Foxfire, Esq.

“What!?” Casey’s voice was just shy of a yell, but certainly louder than was strictly appropriate for the office setting. “You can’t just tell me to sit out now!”

“I can, and I am,” I said sternly. “Besides, this is a busy couple of weeks for you with Bar prep, isn’t it?”

“That’s not the point!” Casey argued, frustration and hurt leaking into their voice. “You went to meet the client on this one without even telling me that was happening, you haven’t shared anything about the evidence in a week — you just froze me out on this one!”

“… and I’ll admit that I should’ve been more up-front about this,” I said with a sigh, even as I made sure to keep looking Casey in the eyes here, “but I’m going to make it explicit. You’re getting benched on this one.”

“But that’s—”

A knock at my office door interrupted what Casey was going to say, after which the door opened and Julio stuck his head inside.

“Uh… is this a bad time?” he asked.

“Yes!” Casey snapped.

“No,” I admonished as I spoke over them, ears pinning low in moderate irritation. “Actually, that depends. Is this about what I think it is?”

In response, Julio stepped into my office and handed me a folder that he’d been carrying. I flipped it open and scanned the contents, the light frown that had been tugging at my lips for the past couple of minutes deepening into a full-on fangs-bared grimace as I went.

“This,” I slapped the folder down on the table and grabbed a pen, then turned the folder around to show its contents to Casey, “is why you need to sit this out. See this?”

Casey leaned in to get a better look at what I was showing them — a seemingly inconspicuous photograph of two men in the DC metro.

“It’s just some guys,” they scoffed.

“Oh?” I dragged the tip of the pen around their belts, to show the way their shirts hung oddly over their waists. “Concealed carry firearm, shirts are a size too big to cover them. Then, sunglasses in the metro,” I pointed that out, “long pants in the summer pulled over cop boots, deliberately nondescript outfits. High and tight haircut. These men? Plainclothes cops.” I moved that photo aside to the next one. “Here, see? More of them. Always teams of two, and if we look, at, the, locations,” I flipped through more of them, “all in spots relatively close to the border with Virginia.”

“I don’t—”

“The SJA is currently doing me a big favor and sitting on an inquiry into the death of prior counsel in this case to make sure it doesn’t tip anyone off, because we’re no longer sure it was an accident, and it’s in relation to McCain’s case.” Casey and Julio both started at that, but I pressed on before either could offer comment. “Cruz’s case was comparatively low-stakes, non-violent crime. This afternoon, on the other hand, is probably going to get ugly, and I cannot in good conscience let you come along when there’s a very real risk of you being used as a hostage!”

Stunned silence met my declaration. Julio had the most deer-in-the-headlights expression I’d ever seen on him, while Casey seemed stuck partway between continued indignation and horrified realization.

“… you don’t really think they’d try something like that, do you?” Julio asked. “I mean, I saw your calendar. You’re at the District Court this afternoon, right? Nobody’s seriously stupid enough to try something, are they?”

“Ordinarily I would agree with you, but we’re not dealing with ordinary people. We’re dealing with corrupt cops, neo-Nazis, and corrupt cops who are neo-Nazis. If anyone could shoot someone at the courthouse and get away with it, it’s them.” I looked up at Julio, a thought striking me. “You got copies of these?”

“Already emailed before I walked over.”

“Perfect. In that case… since I have you here already, would you mind if Casey shadowed you for the next couple weeks?”

“But—!”

“Until you’re back to safe and boring stuff?” Julio shrugged. “Sure thing. C’mon Case, let me get ya up to speed on a couple of cases I’ve got.”

Casey turned to look at me with a pleading expression, hope and hurt fighting for dominance. I sighed, and offered them a soft smile and a nod.

“Only until it’s safe,” I affirmed. “I promise.”

We held each other’s gaze for several seconds. But finally, Casey sighed, and stood from their chair to join Julio. They shut the door behind them, leaving me alone in the quiet of my office once more.

“Was there perhaps a gentler way to handle that?”

Or as far as either of them knew, at least.

“Probably,” I agreed with Gorou as he flickered into material form atop my desk. “But it’s also very hard to impress real danger upon people who’ve never had to face it. And I know I can’t shield Casey from that forever, but…”

“But you will not be able to keep them safe forever.”

“Yes Gorou, I know, I did just say that,” I griped with a sigh. “But I can at least make sure their first brush with danger is something less perilous than this.” I just hoped that further down the line, Casey would see it my way. It wouldn’t excuse or justify the clear hurt I saw in their eyes, no, especially if my hunch was wrong. And if this had just been a particularly weird court case, I wouldn’t have even considered sidelining Casey like this.

But this wasn’t a wacky, melodramatic court case anymore. This was a sting operation, with all the risks that such a thing entailed.

And I would sooner have Casey hate me than put them in the kind of danger that I might be about to face.

The E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse played host to both the U.S. District Court and the U.S. Court of Appeals for DC… and one of those odd special program courts that didn’t exist under the Court of Federal Claims, but I could never remember which one it was. It also didn’t matter, because that wasn’t what we were here for today.

Chief Judge Farley had set up a security cordon to keep passersby and tourists away from one of the smaller courtrooms. They clearly had at least some idea of what was going on today, given that none of them remarked upon the combined FMB and NMR presence, though my client did get a few curious glances when he was escorted up from the Moonshot holding cells.

Wayne “Pyre” McCain was accompanied only until such time as he sat down at the defendant’s table in the courtroom. Once his escort had gotten him all set, both men gave me a nod and left without a word. Once again, I was being trusted to keep a pyrokinetic in check.

But this time, there wasn’t even a ghost of a chance that I’d need to actually do anything.

“You ready?” I asked my client. I may have just gone over the plan with him, but it was one thing to be given marching orders, and something else entirely to be in the field, as it were.

“Good to go,” McCain said back, voice quiet enough that even I barely heard him. “Just stick to the plan. No theatrics.”

Everybody else that we’d been waiting on filed into the courtroom within a minute of us sitting down, so I surmised that they’d been made to wait until McCain was situated and I was in place as insurance, of sorts. Chief Judge Farley came in from behind the bench, along with a pair of bailiffs — one of whom was rather amusingly familiar — and was followed by the stenographer and clerk. The doors at the back of the courtroom opened to admit the prosecutor for this case, AUSA Christian Walters, an old dog who’d been in the game since before I could even read. He was one of the reasons I absolutely didn’t want to try and take McCain’s case to trial — Walters was only not the US Attorney because he’d denied the nomination three times already, on the grounds that it would pull him into politics. He was one of the very few AUSAs that you could trust to be properly apolitical, and that earned him respect from both sides of the aisle.

He’d also parlayed that respect into being owed many, many, many favors, and assuming his impartiality meant he’d burned every bridge was consistently the last mistake his opponents made.

Walters gave me a nod of recognition, but didn’t so much as introduce himself to me — he was stiff, with tension visible in his shoulders and jaw, and his eyes carried the look of grim anticipation. He knew what we were here for today, and while he wasn’t happy about it, he also hadn’t protested. Maybe due to the fact that today’s planned ignorance of procedure and decorum was secondary to a much greater evil.

One of my ears swiveled towards the doors at the back of the courtroom as they opened once more, and I turned to see who else had come in. And, well, you know what they say… speak of the devil…

“Now that we’re all here,” Chief Judge Farley spoke up from his position at the bench, which drew my attention away from the asshole of the hour as he walked up the aisle to the front of the gallery, “I’d like to call the court to session. We are gathered today for an evidentiary hearing in the case of People of the United States of America v. Wayne McCain AKA Pyre. I see before me AUSA Christian Walters for the prosecution, and Naomi Ziegler FKA Foxfire as counsel for the defense. Sir, ma’am; are both of you ready to proceed?”

“Yes, your Honor,” AUSA Walters said.

“We are, sir,” I added.

“Very well.” The Chief Judge looked to the sole person seated in the gallery. “Master Sergeant, are you prepared to take the stand?”

“Sir, yes sir,” the asshole of the hour said, stepping out of the row and into a classic parade rest stance.

“Very well. Bailiff?”

The bailiff I didn’t recognize stepped forward to escort the Master Sergeant to the stand, and I gave him an appraising look as he situated himself.

I wasn’t impressed.

Master Sergeant Jefferson Gillespie had this sort of ‘weasely’ look to him: beady blue eyes, almost pinched facial features, thin blonde hair cut high-and-tight. He’d come to court in fatigues, as opposed to the dress blues that would’ve been appropriate for presenting himself to the Chief Judge, so that was another point against him — and it left me a little suspicious as to why he’d gone for a more comfortable, looser fit instead of his dress blues, despite knowing the kind of insult he’d offered by doing so.

The sound of shifting fabric drew my attention to McCain beside me, and I saw his hands clench into white-knuckled fists as he seemed to almost bristle. He’d set his entire stance as tall and wide as it could go, and I had no doubt that if McCain’s powers had let him shoot laser beams out of his eyes, then Gillespie would’ve already been dead.

But (un)fortunately, that was not the case, and the neo-Nazi in hiding took the stand without issue.

“Please state your full name for the record,” Chief Judge Farley commanded.

“Master Sergeant Jefferson Chester Gillespie, US National Guard.”

“So noted,” Farley commented, then looked down at the witness stand. "Master Sergeant Gillespie, while I understand that you have already been deposed on this matter, replacement counsel for the defendant has informed the Court that in light of newly discovered information, her client has elected to stipulate certain facts so that he may assert an affirmative defense. While I am leaning towards allowing this, given that this alleged new information directly pertains to matters covered within your deposition, this Court requests that you undergo questioning once more to help determine the admissibility of this potential new evidence."

"Not like I have anywhere else to be until this matter's wrapped up," the secret white supremacist said, an expression of calm confidence upon his face that I was all too ready to watch crumble.

"Regardless, this Court thanks you for your time and apologizes for the inconvenience," Chief Judge Farley said, his placating tone so perfectly practiced that if I hadn't known he was putting on airs, I wouldn't have caught it. "Rest assured, this is little more than routine due diligence on our part."

Hah! No. No, it really wasn't. This wasn’t routine at all, because it was a setup.

But it wasn't like an army grunt with friends and co-conspirators in the police who’d never set foot in the courtroom for so much as a traffic ticket before would recognize that, now would he?

“Ms. Ziegler?” Chief Judge Farley called out. “Your witness; you may approach.”

“Thank you, your Honor.” I stood from my chair and grabbed a few stacks of papers, one of which I handed to AUSA Walters before entering the well of the court, and another of which I handed to the judge.

If the Master Sergeant had spent any amount of time in a courtroom, he would’ve realized how unusual it was that I hadn’t declared for the record that I’d handed documents to opposing counsel and the judge, nor stated what these documents were. But this wasn’t a normal hearing. This was theatre.

And theatre had its own script to follow.

“I won’t take up too much of your time today, Sergeant Gillespie,” I began, not bothering to look the neo-Nazi in the eyes as I instead devoted full attention to the papers in my hand. “I just need to clear up a few ancillary details on timing, numbers, people, and locations. Just so we’re all on the same page: a joint operation between the FBI, the FMB, and the ATF took place on January 5, 2021, with no mention of official NMR support. Were you involved in this operation in an official capacity?”

“I was,” he answered, sounding almost bored.

“And what was the nature of your involvement?”

“Information and negotiation.”

“Oh?” I flicked one ear in mild, if genuine irritation at that incredible non-answer. “If you could elaborate?”

“Your crook over there,” he gestured to McCain, whose brow furrowed at the slight against him, “and I, we’d been running a nationwide grassroots campaign to root out antisemitism, white supremacy, and neo-Nazi sentiments, targeting at-risk areas and working to attack those problems at the root. Or at least that’s what I thought we were doing.” The bastard let out an amused huff that could’ve been read as a disappointed sigh, were it not for the lies pouring from his lips. “We found out from one of our outreach events in early December that a militant white supremacist group was set to attack a lower-income apartment bloc in southeast DC, then escape through Maryland back into Virginia and use the resulting jurisdictional snarl to gum up the works. It got passed up the chain, and I thought that was the end of it, at least until the night of the operation.”

“Sounds to me like something happened,” I prompted, ears forward in apparent interest.

“McCain went missing, that’s what happened,” Gillespie almost spat. “We were supposed to meet some old buddies out near the Pentagon, and McCain no-showed. I was somewhat concerned, and I’m his NMR handler, so I just pinged his location — and what do you know, but he’s at the exact spot we’d been told the attack would be happening!”

“So what did you do next?”

“I got in my car and drove over there as fast as I could!” the Master Sergeant all but yelled, and while the way he played up this apparent reliving of his distress would’ve probably fooled several jurors, nobody in the courtroom was buying it. We’d all seen far more masterful performances from people who’d actually been acquitted of crimes, not just framing somebody else. “Nobody had been briefed on how to handle Pyre. It was assumed that if he was present somewhere, it would be as a friendly. If I wasn’t there, everybody would be in danger.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on NovelFire. Report any occurrences.

“And you couldn’t have just picked up the phone and called marching orders up the chain?” I asked.

“Nobody would’ve believed me,” he answered. “I didn’t have any proof, but I knew what was happening. There was no other reason for him to be there.”

“Well… if you say so,” I shrugged dismissively, and had to suppress my smirk at the sudden flash of anger and suspicion on Sergeant Gillespie’s face. “Regardless — when you arrived at the scene, what did you do?”

“I went to track down McCain. I pinged his phone, saw which way he was headed, and tried to cut him off in an alley.”

“And what did you find once you reached the location you’d pinged?” I asked.

“McCain. Armed, and in civvies.” His description was clipped, his voice terse. Unlike everything else Gillespie had said so far, this part had felt fully rehearsed, without even the pretense of an overenthusiastic performance that the rest of his rehashed testimony held. “Blood on his clothes. No tears, or burns, so not his blood. He was escorting seven people, apparent ages late teen to young adult. All of them were armed and carried weapons. Most wore white supremacist symbols or other iconography. Four were wounded.”

“So my client and seven others,” I reiterated with a frown. “And what did you do then?”

“I attempted to engage,” he answered. “Pyre used his powers to cut off access. I discharged my sidearm three times into the air, knowing that even though a kill shot would only incapacitate Pyre briefly, the others with him weren’t as resistant. It wasn’t enough to do more than spook them, and I lost sight of Pyre when he escorted his seven accomplices away. A look at the map said I wasn’t going to catch up that way, so I circled around to try and find a different route. On my way there, though, I heard the task force calling out to each other, rendezvoused with them, and used tracking to help us surround and flush out Pyre.”

“And what did you find once you’d gotten there?”

“Just Pyre,” Gillespie said. “None of the seven he’d been escorting. Pyre was lit up and angry, but nonlethals were enough to subdue him.”

“Understood,” I said, turning to the judge and nodding. “In that case, I have no more questions for the witness at this time, but would request he remain in the courtroom to be recalled should the Prosecution wish to do so after cross of the new witnesses.” Then I walked back to counsel’s table, sat down… and gave the kernel of foxfire at my core a tiny nudge.

“Very well,” Chief Judge Farley said simply. “Sergeant Gillespie, you may step down from the stand. Bailiff, please escort the Master Sergeant back to the gallery.” We were silent as this happened, and once the neo-Nazi in hiding had taken a seat behind the prosecutor, Farley turned towards me once more. “Counsel, shall I send a bailiff to go fetch your witnesses from the conference room?”

“No need for that, your Honor,” I said, offering a confident little smirk as I stood, sending another tiny ephemeral nudge as I did. “They’ll be here in three, two, one—”

The doors at the back of the courtroom opened, right on cue.

Staff Judge Advocate Megan Barnes entered the courtroom at the front of this new retinue, her dress blues and the medals pinned over her heart cutting an imposing figure despite her short stature. Behind her, two armed and uniformed members of the DC National Guard’s Military Police flanked a pair of gangly young men in off-the-rack slacks and navy blazers. Once the crowd drew closer, though, it became clear that ‘young men’ may have been a bit off the mark, because these were quite clearly teenagers.

They were trying their best not to let it show, but they were visibly afraid. The important thing was that they were still here, in spite of their fear. And crucially, both of them had turned to face away from Master Sergeant Gillespie.

Because of that, they didn’t have a chance to lose their nerve on seeing the sudden surprise in his expression give way to the sort of eerie calm that promised violence.

“At this time,” I raised my voice, drawing attention back onto myself, “the defense requests that Staff Judge Advocate Megan Barnes, in her capacity as Guardian ad litem, give permission for Ezekiel Flowers to take the stand.”

“Permission granted,” Megan answered immediately, her voice loud enough that even if Chief Judge Farley had spoken into his microphone, she probably would’ve still wound up speaking over him.

“Very well,” the Chief Judge said, some tightness around his eyes the only sign that he was anything but nonplussed. “Bailiff, please escort Mr. Flowers to the stand.”

As the bailiff I didn’t recognize brought Zeke to the stand, everybody else took their positions carefully: one MP sat next to Brendan as he settled into the row across from Gillespie, the other MP stood half a step back from the aisle, the familiar bailiff stood behind the prosecution’s table, interposing himself between the AUSA and Gillespie. And as for Megan herself?

She passed in front of the bar of the court, and sat beside me at counsel’s table.

Now, this would have been an absolutely massive red flag to anybody who was even the littlest bit familiar with court procedure, because this simply Did Not Happen. But Gillespie didn’t have the experience to realize that something was off with these seating arrangements. That being said — on the off chance that he tried to make a move before we expected it — there was one last bit of insurance in play.

Because unbeknownst to all but two of us in the courtroom, an ephemeral presence had settled in right behind Master Sergeant Gillespie, poised to retake material form and restrain the man with all four tails.

We waited as Ezekiel Flowers was sworn in, and once the judge gave me permission, I stood.

“Good morning, Ezekiel,” I began. “Could you please state your full name for the record?”

“Uh, Ezekiel Michael Flowers. B-but uh, most everyone calls me Zeke.”

“Zeke, then,” I nodded, stepping a bit closer. Just a few more steps and I’d be in position, but it had to be slow and measured. Gillespie had combat experience, and if those old instincts of his weren’t screaming at him that something was up by now, I’d eat my hat. “How old are you, Zeke?”

“Seventeen. But, uh, I turn eighteen in September.”

“Which means you are still a minor,” I commented, and took another step. “Zeke, ordinarily you’d have a parent giving you permission to testify, not a Guardian ad litem. Why are you not accompanied by your parents today?”

“Because, um,” he swallowed, audibly nervous, but did manage to get the words out after a moment. “B-because I’m, uh. Testifying against them. A-and Brendan’s parents, too. And a whole lot more people.”

“Brendan would be the other young man who came in with you?” I turned and gestured behind me as I asked this, using the movement to disguise another step forward. “Brendan Whitman?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “We, uh. We played rock-paper-scissors to decide who had to go first.”

That was a lie, and only not perjury because this whole thing was an elaborate charade. Megan and I had sat down with the boys last night and planned this out extensively. Zeke’s position on the stand was due to the way his powers only needed him to be in the same general area as any targets.

Brendan, on the other hand, needed a clear firing lane — which was why the MP in the aisle remained a half-step behind the row of seats Gillespie and Brendan both sat in.

“I see.” I took one last step, and settled into position: directly between Gillespie and Zeke, entirely blocking off the Master Sergeant’s line of sight. “And when you say you’re testifying against your parents — is this in connection to the events of January 5, which led to the arrest of my client, Wayne McCain?”

“Yeah, it is. They’re some of the ones behind the whole thing.”

“… I see,” I hummed, affecting a tone of surprised disbelief for my audience of one. “That’s quite the accusation, Zeke. What makes you say this?”

“Arlington County’s police chief holds a massive pool party and barbecue every year when schools let out,” Zeke began, voice gaining strength as he found his ‘footing’, so to speak. “But it’s not for everyone. Just the ones in the same ‘club’. The police chief’s got a great big iron cross tattooed over his heart. Brendan’s dad’s got an iron eagle on his back. My dad has the Fourteen Words tattooed around his bicep. It looks enough like something from Lord of the Rings that people don’t really question it, but he’s bragged about slipping it under people’s noses when drunk. They’re neo-Nazis. So are about a third of Arlington’s cops.”

“Why would they trust you enough to let you see and hear that?” I asked. “Did your parents try to recruit you and Brendan?”

“They did,” he nodded. “The chief’s son, Jack? He’s a few years older than either of us. They ‘initiated’ him when he was sixteen. My dad said that Brendan and I ‘couldn’t keep stalling on it’, that we had to ‘man up and do it before you turn eighteen, or else.”

“That’s oddly insistent,” I commented. “Why the emphasis on getting it done before you turn eighteen?”

“Because if something went wrong during the initiation and we got caught, like it did with Jack’s, our dads could call in favors with other police departments to get rid of the issue. ‘Boys will be boys’ and all.”

“So that January attack was slated to be your initiation. Did you not try anything to stop it? Get help?”

“From who?” Zeke scoffed. “The police? Our parents are the police. The feds? They’d tip off our parents, and from there they’d know it was us. Fuck, Brendan and I thought it was hopeless until Pyre came to town!”

“Really?” I pressed. “What did that change?”

“Everything!” he almost yelled. “Pyre used to be a neo-Nazi himself, and he got out! And he came to our school for an event before finals week, did a whole talk and gave us some outreach info. Brendan and I stayed behind to talk to him, let him know what was happening and ask him for help.”

“What happened afterward?”

“He gave us a number to call if anything changed, said he’d look into it and get us some help. And things seemed to be looking up; we even sent some texts and made some quick calls during finals week ‘cause we stayed up late cramming and overheard stuff. But then I got home from my last final and my dad…” Zeke shuddered. “He t-threw me against a wall. Took away my phone and wallet. Dragged me upstairs and locked me in my bedroom. Said I wasn’t allowed out until I was blooded and ‘in too deep’ to tell anybody.”

“I… see,” I said, my tail briefly thrashing in agitation as I made a mental note to make absolutely fucking sure that these bastards got what they deserved. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that. But as much as I would love to give that some room to breathe, I need to ask you a few more things, and I’m sorry about that. Zeke, how long were you locked in your room?”

“Until the night of the ‘initiation’,” he muttered. “Almost two full weeks.”

“Okay. I won’t ask you to relive the entire night, that would be cruel of me.” That was the signal. I schooled my responses as best I could, keeping my tail still and ears facing forward even as I heard multiple people shifting around behind me. “There’s only a few more things I need to ask at this point in time. Did you and Brendan encounter Pyre at the ‘initiation’?”

“We did. He got Brendan and me separate from everyone else, opened up on everyone else until they ran away, then tried to get us out of there before they could regroup.”

“What do you mean, ‘tried’ to get the two of you out of there?” I asked Zeke.

“I mean he tried, but someone stopped him,” he explained, “someone I didn’t recognize. Pyre, he thought the guy was on his side, but then the guy pulled out a gun and shot Pyre three times!” Zeke took in a shuddering breath, and fixed his gaze somewhere behind me. “Pyre used his powers to wall us off from the guy, gave Brendan and me a phone, and said to run away before calling the first speed dial for help. Then he dropped, and we thought he was dead until his blood started burning, so… we ran,” he finished. “Brendan and I ran.”

“Ezekiel.” I stepped closer to the witness stand, and shifted ever so slightly out of the way. “If you saw him again, would you recognize the man who shot Pyre?”

“I already do,” Zeke said, raising one arm to point at Master Sergeant Gillespie. “That’s him.”

A sudden burst of something flowed out from Zeke, and I felt a surge of energy when it washed over me. At the same time, I heard the sound of frenzied movement behind me, and spun to see what had just happened.

AUSA Walters was under counsel’s table, his expression and body language belying complete calm that didn’t fit the situation. He’d dove out of the way so quickly that when Master Sergeant Gillespie made his move, the only hostage available to him was the fresh-faced, oddly familiar bailiff that had put himself between the AUSA and Gillespie for exactly this purpose. Gillespie had a weapon in his hand and aimed squarely at the bailiff’s temple, a snub-nose revolver that should never have gotten past the metal detectors, but his grip on the weapon was oddly loose, his face was pale to the point of sickly, and he was practically holding himself up with both his hostage and the bar of the court.

Nobody else had been idle as this was happening, though. Both of the MPs that Megan brought with her had their own sidearms drawn and pointed squarely at Gillespie, and Megan herself had produced a pistol of her own, though hers was still aimed down, finger nowhere near the trigger. Brendan was underneath the seat, probably pushed there by the MP as he’d gotten up, and if the sound behind me was any indication, both Zeke and the Chief Justice had joined him and the AUSA in taking cover.

Not that they needed it. Not even the hostage.

After all, everything was going according to plan.

“Stay back!” Gillespie roared, pressing his gun further into the bailiff’s temple. The neo-Nazi’s eyes were unsteady and unfocused from whatever Zeke’s power had done to him, even as that same power had practically poured caffeine directly into everyone else’s veins. “You get closer to me and I’ll shoot, goddamn it!”

“Yeah?” his hostage asked, voice remarkably calm for having a gun to his head.

“Shut up!” Gillespie shook the bailiff, his rage and temper only just starting to overcome the sickly pallor Zeke’s powers had forced upon him. “You wanna die!?”

“You’re not gonna kill me,” the bailiff quipped back. “Besides, you’re too chickenshit t—”

BANG

The sound of a gunshot echoed through the courtroom, the volume of it staggering me from the sudden piercing pain of it. I fell apart into flame to free myself from the horrid ringing in my ears, and opened my eyes back up to properly see what had happened.

Gillespie stood there, an expression of dawning horror on his face as his hostage gently tugged the gun from his suddenly limp grip. An instant later, momentum released its hold on the bullet pancaked against the bailiff’s temple, and it tinked off the bar of the court.

“I told you.” Barricade, our undercover bailiff, extended a small forcefield to surround the gun in his hands. The sphere of shining moonlight in his hands compacted, and he deposited a crumpled ball of mangled parts on the floor. “Nice try.”

Barricade extended the ever-present forcefield around his body to shove Gillespie away from him.

And that gave Brendan the opening he needed to pop up from beneath the bench and engulf Gillespie in a torrent of white-gold flame.

Had his composure not been utterly destroyed by the sequence of events he’d just suffered, he might have noticed that the Moonshot’s fire wasn’t actually burning him at all. Oh, sure, any metal he had on his person was burning away to ash in a storm of supernatural sunfire, but the man himself remained completely unharmed. As planned, Brendan let up on his power after only a few seconds, which was more than enough to render useless any other weapons Gillespie might have carried in with him. He continued to roll around on the floor screaming in terror until the MPs hoisted the bastard up and shoved him into cuffs, at which point his mind finally seemed to catch up to the rest of his situation.

“Good job, men.” Megan stowed her pistol, and regarded her men with a stern, yet pleased expression. “Get this bastard out of my sight. Apprise him of his Article 31 rights once he’s locked up, and don’t let anybody else in to see him without me present.”

“Ma’am.”

The MPs had to almost drag Gillespie out, but once they were out the door, Megan turned towards our magnificent man on the inside who’d played his part to perfection. Barricade shot into a salute as Megan approached, but relaxed when she gave him a pat on the back and an oddly friendly little shove.

“As you were,” she said. “Good job today, Barricade. And thank you for volunteering for this. Everybody else okay?” Megan asked, turning to regard the rest of us.

“Perfectly peachy,” Chief Judge Farley said, having stood back up from behind the bench at some point. “First time in thirty years I heard a gunshot that wasn’t at the firing range, but the ringing in my ears is already gone. What about you, William? Matthew?” he asked his real bailiff and the stenographer who’d agreed to help sell the illusion. The bailiff just shrugged, but the stenographer outright snorted.

“I grew up in Compton,” the man said, as if it explained everything — and to be fair? It absolutely did.

“I’ll consider that my last bit of real excitement on my way towards retirement,” AUSA Walters added, brushing a bit of dust off his blazer. “And now that the excitement is over, I think we can officially drop the charges against you.”

He directed this last bit towards Wayne McCain, who, even in all the pandemonium taking place around him, had had the most difficult job of them all: sitting still and doing absolutely nothing.

And no, that wasn’t sarcasm. Being the one who had to sit there, do nothing, and trust in everybody else was agonizing at the best of times.

“My thanks,” McCain said, finally rising from his chair to greet the AUSA with a handshake. “And no hard feelings over any of this. You were just doing your job.”

“And yet here I was, ready to send you to prison for doing yours,” he said with a sigh, then offered a respectful nod in my direction. “At least you lucked into a resourceful attorney.”

“Oh, no, I cannot take the credit here,” I waved him off. “Sergeant McCain and SJA Barnes did all the real work. I just got people where they needed to be—”

“And helped a pair of young Moonshot develop control over their powers,” Megan broke in.

“And I do appreciate the warning about that!” Chief Judge Farley raised his voice, drawing attention back onto him. “That being said, while everything did turn out well, I should hope there was some contingency in place should things have not gone according to plan?”

“Of course there was,” I scoffed, resisting the urge to roll my eyes as my tail flicked in annoyance. “Believe me, your Honor: I brought insurance.”

And of course that was the moment Gorou decided to appear in front of McCain in a flash of azure flame, drama queen that he is.

Almost everybody paused to just stare at the fox that had appeared out of thin air, and boggle at the four tails swaying behind him. Almost everyone, because Megan and I just rolled our eyes, while the Chief Judge (who’d been introduced to Gorou at the start of all this) offered a sage nod of understanding.

“... I-I’m sorry,” Brendan began, voice quavering slightly as he stepped out into the aisle, “i-is that a fox? Does Foxfire have a pet fox? With powers?”

“I’m not a pet.”

“He’s not a — damn it, Gorou!”

As brains broke, and Gorou positively cackled, I could only lean against the witness stand and mourn the loss of the thirty-plus minutes it would take for everybody to get their wits back about them and wrap up today’s theatrical little shitshow. I looked to Megan for sympathy, but I saw her shoulders shaking in silent laughter as she watched Barricade join both Zeke and Brendan in trying to figure out how a talking magic fox fit into their respective worldviews, that traitor.

Hmph! Fine! See if I get her any souvenirs from my next trip to Japan!