Part Two

When Vic arrived in her boss' office a few days later, responding to a summons, she was surprised to find Lady Green already there. Vic had assumed this meeting would be in regard to the recent discovery of the Operators' lair, but that turned out not to be the case.

"You two have been asked to help with the arrest of the members of Lightning Wire and their crew," said Drake, once greetings were out of the way. "This is part of the security operation for a visit to Detroit by the Vice President. Actually, the request is from the city, for you, Vic, to help Lady Green and city and state police. Since there are reportedly several supers involved with the band our superiors have approved this usage of you."

"I know them!" said Vic, scandalized. "I mean, the band. I've even been to a couple of their concerts! Yeah, the band members, at least, are supers. The drummer goes by Perun (after the Slavic god of thunder) and is the most powerful, though not the most aggressive. That is the bassist, Skip Calendar, who is very dangerous. Potentially. Supposedly, he has time manipulation, though that works best when he's clear... which, according to rumor, is less and less these days. The lead singer uses the stage name Spock Zarathustra, and has mental powers. The backup singer and guitarist is DJTurpentime, a sort of general 'I'm better than normals' super. Detroit is just a one-night stand for a tour they're on."

"Well, I'm not familiar with them," said Lady Green, who was older than Vic appeared to be, but slightly younger than she actually was, "so I'm glad for this information."

"I recall you talking about seeing them," said Drake, to Vic. "Being a fan, maybe you can talk them down, which would definitely be a good thing. Even Lady Green has ceded the point."

"Oh, yes..." the hired gun super said, with a grimace. "With four of them to us two, even with state and city police backing us up, I don't like the odds if we have to fight."

"The lead singer could be our best bet to get them to surrender peacefully," said Vic, thoughtfully. "Reports have him being the calm, rational type, despite his performance style. As fits his pseudonym."

"Okay," said Drake, noncommittally. "Right now the plan is to intercept their bus on the way out of town, in an isolated area."

"Their concert is tonight," said Vic, thinking things through. "They'll be on the bus, probably asleep, since they will be partying until late after their concert. Their bus is supposed to leave in the morning. Why are we arresting them, though? I know they have a reputation for heavy drug use..."

"This request is from the Secret Service, via the city government. The Vice President is giving a talk at some political event this afternoon and they're worried the band will stir up their followers to take action against the Veep."

"Well, they do have several songs critical of the current administration in their catalog," said Vic, nodding. She smirked. "Don't most active bands, though? Also, the timing doesn't work, with us making the arrest several hours after the Veep's speech. Though I guess the police are trying to avoid a riot by arresting them tomorrow morning rather than this afternoon, before the concert."

"Exactly," said Lady Green, nodding. "Officially, we will be looking for illegal narcotics. With a warrant, which we already have on the way. Unofficially, we're protecting the line of succession of power. Even if the threat - tenuous as it is - is over by then."

"Politics," said Drake, sighing the word, almost making it a plea. "The Veep will be in town for another couple of days, but in private meetings. So in the eyes of the politicians it's a good idea to arrest these 'known dissidents' even as they're leaving town."

"I don't like this," said Vic, expression sour.

"Do you think I do?" said Lady Green.

"Ditto," said Drake.

* * *

The huge bus was far from the only vehicle on southbound I-75 the next morning. However, the city cops were skilled at their jobs. With help from the Michigan State Police, they had the bus isolated and pulled over on a wide spot in the shoulder of the Interstate less than a minute after the operation began. The manager of the band came out to see what was happening, and was served the warrant to search the bus by the senior city police officer present. Vic and Lady Green - both of whom had arrived in one of the half dozen city police cars - moved in front of the large vehicle and stood there, Lady Green in her Trademark costume in shades of green, Vic in her armor. Lady Green looked determined. Vic's helmet concealed her expression, but her posture made clear the same message: The bus was not to move. State Police officers had three neutralizers at the ready, but with two LEO supers on their side they were not planning to use the devices.

The manager went back into the bus to deliver the news. The driver was subsequently the first out, followed by those members of the crew on board. The actual band members were escorted out last, by their manager. Most of those from the bus were surly, especially the actual members of the band. They appeared to be short on sleep, likely being awakened by the interruption of their journey. However, it wasn't until city police began to enter the bus that anyone objected.

"Hey!" shouted the bassist, Skip Calendar. "They can't go in there! That's private property! All my stuff's in there!"

"I showed you the warrant," said the manager.

"I don't care what you showed me," said the bassist, moving to intercept the lead officer. "They can't go in there!"

Vic also started forward, but Lady Green had superhuman speed and got there first. She parked herself in front of Skip, looking determined.

"They have a search warrant," she said, holding up a hand but not actually touching Skip. "They can look..."

He swatted her aside. To him the movement was just an annoyed sweep of his arm. To Lady Green the impact was like being hit by the side mirror on a truck moving past at highway speed.

Vic stepped quickly into his path. She held the fingers of her left hand out straight and made a brisk sweeping motion. The "nails" on the end of her gauntleted fingers (officially there to help her grab small items while wearing her armor) cut Calendar's forehead. This was not a serious injury, but as head wounds usually do, it bled profusely. Half blinded, Calendar threw a wild, barely super speed punch in response, missing cleanly.

Vic jabbed him hard on the tip of the nose. To her immense surprise, he screamed in pain and collapsed. Vic quickly stepped back, almost bumping the officer behind her.

"He's opened my brain!" Calendar screamed, hands wrapped around his head. "He's opened my brain! Somebody tie my head closed!"

"No, man," said the band's lead, kneeling down beside him. "It's the drugs talkin'. You gotta calm down."

"You all right?" said Vic, as Lady Green landed beside him after flying back to the vehicle stop.

"Wow, is he fast," said the other super, as she shook her head. "Yeah, I'm fine. Though I'll probably have a nasty bruise across my chest."

The rest of the operation was rather anti-climactic. Well, except for what was found. The detectives made several arrests; in fact, they wound up taking everyone who was on the bus into custody. The huge vehicle, itself, was impounded and later towed away, by the type of heavy wrecker normally used for loaded semis. Most of those arrested would be released soon, but Skip would spend the time until arraignment in jail without bond, and under a neutralizer. Though only after being cleared for that by a doctor. They didn't want him dying from a drug overdose if his powers were what were keeping him alive despite a large dose of drugs.

"Yeah, see if we ever play in this town again!" shouted the band's leader, as their manager, the other members and their crew were taken away, in handcuffs.

Calendar was removed in an ambulance equipped with a neutralizer. Fortunately for him, it was not needed. The bassist spent the next couple of hours sobbing and being completely passive.

"So much for your hope that their leader would get them all to surrender," said Lady Green, darkly.

"Actually, that's pretty much what happened," said Vic. She turned to the detective in charge of the operation. "Though he was a little late. I just want to know if all this was worth it."

"The amounts of meth, cocaine and miscellaneous other stuff we already recovered from the band's bus was measured in kilograms, not grams," said the Detroit detective in charge of the operation. "The drug dogs got several other hits, probably from hidden compartments we'll have to open later. So, from that standpoint, yes. It was worth it."

* * *

Later, at the debriefing in Drake's office, Vic - in regular clothes - and Lady Green - still in costume - were brought up to speed on the results of the raid. Since this had been a joint operation, the Captain of the precinct in charge of the raid was also there.

"There's already protests," said the Captain, sounding irritated. "People are saying that the drugs were planted."

"Doesn't matter what people say," said Drake, confidently. "The bust was righteous. A few civilians on the Interstate and nearby even recorded it with their phones. There's already several videos of the events online."

"So, officially, we're in the clear," said Vic, still later, speaking quietly with Lady Green, as they waited for a meeting with the Police Commissioner about the bus bust. Vic couldn't help but notice that the chairs in the receptionist's well-appointed office were nicely padded and very comfortable. "Of course, if the political reason behind this gets out we'll be attacked by all sides. One side for doing all this to protect a politician. One for not cracking down sooner on the band for having drugs. One for arresting the band members 'just' for having drugs. One for..."

"I hate politics," said Lady Green.

"On that we are in agreement."

"What's really weird is that we're being officially congratulated by the city administration for stopping the 'terrorists' before the Veep got into town. Only we didn't."

"Don't tell the Secret Service or the Press that," said Vic, her tone wry. "In fact, don't even mention it to the Commissioner. Save it for when we're criticized for making a raid on political dissidents, infringing on their freedom of speech, just to protect the Veep. Then point out to whoever is making the accusation that the raid took place a day after the Veep's speech, and was to search for illegal drugs."

"Oooh, good one!" said Lady Green, giving Vic a nasty smile. "Y'know, you're not so bad. For a fed."

* * *

In spite of the complications involved with the raid on the musical group's bus, Vic got home about on time that day for a change, actually beating Michelle by a bit. By the time the hairstylist go home the LEO had even started supper. After warmly greeting each other they mostly made small talk until they settled in to watch TV after their evening meal. Vic found some time to practice on her fancy new guitar.

"When are you going to name that thing?" said Michelle.

"Haven't found a good one, yet," said Vic. She sighed, and regarded the instrument. "Truthfully, it intimidates me a bit."

"You're not buying that tale the T.O.W.E.R. Agents told us about it having some sort of South American spirit in it, are you?" said her wife, teasing.

"Oh!" said Vic, suddenly remembering something. As well as changing the topic. "The archivists finally released all the old journals the Operators left behind. The administrators of the tontine have found a publisher, and we've ordered a copy."

"So you will have a copy of this book? I mean, your office will have one."

"Not exactly, and it's actually several volumes. The Operators did a lot of their work during and after the War, and were active - really active - for over a decade. They were the first team to pay their members, so the individuals in the group didn't have to worry about working for a living and could be on the team full time. Anyway, they were very busy and their records are pretty voluminous. Our office split the cost of a complete set of the printed version with the local FBI office and Marshall's Service office. We figured that besides historical value, these might help with some old cases.

"We already have some preliminary info, though. That is, we have files of the scans of the pages made by the archivists, which are currently only available to law enforcement. Fortunately, the scans are free, to qualified people and agencies. Though they're uncorrected OCR, so we'll have to be careful."

She sighed, put her still-unnamed fancy guitar down, took a large bite of the night's TV snack, chewed and swallowed. Then, finally, Vic continued.

"Even before we got the files, I had already done some research on the Operators. The team's most persistent foe was a mob boss who went by the alias John Mark. They never found out what his legal name was, but he bore all the hallmarks of what today we'd call a mastermind. They considered him to be an unusually intelligent crime family head, and organized crime leader.

"He must have started his criminal career pretty young, too," Vic continued. "He had been around for several years before they - the Operators - first encountered him and he was still very active over a decade later. He was suspected of arranging the deaths of Operator 3 and Miss Tress, both in 1945. Most people thought he was killed in a shootout with the FBI in 1946 - which happened largely because of those murders - but the surviving team members were never sure that the body the FBI found was actually him, and even expressed doubts about that. However, there was no further activity from anyone using the name John Mark, and there was no more activity with his unique style.

"The remaining members had only a few more adventures together. They talked about adding new members after the deaths of Operator 3 and Miss Tress, but never did. I guess the fun went out of crime fighting for the survivors, though they did continue on for a while. The Operators officially retired as a group in late 1947. Partly because of those deaths, and partly due to increasing government interference in super activities. Dr. Dire and Captain Sticky quit the business entirely, immediately after the group disbanded.

"Dr. Dire simply disappeared. There are a lot of rumors about what happened to him, but nothing substantiated. Captain Sticky went public and made a fortune selling advanced adhesives and release agents. He never revealed the identities of his teammates, even claiming they had all kept them secret from each other. Voo Dude had a solo career for about three more years, before he also retired. We think he actually used the old lair some, before finally closing it for good. Eventually they all died."

"That's... a bit depressing," said Michelle, quietly.

"Well, most of them lived at least into their sixties," said Vic, philosophically. "Which is unusual for such active masks, on either side of the law. So they had full lives. Most are even known to have descendants, legitimate and otherwise."

"What do they - those descendants you mentioned - have to say about the publication of those old journals?"

"So far, nothing. They may not even know about that. I don't think any of them still live in this area."

* * *

The Monday morning briefings at the Detroit branch of the Bureau of Special Resources were not usually this interesting. Of course, these were unusual times, even for this group.

"Okay, we - some people in our office, but mainly the FBI - were able to combine what the Operators had on John Mark and what has been uncovered since they retired to make a discovery," said Drake, after covering more mundane matters. "'John Mark' may - may - have been an alias of Conrad Kostinos."

"That's good news," said Vic, nodding. "A few decades late, but if we know who he really was it might provide leads on who the current local head of the syndicate is. As well as solving the murders of Operator 3 and Miss Tress."

"He was the adopted son of Hercules Kubiac," said Drake, realizing that most of his employees wouldn't know that. "Even married into the family, later."

"Wait," said Cal Pavolin, raising a hand. "Of the Greek Kubiacs? The family of super strong and tough people, like the Pagano family in Italy?"

"Yes. A bunch of them got very angry with organized sports in the Fifties when several family members were banned from competing, as supers. That's how I know about them. People were still talking about what they did in response when I was in my teens."

"Well, that was years - decades - after what we're talking about," said Cindy Larsen, though she seemed impressed.

"Yes," said her boss, nodding. "This branch of the Kubiacs are a Detroit crime family with roots going back to their first immigrant members, in the late Nineteenth Century. They used their personal powers to act as enforcers and gain influence in crime family circles.

"Except Conrad Kostinos was adopted," Drake finished, pointedly. "He didn't get the family muscles, but still worked his way up to being in charge, of both the family and organized crime in Detroit. Often with lethal results for his opponents. He is credited with transforming the family from hired muscle to bosses."

"He sounds like a mastermind," said Vic, in sudden revelation.

"Yes. Or a ruthless crime lord."

"Fits, either way."

"Right now, this information isn't helping us much," said Drake, summing up. "The only connections it gives us are decades old. Just keep it in mind when investigating local super criminal activity. The perps could have their own connections with large-scale organized crime."

* * *

"Pray for me," said Vic, as she and Michelle got ready for sleep that night. "I have to go give someone their powers testing results tomorrow."

"Did they pass?" said Michelle, sleepily. She yawned.

"You know it's not that kind of test," said Vic, also sleepily, and a bit grumpily. "I hate having to do this."

"Oh, come on. You love it. You get to be all formal and officious and teachy and explainy..." She yawned again, and was asleep before Vic could form a retort.

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."

Part Four

At the next Monday's weekly briefing the main topic was the current dearth of known hero supers available in most of the US. The explanations were valid, if annoying.

"The earthquake in Morocco is occupying supers who operate internationally, and storms in North America are keeping most of the teams who focus on the US busy," said Special Agent in Charge Drake. "We can make requests of Bureau headquarters for help, but the fact is that unless we have a major emergency, we're on our own."

"So, no change from the usual," said Cal Pavolin, sourly.

"Pretty much," said Drake.

* * *

Afterwards, Drake again asked Vic to stay when the others left. Again, it was for a relatively minor matter.

"There have been a few complaints from upper brass at the Bureau that you work too much overtime."

"I wholeheartedly agree," said Vic, with feeling. "What do they suggest to correct that? I hope they're planning to send another super to do some of the work."

"Not funny," said Drake, seriously. "You have been able to cut back some, lately, in part due to the work of Lady Green. That should stop the criticisms."

"Yeah," said Vic, reluctantly. "She has been more help than I thought she'd be."

"I'm glad you think that," said Drake, as usual his expression difficult to read. "I'm talking with the Mayor and the Chief of Police on ways for you two to work more together. You proved with the operation on that band that you can successfully team up."

"Joy..." said Vic, with a sigh.

* * *

Of course, communication between boss and employees should not be one-way. That afternoon Vic was in Drake's office in regard to a matter involving a member of the local Marshal's Service office.

"I was trying to explain to Deputy Marshal Purdey about Gerald Jenkins, but I'm not sure he understood me," said Vic, obviously irritated.

"Purdey is very articulate, and has an impressive vocabulary," said Drake. "However, he not good at actual communication, in or out. Whether written or - especially - spoken."

"Yeah. He tends to change the subject to something he's interested in, rather than what's being discussed. When he started talking about the Eagles, I needed a while to realize he meant the football team rather than the band."

"Well, you're more musically oriented than sports oriented," said Drake, philosophically. "I'll speak with his boss about Jenkins. I was planning to, anyway."

* * *

A hopefully quiet evening in the Peltior apartment was not going to plan. Michelle could tell that her spouse was pensive. Even one of her favorite sitcoms wasn't lightening Vic's mood.

"You all right, hon?" Michelle finally asked, as the end credits rolled.

Given recent events related to work, she figured that the problem was that FBI SWAT team. To her surprise, the cause of her wife's unease was about something - someone - else.

"I'm having more trouble with Gerald Jenkins."

"Who the Hell is Gerald Jenkins?" said Michelle, officially confused.

"He's this self-important jerk in Human Resources who keeps 'correcting' my gender to male in the official records," said Vic, sourly. "Actually, my mistake, he's the Inspector General for several of the local federal offices. He just meddles with Human Resources. Due to the post-war budget cuts, the smaller local federal offices were lumped together for him to 'inspect.' He says I can't be female, because I'm listed as male on my birth certificate and several other official documents, from early in my life. No amount of current evidence from doctors or geneticists or power specialists will change his mind. Neither will notarized documents. Neither will actually meeting or speaking with me. The real problem is that he's very clever at causing trouble. So official objections to his activities haven't had much luck. I think he has it in for me, just because I don't fit neatly into one of his mental cubbyholes."

"Now that you mention it, the name does sound familiar. Still can't place him, though."

"Jenkins caused trouble for another federal employee in our building, a little over a year ago," said Vic, sourly. "Claimed a woman in the FBI office who had surgery to remove an ectopic pregnancy had an abortion. Even 'corrected' her medical records. When called on it he claimed the doctor was using 'euphemisms.'"

"That's disgusting."

"Which pretty much sums up the guy."

* * *

Hiram Fosworth was sitting at his huge desk in his huge office when he sensed the power approaching. He looked out the expensive floor-to-ceiling window which made up the southern wall of the expansive room and grimaced. His sister was approaching, and she was, as usual when coming to him, angry.

Laurie phased through the glass and floated - barefoot, hair moving around her pointed ears as if she were under water - in front of his desk.

She was wearing a plain, sheer gown of some sort, something very impractical but extraordinarily fine. As well as distractingly translucent. Hiram was well past feeling embarrassment over being a bit aroused by his sister. Especially after she was the one who persuaded him to take female form for the first time, for one of her pranks on the locals around that marsh she valued so highly.

"The sparkles are a nice touch," said Hiram, casually. "Thank you for sparing the window."

"Fuck your window," she snapped. "I'm here about the Buttram place!"

"I owned it. I could sell it."

"They're going to drain the swamp! Which will dry out the marsh! Don't you care about the environment?!"

"Of course I do. However, there are plenty of swamps. Besides, the new owners chose to do that after I sold it. I didn't even know of their plans until well after the papers were signed. I have no further say in the manner."

As usual, "discussions" between the siblings quickly turned into a screaming match. In this case Laurie did all of the screaming.

"The swamp is the home of a very old and powerful spirit! Taking the water away will rouse it's ire!"

"I suppose you've spoken with this spirit?"

"No, I read about it."

"Where?" said Hiram.

"Tobin's Spirit Guide," she said.

"That's a fictional book."

"That's what they want you to think!"

"Well, if this old and powerful spirit is real, and if its ire is roused by the draining of the swamp, that's all on the new owners."

Frustrated by his calm rebuttal of every accusation, Laurie made vague promises to do something drastic, and left. This time she didn't spare the window. In fact, she raised her hand and blasted it to fragments before flying away.

"So petty," sighed Hiram, shaking his head. He got on the intercom and told his secretary that he was fine, and to call the glaziers.

* * *

It was business as usual in the Detroit offices for the Bureau of Special resources a few days later. That is, boring routine punctuated by brief outbursts of chaos. Or just brief outbursts. The first Monday morning in November, just as everyone was getting settled in at their desks, Drake walked into the shared office. He was holding a printed inventory list.

"I just got a call from Mr. Claud Sanders, our liaison with the Mayor's office. That is, he just left the security station of the building, on his way up here. He's over an hour early for his appointment, and sounded impatient. Since he wanted to ask Vic something..."

"Me?!"

"...I told him to come straight here."

On cue, a large, fussy man with a bad case of male pattern baldness banged into the room.

"I was here on time for my appointment but your office wasn't even open yet! The security guard at the entrance wasn't even at his post. So it's your fault I'm late!"

"Let me guess," said Cal Pavolin, who apparently had a history with the man, "you set all your clocks ahead instead of back when Daylight Savings ended yesterday. Again."

"That's what you're supposed to do!"

"No, you should have set them back," said Cal, tiredly. "Not ahead."

"They change it every time!"

"Harold, you do this twice a year," snapped Cal. "How hard is it to remember 'Spring ahead, Fall back'?"

"You're saying two different things!"

"No, you loose an hour in the Spring and gain an hour in the Fall," said Drake, reasonably.

"Then you're right back where you started from!"

"Which is the idea," said Cal.

"You're just stalling, because you don't want me asking questions about how you do your business."

"Mr. Sanders, the security post you just complained to me about having to wait to get through is for the entire building," said Drake, tiredly. "Our office only occupies a small portion of one floor of said building. We don't set the business hours. Now, what is it you want to talk to us about?"

"Two weeks ago, one of the three men who robbed a jewelry store downtown was found to be wearing a ballistic vest issued to your office! To one Victoria Peltior!"

"That doesn't make any sense," said Vic, startled.

"The perp was wearing a ballistic vest registered to you!" snapped the bureaucrat. "That is a fact!"

"No, I mean... I wear a suit of armor when I'm on the job," said Vic, confused. "Why would I have a ballistic vest?"

"Actually, you were issued a vest," said Drake. "I don't think you ever wore it."

"So where is it?"

"I just told you! The perp was wearing it!"

"It should be in storage, in the basement. I'll check."

"What about your issued gun?!" said the man. "Did you put that in storage, too?"

"I have to qualify with that, so I keep it in a lockbox in my desk."

"You actually think keeping it in your desk is secure?!"

"Yes. The desk is locked, the box is locked and this whole building is a secure facility. You were just complaining about having to wait for the security guard to get in."

"This isn't about me!" the man said, loudly enough to get the attention of everyone in the small office and those in at least one office on each side, as Vic unlocked her desk. "It's about you selling your equipment to criminals!"

"Well, I've never done that," said Vic, firmly, as she opened a drawer and pulled out the small, armored box. She opened the box and showed him the gun. "See? Here it is."

"How do I know that's your issued piece?!"

"I can see the serial number from here," said Drake. He held up the printout he had carried in with him. "See? That's the number of the gun which is in our records as being issued to Vic."

The man squinted and looked back and forth between the printout and the weapon, but he didn't seem too certain. However, he was mollified when Drake declared he would check into the matter of the ballistic vest. Once Sanders was gone Drake returned to his office with a sigh with relief, thinking he was finished with the odd stuff for the day. He was wrong. Cal Pavolin walked in soon after with a complaint.

"Jenkins keeps leaving documents in the fax machine," said Cal. "I'm not making a big fuss about this, since that means we can keep better track of what he's doing. However, I felt you should know."

"We have a fax machine?" said Drake, startled.

"Yeah. It's shared by all the federal offices on our floor. Some agencies require that we - not just us, but all federal offices which send documents to them - fax certain forms to them instead of attaching the form to an email. This particular type of fax is considered secure, and e-mail isn't."

"That I did know," said Drake. "About not sending certain things as e-mail attachments, I mean."

"Anyway, Jenkins leaves stuff in the fax machine. Sometimes several pages, and it's sometimes confidential stuff. He is also definitely using it for personal communications, as well as stuff he could e-mail. When I mentioned to him that he was leaving secure materials in the machine, he just looked at me in confusion. When I showed him the pages he'd left, he insisted the machine must be malfunctioning, 'cause he had sent the pages to wherever."

"So he's faxing documents, thinking they're somehow teleporting to the recipient?" said Drake, not sure he believed it.

"Yeah. He later told me I had to be wrong about him leaving documents in the machine, 'cause 'they' got the documents he faxed. He was smirking the whole time. Worse, he's printing out things he got by e-mail, filling them out or whatever, then manually forwarding the printout by fax. When he could just direct-send the attached e-mail file to the fax machine and skip the print step entirely. It's on the internal network."

"Well, you can consider it part of your job to check the fax machine after Jenkins uses it," said Drake, straightfaced. "Anything he leaves in it, bring to me. So I can officially document it."

"Roger," said Cal, smiling and throwing a semi-salute.

* * *

The huge chamber was filled with a muted hum of power. Though it was pressurized, both the visitor and his guide kept their environment suits on. Partly because all that powerful equipment created a number of unpleasant scents, including unhealthy levels of ozone. However, mostly they stayed suited because the "air" was largely argon, to cool the equipment without danger of corrosion.

"Nice place," said Corvik, as he and the technician who was acting as his guide made their nearly-weightless way along the catwalk.

"This part of the asteroid contains our power generation plant," the tech explained. "The adjacent chamber is the hyperspatial tight-beam transmitter."

"The equipment in both chambers is old technology," said Corvik, sounding uncertain. "Centuries ago, it was used to power special attack ships, until the 9ne#jkt(HUK)pbr learned how to disrupt the beam."

"Yes, but the humans lack the technology to even detect this," said the tech, enthusiastically. "Also, our big breakthrough is making the reception of all this power organic. We repurposed this abandoned beamed power station for the project. Officially, this place doesn't even exist!"

"If it works, excellent." Corvik's eyes went unfocused, as he imagined the results. "Yes... If it works, we can conquer Earth, a world Empress Tolnar herself could not bring into the Empire, and which then defeated her usurpers. With that done, we can depose her as a weakling, distracted by sentiment over that world. Yes..."

Part Five

This particular Friday was turning out to be a bad day for Vic. Though not as bad as the early morning had been for some of Detroit's female, late teen inhabitants. Vic arrived at work to find a note already on her desk to see her boss.

"Tell me about your late night call, yesterday," said Drake.

"I was in bed, sound asleep, when I got an emergency call. The night manager of a bar downtown called 911 to say that a mind-controlling super was having his way with young women, and since supers were suspected to be involved the cops called me.

"I was the first LEO on scene," said Vic, tiredly. "I was therefore in charge until I turned command over to someone else, a pair of Detroit cops who showed up shortly after I did. I found no signs of super activity, so I let them take lead. After I left they, in turn, let those two cops we've had problems with before take over - at their insistence - with them claiming seniority and loading the girls - who were all unconscious by this time - into their squad car. The first two cops figured that since the girls were victims, the other cops would handle things properly and take them to the hospital. They were wrong."

"I want a detailed report in writing," said Drake, seriously. "However, you need to give me a verbal report here and now. Okay, start over, and give me more details."

Vic nodded, took a deep breath, and began again. This time more alertly.

"I was looking for a rogue super who was mind-controlling young women. At least, that was what was reported by the night manager of the bar I was called to. Instead, I found an underage young woman unconscious in a restroom, with some barely more conscious friends who were trying to revive her. I could tell by the scent that she'd been given a large dose of rohypnol, even though it is supposedly odorless to most people. I was about to call an ambulance, when a couple of city police officers arrived, responding to a call about illicit drug use at the bar.

"I told them the young woman had been date-rape drugged, and to call an ambulance and get her to a hospital," said Vic, angrily. "I also told the other three girls to get to a hospital. They looked pretty out of it. The cops said they'd make sure everyone got there. Then I left the restroom, to continue trying to find the reported super suspect. With no luck. Said mind-controller was probably a figment of the manager's imagination, a misevaluation of the situation with the rohypnol. After taking charge, the second pair of cops took the young woman and her friends to jail instead of the hospital and put them in the drunk tank. The first girl was dead the next - this - morning, something I didn't hear about until I called to check on her before leaving my apartment. Trying to find out what had happened is one reason I was so late to work. Those calls are how I learned about the rest of this mess.

"Two of the three teenage girls she was out with were also dead. They and several others from the bar were all put in the drunk tank on the orders of the second two cops. The fourth member of that underage group - who were just some college kids out for an evening of fun, as far as I have been able to find out - was still unconscious when the cell was opened by the day shift, and they discovered those three were dead and that the survivor was unresponsive. They sent her to a hospital. Where she tested positive for rohypnol. Yes, she'd been given enough that some was still in her system. Unfortunately, she had the typical amnesia caused by the drug and has no idea how she and the others ingested it."

"The 'senior' officers you mentioned are the same two who declared that regenerator dead?" said Drake, to make certain he had things straight.

"Yeah. The police chief and mayor keep insisting the offenses haven't happened. They've already said there was no incompetence involved in this case. That there was no reason to suspect those girls weren't simply drunk. They seemed more interested in making a statement about the immorality of teenage girls having a wild night out than in the poisoning of some of those same girls."

"I take it you haven't seen the press conference the mayor and chief of police gave on this matter," said Drake, sourly. "They came very close to blaming the dead girls for being murdered by whoever drugged them. There have actually been several mysterious cases of teenage girls who died while at or shortly after leaving a bar, where the deaths were blamed on the girls not being used to drinking. We have urged the Detroit police department to take another look at those cases, but so far are having no luck."

"Isn't there anything we can do about them? Uh, I mean the rogue officers. Though..."

"Not for this latest bout of lazy incompetence," said Drake, as angry as Vic. "Remember, also, that there has been a complete change of administration since you started work here, and the problems continue. However, we can use this to push what they did in the regenerator case forward in federal court. For that we have clear evidence of willful neglect of a super in distress, a civil rights matter. We can also blame both the past and current mayor and police chief for not firing them because of that. Now, you go and write your formal report. I'll make sure it gets to the right people."

* * *

"Part of what is wrong is Detroit's continuing budget problems," said Cal, when Vic explained her lateness and the call to the boss' office. "However, there is more going on than simple incompetence and the difficulty of replacing those officers. It's almost as if they have some sort of immunity, and know it, and therefore just don't care how they are perceived. It's possible there truly is nothing going on except incompetence. Maybe they just have been lucky, so far. However, the way they flaunt their misbehavior..."

Everyone in the small office knew about the matter with the drugged girls by lunch. They all had reactions similar to those of Vic and Drake. Meanwhile, only one local TV news department had noticed the deaths, and the station was blaming those on the apparently non-existent super mind controller.

* * *

"Cal says not to attribute to malice what can be accounted for by incompetence," said Vic, to her boss, as she turned over her detailed report that afternoon. "Or maybe put the blame on someone taking advantage of others' oversights. Though to me it seems some people on the force and in the city administration have what they consider valid reasons for deliberately mistreating some people. Something beyond mere laziness."

"You have to be careful in using motive to figure out who might have committed a crime," said Drake.

"What do you mean?"

"Anyone can make mistakes," said Drake. "Even the Mob. They just don't admit it. Though they'll often punish the people who make the mistakes. One case I know about was from a few years ago, when I was still with the FBI. Someone killed a family's dog and left the dismembered carcass on their front yard.

"The family was Black, and everyone else on that street was White. They thought they were being threatened because of that. It was reported as a hate crime, and sent to the feds. However, the FBI quickly found the perpetrator and he turned out to be a small-time hood who was supposed to give an organized crime warning to a local, petty criminal. Who had recently moved from the home where the family now lived. So the 'warning' reached the wrong people. The guy who killed the dog didn't last long in prison."

"Boy, do I know that feeling," said Vic, remembering the first few months she and Michelle had spent in their apartment. "I mean, having the wrong people miss that someone has moved."

"Just keep in mind," said Drake, dramatically, "that whoever committed a crime may simply have made a mistake in some part of the act. Or picked a victim at random. Though, yes, establishing motivation can definitely be useful in figuring out who is guilty in most cases."

"Somebody making a mistake like that may be why we can't make any progress in some of our cases," said Vic, nodding. "There's no actual connection between perp and victim."

"Exactly."

* * *

Meanwhile, some people were making plans for an upcoming holiday.

"You don't mind that the guests we've invited are all people we know from the business?" said Randy.

"They are such interesting people!" said Karen, grinning. "Besides, Christmas is for friends and family. Including your folks. In our case, Thanksgiving is for other people we know."

"Especially given all that those of us in the hero business have to be thankful for," said Randy, with feeling. "Just make sure you have plenty of dark meat. For some reason most supers seem to prefer that. Tiger usually eats an entire turkey drumstick, plus rolls and gravy, all by himself. So, also lots of gravy."

"I know, I know..."

"The Black Mask loves your mashed potatoes, Rapscallion likes my cookies..."

"I wouldn't take that as an endorsement," said Karen, smirking. "My cousin has... poor taste. Literally."

"Lots of people like my cookies," said Randy, defensively.

"Yes, dear," said Karen, grinning.

* * *

The week's Monday briefing for the Detroit office of the Bureau of Special Resources brought the usual batch of bureaucratic requirements and a sprinkling of dire news. However, one item which was part of the latter stood out.

"I'm sure most of you know that Lightning Wire flew in Friday morning for their arraignment," said Drake. "They chartered a light twin turboprop plane just for this trip. They flew out again Saturday morning. However, it hasn't hit the news yet that their plane apparently exploded shortly after takeoff."

"I know they were in a hurry because a storm was moving in," said Dela True, looking startled. "They weren't hit by lightning, were they? 'Cause that would be too ironic."

"Whether they hit something - or somethings hit them - or it was a bomb or just a bizarre accident is still unknown," said Drake, carefully straightfaced. "However, there were no storms in the area at that time and nobody reported any lightning until a couple of hours later. Also, there was nothing on the radar which wasn't supposed to be there."

* * *

"What the Hell is this?" said Vic, confused, after reading - with difficulty - part of a hand-printed letter.

"Hey, that was addressed to me," said Michelle, after looking at the envelope.

"Sorry. Must have sorted it into my stuff by accident. This letter, though..."

"Oh, those are just from some kid who thinks I'm holding you back," said Melody, taking both letter and envelope from Vic. "He sends about three a month."

"Well, from what little I could understand, this guy could be dangerous. He says you have to die! To 'free' me!"

"He's just a kid!

"You don't know that!"

"Yes, I do," insisted Melody. "Look at the way he carefully printed every letter, and the misspellings, the grammatical errors..."

"The kind of adult who would write like that is also the kind who would make senseless threats," said Vic, the voice of experience. "He's also the kind who might just act on these threats. Please, let me take this in."

"Okay, if it means that much too you," said Michelle, though she was obviously unhappy with doing that.

"Hon, it's not that he means that much to me," said Vic, passionately, "it's that you mean that much to me. This is probably from a kid, and if that's the case you have my word I'll tell them to drop the matter. On the small chance these are actually from an adult who means to harm you, well, there's legal measures we can take at the Bureau."

Michelle sighed and nodded.

"Now, you said there were others?"

"A few. They've been coming here since a couple of months after we moved in. I just throw them away. I think there's another one still in the trash."

There was. Vic grabbed it, then carefully put both into zippered plastic bags.

* * *

"Yeah, soon as I saw the return address I knew who it was from," said the FBI lab guy Vic took the letters to. After showing them to her boss, of course, who called the head of the local FBI office to grease the wheels. "This nut is in his thirties, is a grade school dropout and drug addict, hasn't committed any acts of violence - that we know of - but has several felony convictions for theft and malicious threatening."

"Not just implied threats?" said Vic.

"No, he spells things out. These letters are definitely actionable, but I honestly don't know what good that would do. This guy has sent threatening letters from jail."

"He doesn't hurt people, though," said Vic, thoughtfully and feeling a bit relieved. Though only a bit.

"He may have some sort of sexual fixation on you," said the tech. "That is, he thinks that by getting rid of your wife he'll free you from being 'trapped' by her and you'll discover you like men. Especially him."

"Ugh," said Vic, with a grimace. "Now I'm remembering what Energia told me about the threatening letters she got. That guy somehow got hold of a magic rock, and hurt people through incompetence."

She gave a short, wry laugh.

"He found out the hard way that being a hero isn't all that easy."

"You are blessed, to know such people," said the Lab guy, quietly. He sighed, and got back on topic. "This guy hasn't directly hurt anyone that we know of. However, he is probably responsible for inciting others to specific acts which have hurt people."

"Who would listen to someone like this?!"

"Drug addicts while high, people looking for an excuse to hurt someone, et cetera."

He actually said et cetera. He also assured Vic he'd pass along this latest offense.

"With luck, this will get him arrested and jailed again. Maybe forced to get help, this time."

Part Six

"Be wary of any politician who supports a position by claiming it's a matter of 'common sense,'" said Drake, wryly.

He and Vic were in his office at the Detroit Federal Building. He had called her in without explanation, and opened with that after she was seated.

"Is that appropriate to anything in particular or just a general bit of shared wisdom?" said Vic.

"Well, it's appropriate to your situation with that rich super kid you helped arrest," said Drake. "His parents got a tame state senator to say at a press conference that people should only be arrested by their peers."

"Which the kid was, since we're both supers," said Vic, knowing that wasn't what the senator - or her boss - meant.

"Yes, but to their minds being wealthy is more important and significant."

"Ow," said Vic, wincing. "The preliminary hearing is when? About two more weeks?"

"They keep filing for extensions, but I think they've run the judge out of patience," said Drake. "Anyway, just be aware that they may try to pressure you, in any of several different ways, having tried all legal maneuvers. So, for that and other reasons, I want you to be sure to keep yourself at the ready for the new line of storms which are supposed to be moving in. Not only may you need to help people, but the family may arrange for extra press coverage of any operation you are involved in."

"Just what I need during a weather emergency," muttered Vic.

* * *

As the situation developed, while the weather problems were bad they were manageable without Vic's help. She and Michelle monitored the situation in Detroit and the surrounding area on local TV and through radio and cell phone bulletins.

"It just keeps raining! Hard!" bemoaned one TV news droid.

Yet there were no traffic delays reported. Mainly because - being forewarned - most people were staying home. It didn't hurt that the rain hit late in the day, so in general those who had to travel had already done so. Lady Greene was also on patrol, helping motorists and pedestrians, which definitely didn't hurt. In the videos of her in action she seemed to be enjoying herself.

Fortunately, the rain had stopped by the time Michelle and Vic headed to work the next morning. However, the legacy of the storms lasted well beyond the several hours of heavy rain. In the process of taking Michelle to Curl Up and Dye, Vic had to make a couple of detours to avoid flooded intersections or streets with low spots full of water. Then she headed for her own workplace.

"Looks like its going to be a wet Winter," Vic muttered, as she cranked the wheel of her Corolla wagon to make the turn onto another detour.

When she finally got to the federal building, Vic saw that about half of her coworkers were even later into the office than her. She also found a note to see Drake already on her desk. Sometimes she wondered if he slept in his office. This time, on the note there was a brief mention of a mission to help rescue someone trapped in their car amid rising water. Vic hurried to Drake's office.

"First responders have already been called to the scene, so I don't think there's a rush," said Vic's boss. "Otherwise I would have called you."

"So where did the report come from?"

"The old Packard plant."

"That place is _huge_!"

"Yes, but only a few areas actually flood enough to trap a car. Between knowing where those are and other clues from the call the Detroit police have the search area narrowed down."

"Not that I don't want to help, but why are we involved in this?"

"There was a confused mention - actually, the whole call was confused, which I guess is understandable - that someone with powers had moved the car with the driver in it, jammed the doors, then blocked the way out. Then the call cut."

"This hypothetical super person may have done this to draw in first responders," Vic pointed out. "Or even me. In fact, there may not even be a car and trapped driver."

"Or they just really want the person they trapped to suffer," said Drake. "Anyway, get out there. Even if it's a hoax, having you respond to a call about a potential rogue super is standard procedure."

Vic donned her armor, minus the helmet, in the small women's restroom on the Bureau's office floor of the federal building before she set out. This meant she had to adjust the seat of her Corolla wagon to fit, but also meant that once on the scene she only had to put on the helmet and take the martial arts weapons out of the back and stow them properly on her armor to be ready. At least, that was the idea.

The old but spotless Corolla now had a proper siren and blue lights behind the reinforced grill, and Vic used them. She got strange looks from the civilians she passed, but had no trouble from the cops. Not only were Vic and her car known to the local LEOs, but Drake had called to let them know she was on the way. The dispatcher had even announced this over the general channel. The route Vic took wasn't the shortest, but this time of day - especially with the flooded intersection detours - it was the quickest. After all, there was at least one life at stake. Supposedly. The call seemed like a setup to her, and even Drake seemed to have his suspicions, so she called her police contacts on the way. There were multiple local cops on the scene, both uniform and plainclothes, as well as other emergency workers. Vic was given direct contact information. All the first responders at the site were looking for the supposedly stuck and flooded car. Just before Vic arrived at the gate to the old plant there came reports of someone shooting at those already on the scene.

Vic made her careful way along connecting factory streets to where the first responders were clustered. Though much of the Packard manufacturing facility had been demolished, much still stood. This left a maze of structures. Vic quickly found the police cars, ambulances and fire trucks. She parked her Corolla with them, then exited and identified herself to the senior cop present. He was not happy. Fortunately for Vic, his state of mind had nothing to do with her arrival.

"We came under fire within minutes of arriving at the most likely location," said the officer in charge. "Don't know yet where it's coming from but we put a sharpshooter in a high vantage, to keep watch and maybe get lucky. Most of us pulled back to here, under cover, to plan. However, we also have scouts out, and they should be able to spot the perp or perps."

"Where is he or she? Your sharpshooter, I mean," said Vic. The officer described the man's perch and how to get there. "Okay, let your people know I'm on my way to that position. I may be able to spot the sniper with my helmet's sensors, and if I can see where they are I may be able to get to them."

Despite Vic's request about notification, the Detroit police sharpshooter - one Officer Magrum - started when he noticed her approaching.

"Damn, you're fast," he commented, as Vic came at a running crouch around the rooftop box which held the top of the stairs. "Quiet, too."

Keeping low the whole way, Vic moved beside him.

"Any luck?"

"Nope. Guy is keeping his head down."

The sharpshooter was using a police-issue, presumably accurized M-16 with a heavy barrel and a scope. However, Vic noticed something else.

"You have your thumb on the forward assist," she warned.

"That's the sniper button," said Magrum, impatiently.

"If you hold that down, you'll cause your gun to jam."

"No, that's a myth. It actually turns it into a bolt-action rifle."

"You can't change the type of weapon by pushing a button," said Vic. "The forward assist is to..."

"Yeah, if you don't know anything about guns don't pretend," said the officer, smugly. "You'll just look stupid."

"Excuse me? Who here is a veteran of the Shilmek War? Who here is a decorated combat hero? Also, I have to qualify with an M-16 for my current job. My instructor was very strict about not pressing on the forward assist unless you needed to seat a cartridge in a dirty chamber. Otherwise, you can damage the gun."

"You believed him," said Magrum, sneering. "Just like a girl. You believe anything a man tells you."

"They why don't I believe you?"

Vic moved away while he was trying to parse that.

* * *

In that brief period Vic had already spotted the location of the person who had fired on the police, thanks to her helmet. Unfortunately, that person was in high vantage position in an open area with a good view all around. Unless there was some underground way in...

"Not that I know of," said the newly-arrived Captain Markel, a competent man Vic had worked with several times before on local super problems. "We may just have to wait him out."

"Where's Lady Green when we need her?" asked one of the uniforms waiting with them.

"Helping with a high-rise fire downtown," said Captain Markel. He sighed. "That's likely to take a while. Flooded streets have delayed the fire trucks. So, we sit tight."

He looked at Vic.

"Unless you have a better idea."

"I think I can get up there without being seen," said Vic, sounding confident.

* * *

She climbed to the top of the tower after coming in a back way and moving cautiously from cover to cover. No shots were fired at her during this approach. Given Vic's agility - even in the armor - and martial arts abilities the climb was difficult but doable.

She pulled herself quietly over the edge of the roof, then moved slowly towards the prone figure. A figure which remained motionless even when Vic stood over it, her shadow on the "face."

"It's a setup," said Vic, quickly, over her helmet's radio. "The 'sniper' is a dummy with a 'rifle' made of pipe and wood."

"Get out of there!" yelled Markel.

Vic immediately understood. If this...

Even as she turned away, to leave the way she had come, something slammed into the left side of her head. The stereo speakers in her helmet gave a strange squawk and the visor flashed. Then the speakers went silent and the visor blank. Vic, barely conscious, reflexively yielded to the blow, actually going into a diving right shoulder roll. She came to her feet running. She learned later that more shots rang out, but with the audio function of the helmet dead and her dazed from that first impact she didn't hear them. The dead visor was trans parent, but Vic was depending more on her sense of perception just then.

Vic didn't go to the fire escape stairs or her own entry point, but to the side of the building away from the direction of the impact on her helmet. She didn't stop at the edge, either, but dove a bit clumsily over the railing. She trailed her hands down the side of the tower as she dropped, which pulled her upright and slowed her fall. When she hit the roof of the lower building on that side, Vic rolled with the impact and popped up, turning in the air and landing running. There was a sharp crack behind her, and a deep rumbling. Whoever had set this trap had blown the tower, but was either late on the switch or simply had not realized that Vic was already on another roof. Vic by reflex kept running to the fire ladder on the far edge. She slid down its stages Navy style until she was on the ground. Even then, she immediately resumed running, and didn't stop until she was several buildings away. Then she collapsed.

* * *

"I got him!" yelled Magrum, over the coms. "Don't know why he as so hard to hit. Took me a lot of shots, which it shouldn't have, even though he was running! I got him, though!"

"We were just talking," said one of the other uniforms, "and none of us could remember hearing a bolt action rifle go full auto before."

"Oh, shut up," snarled Magrum. "I got him, didn't I? Now you guys get to go grab him. I did my part."

He gave directions to where the sniper lay.

* * *

Meanwhile, said sniper had crawled under cover, leaving his heavy rifle behind. On his own radio, he reported his situation.

"How did he hit you?!" came the demand over the radio. "You're wearing an image displacer!"

"He just sprayed wildly in full auto until he hit me!" the sniper gasped. "I almost got to cover, too, but one of his last shots hit me in the left leg. Damn, that hurts..."

"We can't get to you. There's too many local cops in the way, with a bunch of 'em heading for your position. If you can't get to us, let them capture you. We'll come to the hospital and get you. Just get rid of the displacer and all other tech. Including the rifle!"

"Roger," the sniper said, not bothering to inform his controller that the weapon was currently out of his reach. He began emptying his pockets and unhooking gear from his harness.

* * *

Finding Vic without a signal from her took time. Getting the armor off her unconscious form took longer, especially with the damage to the helmet.

"We couldn't tell how badly she was hurt until then," one of the paramedics later reported. "We put a cervical collar on her before starting work on her, just in case. When we finally got that helmet off there was a lot of blood. Fortunately, the bullet had barely penetrated the armor in her helmet. She was almost hurt as much from whiplash as from the actual bullet penetrating and hitting her scalp. They said at the hospital that she definitely had a concussion; though that was already healing by then. Don't know how she made it so far before she collapsed."

Meanwhile, the shooter - or at least someone in fatigues with no ID who resembled the man Magrum described an in the appropriate location - was discovered. He was taken into custody, and treated by another pair of paramedics. However, he had to wait on transport until Vic was loaded into an ambulance.

"You're arrested!" the man screamed, when he saw the stretcher carrying the super. How he recognized her was uncertain, since Vic had already been taken out of her armor. Perhaps he went by the bulky head bandage, assuming that the only other casualty was the person he had shot.

* * *

Vic woke to pain and distorted vision. That did not keep her from realizing that Michelle was sitting close by her hospital bed, holding her hand. She turned her head - with difficulty - and managed to focus her eyes. The hairdresser appeared to have been crying.

"Hello," said Michelle, smiling and looking very relieved. "They told me you'd be coming around, soon."

"How long was I out?"

"A few hours. You had quite the head wound, but the helmet stopped most of it. The actual damage to you was superficial."

"Doesn't feel superficial," muttered Vic. "Ow. First headache I've had since my powers activated. Damn, I'm hungry."

"Well, they got they guy who shot you. He's in another room, under heavy guard. He's not hurt nearly as bad as you, but given your regeneration you'll be healed sooner than him. They don't even know who he is, yet, but they took his fingerprints and DNA. I'll sneak you in a cheeseburger later."

* * *

"Not that, again," said Drake, sounding very tired, when told of the sniper's shout at Vic.

"This is the first 'you're arrested' murder or attempted murder in months," said Cal. "Is this guy part of the original movement? Or a copycat?"

"Either way, it's trouble," said Drake, firmly. "They almost got Vic. There was no stranded motorist, of course."

"Yeah. Police say the rifle he used was a literal elephant gun, in .458 Winchester Magnum. That actually exceeds the rating of the helmet."

"Good thing she has a hard head."

"Not funny, boss," said Cal. He sighed and shook his head. "If it weren't for all the fancy electronics they added in the last upgrade, she might be dead. They soaked up a lot of the damage."

The phone on Drake's desk rang. He answered. He kept a poker face while listening and occasionally making a neutral comment. Then he hung up and looked at Cal.

"The shooter is dead. Somebody slipped something into his IV."

Part Seven

Vic was back at the office - though still on restricted duty - the next day. She was almost fully healed; one of the benefits of regeneration. Her appetite was about back to normal as well.

"A lot happened while you were out," said Drake, once all the welcomes and expressions of relief that Vic was not seriously hurt in the incident were over. Once they were both at her desk, he handed her a sheet of paper which carried a brief report of an aircraft accident. "The most public event is that the plane carrying Lightning Wire was found, in Lake Saint Clair. The authorities tried to keep it quiet, but the press was asking questions in less than an hour. They're searching for more debris, but may have located all they're going to. However, from the damage they found to one of the wings, it's pretty obvious that the plane ran into something; there's a huge dent in the metal on the leading edge. The dent is a little outboard of the port nacelle, and the propellor blade tips for the engine on that side seem to have been bent over. Or maybe something ran into them. Anyway, the impact caused an immediate loss of control of the plane. It went into a wild tumble and came apart in the air. There's already speculation that your shooting was arranged by one or more fans of the band."

He sighed, and shook his head. Then looked at Vic.

"Some people are saying that you arranged for the band to have a plane 'accident' to stop the legal action against you, after they sued you to stop their - as they and their fans see it - persecution."

"Wow..." said Vic, shaking her head. "That's... not something I wanted to hear. Any of that."

She had vague memories of falling off a building after being shot but nothing beyond that until she awoke at the hospital. News of the death of the man who had presumably shot her did nothing to make her feel any better about the situation. She and Michelle has also very deliberately not discussed whether Vic would have also been poisoned if her wife hadn't been sitting at her bedside for those hours.

"Talk about conspiracy theories. I'm not even the one responsible for the charges against them. Oh, well; at least I'm not a suspect in the death of the shooter; I was unconscious in Recovery, being constantly watched, when that happened. What about Lady Green, though?"

"Yeah," said Drake, nodding slowly. "She was through with that fire when the shooter died, and unaccounted for. Like you, she was also being sued for defamation and false arrest by the band. We'll have to check her alibis for both the sniper's death and the plane wreck. If she has any."

"If she doesn't, how do we check if she was involved?"

"I don't care how tough someone is," said Drake, flatly, "getting hit by a plane and propellor like that would leave a mark."

"Ow, yeah," said Vic, wincing, "Though even if we clear her of that, that still leaves the sniper's murder. Uh, I hate to change the topic like this, but is there any news about my helmet?"

"We sent it off to the lab at the main office," said Drake. "They say you were hit with a bullet from a big game rifle, which matches what they recovered near the sniper. That was chambered in .458 Winchester, which is a very potent cartridge; it's considered quite adequate for elephants and cape buffalo. There are only a few commercial cartridges more powerful, starting with the .460 Weatherby Magnum. Which is the sort of thing you would use to hunt large dinosaurs. I'm not an expert on big game cartridges, but I think they go all the way up to 700 Nitro Express. Anyway, the bullet was too damaged to match it to the rifle, but we don't have any doubt about the weapon.

"Also, the main office said that you should be glad the rifle wasn't something chambered in Browning Fifty. They don't know, yet, if they can repair your helmet, or if they will have to make a new one. Either way, you will have to wear the one old helmet you still have for now."

"Yeah, about what I was expecting," said Vic, with a sigh.

"They did say that either way, they'll add more armor."

"Just what I need," said Vic, sourly. "A bigger head."

"Brade herself called me," said Drake, seriously. "She said the Bureau would put their tame mads on the problem. They'll probably make two of them for you, just in case."

* * *

"Look, the only significant bruise I have on me is from where Skip Calendar hit me," said Lady Green, that afternoon, in Drake's office. She had quickly arranged to see him after being asked to stop by the Bureau's local office. Since she was able to fly, flooded streets were not an impediment for her.

"Well, if you can get someone reliable to testify to that..." said Drake.

"Come on," said Lady Green, grabbing Vic's arm. "We're going to the ladies room."

"_Me_?!" said Vic, as the other super pulled her towards the door. "We should get..."

"Go on," said Drake, smiling a bit. "She's a consenting adult."

Soon the pair of females were in the closest women's restroom, which was rather small. However, there was enough room for the two of them to stand without touching. Lady Green pulled off her low boots and set them on the counter between the sinks. As with most super costumes, the socks were integral with the bodystocking.

"Keep that door closed!" said Lady Green, as she found the ZipStrip on her outer layer of costume and began pulling at it. "Don't let anyone else in here!"

"Anyone _else_?!" said Vic, scandalized. "What about me?!"

"Hey, we're all girls here," said Lady Green, blushing as she pulled the outer layer of her costume - which was much like a one-piece swimsuit - off and began tugging at the body stocking underneath. She had nothing on between the upper part of that undergarment and its built-in cups and her skin. "Yes, I know you like girls. Just... don't look any more than you have to, okay?"

Vic couldn't _help_ but look. Lady Green had a great body, and she was in very good shape. She definitely didn't need airbrushing to add the illusion of more muscles. Though the costume discretion had been applied in other ways.

"See?" Lady Green said, as she held the main parts of the costume in one hand. She gestured at herself with the other. The only clothing she currently wore were rather skimpy panties and her mask. "Here's the bruise where that guitarist hit me. There's a few other marks. All old. They think I have thorough healing, though not fast healing or regeneration."

A faded bruise ran diagonally from her right shoulder across her left breast. Which fit where Vic had seen Skip Calendar hit her. Despite her words, Vic could see no other marks on her perfect skin.

"Bassist," said Vic, reflexively. "Uh, you need to turn around, so I can see your back, too."

The hired super rolled her eyes, but complied.

"Seen enough?" she said, after a slow turn.

"Oh, yeah," said Vic. "Uh, I mean, I can definitely say you don't show any signs of being hit by a plane."

Which she told her boss, once Lady Green was again in her costume and the two of them were back in the office of Special Agent in Charge Drake.

"Excellent," he said. "Well, that's one suspect we can mark off."

"Only now we have none," said Vic, with a sigh. "That's just for the plane, too."

She looked at the super for hire.

"We still need to clear you for the sniper's death."

"I can definitely provide an alibi for at least three hours after the hotel fire was over," said Lady Green, blushing. "There was this fire fighter..."

"We don't need the details," said Drake, quickly, raising a hand. "Just a statement from him that he can verify you were elsewhere during the period when the sniper was poisoned."

"Shouldn't be a problem," said Lady Green, looking relived.

* * *

"Still thinking about Lady Green's strip tease?" said Michelle, grinning, that evening as they prepared for bed.

"There was no tease," said Vic, pulling the covers over them. "Trust me on this. She was just showing me the bruise on her body."

"Her tight, fit body," said Michelle, supplying plenty of tease, with voice and actions.

"You're pretty tight and fit, yourself," said Vic, kissing her.

"Mmmmm..." said Michelle, as she rolled on top of Vic. "Tell me again how... tight I am..."

* * *

Note for the next segment: Yes, I know Detroit doesn't actually have a subway system. However, it almost did. I wanted the Operators' base to have a subway connection. (All Thirties and Forties super team headquarters need a subway connection. That's part of the genre.) In 1920 Detroit Mayor James Couzens vetoed a bond issue to build a subway system, and the override failed by one vote. So just assume that the override succeeded in this timeline and the city did develop a subway system. There's therefore a subway station in or very near Michigan Station for this story. Though the subway is now defunct in this timeline.

"The archeologists finally opened that hatch in the floor of the Operators' trophy room," said Detective Wight, at a briefing in Drake's office the next day. The only people there besides him were Vic and her boss. "Below it is a vertical shaft with a ladder. That goes down to a basement tunnel. Which, by the way, isn't on any plans except as a much smaller drain. The tunnel leads to a sewer main one way - with a nearby connection to the old subway system - and to a drainage grate in the Train Shed the other way. The Train Shed grate, which is near the edge of the yard, is larger than the other storm drain grates in that area and has a hinged section in it."

"The stories about the Operators said their base had secret connections to the train yard and the subway," said Drake, nodding.

"It's interesting, though, that the building has all those hidden passages and rooms, even though it opened in 1913 and the super team formed much later," said Vic. "Makes you wonder what all that secret access was for. I mean, the whole thing was built before Prohibition, or even the subway."

"Old buildings used by the public often have secret passages like that," said the Detective, shrugging. "If only so important people can come and go without getting attention. If I remember correctly, there's a hotel in New York with a secret subway station in the basement. Franklin Roosevelt used it, decades after the hotel and its subway station were built, so he could be wheeled in under cover rather than having to walk in upstairs. All the Operators may have had to do was modify existing features.

"Unfortunately, all these secret entrances makes controlling access difficult. The anthropologists are complaining that someone got into the lair sometime shortly after the archivists removed the journals!"

"Uh-oh," said Vic, suddenly worried. "I hope it was just someone curious, and not someone trying to steal something."

"The investigators reported that the remaining materials on the shelves in the main room were disturbed," said Wight, seriously. "Also, someone went through all the desk drawers in the quarters, turned the beds over, ransacked the closets and left the door open to the armory. No prints; whoever it was - and we don't even know how many were involved - wore gloves."

"Good thing the armory was the first room emptied!" said Vic, with feeling. She became thoughtful. "There was some dangerous stuff in there. Wonder if that's what they were really after... That they hoped to find some mastermind's captured super weapon."

"At any rate," said Wight, "since apparently nothing was taken - including mastermind super weapons, fortunately - this is a matter for the local police and the property's security department. Though you and I may become involved, if only as witnesses to what was there and the condition it was in."

* * *

Drake and Vic were in the auditorium of the federal building where the local offices of the Bureau of Special Resources were located. They were on the stage, while the "audience" was all reporters and their support staff, such as camera operators. One of the activities require by her employment which Vic least enjoyed was the press conferences, even though she usually just stood by, wearing her armor, while Drake made the statements and handled the questions. At least for this one - which covered several subjects, including the loss of Lightning Wire's plane - the newscritters acted professionally. That is, until the topic of placing a group statue of the Operators in Roosevelt Park at the end near the old Michigan Central Station was brought up. Vic wasn't paying much attention to the event, so she wasn't certain how that happened. The statue was something the city was doing, not the feds, but some of the reporters didn't seem to realize this.

Drake left no doubt that he was in favor of the city placing the statue.

"The Station is private property, and the new owners are going to turn the entire floor with the Operators' old headquarters into a museum about the team," said Vic's boss, when someone asked about the statue. "It is very appropriate for the city to honor its first superhero team with a public monument on public land. With a plaque explaining the history of the Operators in an objective, non-commercial manner."

"Even though they were known racists!" said one reporter, emphatically. This was Candace Ornoth, a woman known for sensationalistic reporting. She seemed to always be looking for the next scandal.

"Racists?!" said Vic, startled, stepping forward when Drake seemed at a loss. "Voo Dude was black. He was born in Haiti."

"Black," said the reporter, blankly. Quickly, her accusatory, aggressive nature came back. "Says who?"

"Voo Dude," said Vic, flatly. "He revealed his ID - and his face - after he retired. He also wrote a book about his family, and how they came to the US."

"That's all... How do we know what color _you_ are, inside that helmet?!"

"Might as well show them," said Drake, tiredly.

Vic opened her faceplate. This was her old helmet. It strongly resembled the ruined, newer one, though it had fewer technological features.

"Satisfied?" she said, before snapping the thick, multi-layer polymer composite closed again. "The only one here worried about skin color is _you_!"

Drake made clear that the press conference was over. He and Vic turned to leave the stage.

"Tell me you got that," said Candace, turning to her cameraman, after Vic stomped away.

"Sure," said the camera man, who was Black and seemed unconcerned about these events. "So what? She's made a lot of public appearance out of her armor. Usually they involve her testifying in court about cases she's worked. You're the only one who didn't know she's White."

He was a bit worried about saying that last bit, but only a bit. Candace usually paid little notice to what "employees" did or said. Sure enough, she stayed true to her nature.

"White?! Didn't you see her face?! She's Chinese! I bet she's a spy for China! Working for the US government!"

The cameraman rolled his eyes and sighed. "Candy" was off on another tangent, looking for another scoop. No matter how far from reality her pursuit took her. The cameraman longed for the day of mature, responsible reporters. Of course, there had always been sensationalists in the news business...

Part Eight

Ike Kenniman was hosting a holographic conference among supers. Since many people were involved, teams had only their current leader - in most cases a chairperson - displayed. The participants were all established super teams - among them Tricorne and the Assembly - and a few individuals.

"The people behind the fake Afterglow and Nukula made a mistake," said Ike, once everyone invited was logged in and settled. "There are multiple satellites in orbit around the Earth which look for unusual radiation from the surface of our planet. Perhaps they heard that the Shilmek had destroyed those satellites in orbit at the time of the attack and didn't know that the most important of those had already been replaced."

"Get to the point, Doc," said Rapscallion, from out of range of the Intrepids video pickup. To those who knew the Black Mask well enough to read him, he seemed to share his teammate's impatience through the cloud of darkness which seemed to cover his features.

"I had to use a lot of my influence in the intelligence community, but I got records from those satellites of what they detected during both Afterglow's activity and Nukula's. The latter included her returning to base."

"We got 'em!" said Tiger, from out of range of the pickup at the Bay Area Guardians's base. Steel Lace, the only member of that team in view, didn't react.

"Another island?!" said Dr. Gorgeous.

"No, there's no islands at that location and the base is moving. I'd say it's a ship. Currently in international waters in the Atlantic. Backtracking, I found the same ship off western Canada during our raid on the Super Battle Federation island."

"Don't they have radiation detectors on the Panama Canal?" This was from off-camera Gadgetive.

"Yes. Which is probably why they went the long way around."

"If it's in international waters," said Blue Impact, thoughtfully, "it is out of the immediate jurisdiction of most US law enforcement."

"So even if we can get enough evidence to prove that's where the android came from there's nothing anyone can do," said Mesa, also off-camera at the Bay Area Guardians' headquarters.

"Well, I'm not an authority on international law," said Ike, "but if we report this ship to the UN or INTERPOL and keep tabs on it they can at the very least detain it when it goes into port."

"They can literally arrest the ship," said Blue Impact.

"Not good enough," said the Black Mask, leaning forward a bit. "We need to be proactive in this matter."

"Which is why I called this conference," said Ike.

They began planning.

* * *

Vic was going over the case of the loss of Lightning Wire's aircraft with her coworker Cindy Larsen. Though Cindy was not officially an investigator, she had an analytical mind and loved to solve puzzles. Actually, the entire office was working on the crash, since Vic had been involved in the arrests of the band and crew and they had sued both her and the Bureau, as well as Lady Green and the Detroit and Michigan police.

"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way," said Cindy. "What if this wasn't a deliberate act, by someone trying to hurt Lightning Wire?"

"You mean, what if it was just an accident?" said Vic.

"Maybe a fan with powers was trying to see them up close," said Cindy, with a shrug. "Only, they got too close."

"Well, we can't go checking every flying super for bruises," said Vic, sourly. "If only there had been something on radar besides the plane!"

"It might even have been a stealth drone of some type," said Cal Pavolin, whose desk was next to Cindy's. "There's several military bases in this region. A drone could've gotten away from the handler and hit the band's plane. Maybe they'll find it - or Cindy's flying super - when they finish dragging the lake."

"If not, we'll probably never figure out what actually hit them," said Vic, with a tired sigh. "Or what they hit."

* * *

One bit of good news: The two cops who had almost gotten the regenerator killed were finally on administrative leave, pending the results of an investigation into their behavior. In that case and several others.

"You don't seem very happy that these men are off the street and facing indictment," said Drake, after delivering the news to Vic.

"I just feel like I should have been able to stop them sooner!" said Vic, with a mixture of anger and aggravation. "Not only did they cause direct harm, their bad behavior was influencing other local cops. Like with that roofied girls case. Instead, I expected someone else to handle the problem. Well, someone finally did, but several people had to die to get there."

* * *

There was no such thing as a routine day - or week or month or even year - for the employees of the Bureau of Special Resources. Given that most masks were howling individualists, and that the people who objected to them did so in part on the grounds that they weren't like "normal" people, this wasn't surprising.

Still, Vic had a reasonable expectation of being on light duty for the first few days after being shot. Unfortunately, she was both completely healed and considered ready for duty, and very much needed, only a few days after leaving the hospital.

A call came in from the Detroit police just two days after the press conference. An officer was reporting an encounter with a rogue super; a man who was causing trouble in a subdivision. The officer on scene had - wisely, considering the apparent potency of the super - decided not to engage. Instead, he called for backup. Unfortunately, that was Vic. The Detroit neutralizer team would be half an hour longer arriving.

Vic got to the scene and quickly found the officer and his damaged car.

"What happened to your unit?" asked Vic, startled. The last she had heard was that the officer was keeping his distance.

"Well, I rammed him," said the officer, a bit embarrassed. "I saw him lifting an SUV - he'd already thrown a couple - so I hit him with my car. He didn't seem to notice. Though he did put down the SUV and wander off that way."

"That way" was a straight path which ran diagonally through several yards. The perp had simply walked through anything in his path. Fortunately, that had not included houses. So far.

Vic suddenly realized that this was the same neighborhood as where the FBI agents had shot Lancelot Kubiac. She felt a dread certainty that the suspect was that man's missing brother. The one who was supposed to be far more formidable than Lance.

Sure enough, when Vic chased the suspect down - he wasn't moving very quickly - she found a man who strongly resembled photos of both Lancelot Kubiac and his father. Only he was as massive as both of them combined! This guy made the Godsfather look like a punk.

"Okay, stop right there!" shouted Vic, glad that this older helmet at least included the PA function. She was also very aware that it offered less protection than the ruined one. As well as being glad her voice was steady.

The big man turned slowly to face Vic. He seemed mildly surprised to see her, but that quickly faded.

"They killed my baby brother," said the huge, and hugely muscled, man.

"You're the older brother of Lance Kubiac," said Vic, nodding as her guess was confirmed.

"I'm Daryl Kubiac." He laughed. "The black sheep of a black sheep family."

At least he seemed coherent. Maybe he could be reasoned with.

"I'm trying to find evidence to use against the men who did the deed."

"You killed him."

The words were said in a calm, neutral tone, but they gave Vic chills. She was trying to talk this guy down, not give him reason to fight her. With an effort, she kept her own voice calm and even.

"No, I didn't kill him. I didn't know anything about the case until well after it happened."

"You're helping them, though."

"Like I said, I'm..."

"You deserve what's gonna happen to you."

Vic was now officially worried. The guy sounded medicated. However, if he had even just the same level of power as his brother, he could be a medicated powerhouse.

"It's time to let the Stranger out," said the man, in an ominous voice. He seemed to become even larger, straining his previously oversized clothes.

Vic was instantly on the alert. The Stranger hadn't been seen in decades, but in his last rampage he had destroyed a large section of northeastern New York city. She hadn't known that Daryl Kubiac was the Stranger until just then; the records had been sealed under a plea agreement, since the Stranger had been obviously mentally impaired, even if Daryl wasn't.

In a sudden burst of speed, the big man lunged at Vic, swinging a fist the size of a full-grown turkey in a punch which was meant to pulp her. Vic barely dodged, caught by surprise as she was. He didn't give her a chance to catch up, but quickly threw several more powerful strikes. This guy was an experienced brawler and knew what he was doing. Vic managed to avoid getting hit, but couldn't get away from him. With one miss he smashed the pavement of the driveway they were then in, casually cratering it and pulverizing the concrete with no apparent harm to his fist. Another time he demolished an apartment building's stand of mail boxes, sending aluminum and steel flying, trailing fluttering envelopes. Both strikes were past his point of focus, but did huge damage, anyway. Which demonstrated how much strength was behind those blows.

Forget about not hurting this guy, thought Vic, as she frantically avoided getting hit. I need to put him down, NOW!

Vic went for eyes, throat and groin in rapid succession. None of those strikes was successful. That is, she hit where she intended, but the Stranger barely seemed to notice. Realizing that this guy was too tough for even unaugmented eye strikes like the Twin Dragon to harm, Vic quickly applied the Purple Art. That did hurt him. Unfortunately, it also made him angry.

"I'm gonna get you!" he screamed, shrilly. "It's all there on the vinyl!"

Vic didn't try to figure out what he was talking about. She was too busy trying to evade him while also drawing him away from houses. They were in a circle at the end of a street when he threw a punch she was able to redirect into a toide maneuver, using his own strength to slam him into the ground.

That seemed, at the least, to confuse him. Vic quickly backed away.

"Oh, wow..." said a child's voice, from distressingly nearby.

Vic, startled, turned to see a young boy staring at her and the Stranger.

"Get out of here!" yelled Vic.

The boy ignored her.

"Hate kids!" yelled the big man, scowling as he rolled to his feet and advanced on the child.

The little boy shrieked in distress, eyes wide, but still didn't move. The Stranger cocked his fist.

Vic jumped between them. There was no time for anything fancy. If she simply used ki to resist the strike she would be knocked back and likely still hit the boy, injuring and possibly killing him. She took a rooted stance, putting everything she had into it, and did a rising block as the massive fist came in. Trying desperately to divert that intense energy upwards, away from her.

The blow was shifted upwards, barely enough to avoid hitting her. There was a thunderclap of sound and fury as forearm met forearm... there was a frozen moment... and the Stranger howled in pain, falling back and shaking his injured arm. Meanwhile, Vic simply collapsed. The boy went silent and turned and ran. Finally accepting that simply crying, screaming and whining wasn't going to get him what he wanted in this case.

More angry than ever, the Stranger reached for the fallen Vic with his other hand. Perhaps planning to rip her apart.

Fortunately, the Detroit police officer who had called Vic in now acted. His rifle gunfire distracted the Stranger, but didn't hurt him. Kubiac turned away from Vic and towards the officer.

His movements were unhurried. Which gave Vic a few moments to recover.

I can do this, she thought, as she painfully got to her feet. I have to do this!

Vic took several deep breaths, gathering her ki. Then she quickly moved in behind the giant and hit him with a side kick over the left kidney, putting all her might behind it.

Kubiac grunted mightily and staggered forward, caught his balance, half turned towards his attacker, paused to shake his head... then, finally, fell. Vic stepped back - limping a bit - and held a guarded stance for a moment. The giant didn't move.

"Whew," said Vic, finally, sagging. The police officer also relaxed a bit, lowering his rifle.

Kubiac stirred. Vic and the policeman instantly became alert. Fortunately, the stirring was the giant shrinking. He seemed to be semi-conscious, but very stunned, moaning in pain. The pitch of the moan slid from base to baritone as he became smaller. He went past the size he had been when Vic first saw him, finally stopping when he was merely large.

"I was using armor-piercing ammo, too," said the officer, nearly as stunned as Kubiac. "Had to change magazines. That's what took me so long to get here!"

"It's fine," said Vic. She was exhausted, and her foot was throbbing, but that and Kubiac's bruised kidney seemed to be the only injuries in this rampage. "Call in that we need an ambulance and a portable neutralizer."

"Already on the way," said the officer. "Both of those. Called them in even before you arrived."

Vic turned up the audio gain on her helmet and could, indeed, hear sirens in the distance.

"Just to be sure," she told the officer, well aware that such details could be overlooked in the aftermath of such a battle, "update your call, with our current location."

"Oh. Right. They need to know where to go."

* * *

"That was good work," said Drake, speaking with Vic in his office later that day. "Even his mother is praising you - and us - for stopping Daryl Kubiac without seriously injuring him. Though the mother of the boy is claiming you endangered him."

"Just to be clear," said Vic, "if I could have killed him with that strike, I would have. He was an immediate danger to everyone around him."

"If you had, I'd still be congratulating you." He gave Vic a sour smile. "Though I doubt his mother would have been. Now, you go home. Take the rest of the day off and don't worry about being on time tomorrow. We'll get your armor repaired."

To her surprise, both feet of Vic's armor had been seriously damaged by her last strike. Both the one she had hit the Stranger with, and the one she had been standing on. She had also damaged the pavement under her left foot. Nodding, she rose and left her boss' office. She went briefly back to her desk, told the others she was going home, and left.

* * *

"One of the local TV stations covered the fight shortly after you called," said Michelle, who was waiting for Vic at their apartment.

They kissed and hugged, briefly. Without saying anything, Vic dropped onto their couch. Michelle sat beside her.

"I'm glad you called before I saw that, on the TV down at Curl Up and Dye. They told it a lot more scary, with images of the property damage and interviews of the people there. Including little Bobby."

"Umf," said Vic, from where she sprawled, eyes half closed, on the couch. Michelle took Vic's hand.

"The only problem was that the witnesses seemed to think you were a member of the Denver police department." Realizing that she was on the verge of babbling, Michelle took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She hugged her wife again. "Where was Lady Greene during all this?"

"Busy with a bank robbery. For what it's worth, I don't think she'd have been much help in this fight. Guy was just too powerful."

"So, do you feel like celebrating at Wok on the Wild Side?" said Michelle, perhaps too enthusiastically. Reaction was setting in. Vic had said she was all right, and appeared to be physically fine, but obviously needed tending. "Because I certainly don't feel like cooking."

"Let's try that new place," said Vic, rousing herself and feeling bold after her victory. She sat up straighter. "Curryosity. Just let me get cleaned up."

"I'll help," said Michelle, grinning as they both rose from the couch.

* * *

Meanwhile, others were definitely not happy with Vic's performance in that fight.

"She not only survived getting shot in the head with an elephant gun," said the man at the end of the conference table, sounding outraged, "she took down the Stranger! So much for her powers being 'low level.'"

"If she's that potent, we need to back off and focus on something else," said another of those gathered to discuss the matter.

"So, we do a complete reevaluation of her," said his boss, who was sitting at the other end of the table they were gathered around. "Meanwhile, the people behind the 'Your Arrested' killings are the focus of the investigation, including the elimination of that failure, Jacobs, at the hospital. He should have held fire until that freak showed her armored face. Then made sure of his shot; the faceplate. Anyway, as long as we keep a low profile for the next few weeks we're golden. With Jacobs gone there's no connection with the group. That was good work, Carver."

"Me?" said Carver. "It was Collings who arranged that."

"No, it wasn't," said Collings, sounding angry. "You know I think that sort of thing is bad for morale."

"Regardless, we're already planning to shift our focus to Chicago," said their boss, unconcerned. "We'll let Detroit lie fallow for a few months. That gives us time to plan."

* * *

The weekly office briefing the next Monday was unusual and interesting. The workers were alerted by Drake's manner even before he started speaking that he had news other than the routine.

"Thanks to cooperation between us, the FBI and the archivists studying the Operators' lair, we have been able to recover some interesting DNA evidence from their souvenirs," said Drake, after briefly covering the usual matters.

"Do tell," said Cal Pavolin, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"Recall that one of the current senior local crime bosses is also named Conrad Kostinos. We've managed to obtain DNA evidence which show multiple points of congruence between him and the Operators' nemesis, John Mark, who was likely the Conrad Kostinos adopted by Hercules Kubiac. Unfortunately, all those older samples were degraded, thanks to their age, so they aren't much use in court. Still, there was enough similarity to prove that Conrad Kostinos is related to John Mark."

"Wait," said Vic, holding up a hand. "Is the current Conrad Kostinos a descendant of the guy - alias John Mark - the Operators fought, maybe a grandson named after the original, or... could this be the same guy?"

"We will find out," said Drake, firmly.