The Law of Averages

Book 2: Chapter 6: Adulting

Book 2: Chapter 6: Adulting

"Look Merrill!" Dan said, pointing at his screen. "Connor's famous!"

The tiny furball scurried up Dan's arm and planted herself on his shoulder. Beady little eyes gaze down at the laptop on Dan's desk, and the website he'd opened. Connor's face was plastered across the front, a wide shot of him and Freya leaving a house that Dan didn't recognize, both in full police uniform. Connor's hand was partially shielding his face, but Dan could see the scowl beneath it.

A second picture had the pair entering their cruiser, with about a dozen people gawking at various distances in the background. Dan could see more than a few phones pointed in their direction, to say nothing of the voyeur who'd taken this shot and sold it off. The website's name was Po-Po-Pinups, and was the internet equivalent of a local tabloid magazine/forum, focusing on the APD and its members. Connor and Freya, both being scions of wealthy and politically connected families, as well as some of the department's newest initiates, drew large amounts of attention. His boyish good looks, and her statuesque beauty, only served to inflame the absurd media machine.

Merrill took in the scene, and chittered in Dan's ear.

"Humans are weird," Dan agreed amicably. He'd learned about the website last month, when he'd met Connor for lunch and spotted a man with a camera trailing the younger man. The police were basically D-list celebrities in Dimension A, and despite the general respect, awe, and even fear that the populace held towards them, it did little to dissuade nosey paparazzi looking for a payday.

Dan's face had briefly appeared on the website, alongside an elaborate speculation of a homosexual tryst between the two men. That line of conjecture had died in its infancy, after a community member had pointed that Connor was 'so far out of that other guy's league they aren't even playing the same sport.' Reading that had been just... ouch! Right in the pride. Some infantile part of Dan had demanded a response to the statement, and now he was the proud owner of a shit-posting account on a tabloid forum.

Truly, Dan was living his best life.

He scrolled down to the bottom of the screen, where comments were posted, and noted the date. The picture had been taken just yesterday. Perfect. Connor and Freya were scheduled to have dinner at his place, tonight, to celebrate Abby's return home from Georgia. It would be the perfect opportunity to give them shit for their new celebrity status. The forum was already going wild with theories on what the pair of lovebirds were doing at that house. Most theories revolved around swinging; despite their attire, none involved the poor couple's actual job as police officers.

Dan closed out the window, before his brain was permanently damaged by exposure to the uncensored insanity of the internet. He'd already experienced more than his allotted share of things that ought not exist and humanity ought not know. Even entirely disregarding his own origin and powers, there was an entire sub-forum of the site dedicated to Gregoir. If Dan had accidently clicked that, he might have to buy a lead-lined case to quarantine his laptop. And then hurl it deep into space.

It's the only way to be sure.

Dan shut down his computer, and gently clicked it closed. He ran a mental checklist of what else he needed to accomplish, today. Groceries, done. Everything was ready for Abby's party. Chores, finished. He'd finally gotten around to fixing his A/C. The thermostat now operated at temperatures between Antarctica and Texas. The lawn was mowed. His grass shined. His yard was the envy of the neighborhood.

What else?

Dan pulled out his phone, and accessed his emails. He flicked through the sparse personal correspondence, and quickly read an email from Margaret. It seemed that Abby's aunt would not be able to make the party. She claimed other plans, but Dan suspected the little old lady didn't want to spoil the fun of the younger crowd. He really didn't want to know what she thought he got up to at his house parties. That woman had a twisted mind.

He pocketed his phone. Drummed his fingers against his desk. Thump thump thump. His leg bounced restlessly. Merrill, sensing his building energy, scrambled down his shoulder and across the carpet. She nestled herself atop the living couch as Dan jumped up from his seat, a wide smile on his face.

"No more responsibility!" he announced, spinning to face the little mouse and pumping both arms in the air. "It's flight practice time!"

His phone chimed. He paused, keeping one arm suspended uncertainly as he fished the device out of his pocket. He checked the text—

13:02 CornyGraham: Got job for you. Bro needs delivery. Txt back asap if available.

—then slumped. His other arm flopped own against his side.

"It's work time," he grumbled to no one in particular. Merrill chittered in what Dan liked to imagine was sympathy.

Cornelius Graham needed something delivered. Actually, his brother needed something delivered, and Cornelius knew a guy. Dan had never met Connor's father. The man was a former policeman, and a current member of the House of Representatives. Dan knew little about local politics, and wasn't particularly keen for that to change, but doing a favor for a friend was hardly a big ask.

It was a little odd that Congressman Graham needed a courier, especially one with Dan's specific capabilities, but Cornelius' message had indicated urgency. Dan quickly fired back a text quoting his price and size limitations, and asking for a location for pickup. The picture of a dark parking garage that he received moments later did nothing to relieve Dan's confusion.

After a brief bout of paranoia, Dan texted a reply.

13:05 Daniel Newman: how many did I miss at Sinner's?

13:06 CornyGraham: Missed 5. Good caution. Now come.

Well that was decent enough proof. Dan doubted he was being lead into anything illegal or dangerous. He trusted Cornelius, more or less. But this was clearly a little more than standard police shit. If things went sideways, he just hoped he got a cooler pseudonym than Deep Throat.

He blew the picture up, looked at the surroundings, then willed himself there. Dan didn't have the slightest clue where the place was, but his Navigator took care of those annoying things called 'details'. If the location existed, Dan would appear there. And so he did.

His feet were suddenly on hard concrete. The light was dim, cast in shadow. It was a sprawling parking garage, with massive concrete pillars running from floor to ceiling. There was no wind at all, but he could hear the sound of moving cars somewhere above himself. Dan spun in a slow circle noting the almost complete absence of cars and people.

There was a single SUV, all black save for the APD symbol emblazoned on the driver's side door. The door popped open, and Cornelius Graham stepped out onto the concrete. He approached Dan with a broad smile, keeping a thin manila folder tucked under his elbow and extending his hand to shake. Dan took it, wincing at the man's grip as his entire arm was pumped up and down.

"Fast as advertised Danny-boy," the man said jovially. "Keep it up. Here." He passed over the folder. "To the FBI field office, off Bering street. You know the place?"

Dan nodded uncertainly.

"Excellent!" Cornelius pointed a finger at Dan's chin. "Give it to the receptionist, tell them it's a priority request from Congressman Graham, for Agent Dunkirk. His eyes only. You got that?"

"A priority request from Congressman Graham for Agent Dunkirk's eyes only," Dan repeated, furrowing his brow. "This really isn't the kind of delivery my business does, Cornelius."

The older man waved his hand dismissively. "This is just a one time thing, my friend. It needs to be done quickly and somewhat discreetly." He squinted at Dan. "You can do discrete, can't you?"

Dan scowled.

"Of course you can!" Cornelius offered. "Now go! Time's a ticking." He clapped Dan over the shoulder, spun around, and hopped back in his vehicle. The SUV peeled out of its parking place, and swerved around the corner of the parking garage. Soon it was out of sight.

Dan stared down at the manila folder in his hands.

Well then.

He had a job to do.

The FBI field office was much the same as it was the last time he'd visited. It was oddly thrilling just going right in through the front door, like a normal, totally legal citizen. The lobby was a square, unadorned space almost sterile in its cleanliness. It smelled lemony fresh and the slate grey tile looked freshly mopped. The reception desk was a solid chunk of dark stone, intimidating and unfriendly. The receptionist was an older woman, with pursed lips and stern eyes.

Dan flounced over to her with a smile. "Delivery," he announced, placing the manila envelope on the desk.

She glanced at it. Her voice was flat and unimpressed. "Mail goes 'round back."

"It's a priority request. Agent Dunkirk's eyes only," Dan explained quietly. "It's from Congressman Graham."

The receptionist's eyes dipped back down. Her scowl deepened. "I'll page him."

Dan spent a lovely minute-and-a-half enduring the cold stare of the older woman, while Agent Dunkirk made his way to the front of the facility. There was a door of opaque glass just to the side of the reception desk, the only door in the room aside from the entrance. Finally, it clicked, and opened.

Someone strode out. He was a broad-shouldered black fellow, with short cropped hair and a jaw that could be used to hammer nails in a pinch. He wore a crisp suit and tie, shined shoes, and a holster on his belt. Helpfully, a laminated identification badge dangled from his neck on a lanyard, with a picture of his face and a name: Thomas Dunkirk.

His gaze swept the lobby, resting briefly on Dan, before falling on the manila envelope. The man's eyes widened ever so slightly.

"Ah," he said simply, before striding forward. He swept the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket, then strode out without a word.

Dan blinked at the abruptness of it all.

"If there wasn't anything else...?" the receptionist said.

"Um." Fuck it, Dan. Embrace the brusqueness. "No."

He spun on his heel, and vanished.