"I dunno," muttered Peregrine, shaking her head. "He had one job. One bloody job."
Somewhat to his surprise, Fields felt the urge to defend Featherstone. "Well, that one job was working out how to shut down a potentially planet-threatening, runaway interdimensional breach in the fabric of space and time. So, you know, it's not like it's taking the bins out. And he does have a bullet-hole in him." The urge faded. "He's also a bit of a dumb-arse."
"Can't argue with that," Peregrine agreed, getting to her feet. "Come on. Let's go see what good old Frank's latest screw-up is. Probably got his chin stuck in a particle accelerator or something. Oh, that's right—he hasn't got one."
"What," queried Fields, whose tired brain was doing its level best to keep up with current events, but at times coming up just a little short, "a particle accelerator?"
"No," chorused Peregrine and Britney, with matching degrees of completely situation-inappropriate glee, "a chin!" They followed this up with a striking example of trans-universal convergent cultural evolution, in the form of an enthusiastic high five.
Working on the theory that any sort of response to the two women would only encourage them, Fields simply shook his head and set off for the control room. He was surprised to find he felt quite calm. Partly, he attributed this to to the almost five minutes of rest he'd just had, but mostly, he assumed it was because on a day that had largely consisted of a non-stop series of ever-escalating crises, one more just felt like par for the course. He doubted whether anything in his future career in Section F (assuming he was going to have a career, or for that matter, a future) could faze him now.
His doubt lasted for precisely the length of time it took him to exit their shelter. Oh, give me a break.
Whether by accident or design, through complicity or coincidence, the shadow-lurkers Fields had half-glimpsed a little earlier—the motley collection of multiversal miscreants the portal had spontaneously imported—had decided to make their move.
"Hey, Peregrine? When you and Britney are done with your little stand-up routine, you might like to get out here. We've got company."
"Whoa," responded his partner as she joined him, weapon at the ready. "I'm not sure company's the word I'd use. But we've sure as hell got something. Or even"—she gave him a playful elbow in the ribs, accompanied by a broad grin—"some things. Ha!"
Not for the first time that day, Fields found it hard to see the funny side—Peregrine's comment was just a little too accurate to be amusing.
To date, the portal-emissions they had come across—although undeniably strange, generally fantastical, and quite clearly not of this world—had somehow still been...familiar. Recognisable. Known. While fairy-tale princesses, witches and fire-breathing dragons may not exactly roam the streets of the Earth, they certainly populated the imaginations of its people. Fields could only assume this was because the clearly story-obsessed Featherstone had been driving the breach-bus for the importation of those particular arrivals.
For a while though, nobody had been at the wheel. Although the still-growing portal had been quiet of late, which Fields fervently hoped was a sign it was being brought under some sort of control, for a while it had run unchecked. For a while, the breach-bus had gone seriously off-route, made a few stops in the rough parts of the multiverse, and clearly picked up a rather less familiar load of passengers. Passengers who were now slowly advancing on the two agents, their intentions entirely clear, even if their identities (and in several cases, their species) were not.
"Oo-hoo-hoo, somebody's been waving around the old ugly-stick." Britney had popped her head around the edge of the shelter, and was watching the oncoming horde with evident interest, if not much in the way of trepidation. "What a sorry pack of miasmic, arse-faced bespawlers. They look even worse than the half-a-dozen I had to see off before. I'd give 'em a good banging with your bang-sticks, if I were you. Those lot don't look like they're coming over to borrow a cup of newt-testicles."
"A good banging?" replied Peregrine, raising her gun. "Sounds like a plan to me."
Reluctantly, every instinct urging him to agree and start banging away, Fields instead raised his hand. "Wait," he instructed wearily. "Wait just a minute. Do you think those things are...you know—sentient?"
The nearest of the creatures—a bizarre kind of pig-wolf hybrid, wearing a vividly bright pair of pink overalls, leered hungrily at Peregrine. "I'm gonna rip out yer lungs," it growled "and then I'm gonna make yer sing me a song, me pretty."
"As for you," added a squat, bipedal, hedgehog-like monster, pointing a wickedly barbed, over-sized talon at Fields, "I'm gonna tear you apart and swallow you whole."
"Well," hedged Peregrine, "they seem to have a pretty tenuous grasp of basic physiology, anatomy and well—logic, but on the face of it, I'd have to say, yeah. They look pretty sentient to me."
Fields grimaced. "Bugger. I was afraid you'd say that."
"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"
"Because," he replied, holstering his gun, "it means no banging...I mean, no shooting. Technically, if they're intelligent and sentient, then strictly speaking those things are illegal aliens—unarmed illegal aliens, and it's our duty to take them into custody. We can subdue them, but we can't use lethal force unless the situation warrants it."
Peregrine goggled at him. "Unless the situation warrants it? Unarmed? Did you get a load of the teeth on bigfoot's big brother over there? The one in the hoodie? Fields, are you out of your mind? Those things aren't illegal aliens—they're plain, bloody, honest-to-goodness, actual, real-life aliens! Who want to rip bits off us and eat us and possibly worse! I'd say that's a situation that freaking well warrants just a little bit of lethal force, wouldn't you?"
Resolute, Fields shook his head. "Verbal threats do not justify lethal measures. Weapons may only be discharged in the presence of physical violence, if and when said violence is potentially deleterious to continued life. Section 3, clause 2.1 of the manual."
"The manual?" sputtered Peregrine. "The manual? I...but...we..."
Despite the extremity of the situation, Fields couldn't help but be intrigued by the sight of an (almost) speechless Peregrine—possibly one of the most unexpected things he'd seen that day.
Sulkily, she put her gun away, before making a grand gesture towards the slowly advancing horde. "Okay—fine. After you, Mr Deleterious-My-Arse-Play-By-The-Rules-Quote-The-Manual-Stickler-Face. Subdue away." She crossed her arms. "This should be good."
Fields swallowed and took a step forward. "Attention, ladies and gentle-...er, attention, peop-...um, attention, fellow citiz-...ah, your attention, please. Kindly cease and desist in your advancing, lay down any weapons you may have in your possession and please retract, contain or sheathe any and all bodily appendages of a sharp or serrated nature. Kneel and place your hands behind your head, or in the absence of knees or hands or...um, heads—place your, um...well, just do the best you can with whatever you've got, alright? This'll go easier for all of us, if you—"
"You know," hissed a scaled, serpentine beast, its forked tongue darting ceaselessly between two rows of razor-sharp teeth, "for a sssnack, you talk too much. Tell me, do you want to go down head-firssst, or feet?"
Involuntarily, despite his best efforts not to, Fields took a step back. "Neither, sir...ma'am...um. I must warn you that threatening a federal agent is a serious offence—eating one, even more so. Now, if you'll please—"
"Head-firssst, I think. It'll stop the talking sssooner."
"Listen here—"
"Narf larf spurgle rooor!" interjected yet another creature, emerging from the shadows to Fields' left, punctuating each of its 'words' with a vigorous finger jab, before finishing with an emphatic, "Spinkle reep!" Its appearance defied easy categorisation, but if orcs had plastic surgeons, and those plastic surgeons advertised with 'before and after' shots, then Fields felt pretty certain this particular beast would make an excellent candidate for the 'before' picture.
"I must insist—"
"Oh, you silly things." This time the voice came from the shadows to Fields' right—a disturbingly husky and seductive voice, which was soon followed by a disturbingly curvy and seductive figure, wearing a disturbingly minimal amount of clothing. "You do so carry on, with all your I'm going to eat that, and I'm going to shred this and I'm going to rip the lungs out of the other." The clearly very female figure gave the agents a languorous smile. "There's so much more fun that can be had before we get to that."
Fields was conscious he was gaping but didn't seem to be able to do a whole lot about it. "P-peregrine," he stammered, "is that a...a...s-s-s—?"
"A siren?" she replied, rolling her eyes. "Yep, think so—nothing but trouble, in my experience. Eyes up and mouth closed, partner."
Now just a few paces away, the semi-circle of interdimensional interlopers paused and regarded the two agents standing before them, shoulder to shoulder, with their back to the little sheltered area housing the witch and the stricken princess. Fields held up both hands.
"Stop right there. This is my final warning. Put away your weapons and/or body parts, right now, or there will be consequences. Is that clear?"
Silent, faces impassive, the beasts stood motionless. At last, the hedgehog-monster slowly raised a hand.
"Er, yes?" said Fields, a little taken aback. "You have a question?"
Solemnly, the viciously spiked creature nodded. "What are 'consequences'?"
Drawing himself up to his full height, Fields gave the beast his most steely glare—the one he used for hostage negotiations and for letting his beagle know that taking a whizz on the kitchen floor was definitely not okay.
"You wanna know what consequences are? Fine, I'll tell you what consequences are. Consequences are the full force of the Agency coming down hard on your sorry carcasses. Consequences are you sorry mob of transdimensional buttheads regretting ever setting foot on this world. Consequences are Peregrine and I wiping the floor with each and every one of your freaky arses, or whatever the hell it is you've got that passes for an arse, if you don't do exactly what we say, when we say, and without any bloody more attitude. Is that clear?"
For a few seconds more, the motley array of bizarre creatures—tall and short, spiky and scaled, on four feet and on two (or in one particularly grotesque case, seven)—remained silent and still.
And then fell about laughing.
Ever so subtly, Fields' left eyebrow began to twitch.
"Peregrine?"
"Yes, Fields?"
The twitch increased. "Feel like kicking some arse?"
Peregrine grinned what was quite possibly her biggest grin of the day. "Thought you'd never ask."
Pausing only for a deep breath, a fist-bump and a joyous "Ha!" the two agents leapt into the fray.