Flying on the Sikorsky Seahawk was nostalgic for one of the four passengers. Especially with Constitution sitting across the bay, it reminded the short woman of her recruitment. Just some spunky Brit who just laid out a dog-like thing that tried to drown a kid. She was sent to US Marine Boot and Infantry school before being sent to Navy Boot, ending all of it by being dragged into Section 24. This very helicopter, Bird 34 of the Dragon Whales, also flew the short woman to the processing.
“Piorun, how do you think conditions will be with the Grey Ghost?” Constitution asked me, calling me by the nickname she picked for me.
“Damn, I never thought I would be flying with Ironside's pet project.” A large black man nicknamed Tiffany snickered quietly, forgetting how sensitive the mics were. Ithaca, the CQC expert, kicked him in his shin.
“Well, if what Constellation has reported is accurate, it could be bad considering local PRT belligerents. Provided Juggernaught can keep them in line, The Grey Ghost should be amicable.” Prioun responded before turning to the pair of combat operatives. “I have a question: why did you pick the name Tiffany? It just seems so random.”
“It was my WoW name; I played a mage named Tiffany. What about you, how did you end up with that name?” Tiffany responded.
“I didn’t pick my name. Ironsides picked it for me, and she wouldn’t tell me why. The best guess I have is because my Grandmother is Polish, inmate 7635, surviving that; she moved to London, giving birth to my dad, who is still trapped in the containment zone. I moved out here, punched a supernatural creature, and Constitution recruited me on the spot, no questions.” Piorun responded. Constitution had a smile that screamed she knew more than she let on, not that Piorun could prove it.
“I thought it was because you are almost freakishly short yet strong.” Ithaca snarked, poking fun at Piorun’s 5-foot 3-inch height.
“Go fuck yourself, Ithaca; I guess you picked the name because it was your daddies gun,” Prioun responded heatedly.
“Got it in one.” The woman responded.
“Kiddies, get your act together; we have 30 minutes to arrive at Brockton Bay. We have to look professional for the children of the PRT.” Constitution said without any heat. Not that she needed any; one does not disobey the oldest commissioned ship in the world.
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Armsmaster looked at the eagle that was watching him imperiously. He glared back scathingly; beginning his recording, he started, “Armsmaster Fieldlog #154.2, a species of Bird known as Haliaeetus leucocephalus or more commonly Bald Eagle, is exhibiting Human-like intelligence and has been taunting me for the past hour. This has included dropping an ice pack with a note that says, ‘You need to chill out. From the Grim Reapers.’ The bird is possibly a Tinker creation that has blended into the background using its high intelligence to Master the Wildlife Rehabilitators to leave it alone. Currently, it is staring at me while a bank robbery occurs in my periphery. SHIT, END LOG. STOP IN THE NAME OF THE PRT.”
Grim, watching the events, unfurled her wings and took flight. Performing a textbook divebomb attack, she dropped a set of Eagle droppings on the hero and his bike. Pulling up from her dive, she flew off to meet up with Enterprise again.
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“So Doe, how is the Ghost,” Constellation asked the field technician.
“Good, Ma’am. No signs of PTSD or anything like that. But she was, rather shall we say, desensitized to blood and guts all over her. Then again, most people in the bay would probably see one or two dead bodies in the course of a year.” Agent Doe said, unpacking the samples and handing them off to the appropriate technicians. “But I am not an expert on psychology. She is grounded and most likely has traumas she never got over. Most likely that Monday and Possibly Midway and Bloody Santa Cruiz.”
“Then I will get a psychologist that I trust up here. Give me a rundown on the current Protectorate and Wards groups.” Constellation said as she pulled up a tablet and looked over the rosters for each.
“Wards are, quite frankly, in shit condition. Armsmaster is not a good leader, and thanks to his poor people skills, he has turned three kids to request a transfer to Boston or New York. His supposed apprentice, Kid Win, is trying to keep up with the guy but can’t. Armsmaster is too specialized, and any advice I or anyone else tries to give the kid that is contrary to Armsmaster is rebuffed by Armsmaster because ‘We are not tinkers, so we will never understand,’ and all that. Protectorate is in a slightly better position but could do with some thinkers or counter-espionage experts. There are more moles than Kentucky. Piggot is doing what she can, but until PRTNTL sends proper support, then there is only so much she can do.” John Doe said as the pair got into an elevator.
“So it's hell in a shitbasket then. Alright, I’ll request some proper CEs from NOPI and proper computer analysts, the works. I can’t do much for Armsmaster, but I can see if the Phycologist is willing to work with the local Parahumans. What about the Supernatural found anything worth looking into?” Constellation said as she put out her cigar and placed it in an aluminum cigar case.
“Just a shrine in ABB Territory, a five-century-old fox works it and is known for talking with Lung. I believe that the two have known each other for a while, possibly relatives, with Lung being on the mundane side of the family. But there has been an uptake in deep sea supernatural spikes just 58 miles out.” John Doe responded succinctly before the elevator doors opened. “I have prepared an office for you to begin your Investigation. If you would follow me.”
“Thank you, Agent Doe,” Constellation responded with a nod.
