helmet on as she went. The LEOs with her looked at each other, then followed. No words were spoken by them until the group was out of the hotel. Then they almost uniformly backed Vic. Even the only two who didn't were mainly critical that she'd cut things so short, with them being willing to give the SWAT leader a chance to back down. They were distinctly in the minority.

* * *

"His superior is resisting efforts to have him disciplined," said Drake, sourly, at a meeting in his office between him and Vic a few days later. "Despite the recording. He - the superior - is claiming it's all faked. After claiming at first that it proves the man didn't say anything wrong! So far, that same supervisor hasn't responded to the formal complaints filed by the city and the local FBI office, either."

He sighed and shook his head. Then looked Vic in the eye.

"Be careful around those people. Keep in mind that this guy Ormond and his team - that whole unit, in fact - have a history of ignoring civil rights when those get in the way of adding to their record of successes. Also keep in mind that they are not connected with the local FBI office, with which we have very good relations. They also don't represent the FBI as a whole. This team is only supposed to be sent to situations where people are in imminent danger from people who are designated as terrorists. They're a SWAT team, from another city. Why they were involved in the recent Kubiac case is something I'm still trying to find out!"

"I know you started in the FBI before coming to the Bureau of Special Resources," said Vic, tone carefully neutral. "I know you still have contacts with them."

"Just... be careful. These people are used to killing supers."

"So it's another rogue operation, like with those two Detroit police officers who almost let that regenerator die," said Vic, now sourly herself.

"Not really. This group of FBI operatives we're talking about is called in to special problem situations for a wide region. Their mandate used to include supers causing trouble, but that's our job, now. Only, they apparently didn't get the memo."

"Isn't there some way we can get their superiors to rein them in?"

"I've already filed a formal complaint. The problem is that our Bureau is still understaffed. Sometimes that special FBI unit is the only option local LEOs have when dealing with a dangerous person who has powers."

* * *

Supper that evening for the Peltiors was at Wok on the Wild Side. Vic was unusually quiet, which meant that Michelle was, as well. The stylist noted that Vic kept checking her phone as they waited for their meal.

"Expecting a message?"

"Oh! Uh, no. Sorry."

"Then what..."

"We're not supposed to put apps on our Bureau-issue phones," said Vic, pointing to the screen, "but certain news feeds are allowed. Given that I missed at least one news item important to my work, lately, I'm now tying to keep up."

"That's understandable," said Michelle, her tone reasonable but firm. "You need to keep up with what's going on. However, can you put the phone away while we eat?"

"Huh? Oh, sure..."

* * *

"I hate these new forms," muttered Vic, as she handed her completed papers to her boss. Formal reports of her actions with or against local supers often took longer to write - and re-write, when some department nit-picker didn't like they way she had presented the information - than the actions themselves. Said report writing often requiring that the civilians Vic worked with - or against - also fill out one or more forms. Sometimes, they were less than willing.

"Legalese is a specific type of technical writing," said Drake, blandly. "It's not supposed to be great literature or easily understandable to someone not versed in the terminology. I've told you before, if you have trouble with the forms talk to Dela about it. I hired her specifically to help with paperwork. She has a background not only in the federal bureaucracy but as a legal aide."

Vic muttered something uncomplimentary about bureaucrats under her breath.

"Anyway," she continued, more clearly, indicating the form, "that's my official report on the shooting of Lancelot Kubiac."

"You found that it was completely unjustified," said Drake guessed.

"Yeah. According to everyone but that SWAT team, anyway."