Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
The sound of his polished dress shoes against the fresh checkerboard tile floors echoed in the cold, sterile halls of the Bureau Headquarters, as his leg refused to cease its movement. Adrian had been attempting to soothe it all morning, to no avail, though he wasn't sure what it was this time; nerves or waning patience. Not excitement, that he was sure of.
The pain in his jaw had already subsided to little more than a dull ache. The gash from Littlejohn's plated fist had already begun to heal, but the bruising had only deepened to a dark purple in the days following the raid on Blacklight. If he were a younger man, he might've hoped the wound would garner some sympathy with the Board; pity points were more than welcome in his situation, but he knew better now.
Adrian sat outside the Hearing Chamber, his newly appointed handler looming at his side; a Dead-Eyed Operator assigned to watch over him before his hearing, dutifully ensuring he faced the music. The events of the Blacklight raid had garnered him unneeded attention, and the public backlash had been more severe than anticipated. Still, a dead Fiend, and enough evidence to keep the Branch busy for the rest of the year.
There had been worse. Much worse.
It was all routine at this point. He had heard this song and dance before, knew the tune well, and how to play it properly. Even still, he never enjoyed hinging everything on the outcome of a single bet, no matter how heavily the odds were stacked in his favour.
Weighted dice can still betray you, often when you need them most.
The door swung open beside them with a click, and a young woman poked her head out, first looking up to the towering Operator, then down at Adrian.
"The Board is ready for you, Mr. Bishop." She spoke in a hushed, library tone.
Adrian nodded and stood, taking with him a thick manila envelope before smoothing any wrinkles from his black uniform and patting his handler on the shoulder as he passed.
"It's been a pleasure, Operator."
The Operator gave a slight nod, robotically returning to his disciplined posture.
The Hearing Chamber resembled a conference room more than a disciplinary chamber; it featured the same floor-to-ceiling windows, white walls, and white floors, along with the sickeningly modern minimalist style that pervaded the entirety of the reconstructed new wing of the Branch Headquarters. A long black conference table sat in the middle. At his end, one lonely office chair. At the other, five. In them sat his judge and his jury.
One seat sat empty. That gave him an ounce of pause. I do hope he arrives soon...
The door shut behind him, and four pairs of displeased eyes watched as he took his seat. Then, they let the silence hang. That was always a good move. A guilty conscience can never abide silence.
Luckily, he didn't have one.
Adrian sat up straight, hands clasped together, and took the time to size each one up. The leftmost was Supervisory Special Agent John Queen, a pot-bellied, middle-aged man with thinning black hair and glasses a little too thick for fieldwork.
Next to him sat Special Agent Matthew Knight, filling in for the role of one of his peers, or so Adrian presumed. Broad-chested, clean-cut, a younger man, but old for the profession, and well-seasoned. The dark rings under his eyes spoke to that. Adrian smiled at him, and Knight found something else to stare at.
At the head of the table sat his judge, Special Agent in Command Richard Bishop. A brother in name alone. His elbows rested on the table, chin on his clasped hands, half obscuring a thick, dark moustache that matched his slicked-back hair, flecked with grey. In front of him lay three leather-bound books: one of substance, two of ceremony. The Holy Bible, King James Edition. The Codex Inquisitorum. And his personal favourite, the F.I.B.'s bastardization of it; the eloquently titled The Bureau Standard Operations Framework and Field Doctrine.
When Adrian met his gaze and smiled, Richard's piercing blue eyes stared right back into his.
Adrian shifted his focus to the last in line, a face he couldn't pin a name on. Younger than the rest, barely thirty, with a face built for propaganda. Perfect teeth, perfect skin, not a night of fatigue in his eyes. Adrian's gaze caught a metallic glimmer on the man's chest, dangling just below the F.I.B. crest: the silver insignia of the Knights of Saint John.
That made his smile widen.
My, my. A Knight before thirty? Adrian tilted his head as he stared at the young man. He's either quite the hero, or he's managed to live in the presence of enough dead ones.
He looked the Knight up and down before landing on those bright, green, untouched eyes. His eyes point to the latter.
Adrian stood. "This is quite an honour. We don't see many members of the Brotherhood anymore." He leaned across the table and offered his hand to shake. "I'm sure you know my name if you're sitting on my hearing, but I don't believe we're acquainted. You are?"
"Special Agent David Rector," the Knight replied. "Just transferred from Sacramento."
"Rector, Rector..." Adrian muttered, snapping his fingers, pretending to recall. "That's a Rook, correct?"
"Right you are." Rector smiled. "I-"
"Quiet," Richard interrupted. "Sit down, Adrian. Let's get started."
Adrian complied. "I believe we're missing one." He motioned to the empty seat.
"We'll catch him up when he arrives."
"I would much prefer we wait for Pedester to arrive. He-"
"Noted," Richard cut him off. "You're aware of the accusations levied against you by the Internal Affairs Department Head. Represented here by Supervisory Special Agent Queen-"
"Refresh my memory, please," Adrian feigned, knowing it wasn't intended as a question. "If you don't mind."
Richard stared him down, then motioned to Queen, who cleared his throat and shuffled some papers together.
"Special Agent Adrian Bishop, this hearing convenes to review your conduct in the events leading to, during, and following the raid on the club known as Blacklight. You stand accused of gross negligence resulting in multiple civilian casualties; deviation from standardized engagement protocol resulting in avoidable escalation; insubordination in the field; and conduct unbecoming of Bureau personnel."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Insubordination?" He breathed a laugh and rubbed his bruised chin. "I hope that one's a joke. The only insubordination was against me, not perpetrated by me."
"You think any of this is a joke, Bishop?" Richard said. "The after-action report handed in by Senior-Op Littlejohn details that you explicitly ordered your Operators to fire on civilians."
Queen licked the tip of his finger and flipped through the documents, fishing out the report in question and sliding it across the table. "Signed by three witnesses."
Adrian skimmed it, shaking his head. "Did the Senior-Op fail to mention the civilians in question were being used as human shields by Fiends?" He tapped a line with his finger. "Ah, no. It appears he didn't. It's right here." He plucked a pen from his breast pocket and underlined the sentence, then slid the page back toward Queen. "You might mention to Littlejohn that he should work on his punctuation."
"Relevance?" Richard snapped. "You ordered the Operators to fire. Do you deny it?"
"I don't. But now that you've brought it up, what is the relevance?" Adrian leaned back. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but humans in Fiend captivity, those 'hostages', don't tend to have a high life expectancy. Do they?"
Rector cracked a smile, visibly entertained. Knight and Queen shifted in their seats. Richard didn't move an inch.
"They were dead the moment they were taken," Adrian continued. "Littlejohn's hesitation only let three Fiends escape, and six civilians be eaten alive, at this very moment, if I were to guess. Some small mercy, that." He tilted his head. "Tell me, what edition of the Doctrine is on your desk?"
Richard sighed. "Relevance, Bishop?"
"For your convenience, mostly. Page numbers can differ between editions, but if you'd prefer to search for the sections I'm about to cite, by all means."
The door creaked open. A.S.A.C. Pedester stepped through, a stained coffee mug in one hand and a weathered laptop bag hooked in the crook of the other. His black overcoat was tied neatly at the left sleeve, just above where the arm ended; cut blunt just before the elbow. His hair was thick and grey, swept back and unruly, and the beard that covered his jaw had gone salt-and-pepper, with more salt than not.
He moved with a pronounced limp, the kind that screamed the dire need for a cane. Even so, he moved like a man used to being listened to. The room adjusted the moment he entered.
"Has he started quoting from the damned book yet?" Pedester asked, his voice warm as old whisky.
"You're just in time," Adrian said, glancing over his shoulder.
He could almost hear Pedester's old bones creaking as he passed. The man tried to hide the strain it took to move, but not well. He half sat, half collapsed into the empty chair with a huff, placed his mug down, and let the laptop bag slide from his shoulder to rest at his feet.
"Well then. By all means."
"Regarding the first accusation, gross negligence resulting in civilian casualties, I request that you cite the specific protocol I'm accused of neglecting," Adrian said, folding his hands neatly on the table. "Am I correct in assuming you're referring to Section Five of the Field Doctrine?"
Richard glanced at Pedester, then back at Adrian, before sliding the manual across the table to Queen.
Queen flipped through it, scanned the header, and gave a soft exhale. "Yes. That's correct."
"Then I'll ask again. Which protocol, specifically, did I fail to follow?"
Silence.
"I seem to recall ticking every box, start to finish. Shall we review?" Adrian leaned forward slightly. "A secure perimeter was established; two blocks in all directions. Traffic was locked down. Civilian movement was controlled. Operators entered the building and detained all perceived non-combatants in place. The plan, as it always is in situations like Blacklight, was to clear civilians in groups after administering field tests. That's outlined in paragraph three, if you're following along."
He let that hang a beat.
"The primary suspect then presented himself. I engaged. At the same moment, multiple Fiends within the building activated Profanities and began resisting containment. The order to engage was given per paragraph five; escalation protocol."
Richard narrowed his eyes. "The issue is not your perimeter, or the damned Fiend. The issue is that you ordered your Operators to open fire, knowing there were civilians in the line of fire."
"I ordered my Operators to open fire, knowing those civilians were already dead," Adrian said plainly.
A murmur passed between Queen and Knight. Rector grinned like he was watching a sport.
"The moment a human is seized by a Fiend, their fate is no longer in our hands. Their odds drop to zero the second they're used as leverage. Everyone in this room knows that, whether or not they have the stomach to say it aloud."
Adrian's tone darkened.
"There is a grey area in both the Doctrine and the Codex. We all know it. We all operate inside it. The doctrine states that civilian casualties should be avoided, not that they must be. The Codex tells us that allowing a Fiend to escape once engaged is to damn dozens more. It calls it a sin of inaction."
His eyes scanned the table.
"Even the Doctrine admits as much, but it stops just short of giving us the explicit orders we sometimes require. And so, within this blind spot, we operate, governed by the protection of established precedent, judged by boards like this one."
Adrian reached down and carefully opened the manila envelope in front of him. He slid five packets out, one to each member of the board. "The question is not whether there was loss. The question is whether I followed established precedent while operating within this grey zone."
Adrian's gaze hung on Rector as the young Knight skimmed through the packet.
"These are statements from leaders and elite personnel of Fiend-hunting organizations around the world, primarily the United States, of course. Though, in particular, Agent Rector, I'd like to draw your attention to the third page, a quote from High Inquisitor Oliver Wallace of the King's Inquisition in York, England. A fellow Knight of Saint John."
Rector, smile gone, looked to Richard for confirmation. Richard gave a resigned nod.
Rector cleared his throat. "From the Office of the High Inquisitor, Oliver Wallace, regarding the high civilian death toll during the St. Nicholas Fair incident two years ago, quote: 'To pretend that the prevention of civilian casualties is of the highest order of importance is to pretend that we are in an age of peace. That the dead are not piling up month after month. We are at war, as we have been since the First Light Crusade, and the math is clear: to let a Fiend live, to let a Fiend escape in the noble, yet misguided attempt to protect the life of one civilian, even a dozen, is to damn a hundred more.'"
Rector raised an eyebrow. "A bit overzealous, isn't he?"
Adrian smiled faintly. "Why, he's one of the best in the business. A scholar of the Codex. One might even say an authority on the matter. And a decorated member of your own brotherhood. I thought you'd appreciate what your own side has to say on the matter."
He gestured across the table.
"It would seem, Agent Rector, that you're sitting on the wrong side of the table."
Rector stifled a laugh and leaned back in his chair. "You think so?"
Richard adjusted his position, elbows coming back to rest on the table, fingers folding together as if it would stifle his growing aggravation.
"You're suggesting Littlejohn violated protocol by attempting to preserve human life. Not you, for giving the order to end it?"
"Well, you're missing the larger point, but to clarify," Adrian replied, "I'm suggesting that he violated protocol by hesitating in the face of an active Profanity event; an event in which hostile Fiends were already engaged. Hesitation in that scenario directly endangered his fellow Operators. As well as every civilian both present, and at large."
Richard opened his mouth, but Adrian cut ahead of him. "Page one hundred and fourteen, Section five, paragraph four. Mr. Queen, if you wouldn't mind."
Queen hesitated. "I, um..." Eyes flicked to Richard, then the rest of the table, then turned to the doctrine in front of him. Pages rustled.
"'Field personnel are authorized to escalate to lethal engagement if a Profanity is detected within a confirmed threat radius, even in the presence of civilians, if the delay would pose greater loss of life or enable a Fiend to escape.'"
Adrian nodded. "Thank you. Now turn to Section seven, page two hundred and one, the subsection regarding Operator responsibilities under live Profanity events."
Queen flipped again, slower this time. "'Operators are expected to defer to commanding officers once a Profanity event is confirmed. Failure to act may be considered dereliction of duty if the delay results in loss of tactical advantage or operational integrity.'"
Adrian turned to Richard. "Now tell me: did Littlejohn follow orders, or did he stall under pressure? Did I deviate from doctrine, or did he?"
Richard exhaled slowly through his nose. "This hearing isn't about Littlejohn-"
"It should be."
Richard stood. "It's about you."
"Then I'm happy to keep going. Let's skip forward a few pages in section seven. Look for 'Hostage protocol during Fiend engagement.'"
Queen was already flipping pages.
"'While hostage preservation remains a Bureau priority, current doctrine acknowledges that Fiend-hostage situations often involve time-sensitive decay of survivability. In such cases, Operators may escalate with lethal force if the outcome is deemed otherwise unrecoverable.'"
"You're quoting technicalities!" Richard snapped.
"I'm quoting your book."
Silence.
Adrian let it sit for a beat, then pressed forward.
"Let's be honest with each other, gentlemen. This hearing isn't about the charges on paper. It's about optics. There's been public outcry, and you need someone to hold up for the cameras. Unfortunately for you, I'm not that man." Full marks for trying, though.
Adrian stood and paced toward the windows, looking out at the courtyard.
"I'm not responsible for the Bureau's public image. I don't give press conferences. I don't sit on morning talk shows. My job is simple: eliminate Fiends. And I've given you one. A powerful one, at that; connected, wealthy, with at least three Fiends directly working under him. Three more bodies for the pyre, if my Senior-Op hadn't lost his nerve."
He rubbed his bruised jaw again, making a show of it.
"I followed every protocol in that book. Every line. If you've got a problem with that..." He held Richard's gaze. "Then change the Doctrine."
Agent Queen coughed. "The spirit of it, though..." he tried to interject.
"Relevance?" Adrian retorted. "I need only follow the letter."
"That's enough." Pedester didn't raise his voice. He never had to. He set his coffee down and wiped a thumb across the corner of his mouth.
"I think we've heard enough for now, unless you have anything more, sir," Pedester said, glancing at Richard, then each of the other board members in turn.
Richard looked down at the table, sighed, and shook his head.
"Agent Bishop, if you wouldn't mind giving us the room."
Adrian nodded at Pedester. "Of course."
He reached for his envelope, then paused. Let his hand rest on top of it, fingers drumming against the table.
"I trust you'll read the rest of these statements," he said, directing the comment to no one in particular.
"We'll take them under consideration," Queen replied.
Adrian nodded once, sharply, then turned and made his way to the door.
Just before it closed behind him, he caught the beginning of low voices.
Then silence.
"I think that went well," Adrian smiled at the Operator by the door. "Did you catch any of it from out here?"
The Operator acknowledged him for a moment, the tinted glass of his visor revealing nothing, then went back to staring straight ahead.
"Shame. You missed a good one. Nothing near as nerve-racking as my first hearing, but then, everyone's first time is quite memorable."
Adrian stood, arms folded. Muffled voices started up again. He didn't bother trying to decipher them. He knew what the verdict would be. Still, the anticipation grew as the time passed.
Finally, he heard the door open and turned to see Pedester limp out into the hall. The Operator stood a little straighter as he passed.
"Walk with me, Adrian. Let's let them cool off in there," Pedester said, his face revealing little, save for pained winces and twitches that accompanied each step.
"Of course."
Their walk was painfully quiet, and painfully slow. Still, he followed Pedester's lead. The courtyard splayed out before them, a path of pale stone connecting past and present.
Their walk was painfully quiet, and painfully slow. Still, he followed Pedester's lead. The courtyard splayed out before them, a path of pale stone connecting past and present.
On his right the East wing gleamed in the sunlight, torn down and rebuilt after the uprising; all glass and concrete, architectural flourishes, carefully engineered to serve no function. Indistinguishable from any high rise, university, or corporate office in the city.
On his left stood the Old Wing. Stonework, buttresses, marred with age; hundreds of grimy windows trimmed in cast iron, with intricate designs in their archstones depicting flowers, skulls, angels, demons. Half a church, half a castle.
A beautiful old mess. Adrian thought as he looked upon it. He knew where to look for the scars: the pockmarks along the archways from machine gun fire and Profanity shards, the missing gargoyle at the northwest corner, the angel sculpture near the west tower whose wings had been sheared clean off.
They'd left the damage. Maybe out of reverence. Maybe to serve as a memorial to the fallen, a testament to their resilience.
Maybe it just wasn't in the budget.
A pair of junior agents passed them going the other way. Both dropped their voices to a whisper as they caught sight of Adrian, stepping wide to avoid brushing shoulders as if his aura might taint them.
They passed a cluster of Operators seated at a bench. One was reading a paperback novel, another flipping idly through their phone. The rest were laughing over coffee and cigarettes. None of them looked their way.
Further on, two analysts from External Communications were chatting with a woman from Legal Affairs, giggling over something that didn't matter. All the urgency of a social club.
They stopped at the centre of the courtyard, where an ancient willow tree stood: dead and withered. The scorched branches had been cut down long ago, but it bore the same scars that marked the Old Wing, bullet holes, gashes, claw marks, and burns.
"You're reinstated, three to two." Pedester finally broke the silence. "You made quite an impression on the new kid, Rector. Queen took more to flip." He reached into his pocket and tossed Adrian his badge.
Adrian smiled, ran his thumb across the solid silver raven, then tucked it back into his breast pocket. "Thank you, as always."
"Richard's insisting that I keep you on a tighter leash," Pedester continued. "You'll be under a lot more scrutiny now. I don't know how long. Probably until Richard retires, based on his tone. Keep your 'T's' crossed and your 'I's' dotted, clear?"
"Always. It's the only reason I've lasted this long," Adrian breathed a laugh, "aside from your much-appreciated influence."
Pedester laughed. "You don't make it fucking easy for me, that's for sure. It would do you some good to work on that."
He plucked a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, put it to his lips, bit one out, and lit it. An awkward maneuver for a one-armed man, but well practiced.
"The Bureau's changed, Bishop." Pedester took a long drag. "This isn't the Bureau of the sixties. Hell, I look around and barely recognize the damn place."
"Thankfully, the war's still the same," Adrian offered. "I often wonder what Victor would make of it all."
"Oh, he's rolling in his grave, I'm sure." Pedester shook his head. "The Bureau's spent the last decade filing down its fangs. Snipping its claws." The air filled with another cloud of smoke. "All for good reasons. Reasonable ones, you might say. Recruitment—we needed bodies. So, lower the standards, raise the pay, makes sense. End the Nightwatch patrols, let the people breathe a little. It was a hard war; the wounds needed time. Didn't have the men for them anyway, so, that's fine."
"If we had just pushed a little further, we might've been able to hang up our badges for good," Adrian added.
"Maybe, maybe not," Pedester said, turning to look at him. "I think you're wrong, Adrian. Victor would've thought so too. The war has changed, whether you want to see it or not. The enemy too."
Adrian chewed his cheek, remaining silent.
"You remember the golden rule?" Pedester asked.
Adrian sprouted a thin smile. "Do unto others-"
"Cut the shit."
He swallowed and stared up at the withered branches of the dead willow. "Ten to one."
"Good." The cigarette's ember scorched the rim of its filter, and Pedester let it fall to the ground and snuffed it out.
"Two enemies now, Bishop. The Fiends and the Public. Total war is well and good when the skies are red with fire and brimstone. But now?" He spat on the ground. "Can't fight a war on two fronts. We need the people. We need the numbers. You gave us a dead Fiend, and that's no small feat. You seem to be the only one bringing them in these days. But every single civilian present at that raid is going to think twice when they see a black suit walking their way. Every pair of eyes sipping coffee over their morning paper that sees the death toll in big, bold letters is going to have a bitter taste in their mouth. The Bureau's power has always been a thorn in the side of every suit in Washington. They gave it to us. They'll be happy to take it away if enough people are screaming for it. Then what?"
Defeatist. "It's war," Adrian muttered. "People die in war."
"Do you want to die, or do you want to win?"
I don't know. Adrian looked down at his shoes.
"What happened to the Templars, a century after First Light?"
"They were burnt at the stake," Adrian answered like a schoolboy being scolded.
"And why was that?"
Adrian knew the answer, but he couldn't say it.
"The Fiends played it smart, like they're doing now. Out of sight, out of mind. They retreated to their catacombs, to the caves in the hills and mountains. Feeding just enough, the buried dead, lost shepherds, criminals and lonely merchants. The Templars were burning villages, ransacking farmsteads, scouring every cellar for Fiends. Before long, not a soul could say for certain who the real monsters were." Pedester grabbed Adrian's shoulder. "Look at me."
Adrian stared into his old, dead eyes, and for a moment, he was a young Agent again, fresh out of the academy.
"They'll be coming back, Bishop. I don't know when, but I know where." Pedester gestured at the dead willow with his stump of an arm. "When they're knocking at these doors again, and we're nothing but blackened skeletons chained to charred spikes, the war is lost. We need the numbers. We need the people on our side."
"I understand," Adrian whispered, but he wasn't sure that he agreed.
"Good." Pedester released his grip with a slight shove. "Next time, you're on your own. Dismissed."