Something that I'd never really thought about, and given that it's so closely related to my thesis I ought to have done so, is the interaction between 'Supers' and mundane authorities. I suppose it's because in most of the histories I studied, the folks who might be listed as 'Supers' were the authorities. It's only in the last couple hundred years that the idea of single individuals standing at the wheel of history, charting its course, began to fall out of favor.

At any rate, before the cops came through the door I had my interview materials rearranged so that there wasn't a really obvious gap where my video recorder had been. I mean, between my notes, my audio recorder, my laptop, and all the empty plates, mugs, and glasses, the table was an absolute mess anyhow, but now it wasn't an absolute mess with a glaring empty spot. I busied myself typing up the notes I'd taken longhand. Most of my contemporaries gave me side-eye for taking notes on paper, but given how many of my 'notes' were little doodles instead of proper words, it just worked better for me. I kept at it while the cops put three sets of cuffs on the 'Soldier of Misfortune', then started grilling anyone by the door.

I suppose they weren't really all that nasty about it. I'd spent enough of my life as a Person of Color in American cities that the idea of cops being out to get everybody is sort of ingrained, but maybe the difference was this being, for all intents and purposes, a small town? Didn't hurt that half of the cops were on the darker end of the skin tone spectrum either, I guess. A couple of them sat with the victims of the assault until the paramedics arrived, talking quietly and just being there to reassure them that yes, the Bad Guy had been caught and no, they weren't in trouble. The one with the overwhelmed mom was an older guy, gray in his neatly trimmed beard. A younger guy spoke with Denise, clearly taking her statement, while the one female cop sat next to where the old guy lay, chatting with him about nothing much, just keeping him awake, really.

The paramedics arrived before the young guy finished taking Denise's statement, and once they had the mom, her kids, and the seventy-something guy safely in their care, the older cop and the woman met in the middle of the restaurant and spoke quietly, taking notes as they did. As I watched it all, my audio recorder still going, recording nothing much at all, I realized Gilpatrick had come back to our table and had almost finished his breakfast. "How do you do that?"

"Army trick." He popped the last bit of bread, with which he'd sopped up the last of the butter, gravy, and syrup, into his mouth, chewed once, then swallowed. "You never know when you're gonna get a minute to eat, or even if you'll have something edible if you've had to ditch gear or gotten into the really bad kind of fight where your gear winds up spread out over half an acre or more."

I chuckled, and the look on my face told me he'd misunderstood me intentionally. "No, I mean the whole 'fading into the background' thing?"

He shrugged. "It's not a Power, if you're wondering. Most of the older non-coms I've served with could do the same thing. Y'know how shit will make somebody stand out? Like they've got their chest puffed out, or they're making big gestures, or anything like that?"

I nodded, "Yeah, I guess."

"Well... after a while, if you're paying attention and you live long enough, you learn how to not do any of that." He downed the last of his drinks while looking thoughtful. "I guess you learn how to do all of it at once, too, if you're the sort who wants to get attention."

I smirked at him, "kind of like a certain Agent of Karma did to take the wind out of that Soldier's sails?"

He smiled back, that intense joyful love of life shining through again, "exactly!" Then he frowned. "Still not sanguine about that asshole calling himself a soldier." He paused, sighed. "Although I guess he's old enough he might have put four years in. Or less, if he got the dishonorable I figure he earned."

"Why do you figure that?" I asked more to keep him talking than anything.

He looked at the ceiling for a moment, then back at me. "If there's one thing I admire about most modern militaries, its that they take their job seriously, and they mostly see that job as protecting civilians. If they get their heads twisted around enough they might start seeing some of the civvies as 'enemies', but even then they'll have some subset they see as the folks they're protecting. Assholes like that guy? They somehow miss all that during training, and typically do dumb shit and wind up getting themselves discharged less than honorably."

A bit of trivia I'd read somewhere popped into my head, and I blurted out, "I thought some of the White Supremacist sorts had started sending members into the military for training?"

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Gilpatrick nodded. "Yeah, I ran across a few of those before I retired, although back then they were thinner on the ground. Different kettle of fish entirely, though. While any one of their younger members might be some kind of racial purity firebrand edgelord, as a whole they've got themselves organized, and the younger ones get kept on a short leash. Short-ish, anyway. So while a few of them get less-than-honorable, most of them get the better part of a year of Combat Arms training, then spend three years keeping their heads down before they muster out." He nodded toward the doorway where he'd taken down the 'Soldier of Fortune'. "Jackasses like that guy? Way too big, dumb, and obvious for them to even take in as cannon fodder." He paused again. "I mean, maybe he started out as one of them? But I'm willing to bet they cut ties with him a while back." He smiled at me and said, "game face on, they're headed our way."

I blinked and realized that the old cop had left the younger one interviewing the other waitresses, and he and the lady cop were walking over to us now. When I met his gaze, the older cop said, "Good morning, gentlemen. I'm Officer Johns, and this is Officer Paulson."

Gilpatrick chuckled, and when the two turned to him, frowns forming, he held up his open hands, palm outward. "Sorry, sorry, I spent a chunk of time stationed in northern Europe, and did some training in Sweden at one point." He turned that thousand watt smile on Officer Paulson, and despite maintaining a professional, severe demeanor, she blushed a little. "No offense intended at all, Officer. It just struck me funny that you're pretty obviously nobody's 'son'."

Officer Johns' frown didn't go away. "Do you have a problem with women in uniform, young man?"

Gilpatrick looked at me, then back at Officer Johns. "Oh, shit, are you talking to me? Hell no, Officer. Most of them are a hell of a lot easier on the eyes than the male Police Officers I've worked with in the past."

Johns' frown remained. "How many have you worked with, then?"

Gilpatrick's smile never wavered. "Honestly? I've kinda lost count of how many I've worked with professionally. As for less professional interactions, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell." Both officers jaws dropped a little at his audacity, and he used the moment and a bit of legerdemain to flick a card out between two fingers, holding it toward Officer Paulson. "As I said, no offense intended at all, and I apologize if I've offended inadvertently."

Johns took the card, glanced over it, and handed it to Paulson. She did the same, although a small smile cracked her severe expression when she looked at the side of the card with Agent of Karma's 'services'. Before she looked up she had her expression back under control. "Your names, gentlemen? And could we see some ID, sir?" She held the card up. "I'm afraid this doesn't count for much, legally."

I reached for my wallet kind of instinctively; I could push back since I was just a witness, but I'd seen Gilpatrick reaching for his, so I just kind of followed his lead. As he pulled his walled out and flipped it open to pull out a driver's license and some kind of other government ID, he said, "Not for much, but it does count. Especially since I made myself known to and was acknowledged by a public facing employee of the restaurant before taking action."

While Officer Paulson stared at Gilpatrick, at a guess trying to reconcile Gilpatrick's sunny demeanor and his surprising legal knowledge. I'd taken a course about the interactions between Supers and the Law back during my undergrad days, and according to one of the few Federal laws about Supers, he had solid ground to stand on. The dividing line between a 'vigilante' and a 'private pro-bono security professional', as the Federal government recognized Super-Heroes, was whether they announced themselves before going into action. For the big A-Listers, they had their very recognizable costumes, tag lines, and even entry lines. You know, 'It's fine. Why? I am here!'. That kind of thing. The little guys, like Agent of Karma? They relied enough on subtlety and surprise that the Supreme Court had ruled that they didn't have to announce themselves to criminals in the act of committing a crime, so long as they let some local 'authority figure', and an owner, manager, or other 'public facing employee' of a business counted if the crime occurred on their property counted.

The old guy half turned to Officer Paulson and said, "go ask Marks to confirm that; ask the hostess if he can't."

She nodded and turned away, while Johns looked at Gilpatrick's ID. He frowned before he said, "really? You're sixty seven?"

Gilpatrick shot him a smile only marginally different than the one he'd given Denise and Officer Paulson. "Black don't crack, Officer. Seriously, you can call up St. Louis if you want, but," he shrugged, "that's me, as you can see in both pictures."

Officer Johns raised his eyebrows a little, and then his expression firmed into 'way above my pay grade' before he jotted down a few notes and took a quick digital photo of both sides of Gilpatrick's ID. He then turned to me. "And you are?"

I held out my driver's license and student ID. "Nelson Samuels, Officer. Working on my post-grad degree on the history of Supers, interviewing Mr. Matos. Or, rather, the Agent of Karma."

"Right..." He took pictures of my ID, then looked around the room. The unused dining room had cleared now that the paramedics had the seventy-something guy out of the building, into the ambulance pulling away at my best guess. "Mr. Matos, could you come with me, please? Mr. Samuels, please wait here until Officer Paulson is ready to take your statement?"

"You got it, Officer." As Gilpatrick stood, he winked at me, "just holler if you need me, Nelson. I'll be right over there."