The police found me, sitting in the van next to the dead terrorist. The gunshots had alerted both security and the numerous people outside. There was a lot of freaking out I imagine. They pointed a bunch of guns at me, but I didn’t move. I was too tired and sick of this to cause the slightest problem. Holding my hands up after I set the boy’s hands on his chest, I limped out of the van and was roughly set upon by the SWAT team. Shouting I was with the military didn’t seem to help, but as they shoved me into the ground with their knees, as they straddled me and pushed my face into the concrete, I figured it would all get straightened out eventually. I tried not to think too hard about how I could break them all if I wanted to.

My trip to the police station was a blur. The thoughts that swirled around my head demanded too much attention. I’d just killed two people. What did that mean? I was doing the right thing, of that I had no doubt, but still, I had killed them.

The police stuck me in a room once we reached the station and began to process the guys from the first van who they’d collected as well. I watched them do their best to stay far from me, which I found funny. Here they were preparing to kill hundreds and now they were afraid of a little goth girl. After what seemed like ages, a doctor came out to see my leg and after a brief examination, said I probably needed to go to the hospital. Well, thank fuck for small favors. An argument ensued, as people got in trouble for missing the fact that I was injured and not leaving me in the hands of the paramedics on the scene.

My bleeding had slowed to a trickle already, and by the time a doctor saw me in the hospital the wound would be on its way to being repaired. I wondered what they would make of it. The military remained steadfast in keeping the existence of the Changed a secret for now, so it would not do to have some local doctor getting his hands on someone like me.

It did mean I did not get processed. They were leaving me till last I think, while they dealt with the terrorists. FBI was on their way, I overheard one cop say to another. This had become a big deal. Someone stuck a cup of coffee in my hand and put a jacket over my shoulders. They were talking to me, but I was not really listening, just nodding and mumbling occasionally. My thoughts were on the boy, and the dead man in the cab of the van.

While they were getting ready to ship me off to a hospital, a group of men in suits stormed into the room, causing quite a disturbance. Wow, the FBI looked just like they did in the movies. It was almost funny. This was now under their jurisdiction and they were expecting the full cooperation of all the police here. Damn, they moved fast. Only a few hours had passed since they picked me up. But I guess in these days of heightened security, they were a bit more ‘on edge’ than usual; a bit more ready to jump when a terrorist raised their ugly head.

When the FBI saw me, they demanded to speak with me and I was shuffled off into another room. I let the cop lady ‘help’ me walk, no need to make it obvious that there was something different about me. Then I was in a small white room with a white chair and white table, and a big mirror across the wall.

It was just like a cop show on television.

One of my myriad advantages as a Changed was that my senses of perception were heightened. Not a lot, not like some of the others, but enough. For example, I could see the two men on the other side of the one-way glass and I could hear the people arguing outside the room. Sounded a lot like dick-waving to me, who had the authority to question me, when was I going to get treatment before I bled to death, blah, blah, blah. With all their delays and bickering, I was really happy I wasn’t normal. Otherwise, I would have passed out and maybe died from the gunshot wound by now.

When the door opened, it was an FBI agent that walked in. Tall, dark suit, short hair, nondescript really, the kind of guy that would blend in with a crowd quite easily. I was disappointed he was not wearing glasses. Sitting across from me, he laid a folder on the table. Folders: my life was constrained by them. Everywhere I turned, someone had a folder on me, or of things I had done. I wondered if I was in this folder too.

“Hello, my name is Agent Drake,” he said, in a cool tone.

“Like a duck,” I said.

He stopped, lowering his head to look at me with a disapproving glare. Oh, like he had never heard that one before.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Peri, Peri Delaney.”

“I need to ask you some questions, Ms. Delaney,” he said.

I ran my hand down my bloody jeans and then splayed my gore covered fingers on the nice white table. “I need to see a doctor.”

He looked at my impromptu modern art exhibit and then back at me. “I’m well aware of your condition; this is why you should answer my questions promptly.”

I blinked. “You’re kidding, right? You are going to let me bleed to death because these bozos didn’t toss me into an ambulance at the stadium?”

“I’m sure if you are quick, we can get you to the hospital in time,” he said.

Shaking my head, I just glared back at him. “Wow, you are a dick, you know that?”

Agent Dick did not give me the satisfaction of responding to my insult. He just stared at me like I was an annoying student who was, as usual, late for class. Then, he moved on to the meat of why he was here. “You killed those men tonight, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?” he asked, flipping the folder open to a form.

“Because they were going to detonate a car bomb.”

“And how did you know about them?”

Ah, well now, that was tricky, wasn’t it? What the hell did I say about nut-job and my tip-off? I’d slipped up when I told the cops I was with the military, we were not supposed to talk about that, not if we could avoid it. The regular soldiers could, but not us. If I made it back to base, I was probably in a lot of trouble.

“I saw them, on the way to the concert,” I lied. Not very convincing, even to my ears.

“Really? That does not sound very likely. I’d say it sounds like bullshit. Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

Rolling my eyes, I said, “Entertain me, Donald Drake.”

Tapping his fingers for a second, he smirked at me. “I think you got cold feet. I think you were with the terrorists but changed your mind at the last second and used a weapon to kill the other men in the van with you before attacking the other terrorists, taking them by surprise.”

My mouth must have been hanging open by the time he was finished. “You are fucking kidding me, right? Look at me,” I said, throwing my bloody hands in the air. “Do I look like I could beat up four, grown, crazy men? Even if I had surprise on my side? Seriously?” Being small and cute had its advantages, even if I usually hated not being taken seriously, but now it was a look I wanted to cultivate.

Prickles ran down my back. Another Changed was rapidly approaching the room. Loud yelling came from outside and then the door burst open. August strode in like a vengeful storm front. “Agent Drake, I’m here to take the prisoner into custody.”

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

“That does not concern you,” August said, tossing a clipboard and papers at Agent Dick. “Read that, call your superiors if you have any questions, but the prisoner is leaving with me.” He turned and looked at me, seeing me for the first time. “Good God, man, why hasn’t she had medical attention?”

Another whirl of activity led to me being wheeled out on a gurney to an ambulance. August was not here by himself. There were several faces I did not recognize, all stern and very official-looking. I got tingles from all of them. Rebecca was also there, dressed in a hardcore power suit. She looked harder and colder than I had ever seen her look before, and though I smiled when I saw her, she only gave me a brief nod before slipping her game face back on.

The crowd stayed behind to deal with the FBI and whatever fallout there was about to be. August got in the ambulance with me. Paramedics started looking at my leg as the doors slammed and we drove away. They poked and prodded my leg, and I heard them mutter about how this did not look like a gunshot wound. I peaked and they were right, under the dried blood, my wound was puckered shut.

After several minutes of silence, August turned to me. “Damn it, Peri, what in the hell happened?”

“Well,” I said, trying to decide what to say, “It all started with some strippers.”