Gun. Badge.
The distinctive weight and shape of a compact pistol holstered at her hip sang to his affinity, along with the slim metal shield-shaped badge tucked into her jacket pocket. Both items registered bright and clear amid the background noise of silverware and kitchen equipment. He rested his hand on the table and wrapped his fingers around the unused spoon next to his plate. While nowhere near as strong as holding Razor, his exhaustion-fogged brain still snapped into focus.
Pablo began drinking in details about the woman. She was petite—maybe five-three or five-four—with a slender, fine-boned frame that made her look delicate. Light brown hair, somewhere between chestnut and ash, fell in loose waves that framed an oval face with high cheekbones and a softly tapered jawline. Her eyes were her most striking feature: large and luminous, a pale blue-gray that swept the dining room with intent efficiency and locked onto their corner booth. She wore dark jeans, boots, and a leather jacket over a simple blouse—the kind of outfit that could pass for civilian but allowed freedom of movement.
Then Pablo experienced a flash of recognition, and his blood ran cold.
I've seen her before.
Not just once. Multiple times. Always at the edge of his awareness, never quite registering as important. A customer browsing the tool aisle at the hardware store where he worked. A jogger passing by the parking lot where they trained. Maybe other times where he’d clocked her, but hadn’t held onto the details.
She's been watching us. For weeks. The simple certainty of the words struck him like a runaway truck.
She didn't look like a cop. She was waifish and refined. Even to his fashion-challenged sensibility, her clothes were too expensive. However, as she threaded her way through the restaurant, he knew that she moved like one in a way that any person of color in America learned to recognize. That particular blend of alertness and unflinching authority that came from years of training and control.
"That woman walking over here is Five-Oh," Pablo said quietly. Conscious that Delta could occasionally be indiscreet, he hung up their call and swept the phone off the table into his pocket in one smooth motion. Without putting the device in his Inventory, he knew the AI would still be able to listen in.
He’ll probably be watching too, if the restaurant has any security cameras.
Around the table, postures shifted subtly. Sasha's hand found his under the table and squeezed once. Warren's broad shoulders squared. Eden's expression went carefully neutral. Rowan and Sam just looked confused.
The woman approached their booth with measured steps, her badge already in her hand.
"Good evening. I'm Special Agent Jillian Murphy with the FBI." She flipped open the badge wallet, holding it up long enough for everyone to see the gold shield and photo ID. "I need to ask you all a few questions."
With a steadying breath, Pablo pushed his Metal Sense outward, straining past its usual comfortable range. The effort made his temples throb, but he needed to know if she'd brought backup. Was there a surveillance van? Or a formation of SWAT ready to storm the place? He swept the parking lot, the sidewalk, and the neighboring buildings.
Nothing. No additional guns. No tactical gear. No buzzing radio equipment. He mentally keyed out a quick HUD message to the other Paladins:
Pablo: Everyone, be cool. I think she's by herself.
"What could we possibly help you with, Agent?" Pablo asked, keeping his voice politely curious.
"I'm investigating multiple disappearances at Middle Velma Lake, including the events that resulted in your friend Mark Artorius being killed."
The name hit the table like a physical blow. Beside him, Pablo felt Sasha stiffen. Across the booth, Warren's jaw clenched. Zoe's fingers tightened around her coffee cup.
Delta: I'm accessing the FBI database now.
Zoe: Everyone, watch what you say. Lying to the FBI is a crime.
"I thought the El Dorado County Sheriff had already closed their investigation," Pablo said carefully.
"Middle Velma Lake is federal land." Agent Murphy shrugged almost nonchalant, but her eyes never left his face. "I'm following up on the local investigation for the bureau. Just dotting i’s and crossing t’s. Routine."
Warren: She's lying about something.
Pablo: How do you know?
Warren: Unlocked Truth Sense a few weeks back. Something she just said pinged as false.
Sasha: What's the lie?
Warren: Can't say exactly. Just that she knows something she said isn't true.
Federal land. That part was accurate. So, either she wasn't really doing a routine follow-up, or she wasn't doing it for the bureau. Maybe both.
"Do you typically conduct routine interviews in the middle of the night?" Sasha asked, her tone hovering somewhere between curious and challenging.
"I do when all of my subjects of interest are conveniently gathered in the same place." Agent Murphy's smile didn't reach her eyes.
Warren: That's another lie.
"Agent Murphy, now isn't a good time for us. We've had a long night," Pablo said. "If you have a card, we can follow up with you tomorrow."
"Yes. Funny you should mention tonight." Murphy's gaze shifted to Warren. "Mr. Quester, I was wondering if you could account for your whereabouts earlier this evening."
Pablo felt Warren tense from head to toe.
"What does that have to do with what happened at Middle Velma Lake?" Pablo asked.
"I'm not sure yet." Murphy's attention remained fixed on Warren. "Mr. Quester? Your whereabouts?"
"I was at an event in the city," Warren said. His voice was steady, but Pablo could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"What kind of event?"
"A party. Warehouse thing in Hunter's Point." Warren paused and licked his lips. “I saw you there, just thought you were a wallflower. You changed.”
“So, did you. What time did you leave?"
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"Around eleven. Maybe eleven-thirty."
"Did anything unusual happen at this party?"
"Define unusual."
Murphy's expression flickered—a brief flash of frustration quickly masked. "Let me be more specific. Did you witness any incidents involving fire?"
"There were some pyrotechnics," Warren said. "It was that kind of party."
"I see." Murphy reached into her jacket pocket and produced her phone. "Perhaps you would care to explain this."
She tapped the screen a few times, then turned it around to face the table.
The video was grainy, clearly shot on a phone camera from a significant distance. The footage was shaky, the lighting terrible, but having heard most of the story, Pablo could piece it together: a warehouse loading dock, flames crawling up a wooden wall, and a figure standing at the center of it all. Warren.
The video showed the tail end of his fight with the Winter Medusa—though in the footage, she just looked like a woman with thick dreadlocks disappearing into the shadows. Then the camera stayed on Warren as he raised his hands and pulled. The flames peeled away from the building, swirling through the air like living things, condensing into a blazing sphere above his head. The sphere compressed further, growing smaller and brighter, until Warren thrust Nova skyward and released it in a pillar of fire that shot into the night sky.
The video ended there, frozen on the last frame: Warren, Nova still raised, silhouetted against the fading glow.
Pablo: Did you set a fucking building on fire?
Zoe: WTF, War!
Warren: I was just about to get to that!
Delta: The plume was visible for several miles. Footage of it is all over the internet. However, not this exact video. Judging by the metadata, Agent Murphy recorded this herself.
Eden: I think I recognize her from the library last week.
Sasha: Yeah. I've seen her before too.
Zoe: Same.
Jumping in and out of their Status Screens, the flurry of messages passed in the blink of an eye. That still left Sam and Rowan out of the loop, unable to see the rapid-fire HUD conversation. Sam was staring at the phone screen with wide yellow eyes. Rowan looked like he might be sick.
Warren made a show of leaning forward to squint at the screen, then shrugged. "Hard to say what's happening. Could be anything. Special effects, maybe? Some of these warehouse parties get pretty elaborate."
Delta: Agent Murphy is currently on personal leave and has been for several weeks. Before that, she used up all of her accrued vacation time after taking four days of bereavement leave. I also see a denied request to the EPA to visit Middle Velma Lake. In reviewing her personal email, phone records, and social media, I believe she was engaged to Harold—the dead Park Ranger that the NecroMaster was using as a vessel. I don't see any evidence of warrants or other bureau resources targeting any of you. The Sheriff's initial report was reviewed and accepted prior to the EPA quarantining the Middle Velma site. In fact, checking her email, it looks like she’s out of leave time. Her supervisor is expecting her back in DC by Tuesday to resume work.
Eden: This is personal for her then. She probably smells a cover-up.
Pablo: Well, that's just fan-fucking-tastic. An FBI agent with a vendetta against us.
Sasha: But at least it sounds like she's not operating as part of an actual investigation.
Delta: Shall I delete the footage?
Eden: You can do that?
Delta: I find your lack of faith in me disturbing.
Pablo: Leave it for now. Deleting the video will only prove to her that something strange is going on.
Warren: She's got pretty good evidence of that already.
Zoe: She doesn't have shit. Otherwise, we wouldn't be sitting here in a fucking Denny's.
Delta: I could easily make it look like a glitch.
Pablo: Then I'm assuming you could just as easily make it glitch later, if we change our minds?
Delta: Of course.
Pablo: Then leave it.
Sasha: We need to end this before we trip ourselves up.
Zoe: I got this.
Pablo: What do you want to do?
Zoe: Time to play hardball. Everyone just follow my lead.
"Special effects," Murphy repeated, her tone flat with disbelief. "At a warehouse party."
"It's San Francisco." Warren spread his hands. "Weird stuff happens."
Murphy's gaze swept the table, lingering on Sam and Rowan. The two newcomers had been sitting quietly through the exchange, probably smart enough to realize they were out of their depth. Murphy's eyes narrowed slightly as she took in Sam's yellow irises and square pupils.
"And who are you two?" she asked. "I don't believe we've met."
Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Zoe cut him off. "They don't have to answer that."
"I'm just asking them to identify themselves." Murphy turned to face Zoe fully.
"We all still have the right to remain silent, don't we?" Zoe's voice was ice-cold, her posture shifting from exhausted to something harder, sharper. Pablo had seen Zoe deploy this persona before—the abandoned pre-law coursework with two top-tier attorneys for parents. It was impressive how quickly she could flip the switch.
"Yes," Murphy said slowly. "Of course. I still have a few more questions, though."
"Are we being detained?" Zoe's voice rose, loud enough to draw the attention of other diners in the restaurant. A trucker at the counter swiveled on his stool. "Because if so, we need to contact our attorneys. They also—as I'm sure you're aware—happen to be my parents, so I assure you they'll take my call at this hour."
Murphy's jaw tightened. Pablo watched her calculate the next move—a group of young people who clearly knew their rights, invoking lawyers, in a public space with witnesses. Whatever she'd hoped to accomplish here, this wasn't it.
"Not at this time," Murphy said finally.
"Then I think we're done here." Zoe turned toward the counter. "Yo, Jason! Check please, sweetie!"
Jason emerged from the doors to the kitchen, his eyes wide at the suddenly unfolding procedural drama in the sleepy dining room. He was probably more used to belligerent customers or the occasional domestic screaming match.
Murphy stood her ground for a moment longer, her gaze moving from face to face. When she reached Pablo, she held his eyes for a long moment. There was something there—not just suspicion, but pain. The raw, desperate pain of someone who'd lost something precious and would burn down the world to understand why. Pablo knew that feeling.
Pablo felt an unexpected flicker of sympathy. They'd killed Harold—or rather, they'd killed the thing that Harold had become. They'd had no choice. The NecroMaster had hollowed him out, turned him into a vessel for something ancient and terrible. That didn't change the fact that somewhere out there, Jillian Murphy had been grieving a man she'd loved, and the people who might know the truth were sitting in a Denny's booth eating hash browns.
"This isn't over," Murphy said quietly. She produced a business card and set it on the table. "When you're ready to talk, call me. Day or night."
Then she turned and walked out of the restaurant, her boot heels clicking against the linoleum.
The silence at the table stretched for three heartbeats. Four. Five.
"Well," Sasha said finally. "That was fun."
Pablo let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The business card sat on the table like an unexploded bomb. After a moment, he picked it up and tucked it into his pocket.
"What just happened?" Rowan asked, keeping his voice low but urgent. “I thought you guys were the good guys.”
“We are, but the rest of the world has no idea what’s going on,” Sasha said.
“Sum it up for us,” Sam demanded.
"FBI agent," Eden said. "Personal vendetta. Following us for weeks. No official investigation, but she's got footage of Warren doing his Human Torch impression."
"That about covers it." Warren slumped back in the booth. "So, uh...sorry about the fire thing. I was going to mention it."
"Later." Pablo rubbed his temples. The headache that had been building all night was now a full-blown assault on his skull. "We need to get out of here. Go home. Sleep. Process all of this."
"And meet at my place tomorrow?" Zoe asked. "For the thing we were already planning to do?"
"Yeah." Pablo nodded. "First thing. We'll figure out next steps then."
Delta: I will continue monitoring Agent Murphy's communications and movements. If she takes any actions that threaten your security, I will alert you immediately.
Pablo: Thanks, Delta.
Jason arrived with the check, his eyes darting nervously between Zoe and the exit Murphy had just used. "Everything okay?"
"Peachy," Zoe said, slapping cash on the table. "Keep the change."
They filed out of the booth one by one. Outside, the night air hit Pablo's face as they pushed through the front door, cool and clean after the grease-scented warmth of the restaurant. Murphy's vehicle—a black SUV with out-of-state plates that screamed airport rental to his eye—was pulling out of the lot.
"She's leaving," Sasha murmured.
"For now." Pablo watched the taillights disappear around the corner. "But she'll be back."
"What do we do about her?" Warren asked. The earlier defensiveness had drained out of him, replaced by something that looked almost like guilt. "She doesn’t give quitter."
"No," Pablo agreed. "She doesn’t."
He thought about the pain he'd seen in Murphy's eyes. The desperate need for answers. The hole where Harold used to be.
She was going to marry him, and now she's alone, and nobody will tell her why. I wouldn’t give up either.
"We'll figure it out," Pablo said finally. "Tomorrow. After sleep. After we've had time to think."