Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fillmore pressed his back against the cold, grimy wall, inhaling rough drafts of air in a frantic endeavor to steady his pounding heart. Ingrid was next to him, her fearful expression mirroring his own growing trepidation, which was starting to approach utter terror. He couldn't help himself and turned his head to glance over at her, where a wave of admiration washed over him. Even though she was petrified, she had kept her head high and had not once wavered in her resolve.

"Alrighty, I am going to be real nice here to y'all and give you one last chance to 'fess up," the gruff voice in front of them spoke, "What in tarnation are you two doing here, mucking up my business and spooking all my customers off?"

"That's... That's none of your business, Steiner," Ingrid managed to spit out, "We're not even here for you."

"Though we will be after we're done here, considering how you're running an illegal..."

"Roughhousing Club?" one of the few remaining members asked incredulously, "Reckon this place was gonna be the hub of Jacky-boy's latest wild shindig 'til you meddlesome law-keepers showed up and ruined the party for everybody else!"

"Darn it, Benny!" Jack snapped as he took his attention off Fillmore and Ingrid for a moment, "I swear, it's like I gotta remind you every day. Rule number one of Roughhousing Club: don't talk about Roughhousing Club, ever! ‘Specially not to the fuzz! Got it imprinted on your brain or do I need to get out the sharpie and doodle it on your forehead?"

“But I just have to share the story about when I gave that one fella the ol' boot from the ring; he was launched so high he got a front-row seat in the stands! The best part was seeing him hobblin' around school the next week with all them crutches!”

"Well, I reckon that you don't wanna be sitting in detention for the next ten years, now do ya? That's what'll happen if you keep opening your yap about this here place!”

“But-”

Jack and Benny's voices were quickly rising in decibels as their disagreement intensified. Fillmore, who had been watching the exchange with a sense of dread, turned his head to the side and spotted his walkie-talkie, which was resting only a short distance away from him. It seemed to dare him to take the distraction and snatch it, but was that wise? He paused for a moment, weighing out the consequences of his next move, the internal struggle continuing until, finally, a voice came from behind him.

“Do it.”

Fillmore was all too aware of the certainties of life; death, taxes, and the unwavering loyalty of his partner, Ingrid. Even when it meant bending the occasional rule, he could always count on her to have his back. Yet, he was uncertain if he was worthy of such devotion. She deserved more than to be confronted by some deranged individual whose actions, along with his southern dialect, were increasingly reminiscent of a particular ex-sheriff from a Safety Patrol different from his own.

She’d probably say the same thing to him; how they were both stuck in an unforgiving system that seemed to lack any sort of redemption or reprieve. Life had become a struggle between what is right and wrong, and many times they had both toe-dipped in the murky waters of morality. While he would never go back to a life of crime, Fillmore had to admit that the life of a patroller was tiring, both physically and mentally. He had seen and experienced the worst of his classmates, from the occasional white-collar crime to the more complicated criminal activities that would make even the most hardened of the old-time gangsters from the movies he used to watch blush.

Claudius and his heinous actions against Officer Tehama were still fresh in Fillmore’s mind. It was the latest in what seemed to be an unending cycle of new lows that X Middle's student body had somehow managed to sink to, like a ship caught in a whirlpool of its own making. If chemistry poisoners ran amok now, what would X be like in ten years? The thought was almost too much to bear, a terrifying glimpse into a future where the students had utterly given up on any semblance of order. It was a chilling prospect, making him wonder if Ingrid and he were the only hope X had at all of being safe on any given day.

Fillmore cautiously adjusted his stance and crept closer to the device, mentally preparing to grab it and make a desperate call for much-needed backup. His mind raced as he thought of the many ‘distract them’ maneuvers he had successfully executed in the past, yet something about Steiner made his skin prickle and his stomach churn with unease. Something in the crook’s eyes, a glint of malice as he stared down his lackey, stirred a memory deep within him, a memory of a past he had long since tried to forget.

And as for the lackey? Neither he nor his partner were expert profilers, but Benny seemed to be of the typical sort. A fool whose only talent seemed to be his ability to follow orders, ready to do whatever despicable deed his master desired. He seemed little more than a tool to be used and discarded, a pawn to be moved here and there in whatever sick, twisted game Steiner had in mind. But even then there was something off-putting about him that gave Fillmore the same shivers. As if his mere presence was an omen of something far more sinister than what met the eye.

Now, if only he could reach…

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Snap.

“I don’t remember saying you could mosey on out of here,” Jack sneered, pushing Fillmore back against the wall with Ingrid, ”Quite the opposite, actually. Thought I made it plumb clear when I told y’all to stay put. But that’s the problem with the lot of you. It's like you have a sixth sense, findin' your way into messes. There's no call for it, you just seem to gravitate toward it like a rattlesnake to a mouse, a buckaroo to his bull, a wild stallion to a-”

“We get the picture,” Ingrid interjected, “But, as I’ve mentioned before, we’re not here for you.”

Jack chuckled and crossed his arms over his broad chest, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, and who might you be here for? I was unaware that we were running a latchkey operation for lost little children as well. Does someone need to call their mommy and ask them to come pick them up?”

"You know who we're looking for," Fillmore said through clenched teeth. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving the other man's, and continued, “I don't know what you did to him, but we both know that you have him. And guess what, baby? Neither of us are going to leave until he’s back safe with us.”

“How about neither of you leave… period?” Jack replied as he reached up to his shoulder with both hands, hefting the strap of his backpack over his head and setting it down on the ground with a thump, his fingers quickly rummaging through it to find what he was searching for. His hands seemed to latch onto something and he triumphantly lifted it up and held it out in front of him.

Ingrid’s eyes widened as she peered into the beaker Jack had pulled out, which was filled with a strange, green liquid. The color, though vibrant, seemed almost unnatural, and she couldn't help but feel a hint of trepidation as she inspected it. Tentatively, she asked, "A beaker? What did you put in it?”

“Like I'd ever tell you. There's no way in the seventh ring of hades that I'm gonna let either of you get away with what you saw, so I'm gonna fix this situation up real good. I don't know precisely what's in this here jar, but some feller who did a raid on the Chemistry Club gave it to me as payment for lettin' him take part in the tussles.”

“Crackers, wasn’t there some unsolved case like that last month? The one where half their supplies were stolen, with the perpetrator never being caught? Everyone thought it was Claudius, but seeing as he’s currently serving an indefinite sentence in juvie…”

"At least we know whoever did that has some sort of connection to this place. But if you ask me, I’m getting rather sick of Chemistry as a whole. First, we had to deal with that so-called 'genius' and his whole attitude of thinking he was better than everybody else. Now, we’re being threatened by a deranged madman with a beaker full of who knows what. What is it? Some kind of toxic waste? A deadly virus? I don't even want to know.”

"Like it or not, Officer Fillmore," Jack said, his southern drawl thick in the air, "you're gonna find out one way or another. Now, I'm not gonna tell you what I'm thinking 'cause that's half the fun. The other half is deciding who gets the honor of being my personal guinea pig out of the two of you. Isn't life just grand?”

Fillmore and Ingrid instinctively both put their arms up in front of each other, as if their arms were an impenetrable fortress that could keep out any danger that threatened their partner. As their arms stepped forward in a valiant effort to guard one from the unknown, their eyes locked and a silent understanding passed between them. A connection that said ‘I will protect you, don’t worry about me’.

“Aw, ain’t that sweet? You two really do care about something else other than those gaudy gold badges y’all are so proud of wearing. It's almost enough to make me forget the fact that you’re a pair of bumbling officers who can't seem to stay out of trouble. I mean, if you can't even handle the simplest of tasks without breaking something of value in this school, then it's a wonder you have the nerve to stand there and attempt to look authoritative.”

“Leave Ingrid out of this, Steiner.”

“If you think that's gonna happen, you got another thing comin'! I'll leave out whoever I darn well please! Speaking of which, I think it’s time we get to the main attraction. Eenie…”

Before Jack could say anything else, a mysterious figure leaped from the shadows in a flurry of motion. Eyes of vivid intensity blazed with a fierce determination, and with a graceful sweep, they stepped between Ingrid and Fillmore, shielding them with their arms extended wide. Though Ingrid and Fillmore were somewhat taken aback by the sudden appearance of this stranger, Jack seemed only slightly perturbed. His gaze never faltered, nor did his posture waiver despite the unanticipated company.

“Get out of the way, Greystone.”

“Alistair!”

"Hey, Officer Fillmore," Alistair replied, his voice laced with a subtle sense of apprehension. He glanced back over his shoulder, giving a weak smile that was void of any form of genuine emotion, “Gee, it would've been swell to get together under different circumstances, but it looks like somebody's got a bone to pick with Third and you. Which means they’ve got a bone to pick with me by default.”

“No, it doesn’t. This ain't your fight, and you know it.”

“The boy’s right, Greystone. You know the rules, your shift starts in two hours and you don’t have any business being here any sooner than that. You and I both know the kind of trouble that one can cause when they get too involved in affairs that don't concern them.”

"I can come and go as I please!" Alistair said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Jack's expression was one of skepticism, his eyes narrowing as he took in Alistair's defiant stance. "Well, isn't that a sorry sight? I was so certain we had a deal. You were to follow my every order, yet here you stand, rebelling against me. Do you think that's acceptable, or have you simply forgotten the pact we made?”

“I only made it because you didn’t give me a choice in the matter! Leave Fillmore and Third out of this, they're innocent! I'm the one that pulled them into this mess, it's on me that they're here, so I'm gonna take the heat for it. Just like I did last time. You got any problem with that?”

“I sure as heck do!” Fillmore exclaimed, “Alistair, what do you think you’re doing , man? You don’t have to be this guy’s personal scapegoat for our choices! Ingrid and I chose to come here.”

“Yeah, because of me.”

“What are you trying to get at, Greystone? That you'd saddle up and take the brunt of their misdeeds? That's as generous an offer as I've ever heard if that's what you're proposing. But it seems to me like you've forgotten your worth to me, partner. Now, I know that you ain't worth nothing in the grand scheme of things, but I reckon that these here two would ruin our whole operation if they were to skedaddle after catching a glimpse of what they did."

Jack, ever the sly one, seized his chance in an instant. With a decisive motion, he flung the mysterious beaker high into the air, sending it soaring over Alistair’s head. He gave Alistair a demented grin as he watched it make its way toward Ingrid, who stood frozen like a deer in the middle of somebody’s headlights. Fillmore gasped, ready to throw himself in front of her if need be, but Alistair had already beaten him to it. With a mighty leap, he sailed through the air, his arms stretched outwards in an attempt to deflect the oncoming projectile. Alas, his heroic moment came to an end as soon as it started because the beaker was now hurtling toward his face instead of his arms like he had intended.

It seemed like an eternity before the two forces collided, the glass from the beaker shattering into a million pieces upon contact and spreading its contents all over Alistair’s face, especially his eyes.

A blood-curdling scream ripped through the air like a banshee's wail and Alistair’s body crumpled to the floor, shaking and trembling violently. His hands started clawing at his face desperately, albeit futilely, in a frenzied attempt to get the liquid from the beaker out of his eyes.

“OW! IT BURNS! GET IT OUT!” he cried out in agony, his voice filled with a fervor that shook Ingrid and Fillmore to their very cores.

The two dropped to his side, their faces twisted in a combination of shock and horror, “Alistair!”

Alistair's breathing was shallow and erratic, accompanied by deep, racking sobs that shook his body. He could barely force out a few words between his sobs, which ended up being a desperate plea for help. "Officers, I'm in so much pain! My face...It feels like it's on fire! I can't see! Please, I’m begging you, make it stop!”

“We’re staying right here,” Ingrid whispered, pulling his body into a gentle embrace, “Fillmore, where’s-”

Her voice faded to a whisper as she looked up, her eyes widening in disbelief. At that moment, the air in the room seemed to come to a complete standstill, as if it was holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come. The only sound that could be heard was the quiet sobbing of Alistair, his hands trembling as he continued to try to rub the mysterious liquid, most likely some kind of acid, out of his eyes.

“Crackers. He’s gone.”

Fillmore looked up and his eyes narrowed darkly with a kind of menacing fury, sweeping across the room and taking in every corner, every crevice, and every shadow in search of Jack Steiner. But now he was gone; vanished from the room like a ghost in the night, leaving only the bitter tang of malevolence lingering in the air.

“He thinks he can get away with this?!” Fillmore growled. His normally calm demeanor had been replaced with a composed fury, rage bubbling within him and threatening to boil over. As if sensing the intensity of the situation, a sharp whimper from Alistair rang through the air, causing Fillmore's gaze to instinctively land on the wounded boy. He felt his anger fizzle out as he took in the sight of his friend’s face, “Hey… Hey, buddy. I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

He was supposed to protect Alistair from this. But here he was, unable to do anything as he watched X’s resident psychic rub their face in an attempt to soothe the gruesome burn marks that had already begun to manifest. Even though the clawing had stopped, it was no less stomach-churning to witness.

“Everything hurts… please, make it stop…”

The number one unspoken rule of the safety patrol kept echoing through Fillmore's mind like a mantra. It was a simple, yet important, task; protect the innocent and the guilty alike, take no sides, and shelter them from any and all forms of harm. 

But here, at this moment, he had failed.

His mind couldn't help but wander to Officer Frank Bishop, who had been one of the best profilers the patrol had ever seen. Sadly, even the most brilliant of minds weren't immune to the unexpected, and Officer Bishop had met his downfall during what had been dubbed 'The Gazpacho Incident'. Forcibly stripped of his position, Frank had become disgraced and forgotten, with his once-proud career reduced to a mere shadow of its former grandeur. While he had been recently reinstated back into the patrol following a crusade from one Junior Commissioner Vallejo, It was a stark and unforgiving reminder that a single misjudgment could have dire consequences for those not following that unspoken, yet essential rule.

Fillmore, however, never cared much for fame or prestige. He was aware of the transient nature of his own existence, along with the fact that his name would be lost to the hallways of his soon-to-be former school like so many others before him in a few years. After all, hardly anybody in the patrol spoke of those that had been before him unless it directly related to a case or a task that needed attending, why would he be any different? The Chestnuts were the only patrollers truly remembered, a fact that had been accepted as the status quo until recently. With Robert’s egregious misdeeds and Peter joining the barbershop quartet, what had once been a symbol of courage and justice would now become a relic of a bygone era.

No, the prospect of losing his status and having his name slowly fade away into obscurity over time was not what was gnawing at his soul and putting his goat through the wringer. What was truly tearing him apart was the knowledge that someone had been hurt on his watch because of his inaction.

What possible reason could he have for making such an inexcusable mistake? Even if the person responsible brought up a past that he’d rather forget about, was it really alright that he chose to do nothing and ignore his responsibility? The pain of watching someone suffer was surely greater than the memory he was trying to suppress, yet he had allowed it to happen anyway. But he still had to do something, no matter how small, to provide some kind of consoling.

“We’re not leaving your side,” he said, his voice as steady as he could make it. He turned to Ingrid, seeking her support. “Right, Ingrid? …Ingrid?”

But Ingrid was focused on neither him nor Alistair. Instead, her gaze was transfixed upon some of the make-shift bleachers that stood by the walls. Without warning, she shot up from her position and raced towards Fillmore's walkie-talkie. She threw it at him with a ferocity that could only be described as superhuman, with him barely managing to duck out of the way in time.

“Yo, mama! What the heck do you think you’re-”

She paid no attention to him as she made a sharp turn, heading for the bleachers. At that moment, a figure burst out from the shadows in a flurry of movement, their feet pounding the concrete ground as they raced towards the doors. But she, Ingrid Third, was not giving up the chase that easily. She gave one last surge forward and slammed into them hard, which ended up knocking them back to the floor with a thunderous crash.

“Going somewhere, Benny?”

“Get off of me, you crooked patroller!”

“I think I’m comfortable where I’m at.”

Fillmore couldn't help but allow a slight smile to creep onto his face as he watched Jack squirm beneath the oppressive weight of Ingrid, who had gracefully perched atop him like an eagle eyeing its prey.

“Heh, serves him right.”

“Fillmore…” Alistair groaned.

Right, that.

He turned around and gingerly reached for the walkie-talkie that had been flung across the room by Ingrid's near-Herculian strength, hoping that she hadn’t broken it. Drawing in a deep breath, he pushed down on the button.

“Hello? Is anyone there? We need backup down here, ASAP!”

Silence reigned, until finally…

“T…Tehama spe…spe…” a deep, contemplative sigh came from the other line before Tehama continued, her voice heavy with weariness, “What do you want, Fillmore? And where ex…exactly is here ?”

“Tehama! Don't ask how, but we've managed to get a lead on Steiner's hideout. He got away but Ingrid managed to nab Benny Scott, the local hype man of the operation,” Fillmore replied before his gaze fell to the broken shards of the chemistry beaker, “but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. You know Alistair? The guy we’ve been trying to track down? Don’t know why, but he got in the middle of it and got a face full of some unknown substance. We don't know what it is, but judging by the pain he's in, it appears to be some kind of acid from one of the chemistry labs.”

“It hurts so much…” Alistair said with a quavering voice, his face contorted with pain.

“I know, buddy, I know,” Fillmore said as he gently rubbed Alistair’s back. He went back to the walkie-talkie, “Did you get all of that?”

“Uh-huh. I can hear him from all the way over here.”

“Then do you think you can call 911 and tell them to meet us down by Room 119?”

“Rog…Roger that.”

“Great.”

Fillmore slowly placed the walkie-talkie back into his pocket, its fading static a haunting reminder of the uncertainty that lingered in the air. He let out a heavy sigh and slowly shifted his gaze to Alistair. His soulful eyes may have been hidden behind his round glasses, but the deep sadness that stained his expression was still palpable.

“Hey, you’re going to be okay now.”

“... Thanks, officer…”

There it was again, officer. It was an honorific title, one that was bestowed upon most members of the Safety Patrol. Yet, despite the status and the perceived prestige that came with the title, along with Alistair's determination to call Ingrid and him by it whenever the opportunity arose, Fillmore's feelings of honor were anything but.

----

Fillmore's feet kicked nervously against the floor as he sat in one of the waiting room's plush chairs, his gaze transfixed by the pristine white walls that surrounded him. Despite his inner turmoil, however, the atmosphere of the room was one of stillness and tranquility, only broken occasionally by the distant rumble of thunder beyond the window behind him. It was as if the storm raging within his heart had somehow manifested itself into the natural world.

The cheery 'Get Well Soon!' card in his hand felt like an ironic taunt, a cruel jest that only served as a reminder of what could have been if only he had made different decisions. While it was a rather uninspiring message given the circumstances, the pharmacy seemed to have run out of the more appropriate, ’Sorry You Took a Beaker Full of Acid to the Face Because I Wasn’t Fast Enough to Save My Own Partner’ cards.

It seemed that in this moment of tragedy, the only offerings were bland, generic words of condolence.

“Hey.”

Fillmore looked up to see Ingrid standing next to his chair and he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as his eyes met hers. Although the circumstances that had brought them together were far from ideal, her presence brought a soft reprieve, a solace from the harshness of the world that seemed to have been thrust upon them.

“Hey,” he replied, “Did you get the…”

Ingrid held out the Abra plush. “Yep. I went and talked to the Astrology Club, and they said that this was his favorite Pokemon. I don’t know why or how they know that, but they seemed to be pretty sure about it. Did you get the card?”

“You got it, mama. Too bad they didn’t have anything for our situation…”

An oppressive stillness settled between them, and Ingrid carefully settled herself in the chair adjacent to him, almost as if to not disturb the fragile peace that hung between them and the rest of the waiting room.

“This isn’t your fault, you know.”

“What do you mean, it's not my fault? I can't believe I let myself get caught up like that. Not every southern guy with a nasty attitude is going to be Thrift. Sure, Steiner might be a tad worse than Thrift depending on who you ask, but... I let my fears take advantage of me and now Alistair’s paying the price. All because I was too scared to do what was right.”

“Fillmore, you’re not the only person who was there. I mean, I was there too. I could’ve stepped in and done something, but I just stood back. And I’ve never even had the displeasure of meeting Thrift, so I don’t have the ‘reminded me of something traumatizing that happened’ excuse.”

“I shouldn’t have that excuse either! Thrift was Wayne’s battle, Wayne’s trauma, not mine. Why did I let myself get so tied up over it?”

"Maybe because you’re upset that Thrift hurt him?” Ingrid asked, “It’s a no-brainer to know that you care about Wayne and, judging by what you’ve told me, the ex-sheriff really did a number on him. It’s understandable that you’d be affected by it too.”

“I guess. But it’s still tough to accept the fact that I’m partially responsible for causing someone pain.”

“At least you have a justifiable excuse for your inaction. I could have moved, could have taken action, could have saved myself. But I just stood there. If it hadn't been for Alistair jumping in and taking the blow, you would have been the one lying in a hospital bed right now. In case you weren’t aware, photographic memory is far more of a curse than you could ever assume. It’s hard enough having to constantly relive what happened with Alistair, but do you know how much harder it would be for me to have to look back at you in a similar state of distress, never able to forget it, no matter how much I tried? I could never forgive myself for that. Heck, I can’t even forgive myself now.”

“Neither can I.”

The door swung open with a creaking sound, and a doctor stepped out into the waiting room, his face an unreadable mask of professionalism. Ingrid and Fillmore held their collective breath as they watched him stride towards them.

"You two are here for Alistair Greystone, correct?" the man asked.

“Uh, yeah. Guy came here in pretty rough shape, I imagine.”

“You would be correct. The good news is that we've managed to treat the chemical burns so no lasting scarring should occur. It may take a couple of weeks for the wounds to mend, but Mr. Greystone will soon be as right as rain regarding that aspect of his recovery.”

“What’s… the bad news?” Ingrid asked.

“I'm sorry to say this, but the bad news is that part of the reason why he won't scar is due to where the damage was localized. His eyes took the most damage from the attack and we've tried everything in our power to save them, but the injuries were just too severe. I’m afraid that we had to make the difficult decision to… to…”

“To what?!” Fillmore asked. 

“To remove his eyes to prevent any further damage."

Chapter Text

Time seemed to stretch out before Fillmore and Ingrid like an endless, oppressive void, leaving them with nothing but silence and the all-consuming thoughts of the doctor's life-altering words. Even with the presence of one another, the feeling of uncertainty and anxiety was palpable, with the weight of the situation looming over them like a dark cloud.

Alistair was... blind.

“Dawg, that can’t be right,” Fillmore said, his voice barely a whisper, "Alistair can’t be blind. You talk about him recovering, but how is he going to recover when he can't see a thing?!"

The doctor sighed, “I know it sounds harsh, but this was the best option to ensure that Mr. Greystone could fully recover without having to worry about further injury. He'll regain the ability to do everyday tasks with time, even though it'll likely require different methods than he was used to before. That being said, he was in an unusually chipper mood this morning when we were checking up on him. It could be a side-effect of the painkillers we've been giving him, but it may also be due to his inherent resilience. He might be blind, but he's certainly not down for the count."

"I find that hard to believe."

“Fillmore…” Ingrid said softly as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, "You and I both know that doctors can't do everything. They might not have been able to provide us with some kind of miracle, but they’re the reason that Alistair isn't still in unending misery from his face slowly being burned off. Thanks to my photographic memory, I’m never going to be able to get that scene out of my head.”

Fillmore shuddered, the horrid image of Alistair's broken figure writhing on the ground still fresh in his mind.

“You’re not the only one, mama. But I believe we’ve talked enough about the baggage we'll be lugging around to our future therapists. Can we see Alistair? We’ve got some stuff we’d like to give him and… some apologies that need to be made. That is if he'll still be willing to talk to us after all that's happened. Can't say I'd blame him if he never wanted to speak to either of us again.”

“Quite the opposite, he's been asking about you two non-stop, so I think he would be thrilled to see you both. He's in Room 309, but I have to warn you that he has been sleeping a great deal following the procedure. If you wish, you may leave any items you wish to give him behind and return at a later time when he is more alert.“

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Fillmore said.

The two patrollers slowly made their way down the hallway of the hospital and down to Room 309, their feet dragging against the cold tile floor as if weighed down by an invisible burden. The walls beside them were a blank canvas of white paint, the only thing that broke the dull and dreary monotony of their surroundings being the occasional framed painting of a pastoral landscape.

“They sure know how to spruce this joint up.”

“What were you expecting? It’s a hospital, not some kind of crazy after-school party.”

"Yeah, yeah, I know that was a dumb joke," Fillmore said with a rueful smile, "But I was just trying to lighten the mood and take our minds off the fact that we're… we’re…”

“A bunch of idiots who can’t do their job properly? We're here because we did something incredibly stupid and now we have to face the consequences. We can't undo what we've done, or rather… what we didn’t do. What I didn’t do."

“Don’t tell me you still blame yourself for this. You didn't do anything wrong."

“Maybe not, but I still didn’t do anything right, either. Besides, somebody has to take the blame for this. I’m not letting it be you.”

"I'm not letting it be you, either. We both had our part in this and I won't let you shoulder the burden alone, so if you have to accept responsibility, then I do too. Either we're both at fault or neither one of us is."

Ingrid sighed and shook her head. "You're not making this easy for either of us, are you? But I understand why you want to take the blame; it's how I feel, too. We had one job, which was to protect Alistair and rescue him from whatever mess he got himself stuck in this time. But in spite of having all the resources and skills at our disposal, we still failed miserably and let him down. I let him down."

“There you go again with that ‘I’ stuff,” Fillmore said in exasperation, “We're a team. There’s no I when it comes to playing the blame game.”

“I know you don’t blame me. But you should.”

Fillmore opened his mouth to retort, but as he glanced ahead, he saw that they had already arrived at their destination: Room 309. A chill ran down his spine as he slowly reached a hand towards the doorknob, not sure if he was ready to face what was waiting behind that door.

“Officer Fillmore? Third? Is that you?”

That voice…

It was unmistakably Alistair's, yet how could he have known who was standing outside the door?

Ingrid didn't seem too caught up in the how of it, however, as her hand swiftly grabbed the door knob without hesitation. She took a deep breath, and opened the door, ready to face whatever was on the other side.

As expected, Alistair was in the room and casually reclining on the cot. But what neither of them had expected to see was the thick layer of bandages that had been meticulously wrapped around his upper face, right where his eyes used to be. It was a strange sight to behold, but in retrospect, it was something that Fillmore and Ingrid should have anticipated given the circumstances.

“Hey guys,” he said, trying to inject a bit of levity into the situation, “I knew you’d come to visit me eventually, I’m glad to see that you’re both okay.”

"Hey, man. How are you holding up?" Fillmore managed to ask.

“I’ve been doing alright, all things considered. I’m none too pleased about having my eyes removed, but the painkillers they’ve been giving me here do a pretty bang-up job of taking away the sting from having my face nearly burned off. How're tricks with you two?

“We’ve been fine. But… we got you something.”

Alistair seemed to take notice of the object Ingrid was delicately holding in her hands and a pleased smile spread across his face. “Hey, is that an Abra plushie? How did you know that’s my favorite Pokemon?”

Fillmore couldn't help but cock his head in confusion, his brow furrowing in a mix of disbelief and curiosity. "Whoa, wait a minute. How could you possibly identify that? You're blind, you've got bandages over where your eyes used to be, how do you know exactly what it is? You’ve got some kind of superpower that I don’t know about?”

“I just might,” Alistair replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. He slowly shifted in the cot, turning his head towards the pearly white mattress sheets. His fingers curled around the edge of the cot and he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before continuing. “To tell you the truth, there’s something I’ve been keeping from you. I know what the doctors said, but… I’m not actually blind. At least not in the traditional sense.”

“You had your eyes removed. How can you possibly still see?”

“Gee whiz, Officer Third, I'm as much in the dark as you. All I remember is going unconscious from the pain and then waking up. Everything around me was a bit blurry and fuzzy, but I could still see stuff. Then the doctors came in and started talking about having to remove my eyes and that’s why everything was dark. When I said I could yet see as plain as day, they thought I was just seeing things from the medicine. Figuratively, I mean. So I assumed I was and that it’d go away. But guessing by the Abra plushie and the looks I’m getting from you two, this isn’t some kind of weird hallucination.”

“Dawg, how…” Fillmore trailed off as his mouth dropped open in shock. He couldn't wrap his mind around what Alistair had just said and turned to his partner in disbelief. "You don't think he's..."

"Faking it? Not a chance. He knew precisely what the plushie was, and as you oh-so-delicately pointed out earlier, he's got bandages around his eyes. If he was really blind, he wouldn't be able to identify it even if we were dangling it right in front of him. So, no. I highly doubt he's pretending.”

“But psychic powers don’t exist! He’s supposed to be X’s phony psychic, a fraud! Not an actual psychic who can somehow ‘see’ despite not having eyes!”

“Hey! I can own up to the fact that I may have been a bit of a four-flusher in my past, but didn't I tell you guys that I used to have psychic powers way back when? Don't know how or why I lost them, but the whole Lobstee debacle made me figure that I was better off sticking my alleged dream career in the drawer along with all my other pipe dreams and fantastical notions that I had, like wanting to be a rodeo clown.”

“What’s wrong with being a rodeo clown?”

“I’m afraid of clowns,” Alistair sheepishly responded, “but I’m getting ahead of myself here. My psychic powers coming back has to be about the only reason I can still see. Oughta be tickled pink about this, but… but I ain't. I had just about given up on them coming back, and now they show up again out of thin air? When it was them that caused Steiner to give me a hard time in the first place?"

“What was that?” Ingrid asked.

“About?”

“Steiner. Why did he drag you into his little operation anyway?”

“Because of my powers, of course! He was going to use me to predict the match-ups. That way, he could make people place bets on the losing person and get rich off of some unfortunate sap. He said if I didn’t assist him, he’d find some way to take the two of you along for the ride as a 'let your steam out on an officer who apprehended you' kind of deal. I couldn’t let that happen to the two people who made me realize that I was going down the wrong path. Sorry to break your trust like that, especially after the mess I made in the past.”

“It’s not your fault,” Fillmore said, “There's a big difference between choosing to jump and being pushed into jumping. Sounds like you got pushed. If anything, I'm sorry that we couldn't be there to lend you a hand earlier. You were crying out for help, but there was nobody around to listen to you.”

"Aw, don't say that. You guys showed up when it mattered, right?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ingrid mused, “You still got hurt, that doesn't sound like some kind of 'successful rescue' to me."

"Maybe, but now everybody who's not corrupt or on the hush-hush knows about Steiner. What'll happen to him, anyway? There’s no way he can get off scot-free with his skullduggery and all the trouble he's caused... can he?

"That all depends on when law enforcement can track him down. Go figure that he'd go and raise a huge stink and then disappear into thin air like he's some crooked version of Houdini or something. Right now we've been trying to do our part and interrogate one of his cronies, but they’re not spilling. It's almost like they’ve been trained to resist our interrogation techniques.”

“That’s usually how it goes,” Alistair mumbled, “Steiner had this strict rule that if the fuzz had any questions for you, you were expected to say nothing, do nothing, and act as if you'd never even heard of him. That’s part of the reason I was nervous to come forward. While I didn't know what Steiner was capable of or who he had working for him, I knew from experience that he had a few shady characters orbiting his circle of influence. You know, the kind of people that would do anything for a few bucks. So, I figured I was better off keeping my head low and doing whatever Steiner told me to do because it was probably better than whatever alternative he had in mind for double-crossers.”

"Trust me, I know what it's like to feel like you have no control over your own life. And yet, here I am, wondering why I didn't see what was happening in time. How could I have let you get to a place where you were so desperate, so alone, that you felt like giving up was your only viable option?” Fillmore asked as he rubbed his head, “If not me, then somebody should have noticed. Somebody should have seen the signs and done something about it before it escalated this far. But nobody did, and I don’t like that one bit.”

“Fillmore’s right. We’re not the only people in the school.”

“You two are great, you know that? Real great. You might not be the only people in the school, but you’re the only people here who actually cared. You’re the only people who see me as an actual person and not some psychic with the forecasting game of a groundhog on Groundhog Day! Everyone loves me for what I predict, not who I am. I thought I wanted to be a psychic and to leave it at that, but I've been rethinking a lot of things.”

“The Astrology Club seems to be fond of you,” Ingrid remarked as she held the Abra plushie out to Alistair, “they were the ones to suggest getting you this.”

Alistair gracefully accepted the gift, snuggling the plushie tightly against his chest as he continued to speak. “Oh, them? Yeah, they’re alright. But they’ve got the same problem that everyone else does; they act as if I’m nothing more than some kind of crystal ball. Like I'm only valuable to have around because I can predict stuff. But you, you get me. You took the time to come and visit me and to get me something you knew I'd like. The Astrology Club didn’t do that, did they?”

"You do have a point there, but what I don't understand is why you still insist on looking up to me. You didn't have to jump in there and take that beaker of acid; I could have done something and yet I didn't. What is it that you find so admirable in me? What’s so admirable about someone who has failed?”

“Because, Officer Third-”

“You don’t have to keep calling me that. Ingrid’s fine.”

“Alright, Ingrid. Someone had to do something. I mean, I inadvertently led both of you down to that place, so there was no way I was going to let either of you get hurt to top it off! Steiner’s still out there somewhere and… and…” Alistair's voice trailed off as he gently traced the stitching of the plushie with his finger, “and I want to help you.”

“Help?” Fillmore asked, “Dawg, you can’t seriously be considering…”.

“I am! That creep said he wouldn't lay a finger on you guys if I complied, but the way he came close to crossing that line makes it personal. And besides, I'm not just some poor chump caught up in the chaos; I'm a witness to a crime, an asset! I'd be a proper milksop to turn the other cheek and let him get off scot-free with what he did. What do you say?”

“Before I answer that, can someone explain to me what the heck a milksop is? I'm a little confused.”

“It means coward,” Ingrid answered, “but if you’re looking for a different perspective on the matter, I’d say take him. It might give him some much-needed peace, and who knows, it might even bring us a tiny bit of closure.”

“Ing, I don't think catching Steiner is going to be enough to fill the gaping void of pain and misery we’ve got going on here. It's a pretty big hole of suffering and I don't know if anything could ever patch it all up. I mean, are we sure that Alistair's going to be alright? He doesn't even...you know..."

“I don’t need eyes to be valuable to the community, Fillmore. Heck, I can still see twenty-twenty! That is, unless-" Alistair abruptly halted his speech and let out a sharp, agonizing whimper as he clutched his head, his vision blurring as he felt a sharp, intense pain. His hands trembled as he tried to steady himself, feeling as though he was being electrocuted from within. “Ow…”

“You okay?” Fillmore asked as he cocked an eyebrow.

Alistair paused and looked up, his expression becoming one of displeasure.

“Well, now I can’t see anything,” he commented, “But that’s what I was going to say. Sometimes I’ll see perfectly for hours on end and then I get this debilitating headache for a second and then bam, my sight’s all up and gone again! It’s as maddening as can be, I tell you!”

“I can imagine. Listen, we’ll let you tag along on the Steiner case if you’re that interested in helping us. But don’t think for a second that you’ll be the one doing all the heavy lifting though; you've already gone above and beyond what's expected of you, and you have definitely pulled more than enough weight around here. More weight than anybody should ever have to.”

“Got it, officer.”

“So, what’s the plan then?” Ingrid asked, “What’s our first move?”

“We’re going back to the place where it all started.”

----

“Fillmore, do you really think it was a good idea to bring Alistair back to the place where he got violently maimed? I know he offered us his help and all but I think it's a bit too soon for a trip down memory lane. This place is making even my skin crawl and I’m not the one who wound up getting hurt.”

Fillmore stopped to take in the sight of one of the bleachers, the sight of it causing a chill to run down his spine. He suppressed a shudder and hastened his steps, his mind filled with unease as he thought about the task that lay ahead. “Benny couldn't be less helpful if he tried, which of course means that Steiner’s old hideout is our only hope of uncovering some actual evidence. I… I told Alistair to let us know if this was too much for him to handle.”

“I'm A-OK, officer!” Alistair declared. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, betraying a hint of the fear that had taken root in his heart. “And while it’s like looking through a foggy window, I can see stuff again! Steiner’s not going to know what hit him when I get through with that ruffian!”

“Right…”

Ingrid's comment caused Alistair to pause for a moment, allowing his mind to drift away as he cast a gander around the room, taking in the details as far as his still somewhat blurry vision allowed. He had naturally been here countless times, his familiarity with the arena and its surroundings second to none. The vast, empty bleachers that encircled the battle-torn ring filled the space with an atmosphere of simultaneous reminiscence and fear, with every crack in the concrete walls and every broken bench serving as both a reminder and a warning of the meticulously planned fights that had taken place here. 

He had been the unfortunate spectator to many of these battles, each one a raging storm of conflict that could easily have swept him up in its destructive tide. But some miracle had seen to it to keep him safe and sound, untouched by the chaotic hail of combat. At least, that was true up until a certain point. Gone was the supposed 'divine miracle' that had served as his shield, though in actuality it was never a source of comfort, only of anguish.

For there was never any true miracle, only Jack Steiner.

Steiner had made him virtually untouchable, but that wasn’t because the man had any care for him, quite the contrary. Instead, it was all out of a ravenous desire for the impressive psychic capabilities he supposedly possessed, capabilities that his former ‘boss’ would do anything to get his hands on.

But that wasn’t anything surprising. He was, after all, just an unimportant bystander; an inconsequential person whose sole purpose in life was to be exploited by those who were deemed more powerful or important than he was. While he might have had a valuable asset at hand or at least made people think he did, what kind of person was he without it? His title as the ‘funny psychic guy’ or the ‘resident psychic’ would’ve been rendered void, so what did he have to show for himself when the thin veneer of mysticism was stripped away?

His parents had a clear path in life; his father was an accountant, and his mother was a lawyer. But what did he have? But what was he? Was he somebody who had found a worthwhile pursuit, or somebody continuously chasing the ‘high’ of pseudoscience and the pseudo-spiritual?

Alistair felt a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with him being back in the arena, one which he had felt many times before; a nagging sensation of being unable to find true satisfaction in anything. But he had always pushed it away, never allowing himself to confront the source of his discomfort and explore its depths, as he was scared of the answers he might find. So instead of trying to confront it, he had chosen to mask his discomfort with a facade of strange catchphrases and a silly, entertaining persona. He was an actor, putting on a show for the world, masking his own struggles and insecurities with an air of confidence and frivolity. 

But here, in the belly of Steiner’s former headquarters and base of operations, that mask was slowly slipping off and revealing the painful truth of his life; he wasn’t invincible, he wasn’t safe, and he was never truly in control.

Letting out a tired, weary sigh, he reached up to rub his eyes, only to be met with the cold, unyielding surface of glass. Of course, his real eyes weren't there any longer, the glassy replacements serving as a harrowing reminder of what he had once possessed, but was now gone. As well as what he had in exchange attained, though he could not be certain if it was any more advantageous.

Did he want to be remembered for his psychic powers or did he crave something more, a sense of belonging? If that was what he wanted, why was he still so unacknowledged? His sixth sense, the only thing that made him special, had also become a prison. He was reduced to a mere fortune-teller, a valuable asset but with no true identity. Was that all he was worth? Just a conduit for greater things?

He slowly lifted his head, and immediately his stomach turned as he looked upon the weathered wall before him. It was the source of a feeling so deeply rooted in his soul that it seemed to have a life of its own. It was as though nostalgia had taken on a new form, one far more sinister than he could have ever expected. The wall had become a monument to his own helplessness and fragility, a reminder of the guilt and responsibility placed upon his two best and perhaps only friends for things that were ultimately beyond their control.

Alistair slowly traced a finger across the wall, feeling a shiver run through him as the memories of that fateful day came flooding back. Amidst the fear of the past, he was also vaguely aware of a different sensation; one that demanded more immediate attention. He slowly lifted his hand up to his face and felt a pang of pain course through it. His face wounds had been healing up nicely, but every so often they would begin aching, especially when he began to think back upon Steiner. The sensation made him wince all the same and he swiftly removed his hand from his face as the dull, albeit less painful, throb slowly started to subside.

Okay, good. He could continue to give the place a thorough inspection without giving any kind of hint to Fillmore and Ingrid that he was in pain. It wouldn't do anybody any good if they started fussing over him and trying to get him to take a break. He had too much to do, too much at stake.

The shock of pain that ran through his foot as he stepped away from the wall made him flinch and his blurred, 'otherworldly' vision sharpened momentarily. Squinting down, he surveyed the ground around him as he struggled to make out what had gotten caught in one of his shoes. It was difficult to discern at first, but as his sight cleared further, his breathing quickened as he finally made out the form of a long, jagged glass shard caught between the leather of his right shoe and his skin. A whimper escaped from within as he watched a single, bright droplet of crimson blood form around the shard, almost as if it had been sent from some other realm to deliver a message; a warning.

The premonition that something was wrong grew ever stronger as a searing headache stabbed through his head, feeling as though a thousand white-hot knives had been plunged into the base of his skull. His vision started to blur as he pressed the palms against the sides of his head in a futile attempt to ease the agony coursing through him, anything to block out the intense pain overwhelming his senses.

He stumbled backward, the intense pain of his headache causing his limbs to become weak and uncoordinated. He took one step on the foot with the glass still embedded in it, and let out a strangled yelp as the shard of glass cut deeper into his skin, his blood marring the once crystal-clear substance even further. He had lost his balance at that point and was sent tumbling to the unforgiving outer edge of the ring, his body crashing to the ground in a sickening thud that resonated throughout the ‘arena’.

Ingrid's eyes snapped away from the bleachers she had been intently scrutinizing, her attention lingering on the vacant seats for several seconds before her gaze shifted over to her partner, who was underneath her and the bleachers. "Hey, did you hear something?"

“It kind of sounded like somebody…” Fillmore started to say, but whatever he had been planning on saying had trailed off to a halt as realization dawned on him. “ALISTAIR! Snap, I can’t see him from my location, can you spot him?”

Ingrid scanned the area until her eyes widened with recognition. “There.”

“You know, mama, ‘there’ ain’t exactly that helpful.”

"Oh, brilliant, Fillmore. It’s almost like I was about to explain the exact coordinates of where 'there' was! But please, do go on and let me bask in your infinite wisecracks.”

“How about after we help Alistair?”

“Right. He’s laying there on the side of the ring, maybe unconscious, and… I think I can see some blood on one of his shoes.”

“Blood?” Fillmore questioned, “You don’t think he…”

“Stepped on a shard of glass? He’s by where the ‘you-know-what’ incident happened, so I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Don’t ask why, but I should have a pair of tweezers with me somewhere. I’ll go by him and remove the glass and see if there’s anything else wrong, and then I’ll come back and say that ‘I told you so’.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Ingrid gracefully leaped to the ground and made her way toward Alistair. However, as she approached him, her expression shifted from her usual composed and somewhat aloof demeanor to one of genuine concern as she noticed the way that he was gritting his teeth together. She could make out a sliver of glass protruding from his shoe, as had been expected, but that didn’t explain why he was acting like he had been stabbed by something. Then again, the wannabe-turned-actual psychic always had a flair for being dramatic and Ingrid supposed she should have anticipated that he’d have an over-the-top approach to the smallest of injuries. But still…

“Are you okay?”

That seemed to draw Alistair out of his pain-induced stupor long enough for him to crack open an unfocused eye. “...Ingrid? That you? Ugh, the headache’s back and I can’t really see much of anything. Scratch that, I can’t see anything at all!”

“I… I see, and I don’t know if you know this, but you also have a shard of glass stuck in your foot. That’s probably not doing you any favors.”

Alistair shrugged. “Eh, that ain’t nothing compared to the headache I’ve got going on. You got anything for that?”

“Not anything that I can give you right now,” Ingrid said as she searched around her backpack for the tweezers, “but I’d rather we take care of the bleeding mess that is your foot before we worry about your headache. Do you think you can tough it out until then?”

“I guess.”

She pulled out the tweezers and aimed them near the shard. “This might hurt.”

“It already does hurt! Just get it over with!”

Ingrid frowned but didn’t say anything as she carefully grasped the glass and wiggled it from underneath Alistair’s shoe. He shifted his weight and started gritting his teeth again for a moment or two, but seemed otherwise unaffected. “There. Now, come on. Let’s get you back up to HQ so we can properly take care of your foot and find you some painkillers for that mystifying headache of yours. Vallejo should know where they’re at.”

“What?! No, I can still handle myself down here! I can-” Alistair's feeble attempt at a rebuttal was quickly silenced as another wave of pain surged through his skull, leaving him to clutch his head and emit a pitiful groan, “Actually, on second thought…”

“That’s what I thought. Here, I’ll help you up.”

“I’ve got an inkling of a feeling that you’re offering me a hand here, but I can’t exactly see it right now, you know?”

“Oh, right.”

As Fillmore emerged from the underside of the bleachers, a gentle smile came upon his face as his gaze connected with Ingrid’s, though that smile was soon replaced with a frown as he noticed Alistair clinging to her side. “How’s…”

“Well, we were spot on about the shard of glass. But it turns out that our little friend here also had another one of his unexplainable migraines, which was probably caused by being brought to the same location where a beaker full of acid was thrown in his face, so I’m taking him back up to HQ. Which reminds me; I told you so.”

“Yeah, I guess you did. Sorry, Alistair.”

“...Don’t beat yourself up over it, I'm the one who offered to lend you two a hand. Things happen, do they not?”

“Maybe, but I wish they’d stop happening to you,” Fillmore replied, “Come on, man. You don’t deserve any of this.”

“I…” Alistair let out what sounded like a mix between a groan and a pained whimper and began rubbing his temple, “Can we get going already? My mind and head feel like they’re about to split into two…”

“Of course. Are you coming, Fillmore?”

“You go on ahead,” Fillmore’s voice was barely a whisper as spoke, his attention on the orange sash that adorned his chest. The fabric felt like a heavy weight bearing down on him, a reminder of all his past mistakes and misfortunes. He wanted nothing more than to forget the past, yet here it was, taunting him with its vivid color and sharp, unwavering edges. “I think I’d like to be alone with my thoughts for a while.”

“Suit yourself.”

Fillmore watched as Ingrid cautiously guided Alistair away, who was mumbling unintelligently as he clutched his head and stumbled along. The doors shut behind them with a heavy thud and Fillmore was finally left alone with his thoughts, the chaos in his mind seemingly even louder in the now silent space. Thoughts of what could have happened, of what he could have done, of what it all meant. The fear of the unknown, the unease of the future, the guilt of the past.

The past…

He slowly took his sash off of his chest, letting the orange fabric fall into his arms. He had once known exactly what it meant to be a safety patroller. He had been confident in his duty and sure of his oath. But now? He had no idea.

"I messed up, Wayne. I messed up bad."

Chapter Text

The doorknob felt cool beneath Fillmore's fingers, a contrast to the heat of his shame and self-doubt that seemed to penetrate his very being. His hand hovered in a moment of hesitation as if it were torn between his innermost desire to turn the knob and take a step deeper into the abyss, and a more primal urge to flee and avoid the inevitable confrontation with his failures. What was he so afraid of? He had achieved so much in his life, yet here he was, standing at the edge of a precipice of dread and uncertainty. He could turn the knob and battle his inner demons head-on, or he could turn away and let them haunt him for eternity.

At least until Ingrid had enough and forced him to confront them, as that's what good partners of any type do.

Which made it hurt all the more that she still continued to believe that the fault rested solely on her shoulders when it was likely his burden to bear and his alone. He had told her that nobody should have to carry a burden like this alone, but he knew full well it was a sentiment he was struggling to accept for himself.

‘That reminds me; I told you so.’

Even if the initial accident hadn't been his fault, he had still inconsiderately thrown Alistair right back into the path of danger. Every misstep he had taken in the past couple of hours and every spot check he had failed led him to this very moment, and no matter what he did, he could not undo the damage he had caused.

The worst thing Ingrid had ever done while on the force was letting her emotions get the best of her and nearly letting a perp get away. While it was serious at the time, letting someone sweet-talk you in an attempt to manipulate you into allowing them to leave now felt like a minuscule and pathetic molehill compared to the mountain Fillmore now faced. After all, it wasn’t like she had drop-kicked Seth and then callously hurled him over the bridge, which would be just about the only thing that could even begin to compare to the suffering that had been inflicted upon Alistair due to her partner’s carelessness. 

No, the stakes were far higher this time around.

With a deep exhale, Fillmore gripped the knob tightly and opened the door. The HQ was the same as when he had left it earlier, with patrollers milling around and chatting amongst themselves. It was as if time had stood still since he last left, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort wash over him. But if time had stood still, then that meant…

“Fillmore!”

That there was a certain Junior Commissioner who was likely as cranky and irritable as when Fillmore left with his partner earlier that morning.

“Hey, Vallejo.”

"Well, well, well, look who finally decided to show up! I was this close to sending out a search party for you," Vallejo retorted sarcastically, “But since you’re here now, I can tell you what I just got done telling Third. It’s about time the two of you gave up on your mission to snag Steiner, it's not our responsibility to find him.”

“With all due respect, chief, we can’t. Alistair-”

"Alistair is currently experiencing the joys of a mind-numbing migraine and a nasty foot injury, courtesy of you and your partner’s reckless attempts at taking on jobs you’re not equipped for. I know you want to help, but this isn’t the way to go about it. And no, I’m not talking about going through the proper channels either.”

Fillmore furrowed his brows. “What are you trying to get at?”

“Every police unit in the city is on the lookout for Steiner, they know what he did. Us? We’re a bunch of middle schoolers who magically become detectives whenever something goes down at our school. Heck, some of us are so young, we can't even fill out a report without risking a paper cut!”

The sound of a yelp echoed in the background. “OW! I cut my finger again!”

“You know where the bandaids are, O’Farrell!” Vallejo said before turning back to Fillmore, “You see what I mean? We’re completely out of our depth here!”

“But that’s it, Vallejo. It did go down at our school. You wouldn't sit around twiddling your thumbs waiting for the police to solve it if it was one of us who had gotten hurt."

“It almost was,” Vallejo replied. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "Look, Fillmore, I'm worried about you and Ingrid. You're both skating on thin ice, and the last thing I want to see is you both taking a dip in the frigid waters below. I know you might think I'm spitting boss-talk here, but trust me, this is coming from a place of genuine friendship and concern.”

“But we can’t let Steiner win! Even if it wasn’t us who had gotten hurt, somebody did. Sure, we got lucky this time with the fake psychic turning out to somehow be legit, but what if it was someone else? Somebody who didn’t have that kind of ability? They could have been blinded for real.”

“I know, but-”

“What do we have to do, man?” Fillmore asked, “I know you said that bothering with the proper channels ain’t gonna work either, but there’s got to be something we can do. Something that doesn’t involve waiting around and hoping for some kind of miracle.”

“Well, you could question Benny Scott again if you’re that interested in making some kind of difference.”

“Benny? You're telling me that we should go back to square one with him? He's not exactly singing like a canary for either us or the authorities.”

“Like it or not, Fillmore, he’s the only lead we got.”

“...I’ll go grab Ingrid.”

----

Benny leaned back in the interrogation room’s chair, a self-satisfied grin spread across his face as he watched the two officers in front of him. “Y'all think you're the big bad law enforcement, do ya? Sorry to disappoint, but I ain't giving you a lick of information, so, you can pack up this game of cops and robbers you keep trying to play with me.”

“This ain’t some kind of game, Scott,” Fillmore spat out, his face set in a scowl, “This is serious business we’re dealing with. You were there, you saw what went down. All we’re asking is that you tell us what you know about Steiner."

Benny shrugged, still grinning. "Well, butter my biscuits, you two sure are a persistent lot, aren’t ya? Yeah, I saw it alright. And let me tell you, it was a real hootenanny! Two officers making a fool of themselves right before my eyes. But me telling you what I know? That's like asking a cat to bark. Not going to happen, because I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You did confess to being the one responsible for putting Clark Kearny in crutches while still on school grounds two or so months ago. Right in front of our faces, I might add,” Ingrid said, “Consider this a plea deal. If you reveal what you know about Steiner, we might cut you some slack on those assault charges. And trust me when I say you'd want that.”

"Hold on there, partner. I’m not talking about that kind of wrong. The two of you are only working yourself up into a tizzy because your beloved psychic sidekick went and got himself caught in the crosshairs and paid dearly for it. But truth be told, did he really deserve anything less? Don't even get me started on that accent of his, it's like he's trying to do a sorry impression of them New Yorkers. Or is that an Italian accent? Either way, bless his little heart."

Benny's flippant remark nearly knocked Fillmore off his feet, and he had to take a few deep breaths to steady himself before he could even think about responding to whatever that was. He knew that reacting with rage would only fan the flames of Benny's alleged innocence, but the temptation to let loose and give Benny a taste of his own medicine was almost too great to resist.

As he gathered his thoughts and prepared to deliver a scathing retort, he felt a calming hand on his shoulder, causing him to turn in surprise.

"Don't let him get under your skin, Fillmore. He’s not worth the effort."

“Thanks, Ing.”

“Anytime,” Ingrid replied as she turned back toward Benny, "Though if we're going to stoop to mocking people's speech patterns, I have no guilt in admitting that I find Alistair's maybe-fake, maybe not accent far more palatable than your over-the-top, theatrically exaggerated dialect. Oh, as an FYI, Benny, most southern people do not use phrases like 'butter my biscuits' as a regular part of their lingo.”

“Yeah, I know a couple of southern guys. All you are is a pitiful guy trying to imitate Steiner because he’s such a good role model. I mean, who wouldn't want to idolize a person who encourages violence and throws acid at people for fun? That’s the pinnacle of human decency right there. But I’m getting ahead of myself. All I’m saying is that there’s a certain southern guy who made me the person that I am.”

“Oh, is that so?” Benny sneered at Fillmore, as his accent ‘mysteriously’ seemed to vanish into thin air, "Well, it seems like they’ll be so thrilled to know that you couldn't even fulfill your duties as an officer, officer.”

Fillmore stiffened at that remark, and Ingrid's hand instinctively tightened on his shoulder as if to steady him. She shot Benny a steely glare, silently warning him not to push his luck any further. Meanwhile, on the other side of the two-way mirror, a certain junior commissioner had also winced at the exchange. But as the shock wore off, a burning, righteous rage began to build inside him and he briskly made his way toward the door.

“Listen, Thrift, I don’t-”

“Who’s Thrift?”

“I…”

Ingrid’s glare hardened. “That’s none of your business.”

But before anyone could say anything else, the door burst open, and in stormed Vallejo. “Fillmore, Third! I… I need to speak with you. Outside, if that’s okay.”

Fillmore opened his mouth to ask if everything was alright, but Vallejo had already walked past him before he could even mutter out a single syllable.

“But before I do that,” he snarled, only a few measly inches away from Benny’s face, “It seems that I need to remind somebody of who’s the boss around here. Remember that little offer Third made about cutting you a deal? Consider that over. I don’t know who exactly you think you are, but we’re not going to just throw the book at you anymore, oh no, we’re going to throw the whole stinking bookstore! So you better go and make a call to your folks and let them know that you won’t be coming back to X for a long while.”

Benny didn’t flinch and instead rolled his eyes, his arms crossed in defiance. “Sure, whatever. I was getting tired of this dump anyway.”

----

“Selfish, ungrateful…” Vallejo grumbled under his breath as he stepped outside the interrogation room. His eyes darted around until he spotted Fillmore and Ingrid, “Alright. Since that’s taken care of…”

“You heard what he said about me, about Wayne, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did. It’s kind of hard not to,” Vallejo said as his shoulders drooped, “Look, I’m real sorry about suggesting that you speak to that sleazeball. Sure, Scott’s not going to be bothering you two anymore if I have anything to say about it, but that doesn’t change what he said or make it any better.”

“It’s not your fault,” Fillmore replied with a nonchalant shrug, "I mean, I don't know why he would say that unless there was some grain of truth to it. Said truth being that we failed Alistair, and Benny was just reminding us of that fact.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Not we, Fillmore, I.”

“Neither one of you failed Alistair! What happened down there wasn’t your fault, the only person to blame is the person who decided that throwing acid at somebody’s face is proper retribution for getting in their way! And before you bring up the ‘we’re patrollers’ shtick, need I remind you that we’re not superheroes? We can pretend that we’re superhuman all we want, but at the end of the day, we’re all a couple of children who try to do the right thing. And sometimes, trying isn't enough to cut the mustard."

Fillmore shook his head. "Sorry, but I’m not buying it. We may not be Superman, but we sure as heck ain't no ordinary Joes either. We have a responsibility to protect this school, and we let it down in a way that still keeps me up at night."

“You made a mistake and got in over your head, so what?”

“So what?! Alistair-”

“Needs you! He needs both Third and you to stop beating yourselves up about what happened because it won’t help anything, and it certainly won’t help him get better. You can sit here and play the blame game with each other all day long, but it won't change what's already happened. You need to focus on the present, and that means concentrating on getting Alistair the help he needs."

"I know that," Fillmore replied through gritted teeth. "But it's not that easy. Every time I see him, I'm reminded of my failure."

"No, my failure."

"See? Ingrid blames herself for this and it's all my fault! I was there, I should have done more. But I let my personal issues trip me up, ones that had nothing to do with the situation, and now we're left picking up the pieces of my mistakes."

"That's how trauma works!" Vallejo barked, "You two think you're the only ones who've faced tough times? That you're the only ones who've made mistakes they wish they could take back? Let me tell you something. When you see enough of the horrors this job has to offer, you realize that everybody's got something they're carrying, everybody's got their demons to deal with, but that doesn’t mean we give up and quit! You're not just going to hang up your sashes and walk away from all of this, are you?"

There was a moment of silence as both Fillmore and Ingrid stared off into the distance, mulling over his words.

"I've... thought about it.”

"Same here,” Ingrid replied, “If Fillmore quits, then I’m quitting as well.”

“Nobody is quitting anything! Don't you realize how many students in this school owe their futures to you? Think about the people who would have been worse off without your help! That Clementina fellow would have been expelled for a crime he didn't commit, Santiago would also likely have been expelled for the robotic dog-napping debacle, and... and it's because of you two that I even got a second chance with Frank at all. Besides, quitting won't make your trauma disappear and magically make everything better.”

“What are you trying to tell us, exactly?” Ingrid asked.

“I can’t keep you here by force, so if you want to quit, that's your decision. But think about it, okay? I know you don’t realize it, but X needs you guys.”

“We’ll think about it,” Fillmore responded, “But no promises.”

----

“So, what’s your reason for wanting to quit the patrol? It can’t be ‘because Fillmore’s doing it’, there’s got to be more to it than that. Maybe you're still feeling guilty for something that wasn't your fault?"

Ingrid raised her cocoa mug to her lips, ruminating over her partner's words before responding with a hint of sarcasm, "Let me get this straight. You have the liberty to indulge in self-blame to your heart's content, but when I do the same, suddenly there’s a problem? That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

“All I’m trying to say is that you don't have to blame yourself for what happened.”

“Then you shouldn’t blame yourself either.”

Fillmore rolled his eyes, "Oh come on, you know I can't help but feel responsible for Alistair's situation. I should have seen the signs."

"And how do you propose you could have known? It's not like he was broadcasting it to everyone. Even then, you're not the person who froze up in the face of danger and failed to act, I am. I'm the one who froze up in that situation, not you."

Fillmore took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, his gaze locked on Ingrid's. "That doesn't change the fact that we both made mistakes. We should have been able to help Alistair before it got this bad."

"See?" Ingrid asked, "You said we."

"Fine. We both made mistakes, but you're not the one who let your brain play tricks on you. You're not the one who let a single moment of fear take over the whole operation. That was all me.”

“Fillmore, freezing up constitutes a fear-based response. So no, you're wrong. I did let fear consume me."

"Okay, so we both let our fears take over. Now, how do we go about fixing this?"

“How ab…about you s…start by not bl…blaming yourselves?”

They both jumped at the sound and looked up to see Tehama standing in front of their desks. Her hands shook nervously and her breath hitched as she tried to take a deep breath, as the permanent stutter she now had made it hard for her to express herself without feeling embarrassed.

“Tehama,” Ingrid said, “What are you doing here?”

“I hea…hea…heard what you said about wanting to leave the patrol. I cou…couldn’t sit by and let that hap…hap… not do anything about it. Vallejo’s right, X ne…needs you, so I figured it might help if you saw things from my pers…pers… point of view.”

“What’s your perspective?”

"I could say what it is, but I th...think it's some...something you need to see in order to act…actually get."

Fillmore and Ingrid exchanged confused glances before following Tehama to her desk. Once there, she carefully pulled a small, intricately designed bowl out of one of the drawers. The bowl was littered with cracks and chips, but it had been repaired with shimmering gold and silver lines, creating a beautiful pattern that seemed to dance in the light.

"Look closely," Tehama said as she held the bowl out for the two patrollers to inspect. "See the cracks and imper…imperfections?"

Ingrid nodded, unsure of where Tehama was going with this. “I think I’ve seen this before. It’s called kintsugi, right?”

“This bowl belonged to my grandmother,” Tehama replied, her stutter fading away for a moment, “She sent it to me fol…following ‘you-know-what’ as a get-well present. Though I did…didn’t really get it at first. I mean, what’s the point of a bowl, espec…especially one that’s been brok…broken?”

“So how’d you figure out what it means, then?” Fillmore asked.

“It was Anza, actually. Some perp had the nerve to make fun of my stut…stutter, and he went off on them. He said that my flaws didn’t make me any less valuable, that I was still worth as much as anyone else. I saw the bowl and that’s when everything cli…clicked. It made me realize that my stutter is a part of me, just like the cra…cracks are a part of the bowl. And… And that’s okay.”

Fillmore cocked his head, his analytical mind trying to make sense of Tehama’s metaphor. “So you’re saying we should embrace our flaws and mistakes?”

“Yeah?”

“But what if those mistakes and flaws got others hurt? How can we be expected to embrace them then?

“Th…Think about it this way. Sometimes it’s not about embra…embracing our mistakes but accepting them. We can’t change the past, but we can choose how we move forwa…forward. Anza didn’t try to pret…pretend my stutter wasn’t there or hide it from the perp. He ack…ack… accepted that it was there and defended me anyway. We can do the same with our mistakes. Accept them, learn from them, and use them to become better people.”

“I see,” Ingrid mused, “So it’s not about being perfect, it’s about being resilient.”

“Exa…Exactly, and if I’m being hon…honest here, we’re all bro…broken in some way, shape, or form. Every single one of us. But that doesn’t mean we’re wor…worthless, it means we’re human. But the point I was trying to make is that you’re making the sit…situation worse by running away from it. Ali…Ali…” Tehama let out a frustrated groan, “You know who I’m talking about! He’s bro…broken and needs someone to help repair him. You’re the only two who can be his gold.”

Fillmore sighed, “I know. But the thing is…we’ve messed up so much in the past. How can we be sure we won’t hurt him again?”

"You're hur…hurting him right now by playing this dumb blame game and ig…ignoring him! The poi...point is, you're so cau…caught up in your own pers…personal guilt and self-pity that you're comple…completely disregarding the fact that he’s in pain. He needs you to be there for him, to show him that he's loved and valued. But ins…instead, you're wallowing in self-pi...pity and leaving him left feeling like he doesn't mat…matter to you anymore."

“That’s not-”

“She’s right,” Ingrid said, “Think about it, Fillmore. About how much genuine concern and care do you think we've shown Alistair in the past few weeks outside of the absolute minimum to qualify as ‘doing our job’, let alone acting as friends? All we’ve done to help is drag him around on an insane goose chase, leave him to his own devices, and then act surprised when he ends up getting glass stuck in his foot. We've left him feeling like he's a tool we use to solve cases, not a person with feelings and emotions…”

“Like what everyone else has been doing,” Fillmore replied, his voice barely above a whisper, “Dawg… It's almost as if we've broken him, but instead of trying to repair the damage with gold, silver, or whatever, we've been letting his cracks fester and grow deeper. I… I don’t know what to do.”

Ingrid and Fillmore turned their heads in unison towards the back of the headquarters, where Alistair sat slumped in a chair, his hair unkempt and his eyes, now fake and made of glass, filled with a sense of overwhelming despair. Had he not known who Alistair was, Fillmore might have thought there was some sort of ghost sitting in the chair.

“You can sta…start by realizing that mistakes are inevi…inevi… going to happen,” Tehama said, “Maybe we can’t guara…guaran… guarantee that we won’t make mistakes again, but we can promise to be there for him and make things rig…right when we do mess up. Besides, I’ve seen first…firsthand how Alis… Alis… oh, forget it. But I’ve seen how he looks up to you, how he sees the good in you even when you don’t see it in yourselves.”

Ingrid nodded her head in agreement. "I’d say I don’t see what he sees in me, but I get your point. It’s not too late to help him, is it? 

Fillmore took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. With a determined look in his eyes, he turned his attention toward Alistair. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“Wait,” Tehama said as she got up and passed Fillmore a mug filled with cocoa, “Give him this. It was always my go-to rem…remedy when… when I felt down. Of course, I can’t act…actually stand the stuff any lon…longer, but it is what it is, I suppose…”

Her voice trailed off and Fillmore could see the pain behind her eyes. He took the mug from her and gave her a sympathetic nod before he, along with Ingrid, made their way over to the miserable psychic. Alistair seemed to take notice of their arrival and lifted his head to give a weak smile to the two.

“Hey, officers. What’s the haps?”

“We wanted to check in on you,” Fillmore said as he handed Alistair the mug, “See how you’re holding up.”

Alistair accepted the mug and took a sip from it. "The migraine’s starting to go away and I can kind of make out your figures again if that’s what you’re wondering about. But about everything else wrong with me and my life at the moment? I suppose it's just one of those things, you know?”

‘It is what it is, I suppose.’

Tehama's statement from a few minutes prior echoed in Fillmore's mind as he listened to Alistair speak. It was as if he was trying to mimic Tehama's attitude of acceptance, but in reality, he was forcing himself to be positive. But that begged the question; was Tehama forcing herself to be positive too?

It wasn’t rocket science to know that recovery from a traumatic experience was not a linear process, where one day you wake up and everything is suddenly better. Fillmore knew this all too well from personal experience and had seen it in himself and in others. It was an emotional rollercoaster, one that could leave you feeling like you were back at square one at any given moment.

Tehama had seemed so put together, so strong, even after everything that had happened to her. But as Fillmore listened to Alistair speak, he couldn't help but wonder if she was as okay as she said she was. He knew firsthand that it was easy to put on a brave face, to pretend that you were fine when, in truth, you were anything but.

But there wasn't anything he could do to ease the process of recovery or speed it up. No magic word and no catch-all solution. All he could do was offer his support, his understanding, and a shoulder to cry on if needed.

And yet, he hadn’t been showing his support much, had he? At least not to Alistair.

Revenge was a funny thing, Fillmore realized. He was arguably doing all of this for Alistair's sake, but in his pursuit of justice, he had neglected the very person he was fighting for. It was a paradox that twisted his heart into knots of guilt and shame. Alistair needed him, not as the person who would figure out where his assailant ran off to, but as a friend; someone who would listen to his struggles.

But was it too late for that?

“It shouldn’t be ‘one of those things’, man,” Fillmore managed to get out, “We want to help you. Not just catch Steiner and get closure, but help you recover from the emotional and physical scars as well.”

"Recovery?" Alistair asked, "Aw heck. The doctors said my face will be as right as rain in a few weeks, so don't worry about that."

Ingrid held back a tired sigh. "Emotional scars then. You had acid thrown at your face, that’s not something that can be shrugged off like it’s nothing. And before you try to downplay the severity of it, let me remind you that I have a photographic memory. As much as I hate it, I remember every moment of you on the floor, so I know how much it hurt. I also know that I know it’s not only physical pain you’re dealing with. You have to live with the fact that someone intentionally hurt you, and that’s not easy to come to terms with."

"And the fact he wanted to hurt you guys as well," Alistair added, “Which makes it all the more messed up. But hey, what can you do? When it comes down to it, you have to protect the people you care about.”

Fillmore wanted to oh-so desperately protest, to tell Alistair that he and Ingrid were supposed to be the protectors rather than the protected, but he ultimately couldn’t bring himself to say it. Members of the patrol were expected to protect and serve those that couldn’t protect themselves, but the same rules and etiquette also applied to the concept of friendship and loyalty, didn’t they?

Perhaps his issues stemmed from a deeper place than merely his responsibilities as an officer. Was it because he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Alistair considered him and his partner friends? That would make sense, most of the suspects from their previous cases have gone on to treat the two of them with a certain disdain and detachment. Sure, there was Tony, who seemed perfectly affable the last time Fillmore had run into him, but most students did not appreciate being accused of a crime, especially if they were either somewhat responsible or had done other dirty work in the past. Something which Alistair was admittedly guilty of.

So why was it that Alistair enjoyed their company? Why was it that they were the only two in the school to supposedly care about him… something that they hadn’t been doing as much as they should?

Ah, right. That.

“I’m… sorry.” Fillmore managed to get out after a few moments of awkward silence between the three of them.

Alistair tilted his head. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

“How about treating you as poorly as everybody else does and using you as a means to an end? I thought I was helping you by trying to catch Steiner, but I realize now that I should have been there for you as a friend first and foremost."

"You're not the only responsible, Fillmore," Ingrid said, "We both should have been more considerate. Not I, we.”

Alistair stared at the two for a moment before a small smile crept onto his face. “You guys really are something else, you know that? You two are the only ones in this school who have ever treated me like a person, not just some weirdo with a strange accent and so-called psychic abilities. But now that I actually have powers, I can’t help but wonder how people will treat me now. Will I only matter to them because of what I can do? I thought that was what I wanted, but now I’m sure that’s not what I want.”

“Listen, Alistair,” Fillmore said, “We might not be able to control how others treat you, but we can control how we treat you. And no matter what powers you have or don’t have, you’ll always be our friend.”

Ingrid nodded in agreement. “If anyone tries to mess with you or use you for your powers, they’ll have to answer to us.”

“You see? That’s the difference between you and all the… oh.”

Alistair began rubbing his head; not in a painful way, but in a way that suggested he was deep in thought.

"Your head hurting again?"

“No, it’s not a headache, or at least I don’t think it is. It’s a different kind of feeling, almost as if something’s calling out to me.”

“Calling out to you?” Ingrid asked.

“Yeah,” Alistair said, “It’s like there’s a voice in my head, but I can’t quite make out what it’s saying.”

‘This the place, boss?’

‘Yup, reckon it is.’

Alistair's eyes widened in shock as he recognized the voice. He resisted the shiver that coursed through his body and tried to remain calm as he continued listening.

‘Come on, we don’t got all day,” Steiner’s voice drawled out within Alistair’s mind, ‘Those nasty fuzz went and ruined our whole operation. I had us a whole set-up for our Roughhousing Club and they come and shut everything down before we even got started. But now I’ve got a new spot picked out and everything; one with our own rules and regulations, so now we live by our own laws, as it should be. Long as y’all keep your mouths shut about this, everything will be fine.’

‘What about Benny?’ a voice that Alistair had never heard before questioned.

‘Benny let himself get caught by the law, by HER, no less. We don’t need anybody with that kind of weakness in our club.’

‘And that psychic kid?’

‘Him? After what I did to that poor schmuck, he’s more useless than a saddle on a hog. Plus, he’s buddy-buddy with the same people who ruined our party the first time, you seriously want them to come looking around for him again? I reckon that there’s nothing more we can get out of that boy. Nothing of any value, at least.’

Ouch.

Useless? It was a thought that had crossed Alistair's mind before, but hearing it from someone else, especially someone like Steiner, made it sting a little more. Such a term had always been Alistair's greatest fear and hearing it used against him now only ignited a white-hot rage within rather than the terror that had cowed him previously. But throwing a fit now would not do him any good, he, along with Fillmore and Ingrid, needed information; Steiner was the only one who could give it to them. So, Alistair took a deep breath and forced himself to continue listening, despite the searing pain in his pride.

'And you have no regrets for what you did to him?' the other voice asked Steiner, ‘No regrets at all?’

'None,' came the response, ‘Why should I? Greystone can't harm us down here, he’s nothing but a washed-up has-been. But if you ask me, he’s a never-been. A failed attempt at greatness that should have never left the drawing board, a cautionary tale of what happens when you try to be something you're not. I never believed in that psychic junk that he was spewing. Only hired him 'cause I knew he was connected to Fillmore and Third, and 'cause I like terrorizing weak-minded sheeple like him. Don’t know why, but there's an inexplicable pleasure in watching a boy who knows he's done for trying to hide it.’

‘I… see.’

‘Yeah, I bet you do see. Unlike Greystone, from what I’ve heard at least. But that doesn’t matter as long as you continue to keep being hush-hush about our operations down here. Nobody comes down to the fourth subsector of the basement, so we should be-’

“SUBSECTOR FOUR!”

“Dawg, I know I’ve been saying this a lot, but are you okay?”

Alistair blinked and shook his head, “Uh, yeah. I feel dandy, Officer Fillmore! Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You zoned out for around two minutes, then shouted 'Subsector Four' like some sort of…” Ingrid paused, “Actually, considering who I’m talking to, I don’t know why I’m surprised. But I can’t understand why you'd be talking or even thinking about the school’s basement of all places."

“Because that’s where Steiner is! I heard him! In my brain! He was going on and on and on about how much of a useless fool I am and… and man, I can’t wait to give him a piece of my mind!”

“You heard him?” Fillmore asked as he raised an eyebrow, “In your brain? You sure you’ve been eating right? Stress getting to you? I know that trauma can sometimes cause some seriously weird effects, but..."

“You guys don’t believe me, do you? A guy can somehow still see in spite of not having eyes anymore, which borders on impossible by itself, but we’re apparently drawing the line at sudden, inexplicable telepathy! I guess that’s just too far-fetched for us, huh? Never mind the fact that I might be, no, I am right and we could be one step closer to finally putting Steiner away! Didn’t you two want that?”

“We do!”

“Then listen to me!”

“We should listen to him, Fillmore,” Ingrid said, “Alistair’s right, his ability to see is nothing short of a medical miracle. Scratch that, it’s a miracle in and of itself. Who’s to say that Alistair can’t hear things that nobody else can? I mean, he’s a blind person managing to see things that no other blind person can.”

“What’s your plan, then?”

“Let’s go down to Subsector Four and see what we can find. If worst comes to worst, then we’ll only have lost a couple of hours, no harm there. But if we don’t go…”

“Then Steiner could find somebody else to use for his sick and twisted games,” Fillmore replied. His words hung in the air for a few, long seconds before he continued speaking, “Alright, let’s go.”

As Fillmore and Ingrid began to walk away, Alistair abruptly got up from his chair, which caused it to screech loudly on the ground. They turned around to see him standing there with his head held high and his position as dignified as he could make it.

“I think you’re forgetting something. A big something.”

“You’re not actually considering… not with your foot like…”

“My foot’s fine!” Alistair exclaimed, sending Fillmore a withering glare, “The glass is out of it, so it doesn’t hurt that much anymore! Even if it did still hurt a whole lot, I wouldn’t let that keep me from helping out with this case. I know I said it was personal before, but now it’s become extra personal. That Steiner jerk thinks I’m nothing more than a useless charlatan who needs your protection, but I’ll show him. If you’re not going to let me do this for you, can you at least let me do this for myself?”

Fillmore and Ingrid exchanged a worried glance, but they knew there was no changing Alistair's mind once he had made it up. With a sigh, Fillmore nodded his head in agreement.

"Fine," he said, "but you have to listen to us. I’m sick and tired of people getting hurt on my… on our watch.”

“That I can do, officer.”

But before Fillmore, Ingrid, and Alistair could even begin to make their way to the door, Vallejo’s voice called out after them, “Where do you three think you’re going now? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve got another hare-brained idea about how to stop Steiner. As I said, nobody knows where he is, so there’s no reason to-”

“Alistair knows where he is, chief. We’re going to stop him this time.”

“What the- How? Fillmore, that’s impossible!”

“I don’t know, how can Alistair see without having actual eyes?” Ingrid retorted, her voice firm and resolute, “He said that Steiner's hiding somewhere out in the basement, we’ll figure it out as we go. But we can’t sit around and wait for Steiner to make his next move. Alistair has a plan, and we’re going to help him see it through.”

Vallejo hesitated, his eyes flickering between the three of them. Finally, he sighed and rubbed his temples. "You two are going to be the death of me. But fine, go ahead and try. But if something happens down there, don't try to swing this on the patrol. I'm already facing enough heat from Folsom to find out who's responsible for stealing from the vending machines in the cafeteria; a case which you two should be on.”

"Got it, chief," Fillmore answered.

"One last thing; try to keep yourselves safe, okay? All of you. And again, this is coming from a place of me being your friend, not your boss."

Fillmore winced at Vallejo's words and a flicker of doubt resurfaced within him. He couldn't help but question if he was truly capable of upholding justice, considering how poorly he had performed in the same role previously. But then again, if he and his partner didn’t try to do their job, who would?

"...We'll do our best."

----

It was all going perfectly to plan. So perfectly, as a matter of fact, Steiner had to resist the urge to pinch himself to make sure this wasn’t all some kind of crazy dream. He had never imagined that he'd actually manage to pull one over on those supposedly infallible law enforcers and their ridiculous and equally as fake pet psychic, but here he was, basking in the glow of his own genius.

It was like taking candy from a baby, except the baby was a group of bumbling pseudo-detectives and the candy was an underground roughhousing club deep within the bowls of X Middle School's elaborate basement system, cunningly concealed from the watchful gaze of any and all snooping surveillance equipment that may have been in the vicinity. The last thing he wanted was for this whole operation to go sideways once again because of a stupid matter like surveillance. He had worked far too hard and put far too much thought into this plan to let those patrollers get the upper hand on him after all.

He couldn’t afford to be complacent.

“You two!” he barked as he strolled up to the two lackeys he had assigned to set up the stands, “You call those things bleachers? I reckon I’ve seen more stable Jenga towers! We’re running a business down here, not some kind of circus act! You put those the way they’re meant to be or you might find yourself in Jax Judson’s crosshairs. You hear me?!”

“Not Jax ‘The Jackhammer’ Judson!” one of them exclaimed.

“Oh, yes, him. Though I think you’ll find that Judson’s nothing compared to what I can do to you. So get it right, or else…”

“Or else what? Afraid some rowdy, goody-two-gumshoes patroller might find out and shut you and your business down for good?”

The voice that came from behind made him turn around and his expression contorted with anger. “Officer Fillmore. How in tarnation did you even get in here?! Who snitched on me? It was that Carver fella, wasn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that lowdown rat!”

“I said it before and I’ll say it again. How we found this place is none of your business,” Ingrid answered, her gaze hard, “But this time, we are here for you.”

“Oh, is that so? You seriously think I’m just going to give all of this up because you want me to? Sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm not exactly known for my compliance, especially with authority. Besides, all of these kids came here by their own choice. It’s not like I’m forcing them to do anything.”

“What about Alistair, huh?” Fillmore interrupted, his voice low and dangerous, “He didn’t come here because he was given a choice; last time I checked, blackmail and extortion qualify as ‘forcing someone to do something against their will’. And that’s not counting the fact that you physically assaulted him and almost cost him his sight.”

“I thought that acid did cost him his sight…” Steiner mused before straightening his posture,  “Whatever. That’s beside the point. The fact remains that I’m not breaking any laws by hosting a little club in the basement. It’s just a bit of roughhousing, no harm done.”

Ingrid stepped forward, her expression cold and calculating, “Actually, it is breaking the law. Any kind of physical violence or combat in a school setting is strictly prohibited. It’s a direct violation of the school’s code of conduct and it puts other students in danger. Like our friend, for example.”

Steiner laughed bitterly, “Oh, spare me the lecture. Like you two have never broken the rules before. You’re not exactly the poster children for model students.”

"We ain't. But even then we had our reasons for doing what we did. What's your reason for this? What do you get out of it?”

"What do I get out of it? Why is that even a question? The thrill of the fight, of course! The rush of adrenaline. It's a way to prove myself, to show that I'm stronger than anyone else. Nobody goes against Jack Steiner."

“Wrong answer, that’s an excuse,” Ingrid retorted, “You’re using violence to feel powerful and superior to others. That’s not strength, that’s weakness and insecurity.”

"This isn't actually about the club, is it?" Steiner asked, “You’re only here because I hurt your precious little psychic friend, not because I’m breaking school rules.”

Fillmore sighed, “You know, someone else said something similar to us once. That we were only doing all of this because a friend had gotten involved, not because they were breaking any rules. And hearing that rubbed me the wrong way at first. I thought that maybe it was because they were right, that our friendship was clouding our judgment, but that wasn’t it. You’re right, we are because of Alistair. We tangled with you the first time because of him, now we’re here because you saw fit to… no, I’m not going to tell you what you did. You know what you did to him.”

“Where’s this going, exactly?”

“Point is, the reason why it bugged me so much is that we’re supposed to care. People say that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, but I don’t buy that. Every individual life is valuable, and if we can help even one person, it’s worth it. That’s what sets us apart from people like you. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“Fillmore’s right,” Ingrid said, “If we stop caring about individuals, then what’s the point of even having rules and laws in the first place? We might as well just let everyone do whatever they want, regardless of who gets hurt. But that’s not how it works. You hurt somebody. It doesn’t matter if the person you hurt was Alistair or heck, even a member of the Red Robins, you still hurt somebody and it’s our job to bring you to justice.”

Alistair, who had been watching the scene unfold from the safety of the bleachers, couldn’t help but smile at Fillmore and Ingrid’s words. What had he done to deserve such dedicated and compassionate officers looking out for him? Whatever the case, he was grateful for their presence.

“Justice?” Steiner sneered, “Justice is a made-up concept used to keep the weak in line. The strong take what they want, and the weak suffer.”

“Justice may be a concept, but it’s one that we believe in,” Fillmore said, “And we’re not going to let you hurt anybody else. So… are you going to come quietly or do we have to do this the hard way?”

Steiner’s eyes narrowed and he glanced around as if searching for an escape route. Ingrid took a step forward and he smirked. He reached over and grabbed one of the bleacher-builders and effortlessly threw the kid at Ingrid’s stomach. She stumbled back, gasping for air, and Fillmore rushed to her side as Steiner ran off.

“INGRID! Are you-”

“What…. are you… doing?!”  she gasped out between breaths, clutching her stomach, “Go after him!”

Fillmore nodded and got up, but before he could take a single step, someone moved in front of him. It was one of Steiner’s lackeys, a tall and muscular seventh-grader with a sneer on his face.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the kid growled, cracking his knuckles.

“Step aside,” Fillmore said, his voice calm but firm.

The kid laughed, the sound sending shivers down Fillmore’s spine. “You really think you can stop us? We run this school now.”

Alistair's eyes widened as he watched from his hiding spot behind the bleachers. Steiner was nearing the exit and there was no way Fillmore could catch up to him with that goon blocking his path. “Blimey, this is quite the sticky wicket we’re in, huh? I’ve got to do something, anything to keep him from skipping town again! But what?”

Steiner's hand reached for the handles that lead to Subsector Three and an idea born out of desperation arose in Alistair’s mind and was executed before he could even think twice about it. With a deep breath, he stepped out from behind the bleachers.

“STOP!”

The command echoed throughout the basement and everyone froze, save for Fillmore and Ingrid. The two gave one another quizzical looks, but before Fillmore could move past the immobile criminals and go after Steiner, who remained as frozen as a deer in somebody’s headlights, Alistair stepped forward.

“I'll take care of it.”

“You sure you’re up for it?”

“He hurt me more than he hurt either of you,” Alistair said quietly.

Fillmore cast a glance at Ingrid, who was still clutching her stomach. "Maybe, but that doesn't excuse the damage he's done to us. Mentally and physically."

"I'm fine, it barely even hurt," Ingrid said, though her voice was still tight with pain, “But Alistair has a point. We weren’t the ones to get manipulated by someone into assisting with a crime with our friends’ lives and safety potentially on the line if we decided not to follow through, and we surely weren’t the ones to nearly lose our eyesight because that same someone decided to throw acid at our faces.”

“Alistair was.”

“Right. I say we let the pawn finish what the manipulator started.”

Fillmore gave a wary nod, stepping back to let Alistair take the lead. He walked up to Steiner, his eyes glinting with an unearthly intensity.

“Hey, Steiner. Remember me?”

Steiner slowly turned around, his heart pounding in his chest as he caught sight of Alistair. The notorious criminal of X had faced countless foes in his time, but the psychic’s mere presence sent shivers down his spine. He tried to keep his composure, but his voice trembled as he spoke. "What… What do you want?!" 

He attempted to move backward and make his daring escape that way, but his legs felt like they were made of stone.

“I don’t know, what do you want?”

“What does that have to do with anything?!”

"Pity, I thought you wanted an actual psychic," Alistair replied. His voice was calm and collected, but it held a hint of menace that made Steiner feel even more uneasy, “That’s why you blackmailed me into joining you, wasn’t it? You thought I’d be a valuable asset to your criminal empire. But here’s something you don’t know. Or rather, you don’t know that I know. You never thought I was an actual psychic, you wanted to torment me by lording the health and safety of my two friends over my head, so you could screw with me further when I inevitably failed to deliver. There's an inexplicable pleasure in watching a boy who knows he's done for trying to hide it, am I right?”

“How… How do you know about that?!”

“What do you think? I’m a psychic, remember?” Alistair retorted, “Knowing things we shouldn’t is kind of our thing. But it’s strange, I can’t help but get this strange inkling of pleasure from watching you squirm like a worm on a hook. It’s almost as if you’re afraid of me. And you know what? Maybe you should be.”

“I’m not scared!”

Alistair’s glare darkened and Steiner’s tremors intensified. He slunk to the ground, barely able to keep himself upright.

“You should be scared,” Alistair repeated, his voice low and menacing, “You think everything is some kind of game, that psychic powers are some kind of toy that you can play around with. Heck, I used to think like that! I used to think that fortune-telling was all some kind of game, and I let myself get lost in keeping up the facade of being psychic because I thought it was fun and it made me feel special.”

Steiner tried to speak up, but Alistair cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“But I know better now. You see those two officers over there? The ones you tried to mutilate for the crime of getting in your business when they had every right to? They were there for me when I needed them the most, they showed me that I was worth more than my visions and that I was still somebody. You know, I used to be scared of you, Jack. But I don’t see a terrifyingly dastardly criminal anymore. Instead, I see a coward who preys on the weak and vulnerable because he’s scared of confronting the fact that he might not matter in the grand scheme of things."

“But…”

“In case you were wondering, we’re all insignificant! But each and every one of us still matters to someone! That’s the beauty of it. We don’t matter to the universe at large, but we still matter to one another, so I’m not going to let you destroy the livelihood of the people who matter to me! You got that, you pathetic, miserable craven?!”

Steiner paused. For a moment or two, the basement was eerily silent as Alistair awaited his response.

And then... 

The once menacing criminal began to bawl his eyes out, tears streaming down his face as he crumpled to the ground. Alistair, taken aback by the sudden outburst, felt a twinge of concern. He didn’t mean to break Steiner like that, he only wanted to give the man a piece of his mind. But as he looked at Steiner’s tear-streaked eyes, he saw something that he had never seen from them before; fear.

Fear of him, to be more precise.

“I’ll do anything, okay?!” Steiner managed to whimper out, “Anything you ask! Please… just make it stop!”

“Make what stop?” Fillmore asked.

“I don’t know what your deranged psychic is doing to me, but I can’t take it!”

“You want me to stop it?” Alistair gritted out. He let out a tired sigh before continuing,  “Well, I’m going to give you a simple request and I hope that you’ll be able to follow through with it. Turn yourself in. That easy enough for you?”

“D…Done, sir!”

Sir? Sir? What exactly did he do to Steiner?

----

With bated breath, Fillmore, Ingrid, and Alistair gazed out the window of the patrol’s headquarters, joined by what seemed like the entire safety patrol. Their eyes were fixed on the sight outside; Steiner, flanked by police officers, being led to a car stationed at the entrance of the school, trembling and muttering incoherently the entire way.

“I don’t know how you three man…managed to do it, but I’ll be dar…darned if you did…didn’t somehow do it,” Tehama said, “Nice work.”

“It was nothing but us serving some long overdue justice,” Fillmore replied, “‘Course, none of this would have been possible if Alistair didn’t do what he did. How did you manage to do that anyway, Alistair? Mind sharing your secrets?”

“I would if I could, but…” Alistair's voice trailed off as he turned his gaze downward and toward his hands, "I honestly don’t know what I did! All I did was give the dastardly cad what for, and then he started blubbering like a baby that had its candy stolen. You know, I never got that saying, ‘Taking candy from a baby’. What kind of responsible parent even gives candy to a baby in the first place?”

“Wait, hold on. What was that you were saying about Steiner?” Ingrid asked.

“Oh, right. That. Steiner called me sir. Sir! Isn’t that the least bit odd to you? I don’t think I’m a particularly intimidating guy, am I?”

“Not in the slightest,” Fillmore commented.

“Yeah, see? That’s what I thought. Who gets scared of the regular, average Joe-type guy who says things like ‘Gadzooks’ and ‘Gee whiz’? But I’m not a regular person, in personality or in abilities.”

Ingrid put a hand on her chin, “You think it had something to do with your powers?”

“I’ve never been able to do these kinds of things with ‘em before. I mean, sure, I’ve been able to see into the future, but reading people's thoughts? Turning Steiner and his goons into complete basketcases? I'm not supposed to be able to do that! Nobody is! What… What if I do it to somebody else? On accident, even? I don’t want to be responsible for ruining somebody’s life because I can’t keep my emotions in check."

“Steiner almost ruined yours,” Fillmore countered, “I’d say turnabout is fair play.”

“I know, but where do we go from here?” Alistair asked, “What do I do with my life now?”

"The patrol's always looking for new recruits. I'm sure a recommendation from two of X's best officers would be enough to swing you a position in-"

Alistair vehemently shook his head at Fillmore's suggestion. “Sorry, officer, but the last thing I want to be right now is an officer. If my emotions were to get out of control during a case, and I know they likely would, my powers might… I can’t trust them not to hurt somebody. Whether it’s someone I care about or someone whose only crime was hoarding art supplies, I need to learn to control my powers and my emotions before I can even think about putting on one of those fancy-looking sashes.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one who needs to learn how to keep their emotions in check,” Fillmore replied, “I almost lost myself during this case as well.”

“So did I. But you know what they say,” Ingrid said, “With great power comes great responsibility.”

“Spare me the pop-culture references, mama.”

Ingrid giggled at Fillmore’s unamused glare before turning her attention to Alistair. “It’s a sound theory in all seriousness. I'm still wrapping my mind around the idea of pseudoscience being actual science, but I understand enough to know that it's all 'in your head', or so they say. Being in a bad mental state makes your powers act up, so I’m going to go out on a limb and say that learning how to control your emotions might help you with mastering your abilities. I mean, you didn’t make everyone besides us feel terrified until you were faced with the idea of Steiner managing to get away with what he did once again, right? And… I'm sure that confronting that crook wasn't an easy task for you, was it?"

“Yeah, it wasn't. But where do I even begin with learning how to control it?” Alistair asked, “I don’t want to traumatize someone all because they accidentally startle me and I happen to have been having a bad day."

"I'm sure there are some classes and clubs that could help you out with that," Ingrid suggested, "There’s the Anger Management Club, the Meditation Club, the Yoga Club, the Zen Garden Club… I could go on.”

“How did she…”

“Photographic memory,” Fillmore answered, earning a playful smirk from his partner.

“Shucks, you guys really think I’d fit in with those kinds of clubs? It’s a nice enough thought, but will it help people finally see me as some one rather than some thing? I know it sounds hard to believe, but I’m sick and tired of everybody else treating me like I’m some kind of sideshow act! I'm more than a cheap parlor trick!”

“If it makes you feel any better, you matter to us. I can’t say the same about other people, and I can't force them to see you differently, but I can promise you that we’ll always see you as Alistair. Not ‘X’s resident psychic’, just Alistair. And when I say we, I don’t mean only me and Ingrid, the entire patrol’s got your back.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, man. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a feeling you’d make a pretty good Safety Patrol officer. …When you’re ready for it and all.”

“Thanks,” Alistair said, “I’ll… I’ll keep it in mind.”

A silence fell over the group, filled only by the sound of patrollers mucking around in the background as they went about their duties.

“Well… I’m glad I could be a help to you two again, but it’s about time I make my exit,” Alistair said after a minute or two, breaking the solemn and somewhat serene silence, “I’ve got a lot of stuff to think about, you know?”

"I think we all do," Fillmore replied, looking at Ingrid with a sad smile, “but I take it you finally got the closure you were looking for?”

Alistair gave Fillmore an amused look. “You mean the closure you were looking for? Don’t get me wrong, you’re great at what you do, but you’re about as subtle as a brick to the face. It's not a bad thing to admit you were doing this for your own sake as well as mine. And honestly? I'd do anything to stop you from playing the blame game regarding what Steiner did to me."

“But…”

“He did it, not you. And now, since he won’t be tried as an adult, I predict he’s going to be serving a lengthy sentence in juvie.”

“Looks like Claudius is going to have a roommate,” Ingrid joked.

“All I’m trying to say is that Steiner didn’t get away with what he did. I know that you weren’t the ones to officially bust him, I was, but… you were the ones who got me out of that ‘situation’ I was in. You were the ones who cared about me, even when nobody else did. Isn’t that what being an officer is all about?”

“Heh, I guess it is. I’ll… I’ll miss you, man.”

“I’ll be around,” Alistair said with a small smile as he made his way to the door, “Hasta la bye-bye, officers.”

As soon as Alistair was gone, Fillmore and Ingrid exchanged glances. 

“So, what now?” Ingrid asked, “Steiner's gone, Alistair's... as okay as anyone can expect him to be, and we're left having to deal with the fact that Alistair's never going to blame us for what happened. Is... Is it wrong that I still feel guilty about it?”

Fillmore put a hand on her shoulder, “No, it's not. But the important thing is that Steiner got stopped before he could hurt somebody else. Somebody who wouldn’t be able to bounce back as quickly as Alistair did.”

“I’m tired of people getting hurt, Fillmore. It’s bad enough when people get hurt and we logically know it wasn’t our fault and there’s nothing we could have done to stop it, like with what happened with Tehama, but when there is something we could have done? It’s hard to just ‘move on’ and forget about it. I’m not considering leaving the force anymore, assuming you’re not, but… this whole thing is still going to bug me for a while, and I don’t know if I’ll ever fully get over it. I hope you understand.”

“I do,” Fillmore replied, “Anyway, I know for a fact that grief and guilt don’t work like that. You don’t wake up one day thinking that everything is okay and the past is behind you. Because the truth is, it ain’t. But that’s not necessarily always a bad thing, Ingrid. Sure, I wish that some people would stop leveraging my past actions against me, but it also allows me to reflect on who I am now. I know you weren’t attending X back when I was in sixth grade, but I’m a far cry from that version of myself. The self who thought he didn’t need anybody and that nobody needed him. But that changed.”

“Because you met Wayne.”

“Yeah, and ‘cause I met you.”

“I don’t know how you do it, but you always manage to find new ways to flatter me,” Ingrid said, a smile playing on her lips.

“Hey, it’s the truth! Listen, it’s okay to hold onto things if they help you grow as a person. If we didn’t, then nobody would ever learn from anything and we’d all be static and unchanging. We have to live with what we’ve done and use it to make us better.”

“Oh, I see. But let me ask you something. Where was this version of Fillmore three hours ago? We could have used him back when we were both considering leaving the patrol. As much as I hate to admit it, Tehama’s right. X needs us.”

“I’m also the rea…reason you two got your heads str…straight,” Tehama mused, “But not trying to toot my own horn or anything.”

"Okay, I'll admit it ain't the first time I needed a reminder like that, and it probably won’t be the last. But the point I was trying to make still stands. Like it or not, we’re going to trip and fall flat on our faces every now and again, that’s a fact of life. It only becomes a problem if you intend to stay where you fell.”

“That’s what almost happened to us.”

“But we’ve allowed ourselves to get up. Tehama might’ve been the one to knock some sense into us, but it was up to us to realize what we were unintentionally doing to Alistair and put her advice to action. And wouldn’t you know it? Everything worked out in the end and every loose end got tied up.”

“Hey, Fillmore!”

Fillmore turned to see Vallejo beckoning him over to one of the phones.

“Looks like there’s one more loose end that needs tying up,” Ingrid said with a smirk, “You go on ahead. I’ll finish up the reports.”

“Uh, okay. Didn’t break anything this time, though. At least… I don’t think I did.”

Fillmore made his way over to the phone, and as he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of loose end could possibly be left to tie up.

“Hello? This Principal Folsom?”

“Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.”

Fillmore did a double take. “Wayne? Why the heck are you calling me? It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but…”

“The Junior Commissioner might’ve let me in on what happened with that… psychic kid, I think?”

“What the- VALLEJO!”

“What?” Vallejo asked innocuously, “Somebody had to do it.”

Fillmore turned back to the phone. “Listen, Wayne. I know what happened sounds bad. I got the person I was supposed to protect maimed, my partner still feels bad about what happened, and… I failed. I failed Alistair, I failed Ingrid, and… I guess what I didn’t want to admit was that I failed you.”

“What?” Wayne asked, “Making a mistake doesn’t mean you failed. You want to know what failing is, Fillmore? Failing is when you know what’s right and you don’t do it. Failing is when you sit by and let some corrupt hack of a sheriff spit on everything you love, and you don’t do anything to stop it because… honestly, man? I don’t even have a good reason for what I did back there.”

“Sure you do. You were too scared to act. What you thought was being apathetic to the situation was really just you being afraid of the consequences of taking a stand against Thrift. And I get it, Wayne. I do. We don’t act when we should because we’re scared, so people end up getting hurt because of it.”

“Yeah, but you still didn’t fail her. Vallejo told me about that as well. If Alistair didn’t jump in, then you would have. That’s still not failing.”

“Then she’d blame herself even more. And no, that’s not hyperbole. She basically told me the exact same thing I’m telling you.”

“Look, man. Somebody was going to get hurt. I think the both of us can agree that you’d rather it be yourself than Ingrid.”

“Of course, what kind of partner do you take me for?”

“A better one than…” Wayne stopped himself and let out a sigh, “Listen, I… I’ve got a couple of calls to make. Important sheriff stuff involving… a missing box of… something. You mind if I call you back later?”

“Uh, sure thing.”

Wayne pressed the phone to the receiver and let out another shaky sigh. Was he really about to do this? After all this time? Without waiting for any kind of feedback, whether internal or external, he pulled out one of his desk’s drawers and began fishing through his papers, finally pulling out a slip of paper buried deep within the various reports and memos he had filled out during his time as sheriff.

‘If you decide to stop being a dunderhead, you know who to call!

XXX-XXX-XXXX’

“Fillmore’s got a point,” he muttered to himself as he held up the paper, “I’ve been too scared to act, so I haven’t done anything. But… that’s going to change. It has to. For my sake, and for hers.”

He took a deep breath and dialed the number, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for a response. After several rings, a young voice answered on the other end.

“Thrift, if you think for a moment that I’ll let you ruin this patrol like you ruined my old one, then let me be the first to tell you to-”

“Emily, wait! It’s me!”

“Wait, Wayne? What the heck are you doing calling from Thrift’s…”

“He’s gone. I’m in charge now, but… that’s not important. I’ve been a real dunderhead, I know, I got your letter and I’m sorry for not calling you sooner. But… I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”