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The Source

Scriven

Scriven

Slayer of incompetent and disappointing minions
“Morning, Seth.”


Caroline greets me from the front desk of the Miami Police Department, the tops of her cheeks a glowing shade of red from too long in the sun with too little sunscreen. I lower my shades to get a better look at the damage and let out a low whistle as I move closer, clicking my tongue at her.


“Looks like someone enjoyed her honeymoon.”


“So much that it hurts to be back,” the blonde sighs, pressing her fingertips to her tender cheeks. The bridge of her nose is already starting to peel, I note with a sympathetic wince. She just doesn't have the complexion for extended periods of time spent out in the sun, but then again, neither do I. Being a fully fledged ginger, I can relate to the pain of sunburn all too well. My skin comes in two shades: manilla (I'm not quite ready to label myself milk colored, though others might) and lobster.


“So what’s on the agenda today?” I ask, folding my arms over the chest-high counter poised above her desk. It’s early in the morning- almost six- and the police department is pretty quiet. I know it won’t stay that way for long, but it’s nice to enjoy the little moments.


“There’s a meeting at seven for those who can make it. There’s a new officer transferring in today.”


“Ooh, fresh blood,” I tease, double-tapping my palm on the counter. “Sounds like fun!” I holler at Caroline over my shoulder, already making my way past her toward my desk. I’ve got a nice little setup right next to one of the windows, which is good for my plants. Although my peperomia hadn’t minded my dark little corner by the water tank, my turquoise phalaenopsis orchid much preferred the indirect rays afforded by this premium position. I can’t lie- there are perks to being the sole mage on the force.


The desk of my old partner in anti-crime is right next door, currently unoccupied, the two desks butted together side by side. And though I’ve definitely been trying to keep the space clear for the person who’ll someday become my next Source (assuming I ever find one), I realize, not for the first time, that my stuff is kind of creeping over onto their desk. My personal belongings have sort of avalanched onto the unoccupied desk: paperwork, binders, a stack of American Police Beat magazine I keep meaning to take home, and several boxes of girl scout cookies. Oh well. No one has used that desk since Ernesto left, and I haven’t found anyone I’m magically compatible with, so it’s moot. No one’s using it, so why not put the space to use?


I take a quick stretch before plopping myself into my desk chair and booting up my computer. Ah, paperwork, the most thrilling part of being a mage for the MPD. Right now my action’s a little limited, since I have no Source to take along. It’s pretty risky expending large amounts of my own energy while I’m alone, so I’ve mostly been riding along as a third wheel with other teams. It’s not really how I like to operate, but what choice do I have?


There’s been a string of missing persons in the Miami area. Mostly Latina women between the ages of sixteen and thirty five. We’re not sure if they’re linked or separate cases yet, but we’re working on it. I don’t normally do a whole lot of the investigative stuff. The force prefers me to be on hand for what they call ‘heavy lifting’, but everyone on the force is doing what they can to find the perp, or maybe perps, responsible for all the missing women.


“Gecko,” someone calls, and I turn my head to see who’s talking to me. It’s Officer Victor Espinoza, one of my least favorite people on the team. I force what I hope is an amiable expression onto my face, because I’m aware that if I’m not actively working against it my face has the tendency to show exactly what I’m thinking, and things are bad enough between me and Espinoza already.


“What’s up?” I ask, turning in my chair.


“Come on. There’s a domestic dispute in West end that the neighbors report is getting pretty heated. We might need you to diffuse the situation.”


Jesus Christ. I look at my watch as I stand up, grabbing my hat off my desk: six thirty-five. Some people start early, I think to myself, doing a quick check of my utility belt out of habit. Yep, it’s all in place. Just another day at the office.
 
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BERYL

​



Florida is hot as fuck.


At least, that's what I notice as I leave Miami International Airport. I'd let myself feel excited while I flew over the sparkling ocean, sprawling cosmopolis, and slender palm trees. People out on the water! Umbrellas dotting the beaches like colorful trash! White boats bobbing in the harbor like inanimate ducks! But once I leave the creepily oversaturated baggage claim, I know the truth: it's wet heat.


I'm used to arid climates. Heat, at almost any extremity, can be tolerated if it's dry. You just get yourself into the mindset of a lizard, close your eyes, and let it kill you. It's almost peaceful. But humid heat? Forget about it. It's like being violently strangled in a sauna, with a wet towel that is also on fire. It's hell, basically.


So I remain untouched by the perfection around me as my taxi drives me toward my new precinct. The blasting air conditioner is leaving my skin freezing cold under my layers, even though I'm still sweating. I think of this new place that I now live in as a fever. It's got all the symptoms: nausea-inducing hallucinations, being drenched in sweat, going hot and cold by turns. I would love to head to my new condo. (Yes, that's right, condo. Thank you Florida.) How great would it be to temperature control, watch TV, and forget where I am. But I've got to go straight to work to meet my new partner.


I think of my old partner, my old station, the sheetcake at my good-bye party, and I think, Et tu, Brute?


I pay the cabbie, who is wearing a baseball hat with a dolphin embroidered onto it. The dolphin is wearing a football helmet. I tip him extra, the poor bastard. Then I'm rolling my suitcase behind me as I enter the precinct. I'm surprised people are wearing uniforms here and not board shorts. But the AC is cranked in here, too, and I think maybe my usual outfit of black hoodie and leather jacket over my uniform isn't the complete insanity I had thought it was.


At the airport, I had checked my makeup and hair in the bathroom. By the time I was in the taxi, though, vanity had melted. My light brown hair is up in a sloppy ponytail, exposing a scant few inches of neck to airflow.


"Beryl Polinski?" A fair, blonde receptionist asks. She's sunburnt, which makes me briefly wonder if she's new here, too.


"That's me," I say, showing her my badge. I follow her into my new boss' office, suitcase trolling along behind me.


The boss is blonde, too. And not in that way that light brown hair is sometimes described as blonde and you're like oh, I thought that was brown. No, she's blonde blonde. And her eyes are blue in the same way her hair is blonde: the supermodel way. She must be in her fifties but she's gorgeous, and I figure she probably was a supermodel, or an actress, before becoming a cop. Miami's the right place for it.


"I'm Samantha Sterling," she tells me, which I already know.


"People call me Sam or Captain, whatever you like," she adds, which I didn't.


I nod as I shake her hand, unable to find my usual jokes around her. I don't know if it's her alien good-looks or her downplayed authoritative manner that I find most intimidating.


"The team meeting is about to start," she tells me. "You can leave your suitcase here."


"Thanks," I say, and follow her into a nearby room. Most of the force is there already. The sunburnt blonde is passing out case files to everyone, and cups of coffee to her favorites. She asks me if I'd like one. I try to mask my revulsion at the thought of drinking hot liquid right now, and I smile at her. "I'd love one."


People are chatting casually, and Sam interrupts them by introducing me to the whole room: "People, this is Officer Polinski. She's here to team up with Gecko."


There's a beat of silence that I don't know how to translate, although I think it has more to do with Gecko than it has to do with me. I open my folder to hide my discomfort. There's a picture and rundown on him, which I've already seen.


"Guy is pasty," I say, and look up to see if I've judged my audience correctly. The captain doesn't laugh, but some others in the room do.


"He's the office ghost," jokes someone else, and I go over to stand with them. I have to field questions about how I'm liking Miami so far, to which I respond favorably, because good friendships are built on lies. As soon as I can manage, I ask questions about Gecko. He seems reasonably well-liked, though apparently he's been picky about finding a new partner. I can't get to the root of that pickiness. I get the worrying feeling that he might not know about me yet, that I'm getting pushed on him.


The meeting starts and Sam doesn't wait an extra moment, even though more than one chair is empty, and Gecko hasn't arrived yet. Instead, she jumps right into the missing persons case, going over basic details to catch me up, I assume. I've already read the file, but it's nice to get in a room with the other officers and see what they know. There don't seem to be a lot of hunches. They've been close to it too long, it's just a fact they live with already. This is why transferring people is good. Fresh eyes, or in my case, fresh blood, quite literally.
 
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Much to my surprise (and okay, delight), the domestic dispute is between two lesbians. Not butch lesbians, either- two hot lipstick lesbians that I wouldn't mind getting between, though they've pretty much calmed down by the time me and Espinoza get there. We talk to each of them separately and make sure this fight is really over, recommending they get some space from the other and cool off for a while. Neither wants to press charges, though we warn them that if we get neighbors calling about the noise again they'll be getting more than just a warning. Both of them send angry glances to each other, then apologize and promise to keep the noise down. They're as contrite as kids in the principle's office, but I'm distracted imagining what a clothes-tearing, hair-pulling fight between them would look like.


Me and Espinoza get back into the cruiser, where he flips the radio back on and reports on the dispute. We pull out of the driveway and head back to the station as the sun starts to rise on the Miami streets, making everything that rich orange color.


"Man, that brunette, am I right?" I ask, leaning back in my seat.


Espinoza gives me a quick look and makes a noise of disgust deep in his throat. "Fuckin' asshole."


I close my mouth and say no more, my lips pressed into a firm line. Me and Espinoza weren't always on such bad terms. Last year we had been just fine. He had introduced me to his cousin, Sophia, and the two of us had started dating. I'd been invited to picnics and quinceañeras and over to his house to watch basketball and we had been getting pretty tight, then Sophia had broken up with me and everything took a sharp turn for the worse. It's not like me and Sophia even had a bad breakup or anything. I didn't cheat on her or do her wrong, and she was the one doing the leaving, but I guess my temporary pass into the Espinoza family was revoked and now I'm worse than an outsider: I'm the guy who slept with his cousin, but who isn't married to his cousin. It seems to be an offense I can't get past, but it taught me a valuable lesson. Don't date relatives of people on the force, and most definitely don't date people on the force. That's just asking for it.


We get back to the station and it's ten after seven. The meeting has already started, but I creep in quietly and go to stand at the back of the room, behind the people seated at the long tables in front of where the chief of police is talking. I instantly narrow in on the new face in the room, who others are shooting curious glances at as well. She's girl-next-door cute, just a little chubby, and her light brown ponytail is looking a little limp. It's always refreshing having new people come through. Maybe I'll invite her out and try to get to know her a little.


Lucas Brandon is looking over his shoulder at me and cocks his head toward the empty seat beside him. I give a minute nod and make my way over there, lowering myself into the chair, then I focus my attention back on Sam. Our eyes meet and I give a slight nod.
 

BERYL

​



There's a bit of a shift in the room, and I turn in my chair to see Gecko enter with a dark-haired officer. I feel instant discomfort, although I don't know why. My mouth quirks when he looks at me, not quite a smile. It's this thing my face does to acknowledge someone when a smile isn't appropriate. It's really more of an apologetic frown, like we're both in on a sad joke, which we're not. He's not in on it yet. Anyway, I don't think he notices. He's gone to sit by a friend, and I face front to look at my new captain, who I see is making eye contact with Gecko.


My new partner has tousled hair the color of a faded penny, and eyes blue as a corpse's. He has a rectangular face, a bit serious. He's tall. And thin. We should make a good toothpick and olive act.


Sam is wrapping up the meeting while I've been thinking anxiously about my new partner. She disperses jobs and dismisses people, and she says "Officers Gecko and Polinski, hang back." I can't imagine calling this woman 'Sam' to her face as she has offered. Her tight ponytail draws the corners of her eyes up like a facelift, not that she needs one. I should try that.


While the meeting rooms empties with murmurs and inquisitive looks, I toy absently with my ponytail. I can already feel that my hair is too fine to pull the heavier skin on my face anywhere. I push the tail away into the hunchback of my hoodie, where I know that stray hairs gather like strands of caramel. I pretend to be very interested in the thin blue and white styrofoam cup of coffee that Caroline gave me earlier, which I haven't drunk from.


Once the last of the people have drained from the room, Sam glances over at the door and goes to close it. Her eyes remind me of hawks. And sapphires. At this point I just wait for the captain to make our introduction, and she does.


"Seth," she says, her voice as gentle as I've heard it, "This is your new partner. It's time you had a new source, and we can't afford to wait any longer. Officer Beryl Polinski, meet Officer Seth Gecko."


I stand up to shake Seth's hand. "Kinda' like a blind date, huh?" I say, and then wish I hadn't. It's more like an arranged marriage.


Sam gives me the same look she gave the unclosed door, and feels the need to cover for me. "Polinski is an experienced officer we had transfer in. Impeccable record. She's never been a Source before, but every sign points to compatibility."


I eye Seth to commiserate, this time trying to share the obvious joke. It might be an uncomfortable, unideal situation, but it's one we're in together. I know my hazel eyes and vague half-smile don't give much away. I have 'resting aloof face,' the type that looks bemused and above everything. Until I make some expression about something, which is often, and over-the-top.


I arch a fair eyebrow at him, again, not something I can help. Sometimes, I hate my face. "I thought I was signing up for a vacation," I say drolly. "I think I got tricked." In reality, I hadn't cared what Florida was like. I had put in a transfer to get away from my shitstick of an ex, who I worked with. Who was kind of my superior. He didn't take the breakup well. He'd been the one to break up with me, I'm ashamed to say (because I should have done it sooner) but he still acted wounded and lashed out at me with all the emotional self-possession of a toddler. I think he arranged that I be transferred here, to be a source, to call my bluff. I'm not sure if he really wants me back or just wants to see me beg, but either way, he won't get the satisfaction. I'll die in this swamp before I'd let anyone see my chin tremble.
 
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I stick around after the meeting wraps up to see what the captain wants from me and the new girl. Probably a tour around the office or a drive around the precinct, part of my mind considers, tucking that little bit of information away. After all, I'm currently the least tied up person on the force. I'm already putting together my repertoire of little jokes I'll make when I give her the lowdown on each member of the team during the tour. That's Shawn. I let him take his shoes off once at my condo and the place has never smelled the same since. And there's Caroline. If she brings you cookies, she's not just being friendly. She needs a favor, and it probably involves babysitting.





The new girl- Polinski?- is giving me kind of a weird look though. She seems guilty of something, which is something I'm all too used to seeing out on the streets when I'm in uniform, but something which I don't know how to interpret right now.


"Seth, this is your new partner," Sam tells me, her tone soothing, like she's giving bad news. This is bad news, as a matter of fact. "It's time you had a new source, and we can't afford to wait any longer. Officer Beryl Polinski, meet Officer Seth Gecko."


The new girl stands up, extending her hand. Out of habit I take it, automatically shaking with her, though it makes me feel like I've just legally signed myself up for this whole partner thing. I almost turn my head and tell the captain that what she just witnessed- this whole shaking hands thing- this is about being polite, not about entering into a binding agreement.


"Kinda' like a blind date, huh?" Polinksi jokes, then instantly looks like she wished she hadn't said that. There's an awkward cloud hanging over us in the room and that cloud just got about a hundred times heavier.


I don't know what to say to that, and though my lips part no words come out. I just look like a fish, mouth open, eyes wide. I'm caught off guard and don't know what to say. No, she can't just be my partner. It doesn't work like that. The arguments start solidly forming in my mind, almost ready to be spoken.


"Polinski is an experienced officer we had transfer in. Impeccable record. She's never been a Source before, but every sign points to compatibility."


She's looking over at me, but I don't know how to interpret that expression on her face.


"I thought I was signing up for a vacation," she says. "I think I got tricked."


She's a regular Jokes McGee, but guess what? I'm not smiling. And that's saying something, 'cuz I'm usually the one making the jokes, grinning like an idiot. "Captain," I start, my eyes flicking back and forth between the two women. "I, uh, appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but it doesn't work like that. You can't just assign me a source. It's not like other partnerships. We might not even have a magical connection." I mean to give Polinski an apologetic look, since after all this isn't exactly her fault, but my mind is too busy racing. The look I wind up giving her is one of wide-eyed panic, like something caught in a corner but willing to claw its way out if necessary.


"Officer Gecko." The captain had started out gentle, using my first name, clearly trying to put me at ease, but now she changes tactics. Her voice hardens and she's resorting to not just my last name, but my title. Clearly she means business. "How long has it been since you last had a Source?"


I try to tally up the weeks, but realize the weeks have turned to months. "A while," I admit. "But I'm not compatible with anyone on this force, and besides, none of them even want to be a source."


"And Officer Polinksi does. Gecko, I'll be the first to admit I don't really get how the whole magic thing works, but one thing I'm absolutely certain of is the fact that if you don't find a Source, your potential on this force is being squandered. You're an excellent officer, but we need you as a mage."


The arguments I've been rehearsing in my head are falling apart in the face of Sam's opposition. "Captain, it's not going to be safe for either of us if we're not compatible," I try to tell her.


"You might very well be compatible though. I've given you time to try and find your own Source, Seth." She's back to that gentle tone of voice. "You haven't found one on your own. I'm helping you out here and giving you the shove you clearly need. I expect you both to give this trial a fair shot. If it doesn't work out we'll reconsider, but I want to see the two of you giving this a hundred percent. Got it?"


My eyes flick to Polinksi for a moment, one side of my mouth pulled into a grimace. "Yes, Captain."


She gives a terse nod and sets down a stack of paperwork on one of the tables. "Good. I've got a contract drawn up that I need each of you to sign, then I'll release you to the training grounds to become better acquainted."


My chest deflates with a sigh of resignation as I watch Sam leave. I'm left alone in the conference room with my new partner. "Sorry," I tell her lamely. "It's not anything personal."
 
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It's clear that Seth doesn't get me yet, but that's okay, not everyone does at first. I'm not sure I get his deal, either. His wide-eyed expression makes him look like a stunned lab rat, the pink skin around his eyes more pronounced when he does this. But I don't get the feeling that he has a lack of confidence. I guess it's hard for me to imagine that someone tall and solid could feel insecure. Hell, I'm short and solid and I still feel pretty secure most of the time.


The way the captain is talking to Seth doesn't exactly shame him, but I wouldn't want to be the one being cross-examined by her. She's benignly terrifying, like an archangel. As close as I get to facing something like holy wrath is her saying: "I want to see the two of you giving this a hundred percent. Got it?" I look at Gecko, see his grimace. This is going about as badly as it could go already, and I'm starting to think that maybe I don't like Seth.


"Good. I've got a contract drawn up that I need each of you to sign, then I'll release you to the training grounds to become better acquainted." I watch the captain leave to head back to her office, and I remember my orphaned suitcase sitting in the corner opposite her desk. I hope her X-ray vision won't be able to see my unfolded undies inside of it. The distance between me and my belongings makes me feel vulnerable, like when I'm without my cell phone at a party, or in a nightmare where I don't have my gun on the job.


"Sorry," Gecko says. "It's nothing personal." I don't look at him, but I nod. I know what he means, that his reasons for disliking me aren't personal, but his statement is incorrect. It's very personal, for me. It's personal that they sprung me on Gecko like this, without telling him first. It's personal to me that he's being kind of a dick about it, even though I understand why. I guess I'm taking the rejection personally, but saying that will do no good. It's not time to sort out who's top dog yet.


Instead I stick with jokes, hoping to keep things civilized and give Seth the opportunity to prove me wrong. "Paperwork," I say, tapping the pile with my tomboy hands. "It fixes everything." Obvious sarcasm, or at least I hope it's obvious, but I know my tone is dry.


I sit down in front of the papers and begin looking through the contract, grabbing a pen from the breast pocket of my uniform. (I do this by reaching down into the top of my hoodie and jacket, both unzipped down to a strategic distance so that this is possible. This takes practice because there's nothing more awkward than reaching for something and grabbing your own boob.) Having successfully not groped myself, I click the back of the pen idly with my thumb.


I flick my eyes back up at the door to make sure Sam is really gone. "So. The captain. Kind of a silver fox, huh?" Even though her hair isn't technically silver. This comment, like all my others, is designed to make people relax, which Seth needs a hearty dose of. It's also meant to show that I'm 'one of the guys.' Establishing this right off the bat is very important, since when most people look at a female police officer, their first subconscious thought seems to be exactly how much is your vagina going to get in the way of you doing your job? The answer is none amount.


My appearance also re-inforces this. Low-maintenance ponytail, body swaddled in unisex clothing. I wear enough make-up and make sure my clothes are fitted in the right places because being bad at being a woman gets you penalized, too. I'm busty so there's really no way I could hide them if I wanted to unless I'm swimming in my clothing. But I need to show some waist or else I look like a potato.


So, the sweet spot: good-looking enough to not get called ugly or picked on, not so good-looking that the guys are trying to get in my pants all the time (usually). Not that I mind a guy trying to get in my pants. It's just that I try not to date at work. I really should have thought of that when I was choosing careers, since I find dudes in uniform so attractive. I just hope my ex broke me of acting on that.


I look at Seth Gecko and I'm not so sure.


Anyway, seems like the only way to test our magical compatibility is to actually try to do magic together, but I'm no expert. And I'm not really looking forward to the bloodletting and whatever else the ritual might involve. "So how does it work?"


I'm trying to edge the conversation into more genuine territory, without going too personal. While I'm curious, I don't ask him what happened to his last partner. Small talk, too, seems like a stupid thing to attempt at this juncture. I hope my question seems casual, forceful. Like I'm not nervous, like I'm a no-bullshit person who will be good to have as a Source.


I realize that I'm still clicking my pen, so I stop myself and put it down on the table, next to the unsigned contract.
 
There's definitely this almost palpable feeling of awkwardness between us. How could there not be, given the situation? And why the hell couldn't Sam have warned me beforehand? If she was so set on this decision, why couldn't she have at least pulled me into her office and given me the news privately? Now my new partner-for-the-time-being has to deal with the knowledge that I don't exactly want her as my partner (although, really, it is nothing personal), and I have to deal with that guilt. I'm reminded of that phrase 'you only get one chance at a first impression' and decide her first impression of me is blown and there's probably no recovering.


She sits down at the table to start in on the release form, though her dry comment about paperwork earns a brief smile from me, which she misses because she's got her head down. She's a sarcastic little thing. I assess her again. Maybe 'little' isn't quite the right word, I decide. She's not going to tumble over in a soft breeze, but she's not fat either. She's what I'd call 'comfortable'. She's a comfortable weight, probably comfortable with her weight, and probably pretty damn comfortable to hold, but I'm definitely not having that thought because she's my new partner and that would be inappropriate. I go around to the other side of the table, draw back one of the chairs from the next row up, and turn it around so I can sit across from her. I almost sit in my chair backward, knees spread and arms resting on the top of the backrest, but I decide that's probably a little too 'cool kid' for me and decide to sit like a normal human being and not like Will Riker from Star Trek, even though in my head I'm totally Will Riker and the Miami Police Department is the Enterprise. Sam's much more of a Janeway than a Picard though, and not just because of the whole boobs thing.


I flip through the pages of the contract, skimming over. I'm not really much of a reader and my eyes quickly glaze over as I attempt to glean some meaning from the wall of text. There's a paragraph near the end that seems to summarize the document, and some blessed person (probably Caroline) has highlighted this paragraph and drawn a lopsided smiley face next to where I'm supposed to sign. If I wasn't so politically correct I'd probably be thinking the smiley face looks like it has Down Syndrome, but being the above-reproach individual that I am, no such thought crosses my mind, swear to god.


Mage and Source accept responsibility for their partner. If one becomes incapacitated, the other will make every effort to get them to safety. Duh, I think to myself. Should either partner wish to sever the bond, the artifact must be destroyed and a QR73 must be submitted to the direct supervisor and to human resources. While acting as Source, the officer relinquishes his or her rights allotted by the Magical Fair Use and Standards Act, wherein a mage must explicitly obtain permission before siphoning energy for any reason.





Without reading the rest of the paragraph I scribble out my signature. This looks pretty much like all the other Mage/Source release forms I've signed in the past.


"So. The captain. Kind of a silver fox, huh?"


That catches me by surprise. I know I've got that dumb look on my face and try to replace it with something a little less vacant. So, my new partner is a wearer of comfortable shoes... Makes sense, I think to myself. There's something about her that I can't quite put my finger on that says 'lesbian'. It's actually kind of a relief, because that's just one less thing to worry about. It doesn't matter if I think she's cuddly looking in all the right ways, because she's batting for the other team. I laugh at her almost-joke and smile widely.


"Totally," I agree, then hold my finger over my lips. "But I didn't say that, okay?"


That awkward barrier has been penetrated. Tentatively, but I'll take it.


"So how does it work?"


"Being a Source?" I ask. "Well, you're kinda like my magical debit card. I do the buying and you pay." I grimace good naturedly. "Okay, not quite as bad as that sounds. Once we've got our linking artifacts, you'll remain a safe distance from the perp or the incident or whatever else it is we're dealing with. I'll get in closer, and when I use magic I'll draw power from you, instead of me. Depending on how much I have to pull, it can be pretty draining. That's why you have to stay back, and that's why I don't just use my own energy. Let's say there's a shooting in progress and we're on the scene. I'm doing my thing and maybe I build a wall of ice to shield the potential victims. I'd be shit out of luck if it pulls too much from me and I collapse and can't get out of there, right? But if you're back behind a barricade and collapse, the other officers can alert me and we can get you to safety."


I'm tracing over that derpy smiley face with me pen, trying to correct it. "So, are you a Beryl or an Officer Polinski?"
 
At last, Seth figured out how to sit on a chair. Things had been a little touch and go there, from what I could tell from my periphery vision. I pretended not to notice because we all have days where it's a little hard to tie our shoelaces. I see, too, glancing up, that Seth's paperwork has been highlighted and smilie faced as if his overly-involved mother got it ready for him. I hope he doesn't think I'm going to baby him, too. I've seen this kind of pandering to mages before. It goes straight to their heads, like being the only son in a latin household full of women.


I ignore it and make my comment about the captain, which I see delights him. I only mean it in a general way, like, 'so our boss is freakishly good-looking.' I would say the same thing if she were a man. At least I think I would, although I might have been more nervous about repercussions. I like to think I would have still said it, but I can't be sure. After all, I think Seth has a great-looking smile now that he's shown it to me, but I don't say that to his face.


I ask him how it works, getting us back on task, and I've got my pen down on the table, trapped beneath my hand like it might run off.


As he answers, I feel the pleasant set of my face sliding off. He misunderstands my meaning. Of course I know how a Source and a Mage work together, I had meant, 'how does getting started work?' But it's too late, he's taking his leisurely time explaining the obvious to me, like I'm completely ignorant. 'Safe distance...pretty draining...stay back...get you to safety.' I know he doesn't mean to be a condescending asshole. I know it and yet it still feels like the first day of basic training, where I was told I'd never make it, when people asked me if I wouldn't rather have a desk job. I get it, in the abstract, that having someone pull power from me would put me in greater danger. But I don't want to be sidelined. Mostly I just hate the way he's talking to me.


I'm trying to figure out how to deal with this, but I have no idea. If he were a normal partner, I would address it the way I always do. Hey, my bones aren't made of glass. No special treatment, okay? I just hope you can keep up with me. That kind of thing. Attitude is as important as action. But our roles aren't equal, because they're not the same. Plus, we've already gotten off to a rocky start. Sometimes men need to feel magnanimous in order to handle having a woman working with them.


My train of thought is halted by his next question, and I blink at him a few times as I attempt to come out from the bitch-fort I've been constructing. He's drawing over the smiley face, making it look more demented, and I think another ungenerous thought.


"Uh...Officer Beryl, usually. Friends call me Polly." I click the pen back open and sign my consent form without any more hesitation, because sometimes there's no better way to get me to do something than to treat me like I'm not game. I keep talking before he can respond, partially because I want him to know that it isn't an invitation for him to call me Polly.


"What I meant was, how do we form the link?" I feel like we've been left in this room by the captain like it's time-out, and we aren't supposed to leave until we can get along. I shake my head, still talking quickly. "I'm a trained police officer. I've been a cop for over a decade. I can handle myself in the field, Officer Gecko."


Then I realize that I have been neither a mage nor a source for any of those years, and that he has had several sources. He must know the right way to do this. Maybe I'm not angry at him at all, maybe I'm angry that I'm a source. I believe in this work, and I don't care that I'm not a mage. But I didn't realize how difficult it would be to be partners with someone who had all the fancy toys. It would be a lot easier for me, I realize, if the mage were a woman, and I feel shitty for thinking it. I wouldn't assume she was talking down to me, and if I did, I would respect her authority as being earned, and not think of her as sexist. I'm the sexist. It's hard not to be after all of this time jostling amongst them, but I still feel shitty.


"Sorry," I say after a tiny pause. "Not enough sleep; took the red-eye flight. I haven't even been to my condo yet to unpack. It just...puts me on edge, hearing that 'stand behind barricades' stuff. It feels like getting suspended. Like being completely useless."
 
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We've taken one step forward and two hundred steps back. Polinksi's words come out quick and clipped. She's not quite putting me in my place, but it feels that way, like the misunderstanding is my fault and I'm an asshole for not knowing exactly what her vague question referred to.


And when Polinksi says "I'm a trained police officer. I've been a cop for over a decade. I can handle myself in the field, Officer Gecko," what I hear is "You're a totally sexist pig, I hate you because I'm a vagina-loving feminist lesbian who became a cop to rebel against female stereotypes, and since I have mind reading powers I know you were thinking about what I look like naked, and that disgusts me, Officer Gecko."


This is going splendidly. Fan-fucking-tastic.


"Sorry," she says a few heartbeats later. "Not enough sleep; took the red-eye flight. I haven't even been to my condo yet to unpack. It just...puts me on edge, hearing that 'stand behind barricades' stuff. It feels like getting suspended. Like being completely useless."


I look away, my eyes cast down. The silence stretches between us like a gulf, till finally I can imagine us as two figures yelling hoarsely at the other from either side of the Rio Grande, utterly unable to communicate, doing nothing but wasting our breath. This is the woman I'm supposed to rely on. This is the woman I'm going to be responsible for, and vice versa.


"Oh," I say finally. I sound lame to my own ears. "I misunderstood the question. Sorry."


As I shuffle through the papers I begin to stand up, the chair pushed back by my legs. I bounce the papers on the top of the table to get them in order, then make a mess of it by rolling them up like a tube. "Let's go for a ride," I suggest. Jesus, this conference room is suffocating, no doubt filled to the brim with her self righteous feminism. "There's a training range where we can see if we've got a good link. I'll, uh, try to explain on the ride over. I mean... if that works for you."


Be a team player, ass hat. That's what my mind tells me, though it says it in Polinski's voice.
 
I was wrong earlier, about thinking things had been going as badly as they could go. They are much worse now, and really, I have no one to blame but myself.


Yet I don't know if I'm more frustrated with myself or him. He was supposed to say 'it's okay.' I don't want him apologizing after I have. Now it's me who has to say: "It's okay," and I feel like a dick, like I'm admitting that he's done something wrong, which he technically hasn't.


I don't even know what he's upset about, except that my bitchiness must be showing. I feel like something was communicated that I'm unaware of. I don't like to see the way he's being now, but already it doesn't look entirely foreign on him; like maybe he's good at crumpling like a morning glory in the afternoon heat. Seeing him do this makes me like him better, and myself less.


He's smart; he can tell why I got snippy. I feel badly. But something about the way he won't meet my eyes makes me feel like there was more spoken than either of us said, only I'm not sure what it was that he heard, and I've got no idea what he's communicating now.


We both feel like shit, only I don't know why he does, except that it's got something to do with my behavior. I've already apologized, and then, worse, had to accept his apology, so now the chapter's closed, to nobody's satisfaction. Good stuff.


He says "let's go for a ride...if that works for you," and I'm torn between being grateful for his chivalry, or rolling my eyes at what I take to be an emasculation pity-party.


I really am a jerk either way, and I know it. There's nothing I can do about it, so I may as well live with it. At least I'm an amusing jerk, and I hope that I can make things right between us using that scant charm available to me. We all have our redeeming qualities, and just hope they're good enough to make up for what we lack. Mine usually are. I'm just not often made so aware of what they aren't. Gecko is showing dangerous signs of either making me constantly uncomfortable, or worse, a better person.


"Sure," I agree as pleasantly as I can, because there really isn't a way to say no to any of it.


I click my pen closed for the final time, and replace it in my pocket as I stand. Then I pick up the coffee Caroline gave me, which I still haven't drunk, and head out of the meeting room. I leave the papers to him, because I'm not sure if we're supposed to take them straight to the captain or what.


While I wait for his lead on what we do next, I catch Caroline's eye and cheers my coffee at her. I will have to figure out a tactful way to get rid of it. Drinking it doesn't seem like an option. I was telling Seth the truth when I said I was tired, but I don't think stimulants would help. This whole city is sensory overload, with glaring bright colors, extreme temperature changes, and overwhelming otherness. I don't think anything is going to fix that besides sleep, and time, and being in a space that I don't have to share with anyone else.
 
There are a bunch of emotions that pass over Polinski's face, but it's like looking through one of those dinky view finders when someone is clicking through the pictures way too fast; I don't see anything long enough to really figure out what I'm looking at. Then it's all wiped mostly clean and replaced with the world's least genuine smile, because c'mon, does she really expect me to think she's happy right now?


"Sure," she agrees, clicking that dang pen one last time before sliding it into the mysterious nowhere land that exists under all her layers, but probably in her breast pocket. I stand up next to her and think about what an odd looking pair we make. Polinski, who's a little taller than average, looks ready for someplace cold, not hot, rainy Miami, Florida. She's got a little bit of a bedraggled look to her that I chalk up to that red eye she mentioned. She's got a soft, probably delightfully squishy in certain places sort of body, not that I'm going to ever tell her that, since I suspect she can also kill with a single glance.


Beside her, I'm at least half a foot taller, and my uniform is regulation to a T: crisply starched blacks, gleaming badge, a radio clipped to my left shoulder, my firearm in its holster at my hip. The gun has been a necessity, especially these last few months without a Source. I take a sort of diligent pride in what I do, and though I'm somewhat of a slob in other aspects of my life, I'll be damned if anyone sees me with unpolished shoes or faded blacks.


As she's walking away, I notice Polinski has left her paperwork behind. With one raised, gingery brow I gather the papers up and take a few quick jogging steps to catch up with her. "Hey, I'm not your maid," I tell her with a good-natured roll of my eyes, lightly thwapping the top of her head with her papers before dispensing them into her arms. Matt Barnes sees that little display and snickers, which earns him a dark and hopefully threatening glower over the top of Polinksi's head. Damnit, Matt, don't fuck this up for me.


I look around for Sam, but she's not in her office to turn the agreement form in to. Oh well, we'll give them to her later.


"I'll show you your desk," I tell her, changing directions. I remember too late that her desk is a war zone of paperwork and girlscout cookies, but there's nothing for it now- I'm invested. So I take her to the spot by the window where our two desks sit side by side. Hers is half empty on the side farthest from me. I hurriedly pick up some of the binders and deposit them into my chair as there's nowhere else to put them. My work space is overflowing with vibrant plant life and framed pictures of Doug the Pug, my son/dog. My own human genetics could not have created a creature I love more than that squash-faced, butt-licking, crotch-sniffing lump of fur.


"Sorry, uh, didn't realize anyone would be needing it anytime soon," I tell Polinski, and I give up on trying to clear off her desk because my chair is now full. "I'll finish that later. We can just leave these forms here at the office for now and give 'em to Sam later."


The keys to my car dangle from a carabiner clip at my side, which I click open so I can palm them. "Car's this way," I say, heading toward the front lot where the black and white Dodge Charger is parked. I unlock the doors with the fob and climb in, starting the engine up with a satisfying purr. I flip on the scanner and buckle my seatbelt.


"Officers Polinski and Gecko, 10-8," I announce, turning my head to speak into the radio at my shoulder. "We're heading over to the Miami-Dade Training Grounds."
 
I don't know what he's talking about or why I'm getting bopped on the head, which puffs little ponytail run-aways into my face. I start to put up my arm to brush the hairs back, when he puts paperwork in it instead. I catch at it a bit clumsily, and then glare at him while he's looking around. I feel like I can do this without him seeing me since he's breathing a completely different layer of ozone than me. He has to look down to see my face.


"I'll show you your desk," he says, and I follow him to my new home-away-from-home. It looks like a hoarder lives here. A hoarder who murdered his neighbor so that he could have a second house to hoard stuff in. I catch the expression on my face after it's been there for too long, re-working the downwards U of horror into a grim line, which is the best I can manage. He has a pet pug. An actual pug. And worse than that, he has a picture of it on his deck, as if it's a child. Oh dear lord.


Then there's the plants. I'm suddenly not sure if I've been partnered with a virile adult man as I previously thought, or a house-bound grandmother. One of the plants is green and waxy-leafed, and it looks exactly like something my gran kept on her radiator. There's another one that I can actually identify, an orchid. I didn't know they came in that color, though: striking, unreal blue. I find myself glancing at Seth's eyes, as if to compare them. The color's off, I'm not sure why they make me think of them at all.


"I'll finish that later. We can just leave these forms here at the office for now and give 'em to Sam later," he's saying, and don't think I heard everything he said.


"Great..." I say vaguely. The paperwork, I carefully set down on the clean sliver of desk I currently have, as if this action is all that separates me from being an animal. The coffee goes down next to it.


Gecko's keys rattle together as he takes them in his hand, and I look at him as he's turning to go, telling me once again to follow him. I do, eyes sweeping the precinct building as we leave. Most people are working. Some look at us curiously. Caroline is too busy on the phone to tell us goodbye, although her voice sounds chirrupy.


As soon as I'm through the front doors, the atmo hits me like a hot, wet blanket. I have to make a conscious effort not to let my reaction to it affect my gait. I'm gripped by the impulse to strip off my two jackets and unbutton a couple more buttons on my uniform, but by this point, my feet have carried me to the car. Ah, sweet autopilot that gets you through life and keeps you from making an idiot out of yourself.


I open the door, noting the subtle differences between Miami's vehicles and what I'm used to. Sliding into the seat, that's still what I'm thinking about, though I'm also hoping for some AC. It isn't even eight o' clock in the morning yet. Luckily the car wasn't in full sun, so it's not a hotbox. I'm glad I didn't preemptively disrobe. Whispers of cold air are blowing out of the vents, and as soon as I've closed the door, I tip the passenger side ones at myself. Only then do I buckle in. Safety first, but passing out from heat exhaustion is more likely than dying in a car crash.


As we roll out of the parking lot, I start to feel in a better mood. Maybe I've woken up, or maybe it just feels right to be back on the street. The brief disruption to my schedule was unsettling. Miami is starting not to look so bad, now that it's framed by this familiar view.


"How long have you lived here?" I ask Seth, turning my head to glance at him. "Don't tell me you're a native." I'm dipping back into teasing, and hoping it's safe to do so.
 
My eyes flick over to glance at Beryl as we pull out of the station's parking lot, my too-large mouth pulling up into a too-wide grin.


"I'm a proud Floridian," I tell her, still smiling, because I'm utterly unashamed. Sure, Florida might be the land of retirees and Disney World, but Miami is like a world of its own. "Born and raised. Go Gators."


We stop at a light and I drape my arms loosely over the steering wheel as we wait. I assess the woman beside me, trying to figure her out. "Let me guess. You're one of them corn-few Iowans. No...." My brows scrunch up in thought. "You're a little too tough for that. You've got this 'seen it, done it' thing about you, and you're dressed all wrong for the heat. New York? Rhode Island?"


The light turns green and I put my hands back at ten and two as my foot presses down on the gas pedal. We make a left turn, then head out onto the highway. The training grounds we're going to are sprawling and swampy, set on the outskirts of Miami. They're a great place to brush up on skills, work on partner synchronicity, and they're as good for mages as they are for regular cops. We'll just see how Polinski shapes up. If she can't keep up with me, I'm not going to hold back in my report to Sam.
 
'Floridian,' he says. Sounds like a disease. Or a mineral on an alien planet. It's difficult not to smile back at him, though. He has one of those easy going smiles that pulls you in. You want to be in on the jokes he's in on. It's the politician effect. He has way too much of a young politician's look for a redhead. He's dangerously charismatic in that understated way people sometimes have. (I wonder if all those people are secretly mages; if you have to be a unicorn in order to be so infuriatingly mysterious, all while pretending to be an average open-book joe.)


He makes it easier on me though when he gives me an appraising look and accuses me of being corn-fed. Which is true, but still. I look away in annoyance. This pup needs to learn some respect. That probably isn't likely to happen while he's doing actual magic, damn his lucky unicorn genes.


But he admits to me looking tough, which I appreciate. If you have to be corn-fed, at least be tough. Means you're more muscle than fat.


"Albuquerque," I answer him. When he's looking away, I watch his profile and the highway whipping by behind it. Square jaw, faintly stubbled in barely-there strawberry blonde hair. He takes pride in his uniform, I can tell from way he takes care of it and the way he wears it, and why wouldn't he take pride in his looks? He's too approachable to be gorgeous (unlike the captain) but he's pretty enough that I'm kind of irritated by it.


Though he hasn't earned it and I doubt he ever will, I have the insane urge to reach out and smack his head against the steering wheel. I snort quietly and look out my window.


We've left the highway now, taking long, straight roads that are flanked by water. I can't tell if it's coastal, or if the swamps are just that big. Some of these must be, because we haven't driven near far enough to get to the glades. The trees I see are short and prehistorical-looking. I put down my window and lean my arm on the windowsill, and enjoy the moving air against my face. It's almost cool, but it's pungent. Must be something they grow in the swamps. Maybe gator poop.


It feels great to be traveling, though I realize it hasn't felt like travel until now, finally surrounded by nature after a night of twilight-zone airports and people. My parents own property outside of Albuquerque, and it's where I grew up, so I'm used to the outdoors, although I moved into the city to train. It's a nice little ranch they've got, though I didn't make the two hour drive anywhere near as often as I should have.


I catch the jowly lower half on my face reflecting at me in my side rearview mirror, and for a moment I think I look like my mother. I always thought she was pretty. The term I think would be that she was a 'handsome woman.' Dignified. Like a toad-queen. I was proud of her growing up, even if it did turn out that she drove me crazy. I don't want to see her face in my face, so I tip my chin down and catch my own eyes, which I know are my father's. Brown-green as the scenery we're driving through.


Using my left hand to hold strands of hair against my head, I speak up: "So you like plants?" I don't know anything else about him besides that he's messy, he's a complicated person masquerading as a simple person, and he likes girl scout cookies. I'm certainly not going to ask him about his stupid dog. Indoor pets are proof that humans have evolved too far, and houseplants are proof that they now have way too much time on their hands as a result.
 
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"You're a Burqueño?" I ask in surprise, chin drawn back for a heartbeat. "I judged you wrong, Polinski." The words come out on a laugh as I turn into the parking lot for the Miami-Dade Training Grounds. There's a large, square building made of concrete with tall windows of thick-paned, darkly tinted glass. Sprawling out behind the building are the grounds, which are impressive and vast. They're navigated by golf cart, because this place is the size of a large theme park.


"I went to New Mexico once," I tell Beryl after I report in to the station that we've reached the training grounds and will be out of contact for a while. "Until that point I hadn't realized tumble weeds were a real thing. I thought they were just, you know, something you see in Roadrunner cartoons. It was my first time having a Big Mac with green chile too. People there really like their chile." I refrain from telling her my joke about Albuquerque and ducks.


We trek across the parking lot- an immense field of black pavement that sends the heat of the sun back at us in shimmering waves. I can feel the warmth of the asphalt through the soles of my shoes and it reminds me of when I was a kid. I was either really stupid or maybe just a young masochist, because on days like this I'd compete with my friends to see who could stand on the hot concrete with our bare feet for the longest. Those contests always ended with us hopping through the grass to the water hose to bathe our burned, battered feet with mildly cold water. If I had to guess, I couldn't stand on this asphalt barefoot for more than a minute.


She asks about my plants and I realize she took notice of the flora occupying my desk at work. "Yeah, they're kind of a hobby of mine. Are you a gardener?" I ask, trying to mask that hopeful lift to my voice by schooling my expression into something nonchalant. It's not the kind of hobby most people appreciate, especially the guys on the force. I don't give a rat's ass if they make fun of my flowers though. My orchids are beautiful and it takes dedication to keep those. Maybe Polinski noticed because she's a like-minded individual. One can hope, right? Then I find myself wondering, is gardening a thing lesbians regularly do? I mean, I know lesbians have different interests and I can't just lump them all into one box, but could it be that gardening, for lesbians, is of the same vein as going to Indigo Girls concerts and popping their collar? I decide to hold out hope.


We reach the door and there's an awkward moment where I reach it first and struggle with whether to hold it open for her and let her go first. I slow down noticeably, almost stopping, but this is probably one of those things where I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't. I walk in ahead of her, deciding to go the route of her being my equal and being perfectly capable of opening her own doors. It feels weird though, since it's not normally how I operate. It goes against everything I was taught growing up. My mom would throw a fit if she saw.


The air of the Training Center is not just cool, but cold, or maybe it just feels that way after walking through the hot, muggy parking lot. There's a man in khakis and a red polo sitting at a desk near the front and he gives us a welcoming smile. I head over there to sign in, pulling the clipboard he's got on the counter toward me to put my name on the list.


"Need to check out any equipment?" he asks as he takes down our badge numbers, and I consider.


"No, I think we're just going to try out the simulation room for now."


"Magic or non-magic?"


"Magic," I answer, and slide the clipboard over to Beryl.
 
Seth responds to my hometown like he's got some personal, vested interest in it, although as he keeps talking, I see that he doesn't. (Beyond what any person with taste buds would feel if they ate one of our chile macs. I've already noticed the absence of them, but I don't say so to him.) I wonder at the chumminess of him, if he's the type that needs to be best friends with everyone from everywhere. I'm sort of that type, only the chumminess only goes so deep as a few wry jokes and mutual jadedness for whatever is being joked about. It's his play at sincerity that doesn't sit right with me. Or if he really is sincere, that's even less palatable. I respect a wry tongue and personal distance.


Of course it doesn't occur to me that all the thoughts each of us must be having and not saying might point to more compatability than I'd expect: it looks like we're on different pages. I think going deeper will only make that rift wider, like it usually does.


As soon as we're parking, I press the button to roll up my window so that it's closed before my partner turns off the car. Once it's up, there's a brief moment of cool AC before it shuts off. I open my door and walk beside him toward the building, surpressing a moan of discomfort. The distance from us to the next AC unit is multiplied by the mirage shimmering across the pavement. He answers my question about plants with one of his own, and I give a quiet snuff. "What would I garden in Albuquerque, tumbleweeds?" I'm teasing him, because the tumbleweed problem isn't that bad. It's more likely that he saw one in a cheesy painting on the inside of that McDonalds he stopped at while he drove through. But my joke isn't even that off, though. People landscape their front yards with rocks sometimes. It beats dirt.


I think of the giant cactus outside the windows of my parent's ranch, and I sigh a little. We'd carved our initials into that thing, like it was a tree. It had the prettiest, most unusual flowers, which attracted hummingbirds, and hornets by the bucketful. The fruit attracted songbirds, too, which somehow managed to find foot-holds, missing the hair-thin needles, long enough to puncture through their chests.


As we near the door, I notice that Seth slows down, like he intends to let me reach it, first. I'm not sure why and I don't think about it much. It doesn't seem strange until he speeds up again and walks through first, but I don't know what to make of it. That behavior, or him in general.


My partner would be the weird plant guy.


I dismiss his behavior as nervousness and think more charitably about him as we enter the training building. I release a breath in relief as what might as well be a refrigerator door closes behind me. Honestly, I don't know how Seth does this without a coat. The sweat isn't even dry on the back of my neck but I'm tempted to pull up my hood. This place feels more damp than the precinct, though, and I wonder if they're using a swamp cooler for their air conditioning system, because it feels and smells like it. Then it occurs to me that this isn't possible, they can do that in New Mexico, but not here. This building, so close to the swamps, must be full of black mold.


Red-polo guy gets one of my acknowledging grimaces, and I unzip my leather jacket, which reveals the badge clipped to the zipper of my hoodie inside of it. The guy takes down my number.


Seth pushes the clipboard across the counter to me, and I catch it. Magic, he's said, and I'm still hearing it in my head. I use the attached pen to sign my name: "Ofc. Polinksi, Beryl."


Red-polo checks it and then stands to lead us to the room. "There've been some upgrades. Wouldn't want to put a mage in an un-reinforced room," he chuckles. What a yokel, I think of his sense of humor. 'Floridians,' as Seth calls them, seem to be missing the higher brain function necessary for acerbic wit.


"I think you'll like the mods we've done," he's still saying, and I realize as he looks between us that he doesn't know which of us is the mage. That earns him a brief smile, the unlikely idea that I could look like the mage between the two of us. Mages wouldn't sweat so much, nor be so red-cheeked. I wouldn't if I could help it.


While red-polo is using his keycard to unlock a door, I'm reminded of that one time my ex dragged me to play racquetball with him (the beginning of the end, really). The doors are spaced far apart, no windows in the walls, concrete blocks painted white. The security is a little higher than at the club, though. Red-polo has to swipe his card (on a bungee cord) and punch in a key code, which I find myself watching and remembering.


I disguise my keen-eyed awareness by using the fabric of my hoodie to wipe some sweat from my damp face, and then pull the elastic from my hair and run my fingers through it.
 
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The guy in the red polo leads us through the building toward the area with the indoor training rooms. The ceilings in this place are impossibly tall and the whole building has that drafty feeling that comes from AC being blown down from thirty feet up. As he pulls his key card toward the reader next to the door, I make an interesting observation: Polinski is subtly watching him put in his code. At first I think I'm imagining it, but then I see her brown eyes move just a little, tracking the movement of his fingers. Strange, I think to myself, watching her as she watches him. What's that about? Is she planning to come back and rob the place later? Steal all their dummies and artificial turf? My new partner is kind of weird.


Red polo takes a step back, holding the door open for both of us. "Have fun," he tells us, and I manage a half-smile and a nod. The room we're in is big and set up kind of like a really pro laser tag place. There used to be two dimensional metal figures in vaguely human shapes that served as perpetrators, victims, and passersby, but I see they've upgraded. Most of the 'people' are out of sight, hidden so that we won't know where they'll come from, but the few that are visible are realistic mannequin like things. A few of them show signs of some fire damage, but overall they're in damn good shape, all things considered.


The scene in this room is some kind of shopping mall. There are rows of metal shelves that I realize will either become obstacles, or maybe things to hide behind. It kind of reminds me of the barbie doll house that my sister had as a kid- the shelves are real enough, but there are no goods on them. Instead, there's a sticker affixed to the back with pictures of the items that are supposed to belong there- rows of shampoo and neat stacks of carefully non-branded toothpaste boxes. To my left there's a hip-height table with a neatly stacked pyramid of wooden crates. Each of the crates has a picture of fruit in it: apples in one, oranges in another, little brown kiwis and too vibrant lemons. We've got a whole grocery store around us, and all the mannequins look harmless. There's a woman pushing a cart with a baby in the front- she's frozen in place just like all the others, with a rod protruding from the ground that holds her upright. The rods of all the mannequins are attached to a complicated and probably very expensive network of cables and gears that are just below the metal-grate floor, which I guess will probably move them around. Red Polo wasn't wrong; these mods are impressive as fuck.


There are vests and electronic firearms hanging against the wall near the door. After taking it all in, I pull a vest off one of the hooks and strap it into place. This'll determine whether I'm hit or not during this simulation. I don't go for one of the guns though, since that's not the point of this exercise.


"So," I awkwardly start as I clip the last piece into place. This is going to be fun to explain, I can just feel it. Yeah right. "This whole magical connection thing... If it works and we've got one, we can get artifacts made to link us, but it's this whole big deal with needles and blood," and I hate needles, so I'm not willing to do it before I know if Polinski's even a decent match. "Until then, a physical connection will have to do. Skin on skin contact." I clear my throat uncomfortably. "You'll have to stay close so we can maintain the link. Obviously that's not how we'd normally do things, but it'll give us an idea of whether we've got a connection and whether it works when under pressure."
 
This room gives me the creeps, even worse than the drafty warehouse building it's in. I don't regret memorizing the access code. Granted, chances are that if we're locked in here, we could break our way out. But if we can't, it's good to know the code in case someone on the other side of the door is willing to help you. I just don't go into locked rooms unless I know how to unlock them, not if I can help it. I'm already looking around this Stepford Wives 'grocery store' and imagining getting locked in here with Seth overnight, with nothing but pictures of food for company. It would be an easy mistake to make. Red Polo could leave to go home without double-checking the rooms while we're still in here, and lock down the whole building for the night.


It's morning, Beryl, I remind myself, even though it doesn't feel like it after being awake all night. This is about as far removed from nature as is possible, and I hate dolls. I hate them. But I don't tell Seth this, because the last thing I need is for my new precinct to have an easy and effective way to haze me.


While Seth is strapping on a vest, I surreptitiously check my cell phone. It's as I imagined, no reception. I put it away and start taking off my leather jacket while Gecko explains the situation to me. Needles and blood don't bother me. In fact, it's so normal sounding that it puts me at ease, the idea that having blood drawn is all it takes. I raise my eyebrows while I try to sort out the way he calls it a 'big deal' and sweeps it under the rug like it isn't an option. The expression on my face works just as well for what he says next.


Physical connection...skin on skin contact. I think he might be messing with me until I hear his little throat-noise. His discomfort with it makes me feel a little easier. At least I can see a weak spot. I'm thinking of my partner as more of an opponent. Maybe this room is supposed to gel us together, with the hand-holding and the freaky dolls. I'm more likely to get spooked and punch Seth in the eye accidentally.


Finished with removing my jacket, I trade it for one of the vests and pull my arms through it. Before strapping it up, I bind my hair into a high, messy bun on the top of my head. Wisps of it instantly escape out the back and puddle in my hood. Then I push up my sleeves to my elbows, and do up the vest's ties, tightening and loosening the straps as needed. At last, I make sure to dry my hands on my black trousers. My hands still feel uncomfortably warm, and too soft. I don't have dainty hands. Hand-model is probably the last on the list of alternative career paths for me. Unless my hands were supposed to be modeling pudgy adolescent boy gloves. Then they look pretty good, actually.


I sigh and think ironically back to when I said this was like a blind date. When I said that, I had no idea it would involve hand-holding.


I'm just beginning to wonder what the 'under pressure' portion is, when I hear (before I see) some of the fluorescents turning off, and and gears grinding. The mannequins on poles begin to make their way down their tracks, looping them like very slow, disconnected train cars around the now only dimly and intermittently lit store.


"Shitballs," I hear myself say out loud.


'Have fun' my ass. I imagine Red Polo back at his desk, manning the mod rooms from a computer. I wonder what else that psychopath thinks is a jolly time.
 
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Her creative use of the English language takes me by surprise and I laugh, my red-blonde brows rising up as the corners of my mouth lift up in the direction of my ears. Whoever is controlling this simulation is getting the program started and the mannequins are raising their drooping heads. Elevator music begins to play softly in the background to further add to the ambiance of the setting. I get the feeling that Polinski's unnerved by the whole thing, but I don't ask. I get the feeling that if I did she'd just deny it and possibly kick me in the shin.


I unsnap the holster at my side, make sure the safety is on, and set my gun down at the table. I leave the radio, though it's been shut off since we got out of the car.


"Alright, I guess we take a stroll," I mutter, setting off into the simulation. The metal mannequins have begun to move, drifting down the aisles and around empty displays. They move with surprising realism, miming movements of picking things up off shelves and setting them into their carts. Tiny, child-sized mannequins hold onto the hands of the full-sized mannequin beside them. No, not always the case, I realize, watching one child mannequin separate from its parent. It walks away as the parent is turned to look at something else, and I think that I've discovered what the action is going to be in this simulation. Someone is going to try to abduct the 'child'. I watch it closely, moving closer down the aisle.


I'm so busy looking around the area the kid is in that I'm completely caught off guard by the sound of gunshots on the other side of the store. Misdirection, I realize, or maybe I'm just seeing danger everywhere because I'm anticipating it. My eyes widen and I turn to run toward the sound of another gunshot. There's audio being played of people screaming, and I can faintly hear the voice of someone demanding the register be opened. We're at the scene of a robbery.


I press the button on my radio even though it's off and report in. "10-71, shooting in progress. Officers Gecko and Polinski at the scene." I round the corner and the sight of the crime comes into our view. One mannequin is on the ground, though it only looks as lifeless as the rest of them. "One person down, requesting backup."


The audio of the assailant is coming directly from the chest of the mannequin, rather than broadcast over the intercom. It adds a surprising level of depth.


"Open the register now!"


Our concern isn't the money, it's keeping the other people in this store safe. The assailant has wounded one person already, possibly fatally, so it's likely he won't hesitate to fire again. To add to the mess of it, he's got accomplices- four other armed mannequins are holding guns nearby.


"I'm going to build a barricade of ice around the guy at the register," I tell Polinski. I don't have the capability to do that and a barricade between the other four and the rest of the customers at the same time, but I'm wagering that the one making the demands poses the greatest level of risk.


I could reach out and grab her hand, but instead I move closer and put my hand on the back of her neck. Her skin feels cool to the touch. My other hand raises in the direction of the assailant. I focus my attention on the mannequin that's screaming for the cashier to hurry the fuck up and concentrate on drawing power from Polinski. I'm not expecting it to work; after all, I've barely been able to pull a shred of energy out of anyone else on the team, nor any of the cops from other precincts I've run trials with. It's always like trying to suck liquid through a straw when the glass is already empty.


This time is different though. This time, there's not just liquid in that glass, it's overflowing and there's so much I don't know what to do with it. I had meant to erect a six foot tall wall of ice between the cashier and the assailant, but ice shoots up from the floor all the way up to the ceiling in an almost terrifying wave. Out of shock I let go of Polinski, my eyes widening as they meet hers.


"Holy shit," I mutter. "Okay... Maybe that was a fluke."


I reach out again and I take her hand- it's soft and warm in my calloused palm. I look back at the scene before us and do the same thing as I did before, creating a mental picture of my intent, then drawing power from the woman whose hand I'm holding. I put less effort into it this time, trying to pull from her more gently, but it's not something I've ever had to do before and it doesn't really work. I mean to block the perp on all sides, and while that happens, the wall of ice shoots from floor to ceiling again, freezing lamps and screwing with the sound system. The elevator music crackles and dies out. Great, I've frozen their equipment.


The main assailant is surrounded by a circle of ice, unable to do a damn thing about it, but one of the others starts shooting in our direction. Their metals poles move them toward us at a running speed. I see the brief flash over laser-light from one of their guns near my shoulder on the shelf beside me, but my vest gives no indication I've been hit.


"Come on!" I yell, not letting go of her hand. We're running sideways, getting out of the line of fire, and I'm using magic to hurl chunks of ice in their path. It's slowing them down, but it's hard to make sure I don't hurt any of the shoppers in the store when I can barely control all of the raw energy pouring out of Polinski.
 
Seth laughs at what I say, which normally I would find endearing. Right now though, he's laughing while I'm scared senseless, so it doesn't earn him points. I glance sideways at him as he unholsters his gun, and choke back the urge to tell him to hang on to it. I haven't been re-assigned a firearm yet, and I think one of us should have one. I give a slight groan as he announces that we're going for a walk. I think maybe that I should check out other parts of the store, but I actually don't want to be alone with these freaky inanimate objects. I wish we were facing real perps. Risk of death? Preferable to fear of dolls.


These dolls are capable of doing too many things. They remind me of posable wooden drawing figurines, except these ones are metal and life-size. My mom used to have those figurines to reference for her sketches. I would always put them in inappropriate positions, and then blame it on my brother. I try to keep that cheering thought in my mind, but the comparison is too thin to hold on to as I'm surrounded by these mechas.


Just pretend you're Bruce Willis, everything will be fine.


Except Bruce Willis always had a gun, or at the very least, a motorcycle. You've got nothing. All you are is a sponge for Seth to squeeze.





Envisioning myself as a sponge is not very reassuring. I'm no longer even disguising my fear, although I wear it on my face like very apprehensive disgust, and I make sure that I'm never more than a couple paces away from Gecko. I skirt away from the mannequins and look horrified whenever they reach for something.


While I'm dread-fascinated by their miming hands and imagining them becoming a sentient robot army, Seth has his head in the game and starts to follow an isolated 'child.' I want to tell him the little ones are always the ones that turn out to be possessed, but when I'm opening my mouth to make the joke, we hear gunfire.


It honestly makes me feel relieved. My partner is unfazed by all of this; he reports it into his radio, playing things by the book. I think it's cute that he's taking it seriously, and that he isn't completely mentally unhinged by our surroundings like I am.


I reach to rest my hand on the butt of my gun, but of course it isn't there, just empty holster. I leave my fingers there anyway, and jog down the aisle with Gecko, pausing at the open space, glancing at him to see where he is, who's going to move first.


While he's calling for pretend-backup, I think about how if this were real, I'd ream him out for talking so close to the perps. They might hear him. Criminals seem to have a trained ear for the feedback-crackle of our radios, though of course that's not an issue now, for several reasons.


"I'm going to build a barricade of ice around the guy at the register," he says to me, to which I nod, because I'm pretty sure that's the best response when someone tells you they're going to build a barricade of ice like a goddamn superhero.


"Just what I was thinking," I mutter, a complete lie. Working with a mage is going to make me re-think my strategies as an officer. With options like that, who needs guns? Why go with ice? Why not lightning bolts? We are going to need to have a talk about this, but now isn't the time. Can he magic me ice cubes whenever I want them? Focus, Polinski.





I don't know why he's moving toward me, like I've forgotten the whole reason I'm here because I'm too excited to watch and see what he does. But then he's right next to me, too close for me to see anything, and his hand is on the back of my neck. There's a gossamer thin veil of downy hair fallen from the back of my ponytail between his hand and my skin, but I can feel his fingers with startling clarity. I wonder if I should be doing something, but I can't think; I feel useless and dumb.


He lifts his other hand but nothing leaves it; instead, ice slams up through the the metal grate flooring and surges as far as it can go, like an aquarium wall. I can feel the chill of it from here, even though adrenaline has heated my body all of the sudden. I look at Seth in disbelief, as if to say did you do that?





I've never seen a mage in action before, at least, not like this. It's like watching fucking creation. From the look he's giving me, though, he's not used to it, either. A modest god, or just a sporadic one?


"...Maybe that was a fluke," he says. A sporadic one, then. When he reaches for me again, this time for my hand, I stretch my fingers out to him. I don't know what to say or do, but I know that I want it to happen again, and my willing reaction to him surprises me a little. His hand feels cool and rough - a strange thing to notice at a time like this. I don't know if my imagination is running away with me, but he kind of feels like someone who just made an ice wall. And then carved a home in it and built a fire for him and his wolves. Like a fucking ice lumberjack. I don't look at him, because now I'm picturing him in a red flannel shirt and none of this matters at all.


I try to picture ice instead, to focus on multiplying more of what's in front of us, even though I don't know if I can really be helpful by doing that. This time I feel something, and I know that the woosh I felt going through me the first time wasn't just my heart dropping in surprise at being touched. This is something that starts like a whisper and ends like a dart, yanking a string I'm attached to.


Some of the mechanics spark out, and I think gleefully: I can't wait until this shit melts. Then the fun's over, or at least it's changed, because we're getting shot at. I let out a noise that I can't really classify as a squeal or a grunt as he jerks me sideways and I realize I have to participate. I run. At first, I glance back to watch what he's doing with the ice, because damn. Then I realize that I'm not being very helpful doing that, he needs another set of eyes facing front.


It's hard to remember that we're playing a game, and that we have to play by the rules of that game. It's especially hard to remember that not all of the mannequins are bad guys. If they were, we could just close ourselves off in an aisle to protect ourselves. But that would leave civilians exposed still. Maybe he could climb the shelves to get a better angle. It's a drawback that we have to stay together.


I think how, from a mechanical standpoint, he should fill the floor beneath the grate with ice. It would halt the civilians, too, but not "hurt" them. Again, though, that's not realistic. If he just lays down a thin layer of ice that would probably stop them from being able to move after us, and that's realistic enough, but maybe he wants to draw them. But draw them where? There are civilians all over this place.


"Wait!" I say, pulling my hand free from his in an empty aisle. There's a civilian mannequin coming around the corner with a cart, about to enter our aisle, but I don't want them to. Even though realistic screams are issuing from its chest, it's still shopping as usual. I pull the cart from its grip and jam it sideways so that the mannequin can't progress. It grates against the cart for a moment and then stops.


I turn back to Seth, and our momentarily empty aisle. "If they follow us in here, freeze 'em." They might wise up and not come running to their freezer-burned deaths, but if so that will buy us time to think.


I remember he has to be touching me, and I grab his wrist with one hand, and reach for his radio with my other, and press the useless button. "Bring blowtorches," I say into it. "Wear parkas."


Then my teasing dries up because they've started to catch up to us, and laser-lights are skimming the aisles crazily as they move towards us. "Ice! Ice, Ice!" I shout, giving his wrist a helpful shake. Cheerleader or tyrant, same difference.
 
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She grabs onto my radio to make a fake broadcast back to the station, and for a moment that puts us in very close proximity. She's holding onto my wrist with one hand, her other hand up on the radio at my shoulder. I've probably got that stunned look on my face, because that's what I do: look stunned and stupid. Some people manage to hide their surprise and keep their cool, but I'm not one of them. And even though right now I'm trying to be Officer Gecko, I'm really just Seth, and Seth is terrified/entranced by pretty girls, and there's no use denying it: my partner's pretty damn cute.


And she doesn't have brown eyes, as I had thought. They're hazel. My stomach does a little flip and I remind myself she's gay. That helps put all of this back into perspective.


She's shaking my wrist and demanding ice, and I show off by giving her exactly what she wants: a big ole' hunk of ice that slams toward the metal mannequins chasing after us with their guns drawn. Only, siphoning energy from Beryl is like nothing I've ever experienced before. It's like raw energy is pouring out of her fingertips and straight into my veins. She doesn't even know it, but she's giving me more than I can handle. I have no idea what to do with all that unadulterated power, so it comes out cockeyed. I'm used to shooting with a rinky-dink water pistol and she's giving me a fire hose on full blast. The ice that forms in mid air in front of the mannequin isn't the chunk I was imagining; instead it entirely encompasses him, surrounding him like he's an unlucky bug in an ice cube. I try to pull back my magic, but the ice is growing and now not just that mannequin is encompassed, but a customer and his cart, then a little child-sized mannequin. The ice is seeping onto the ground and making the whole place like a skating rink and I'm powerless to stop it. There's a strange crackling sound, then the sound of metal snapping as the mannequins that are still trying to move get halted on their metal poles by all the ice freezing up the grate under our feet.


And then to top it all off, one of them manages to shoot me right in the chest. My vest makes a depressing little beep-beep-bloop to let me know I'm dead. I pull my wrist away from Polinski and the ice instantly stops growing. I'm literally frozen in place though- the ice on the ground has frozen around my shoes and I can't take a single step.


A voice comes over the intercom, tentative and questioning. "Are you guys okay in there? I've got a message that there's system failure for the whole building. I'm shutting off the simulation."


I bite my lip, looking around at our costly experiment. "Erm, yeah, we're alright." Mostly. Stuck in ice, but I don't report that.


"Okay, good. Come by the front desk when you're done and I'll give you guys your scores."


"Sure," I answer, and I hear a crackle as the intercom shuts off. The guy has no idea what he's going to find when he comes in here.


"So... that was... interesting," I say haltingly. I bend over, and using my own supply of energy, I create a little fire and aim it toward the ice around my feet to melt it so I can move again. I don't dare draw from Beryl for this; I'd probably end up setting the whole place on fire. I'm feeling oddly pensive and I don't know what to make of this whole thing. Just who is this woman, and why is my magic so much stronger when I'm with her?


"Are you alright?" I ask her, concerned. I didn't meant to, but it seems like I've pulled a colossal amount of energy out of her. It's her first time as a Source, too. I hold one hand out, just in case she's wobbly or faint.
 
There's a moment, when I'm speaking into Seth's radio, where he looks at me funny. Like he's never seen humor before, and can't recognize it now that it's happening. I want to keep pushing, get a laugh out of him, but as I've said: lasers, etc. So I let it go, we'll work on that later.


For the moment all that matters is that he can recognize a plea for ice when he hears one. I start to think he may have gone overboard before I even see what he's done. It feels like he yanked a plug out of a full sink. The sink is me, but I'm not sure what is rushing out of me in response to that yank. Whatever it is, it translates into ice. Lots of it.


There's a point where it becomes too much. My feelings of being impressed turn to feelings of worry, and then little nips of fear. One second I thought I was shackled to a god, now I think he's just a regular guy shackled to god-like power, and he's got no idea how to use it. It is, in fact, spooky as hell.


Not only does he cause us to fail at the game - freezing civilians and generally jacking up the place - but I'm starting to worry for my actual safety. I'm cold, and when I move my foot to escape, the tread of my boot slips. The trouble is that I haven't let go of him yet.


I don't care that Seth gets shot, we have bigger problems. He pulls free of my fingers, and the damage at least stops snowballing.


I don't move, not sure how to get out of this place without falling on my ass. I feel pretty messed up, but for this second, I think it's external. Illogically, I blame the way the room sways on Seth. It's as likely as what I've just seen.


I hear what I think is Red Polo's voice. System failure for the whole building? How is that even possible? Red Polo keeps talking, I hear mention of scoring. I'm pretty sure it's going to be an F. We've killed everyone, including the simulation center. I'm going to have to control my partner, but that seems impossible.


Seth says something, too quiet for me to hear over what I think is the sound of ice cracking as it settles. I'm not sure what the rushing sound is, but maybe it has something to do with the little fire Seth is making around his feet. The daintiness of this display makes me angry. Now he can do something in moderation?


I feel empty, like a vacuum of space that once had wind blowing through it and now doesn't. I can feel energy by contrast around me and I'm strangely set apart from my surroundings, a hollow thing. I'm freaked out by the feeling, so my voice has some bite to it when I say, "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"


I turn to move, ignoring his hand. Honestly I don't know if I was planning to take a step or just look away, but suddenly the ground is rushing up toward me like my strings got cut. I catch myself just in time with the heels of my hands and my knees. My head didn't hit the ice I don't think, but I feel concussed anyway. My hands especially sting from the blow, and I immediately snap: "I'm fine!" although I don't actually know if he notices that I'm down.


I'm expecting to pass out, but that doesn't happen. Instead, I'm aware of a discomfort so keen, it's pain. It's kind of like menstrual cramps, where you're suddenly so aware of your uterus that you hate its fucking guts. Only this time its all over my body, not just in the baby maker. I have never felt so bizarrely empty. I hope Seth reads this gross analogy some day. He deserves it for what he's done to me, the little shit.


In the moment though all I say is "Give me a minute." My voice sounds kind of hoarse because I'm trying not to throw up, and if he moves me, I'm pretty sure that will happen. Instead, very slowly, I lower myself to the ground and lay my cheek against the ice and take long blinks. The roaring in my ears crescendos, and then it's gone.


The ice goes from being bracing and cool to becoming uncomfortably cold, so I try to push myself backwards onto my shins, letting my head adjust slowly to the change. I only have partial success with this, because my center of gravity feels off, and I'm either slumping sideways or else the ground is tilting and coming at me again.


It's crazy, I think, how it hit me all at once. I didn't even feel anything when he was actively pulling on me - well, I did, but it felt exhilarating, like I was a freight train. Now I'm paying for it. Just like he said: credit card, overdrawn.
 
She says she's fine so I pull back my hands, but seconds later a Beryl-shaped blur is whooshing down to meet the floor. Fortunately she halts herself before her face slams into the ice, though I wince on her behalf. I can imagine the state of her palms right now, and her knees probably aren't thanking her either.


She snaps at me and my feelings of concern dissipate and turn to annoyance. She's angry with me because she fell on all the ice? I can't help it that the energy that pours out of her is like an avalanche. I didn't ask for this. I didn't suddenly waltz in with my little ponytail and ridiculous layers, making jokes about blind dates and vacations. This jacked up skating rink was a two person job.


I watch as Polinski lays flat on the ice, taking slow breaths. Concern wars with irritation, despite the fact that I'd rather just be pissed off at her for snapping at me. I look away and cross my arms over my chest, feeling the frown that's taken place. The expression feels alien, yet I can't shake it.


Polinski slowly pushes herself up to her knees, looking like she might puke at any moment. I war with my thoughts for a few seconds before speaking to her again. "Just... sit tight for a sec." Yeah, like she's going anywhere fast. I turn and walk carefully away, leaving her behind. I put some distance between us and pull my cell phone out of my pocket, dialing the station.


"Hey, Caroline. Is the captain around?"


"Yep. I'll put you through." I wait a heartbeat, then I hear Sam's voice on the line.


"Sterling," she says crisply.


"So, weird stuff here at the training grounds," I report tentatively.


"Bad connection?" she guesses.


I pause before replying to that. "Not... exactly. Kind of too good of a connection. I can't control it. And now Polinski's looking like she's either going to faint or throw up, or maybe both. I want to take her home. She's out for the rest of the day."


"Hmm." Sam sounds curious. "Alright. Take her home and tell her to take the rest of the day off. Sounds like she earned it. You'll take the rest of the day too."


"But I'm fine--" I start to protest.


"Gecko, you've got a duty to your partner. Your responsible for the state she's in. Look after her. Make sure she's alright. That's an order."


I sigh. "Yes ma'am."


We end the call and I slide the phone back into my pocket. I head back to where I left Polinski and she's still there, a queasy looking puddle on the ice. "C'mon," I tell my unhappy looking partner, kneeling down next to her. I slide my arm around her and slowly, carefully help her to her feet. "Please don't puke on me," I beg as we're rising. "It might start a chain reaction."
 
I manage to sit upright, although the floor really feels like a slanted wall. Either way, my hands and legs hold me there, panting and dry-heaving.


Seth tells me he's leaving me for a moment, to which I'd like to yell 'what the fuck, dude?' But I'm too weak to care enough even if I could speak. Really, I just don't want to be alone, holding myself upright in a tilt-a-whirl.


But he's gone, so I focus on breathing, and not moving. The ice is making my fingers numb, and my pant legs are wet. I'm shivering now, uncontrollably.


I'm distantly aware that Gecko is back, and begins helping me to my feet. I lean on him hard, because I don't want to make the same mistake again, of thinking I don't need his help. He says something I don't have the humor to find funny or the forgiveness to find charming. But I agree, I don't want to puke. I think it's passed. Now the more pressing danger is blacking out.


We get over the ice without slipping, I'm not sure how. At the table by the door, I make some feeble remarks about removing my vest and getting my leather jacket.


I distinctly do not like being this helpless, not on Gecko's shoulder. I am not the damsel in distress. I'm pretty sure I've made that my life's mission.


Red Polo's shirt is unmistakable, but I ignore the rest of him (especially his voice) as best I can. He wants me to sign out - I'm still too cold to hold my hand still enough, and he gets a look from me and backs down. I'm starting to feel a little better, but the shivering hasn't stopped.


Outside, the heat feels good for a change. My teeth chattering almost immediately eases up. I still can't walk to the car entirely under my own power. How much of a hangover is this type of thing, any way? I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, but there's nothing I can do about it.


I fumble with the door handle, and somehow find myself inside. The car has been sitting in sun now, and I actually appreciate the heat. I curl up into the seat and bask like a lizard. At some point, I'm going to need to put my seatbelt on, although I know the attempt will make me look like an idiot, so I don't want to. Plus the scalding sauna is very comfortable. I'm still energy-empty, but the heat sort of makes up for it.


"You should have warned me, Officer Gecko. I didn't know it would be that... ."


I make an effort at my seatbelt. The buckle is branding-iron hot, uncomfortable even after the hypothermia. I switch to gripping the strap, and pull it across my body, my arms feeling like jelly. Clicking the buckle in is even harder, I can't line the damn thing up, and I realize that it's exhaustion and not cold now that's still making me shake.
 
"So, I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"


I give Red Polo a humorless look, my eyes hard and my mouth a thin line because I'm not feeling too impressed with myself right now and I'm not in the mood for his guys antics. Beryl is reliant on the arm I've got around her to stay upright, though I can tell she doesn't like it one bit by the way she subtly pulls as far from me as she can while still hanging off of me. She's also clearly working really hard to hold herself up all by her lonesome, but we both know that's not gonna happen. Not today. Not after Puppets on Ice.


Fortunately Polo gets the message loud and clear, clears his throat and stops trying to be cute. "You two managed to stop all of the robbers in that simulation, but you also either killed or injured nine victims, so, er, not so great."


"We also did a number on the electrical system," I inform him dryly. "and my partner here looks ready to blow chunks, so we're going to call that enough for one day."


I sign left-handed because my dominant hand is around Beryl and also clutching that jacket of hers. My signature looks less like a signature and more like a confused line with a couple of bumps. Oh well. We manage to make it back out to the car and for a few long minutes Beryl just lays there silently against the back of her seat. I don't say anything and I don't move her, because I really don't want her throwing up in my car. Our car, I amend. She's my partner now, so this car'll be both of ours now.


I put the key in the ignition and look over at the brunette beside me, who's fumbling uselessly with her seatbelt. Her hands are shaking uncontrollably and I feel an acute pang of guilt. I did that. I didn't mean to, but I'm responsible all the same. Reaching over, I ease the buckle into place and hear it click, then sit back in my seat.


"I'm taking you home," I tell her as I pull out of the parking lot and toward the main road. We're off in the boondocks, surrounded by luscious green swamp, but because the state of Florida doesn't want anyone to forget where they are, palm trees are planted between the roads, separating the Southbound from the Northbound. "Where do you live?"
 
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