Papers, Please

Cardi’s head jerks slightly at the name. He looks surprised.

"I—" he glances at Tross, and then spots his opportunity at the doors. He leaps, twists, and soars through the gap like a sheet of fresh paper slipping beneath a door. A moment later, Tross follows him, slightly less gracefully.

In the hallway, the birds sidle up against opposite walls, and and creep down to peer out at the front doors, where the protective shutters have begun to similarly glitch.

"Not here," Cardi says. "If we make it out, look for me in the Mystic’s Quarter tomorrow night. If we don’t make it out, come see me in holding, I guess… or hold a seance. In the meantime—"

The bird hesitates again. If he had looked merely ambivalent over Yoshi’s knife, now he looked truly conflicted.

"In the meantime, you should read, ‘Song of the Ashwing.’ You like poetry, right?"

The crabling looks at the opening in Dirt’s jacket, gives what might be a shrug, and climbs right in, twisting around so that it looks out the front. It’s true that there were many other crablings around — the station was quite literally crawling with them — but they also sometimes had distinctive ridge-patterns on their wide, flat heads. This one has a crescent-moon shape, points up.

"We should bring the others out," says Tross, "keep them between us and the Sec-Offs. At least the doctor."

Cardi glances over his shoulder at the room with the rest of the hostages. "Yeah, we should…" he mumbles. He looks back at Yoshi, seeming to consider something. Then, "but there’s no time. Come on, let’s stay low."Cardi and Tross creep out of the hallway and duck under the counter, crouching low to keep as much of their bodies hidden as possible.

Everyone —hostages, terrorists, and security alike— brace for the inevitable. Then, the inevitable comes. The shutters and blast-doors snap open and stay open. An impenetrable line of armed security officers, kneeling behind transparent shields and standing behind the open armored doors of their hovering patrol-cars, train the sights of dozens of energy-rifles into the doors and windows of the Records Office. In the center of them all stands the dark-cloaked figure of Chief Inspector Quaxton, and beside him, a haughty-looking chimpanzee military officer peering through an elegant pair of binoculars. His uniform designates him as a commander in the colonial armed forces.

"Hold," shouts Quaxton, throwing up an arm in warning. "they’ve got a hostage!" He lifts a megaphone to his bill, preparing to address what he perceives to be the dug-in freedom-fighters. "Oh, for the love of Kong," the chimpanzee commander says impatiently, lowering his binoculars, "it’s only a single old lizard. OPEN FIRE!"

"NO—" the Inspector cries… but too late.

A forest of bright orange energy beams scream through the air toward the illusory images of Cardi, Tross, Con, and the landlord. Instead of instantly cooking their targets, they strike the hard polished surfaces of the records office floor and walls, ricocheting wildly.

"Shit shit shit!" Dirt flops on his stomach and covers his head with his hands. He knows it won’t mean anything if he gets hit, but the body does what the body does when it’s scared shitless.

These mother fuckers. He can’t believe they’re firing on them. I mean—he can believe it. The biggest bastards he’s ever known were cops, but as a fellow man of the uniform, he still expected better than firing on a building full of innocent hostages. Dirt shook his head to clear the ringing to his ears. He managed to keep all the hostages safe from the bad guys and now they’re going to get killed by the good guys. Un. Be-freaking-Lievable.

Dirt scans the room for injuries. It seems like everybody is alright for now, so he crawls to the door with every intention of closing and locking the door with everyone inside. Instead, he scrambles forward on his hands and knees and pulls the door shut behind him. He can only pray it’s enough to take at least some of the impact of a blast and protect the hostages.

He scurries across the hall and takes cover in the data vault. He’s sees Yoshi for a slip second and yells, "Holy shit man!" It wasn’t profound, but it’s what came out in the moment. He hoped Yoshi would follow him. The dude was too cool to die at the freaking records office.

It occurred to Dirt that these security jagoffs may just storm in here guns a-blazing, hostages be damned. What then, huh? There’s a certain point at which pacifism might as well be a death sentence. They weren’t quite there yet, but you can’t start preparing once it’s already happening. He scans the data vault for anything he could use as a makeshift weapon. He had a damn nice Billie club back in his bunk, but he was supposed to be getting his damn station ID today. He wasn’t supposed to need it.

"There, see," says the commander, lifting his binoculars again. "A bit of pluck is all it takes with this sort, Inspector. Never respect you, otherwise."

A ruffle of barely-suppressed fury runs through the inspector’s feathers. With great effort, he gathers himself up and resumes control. "Move in," he tells his people. "Subdue and prepare for transport. Medics, stand by."

The line of security officers advances on the Records Office, shouting commands at the false images inside. They will be upon them momentarily.

The first line of officers stumbles back, some even coughing out of reflex despite the non-existence of the smoke. When it clears, one of them calls out in surprise.

"They’re gone!"

"What the hell?!" the Inspector shouts, catching up. "Impossible!"

Suddenly, there is a terrible immense noise that can only be Con finally ripping through the Records Office walls, exposing the long lost maintenance tunnel. Before the inspector has time to react to this, he hears Dirt’s call. He points a green, feathered finger toward the security office.

"Gold Squad, secure the remaining hostages and hold for debrief. Blue Squad, with me."

Quaxton draws a small, snub-nosed energy pistol from his shoulder-holster and darts down the left hallway in the direction of the noise.

Moments later, the office is full of face-shielded cops. They help and/or pick up the hostages and begin to shepherd them out of the office, keeping them behind the transparent shields until behind the cordon. No one seems to notice that one of the hostages is the same one who was just apparently gunned down along with the terrorists.

Soon, they find themselves in a loosely enclosed area with Booster and Aythya. The landlord is laid out on a stretcher beside the two downed guards.

"You made it!" Aythya shouts in relief. Briefly overcome, she throws her red-feathered arms around Dirt’s neck and embraces him. A moment later she releases him sheepishly and pats him on the shoulder. "When they started firing I thought— I’m glad everyone made it out ok."

""Ay man, bokkin’ ain’t even done nothing, bok?" Booster is arguing with one of the officers, trying to get him to let him leave. It seems that the Inspector specifically asked to interview each of the hostages individually before release.

"Hey, smooth your crest, pal," one of the officers tells Booster, poking him hard. "Hey, wait— Hey! Hey you, kid!"

But it’s too late. Yoshi has disappeared into the gawking crowd.

The unconscious guard’s pulse comes steady and strong under Dirt’s fingers. He’s going to be just fine.

Better than fine, says the flame with a tinkle of laughter. His arrhythmia is gone. The flame makes a quick halo over the guard’s head before vanishing again in a flash. He’ll be healthy as a hawk until he’s crushed by a falling storage container on his 42nd birthday. Tee hee.

"The other one woke up for a moment,"
Aythya answers. "He asked the score for the Zephyrs game and then passed out again. Trust me —the benefits these guys get— he’ll be fine. Meanwhile, the nurses’ union can’t get us time-and-a-half on holidays. Go figure."

A commotion runs through the guards as the Inspector returns. He doesn’t look happy.

"Tough luck, Old Boy," says the chimpanzee
in the commander’s uniform. He’s traded his binoculars for a pipe, which he lights with practiced ease. "Classic smoke grenade gambit, and all that. Could happen to any of us. Why, I remember back in ‘32, when the sharp-tooths had us pinned down at Floating Rock—"

"Ensign," says the Inspector, appearing before Dirt. He gives a casual but precise salute. "You first."

With a hand on the shoulder that is gracious, yet quite insistent, Quaxton leads Dirt into a Security van. Inside, he puts to him a series of questions.
Yoshi’s expert knowledge of the station takes him swiftly to the edge of the Y-Ring Nexus and into the even more familiar territory of Ring 2. He’s well on his way home before he realizes with a start that there is someone walking next to him, and has been for who-knows-how-long.

"Took you long enough," says Melly, decloaking with a chuckle. "Being a hostage must have really rattled you, huh? Better hope Bowser likes the excuse. He’s been asking for you all day, gila."

Then, as if Yoshi didn’t have enough to deal with, a most unwelcome sight greets him as he rounds the bend that leads to Decks 9-12: a flight of three pigeons in baby-blue track-suits sitting on the open blast-door stoop. This would be less unusual if it weren’t on the 12 end.

"Coo coo, bitch," says the one rolling up a fat wad of moss in dark brown paper.

Dirt lights up as his flame friend returns. His arrhythmia is gone? Huh. He didn't know he could do that. "What's your name--?" he whispers as she disappears. He starts at that last bit of information she says. Did she really just foretell the security guard's death? His eyes go wide at the implications. Forty-second birthday. He logs it in his mind. That was young. Maybe he could do something. Not now though.

He laughs at Aythya. "Oh no," he says, dramatically. "He's a Zephyrs fan, huh? Eeeww." Dirt recoils in mock disgust. "Nevermind--" He laughs and drops the act. "I'm not even going to pretend to know about sports," he says and shrugs. "Wasn't the sort of thing my dad was into," he says a little sheepishly. "I think that's amazing that you're a nurse though," he says. "That's such a selfless job. Really." He smiles at her and settles in next to her for a nice long getting-to-know-you chat. "So, what made you decided to become a--"

Dirt stands for the inspector. "Yes, sir." He doesn't want to leave Aythya, but follows the inspector when prompted. He does manage to steal a look back at her on his way out of the staging area though. A beautiful, brave, selfless, nurse, huh? He laughs and shakes his head. She's too good for him anyway. He wonders if he'll ever see her again as the van comes into view. It makes him nervous, as does ducking inside. "We really can't do this anywhere else?" He hasn't done anything wrong, but something about sitting across from the inspector in such a confined space really rattles Dirt. He was just so damn tired. Like he'd run freaking marathon.

"I, uh--" He doesn't know where to begin. The whole thing was just so overwhelming. "No. I didn't recognize them," Dirt says. "I think they said something about freedom fighter--something-or-other." Dirt rubs his temples. "I don't know. They lit some computers on fire, I know that," he says, thinking. "Something about destroying people's information. Making them free or some crap like that." Dirt rests his head against the back of the van chair and closes his eyes. "There was three of them. A gull, a vulture, and a cardinal. I think maybe the vulture was in charge? I don't know." He takes a deep, labored breath and tries to settle his mind. "And a man inside? I don't know. I doubt it. Everybody seemed pretty surprised to me." Dirt shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine though." He yawns. "Wednesday? I mean, at the barracks probably? Yeah. We played Dallas all night. Zrain got drunk off his ass for the first time. Zrain Cloudchaser, he can vouch for me. The other guys in my barracks too." Dirt yawns, longer this time. Damn if he isn't tired as all hell. It was hard to focus on the inspector's qustions. Finally, he stares up at the duck, exhausted. "Look, Inspector," he says. "I want to be cooperative, I really do. I'm just really out of it. Today was a lot. Any chance we can be good for now?" He can't help but yawn a third time, but covers it with a clenched fist.

Inspector Quaxton taps his pen against his armrest.

"A data burn, eh? Classic Talon move. Now they’ll pull some big job somewhere else and, what do you know, none of the perps are in the system."

The inspector makes a note about the possible vulture leader. Then he raises an eyebrow at Dirt’s request to leave.

"Sure, I think we can wrap it up there. After all, I can always follow up with your C.O. Back to base with you, then."

Quaxton opens the van door for Dirt and dismisses him. Aythya stands outside with an officer, waiting to be ushered in next.

"Take care," she tells Dirt as she climbs into the van. "If you’re ever on the 3rd floor over at Saint Lucy’s, come say hi."

As the metal door slides shut, Dirt finds himself briefly alone in the eye of the storm. At one end of the plaza is the swarm of the media, with a dozen or so commentators talking into a dozen or so cameras, with a dozen or so more eagerly trying to flag down anyone they can for an interview. At the other end, the thinning crowd of onlookers mills about, hoping for some final piece of action.

Then, closer at hand, Dirt notices his friend and comrade Zrain Cloudchaser waiting for him. The young owl seems to have gotten himself sucked into a conversation with Booster the Rooster, with the closest officer allowing this mostly to get Booster out of his own face. From the sound of things, Booster is telling Zrain about a plasma-hot tip he just got regarding that night’s ‘Dactyl race, and is trying to talk him into fronting the money for a bet. Zrain waves frantically at Dirt to save him.

***

"Damn, why so heated, No-Scales?" asks the moss-roller.

"It’s that warm blood," says one of the others.

"Must be. What’s the matter, ninja? This ain’t Deck 11. Is this Deck 11, Fries?"

"No, Boss," says Fries.

"I didn’t think so. So I thinks we got as much right to be perpetrating petty crimes ‘round here as anybody. Matter of fact, Ciggie here was just deciding whether to tag the place or not, weren’t you, Ciggie?"

In answer, Ciggie shakes the can of paint in his hand.

"But don’t let us bother you Gecks, you go right on through. Our guests."