“Stuart Louch.”

The police officer stood with one hand on her belt, the other clutching a palm-sized notepad. Around her, the alleyway still buzzed with people – though much more serious and official now, the police having pushed back and cordoned off the general public. At either entrance to the area a crowd of onlookers still thronged, peering up and around the police tape and the interviewing officer’s burlier, more scowl-y comrades. Some onlookers flew above the crowd, flashes blinking from their phones and cameras; a few hung from the walls and one had giraffe‑d up an elasticised neck for a better look. Matt tried his best to ignore them.

It had taken the police mere minutes to arrive on scene, in force and with no hesitation about clearing away the rowdy, excitable crowd, most of whom were clearly ecstatic to have been witness to some comic-book-style excitement. It would have been an impressive response time, really, had it not belied the likely reality of Matt and Jane being under some kind of surveillance, or at the very least the police having taken the opportunity of knowing their whereabouts to stay very, very close. That, and the fact that the NYPD had actually been second to arrive, after the Legion of Heroes – or, well, Will and Wally to be accurate, who had teleported in and raced over mere seconds after the attempt on Matt’s life. A perk, Matt supposed dryly, of the whole thing having been broadcast live across international television. The moment they’d arrived the telepath and teleporter had begun shouting commands and flashing their Legion eagles to clear space amongst the crowd surrounding them, and within a few minutes they had managed to secure Matt a little cordoned off area next to a dumpster, which they continued to guard with imperious stares. It was beside this dumpster that Matt still sat, perched glumly atop a milkcrate, with the two Legionnaires flanking either on side of him, their arms crossed and their expressions glowering at the policewoman interviewer like the two feudal bodyguards of some back‑alley trash lord.

“That’s all you got from him?” Wally demanded, interjecting unprompted in Matt’s defence while the subject of said defence sat beside his feet, tired and resigned, “Just a name?”

Wally Cykes, telepath, was the Legion of Heroes’ second-best psychic, a red-head, and one of the least intimidating people Matt had ever known. The idea of him verbally berating a police officer was about as incongruous to Matt as Matt competing in the Olympics, and the ridiculousness was only mitigated marginally by the fact that Wally had tonight elected to wear a black knitted sweater and blue bootcut jeans rather than one of his trademark Hawaiian shirts. Nevertheless, he was giving the policewoman no quarter.

“A name and an address,” the officer said, struggling not to roll her eyes and directing her answer back to Matt, “He didn’t tell us. He had his wallet in his pants.”

“Just his wallet?” Will asked, “Nothing else?”

Will Herd, teleporter, was black, well-groomed and could have stepped out of a group photo on page four of any Gap catalogue. He wore an open black felt trench-coat and a grey shirt, and like Wally was leaning slightly over Matt and staring narrow-eyed at the police officer with his arms protectively crossed.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing investigations,” the officer replied, “And I’m not here to trade evidence. I’m just trying to get a statement.” She paused and looked at Matt. “From the victim of this attack.”

“I’m fine,” Matt said.

The policewoman frowned, and Matt resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her sub-par faux concern.

“Still,” she told him, trying to sound like his wellbeing genuinely mattered to her, “We should have EMTs look over you.”

Matt levelled her a flat stare. “Poor attempt,” he said, “Poor execution.”

The officer appeared unphased. “I’m not trying to trick you Mr Callaghan. We want to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m not shot. Thank you. I don’t need any swabs.”

“It’s standard procedure.”

“Well, I’m a very abnormal boy.”

To his left Will let out a snort, then quickly suppressed it. The policewoman’s eyes flicked up to him, then fell back down to Matt with a deadpan gaze.

“I appreciate your special status. It’s why we’re being so accommodating.”

‘Accommodating’ was one interpretation, Matt thought darkly. Behind the interviewing officer there was a large gap of empty space between the four of them and where the NYPD were holding back the onlookers behind the police tape. In the centre of that space was the furious, rigid figure of Jane Walker, still wearing her gold and silver ballgown but now standing with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing golden, breathing heavily and furiously glaring at absolutely everything nearby, as if the brickwork might suddenly rear to life and attack. Jane paced slow, step by step, across the empty space in the alleyway with the hunched shoulders of an agitated wolf, energy lashing off her in whipcords, never moving more than about ten feet away from Matt. Her mild high-heels, which she’d worn at Giselle Pixus’ insistence, had been thrown without a second thought against some trash can, leaving Jane standing barefoot on the bitumen. The reduction in height did nothing to make her less intimidating, and it was clear – to Matt at least – that the police were ‘accommodating’ Jane’s presence in the same way a troop of boy scouts might accommodate an enraged grizzly bear.

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

The policewoman interviewing Matt – O’Neill, by the name on the badge above her breast pocket – briefly followed Matt’s gaze over her shoulder to the stalking, glaring empath, then turned back to meet his eyes.

“Come on. We’re on the same team here.”

She was not an unattractive woman, Matt concluded – a pleasant face, mid-thirties, dark hair tied up in a bun – and she used a slight sympathetic smile when she looked at him that made Matt suspect that she’d been deliberately chosen to interview him over her uglier, manlier colleagues in the hope of playing on his predilections as an impressionable teenage boy. The problem with that plan, of course, was first that you never play a player, and second that Matt could literally see his blisteringly twitchy, murderously tense girlfriend about ten feet away, seething with energy that warped the very air and still perfectly capable of tearing his testicles off.

“My lawyer told me not to talk to cops.”

“Have you spoken to your lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

“Not to talk to the cops.”

“Right.”

The policewoman paused, one side of her lip twitching in disapproval as she stared down at him, obviously trying to calculate her next approach. After a few moments Matt relented and sighed.

“We’re going to speak in the morning. We’ll get something drafted. You’ll have my statement by tomorrow.”

“You sure that’s what you want?” the officer asked, raising a slight and chiding eyebrow. It reminded Matt of the way his mother used to speak to him when he was six and started writing an incorrect answer on his math homework. “Your memory is a lot fresher right afterwards. You might miss some crucial detail.”

“I’ll risk it, thanks,” Matt replied flatly, seeping enough acid into his voice to make it clear their conversation was over. O’Neill held her hands up in a shrug and retreated a few steps back to join her colleagues, giving a wide berth to the gold-smoking Jane and her aura of wisping light. Jane was spreading the energy out above them, Matt could tell by watching the air’s eddies and currents, shaping it into a pulsing dome so as to repulse any bullets that might be shot from above. It was a new skill – impressive really. She’d been practicing.

Wally watched the policewoman go with an uncharacteristic scowl.

“I could get more out of him,” the psychic grumbled.

“No you couldn’t,” Will replied, almost instant reproach in his voice.

“Fourth Amendment,” agreed Matt.

“No one would know,” Wally replied darkly, though his words didn’t carry much conviction. Matt sighed.

“Can we go now, please?” he asked. He craned his neck over at Jane. “Jane? I’m tired. I’d like to get out of this suit.”

At the sound of her name the bronze-haired empath’s head snapped back towards them. After a moment or two more of glaring at suspicious bricks, Jane scowled and stomped over, golden light still rippling off her skin – though thankfully, she was considerate enough to lower the output somewhat as she approached, and by the time she’d reached the other three the golden fire in her eyes had dimmed to the point where Matt could at least see her irises.

“Where is he?” she demanded. Jane turned her head and glared over at the police van, inside which the assassin lay handcuffed. “I want to talk to him.”

The way her fingernails were digging into her palms made it very clear what ‘talk’ meant.

“Nobody’s dismembering anyone,” Matt reprimanded her, “It’s fine. I’m fine. The police have him. Let them handle this like they normally do.”

“He shot you,” Jane scowled.

“He shot at me,” Matt corrected her, “You stopped him. No harm no foul.”

For some reason this statement did not make Jane any happier. Matt fixed her with a small, sad smile.

“Look,” he said, glancing between Jane, Will and Wally and seeing their obvious reluctance, “Why are we bothering with this? We all know what he’s going to say. He’s going to be some sad, unaffiliated little man, with very distinct views on chemtrails and who spends way too much time on the Internet, just like the rest of them. Why hang around to find out?”

The three Legion members exchanged glances with one another.

“This area’s not particularly secure,” Will conceded, inclining his head towards Jane.

“Not my point but sure,” said Matt, overshadowed by all three of them, as he was still sitting on a milkcrate. The others didn’t acknowledge that he’d said anything.

“We’re very public. Very visible.”

“See, that sounds like you’re agreeing with me, but you’re actually talking about something completely different.”

“I’ve got it,” Jane growled, “Nobody’s going to touch him. I want answers.”

“Now you’re talking about me like I’m not here. Hello.”

“I’m keeping a broad sweep of the crowd,” Wally informed them, glancing beyond the police lines at the hordes of curious onlookers, “Not picking up any nervousness or hostility.”

“Hello. Guys. Home.”

“That’s only conscious thought,” Jane snapped back, “What if they’re disciplined, what about Psy‑Block?”

“Sweetie, when you’re a world-class psychic, you can tell me how to watch for gaps.”

“I am a human-badger hybrid. I am dying of prostate cancer. There is a T-Rex about to eat us all.”

“Azleena said the Morningstar forensics team won’t be ready for another half an hour,” said Will.

“Where the hell are they?” demanded Jane.

“Probably in bed,” Wally shrugged.

“Bed, that sounds nice,” said Matt, continuing to be completely ignored.

Wally put his hands on his hips and turned to Jane, his lips pursed.

“If we leave now, it’ll be hard for the Legion to claim jurisdiction over the investigation.”

“I thought we trumped local authorities?”

“Yeah but practically there’s going to be issues with chain of custody.” Wally looked at her. “Plus he’s not technically a member.”

“Oh bull-crap!”

“Guys, I’m really okay with the police doing it,” Matt said again, lamely, “Just let them handle it. I’m sure they’ll let us know.”

“I want answers,” Jane said bitterly. From his place atop his milkcrate Matt looked up at her, seeing her set jaw and the way she was blinking angrily at everything nearby.

“Jane.” He reached out and took her hand, gazing up at her. Jane’s face pinched in anger and she turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. Matt sighed and stood up, placing his other hand gently below Jane’s shoulder blades and pressing slowly at the tension in her back. Jane sniffed, still staring up at the alleyway rooftops, refusing to look at him. Slowly though, the energy whirling off her began to fade.

“I’m okay,” he said, “It’s okay. Everything’s fine.”

“I know,” she snapped, though a moment later she seemed to regret her harshness. Matt didn’t let it phase him. He continued to rub gently beneath her shoulders.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he told her, “I’m alive.”

“Yeah, but-”

“I want to go home. Let’s go home.”

Finally, Jane’s shoulders slumped. The light which had been swirling around her faded and died.

“Okay,” she murmured, “Okay.” She glanced at Will, who nodded.

“Should we tell the cops?” he asked.

“Screw the cops,” Jane scowled.

“They’re just doing their job,” said Matt, trying to be fair. Again, nobody seemed to listen. He sighed, and the four joined hands.