Outside S&O, the crowd wasn’t any more chaotic than when Cutter and Celia had first arrived. Just different.

Explosions tended to do that. Tended to shake things up a bit.

The organized groups of protestors were scattered in various patches across the entrance of S&O. Picket signs littered the ground, trampled underfoot. One violent outburst and the seemingly important message of the day was obscured by several metric tons of panic.

Three men in business suits helped carry an injured woman to an area where tents had been setup, a makeshift medical facility. Many more injured were on cots, groaning, waiting their turn for a quick examination, but mostly waiting for painkillers.

A siren squealed announcing the arrival of a fresh ambulance. The previous ambulance was loaded to capacity, ready to cart off the more grievously wounded on its circuitous trips to and from the hospital.

The only constant was Mr. Megaphone. He peacocked on top of a corporate art installation, bellowing at the crowd through his namesake.

“What are we fighting for?!”

This was the part where the crowd was supposed to yell in response, “Equal rights!” but no one did. Instead, Mr Megaphone was pelted with glares.

“When do we want it?!” he continued.

Again, the only answer was eyes throwing daggers.

Celia bulled her way ahead of Cutter, heading toward the injured in the tents.

Celia is in danger.

Somewhere in this swarming crowd the attacker could still be lurking. Waiting and watching. Enjoying his handiwork. It didn’t even have to be their attacker. Just someone wanting to make a name for themself, figuring it was easy notoriety to take a pot-shot at a hero synthetic. And worst of all, we couldn’t even bring him up on assault charges. Just destruction of police property.

Cutter grabbed Celia by the wrist. “You need to be careful.”

“Did I do something wrong, Jack?”

“No. Not wrong.” He didn’t know why his gut reaction had been to grab her. To stop her. She could take care of herself. She’d demonstrated that time and again. But he just— “Just be careful, okay?”

“Okay…” she said, her voice trailing off. “Is there anything in particular you want me to look out for?”

Oh, just a serial larcenist hunting synths. Or any rando wanting to make a name for themself.

But he didn’t say that. Instead, he repeated himself. “Just be careful, Ceil.”

“Can do, Jack.”

There was something in her tone. It was slight, but he noticed it. She was excited, giddy even, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Besides,” said Celia, “you gave me the spark discs.” A mischievous smile appeared on her lip. “Should anything go wrong and it’s zap! Zap!”

Her child-like demeanor almost made him laugh out loud, but he choked it down.

“So what’s next, Jack?” Celia asked.

Cutter pointed at Mr. Megaphone who was busily shouting at anyone who would listen, which was no one. Unlike earlier in the day, when a crowd had gathered in support of his proclamations, those few that weren’t completely ignoring him, appeared more annoyed than anything, given the circumstances.

Mr. Megaphone saw them approaching, shot them the side-eye, and pivoted his back toward them, pretending like he hadn’t noticed. He leaned forward, raising his voice as he bellowed into his megaphone, trying to rally the uninterested crowd.

“You have a second to talk to us?” asked Cutter.

Mr. Megaphone turned, making eye contact. There was no avoiding it now, not after having been addressed directly. At the sight of Cutter, or perhaps the badge dangling around his neck on a kinked cord, Mr Megaphone’s confidence vanished along with his faux authority. He bolted, slamming into a group of teenagers, knocking them down in the process. He didn’t get more than a couple meters before Cutter tackled him to the ground.

Cutter grabbed Mr Megaphone’s wrist and twisted it behind his back. With his free hand, he removed his cuffs.

“My rights! You’re violating my rights!”

“You have the right to remain silent,” said Cutter. “Please, use it.”

“You have no cause for detaining me! I know my rights!”

“Let me help you exercise them.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Cutter whipped his shoulder forward, sending the man’s head careening into the pavement. Other than a few muffled whimpers, he remained silent.

Cutter did a quick pat down and rolled Mr. Megaphone over, face up.

“I haven’t done anything wrong! You can’t arrest me.”

“Yeah, then why run?”

“I—Please don’t hurt me.” He tried to put his hands up, to protect himself from any incoming attacks, but his hands cuffed behind his back prevented it.

“You gotta be shitting me,” said Cutter. “You incite a mob, threaten violence against anyone who crossed your picket line, and then are afraid to get hurt when someone finds your tactics a little extreme? Pathetic.”

“Extreme?” Mr. Megaphone looked bewildered.

“I’d call firebombing S&O a little extreme.”

Cutter liked the idea of a perp being afraid of him. The threat that they might get slapped around a little helped loosen lips. He didn’t really think Mr. Megaphone had anything to do with the firebombing, too obvious, but he had been out here all morning, annoying the pants off everyone—he must have seen something. Normally, it didn’t hurt to scare up some info. But in Mr Megaphone’s case, Cutter’s aura was having the opposite effect. Mr. Megaphone was turtling up.

Cutter loosened his grip and propped Mr. Megaphone upright. The man sat Indian style, legs crossed beneath him.

“Want to tell me about that?” Cutter pointed at the blown out entrance.

“You—you don’t think I had anything to do with that?”

“I see you out here shouting orders through a megaphone at a handful of vigilantes. What am I supposed to think?”

“Just like all cops, aren’t you? Wouldn’t recognize someone exercising their First Amendment rights to protest if it bit him in the face.”

“True. But trying to blow it off, now that does get my attention. So let’s start there.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“You’ve been out here all day?”

Mr. Megaphone nodded.

“I don’t suppose you saw anything.”

He shook his head.

“Of course not. You got a name?”

“I don’t talk to authorities.”

Cutter laughed. “And you don’t answer questions, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard the routine with you guys before. You don’t have to give me your name. Not like there’s anything suspicious about a guy who doesn’t want to give me his ID, who was outside the headquarters of a multinational corporation as it was bombed. Look, I can just drag you downtown, let them sort you out. Makes no difference to me.”

Mr. Megaphone glared at Cutter. Cutter glared back.

“Sheldon Kraul,” the man said. He nodded with his head toward his back pocket. “ID is in my wallet.”

Cutter fished it out. Checked. Sheldon Kraul. Early 30s. Venice Beach address. And of course, organ donor. Cutter had a hunch he was a vegan too. He handed the ID to Celia. She scanned it and processed it through the city database.

“I suppose an upstanding citizen like yourself has never had any trouble with the law.” Cutter caught it. A look in Kraul’s eye. That moment when someone juggles whether or not it is worth it to lie.

“I’ve had a run in or two with members of law enforcement,” said Kraul.

“Call me surprised. Were you always such an interesting guy, Sheldon?”

“It…” Kraul paused, gathering his thoughts. “It wasn’t a big deal. No one was hurt.”

“Someone seemed to think different.”

“I liberated animals from captivity.”

Cutter nodded: Vegan for sure.

But Kraul mistook the gesture as a bonding moment. Just one of the boys. Simpatico. He seemed to forget his handcuffed predicament. For a moment, self-righteous condescension replaced trembling fear.

“Look, officer, forgive me—”

“Detective.”

“What?”

“I’m a Detective.”

“I—what’s that got to do with anything?”

“You said officer. I’m just correcting you.”

Kraul squinted at Cutter. “Right… Detective. Well, forgive me if I’m not broken up about S&O getting its just desserts. Should I be bawling my eyes out because it was attacked?”

“I don’t know.” Cutter slapped him. “You tell me.”

“You can’t do that!” shouted Kraul, reeling from the sting. “It’s—it’s—it’s… inappropriate!”

“It’s a helluva lot more than that,” said Cutter. “My therapist says it’s an unnecessary display of dominance. I tend to disagree. I find it very necessary. Therapeutic, even.”

Cutter lurched forward. Kraul flinched, but because his hands were cuffed behind his back, he lost his balance and fell over like a reed in a strong breeze.

“People lost their lives today,” said Cutter. “Even more were injured. Take a look around. There’s not a dry eye. Protestor and suit alike. And then there’s you. Standing up on that fountain, shouting your hatred for a company that was attacked, sticking out like a sore thumb. So here I am, thinking you organized this little shin-dig. The question I don’t understand is, why?”

Kraul tried to sit up, but Cutter slammed him flat on the concrete. Kraul’s eyes scanned his surroundings, desperately looking for an escape. All he found was Celia’s childish grin, as she eagerly awaited Cutter’s next move.

“I organized the rally, okay? That’s it! I didn’t blow the place up. I wouldn’t even know how to do that.”

“Why?”

“When I see an injustice, I need to right it.”

“What injustice would that be?”

Kraul scoffed. “Of course, you wouldn’t know.”

“Pretend like I’m a busy man. Give me the Cliff’s notes on your plea for attention.”

“These rallies don’t just appear overnight. They take planning and money.”

“So who funds your”—Cutter made air quotes—”activism.”

“I’m sure even a social leper such as yourself has heard of him.”

“Cut to the chase already.”

“Christian Von Medvey. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

Cutter balked. “Wait, you get your activist funding from Christian Von Medvey?”

“That is what I said, isn’t it?”

“The Christian Von Medvey?”

“Is there more than one?”

Cutter grunted. He’d heard this exchange before. It wasn’t half as funny being on this side of it.

Maybe all this time, Valerie had been in the dark, but there was one man who knew more than he cared to divulge.