Getting tased sucked.

When Chase came to, he was bumping along in the footwell of a car, presumably the one that the officers had arrived in. The muddy carpet smelled like bin-juice and mothballs, and when he looked up, he could see directly up one officer’s hairy nose.

“Don’t move,” he was told. There were four officers in total — one driving, one in the passenger seat, then two in the back with Chase, watching him.

“What the hell are you do—” he stopped talking when he tried to raise himself off the gross floor and realised his wrists were cuffed together. “You don’t actually believe what they’re saying on the news, do you?”

The officers didn’t reply. He supposed they were normally the ones asking questions.

He tried to roll over so that the cold metal of the handcuffs didn’t dig into his spine so much, but doing so earned him a kick in the back of the neck. His chin smashed into the back of the driver’s seat and he bit his tongue, tasting blood.

After that, he didn’t do much.

The car eased to a stop maybe fifteen minutes later. Chase was trying to count the turns and estimate how far he’d gone, but he’d been messed around too much to really achieve anything.

In the end, it didn’t matter. The side-door opened and he was dragged out unceremoniously before thumping onto the white pavement outside the head office of the Embassy for Dungeon Oversight. The perfectly clear windows sparkled as soft lights from inside the foyer lit up the entrance, spilling outside the building. There were two receptionists at the front desk who gave mildly interested glances before going back to their computers.

Whoever these officers were, they had power. There would be fifty-odd security cameras watching them right now, but they acted as if they were invisible to such things. They hauled Chase to his feet then shoved him into the building, guiding him with rough movements to an unassuming grey door at the rear corner of the building, behind the elevator bays.

The officer who’d tased him — an emaciated looking guy with thinning orange hair — tapped a keycard on the reader and flung open the door.

There was a stairway behind it.

It led down.

In Chase’s experience, the only good descending staircase was one that offered boba tea at the bottom. He got the impression that he’d be lucky to receive a cup of salty water from this one.

“Five minutes until he’s here. Get him inside and settled, would you?” said the man with the keycard.

The two officers who’d joined him in the rear seat lugged him down the stairs, hoisting him so that his feet barely made contact with the floor. They went down a fair way, passing by another grey door with a square window at head height. Chase caught a glimpse inside, where there were a few chairs arranged around a square desk. The next room, which they pushed Chase into, was clearly an interrogation room.

They sat him down in a chair — reasonably gently, at least — where harsh yellow lights shone directly into his face. Blue tiles lined the floor, walls and roof, and a short rectangular table separated him from another, more comfortable-looking chair. There was a large, black piece of glass on his right, which was clearly a one-way window.

So they’d be watching him. And waiting.

He had to wonder what they’d do with his guns. The MP7 was strapped to him when they took him, but now it was gone, same with the Beretta formerly at his waist. He was more concerned about the bullets — one glance would show they weren’t your average projectile, and if they gave them to any scientist worth their salt, Herb’s invention might be stolen.

The room emptied of officers once his cuffs were attached to a metal loop bound to the table in front of him.

Ten minutes later, a young man entered the room. He wore black jeans rolled up at the ankles and a cream turtleneck jumper that hugged his throat like it was trying to strangle him. Thick-rimmed glasses sat on his crooked nose, and freckles covered pinched cheeks.

His smile was unsettling, like he was inspecting Chase’s body and planning how to carve him up best.

“Exciting evening, is it not?” The man’s voice was smooth, the words falling from his lips like a stream of honey. It wasn’t an accent Chase was familiar with.

“Pretty fucking depressing, I’d say.”

The man laughed, tapping his temple as if Chase had told him the answer to a comedic riddle. He stood behind the opposite chair, his bony fingers clasping the back. There was a jet-black wedding band on his finger.

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“Yes, well, from the ashes emerges the phoenix, I say.” He paced in circles around the room, pausing behind Chase’s chair. “What say you?”

“I don’t say shit. I’d like to call my lawyer.”

The man laughed again. Long and loud, right in his ear. Chase promised himself he wouldn’t give in to these stupid interrogation techniques — the bright lights, the blank room, the lack of movement — but the cackle sent goosebumps up his arms to his neck.

“There’s not a lawyer on Earth who can get you out of this one, Mr Mendleton. There’s more than eight hours of footage of you in a public space, firing an unregistered weapon at and around civilians.”

“I wasn’t shooting at civilians.”

The man smirked. “What happened to not saying shit? Care to enlighten me with anything else?”

Chase desperately wanted the insufferably spotless turtleneck to cinch just a bit tighter around the man’s neck. He wanted to see what an Echin and a couple Noctants would do to such a cretin. But he held back.

“You’re from the Embassy,” he said. “Not the CIU. If I’m going to tell you a single thing, get an actual detective in here so we’re both on the record. There’s no point talking to an inexperienced shmuck like yourself.”

A flash of irritation crossed the man’s face, but his mask quickly reset. As he went to speak once more, two small speakers behind Chase emitted a light jingle. Without another word, the man left the room, making sure to smile back at Chase as he demonstrated his freedom.

What the hell was that? Am I about to get good-cop-bad-copped?

The room was quiet as they left him with his jumbled thoughts. He was worried for his guild members and the civilians. He was worried for the Ultras in their battle for supremacy over whatever the hell that boss was. No one seemed too worry about it here in this Embassy basement, but perhaps that was why the man with the pinched face left.

Perhaps they were evacuating to a safer area and leaving their poor detainee to die amongst the rubble when the boss turned its sights to One City.

Well, if they were going to give him the time, he’d solve at least one of those puzzles.

He brought up his System to message Jamie. No one barged in and thumped him over the head, so he assumed it was fine by them.

[Are you guys okay? Made it out?]

Within seconds, he had a reply.

[Chase!!! Where are you?!?! We got to One City but I didn’t know what to tell the officers. You good?]

Chase looked around the room they’d put him in. Good was a strong word.

[I’m in a basement below the Embassy. I’m fine, don’t freak out. Stay safe]

He had to hurry through the end of the message because the door swung open and his unfriendly host re-entered. Immediately, Chase noticed that this was not the same person as before. Physically, yes, but in every other way, absolutely not. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead, and he kept shifting his collar as if it were finally fulfilling Chase’s earlier request.

The man violently cleared his throat, then did it again like the first wasn’t enough. “Mr Mendleton, it appears I must…well…I must let you go free. Immediately. Follow me.”

Chase rattled his cuffed hands on the desk. He couldn’t go anywhere unless the chain attaching him to the table was unlocked.

“Ah, my apologies. Let me help you there.”

Whatever was going on, Chase was all for it. It was only a little awkward; his interrogator had lost some of his perfect composure, leaning over the table and struggling with the lock.

It was all very odd. To make things even more bizarre, the man circled around behind Chase to go at the lock from a different angle. He leaned in close, until his almond-raspberry cologne made Chase want to sneeze.

“Pretend you’ve never seen me before and I’ll get you your gun back,” he whispered.

Chase felt warm breath on his ear and immediately recoiled, shrinking down in his seat and turning his head. He looked the man straight in the eyes, unsure what to say. The other man only nodded, his thick glasses jumping.

“I…what’s going on?”

He didn’t get his reply, but he did get his freedom. An officer swung open the door, a sheepish grin on his face as if he was going to ask for bygones to be bygones. Chase went through, glancing into the observation room. The officers in there were conveniently hiding their faces.

“Up you go.”

Confused, lost and craving fresh air, Chase went up. The door opened from the inside without a keycard, and the Embassy foyer was now empty and dark. It didn’t feel like he was in there long, but the receptionists had left.

What the hell is going on? Am I dreaming? Did they inject me with something and now I’m losing it?

Whatever was happening didn’t add up, but the world hadn’t been so kind as to make sense at any point in the last twelve hours or so. Up was down, left was right; everything was chips and fish, rather than fish and chips. Chase resolved to just go with it — anything outside of that basement was an upgrade.

“Mr Mendleton, just one second!”

He stopped again as an officer inserted a small key into his cuffs and released him from their tight grasp. The aches and itches had started to build up, and he took some time to work out the kinks and massage his bones.

But he didn’t thank the officer. No sir-ee. Not in a million years.

Just as he was about to start demanding some answers, the whirl of a CIU car’s siren came into earshot, rapidly approaching. The officers who’d taken him in scattered, disappearing into the woodwork like cockroaches.

Chase was too stunned to say anything. It felt like he was the unknowing participant in an execution, and the audience was scattering so they couldn’t testify as to exactly what happened.

But when the car arrived, he breathed a sigh of relief. Jamieson sat in the driver’s seat, a bland look of concentration on his face. He looked into the Embassy building, saw Chase, then pointed at him. A balding man in the passenger seat leaned over, squinting out the driver’s side window. He nodded his head and sat back in his seat.

A moment later, the rear door opened and Kim leapt from the low leather seat. She bolted through the door, covering the ground between them in an instant. Right when Chase thought she might bowl him right over, she slowed down, spreading her arms and wrapping them around his neck.

“You’re an idiot,” she said, her chin digging into his shoulder and her cheek on his. He could feel her smiling.

Chase just grinned and hugged her back, pulling her in close even though he undoubtedly stank to high hell. Her hair smelled the way the Botanic Gardens did on their second date, and her body was warm on his.

“So you’re not mad about the MP7?”

They broke apart and she looked up, her green eyes beaming.

“If I was mad, would I do this?”

Then she kissed him, and it felt like he’d been tased all over again.