Took the Freight Train to Los Santos

[Freight Train]

Little Chelsea Wagner zipped through the waddling horde of adults with speed born of excitement and the urge to pee. Her flight from Ohio had landed half an hour ago, but the plane had only just reached the terminal ten minutes ago, so now the girl was fit to burst. She couldn't wait to see the House kids again, or her old Cullen's friend Taya Robbins, but first she had to meet the needs of her body. Argh. It was a hard job to keep a clamp on her impatience and not walk or run too fast. She needed to conceal her powers as best she could 'til she left the airport, in order to keep security from securing her. She didn't think that California's Mutant Registration Law would apply to her, seeing as she was a citizen of Ohio, but she didn't think the local authorities would care about that.

All the restrooms she passed had lines out the doors--both for the women's and men's facilities. She pressed on, hoping for a shorter line, and took the tram all the way to baggage claim before she found a restroom she could get into. She burst into a stall and slammed it shut, locking it as she slung her backpack onto the hook attached to the door. She shucked her pants to her ankles and sat happily, face buried in her hands as she released the breath she'd been holding. Just as she finished, she heard a pair of women come in.

"Looks empty. Check the stalls."

Chelsea folded her legs and held her breath. Who needed a totally empty bathroom? Certainly not a person who was doing anything legal. Nobody banged on the stall doors, but she wasn't able to see the people who were peeking underneath them.

"All clear. Get changed. Only five minutes til we make our move."

Chelsea took a firm mental grip on her patience and fear as she listened to the mystery women banter and rustle their clothes as they dressed. She turned her wrist over to check her watch and count out the time, slowly and quietly breathing to let the women's commotion cover the sound of it. At five minutes exactly, the pair burst out and into the terminal.

She heard distant shouting of threats, the panicked cries and stampeding feet of travelers, and a sound like a comic-book laserbeam pulsing rapidly.

"Oh God," she mumbled, yanking up her jeans and buttoning them. "They better not blow up my luggage." Tiny Chelsea hefted her backpack and went to peek out at the fracas, and this is what she saw:

[Tom Harriman]

An arc of something bright and glowy flew through the air, splashing against part of the terminal wall to leave an angry and smouldering scar in it's wake.

At the point of origin, some sort of laser-casting ninja danced around like a hyperactive balerina, every thrust and strike of her outspread fingers sending another blast of destruction. Her shots were wild, aimed at nothing in particular - at walls, ceilings, escalators, floors - doing a fantastic job of turning the crowd into a stampeding mob.

Her lack of apparent target wasn't a lack of intent to harm, however; she proved that when one blast flew wide, and wrapped itself around her companion.

"Watch it!" the second woman grunted, her skin displaying a strangely metallic sheen. Somehow, the skintight and slightly pearlescent outfit she was wearing - and her apparently armour-plated skin - survived the impact from the blast without so much as a singe; the wall behind, now decorated with a burnt silhouette of half of the duo, didn't fare so well.

To punctuate her point, the metallic woman threw a superpowered shove in her compatriot's direction, sending the energy caster tumbling onto her back, and her most recent energy blast soaring on a collision course towards a cluster of panicking passengers.

Tom Harriman barely had time to throw up his arm, a desperate surge from his powers striking the blast like an uppercut, and deflecting it towards the roof above. From the metal gantry, a faint shower of sparks drifted down like inverse snow.

There were only three words that seemed appropriate right now.

What the hell?

By that point, Plasma Girl - it was definately plasma, Tom decided; from painful experience he'd learned that his powers didn't work on anything that wasn't matter, like fire or lasers - had picked herself up off the floor, and was squaring off against her friend like an angry Cockney outside a pub at midnight. Clearly, it was Ironhide - Tom allowed himself a quick moment of pride for that awesome spur-of-the-moment mental nickname - who was calling the shots though; and Plasma Girl quickly backed down.

Ironhide's skin rippled as it turned from silver back to a more familiar hue, almost like something right out of the Terminator. With bated breath, Tom waited to see if she'd transform into Robert Patrick; it was with disappointment that he watched her most definately not do that.

She did however bellow their demands in a surprisingly butch voice, with an accent that Tom couldn't quite place. "Any mutants are free to leave," she boomed, a curl of malice peppering her features. "We only want the Normals."

[Freight Train]

"Ohhhh, crap," Chelsea whispered. "Oh crap."

She didn't know if Tom was with them or not; she'd only just noticed his defensive move out the corner of her eye. Plasma Girl continued to pitch energy about like a major-league baseball player, now aiming as much at the people as the structure. She turned and flung a bolt into the wall beside Chelsea, forcing the girl into the open. She flung away her backpack as Ironhide started to charge down Tom. Ok, so they weren't together. That meant only one thing to do...

Chelsea dropped her backpack and started running at the spot where she hoped Ironhide would be. Her body began to feel dense, tough, like she was made cell by cell of heavy armor. The floor beneath her feet dented in at her first few strides, then began to crack and tear as she reached a full sprint. Her shoes were ruined before she was halfway across the lobby, and she was barefoot by the time she reached Ironhide.

The terrorist woman turned to look as Chelsea intercepted her, a look of astonishment on her face as the little bruiser bent at the waist and swung her fists upward.

"FREIGHT TRAIN!" Chelsea screamed, too excited and scared to think of anything wittier. Ironhide went flying end over end through the air, and the re-christened Freight Train barreled on after her, unable to halt her momentum.

[Tom Harriman]

Surprise smacked Tom in the face, hard.

But it wasn't the kind of surprise he might have expected. Granted, little girls who smashed concrete beneath their feet and could rugby tackle a Terminatrix clean across a room weren't exactly a common sight in Los Angeles; but what surprised him was that he wasn't more surprised. She was a little taller and maybe a bit stringier than he remembered, but there was something strangely familiar about the Bulldozer Kid.

The second or two he spent contemplating that were clearly a mistake. Clearly reluctant to get in trouble for firing another plasma blast in Ironhide's direction, and perhaps a wee bit pissed that Tom had batted aside one of her attacks like a - most definately non-British - tennis pro at Wimbledon, Plasma Girl had decided to make Tom her primary target. He barely managed to dive behind the cover of a strategically placed and thankfully large plant pot; a fine dusting of soil and debris rained on his shoulder as she blasted another arc of energy towards his new hiding place.

Shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie - people might have mocked his usual vigilante get-up, but it was a hell of a lot more practical for running around and fighting things than this damned business suit was - he broke cover and threw himself into a run. His momentum wasn't quite as effective as it was for Bulldozer Girl; it even carried him into the air with a little thrust of his powers against the ground, as another plasma barrage raced his way.

After an air time leap that would have made both Jackie Chan and Tony Hawke proud, his hand delved into his pocket, searching for some way to fight back. It reappeared with a fistful of change, that a sweep of his hand cast behind him. In the hands of a mere mortal they would have been little more than an annoyance, but with boost of momentum from Tom's powers, each one became a tiny blunted bullet.

Skidding to a halt on his not-so-practical shoes, a hand of splayed fingers catching the ground to stop him falling face-first into it, Tom watched Plasma Girl just long enough to watch her efforts at balance fail, and then turned his eyes to seek out Freight Train.

[Freight Train]

Freight Train's quarry slammed into the high ceiling and dropped right on top of her, falling behind the girl as she tried to check her forward momentum and turn around. Train planted her feet and skidded, turning her body to start charging the other way up the furrow she'd created. Ironhide stood, knees wobbling, and met the little girl's face with her fist. The metal arm reverberated with a strange ringing sound as fourteen-year-old plowed on and tackled her to the floor.

Ironhide kicked and nailed little Train in the stomach, hurtling the girl through the air to land on her back. Ironhide rose unsteadily, but Freight Train bounced up almost instantly, the beginning of a cocksure smile creeping to her face. She was winning! She turned her head slightly to check on Tom as she got her powers underway again.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom lamented his lack of comfortable clothes as he threw a snap kick square into Plasma Girl's chest, his powers adding extra inertia and sending her flying backwards. Ordinarily, he wouldn't fight a woman with such gusto - a side-effect of his British upbringing - but this one seemed like she could take it, and she was frankly getting damned annoying.

Bulldozer Kid seemed to be taking it pretty well too; but while maths said that one-on-one was the best ratio in this little rumble of theirs, Tom hardly felt comfortable leaving her to handle things on his own. Right now, the best he could do was try and steer Plasma Girl away - keep her aiming at him; keep her blasts flying in safe directions instead of towards civilians, or towards the Bulldozer.

Unless...

A quick glance around him stumbled across what he needed. Releasing a breath he dropped into a ready stance - the martial arts pose looked particularly ridiculous in his office attire - he locked his eyes on Plasma Girl; watched the scowl as she climbed to her feet; the build-up as she launched a furious new blast towards him. He watched as the crackling arc of superheated, ionised gas chewed through the air towards him; watched until the very last second -

His feet slid forwards, and his body dropped, slamming him flat onto the ground. The impact would have stunned him had he not been prepared, but he was: a huge thrust of power slammed into the plasma wave like a bench press, steering it's course into a sharp climb towards the ceiling above.

Ions tore through metal. Support braces groaned and snapped. Several fat Americans-worth of screens and lightnings and support beams tore themselves free, and plummeted towards Ironhide and the Bulldozer.

Rolling into a crouch with the gymnastics of a ninja, Tom summoned up every ounce of energy he could muster, and flung a huge wave of momentum hurtling through the air towards Freight Train.

[Freight Train]

Freight Train was only just starting to move again when Tom's burst hit her. Without her powers going at full strength, the blast shoved her far outside of the falling debris, rolling her across the floor to rest safely against a row of chairs. Ironhide was less fortunate; the collapsing ceiling buried her deep in a cacophony of clanging metal and tinkling glass.

Plasma Girl watched her teammate's face with open horror and anger, then turned back to Tom. "You're going to die for that!" she snarled, though her powers had yet to have any effect on him. The thunder of Chelsea's footsteps behind her divided her attention, a mistake that would prove to be her own undoing.

[Tom Harriman]

Somehow, Tom doubted his efforts would keep Ironhide occupied for long, but "not long" was most definately better than "not at all", and he'd take any advantage he could get.

As Freight Train charged, he did his best to keep her covered, blasting off waves of deflection to try and steer Plasma Girl's barrage away from the pint-sized juggernaut, fragments of debris from the floor between them flung in her direction. He advanced as well, though not quite with the same haste or enthusiasm as the Bulldozer mind you; having seen what she'd done to the other assailant, Tom was pretty sure that getting caught in her way would be a very, very bad idea.

A broken chunk of plastic seating clattered against Plasma Girl's spine. She turned in frustration.

A treaded chunk of leather boot clattered against Tom's side. He tumbled, and a few seconds later found himself sprawled on the floor.

Blinking, he stared up into what he assumed would be an angry and no longer half-buried Ironhide. To his surprise, the figure was somewhat different. The outfit was equally black, but not a single peek of flesh was exposed; not even the eyes, shielded behind a dark visor. Though Tom had never seen him this close before, he knew instantly who he was.

Tom's breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed, hard.

[Orcus]

Orcus stared down at the Harriman boy, and beneath his featureless mask, he scowled.

Leather creaked as his gloved fists tightened around the hilt of a katana; a new weapon, a far cry from the sword that Hurucan had ordered him to give to Harriman. He did not understand this obsession that Hurucan had with mindgames; with manipulation; with this incessant toying with his prey. Orcus had been presented with so many opportunities to end this one's life; so many chances to bring this childish cat and mouse to an end.

Static hissed in his ear and a voice followed; instructions from Hurucan, a cease and desist. A snarl of frustration escaped, muffled through his mask. "You are lucky that he wants to kill you himself," he grunted to Harriman, allowing himself a single parting kick to his downed opponent's ribs.

His eyes fell across the concorse to where the concussive child had knocked knocked the plasma-throwing half of his hired help. A few harsh words were exchanged; she quickly picked herself up, and scampered off to liberate his other lackey. Both had been borrowed from Los Angeles' rather ample pool of mutant lowlifes; alas, they had not proven as subtle as Orcus would have hoped. His mind and wits were sharp as diamonds; but Hurucan had given him clubs.

Orcus turned his attention to the girl. "I have no quarrel with you, child. I would prefer if I were not unduely forced to harm a fellow mutant."

[Freight Train]

Freight Train tumbled and skidded. She needed a new way to fight. Tackling people was turning hazardous. She picked herself up, turning around to see the commotion behind her. She'd thought the fight was over, and the sight of Orcus standing over Tom boiled her blood. His flippant dismissal of her was no better, but even she was learning to assess a situation before acting. It was a lesson she'd learned the hard way, long ago in the laboratories of Cullen's School and again on her last night at the House.

She didn't think she could get to him before he could pull that sword and cut Tom. She wasn't about to endanger him, not after her recklessness had caused so much havoc before.

"Then go home and leave him alone. You've seen what I can do to you if you don't." Plasma Girl extricated Ironhide from the rubble as if to punctuate Chelsea's statement. Ironhide's skin was normal again and she was breathing painfully. She leaned heavily on her friend's shoulders. All eyes and ears were turned to Orcus, waiting for his decision.

[Orcus]

Orcus stared at her in silence, his cold eyes evaluating her from beneath his mask. Her confidence and her caution did her credit: he had watched as she'd burst triumphantly from her hiding place, confronting opponents twice her size, and no doubt twice her age as well. Her abilities too were most impressive, and while they perhaps lacked the kind of finesse that he would have preferred, there were times when a self-propelled mutant battering ram might be of some use.

His masked lips curled into an invisible smile. I will have to keep an eye on you, 'Freight Train'.

He forced the emotion completely out of his voice, careful to restore it's disinterested balance before he spoke. "Ensure he does not follow," he instructed, with a compliant bow of his head.

His words bore a warning as he continued, however. "I may have witnessed your abilities, but you have yet to see mine. It would be wise to keep it that way, for your sake."

He said no more; keeping his attention on the two would-be heroes for a few backwards paces, he turned and walked - swift with purpose, not with haste - towards the nearest exit. From the distance came the sound of sirens, but they were too late; Orcus and his compatriots would be long gone by then.

From his patch of floor, Tom let out a groan.

[Freight Train]

Chelsea moved slowly towards Tom until she was sure Orcus and his cronies weren't going to pull a double-cross, then went to Tom and leaned down with an outstretched hand. "Get up, Boss," she said with a weak smile. "We won it." Her eyes flickered over his face and body as he stirred. She didn't think she knew him, though he did seem familiar. She pressed a bare foot on the top of his dusty shoes and prepared to haul him to his feet, thinking belatedly to reassure him about her power. "Don't worry, I won't squash your foot just standing here."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom accepted her help without protest, remaining half-way bent over to brush himself off before he let himself straighten to his full height.

His eyes scanned their surroundings, littered with burn marks and debris from Plasma Girl's little light show; but distinctly lacking in the bodies and injured people category. Tom felt a little swell of pride at that; far more than he ever felt for thwarting a crime-in-progress under cover of darkness. It wasn't a matter of glory of recognition; more that for the first time in a long time, he'd been able to save people just by being himself.

"Thanks for the assist," he started, cutting himself off before he said 'kid'. Not only was it a hideously American way to finish a statement like that, it was incredibly old-sounding. Tom wasn't quite prepared to start sounding like his father; not just yet.

"Interesting power you've got there," he enthused, turning his attention back to Freight Train. Now that the iminent danger had passed, he was free to speculate on the possible explenations behind how she did what she did. It seemed to be a manipulation of momentum, much like his ability was; but it was apparently localised to her, and had much more extreme results.

He stopped himself, realising how rude it was for him to have gone for so long without introducing himself. He considered his options, ultimately deciding for the 'treat her like an adult' approach. A hand extended towards her. "Tom Harriman," he introduced, a half-smile tugging at his features. "Welcome to L.A."

[Freight Train]

"Yeah," she chirped, feeling awkward at being thanked by an adult. "I, uh, you, too? I mean, I don't really get what you were doing, but...yeah." She smoothed back some of her hair to let out some of her adrenaline-born energy and took Tom's offered hand in a firm grip. "I'm Freight Train. Er, Chelsea." She smiled, trying to be professional, or at least look grown-up. It wasn't really working, with her t-shirt and jeans dirtied and the remants of her socks clinging loosely about her ankles.

[Tom Harriman]

"Nice to meet you, Er-Chelsea," he offered back, a twinkle of teacherly mischief in his eye. Her efforts to act grown up were all too familiar - so many of the kids he'd taught at Steve Rogers tried the same deal. Of course, for most of them it was just an act: but for Chelsea, it seemed like being mature and responsible was a little more of a necessity, bearing in mind what she was capable of.

"I actually -" He thought carefully about how best to phrase his next statement. While he didn't necessarily feel the need to hide his nocturnal activities from the girl - particularly given what they'd just accomplished - it was worth bearing in mind that the police were almost upon them, and he had absolutely no idea how likely Chelsea was to accidentally blurt things out.

"- have a friend who met a girl like you once. It was at a school called Cullens in New York: he said she helped out in a fight against some sort of terrakinetic." He threw her a casual but somehow knowing look. "You wouldn't happen to be her, would you?"

[Freight Train]

Freight Train's smile broadened a little at the tease, but it was short-lived. Chelsea's eyes went wide and she paled a little at the mention of the Boulder as she remembered the fight in the Cullen's lab so long ago.

"Yeah, actually," she mumbled. "That, uh, that was me. Heh, small world, right!?" Her grin came back, but it looked terribly forced. "Yeah, I was at that fight. That sucked. I've been in a few littler fights since then, but this is the first one I could say we actually won. Who was that masked guy?"

[Tom Harriman]

The masked guy? Oh, he's just some evil psychopath who works for a different evil psychopath, and they both seem to get a kick out of killing members of my family.

Accurate as it was, that probably wasn't the most tactful summation of the situation, so Tom kept it to himself. It seemed like far too simple an answer anyway; was this another one of Hurucan's attempts to toy with him, or had crossing paths purely been an accident? And if they weren't after him, just what were those mutants after?

He offered Chelsea a shrug. "Some of the mutants around here are not-so-nice," he explained. "And Orcus is, well, not-so-nicer than most."

[Freight Train]

"Figured that one out," she said under her breath. Her head tilted just a little after that, her face setting sudden worry on display. "Hey, what about the police? 'Cause they're here, like, right now."

A crew of officers picked their way through the rubble behind Tom, their side arms drawn, ready for conflict. Chelsea squirmed, unsure if she should put up her hands and surrender or sprint out and let her powers tank their bullets for her. She looked to Tom's leadership.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom winced. He'd always known that using his abilities would draw the attention of the police eventually. Admittedly, he'd expected it to be because he'd been caught jumping off rooftops and beating up lowlifes in the middle of the night, but at the end of the day it didn't matter how it came to pass: he'd already resigned himself to the fact that it might happen.

Chelsea on the other hand; not only was she just a kid, she'd only just arrived. For Tom, protecting people was second nature; a nature that he'd deliberately trained into himself, after a great deal of careful consideration. You didn't become a soldier or a vigilante on the spur of the moment; you had time to weigh up the dangers, and decide whether you felt it was worth the risk.

But Chelsea hadn't had that luxury. Tom had only met her twice, and yet she was two-for-two when it came to stepping up and being a hero. She didn't have time to think things through, psych herself up, or do any of the other stuff that Tom had spent years doing. She just did. And for someone so young that her head wasn't higher than comfortable arm rest height above the ground, that was damned impressive.

He shot her a subtle glance. "If you want to scram," he offered, "I can cover for you. I'm a registered mutant so I'm already on file; but there's no way these guys'll be able to catch you if you make a break for it."

[Freight Train]

She was grateful for the permission to run away. She very nearly did precisely that. Except...

"I want to, but maybe it'd be best to stay? I'd rather not spend my whole visit a fugitive and get busted by security on my way home. Thanks, though." She gnawed her bottom lip a bit as one officer goose-stepped through the rubble right to them and flashed his badge.

[Shield]

In crime dramas, police procedurals, even reality cop shows, one thing you never got an appreciation for was the waiting. In order for the law to work, there was a process to follow, forms to fill, regulations to answer to. The system didn't operate on the primetime programming schedule like it did just a few short miles up the 101 in Hollywood.

Consequently, one hour after the LAPD showed up Tom and Chelsea were sitting on a bench just outside the yellow tape that surrounded the ruined terminal. They'd spoken to the police twice already already, two different officers who mostly asked the same questions and told them the same story - that the investigation was still in process and they needed to remain available for further questioning. It had been about twenty minutes from their last interview when they were approached by a bald man in a well-pressed suit.

"Mr. Harriman and Miss Wagner?" he said, and he pulled aside his jacket lapel to reveal the badge hanging on a lanyard around his neck. "Detective Lorrance Duquesne, Mutant Crimes Unit. Sorry we've kept you waiting here so long."

The thing about airports was there was never a good place to sit, and when there was, the seats were always uncomfortable. Duke was an officer of the law and, as such, was as comfortable on his feet as he'd been in his mother's womb, but he didn't want to tower over the two other mutants like some authoritarian figurehead. He glanced quickly around the concourse and then signaled one of the uniformed cops.

"Hey, Daniels, can you bring me that wastebasket? Thanks."

He upended the wire mesh basket and sat on it as a stool. "I'd ask you both how your day's been, but I think I've got a pretty good idea."

[Tom Harriman]

Mutant Crimes Unit. That was a nice, friendly-sounding name.

It was terminology; Tom knew that. It was like Youth Offending Teams, or a Domestic Violence Coordinator; both terms he'd stumbled across back in England that most definately didn't mean what it sounded like they meant. But even so, the tone of it put him on the defensive, as of the police somehow thought that the city's mutant population was so hell-bent on crime that they needed an entire division to keep it under control. Probably a division that recieved a lot more funding than it's sister branches, because clearly anything involving a mutant was several degrees worse than what a mere mortal could do.

In spite of the way the words grated on his nerves, he still managed to muster a tight smile for the Detective.

"From my perspective, it's actually going pretty well," he quipped. "I really wasn't looking forward to the business trip that I'm meant to be on right now."

[Freight Train]

Chelsea shrugged, kicking her dirty feet. The ruins of her socks rested in a heap directly under them, and she poked them with her toes as she tried to answer him without being defensive or employing sarcasm. It was hard to do. She chose to give a short version of the answer she really wanted to give.

"Yeah, today sucks," she relented, eyes flicking up from her ankles to look at the Detective. Her backpack leaned against the side of her seat, but her luggage was still out there in the concourse somewhere, provided it had even survived the fight. She wanted her extra socks and shoes.

[Shield]

Duke considered the two who weren't exactly suspects but were a whole lot more than witnesses in this case, the sort of figures that usually went under the broad euphemism of "person of interest." You didn't get very far as a detective in a city like LA without learning to read people, where the difference between grudging compliance and suicidal aggression was often buried in the footnotes. Tom's glib resignation and Chelsea's somber reticence were both defenses of a sort, but they were the reasonable sort. And Duke knew a lot about defenses.

"Well, I'm going to do my best not to make the day any more unpleasant for you," he said, fishing a raggedy notebook and a pen from his inside coat pocket. "We've already taken your statements about what happened. I just need a few more details for my department. Now, Mr. Harriman is a registered mutant, so we already have you on file. Miss Wagner, you are of course under no compulsion to register, but could you please describe your mutant abilities for me?"

[Freight Train]

Chelsea blew out a breath and rubbed at her eyes, looking guiltily at the floor damage she'd caused during the fight. She'd once bragged [/URL][U]online (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=21903) about the nature of her powers and how she could potentially do exactly this kind of damage. She wished she hadn't done that now, but maybe she could get enough speed to run off in case the Detective thought she was a liability.

"When I move, my body gets really tough and strong. Depending on how fast I'm going, I'm effectively invincible and stronger than like, a tank. I've run through bullets and brick walls without being hurt. Just wish my clothes were that tough, y'know?" She pulled her feet up to rest on the edge of her chair and looked back at Duke.

[Shield]

"Really? That's incredible!"

Duke's poker face dissolved into a grin of unguarded wonder. "Sounds like you'd make one heck of a running back," he said. He scribbled down a few lines on his notepad and sobered by a degree. "So you say you've run through bullets. This isn't the first time you've used your abilities in a fight?"

[Freight Train]

She laughed nervously. His enthusiasm was disarming, but was too short-lived to ease the pressure she felt at suddenly having her worst memories pulled up out of her heart and mind or the growing idea that she was cornered.

"Uh, no. I've been in a few," she admitted. Quickly she added "But I never killed anybody!"

[Shield]

"I know, I believe you," Duke replied as disarmingly as he could. The aphorism that only the guilty had anything to fear from the law was a myth that nobody who actually worked for the law believed. Talking to the police could make anyone feel guilty. In Duquesne's experience, the people who felt nothing at all were the ones who needed watching.

The detective glanced back at the relatively calm Tom Harriman and turned a page in his notepad. "Has either one of you received any training with your abilities?"

[Tom Harriman]

"With my abilities?" Tom said first, jumping in quickly with a stall phrase so that Chelsea would have time to think about her answer; better to give the kid a chance to breathe, rather than feel forced to blurt out a response.

"I've practised," he admitted, "But I haven't had anything you could really call training since I left the military." He smiled a thin smile. "Unfortunately the British Army isn't quite as progressive as the LAPD in it's attitude towards mutants in the field. Or with it's attitudes towards anything else for that matter," he added as an afterthought.

He frowned. "Are you a mutant yourself?" he asked, scrutinising the detective, as if somehow a mere cursory glance could probe into his genetics. "I don't mean to pry; I've just never met anyone from Mutant Crimes before."

[Freight Train]

"Bet he is," Chelsea interjected. "Their leader is. I met him when he was in college. He's a nice guy." She squirmed a bit under the combined gaze of the adults, then answered Duquesne's question to get the interrogation back on track and try to deflect some attention back to him. "This guy Apollos helped me a little at the Retention House a while back, and before that I had a little training at the Cullen's School in New York. Otherwise, I haven't had any powers training." She winced as she butchered the name of Anna's home (again) and tugged at the frays of her jeans.

[Shield]

Duke nodded, and then smiled. Retention House. "Well, you're right on this one, Miss Wagner," he said. "I'm a mutant and proud. Not all of us in the MCU are mutants, and not all the mutants on the force are MCU. But it's good to have an insider's perspective. For instance..."

He swept a finger around at the wreckage nearby. It still hadn't been cleaned up, and the lab boys were still analyzing the scorch marks left behind by Plasma Girl's unruly aim.

"Most people look at this and think 'excessive force.' As far as I'm concerned, though, the two of you responded with the only force available to you. You didn't escalate. And fortunately you didn't hurt anybody. My foremost concern is that this doesn't become a habit for either of you."

He put the notepad away. He didn't want it getting between him and his real reason for being here.

"We've got no shortage of security footage and witnesses to corroborate what you did and why. It was very brave of you both to put yourselves on the line like that. But civilians and the enforcement of the law don't mix. You protect yourselves. You do what you can to keep others out of harm's way. But the moment you take the law into your own hands, mutant or normal, you put yourself and everybody around you at risk."

[Tom Harriman]

Tom bristled at the accusation. It was the same old bureaucratic rhetoric that he'd heard before. It sounded great in theory, but like any principle there was only so long it could survive when exposed to real life. In a perfect world, with a perfect police force, the division of responsibility between authority and citizenry was clear; but in a world of grey, where the boys in blue were overwhelmed by a task to big for them to handle, that ideology felt decidedly inadequate.

A quote tumbled unbidden through his mind: not the profound words of a philosopher, prophet, or poet; but of the Disney corporation, carried aloft by the dulcet tones of Nicholas Cage.

If something is wrong, those who have the power to take action have the responsibility to take action.

"Cute sentiment," he countered, offering the detective a tight smile. "But events like this just go to show that the people around you are already at risk regardless. The law doesn't stop bad men from doing bad things; it just enforces punishment in hindsight, and cleans up the mess. You don't have the manpower or resources to actually prevent crime, no matter how hard you try."

He fixed Duke with a probing stare. "A lot of people have the power to act. Is that shield you wear the only thing that gives you the responsibility?"

[Shield]

Detective Duquesne had been on the receiving end of a whole spectrum of stares, from "How-dare-you-accuse-my-poor-innocent-baby" to "Let-me-out-of-these-handcuffs-and-I'll-kill-you-pig." Tom's self-righteous jeremiad didn't impress.

"Mr. Harriman, I resent the implication that the LAPD does not prevent crimes," he said evenly. "Yes, we work within the system, and that's the same system that guarantees your rights and freedoms as a private individual. We are trained and equipped to deal with criminals. You aren't. And nine times out of ten, when civilians step into the line of fire, it makes our job a hell of a lot harder."

[Freight Train]

Chelsea'd been in only one other mutant-versus-mutant fight, and it'd been horrifying to her. She'd watched her math teacher, a man who could replicate his body, be killed nine times in a single second. She'd never forget that. Even now it colored her attitude towards using her powers for combat. It made her shrink up like she was now.

"Don't worry," she said. "I don't really wanna do much mutant fighting."

She liked her powers better when she just using them to explore, or break stuff. That made her feel tough and mighty, and made self-esteem rage through her body 'til the fun-sized teen felt like the Freight Train she took her "code-name" from. She used to feel that way all the time. She sighed and frowned as she wished for the thousandth time that she could just snap her fingers and go back to feeling that way.

[Tom Harriman]

Tom shifted a little in his seat. Here he was, prepared to launch into a full-blown argument over the ethics of citizen crime fighting, and the semantics of crime detection versus crime prevention; all the while completely ignoring the fact that he was turning poor Chelsea into an involuntary spectator. Every minute he spent arguing his case was a minute longer that Chelsea had to spend in custody. Guilt twisted in his gut, and it was almost enough to completely forestall his tongue.

Almost. "I meant no offense, Detective," he said, and meant it. "But I'm a man of science, and I can't help but consider the statistics. I see a police force that is overwhelmed by the sheer number of crimes taking place, and that simply can't afford the kind of resources and manpower it would take to make the kind of difference we all wish it could. They may be misguided idealists, but every crime stopped by a mutant with a conscience spares a victim that the police would never have had the chance to save."

His brow furrowed, attention focused squarely on his knees. "Maybe we're both wrong, though. Maybe Yoda was wrong too. Maybe 'do' or 'do not' aren't the only options."

A hand delved into a pocket, pulling out a battered leather driving wallet. Rifling through the sections he retrieved a pair of glossy cards emblazoned with the Treadstone emblem. "I work for a research company," he explained, realising a moment later that the Detective's notes had more than likely already told him the exact same thing. "We're a week or so away from announcing a new project; a way for mutants to help make the world a better place without needing spandex or a domino mask." He hesitated for a moment, hand half-way through the motions of passing one of the cards to Duquesne. "Or a badge, for that matter."

He completed the motion, proferring the card to the Detective. "I'm sure it'll make the news; just keep an eye out for the name." He offered a wry smile. "Maybe you'll see we're fighting out of the same corner after all."

[Shield]

Detective Duquesne gave the card a thoughtful once-over. He knew of Treadstone, but he'd never heard of them dabbling with mutants before. He filed that tidbit away in his mental list of interesting leads and tucked the card into his pocket. Truth be told, he thought Tom had his heart in the right place. After all, it was a similar line of thought that led Duke to the force in the first place.

"I'll keep it in mind," he said. "So..."

He took a deep breath with a clear note of transition. "Neither one of you has been charged with any crimes. You are, however, being issued a warning. That's not my prerogative, it's policy. Things went about as well as they could have today, but if you'd injured someone, they could press charges or file a lawsuit, and then it wouldn't matter what I say. We've got your contact information, and if we need anything more from either one of you, we'll call you. For now, you're free to go."

Tom had been outbound on a business trip, and Duke figured he could look out for himself and shuffle into the queue of all the other passengers whose flights were canceled because of the mayhem. But before he left, Duke turned back to Chelsea.

"Miss Wagner, is there anyone you need to get in touch with? I'd be happy to lend you a phone or call you a cab."

[Freight Train]

"Actually, the cab would be great. I've got some money for the fare. Also, I want my luggage." She put her feet on the gritty floor and made a face. "And if Treadstone could get to work on really really tough shoes, I'd be grateful for that, too."

She'd recognized the logo on Tom's card as it traded hands. Treadstone was supposed to be a big deal in the ever-worsening economy. Their PR was fantastic, and they were all over the news whenever she happened by a television that was running CNN, Fox, or the Daily Show. She didn't expect they'd have mutants on the payroll, which was the only part of the revelation of Tom's job that shocked her.

[Tom Harriman]

"You got yourself a deal, kid," Tom said, flashing Chelsea a chuckling smile as he handed over the second business card. "I figure I owe you one for saving my ass with Ironhide back there."

Even though it might not have been an entirely serious request, Chelsea's situation was the perfect example of everything that he and his team at Treadstone were setting out to achieve. While sure, encouraging the kid to run around smashing up the place wasn't the most constructive use of their time, what was the harm in making the kid a pair of new shoes?

Tom's mind was already in the middle of half-remembering an abandoned Treadstone research project into thermal- and friction-resistant high durability tyres for the next generation of jet fighters when he realised that he'd zoned out in the middle of a conversation. Returning to topic, he added a shrug. "Drop by any time; maybe I can bunk off for a bit and give you the tour or something."

[Freight Train]

"Sure," she replied, feeling a little ill at ease over the idea. She'd heard about Treadstone and mutant research. However, Jericho was supposed to be doing the same thing, and no mutant she spoke to seemed to like the idea, no matter how pretty a face Jericho put on it. "So, a cab, then? And my stuff?" she asked hopefully of Duquesne. "Especially my stuff."

[Shield]

"Sure thing. Hey, Daniels!"

Duke conferred momentarily with the uniformed cop, and in moments he was returning with a backpack and a scuffed old suitcase in tow. "They went into Lost Luggage when nobody claimed them," Duke said. "I figured you'd be wanting these back. The cab should be out front in a couple minutes. Enjoy your stay in Los Angeles, Miss Wagner."

He raised his hand in salute to the both of them and strode off.

[Freight Train]

Freight Train unzipped her luggage with ferocity, leaning over and burying her arms to her elbows in the suitcase. She pulled out a roll of socks, flipping them into the air to land atop her head. A bit more shuffling saw the emergence of two immaculate running shoes, never before worn. These she set on the chair as she waved good-bye to Duquesne and set her Treadstone business card on her knee.

"Right!" she said to Tom, dusting off the bottoms of her feet to prevent her glorious clean socks from getting dirty. "So this Treadstone thing is a research company for mutants?" Like, you test powers like those Jericho guys?"