WESTCHESTER, NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 12TH, 2022

The killer looked like a twelve-year-old girl.

She looked like she was dressed for a school play, in a classic white toga and sandals. She had dark hair and pale gray eyes that seemed to swirl as the officer got closer, refusing to draw his weapon on a child, even if she did have a dead man at her feet.

The dead man’s head was canted at a weird angle, clearly indicating a broken neck. The girl was not crying. She appraised the officer carefully as he approached, standing straight and tall, unusually tall for her age, obviously confused but staring at him with a strange self-possession that didn’t match her apparent age.

The officer asked, “What’s your name?” but the girl did not respond. “Did that man try to hurt you?”

The girl answered in a language the officer did not understand. It was ancient Greek, but police wouldn’t know that until agents from the Department of Metahuman Affairs shared his POV footage with somebody at NYU.

The translation came back as, “Great-Grandfather told me I couldn’t say my name anymore.”

“Can you understand me?” the officer asked, and the girl nodded her head. “Can you tell me where your parents are?”

The girl answered in Greek again. “Mother is being punished. Grandma won’t talk to me.”

A voice on the radio was telling him to wait for DMA, but the officer kept talking, convinced that the tone of his voice was keeping the girl calm, even if he couldn’t understand what she was saying back.

“It’s very cold to be dressed like that. Are you cold?”

“I can’t feel cold. I can’t feel anything,” the girl said.

The officer took his coat off and handed it to her, using it as an excuse to get closer. She didn’t take it immediately, so he gestured with it and mimed putting it on. She wouldn’t take it from his hand, so he dropped it and backed away, until she got the hint and put it on.

The jacket looked impossibly big on her, even at her impressive height. The girl peered at the white NYPD insignia and asked, “Is this your god? Can I talk to him?”

The officer spoke into his radio without taking his eyes off her. “I need a female officer. Ask her to bring water and food. And for god’s sake, turn lights and sirens off. I don’t want to scare this girl any more than we already have.”

His supervisor was yelling at him on a private channel, telling him to back off and wait for DMA, but the officer stayed where he was, crouching down just a bit to get his eyes level with hers.

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The wind changed direction and the officer decided he would die for her. If anything threatened this child, he would die for her. There was no warning, no moment of decision. It just seemed natural. Of course, he would die for her. What else could he do?

“Please hurry,” the officer said into his radio. “I think she’s hungry.”

Two squad cars arrived a moment later. A female social worker climbed out and started to approach. She would have tried to talk to the girl herself, but the officer waved her off.

“Food and water,” he said. “She needs food and water.”

The social worker handed him a bottle of water and a square foil packet with a pastry in it. It wasn’t even the good kind; it was a shitty generic toaster pastry like they served at public school, but it was better than nothing. The officer stepped up and handed the water and the pastry to the girl, oblivious to the screams and shouts of officers behind him.

He wasn’t afraid of the girl anymore, and if she decided to kill him, well, at least he had been able to feed her first.

The girl took the water bottle and struggled with the cap, until he mimed what to do and she was able to twist it off. But she used too much force and splashed water all over herself. The girl flashed anger for a moment, and the officer started to laugh. Just a little friendly laugh to keep her calm. She laughed with him for a moment and smiled, and the officer decided he would love her forever.

The girl took a cautious sip from the bottle, like she was struggling not to squeeze it. The officer unwrapped the pastry, took a tiny bite, and handed it to her. The girl took a bite of the sickly-sweet raspberry square and her eyes went wide. She gave an astonished smile, said a word in Greek, and wolfed the whole thing down like it was the best thing she had ever tasted.

The officer’s heart soared to see her happy. He offered his hand, but the girl shook her head vigorously and pointed to the dead man. The officer motioned for her to follow and kept talking until he was able to lead her into the back of a squad car. The springs on the vehicle dipped like the girl was much heavier than she looked, and her tiny hand left a dent in the doorframe when she grabbed it to get in.

The officer broke protocol and sat in the back seat next to her while the social worker stayed up front.

The officer’s name was Terry Burdick. He escorted the girl to a holding cell and refused to leave her side, oblivious to shouts and threats from other officers. He still refused to leave her when DMA agents arrived and took her to a lab. His Captain called to threaten his job and Terry just quit, immediately, handing his badge to the nearest DMA guy.

Terry was dismissed when the car arrived in Langley, but he still refused to leave her, fighting off three agents who tried to pull him away. The girl screamed when they tried to hurt him and lashed out with a kick that shattered a man’s femur and sent him sailing across the room.

For the next few years, Terry was the only one she would talk to. The DMA was impressed by how quickly he learned ancient Greek, but Terry said he never had to study it. He just slowly began to understand her, until he could speak the language back.

Terry taught the girl how to speak English and served as translator for the growing army of agents, doctors, and therapists who were brought in to study her.

Official records listed her as Jane Doe, and she refused to say her birth name, so Terry suggested the last name Westchester, so she would forever be named after the place where she was found.

Terry stayed by her side, fighting anyone who tried to come between them, until he had a heart attack and slowly died at the foot of her bed, still refusing to leave her, punching and kicking the EMS workers who were trying to take him to the hospital.