“Mr Callaghan, Ms Walker. Thank you for coming to see us.”

“Ahem,” Rana coughed. The FBI agent sitting across the table from them, the one who had spoken, turned her head to look at the pair’s lawyer, who was sitting smugly between them with her arms folded across her lap.

“And for bringing your attorney. Ms O’Reilly. Lovely to see you.”

“Which one are you again?” their lawyer asked.

A week or so had passed. With the Today Show interview now over, Matt and Jane’s lives had settled back into their regular routine, or their irregular routine, however you wanted to look at it – Jane going off to deal with crises, Matt staying home under rotating supervision. Surprisingly, Matt had actually seemed less resistant to his protection lately, although he’d been oddly quiet since the shooting, which filled Jane with concern. She was starting to worry he’d taken this latest attempt on his life hard, or maybe was growing depressed from the constant confinement. Maybe the reality of it all had suddenly hit home. Or maybe Jane had done something, maybe after their last fight he was still mad at her. He wasn’t acting like it, but Jane still worried.

Today was different though. Today, they had an appointment with the FBI, at the FBI’s central offices in Washington, a big light brown building maybe six stories tall that looked like an office block slid awkwardly underneath a giant table. They were there to go over the Bureau’s findings about the latest attempted murder and, Jane knew, be pressured into siding with them.

Naturally, because they weren’t idiots, Matt and Jane had brought their lawyer with them. Mid‑forties, broad‑shouldered and tall, with hair in thin bottle-blonde ringlets and a casual ease in the way she wore pantsuits, Rana O’Reilly of the ACLU was no‑nonsense, sharp‑tongued, and reminded Jane inescapably of Matt’s mother. Certainly, from the way she talked, you might have assumed Matt and Jane were her children. Anyone who ever tried to get one over on them soon found Rana’s displeasure plainly known.

“You’re not under arrest guys,” the male FBI agent, some new man whose name she couldn’t remember, said in a way which made him sound like the leader of a troop of Boy Scouts, “We don’t need to have lawyers involved. We only want to talk.”

“Of course they’re not under arrest,” Rana replied, before either of Matt or Jane could open their mouths, “We have a Supreme Court judgment setting that out in black and white. Do you want me to read it for you?”

They were sitting, the five of them, in a nondescript grey-carpet room on the third floor of the central FBI building, at either end of a long table running parallel to a window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. Will had teleported them in and then gone off to buy pancakes for some reason, leaving Matt and Jane to meet Rana inside and go through the Bureau’s metal detector, which was the funniest thing Jane had done all week. Now alone in the conference room, Matt and Jane sat in neat civilian clothes on one end of the table with Rana in between them, facing the two FBI officers on the other end – a plain‑faced woman with a brown ponytail, and a sprawling salt-and-pepper-haired man in a dark grey suit who’d maintained the same dumb, unconvincing smile since they’d first sat down. He had the power to change his skin to rock, and she could click her tongue to use echolocation. Neither of them were any threat.

“I’ve read the judgment,” the man – he might have introduced himself as Richardson – replied, unrelenting with his plastic fawning.

“That’s a first,” Rana remarked.

There was a pained silence. Jane struggled not to smirk.

“There’s really no need for you to be here Ms O’Reilly,” said the woman, sounding pained.

“My clients aren’t legally old enough to drink,” their attorney replied, “And you’ve been actively gunning to get a needle in one of them for six months. If you don’t like me being present, we are more than happy to walk.”

It always went this way. A supposedly ‘informal’ interview. Surprise and annoyance at them bringing someone from the ACLU along. Polite suggestions that maybe they’d be better off talking alone, as though they were all here for a friendly game of bowling and having a lawyer meant they’d have to fork out for a second lane. Same tricks, every time, offering to show them around privately or plying them with food and drink. So sinister, yet so pathetic. Matt had much more tolerant views, but Jane disliked cops at the best of times. These slimy, pretend‑to‑be‑your‑friend cops, she hated more than most.

“Can we offer you a bear claw?” said the FBI woman, Fiona or whatever her name was. She forced Jane a smile and raised a pastry box. “Maybe something to drink? Tea, coffee, sparkling water?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Get to the point,” demanded Rana, who prior to this meeting, as with all meetings, had instructed her young clients to keep their arms folded and their mouths shut.

It took a few more minutes of clumsy platitudes but eventually the agents relented, allowing the table to finally turn to grown-up evidence talk. Jane listened tight-lipped as the FBI wheeled out document after document on Matt’s would-be assassin, including the evidence they wanted the pair to give and the charges the killer would face. None of it was new to her, and a lot of what they were receiving now were half-facts – the Legion’s own forensic investigation had already supplied and covered much more thorough details, and both Jane and Matt were well across the relevant points. This meeting wasn’t about the gunman though. It never was.

“And I suppose, in conclusion, we have concerns,” the woman stated, terminating a presentation she’d been making about the attacker’s background and goals, “Real concerns, really, for the both of you.”

“You have concerns for the safety of the woman who killed Klaus Heydrich?” Rana asked, expertly incredulous. The FBI lady ignored her.

“Your safety,” she said, leaning forward and putting her hands on the table, “Is our top priority. It always has been. And we’re worried, we’re particularly worried, that without proper protection you’re going to remain vulnerable to these kinds of attacks.”

“We know we’ve offered it before,” Richardson added, his tanned brow furrowed with concern he’d likely practised in the mirror the night before, “But we really want to offer it again. Come into protective custody. Let us set you up somewhere anonymous. There’s a military base, up in Alaska, near Port Lions. The protection there is second to none. Together, cooperating, we can work to make sure this kind of tragedy can’t happen anymore.”

“Putting aside your heavy-handed attempt to place my clients under your authority,” Rana replied, “What is the FBI doing to prevent these attacks? You’re getting millions of my tax dollars, surely even you must be getting somewhat closer to determining the root of these threats.”

Jane could see the male FBI agent struggling not to scowl. “As I think Matt and Jane both know,” he responded, and the way he said their names as though they were his favourite schoolchildren made Jane want to blast him through the wall, “These aren’t organised attacks. Nobody’s coordinating them, not as far as we can see. And we have psychically verified. The only common ground between the attackers is the kind of websites they’re visiting – Bluin, I think you know, and others. All quite radical, all quite libertarian; communities of anonymous individuals, mostly men, sharing conspiracy theories about what they perceive to be threats.”

“And why can’t you get rid of those?” Jane said suddenly. To her left, Rana flashed her a look, and the lawyer’s arm went beneath the table to Jane’s wrist, flooding Jane with the swarm-of-red-bees sensation of being able to see infrared and ultraviolet light. Jane ignored her.

“The websites,” she demanded, “Why aren’t you getting rid of them? Shut them down, stop people going. If these psychopaths are on there talking about how to kill Matt, why are they still allowed to exist?”

“They’ve got freedom of speech,” Matt sighed from opposite her, before either FBI agent could answer. He seemed equally indifferent as he too fell under their attorney’s glare. “You can’t stop them talking.”

“Even when it’s about trying to kill you?”

Matt didn’t reply, and Richardson seized on the opportunity to jump in. “There are site-wide policies; bans and some such,” he said, leaning forward and clearly keen to be communicating directly, “Though those are often difficult to maintain and irregularly enforced. More specifically though, if you close down one forum, the participants just regroup somewhere else.”

“So arrest them,” Jane spat, “If you know who they are, if you’re listening, arrest them. Find them, lock them up.”

Matt turned in his seat to look at her. “Arrest everyone who doesn’t like me?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yes!”

“That’s not a feasible approach,” Richardson said mildly.

“Yeah, it’s also immoral,” Matt replied.

“Perhaps we can have this conversation another time,” Rana suggested through gritted teeth. Jane ignored her.

“It’s not immoral if someone hates you. It’s you or them.”

“They’re scared. They’re misinformed. They don’t like me,” said Matt, “None of that’s a crime.”

“No, the crime is attempted murder!”

“They’re generally circumspect,” the female agent added with a small sympathetic frown. She fell silent beneath Jane’s furious gaze, which the empath spread around the entire table.

“Then do what you need to do,” Jane scowled, “Do something. Show them there’s consequences. Or tell me who they are and I’ll show them.”

“Alright, I think that’s quite enough,” Rana interjected. She levelled withering glares at the both of them, grabbed one hand apiece and pulled both Matt and Jane to standing. “Obviously this is a topic that inspires passion and hyperbole from my clients, neither of whom are actually suggesting they would ever act outside the law. This interview is over. We will leave preventative measures and the monitoring of cyber threats to you. Come on,” she snapped at them. She began dragging the pair from the room, causing Jane to angrily shake off her hand while Matt allowed himself to be led meekly along. On the other end of the table, the FBI agents both rose to their feet.

“We would be honoured to share our information with you Lady Dawn,” Richardson espoused with predatory enthusiasm, trying to catch and hold Jane’s eye.

“Bait,” came Matt’s voice, echoing from the hallway; “Obvious bait.”

Jane glowered, sparing a glance back at the faces of the two eager agents; then, with her teeth clenched she reluctantly stalked from the room, following her boyfriend and attorney as all of them walked free.