ã€ŠFoxfire, Esq.ã€‹


 Chapter One

    I was two hours into day three of waiting on a jury verdict when a wannabe supervillain crashed the DC Superior Courthouse.

    Oh, it was a lovely day ¡ª skies threatening to rain, too warm for a jacket but too cold to not have one, and dry enough to make my eyes itch. I was seated on the third floor of the courthouse and passed the time by drafting an appeal on my laptop, all the while anticipating a jury verdict in a case that I was absolutely certain we were going to lose because the client was a stubborn shithead who wouldn¡¯t accept a settlement when it was right in front of her.

    So clearly the universe decided that this would be made all the better by a metal mole man crashing through the Court¡¯s floor-to-3rd-floor-ceiling windows.

    The small marble stairway he landed on cracked underneath him with the unmistakable din of stone on metal, followed by the whine of industrial hydraulics picking the intruder up. I hurriedly put my laptop away and overturned both the table I¡¯d been using and another chair to block line of sight, but thanks to a gap between them, I managed to catch a glimpse of the supervillain du jour from my position on the indoor balcony.

    He was an ugly sort, maybe five foot two, pushing two hundred pounds, covered in dirt and grime and engine grease and God only knew what else. But I would guarantee that the average onlooker wasn¡¯t paying any attention to that, not even the ones looking down from up here on the third floor. No, their eyes were most certainly fixed to the exoskeleton he was strapped into, a kludged-together monstrosity of scrapped construction equipment and other assorted heavy machinery that made a horrible racket every time it moved. Interestingly, the suit didn¡¯t seem to fit its wearer very well. The belts were strapped up with holes that didn¡¯t match the rest, for example, and¡ª

    ¡°WHERE IS HE!?¡±

    The man¡¯s yell was far, far louder than any unamplified voice should have been capable of yelling at, and I couldn¡¯t help but wince at the sheer volume. Dear lord, how was he that loud? The shoddy exo-suit didn¡¯t have the high-pitched whine that I¡¯d long since come to associate with low-end speakers, and the same people who kitbashed this rusted and awkward thing definitely didn¡¯t have the money for good speakers, so how did he do that?

    ¡°WHERE IS JERRY RIG!?¡±

    The man punctuated his yell by slamming the pile driver that was his exo-suit¡¯s left arm into the marble with another horrific crunch of metal on stone, right into the blank space in the map of DC engraved on the courthouse floor. Miraculously, the engraving of the court¡¯s motto (the first duty of society is justice) was untouched.

    ¡°WHERE! IS! MY! HUSBAND!?¡±

    ¡°Where¡¯s his husband!? Screw that, where the hell is security!?¡± a voice said from under either the chairs or the table near me.

    ¡°Securing the judges and any defendants who¡¯ve been jailed awaiting trial,¡± I snapped back, wincing as the man smashed the stairway that wound along the wall back around and over the entrance. The broken glass his entry left on the walkway joined the debris on the ground with a painful shriek of shredded rivets and fraying steel cord.

    ¡°What about the police? Secret Service?¡± The man clearly wasn¡¯t done with his ranting and just seemed to be running down a list at this point. ¡°Or the NMR? Shouldn¡¯t a Moonie be on the way already?¡±

    ¡°Average superhero response time is longer than other emergency services,¡± I supplied, watching the ongoing dramatics. Security had appeared and encircled the District¡¯s fourth wannabe supervillain of the year, but their stun guns weren¡¯t having any effect. Which seemed odd to me, because the man had bare skin to rusty and corroded metal, but superpowers made things weird.

    One of the security guards threw away the stun gun and pulled out the real deal, to which I immediately ducked down, folded my ears low, and put my hands over them to block out the sound. It didn¡¯t work well enough, nor was I able to suppress the pained whimper at the sound. Ow¡­

    ¡°Why is a Loonie even here!?¡±

    This time, I had to resist the urge to punch the man for the slur and just blame the wound on some falling debris. But alas, discretion was the better part of valor, and I was still trying to block out the sound of gunshots, which ¡ª seriously!? The man was covered in massive hunks of metal! Bullets ricochet off metal all the time!

    ¡°What part of ¡®defendants awaiting trial¡¯ was not plain English?¡± I half-said half-yelled, sagging in relief when the gunshots stopped. Wait, why did they stop?

    A quick glance over the railing showed me that courthouse security had stopped trying to shoot the villain-of-the-month and were instead pepper spraying the living daylights out of his relative area. Yes, good, that was the smart option! The number of Moonshot who could shrug off a bullet was much higher than the number who could ignore pepper spray!

    ¡°TELL ME WHERE HE IS!¡±

    Of course, the moment I thought the volume might go down, the supervillain screamed again, loud enough to shake the inch-and-a-half-thick glass railing. Which, incidentally, explained things: the ¡®hyper voice¡¯ was his superpower. Whatever tech wizardry that let the ramshackle machinery he was piloting run, though, definitely belonged to the ¡®husband¡¯ that this villain was looking for. Which would also explain why it was apparently easy enough to just lock the guy up, compared to¡ª

    A hand closed on my shoulder and shook me. I pulled my hands away from my ears and turned to glare at the man who I¡¯d been trying to calmly walk through this whole ¡®villain attack¡¯ shebang, who had apparently decided it was okay to just lay his hands on a woman he didn¡¯t know. He was an older man, probably late fifties to early sixties by the receding line of graying hair, dressed in a too-large pinstripe suit. I could swear I¡¯d seen him arguing in court at some time or other, but the only distinguishing feature he had was a particularly thick pair of coke-bottle glasses, and that wasn¡¯t the kind of thing you could see from the gallery of a courtroom while waiting for your case to be called.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± he asked, tension in his voice and anger on his face.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    ¡°Hiding?¡± I asked, incredulous. ¡°Same as you?¡±

    His face twisted in confusion, then the anger came back stronger. Oh, he was not going suggest what I thought he would¡ª

    ¡°You¡¯re a Moonie!¡± The man jabbed a finger at me, then down at the supervillain below. ¡°You have powers! You¡¯re supposed to be using those to stop villains! Stop him!¡±

    ¡°For the love of God, shut! Up!¡± I whisper-yelled at the man. ¡°Just because I have powers, that doesn¡¯t¡ª¡°

    ¡°He¡¯s right!¡± Another civilian huddled nearby, who hadn¡¯t said a damn thing until now, decided that now was the absolute perfect time to speak up. ¡°You gotta do something!¡±

    I rounded on the woman who¡¯d spoken, motioning for her to keep her voice down and desperately hoping she would be the last of them.

    She was not.

    ¡°You¡¯ve got to use your powers!¡±

    ¡°Please, you have to help us!¡±

    ¡°Do something! That¡¯s what you Moonies are for!¡±

    ¡°Please, I¡¯m scared!¡±

    Ooh, this was not good, please God let these people not be louder than whatever security was doing please let the villain du jour not have heard¡ª

    ¡°MOONIE!? HERO!!¡±

    I winced at the scream, my ears going flat atop my head in pain and surprise. Then there was a great crashing and tearing of shattered glass and twisted metal, and moments later, I was eye to eye (and nose to stench) with the absurdly loud mecha-mole man.

    ¡°HERO! WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!? TELL ME WHERE HE IS!¡±

    If the volume was painful when he was three stories below, it was much worse up close. Even with my ears folded flat and my hands covering them, I was still left whimpering in pain with my tail quite literally between my legs. God, any damage might not have been permanent, but it still hurt. I screwed my eyes shut and reached deep into the part of myself where my powers were tucked away, ready to get out of real harm¡¯s way ¡ª but only as a last resort, because people react badly when you put fire in their face, and there were civilians behind me.

    Except ¡ª nothing happened?

    I opened my eyes to see the villain in front of me. He was still angry, still somewhere between goofy and spooky, but he was just¡­ waiting?

    ¡°Um,¡± I began, raising one hand hesitantly while the other reached for my purse. Oh lord, this was gonna be a gamble. God, I hoped I wouldn¡¯t need to get through another improper power use hearing¡­ screw it, worth a shot. ¡°I¡¯m not a hero? Uh, who are you looking for, exactly?¡±

    The villain opened his mouth, and I immediately folded my ears back down and brought my hands over them. But nothing happened, and the villain actually flinched a bit. Which was¡­ um?

    I brought my hands away from my ears, letting the tall, furry triangles stand back up atop my head.

    ¡°My husband,¡± he said, tone and expression almost pleading. ¡°Andrej Antoniewicz? His trial is today, I ¡ª I need him.¡±

    Okay, well, this wasn¡¯t the first time I¡¯d seen a villain go from hostile to not, but it was the first time I¡¯d seen it happen so quickly. Was that seriously all he was here for? Just looking for his hubby? Plus he knew where to look, but not where to look, and decided that the best course of action was to¡­

    ¡­ a plan was starting to form in my head. It was stupid. It was so absurdly, incredibly stupid, but it was entirely possible that this villain was actually dumb enough for this to work.

    I took a calm, deep breath to prepare myself. Okay, Naomi. You¡¯d told enough bald-faced lies in your life.

    What was one more?

    ¡°So uh, I¡¯m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but sir? You¡¯re, um, at the wrong courthouse.¡±

    The other Moonshot¡¯s expression went from pleading to poleaxed. It was a very particular kind of disbelief, that ¡ª it wasn¡¯t the refusal to believe what he¡¯d heard so much as it was the mental equivalent of a bluescreen.

    ¡°Your husband, does he have powers too?¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh?¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡± I said slowly, getting ready to bluff my tail off. ¡°So, I¡¯m not a hero. I¡¯m just a normal lawyer, and normal boring lawyer stuff happens here, at DC Superior Court. But hero and villain stuff?¡± I held up my hands placatingly and gently shrugged. ¡°That, um, happens at the Court of Federal Claims. That¡¯s, well. Not here.¡±

    ¡°But,¡± the villain said, sounding so lost I almost felt bad for him. ¡°But, what? Where?¡±

    ¡°Ooookay, so,¡± I said, pointing over his left shoulder out at the street. ¡°That¡¯s D Street right there, yes?¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh?¡± The villain turned to follow my finger.

    ¡°Go to the sidewalk, and turn left,¡± I told him. ¡°At the next street, turn left, that¡¯ll be 6th Street. Then you want the next right turn, that¡¯s Pennsylvania. Follow that alllll the way until you hit the White House fence, then turn right, and when you get to H Street, the Court will be on your left. Okay?¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­ left, left, right, to the fence, right, on my left?¡±

    ¡°There you go,¡± I said, offering him a smile as I nodded. ¡°Good luck, sir. Your husband is waiting for you.¡±

    ¡°He is?¡± The villain blinked, but then smiled, and I had to hold my face and ears very steady so I didn¡¯t react to how badly he needed a toothbrush. ¡°He is! I¡¯m coming, Andrej!¡±

    A moment later, he disappeared from view, and I heard the crunch of metal on stone again. The sound of tensing metal springs followed, and then the villain was off, soaring right back out through the hole he¡¯d made on the way in and cruising off towards the intersection of D and 6th.

    ¡°But, but aren¡¯t you supposed¡­ supposed to¡ª¡±

    Oh, for Christ¡¯s sake.

    ¡°I am not a fucking superhero!¡± I yelled at the assembled civilians, all of whom had just sat there and done absolutely nothing. ¡°Did none of you call the police? The NMR hotline? Anyone at all? No? Ugh.¡± I got up with a huff, groaning slightly when I saw that my hose had a run in them, probably from a piece of broken glass or other debris. Then I started walking away from the whole mess.

    ¡°H-hey!¡± I rolled my eyes and turned, my gaze falling on the man who¡¯d been nudging me earlier. ¡°What do you think you¡¯re doing!? The villain is still out there!¡±

    ¡°... I directed him towards the White House,¡± I said. Dear lord, how did idiots like this pass the Bar Exam? ¡°Now if you¡¯ll excuse me, I have my actual job to go do.¡±

    With that, I turned back around, letting my footfalls land a bit more heavily than normal to hopefully drown out any response with the sound of my heels on marble. Hopefully, security hadn¡¯t fully evacuated the judges and just put them in lockdown, otherwise I wouldn¡¯t be able to motion for a mistrial. Juries never ruled in favor of a Moonshot after villain attacks, and I highly doubted my case¡¯s jury would somehow be the exception.

    Unfortunately, I didn¡¯t get to the judge before the police finally arrived. Instead, I had to give my statement. And suffer the police demanding why I didn¡¯t use my powers. And give them all the same explanations I¡¯d offered the bystanders near me.

    It was infuriating.

    It was insulting.

    It wasn¡¯t my fucking job.

    I didn¡¯t ask to have superpowers. I didn¡¯t want to be a superhero ever again. I just wanted to live my life.

    Was that too much to ask?

 Chapter Two

    Proper procedure for handling the aftermath of a supervillain attack had been woefully inadequate back when I was stuck being a superhero. Unfortunately for me and everybody else at the court that morning, the Federal Moonshot Bureau apparently hadn¡¯t updated their protocol handbook at all in the last fifteen years, which meant we were all in for a good three plus hours of wasted time.

    DCPD was useless. Court security was useless, too. Judge Albrecht refused to grant a mistrial so far into jury deliberations, bastard. Worst of all? The one time I decided against taking a company car and just used the metro to get to and from court, it rained.

    And the only umbrella I had was this teensy little folding number that fit in my purse.

    The rain was coming down in sheets by the time I made it back to the office building. The lobby was covered in puddles, a good sign that I wasn¡¯t the only one who¡¯d been caught by surprise. I crossed the floor very carefully on my way to the elevator, stepped on with the other person waiting, tapped my ID badge on the scanner, and hit the button for the eighth floor, while the other person quickly hit the fourteenth.

    I could tell when he finally got a good look at me from the sound of his surprised inhale.

    ¡°U-um¡­ miss?¡±

    Oh, goodie. He was talking to me. Coin toss time: normal or weird?

    I turned to look at the guy ¨C a young man in too-tight businesswear, maybe mid-twenties at most. He was very gingerly holding a sodden suit jacket over one arm, and clutching a set of mostly-dry papers to his chest with the other. A good call, but he might not think that once he got the dry-cleaning bill.

    ¡°Hmm?¡± I asked, putting my badge back in my purse as the elevator doors closed and we started going up.

    ¡°Your, uh.¡± He gestured behind me. ¡°You¡¯re, um. Dripping.¡±

    I just sort of stared, and gave him a slow blink, hoping an uncomfortable silence would prevent him from saying anything else. He met my eyes for only a moment or two before looking away. Phew. Coin toss came up ¡®mostly normal¡¯. Thank goodness.

    The elevator dinged, and I exited, barely registering the young man¡¯s murmured ¡°S-sorry!¡± as the doors closed behind me. I hung a quick left, and headed towards my office.

    ¡°Wow. Looks like someone¡¯s having a bad fur day!¡±

    Unfortunately for me, the office asshole was meandering near the secretary bank at exactly the worst time. I sighed, loud and exasperated.

    Robby Schwartz, a junior attorney whose grandfather co-founded the firm, and whose mom both renamed it and was technically one of my bosses, gave me a look that was somewhere between snide and lustful. It was a painfully familiar expression, one that followed me almost everywhere I went. I was accustomed to ignoring it, and could usually tune it out without issue.

    But after how the day had gone already, I did not have the patience for this shit right now.

    I reached down into the core of my being, tugged ever so slightly on the power nestled there, and shifted. I caught a brief glimpse of the jackass¡¯s shocked expression as my existence faded into purple flame, and a moment later, I reemerged a good fifteen feet behind him, the embers fading as quickly as they appeared. Then came a yelp and a muffled curse, both of which I ignored and just kept on walking.

    ¡°Wha ¡ª you can¡¯t do that here!¡±

    ¡°Shut it, nepo baby!¡± I called over my shoulder, and just walked the rest of the way to my office. At that point, peace and quiet was a simple matter of locking my office door behind me. Heavy, angry footsteps followed me, and the asshole banged on my office door once or twice, but left me alone a moment later.

    Note to self: add ¡®email HR again¡¯ to the to-do list. The idiot¡¯s mommy was hopefully out of favors now.

    I hung my purse from a hook by the door and retrieved my phone from it, then sat down at my desk and pulled four things from the lower drawer: a towel, a brush, a comb, and a blow dryer. Much as I disliked Bob the Nepo Baby, he was right on one thing: I was having a bad fur day. And thankfully, fixing it was downright therapeutic.

    I set the towel over my lap, reached around to my lower back, pulled all three and a half feet of my wet-furred fox tail around to my front, and started in with the comb.

    Most Moonshots¡¯ powers didn¡¯t come with permanent extras like this, and of the few who did also have them, most weren¡¯t anywhere near as visible or obvious, and tended to look like any other human. They could pass. They could take off whatever stupid, flashy outfit the NMR or their state¡¯s Moonshot Corps decided to stuff them into and just live.

    I couldn¡¯t.

    Anybody who looked at me would know that I had superpowers. And that did have advantages, yes! I wasn¡¯t going to deny that! But most of the time, I was seen as either a ticking time bomb or as walking fetish bait. All because my superpowers came with fox ears and a tail.

    Even after seventeen years, I still wasn¡¯t sure which of those two was worse.

    But don¡¯t get me wrong, it wasn¡¯t bad. Some people found me positively adorable in all the best ways! Also, have you ever tried scratching a cat or dog at the base of the ear, only for them to get this almost cross-eyed expression of pure pleasure and lean back into your hand? Yeah, well, let me tell you, the receiving end of that? Oh my God, so much better.

    Plus, as much as I loved to gripe about how much I hated grooming my fur, the warm air from the blow dryer was heavenly.

    Tiny pleasures. We get our creature comforts where we can.

    Once I¡¯d finished up my impromptu grooming session, I checked my work emails. Most of them were unimportant ¡ª deadline extensions granted, responses from clients and witnesses, follow-ups from a couple junior attorneys ¡ª but one of them caught my eye.

    Oh, yes, did this one catch my eye.

    Sent 01:48pm

    From: Alice Tanaka-Schotz

    To: Naomi Ziegler

    Subject: New case ¡ª conference room 3

    Naomi;

    I know you¡¯re stuck in that mess down at the courthouse right now, but once you¡¯re in, take a look at this intake questionnaire. The new client is due to arrive around 3pm. You¡¯re lead on this one. Feel free to offload some of your busywork onto a junior or two, they could use the billables or free time to get their CLE¡¯s done.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    Thank you;

    Alice Tanaka-Schotz, Esq.

    Named Partner

    Bierman Viskie & Schotz, LLC

    Proudly Woman-Owned & Operated Since 1998

    A new case?

    A new case! A quick look at the clock showed that it was almost 3pm. If the client was supposed to be arriving now, it was safe to assume that getting them to the conference room would take at least fifteen minutes. Which meant I had time to review the new client questionnaire and get as familiar with the client as our intake specialists could let us.

    I printed off the attachment, then went and shot off a couple of emails: one to Alice to let her know I¡¯d seen hers, and one to Bob the Nepo Baby, relegating him to verdict watch that he couldn¡¯t get out of this time. I also sent out a meeting invite to the rest of the litigation group for a round table at 10am tomorrow. I¡¯d have to pick up some pastries for that tomorrow, thank goodness for the company card, but for now?

    ¡°Alright, let¡¯s see what you¡¯re on about,¡± I said to myself as I grabbed the printouts, set a fifteen-minute timer on my phone, and set to work.

    All of five seconds later, my ears had gone ramrod straight atop my head, and my fingers hurt from gripping the pen.

    ¡°Oh, shit,¡± I murmured.

    This¡­ this was spicy. This was really, really spicy. Okay, Naomi, fifteen minutes, let¡¯s see what we could do. Lots of data points to cover, not a lot of time to process it, but I¡¯d be damned if I didn¡¯t spot some issues before going into that meeting.

    Incident date, okay, needed to check for news reports. Any other similar incidents? Worth checking out. Lord only knows what I¡¯d have to do if this wasn¡¯t an isolated event. Emergency services response times, right, there should be studies comparing them by neighborhood, just needed to actually look on Lexis. What about incident reports and investigations? Did we have a number for ¡ª yes we did, who was the investigating officer¡­ three investigations? Huh, that was odd, did we have the dates for ¡ª that was odd. Wait, client¡¯s name is¡­ oh for the love of God, why was it always ¡ª ugh. Okay, fine, needed to make a note of that, pushback was always tricky. Other interested parties, let¡¯s see, ah, that would be why I got this case, then. Okay, so that was five LEOs to run down tomorrow and Friday, I¡¯d need to divvy up the assignments, make sure to tailor who got sent where based on demographic, which always sucked to have to explain. Probably needed to handle that phone call myself, if only to¡ª

    BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

    ¡°Oh holy¡ª!¡±

    I jumped clear out of my chair at the sound of the timer, putting a hand over my heart as I tried to calm my breathing and slow my racing pulse back down, stupid overactive startle reflex, God. I normally wasn¡¯t quite so bad about getting wrapped up in what I was reading, but this?

    Holy shit. I could tell already, this case was going to be an absolute mess. I gave my emails one last look before deciding to just head on over. If my estimate was off and I was earlier than expected, oh well.

    The marked-up questionnaire went into my favorite notebook, and after making sure that I didn¡¯t need to touch up my makeup at all, I left my office and headed towards the elevator. The four public conference rooms were two floors down, in a part of the firm¡¯s space where we didn¡¯t keep any sensitive or protected documents. That hadn¡¯t always been the case, but all it took was catching one ¡°new client¡± snooping around in a filing cabinet to completely redo the office layout and fix the security hole.

    It took another couple minutes to reach the conference room, and my boss was outside waiting for me.

    ¡°Good timing. I assume you¡¯ve gone over the questionnaire?¡±

    Alice Tanaka-Schotz was a tall woman, with gray-streaked brown hair pulled back into a severe bun with just a bit left to frame the right side of her face. The ¡®Tanaka¡¯ came from her husband, as many a new associate learned when they walked into her office expecting a small Asian, only to come face-to-face with a statuesque woman of Germanic descent.

    Despite how approachable she tried to be, Alice was a naturally intimidating boss, not least of which due to the fact that, even in flats, she towered a whole head above me in height.

    And that was when I was in heels.

    ¡°All set. Anything else I should know going in?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Just be gentle with her,¡± Alice said in her usual soft-yet-firm tone, handing over a manila folder she¡¯d been holding under one arm. I flipped it open to see a contract of retainer and a contingency fee agreement, both signed, then handed it back to her. ¡°You¡¯ll have plenty of time to play hardball later, but the client will need your softest touch.¡±

    Oh.

    So this wasn¡¯t my case just because of Moonshot involvement. It was also a bit of a test, then.

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind.¡±

    At that, Alice gave me the briefest glimpse of a smile. Then she was off, headed back up to her office on the tenth floor, and I was left alone in front of the conference room.

    I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Then, on the count of three, I opened the door and went in.

    ¡°Good afternoon, Mrs. Banks,¡± I greeted even before the door to the conference room closed, and made my way towards a seat near the new client. I gave myself a brief moment to take her in: black female, oversized t-shirt and worn jeans, body language despondent and dejected. If the intake questionnaire hadn¡¯t been clear enough, this solidified it: all the way to trial, no brakes on the train. ¡°My apologies for the delay; there was some messiness at the courthouse that pushed my whole day back.¡±

    There was no reply forthcoming, which was about what I¡¯d anticipated. People who saw me for the first time generally had one of three reactions: confused utterances, muted disgust, or shocked silence. The latter two were more common, and from the lack of movement, I was guessing we had a case of shocked silence here.

    ¡°My name is Naomi Ziegler,¡± I continued, taking a seat just one past the corner of the table so that we could face each other and still talk. ¡°I¡¯m a senior associate here at Bierman Viskie & Schotz, and when there¡¯s a chance of Moonshot involvement in a case, I¡¯m usually tapped as the lead attorney for, well, obvious reasons.¡± I finished by wiggling my ears for the client¡¯s viewing pleasure.

    ¡°¡­ am I dreaming?¡± Her eyes were locked on my ears, and her voice sounded somewhat faint. ¡°I¡¯m dreaming. That¡¯s gotta be it.¡±

    I made a show of frowning, and hummed lightly. I pinched the back of my hand, lightly tugged on the tip of an ear, and then poked the client on the back of her hand.

    She flinched away slightly, eyes wide and blinking rapidly.

    ¡°Sweet mother of Jesus, you are real.¡±

    ¡°Mhmm,¡± I nodded. ¡°My apologies if I surprised you, ma¡¯am.¡±

    ¡°No, I, uh¡­¡± The client trailed off, and I offered a soft, understanding smile to let her know I wasn¡¯t offended. She was clearly at a loss for words, and rather than trying to reply, she reached into her bag to retrieve a big bottle of sweet tea.

    I took the lull to properly inspect my client. It wasn¡¯t hard to figure out that Destiny Banks was not doing well. Her clothing hung on her the way it tended to with rapid weight loss ¡ª too much gone before the wardrobe could catch up. When combined with the sunken cheeks and massive bags under bloodshot eyes, it painted a stark picture of somebody who was well and truly suffering.

    I needed to get pictures of her before she left, and see if she could provide photos from before everything happened. As far as evidence of pain and suffering went, I would be hard pressed to get something better than this.

    ¡°As I was saying,¡± I continued once Destiny finished drinking her sweet tea and put the bottle away. ¡°My name is Naomi Ziegler, and I¡¯ll be the lead attorney handling your case. Before I go any further, has somebody already sat down and gone over with you what all that would entail?¡±

    ¡°That nice young man did,¡± Destiny said, her voice strained and lifeless. She tried to meet my gaze, but her eyes kept drifting up to where my ears sat atop my head. I didn¡¯t blame her. ¡°And I signed some papers with the lady who was in here before, and she said those made it all official-like?¡±

    ¡°They did. If you¡¯d give me a moment¡­¡±

    I already knew this, but it was always best to make sure they understood what they¡¯d signed. Now that I had confirmation, I could properly begin. My notebook went on the desk, my favorite fine-tip pen at the ready, and a dictaphone recording.

    ¡°Okay. I¡¯m sorry to ask this of you after the phone meeting, but I will need you to walk me through everything. Start at the beginning. Tell me everything you know. Leave nothing out. And take as much time as you need.¡±

    She didn¡¯t speak immediately. But when she did, she sounded exactly like she looked. Hollow. Empty.

    Running on fumes.

    ¡°I¡­ there ain¡¯t even been a funeral, ya know? Barely enough to bury. Don¡¯t even got anything else to remember ¡®em by either, just ash and smoke.

    ¡°All ¡®cause a superhero left my boys to die in a fire.¡±

 Chapter Three

    ¡°Alright, chickens, come to the henhouse, round table time! The fox brought coffee and pastries!¡± I rapped my knuckles on the glass door of the conference room, drawing as much attention as possible. Everyone¡¯s Outlook notifications had gone out eighteen minutes ago, then again two minutes ago, but only three of the twelve available attorneys had actually gotten up.

    So I brought out the big guns: free food, and more importantly, coffee that didn¡¯t come from the break room.

    ¡°Coffee?¡± Somebody asked.

    ¡°Also donuts and pastries. The good ones,¡± I confirmed. ¡°Come on, there¡¯s enough for everybody ¡ª but if you take the last cruller, I will hurt you.¡±

    That got a couple laughs, and thankfully, more people crawled out of offices and into the conference room. They drank coffee, ate pastries, fought over the last custard-filled donut because we all knew they were superior to the jelly ones¡­ the works.

    As a general rule, we attorneys had problems with tunnel vision ¡ª spend enough time working on the same types of cases, and you had a way of ignoring everything outside of them. This often led to the annoying situation where the solution to a major issue was literally a click away, but you didn¡¯t even think to look, and suddenly, you were facing down the barrel of a malpractice lawsuit.

    Hence, round table discussions. They were usually used in one of two ways: first, to get a bunch of fresh eyes on problems that aren¡¯t biased by too many hours already working on the issue. Or second, as was the case here: to gather up as many possible ideas about a new case before too much time was spent. Because if you addressed the root cause of the tunnel vision issue, you tended to not actually have the issue in the first place. And given the absolute shitshow this case already threatened to be, even after a measly six to eight hours of work, that tunnel vision problem was something I desperately wanted to avoid.

    ¡°Okay everybody, we¡¯ve got a prickly one here.¡± I grabbed a stack of stapled printouts ¡ª a collated document containing both the intake questionnaire and my own notes ¡ª which I¡¯d assembled late last night, because I couldn¡¯t fall asleep until I felt like I¡¯d gotten something done. ¡°Wrongful death case; any of you who¡¯ve worked one before, you know just how ugly these can get. Any of you who haven¡¯t yet? I hope you¡¯re ready.

    ¡°But before I get ahead of myself, quick show of hands: I know I tend to monopolize them, but has anyone here had any experience with cases involving Moonshot before?¡±

    A few hands went up, but I picked a pair that I hadn¡¯t already pulled into a case in the last year: a younger attorney of Hispanic descent, and the only hijabi in the general litigation group.

    ¡°Alrighty then; Julio, Fatima, you two are on the main team with me. While I hope this mess doesn¡¯t go to trial, if it does? One of you gets second seat, the other gets third; I¡¯ll decide when we get closer.¡±

    The two of them locked eyes for a moment, and I would swear I saw a literal spark of competitive spirit pass between them. Then the moment passed, and I had their attention again.

    ¡°Alright everybody, meet our client.¡± I walked back to the front of the conference room and woke up the laptop that we had plugged into the projector, bringing up the first slide of a brief powerpoint presentation I¡¯d prepared. Thankfully, the client was cooperative yesterday, so I had a good pair of pictures to put up on the projector¡¯s screen: one from before the event, which she¡¯d graciously emailed me, juxtaposed with one that I took just yesterday. ¡°This is Destiny Banks, widow to Gunnery Sergeant Tyrone Banks, and mother to two boys, Jerome and Elijah, twelve and seven. Or, um. Should I say, she was a mother to two boys. That ¡®was¡¯ is why we¡¯re here.¡±

    I tapped the laptop, and went to the next slide. It was a news article from two months ago, one that I¡¯d deliberately pulled from an old print newspaper, and which had taken me an hour and a half to track down last night.

    TENEMENT HOUSING IN SOUTHEAST BURNS DOWN, AT LEAST TWO DECEASED

    December 28, 2019

    It was buried in the middle of a middle page. Not even a footnote. At least footnotes had the advantage of drawing the eye.

    I could feel my ears pinning back in anger at the thought alone.

    ¡°Destiny and her two sons lived in this building, on the third of five floors, facing an internal courtyard. When it caught on fire, the fire brigade got there first, and a superhero arrived shortly after. Fire rescue was able to get everybody from the exterior apartments, and the lower interior units. The superhero got everybody out of the upper interior apartments, and anybody on the third that fire rescue couldn¡¯t reach. Or at least they thought so. Eventually the building came down, and at some point they found the two boys¡¯ corpses.¡±

    I didn¡¯t have a picture. I didn¡¯t look for one, either.

    ¡°The police opened an arson investigation into the building fire, but it was apparently closed just a few days later,¡± I continued. ¡°We¡¯ll need to get a copy of that report. The fire department opened their own investigation into how the two boys got missed by emergency services, and that one at least took a few weeks, but it also closed. We¡¯ll need that report as well. It¡¯s the last report that¡¯ll be tricky.¡±

    I tapped the computer again.

    ¡°This is Barricade.¡± The image on the screen showed a man wearing a superhero costume. Or, if I was being realistic, it was just a set of motorcycle leathers done up to resemble a medieval knight¡¯s armor, topped with a police helmet painted in the same style. ¡°If you¡¯ve been in the district for longer than a few years, you¡¯ve seen him around. He¡¯s currently enlisted with the National Moonshot Regiment, three years into a voluntary six-year posting. Civilian resources are, as usual, pretty damn useless when it comes to telling us the details on his powers, but apparently, he¡¯s fireproof enough to get called in for fire rescue.¡±

    ¡°Is that common?¡± Fatima asked, holding her pen up to catch my eye, and suppressing a giggle when she saw my ears go up at attention. ¡°Moonshot being fireproof?¡±

    ¡°No, it really isn¡¯t.¡±

    I held up a hand, and with a brief stirring of will, a roiling orb of purple foxfire shimmered into being above my palm. Several of the other attorneys gave shocked gasps, followed by all of them leaning in to get a closer look, which had me resisting the urge to roll my eyes. God, you would think these people had never seen superpowers before.

    ¡°So, I can do this.¡± I bounced the ball of foxfire in my hand a couple of times, then made it dissipate with an idle wave. ¡°You¡¯d think I¡¯m fireproof, right? I mean, I can throw around fireballs, so I must be fireproof, right? But no, I¡¯m not.¡± I let out a wistful sigh. ¡°Would be nice, though. Do you have any idea how many oven mitts I¡¯ve lost over the years?¡±

    That got a smattering of laughter, thankfully. Given the subject matter, that was good. We needed to keep some amount of levity when dealing with all this doom and gloom.

    ¡°Now, the NMR opened an investigation into this, and to the best of my knowledge, their investigation is still open. This means that every single other lawyer at this firm could bark up that tree, and nothing would happen.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re saying you can because you¡¯re Moonshot?¡± Darryl, one of the older attorneys, asked with a raised eyebrow.

    ¡°Uh, yes and no?¡± I hedged, my ears drooping slightly. ¡°Yes I can definitely get something, no it¡¯s not just because I¡¯m also Moonshot; there¡¯s a few more things at play here. And I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯d say more, but it¡¯s literally illegal for me to even consider explaining it without an exception in play. It sucks, I know, but this is one of the few things I could still get court-martialed over.¡±

    ¡°You know what? Fair enough,¡± he said, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. ¡°Nevermind.¡±

    ¡°Anyways, that¡¯s all for the official investigations and most of the parties involved: the fire department, the police department, Barricade, and the NMR. There¡¯s a few more, though.¡± I tapped the computer again, and pulled up a pre-fire image of the apartment building. ¡°The apartment building is just one of, in my opinion, far too many buildings owned by William C. Smith & Co., or through their sister company, Fred A. Smith. The sad part is that the newer buildings they own are generally fine, but they couldn¡¯t give a damn about Section 8 housing. So that means WCS is worth looking into, the property manager is worth looking into, whoever handled the building inspections and certified its fire safety is also worth looking into, and so is anybody else who was responsible for this building.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    ¡°Because I don¡¯t know about you, but I hear ¡®fire rescue couldn¡¯t get to the upper floors¡¯, and I immediately think that something isn¡¯t right.¡±

    I turned off the computer and wheeled over the rolling whiteboard we kept in the conference room, turning it around to show what I¡¯d already written up on the other side.

    ¡°So here¡¯s where we stand: NMR. DC police. DC fire department. Superhero. Fire rescue on the scene. Building owners. Building management. Property inspectors. And possibly more we don¡¯t know about,¡± I listed off, tapping each name with a capped dry-erase marker as I went. ¡°At least eight possible entities. We¡¯re currently operating off of very limited information, and are still miles away from actually filing suit. Even so, we¡¯re going to ask the question anyway.¡±

    I turned back towards the gathered attorneys, and posed the key question.

    ¡°Who do you sue? Why them? And what would you need to find to make the lawsuit stick?¡±

    And now that everybody had been brought up to speed, the round table could properly begin.

    <hr>

    ¡°Okay you two, order whatever you want,¡± I told Julio and Fatima. ¡°It¡¯s going on the firm¡¯s card anyway.¡±

    By the time the round table wrapped up, it was almost one in the afternoon. We¡¯d only discussed Mrs. Banks¡¯ case for the first half of the meeting, at which point everybody else started pitching issues from their own respective cases at everyone else. Once it was done, everyone working a non-contingency case billed for three hours, I had about a dozen different ideas for who we would eventually end up suing, and my stomach had begun to sing me the song of its people.

    So I grabbed the two junior attorneys who¡¯d attested to having some experience with Moonshot-related cases, and dragged them to The Palm for lunch.

    ¡°Are there halal options?¡± Fatima asked.

    She was the older of the two, and while she had five years as an attorney to my six, she¡¯d only been with the firm for two years. Plus, she was one of those who¡¯d gone straight through education with no side trips into the general workforce ¡ª high school to college to law school, no full-time jobs. She was an excellent attorney when it came to writing motions and crafting arguments, but, well, there was a reason she hadn¡¯t been lead attorney in a trial quite yet.

    ¡°Just ask someone,¡± Julio answered. ¡°Can¡¯t hurt.¡±

    Julio was still relatively new to his career ¡ª class of 2017, I think he said. He¡¯d also gotten two years¡¯ experience as a public defender before deciding to take that experience and lateral over to both a better pay structure and less stress. Those two years had clearly done a bit of a number on him though, if the slight graying at his temples was any indication.

    ¡°They¡¯re also able to modify things as needed to hopefully make them halal,¡± I offered. ¡°Although I will admit to a bit of ignorance here. I don¡¯t know if there¡¯s similar certification or the like for halal as there is for kosher.¡±

    ¡°Do you keep kosher?¡± Fatima asked, to which I scoffed.

    ¡°God, no. I like meat and cheese together a bit too much.¡±

    The small talk continued until we¡¯d had a chance to order. The waiter we¡¯d gotten was one of the ones I recognized, so there was thankfully very little reaction to my appearance, and being seated at a booth meant that the staring could be kept to a minimum. I was going to draw attention wherever I went, but at least there were ways to control it ¡ª and familiarity was the strongest one, I¡¯d found.

    Spend enough time around the same areas, and the reactions tended to go from ¡°holy shit, is that an animal person!?¡± down to just being ¡°oh, it¡¯s the foxgirl again, neat,¡± which was infinitely more preferable.

    ¡°So you both mentioned having had some experience with Moonshot before,¡± I began, pausing to take a sip of my iced tea before continuing. ¡°So I guess I just want to know what that experience looked like. Which of you wants to go first?¡±

    ¡°Well my little sister¡¯s Moonshot,¡± Julio jumped in. ¡°I was living at home and going to community college, and suddenly we all get woken up cause my sister¡¯s screaming her head off about getting shot or something. We all go look, and she¡¯s floating on the ceiling and glowing.¡±

    Ah. So she was an A3 then, got it.

    ¡°Not really case law experience,¡± I said, prompting him to continue.

    ¡°Well, about a month later and these government suits show up at our door saying Mira was under arrest, and they wouldn¡¯t tell us what for,¡± he continued. ¡°So we closed the door on their face, they broke down the door, I texted Mira to stay at a friend¡¯s and not to go flying anywhere, then asked the professor who told me I should look at pre-law for help. He calls a buddy, who calls a buddy, then we got a free lawyer who kept Mira out of juvie or JROTC by pointing out that the charges specified the wrong laws, and the judge dismissed with prejudice.¡±

    ¡°¡­ still doesn¡¯t quite count,¡± I said with a sigh, my ears drooping. ¡°Firsthand experience with Moonshot issues is still good though, so we¡¯ll take it. What about you, Fatima?¡±

    ¡°Oh, um, nothing special really,¡± she said. ¡°Client was a Moonshot who got denied medical treatment because she didn¡¯t have insurance, and the hospital said her powers would heal her up instead. And it was true, yes, but what should¡¯ve been a week-long recovery was instead two months of pain.¡±

    The longer Fatima spoke, the more my ears pinned back, and I couldn¡¯t keep the frown off my face.

    ¡°Remind me later to tell you two about the doctor that tried to send me to a vet instead.¡±

    To their credit, both Fatima and Julio practically recoiled from that, but while she showed horror, he looked appropriately furious. Both of them looked ready to ask questions, and I mentally prepared myself for a grilling.

    Except then our lunches arrived, and their trains of thought were promptly derailed by the call of food. The waiter set a salmon filet in front of Fatima, while both Julio and I received strip steaks. I already knew I wouldn¡¯t finish all of mine, so I had a protein all set for tonight¡¯s dinner. Julio, on the other hand, started demolishing his so quickly that I pulled my own plate closer to me. Which Fatima spotted, and that set her into a bit of a giggle fit.

    ¡°So, as for why I was asking about whether you¡¯d dealt with Moonshot before,¡± I said, drawing their attention off of the food. ¡°The NMR may technically be a subdivision of the National Guard, but that¡¯s just something done for administrative convenience. It¡¯s better to think of them as what you¡¯d get if SWAT treated its members somewhere between ¡®Hollywood celebrity¡¯ and ¡®Olympic athlete¡¯. They care a lot about making sure their people look good, and that means they really don¡¯t like when the lawyers get involved. Care to guess why?¡±

    Fatima set down her silverware while thinking. Julio, on the other hand, resumed eating, but I could see from the way his eyes and eyebrows moved that this was just his way of mulling over the question.

    ¡°Y¡¯can lie to a reporter,¡± Julio said around a bite of steak, and thankfully swallowed before continuing. ¡°But the average person ain¡¯t about to lie to the judge, no?¡±

    ¡°Exactly,¡± I confirmed, tapping my fork on my plate to punctuate the statement. ¡°As a concept, superheroes need a certain level of mystique and opacity. Getting honest answers hurts that. It makes them more human and more relatable, and that in turn makes Moonshot in general more human. Julio¡¯s sister is one, so he¡¯s got a frame of reference that normalizes them.¡± I directed this part at Fatima, while Julio just nodded along, ¡°Hell, he¡¯s been with the firm for all of six months and he already treats me more normally than anyone else I¡¯ve worked with.¡±

    ¡°S-sorry!¡± Fatima¡¯s cheeks took on a slightly embarrassed blush. I brushed it off with the wave of a hand and flick of an ear.

    ¡°It¡¯s really not an issue, don¡¯t worry about it,¡± I told her. That didn¡¯t seem to allay her concerns, though, because she began shoveling salmon and wild rice into her mouth at a pace that rivaled Julio. ¡°Regardless, I probably buried the lede a little bit there. The point is, just because someone can do something superhuman, they¡¯re still human. They can still make mistakes, and if anything, having powers means that the mistakes are almost inevitably worse.¡±

    The mood at the table took a very quick turn for the depressing. Both of my juniors were intelligent. They¡¯d picked up what I was putting down.

    ¡°Either of you worked a wrongful death case before?¡± I asked. As expected, both of them shook their heads. ¡°Well. There¡¯s some debate on what cases are the ugliest. Most tend to fall on the side of divorce cases and custody battles, particularly when there¡¯s money involved. Or property. Or some single valuable thing that the divorcees are fighting over.

    ¡°But I say that those people have never been close to a wrongful death case. Someone is dead. Everything they are and everything they could be is gone. There is no getting them back, and no amount of money is ever going to make up for what they could have been. But that¡¯s all we¡¯re able to deal in, because it¡¯s not about trying to cure their grief with money. It¡¯s about pointing the finger at the party responsible for their death, so that it doesn¡¯t happen again to somebody else.¡±

    Neither Julio nor Fatima offered any immediate response, but I could see them turning it over in their heads.

    ¡°Are you saying we shouldn¡¯t try to blame the superhero at all here?¡± Fatima caught on first, confusion evident in her eyes. ¡°But wasn¡¯t he the last point of failure? I mean¡ª¡°

    ¡°This isn¡¯t a car crash,¡± I interjected. ¡°This is more complicated than asking who had the right of way. The superhero may have had some fault, sure, but suing him misses the forest for the trees.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª¡± Fatima cut herself off, and stopped to think instead. Then she settled back down into her seat, apparently having not found a proper rebuttal.

    ¡°You want the hero testifying for us.¡± Julio spoke with certainty. There was no question in his tone.

    ¡°I want the NMR¡¯s influence on our side of the scales,¡± I corrected. ¡°I¡¯ve been part of three prior wrongful death cases with a Moonshot involved. Each time, the winner had the NMR backing their side, and it wasn¡¯t even close. So we need to figure out how to get them to agree with us, but without damaging the myth of their precious superhero. And speaking from experience, any court judgment is going to be secondary to what he¡¯s probably putting himself through right now.¡±

    ¡°¡­ wait, that doesn¡¯t add up,¡± Fatima said. I lowered one ear towards her in question. ¡°I remember those cases; there was the dead hostage outside Union Station after the 2016 election, and that pileup on the 395 last year. Where did the third come from?¡±

    ¡°Those two you mentioned are the ones where I was involved as the attorney. The first time I was party to a wrongful death case was fourteen years ago. I wasn¡¯t the lawyer, obviously, nor was I a witness. I¡­¡±

    I sighed, my ears going limp atop my head.

    ¡°I was the defendant.¡±

 Chapter Four

    If you¡¯ve never had to get a copy of a police report, you should thank your lucky stars. It¡¯s tedious, obnoxious, difficult, a pain in the tail, and always takes way longer than it should. Just¡­ imagine the DMV, but everybody has a gun, and is impatiently waiting for an excuse to point it at you.

    But sourcing police reports was only bad, which was why I had Julio and Fatima handling those. I was stuck doing something that was somehow worse: I had to get a copy of whatever farce of an investigative report the National Moonshot Regiment had decided to vomit up onto a page and call it a day.

    My derision was well-informed, I assure you ¡ª I¡¯d had to fill out after-action reports for more than a few such investigations, and every single one of them was worth less than the paper I printed them out on. It turns out that when the investigators¡¯ primary directive is ¡°push the spotlight off of us and onto literally anything else¡±, the investigations themselves start with the answer they want and work backwards from there. Wow. Who would''ve guessed.

    Everyday Americans would be horrified if they knew just how many billions of their tax dollars the State Corps, the Regiment, and the Fumblers themselves flushed down the drain for this shit. Or maybe they wouldn¡¯t, actually, because they¡¯d all bought into the superhero myth for so long that they¡¯d lost the ability to look at it with a critical eye. Fucking propaganda.

    That same propaganda was why it was so absurdly difficult to get anything out of the NMR. It was also why I couldn¡¯t let Julio, Fatima, or anyone else from the firm try and source this report. They would¡¯ve needed a subpoena.

    I just needed to prove I knew which closet they kept the skeletons in.

    I¡¯d initially debated taking the metro out to the DC National Guard HQ ¡ª it was pretty much right next to the Stadium Armory stop on the silver line ¡ª but that was far enough outside of my usual stomping grounds to draw stares. More than usual, that is. Plus, the number of supervillains who announced their presence by crashing the National Guard¡¯s HQ, and with it the NMR¡¯s HQ, was too high for comfort.

    So instead, I expensed a limo service, and it dropped me off right in front of the building. My appearance got a few odd looks, but I was wearing work clothes and had gotten out of a car; they¡¯d already discounted me as ¡®not the next wannabe supervillain¡¯ and gone right back to their daily routines.

    Once I¡¯d passed the vaunted ¡®public scrutiny¡¯ test, I walked up the steps and headed inside the building proper. Blessed warmth replaced the chill of early spring, and I luxuriated in the heat for a couple of seconds before heading for one of the information desks.

    There were three separate people one could bother in the Joint Force Headquarters: one for the general public, one for the press, and one for military-plus-veterans. Depending on who you asked, that didn¡¯t always include the NMR or its vets. And if the stink-eye I was receiving from the man behind the glass was any indication, he was in the ¡®not military¡¯ camp.

    ¡°Unknown Moonshot, identify yourself and state your purpose.¡±

    The troopers on guard duty, who I¡¯d previously managed to ignore, drew my attention by reaching towards their sidearms.

    ¡°Naomi Ziegler, FKA Foxfire; here to procure a copy of the investigative report for the incident on December 27. My NMR ID number is 19450902.¡±

    NMR ID numbers were supposed to be seven digits, and random. Mine was eight, and was anything but. It was the date of Japan¡¯s surrender in World War II, because Japan losing both me and the source of my powers to America was apparently as great a defeat for the island nation as WWII. Or something.

    The petty games expected of and played by small men with smaller dicks were forever lost to me, thank God.

    ¡°Produce your registration card for inspection.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a license,¡± I snarled back, ears pinned back and low even as I retrieved my wallet to comply with the demand, and readied myself to need to escalate this whole situation if it got called a counterfeit again.

    The Federal Moonshot Bureau issued licenses for public use of Moonshot powers, though it was usually contingent on joining the NMR or proving that your powers couldn¡¯t realistically be used to hurt people. These ¡°flier¡¯s licenses¡±, as people had taken to calling them after the first non-NMR examples, were also supposed to state Moonshot Type (MT) ¨C which defined how and when their powers manifested ¨C but only ever stated A2 or A3. Which, well, that was fair. Almost two-thirds of Moonshot were A3, and enough of the remainder were A2 for a rounding error to get to a hundred percent.

    But for me, and for the eleven other A1 Moonshot in the US? Well, while the rank and file followed protocol pretty well, that protocol collapsed when faced with an A1 Moonshot. So the higher-ups, in their infinite wisdom, felt it was easier to just slap an A2 on our licenses and leave it at that. That mostly worked, depending on when the database was last updated. If the update left a few snags, you wound up with guns pointed at you. But if you got lucky, and the code base hadn¡¯t broken in the last software patch, the A1/A2 mismatch would produce a popup for the person looking, with a new set of orders: pass the buck as high as it can go.

    And lucky me, I could see the moment those new orders came through: the grunt¡¯s expression started at ¡®bigoted boredom¡¯, cycled through five different levels of confusion, and settled on ¡®oh shit I done goofed¡¯.

    ¡°M-my apologies, ma¡¯am!¡± The grunt on receptionist duty jumped from his chair and snapped to attention. ¡°I-if you would wait here, I will go inform the¡ª¡±

    ¡°No bothering the Major General,¡± I interrupted, keeping my tone as carefully bored as I could sound. ¡°Just get me the Staff Judge Advocate.¡±

    ¡°M-ma¡¯am?¡±

    ¡°I told you: I¡¯m here to do my job. Now go do yours.¡±

    The grunt snapped off another salute, pushed in his chair, then marched out of the reception office as fast as he could go without running. I sighed, flicked an ear, then turned to sit in one of the three chairs they left out for people waiting. The chair gave that horrid fwump-crunch of cheap vinyl and dead cushion, but at least it didn¡¯t stink.

    Like I said: there were only twelve of us A1 Moonshot in the United States, which meant that if I showed up at an NMR building, it was a Big Fucking Deal. I¡¯d only ever sat down to talk with one of the country¡¯s other A1 Moonshot, and he was even more disdainful of the government than I was, if for similar reasons.

    Usually, Moonshot were given the choice between going to jail, never using our opowers again, or being the government¡¯s propaganda superhero ¡ª and Morton¡¯s Fork that may be, it was still a choice. But I didn¡¯t get to make that choice. When I got to speak with Roaring Thunder, he revealed that he didn¡¯t either. The US Bureau of Indian Affairs made it a condition for him being able to legally leave the Navajo Reservation.

    The US State Department made it a condition for me to come home, and keep the source of my powers with me.

    And yeah, sure, fine. My NMR service came with perks. I got veteran''s benefits. My schooling was paid for by the biggest loophole the GI Bill ever saw. I already owned a home. So long as I didn¡¯t hurt anyone, then I could use my powers as much as I damn well pleased. But that last one should¡¯ve been the default. It was the only one I actually cared about. My powers were part of me. I shouldn¡¯t have needed to be a soldier just for permission to have them, to exist, to be myself.

    Neither I nor the fox deserved getting trapped in a gilded kennel.

    I was pulled from my reminiscing by the secure door at the end of the hall opening. Another soldier stepped through, this one dressed in officer¡¯s garb, and did not offer any kind of salute when he approached.

    ¡°The Staff Judge Advocate will see you in her office,¡± he said. ¡°Follow me.¡±

    Then, without so much as waiting for an acknowledgment that I¡¯d heard him, he turned on his heel and started power-walking back through the door he¡¯d come from. It was so abrupt that I had to actually catch the door he exited through. I didn¡¯t devote any energy to the rudeness, though; I was more surprised by what I¡¯d heard. The last eight years, the DC SJA had been Judge Advocate Michael O¡¯Connor, a right old bastard that never saw a square peg he wouldn¡¯t try to shave down to fit a round hole ¡ª like me. I¡¯d last had cause to speak with him a year ago, and that should have been more than recent enough to stay on top of things, given that turnover for such positions were relatively rare. Which meant that there was probably some or other scandal involved with the change.

    And that meant I¡¯d missed out on some amazing gossip instead! Damn it! Ugh, I¡¯d have to see if any of the usual suspects online had gotten away with talking about it; someone had to know something and be able to spill it without repercussions!

    The officer led me to an elevator, down a hallway, through a keycard door, through a second keycard door, down yet another hallway, down a flight of stairs, and then through a third keycard door in the process of bringing me to my destination. It wasn¡¯t hard to tell that he was doing it on purpose, which meant one of two things: one, it was deliberate disrespect on either his or the SJA¡¯s part, or it was some new protocol meant to obscure the route from anybody who wasn¡¯t normally cleared to be in the building. I desperately hoped it was the second option, simply because that would mean these incompetent dillweeds had actually updated something in the last decade, but it was probably the former.

    Regardless, we came to a stop before a heavy wooden door, which stood at odds with the rest of the building¡¯s almost utilitarian style, but I supposed that that was the perk of being a higher-up. There was a brass plaque on the door ¡ª Megan Annie Barnes | Staff Judge Advocate ¡ª and it appeared they¡¯d actually gotten rid of the stripped top-right screw from O¡¯Connor¡¯s door plaque.

    I¡¯d bet anything the replacement screw somehow cost the Pentagon a hundred thousand dollars.

    The soldier knocked twice on the door.

    ¡°Enter,¡± a muffled voice from within said. Despite this, the soldier made no move to open the door.

    So I scooted my way around him, opened the door, and made a point of whipping my tail up into his face as I pushed past.

    ¡°Give me a moment.¡± The woman at the desk didn¡¯t even look up at me, and remained wholly focused on a stack of papers set in front of her. She flipped through the stack with her left while she scribbled something with her right, and it was only after she¡¯d gotten through the back half of a fifty-odd page packet that she even bothered to look my way.

    ¡°... huh,¡± she began. ¡°You know, for all that O¡¯Connor talked up how weird you look, the reality¡¯s kind of a let-down.¡±

    ¡°Let me tell you, the feeling¡¯s mutual,¡± I told Judge Advocate Barnes, crossing my arms and flicking one ear in silent challenge.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    The SJA was a rather severe, if unimposing woman ¡ª copper hair flecked with gray pulled back into a painfully tight bun, permanent frown lines just beginning to carve their way into the corners of her mouth, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. The shoulderpads on her blazer did her no favors, only serving to make her appear even smaller behind a desk clearly sized for somebody substantially larger than either of us. Actually, now that I looked around the office, most of it was still SJA O¡¯Connor¡¯s stuff, just with the absolute most personal touches swapped out. God, how new was she to the position if she hadn¡¯t even had a chance to redecorate?

    That office gossip was a nice juicy hen, and this fox needed to get in that henhouse.

    ¡°Mhmm.¡± SJA Barnes put down her pen, rested her elbow on the armrest of her chair, and gently laid her chin against the base of her palm, one finger extending up towards her temple. ¡°Let¡¯s skip the Mean Girls routine and get to the point. What do you want, Foxfire?¡±

    I frowned; that particular pose she¡¯d taken was¡­ it was familiar, oddly so, but I couldn¡¯t for the life of me put a finger on it. Had I met the SJA before? I didn¡¯t think so, and she had a distinct enough appearance that I would¡¯ve expected myself to recall such a meeting. It was ¡ª ugh, no, it was a distraction. I was here to do a job; I needed to focus on that job.

    ¡°There was an incident on December 27, 2019, which involved an NMR Moonshot going by the callsign Barricade,¡± I said, repeating some of what I¡¯d said downstairs, because of course it was too much to ask that the desk grunt at least relay that much. ¡°Such an event should have spawned an investigation, which would have produced an internal report. I need that report, and you¡¯re going to have your people give it to me.¡±

    ¡°And why exactly would I do that?¡± The Judge Advocate asked, raising one eyebrow. ¡°That is what a subpoena is for, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    My ears went back in a brief moment of surprise at the response.

    ¡°Oh, wow, you really are new,¡± I said, letting some dismay leak into my voice. ¡°You didn¡¯t work with Moonshot much before this posting, did you?¡±

    ¡°Oh I¡¯ve worked with plenty of your kind. Most of them actually understood their place in the grand scheme of things, though.¡±

    Translation: no she hadn¡¯t, and she was playing tough to hide the fact that I¡¯d gotten her number. She wasn¡¯t even good at it, either. As far as an ¡®untermensch¡¯ spiel went, I¡¯d maybe give her a 2.5 out of 10.

    ¡°I would argue that, but it¡¯s not the point,¡± I said, waving off the obvious bigotry, which led to Barnes¡¯ brow furrowing and frown deepening. I just offered a slightly smug grin before continuing. ¡°The point is that where we Moonshot are concerned, your job is to put out fires.¡±

    ¡­ shit. Right, pun not intended, given the current case, but I doubt she¡¯d even notice.

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°And,¡± I let my grin show a few more teeth, ¡°that means you¡¯re expected to do everything in your power to keep the government¡¯s shiny toy soldiers as far away from the spotlight as possible. Now, I wager that¡¯s a bit more difficult to do when, oh, I don¡¯t know.¡± I tapped a finger on my chin three times and adopted a pensive look, then gave her another sly, toothy grin. ¡°When they get a subpoena, the media gets a tip-off, and cameras are waiting for them to show up. Wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±

    ¡°You should know better than to play dirty pool like that, Foxfire,¡± Barnes spat out, her chin dipping once her brow could go no lower. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t want to poison the well, would you?¡±

    I flicked my tail and offered a disdainful sniff.

    ¡°O¡¯Connor didn¡¯t leave you any guidance, did he?¡± I asked, more rhetorically than anything.

    ¡°Only a few fifteen-minute stretches. Even that was hard for him to do from Walter Reed.¡±

    I blinked, ears going slack in brief surprise.

    ¡°Ah. I¡¯ll be sure to send him a tropical fruit basket.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s allergic to at least three of those,¡± she admonished.

    ¡°Exactly,¡± I said with another vulpine (heh) grin. ¡°See, here¡¯s what you missed: O¡¯Connor and I hated each other, but we had an understanding: he gave me what little I requested without causing a fuss, and I didn¡¯t do or say any of the approximately three dozen things that could make his life miserable, including accidentally declassifying so, so much information about Moonshot.¡±

    Like I said, I knew which closet they kept the skeletons in. It was also where they buried my personnel file.

    ¡°Fine,¡± she spat. ¡°You¡¯ll get your goddamn incident report.¡±

    ¡°Good!¡± I said, ears perking up as my tone brightened. ¡°Then I suppose it¡¯s a good time to let you know that I¡¯ll need you to clear some time in the next little bit to interview Barricade, then have someone ready to review an affidavit. And hey, with any luck, he and the NMR may even have a claim against the same defendants my client goes after!¡±

    ¡°Just¡­ ugh.¡± The SJA¡¯s other hand had come up from behind the desk, and she¡¯d set one chipped, chewed-down fingernail to rapidly tapping on its hardwood surface. ¡°Make sure you respond to the same email that sends you the report. And I will be accompanying Barricade to that sit-down. Do I make myself clear?¡±

    ¡°Crystal.¡±

    ¡°Anything else, or can I at least try and enjoy the rest of my day?¡±

    ¡°Nope, I think that¡¯s it,¡± I said, stalking towards the door and opening it.

    ¡°You know,¡± she said right as I was stepping through the doorway. ¡°He was absolutely right about your attitude.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± I turned to look at her, lowering an ear in question. ¡°What, did O¡¯Connor complain that much?¡±

    ¡°Not O¡¯Connor.¡± SJA Barnes¡¯ frown suddenly inverted itself, and became an absolutely vicious smirk. ¡°Your brother.¡±

    Those two words had me seeing red. My tail went ramrod straight while my ears pinned back flat against my head.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have a brother,¡± I bit out through gritted teeth.

    ¡°Really?¡±

    Barnes took her left hand, which I only now realized she¡¯d largely hidden from my sight this whole time, and turned its back towards me. There, seated on her ring finger, was a glimmer of gold that I would have recognized anywhere.

    It was my great grandmother¡¯s engagement ring, which had gone from Germany, to Shanghai, then Japan, and finally to the United States.

    And now a family heirloom that I¡¯d wanted more badly than I¡¯d ever had words to describe rightfully belonged to this, this ¡ª this bitch.

    ¡°Oh yes, Eli¡¯s told me all about you,¡± Barnes purred. ¡°Isn¡¯t that right, J¡ª¡±

    I slammed the door shut so strongly that I almost ripped the door knob free from the wood, and a moment later I¡¯d skipped past half the hallway in a flash of purple foxfire. The restroom lay in front of me, and I stumbled inside, locking myself into a stall. I needed to calm down. I needed to calm down. I couldn¡¯t afford to lose my temper here, to burn something to ash in a fit of rage. I needed to breathe, to just breathe in, breathe back out, focus on something¡ª

    An orb of blue flame flickered into existence on the back of the toilet. Moments later, it disappeared, and I wasn¡¯t alone in the stall anymore.

    ¡°Gorou,¡± I half-gasped, half-whispered, feeling the tension bleed out of me at the sight of him, to be replaced with a slight pang of guilt. ¡°I, you, uh¡ª¡±

    The silver-furred fox silenced me by holding his supernaturally long tail in front of my mouth. Well, one of them, anyway. Two other tails found my hands, which dug deep into the soft, soothing fur, while the fourth twined itself around my own tail.

    ¡°You were distressed.¡± The fox¡¯s voice was a smooth, calm baritone, so very at odds with his stature. ¡°I grew concerned. Are you well?¡±

    I shook my head and sighed, shoulders and ears slumping. Gorou let his tails fall from my hands, and when I held my arms out, he hopped into them. One of his free tails joined the one wrapped around my tail, and the other two wrapped around my midsection.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to bring us home,¡± he said. I nodded to let him know I was ready. A moment later, his amber eyes shone an ethereal blue, and the two of us dissolved into azure flame, disappearing from the locked (oops?) bathroom stall like we were never there.

    Barely a second later, we were physical again, and it was only the many years of trust that kept me from panicking as gravity took hold. The two of us dropped maybe half a foot and landed directly on my bed, bouncing once or twice before coming to a rest. I could have let go now, and been fine. I probably should have let go and checked in with work.

    Instead, I closed my eyes, wrapped my arms tighter around Gorou, and buried my face into the four-tailed fox¡¯s fur, letting his familiar scent ground me.

    ¡°Naomi,¡± he said, tone lightly admonishing as he switched language to Japanese. ¡°We will have time for this later, and you will be able to speak of what troubled you as much as you like. But it is still the morning, and you have your duties to attend to.¡±

    ¡°Mm,¡± I murmured. I pulled my face out of his fur and looked him in the eye, nose to muzzle. ¡°You just want to go back to watching your idol shows in peace,¡± I answered back in the same language.

    A paw smacked me right in the nose, and I turned away, giggling slightly.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I said, pushing myself upright on the mattress, and switching back to English to continue. ¡°Okay. You¡¯re right. Tonight, though.¡±

    ¡°Tonight,¡± Gorou agreed.

    Then he released his hold on my tail, hopped off the bed, and strutted downstairs to the living room, where I could hear the TV still playing whatever show he¡¯d been watching. I smiled at his antics, then pulled out my work phone to both let Alice know I¡¯d be finishing the day remote and to check my emails.

    A pair of messages had arrived in my inbox during the thankfully few minutes Gorou needed to calm me down. One of them was from an official NMR email address, containing the report I¡¯d requested as an attachment.

    The other one¡­

    Foxfire;

    I¡¯d say it was a pleasure to meet you, but we both know that¡¯d be a lie. Your arrangement with O¡¯Connor, as it were, may have been predicated on the consequences you could inflict upon him, but that will not be the case for us. Instead, you and I are going to agree to a sort of mutual detente. You don¡¯t cause me trouble, I don¡¯t cause you trouble, and we both keep things in writing. Don¡¯t bother to reply to this email, though; I¡¯ll only acknowledge anything you send to my work email.

    Also, no more unscheduled visits. From now on, you call ahead.

    (P.S: By the way, the destination wedding was three years ago, in Tahiti. As I understand it, even if you had been invited, you wouldn¡¯t have been able to come anyway.)

    Hope you have the day you deserve.

    Your sister-in-law,

    Megan Barnes Ziegler

    That¡­ mother¡­ fucker.

    ¡°Gorou!¡± I yelled downstairs.

    ¡°What is it?¡± the fox yelled back, once again defaulting to his native language.

    ¡°Whatever you¡¯re snacking on, put it away!¡± I heard the TV pause, followed by the scrape of a bowl on my coffee table. ¡°It¡¯s comfort food time!¡±

    ¡°No forgetting my hairy tofu this time!¡±

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it!¡± I lied. I had, in fact, been planning to ¡®forget¡¯ the hairy tofu. How that fox could eat moldy food, even if the mold was deliberate, I would never know. But hey. It was his comfort food, and if it lifted his mood, so be it.

    But even as I changed out of my work clothes and into something more comfortable, even as I logged back into work to finish out a frustrating day, and even as the promise of cumin lamb awaited me, I couldn¡¯t help but ruminate on what had just happened. I had a new sister-in-law. I¡¯d had one for three years, and nobody had bothered to tell me. Not even the cousins who still recognized me as a living, breathing human being. Not even the few relatives who were still willing to acknowledge my existence.

    ¡­ God, fuck. Not even my little sister.

    Of course. Of course this case would get oddly personal for me. Wasn¡¯t even the first time either; this one was just from an unexpected vector.

    Then again, I was probably the only open Moonshot attorney in the country, and that made me a bit of a trouble magnet. So really, what else did I expect?

 Interlude One

    Seventeen Years Ago¡­

    Late March, 2003

    The bed was uncomfortable. The mattress was too stiff, the sheets were scratchy, the pillows badly needed more stuffing, the blankets weren¡¯t warm enough, and it all smelled faintly of hospital antiseptic. But it was either the bed, a cushion on the floor, or a bowl-shaped chair that I maybe could¡¯ve sat in comfortably a few days ago, but couldn¡¯t now. And maybe never again. I didn¡¯t know. I wasn¡¯t sure if I ever would know. Or if I would ever want to know, for that matter.

    It had been three days since it had happened. Three days since I saw a monster out of some horror movie, got body slammed by a myth, rescued the myth, and watched the monster fade away to ash and dust. Three days since I got solid, definitive proof that some of those tabloid-worthy headlines from Mexico and Brazil were actually real. Three days since I¡¯d gotten something I still didn¡¯t think I was ready to admit I¡¯d wanted more than anything else in the world, and¡­

    I pulled my knees closer into my chest, hugging the bundle of fluff and fur tighter in my arms. I tried to tune out the world, to just zone out and watch TV. But even that did nothing but remind me of just how much things had changed.

    ¡°This program is brought to you thanks to the following sponsors¡ª¡°

    ¡°I definitely shouldn¡¯t be able to understand that,¡± I murmured to myself, then winced as I felt a part of myself that hadn¡¯t existed a few days ago twitch and move. God, that felt so weird, and¡­ I hesitated to say that it felt off or wrong. Because it didn¡¯t. It felt right. It felt wonderful. It felt¡­ it felt like this was how things were always meant to be. How I was always meant to be.

    How was I supposed to even begin to process that?

    ¡°I was unsure if such would occur,¡± a calm, deep voice rumbled from the bundle of fur pressed between my legs and chest, the sound somehow more soothing to my new ears than even the loudest cat¡¯s purr. ¡°It is fortunate. A language barrier would have been¡­ inconvenient, at best.¡±

    I kept feeling like I should have winced, or flinched, or otherwise shown some kind of shock or disgust at a grown man¡¯s voice issuing from the twenty-pound fox currently letting me use him as a big, fuzzy stress ball. Or thinking that I should have been trying to run away from him. Or throwing the animal out the window. Or just ¡ª it ¡ª I didn¡¯t know. Something other than what I was doing.

    But after three days of being treated like an object or an animal or a monster by almost every person I came across, I needed the normality. I needed somebody to treat me like me. To believe that I was who I claimed to be, without needing to play twenty questions. Or draw blood. Or lock me alone in a windowless room for hours until I was desperately sobbing for somebody to at least say something or¡ª

    ¡°Calm,¡± the fox said. ¡°Deep breaths. You are safe. Secure. You shall not come to harm.¡±

    I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe that the fox was correct, that I was safe, that I would be okay. I couldn¡¯t get my breathing to calm down, it was still too shaky, my fingers were so cold¡ª

    KNOCK KNOCK

    I yelped, jumping high enough that I lost my balance, just about flung the poor fox across the room, and fell out of the bed and onto the floor. I pushed myself up on all fours (oh god, my, my¡­ tail was tucked down between my legs, I didn¡¯t do that on purpose, I still wasn¡¯t sure how to move this thing how did I make it stop doing that¡ª) and tried to find my voice.

    ¡°C¡­ H¡­¡± I swallowed hard. ¡°C-come in!¡±

    The door to the room I¡¯d been given opened, revealing a new face. He was a kind-looking gentleman with close-cropped black hair and green eyes, infinitely less surly or dour than the diplomats and policemen I¡¯d had to deal with over the last several days, and he was wearing a light-gray suit with a pale-blue tie. The suit¡¯s fabric looked really soft, and when I took a glance down at his shoes, they were shiny enough to reflect a clear image of the light fixture overhead.

    ¡°Good day to you, my dear!¡± He offered me a disarming smile when I blinked at the British accent, and out of the corner of my eye, I barely caught the fox closing his mouth and canting his head to the side in interest. ¡°You would be¡­¡± he opened a leather folio I hadn¡¯t noticed before, then looked at me. His brow furrowed for a moment, and the smile disappeared, but it came right back a moment later, bright and friendly. ¡°Miss Ziegler, yes?¡±

    ¡°I ¡ª y-yes! That¡¯s me,¡± I rushed out, hoping that he would stop at that name and not ask any further. I didn¡¯t want him to say anything beyond that, to make the good parts of this feel less real.

    ¡°A pleasure to make your acquaintance,¡± he said, extending a hand. ¡°I am Sir Ambrose Camden, a diplomat and negotiator in service to¡­ hm,¡± he paused. ¡°I suppose I should be saying ¡®Her Majesty the Queen¡¯, yes? Ah, that does not sound quite right to my ears. Let us just say in service to His Majesty the King, and keep that between us two, yes?¡± He offered me a wink at the end, but I hadn¡¯t the slightest clue what he was trying to say, and something in the back of my mind whispered that I probably never would. ¡°Regardless, there is no need to stand on ceremony. You may call me Ambrose, or Mr. Camden, should you prefer.¡±

    ¡°I, uh, sure?¡± I accepted his hand. He pumped it up, then down, and then back to center before releasing me. All very simple, very clinical, and¡­ and somehow, I found myself tearing up. It wasn¡¯t anything special. Heck, it was beyond normal¡­ but he was the first person to actually treat me normally these last few days. Actually normally, not just fake smiles and bald-faced lies. ¡°I-I ah, s-sorry, I j-just¡ª¡°

    ¡°It is quite alright.¡± He pressed a handkerchief into my hand.

    I felt my cheeks heating up a bit from the embarrassment ¡ª then I felt those two new things atop my head move, and completely lost all track of my emotional state as I tried to process just how weird and unfamiliar and, and¡­ and nice that felt.

    ¡°May I come in?¡± Sir Camden ¡ª Ambrose asked. I nodded, and he stepped through the door, closing it behind him. ¡°I am sure you are confused as to why I, a British diplomat, am currently in the American Embassy to Japan, talking to an American citizen.¡± He turned to face the fox. ¡°And a Japanese one as well, I suppose. Good sir fox, is it acceptable for me to consider you as a citizen of this nation?¡±

    The fox turned to me in confusion, and I translated. Which was still so weird to me, by the way ¡ª you would think the massive physical transformation would be the strangest part of all this, but no, that was probably tied with having an entire language shoved sideways into my skull and somehow fitting.

    ¡°I am not against this designation,¡± the fox answered in Japanese, which I translated for Ambrose.

    ¡°I see, wonderful,¡± he said. ¡°Might I ask, were you already proficient in Japanese prior to your, ah, transformation?¡±

    I shook my head.

    ¡°Ah, another edge case, perhaps¡­ regardless, I am getting off track.¡± Ambrose gestured at the chair I couldn¡¯t stand to sit in, so I picked it up and moved it over to him, then sat back on the edge of the bed. The fox hopped up onto the bed and made his way into my lap, and I started stroking his fur to calm myself down.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but, what is this about?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Yourself, I¡¯m afraid,¡± Ambrose said. ¡°Or rather, the nature of your situation. Tell me, Miss Ziegler: how much do you know about Moonshot?¡±

    I frowned, thinking.

    ¡°Like Lady Liberty?¡± I asked. I didn¡¯t really follow the hero news; Mom always said it was ¡®unseemly¡¯ or ¡®beneath us¡¯, but even she cared some about Lady Liberty, enough to let me get a poster of her without complaining.

    ¡°Yes, such as her,¡± he prompted.

    ¡°Well, um. They¡¯re, um, people with superpowers?¡± I offered. ¡°Uh, apparently the first one was a NASA employee, and he got his powers right after the moon landing? I ¡ª I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t know much,¡± I said, blushing and trying to ignore the weird sensations coming from my new ears and my¡­ my tail. ¡°I ¡ª all I know is that it¡¯s apparently pretty random and people sometimes get powers that seem to make no sense but other people get powers that are just like completely perfect for them specifically but nobody knows how it happens or what it means or anything, and then there¡¯s people saying that it¡¯s practically mandatory to go out as a superhero after and if you don¡¯t you¡¯re automatically a supervillain but then there¡¯s other people saying you can just¡ª¡±

    Hands clapped, and I yelped again, this time thankfully jumping backwards and further onto the bed instead of falling off of it. The fox voiced his displeasure at the tight grip I¡¯d grabbed him in, but settled down the moment I loosened my arms.

    ¡°I see.¡± Ambrose set the leather folio he¡¯d been carrying down underneath the chair he sat in. ¡°This will, unfortunately, take a brief explanation before I can explain what help I can offer, if you are amenable to such at this time.¡±

    ¡°I guess?¡± What else was I supposed to say, no? Thank you, come back later? What else was I even doing?

    ¡°Very well. Would you mind turning off the telly?¡± Before I could do anything, the fox hopped off of my lap, ran over to the nightstand, and turned off the TV with a paw. ¡°Thank you, good sir fox. Now.¡±

    Wait, hadn¡¯t he not been able to understand English earlier? Was that a feint, or was there something else going on?¡­ never mind, I¡¯d ask later. I had company and questions; he had answers. I hoped.

    Ambrose clasped his hands and fixed me with a serious gaze, though his eyes were still kind.

    ¡°Please bear with me; I am afraid there is a brief history lesson included here. The word ¡®moonshot¡¯, on its own, very much predates the current term. It held two main meanings: first, an undertaking so immense or challenging as to be almost impossible to achieve; and second, the act of launching spacecraft to the moon. The second definition came about only after the Soviets landed the Luna 9 probe on the moon, which was the point at which what was previously seen as impossible became all too likely, and fully became past tense in 1969.

    ¡°It was with this victory in the space race and the espionage of the Cold War in mind, as unexplainable happenings grew increasingly common following Armstrong and Aldrin¡¯s walk on luna firma, that Allied powers made the deliberate decision to employ an already known and used term to describe every iteration of this new phenomenon that they encountered. And outside of carefully monitored internal documentation, these phenomena could only be differentiated from one another by context.¡±

    ¡°So¡­ you¡¯re saying the CIA made it confusing on purpose so they could get one over on Russia?¡± I asked.

    ¡°On the Soviets, Miss Ziegler,¡± Ambrose gently corrected. ¡°But in essence, yes. After all, while loose lips sink ships, well. It is one thing to say you were anchored over a wreckage in the Aegean, and it is quite another to say some incomprehensible gobbledegook suggesting the launch of weapon platforms to Mare Tranquilitatis for manual astronaut install.¡±

    The fox canted his head to one side, in obvious confusion. I didn¡¯t notice that I¡¯d done the same until everything seemed crooked, and when I caught myself, I felt that heat in my cheeks again. And felt my new ears do something. God, how did I control those things? I didn¡¯t want to keep on just¡­ broadcasting all my thoughts for the world to see!This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°Regardless, by the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union, Allied intelligence had sorted every known instance of Moonshot, proper noun, into three distinct categories, A, B, and C, each of which was further subdivided into three more categories: A1, A2, and so on. Alas, these alphanumeric designations never properly caught on, but I suppose we can blame deliberate dissemination of the base term to the American public for that.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± I found myself asking.

    ¡°To further muddy the waters for enemy intelligence operatives, I presume,¡± Ambrose said. ¡°It¡¯s hard to tell who is and isn¡¯t knowledgeable about a specific instance of Moonshot if the signifiers are context-dependent and the overwhelming majority of the people around you are using the term without that requisite context.¡±

    I¡­ sort of got it? I think?

    ¡°If you are ready to continue?¡± Ambrose asked, to which the fox and I both nodded. ¡°Very well. We will go in reverse order, for reasons that will quickly become clear ¡ª and yes,¡± he held up a hand to forestall the question, ¡°ensuring that the categories only made sense out of order was also intentional.

    ¡°Type C Moonshot refers to known sources of power. This Moonshot possesses the capacity to permanently confer abilities onto humans. The subcategories specify the nature of the source: C1 refers to beings, C2 to objects, and C3 to locations. There is a bit of wiggle room between them, but in general? If it can move under its own power, it is C1, and if locomotion must come from another, it is C2, with C3 being reserved for wholly stationary fonts of power. Admittedly, this is the category that could grow as our understanding expands, but for the moment these three are sufficient. Do you follow?¡±

    ¡°I suppose? And um¡­ I guess that means this guy is C1?¡± I asked, scratching the fox behind his ears.

    ¡°Just so!¡± Ambrose agreed. ¡°Moving on from there, we get to Type B: the issue of power, what results from its use.¡±

    ¡°So we¡¯re jumping straight from sources to effects?¡± I¡­ think my ear did that thing again? Urgh, that was still so weird! ¡°I feel like we¡¯re skipping the important part. Wait, this is on purpose too, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Ambrose nodded.

    ¡°Unfortunately so. Now, to continue: Type B1 is reserved for ephemeral effects. Electrocution, unnatural plant growth, accelerated corrosion, aftereffects that do not follow conventional rules; all of these fall under Type B1. It is, to be frank, the least descriptive of the subcategories. Now, if Type B1 refers to ephemeral effects, then Type B2 contains the permanent ones: augmentations, transformations, or any other effect which carries its own inertia; that is to say, barring any outside action, it shall continue unabated.¡±

    ¡°Like a fire that never goes out?¡± I asked. ¡°Or a perpetual energy machine?¡±

    ¡°Yes to the former, no to the latter,¡± Ambrose clarified. ¡°The latter is an example of Type B3: a deliberate creation which carries the ability to confer either or both of the other two categories¡¯ effects by itself, without any additional input by the Moonshot responsible for its creation. I believe a good example would be the TARDIS, or the sonic screwdriver.¡±

    ¡°The what?¡±

    My breath caught in my throat when the persistently friendly look in Ambrose¡¯s eyes dimmed for a moment, replaced by something I knew all too well: disappointment. It disappeared between one blink and the next, but I still felt something like a stone in the pit of my stomach.

    ¡°... ah.¡± Ambrose cleared his throat, a bit of awkwardness in it. ¡°My apologies, I¡­ it was not my intention to concern you. When you have some free time, however, I would recommend looking into Doctor Who. I wager you would like it.¡±

    I didn¡¯t really have any response to that, so I just nodded. The fox yawned, showing plenty of teeth in the process. But while that had caused some concern in the cops and embassy personnel we¡¯d had to deal with over the last few days, all it did was make Ambrose¡¯s smile grow a tad wider.

    ¡°Very well. We get to the final category: Type A. This categorizes the people with powers by the source thereof. The higher the number, the more common they are, and so we will go from most to least common.

    ¡°Type A3 covers the ¡®random incidence¡¯ powers. As it so happens, every single member of this group describes the same event signaling the acquisition of their abilities: a dream, vision, or hallucination of a beam of light coming from the moon and striking them in the head, heart, sternum, or the like. In this scenario, the provenance of the term ¡®Moonshot¡¯ is purely coincidental, despite them receiving their powers from being, well, shot by the moon.¡±

    I just sort of gave Ambrose a look. Then I shared one with the fox, who gave me about as good of a shrug as a quadruped could.

    ¡°Moving on. Type A2 describes those people whose powers simply appear without fanfare, and have a tendency to be rather fitting to them as a person. One day they are normal, the next they are not, and we still haven¡¯t the foggiest how or why otherwise-identical people can have one be A2 Moonshot and one, well, not.

    ¡°But alas, now we come to the rarest of them: Type A1. These Moonshot are not coincidental. They are not accidental. They are not random. And they are often far more powerful than the other two types. Beyond that, though? The key distinguishing feature is that every single Type A1 Moonshot received their powers from an example of Type C Moonshot. You are much the same: it was this fox¡¯s actions and decision which made you as you are now.

    ¡°And alas,¡± Ambrose sighed, taking on a decidedly more despondent tone, ¡°this deliberacy and rarity lie at the root of your problem.¡±

    ¡°Problem?¡± I asked, feeling like somebody had poured ice water down my spine. ¡°I ¡ª I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t understand, just ¡ª what problem?¡±

    Oh god. I, was this why he¡¯d just spent the last who knows how long giving me an Idiot¡¯s Glossary to Superpowers? So I¡¯d understand just how screwed I was? How everything was about to go from bad to much, much worse?

    ¡°In the year 1998, the Treaty on the Restoration and Repatriation of Artifacts and Antiquities, initially put forth by the UK, was ratified by all member states of the United Nations,¡± Ambrose explained. ¡°On its surface, the treaty requires that the spoils of empire, conquest, colony, and exploration be returned to their original location or culture of origin, and where that is not feasible, to the most fitting cultural heir or a designated caretaker state. In practice, this treaty is as important as the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, because it forbids other nations from, say, sending special forces to spirit away Type C Moonshot in the night, or make one of their own into Type A1 Moonshot. Given the power of many Type A1¡¯s, this is seen as the equivalent of stealing a nuclear bomb, shipping it back home, and then pointing it right at where you stole it from. Essentially, the Repatriation Treaty forbids purposefully doing what has accidentally befallen you: going to a foreign country, being empowered by Moonshot C native to that country, and then leaving.

    ¡°The United States and Japan are, obviously, both signatory parties to this treaty. Under the terms, you,¡± Ambrose pointed at me, ¡°must return to the United States. And you,¡± he pointed at the fox, ¡°cannot be taken out of Japan. And the requirement of you both maintaining a certain measure of proximity to one another, to which you have already attested at length, complicates matters.¡±

    Wha¡­ what?

    ¡°But, but I¡ª!¡± I stammered. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to do any of this! I ¡ª I didn¡¯t want this, o-or, or ask for this!¡±

    I hugged the fox in my lap close. He wrapped his tails around me, pressed his wet nose into my chin. I tried to focus on that sensation, on the tickling feeling of his fur, the small spot of damp cold on my skin. Anything to try and keep from focusing on the idea that I was some kind of, what, international war criminal or, or fugitive, or just, outright an illegal existence.

    What was I supposed to do? What even could I do? How was I supposed to fix this? Oh god, I already hadn¡¯t been able to get in contact with family in days; they didn¡¯t even know what had happened ¨C would they ever? Was I never going to see them again? Was I just, just stuck here? Trapped? Going to be locked up and have the key thrown away, or¡­

    ¡­ or would they just kill me? Kill me, take the fox, pretend I¡¯d died in a ditch somewhere?

    ¡°¡ªZiegler? Miss Ziegler!?¡±

    Could I put that past them? If it was between letting me go home, or breaking a major international treaty and starting a war, why wouldn¡¯t they just, just¡­ shoot me in the back of the head and throw my body in a hole in the middle of nowhere? Say I went to that suicide forest place and just never came back out? Got lost on a backwoods hike and died of exposure?

    ¡°¡ªZiegler!¡±

    Hands, hands on my arms, too tight, it hurt, they were coming to take me¡ª!

    ¡°Aah!¡± I yelped, pushing away the person who¡¯d grabbed me, that new feeling deep in my core igniting for just a second. Small flashes of purple flame came from my hands as I made contact, then I grabbed the fox and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

    ¡°Child,¡± the fox rumbled.

    ¡°Shh!¡± I hushed him. There was a window in the bathroom. How high up was I? Second floor? Ten feet to the ground? I could do that, just had to roll ¡ª wait would a roll hurt now? I hadn¡¯t had a tail before, would it¡ª

    ¡°Ow!¡± I shouted, shaking my hand. What, he¡­ that damn fox bit me! What the hell!?

    ¡°Calm, child,¡± he spoke. ¡°You were panicking. You are safe. I will not allow you to come to harm.¡±

    I¡­ I took a deep breath. Closed my eyes, and just¡­ counted. In, two, three. Out, two, three. I¡­ I was okay? I was okay. I was fine. For now, at least, I was fine.

    I opened my eyes, and saw myself in the mirror. My eyes were red and puffy, cheeks a bit pale, but aside from that, I was¡­ I was so normal. Brown hair brushing my shoulders. Brown eyes staring back at me. A big puffy sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. It was all¡­ it was so normal.

    But then my eyes were drawn to the tall, furry triangles on top of my head, to the long, bushy tail sprouting from my backside, to the smooth skin where human ears used to be. To the reminders that I wasn¡¯t all human anymore. The reminders of why I didn¡¯t recognize my face anymore.

    The reminders that I didn¡¯t know who I was anymore.

    ¡°Miss Ziegler?¡± Ambrose¡¯s voice filtered through the bathroom door, followed by a light knocking. ¡°My dear, are you well?¡±

    ¡°I, I-I¡¯m fine!¡± I called back, tearing my eyes away from my new and still wholly unfamiliar reflection. I pulled the bathroom door open, and saw the slightly singed spots where I¡¯d¡­ burned his jacket. Oh, no¡­ nice going, idiot, look what you did. ¡°I am so, so sorry about that, I, are you okay?¡±

    ¡°No apologizing,¡± Ambrose ordered. ¡°I startled you out of a panic attack, you are still new to your abilities.¡±

    ¡°Still, I, um.¡± I stopped there. If he was telling me not to apologize, well, what point was there in doing so again? ¡°I¡­ you, um. Said that I need to go back home, but that, uh, the fox has to stay? But I, he said that would kill me. I, I¡­¡±

    I didn¡¯t want to die. I was barely an adult. I¡¯d only just gotten to, to¡ª

    ¡°That is why I am here,¡± Ambrose said, gently guiding me back to the bed and sitting me down on the edge of the mattress before taking a seat beside me. ¡°Both the United States and Japan have very clear stakes in this matter, and neither of them can remain objective. An American citizen possesses these powers, but the source is Japanese in origin. A compromise must be reached, and the UK offered to send a neutral mediator to facilitate these discussions ¡ª me.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± I sounded so quiet to my own ears, so tired. ¡°I¡­ so you¡¯re going to try and get me home?¡±

    ¡°If that is what you want,¡± he confirmed. ¡°We will be talking more in the coming days, and I will need your assistance communicating with the fox, to determine his stance on this. But¡­¡±

    Ambrose sighed.

    ¡°I beg of you, please be patient,¡± he said. ¡°There is no precedent for a situation like this, where it was accidental and between allies, and all that before we consider that the grantor was sapient enough to have made a conscious decision on the matter. I do not know how long this will take,¡± Ambrose admitted. ¡°I will try to have you home soon, hale and whole. But I will not make you a promise that I cannot keep.¡±

    I didn¡¯t really have an answer, so I just nodded.

    Something buzzed. Ambrose reached into his pocket and pulled out a pager.

    ¡°Bugger. Duty calls, I¡¯m afraid.¡± He stood from the bed and reached into his coat¡¯s inside pocket. A moment later he had a business card in his hands, which he placed on the nightstand. ¡°I shall request that the ambassador furnish you with a computer and telephone access, that you may establish contact with your family, although¡­ I understand you may be a tad reticent to do so. If you would like me to notify them in your stead, my personal email is on the back of the card.¡±

    ¡°T-thank you, I¡­ I¡¯m not ready yet,¡± I admitted.

    ¡°I shall do so as soon as possible, then.¡± He extended a hand to shake once more.

    I went in for a hug instead, pressing my head against his chest. He made a brief sound of surprise, but he did reciprocate and hug me back, if a bit awkwardly.

    ¡°M¡¯ sorry,¡± I mumbled against his shirt. And I was sorry. I just¡­ I needed a hug. The fox was a good replacement, but¡­ it just wasn¡¯t the same. I needed human contact that wasn¡¯t angry or scared or¡­ or painful.

    ¡°It is alright. But.¡± Ambrose pulled out of the hug and held me at arm¡¯s length, and I looked up to meet his eyes. ¡°I do need to go, at least for now. I shall be back within a few days, though. Two, three at most.¡±

    ¡°Okay.¡±

    Ambrose smiled, then grabbed his folio from underneath his chair. He walked over to the door, opened it ¡ª and paused.

    ¡°I will have you home as early as possible,¡± he said. ¡°To the best of my ability.¡±

    Then he smiled, and left.

    I believed him. I really did. He was a good man, I could tell, and he was good at what he did. But despite all of his best efforts, every trick in his book, dozens of compromises and hundreds of offers and too many thousands of hours?

    I didn¡¯t see home for over a year.

 Chapter Five

    Non-lawyers seem to have a skewed perspective regarding how long a lawsuit actually takes, and I will happily blame television for this. If primetime copaganda is to be believed, you can sue somebody on Monday and be in court one week later.

    Sorry to burst any bubbles, but that was a ridiculous proposition.

    Two weeks had gone by since my morning trip to National Guard HQ, and in that time, painfully little had actually gotten done. Yes, we had the various government responders¡¯ reports, but the soonest we could question them was another couple of weeks out. Worse than that, I had another case going to trial in a week and a half, which meant I¡¯d need to hand the pre-filing work entirely over to Julio and Fatima starting tomorrow, and hope they had a good enough grasp of what needed doing to keep going.

    Part of that temporary handoff, though, was meeting with the client to let her know what was going on. There wasn¡¯t a chance in hell I was about to go radio silent on her from April to May without setting up a point of contact.

    All of this was to explain why I¡¯d set up shop in the same conference room as last time, complete with my tablet, my folder of hard copies, a breakfast burrito that had gone cold an hour ago, and the remains of a sickeningly sweet coffee concoction whose name I couldn¡¯t actually remember. Julio and Fatima arrived maybe three minutes after me, and both of them thankfully shut up once they saw that I was drafting opening statements for the trial I had a week from Monday, though Fatima started reading it over my shoulder.

    Ten or so minutes later, Mrs. Banks made it to the conference room, with her escort just giving us a nod before retreating back to¡­ wherever public-facing support staff and paralegals congregated.

    ¡°Glad you could make it on relatively short notice.¡± I stood up and pulled out a chair for Mrs. Banks, then another for the absolutely massive tote bag she was carrying. ¡°Sorry if you had to squeeze this in between errands.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she said, voice only slightly less hollow and dead compared to three weeks ago. ¡°Figured if y¡¯all were callin¡¯ me in for a sit-down, it gotta be important.¡±

    ¡°Well for the future, yes and no,¡± I told her as I returned to my seat, curling my tail around to hang off the end of the chair. ¡°I try to do in-person or webcam follow-ups with clients at least once a month, sooner if a case is particularly active or close to a deadline. As for today, though, this is a bit of an update, along with a combo of good and bad news.¡±

    Destiny Banks wilted slightly in her seat, her eyes aimed at the table. I supposed the term ¡®bad news¡¯ was a bit overwhelming to keep hearing as much as she had been.

    ¡°Alright. Gimme the bad first, I wanna end on a high note.¡±

    ¡°Alright,¡± I said. ¡°The bad news is that I, specifically, am going to be largely unavailable for at least the next three weeks, possibly up to five.¡±

    ¡°What, goin¡¯ on vacation or something?¡± Destiny spat, casting a glare in my direction.

    ¡°No, I¡¯m going to trial.¡±

    She frowned, and I readied to have to explain. As much as we might like to provide all of our attention and energy on a single case at a time, that just wasn¡¯t how it worked. While this was almost certainly the biggest case on my docket, it was far from the only one; hell, I had almost a dozen other cases, and was used to having more than twenty at a time. Clients tended not to understand this, though. They wanted to be priority one all day, every day, until their case was resolved¡­ and that just wasn¡¯t realistic.

    ¡°I take it that¡¯s what these two¡¯re for?¡±

    I blinked in pleasant surprise, then offered a slight smile.

    ¡°Yes, actually,¡± I said, waving to my two juniors. ¡°These are Julio Cabrera and Fatima Osmani. While I¡¯m unavailable, they¡¯ll be handling things pertaining to your case. Fatima has more experience overall and with wrangling paperwork in particular, but if you need one of us to talk to somebody, Julio is better at explaining in layman¡¯s terms. Additionally, both of them speak more than just English ¡ª Julio speaks Spanish, Fatima speaks Arabic and¡­ uh¡­¡±

    ¡°Punjabi,¡± she supplied. ¡°And a bit of Farsi.¡±

    ¡°I am so sorry I forgot that,¡± I told her, ears low in embarrassment.

    ¡°What about you?¡± Mrs. Banks asked. ¡°You gonna let the kids get all fancy with other languages and all that?¡±

    ¡°I mean, I speak Japanese, but I can count the number of times that¡¯s been useful on one hand,¡± I told my client. ¡°But that¡¯s not important right now. Anyways, what matters is figuring out our next steps. We¡¯re gonna have to wait on talking with Barricade until I¡¯m done with my trial, but I think we have times set up with the other people of interest sometime next week?¡±

    ¡°Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,¡± Julio said. ¡°Fire brigade chief, arson investigator, building superintendent. Who else you want us looking into?¡±

    ¡°As many of Mrs. Banks¡¯ neighbors as are willing to talk to us.¡±

    ¡°About that!¡±

    All three of us turned to Destiny, who had reached down for her big ol¡¯ tote bag. She stuck an arm into it, and next thing I knew, there were two separate 3-inch binders, practically bursting at the seams.

    ¡°Oh my God¡­¡± I murmured, feeling my eyes go wide and my tail start to shift. ¡°Please please please please tell me that¡¯s what I think it is?¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    ¡°Well I went around talkin¡¯ to all my old neighbors these past three weeks,¡± she said. ¡°Lotta them had time to grab their important shit before everything burned, or they went and grabbed it from they e-mails and printed ¡®em for me.¡±

    I grabbed a binder, pulled it towards me, and flipped it open. Then I flipped a page. Then another. Then another, and another, and oh my fucking god, it was what I thought it was.

    ¡°Julio, Fatima, please remember to thank this absolutely amazing woman every day for the next three weeks,¡± I said, flipping the binder shut and passing it over to them. ¡°She just saved all of us a few months of work, each.¡±

    ¡°Uh, ma¡¯am? Your, uh, your tail¡­?¡±

    I looked up at Mrs. Banks, blinked once, and felt my cheeks start to burn as I processed the sensation I¡¯d been ignoring. My ears went down as I brought a hand to hold my treasonous tail still and stop the wagging, but it was clearly much too late for my reputation.

    ¡°I, uh, that, uh¡­¡± Well, there went all chances of anybody in this room taking me seriously ever again, clearly. ¡°I, uh, got a bit excited at that, um, sorry.¡±

    Both Fatima and Julio were holding back giggles.

    Mrs. Banks didn¡¯t bother, and began laughing uproariously in her seat. She went on like that for a good ten seconds or so before getting herself under control, even as her shoulders continued to shake a tad with suppressed laughter.

    ¡°I-I am so sorry,¡± she said, suppressing another giggle. ¡°I just, I haven¡¯t really had much to laugh at for a few months now. I really needed that. Thank you.¡±

    All of my embarrassment fell away in a rush, replaced by pity and concern. For a moment there, Destiny had managed to forget the truly awful circumstances that had brought her to the firm¡¯s door in the first place. And admittedly, that was probably a gift to her. It was a moment of levity, where she¡¯d been ever-so-briefly able to ignore her own pain.

    I briefly coughed into my hand, both to get myself out of my own head and to draw attention back to myself.

    ¡°In any case.¡± I turned towards Julio and Fatima. ¡°Once document review is done and dusted, I want you two pulling what you can from these documents to draft affidavits and prep exhibits. The more affidavits we have from people who lived in the building, particularly as pertains to the building conditions or the quality of repairs made to the premises, the better. We can¡¯t sue the city here; that would mean Barricade is on the other side, and we cannot have that happen if we want a fighting chance¡ª¡°

    ¡°Whoa now hold on one goddamn second!¡±

    I let Mrs. Banks interrupt me, turned towards her, and lowered one ear her way as a prompt to continue.

    ¡°That pathetic excuse for a ¡®superhero¡¯ left my boys to die! And you want to just let him off!?¡± Mrs. Banks yelled, slamming her hands on the table as she glared down at me.

    I sighed, ears drooping before I gave her my full attention.

    ¡°Mrs. Banks¡ª¡±

    ¡°I better be about to hear a damn good explanation comin¡¯ outta yo¡¯ mouth, or Lord help me I don¡¯t wanna know what comes next!¡±

    I tapped my finger on the table, thinking for a moment. There were two different approaches available to me here, and neither of them were good. As it stood, though, I needed to give my client something. Something that would hopefully shock her back into her seat.

    ¡°How many people have you killed, Mrs. Banks?¡±

    She had no response. I looked up to see a wide-eyed expression on her face, mouth ever so slightly agape as she tried to figure out how to respond to that.

    ¡°I have five bodies to my name.¡± I held up a hand, and five little, purple candle flames danced above my fingertips. ¡°Ernesto Rivera,¡± I said, and the flame above my thumb winked out. ¡°Guadalupe Rivera.¡± The light over my index finger faded out next. ¡°Frankie Edwards.¡± Then my middle finger. ¡°Evangeline Edwards.¡± Another flame disappeared. ¡°And¡­ little baby Lea Edwards.¡±

    I let the last flame gutter out, closed my hand into a fist, and just¡­ sighed.

    ¡°Five people that I burned to ash. Not even their bones were left. I¡¯ll never forget their names, no matter how much I want to. No matter how much their screams haunt me.

    ¡°But, guess what? It may have been my powers that killed them, but it wasn¡¯t my fault.¡±

    Nobody spoke up. Not Julio, not Fatima, and certainly not Mrs. Banks.

    ¡°The NMR¡¯s ¡®training¡¯ is a crock of shit,¡± I continued, laying my head against one hand and staring at my client. ¡°You get six weeks to try and get full police training, and EMT training, and SWAT training, and maybe some firefighting training for another couple weeks. But it¡¯s not actually useful, because they don¡¯t care. Nothing has meaningfully changed since I was a superhero. We¡¯re just flashy, shiny stuff to make you look one way while the real business happens in the other direction. And sure, sometimes our powers are useful. Most of the time, though? We¡¯re in over our heads, we don¡¯t know what to do, and we panic. We lash out. We go on autopilot. We stop thinking. We fall back on instinct.

    ¡°All because we were not trained to handle crises, and were expected to anyway.¡°

    The clock ticked in the silence that followed. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

    Fifteen.

    I stood up from my seat and picked up my tablet.

    ¡°You can disagree with my suggestion if you want,¡± I told Mrs. Banks, who still seemed almost shell shocked by my little spiel. ¡°But keep in mind that, on the topic of superheroes, I know more than anyone else you¡¯re likely to ever meet. I¡¯m not telling you to forgive Barricade. I¡¯m telling you that trying to punish him is useless. The NMR would fight it tooth and nail. And besides, if my experience is anything to go by, he¡¯s punishing himself more than enough already.¡±

    I walked over to the door, but paused before leaving.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have to let it go. But you¡¯re gonna need to let it wait.¡±

    With that parting shot, I left the conference room, and headed back to my office. This case was Julio¡¯s and Fatima¡¯s for the next few weeks. I had a trial to prepare for. At the same time, though, I knew I wouldn¡¯t be able to completely let this case slip my mind for that time. I knew myself too well. Hopefully the monotony of trial binders and rehearsing my opening statement would be enough to keep it off my mind for a bit.

    And if not, well, Gorou would just smack some sense into me. That smug fox always did.

 Chapter Six

    So. Pretrial mode. There were a lot of myths about what we attorneys spent our time doing in the days and weeks leading up to trial. Pop culture would have you believe that, as a general rule, we spent an absolute litany of all-nighters and downed far more caffeine than was strictly safe, all in the name of crafting the absolute perfect argument. Copaganda and legal dramas operate under the assumption that any second spent thinking about something that wasn¡¯t the upcoming trial was just another chance to lose, and that every spare iota of brain power must be directed towards scripting everything out ¡ª every objection, every question, every little movement in the well of the court (which, by the way, was the rectangular space with the lawyers at the bottom, the judge at the top, and the jury off to the side).

    Every single one of those people was wrong.

    In fairness, there were attorneys that spent every single second working on the case, all the way to the moment they arrived in court. Those were either new attorneys at their first trial, or¡­ patent attorneys. At least in my experience. Look, patent attorneys scare me, alright? Something about the fact that most of them have a STEM bachelor¡¯s or master¡¯s on top of being a lawyer¡­ God, maybe it was the fact that I was visibly other during my time in higher education, but theirs was a path I was never going to try and emulate.

    But alas, I was off topic. Anyways. Getting back to the point, experienced trial attorneys tended not to let themselves spend too much time agonizing over every minute detail. If you were working on your case until the very last second, then something was very wrong with your case. Plain and simple. Either you fucked up somewhere, or the universe as a whole decided to take a great big dump all over your case, and you were engaging in a salvage operation.

    Suffice to say, my upcoming trial was neither of these. It was a relatively simple case ¡ª oh, don¡¯t give me that, it was¡­ ugh, fine. It was as simple as a case about literal superpowers could be, okay? The case had a fun factual problem, actually, and the only reason I hadn¡¯t handed it off to one of the other attorneys at the firm was that they didn¡¯t have instant access to a good demonstrative regarding where a Moonshot¡¯s powers and its active effects stopped versus where the aftereffects started, and who was at fault turned on that answer. That was it. It was hopefully going to be a quick one¡­ assuming opposing counsel¡¯s experts didn¡¯t decide to try and stonewall me like that one jackass back in 2017, ooh, I would never forget that absolute dillweed and his¡ª

    A fluffy tail thwacked me in the face. It didn¡¯t hurt, but I still flinched back, and wound up falling off of the throw pillow I¡¯d been using as a seat cushion and flat onto the carpet.

    ¡°Gorou!¡± I yelped as I pushed myself up, ears lowered in annoyance.

    ¡°You were thinking about work again. Stop that,¡± the silver fox admonished, the four tails flowing behind him broadcasting his annoyance even better than his ears did. ¡°It¡¯s your turn.¡±

    ¡°Ugh, fine, sorry.¡± I huffed and pulled myself back to sitting cross-legged on the throw pillow as I checked my tiles. Let¡¯s see, I had two E¡¯s, one Z, one L, one B, and two S¡¯s. If I¡¯d had an A among my tiles, I would¡¯ve been able to get rid of this stupid Z without giving Gorou an opening for overly many of his two-letter words, but the squares that would¡¯ve prevented that weren¡¯t available. There was an easy-to-use open A on the board, which was currently being used to spell out ¡®Asphalt¡¯ (Gorou¡¯s opening word, that fox¡¯s luck was dumb), and that seemed to be a good-enough option to me.

    With that in mind, I grabbed four of my tiles, played the word ¡®Zebra¡¯ leading down to the second A in ¡®Asphalt¡¯, and gave myself 15 points, putting me ahead of Gorou again for now.

    ¡°I wanted to use that letter.¡± Gorou looked up from his own tiles and gave me a stare.

    ¡°Too bad!¡± I responded with a sweet smile and a playful wiggle of my ears. ¡°Alright, old man. Your turn!¡±

    ¡°We both know I¡¯m not a day older than twenty-five,¡± the fox said with a pout as he pushed his tiles around with the claws on a front paw.

    ¡°Twenty-five squared, you mean.¡±

    Gorou squawked in mock outrage. I giggled at that, and laughed a bit harder when he hopped over from the sofa to get a closer look at the game board.

    When Gorou first¡­ wait, huh. I didn¡¯t actually know the best word to use here, which was ironic, because the two of us were currently playing Scrabble. Um, let me think¡­ when Gorou first empowered and bound himself to me, whatever it was that he did managed to lodge some of his centuries of knowledge squarely inside my cranium. A lot of that knowledge has absolutely massive gaps, but the part that thankfully had none was his knowledge of the Japanese language. The kitsune had forgotten more about his native language than most people ever learned in the first place, and thanks to whatever it was he did, I got the ability to speak, read, and write the language as well as he ever could.

    Unfortunately, the transfer was very much one way. Gorou couldn¡¯t initially speak, read, or understand English any more than the average Japanese TV-watcher. Fortunately, the connection between us did let Gorou piggyback on my understanding of the English language¡­ when I was there, and hearing or reading the same thing he wanted to understand. If I wasn¡¯t there, he couldn¡¯t understand any English. Which meant he needed to learn English. The problem was, if I was seeing or hearing the same thing he was, he filtered that through my understanding. So I had to either not be present (not really possible), or we had to compartmentalize ourselves from each other.

    Getting Gorou a tablet of his own helped, because he could angle it so I couldn¡¯t see, and a bit of soundproofing in the right spots gave him a movable space that I couldn¡¯t hear, either. That got Gorou up to speed on the most basic vocabulary and grammar, but getting him further than that proved¡­ difficult.

    Until six months into my involuntary year in Japan, when Sir Ambrose brought the two of us a game of Scrabble. And boy howdy, did Gorou fucking love Scrabble. Like, don¡¯t get me wrong, it was a good game, but I had never seen someone take to it with such fervor as the damn fox did.

    ¡°It is a game of knowledge, wisdom, chance, and strategy,¡± he¡¯d told Ambrose a few months later, in heavily accented but unbroken English. ¡°You must know what options are available to you, divine what options are available to your opponent, understand when not to take action, and how to salvage poor fortune. And being able to spell the words top-to-bottom has helped me more than I expected.¡±

    Suffice to say that Scrabble became a regular part of mine and Gorou¡¯s evening routine, and there wasn¡¯t a chance in hell either of us was going to pass up a chance to play during a pretrial ¡®don¡¯t think about the trial¡¯ relaxation period.

    Plus, I got to enjoy the sight of a fox ever-so-carefully tiptoeing across the coffee table and scrabble board. For all that he was a serious person, that seriousness was pure comedy in motion whenever he got invested in something. Imagine the laser focus of pure severity¡­ directed at a children¡¯s board game¡­ and coming from a small animal that weighed maybe thirty pounds soaking wet.

    It was as funny as it sounded.

    ¡°Ah. I know.¡± Gorou hopped backwards off the table and landed perfectly on the couch cushion (the precision of which still shocked me after seventeen years), and started pushing tiles off of his slate. Four letters (O, G, I, Y) all made their way onto the table, and he put one tail on top of each letter to start sliding them into place.

    The O started at the top, going into the U I¡¯d used for ¡®purse¡¯ earlier, followed by the G, I, and Y slotting into the space between ¡®purse¡¯ and the first A in ¡®asphalt¡¯. The letters spelled out ¡®OUGIYA¡¯, with the Y going through a double-point square, for a grand total of 14 points.

    Gorou looked up from the game board, an insufferably smug expression on his muzzle as I gaped at the board.

    ¡°No,¡± I said, reaching for the Scrabble dictionary. ¡°No, there is no way that¡¯s a real word, I refuse to believe it.¡±

    ¡°It is the¡ª¡±

    ¡°Gorou, no, I¡¯m going to consult the Holy Book of Scrabble-Legal Words!¡±

    The book slammed down onto the coffee table, thankfully not disrupting the placement of any Scrabble tiles (Gorou would have killed me if I ruined the board state), and I wasted no time flipping it open.

    ¡°Let¡¯s see, start at P, go backwards to OU, and¡­ oh no goddamn way.¡± I looked up at the fox, who somehow managed to look even more smug than before. ¡°Gorou, have you been studying the Scrabble dictionary?¡±

    ¡°And if I was?¡± the fox asked, flicking an inquisitive ear in my direction.

    I frowned, then looked at the score. Gorou was now ten points ahead of me, and he¡¯d gotten four of the last five tiles from the bag. Given the letters I had available to me, and what was already on the board¡­

    ¡°Ugh¡­ damn. You win again, you sly, little ¡ª urgh!¡± I tossed the notepad I¡¯d been using to track our scores onto the armchair behind me. ¡°C¡¯mon, can¡¯t you go a bit easy on me?¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t even let me play my last word,¡± Gorou said with a haughty sniff. ¡°So no.¡±

    I rolled my eyes. ¡°Fine, fine, just, ugh, show me what the word would¡¯ve been.¡±

    Contrary to my expectations, Gorou didn¡¯t take his tiles and spell it out for me. Instead, he padded over to the Scrabble dictionary, paged through it with a tail, and then pointed out a word to me. I leaned over to read what he¡¯d settled on.

    ¡°... you and your loan words, I swear to god,¡± I grumbled, eyeing the fox with some amount of disdain. ¡°Okay but seriously, this is ridiculous, how many hours have you spent going through the freaking¡ª¡±

    DING-DONG

    ¡°Eep!¡± I yelped, jumping all the way from the floor to the armchair in fright at the unexpected doorbell, and found myself landing sideways in a rather uncomfortable position. My tail was stuck under me in a way that wasn¡¯t actively painful, but it was certainly awkward, and I rolled out of the armchair and back onto the floor to alleviate the pressure. Why was I even ¡ª oh right, the doorbell!

    ¡°One moment!¡± I yelled towards the front door. Then I turned to tell Gorou to make himself scarce, only to realize that the quick silver fox had already jumped over my brown-furred self. All I caught was the tips of his tails disappearing out the top of my field of view and over the banister to the townhome¡¯s second floor.

    I stood up, winced a little at my current outfit of choice, and went to the door.

    ¡°Who is it?¡± I asked, even as I stood on my tip-toes to look through the peephole and mentally cursed the people who didn¡¯t place the damn things for people who were shorter than five and a half feet.

    ¡°It¡¯s Alice,¡± responded a voice I definitely hadn¡¯t been expecting, words only slightly muffled by the door. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to bother you at home, but it¡¯s something that needs the kind of privacy we can¡¯t get in the office. If you¡¯re busy, I can come back later?¡±

    ¡°Um¡­¡±

    I looked back at the game of Scrabble still splayed out on the living room table, and then much more importantly tried to remember if I was wearing pants or not. Decision made, I plastered an apologetic expression on my face, folded my ears down in the most piteous way possible, cracked open the door, and peeked through the crevice at my boss.

    ¡°I am so sorry to ask, but, uh, would you terribly mind waiting out here a moment?¡± I said, not even having to try and force a blush. ¡°I¡¯m, um, not fully decent.¡±The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    If the sudden amused expression on Alice¡¯s face was anything to go by, I was in the clear, thank goodness.

    ¡°Take all the time you need,¡± she said. ¡°Oh, but take this first!¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    A round, tinfoil-covered thing suddenly showed up in the center of my vision. I glanced from it to my boss, offering her a questioning look.

    ¡°Apparently you made a good impression on my husband at the last holiday party,¡± Alice offered as an explanation. ¡°I told him yesterday that I¡¯d be late tonight, he made this and told me to pick it up first before heading your way.¡±

    I gingerly took the thingamajig, and spun it around in my hands. It was covered in foil on the top and sides, but the bottom was a cool metal of some kind.

    ¡°I, um, thanks? But, uh¡­¡±

    ¡°Matcha cheesecake.¡±

    My ears and tail perked up in an instant, and I could feel my mouth watering just at the thought. Oh, ohoho, ooooh goodness, oh my lord I was going to be eating like a queen this next week!

    ¡°Ooooh my God thank you thank you thank you let me go put this away and get decent I¡¯ll be right back!¡±

    I closed the front door and blinked straight to the kitchen in a flash of purple flame, precious cargo in tow. It went directly into the fridge, then I hastily shoved all the Scrabble stuff into its box and slid it under the sofa ¡ª I could put it away properly later. Then another quick blink and I was upstairs throwing on a pair of flannel pants (huh, Gorou wasn¡¯t on my bed, wonder where he was), and a third and final blink brought me back to the front door.

    Was I dressed to impress? I looked down at my current outfit ¡ª an oversized Hello Kitty hoodie over a pair of flannel pants, which rode a bit low on my hips to not crowd my tail ¡ª and just shrugged. Ugh, whatever, if the boss¡¯s husband liked me enough to bake me a cheesecake, what I wore in my own home wouldn¡¯t be a problem.

    I opened the door wide, and welcomed Alice Tanaka-Schotz into my home.

    ¡°Sorry about that,¡± I said with a nervous giggle as I closed the door behind her.

    ¡°Oh no, my employee made me wait two extra minutes when I arrived unannounced at half past nine, such a shame,¡± she deadpanned as she took her shoes off, thank goodness I didn¡¯t have to ask. ¡°If anything, I should be the one apologizing for ¡ª huh.¡±

    I froze, only barely managing to stop my tail from creeping between my legs. Huh? What did she mean, ¡®huh¡¯? Did I forget to get all the Scrabble pieces put away? Had I forgotten a sweater or something on the sofa?

    ¡°Naomi?¡± Alice asked, and I braced myself for the worst. ¡°Just out of curiosity, did it take you a while to get your exotic pet permit, or did being Moonshot help on that front?¡±

    ¡°¡­ uh.¡± I blinked, and turned to actually check where Alice was looking. Then I saw it, and couldn¡¯t help the groan.

    There on the stairs, peeking out from the bannister, was Gorou. Who I¡¯d just told to make himself scarce, as a just-in-case.

    I sighed. ¡°God, frickin¡¯ ¡ª ugh. Look, it¡¯s a long story, and I¡¯d rather not get into it; just, say hi to Gorou, he¡¯s being a persnickety little drama queen again.¡±

    Gorou, for his part, responded by offering Alice and me a very toothy yawn before he darted upstairs. I was glad to see he¡¯d kept all of his tails held together, and that whatever magic or some such he used to make them several times the length of his body was clearly not in play.

    ¡°I¡¯ll just chalk it up to a Moonshot thing,¡± Alice said.

    Inwardly, I cheered, but all I showed of that relief was a soft smile and a gesture towards the sofa. Alice accepted the seat and set her purse down on the coffee table, at which point I sat myself cross-legged on the armchair, letting my tail wave behind me.

    ¡°So, um, not to be a poor host, but what¡¯s the occasion?¡± I asked. ¡°I mean, not that you¡¯re bad company, but I don¡¯t usually expect my boss to make a house call this late on a Thursday night.¡±

    ¡°And if you did expect that, it would probably mean I¡¯d been breaking dozens of labor laws,¡± she quipped back without missing a beat. ¡°It¡¯s a bit of a¡­ well, not so much a delicate matter as it is a private one. I remember that you emailed HR with a sexual harassment complaint about Mr. Schwartz relatively recently; do you recall?¡±

    ¡°Ah¡­ do you mean the one where I said Bob was waiting at the entrance and made inappropriate, sexist, and anti-Moonshot comments when I came in? Or was it the one a week later where, uh, he tried to run his fingers through my tail?¡±

    ¡°Both.¡±

    ¡°O-oh.¡± I fidgeted a bit, bringing my tail around to my lap so I could ease my discomfort. ¡°I, uh, kinda forgot about them until you brought them up, to be honest? I mean, I got read receipts from HR, but that was it. Which was disappointing, but given his mom¡¯s position at the firm, um. Not unexpected.¡±

    ¡°There was no follow-up because I deleted the complaints before Rachel could see them.¡±

    ¡­ she what?

    ¡°You remember Barbara? Our current head of HR?¡± Alice asked, and I found myself nodding. ¡°She was a friend of Rachel¡¯s before the firm hired her. I haven¡¯t had the proof I need to get Tess involved, so until I did, I made it a point to keep a close eye on any emails coming into HR, just in case they were complaints about Robert. Rachel may be the Bierman in the firm name, but that doesn¡¯t mean her son should be able to get away with what he has.¡±

    ¡°And even with that, my complaints couldn¡¯t stay in the system because¡­¡±

    ¡°Because so long as Rachel didn¡¯t see them, they gave me the ammo I needed to get Tess involved. Bierman v. Schotz is one thing, but once it was Viskie and Schotz, that was that.¡± Alice gave me a wicked grin, and it was so downright predatory I felt my ears pin back involuntarily. ¡°Suffice to say? By the time you¡¯re done with your trial, Robert Schwartz will need to find new employment elsewhere.¡±

    It took me a moment for all of that to meander through my thoughts. Once it did, though, I found myself smiling and sighing in relief.

    ¡°Oh thank God,¡± I said. ¡°Like, seriously, thank you. Bob the Nepo Baby was bad enough when he just fondled my tail, but I swear last week he was going to try and grope my¡ª¡°

    ¡°He did what.¡±

    The sudden, harsh, almost reverberating baritone made Alice flinch and me stiffen up. I turned to look at the bannister, but the flash of silver fur as Gorou alighted on the coffee table stopped me partway.

    ¡°... did that fox just¡ª¡±

    ¡°You told me that this matter was simply a disagreement, Naomi,¡± Gorou continued, his voice answering the question Alice had been about to ask. ¡°Not that this ¡®petulant child¡¯ was attempting to defile you.¡±

    ¡°That ¡ª ugh,¡± I sighed. ¡°Gorou, could this please just wait a little bit, I was in the middle of something!¡±

    ¡°No,¡± the fox said, refusing to elaborate any further.

    Behind him, Alice was visibly schooling her features back into her usual placid mask, her shock and surprise maybe, hopefully, fading from the sheer mundanity of our conversation.

    ¡°Gorou, would you please just let me finish this very serious conversation?¡± I asked, trying to keep my tone from sounding pleading. ¡°I promise I¡¯ll buy you a nice bottle of sake this weekend.¡±

    ¡°Actually I would prefer a good port. Better pairing with my cheeses.¡±

    I stared at the fox, whose four tails just wavered back and forth in amusement.

    ¡°Oh for the love of ¡ª what is it with you and cheese?¡± I asked, incredulous.

    ¡°Do you have any idea how little cheese there was in Edo-period Japan?¡±

    ¡°Oi!¡± I snapped. ¡°Answering a question with a question is my schtick!¡±

    ¡°Did you copyright it?¡± the fox asked, that familiar expression of insufferable smugness drifting across his muzzle.

    ¡°Did I ¡ª no!¡± I explained, standing from my chair to better gesticulate. ¡°I¡¯m Jewish! Answering questions with questions is this whole thing with us!¡±

    ¡°Jewish¡­ but also living proof of Shinto.¡±

    ¡°You, but I¡­ ugh!¡± I put both hands on the table and leaned in close until I was almost nose-to-nose with him. ¡°Gorou, I love you¡ª¡±

    ¡°I love you too.¡±

    ¡°¡ªbut can we please wait to relitigate this for the¡­¡± I floundered, thinking. ¡°Uh¡ª¡±

    ¡°Twenty-seventh,¡± Gorou provided.

    ¡°¡ªtwenty-seventh time, thank you, until some later time when my boss is not sitting right there!?¡± I gestured at where Alice had tucked herself into the corner of the sofa, and now sat with a decidedly amused expression on her face.

    ¡°Oh no, don¡¯t mind me, please continue,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m perfectly fine.¡±

    Both Gorou and I gave her a Look (?) for a moment, but when that failed to get any kind of response from her, the two of us turned back to each other.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t have been worried enough to interject if you¡¯d told me everything from the beginning,¡± Gorou continued.

    ¡°Yes, look, I¡¯m sorry, okay?¡± I offered. ¡°I know I didn¡¯t tell you what was going on, but in fairness we both remember how overboard you went back in ¡®08, don¡¯t we?¡±

    ¡°And in fairness, even if he deserved it, I did still go overboard, and I accept that,¡± Gorou responded without missing a beat. ¡°But I have been good, and there won¡¯t be a repeat.¡±

    ¡°Okay. In that case, I¡¯m sorry,¡± I told him. ¡°Going forward, I¡¯ll be better, and make sure to keep you fully abreast of what¡¯s going on, okay?¡±

    ¡°Okay. Thank you.¡± With that, Gorou tilted his chin up and licked me on the nose, which drew a small giggle from me. I sat back in the armchair, after which Gorou hopped onto the arm, then down into my lap, and made himself comfy.

    And now, with that handled, I could return my attention to my boss.

    ¡°Um¡­ I am so, so sorry about that interruption,¡± I told Alice, whose placid smile was starting to look a bit shaky to me. ¡°Uh, where were we?¡±

    ¡°... actually, I think we managed to cover all the salient points before ¡ª Gouro, you said?¡±

    ¡°Gorou,¡± the fox corrected, putting emphasis on the second syllable to correct her pronunciation.

    ¡°Right, yes, thank you, before the interruption,¡± she said. ¡°Unless you have any questions for me, I will just¡­ stop imposing on your evening, and see myself out, then?¡±

    I looked at Gorou, and lowered an ear in question. He tilted his head and lowered his own ears, which was a good enough approximation of a shrug.

    ¡°No, I think we¡¯re good. Oh, should I bring the pan back to you once the cheesecake is done?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Toji wouldn¡¯t be mad if you kept it, but he¡¯d be disappointed in me,¡± Alice said as she stood from the couch and picked up her purse. ¡°Well in that case, um. I¡¯ll be off. And enjoy the cheesecake, Toji¡¯s very proud of that recipe.¡±

    ¡°I will!¡± I made to stand up from the armchair despite Gorou¡¯s objections, but Alice waved it off.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay, I¡¯ll let myself out. Have a good evening, Naomi. Gorou, it was a pleasure to meet you.¡±

    ¡°Mm.¡± Gorou nodded in her direction, but didn¡¯t say anything else, which was¡­ probably for the best, given how brittle Alice¡¯s smile had gotten. She made her way past the little entrance hall, put her shoes back on, and left.

    But I didn¡¯t hear her footsteps heading away yet. So Gorou and both leaned just a little bit closer to the door, and perked up our ears.

    ¡°A talking fox. A talking fox!¡± Alice exclaimed. The relative privacy of my street was probably why she was okay saying it out loud. ¡°Four tails? Shit I need to talk to Toji, oh my God he¡¯s not going to believe it, wait no holy shit what if the fox tries Toji¡¯s cheesecake and likes it? Edo period, he said that, when was¡­ 17th century!?¡±

    ¡°Do you think she knows we can hear her?¡± Gorou asked me in Japanese.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to tell her,¡± I replied back in the same language. ¡°Her husband apparently likes me, by the way. Want to try that matcha cheesecake?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you didn¡¯t already have a slice.¡± With that, Gorou hopped off my lap, and headed towards the kitchen. I followed him without hesitation. A minute or two later, the pair of us had slices of cheesecake on the coffee table, with a spoon in my hand and another spoon expertly manipulated with two of Gorou¡¯s tails. We both listened closely to the door, but apparently, my boss had finally gotten it all out and moved along.

    ¡°Shall we?¡± I asked. Gorou offered a perfect foxy grin, sat back on his haunches, and clapped his front paws and two free tails together. At the same time, I clapped my own hands together, and mirrored his smile.

    ¡°Itadakimasu!¡± he and I said at the same time.

    Then we each took a bite, and¡ª

    ¡°... oh my¡ª¡± I whispered. ¡°Holy shit. Whoa. I¡­ that¡­¡±

    I went back for another bite.

    ¡°Oh. My. God. Okay I know I say this a lot but holy shit, that is better than sex.¡±

    ¡°Mm, mhmm,¡± Gorou mumbled around a bite. Then he paused, blinked, and looked up at me. ¡°... Naomi, most things are better than sex to you.¡±

    My throw pillow artillery strike missed by a mile, and the resulting scuffle left me trying to eat my cheesecake while a cackling fox propped himself up with his back paws straddling my shoulders and his front paws between my ears, all while poking me in the nose with the one tail he still had free.

 Chapter Seven

    Three weeks. Three long, painful, miserable weeks, and that trial was over.

    Technically, it was now four weeks later, and mid-May. But after the frustrating bullshit of that trial, I needed a day to write up some good old CMA documents, and then I took another two days to just¡­ veg. Recharge my batteries. Get some fluff therapy in, much to Gorou¡¯s feigned chagrin.

    And some retail therapy for good measure, much to Gorou¡¯s actual chagrin. At least until he got over his indignation and actually tried the heated blanket and self-heating dog bed I got for him.

    But even so, I did not want to put on work clothes. Instead, I scheduled a video conference with my two junior attorneys, made sure the stand mic was set up properly, and sat down for a Monday morning meeting while still wearing my pajamas.

    Once the program booted up, I saw that both Julio and Fatima were present and waiting on me to start. I glanced at the clock; two minutes early. Brownie points for them, then¡­ and, well, no reason to delay.

    Tap, click, green light showed the webcam was on, and I was live.

    Both of them were clearly in their offices at the firm, and Julio was either two coffees deep or double-fisting them. Fatima, meanwhile, had a massive glass thermos of some type of tea just barely visible on camera, and a bit of lint was stuck on her hijab, which she noticed at about the same time I did and hurriedly plucked it off.

    ¡°Welcome back to busywork city,¡± Julio greeted, voice sounding as tired as the two coffees suggested. ¡°Trial go okay?¡±

    Did the trial go okay¡­ ugh. I leaned back in my chair, looked up at the ceiling, and sighed.

    ¡°Fatima, you know how the firm has a rule where any all-male client group¡¯s team needs at least one male on the roster?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like where this is going,¡± she said, and the rustle of fabric that her microphone picked up told me she was fidgeting.

    ¡°Yeah, no, I don¡¯t either,¡± I added. ¡°Turns out we need to expand the rule to include where the client group has one or two token women, or they have to answer to all men above them. Jesus Mary mother of goddamn Christ on a crutch but these rich, old, white farts just do, not, fucking, listen! Just, ever!¡±

    ¡°Oh, no,¡± Julio murmured. ¡°What¡¯d they do?¡±

    ¡°Client¡¯s CLO overrode the one voice of reason on their own in-house legal team and made me put a witness on the stand that I told them, again and again, forward backwards upside-down and sideways, to not put on the stand under any circumstances, whatsoever!¡± I reached up to scratch at the base of my left ear, but damn it, whatever Gorou did when he got in the mood to groom me, I just couldn¡¯t replicate it. ¡°Like come on, if the seasoned trial attorney tells you not to put the product design team¡¯s former lead up on the stand, and it¡¯s a product liability case, what do you think is going to happen once the person you promoted to try and keep quiet is under oath and on cross-examination, huh?¡±

    ¡°How many times did you warn them?¡±

    ¡°A dozen times in writing over the last nine months,¡± I told Fatima. ¡°Twenty-three times in recorded voice notes, another three times in conference just before trial, and nine times during the trial itself. But because it wasn¡¯t penis-to-penis communication, they fucking ignored it, because clearly all I am is a pair of tits on legs, right?¡±

    ¡°¡­ note to self: reiterate her suggestions and then credit her afterward.¡± Right after Julio said that, I heard a pen click, and I looked back at the screen to see he was currently leaning back and writing on a legal pad.

    ¡°Julio, you are precious, never change.¡±

    ¡°Oh don¡¯t worry, my abuela would never forgive me if I did.¡±

    ¡°Anywho¡­¡± I leaned forward in my chair and picked up a pen, ready to write in my notebook. ¡°Read me back in on things, you two. Police, fire, building super. How¡¯d the sit-downs go?¡±

    ¡°Police was basically useless,¡± Julio said, his huff telling me all I needed to know about how that went. ¡°Only useful thing we got outta him was a recording that I hope we ain¡¯t gonna have to use, and if it¡¯s all the same to you, I don¡¯t wanna repeat what he said. Heard it all enough times as a public defender, and it gets worse each time.¡±

    I didn¡¯t even need to hear the recording to know what happened: the cops were racist, as expected.

    ¡°Let¡¯s be real, none of us expected anything better than that, but we have to do it anyways,¡± I said. ¡°Get all our ducks in a row and all. How about the others?¡±

    ¡°Well, both the fire chief and DCFD¡¯s arson investigator had a few things we still need to follow up on,¡± Fatima said as she picked up where Julio left off. ¡°We know why they couldn¡¯t get past the third floor now: the stairs gave out, and when the firefighters tried to set up a hook-and-ladder to get higher, the building facade crumbled and left the walls behind them too unstable to hook onto. Not to mention the heat of the fire was loosening window units and making them fall down, which also shouldn¡¯t have happened.¡±

    ¡°Did any of the stuff Destiny got from her neighbors help speak to or corroborate this at all?¡± I asked, pulling my tail into my lap to give my free hand something to do while I thought.

    ¡°The stuff about the window units at the very least,¡± Fatima confirmed. ¡°What about your half, Julio?¡±

    ¡°Nothing about the walls in my pile, but I got some stuff about the roofs and insulation, maybe about the wiring. Question, is it okay to ask a neighbor of mine about this stuff? He¡¯s an electrician, so I figure he¡¯d know better than I would.¡±

    ¡°Um¡­ yesn¡¯t?¡± I ventured. ¡°I mean, you can talk in hypotheticals, sure, but I¡¯m going to suggest you err on the side of caution. That being said, the electrician and electrical engineer our firm usually goes to for expert reports are both stupidly expensive, so if you can get a head start for free? Shit, I say go for it.¡±

    ¡°On that note, can I bring this back around to the witnesses?¡±

    ¡°Shoot, sorry, Fatima,¡± Julio said with a grimace. ¡°Didn¡¯t mean to take over like that.¡±

    ¡°It was a relevant tangent, but try not to make a habit of it,¡± I interjected. ¡°You were saying, Fatima?¡±

    ¡°Right, so that note about the wiring is important; the arson investigator isn¡¯t sure the exact cause of the fire, but he was able to tell us where it started.¡±

    ¡°Breaker room?¡±

    ¡°Breaker room.¡±

    ¡°Damn it,¡± I grumbled. ¡°Okay, that, uh¡­ that¡¯s gonna make things take longer. Before I forget, let me guess, the building super was uncooperative.¡±

    ¡°Like pulling teeth,¡± Julio grumbled. ¡°If I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d say the pendejo was reading from a script.¡±

    Likely because he¡¯d already memorized his script, but I wasn¡¯t going to tell Julio that. He was still new-ish to larger litigation, so I wasn¡¯t surprised at his annoyance. It may not have been a deposition officially, but it was similar enough that of course the not-deponent would¡¯ve been prepped for one, especially with how this case was already starting to shake out.

    ¡°Okay, given this, I¡¯m going to need you both to change your plans a little bit,¡± I said, drawing both of their attention. ¡°Between the both of you, how many more pages of documents do you have to go through?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve still got about half of them left?¡± Julio hedged, staring somewhere off camera.

    ¡°A quarter,¡± Fatima said.

    ¡°Okay, Fatima, draw up any affidavits you need, then grab the rest of Julio¡¯s and start chewing through those too, and once they¡¯re all prepped, get together with the client and grab whichever paralegal you can that¡¯s free and licensed as a notary to get all those signed. Julio, once Fatima relieves you of duty, reach out to your neighbor, get his preliminary take from a couple hypotheticals, then reach out to the engineer and electrician; Fatima, this is not a slight against you, but they¡¯re both the same kind of asshole I just spent three weeks suffering. Especially the engineer. They¡¯ve caused me enough issues already; I¡¯m not subjecting you to that.¡±

    Given how Fatima¡¯s expression had steadily been growing mutinous as I essentially handed all the choice, delectable tasks to Julio while leaving her l the busywork, I felt it was important that I make it explicit why I was dividing up the labor that way.

    ¡°... just so I don¡¯t go in there unprepared, how bad are we talking?¡± Julio asked. Even with the low fidelity of a webcam, I was still able to read his expression, which looked like he¡¯d smelled something foul and was barely resisting the urge to comment on it.

    ¡°Well, last time I needed the engineer to testify, he called me a Loonie when he thought I was out of earshot.¡± Both of their eyes went wide, and Fatima brought both hands over her mouth. ¡°Oh, and on the way out, he said he¡¯d see me next Tuesday.¡±

    That was to say, he went ahead and called me a cunt, but tried to be cute about it.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°Why do we still go to him!?¡± Fatima asked, yelling loud enough that her microphone picked up some feedback. I winced, ears folding down as I flinched away from the screen, and Julio grimaced. ¡°S-sorry,¡± she added, voice sheepish.

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I waved it off. ¡°And it¡¯s ¡ª look, the guy¡¯s an ass. But he¡¯s also got thirty years of experience, and if we toss him out of our rolodex, all of our competitors will be ready and waiting to scoop him up.¡±

    Fatima sighed, but nodded. Julio grumbled and laid his head on crossed arms, grumbling something under his breath in Spanish that his microphone couldn¡¯t quite pick up.

    ¡°Anyways, you¡¯ve got your marching orders. Fatima, affs; Julio, experts, start with the electrician and hope he¡¯s all we need. Full disclosure, I¡¯m still trying to set up Barricade¡¯s sit-down. Unfortunately, I have a few more things I need to do before leaving my last trial in the rear view mirror, so I¡¯ll probably need until Thursday to get everything in order.¡±

    ¡°That long?¡± Julio asked. ¡°Client want to appeal or what?¡±

    ¡°God, I wish it was that simple,¡± I groaned, running my fingers through my tail¡¯s fur to keep myself from gesticulating. ¡°But, no. Long story short, the client company¡¯s CEO is trying to make sure he doesn¡¯t go belly-up after the next shareholder meeting. And since the only plan the man seems to understand is ¡®pass the buck¡¯, odds are I¡¯m about to catch a malpractice suit so he can save face.¡±

    ¡°Um¡­ I mean no offense with this, but will you still be able to work this case if you¡¯re defending yourself from a malpractice suit?¡±

    ¡°None taken,¡± I told Fatima. ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m not worried. Everything¡¯s in writing, I didn¡¯t do shit without written permission, so while I¡¯d rather not have to deal with this? At least it¡¯s an easy 12(b)(6).¡±

    ¡°Then why would they even sue you?¡± Julio asked, incredulous.

    ¡°Because I am just a lowly woman, and he is the CEO of a Korean chaebol¡¯s North American subsidiary.¡±

    Fatima had this look of instant understanding at that. Julio, meanwhile, appeared somewhat poleaxed.

    ¡°... that¡¯s fucked up,¡± he said. Fatima giggled and turned away from the camera, shoulders shaking and a hand over her mouth.

    ¡°Welcome to being a woman in corporate America,¡± I said, airily waving a hand as a sort of ¡®what can you do¡¯. ¡°Anyways, that¡¯s all I¡¯ve got. Any questions?¡±

    Both of them shook their heads.

    ¡°In that case, back to work, everyone, and keep me posted!¡±

    With that, I disconnected from the video conference, closed my eyes, and leaned back with a sigh.

    Despite having said that I would be giving both of them full disclosure, I hadn¡¯t. Not really. It wasn¡¯t just that I was being sued for what we in the business called ¡°ineffective assistance of counsel¡±, or more colloquially, ¡°being a shit attorney¡±. There was also part of the why, the grounds that were being used to justify the lawsuit.

    The client¡¯s CEO was arguing that I should have been using my powers to help them. And, well, realistically?... if I were anybody else, this would¡¯ve been complete and utter bullshit. But, just my luck, I was the most physically obvious Moonshot in the country, and the reasonable assumption on seeing me was that my ears were not for show.

    The worst part? They were right.

    Lawyers whisper to each other and their clients all the time during a trial. Small clarifications, questions, last-minute changes to strategy, suggestions, the occasional bit of shit-talking, all of that flew back and forth between the people seated at counsel¡¯s table. And most of the time, opposing counsel couldn¡¯t hear that whispering, because most of the time, it was too quiet for someone to hear from across the aisle.

    But not me. Oh, I could hear every single word, including the stuff I really wasn¡¯t supposed to. Hell, you want to know the only reason my very presence in a courtroom didn¡¯t void the attorney-client privilege for conversations at counsel¡¯s table? The Federal Moonshot Bureau actually did something somewhat good.

    Yes, really. The Fumblers got something right. Why? Because I may have been the most visible example, but I was far from the only Moonshot who could overhear whispers with ease, and if we weren¡¯t allowed in a courtroom, it would cause problems with the Fifth Amendment. So the Federal Moonshot Bureau got their lobbyists going, whispered a few honeyed words into the correct ears, and gave us Moonshot a relatively easy solution to the problem, even if it was one we had to explicitly ask the NMR for.

    Thanks to the FMB¡¯s ¡®easy solution¡¯, the malpractice suit against me didn¡¯t hold water. The problem was that I still needed a helping hand if I wanted it to go away in a week as opposed to having this hang over my head for three to four months.

    And that meant I had to reach out to the one person I would really rather not have. But, hey. At least I was able to kill two birds with one stone. I just had to actually lean forward in my chair and¡­ do it.

    I tabbed over to my work email, and clicked to start a new one. I typed in the recipient, set Alice as the CC (just in case), filled in the subject, pressed tab, and¡ª

    ¡­ stalled out.

    I didn¡¯t want to write this email. Heck, it wasn¡¯t even the body of the message that was bothering me, it was who I needed to send it to that had stopped me cold. But I needed to write it. But I didn¡¯t want to write it.

    But I needed to write it.

    But I didn¡¯t want to.

    ¡°Gorou!¡± I yelled, knowing he¡¯d hear me from down in the living room. ¡°I need cuddles!¡±

    I heard the sound of Gorou¡¯s TV show stop.

    ¡°No cuddles until you write the email!¡± Gorou yelled back. A moment later, the volume returned.

    ¡°But Gorou!¡± I whined.

    ¡°No, Naomi!¡±

    ¡­ he didn¡¯t even pause his TV show that time.

    I groaned, loud and miserable and blah. Damn it, why couldn¡¯t Gorou indulge my procrastination impulse just this once? Why did he have to gate cuddles behind sending this email?

    Intellectually, I knew that this was the better thing for him to do, and showed that he cared more than any indulgence he could¡¯ve allowed would have. But I didn¡¯t want to do this. But if I wanted my fox-fur cuddles, I needed to.

    Damn it¡­

    I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. Okay, Naomi. Just write the email. Just¡­ grin and bear it.

    I dragged my hands over to the keyboard, and started typing.

    From: Naomi Ziegler, Esq.

    To: Megan Barnes, Staff Judge Advocate

    CC: Alice Tanaka-Schotz, Esq.

    Subject: Barricade Depo & Requesting Sound-Off Brief

    Megan;

    Per the subject line, I am sending this email for two separate purposes, but figured it would be easier to just send the one and not flood your inbox.

    First: it took some convincing, but my client has agreed not to file suit against Barricade or the NMR in any way. However, in order for our case to proceed, we need affidavits from the various first responders on the scene. My co-counsels have already sat down with DCFD, DCPD, and the arson investigator, but as you requested to personally be present for Barricade¡¯s eventual sit-down, I wanted to wait until my schedule was more or less free to accommodate yours and his.

    To that end, if you could suggest some possible times within the next 2-3 weeks for that not-a-deposition to take place, I will arrange everything else for your convenience.

    Second: as I mentioned above, I was not free for the past little bit, and the events occupying my time have spawned this issue. I recently concluded a trial in DC District Court, and have received notice that my former client intends to file suit against me, alleging Ineffective Assistance of Counsel. Specifically, they allege that, as I am Moonshot, I erred by not using my powers as part of my zealous representation¡­ stripping away the bullshit, they¡¯re suing me for not taking advantage of having overheard whispered conversations between opposing counsel and their client.

    Speaking realistically, they have no case, and it¡¯s an easy 12(b)(6). But, because my better hearing is due to my ears, and because my ears came free with my powers, then just in case I draw one of those judges, I request the NMR file a Sound-Off brief to make sure a sudden dose of legislating from the bench doesn¡¯t make both our jobs harder for stupid reasons.

    I appreciate your haste and assistance in this matter, and hope to hear back soon.

    Sincerely,

    Naomi Ziegler, Esq., FKA Foxfire

    Supervising Attorney, Litigation & Moonshot Affairs

    Bierman Viskie & Schotz, LLC

    AKA your sister-in-law

    (P.S ¡ª this isn¡¯t for Eli, it¡¯s been 17 years since he treated me like a human being and that¡¯s not likely to change anytime soon, this is for you, because I¡¯d rather at least try to make this working relationship not be utterly insufferable on both our ends and I figure an olive branch was warranted. Anyway, my brother probably never said anything because once he hit high school he got all self-conscious about it, but back when we were still on speaking terms, he was a fiend for Lego. His birthday should be coming up in 2 weeks, get him a big, elaborate Lego set, I guarantee he will be happier than a pig in mud. If he asks where you got the idea, blame our little sister Mira.)

    I left my cursor hovering over that last bit, wondering whether I should delete it. Honestly, I wasn¡¯t sure where it even came from. Or why I felt the need to include it. Maybe it was just that¡­ that I was still hurt, even all these years later. That I still held onto a smidgeon of hope, that maybe my family would get their collective heads out of their asses about me.

    I deleted it. Then I undid the delete. Then redid it. Then undid it again.

    Maybe I needed to flip a coin. Maybe that would help me decide.

    I closed my eyes, counted to three, and clicked ¡®Send¡¯.

    ¡°Gorou!¡±

    ¡°Did you write the email!?¡±

    I stood up from my desk chair, flickered downstairs in a flash of purple flame, and flounced face-down on the couch, arms reaching towards the corner Gorou had tucked himself into. He skittered away from my hand and onto the arm of the couch when I reached towards him, and gave me a pensive twitch of his ears.

    ¡°Well?¡±

    ¡°I sent it.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡± The silver fox hopped down from the arm and sprawled across my back, then rubbed his nose at the base of my left ear. ¡°I¡¯m proud of you.¡±

    ¡°Thanks for making me do that,¡± I said, nudging him with my tail until he grabbed it with two of his own.

    ¡°Anytime. Could you press play?¡±

    I was all too happy to oblige. I needed to tune the world out for a bit, anyway, and Gorou¡¯s questionable taste in television was all too perfect for that.

    ¡°My taste in television is impeccable, thank you very much.¡±

    ¡°Wha¡ª did I say that out loud?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Naomi, your ears are so expressive you didn¡¯t have to.¡±

    I blushed, whined, and buried my face into the couch cushion to try and hide the blush. Gorou just laughed, first at me, then at his TV show.

    Then he started grooming the fur on my ears, which felt so damn good that it lulled me to sleep for a nice midmorning nap.

 Chapter Eight

    The last week of May arrived before our chance to sit down with Barricade came around on the calendar, and realistically, I wasn¡¯t surprised. To give a better idea of the time frames involved here, Mrs. Banks had first met with us in March. It was now May, and we were still at least another month out from filing suit, then another month from an initial conference, and after that, we probably wouldn¡¯t see a trial until the new year rolled around. Lawsuits were slow, tedious, monotonous slogs towards an eventual flurry of activity, but most of them tended to die during the slow point.

    If I had any say in the matter, though, this one wouldn¡¯t.

    Per the NMR¡¯s request, Mrs. Banks was not going to be present for our sit-down with Barricade. I hadn¡¯t been paying overly much attention until the SJA mentioned it, but he¡¯d been out of the limelight entirely for most of the last four months following a hospital visit at the end of January. Making him face Mrs. Banks, while cathartic for her, would not have helped our case. Even so, it was only after a good twenty minutes of enduring her yelling that I got her to understand that she needed to sit this one out.

    But now, the day had arrived, and the team was just Julio, Fatima, and me.

    We exited the company car outside of the Joint Force Headquarters, like I had a month or so ago, and walked into the building. And just like a month or so ago, I received an almost identically warm welcome.

    ¡°Unknown Moonshot¡ª¡°

    ¡°Oh piss off,¡± I told the first soldier to speak up. ¡°You and I both know your boss, their boss, and every boss above them knew that I¡¯d be here today. Now go be a good soldier, follow your orders, and tell the Staff Judge Advocate that Foxfire is here for her ten o¡¯clock.¡±

    The grunt on guard duty did his level best to stare me down, I¡¯d give him that. But all it took was one twitch of my ears for his eyes to leave mine, and he stormed off with gritted teeth. The only reason his footsteps weren¡¯t stomps was purely military discipline at play, because even when angry, a soldier still had to be a soldier.

    ¡°Are you sure that was a good idea?¡± Julio whispered to me. I sniffed derisively.

    ¡°Moonshot and the military have a tenuous relationship,¡± I said back to him, not bothering to keep my voice down. I didn¡¯t care if the soldiers around us heard me; hell, I¡¯d honestly prefer they did. ¡°They treat us like the armed forces when it¡¯s convenient for them, but whenever it¡¯s inconvenient or expensive, they try to give us the shaft and put us down as civilians. Honestly, if some or other senator¡¯s kid hadn¡¯t been Moonshot, we wouldn¡¯t get the GI bill, VA healthcare, or any other kind of benefit whatsoever.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s shitty.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s life.¡± Just to raise some hackles, I snapped my fingers and conjured up a small ball of purple foxfire, which I let dance across my fingers as I talked. ¡°The military wants its cookie-cutter order-followers. Moonshot are so completely random that they can¡¯t have that with us, but it never stopped Uncle Sam from trying.¡±

    The grunts around us warily eyed the little fireball I was playing with, gripping their weapons just the smallest bit tighter. But they wouldn¡¯t dare fire on us. That grunt danced off the moment he heard the name ¡®Foxfire¡¯, which meant the men on duty had all been read in on just how valuable I was.

    After an increasingly tense (for everyone but me) two minutes, the elevator dinged at the far end of the hall, and a few moments later, the heavy security door at the end of the entry hall opened up. The first person through was another soldier with an officer¡¯s insignia, followed by none other than the Staff Judge Advocate herself.

    ¡°Are you terrorizing my men again?¡± SJA Barnes asked the instant her eyes fell upon me.

    ¡°Hm?¡± I glanced down at the little ball of foxfire I¡¯d been playing with, then offered the other woman a grin as it disappeared into nothingness. ¡°No, just passing the time. I assume you¡¯re ready for us?¡±

    ¡°Yes, now come on. The sooner I have you out of my hair, the better.¡±

    I needed no more invitation than that, and slight pokes to both Julio¡¯s and Fatima¡¯s sides got the both of them moving right along as well. They fell into step behind me, and the three of us followed SJA Barnes not to an elevator, but to a conference room on this same floor, just around a corner from the security door.

    The Staff Judge Advocate opened up the door, but before I could go inside, she gave me what I could only interpret as a meaningful look. I waggled one ear in question, but decided that I wanted to indulge her regardless.

    ¡°You two go in and get yourselves all set up,¡± I told Julio and Fatima. ¡°The SJA would like a word, apparently.¡±

    My two juniors shared a glance, then a shrug, and I stepped to the side to allow them passage into the conference room. Once they were in, SJA Barnes closed the door, leaned against it, and just stared at me with a somewhat contrite expression.

    ¡°¡­ you were right,¡± she said with a sigh, her left thumb fiddling with the family heirloom she wore on that hand.

    ¡°Of course I was,¡± I scoffed, rolling my eyes and lowering my ears. ¡°Let me guess: he was up all night building the damn thing.¡±

    ¡°He was asleep at the dining table when I woke up.¡±

    ¡°Typical.¡± I chuckled. ¡°You know that was supposed to be my graduation gift to him? All the extravagant shit our parents thought of, but even with that shiny new PhD, I knew all he¡¯d want was more Lego.¡±

    ¡°Supposed to be?¡± Megan asked.

    ¡°Well, it was a little hard to attend his graduation when I was stuck in Japan for over a year. And then a little hard to care after I knew how little he wanted to know who I became,¡± I told her. ¡°You know, it¡¯s¡­ kinda funny. I haven¡¯t so much as wondered what my brother was up to for years now. Thought I¡¯d still be angry, after¡­¡± I sighed.

    ¡°For what little it¡¯s worth, I¡¯m sorry for, ah¡­ trying to call you¡ª¡°

    I held up a hand to forestall her from saying anything else.

    ¡°Just drop it,¡± I said. ¡°That you even thought to apologize is enough. Plus, well. I think we¡¯re going to need all the emotional bandwidth we can get.¡±

    ¡°We are,¡± she confirmed, and I saw the moment Megan tucked my sister-in-law back beneath the surface and brought the Staff Judge Advocate to the fore. ¡°I do not want you badgering my trooper in there. If I think you¡¯re pushing too hard, I will step in.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± I said. ¡°Hopefully, you¡¯ll be the first NMR desk jockey I see to actually show some care for the Moonshot under them.¡±

    Something between anger and grief flickered in Megan¡¯s eyes before they hardened, and she turned away, opening the conference room door in the same motion. I accepted the begrudging invitation and stepped in, whereupon I saw both Julio and Fatima doing their level best to look innocent and unassuming. Megan closed the door behind me, and I heard her footsteps recede towards where I remembered the elevator to be. Once they faded from earshot, I set my focus back on my two juniors.

    ¡°How much of that did you hear?¡± I asked.

    Neither of them answered, but from their expressions, I gathered that the answer was ¡®nowhere near as much as they wanted to¡¯. I smiled, pulled out a chair, and sat down to wait.

    Contrary to my expectations, we weren¡¯t kept long. After maybe a minute had passed, I again heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. There were two sets of them: one the sharp, staccato raps of Megan¡¯s kitten heels on government building tile, while the other had the heavy, dragging cadence I usually heard from people who¡¯d pushed too hard in their last workout.

    Or, I amended once the door opened and the SJA entered with the man of the hour in tow, from somebody who¡¯d been struggling to get a proper night¡¯s sleep. I stood to face the door, and got my first good in-person look at the most recent poor unlucky bastard to suffer the NMR¡¯s pitiful excuse for help.

    The Moonshot towered over both SJA Barnes and myself, standing a bit over six feet tall. Barricade wore his usual superhero ¡®costume¡¯, which was really just motorcycle leathers modified to resemble armor, and he kept the police helmet on. As much as I disliked the decision, he was one of the many Moonshot who opted to try and keep their personal lives separate from their job, so I kept my distaste to myself. Even without being able to see the top half of Barricade¡¯s face, though, his nose and mouth were more than enough to paint a rather grim picture of the man in front of us.

    Razor burn was somehow visible even through something between three and five days of stubble. His lips were chapped and peeling, with visible scabs on the bottom lip that roughly matched the spacing of his teeth. His pale skin seemed almost waxy under the conference room¡¯s fluorescent lighting, and his expression was downcast and dreary. He appeared utterly miserable.

    Familiarly so, if I was being painfully honest.

    ¡°Barricade?¡± I asked unnecessarily, even as I approached and extended a hand. ¡°My name is Naomi Ziegler, though during my time in the NMR, my callsign was Foxfire.¡±

    Barricade turned away from the floor at my approach, and I could tell the instant his eyes fell on me. Even through the reflective visor on the police-style helmet he wore, his double-take was obvious, as was the almost disbelieving blink in his expression. While I¡¯d encountered a fair few of DC¡¯s Moonshot during my time in the city, Barricade was a recent-enough addition that I hadn¡¯t had a chance to encounter him under¡­ well, not pleasant circumstances, but at least less awful ones.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°I, uh,¡± he stuttered. Megan took the opportunity to clear her throat, which had Barricade standing at attention, after which he took my hand in a rather stiff motion.

    ¡°I-it¡¯s a pleasure to meet you,¡± he said. ¡°Uh, ma¡¯am.¡±

    ¡°I wish that it were, but let¡¯s be honest with ourselves, no it isn¡¯t,¡± I said, even as I cast a glance off to the side at the SJA, who just offered a raised eyebrow and a shrug. ¡°Don¡¯t feel the need to put on your public face.¡±

    Barricade let go of my hand, and seemed about to respond. He started turning towards SJA Barnes, but I drew his attention back to me with the wiggle of an ear and a welcoming smile. He took a deep breath, tensed his jaw, and breathed a few times more.

    Then, he practically deflated. His shoulders slumped, his back hunched, and his neck dipped down low enough that he¡¯d probably need to look back up to meet my eyes, even though he had almost a full foot of height on me.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. ¡°How long will this take?¡±

    ¡°As long as it needs to be, but as short as I can make it,¡± I told him. ¡°If you could take a seat, we¡¯ll get right underway. Sooner we start, sooner we¡¯re done.¡±

    I didn¡¯t need to offer any other invitation. Barricade pulled a chair out from the table and sat, though his height made the seat rather uncomfortable for him. He pulled further away from the table so his knees weren¡¯t bumping it, but that just made him look even more awkward compared to the rest of us. There wasn¡¯t anything I could do to help in that regard, so I just went back to our side of the table and sat down, while SJA Barnes took a seat next to Barricade.

    We¡¯d positioned ourselves on adjacent sides of the table, rather than opposite, positioning ourselves on the same ¡®side¡¯ while still allowing us to face one another for a proper conversation. Right now, we were allies, and hopefully the seating arrangements would help the man see us as friendlies.

    ¡°Before we begin, while this isn¡¯t a formal legal proceeding, SJA Barnes is sitting in and acting as your attorney for this matter,¡± I informed Barricade, opening my tablet and its keyboard cover into a comfortable typing position that didn¡¯t hide my face. ¡°About a week or so from now, we will have prepared an affidavit summarizing what you share here today, and we¡¯ll send it to you for a once-over. If you don¡¯t have anything to correct or add, then SJA Barnes will help you get it notarized. When this case enters discovery, the defendant¡¯s attorneys may want to sit you down for what¡¯s called a deposition, where you will be put under oath and they will ask you questions. Lastly, should this case end up going to trial, you will be called to testify before open court. Do you have any questions about this?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t, um.¡± Barricade worried at his bottom lip, teeth sliding over the scabs they¡¯d clearly made. ¡°What, w-what if¡­ what if I d-don¡¯t want to? Don¡¯t think I c-can?¡±

    ¡°Then we will press on without your testimony until and unless we find that it¡¯s something we absolutely need, at which point the judge would order you to either testify or go to jail for a bit.¡±

    The hero took in a shaky, rattling breath. SJA Barned shot me a nasty glare, and I offered her as apologetic of a glance as I could, lowering my ears to look more placating.

    ¡°I-I¡ª¡± Barricade cleared his throat, and I caught him bouncing one leg, which was probably a nervous tic. ¡°I, uh, I understand. O-okay. I¡¯m ready.¡±

    ¡°Very well.¡±

    I readied a printed copy of the questions I wanted to ask, which I would cross off my list once I¡¯d gotten a satisfactory answer. This was the kind of thing where it was best to start small, with things unrelated to the main event.

    ¡°These first few questions are going to seem a bit irrelevant,¡± I told him, just to make sure he wasn¡¯t surprised by them. ¡°They¡¯re similar to the kind of questions you would get in a deposition, and while that won¡¯t be happening for at least a few months, I¡¯d rather you have experience answering those questions before any kind of deposition prep. If you¡¯re all set?¡±

    ¡°I am,¡± Barricade said, though he didn¡¯t quite sound it to my ears.

    ¡°In that case, let¡¯s start with an easy one,¡± I said. ¡°What is your callsign, MT, and number?¡±

    He paused briefly at the easy question, but thankfully only needed a moment¡¯s surprise before answering.

    ¡°My callsign is Barricade,¡± he began. ¡°My MT is A3, and my NMR ID number is 6625448.¡±

    A proper seven-digit number, I noted, unlike mine. And A3 meant that his powers were of the ¡®true random¡¯ variety.

    ¡°How old are you?¡± I continued.

    ¡°Twenty-three.¡±

    I blinked, briefly shooting a disappointed glance towards SJA Barnes before taking an appraising look at the rather young man in front of me. Beside me, Julio and Fatima both shifted, and even just from what I could see out of the corner of my eye, it was obvious that this information surprised and disturbed them. Now that I knew how old he was, his youth was obvious. Much of the visible broadness in his torso came from the motorcycle leathers, and with his arms raised, the jacket bunched up around his shoulders to reveal the relatively slight frame beneath. He still had more growing to do, and yet he was already being paraded around as a public figure to do the government¡¯s bidding.

    How very military of the NMR.

    ¡°How long is your tour of duty with the NMR set to last?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Six years,¡± he answered.

    ¡°And how long have you served so far?¡±

    ¡°Three years.¡±

    They got him at the same age they did me, then.

    ¡°What were you doing prior to your enlistment in the NMR?¡± The phrasing of that question was rather specific. I did not ask what he was doing before he enlisted, because that implied that he chose to enlist. Given his age, I somehow doubted it was much of a choice.

    ¡°I, um. I was in college,¡± he said. ¡°I was a sophomore at AU. Just picked architecture as my major when, uh, well.¡±

    ¡°Mm,¡± I mused. ¡°When you say ¡®AU¡¯, would that be American University here in DC?¡±

    ¡°Oh, uh. Yeah,¡± he said. ¡°Sorry.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay, really. The courts just want us to be specific,¡± I told him. ¡°Moving on: was your enlistment in the NMR pursuant to the Friendly Neighborhood Act?¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Barricade asked. ¡°I-I, uh, don¡¯t know what that is?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll rephrase,¡± I said. Unsurprising, but still a disappointment. ¡°Was enlisting with the NMR something you had to do as part of taking an Uncle Ben plea deal?¡±

    SJA Barnes glared at me for that question, and I shot her a glare right back. The Friendly Neighborhoods Act was fucked up, and she knew it, but every attempt to take it past any Circuit Court had gone down in flames, so we were stuck picking up the messes it just wouldn¡¯t stop making.

    ¡°Yeah, it was,¡± Barricade said, and then much to my surprise, he continued to explain without me asking another question. ¡°I, um. I got my powers right after I graduated high school, and I¡¯d played around with them a little bit, yeah. But when I went to look up what I had to do to get one of those superpower licenses to use them how I wanted, everything just said that you couldn¡¯t, that the only way to get one was to, um.¡± He swallowed, and cast a nervous look at the Staff Judge Advocate next to him. ¡°That the only way to get permission to use your powers was to either be a soldier or a superhero. And I¡¯d just gotten into college, earned a scholarship and everything! I didn¡¯t want to throw all that away and go to boot camp just so I could use my powers! So I just¡­¡±

    He sighed, rubbing his hands together.

    ¡°I mean, I still used them. Just not in ways that anyone could tell. Not like anyone really notices if you¡¯re underdressed for the weather. They just think you¡¯re weird or Canadian or some shit like that.¡±

    ¡°And yet, here you are,¡± I said. ¡°What happened that let them stick you with an Uncle Ben deal?¡±

    ¡°Saved my friend¡¯s life.¡±

    I paused, frowned at Barricade, and lowered one ear in question.

    ¡°Could you elaborate?¡± I asked.

    ¡°S-sorry,¡± he said, grimacing. ¡°I, uh. I was down in Dupont with my frat ¡ª uh, is it okay if I don¡¯t say which fraternity?¡± Barricade asked. ¡°Cause, um, people could look up my real name if they know which frat I was in.¡±

    ¡°Are in,¡± I corrected. ¡°I guarantee they still consider you a member. And yes, that¡¯s fine.¡±

    ¡°Okay, good, good. Um, sorry, what was I saying?¡±

    ¡°You were down in Dupont with others from the fraternity,¡± I filled in, reading from the notes I¡¯d been typing up on my tablet.

    ¡°Yeah, that, um. Uh, well we got a bit rowdy at a sports bar, what with March Madness and all¡ª¡±

    ¡°Fake ID?¡± I interrupted.

    ¡°Uh¡­ yeah,¡± Barricade said. ¡°I think three of us had fakes and the rest were old enough? But like, Ma¡ªsomeone just got their bracket ruined thanks to a shit pick, and the rest of us started heckling him, you know?¡±

    I turned towards Julio, who was just giving Barricade this perfect sage nod, and when I glanced back towards Megan, she had on an expression of raw incredulity. I mean, this was probably some big thing that people just knew about, but in all honesty, I didn¡¯t have a damn clue what Barricade was talking about.

    ¡°I don¡¯t, but assume I do,¡± I told him, drawing a squawk of outrage from Julio that heralded having my poor ears talked off on the way back to the firm.

    ¡°... uh.¡± Barricade floundered. He looked at Julio for a moment, then back at me. ¡°Um, I guess just¡­ well, my buddy was piss drunk, yeah? His team had just lost miserably, we were giving him shit, and he left in a real big way, so I followed him. And he started yelling at me cause it was the ¡ª uh, it was my favorite team that knocked his out of the running,¡± Barricade continued, catching himself before he dropped some more specific info. ¡°So my buddy turns and looks at me, but he keeps walking backwards towards the street, and then¡­ and then there was a car coming.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t even think, really. Just. He stepped back, fell down cause he didn¡¯t see the curb, there was a car coming. I just reacted. Put up a shield over him, the car went up it, and crunched into the sidewalk when it fell off the end. Then, um. I called 911, I lied and told them it was some freak accident, and we went back to the dorms and went to bed. Next thing I know, the cops are breaking down my door at six in the morning, they drag me down to the station in nothing but my boxers and a hoodie, play video someone took of the thing, and the guy they put in there with me said I either joined the heroes or they¡¯d tell the press I was a supervillain and throw me in jail.¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± I said. ¡°And what did you do?¡±

    ¡°I mean, what else was I supposed to do?¡± Barricade asked rhetorically. ¡°I didn¡¯t wanna go to jail! I¡¯m not a bad guy! I signed on with the heroes, duh. Why do you even want to know this shit, huh? What does any of this even matter?¡±

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what I do or don¡¯t want to know,¡± I said to deflect the question. ¡°Since you¡¯re going to be asked these questions regardless, it¡¯s better for you to have answered them before. And regardless¡ª¡±

    ¡°Stop! Stalling!¡± Barricade slammed his fist on the conference table, punctuating the yell. ¡°You wanna ask me questions? You wanna know how I screwed up, how ¡ª how I¡¯m just a great big fucking idiot who can¡¯t do anything right when it matters!?¡± He slammed his fist on the table again, practically shaking with¡­ I didn¡¯t know. It wasn¡¯t rage. Maybe shame. ¡°Just¡­¡±

    The fight fell out of him. Barricade let his fists fall away, and sank back into his chair, staring at the table, I presumed, so that he didn¡¯t have to meet my eyes.

    ¡°Just get it over with.¡±

    ¡°Okay.¡±

    I glanced over at Megan, tilting one ear down as if to say, ¡®interrupt now or not at all¡¯. But she remained silent, and just gestured with one hand for me to proceed.

    ¡°On December 27, 2019, an apartment building in DC¡¯s 7th Ward burned down. Were you the Moonshot emergency responder on the scene?¡± I asked.

    ¡°I was,¡± Barricade responded.

    Okay. No more beating around the bush. It was time.

    ¡°What happened after you arrived on the scene?¡±

 Chapter Nine

    ¡°What happened after you arrived on the scene?¡±

    My question hung in the air for longer than was comfortable. Barricade said nothing for a good ten seconds. He just sat there, staring at his hands, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white.

    ¡°The NMR gave me a motorcycle to get me around,¡± he began. ¡°I can use my powers to sort of just, give me a track to ride on. I can get up away from traffic, makes it easy to get around and see where I gotta go. I didn¡¯t see the fire at first, just the smoke, but once I got past the Hill, I couldn¡¯t look away¡­¡±

    <hr>

    Friday, December 27

    It was barely four in the afternoon, but the winter sun had long since started to set. The setting sun behind him cast shadows long and far, darkening the city streets below him.

    That darkness made it easier to see the fire. It made the inferno stand out against the rest of the city. And the closer Barricade got, the uglier it became.

    The one thing that struck him the most, as he guided his motorcycle off his power-crafted ramp and onto the street, was just how horrendously loud it was. Sure, he¡¯d read enough shitty poetry throughout high school to have heard the term ¡®roaring flames¡¯, but it was something else entirely to actually experience it.

    It was loud. It was bright. If not for his powers, then the smoke would¡¯ve been burning his eyes, and even through that layer of protection, it still felt like he was breathing the air from an oven.

    ¡°Moonie!¡± Somebody yelled. ¡°Moonie! Over here!¡±

    Barricade looked at the voice and saw a firefighter waving at him. He parked and dismounted from his motorcycle before he jogged over to the man, wracking his brain to try and remember that three-week crash course on what all the stuff on his outfit meant. Was this guy in charge, maybe? Shit, why did he not get refreshers or updates or shit like that? Or even just a list of who was who?

    ¡°Barricade, with the NMR, sir!¡± He fired off the same salute he¡¯d spent over a month of practice on, drilling over and over for hours on end until it was crisp, clean, and military perfect.

    ¡°Please tell me they sent me a fireproof one this time!¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir!¡± He briefly pushed the forcefield that protected him at all times past the surface of his skin and let it become visible, only for it to snap back onto him with an almost painful squeeze. ¡°Built in mask and gear!¡±

    His powers would protect him from the smoke and the heat and the flames. By God did he wish he was allowed to accept more than that, but regs said he couldn¡¯t.

    Or else.

    ¡°Good, perfect!¡± The firefighter pointed behind Barricade. He turned to look, and saw a pair of firetrucks, cranes atop them moving closer to the burning building. ¡°Everyone¡¯s off the first two floors, but we gotta evac the higher floors before the fire gets there first, but the structure¡¯s not holding! We need your help getting up there!¡±

    ¡°What!?¡± Barricade asked, looking between the trucks and the building. They wanted him to¡­? ¡°What about the stairs!?¡±

    ¡°Gone!¡±

    Shit.

    ¡°Okay, let me see what I can do!¡±

    ¡°Make it quick!¡±

    Barricade didn¡¯t bother with a salute in return, and if someone had filmed that, it would mean a week of shitter duty, but right now he didn¡¯t fucking care. He didn¡¯t have time for that. He had to hurry.

    A quick jog over to the other fire truck saw a firefighter pressing a radio into his hand and pointing up the building. Barricade wasn¡¯t sure what he meant, damn it, but he had to take a guess. Hook and ladder truck, shit, those were the ones with the big cranes on them, right? Did they want him to make sure the roof was sturdy enough to hold them? Or the windows?

    Barricade looked up the side of the building, eyeing the fire escapes on the side. Or what was left of them, at least. The fire escape was just a mess of twisted metal at the base of the building, outright less than useless because now the wreckage was blocking access to some windows. Shit, okay, what was the play here?

    ¡°I¡¯m going up top!¡±

    The firefighter gave him a nod and a thumbs up, so clearly that was the correct play, yeah? Could the guy even hear him? Fuck, what did it matter, he had to move, he had to stop wasting time.

    Using his power was all too easy. He just had to think about it, and suddenly, there was a solid thing in the air, either invisible or shining moonlight, no in-between. Here, glowing was the better option, so after a moment of focus to bring it into being, Barricade started climbing a brightly glowing ladder, clambering towards the top of the building on all fours. Moments later, he stepped onto the roof¡¯s railing, and hopped down from the railing onto the roof proper¡ª!

    His feet never found purchase, and instead of being solid ground, the roof caved in around his feet and Barricade was falling¡ª

    ¡°SHIT!¡±

    It was reflex, the kind of thing he never thought he¡¯d have to train but was so insanely goddamn glad he did, because when Barricade reached up to grab for a handhold, his power responded. A solid bar of moonlight appeared in each hand, holding him above the hole that had appeared in the roof. Barricade stared down at the floor, heart pounding in his throat as he looked at the filthy apartment under him. Holy shit, God fucking ¡ª that had been close, way, way, way too close. What if he hadn¡¯t reacted in time? Fallen, broken his leg maybe? Or just gotten knocked out by the impact? His shield only stopped stuff from outside, he already knew from that week of stress testing that it wouldn¡¯t do shit to stop a concussion, or a bad landing, or, or¡ª

    ¡°¡ªie! Moonie!¡± The loud yelling coming from the radio he¡¯d been given snapped him out of it, and Barricade made a platform under him so he could let go of the handholds and check it. ¡°Moonie! You alright!? What¡¯s your status, over!?¡±

    ¡°Roof¡¯s a bust, sir! Fell out from under me!¡± Barricade yelled back, lowering his shield platform so he could get into the apartment proper. It was a studio; the bathroom had been left open, so he knew nobody was inside, thank fuck. He took a few steps onto the floor of the apartment proper, one hand holding onto a superpower-provided handhold just in case, but while it creaked worryingly, it didn¡¯t give out on him. ¡°Floor¡¯s unstable as fuck, I don¡¯t know how safe it is to get your guys inside from up here, sir, over!¡±

    ¡°God damn it! Alright! Moonie! There¡¯s apartments facing an interior courtyard that we can¡¯t get to from out here; you¡¯re gonna have to be the one to get them! Acknowledge, over!¡±

    ¡°S-sir!?¡± Barricade gasped. What? He had to¡­ what!? ¡°H-how many are there!? How do I even check!? O-over!¡±

    ¡°Call and response, Moonie! You hear something, you go in and get them to an outer window; if you don¡¯t, you gotta keep moving! Now get a move on! Interior units only, get them to us on the outer ring! Over!¡±

    The radio went dead. That meant¡­ that meant he was on his own now, yeah? It was just him. Just him and God only knew how many apartments. And the fire was getting higher. Shit, fuck, okay, okay he had to keep moving, had to keep his power under him. It was on him.

    It was all on him.

    Oh, God. No no no, no, he couldn¡¯t stop to think, if he stopped to think he¡¯d stop entirely, he had to keep moving, he had to keep, fucking, going. First thing¡¯s first, out of this apartment, into the building proper. The fire chief told him to stick to the inner units, right, okay, and he had to do a call and response? What if they didn¡¯t hear him? What if ¡ª no, no he couldn¡¯t think like that, he just had to try.

    The first unit was directly opposite the studio whose window he¡¯d come through. He balled his hand into a fist and banged on the door, hard enough it rocked on its hinges.

    ¡°Fire rescue!¡± Barricade yelled at the top of his lungs. ¡°Call out!¡±

    There was no response. Just the steady, monotonous din of the fire below him as it threatened to crawl higher.

    Barricade went one unit clockwise, banged on the door, and yelled again. And when there was still nothing, he moved onto the next one, and did it again. And when that one also had nothing, he moved on to the fourth unit, banged on the door¡ª

    His fist knocked the door off its hinges. It fell back into the apartment behind it, revealing a room that probably deserved the fire, and a smell like death, and¡­ God he hoped nobody was in here, but he wasn¡¯t waiting to find out. He didn¡¯t have the time for that. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    So he kept moving, onto the next door, then the next. And finally, nine doors in, he found someone.

    ¡°Fire rescue! Call out!¡±

    ¡°¡ªn here!¡± The voice was muffled by the door, but still audible over the fire. It was a man, and he sounded pained. ¡°Please, please I need help, oh God!¡±

    Barricade didn¡¯t need any other invitation. The field under his feet extended up past his head, pointing out in a wedge. He took a few steps back, and with as good of a running start as the hallway allowed, he shoved that wedge into the edge of the door frame. The wood splintered and crumbled around him, and once he let the shield fall back to just his feet, his eyes fell on the man calling for him.

    The resident was an older black man, sprawled out on the floor with his arm extending towards a pair of crutches. There was a prosthetic leg laying on the sofa maybe five feet away from him, but once Barricade saw the way one leg ended just past the knee and the other didn¡¯t even extend past the end of his shorts, he realized that there wasn¡¯t a chance in hell he would¡¯ve made it out without help.

    Barricade ran over to the man and kneeled down, spreading his power¡¯s shield under the old man.

    ¡°Hang tight! I¡¯m gonna get you out of here!¡± Barricade didn¡¯t wait for permission. He knew he was supposed to, but fuck permission, the building was on fire and he was barely a quarter done with one floor!

    ¡°M-my leg! I need m¡¯leg!¡± The man cried, squirming and thrashing even as Barricade threw him over a shoulder.

    ¡°No time!¡± Barricade¡¯s shields shimmered into existence, holding the man against his shoulder by a band around Barricade¡¯s arm and the civvie¡¯s midsection. He stomped out of the apartment, ignoring the man¡¯s attempts to get out of his grasp or yell in his ear to go back for the leg, and just used another shield to force open the apartment across from the man¡¯s. Once he was at the window, he grabbed his radio, keying it.

    ¡°This is Barricade! I have a civvie on the fifth floor ready for pickup!¡± Nobody answered for two seconds. Shit, wait, no. ¡°O-over!¡±

    The radio crackled, and a welcome voice came over the line.

    ¡°Which window are you at, over!?¡±

    ¡°Did you see which one I went in!? One for yes, two for no, over!¡± The radio crackled once, thank fuck. ¡°Clockwise from there, at the corner, over!¡±

    ¡°Copy, Moonie! If the floor¡¯s good just set ¡®em down and get moving! No time to waste, over!¡±

    Barricade looked at the apartment he¡¯d broken into. It was an almost barren unit, with nothing but a camping chair, a dirty twin mattress, and a shitty TV screen. He dragged the camper chair over by the window, carefully set his rescuee down, and then left quick as he could. He was supposed to stay with the guy until someone else grabbed him, according to protocol. But protocol didn¡¯t say shit about what to do when he was alone in a burning building, and the firefighters said not to wait.

    So he didn¡¯t.

    ¡°Fire rescue! Call out!¡±

    He kept going instead.

    ¡°Fire rescue! Call out!¡±

    ¡°Help, help! I¡¯m in here, please, help!¡±

    Another one. He got her and her baby out, but he couldn¡¯t wait. He couldn¡¯t take a breather. He couldn¡¯t stand still. He couldn¡¯t sit down, not for even a moment.

    ¡°Fire rescue! Call out!¡±

    Because if he did, he might not be able to get back up.

    ¡°Fire rescue! Call out!¡±

    The seconds bled into minutes, and each minute felt like another hour. He may not have felt the heat or been able to inhale smoke thanks to his powers, but that did nothing to help against fatigue. The adrenaline that¡¯d given him a kickstart was fading now, he could tell; the NMR had made sure he and his fellow supers all knew what a crash felt like, but he couldn¡¯t do anything about it. He had to keep going. He was done with the fifth floor now, but there were still two more, he thought, as he used his power to slide down the stairs, because every second counted.

    He had to keep looking.

    ¡°F-fire rescue! Call, call out!¡±

    But try as he might, he was only human. He was just one person, doing a job meant for a full team of five or more.

    ¡°Fir¡ª!¡±

    A sudden sharp pain in his throat sent him stumbling to his knees, coughing and gasping for air. He tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was too dry for that.

    Barricade pushed to his feet, and tried to yell again. But his voice was too weak. It was strained, too quiet. He couldn¡¯t hear himself over the sound of the fire around him. He tried again, but still not enough. He couldn¡¯t get the volume. Something in his throat hurt. It hurt worse than he thought it should, from just yelling too much. But the pain ¡ª no, no that wasn¡¯t an option. He was still here. He couldn¡¯t let the pain matter. His voice didn¡¯t work anymore.

    His arms and legs still did. And his power was still there.

    The wedge-shape came up around him again. Three steps back, two forward, and through¡ª!

    He burst through the door, and looked through the apartment he¡¯d landed in. He didn¡¯t see anybody. No movement, no nothing.

    So he left, and went onto the next one. And the next one. And the next. And when he found someone, he silently carried them towards the outside, pushed his shield outside, and flashed it. The shield went from transparent to shining and back, five times, and that was as good as he could get. The civvies were yelling for their rescue though, he could swear he heard that. But he didn¡¯t have time to stop and listen, none of them did, especially not him. He had to keep moving, to keep searching.

    There were eight people on the fourth floor. And once he¡¯d gotten them out, Barricade knew what came next. He had to go down once more. He had to go right into the fire.

    Again he slid down the stairs. Again he burst out onto a floor that was hotter and more dangerous than the last. But this time it was worse. Oh, god, but it was so much worse.

    The hallway was already on fire. The flames crawled from the outlets to the vents, burning the cheap carpet black with a stench he knew he¡¯d never forget. He pushed his power¡¯s shield past his skin so it covered his entire suit, and got started.

    Three knocks, then barging in, and looking for any movement, same deal as before. Except some of the doors on this floor were already open, and the apartments behind them were already little more than bonfires. Even if somebody was in there, he didn¡¯t have the time to check, and he didn¡¯t have the voice left to yell. He just had to keep going, just had to keep moving clockwise, checking inside every door he could open.

    But at some point, Barricade lost track of where he¡¯d started. Which of these open doors had he already checked? There¡¯d been a row of five open doors, hadn¡¯t there been? Which ones were his, and which ones were already open before he got there? No, shit, he needed to be sure. Another circuit, another lap. He had to look again, he couldn¡¯t be sure until he checked again, where was¡ª

    ¡°¡ªnie, she¡¯s comin¡¯ down! Ya gotta get outta there right now Moonie! Hurry, the walls aren¡¯t gonna hold for long!¡±

    Dread and panic gnawed at the pit of his stomach. He was out of time. Had he checked all of them? He wasn¡¯t sure, but ¡ª no, fuck, damn it he was out of time, he wasn¡¯t able to check¡ª

    ¡°Get your ass outta there! That¡¯s an order, Moonie!¡±

    He had to trust that he¡¯d done enough. That he¡¯d gotten everyone.

    Barricade grit his teeth, slammed through another too-flimsy door to an outside unit, and used his power to give himself a slide straight down to the ground. He tried to stick the landing, but he was going too fast at the end, and just rolled along the ground until he fell off the curb and came to a halt face-down on the pavement. He tried to get up, but it was so hard, and he was so damn tired. His hands went to the street below to push himself up. But he couldn¡¯t.

    He was too tired. It was all he could do to just breathe.

    He heard something new. Someone yelling at him, maybe? It sounded so far away, like it was coming from all the way down the block. But that wasn¡¯t right, he was still right in front of the building.

    Barricade blinked, and blinked again. He needed to close his eyes, and just breathe.

    Just so he could catch his breath.

    Only for a moment.

    Only¡­

    only a¡­ quick breather¡­

    <hr>

    ¡°... and¡­ and the next thing I knew, I was in a hospital room. I¡­ fuck, I don¡¯t know how much later that was. I-I, I just¡­¡±

    Barricade trailed off and cradled his head in his hands, fingers twining through close-cropped blond hair. He had long since taken off the police helmet he wore, clearly not caring if the three of us saw his face anymore. He was already laying his soul bare; at that point, what difference did his face make?

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know,¡± he said, voice thick with the tears he refused to let himself shed. ¡°God, I swear I didn¡¯t know. I, I ¡ª what was I supposed to do? It was just me. It was only me!¡±

    His voice rose to a yell even as it cracked, and that slip was all it took for the dam to break. Barricade¡¯s shoulders shook as he finally let himself cry the tears he¡¯d probably been holding since the moment he¡¯d learned what happened. All the guilt, the shame, the endless cavalcade of what-ifs and ways he could¡¯ve done things differently, how things might have turned out if he¡¯d just been faster, just been stronger, just been some level of better.

    A glance at Julio and Fatima showed that both of them had long since stopped taking notes, and looked away from the superhero out of either respect or pity. Seeing this, I sighed, stood up from my chair, and made my way around the table. Megan gave me a thankful look as she scooted her chair further from Barricade, and locked eyes with my two junior attorneys. I wasn¡¯t about to judge. For his own sake, she needed to be looking away from Barricade.

    Away from the sobbing wreck that I¡¯d seen every time the military broke another one of its shiny toy soldiers by pushing too hard.

    I walked over to Barricade and set a hand on his shoulder.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I told him, sitting on the table as I leaned closer. ¡°I¡¯m sorry we made you do this. I know it hurts, believe me, I know it does because I¡¯ve been where you are now. And it¡¯s hard to even imagine this, but¡­ it¡¯s not your fault, hun. You did everything you could. I know you did.¡±

    I was probably going to eat a formal complaint for this. But you know what? Fuck it.

    I¡¯d been where Barricade was now, crying my heart out, desperately praying and pleading and begging that anybody would understand, that anybody would look past the ¡®disgraced hero¡¯ and see just how badly I was hurting. And Gorou tried, lord knows he did, but¡­ it wasn¡¯t the same. There was one thing that I¡¯d wanted back then. One thing that I¡¯d never gotten.

    And I¡¯d be damned if Barricade had to endure the same torture I did.

    So I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pulled him close, and told him that everything would be okay. I held him tight, and let him know that somebody was here. I gave Barricade what nobody gave me:

    A warm hug, and a shoulder to cry on. Nothing more.

 Chapter Ten

    I gave Julio and Fatima the rest of the week to handle other cases on their respective dockets. Realistically speaking, Julio should¡¯ve been the one summarizing the interview into an affidavit and ensuring we had a good account of it, but, well¡­ neither of them looked to be in a good way on the car ride back. Fatima was visibly rattled, and while Julio hid it well, he wasn¡¯t good enough to keep it all beneath my notice.

    So I figured it was for the best that they get a bit to collect their thoughts on this, process the emotions, and return to the case refreshed and recharged.

    We were supposed to meet back up on Monday¡­ and then one of my others clients decided that the absolute smartest thing he could possibly do was harass the woman he was suing at her workplace, so I had to spend the day explaining to the judge why I wasn¡¯t able to control my client, and why he shouldn¡¯t be charged with contempt for this.

    Annoyingly common, by the way. And to be fair, he made the very reasonable assumption that the person who slashed his new car¡¯s tires over the weekend was the same person he was suing for destroying his old car.

    But for the love of God, people needed to let me handle this shit! It was what they paid me for!

    Suffice to say, I was very deeply annoyed on this fine Tuesday morning, but doing my level best not to show it.

    ¡°... so do you think we still need the engineer? Please say no.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going to turn this around on you,¡± I told Julio, pointing back at him with my tail. ¡°Do you think we also need the engineer¡¯s testimony, or do you think you can get a good enough direct from the electrician?¡±

    ¡°Wha¡ªme?¡± Julio asked, blinking in surprise.

    ¡°Wait, does this mean Julio gets to be second seat?¡± Fatima asked, utterly crestfallen.

    ¡°Fatima, if I didn¡¯t want to subject you to this guy for just an interview, what makes you think I¡¯d willingly inflict him on either of us in open court?¡±

    She opened her mouth to reply, more out of reflex than anything else, but her face twisted into a grimace as her train of thought caught up with her tongue.

    ¡°Exactly,¡± I continued. ¡°Anyway. Julio?¡±

    ¡°I mean, an electrician¡¯s gonna know more about shit wiring installation than an electrical engineer, and can probably even get us an example of it to show on the stand.¡± He paused, then turned towards me in question. ¡°Wait, is that allowed?¡±

    ¡°Normally, I¡¯d say no, but I can just eat a smaller fire with some of mine and put it all out, so I think we can get an exemption.¡±

    ¡°Cool, cool,¡± Julio mused. ¡°Then yeah, I say we¡¯re good.¡±

    ¡°In that case, lady and gentleman!¡± I clapped my hands softly, and did my best to give the two a genuinely happy smile, despite my foul mood. ¡°We¡¯re not going to get anything further until we¡¯ve started the discovery process. Which means it¡¯s time to file suit!¡±

    ¡°Can I draft the complaint?¡± Fatima blurted out. ¡°S-sorry! I just¡­ really like writing them.¡±

    Julio and I both just gave the woman a look.

    ¡°You just like insulting people so politely that getting mad makes them an asshole,¡± I teased.

    ¡°Wha¡ªno! I just, it helps me get all the facts in order!¡±

    ¡°Okay, fine, fine,¡± I said, raising my hands in a placating gesture. ¡°Regardless, I actually want both of you to each draft a version of the complaint for me by the middle of next week. I want us to file by the middle of June at the latest; assuming we can keep the schedule from getting too out of hand, that¡¯ll give us good odds of having a receptive jury.¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­?¡± Julio looked a bit out of his element, which wasn¡¯t surprising.

    ¡°That seems a bit optimistic to me,¡± Fatima retorted. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t it be better if we aimed for after Easter Sunday?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s both too far out and not far enough,¡± I argued back. ¡°If we can¡¯t get right after Christmas and New Year¡¯s, or after MLK Day at the absolute latest, it¡¯s probably best to stall until schools let out for the summer instead.¡±

    ¡°But then nobody¡¯s going to¡ª¡±

    ¡°Hold up, time out!¡± Julio held up his hands to get both of our attention. ¡°Amigas, public defender here, I don¡¯t know the time frames you¡¯re talking about!¡±

    ¡°Oh, um, sorry.¡± Fatima huddled in on herself, to which I frowned. Well, that would be part of why she hadn¡¯t gotten to be lead counsel yet ¡ª too easily cowed. At least she was apparently really good in settlement conferences, but she needed to find her spine if she wanted to get much further as a litigator.

    ¡°Fatima, don¡¯t apologize, this is on me,¡± I told her. ¡°Anyway, Julio, pay attention.¡±

    I turned one of my computer screens to face Julio, went into the settings, and made sure the monitors both showed the same thing. Then I pulled up the calendar, and went to today¡¯s date.

    ¡°So we are here, June 2nd.¡± I pulled up my screen writer app, and circled the date. ¡°We want to have our complaint filed and sent out for service of process by June 12th. Now, let¡¯s assume it takes until June 19 to serve the documents, even though the people we¡¯re serving all have public offices, designated people who can accept these, etcetera. Fatima, if they get served on June 19th, when is their response deadline?¡±

    ¡°Twenty-one days later, so by July 10th.¡±

    ¡°And from there,¡± I scrolled the calendar over to the next year, ¡°we¡¯ll hopefully have our initial status conference not long after, during which we get to argue the discovery schedule¡ª¡±

    ¡°Which is normally nine to twelve months,¡± Fatima supplied. ¡°Which is why I said we should go for Easter, because that¡¯s on the short end!¡±

    ¡°And normally, you¡¯d be right!¡± I said. ¡°But, we went and completed three months of the legwork ahead of time, which means that when the defense asks for our shit, we can just give it to them right then and there, which will screw up their deadlines. And that means we have very real grounds to motion for expedited discovery and get ourselves before a jury in early January.¡±

    ¡°... which is right after Christmas,¡± Julio said, dawning realization in his voice. ¡°Oh, shit. You¡¯re tryin¡¯ to remind them of kids and family, aint¡¯cha?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s part of it,¡± I agreed. Because why wouldn¡¯t I want jurors who¡¯d just spent time with their families, thus predisposing them to see our case about dead kids and immediately see the defendants as the bad guys? ¡°The other part is that if potential jurors have just come back from vacation, getting jury duty means they don¡¯t have to go back to work yet. And most employers in DC have to make up the difference between jury pay.¡±

    ¡°But if we have a longer discovery period, and then we encounter any delays whatsoever, then that pushes things out to when summer break starts. Which would be worse, no?¡± Fatima asked. ¡°You¡¯re taking them away from vacations they could be going on their kids with.¡±

    ¡°Pin the blame on the defendants,¡± I told her. ¡°The jurors don¡¯t get to go on vacation in summer 2021 because a bunch of greedy landlords killed a pair of kids all the way back in 2019. Who do you think they¡¯ll think is at fault, us? Or the old white men who keep raising their rents too?¡±

    ¡°And I still think that¡¯s going to backfire,¡± Fatima argued. ¡°Our client was a mom herself, she¡¯d know how important going on vacation earlier on in the summer is, which means the jurors are going to get mad and think she¡¯s selfish for taking their vacations away. We can¡¯t give them a negative first impression, or we¡¯re sunk.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯re so certain she¡¯ll give a negative impression, because¡­?¡± I prompted. But it wasn¡¯t Fatima who answered.

    ¡°Because she¡¯s an overweight black woman whose kids died when she left them at home.¡± Julio¡¯s voice was grim, his eyes dark beneath his brow. ¡°Remember, I spent two years as a freebie lawyer for broke crooks. If I got handed a white guy, odds were I could get him off scot free in five minutes. White woman? Shit, half the time I didn¡¯t even bother talkin¡¯ to her, just called the DA and she was off. But if they were black? Nope. The plea deals sucked ass, too. Never probation. Never less than three months in jail.¡±

    ¡°Welcome to the United States,¡± I said sardonically. ¡°One nation, endlessly divisible, with liberty and justice for the pale, rich, and normal.¡±

    The statement hung in the air for a few seconds. Thankfully, though, it didn¡¯t get a chance to linger beyond that, because Julio took the opportunity to clear his throat.

    ¡°So for the complaint,¡± he said, his downcast expression the only remnant of the grim topic we¡¯d just discussed. ¡°There anything I gotta put in there for expedited discovery? I know you gotta request some shit right at the start, so I wanna¡ª¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Whatever else Julio was going to say got cut off by an absurdly loud notification from my cell phone, which I¡¯d left on vibrate. The sound alone had me slouching in my chair and my ears wilting atop my head, and all the annoyance I¡¯d initially managed to suppress came roaring right back to the forefront.

    The sound I¡¯d selected for this specific notification was the long, drawn-out rasp of a sharp sword pulled from its sheath. Or at least whatever Hollywood sold as the sound effect.

    ¡°What was that?¡± Julio asked. ¡°Oh shit, Naomi, you okay? What¡¯s that sound mean?¡±

    I took a deep breath. ¡°Fuuuuuuuck,¡± I hissed.

    ¡°What?¡± Fatima asked. ¡°What is it?¡±

    ¡°Okay. Both of you, you¡¯re remote for the next two weeks. If an attorney on another case gives you shit for that, send them my way. I walk to the office, so I¡¯ll handle the in-person stuff for this case.¡±

    ¡°This doesn¡¯t answer the question,¡± Julio muttered. ¡°What did you set for that sound? Why does that mean you¡¯re sending us remote?¡±

    ¡°That,¡± I sighed, ¡°was an Arthur Alert.¡± And I only had the sound override for ones that were nearby. I stood up from my desk chair and grabbed my phone from my purse, carefully ignoring the odd looks both Julio and Fatima were giving me.

    ¡°Do you mean the Excaliblotter?¡± Fatima asked.

    ¡°Not since 2012,¡± I informed her. ¡°The trademark owner who let the BBC use the term died.  His son inherited the trademark, and tried to get the BBC to pay him fifty mil for it. So they just swapped to a different term.¡±

    A tap to the screen woke my phone up, my fingerprint unlocked it, and ¡ª shit.

    ¡°God, ugh,¡± I groaned. ¡°It¡¯s not just close. It¡¯s close close.¡±

    ¡°And that¡¯s how close, exactly?¡±

    ¡°Capitol Mall,¡± I told Julio. ¡°Alright you two, time for you to leave.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Fatima asked. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because this wasn¡¯t just an Arthur Alert maybe a mile away from us, this was a verified alert,¡± I said, showing her my phone. ¡°That means an unverified one came in long enough ago that I give it until rush hour for DC to be swarming with media, looky loos, wacko tourists, and¡­¡± I shuddered. ¡°Them.¡±

    ¡°I almost don¡¯t want to ask,¡± Julio muttered.

    ¡°Them,¡± I said, pinning my ears back out of sheer distaste. ¡°Modern. Post-Future. Grailographers.¡±

    God, even just saying it had me shuddering and my fur standing on end. I¡¯d had a good few years of thinking that the Grand Moonshot Mind Control conspiracy was the worst of it. But being way too close to an Arthur Alert once before was enough to swiftly disabuse me of that notion. The conspiracy theorists were practically tame next to the Grailographers.

    ¡°Hey, Naomi?¡± Julio asked. ¡°How crazy we talking here? More police? Metro closure?¡±

    ¡°More police, single tracking, road closures, probably some involvement by the Secret Service and the NMR,¡± I responded, idly flicking through a few screens on my phone. Right, that was groceries ordered for delivery, just needed to shoot off a text to Gorou to let the delivery guy in and to grab a twenty to tip with so the guy didn¡¯t freak out too bad¡­ wait, I didn¡¯t remember what all was in the freezer, I needed Gorou to get me a list of that too¡ª

    ¡°Local NMR only?¡± Julio pressed. ¡°Or maybe they¡¯re gonna call in some of the biggies from elsewhere for this, you think?¡±

    ¡°Ooh, maybe Lady Liberty will come to town?¡± Fatima exclaimed. I flinched, but she didn¡¯t notice. ¡°Oh I hope so, that¡¯d be great! She¡¯s such an¡ª¡±

    ¡°Uuuuuuugggghhh,¡± I groaned, loudly sinking into my chair. ¡°God, please no, anyone but that fucking bitch!¡±

    ¡°W-what!?¡± Fatima gasped. I briefly looked at her expression, and she was positively scandalized. ¡°Look, I know you have issues with superheroes, but Lady Liberty is the real deal!¡±

    ¡°Fatima¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve looked up to her since I was a little girl! Every other Muslim girl I know does!¡± She slammed both palms on my desk, her expression positively mutinous. ¡°What do you even have against her, huh!?¡±

    ¡°Do you mean aside from the time she picked me up by my tail and pulled me a hundred feet up in the air, just because she didn¡¯t like my attitude towards the NMR?¡±

    ¡°She what¡ª¡±

    ¡°And maybe you deserved it!¡± Fatima shouted, bulldozing right over Julio¡¯s attempt to ask for more details. ¡°I mean, with how much you hate superheroes, I bet you were pretty awful to someone who actually is all the things you like to say doesn¡¯t exist!¡±

    ¡°Fatima¡­¡± I warned.

    ¡°She¡¯s everything so many of us try to become!¡± she continued, completely ignoring the way Julio backed away from her. ¡°Lady Liberty came to this country with nothing, and now she¡¯s the most beloved person in the country! She found freedom, and opportunity, and success, and she¡¯s single-handedly pushed for equality and more for us! She¡¯s literally if the American Dream was a person!¡±

    ¡°Yeah, well, good for her! But for the rest of us, the American Dream is a fucking lie!¡± I yelled, slamming a fist on the table. The anger fled Fatima¡¯s expression as she finally read my body language, the way my ears were pinned all the way back, how my shoulders were raised, that my tail thrashed as I spoke. ¡°It¡¯s not real, Fatima! It wasn¡¯t real when this country held my citizenship hostage against me, and it hasn¡¯t been real for a goddamn lifetime! I grew up on story, after story, after story of how much it fucking sucked for my grandma to be Japanese in the fifties! And Immigrant Barbie not liking how I think after that does not give her the right to try and literally knock her idea of ¡®sense¡¯ into me!¡±

    That I started yelling had apparently cowed Fatima. She stood further from my desk, the chair pushed back with her, and had a look somewhere between furious, ashamed, and deeply concerned.

    ¡°Um,¡± Julio interjected. ¡°You, uh, don¡¯t look Japanese?¡±

    It took everything I had not to blow up at him. And at her. At both of them for, for¡­ fuck. I¡¯d lost my temper. I needed to be above this, better than this, damn it, Naomi!

    ¡°Go home,¡± I told them both. I stood from my chair, went to the door, and gave them both one parting shot. ¡°Drafts Wednesday.¡±

    Then I opened the door, left my office, and headed to do the thing I¡¯d planned on doing once my Arthur Alert prep was done. Which it wasn¡¯t, but I needed to get out of that room anyway.

    I took the stairs rather than the elevator, blinking up each flight to not walk in heels on these stupid grated stairs, and headed straight for my boss¡¯s office once I was out.

    ¡°She free?¡± I turned to ask her secretary¡ªsorry, executive assistant. He took one look at me and waved me in after the briefest glance at his screen. His eyes followed me as I walked to Alice¡¯s door and knocked.

    ¡°Come in.¡±

    I walked in, closed the door, and held up my phone, screen still showing the Arthur Alert notification.

    ¡°Send a blast out that we¡¯re going remote for two weeks,¡± I told her. ¡°We¡¯re about to have serious issues getting around the city for at least that long.¡±

    Alice looked briefly peeved that I hadn¡¯t waited for her to address her guest, until she realized it was me, and then looked mildly amused. That amusement faded to confusion when she looked at my phone.

    Then it turned right back to amusement, and she gave me a bright smile.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that hoax almost as old as you are?¡±

    ¡­ that¡­ what?

    ¡°Alice,¡± I began, trying to figure out how to word this delicately. ¡°It ¡ª it was international news. You have to have heard about this.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, ¡°because it¡¯s a popular hoax. I¡¯m guessing you heard it as a little girl and never let it go?¡±

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t a¡ª¡± I barely stopped from blurting out that bit of information, and paused so I didn¡¯t let it right back out. No, we did not need to offer Naomi¡¯s childhood factoids here! ¡°But if that¡¯s a hoax, then who do you think saved Princess Di¡¯s life?¡±

    ¡°Any number of other things?¡± Alice asked. ¡°It¡¯s not like that tunnel was empty, Naomi.¡±

    ¡°Oh for the love of¡ª¡± I walked around the desk and gestured, requesting that Alice let me access her computer. She gave me a bemused look as I pulled up a search bar, scrolled down five entries, and clicked a button, starting the video that¡­

    ¡°¡®This content is not available in your country, per the request of the copyright holder¡¯?¡± I read off, flabbergasted.

    ¡°And the copyright holder is¡­?¡± Alice beckoned. I looked down at the name, and bit back a groan.

    It listed two. The BBC, and¡­ Monty Python. Monty Python.

    ¡°I told you it was a hoax,¡± she said, tone very smug.

    I glared at her, my ears lowered in annoyance.

    ¡°Alice, you have met the centuries-old Japanese fox spirit that I have as a roommate. The one who will happily let you know he¡¯s just one of hundreds or thousands of many. Do you seriously think that I would buy it if it was a hoax?¡±

    ¡°Well, you¡­¡± Alice stopped and blinked. ¡°But that would¡­¡±

    The realization dawned on her exactly like I¡¯d expected to. Confusion, then understanding, then mild terror, then another, deeper understanding as she grasped the realpolitik at play.

    ¡°Just give the firm two weeks remote. Hell, make it three for safety.¡±

    When Alice didn¡¯t respond after a good ten seconds, I decided to just see myself out instead. I needed to head home, anyway. I had Arthur Alert traffic to prep for, and, well¡­ a pair of apology emails to send out. Julio and Fatima didn¡¯t deserve me yelling at them. They deserved better of me. My temper couldn¡¯t keep getting the better of me like that. I needed catharsis.

    I needed to burn off some steam.

 Chapter Eleven

    ¡°Hero, thank goodness you¡¯re here! Your objective is to breach the building and handle all the bad guys! You¡¯ve only got three minutes, so make every second count!¡±

    Whatever voice they used for the facility¡¯s audio instructions, it was far too peppy for this. It needed to be more dour, appropriately serious. Most of the Moonshot who ran this course did so in full riot gear or the closest equivalent their powers allowed, just because it was genuinely painful to be on the receiving end.

    Normally, I didn¡¯t care about the voice. But my temper had been simmering right below the boiling point for the last forty-eight hours, and I¡¯d even snapped and yelled at Gorou when he left some blue cheese crumbs on the counter. I needed this badly, but God I wished I could just skip the instructions, it wasn¡¯t like I hadn¡¯t heard them before!

    ¡°Good luck, hero! Your time starts¡­ now!¡±

    Fucking. Finally.

    One moment, I was standing outside the corrugated-tin faux-building. The next, I reappeared inside in a flash of purple flame, right between the two turrets that they always positioned as door sentries. All I had to do was flick my tail, wreathed in flame, and they melted into so much bubbling slag and scorched plastic.

    Two down, twenty-two to go.

    My ears flicked towards a pair of speakers at my ten o¡¯clock, which played the sound of boots approaching and orders barked in¡­ shit, which language had they been using as the villains du jour, anyway? Back in my time, it was Mandarin, but this sounded eastern European. Ah, whatever. Violet flame bloomed to life in the palm of my hand, and even before the track finished bringing its faux-soldiers into view, I lobbed a fireball in its direction and kept moving. I didn¡¯t even need to look that way to know that the robo-sentry ¡®died¡¯ the moment it hit the fire.

    Three down, nineteen left.

    I walked forward, another ball of foxfire in hand. Once I heard the telltale sound, I casually tossed it off to the right, whereupon it split into three, each of which eagerly incinerated another sentry. Sixteen. Ten years I¡¯d been in DC, and the course hadn¡¯t changed. The only difference was that I usually had to leave everything usable when I was done. This time, though, I had permission to just break them all. It was a fun little trade: the R&D monkeys got to see how well their latest toys stood up to extreme temperatures; I got to release pent-up frustration and process negative emotions in a destructive-yet-healthy way, all without the nauseating smell of carbonized human flesh. As for why I was sanctioned to destroy military property with no repercussions? Well¡­ something, something, surplus in the quarterly budget, use it or lose it government funding, so on and so forth. I hadn¡¯t bothered to read more than the first few paragraphs of Megan¡¯s carefully curated CYA email.

    All I knew is that eight of the remaining sixteen would be in the next room, and I really wanted to put on a show. So I gathered a basketball-sized orb of pulsing foxfire in both hands, then shoulder-checked the flimsy plywood door to force it open¡ª!

    ¡ªand bounced off.

    I blinked, letting the foxfire flicker out. That door was supposed to open into the next room, with one sentry positioned to put a new coat of paint on whoever thought peeking through was the optimal play. When had¡­ oh. Ooooh. I took a closer look at the door in front of me.

    For the first time in a literal decade, the hinges were on this side. Holy hell. It was actually different.

    ¡°Two minutes left! Hero, you have to hurry!¡±

    I couldn¡¯t help the vicious grin that spread across my face. They wanted to change things up finally, huh? Well, then.

    Foxfire flashed in my hands, and I poured as much of it as I could keep compressed into a shimmering, roiling sphere. The swirling orb of violet flame shone so bright even I couldn¡¯t keep looking at it, and once I almost lost my grip on it, I knew I was ready. The room in front of me was a good ten by fifteen feet, two sentries pointed at the door, a couple overturned tables and sofas being used as cover, another two off to the side. But that wasn¡¯t necessarily true anymore, now was it? Maybe something inside was different. Not that it mattered, really.

    I flickered into flame again, and reappeared at the ceiling of the next room. The ball of compacted foxfire held stable in my hands, and as I felt gravity take hold, I lobbed it at the ground, bathing the room in flame. It burst out from the point of impact, washing over and incinerating everything in a gorgeous flare of purple. It faded out as I made a sure-footed landing atop a pile of slag and ash, which I hopped off of before it could start melting my sneakers, and scanned the room with both my eyes and ears.

    By my count, there had been ten baddies in here ¡ª six on the floor, four perched in positions just elevated enough to be above the eyeline. But that positioning, while effective in most cases, didn¡¯t do much to stop a good firebombing, now did it?

    Speakers played the sound of boots coming from both possible directions at once. I confirmed with a quick swivel of my ears, but I couldn¡¯t tell how many because it was fake, which meant I could either be facing two new hostiles, or all six of the remainder. Well, when in doubt?

    Fire danced around my fingers. I aimed each hand at a doorway, and just let go.

    Violent streams of violet flame poured from each hand, enveloping whatever had been about to burst forth from those doorways, and I counted the silhouettes I could barely make out through the inferno as they fell. One left, one right, two right, two left, three left¡­ wait.

    Where was the sixth¡ª

    I barely heard the almost silent whine of well-lubricated servos. If it had been anyone else, they probably would¡¯ve been caught by surprise, because even my reaction speed wasn¡¯t enough to dodge the paintball flying at my back. Well, except for one small thing.

    The paintball boiled off as it passed through the roiling mass of flame that was left of my body as I briefly faded into incorporeality. When I let myself become tangible again, I was facing the robo-sentry. I laid one hand on the barrel of the paintball gun, and another on what served as its ¡®head¡¯.

    It erupted into flame, a brilliant violet column engulfing it. I let it burn for two seconds, three. Then I let it fade, and released my grip on the helmet and paintball gun, letting them sink into the pile of cooling slag beneath me.

    ¡°Wow! You got them all!¡± The annoyingly peppy system voice said over the loudspeakers. ¡°You finished with seventy-nine seconds left! Thank you for saving the day, he¡ª¡±

    The voice cut out. I frowned; that wasn¡¯t supposed to happen.

    ¡°Acknowledged, NMR# 6625448.¡±

    I fell apart into flame again, and reappeared out in front of the training structure. A loud buzzer rang, signaling that the metal doors to the NMR¡¯s underground urban training ground were unlocked, and they swung open at a positively glacial pace.

    Behind them stood Barricade, clad in just regular motorcycle leathers and without his helmet. I drew a concerned hiss of breath as I saw him and considered the smoking, burned-out wreck I¡¯d left in my wake. But either my concerns were unfounded or he was made of sterner stuff than I¡¯d thought, because he took one glance at what should¡¯ve been a trauma trigger and just¡­ walked on in.

    Then he laid eyes on me, stopped cold, and averted his gaze.

    ¡°S-sorry!¡±

    What ¡ª seriously?The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    ¡°Oh for the love of ¡ª just look,¡± I said, rolling my eyes and flicking my tail in annoyance. Seriously, I was in a sports bra and yoga pants! Normal workout clothes! There was no chance this was a new sight for a twenty-something male who¡¯d ever gone to the gym!

    ¡°S-sorry, just, um.¡± Barricade gulped, then actually looked me in the eye. ¡°Sorry, I¡¯m just. Used to dealing with Substrate. She, uh¡­¡± He trailed off, clearly looking uncomfortable as he tried to find the best way to say it.

    ¡°Body-shy?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Uh-huh,¡± he said. ¡°Bad experiences with men, she said.¡±

    ¡°Fascinating,¡± I said, ears perking up as I caught the telltale sign of juicy, juicy gossip¡­ that I also had to pretend I wasn¡¯t interested in or I¡¯d never hear the end of it from anyone. ¡°Bit surprised to see anyone here.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a non-NMR Moonshot using an NMR training facility, and you¡¯re surprised to see someone who¡¯s actually supposed to be here?¡± Barricade asked. There was an amused tone in his voice, which wasn¡¯t something I expected to hear barely a week after I¡¯d seen him sobbing his eyes out, and I cast an appraising eye at him.

    He was clean-shaven. The bags under his eyes were smaller, and his eyes themselves were clear, not bloodshot at all. He stood tall, shoulders back and chin up.

    It was a far cry from the broken, beaten-down young man I¡¯d seen so recently.

    ¡°That¡¯s fair,¡± I allowed. ¡°Let¡¯s just say the NMR likes keeping tabs on me, and I¡¯ve leveraged that into access privileges for when I want to cut loose a bit.¡±

    Barricade didn¡¯t answer me immediately. He first turned to look at the smoldering training course I¡¯d just walked out of. Then he looked around the rest of this parking-lot-sized underground training complex, and saw the four other training courses I¡¯d scorched, plus the target dummies in the strength testing area.

    The reinforced metal target dummies meant for the strong type, and which I¡¯d melted into new, puddle-shaped sculptures.

    ¡°Yeah, um.¡± He swallowed. ¡°I, uh, I can see why.¡±

    I gave an amused huff. I uncrossed my arms and laid one hand on my hip, keeping the other free for gesticulating.

    ¡°None of them are ready for you,¡± I said. ¡°But you¡¯d have known that, since the reservation schedule was posted, so you¡¯re here for me instead.¡±

    ¡°... yeah,¡± he said with a sigh. ¡°I, uh. I wanted to ask you something.¡±

    ¡°Something?¡± I asked, lowering an ear in question.

    ¡°Something¡­ personal, I guess?¡± Barricade rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. ¡°Sorry, I-I know I don¡¯t really know you, but it¡¯s not something I can ask anyone else, and¡ª¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡± I said, offering a slight smile so he¡¯d feel a little less discomfited. ¡°Ask away. I don¡¯t mind.¡±

    There were only a few things he could ask, really. But given the circumstances, he was probably going to ask about¡ª

    ¡°How did you, um. How did you handle it?¡± Barricade asked. ¡°Like I looked it up, but there wasn¡¯t anything, so I asked the top JAG who was at the interview, and she told me what happened, but not what happened, you know?¡±

    ¡°I do,¡± I said with a nod. ¡°And, um¡­ I¡¯m just gonna be honest here? I didn¡¯t handle it.¡±

    ¡°But¡­¡± Barricade looked at me, expression somewhat lost. ¡°But you¡¯re¡­ but, you seem fine?¡±

    ¡°Well, you do a lot of soul-searching in fourteen years,¡± I began. ¡°Honestly, you¡¯re doing better than I was, and that¡¯s probably because it¡¯s been a while. When it happened to me, I just got put on a plane and shipped away from anyone who could raise a fuss. A year later and I would¡¯ve been okay to come back, but I waited five. By the time I got back, nobody remembered Foxfire. And yeah, I stand out enough to pick out of any crowd, but having years of not being newsworthy helped.¡±

    ¡°Did they kick you out of the NMR?¡± Barricade asked. ¡°I mean, last I heard is, you weren¡¯t a hero when you came back.¡±

    ¡°Would you still want to be a hero if you didn¡¯t have to?¡± I asked rhetorically.

    ¡°I, I mean it pays really well, I guess?¡± He hedged, clearly looking uncomfortable.

    ¡°Trust me, I make more than that as a lawyer,¡± I told him. ¡°Look. You asked how I handled things, and the truth is? I didn¡¯t, not really. I just¡­ ran away from it all until ¡®away¡¯ became the same direction as ¡®forward¡¯. I don¡¯t think that¡¯s going to work for you, but I also figure that you¡¯ve already found something that seems to do the trick. You¡¯re just looking for some confirmation that it¡¯ll work, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    The sound Barricade made was something between a huff and a sigh. There was relief in it, along with something else I couldn¡¯t quite place.

    ¡°It really helped,¡± he said. ¡°Talking about it. To someone who¡¯s actually listening. I mean, I had to talk to about a dozen different officers and investigators and lawyers and COs after it happened, but it didn¡¯t feel like any of them were talking to me, you know? It, just, I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°Felt like they were looking for an excuse to stop listening?¡± I ventured.

    ¡°Yeah! Yeah, exactly that. Then after you, uh, interviewed me, I guess?¡± His tone was questioning, so I just replied with a nod. ¡°Well after that, I looked at what other stuff I could get. And I just started seeing a therapist. Twice a week for now, and she¡¯s helping me feel more¡­ ready, I guess? Cause I¡¯m gonna have to talk about it again, right?¡±

    ¡°You are,¡± I confirmed. ¡°We¡¯re filing suit soon, and they¡¯re going to either try to turn around and sue you, or otherwise pull you into things. And they¡¯re going to treat you like it was all your fault.¡±

    ¡°But it wasn¡¯t,¡± he said. It wasn¡¯t whining, or even defensive. His tone was very matter of fact. ¡°I¡¯m starting to get that now. Talking it through. Thinking it over. Things were fucked before I ever got there, weren¡¯t they?¡±

    ¡°They were, yeah.¡± I still didn¡¯t have all the details, but Barricade¡¯s account painted a pretty vivid picture, even incomplete as it was. ¡°And sometimes that happens, whether as a superhero or in whatever else you do after. Sometimes you get started, only to realize there already isn¡¯t shit for you to do. The hardest part is just getting to a point where you can tell the difference between an uphill climb and a lost cause.¡±

    ¡°And can you?¡± Barricade asked. ¡°Tell the difference, I mean.¡±

    ¡°Well¡­ it kind of depends,¡± I hedged. As much as I¡¯d love to offer a pearl of wisdom, there was no clear answer here. ¡°And it doesn¡¯t help that even if something looks like a lost cause at first, it could very well be salvageable, but you¡¯re not the right person for the job. And that feeling? When you know you need to pass the baton because somebody else can do what you can¡¯t? It really sucks! But sometimes you just need a different set of eyes on a problem, and you won¡¯t know if that¡¯s the case without¡ª¡°

    ¡°Acknowledged,¡± the system¡¯s voice came over the speakers, and I cut myself off in surprise. ¡°NMR# 18861028.¡±

    That was an eight digit number. That meant whoever was about to enter was one of the other eleven A1¡¯s ¡ª and I would have recognized Roaring Thunder¡¯s.

    ¡°Who¡­?¡± Barricade¡¯s question trailed off as he followed my gaze towards the door. It opened up, glacially slow as ever.

    And when I saw who was behind it, I forced my expression to go dead, held my ears and tail perfectly still.

    She was clad in what I liked to call Superhero Standard: bodysuit, sturdy knee-high boots, police-issue belt full of useful goodies, all done up in pleasant blues and grays. Emblazoned on her chest was a torch, with a crescent moon and five-point star above the flame. Crowning off the look was a mantle the color of oxidized copper, extra fabric draped about her neck and shoulders to form a sort of collar before leading into the cape behind it.

    It all made for a lovely contrast to her Mediterranean skin and long braid of black hair. It was a warm, friendly, inviting image, topped off by the fact that she showed her face without reservation.

    The last time I¡¯d seen that face, it had been twisted and lined with anger, barely visible for a moment before the surprise and pain of getting yanked by my tail.

    ¡°Is that Lady Liberty?¡± Barricade asked, awe in his voice.

    The woman of the hour looked at the two of us and hesitated. Then she lifted off the floor, hovering just above the ground, as she approached at a sedate pace.

    ¡°What¡¯s she doing here? She¡¯s ¡ª she¡¯s not here for me, is she?¡±

    Even if she weren¡¯t, I didn¡¯t plan on staying long enough to find out. As Lady Liberty got within a few feet of us, I let my corporeal form fall apart, and reappeared at the door in a flash of fire. I pressed and held the button to exit, and once I heard the buzzer, I opened the door.

    ¡°Foxfire, please wait a¡ª!¡±

    Regardless of whatever else Lady Liberty was going to say, the sound of the door slamming shut drowned it out. I wasted no time blinking into the locker room to retrieve my stuff before heading to the parking lot one flash of fire at a time, making sure to remain in full view of the cameras.

    Maybe the country¡¯s favorite hero was there to talk to me. Maybe she was just there for Barricade, and saw an opportunity when she noticed me. I didn¡¯t know. I didn¡¯t want to know, either. I¡¯d learned the hard way to never meet your heroes.

    They¡¯re never more than another pain in the tail.

 Chapter Twelve

    Service of process was made to all named defendants on June 15th. That set the deadline for all defendants¡¯ responses as July 6th, assuming none of them decided to just let it run late and pay whatever fine the judge mandated. Or, rather, that would¡¯ve been the case. But we lucked out.

    We were assigned to Judge Marcus Leroy Friedman.

    For those with the good fortune to never have sat before a judge, it was important to remember something: the judge both did and didn¡¯t decide your fate. Until the trial started, and again during the post-trial paperwork stage, judges were the end-all be-all, and if you didn¡¯t like their decision, you¡¯d best make it clear in writing if you want to try and fight it later.

    But during a jury trial? Well, toss out the nomenclature. The judge was not judging anything. The jury was. For the duration of a jury trial, it was better to consider the judge as a referee, and the jurors as a panel of game show hosts, each responsible for giving you a pass/fail score.

    Or if that didn¡¯t make sense, you could instead think of it this way: a trial was a circus. The jury was the audience, the lawyers were all clowns, and the judge was the ringmaster desperately trying to keep the antics to a minimum.

    And before anybody asks, yes, I was including myself as one of those ¡®clowns¡¯.

    Now, why was all of this important?

    Because Judge Friedman was a special breed of judge. He wasn¡¯t just a former U.S. Attorney ¡­ actually, fine, he was just a former U.S. Attorney. But the thing that set him apart and made him a godsend for our case was what types of cases he¡¯d prosecuted: uncompetitive business practices, union busting, wage theft, and the like. Those cases had given him a nickname amongst the D.C. legal community.

    Judge Friedman, The Whistleblower¡¯s Best Friend.

    Now, that wasn¡¯t to say that it would all be smooth sailing from here on out. We were still going to have to fight tooth and nail for every inch of progress we made, especially since we were suing some wealthy opponents who all had their own full legal teams. And while I had Julio and Fatima on hand, along with any free members of the practice group on call, Bierman Viskie & Schotz was a mid-size firm ¡ª on the larger end of a mid-size firm, but our attorney roster was still in the middle triple digits. The defendants, meanwhile, threw down hundreds of millions on the regular. Having the NMR on our side was the only thing stopping them from just forcing us into a settlement through sheer mass of paper and ink.

    Well. That and the good judge, who was quick to show just how lucky we were to have pulled him.

    Because today was July 8th, every answer to our filed complaint had come in on-time, and we were already sitting down for the initial status conference.

    We¡¯d narrowed down our lawsuit to four parties: the building¡¯s owners, the property management company they outsourced to, the construction company that had built the apartment building in the first place, and the building inspector who¡¯d signed off on everything being up to code.

    Three of them were corporations, complete with attorneys on retainer. They filed into the room, black-and-navy suit after black-and-navy suit, all of them looking simultaneously expensive and shabby. It was easy to notice once you knew what to look for ¡ª watch the shoulders, the sleeves, and the cuffs. Too many of these idiots bought suits that looked good when standing up, but God awful when sitting down, which was a pretty obvious tell that they cared about image over substance.

    These were the attorneys you paid for a ¡°shock and awe, settle ASAP¡± approach ¡ª kings of the first impression and initial negotiation, but too hyper-specialized to be good at much else. Maybe they¡¯d been good in a courtroom a decade or two ago, but the last person they¡¯d spoken to that even resembled a jury was probably a private arbitrator ¡ª and one they pre-selected, to boot.

    The last defendant we¡¯d sued was a government employee, who came in accompanied by D.C. Housing Authority¡¯s internal attorney-advisor. With any luck, the attorney would encounter a conflict of interest and leave partway through proceedings, making the inspector more likely to help us if we agreed to stop pursuing damages from him.

    Was it a bit scummy to do that? Well, maybe, sure. But the strategy was sound, and a bit of grime now was more than worth it.

    We all stared at each other from either side of the conference table. Facing the door, Julio, Fatima, Mrs. Banks, and I sat, the four of us at the far end of the table close to where the judge would be, leaving a good twelve seats completely empty. Our opponents, meanwhile, took up all but two chairs between them all, and kept shooting each other angry looks, muttered curses passing between the corporate plaintiffs¡¯ representatives.

    Thankfully, we weren¡¯t left to stew in this for long. The clock ticked over to 8:15am, and I heard the door handle turn in that same instant, ears perking up at the sound. It wasn¡¯t the door behind the defendants¡¯ side of the table; it was another one, off to the side of the courthouse¡¯s conference room.

    I stood, and thankfully, the three with me got the hint and rose with me. The door creaked open with the groan of old wood, and in stepped Judge Friedman, the sight of which had the defendants¡¯ various lawyers hurriedly pulling their clients to their feet.

    ¡°While I appreciate it, there¡¯s no need to stand on my account,¡± the judge said, amusement in his voice as he approached the table and pulled out his chair. ¡°Believe me, those chairs on this floor? Mm, mm, no we do not like that sound. Go on, it¡¯s alright, take a seat, let me settle in and we¡¯ll get things started!¡±

    The Honorable Marcus Jerome Friedman was an older black gentleman whose general appearance I could only describe as ¡°everyone¡¯s favorite grandpa¡±. A full shock of white hair and an equally frosty beard graced his features, drawing attention away from the wrinkles gracing a brow too often furrowed in anger. Give his beard a few months, slap a red suit on him, and he could pull off a mean Santa Claus.

    He wasn¡¯t wearing his judge¡¯s robe for this simple conference, likely having left it in his chambers to shrug on before court in just under two hours. Instead, he wore a short-sleeved button-up shirt with a lively pattern on it, paired with khaki cargo shorts and sandals that wouldn¡¯t look out of place on a fishing boat. He¡¯d carried a big ol¡¯ travel mug filled to the brim with¡­ I took a discrete sniff. It smelled like something between coffee and chocolate? I¡¯d have to email his clerk or secretary asking what it was, because I wanted some.

    ¡°Right, let¡¯s see what we¡¯ve got here¡­¡± Judge Friedman sat down in his chair, pulled it closer to the table, set down his big ol¡¯ mug after taking a delightfully noisy slurp, and then flipped open the planner he¡¯d pulled out from under his other arm. ¡°Let me just make sure everyone is here in some capacity. Mrs. Destiny Irene Banks?¡±

    ¡°Present,¡± my client said, exactly as I¡¯d suggested.

    ¡°Excellent. And these are your lawyers, I take it?¡± The judge motioned to the three of us, his gaze lingering on me for barely a moment, to his credit.

    ¡°We are,¡± I said, and pulled a carefully paperclipped set of papers from my folio before handing it to the judge. ¡°Here is a copy of our Notices of Appearance for convenience, your Honor.¡±

    ¡°Unnecessary, but I do appreciate the gesture,¡± he said, accepting the papers regardless. ¡°Very well. Now, for the defendants¡­¡±

    And then he went down the list. William C. Smith & Co., represented by its executive vice president, Mr. Harrison Smith. Property Management Solutions, Inc., represented by its chief management officer, Mr. Richard Jones. Columbia Construction & Contracting LLC, represented by its managing member, Mr. Thomas Johnson.

    And last but not least, Mr. Miguel Arroyo, a D.C. Housing Authority property inspector.

    ¡°Well now that that¡¯s out of the way, let¡¯s take a look here at the Complaint and the Answers.¡± Judge Friedman pulled those papers out from the inside cover of his planner, and spread them out before him. ¡°Defendants disagreed with pretty much all of your major factual contentions here, counsel. One thing they raised that I am curious about: why the decision to not file against the NMR, here?¡±

    The question was addressed squarely at me, I could tell. The judge wanted to know: did I refuse to sue the superheroes because of some lingering sympathies towards them, because I was a Moonshot myself, or because I had a valid reason for doing so?

    ¡°During the course of our pre-filing due diligence, we found no reason to believe that the NMR or Barricade himself were at fault here, sir.¡± I pointed towards the copy of our Complaint. ¡°I believe we mentioned this in the Complaint somewhere between¡­ I want to say Points 33 and 37.¡±

    ¡°And so you did!¡± Judge Friedman offered a smile, and I noticed he hadn¡¯t once moved to actually verify that the Complaint said what I claimed. ¡°But I always want to hear that kind of thing from the horse¡¯s mouth, as it were. Always more confident in the answers when I know nobody¡¯s leaning over your shoulder to critique it.¡±

    At that moment, somebody on the defense¡¯s side of the table cleared their throat. It was the attorney for WCS, whose horn-rimmed glasses sat slightly askew on his face. I frowned, trying to remember his name and what firm he worked for, but I also didn¡¯t really care quite yet. I didn¡¯t recognize him on sight, and that meant he wasn¡¯t a big enough name to be an immediate threat.

    ¡°Actually, your Honor, the defense does plan to involve the NMR in this matter via impleader.¡±

    The judge snorted. Then he chuckled and leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands as he favored the defense attorney with a wry grin.

    ¡°Son, you¡¯ve never sued the Moonies before, have you?¡±Stolen story; please report.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± the defense attorney said. Judge Friedman¡¯s grin grew at his response, and I couldn¡¯t help the amused flick of my tail.

    For the uninitiated, ¡®I¡¯m sorry?¡¯ was lawyer-speak for, ¡®the fuck did you just say?¡¯, which, pro-tip: the polite ways of calling someone an idiot were only usable on laymen. Judges knew them too.

    ¡°Counsel, would you like to do the honors?¡± Judge Friedman looked at me when he said that, and I offered him a nod before deliberately not facing the defense attorney, even as I let a positively predatory smirk cross my lips.

    ¡°Honey, you wanna sue one of us, you gotta check in with the Court of Federal Claims first.¡± I kept my tone casual, and made a show of giving him only the barest glance before instead turning to inspect my nails. Although, ooh, actually, I probably needed to redo my nail polish. Hmm, what shade to go with next time¡­ teal? Teal. ¡°They¡¯ve got first dibs on most cases against current and former NMR, plus they¡¯ve got their own rules, their own procedures, and a different burden of proof than you¡¯re used to. Did you even look that up before writing your complaint?¡± I looked up briefly, noting how lost all but one of the attorneys on the other side looked, and lowered my ears in amusement. ¡°The thousand-yard stares tell me that, no, you didn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°And beyond that, you don¡¯t have the standing!¡± Judge Friedman added. ¡°Face it, the superhero didn¡¯t cause your clients any harm. Hell, you should be lucky he¡¯s not suing you too.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ see,¡± Crooked Glasses said, making a vain attempt to fix how said glasses sat on his face before giving up again. ¡°In that case, my client requests an additional twenty-one days to file an amended Answer to the Complaint.¡±

    ¡°As does mine.¡±

    ¡°My client also requests that.¡±

    Judge Friedman turned to the one attorney who hadn¡¯t jumped in on his client¡¯s behalf.

    ¡°Counsel?¡±

    ¡°No, your Honor.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Just cross out the lines of the Answer suggesting impleader.¡±

    ¡°There you have it,¡± the judge said. ¡°Request denied. And since you¡¯re all so eager to add deadlines to your schedules, let¡¯s turn to discovery, shall we?¡±

    Like I¡¯d said earlier: we lucked out big time pulling Judge Friedman.

    ¡°Now, I''m used to plaintiffs just rushing to file as soon as they can, but that''s not the case here. What''s more, looking at their Complaint, they''ve got quite a few ducks in a row. I say that means we can keep this discovery schedule short and sweet! What does everybody say to¡­¡± The judge looked at his calendar, and flipped a few pages. ¡°How about first week of November for pretrial motions, jury selection the Monday after Thanksgiving, and wrapping this all up by Christmas?¡±

    ¡°Plaintiff has no objections,¡± I said. Well, yes, I did have an objection, but from past experience with Judge Friedman, I knew it wasn¡¯t going to matter.

    ¡°Your Honor, with all due respect!¡± Which we all knew meant ¡®are you fucking insane?¡¯, but I had a feeling these people were too used to settling things before the status conference to know that you do not say that to the judge. ¡°Four months isn¡¯t nearly enough time to get through discovery, not with some of the entities involved!¡±

    ¡°Oh, really?¡±

    Ooh. Ooh, I knew that tone. The way someone¡¯s voice just dips at the end, challenging the person they¡¯re addressing, giving them the barest opening to walk back whatever it is they just said.

    Unfortunately for him, Crooked Glasses didn¡¯t catch it.

    ¡°By my reckoning, the plaintiff has gone to the substantial effort of assembling every document she could have had access to, which is half the time of discovery already handled. I was aiming for seven to eight months, but if half the work is already done, then I should think four would be sufficient,¡± the judge said. ¡°Which means that keeping my case calendar running is entirely contingent on your clients. And three of them were all in business together! It shouldn¡¯t be much trouble for each of them to go into their own records and produce their respective copies, or sit for independently scheduled depositions, now should it? The only reason I can see as to why you would want more time is that you wanted to make sure all of them matched.

    ¡°And that being the case, let me make this clear now.¡± Judge Friedman unclasped his hands and laid them on the table, left flat, right clasped around a gavel that wasn¡¯t there. For those familiar with the man, this was how we knew he was not going to suffer interruption. ¡°I do not just want the most recent copies of your documents. I want the current version and all backups that exist, complete with timestamps.¡±

    ¡°And what if¡ª¡±

    ¡°Do not bullshit me.¡± Judge Friedman rapped his knuckles on the table to punctuate his statement. ¡°If your clients do not provide backups, then I expect their respective Technology chiefs to stand in front of me and explain in excruciating detail how and why they do not exist. Do I make myself clear?¡±

    The attorney from the Housing Authority, the one representing Mr. Arroyo, chose this moment to clear his throat and half-raise a hand to draw attention.

    ¡°Actually, your Honor, I don¡¯t foresee the Housing Authority managing to review all of the material and conduct our own part of discovery in that amount of time,¡± he said, a tad sheepishly. ¡°We¡¯re booked solid through the end of September.¡±

    ¡°If I may?¡± I took the chance to interject, and Judge Friedman gave me a nod. ¡°Assuming that counsel for Mr. Arroyo is provided with copies of everything as we go, would you be able to take that and fill in what little is left in October and November?¡±

    ¡°Bit of a stretch, but I think it¡¯s doable,¡± the government attorney said, checking his calendar. ¡°Of course, this assumes nothing comes up that affects the Housing Authority¡¯s ability to represent Mr. Arroyo.¡±

    For his part, the defendant looked fairly aggrieved, but not ashamed. That gave me hope, if I was being honest. I was getting a good feeling about him, and had a feeling we¡¯d be amending our Complaint to exclude him in a month or two.

    ¡°Very well, two in favor. Any objections?¡± Judge Friedman asked the attorneys for the other three defendants. But in reality, he wasn¡¯t asking. He was letting them know how it was going to be.

    And this time, they knew better than to take the dare.

    ¡°Splendid!¡± The judge took the lack of response as confirmation, wrote something down in his planner, and closed it. ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, I expect to hear that discovery is complete by November 25, and look forward to seeing all of you in my courtroom on the first of December to argue pre-hearing motions, assuming there are any.¡±

    Translation: he knew there would be, and was setting the deadline before any of us could try anything.

    ¡°Very well, if there is nothing else, I will head back to my chambers.¡± Judge Friedman stood, and gave the lot of us a conspiratorial look. ¡°Ah, don¡¯t feel the need to show yourselves out quite yet. The conference room is booked until half past eleven.¡± And then, without even giving us a chance to offer so much as a ¡®good day¡¯, the judge left.

    And in the wake of his departure, relative silence reigned. Oh, to be sure, there was some muttering from the other side of the table, but there were also enough overlapping conversations that I couldn¡¯t pick out any one discussion, not even with ears as good as mine.

    The muttering did cease, though, and it appeared that Crooked Glasses, the attorney for WCS, had volunteered to take the lead. Or been volunteered, maybe.

    ¡°Mrs. Banks.¡± The defense attorney leaned forward in his chair and laid his clasped hands on the table, in what was a clear and deliberate imitation of Judge Friedman¡¯s posture. ¡°As it stands, we are currently, ah, set to revisit old traumas at what I can only presume will be a rather¡­ difficult time, for you. And so, I have to ask: is there anything we can do to help prevent that and bring things to a close in a less confrontational manner?¡±

    I¡¯d started writing the moment he opened his mouth, so I had the message written out and underlined for emphasis well before Destiny needed to respond. I slid my legal pad over to her and tapped the page with my pencil. She took the hint and started to read, thankfully.

    THEY WANT YOU TO SETTLE.

    THEY¡¯RE TRYING TO AVOID TRIAL.

    THAT CHOICE IS YOURS ALONE.

    PLAY BALL, OR DON¡¯T, BUT NO WAFFLING.

    ¡°You said ¡®anything¡¯?¡± Destiny asked, a thread of intent coloring her tone.

    I was thankful that nobody on their side of the table was familiar enough with me to read my body language, because the flick of my ears gave away my amusement. I knew that tone of voice. It was the exact greedy lilt that let scammers around the world know they¡¯d cornered an easy mark.

    ¡°Anything within our power.¡± Mr. Smith spoke up now, taking over for Crooked Glasses (who was now giving him the stink-eye). ¡°There¡¯s little that would be¡ª¡±

    ¡°Can you give me my boys back?¡±

    Destiny¡¯s interruption cut the wind from the corpo¡¯s sails.

    ¡°... I¡¯m sorry?¡± Mr. Smith asked, blinking in surprise. The rest of the people on the other side of the table subtly shifted away from the WCS contingent, not wanting to be caught in the blast zone.

    ¡°My sons.¡± Destiny¡¯s voice was firm now, all the false obsequiousness gone. ¡°Can you bring my sons back to life?¡±

    ¡°I, ma¡¯am¡ª¡±

    Crooked Glasses raised a hand into Mr. Smith¡¯s field of vision, whereupon he took the hint and fell silent. The attorney took a deep breath and focused his gaze onto my client.

    ¡°Mrs. Banks, with all due respect, my client can offer¡ª¡±

    ¡°You think I want your money?¡±

    Destiny stood from her chair. Every single person on the other side of the table, with the exception of Mr. Arroyo, pulled away at the motion.

    ¡°My boys are dead. They¡¯re dead because y¡¯all a buncha greedy fucks what couldn¡¯t say no to another goddamn dollar that weren¡¯t yours. And you seriously think I¡¯m about to take your dirty money and just leave? Fuck no! Boy, there ain¡¯t shit you can do to make me go away.

    ¡°Cause y¡¯all ain¡¯t got nothin¡¯ I want but the blood in your veins.¡±

    They had no response. None whatsoever. Not even a peep. There was nothing they would dare say to that. And we weren¡¯t about to wait, either.

    Julio, Fatima, and I stood to join Mrs. Banks. I put away my legal pad and pen, and once I started heading for the door, the rest of the group followed.

    None of us said a word until we were back outside, and walking through the parking lot.

    ¡°So what now?¡± Destiny asked.

    ¡°Now, we make their lives miserable,¡± I told her. ¡°We put them under the microscope, turn the screws, and force them to give us all their secret little goodies.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡±

    Destiny¡¯s expression twisted into a vicious, gleeful snarl.

    ¡°I doubt this¡¯ll make ¡®em hurt like I did. But damn if it won¡¯t feel good to watch them squirm.¡±

 Chapter Thirteen

    Three months had passed since that day in the conference room, since the moment Destiny Banks crushed the defendants¡¯ hopes of a quick, if costly, settlement.

    Throughout those three months, I¡¯d sat down with Julio and Fatima on almost every Thursday at 3:15pm, ensuring all three of us were on hand for check-in calls with Mrs. Banks. We kept her apprised and up to date on everything that had happened, what we¡¯d gotten in from opposing counsel, what kind of BS they looked liable to try and pull, what if anything she needed to do here, etcetera. On some weeks, the call lasted maybe ten minutes, and amounted to little more than having Mrs. Banks call the Judge¡¯s chambers and complain that the defendants weren¡¯t cooperating with her lawyers. On other weeks, that call lasted a good hour and a half, complete with me spelling out exactly what the information we¡¯d received meant for her case, and what she¡¯d need to be ready for because of it.

    And then there were the exception weeks: the ones where we didn¡¯t need to have a phone conference, because something about the case mandated that we meet in person, or that she be present for things.

    This fine, brisk week in October was one of those weeks. Friday, October 15 was one of those days.

    And we hadn¡¯t had a phone call with Mrs. Banks yesterday because she was here with us today, in one of the conference rooms at the firm, to observe the deposition of the property manager tasked with overseeing the apartment building, a Mrs. Leslie King.

    The stenographer had gotten in early and was all set with an e-reader, fully expecting the deponent to be late. The rest of us were all ready in the conference room and seated with our backs to the door for when Mrs. King and her lawyer arrived: Julio and Fatima on my right, Mrs. Banks on my left, and the welcome addition of Mr. Miguel Arroyo accompanied by DCHA¡¯s attorney advisor, Mr. Jason Wilbourne. As we had learned at Mr. Arroyo¡¯s deposition, the poor building inspector had been under pressure from WCS & Co. to regularly renew their approval with minimal inspections. Oh, sure, that expectation hadn¡¯t ever been explicitly said by anybody, and especially not put to writing.

    But the property manager had always taken the time out of her busy, busy day to meet Mr. Arroyo out front before an inspection, and always asked how his sister and nieces were doing.

    His sister and nieces who lived in another property owned by WCS & Co., which was also managed by none other than Mrs. Leslie King.

    Now, that was more than enough to arouse suspicions and give us enough grounds to have the property management company free up her schedule for a deposition. But we¡¯d gotten this on the books a week ago. That was plenty of time for due diligence on our part, such as reviewing the documents we¡¯d received from Mrs. King¡¯s employers.

    And, oh, the things we¡¯d discovered.

    One of the secretaries knocked on the door to the conference room, and I stood to face the door. On my instructions, however, nobody else did. They all stared straight ahead, backs to the door, and studiously ignored everything that was about to go on behind them.

    ¡°Enter,¡± I called.

    The secretary, a young Vietnamese woman named Linh, who¡¯d only started working for us recently (and who had already left a very good impression by just being kind when she had nothing to gain from it), met my eyes before holding the door open for the deponent and her attorneys. As they entered the room, I briefly glanced at Linh, whose expression of suppressed distaste was all I needed to know what to expect.

    ¡°Good afternoon,¡± I said as I met the gaze of my opposing number for the day: an older man in a pinstriped suit. ¡°Is your client ready to proceed?¡±

    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t you worry your pretty little head about me, darling, I¡¯m all set whenever you¡¯re ready.¡±

    I flicked an ear in annoyance, mirroring the annoyed twitch of Pinstripe Suit¡¯s eye, and turned to look at the deponent herself.

    Mrs. Leslie King was an older white woman who seemed to think that emulating the air and appearance of a younger Betty White would be enough to make people overlook any other details about her. Every single bit of her appearance was aggressively inoffensive, as odd as that combination of words might seem: muted colors, cozy fabrics, and styles that were already dated well before the turn of the millennium. This woman¡¯s everything was Crate and Barrel by way of the Easter Bunny, and it all seemed too deliberate to be genuine.

    The way the skin around her watery blue eyes seemed to tighten once she¡¯d gotten a good look at me only reinforced this expression. Like I¡¯d said before, there were three main reactions I tended to get from people who saw me for the first time: confused utterance, muted disgust, or shocked silence.

    With the way this woman¡¯s appearance was so carefully crafted to give the impression that butter wouldn¡¯t melt in her mouth? Yeah, muted disgust was a given.

    I looked away from Little Miss Cottagecore and locked eyes with her lead attorney.

    ¡°Counsel, please advise your client that until she is under oath and the deposition is underway, we are not to address one another directly.¡±

    ¡°Oh come now darling, you don¡¯t gotta be bitchy about little old me,¡± Leslie King said with a smile that lied about as well as the rest of her aesthetic.

    ¡­ I wanted to strangle her. Bitchy? Bitchy!? I was not a dog! I was part canid, yes, but I was not some simple canine! I was a wonderful, mischievous, fluffy fox, not some dime-a-dozen puppy mill output!

    Plus, that little Southern Belle affectation of hers that she¡¯d so clearly kludged together from who knows how many little slices of Americana? And the way her lips came together with a loud, wet smacking sound due to how heavily she¡¯d applied her lipstick? And the jingle of far too many keys hanging from a keyring on a brand new Louis Vuitton purse?

    Ooh, I¡¯d only just met this woman, but she already made me so, damn, mad! God, how did Mrs. Banks stand interacting with this, this¡­ urgh! No, no, Naomi, don¡¯t lose your temper on this insignificant little twit, she was not worth it, you¡¯d have plenty of time to make her regret those comments, just¡­ deep breaths.

    I chose not to actually say anything else as a response. Instead, I just held the door open for them, and sat down in my chair once they¡¯d made their way to the other side of the table.

    Then, once we were all set, the stenographer took over briefly. All of us repeated our full names, and relationship to each party ¡ª Julio, Fatima and I were Mrs. Banks¡¯ attorneys; Mr. Wilbourne was representing Miguel Arroyo; some stooges named Kevin Cole and Mitch Goodson were representing Property Management Solutions, Inc. and the property manager for the building that had burned down.

    And then, the ball was back in my court.

    ¡°Mrs. King, I am Naomi Ziegler, an attorney representing the plaintiff, Mrs. Destiny Banks. This is a deposition, in which I will ask you questions and you must answer them truthfully unless your attorney tells you clearly and directly not to answer. Although no judge is present, this is a formal legal proceeding just like testifying in court, and you are under the same legal obligation to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If you do not understand any of my questions, feel free to say so, and I will rephrase it. Before the deposition can be used in court, you will have the opportunity to read over it and correct any mistakes. Do you understand this?"

    ¡°Why yes I do, lil¡¯ miss!¡± Mrs. King gave me another one of those insincere smiles of hers, and it was a trial to not give that the snarl it deserved.

    ¡°Very well.¡± I extended a hand to the side, and Julio dutifully handed me the legal pad full of pre-depo notes he¡¯d gone and written up. It was time to begin the plan.

    That said¡­ before I get too far ahead of myself: depositions.

    For the most part, these are exactly like testifying in open court. You are placed under oath, meaning that everything you say is under penalty of perjury, but as per usual, perjury is quite hard to prove, particularly in regards to opinion testimony. A lawyer asks you questions, and you have to answer them. If you try to get evasive, the lawyer gets to put you to the screws for as long as they have you. A court reporter transcribes the entire thing, and produces a transcript at the end of the day with everything said ¡ª and no matter what you do, do not try to trip up the court reporter by talking too fast. It doesn''t work. It literally never works. We all bring dictaphones, and if somebody starts playing that game, we turn them on to record everything.

    Now, there were a handful of psychological tactics in depositions. One of them was to always make sure the deponent is facing both you and the door at the same time. This sets you up as a gatekeeper of sorts ¡ª if they want to leave, they must get past you. And you didn¡¯t just want to ask them question after question, drawing out that captivity for as long as possible. You also wanted to lead them in circles, until they¡¯d answered the same question enough times that contradictions could start piling up.

    But sometimes, like here, there was no need to go that far. All you had to do was get your research done ahead of time, show up prepared, and wait for them to fall into your trap.

    ¡°Mrs. King, you are an employee of Property Management Solutions, Inc. How long have you been working for this company?¡±

    ¡°Oh, going on twenty-five years now!¡± Mrs. King accompanied the answer with a simpering little giggle, the sort that held no real humor in it.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°And how long have you been acting in your position as property manager?¡±

    ¡°Hmm, thirteen? Oh, no, this was after that dreadful storm down south. Fourteen years!¡±

    ¡°And what apartment buildings do you serve as property manager for?¡± I asked as a follow up.

    ¡°... I, I¡¯m sorry darling, I don¡¯t quite recall all of ¡®em.¡± Her apologetic smile was less forced than the rest, but there was a certain smugness to it.

    ¡°Oh no, that¡¯s okay!¡± I held up the pre-depo notepad Julio had handed me. ¡°I have a list of them all right here. How about I just read them off and you tell me if I¡¯ve got them all.¡±

    ¡°Objection,¡± one of her attorneys said, the one in pinstripes. I already couldn¡¯t remember whether he was mister monosyllable or the one whose name was wishful thinking, and frankly, I didn¡¯t care.

    ¡°So noted!¡± I said, false cheer in my voice. ¡°Alright Mrs. King, I¡¯m going to start reading off the list, please forgive me for not being in alphabetical order. Let¡¯s see¡­ Marigold Residences?¡±

    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s one of them,¡± she said.

    ¡°Objection.¡±

    ¡°Marigold Courtyard?¡±

    ¡°That is too.¡±

    ¡°Objection.¡±

    ¡°Marigold Apartments?¡± I asked, watching her expression.

    ¡°And that one,¡± she said.

    ¡°Objection.¡±

    ¡°Marigold Terrace?¡±

    And on it went like that, with me reading off a good seventeen names.

    So, to prevent confusion: anybody who had ever seen a trial would notice that the objections weren¡¯t stopping me. That was because, for the most part, objecting didn¡¯t actually do anything during the deposition itself.

    See, when you lodged an objection, the stenographer recorded it. If that witness later got called to testify in court, the attorney only got to reiterate the same objections they¡¯d already made, but actually had to argue them this time. If there was a question they wanted to object to in court, but hadn¡¯t done so during the deposition? Well tough shit, no objection for you.

    That said, there were two main exceptions. The first one was the work-product exception ¡ª you couldn¡¯t ask a deponent about, say, the kind of stuff they talked about with their lawyers. The second exception was if you were using the deposition to harass the other person. Had I been on the receiving end of this? Yes. Had I ever done it to somebody else?

    Well¡­

    ¡°Okay, Mrs. King,¡± I began, once I¡¯d ticked off every name on my list. ¡°That makes thirteen separate buildings you say you were the property manager for?¡±

    ¡°That is correct,¡± she said.

    ¡°Ma¡¯am, are you aware that you answered ¡®yes¡¯ to having been the property manager for fourteen different buildings?¡±

    The expression of sheer shock on her face was almost worth the insult she¡¯d handed me earlier.

    ¡°Objection!¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s see, it was the¡­ seventh building I named.¡± I glanced down at the notes. ¡°Flats 230. You don¡¯t manage that building, do you? In fact, it doesn¡¯t even exist, does it?¡±

    ¡°Objection,¡± Pinstripes said, waving for his client to remain silent as he stood. ¡°Counsel, this is an abuse of the discovery process to harass my client, and you know it. Ma¡¯am, don¡¯t answer that question.¡±

    ¡°Well, see, that¡¯s all fine and dandy,¡± I said, leaning forward as I let my lips spread into a mean smirk of my own. ¡°But the fact remains that your client has a few questions she still needs to answer. Is she aware that, while under oath, she attested to having been the property manager for thirteen buildings at the time of the incident, but also agreed that she was the property manager for fourteen separate buildings, with each one being named separately?¡±

    I heard an amused huff off to the side, and I knew without having to look that it was Miguel Arroyo. He was the one who¡¯d given us the list of properties Leslie King managed, because she always made sure he was the one scheduled to visit them.

    ¡°I¡­ I am aware of that,¡± Mrs. King said. All of the smugness she¡¯d had on walking into the conference room was long gone. Her posture had gone from loose and relaxed to something guarded, compacted in on itself. Her upper arms were pressed tight against her sides, hands clenched tightly onto her overpriced designer purse.

    Her eyes flicked up towards me, then past me to the door. I swiveled my ears a bit, drawing her attention away from the door, and then lowered them to direct her attention back to my smirk, which she ever so slightly flinched away from.

    She thought I¡¯d been bitchy before, had she? Had she perhaps thought herself the hound to my fox, hmm?

    Well, that illusion was long gone.

    ¡°So which one was it?¡± I asked. ¡°Thirteen buildings, or fourteen?¡±

    ¡°Thirteen,¡± she confirmed. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m very certain.¡±

    ¡°I see, thank you.¡± I flipped the page on the legal pad. ¡°Now, how often did you work on-site at the various properties you manage?¡±

    ¡°Well, it depends on the property, of course!¡± Her tone was an odd thing, simultaneously sounding like begging even as she tried to talk down to me. This was also clearly a question she¡¯d been prepped for, given how much of a non-answer it was.

    ¡°Per month, then.¡±

    ¡°Well, at least once a month per property, certainly,¡± Mrs. King asserted. ¡°Can¡¯t go too long without stopping in and bringing marching orders from head office, don¡¯t you know.¡±

    ¡°Now as you know, my client used to live in one of the properties you managed before it burned down,¡± I continued. ¡°So I have to ask: if you were regularly stopping in at each property at least once a month, when in the month of December did you ¡®bring marching orders from head office¡¯ to the Hillside Terrace?¡±

    ¡°I, I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t quite recall,¡± Leslie King waffled.

    ¡°And what about in November?¡± I asked.

    ¡°W-well, it would¡¯ve had to be before Thanksgiving, the whole family went down to Georgia to surprise my youngest for the holiday.¡±

    ¡°Mrs. King, can you name even one date that you set foot on the Hillside Terrace property?¡±

    ¡°Yes I damn well can!¡± Leslie King asserted, shaking enough to set the too many keys on her overpriced purse jingling. ¡°Day before Halloween, I judged the building costume contest and they called me Elpheba when I didn¡¯t give the win to the worst Dorothy I¡¯ve ever seen!¡±

    ¡°I see, I see.¡± I reached under the notepad and pulled out a sheaf of documents. ¡°Reporter, please log these documents collectively as plaintiff¡¯s exhibit number 73, lease documents, and let the record reflect that I¡¯ve provided a copy to opposing counsel.¡± I stood up, handed one copy of the packet to the stenographer, and another copy to Pinstripes before going back to my seat.

    ¡°It¡¯s been marked,¡± the stenographer said.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I said, and she offered a small half-smile in response. ¡°Mrs. King, do you know what the packet of documents in front of you is?¡±

    ¡°Lemme see¡­¡± Leslie flipped through the papers, the worry on her face fading away to boredom as she appeared to recognize what she saw. ¡°These¡¯re lease documents. We have copies of ¡®em in the head office and in each building¡¯s office.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± I said. ¡°Now, take a look at the bottom of page 34. Whose signature is that on the lease?¡±

    ¡°It says it was signed by Destiny Irene Banks.¡±

    ¡°And you are aware that Mrs. Banks is in the room with us today?¡±

    ¡°Well of course, she¡¯s sitting right there next to you!¡± she exclaimed.

    ¡°Mhmm. Now, do me a favor.¡± I motioned with my hand. ¡°Flip back to the first page for me, and read off the name of the apartment building that this lease is for?¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s see here, it says¡­¡±

    I saw the instant realization hit her. A fun set of emotions flickered across Leslie King¡¯s face: confusion, then disbelief, followed by anger, before finally settling on sheer dread. The way the blood drained from her face was an absolute sight to behold.

    She looked back up at me, and immediately looked away from the predatory grin I¡¯d allowed to grace my visage.

    ¡°Well?¡± I asked, teasing the answer out of her. ¡°We¡¯re waiting, Mrs. King.¡±

    ¡°Objection,¡± Pinstripes lodged. Mrs. King initially looked up in hope that she might not need to answer, but then her attorney¡¯s fight left him the instant my attention fell on him, and with it, any hope of her getting out of this.

    ¡°It¡­¡± She gulped. ¡°I-it says ¡®Hillside Courtyard¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Mrs. King.¡± I treated her now to the deepest frown of disappointment I could manage, complete with pulling my ears low and back. She apparently did recognize that bit of body language, if the way she shrunk away from me was any indication. ¡°Hillside Courtyard burned to the ground on December 27, 2019. From the way you were speaking just now, you couldn¡¯t tell the difference between two properties you managed: one that still existed, and one that hasn¡¯t for most of a year.

    ¡°So I¡¯m going to ask again: referring specifically to the building that no longer exists, when was the last time you so much as set one foot in the building?¡±

    ¡°I¡­¡± Leslie King looked past me again, to the door I sat in front of. ¡°I don¡¯t recall.¡±

    ¡°I see, I see,¡± I said.

    I jotted down a quick note to remind myself to come back here in, oh, two hours. Then I reached out a hand toward Fatima, who handed me an even thicker trio of packets than the ones I¡¯d already distributed.

    ¡°Reporter, please log these documents collectively as plaintiff¡¯s exhibit number 74, ¡®Collected Complaints to the Hillside Courtyard Management Office¡¯, and let the record reflect that I¡¯ve provided a copy to opposing counsel.¡± Once again I passed out copies to the others, and once more I resumed my vigil over the door.

    ¡°So marked.¡±

    By the time I returned to my seat, Mrs. King was already flipping through the packet, and the longer she paged through them, the less color remained in her complexion. The skin on her neck and ears was practically an ashy gray, making the layers of foundation and concealer she wore stand out rather painfully.

    ¡°Mrs. King, as you can see, the document before you is a collection of the complaints sent by former Hillside Courtyard residents to your office and email address.¡± I tapped my own copy of the packet. ¡°Now, let¡¯s go through complaints and address them one by one, shall we?¡±

    Leslie King took one last look at the door behind me before resignation fell like a curtain across her face.

    Oh, yes, honey. You were never the hound to my fox. You were only ever a scared little rabbit, desperately trying to hide from my hunt. For the next six hours, I was going to make this tasty little morsel squeal.

    And I would enjoy every single second of it¡­

 Chapter Fourteen

    The deposition of Leslie King was not the last time we put the screws to somebody for this case. Another trio of depositions followed, along with being present to help with Mr. Arroyo¡¯s deposition defense. But there was only so much to be done before we finally ran out of documents to uncover and people to question.

    That point was the first week of November, and after we filed with the court saying we were done with discovery, we got our first major deadline: pretrial motions, and any hearings to argue them as needed. That deadline? The Monday after Thanksgiving. The date we¡¯d be arguing those motions before the judge? The Monday, Tuesday, and maybe (but hopefully not) Wednesday before Christmas.

    Today was December 7. The deadline for filing pretrial motions had already come and gone. In front of me sat both Julio and Fatima.

    And they were here because it was decision time.

    Back in March, nine months ago, I¡¯d told the both of them that I would eventually decide who got to sit second seat at trial. I¡¯d initially wanted to wait a tad longer, to give both of them a chance to argue against some of the defendants¡¯ pretrial motions, and make my decision after seeing that. Unfortunately, a few outside factors had killed that plan before it ever got started.

    Firstly¡­ I wasn¡¯t actually going to be free on the first day of arguing pretrial motions. Another case I was the lead attorney on had a full day of mediation that same Monday. Since that was for an NMR case in the Court of Federal Claims, and the various courts had a bad habit of not wanting to work with one another, no amount of requesting either date be moved had managed to solve this double-booking. This meant my hand was forced, and I had to delegate some responsibility to one of my junior attorneys. And under most circumstances, that decision would¡¯ve been easy! I would¡¯ve picked Fatima, as she had more experience as an attorney in more situations, and had actually written over half of the text we¡¯d eventually filed for our pretrial motions!

    Except, second: during the nine month period this case had lasted, both Julio and Fatima had been working other cases as well. And during the last week of October and first week of November, Fatima had gone to trial. As the most senior attorney on that trial team, she¡¯d been in charge, and it would be remiss of me not to factor that into my decision.

    The only problem was making sure both of them understood the choice¡­ and, well. Didn¡¯t react badly.

    ¡°... so suffice to say, I¡¯m going to be very unavailable that day,¡± I said, not able to mask my chagrin. ¡°I¡¯d wanted to watch each of you during these motion arguments and make the decision after, but that¡¯s not really going to be possible.¡±

    ¡°I mean, you could always just have us go halfsies on Monday and make your decision based on what you see Tuesday?¡± Julio ventured. He was shifting in his chair, fidgeting with the little cardboard sleeve on his coffee cup to hide his nervousness.

    ¡°That¡¯s not a good idea,¡± Fatima said, sitting there with her legs crossed and hands sitting in her lap all prim and proper. There was an air of restrained eagerness to it all though, because while I couldn¡¯t see the way she was bouncing her foot, she tapped against the front of my desk often enough to give away the motion. And she probably knew it too, given the way my ears kept flicking in that direction when her foot made contact with the desk. ¡°We need to know who¡¯s in charge before we go in, otherwise we¡¯ll just be stepping on each others¡¯ toes the entire time.¡±

    My ears flattened slightly, showing my mild surprise at her answer. Ironic that she would grok the problem without actually understanding the problem.

    ¡°Julio.¡± He sat up straighter when I said his name. ¡°You¡¯ve been working on a few cases with Darryl, right? Just you and him?¡±

    ¡°Nothing too major,¡± Julio said. ¡°Just a few car crashes and a pair of MedMal cases.¡±

    ¡°And how much would you say the work has been apportioned?¡± I began, letting my ears relax as I offered him a soft smile. Julio had gotten good at reading the less human aspects of my body language, but I doubted even my relaxation would help with what I was about to ask. ¡°If you had to give me a percentage, how much of it would you say you¡¯ve been doing versus Darryl?¡±

    ¡°Um¡­¡± Julio rubbed the back of his neck and looked away briefly.

    I could tell that he was uncomfortable with the idea of trying to quantify how much work either of them had done on the case, and to be honest, that discomfort was a good sign! Divvying up responsibilities was key, but you always ran the risk of apportioning too little work even if it looked like a lot, or giving one person the crap jobs while the other got the choice bits.

    ¡°I think he¡¯s been trying for a sixty-forty? With me doing the forty to keep things easier for me?¡±

    ¡°I see¡­¡± I jotted the answer down on a notepad, and turned to my other junior, my ears lowering as my good cheer faded in anticipation of where the conversation was about to go. ¡°Fatima: your trial at the end of October. What went wrong?¡±

    ¡°That¡ª¡± Fatima glanced at Julio, whose discomfort looked to have been amplified by an entire order of magnitude at my question. ¡°Naomi, are you seriously asking that?¡±

    ¡°I am,¡± I said, ¡°because I¡¯ve lost trials too, with one of those losses being during this case, and every time I¡¯ve done a postmortem to figure out what went wrong. So, Fatima.¡± I tapped my pen on the table. ¡°What went wrong?¡±

    Fatima looked away just like Julio did, but her expression was notably different. Whereas he had radiated discomfort and worry, Fatima had the beginnings of anger and indignance creasing her forehead and pulling down at the corners of her mouth. I tapped my pen on the table, then again, and again, counting out the seconds that Fatima didn¡¯t answer. Tap. Tap. Tap.

    Tap.

    ¡°Well, you don¡¯t need to tell me.¡± I spoke, breaking the increasingly tense silence that surrounded Fatima¡¯s inability to answer. ¡°I already knew, anyway.¡±

    ¡°... but you weren¡¯t there,¡± Fatima accused, finally saying something now that her anger had a target other than herself.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t have to be.¡± I reached over to my phone, and tapped the button to take back the call I¡¯d had on hold for the last fifteen minutes, all in preparation for this moment. ¡°Sorry to keep you waiting, Amir. Now, what were you saying about the trial?¡±

    ¡°That the plaintiff¡¯s lead attorney did not listen to her co-counsel,¡± said the man on the other end of the line. The voice belonged to Amir Al-Masri, in-house shark for Allstate. He was a longtime friend, sometimes-ally and sometimes-adversary, and one of the scariest trial lawyers I¡¯d ever met.

    He was also the attorney who¡¯d cleaned Fatima¡¯s clock in court just a month ago.

    ¡°It was obvious to me that she was not as familiar with all aspects of the case as the other lawyers on her team. But rather than delegate, she instead tried to handle the entire trial herself. Had she allowed one of the others to handle cross-examining my witnesses in particular, she might very well have convinced the jury that my case looked weaker than it was.¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± I said. ¡°And do you have any advice for Ms. Osmani?¡±

    ¡°She is like me, and so I will give the same advice I needed to hear when I was at her level: show more trust in the rest of your team,¡± Amir said. ¡°Even now, I do not try to handle complicated trials solo. If the jury is not listening to me, somebody else must speak to them. If a witness is being hostile or defensive, I am not the one to de-escalate that situation. Embrace your strengths, but know your weaknesses, and surround yourself with helping hands.¡±

    ¡°Wonderful. Thank you again for your help, Amir,¡± I said. ¡°Oh! Before I forget, we still on for Saturday?¡±

    ¡°Of course! But I must let you know: my daughter is also in town, and has brought the grandchildren.¡±

    ¡°Message received loud and clear; I¡¯ll bake cookies and get the fox out of his den,¡± I told him. ¡°See you then!¡±

    With that, I pressed the speakerphone button to end the call, and looked back at my two junior attorneys. Julio looked rather nonplussed, and I figured he¡¯d had similar conversations with former adversaries often enough during his years as a public defender.

    Fatima, on the other hand, just looked utterly taken aback. She was somewhere between gobsmacked, angry, shamefaced, and failing to put together a complete sentence through her anger.

    ¡°Amir has been doing this since before either of you were in elementary school,¡± I told them both. ¡°He has forgotten more about how to be a trial attorney than most of us will ever know. Suffice to say, whenever he told me where I had room to improve? I listened closely.¡± I turned towards Fatima. ¡°Depending on what the issue he spotted was, I was still going to have you sit second seat. But I¡¯m not going to be there for at least the first day of arguing pretrial motions, and for a case this big? I cannot in good conscience leave you in charge if your main issue is not being a team player.¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Fatima didn¡¯t answer.

    She instead pushed her chair away from my desk, stood, and left my office, slamming the door shut on her way out for good measure.

    ¡°Damn it,¡± I sighed, turning towards Julio. ¡°Suffice to say, this was not how I wanted it to go down. Congratulations, Julio. You¡¯ll be sitting second seat, which means you¡¯re in charge when I¡¯m not there. I wish it hadn¡¯t been quite so messy, but, well.¡± I sighed, ears dipping low in disappointment. ¡°People don¡¯t often want to hear what they need to.¡±

    ¡°Yeah¡­ yeah, I get that,¡± he said, standing up from his seat. ¡°Anyway, I, uh. I¡¯m gonna go get a bit more time on those motions, gotta figure out our approach.¡±

    ¡°If I may make a suggestion?¡± I offered, and Julio paused. ¡°Have Fatima defend our motions in limine. She wrote most of those, and I do need to both give her credit where due and let her show her stuff.¡±

    ¡°And the rest?¡±

    ¡°Just trust your best judgment,¡± I told him. ¡°And Julio?¡±

    ¡°Yeah?¡± Julio asked, pausing with a hand on the door handle.

    ¡°Congratulations on your first civil trial second seat,¡± I told him. ¡°You earned it.¡±

    ¡°... thanks, Naomi.¡± Julio favored me with a smile and a salute with his coffee cup. ¡°That means a lot.¡±

    Then he left my office, leaving me alone again. I sighed, gave myself a brief moment to relax, then turned back to my computer and opened up a few more documents that needed a once-over. Alas, there was no rest for the weary. Thank God for having Christmas and New Years before trial. My social life tended to die a miserable death for the duration of a trial, so getting a nice respite beforehand was a blessing, especially with what I had planned.

    Spa week with the girls would do me some good, and my God, the things they did for my fur¡­

    <hr>

    The holidays came and went without much fanfare. Gorou and I spent Christmas at the Japanese embassy, where they lavished him with attention and a few gifts, and once he was all set until New Year¡¯s Eve, I grabbed my besties Kimi and Kei for our spa week. Absolute heaven, oh my God. My muscles were loose, my skin was smooth, and my hair and fur were soft and shiny. Gorou gave me some shit for letting anyone other than him work on my fur, but even he admitted that the results were utterly spectacular.

    Today was Tuesday, January 5, 2021. Inauguration Day was two weeks away (Dem incumbent won re-election, nothing special), and even though Judge Friedman was clearly aiming for having the trial done before then, not even he wanted to hold court on the Monday after New Year¡¯s. Officially, though, he said that we would be better served by waiting just one more day to ensure our jury turnout was sufficient for a case of this magnitude.

    So it was that my team and I used yesterday as our last ¡°figure shit out and be ready¡± session, and now we sat in the courtroom, waiting for things to begin. The gallery of the court, normally filled by onlookers or people awaiting their own cases being called, was filled almost to the brim with potential jurors. And because I was not above taking any advantage I could get my hands on, I was currently standing at counsel¡¯s table so that all of them could see me.

    The courtroom we¡¯d be arguing in was a bit on the smaller side. The gallery could only hold maybe forty people, and the acoustics meant that if the room was full and you weren¡¯t in the well of the court? Well, odds were good that most people wouldn¡¯t hear a word you said.

    But, well. I wasn¡¯t most people.

    My ears scanned side to side, panning across the room so I could take in as many of the whispers and muttered conversations as I could. As expected, I was an object of serious curiosity. After all, how often did you see somebody with real animal ears and a tail? And how likely were you to find that person in a courtroom?

    The first time I heard other attorneys complaining about jury selection had been a bit of a rude awakening for me, you see. Most lawyers had a tough time finding jurors who actually gave a damn, or who saw jury duty as something that they should be doing, as opposed to just being something that they wanted to get out of doing. But I hadn¡¯t experienced that, not even once. I had a very different problem than most, and that problem was identifying which potential jurors just saw me as a zoo animal, because those were the ones who would watch my every move while simultaneously ignoring every single word I said.

    To that end, I¡¯d acquired a temporary fourth member of the legal team. You see, we¡¯d already gone and hired one of our new associate attorneys for next year, fresh out of law school. But that attorney-to-be was still a cute, adorable little third-year law student, working part-time at the firm both for course credit (called an ¡°externship¡±) and for some pay.

    So I¡¯d gone to Alice, told her I was borrowing the 3L, and brought Casey Allen, the cute little student attorney, to court for jury selection.

    ¡°Your task,¡± I¡¯d told him on the car ride over, ¡°is to position yourself in the gallery so you have both me and the potential jurors in your line of sight. I want you checking to see if they¡¯re staring at me, and if they are, where they¡¯re staring. Any juror who¡¯s staring at my boobs, gone. Any juror who¡¯s staring at my tail, gone. Any juror staring at my ears¡­ well, that one¡¯s a bit trickier. For that one, I need you to pay attention to their body language. Do they look like they¡¯re actually trying to read what I¡¯m saying with my ears? Or are they just staring because it¡¯s something to watch?¡±

    Casey was currently sitting in the back-right corner of the gallery, a loose black sweater leaving him so completely nondescript that the potential jurors filing into the courtroom all ignored him. And while court police did ask what Casey was doing back there, a note I¡¯d prepped beforehand was enough to have the officer leave him alone.

    Eventually, the gallery was filled. Three minutes of whispers and murmurs later, the bailiff took position in front of the bench, and yelled.

    ¡°All rise!¡±

    I was already standing, but everybody else joined me, some more swiftly than others.

    ¡°Now presenting the Honorable Marcus Leroy Friedman. All persons having business before the Judge and this court are advised to give their attention, for the court is now in session!¡±

    ¡°Oh don¡¯t bother waiting on my account,¡± Judge Friedman said, drawing chuckles from the gallery. ¡°Go on, sit, sit!¡±

    People were quick to take the invitation, and with the shuffling of feet on carpet, butts found chairs and eyes went to the bench.

    ¡°As the good bailiff said by way of introduction, my name is Marcus Leroy Friedman, and I am one of the judges here at DC Superior Court. You have been summoned here as potential jurors in the case of Destiny Irene Banks v. William C. Smith & Company, et al., which is a type of civil case known as a wrongful death lawsuit. This case came about when an apartment building burned down during the afternoon on December 27, 2019, and two people died in this fire.¡±

    Any good cheer in the courtroom fled without a whisper. Judge Friedman knew exactly how to control his courtroom, and it was a sight to behold.

    ¡°Now, in order to ensure the selection of a properly fair and impartial jury, the law provides that the court and the attorneys for both sides may ask questions of all prospective jurors, in a process that we call ¡®voir-dire¡¯. When answering these questions, you shall be under oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, under penalty of perjury. We will be comparing your answers to your jury questionnaires, and if we think you changed an answer, we won¡¯t hesitate to confirm.

    ¡°Now, after the questioning is complete, each side will be allowed to excuse three of you. Additionally, at any time during the selection process, I may choose to excuse you for what is called ¡®cause¡¯. This means that, based upon the answers you give and the facts of this particular case, I personally think that you would find it difficult to remain impartial. Rest assured that there is no shame in being excused; it just means that this case wasn¡¯t yours to hear. I also ask that you not take any offense at any questions asked of you, no matter the subject matter. While we respect all of your rights to privacy, there are things the court must know about: you as people, the lives you¡¯ve led, the opinions you hold, and so on. Any or all of these can affect your ability to serve on this jury.¡±

    There had started to be some mumbling from the gallery as the judge spoke, but by the time he finished, it had all calmed back down.

    ¡±Firstly: if any of you are personally acquainted with the plaintiff, Mrs. Banks, please raise your hand.¡±

    No hands went up.

    ¡±In that case, I will move on to the next set of questions.¡± Judge Friedman flipped open his planner and retrieved a sheet of paper from the inside cover. ¡°Now, based on the facts of this case, both the plaintiff and the defendants agreed on a few blanket questions that they want to ask as a group before moving to one-on-one questioning for the rest. These questions identify the most likely sources of bias, which we want to weed out before going further. Does anybody have questions about this process, or are we ready to proceed?¡±

    One person in the gallery raised her hand, and Judge Friedman motioned for her to speak. She stood up first, then cleared her throat and asked.

    ¡±What if we¡¯re not sure about how to answer the question?¡±

    ¡°The questions are all going to be yes-or-no,¡± the judge clarified. ¡°If you aren¡¯t sure whether you¡¯re a yes or a no, just raise your hand for yes regardless. In this circumstance, we would rather have a false positive than a false negative. Did that answer your question?¡±

    ¡°Y-yes, sir,¡± she said. Then she sat down, and the judge cleared his throat.

    ¡°Very well,¡± he said. ¡°Let us begin. Question one: please raise your hand if you are currently living in rent-assisted or government-subsidized housing, other than military housing.¡±

    Three people raised their hands. Unsurprisingly, none of the three were white.

    ¡°Lady and gentlemen, you are excused from the jury,¡± Judge Friedman said. ¡°Thank you for lending your time to the court this morning, brief as it may have been.¡±

    The three of them wasted no time leaving, and the gallery was down to 36 potential jurors.

    ¡°Moving on,¡± the judge continued. ¡°Please raise your hand if at any point you collected rent as a part of your income.¡± Two more hands went up, and the judge promptly excused them as well. ¡°Please raise your hand if you have ever sued your landlord, past or present, for any reason except for not returning your security deposit.¡±

    There was some chuckling in the gallery at that, and another four hands went up.

    ¡°Thank you for your candor; you are excused.¡± Judge Friedman waited for them to exit the courtroom, and then continued. ¡°Please raise your hand if you have ever lost your home to a fire, flood, earthquake, or other similar event.¡±

    This time, no hands went up.

    ¡°Last but not least, please raise your hand if you are a member of law enforcement or emergency services, such as fire rescue or emergency medicine.¡±

    Six hands went up. The judge promptly dismissed them, leaving us with a grand total of twenty-four potential jurors to question.

    ¡°Well,¡± the judge began. ¡°To be honest, this is more than I anticipated.¡±

    There were a few good-natured chuckles, and Judge Friedman let them peter out before motioning to the bailiff. He walked up the aisle towards the back of the courtroom, and took position at the doors.

    ¡°For the rest of jury selection, we will be calling you in one by one. Please follow the bailiff to the waiting room, and make sure you have your numbers ready.¡±

    The jurors stood in the disorganized fashion you¡¯d expect from people jockeying for position in a small space, and filed out of the courtroom in a noisy two minutes. This left poor Casey the 3L as the only person left in the gallery, and that drew the judge¡¯s attention.

    ¡°Young man, the rest of the jury has already left,¡± Judge Friedman said.

    ¡°Actually, your Honor, Mr. Allen is with us,¡± I said, standing as I spoke. ¡°He is a student attorney with our firm, and I wanted to make sure he got to experience the courtroom before graduating. We¡¯ll be bringing him up in front of the bar of the court once jury selection is done, but I wanted him to see how the selection process looks from the outside before letting him see this side of things.¡±

    ¡°And do you have the paperwork for that?¡±

    ¡°Yes, your Honor. Permission to approach?¡±

    ¡°Granted.¡±

    I pulled a few sheets of paper from my trial binder and walked up to the bench, handing them to the judge with a smile.

    ¡°¡­ everything seems to be in order,¡± he said, then turned to where Casey sat in the back of the courtroom. ¡°Quite the opportunity you have here, young man. Make the best of it, you hear?¡±

    ¡°Y-yes, sir!¡± Casey yelped out, standing rigid in the back of the courtroom.

    ¡°Wonderful.¡± Judge Friedman put the papers away somewhere behind the desk, and waved me off back to counsel¡¯s table. ¡°Alright, everybody. Bailiff Mike has a list of which potential jurors are left, so I¡¯ll give you thirty minutes until I start calling them in. Sound good?¡±

    The gathered attorneys at the defense table looked to one another, mumbled something between them, then nodded. I nodded to the judge as well, then looked to the back of the courtroom and gestured for Casey to join us.

    He gave this shocked little look, before pointing at himself in a sort of ¡°what, me?¡± expression.

    I rolled my eyes, and waved him up, more forcefully this time.

    The 3L¡¯s eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store. His drive and motivation were practically infectious, and soon, even our client herself joined in on going through the jury questionnaires.

    We only had half an hour for last minute prep, after all. Best make it count.

 Chapter Fifteen

    ¡°How much longer is this going to take?¡± Fatima quietly groused, giving the contractor¡¯s attorney the evil eye as he questioned the eleventh potential juror of twenty-four. ¡°We¡¯ve only got half a jury! It¡¯s been hours!¡±

    ¡°I wish I knew what to tell you,¡± I murmured in return, ears pinned back in annoyance. ¡°This can happen when you¡¯ve got multiple defendants. It¡¯s either give each of their attorneys a chance at the jury, or have three separate trials.¡±

    Lunch break had been an hour ago already, and we still only had three of our six jurors finalized. Far more than expected were being stricken for cause, and the property management company¡¯s attorney had even exercised their lone peremptory strike already, sending home a juror that I¡¯d really, really wanted: a Latina single mother whose nine-year-old daughter was permanently injured in a drive-by shooting, and whose son and mother were currently taking care of her daughter. If there were any potential jurors that would¡¯ve been sympathetic to our case, it had been her¡­ and that meant she got the boot. Of course.

    Of the jurors we currently had seated, two were white males, and one was an Asian woman. This was due to a rather annoying problem we¡¯d run into ¡ª Bailiff Mike had given out the jury numbers on a first-come first-served basis, and historically, middle-class white men were more likely to show up earlier simply due to proximity to the courthouse.

    In practice, this meant if I wanted to get past them and to minority jurors that were more likely to see something other than ¡°just another couple of dead black people¡±, I needed as many of the white boys stricken for cause as possible before needing to exercise my three peremptory strikes. If I had to strike the two men currently slated for seating on our jury, I would, but I would rather not have to until the very end. Otherwise, there was a very real chance I traded a milquetoast accountant for¡­ a right-wing political staffer whose only regular interaction with minorities was probably hanging up on them when they called to complain to their elected-by-gerrymander representative.

    Yeah. There was a reason I didn¡¯t want to use a strike just yet.

    The current juror being questioned was one of the several remaining that I desperately wanted gone ¡ª a white woman who worked in American University¡¯s office of financial aid and who was giving me exceptionally scummy vibes. Something about her smile was rubbing me the wrong way, and even though the answers she gave on the jury questionnaire didn¡¯t raise any red flags¡­ I wasn¡¯t sure. It was a gut feeling, and I¡¯d learned to trust my gut.

    ¡°Fatima, I want you questioning her,¡± I whispered to her.

    ¡°¡­ why?¡± Her voice was heavy with suspicion, and I didn¡¯t need to look to know she was giving me a somewhat-disdainful side-eye.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, just intuition,¡± I told her, being honest. ¡°Play up how non-white you are. Give a non-English greeting, preferably something recognizably Muslim. Anything you can to dredge up what I think is there beneath the surface.¡± I turned to look at Fatima, and gave her a severe look. ¡°Julio looks too ¡®acceptable¡¯ here, and I may be part fox, but she doesn¡¯t seem to care about that, and I¡¯m not Asian enough to look anything but white. It sucks, I know, I¡¯m sorry, but it has to be you.¡±

    Fatima met my gaze, but didn¡¯t respond. Instead, she just reached across the table and claimed the legal pad I¡¯d been using, the one where I wrote out the questions I wanted us to use on each possible juror during the break.

    Thank goodness, I thought, ears relaxing as I quietly sighed in relief. I was worried she¡¯d be difficult, what with the decision over who sat second seat not going her way. And I was still ready for her to be difficult later on. I was just glad she didn¡¯t fight me on this, specifically.

    ¡°This juror is acceptable, your Honor,¡± the contractor¡¯s defense attorney said before heading back to the defense¡¯s table.

    ¡°Very well,¡± Judge Friedman said. ¡°Plaintiff¡¯s counsel, it¡¯s your turn to question the witness.¡±

    Fatima stood from counsel¡¯s table, and walked over in front of the juror.

    ¡°Juror 17, good afternoon,¡± she began, flipping through a piece of printer paper that she held on her legal pad. ¡°According to your jury questionnaire, you work in American University¡¯s office of financial aid. Is that correct?¡±

    I frowned. That¡­ wasn¡¯t the planned question. Nor had she listened to my suggestion. Shit, was I going to have to intervene here?

    ¡°Yes I am!¡± Juror 17 said, cheer in her voice and a smile on her face.

    ¡°And what aspect of financial aid is that?¡± Fatima asked. ¡°Athletic scholarships, student loans, what?¡±

    ¡°Merit scholarships,¡± the juror said. ¡°I review applicants for exceptional aptitude, and offer them financial awards in the hopes that they bring their skills to our school over any other.¡±

    ¡°I see, I see,¡± Fatima said, visibly taking notes on the piece of printer paper with her pen. ¡°So I have to ask: what information do you have access to when making your decision?¡±

    ¡°Well, I have our students¡¯ college applications,¡± Juror 17 began. ¡°Their general application essay, their responses to our application¡¯s specific essay questions, their high school transcripts, resumes if they have them, recommendation letters, and standardized test scores.¡±

    ¡°What about demographic information?¡± Fatima asked next. ¡°How much of that do you have, if any? And where do you get it from?¡±

    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s all over their materials,¡± the juror answered. ¡°Even if they select the ¡®choose not to disclose¡¯ option, we have their names, zip codes, where they went to high school, and plenty more. You would not believe the number of times an applicant has chosen not to answer those questions, only to have something like the Asian or Latin American student group on their resume!¡±

    ¡°In that case, are you okay with a little hypothetical?¡± Fatima asked.

    I frowned; okay, I could maybe see a bit of what she was going for here, but¡­ shit, wait, no. My own college application experience was paid for by the GI Bill and fast-tracked by Ambrose. I only had second-hand accounts to go off of here. This was out of my wheelhouse.

    I scrawled a note on my legal pad, and passed it over to Julio: Do you trust Fatima¡¯s voir-dire?

    His answer was just an immediate single tap on the desk. One for yes, we¡¯d decided at the outset. Two for no.

    ¡°Well I don¡¯t see why not,¡± Juror 17 said, that genial smile of hers finally giving way to a frown.

    ¡°Splendid!¡± Fatima exclaimed, and even though I couldn¡¯t see her face from this angle, I just knew that she had as bright a smile as her voice suggested. ¡°So let¡¯s say you¡¯ve been given a chunk of scholarship funds to distribute.¡±

    Fatima started pacing as she spoke, taking her eyes off of the potential juror and tapping her pen on her chin in clear thought.

    ¡°About¡­ two hundred grand? I think that sounds about right?¡±

    ¡°That would be a full ride,¡± Juror 17 helpfully supplied.

    ¡°If it went to just one student, sure,¡± Fatima allowed. ¡°But let¡¯s say you have two applicants who are functionally identical. Both students have androgynous first names, and both declined to provide any demographic information at all. Both of them had a 3.998 grade point average. Both of them were the captains of their school¡¯s track team in the spring, and both of them also got cast for the lead role in their school musical in the fall. Both of them volunteer every weekend at their religious institution. Their SAT scores were¡­ ah, remind me, is it still out of 2400?¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s out of 1600 now.¡±

    ¡°Okay, so¡­ bit of mental math¡­ let¡¯s say they both scored a 1520 on the SAT. All of this taken together, how do you divide the two hundred thousand between them?¡±

    ¡°Well, first, I¡¯d check their FAFSA¡ª¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t have access to that,¡± Fatima interrupted. ¡°This is merit money, not need-based. Who gets what, and why?¡±

    ¡°Um¡­¡± Juror 17 waffled. ¡°What do their resumes say about their volunteer work?¡±

    ¡°Applicant one worked with the institution¡¯s food bank. Applicant two helped teach weekend classes for underprivileged youth.¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    The juror frowned. That congenial attitude was gone, now, and I could swiftly see it heading towards anger. By this point, we¡¯d all figured out what Fatima was up to. Judge Friedman was giving the juror a look, his hand tightening around his gavel ever so slightly. The corner of Julio¡¯s mouth kept threatening to drift upward, and even Casey had cottoned on to what was happening, if the way he was blowing up my phone with text messages was anything to go by. And honestly, it was kind of brilliant.

    Fatima was asking the juror to pick the rope with which she wanted to hang herself.

    FAFSA? Need-based financial aid, which has the parents¡¯ demographic and financial information in it. Where the hypothetical volunteers worked at? Well, that would narrow down the type of religious institution. And even if the religion was narrowed down to ¡®Christian¡¯, churches that catered to specific demographics often had their own naming conventions.

    ¡°Where do the applicants live?¡± Juror 17 asked.

    ¡°And exactly why do you need to know that?¡± Fatima asked, all the friendliness in her tone gone. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be judging the applicants on merit. How does ¡®where they live¡¯ help you with that?¡±

    ¡°W-well, they both have the same GPA, yes, but unless they were both at the same school district, then, well, those numbers don¡¯t mean the same thing, you know?¡± The juror¡¯s eyes had shifted from Fatima up to where Judge Friedman stared down at her, and her voice grew shaky as she felt the pressure.

    ¡°If you say so,¡± Fatima said, her tone dismissive. ¡°One of them attended the DC international school. The other went to a public charter.¡±

    ¡°Oh! Okay, let me see!¡± The juror¡¯s eyes lit up as she latched onto that morsel of information. She brought one hand up; if her gestures were any indication, she was working through a half-remembered map, or maybe running through some mental math with her finger to help direct it. ¡°Alright, the charter student only¡ª¡±

    ¡°The court,¡± Judge Friedman boomed, interrupting Juror 17 before she could speak, ¡°would like to thank and excuse this juror.¡± He looked down at Juror 17, whose jaw had slammed shut when he started speaking. ¡°Ma¡¯am, you are excused. Please exit the courtroom.¡±

    I could only blink, ears straight up in shock and surprise. I¡¯d been a trial attorney for most of my seven years as a lawyer. I could count on one hand the times the judge dismissed a juror for cause without any more than an ¡°it¡¯s obvious¡± sidebar.

    Until today, though, I had never seen a judge dismiss a juror before they could even start answering a question.

    ¡°I think we could all use a brief recess,¡± Judge Friedman said after the dismissed juror had exited the courtroom. ¡°Let¡¯s meet back here in fifteen minutes.¡±

    The judge banged his gavel, then stood up and left the courtroom from behind the bench, headed for his chambers. The defense attorneys across the aisle all shuffled to their feet and exited out the back. Mrs. Banks and Julio both got up and followed a short ways after the defense, apparently talking about some recipe Julio had promised to get from his¡­ abuela was ¡®grandmother¡¯, right? Yeah, it was.

    Fatima, meanwhile, just strolled over to counsel¡¯s table with a strut in her step and a smug little smile on her face.

    ¡°I have to play up the Muslim bit, hm?¡±

    ¡°That¡­¡± I paused, collected my thoughts, and wet my lips before continuing. ¡°How did you know that would work?¡±

    ¡°Oh, she reminded me of my career counselor,¡± Fatima huffed. ¡°He was all, ¡®just take your headscarf off for a bit, you can always put it back on after you get a good job¡¯.¡± She pitched her voice comically low as she said this, affecting the classic ¡®frat bro¡¯ accent. ¡°A hijab isn¡¯t as ¡®respectable¡¯ to these people as showing my hair.¡±

    ¡°You do know Lady Liberty doesn¡¯t wear a hijab, right?¡± I asked, knowing I was possibly stepping on a landmine¡­ and that I was lying. The heroine did wear a hijab. It was how she was still able to go out without being identified. She¡¯d been a household name for the last twenty years, but even with her face plastered across countless posters on innumerable walls, all she needed to disappear into a crowd was a simple piece of cloth.

    God, I wished I could do the same.

    ¡°No shit,¡± Fatima spat, venom in her voice. ¡°Why do you think he told me to take mine off?¡±

    She took off up the aisle and out of the courtroom before I¡¯d marshaled my thoughts towards a response. I stood up from my chair and watched the door close in her wake, my ears drooping as I heaved a sigh.

    Shit. I¡¯d¡­ probably transferred some of my distaste for Lady Liberty onto Fatima, all for the crime of having a role model.

    ¡°Everything okay?¡± I looked up at the voice to see Casey approaching from the back of the courtroom, worry turning his lips down ever so slightly. The 3L was swimming in the black cashmere sweater he had on, the tips of his fingers barely emerging from its sleeves. Not the most professional, but he was still just a student; he got a pass. Plus, it looked much more comfortable than my own blazer.

    ¡°Nothing you need to worry about,¡± I told him. ¡°Just some personal disagreements spilling over into professional matters a bit more than they should.¡±

    ¡°Alright,¡± he said. ¡°Hey, um¡­ that stuff you do with your, uh, ears?¡±

    ¡°What about it?¡± I asked, unconsciously lowering one ear in question before I noticed I was doing it.

    ¡°L-like that,¡± he said. ¡°Is that, uh¡­ are you doing that on purpose, or does it just, um, happen?¡±

    ¡°Just happens,¡± I said with a shrug of my shoulders and my ears. ¡°If I focus on it, I can make it stop, or do something specific instead.¡±

    ¡°Could you try that for the next two?¡± Casey blurted out. ¡°And have Fatima question them? S-sorry, it¡¯s just ¡ª the next two jurors? I found their Twitters, and they both have these big dogs, and I don¡¯t know if they¡¯ll look at you like a dog or a person? Um, sorry if that¡¯s, uh. I¡¯ll shut up now.¡±

    ¡°Casey, hun.¡± His attention snapped back to me when I called him ¡®hun¡¯, something blooming in his eyes that was almost¡­ I wasn¡¯t sure. Familiar, maybe? ¡°No apologies. That was a great call, honestly I should¡¯ve thought to check that myself. Keep up the good work, okay?¡±

    ¡°S-sure?¡± The student¡¯s voice was hesitant, even as his face and eyes positively lit up. ¡°I, um¡­ I¡¯ll be right back!¡±

    And then he was off, disappearing out the back of the courtroom. I chuckled, then counted five seconds before leaving the courtroom for the restroom myself. May as well use the break while I had it.

    Plus, I¡­ well, I had an apology to make, and some crow to eat.

    (The kind that Gorou didn¡¯t find tasty, that is; that fox got up to way too much trouble over in Rock Creek Park for his own good, sometimes¡­)

    I made my way over to the women¡¯s restroom, pushed open the door into a small foyer, then through another door into the restroom proper. Fatima stood in front of one of the sinks, a tube of lip gloss in her hand and a stick of mascara resting on the side of the sink. She looked away from the mirror when the door opened, and when her eyes fell on me, her curiosity fled her face as her expression closed off.

    ¡°What.¡±

    It wasn¡¯t even a question. More of a demand from her, really.

    ¡°I¡¯ll admit. That was a damn fine voir-dire,¡± I said, leading off with something less serious to try and peel away the defensiveness. ¡°What gave you the idea for that line of questioning?¡±

    Fatima gave me a brief look before rolling her eyes, and turned back towards the mirror. She finished touching up her lip color, and answered as she put it away.

    ¡°That¡¯s what college applications were like for me,¡± she said. ¡°I had to rewrite all my personal essays to read like I was some lily-white Disney movie teenybopper.¡± She unscrewed the mascara from the tube, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye before leaning in closer to the mirror. ¡°Let me guess, you had it easy. Conventionally attractive, plus minority points while looking white?¡±

    ¡°Initially, yeah,¡± I admitted. ¡°Legacy admission to Stanford. You probably had better grades and test scores than I did.¡±

    ¡°How much money did they throw at you?¡± Fatima asked.

    ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t get to go. They revoked my admission.¡±

    Fatima paused. She hadn¡¯t even finished her lashes when she turned to face me, a question writ large on her face.

    ¡°Got my powers during a gap year,¡± I told her. ¡°And since the new appendages came free, it wasn¡¯t like I could hide it, so I got conscripted. Then there was the wrongful death case, after which Stanford didn¡¯t want me anywhere near campus, so I had to go elsewhere. Plus, by the time I finally got to start undergrad, I was already older than most everyone finishing it.¡±

    ¡°... hm.¡± Fatima turned back to the mirror and her mascara. ¡°That sucks.¡±

    ¡°A little,¡± I agreed. ¡°Hey, um, I¡­ I¡¯m sorry, by the way.¡±

    ¡°For what?¡± she scoffed. ¡°Being a massive twat?¡±

    ¡°For treating you like shit,¡± I told her. ¡°Just because there¡¯s bad blood between Mariem and me, that doesn¡¯t in any way justify how I was treating you for being a fan of hers. That wasn¡¯t fair to you, and I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯ll try to make sure I¡¯m not letting that color my judgments in the future. But if you think I am, say something immediately.¡±

    ¡°Between you and Mariem? Who¡¯s ¡ª wait,¡± she said, pausing halfway through putting her mascara away. ¡°Wait, wait, are you talking about Lady Liberty?¡±

    ¡°Who else would¡ª¡± I froze, ears going low in shock as my brain finally caught up to my mouth. ¡°Shit, um, uh, I¡­ wasn¡¯t supposed to say that.¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh.¡± Fatima gave me a distinctly unimpressed look. ¡°You weren¡¯t supposed to leak the civilian name of the most famous superhero in the country. The one whose name is somehow still not public knowledge. No shit you weren¡¯t supposed to say that, Naomi!¡±

    ¡°I know, I know, I¡­ damn it!¡± I brought my tail around to my front and buried my fingers in my fur, for lack of anything more productive to do with my hands, then rounded on Fatima. ¡°Don¡¯t tell anyone, okay?¡±

    ¡°That you use your own tail as a stress ball, or what the superhero¡¯s civvie name is?¡± Fatima asked, a distinctly smug look on her face.

    ¡°Both!¡±

    ¡°I want to voir-dire more jurors,¡± she said.

    ¡°Bitch, I was gonna make you do more anyway,¡± I told her. ¡°And after that bit in the courtroom, I need you cross-examining some of these rich old farts the defense wants to call!¡±

    ¡°And objections plus sidebars during their directs,¡± Fatima pressed.

    ¡°... you drive a hard bargain,¡± I said, extending a hand. ¡°I reserve the right to make last-minute changes if something comes up, but aside from that? Deal.¡±

    ¡°Good enough. Deal.¡±

    Fatima took my hand, and with a quick shake, our pact was sealed.

    ¡°And now that we have a deal,¡± she said, still holding my hand, ¡°I guess you should know that her first name is pretty useless to me.¡± Fatima had a smug little smirk on her face, like the cat that caught the canary.

    ¡°... elaborate?¡±

    ¡°Mariem is a very common Muslim girl¡¯s name,¡± she said, releasing my hand and placing hers on a cocked hip. ¡°It¡¯s like Jane, or Anna.¡±

    ¡°Huh,¡± I hummed, ears low in thought. Single adversary, no audience to judge, a clear offensive¡­ the circumstances of that little negotiation played directly to Fatima¡¯s strengths, and I¡¯d let her lead me right into it because, as usual, I wanted to avoid interpersonal conflict. ¡°Well played, Fatima. Well played.¡±

    ¡°No reneging on the deal,¡± she warned.

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it; I¡¯m a fox of my word.¡± I wiggled my ears to punctuate that, which got Fatima giggling. Aha, victory! ¡°Anyways, I need to actually use the facilities.¡± I walked past her and into a stall. ¡°If I¡¯m a bit late, ask the judge to wait a moment.¡±

    ¡°You have eight minutes,¡± Fatima stressed, checking a timer on her phone. ¡°How could it possibly take that long?¡±

    ¡°It takes longer because I have a tail,¡± I exclaimed. ¡°And I¡¯d like to see you try sitting comfortably on these toilets when there¡¯s a mess of pipes at your back and you have almost four feet of extra limb sticking out of your spine!¡±

    ¡°Most toilets have stuff at your back! The one you have at home does too!¡±

    ¡°Fatima?¡± I said sweetly. ¡°Four words: imported, Japanese, tankless, toilet.¡±

    Fatima blinked at me in surprise.

    ¡°With a seat warmer, and a bidet!¡±

    With that, I closed the stall, and got about my business carefully, so as not to get my tail wet.

    Very, very carefully.

 Chapter Sixteen

    ¡°Well this is a fine little pickle we¡¯ve found ourselves in,¡± I murmured, poring over the assembled documents on counsel¡¯s table.

    ¡°What¡¯re we thinking?¡± Julio asked, eyes roaming the juror profiles we¡¯d laid out.

    We currently had our tentative jury of six, with four alternates selected, each alternate corresponding to one of the outstanding peremptory strikes. Whoever got struck would be replaced by the next juror on the list, and that juror would only be vulnerable to a peremptory strike once they were seated.

    And that right there ¡ª that I couldn¡¯t strike the alternates until they weren¡¯t an alternate anymore ¡ª was a problem.

    ¡°How are we getting on?¡± Judge Friedman asked, glancing up from his e-reader to give us all a questioning look.

    ¡°Defense needs a bit longer,¡± the contractor¡¯s attorney spoke up, which earned him a nasty look from the building owner¡¯s attorney. Trouble in paradise, good, we wanted them to start the infighting sooner rather than later.

    ¡°Plaintiff has no objections,¡± I said, catching the judge¡¯s attention with a flick of my ears.

    ¡°Very well, you¡¯ve all got another¡­ twenty minutes,¡± he said, checking his watch. ¡°I want this jury seated and then out the door before half past five, you hear?¡±

    ¡°Yes sir.¡±

    Judge Friedman gave us all a stern nod, then turned right back to whatever book he was reading and pulled the sleeve of his robe back up over his watch. That meant he wasn¡¯t going to actually watch for the twenty minute mark. It was going to be by feeling.

    Which meant he¡¯d probably bring us to a stop after he¡¯d read another couple chapters.

    ¡°So what¡¯s the plan?¡± Fatima asked. ¡°Who do we get rid of?¡±

    ¡°We need to ask a different pair of questions first,¡± I told her. ¡°Two of the defendants have strikes left. One, who do each of them want gone? And two, which alternates would be worse than someone we have now?¡±

    And that was the crux of the problem.

    The current state of our jury was as follows: the same two middle-aged white men from earlier, one an accountant, the other an actuary; the Asian woman I¡¯d mentioned, who worked as a realtor; a black male immigrant from Senegal who worked for a limousine company; a white woman empty nester; lastly, a Hispanic man who worked at the Library of Congress.

    Of these jurors, the main ones I wanted gone were the accountant and the empty nester. And if I could somehow manage to only get rid of them while keeping all the others, that would be great! One of the next alternate jurors was a retired black grandmother!

    But the problem was the fourth alternate juror. Single white male, mid-twenties, working at a political think tank. I¡¯d been banking on getting him stricken for cause, but he was much more of a smooth talker than the conservative staffer had been, and it wasn¡¯t like I could prove he was talking out his ass here. His professional bio was politely nondescript, he was better than some politicians at speaking hundreds of words while saying absolutely nothing of substance, and his only social media account with even a single like, followed account, or post was his fucking LinkedIn.

    If he wound up on the jury, odds were he¡¯d become the jury foreman just like that, and his opinion would guide the majority. But the same charisma that would let him manage the rest of the jury meant he had no obvious tells. No euphemisms, no oddly particular verbiage, none of it.

    And the worst part was? There was something that gave him away. His smirk. The stupid little snide smirk that he directed at Fatima¡¯s back as she walked back to counsel¡¯s table.

    But that wasn¡¯t something I could point at and use as proof of bias. All it did was tell me that he could not be allowed on our jury, or we were fucked.

    ¡°Well I know who I¡¯d want gone if I were them.¡± While Mrs. Banks had barely spoken up during this whole process, she took the opportunity to make her opinion known now, and pointed at the profile for our black immigrant juror. ¡°Him. Never seen a white man have fun convincing a black man to screw over another black person.¡±

    ¡°And while that¡¯s true, they can¡¯t remove him without also removing somebody else,¡± I told her. ¡°That¡¯d leave the chance of a jury in DC having the only black juror seated be removed when it¡¯s a white people vs black people case, and that¡¯s not allowed.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡± my client asked.

    ¡°Old Supreme Court case from the eighties,¡± Fatima interjected. ¡°Prosecutor was stacking all-white juries against black defendants. They were always convicted, even the weaker cases. And this may not be a criminal matter, but I don¡¯t think that argument would hold water with this judge.¡±

    ¡°Which means they have to strike either two jurors, no jurors, or someone other than the black man. But if they strike two, we can¡¯t strike two, otherwise we wind up with him,¡± I said, pointing at the fourth alternate¡¯s profile.

    ¡°So what do we do, then?¡± Fatima asked.

    I didn¡¯t answer immediately, choosing instead to gather up the documents and sort them in order of who we least wanted to who we most wanted.

    Our least-desirable juror was the white male accountant. Not only did he have this air of just not caring, but also the moment we started talking about some of the sneaky bookkeeping tricks the defendants had gotten up to, we risked him getting defensive. That was a surefire way to poison our jury.

    Second least desirable? The empty nester. Oh, sure, she was a mother herself who would empathize with our client for the loss of her children¡­ except for one important thing. Destiny Banks worked twelve- to sixteen-hour days to provide for her two kids, because somehow a military widow¡¯s survivor benefits were still not enough (which was a travesty itself, but that was a topic for another day). The empty nester had been a stay-at-home mom, with a breadwinner husband. She hadn¡¯t worked a single day in two decades. The moment she got started on jury deliberations, there was exactly one question she¡¯d ask: ¡°why was the mom not there with her kids?¡±

    She wouldn¡¯t be able to empathize with Destiny¡¯s experience of coming home from work to find out her children were dead, because she couldn¡¯t ever imagine a situation where that could happen to her. So I wanted to strike her.

    But I couldn¡¯t. Because this was where the other problem began: we had to write our peremptory strikes down in order, and then submit that ordered list to the judge. The defense had to do the same.

    And the defense¡¯s strikes would go through before ours.

    So if we wrote down two strikes, and the defense also chose to use both of their remaining peremptory strikes, and neither of those was the accountant or the empty nester, we didn¡¯t have a chance to amend our selections. The defense would strike two people, then we would strike two people, and all four alternates would sit. That included the poison pill that we could not allow onto the jury.

    But if only three of the four strikes remaining between our sides got used up, that would prevent the poison pill from sitting on the jury at all. The alternates were seated in order, and the one we wanted to avoid was last.

    This meant that in practice, we only had one strike, because we had to assume that the two defendants who had strikes remaining would each use theirs. Why? Well, while getting the poison pill onto the jury was a win condition for the defense, leaving the jury untouched was also a losing condition for them.

    And that was because of the second juror we¡¯d seated. The other white man.

    The actuary.

    ¡°This is the single most important juror,¡± I said, pointing a finger at his jury questionnaire.

    ¡°... I¡¯m not seeing it,¡± Julio said.

    I snapped my fingers to draw their attention, and held a finger to my lips in the universal signal for silence. Then I reached under the jury questionnaires for my legal pad, grabbed a pen, and started to write.

    NO TALK

    ACTUARY = RISK # CRUNCHER 4 INSURERS

    DEFS MISSED THAT

    WE NEED HIM

    Once all of them had read the note, I turned the legal pad over.

    ¡°Okay, so they want the black guy gone,¡± Julio said, picking up as though nothing had happened. Good man, he got the hint. ¡°Who else?¡±

    ¡°Probably the realtor?¡± Fatima provided. ¡°She¡¯d know property details better and be more responsive to our arguments.¡±

    ¡°But the second alternate is a black woman,¡± Julio argued. ¡°That¡¯s honestly worse for them.¡±The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°They¡¯re going to use at least one strike,¡± she argued. ¡°Even if they have to leave the limo driver on the jury, they can still get rid of the realtor. Heck, they¡¯re probably going to use both on the off chance we do too.¡±

    ¡°Which means we can¡¯t,¡± I said. ¡°Which sucks, I know, but we¡¯ll make do. So who do we cut: the accountant, or the empty nester?¡±

    ¡°I can talk to another mom,¡± Destiny said. ¡°Look her in the eyes. Tell her how it feels.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not that optimistic,¡± I said.

    ¡°How much you bet her husband ain¡¯t got life insurance?¡±

    ¡°He probably doesn¡¯t, but¡ª¡±

    My phone buzzed, and I raised a finger to hold my place in the conversation before checking. It was another text from Casey, who¡¯d slipped out briefly to run to the restroom, or so he¡¯d said.

    The message was a sequence of screenshots from his phone. First, the accountant¡¯s LinkedIn (which¡­ actually, why hadn¡¯t I searched for it earlier?), showing the man¡¯s exact workplace and the one before it. The next two images were those accounting firms¡¯ ¡°About Us¡± pages.

    And the last one was the abstract of a paper he¡¯d written and gotten published in a journal.

    ¡°¡­ change of plans.¡± I put the phone down on the table and slid it over to Julio and Fatima, then grabbed the accountant¡¯s jury questionnaire to put under the chauffeur¡¯s. ¡°We have our strike.¡±

    ¡°We what now?¡± Destiny asked, even as I saw understanding dawn on both of my junior attorneys. Once again I grabbed the legal pad, flipped to a new page, and wrote a message out again.

    WAS WRONG EARLIER

    LOOKED UP HIS WORKPLACE

    JUROR IS FORENSIC ACCOUNTANT

    THINK MONEY COP FOR RICH WHITE MEN

    Destiny looked up from the legal pad with a frown. But after a moment, she nodded. With her approval, I wrote the empty nester¡¯s juror number down on the form Judge Friedman wanted us to use.

    Then we sat down, waited, and let the squawking of the peanut gallery at defense¡¯s table entertain us.

    Casey returned to the courtroom right as their discussion seemed to be petering out. I shot off a quick text to make sure he got proper recognition for his work (gj hun, nice find), and resolved to tell Alice that once Casey passed the Bar, she probably needed to up his pay more than initially planned. I liked this kid. And he¡¯d managed to help us sidestep a particular trap too many of us attorneys fall into. Specifically?

    He¡¯d stopped thinking like a lawyer long enough to use the resources we tended to forget existed.

    Eventually, the judge reached a good stopping point, and looked up from his e-reader. He cleared his throat, and when that failed to quiet all the squabbling from over at defense counsel¡¯s table, he pulled out the gavel and banged it.

    ¡°Have we all decided how to use our remaining peremptory strikes?¡± Judge Friedman asked.

    ¡°Your Honor, we, ah,¡± the attorney for WCS & Co. spoke up first, then paused as he got nudged in the side by co-counsel. ¡°If we could have just a few more minutes of the court¡¯s indulgence, that would be appreciated.¡±

    ¡°Mhmm.¡± The judge turned towards us. ¡°Plaintiff?¡±

    ¡°Plaintiff¡¯s decisions have been made,¡± I said, standing as I addressed the judge with a genial smile, ¡°and I believe we echo the jurors and yourself in saying that we¡¯d very much like to be heading home before the sun has fully set.¡±

    ¡°You do indeed,¡± the judge said. ¡°Please hand me your documents. Defense, you have until counsel sits back down to finish making your decision.¡±

    Oh, ohoho¡­ the judge was being petty. Well, if he was going to open the door like that, it would be remiss of me not to step on through, wouldn¡¯t it?

    Since I was already standing, I just picked up the piece of paper with our strikes (or strike, as it were) written on it. Then, with a wink at the others, my body fell apart into flame, flickering back into reality just next to the judge¡¯s bench a measly twenty feet away. I dropped the paper on his desk, gave him a cheeky grin and wiggle of my ears, then blinked right back to where I¡¯d been with another flash of burning violet and sat down.

    Maybe three seconds had passed in total, and as the judge banged his gavel to get defense¡¯s attention, both he and the bailiff looked to be holding in laughter.

    ¡°Wha¡ªyour Honor, I must protest!¡±

    ¡°Your protest is noted, and ignored. I gave you until Plaintiff¡¯s counsel gave me her strikes and sat back down. I have Plaintiff¡¯s strikes, and she is sitting. I want your strikes now, counsel.¡±

    ¡°But¡ª¡± WCS¡¯ lawyer leveled a rather furious glare at me. All I did was offer him a sweet little smile.

    ¡°Face it, honey,¡± I said, lowering one ear in amusement. ¡°You got outfoxed.¡±

    I heard a sort of strangled giggle from both Julio and Fatima, as well as from the bailiff, amusingly enough. The defense¡¯s lawyers waffled for a moment longer before the lead attorney between them brought a piece of paper up to the judge, scowling all the while. Judge Friedman took it with aplomb and unfolded it, reviewing the contents before writing a note for the bailiff, who took it and exited the courtroom.

    Three minutes later, the bailiff returned with six people in tow. Both white men and the realtor had survived this round of strikes. They were joined by three of the four alternates: an older white woman who worked as a dental hygienist, the retired african-american grandma that we wanted, and a young Indian man who worked as a waiter in his parents¡¯ restaurant. The bailiff led them all to the jury box, and they sat in two rows, the women in front, the men in back.

    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, we have a jury,¡± Judge Friedman said. ¡°Trial will begin at eleven in the morning tomorrow ¡ª we¡¯ve had a long day today, and I want to give you all plenty of time to rest up!¡±

    The jury laughed a little bit, and postures loosened as they realized the judge would be on their side here.

    ¡°The bailiff is on a quick errand for me, but once he comes back, he¡¯ll have another sheet for you to fill out and some pens,¡± the judge continued. ¡°I want you to provide me your workplace, your supervisor¡¯s name, and both a phone number and email address I can contact them at. Jury pay is a pittance, and your employers are meant to cover the difference between that and your normal forty-hour-a-week pay. I¡¯ll simply be sending all of them a friendly reminder that I have significant leeway to do as I see fit if I hear that any of you aren¡¯t getting compensated appropriately.¡±

    ¡°Is there anythin¡¯ I should do different?¡± the black grandma juror asked. ¡°I¡¯m living off my pension and Social Security.¡±

    ¡°If the expenses put upon you by your service to this court strain your budget in any way, you let me know immediately,¡± Judge Friedman told her, then turned towards us. ¡°Counsel, I will be in my chambers at half past nine in case there are any last-minute pretrial matters you wish to bring forth. But if there is nothing else, then to be honest, I am tired of seeing all of you. Go home, rest up, we will reconvene tomorrow for opening arguments.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, your Honor,¡± I said, with everybody else at my table following suit a half second later. Because we¡¯d had the opportunity to put our everything away while the defense struggled to decide on their strikes, there was nothing left to clean up, and we made our way out of the courtroom without much issue.

    Casey was waiting for us outside and fell into step, matching our pace as we left the courthouse before anybody from the defense team could try and pull us aside for a last-minute discussion, proffer, or the like.

    ¡°We got lucky here,¡± I admitted once we were outside. ¡°Casey, thank you for reminding me that we needed to use everything at our disposal when researching jurors. Over a decade later and I¡¯m still not used to having the internet in my pocket, I swear.¡±

    ¡°T-thanks,¡± the student attorney said, sinking into the winter coat he¡¯d shrugged on over his already-oversized sweater.

    ¡°Young man, she said you done good!¡± Mrs. Banks pulled to a stop as she said this, turning to face the bashful 3L. ¡°Own it! Be proud of that!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay, he¡¯ll get there,¡± I said. ¡°God, should¡¯ve seen me during my first stint at courtroom lawyering. I was a nervous wreck.¡±

    ¡°You were probably cute as hell,¡± Julio chuckled.

    ¡°Oi!¡± I exclaimed, spinning to face him with hands on my hips. ¡°I am your boss, young man!¡±

    ¡°Nah, just one of ¡®em,¡± he fired back with a shit-eating grin, drawing laughs from Casey and Fatima. I rolled my eyes and flicked my ears at him, which sent him laughing again. But as we approached the company car, the humor died out.

    ¡°It¡¯s almost time, ain¡¯t it?¡± Destiny asked, hand on the car door. ¡°Finally gonna make those rat bastards pay.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡± I opened the passenger-side door and got in. Julio had offered to drive, and I was able to finagle my tail into a more comfortable position if I didn¡¯t also have to reach the pedals. ¡°We¡¯re gonna make them hurt.¡±

    ¡°Not just hurt,¡± Destiny said as Julio put the car into gear and exited the parking lot into traffic. ¡°Hurtin¡¯ ain¡¯t enough. They¡¯re gonna bleed.¡±

    The conversation died at that point. Julio dropped Mrs. Banks off at a green line station so she could get home, and took us back to the firm for a last-minute check of our trial binders.

    Everything was in order. All of our evidence was ready. And as I practiced my opening statements while washing up for bed, I felt¡­ optimistic. We had this.

    We were going to win.

    <hr>

    ¡°¡­ up, wake up!¡±

    Hng¡­ what? Time, what time¡­ still dark. Not time to be up yet, just, close my eyes and back to dreaming.

    ¡°Naomi, get up! It¡¯s important!¡±

    ¡°S¡¯not time ye¡¯¡­¡± Gorou being noisy, dumb fox, just wanna sleep, was having a good dream¡­

    ¡°¡­ I¡¯ll apologize later.¡±

    Mm? Whadda he¡ª

    PAIN. Needle-sharp pain on my ear!

    ¡°Ow!¡± I jolted upright, suddenly wide awake and tenderly massaging my poor abused ear. ¡°What the fuck, Gorou!? I have court tomorrow!¡±

    Two of his tails shot out and wrapped around my arms. A moment later, the world flashed blue before slowly swimming back into existence, the unexpected transit by flash of fire sending me for a bit of a loop before I felt the sofa underneath me.

    ¡°Look.¡± Gorou said in his native tongue, pointing at the TV with his tails. I looked at the screen, and my eyes went wide in horror.

    The emergency news report showed an apartment building on fire. Flames consumed it entirely, the firefighters¡¯ hoses having little to no effect, likely due to delays arriving brought on by the late hour ¡ª 3:37am EST. The chyron at the bottom said it was in Navy Yard, and provided the name of the building and the street address. It was the same building that Miguel Arroyo had gotten his sister and her nieces moved to after DCHA became aware of the pressure from Mrs. Leslie King to file false building inspections.

    And it was the same building that Destiny Banks had been living in ever since her sons passed away.

    ¡°Oh my God¡­¡±

    I fell apart into flame and reappeared sitting on my bed upstairs, whereupon I grabbed my work phone from the nightstand and flashed back down to the living room sofa. My hands shook so badly I could barely keep myself steady enough for the fingerprint sensor, but once I was in, I opened up my recent phone calls and dialed Mrs. Banks¡¯ number, putting the phone on speaker.

    ¡°Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system,¡± the phone sang for both Gorou and me to hear, with absolutely no ringing to precede it. ¡°At the tone, please leave your message¡ª¡±

    I hung up, and stared at the screen, drinking in the terror. The phone tumbled from my suddenly-limp fingers, glancing off of the coffee table before resting on the rug beneath my feet. I just¡­ fell back against the sofa, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. Was¡­ was she in there? Was this some last gasp, some final gambit, some sort of, of, of¡­

    ¡°Naomi?¡± Gorou pushed his way onto my lap. I wrapped my arms around the fox and held him tight. ¡°What are you going to do?¡±

    ¡°... I don¡¯t know. I¡­ I don¡¯t, I. I don¡¯t know, Gorou. ¡± It was a struggle to say even that much. The clock ticked closer to four in the morning. Opening statements were set to begin in seven hours, but¡­ but what?

    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±