Section F: The Arse-Kickers

Chapter Nine

"You know, Peregrine, when you said we were hitting the casino, this wasn't quite what I had in mind."

Unruly hair rendered even unrulier by the departure of their helicopter ride, Peregrine gave her partner a consoling whack on the back. "Sorry, Fields. But in my defence, I never said which part we'd be hitting."

"No," agreed Fields, in that very special tone of voice he'd only acquired since meeting Peregrine, the one that sounded like it was being forced between gritted teeth even when it wasn't, "but given you sat beside me on the plane all the way from Bundaberg to Perth and then on the helicopter ride from the airport to here, did it not occur to you at some point to perhaps suggest I might be a tad overdressed for galivanting about on rooftops?"

"Nah, not really. For a start, if you think back, you'll remember I was asleep most of the way. I pulled a late one last night, after all. Napping's important, you know, Fields. Not as important as snacking, but it's up there. Hey, maybe that should be the second rule of Section F—always keep your zeds up. Hmm, I'll have to give that some thought. Anyway, I forgot you were off brushing your teeth or whatever when Reggie gave me the finer details, and then you were so pleased with yourself for tracking down that outfit in Bundy that even once I remembered, I didn't have the heart to tell you. And hey, if it's any consolation, the tux looks really good on you. James Bond eat your heart out. Rowr, as the Archduke would say."

Fields had to admit to experiencing a bit of a guilty 007 thrill as he'd made the final adjustments to his bowtie—but only to himself. He'd jump off the roof of the casino upon which they currently stood before admitting any such thing to Peregrine. Squinting in the bright West Australian sunshine, he slipped on his sunglasses, viciously suppressing the recalcitrant license-to-kill vibe the action threatened to rekindle.

"What about you, Reggie? You might have said something."

"Apologies, Agent Fields, but fashion advice does not really lie within my purview. And even if it did, my usual location in Agent Peregrine's jacket pocket does not lend itself to forming an opinion. I also judged it best not to disturb her sleep. After spending several days in her company, preliminary psychosocial analysis suggests quite a high risk of volatility in the absence of sufficient rest."   

Given 'high risk of volatility' could well be Peregrine's middle name, Fields was not at all surprised. "Fine, whatever. Now, given I missed the Flykid briefing, somebody care to fill me in? What's his deal? Let me guess, he fell out a window and got bitten by a radioactive bird in the middle of a cyclone? Something plausible like that?"

"Haha, very droll, Agent Fields. Although, in actual fact, you're closer than you think."

"I am?"

"Yes, indeed. You see, radiation was involved in the genesis of his abilities. The young man in question was working as an apprentice pest-controller when his employer decided to increase the...efficacy of their extermination methods by supplementing them with a source of radioactivity—a capsule of caesium-137, to be precise."

Fields gave a low whistle. His counter-terrorism training included the potential contents of dirty bombs and he knew just how nasty that stuff was. "Wow. Hang on—where the hell does a pest exterminator get hold of caesium-137? I mean, it's not as though you can wander down and buy some from the local hardware store."

"It appears the capsule in question fell off the back of a truck."

"What? Seriously?"

"Oh, yes. It was quite a big news story here in Australia at the time.* As the relevant authorities were a little slow off the mark in organising a search and retrieval party, our exterminator seized his opportunity to swoop in and get there first. Armed with a Geiger counter purchased from eBay he retraced the truck's path until he located the capsule and the rest, as they say, is history."