---Rampage---

---Ramón’s perspective---

I wake up to the sound of my ringtone.

I reach for my nightstand and grab my holo. Squinting at the screen, I groan, seeing it’s a call from Chief Buthjor.

I hold the speaker half a metre away from my ear, preparing for the man’s lack of volume control, before answering.

“Vásquez! Get up and get dressed! We’ve got a tranqed Terran perp in custody and we need some of your detectorisation magic worked on the scene before she wakes up!” booms the old bull (with a love of Terran cop dramas) who seems to have built his entire personality around the embattled, hardass policechief archetype!

“I know better than to expect an apology for waking me up at this hour, Chief, but could I at least get a ‘good morning’(?)” I quip.

“Don’t get cute with me, Vásquez! It’s MY arse on the line if you screw this up!!!”

“Chief, I haven’t even got out of bed yet! I’m in no danger of 'screwing this up'! I’ll be right in… or do you want me to go straight to the scene?” I respond.

“Straight to the scene! You’re on the clock from the moment you cross the Guard line! Be quick about it! Oh and Vásquez…?”

“Yes, Chief?”

“Is Officer Jyulbul with you?”

“I’m here, Chief…” breaks in my wife, sleepily.

“Good! You come too! The officers on the line need relieving, so I’m moving up the start of your shift to as soon as you can get there!” he says before hanging up without a ‘goodbye’.

“Love you too, boss(!)” quips the wonderful Thruljec woman sharing my bed, without opening her eyes.

I lean over to give her a tender kiss before saying “Alright, dormilona. You know we gotta get up!”

She frowns “A few more [minutes] surely won’t hurt…”

I chuckle “You’re happy to say that to Buthjor when he summons us into his office to explain why we weren’t there the instant he called us?”

She moans and shakes her head before pulling herself upright with visible force of will. She rises from the bed before stretching up to more than her (already towering) 232cm by standing on the points of her hooves and raising both arms to the ceiling!

Fifteen years of marriage and I’ll still never get tired of the sight of my underwearclad wife stretching out when she wakes up!

I quickly throw on my clothes, go to our bathroom to comb my hair, clean my teeth and splash some cold water on my face before walking to our kitchen, setting some imported coffee to brew for myself and some hot water for Jyul.

I grab some breadbuns from the stasisfridge and wolf down three while I wait for the coffee. I only need sustenance for the day ahead so I don’t bother with butter or anything.

I take out two thermoses and fill one up with pure, dark coffee all the way from my homeland. The other I fill with the hot water before taking out a pipette, measuring 5ml out of my thermos and squirting it into my wife’s hot water… I think for a moment before adding another 2ml, stirring it thoroughly and sealing them both.

I hail a transport and give it the coordinates Buthjor messaged.

I make my way back to our bedroom, carrying both thermoses by their handles, in one hand, and a single bun for Jyul’s breakfast, in my other.

She’s still not finished getting her uniform on, so I lean against the doorframe and admire her.

She smirks over her shoulder before playacting a phonecall “Yes, hello,

----------------------------------------

(?) I need to report an incident of sexual harassment(!) I was changing into my uniform when I caught a fellow Guardsman staring at my arse(!)… Detective Vásquez… Yes, that’s him, from Terran Crimes(!)”

I laugh “After all the things you did and said when we first met, Jyul, I don’t think you can complain about a little staring! Especially since we’ve been together for 23 years and married for more than half of that at this point!”

She pulls a mocking pout “I couldn’t help myself! You just looked so sexy in that armour!”

I smirk “So sexy it made you forget that I was an occupier and thus prohibited from fraternising(!)”

“Yes… well, didn’t stop us getting together after you’d relocated here, did it!” she grins.

“It didn’t… Would you like me not to stare, Jyul? Would you prefer I act more like the 50 year old I am than the 20 something I look like?”

“No! Stare away!” she answers, immediately, before fastening the last strap on her uniform, picking up her shock staff and walking to me.

I hold up the single breadbun (more than enough calories for a Thruljec woman’s breakfast) which she takes before pointing at one of the Thermoses and asking “Colombian blend, 1% dilution?”

I shake my head “Made it a tiny bit stronger for you today, mi vida. Figured you’d appreciate it!”

She gives a very Terran looking grin before saying “You know me so well, sweetheart!”

We kiss one last time before making our way to the roof of our apartment building to meet the transport.

As we fly, I take the opportunity to read through the details that Buthjor sent:

· Single suspect in custody; Terran, Human, Neanderthal, female, 25 years old.

· Rampage, apparently caused by Thruljor [yeast] toxicosis induced psychosis.

· Zero fatalities but numerous severe injuries and severe damage to private and public property.

· No clear motive for having evaded taking the obligatory counteragent on arrival.

Interesting…

Some sort of protest, perhaps? Or was this a genuine accident? Difficult to see how you might accidentally not take a drug that you have to be observed putting in your mouth and swallowing before you’re allowed out of your arrival port but, if you’re trying not to take it, all it would require is a little sleight of hand.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

It’s difficult to believe one single woman could possibly have caused the amount of damage that the preliminary credit estimate would suggest… unless she was either in an art museum or had access to a tank(!) But then… looking at this woman’s height and weight figures… perhaps this brief was just written by someone who’s hopelessly bad at estimation(!)

I look out the window as the transport informs us we’re almost at our destination and exclaim “Madre de Dios! I’ve not seen a street that looked like that since the War!”

Was this a coordinated stunt?! Is this girl just the only one we’ve caught?! Or did she actually manage to retain an ability to pilot heavy machinery through her psychosis!? One girl surely didn’t do all of this herself!?

We touch down and I stride from the transport towards the unfamiliar Guardsman on the line.

The stern looking bull holds up his hand to me and says “Sir, this is a crime scene! I can’t let you through! I have to ask you to step ba…”

I flash my holo, displaying my Guard credentials, and answer “Det. Ramón ‘Sleuth’ Vásquez, Terran Crimes Division. I’m with the Thruljor Guard, I believe you’re expecting me.”

Surprised (clearly having thought I was just a rubbernecker), the big man does a slight double take before uncertainly saying “Err… yes, Sir… right this way… oh…uhm…”

He clearly just realised that he has to choose between supervising me or manning the portion of the line he’s been assigned.

“I believe my wife will be able to cover your spot here…” I say, gesturing back to Jyul, just catching up to me “Alternatively, I’m sure I’ll be able to find my own way(!)” I gesture to the fairly clear trail of destruction.

He considers for a moment, then answers “Go on through, both of you. Find the Local Patrol [Sergeant] to find out who you’re relieving.” that latter addressed to Jyul.

I nod and both of us step through the holographically projected line.

Spotting the woman who looks like the Local Patrol, my wife smiles “I’ll see you tonight, baby!”

“Later, mi vida!” I smile back as we part.

I pick my way through the street, stepping over a felled streetlight that, from the looks of it, was crumpled by a single, blunt force impact, and through scattered pieces of rubble.

This truly looks like the aftermath of a battle! One woman did all this!?

I trace the destruction back to a building with a conspicuous, several metre wide whole punched through one of its walls.

I walk up the steps, through the open door and see a small group of Guardsmen talking with the one I’m inferring to be the proprietrix.

“Hello, Ma’am… My name is Detective Vásquez. Are you the owner of this establishment?” I ask with courteous professionalism.

“I am…” she answers, eying me suspiciously.

It’s a tiny bit insulting that she’s apparently unable to mentally separate me from the Terran who just reduced her place of business to a bomb site but I don’t let my irritation show as I ask “Do you have surveillance in your bar?”

“Of course!” she huffs.

“Would I be able to see the recording of the incident?”

---later---

I watch as the group that the perpetrator was with enter the bar. They consist of 8 Humans (6 Sapiens, a Tshwane and our Neanderthal perp) a Felis, a R’qali and a woman of a species I don’t recognise but that the metadata informs me is called ‘Don’.

The Neanderthal carries an enormous cartoonified rodent plushie. Looks like a prize from somewhere. I make a mental note to check nearby amusement parks and arcades for any that recall an orange haired Human winning a top prize, yesterday.

I watch at 3× speed, still able to comprehend every word spoken at that table (a talent I acquired almost by accident, in my youth).

I slow it down to normal speed, every time a drink is purchased by or for the Neanderthal, watching for any evidence that any of the drinks were tampered with, in any way, either while being poured, on their way from the bar or at the table. I see nothing!

I watch as the girl’s biometrics steadily progress, more or less perfectly tracking the symptoms of yeast toxicosis.

Then, it starts.

I pause, wind back a few seconds and bring the hologram feed down to 1.5× normal (which feels positively glacial after all that time on 3×).

The table belonging to the group is occupied by 5 people: The R’qali is sat by the window, nesting on top of the perp’s rodent toy placed on the table, an East Asian woman (Japanese if her language is anything to go by) is sat directly across from a copper haired, white man (British, if I’m placing his accent right) talking up a storm about nothing in particular. The Don woman is sat on one side of the Brit and the Neanderthal (now looking thoroughly spacey) is sat on the other side of the East Asian.

“Because Superman is already a subversion!” declares the Brit “If immediately becomin’ a massive arsehole is what you’d expect someone to do with unlimited power, then ‘what if he was good’ is a subversion! ‘What if Superman was actually a massive prick’ unsubverts him, don’t it!”

The R’qali seems to, at this point, notice that there’s something up with the Neanderthal.

“Ms Hunter…?” she says, her concerned voice raised to a loud enough volume that it (mercifully) causes the Brit to shut up about bad Superman media and every eye to turn to the woman on the verge of a psychotic rampage.

The orange haired woman raises a fist into the air… and slams it down into the sturdy, Terran table.

Her hammer blow cracks the table in half! The Brit and the Don manage to react fast enough that their legs aren’t under it when it falls.

The Japanese is not so lucky. She lets out a bloodcurdling scream of pain as the table comes down and, according to the annotation at least, breaks her leg.

The R’qali is able to dismount the plushie fast enough to avoid sliding into the middle of the table with it.

The Brit, Don and Neanderthal are all on their feet, the Japanese writhes in pain on the bench.

The Neanderthal’s posture, movements and facial expression have all taken on a wild, animalistic nature!

“She’s been drugged!” announces the Brit (almost correctly) with zero hesitation “Everyone get OUT of here! It’s not safe!!!” he shout’s authoritatively at the dancefloor mostly filled with fragile Thruljex.

If the Terran group planned this, they’re doing a fantastic job of pretending it’s taken them completely by surprise!

Most of those on the dancefloor, sensibly, make for the exit. Unfortunately, the movement catches the attention of the psychotic Neanderthal who whips her head in that direction before letting out a deafening, guttural roar.

Leaping cleanly over the outside table half, the woman barrels toward the fleeing crowd, inducing a panic which causes several annotations of trampling related injuries being sustained to pop up.

The Brit was hot on her heal but never would have caught up to her if it weren’t for a tall, sturdy looking, blonde woman who’s barrelling in the opposite direction from the dancefloor.

The two of them collide and the blonde is sent flying. She impacts a pillar and sustains a broken back. The Neanderthal is barely slowed but the Brit is just about able to catch her ankles by launching himself to the ground, causing her to fall forward.

From the way that blonde went flying, I think it’s safe to assume that the Neanderthal has the strength to free herself from the Brit’s grasp but her legs just aren’t long enough to allow her the leverage to escape his long arms.

There follows several long seconds of enraged thrashing with the Brit hanging on for dear life.

At this point one of the staff takes control of the wall mounted taser (meant for Terrans who utter phrases such as ‘hold my beer’) and directs it to target the frenzied woman. Quick thinking!

There’s a *paff* but, unbelievably, the woman’s hand reflexively shoots out to snatch the prongs out of the air before they make contact!

Thousands of volts arc, harmlessly, between the spikes that ought to be buried in her flesh!

What the hell has this woman done to get reflexes like that!?

The woman eventually manages to free herself from the Brit’s grasp and get to her feet but, thankfully, by that point, almost all the gardenworlders have managed to evacuate the bar.

The next several minutes are spent with the Don, the Tshwane, the Brit and two Swahilis, who look like they might be siblings, carefully trying to corral the feral woman, keeping her away from the women whose leg and back she’s broken. The Felis and a small Sapiens woman who were with the group wisely (in my view) chose not to involve themselves in the containment, evacuating with the gardenworlders so as to put themselves out of harm’s way.

The R’qali decided to do the same by the simple expedient of flying to the balcony overlooking the dancefloor and perching on its railing.

A lot of property damage occurs!

One by one the containment group all sustain debilitating injuries. Having neutralised each one she makes no move to finish them off but, given her apparent mental state, I think it’s safe to say that’s no act of mercy, being, instead, logic that would have made sense to a her, in her psychosis, but, I’m sure, wouldn’t be coherent to anyone else. Maybe she just doesn’t realise that they’re still alive?

The Brit’s the last one standing but he’s taken several heavy blows and is unable to move quickly enough to stop her charging her way straight through a brick wall, leaping down to the street, 4m below.

He follows and I switch over to the feed from outside.

She spends a long time stamping around the street picking on objects that she seems to think deserve her ire.

I see her bring down that streetlamp by punching it!

The Brit shadows her at a distance but she seems to have either not noticed or decided he isn’t worth her time.

She’s almost run out of steam when a task force of Terran Suppression Officers show up on floating platforms (wisely staying far enough from the ground to not be in jumping range) and armed with tranq rifles.

The Brit rushes forward and grabs the Neanderthal, immobilising her for the Guards to take aim.

A shower of darts fall on the pair as the woman fights to be free. Most miss, striking the ground, a few hit the Brit, but enough manage to find their mark.

The woman slowly loses her fight and slumps, limply, to the ground, shortly followed by the man.