Firedrake

Colleen Hart sat behind her desk in the office of Metahuman Response, reviewing yet another in a seemingly endless series of folders. There was a stack of a dozen more sitting in the box marked ’IN’. She took a long, deep drag from her cigarette as she flipped through a few pages, determining who was best suited to deal with the criminal they described, then idly scribbled the name “Apollo” on the exterior of the folder. Blowing out a stream of smoke, she tapped ash from the cigarette into a gleaming metal ashtray that stood beside the desk, then set the folder aside. She was reaching for the next when the door slammed open, shaking the entire office with its force.

“Come on in, Drake,” she said, never bothering to look up. “Nice work on the Aquatica thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Drake grumbled. “No smoking in government buildings,” he chastised. He kicked out at a chair, spinning it around and sitting without being asked. The reinforced metal of the chair, a custom design for boosters with enhanced size or weight, creaked when he threw himself onto it. He folded his scaled arms across the back of it and set his head on them, fixing the woman with a baleful stare. The slit pupils of his eyes contracted as he glared, and the ridges of scaled armor that surrounded them narrowed.

Hart was content to let him sit there, knowing he could not simply be silent for long. True to her thoughts, within the span of a minute, the booster fairly exploded. He leaped up from the seat, towering over her desk and staring down at her. The sight of him in anger had been enough to cow even some very powerful boosters, but it seemed to have no effect on Hart.

“What the hell is this crap? Strike-breakers?” he shouted, tiny puffs of smoke jetting from his mouth along with the words. He slammed his fists on the desk, leaving dents in the metal surface, where they joined several others from the past.

“Aquatica was a genebooster, yes?” Hart asked in a quiet, bored voice. She leaned back in her seat and looked up at Drake without a trace of fear. She was not happy at his proximity, but it did not register in her expression. As though she did not have a care in the world, she crushed out her cigarette and crossed her arms. Mentally, she counted the new dents he had left, adding them to the already impressive collection, and reminded herself to requisition another desk before this one fell apart.

“Well, yeah, but -”

“And she was acting in a criminal manner, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Then she falls within the mandate of the Metahuman Response Division. You work for that division. You were given an assignment. It’s that simple. If you would prefer something a little less taxing…” Hart let the sentence hang, raising an eyebrow. Drake gripped the edge of the desk, lips trembling and pulling back to expose his fangs.

“Hey, lady, you can take your ’less taxing’ and shove -”

“I have your next assignment,” Hart interrupted curtly. She unfolded her arms and slid a thick manila folder across the desk toward Drake. Papers and photographs spilled from within it, showing the image of a powerfully-built Caucasian man with long back black hair that was slicked back against his head. He was dressed in a black leather jacket and blue jeans that would have been called ’distressed’ were they purchased in the condition in which the man wore them. Drake flicked through the pictures with a claw, flicking them aside one by one as he examined the images. One showed the man standing beside a bright yellow Ferrari, leaning in to talk to the occupant, the back of whose head was to the camera. In the next shot, the man was lifting from the ground in what was obviously flight. The third, taken at a distance, was a grainy image of the same man shooting a bolt of energy from his eyes. The target of that purple bolt was an armored car.

“Calls himself Retribution,” Hart declared, trying to cut down the time that Drake would spend standing in her office. “We don’t know why. He’s hit half a dozen armored transports in the past couple of weeks. All in Washington State. All very violent. ”

“Who’s the mook in the Ferrari?”

“Concurrent surveillance from Organized Crime shows it to be Lee Tang from the Iron Lords Triad. Unknown relation to the armored car heists. Or to Retribution, for that matter.”

“Any idea what he’s doing with the cash?” Drake asked. “Does he work for the Lords, too?”

“No idea on either question,” she admitted, a tone of irritation creeping into her voice. “I believe I said we have no connections established between them aside from this picture.”

Drake snorted in derision. “So you ain’t got any connections. Don’t mean they ain’t there,” he pointed out.

“You could be right, but as I said, we have nothing concrete.”

“So just that one meeting?”

“Unknown,” Hart said with a shrug. “The surveillance team was unable to keep up with him after he did that.” Her outstretched finger pointed to another long-range photograph of Retribution. The booster, arms laden with bags of money, was leaping into the air, heading away from the wrecked armored car. The vehicle was on its side in the street, rear door torn away. The slumped body of a security officer could be seen hanging half-in, half-out of the doorway.

“Two guards in critical condition. Seven bystanders with various minor cuts and bruises. A few that aren’t so minor. One hundred twenty thousand dollars taken,” Hart reported, ticking off the items on her fingers. She flicked a hand in the direction of the folder. “And that was just for that particular hit.”

“And they lost track of him when he flew off?” asked Drake, shuffling through the pages of the surveillance report. Hart sneered.

“They thought it was important to respond to the scene and render aid. Trust me, they won’t make that mistake again.”

“I bet,” Drake remarked wryly, glossing over the way she had referred to helping the injured as a ’mistake’. It was not as if he had any special regard for people, but even he would not have considered it an error to help them when they were injured. He continued scanning the documents, playing his own version of the game Hart had played when he stared at her. He knew that she wanted him out of her office; knew that she detested being this close to anyone, let alone someone as abrasive as he was. Just as she seemed ready to break, he spoke again.

“So I’m supposed to start where? Tailing someone ain’t exactly my strong point. And don’t say it,” he added, noting the way her eyes snapped automatically to his tail.

“His known places of residence are in the files, as are his acquaintances of note. You figure it out. Go down to psi-branch if you need a telepath to try to read him for you. Now, if there’s nothing else?” Her tone left no doubt that despite the phrasing, it was not a question.

“There is,” Drake said. He dug in a cargo pocket of his trousers, emerging with a pair of DVD movies, which he placed carefully onto the desktop. “I picked these up on the way over. See to it that they get delivered.”

Hart looked at them closely, though she did not touch them. “Elmo?” she asked, a grin stretching her face. Her body rocked as she struggled to keep from laughing.

“His preference, not mine,” Drake shot back. “I lean more toward old Eastwood. Dirty Harry, Josey Wales, things like that. You know, in case you’re looking to get me a birthday present. Anyway, just get them to him.”

“I’ll notify someone.”

“You do that. When I’m done with this guy,” he said, tapping one long claw on the folder, “I figure on going to see him. It’d be a right shame if he didn’t have these nice new shows to watch.”

Hart made a show of yawning to indicate just how little she thought of his style. “Threat noted and received. Gee, are you proud of yourself? Get out.”

Drake picked up the folder and left, making certain to slam the door closed with more force than he had used to open it. “Bitch,” he growled. He glared at the assistant behind her desk, stomping his way out of the office space and into the halls of the building.

“Asshole,” Hart muttered. She opened another file.

Weaving his way through the crowded corridors of the building, and more than once using his size and strength to simply move people who did not get out of his way quickly enough, a very angry Drake finally jerked open a glass door marked ’DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE METAHUMAN RESPONSE -PSIONICS DIVISION’ and marched inside.

The offices of the psi-branch were cold and sterile. Each of the offices was identical in layout, and the only difference between each one was the nameplate on the door and the few personal items that found their way onto the desks. The lighting was dim, evoking a feel of twilight. The conditions allegedly allowed an easier transition to a meditative state. All Drake knew was that they annoyed him greatly. He chose an office at random and barged straight inside, not even bothering to knock.

“It’s too damned cold down here,” he muttered by way of greeting. He stood in the doorway of the office with his arms wrapped around his body as though the room were freezing. His wings were pulled in tight to his shoulders, and his tail was coiled around his waist like an arm-thick belt. The frail-looking man behind the desk looked at him with bemused eyes as the overhead lights reflected off wire-rimmed spectacles. A wood and brass nameplate on the desk identified him as Andrzej Katzov.

“The temperature here is maintained at an even sixty-six degrees,” the man said, speaking slowly as if to a child. His voice was low and soft. “We find it very soothing. Is there something I can do for you, Agent…”

“Drake. Francis Drake. And yeah, there is. What can you tell me about this monkey?” Drake snapped, tossing the folder Hart had provided onto the table and pointing to the photographs arrayed before the man. Katzov studied them for a minute, riffling through each one and scrutinizing the images presented. At last, he spread the photographs out before him in a circular pattern.

“I will try to make a connection now,” said Katzov. “Please remain silent.” He rubbed at his temples and closed his eyes, mumbling a mantra at too low a volume for Drake to overhear. A few moments later he began to speak in slow, measured phrases. “Strong and fast…brutal…he will not fail…. fear…he needs more money…”

Drake cut him off with a snorting sound. “That’s it? That’s the best you can do? Hell, I used to work with a guy, in thirty seconds Matt would have been in this mook’s head. He’d have told me where he was, what he was planning, and what he had for breakfast!”

“It is very difficult to lock onto the mind of a single person, Agent Drake,” Katzov chastised, arching an eyebrow. “It is even more difficult to do so without that person becoming aware of my presence.”

“Well, goody for you! It’s nice to know that if he figures out what you’re doing, you’ll be in here, with all your shields, armed guards, metal detectors, federal Marshals and registered boosters running around to watch over things, and so on. Wouldn’t want you to put yourself in any danger or anything!”

“It is not danger that is the threat,” Katzov explained. His soft voice never seemed to change, no matter how irritated he became at the abrasive nature of the booster in his office. “You wish me to discern the whereabouts of this subject. If he determines that he is being scanned, he could very well leave the area in which he now operates. That would, of course, necessitate yet another visit from you, which after the events of this one is something that I freely admit does not interest me in the slightest.”

Katzov paused, looking up at Drake with an obvious air of superiority. “May I continue?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Get on with it,” Drake grumbled. He glared at the telepath, but fell silent and allowed the man to work.

Katzov took a breath to center himself then began to massage his temples once more. With Drake subdued for the moment, he was able to more easily slip into his trance. This time, whatever he was seeing he kept private, an act which further infuriated Drake. After a full thirty minutes of meditation, Katzov looked up. His face was drained of color and his breathing was labored.

“Your subject is in Washington State,” he began, confirming the information Hart had provided. “Seattle, to be more precise. He has taken refuge in a small, cheap hotel. The name is Sun God, if I am not mistaken. There is a sense of disturbance in the room, of a kind of unease. He is powerful, to be certain, but there is something that Retribution fears.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Drake said enthusiastically, clapping an enormous hand on the telepath’s shoulder. “That’s the kind of info I needed. Did you get the room number, too?”

“Unfortunately, I did not. I can only see what he sees, and then only for short periods,” Katzov replied. He sagged back in his chair, removing his eyeglasses and rubbing his face briskly with his palms. He opened a drawer and slipped out a small brown plastic bottle. Opening it, he poured two of the yellow tablets into his mouth, then swallowed them with the aid of an hours-cold Styrofoam cup of coffee. Licking at his lips, he looked up at Drake once more.

“Keeps the migraines back,” he explained, displaying the bottle. “Basic work is taxing enough, but doing what I have just done is vaguely similar to the feeling I imagine I would get by driving iron spikes into my forebrain. I start to see things that are not here, then I catch snatches of conversations from somewhere else. Once I have reached that point, it is usually too late to do more than lie down with an icepack on my eyes and sedate myself.”

“Well, you did good this time,” Drake said, nodding his head. “I mean, I’d have been happy knowing what state he was in. Picking up the hotel in the city? Magic, man, pure damned magic. Look, man, I’m, uh, I’m sorry if I was short with you earlier. I just wanna get this one over with; go and see my brother.”

Katzov looked at him for a moment, slipping his glasses back on so that he could scan Drake’s face closely. “He is all you have,” he said flatly. As Drake recoiled, he held up a hand.

“I did not read you, Agent Drake,” Katzov assured him, waving his hand as if to clear away the thought. “It is etched on your face and in your manner. Everything about you speaks of aggression and anger, but when you mentioned your brother, you changed.”

Drake grinned, his long upper lip peeling back from his teeth in an unusually friendly version of the expression that he so often used to inspire fear. He slipped his tail loose from his waist to hang once more behind him and hooked his thumbs into his belt, leaning against the doorframe. The top of his head nearly brushed the top of the jamb.

“Sounds about right,” he said. “Ain’t much left I do give a damn about, ’cept for Monster.”

“Monster?” Katzov asked, his personal interest piqued by the name.

“Chris. His name’s Chris, but he likes Monster. Sometimes it kinda fits, too,” he added with a soft laugh that carried the scent of sulphur. His eyes took on a faraway look for a moment, then he suddenly snapped back to reality, extending one of his taloned hands to shake that of Katzov.

“Look, thanks for your help. I’ll see to it you get mentioned in the after-action report,” he said, the friendly exchange over. It was rare that Drake ever even spoke about his brother to anyone outside his immediate circle of friends, which was notably limited in scope.

“Please, Agent Drake, exercise caution in your dealings with this Retribution person. He appears to be preparing for something. I was given the impression that he was running and felt he had little to lose.”

Drake laughed again, from the belly, a loud and deep rolling sound. “Here’s the thing, Andrzej,” he said, raising a hand. He ticked off items on his claws as he spoke. “One, he’s a scumbag. A strong one, sure, but a scumbag nonetheless. Two, I literally ain’t got no choice here. Three, he ain’t gonna expect me. No one ever expects to see me coming after them. People-shaped hunters they figure on. Me? I’m the surprise in the bottom of the box, baby.”

Katzov laughed along with Drake for a moment. He rose and opened the door to his office to allow the booster egress, looking up at him one final time. “Give me a call if you need further help,” he offered, slipping a business card from a holder on his desk. “This is my direct line.”

Drake accepted the card, looking at it closely. He tucked it safely away in one of his pockets, reaching out a hand to slap Katzov heavily on the shoulder, a gesture which nearly knocked the telepath to the floor.

“Thanks, Andrzej. I just might do that. You’re all right,” he said, stepping into the hallway and tipping an imaginary hat to the woman with the shaved head and facial tattoos that was passing the office at that moment. “You know how to reach me, right?”

“Through Administrator Hart?”

“Yeah. She’s making me carry some kinda damn cell phone around with me,” Drake said, reaching into a pocket and retrieving a small grey box. In his massive grip, it looked even smaller than it really was. He waved it in front of himself and rolled his eyes. “I keep thinking I’m gonna break it.”

Replacing the phone in his pocket, he turned and walked from the psi-branch offices, pausing to take a deep breath of the warmer air when he emerged into the halls of the Justice building proper. His wings spread and once more folded against his back; their protection no longer necessary now that he was out of the cold environment.

He passed beyond the borders of the Metahuman Response Division minutes later, long legs carrying him at a rapid pace toward the procurement offices. He ignored the many frightened glances that came his way from the citizens who were in the building for one reason or another. Most of them would never understand what it was to be different, he knew, and though their revulsion at his form stung, it was of no real concern.

Drake had a flight to Seattle to arrange.