Fulcrum...Reloaded

[Anyee]

You're going to recognize the characters. You're going to recognize some of the plot. If you read this, you'll ruin a few of the "surprises" I have in store for Fulcrum (then again they aren't all that surprising), but this is a sort of fun break/epilogue for Fulcrum. It's a nice departure for me in terms of writing style and approach.

A few warnings, other then possible maybe spoilers:
1) It uses bad language. There is the occasional four letter word, which will become four stars. This is done tastefully.
2) It contains adult sexuality. I'm not putting in sex scenes, but you all know my proclivity for lesbian main characters.
3) It's not racially sensitive. Black people who live in Queens are going to talk like Black people who live in Queens. Ditto for cops and Pakistanis.
4) It is set in the real present. I grew up in NY, so I know a bit how it operates.
5) I can't speak Spanish.

So, without further ado, the first part of Fulcrum Reloaded.

I swished the lukewarm coffee around in my mouth a few times then swallowed it with a shudder, remembering why I usually didn't drink the stuff. Tasted like someone had mixed the grounds with burnt dirt and then brewed it with motor oil. Wasn't Faaris' fault, though. Someone had broken in again last night and stolen the delivery, leaving him with day-old coffee to serve his customers. Nothing special this time, just the usual punks who liked to come around and bother anyone whose skin didn't quite match their particular acceptable shade. There was a reason I chose to sit by the window when I came here, holster visible enough that anyone who might toss a rock or draw a crude flag would think twice. Seemed to work, too, but I could only spend so many hours in a coffee shop

I picked up the paper, the tabloids that pass for news, though I should have known better. The Post's headline screamed, "COPS SET KILLER BLAZE SAY RESIDENTS...page 3." I threw it down with a slap, causing the duo of girls in the corner to look up from their laptop in concern. I glared at them, but they both smiled, and the shorter one waved at me. I rolled my eyes and turned back to the counter, where Faaris was bringing out my sandwich.

"Garbage," he said, waving his hand towards the news. "They print garbage. I don't know why people read that filth." Somehow, his thick accent made the invectives seem even harsher than they would be usually. He bent closer, almost conspiratorially. "The people who lived there too...they were also garbage. Those fools talking the to paper, trying to make it seem that people who mattered lived there. Pfah. People didn't live there. Rats did. My daughter Hameeda used to walk by there on her way to school, but I make her take a different route. Longer, but safer."

He looked at the side of my face, where the burns were half-visible under the bandage. "We know what you were doing there, Ani. We know you went to clean up that garbage." His wife, a woman of remarkable proportion, her girth matched only by her generosity, nodded furiously in the background. Her facility of language was less than that of her husband, since her duties relegated her mainly to the kitchen and storeroom beyond the counter, but what she lacked in verbosity she made up in depth of feeling. She'd squawked in horror at my injuries when I came in that day and had been snatching furtive, pitying glances from behind her scarf ever since. I didn't mind them all that much. Better than the ones of horror my neighbors had given me this morning, and besides the intent was what mattered.

The Aasims had been the closest to family I'd had since I arrived in Queens five years ago, ensuring that I bribed the appropriate realtors to guarantee that my apartment was at least legal, if not safe or comfortable, getting me ramshackle furniture from their endless cousins, sending me bits of food when the paycheck didn't quite make it through the week, and of course worrying whenever I showed up in their shop with a wound from the latest front page news. And my part? Well, having an officer who showed up once a day to chat with the owner, even a lanky half-Asian like myself, never hurt business. Even though I'd moved from the disaster studio above their store to a different tenement crosstown, I still made it my business to show up, a visual reminder that the law did protect the towelheads and camel jockeys, as the kids so eloquently put it. Then there was the time their middle son had gotten a bit too rough in a fight and had been dragged down to juvie with a few of his less stellar classmates. Somehow, the case was misfiled and charges dropped. Kid straightened up pretty well and he's second year at NYU. I do what I can.

Now Narjis came beside her husband and picked up my chin to get a better look at my face, causing me to wince as the raw skin pulled. "Too dangerous," she chided, her thick Pakistani accent obscuring the vowels, "you young woman getting too old. Settle down. Husband. Family." She was quite adamant in her suggestion, to which her husband agreed.

"Yes, Ani...when are you going to quit this police nonsense, find yourself a husband and..."

"Raise a family, because I'm an old spinster who might as well be digging her grave and who will scarce find a man to take me at my advanced age, unless he is an ancient Mullah with four wives and poor vision." I grinned at him and he returned it broadly.

We'd had this conversation before. And as always, I left about the bit about having a child at 18 who now lived upstate in a cushy Scarsdale cul-de-sac with a nice dyke couple, like I'd specified when I turned her over to the agency. The ladies sent me pictures every now and then, milestones like her first day of school and her first sax concert. They hinted at the consent praise she received from teachers for her personality, intelligence, and "exotic beauty," though I personally thought the administrator who said that should have been thrown in Rikers for even noticing a fourteen year old. They even left me a message when they read I'd been caught in the blaze, but we all agreed it was best I didn't meet my daughter until later, when I had "reached a state of balance," as the psychologist so nicely put it. In other words, when I wasn't getting myself shot, stabbed, burned, or bruised on a biweekly basis, had gotten married, and started a family of my own. I wondered if they'd include me when she was uncovered playing doctor with one of her best friends. Then I'd know she was mine, spelling awards and running trophies be damned.

Moving my head had caused the thin silver chain I wore around my neck to come loose and dangle freely over my clothing. Faaris caught sight of the star attached to it before I quickly concealed the symbol beneath the collar of my uniform. His face hardened slightly, but he recovered as he jovially tried to force me to eat. I took an unenthusiastic bite of the sandwich, chewed it on the side opposite my injury, and washed it down with another swig of the foul coffee. Every time I moved my jaw it throbbed and a second bit seemed too much effort for little gain. I pushed the plate away and reached into my bag for payment.

"What, now you won't eat my food? What are you, one of my children?" He feigned insult and his wife swatted him before returning to the back room to catalog the endless piles of beans and halal meat products. I pushed the bills over to him, but he sent them back with a frown. "Not today. Consider it my thank you for what you all did. I know how hard it is, anyway, to live on that salary of yours."

I gave him the money back. "And I know how difficult it is to raise a family and send three kids to school." On a whim, I turned over my shoulder to contemplate the two girls again, who had turned off the computer and were now poring over a ridiculous pile of papers. Students, likely, slumming to get away from whatever Ivy League drama they'd built up in the city. The short one with a rat's nest of black hair caught my eye and grinned again, her piercings glinting in the florescent light, before turning with a sigh of exasperation to her work. "At least let me pay for their meal. A college student makes even less than we do."

He looked at me with a suddenly puzzled expression. "Strange, they offered to pay for you when you walked in. Wonder why."

I sighed and glanced at my watch, realizing that unless I hit every green light and pedestrian on the way to the borough hall, I'd be late for the press briefing. "Listen, your kids are always selling chocolate for some infernal school project or another. I swear those kids could fund a class trip to the moon with the cash they're raising. Put it towards that. Thanks as always, Faaris." I swung myself gingerly off of the backless stool and took my jacket off the seat next to me. "Khuda haafiz," I called, earning me a bit of favor as I said my goodbye in his language. He waved and I headed out into the street.

I put on my helmet, gunned the engine on my bike, and took off for the press conference. The captain was already on edge for about three hundred different reasons, about thirty of them my fault, and my walking into a high-profile setting with a case of road rash and a bad attitude would assure desk duty for a week...if she could spare me, which she couldn't. Then there was the problem at hand: Last time she decided to reassign me, I ended up in a burning slumhouse with two dead hookers, five angry gang members brandishing machetes, a strung-out gunman bleeding all over the roof, and more smack than I could smuggle out on a goddamn touring bike for use later, if I were so inclined. Which, after today, I might so be.

I screeched to a halt at a traffic light, then gave up and weaved my way through the gridlock of honking taxi cabs and rap-blasting SUVs. I could afford to run a red light; no cop was going to pull over someone on a Harley, not at this time of day, and not in this part of town. Every traffic ticket they gave was another kid who got thrown out a window by his mom's latest boyfriend. Not worth the effort, like most things today. I rounded a curve sharply and nearly dumped the bike when someone decided to triple park next to a fire hydrant. I swore at him in a handful of languages, he gave me the finger, and I sped off. Damn Jordan for making this thing into a media spectacle. ***** wielded more power than she should and you never quite knew when it was going to come down on your side or go straight up your ***. A bunch of dead teens and a lesbian "person of color" shot by a cop? I should have brought my Vaseline.

Pulling up to the hall, I slowed down enough to flash my badge at the gate guard, who recognized me and waved me through with a leer. I parked it in between the Fox 5, ABC 7, and Telemundo 47. Great, I was going to be publicly reamed in two languages from three viewpoints: right, left, and inexplicable. I took a moment to secure my helmet to the bike and straighten out my uniform. My hair had been singed in the fire and a nurse had given me a quick trim so that I looked like an electrocuted video game character. I pressed the gauze dressing experimentally and was rewarded with a fireball of pain emanating from my cheek. No way that was being fixed. I sighed and strode into the hall.

The security officer, backed up by two high schoolers with machine guns, aka the national guard, checked over my belongings. He demanded my sidearm, which I reluctantly handed over, receiving a worn paper tag that I shoved into my holster in protest. Before I stepped into the metal detector, I gave my usual speech, "There is a metal plate imbedded in my left hip. It's going to set off the alarm. Get someone with a wand." As usual, they ignored me and wasted a good five minutes having me dump my change into a dish and attempting to detonate my belt buckle before a scrawny blonde with acne took me aside and verified that, yes, I had a metal plate in my left hip that sets off the alarm. I collected my 73 cents, two paperclips, and stale Lifesaver, then edged my way gingerly into the massive room on the left.

I hung by the door for a moment, hoping that perhaps a terrorist would choose that very moment to detonate a huge bomb near the podium of Queens Borough Hall, taking out three very annoying politicians and ridding the world of at least a hundred reporters, and thus removing this burden from me. As usual, though, the terrorists were busy plotting to poison the water supply in Croton and building rocket launchers in an Albany pizza parlor, and so I was left to mumble and excuse my way through the crowd until I found the seat Michael and Kate had so kindly left for me, piling it with whatever they could to keep another wide-bottomed community activist from sitting with the police and glaring at them.

Mike waved at me and threw the debris on the floor with a crunch. One or two people turned to make a comment, but seeing his relative size, plus the expression of grim determination he wore even when sleeping, made them swallow their words in a self-righteous huff. His PDA was already on his lap, showing the notes he had taken over the past-I checked my watch-twenty minutes. I glanced over as I whipped out my own Palm. So far, he'd won four games of solitaire, reorganized his address book, and had written an appropriately nasty limerick about Representative Jordan, who looked like a Caribbean Gabor sister at the moment, sitting up near the borough president.

Predictably, my screen flashed with a message from him as soon as I put the stylus in place.
>Nice haircut. You look like one of those andro dancers down at Meow Mix.
>And you look like a guy I used to date. Oh...wait...
>You're funny, like the clap. Which I still have, by the way.
>Well, what do you expect? Sleeping with anything that moves doesn't exactly cure it. So, what have I missed?
>A bit of the slide show. Lots of charred things that used to be alive, sort of like your cooking.
>Lovely. Sorry I missed that.
>Really, it was quite remarkable. The animated arrows showing the textbooks behind the couch were quite impressive. The chief's Powerpoint skills have gotten much better. Last time he couldn't even get bullet points.
>God, not those again. They weren't behind the couch. They were holding up the couch. Ol' fire-thrower's really laying into it this time.
>I know, sweetie. I know. I'm on your side in this thing, remember?
>Sorry, you know how it is. How's Kate?
>Silent and stoic, as usual, but she's hurting, and bad. Claudia's been trying to draw it out of her but, well, you can't fix everything with Chicken Soup for the Lesbian Narcotics Officer's Soul.

I snickered a bit and Kate stared down at me with her trademark thin lipped, viper-perfect gaze. It had its usual effect, which was nothing, but I quieted down immediately. For a minute, we locked eyes, and I thought that her perfect blue irises were obscured by a thin film of liquid, but she turned her head forward again and I dropped back to my PDA.


>Told you
>I dunno, Mike, you're always trying to give her emotions she doesn't have.
>Trust me. Woman's intuition and all that. *grin* And I still say she wants you, bad.
>You are the bane of my existence, you know that, right?
>I live to serve, angel-face.
>So, more uncomfortable subjects: how's the boy?
>Good, good. The new meds are making him a queasy *** instead of a queeny ***. I'm gonna need to develop a vomit fetish at this point.
>Thank you for that mental image. I shall cherish it for weeks. Meds working for you?
>Alright. Viral load's still low so I'm in the clear for now. Passed my physical with flying colors, so that's another year on the pension.
>Good boy.

My attention was caught by the onset of questions from the panting press, the Chief's version of events having been made as clear as mud.

"So the officers pulled up after receiving a report of shots fired, correct?"

"Yes, as was standard procedure."

"And when they got there, someone was on the roof, shooting at them."

"Yes. They called in for support."

"Then explain to me how that 'gunman' managed to get shot three times in the chest while on top of a five story brownstone. In the dead of night on a poorly lit street, I might add."

I felt my pulse quicken and my face flush slightly. My PDA screen came alive again.

>Easy. Easy. He'll not say any more than he has to.

"One of the officers shot her."

"From a distance of over three hundred yards?"

The Chief cleared his throat and looked into the crowd, finding my pale face among the sea of chestnut and ebony hues, with relative ease. He looked at me imploringly, I closed my eyes and nodded.

"The, um, officer in question had military training that allowed her to aim accurately under those circumstances, yes."

The questioner, I'm sure, looked like he had just found a diamond under a pile of ****.


"Military training," he almost drawled, sounding out his syllables like they were being said for the first time on the planet. "Mind telling me the branch...for verification, of course."

I've never seen a black man go as red as the Chief did right then. I put my head in my lap, and Mike rubbed the back of my neck. Thank god I was in plainclothes and could pass as just another overwhelmed citizen.

"Her records are not on file with the US Armed Forces."

"Is that so?" Now the whole room was uncovering diamonds. Angry diamonds. Conspiracy diamonds. Chief is lying through his teeth diamonds. "And why is that?"

Chief let out a sigh and rubbed the sweat off his brow, looking towards the row of high powered ladies for support. None was given. "Because she did not serve in the US Armed Forces for her military training."

"So where did she serve, if I may be so bold."

I wanted to bolt out of the room, pick up my gun, hop on my bike, and drive right into the sound. The Chief looked like he would have joined me.

"In the IDF."

He might as well have said that I served as a personal executor of Hitler who enjoyed Muslim fetuses for lunch with a side of African American children for desert. The room erupted into cries of outrage and anger, with the occasional anti-Semitic slur thrown in for good measure.

Chief raised his voice, slightly, "WHICH is total legal under the NYPD rules of hiring. The officer served five years with the IDF, after which she was honorably discharged and returned to NY, the state of her birth. She has been with us for nearly six years, with an outstanding record of service and she is beyond reproach. I have seen her shooting and I am confident that she did exactly what you think she didn't. Next question."

"But..." the crowd wanted more, and the reporter was trying to give it to them.

"Next. Question." The chief seethed through his teeth, trying to still the crowd, or at least distract them. Still, a few turned around, searching through the suits they knew to be plainclothes cops, hunting for that unlucky Weinberger or Finklestein who had offed another minority kid. I blessed my bizarre heritage for masking my currently reviled genetics under layers of strange skin and an even stranger last name.

"Is it true that the shooter, Elaine "Raven" Ramirez, was previously involved with the captain of the precinct, one Kate Davidson?" Now it was my commander's turn to look mortified, though her display consisted only of a single clenched fist and a slight reddening around her ears.

"I don't think that's relevant to the case, do you?" He answered, and moved on. Thank you, Chief. Score one for discretion.

Someone else stood up, clearly an outraged parent masquerading as a reporter masquerading as a person. "They kids in there. You shot them kids. You burned down a house fulla kids for what? A crazy chick with a gun? How many o those we have every night." A few people gave their shouts of approval, and the speaker might have built up a momentum had the Chief not impolitely decided to answer.

He actually seemed prepared to handle this one, which was a nice relief for us. "Although the reports of the fire commissioner aren't in yet, as I've told you, I'm fairly certain he will agree with our own assessment: the fire was set when one of the people inside kicked over a window full of candles while trying to escape. I also told you that we knew this was a drug den and that it served as a place mainly for dealers and mules to move stock, though it occasionally housed transient families. We pulled over forty pounds of heroin out of there, not to mention a few thousand LSD and Ecstasy tablets, and that's not even the stuff we think was burned in the fire. Add to that the presence of several known gang members at the scene, one of them firing a banned weapon. There were kids in there and we got out whomever we could, but please don't insult the intelligence of those officers and everyone in this room by suggesting that there were only innocents in that house."

The crowd didn't like this. An insult was hurled, then a few more questions disguised as insults, and eventually, as these things usually do, the entire mess degenerated into a mob. Someone finally put us all out of our misery by formally ending the press conference and the people rushed outside, reporters in the fray, to distort the facts and twist the story to whatever ends served them. I could already see the story tags.

On the Daily News: <b>"Drug problem rises in Queens. Residents question police effectiveness." </b>
On the Post: <b>"Lesbian intrigue dogs suspicious blaze. Possible Israeli connection?" </b>
The Times, if it covered us at all, would have something like <B>"Tenement fire investigation continues," thank god for sketchy liberal writing. </b>
Spanish interest? <B>"Nuestros Niños Bajo Sitio del Policía." </b>
Freerepublic would get a thread called,<b> "Minorities screw up again and blame the cops." </b>
And indymedia? <b>"Zionist *** kills minorities in queens, sets a fire to cover it up, free Mumia and end the war in Iraq." </b>

Nowhere in that mess would there be what I thought was the truth: "Overworked cop and undertrained partner in the wrong place at the wrong damn time. Partner lands in the hospital with second degree burns. Cop feels like crap."

We assembled our various belonging and shuffled to the front, seeing if we could isolate the Chief and talk to him, but he was being spirited away by Jordan and a few others. He shot us a look of utter desperation, mouthed that he'd see us later, and was gone. We watched him leave and milled quietly around the room until most people had dissipated. A few fellow officers came by to stare strangely at Kate and clap me on the shoulder, whispering a few words of encouragement before heading back to their various duties. They knew, or thought they knew, that I did well.

The three of us, Mike, Kate, and I walked back towards the front counter. I wryly pulled my paper out of my holster and plopped it on the table, receiving my gun for my trouble. Kate had hers in a front pocket, but Mike made a great show...for my benefit, I was sure...of having dropped his somewhere and how on earth would he get his weapon back. He called out a goodbye and said he'd meet us back at the station, so don't wait up. Honey. Kate and I shared a look of consternation and went outside.

A breeze had picked up and a handful of leaves blew in a small tornado in front of us before spiraling out into the litter. We walked down the stairs to the now-empty parking lot, her economy car a few spaces down from my bike. I knew why Mike had left us alone, but damned if I couldn't get the words to come out right. Thank god I'd been stupid enough to take a burning beam to the face.

"Is that going to scar?" she asked, staring at some place about twenty yards behind my head.

"Probably not. Docs say I heal faster than anyone they've ever seen and, well, Zach says that if I need it, he knows a few good plastic surgeons."

"Oh. Good." She turned away and made towards her car.

"Wait...wait a second." She turned back, and I leaned against my bike, the wind flipping a few pieces of my ridiculous hair in my face. "Listen, I'm sorry. I, **** Kate, I didn't know that was your girl trying to blow my head off."

"Ex. My ex girlfriend. And you didn't kill her. The drugs did that, though I'm sure the gang helped it along. You put three bullets in a corpse. This was all a formality." But she looked down and aside and again someplace behind me, anything but at my face.

For once, Mike was right. She was hurting more than she ever had before, being eaten up inside by something she couldn't control, but she had enough pride and professionalism to be able to mask it. I wanted, at that moment, to hit her, hold her, shoot her, kiss her, strip her there and **** her 'til she screamed and then promise to make it go away. Anything to break that hold she had on her emotion. But I'm an idiot, and so I just mumbled that I was sorry and offered the hollow help that everyone had been throwing my way. And she took it, graciously, balled it up and threw it out like the trash it was.

"Well, I better get back to sitting in my apartment, waiting for my face to get put back together." I tried levity. It failed. "I'm...uh...going to see Li in the hospital later, if you want...."

"I have a lot to take care of at the station. You two being out make things tough. We have a new recruit coming in to give us a hand for a few weeks while Li gets back into shape. You'll be back when?"

"They say Friday, but I think I'll be in by Wednesday at the latest. I'm getting sick of the soaps, especially when the picture goes out on the TV."

"Right, then. I'll expect you then." She reached out a tentative arm, touched my shoulder, and nearly ran to her car. Another satisfied customer.

I sat down and rested my head on my handlebars. "Ani," I said to myself. "What the hell are you doing."

[theBlackKnight]

*loves anyee* TY !!!!!!!

I want more on kaysha and Any'ee and paige though :rant:


Definitly a nice peice of writing though :thumbsup:

[raphiel20]

Another great piece well done :thumbsup: makes a nice change to what i've been reading lately. theres a typo i spotted in the first 3rd of the story but its just two words like "the" and "to" written the wrong way round so nothing to worry about.
Can't wait for the return of Fulcrum or the continuation of this story both have such a great plot that could lead anywhere :clap:

l8rs :howdy:

raph

[Anyee]

Two hours worth of backup on the boulevard because someone decided it would be a good day to walk in front of a speeding beer truck. I could think of worse ways to go. Hell, I'd seen them. I straddled the bike for a few minutes, listening to the engine idle behind a caddy that had more patches than a lousy operating system, then gave up and pulled over. I found a Taco Bell to sit in, ordered myself a gordita, and stared out at the world through the restaurant's painted safety glass. Though I tried my hardest not to become another work cliche, my thoughts turned to Kate, and then of course turned quickly to the Ben Folds Five song, "Kate," which stuck in my head in spite of my attempts to remove it.

Five years was a long time to know a person and still not know her. I knew she was ***. I knew she was single. I knew she didn't have much family to speak of, just an older aunt and a bevy of hangers on from another life. A few people had hinted at her rough background, and certainly her having dated someone who ended up as a drug dealer for the Bloods would give that story credence. For the life of me, I didn't know why all those kids were in that building. I'd staked it out a few times, answered a few distress calls, and only found the usual lowlifes and scumbags. And sure, the one night there's a fire, someone decides to play school at 2 AM. Chief was right when he said we pulled out who we could...I still don't know how many we missed and what little bodies we're going to sift out of that steaming heap. Kids...I wonder if she had a little Kateling somewhere. Maybe she would meet my daughter and get married. Maybe I'll play the lottery and win.

I chewed too hard and my protesting jaw brought myself back to reality. I could have sworn I saw the student couple from the coffee shop go by my bike and pat it, but they were gone before they were there. The traffic, though, had unsnarled and I tossed out my food so I could get back on the road home.

I climbed the stairs, mail in hand, and undid the half dozen locks that adorned my door. My neighbors had taken the hint from the hole I shot in the wall last night, and turned down the infernal bhangra they loved so much, so that now I could hear the traffic outside and pick up the Cuban radio across the street. Maybe Tunak Tunak wasn't so bad after all. I tossed the pile of junk mail and bills onto the bookshelf in the hall, put my gun by the bedside, and played one of the last answering machines on earth.
*beep*Hey girl, heard about your burn. Sorry I missed you. I'll ring your cell.*click* I looked at my phone and sure enough, there she was too, a little envelope in the LCD of my life. Some exes just don't take the hint.
*beep*This message is for Ms. Qua...Ms. Quo...Ms. Qui...*click* I deleted it. If they couldn't pronounce my last name, they didn't know who I was.
*beep* Ms Quiaden, this is Dr. Rokla's office, reminding you that your emergency room follow-up is in a week.*click* The surgeon who patched up my face recommended a dermatologist who could monitor my progress. I didn't know why, though. I'd been shot twenty times and never had a scar. I didn't expect this would either.
*beep*Ani, remember me? We share the same mother. I really wish you guys would stop sending us so much business. I can hardly get out to the studio anymore. Anyway, I'm worried. You've not called back and you just got your sorry *** set on fire, for fnord's sake. Give me a call, okay? I won't call your cell phone because I think they're stupid...and I lost your number again. Love you." Ah, Zach. Little brothers happen to the strangest people. I'd barely seen him the past few months, but an ER residency tends to eat a social life alive, so I'm told by him and the TV. I'd call him when I actually felt like company.

I checked the clock and, with a sigh, went to the bathroom to change my dressing. I peeled off the gauze and watched the oozing flesh come away on the surface pad. So much for non-stick. I irrigated the whole area with a solution that stuck the hell out of me, then unwrapped a few new bandages and stuck them on. I considered drawing a smiley face on it, but thought the better and returned to the only other room in the house.

Flopping on the sofa, I turned on the only channel that would conveniently ignore the goings on of today for other subject material: PBS. Soon I was engrossed in my nap to the noise of a detailed description of blade weapons in the Far East, as if I would ever need to know what a katar was.

The universe seemed intent on turning me into a bad cliche, you know...when the person who has had a trauma relives it in her sleep... since all I dreamed about was fire. Being in fire, on fire, with fire, near fire. Sometimes with Li and Mike, sometimes alone, or with Kate, sometimes with a few people I'd never seen before. Sometimes in a burning building, fumbling through the smoke for my gun and my partner. Other times I was in vast lakes of the stuff, wading through Dante's wet dream of demons and damned, searching for someone I needed to find. They were all unpleasant, and I was glad to be startled awake by my phone. I switched off the TV, fumbled for the receiver in the darkness and gave a groggy hello.

The advantage of having an unlisted number is that telemarketers and crazy stalker people tend to be dissuaded. It's a four buck a month cost that has probably kept me from being located and shot by the friends and relatives of the various people I've tossed in jail, killed, dated, or some combination of the three. "Hey chica! Long time no chat!" Possessive ex-girlfriends, on the other hand, seem to have a knack for tracking you down even when your updated information email conveniently leaves them off the cc: list.

I wandered into the kitchen area and began cleaning. It was a special task I reserved for the times I'd be stuck on the phone, listening, but expected to give the occasional grunt of approval or disbelief so putting the phone down in another room and listening for the gaps in conversation wasn't an option. It was funny that she called to talk to me, but was doing most of the talking, or in her case, ranting, complaining, gushing, and sneering. Typical Nat. I finished my dishes as she changed from the topic of "that crazy **** at work who wants my job" to "this gorgeous chick who smiled at me on the subway," and wandered over to my mail. Two clothing catalogs, an envelope full of coupons for stuff I'd never buy, my phone bill, and a reminder notice that my loan would go into default if I didn't start sending those checks out to the good ol' US government.

"****," I mumbled.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. Sorry, just looked at my mail and got a reminder that I'm poor, as if my stunning decor and thrilling downtown location weren't enough of a visual cue."
"Sweetie, if you need to..."
"Absolutely not. Not if I were hooking for cash."
"Well in that case, it wouldn't be a loan. It would be payment for services rendered." She giggled, and then we lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

More truth to that than either one of us cared to admit. It was hard dating someone who made triple what I expected to ever pull in. Once the novelty of being a kept woman wore off, there was the annoying realization that I was on her tab at all times, the implicit expectation that since she was paying for it, we should do what she wanted. I got sick of feeling like an Elton John song and ditched her when she suggested we move in together, citing fear of commitment. That was actually the total opposite. I was ready to commit, but I couldn't stand the thought of living in a place that was hers, with furniture that was hers, with food that was hers, with only a handful of medals, some photographs, and an astounding collection of military weapons to mark my contribution to the house. I think she knew that too, which was why she was on the other end of my house line, six years after we called it quits.

She restarted, always the more verbal. "I'm serious, Ani. You've been one step ahead of the wolf for a long time. You know I'd do this for any of my friends. Remember when Amanda was moving and needed first month's rent? She wasn't too proud to let me give her a hand. Please, honey. Do it for me. You know I like to feel useful"

By this time I had gone digging in my catch-all shelf for my checkbook and pulled it out with a grunt of annoyance. "Nat, you know why I can't. I spent ten years writing a monthly check to my foster parents to absolve myself of any guilt towards their raising me. I will never be in debt to any person again, EVEN," cutting her off as she began to protest, "even if that loan was meant as a gift. I can't work under that onus." I wrote out a check, zeroing my account but ensuring that my credit report wouldn't go any further down the toilet, and stuck it in the conveniently addressed envelope, that lacked a stamp of course. I groaned inwardly.

She sighed and said, "Is there anything I can do?"

I grinned evilly. "Sure. Pick me up tomorrow and drive me to 68th Street so I can visit Li. Oh, and bring some stamps."

"Are you crazy? I have a full sche-"

"You said anything, babe."

"I hate you. What time?"

"Get here at 10 so we can deal with midtown traffic. I don't think they're closing bridges tomorrow, but you can handle that aspect. Oh and none of those American flag stamps. Too much patriotism makes my little Israeli head hurt."

"Fine. I'll be there at 10. See-"

"And a sandwich."

"You are utterly incorrigible. I will pick up food if I have time, Ms. Ani. Now, you need your sleep to heal those burns. Take care babe."

"Good night Nat."

A short pause. "I've missed you, Ani. It's good to hear your voice." Her tone was sweet and genuine, not the overexuberent chatter of the past hour. I realized for a split second how isolated I was out here, but it passed, and I managed to get off the phone without having a sudden and unexplained attack of emotion. It had gotten late. I'd slept for four hours but the fatigue hadn't lifted much. Maybe the night's rest, not on the couch, would help that.

I stripped and drew a bath, looking in the mirror at the bandages that wound my chest and leg while the tub grudgingly filled with light brown water, A few bruised ribs, twenty stitches in my thigh, and here I am walking around like I'm some sort of Olympic warrior. I let the basin get halfway full before stopping the tap and lowering myself in, keeping my right leg essentially out of the water. It was an awkward position to soak myself, but it was easier than dealing with the torso cast I'd sported before. I was grateful for any injury that didn't require plaster and catheters as part of the healing regimen. Washing was painful, like every other necessary activity seemed to be, and I was happy to get out until I realized I'd have to floss around a burned check.

Evening toilette aside, I brushed the hair and sand out of the sheets, then settled for bed. The room was stuffy and I thought about the fan, but realized that would mean getting up again, and inertia was busy validating Newton's laws of motion. I slept, and dreamed of fire, but also of mountains and plains, and of the feeling of outrunning a horse. I'm sure they all meant I needed sex.

The tell tale honking of an irate Mercedes, followed by some invectives in three languages, signaled that I'd neglected to set an alarm the night before. I looked over at the digital clock that so politely informed me that I screwed up, and that it was 10:14. I rolled out of bed and really wished I hadn't as my chest exploded in pissed-off pain. I threw on some clothes, grabbed my bag, holstered my weapon and, thinking for a moment, put a jacket on to conceal it. No point in driving through the police checkpoints with a big sign that said, "Search me" on the front of the car.

I spend down the stairs, to where Nat was frantically swatting curious and admiring local hoods off the trunk. I got down there, realized I'd left the envelope on the table, and apologetically ran back to my apartment to retrieve it. My appearance a few seconds later in her passenger's seat did not calm her down.

"I hate this area, Ani, you know that. I feel really white around here, and I'm half Puerto Rican. They might as well drag me into the street and beat me preemptively for something someone's going to do for them." She pulled away from the curb, shaking off the last of the cursing teens, and floored it past a stop sign, fumbling in her purse with one hand. "Here," she tossed a package at me. "They only had antique railroad cars. Is that okay, you pain in the ***?"

I took one of the self-adhesive squares and affixed it crookedly to the top of the envelope. "Perfect," I grinned, and reached over to kiss her on the cheek. She was barely mollified, but the tension level dropped a bit and when we stopped at a light, she inspected my face.

"Jesus, look at you. Like someone took a bat to your head."

"You going to tell me to be more careful and find a safer job?" I snorted as she made for the highway at breakneck speeds.

"No, I tried that for a year and I learned my lesson. I'm going to tell you to make sure your will is updated. And that there is an egg croissant in the back seat with a bottle of apple juice since you're a sissy who won't drink coffee."

I grabbed the food and munched appreciatively as we sped through the EZ Pass and into the city. Traffic was predictably horrible and we amused each other by playing spot the dyke as we crawled through the village on the way to 2nd Avenue.

"Ooo," she said with mock enthusiasm. "Look at the mullet on that one. Like a Canadian hockey player mated with a bull mastiff." She made it onto the Avenue and, dodging taxis like a pro, sped me to my midtown destination.

"Do you want me to wait?" she asked as I got myself out of her tank-like car, pausing to toss the envelope down a nearby postal box..

"If you don't mind," I shrugged, and went into the hospital. She'd probably amuse herself down there, maybe even go shopping. She was the type of person who could buy herself clothing at the airport while waiting to pick you up.

The helpful guards directed me to the burn unit. My joviality evaporated, as was appropriate, and I went to find Li's room. She was lucky. The burns were extensive, but shallow, and she was expected to recover without the Freddy Krueger wrinkling that afflicted most fire survivors. That she was even up here was mainly a precaution, but I was inwardly glad they were taking more care with her than was necessary. Damn well time for her insurance to do something other than limit her beer budget.

If the nurse hadn't pointed it out to me, I might have figured the room out on my own, if nothing else but because of the huge naked woman that had been tacked to the curtain. A gift from Mike, I was sure. Other than that, though, the bandaged disaster hooked up to oxygen didn't resemble the 5'10" goddess who caused car accidents when she stepped outside. She seemed asleep, but her one uncovered eye fluttered open when I entered the room.

I pulled up a chair and sat in her viewing range. "Hey there sexy. Mummy, eh? I thought you more of a Frankenstein fan, or maybe vampires. Gotta admit Susan Sarandon looked pretty hot back then."

She smiled, and reached out her right hand, which was only scorched mildly. I took it and curled my fingers around her calloused palm. She tried to speak, but I hushed her down. "As I'm sure you've been reminded, you just gargled with lava. Give your vocal cords the break they so richly deserve. I can do all the talking for a change. So, let's see...I'm doing pretty well, though everyone is acting like I've had my face chewed off by a rabid wolverine." She started laughing, then coughing, and gave me an angry look.

"Sorry, sorry. I'll be back at work in a few days, to train a newbie." She rolled her eyes.

"Worse things have happened. Mike's good, though I think you knew that because of the lovely pinup you're sporting." She nodded. "I'm sure Laura loved that. Oh, wait, she prefers blonds, doesn't she?" She moved her somewhat bandaged left hand to give me the finger and lay back as I laughed.

"The investigation is ongoing but they think we'll be clear. The chief, of course, had to out me as crazy Jewish sniper in front of a few hundred livid residents plus press, so that may gum up the works a bit." She didn't have to speak for me to read the curses she formed and she squeezed my hand. "I'm not thinking about it right now. I'm sure there will be a few special press conferences to clear it up but whatever, it was going to happen sooner or later." She nodded and squeezed me again.

I chatted drivel for a few minutes, fending off the nurses who wanted to poke her with something else and making the appropriate comments when a bevy of medical students came in to gawk at us...and the poster. He finished describing the care of second degree burns and I offered to show the class mine, since I'd forgotten to change the dressing that day and figured I'd get some free gauze out of the deal. He assented, but shook his head when the bandage came off.

"Are you certain this is a second-degree burn? For less than a week of healing you've made almost unbelievable gains. You don't need to cover it unless you want to."

I grabbed a hand mirror off one of the girlier students and took a hard look at my cheek. Sure enough, the oozing mess had resolved into dry scabs overnight, a testament to my inexplicable healing capacity. "Sorry," I shrugged. I offered to drop my pants and show them where I'd gotten the pins put into my pelvis, but he decline and the group walked away, s******ing.

Li looked very amused. "Want me to do it for you? Professional courtesy, of course." She shook her head no and took my hand again. She mouthed a single syllable.

"She's...terrible, I think It's hard to tell with her, but you know that. I keep thinking that if I'd known, I would have acted different, but then what? We'd be here with gunshot wounds instead of burns and we'd have a dozen dead kids instead of a few." She flinched. I'd almost become accustomed to people dying on my watch, though I'm sure I'd need a few sessions with the therapist to make sure I was totally fine. But Li never quite got used to it, especially children, and working narcotics...well, Trainspotting wasn't all fiction. I'd called her undertrained before, and that was correct in that she'd been in combat situations fewer years than I, but it neglected the Ivy League education and Masters in Sociology she had. Li was smart, and there were whispers of her getting out of the force to go to law school, that, if true, I would have written the admissions check myself to aid it.

For now, though, I rubbed her hand thoughtfully and said, "We'll talk about it more when you can hold up your side of the conversation. You know I'm here." She nodded, and I guessed we'd spend a few lunch breaks debating morality until we could come to grips, again, with the fact that we were human. She brought the conversation, one-sided as it was, back to our commander, with a few more syllables.

"What do you mean, do something? Everyone thinks I have this connection with the boss. I've been here a while, but it's not like we're friends or anything. In case you've been asleep for the past three years, she's not quite the conversational type. And why me? Why not Mike, or Doug, or someone else?" I must have gotten a little agitated, since she patted my hand a few times until I sheepishly relaxed.

"Because you understand things, Ani," she whispered hoarsely, and when I tried to stop her, she shook her head. "Not talked much. Okay. You need to do this. No one else can."

"Why, though? Can't we just get her to a nice counselor or hire a prostitute or something? I don't see what I have that these people don't."

"Insight. Experience. Soldier." She closed her eyes and swallowed.

"See, I told you that you shouldn't talk. Fine, I'll try to talk to her."

"Don't talk. Useless. Listen. Wait."

"Is she using Jedi Mind tricks on you, Ani? I knew I shouldn't have let her watch all that Star Wars last night." Laura bent over me, her dark skin obscuring my view of my tired partner. "How are you, cutie?"

"Good, Laura. Your darling wife was informing me that I have the duty of fixing our commander since no one else can."

"You and Kate, eh?" Laura tapped a finger on the bedrail thoughtfully. "Might work, if one of you were actually capable of holding a conversation for more than two minutes without needing a break from the exertion. Now as much as I hate to break up this version of the Dating Game, we're about to start unwrapping this little present and clean her up."

Li grimaced at the painful prospect while Laura looked down fondly. "This is the quietest she's ever been, and all bound up to boot. I might have to sneak some medical supplies out on discharge. You take care, Ani. Don't do anything stupid, as my darling would say."

I gave one final squeeze to Li's hand in farewell, promising to return soon, and walked out as the army of nurses and orderlies came in to being their task. I was very grateful to be in the elevator before they started unwrapping her.

Nat had double parked behind an ambulance and was arguing with its driver about whether she needed to move the Benz or not. "It's not an emergency," I heard her shout, "I don't think going to pick up someone with a sprained ankle necessitates my circling the block another time. Why don't you take that siren and shove...hi there. Let's get out of here."

"You have such a sense of perspective, Nat. That's what I love about you. Your cold-hearted grip on reality."

She started the car and drove off towards the Island. "How's Li?"

"Good. Resting. She'll be fine."

"Oh, that's good." She kept riding, weaving in and out of the middle lane, jockeying for position on the clogged street.

"Okay, what's wrong now." She was never this taciturn unless something was bothering her.

"I was listening to NPR and the news came on. There's some evidence of arson at the scene, according to the fire guys. They're not mentioning you and Li, mostly because you two were busy being shot at when the fire actually started, but all sorts of **** is being tossed around about why you were there, and why you in particular, and whatever." When Nat started cursing, there was an excellent bet someone was going to get a beatdown. In this case, I wasn't sure who exactly, but it would be spectacular.

"I gotta call Kate."

"Use my phone," she said absently, getting on the highway through the maze of traffic cones.

I punched in the precinct and maneuvered through the computerized system until I reached the commander's desk. "Yo Boss. I heard the good news. When are they going to figure out that it isn't unheard of for gang members to burn down evidence of a crime?"

"You know that. I know that." Her voice was harried and strained. "But we are ****ed three ways from Sunday unless people start talking, and no one is of course because they're not interested in having a Saturday Night Special shoved down their throat." I loved dealing with gang cases. Everyone was always so helpful.

"Worst case scenario?"

"They blame you and Li for providing distraction while some of our units went in and set the blaze. 911 tapes'll confirm you were there because shots were fired, but who's to say who is shooting what when?"

"Then I'll hope for the better case, which I'm sure involves my being part of a conspiracy somehow, correct?"

"Yep."

"What can I do?"

"Get in here bright and early tomorrow and be ready to shovel ****, because it's coming in faster than I can move it." She clicked off and I shut the phone with a snap.

"Sounds lovely," said Nat. "Can I at least get you a late lunch?"

"Yeah, sure."

We drove out past Queens, onto the cross island and down thirty minutes to where she lived. And as always, the lunch turned into shopping, and why not dinner too, and after dinner a stroll on the beach near her house. We'd played this game enough times not to change the steps at all.

We went inside when the breeze got too much and I sat on the couch while she brewed herself tea. She'd redecorated since I'd last been there, the ominous jungle theme her last girlfriend favored having been replaced with the neoclassical sensibility she preferred. It felt more hers now, and that's why I was fidgeting, anxious to get home and get to sleep in the familiar dinge of my studio. But I knew that I'd likely spend the night, because I have a proclivity for self-destruction that overrides common sense.

So when she finished her tea and I rose to leave, and she put her arms around me and whispered I should stay, I assented. And when she ripped off all my clothing and touched me as only she could, I enjoyed it, and I gave her back the same: that illusion of safety and permanence that comes from a familiar tongue in familiar places, and the clockwork of sighs and screams that build a transient shelter from reality. And when she cried, as she always did, and I told her the reasons again, I didn't feel any guilt, because she'd not break and I'd not break. We'd keep this terrible, stupid distance, neither coming nor going, intact. Though when I watched her sleeping, and looked around at the beautiful home she'd built, I thought for a while on finally giving in and staying. It was too comfortable, though. Too many years of sharp edges and worn fabric for me to get used to luxury, and I knew that I'd leave before she woke. As usual.

[Flankie]

I love this story! I REALLY love the way you describe everything in just enough detail and leave the rest to the reader.

Good work, keep it up!

[Anyee]

I've been delinquent in posting, so here's the next section.

The car service dumped me at my apartment and sped off before I could pay. I knew Nat kept a tab with them and that it would be paid in full when she awoke alone in the morning. I left her a cell message, knowing she left it off for the night, saying that I needed to be into work early and in uniform tomorrow, and that I had a wonderful time and that I'd see her soon. All of which was true and total crap at the same time. I left partially because I was a spiteful cow who couldn't let someone enjoy her fantasy and partially because I couldn't knowingly deceive someone I cared for. She'd understand. Maybe this time, she'd not call back and we'd finally move on.

I crashed, half-dressed, after setting the alarm. Morning saw me awake too early and in the uncomfortable standard blues that I had to wear while impressing the new girl. I'd be back to slacks in a day or two. I eased the Harley around the sleeping bums in the alley and went over to Faaris' for my morning juice and cereal. His eldest daughter was there, heavily pregnant with her third child, and explained he was out waiting for a new shipment of coffee, but that he was still refusing to let me pay for anything. I donated the five dollars I would have spent on breakfast to the "Get Faaris' daughter off her feet because she's goddamn pregnant" fund and went to work.

Everyone was there on time, for a change, as if sudden productiveness would change the nasty things the news was saying about us. Mike caught me as I sat down and perched on my desk, which creaked in protest.

"You're looking chipper. Sleep with your ex again?" He flashed his teeth in his approximation of a smile.
"Have you been tapping my phone?"
"No, but I called Li to talk at her last night, you know, because she's not that conversational nowadays, and Laura mentioned a certain blood-red Benz on the street. Bad dyke. No biscuit."
"You are all so concerned with my love life. Are yours really that boring? If so, I'm never getting married. Yes, I saw Nat, she's fine, we're fine. It's stupid as usual, next topic."
"Have you seen the new kid? She's in Kate's office, waiting for you."
"Joy of joys, I can't wait."

I swung myself out of my chair and sauntered over to Kate's desk. She was wearing the same outfit she was on Monday, never a good sign. She looked about two decades older than she really was, which made the introduction of my new companion even more a shock.

The girl was young, really young. Most of us, myself excepted, had been on the force at least ten years and we were all showing the wear and tear of our 30's. With her brown ponytail and inquisitive green eyes, she couldn't have been a day over 23. Except for the obvious uniform, she didn't look like a cop. She looked like a first grade teacher who had gotten lost on the way to a Halloween party, all pale skin and freckles.

"Ani Quaiden, meet Paige Linden. She'll be working with us until the department realizes that sending her into this particular nuthouse is a waste of her talents."

I shook her hand and watched her eye movements as she appraised me. First, the healing wound on my face, then the rest of my unplaceable features, down to my hands, left one to see if I'm married, then back to my face. Not bad. She could have stared at my cleavage, but the gold band on her left hand attested to what probably was a generic, monogamous heterosexual marriage. In a precinct that housed three out lesbians and a *** man, this was a rarity.

"Talents eh," I ventured. "You tap dance people into submission?"

She gave a shy smile, looking to Kate for clarification of my motives. "I'm, er, a translator."

"Really?" I arched my eyebrows in appreciation. "You shouldn't be here. You should go for the FBI hon. They need qualified people..."

"Officer Linden's career goals aside, Ani," Kate was quick to cut me off, "it was decided that she should come work with us so she became familiar with the gang scene. She'll be especially useful during some of the Chinatown busts we're doing. Seems all the boys on staff speak Mandarin and we're tapping Cantonese."
"Well, excellent. Paige, good to meet you. Mind if I pester my boss alone for a second?"
"Of course. I'll...wait outside." She nervously bounced out of the room and I closed the door to face Kate's grim face.

"Trying to build department diversity by adding a white straight girl?"
"Ani..."
"Has she ever held a gun before, Kate? I don't mind training people, but a translator? I feel like I'm watching someone's kid on career day." I slapped the desk and watched as the clutter on it bounced up and crashed down sympathetically.
"She's been through training, same as all of us, and spent six months in Harlem. I'm sure she'll be fine. Go get her set up." Kate turned back to the daunting paperwork in front of her.
"You-"
"I'm fine. Just overworked. Go."

Paige had been accosted by Doug, who was busily explaining the ins and outs of the basement vending machines, while I was being petulant with Kate. I ushered her over to my desk and had her sit down next to me. It was time for...the talk.

"Paige, I am going to be up front about a few things. I'm going to apologize for being blunt and you can be as offended as you want if I insult you."
She hummed a bit and looked at me. "Warning accepted. Go ahead."
"Paige, I'm ***. Li, the girl who usually sits across from me but who is now relaxing in one of NY's fine hospitals, is ***. Mike is *** and HIV positive. Claudia's bi and with a man right now. Kate...well, anyway, don't go there. Doug is married with four kids but doesn't care. I say it this way because we have a certain... relaxed atmosphere that may seem like harassment but is in reality friendly banter among friends who ordinarily would have to hide to accommodate society. We will leave you out of it if you choose, but we ask you not to interpret our dialogue with each other as sexually provocative, but affectionate."

Mike leaned over my shoulder and said in a stage whisper, "What she means is that when I call her a cheap tramp and she accuses me of doing tricks for smack, it's really a sign of love." He swished off to answer the phone and I laughed at the un-Mike display of effeminateness.

"Any questions?"

Paige, to her credit, looked less flustered during this than she did when she was just shaking my hand. "Was this a problem with other people?"

"Yes. We had three sexual harassment complaints filed by one of the people who came in here because he didn't understand the boundaries we set beforehand. He was granted a transfer and Li came in. I find in general that being blunt helps prevent this."

She pulled herself upright. "I have no problem with your sexuality, and you're free to talk however you please. I need to state that I am not comfortable being flirted with by anyone, *** or straight."

I chuckled slightly. "Fair enough. Not to worry, though. You're not my type. Too married."

Doug coughed, "********," under his breath, to which I responded, "You. Shut it."

I turned back to Paige. "Excellent. Glad to have you with us. Let's get you a desk."

As was par for our department, the only spare desk was covered with boxes, old computers, and assorted junk of all types. We'd only just started moving the crap around when a voice like a Wagnerian soprano cut through the room. "I want to meet her."

"Oh Jesus ****," I swore. "Maybe if I drop this dot matrix printer on my head, I'll die and won't have to deal with her."

"What?" asked Paige, perplexed.

"Jordan Firecaster...she took the last name a few months ago to show solidarity with Native American tribes or some bull like that and her real last name is Matthews...local thorn in our side. She's a borough rep, specializes in making our lives very difficult by crying discrimination a whole lot. To be fair, she was also the one who helped Mike keep his benefits by arguing with the media. So we can't hate her all the time. We let her have a day off during Christmas."

Kate walked out of her office, her arms crossed, and a "One nasty word and I'll strangle you with your own intestines" stance, her back and legs so rigid that I could have broke a wooden chair across them. "May I help you, Representative Matthews?" Kate didn't care, obviously, about the Native Americans.

"Captain Davidson. I thought you would be home mourning your loss." Jordan looked over her prodigious bosom to glare at my boss.

"It wasn't a loss." Kate's tone was even, but I watched another layer of tension build through her shoulders. "Are you here just to insult me, in which case you will need to take a number, or is there a reason for your visit?"

"I'm here to meet the IDF marksman who is causing such a stir among my community."

Kate would cover for me to spare me the confrontation, but I was pissed off enough at the whole situation to do it myself. I checked my anger to make sure I'd not make anything worse, and answered. "That would be me."

She turned, her golden adornments circling and clanking into place like gears when she stopped, and stared at Paige and I. Her eyes went towards my shorter, whiter companion. "You?" Paige looked totally bewildered.

"No, me," I answered, and if I had captured Jordan's face at that moment, I would have had a poster made to hang over my desk. Before she had time to recover, I started running off my mouth. "Not what you expected, eh? You were probably looking for some big-nosed chick with a lot of curly hair and a middle eastern accent, not a spiky haired Asian from the Bronx. Let me explain"

I picked up a box to better channel my anger while I spoke. "Yeah, no one believes I'm Israeli or that I'm Jewish, but I am. That's my father's fault. Oh, he," I dropped it onto the floor with a slam, "was a white guy, by the way, so I'm a spiky-haired half-Asian. My mom was a Thai prostitute...oh, excuse me, sex worker...in Vietnam. He knocked her up, got his leg blown off a few weeks later, and brought my mom and her family over as some sort of weird gesture of generosity."

I swung a computer monitor down from on top of the file cabinet. "I was born in Albert Einstein a few months after, a full American citizen for all those playing along at home, but dad never saw me. Shot himself with a sidearm the day I was born. Of course, the money he was sending us disappeared because his family of Westchester Jews couldn't bear to list a Thai halfbreed in the family Bible. Mom and her sister tried keeping house while my sister's husband got work in construction, but eventually they went back to what had kept them alive through the war and when I was three, my brother was born, son of a politician who'd rather pretend he's happily married." The monitor was dropped with a crack next to the box. I moved to the next piece of equipment.

"Mom went a little crazy after Zach was born. My aunt and her husband tried raising my brother and I, but they hated the US and took it out on us at the end of a belt. One night it got too much and Zach and I ran off. CFS picked us up when we were found sleeping in a park. We were tossed into the foster system and pretty much forgotten. Zach was lucky and got a massive Italian family who adopted him right out. I, being older and less adoptable, moved around and finally ended up with an elderly couple who didn't think highly of Asians or Jews. They sent me to a lovely New York public school, where I was isolated and ridiculed by everyone but the gang members. But I wasn't stupid enough to take their friendly entreaties to the next level." The dot matrix printer ended up on the floor and shattered. Out of the corner of my eye, Paige flinched. I heaved a box of paper up.

" By the time I was 16, I was itching to get out of the house. College wasn't an option, any job I could get would be mind-killing, and I was understandably not too keen on joining the military. Lucky for me, I knew dad was Jewish. Right of return. Technically, I could move to Israel so long as I was willing to serve in the IDF. I immigrated and enlisted. Spent ten years in YAGAV...essentially border patrol along the West Bank...until I couldn't take shooting little boys anymore. Repatriated, took a few loans for school, and got the only job I was qualified for after spending a decade in a war zone. I became a cop." The paper went down a bit more gently and I lifted another monitor.

"So if you'll excuse the soliloquy, Representative, you'll also see why I have so many problems with the web you're trying to spin. It isn't as neat anymore, is it? By all rights I'm pro-minority, pro-child, anti-government, pro-gang, pro-sex, pro-woman yet you're saying I went and burned down a house full of black kids and hookers because I'm a Jewish cop out of touch with the realities of urban life." This monitor slipped from my hands and exploded with a bang of broken glass that luckily hit the desk and not me.

Jordan looked like she had just been told she was in the presence of an alien who wanted to mate with her and take over Europe. The rest of the room was dead silent. Paige had slowly inched over from the onslaught of moving objects and was clutching the doorframe. Kate fairly rippled with tension and I saw her jaw working underneath her ivory skin. Mike looked like he would leap over the desk and clock anyone who spoke, friend or foe alike. Doug had actually put his head down on his table and covered his neck with his hands while Claudia was gripping a chair with such ferocity that I saw the metal bending. Then, the most amazing thing happened.

"What can I do to help?" asked the Representative, her voice lilting gently with a Jamaican accent. Her face relaxed into one of mixed concern and acceptance.

I looked down at the mess of twisted plastic, shattered glass, and wire fragments. So much for staying calm. "Well, for starters, don't move. This is a lawsuit waiting to happen until I sweep up." Claudia fled the room to fetch the appropriate equipment.

"Get the community back to reality. Gangs recruit teens and deal drugs. Don't let them pretend that a young kid can't channel violence, because I know better." Jordan's lips twitched at the edges. "I used to shoot thirteen year olds from school windows to keep them from blowing up their Israeli classmates." My voice softened a bit. "More than that, get them to remember that we're not the enemy and that a lot of us really do care about all of them. If we wanted those kids dead, Li and I wouldn't have stayed inside breaking down locked doors when the fire started. Please, Jordan."

Claudia returned with the broom and began moving the debris out of our way. I walked towards the representative, who offered her hand. I took it. She looked at me, deep and placid. I understood for a moment how she had stayed in office for five consecutive terms. "I'll see what I can do. Keep yourself clean, in the meantime." She walked away.

"Thank you, Representative."

"No, thank you, Officer." And she was gone.

[Avalon]

How badly will it ruin Fulcrum? Because I've been away. And I come back finding little of Fulcrum around. I've only gone through the first post....*continues reading*

*goes to browse TDL*

[theBlackKnight]

*cant wait for devilkin to start popping out and ani to go bust some zombie heads*

Just kidding, bring it on!