Three

A Collection Of Pretty Faces

Or: “In Which We Meet (The Deliberately Enigmatic) Daniel Romero.”

“Yes, I know what ESP stands for. Someone thought it would be funny, I guess.”

Director Harrison Munro, speaking at a conference in 2031.

Earth’s Supernatural Protection (ESP) HQ, Bozeman, Montana. April 6th, 2035.

In an office in Bozeman, Montana – an altogether boring office, all things considered, though it was the owner’s considered opinion that there were very few not-boring offices – there sat a pale but hearty looking man in his late forties. He was well built; his frame was slightly gone to seed but – despite appearances – mostly as strong and combat-built as he had been in his youth. His uniform was neat, pressed and black, with a white patch on his jacket, the letters E.S.P. printed on it in small letters, underneath which was the name H. Munro.

The room was sparsely decorated; other than a single picture of a young man and the older man himself, there were no personal effects to speak of. He had a pistol secured under his desk – it was perhaps overkill, but over the course of many, many years as a member of Earth’s Supernatural Protection, one of various agencies in the world that had sprung up in response to odd, unexplainable and paranormal Things (and the capitals were very necessary), he had seen far more of his colleagues and friends killed by those self-same Things in their own office buildings than he would have liked. Everything from demons to ghosts to an unfortunate incident with a windigo (which, he didn’t mind admitting, had been a HR nightmare).

Twenty years ago, no one would have thought that the things we face would have been possible, H. Munro himself thought wryly. Twenty years ago, we were blind.

He tapped one finger against his desk impatiently, waiting for his next appointment. The man he was waiting for was late.

Bastard always is, Munro thought idly, smirking to himself despite the feeling of vague irritation building. Never show up on time when you can be fashionably late. You’d think he’d have grown out of it.

As if in answer to his thought, there came a soft knock at his door. He sniffed, sitting slightly straighter and bracing himself for what he knew was going to be a less-than-fun conversation.

“Enter,” he called out.

A moment passed, and then in stepped Daniel Romero.

Romero was an odd duck. In truth, that was the understatement of the millennium – Daniel Romero was the odd duck. In the land of the odd ducks, he was The Oddest Duck. King Odd Duck. His quacks, to stretch the metaphor to its absolute limit, were loud and weird and obnoxious.

And then the metaphor snapped, but I suspect that you get the point.

Odd Duck that he might be, Romero was Harrison Munro’s friend. Before Munro had taken over as the Director of ESP, it had been Romero’s baby. Romero and Munro had come through different paths – Munro army, Romero navy – but they had both seen enough Weird Stuff (capitals included – ostentatiously so, in fact), that believing in odd, unexplainable things seemed only logical to the pair of them. Romero had risen the ranks faster in ESP, becoming Director, and had run the organisation well in the years prior to his (very) early retirement. Indeed, it was he who had initiated most of ESP's more daring programs.

Which, in a roundabout sort of way, was why he was here now. His dark brown hair was a touch longer than regulation, probably dyed to stop it from showing his age too badly. His piercing blue eyes took in every detail in the room in the time it took to say ‘took in every detail’.

“Alright, Harry,” Romero said by way of greeting, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You wanna tell me why the hell you called me back here?”

Munro grinned at that. Typical of Dan Romero to be saying exactly what everyone thought he would say. In many ways the man was nowhere near as enigmatic as he liked people to think he was.

“How’s retirement treatin’ you, Dan?” he asked quietly.

“Just fine,” Romero replied. “Which is why I think it’s pretty odd that I got called in to ESP HQ to talk to you, because I’m pretty sure you know that my retirement’s going just fine, seeing as I’m pretty sure you got more tabs on me than my niece has tabs on her browser.” He folded his arms, his wry, confident smirk never fading. “So Harry. Why the hell am I here?”

Munro chuckled. “Damn, straight to the point. Can’t even have a bit of small talk first?”

“Small talk’s all well and good,” Romero chuckled, “when there’s not a war going on.” He held up a hand before Munro could even begin speaking. “Now, I know you’d only call me here if you thought I could be of some help, so why don’t we cut to the chase and get to it?”

Munro nodded. “Alright, Dan, then I’ll get right to it. You’re – what, in your late forties?”

“Forty-seven, as you damn well know,” Romero said, still smiling.

“Alright, so you’re forty-seven, still more than fit enough to serve,” Munro said. “And we are at war.”

“You want me back.” It wasn’t a question. “Thought you liked the Director’s chair, Harry.”

Munro snorted. “I like the Director’s chair a damn sight more than you ever did, if the rumours I hear are right.”

“Never did like being too far from the action,” Romero shrugged. “So what?”

“So,” Munro said, sliding a paper folder forward on the desk towards his friend. “What say we get you back in the action?”

Romero frowned, looking at the folder in question. Almost absently he picked it up, opening it and flicking through the contents.

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“Quite a motley group,” he muttered. He frowned as he read the files, then looked up at Munro, his eyes wide. “Team Omega. This is a file for Team Omega.”

“A long time ago you told me that there was a need for operatives with skillsets approximating the Guardians, but without the ostentation.” Munro was still smiling. “Given our current… predicament… I would agree.”

Romero looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “A long time ago, the one mission we sent Team Omega on ended up as such a shitshow that ESP nearly folded. You remember that.”

“True,” Munro said. “But things are different now.”

That was one hell of an understatement, and both of them knew it. Romero was frowning now, but it was a frown Munro knew all too well. It was his ‘ah, so you need me for real’ frown, a frown built for circumstances when Daniel Romero was exactly the kind of Odd Duck that the situation in front of one’s nose required, and he knew it. Those were the sorts of circumstances Romero lived for – but also the sort of circumstances where you could get the man to do just about anything.

Munro motioned to the folder. “So? You in?”

Romero smiled and closed the folder. “That depends. What’s the deal?”

Munro grinned.

***

Daniel Romero was surprisingly easy to get on your side if you knew the man’s weaknesses, which Munro was blessed to say he did.

Munro only had to offer him a few things to appeal to his ego – recommissioning to the rank of ‘Captain’, which rather appealed to Romero’s vanity and romanticism (the same things which had made him want to be a naval officer in the first place), an offer of a ship and crew of his own as soon as some of the commissions being put together on the drawing board actually came together, and – most importantly – carte blanche to run Team Omega however he saw fit.

“So,” Romero said, holding the folder up and waving it as the two men walked down one of the many corridors in the ESP building. “Quite a collection of pretty faces you got here – but do any of ‘em got sticking power?”

“Shayla was in the team you had in ‘31,” Munro said lightly. “We think Nerve and Bounder will probably do well, too.”

“They’re both SIN supersoldiers, right?” Romero said, glancing at Munro for confirmation.

Munro nodded. “Some of their later experiments, before they unveiled the Twelve. Bounder’s from ‘29, Nerve from ‘28. They had run-ins with the Guardians after they broke out, but nothing stuck – obviously SIN wanted to keep them out of the traditional justice system.”

“So how’d you collar ‘em?” Romero asked.

“Bounder’s been committing petty larceny and looting in the UK in the wake of the Empire’s attacks. Easy to spot if you have access to CCTV.” Munro chuckled. “As for Nerve – in exchange for some NDAs and a promise to stay out of people’s way, the guy had a suspended sentence and a cushy home in a small village.”

“Ha!” Romero’s face twisted into a bitter smirk. “We should all be so lucky. And the troll?”

“Found him under a bridge,” Munro chuckled. “I wish I was joking. We only clocked on after some office asshole realised he was stealing internet to play online shooters.”

“Good ones or shit ones?” Romero asked.

“He’s a Turretboy main,” Munro replied.

Romero made a soft ‘tsk’ sound. “Camping motherfucker.”

The two men turned a corner, passing a pair of soldiers – a man and a woman – in black fatigues who stopped and saluted as they passed. Munro wouldn’t have bothered with more than saluting back, but Romero stopped.

“Private,” he said to the woman, before looking at the man. “And Corporal -”

“Benjamin West,” the man said stiffly.

Romero nodded. “I’m Dan Romero. I’d appreciate you telling me who your immediate superior is.”

West looked to Munro, who smirked.

“Captain Romero is taking over several operations for us in the next few weeks,” he said. “You can answer his question, Corporal.”

West nodded. “We’re assigned to Strike – uh, Lieutenant Grey, sir. Uh…”

“‘Strike’,” Romero repeated. He glanced at Munro.

“Code names are a thing these days,” Munro said evenly. “The Lieutenant in question is one of our best Agents.”

“‘Agents’,” Romero echoed, before looking back to West. “Alright, Mr West. Where is the Lieutenant now?”

“Briefing room B, sir,” West said. “I, uh, think Director Munro knows the way.”

“I do,” Munro said, nodding. “Come on, Dan – you’ll definitely want to meet Strike.”

***

‘Strike’, it turned out, was a dark-skinned woman in black and white ESP fatigues, who was currently sitting in ‘Briefing Room B’ with a tablet and a cup of coffee. She stood up as Munro entered and snapped to attention.

“Sir!” she said.

“At ease,” Munro said, holding up a hand. He motioned to Romero. “This is Captain Daniel Romero. He’s taking over Team Omega. Captain Romero, this is Lieutenant Moira Grey – or ‘Strike’, as she’s known.”

Strike’s expression was unreadable for a moment. Munro had a pretty good idea what she was thinking; Romero’s name came with a reputation. Before the war, he had been ESP’s Director. Team Omega – the original Team Omega – had been his idea. It had also been probably one of the less out-there ideas the man had.

“Strike,” Munro said before she could say anything, “is the head of your main security staff. She’ll be the one keeping shit in order for you.”

Strike blushed at the Director’s description, but Romero only nodded. There was a thoughtful expression on his face.

“I believe we’ve met before,” he said.

“Oh?” Munro said. He didn’t know that – Strike’s record didn’t mention having been part of ESP before.

“A long time ago,” Romero said, brushing it off. He turned back to Munro. “So I have a full staff this time?”

“Well, since we’re hoping to get you on a ship this time, I’d like to hope so,” Munro said with a chuckle. “I know you hate sitting still.”

Romero smirked. “That I do.” He turned back to Strike. “Assuming you’re pretty up-to-speed with ESP’s remit, Lieutenant.”

Strike nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve, uh… worked some jobs.”

“What the Lieutenant means,” Munro said, “is that she’s an up-and-comer in our rapid deployment teams. It’s where she got ‘Strike’. She was one of our people during the last mess in NYC with the Bride.”

“That so?” Romero said, raising an eyebrow. ‘The Bride’ was the codename for a very nasty supernatural force that had ended up taking over an entire apartment block in New York. It had been a few months after Romero’s retirement. “I heard a little about that through the grapevine. Good work, Strike.”

“Thank you, sir,” Strike said. She still looked like she’d been hit in the face with a truck, but as long as she did the job, her personal feelings didn’t especially matter to Munro.

“Well, I look forward to working with you, Lieutenant,” Romero said. “Hopefully we won’t have you ground-pounding in offices for long.”

Strike saluted him. “Good to meet you again, Captain.”

Romero’s smirk quickly faded as he turned back to Munro.

“I’m assuming by your expediting their appropriation that we’re gonna need the new TO guys sooner than we’d like.”

Munro nodded once. “There’s a mission. Strike has the details.”

Strike pulled up her tablet at once. She tapped a few times, then showed Romero her screen. He looked it over carefully, then scowled.

“Well,” he muttered. “That’s just fucking great.”

“Your last chance to back out, Dan,” Munro said carefully. “If you don’t want the gig -”

Romero met his eyes, and Munro stopped. There was something in that gaze now – a fire Munro hadn’t seen for years.

“Like hell are you keeping me out of this, Harry,” Romero said. A vicious grin spread across his face. “Let me at the bastards. I’ll whip your new team into shape… and hell, you get me a tough enough tugboat, I might even join ‘em for the ride.”

Munro laughed. “That’s what we like to hear, Dan.”

***