in a deep breath and shoulder through the door. A skinny guy in boxer briefs and Scooby Doo T-shirt freezes. He’s holding an external hard drive inside his oven.
“Would you mind stepping away from the oven?” I keep my voice level. The guy is as stable as the street-preacher’s chihuahua so I decide the full-on cop voice isn’t necessary.
He drops the hard drive and steps back. I stroll over and calmly pull the device out. Thirty seconds of pre-heating time won’t melt plastic.
“Kevin Gagnon, I assume.”
Kevin nods. His eyes track all over the room, from the computer desk, to the flat-screen TV with the video game system perched on a milk crate, to a box full of cereal sitting on the floor. Finally, his gaze lands on Ann. His hands cover his crotch, as though he’s just realized he’s standing in front of a woman in his boxer shorts.
“Kevin, we’d like to talk to you about some things.”
His eyes find me. “I-I…um, okay?”
“Things that you’ve been doing on your computer.” I shake the hard drive at him.
Kevin gulps. “It wasn’t me. I, um, was just holding it for a friend.”
“And this friend is a member of AHA, yeah?” Ann steps up next to me. She has to step delicately to avoid at least six boxes of Easy Mac littering the floor. Even in flats, she seems to have a time navigating the trash-hole that is the apartment. At least the kid doesn’t live with his mom, I guess.
Kevin stares at us. Gape jawed. Somewhat blank. Check that, completely blank.
Ann must pick up on the lack of comprehension, because she says, “Is there information pertaining to anti-hero terrorist operations on this?” She takes the hard drive out of my hand and holds it out toward Gagnon.
He blinks. Gaze shifts from me to Ann to the hard drive. Another blink. Another round about the room.
Ann grunts and takes a seat at Kevin’s computer desk.
Kevin lunges. “Hey, you can’t do that,” he cries. “This is, is, is…this is illegal search-and-seizure.”
“Go cry that bullshit to a Mounty,” I say. “We don’t work for any government. Our rules are a little more…fluid.”
He moves toward the computer.
I let my hand make a wide, obvious movement toward the gun on my hip. Kevin freezes. Good boy.
Ann plugs the hard drive into the computer. After clicking through a couple folders she sighs and swivels in her chair. “Really? This is what you’re worried about?”
Kevin’s face scrunches up. The poor guy must think this is some sort of cop-trap.
“What is it?” I peer over Ann’s shoulder at the screen. Fuzz is all I can see.
She faces the screen. “All right, we’ve got the entire “Die Hard” series, everything remotely related to Terminator, about a hundred gigabytes of music, and a dodgy folder titled ‘Special Videos’ that I don’t exactly feel like clicking on.”
Kevin blushes. Having one’s secret stash unearthed by an SHI agent is pretty high up on the embarrassment charts.
“Any information about AHA?” I keep my gaze on Kevin, hoping for some kind of tell.
“What the hell is AHA?” Kevin infuses gusto in his voice, as if not getting arrested for all kinds of copyright violations has given him a set of balls.
“The Anti-Hero Alliance.” I cross my arms and stare. Tired of playing games, my hunger has climbed beyond the airline sandwich level. “We have information that you are a member who has been in contact with Leroy DeLaCruz.”
“Oh, wait, you mean that bullshit ‘Fuck the Capes’ forum?”
At the mention of the word ‘cape’ Ann stands up from her chair, hand on her gun, jaw clenched.
Kevin puts his hands up and trembles. I don’t blame him. “Okay, okay, take it easy, Lady. Yeah, there’s this forum where humans can get together to complain about the ca—” Kevin swallows the word. “Complain about the heroes. They get everything handed to them. They are above human law and above human government. It’s bullshit.”
“How many people are
“Would you mind stepping away from the oven?” I keep my voice level. The guy is as stable as the street-preacher’s chihuahua so I decide the full-on cop voice isn’t necessary.
He drops the hard drive and steps back. I stroll over and calmly pull the device out. Thirty seconds of pre-heating time won’t melt plastic.
“Kevin Gagnon, I assume.”
Kevin nods. His eyes track all over the room, from the computer desk, to the flat-screen TV with the video game system perched on a milk crate, to a box full of cereal sitting on the floor. Finally, his gaze lands on Ann. His hands cover his crotch, as though he’s just realized he’s standing in front of a woman in his boxer shorts.
“Kevin, we’d like to talk to you about some things.”
His eyes find me. “I-I…um, okay?”
“Things that you’ve been doing on your computer.” I shake the hard drive at him.
Kevin gulps. “It wasn’t me. I, um, was just holding it for a friend.”
“And this friend is a member of AHA, yeah?” Ann steps up next to me. She has to step delicately to avoid at least six boxes of Easy Mac littering the floor. Even in flats, she seems to have a time navigating the trash-hole that is the apartment. At least the kid doesn’t live with his mom, I guess.
Kevin stares at us. Gape jawed. Somewhat blank. Check that, completely blank.
Ann must pick up on the lack of comprehension, because she says, “Is there information pertaining to anti-hero terrorist operations on this?” She takes the hard drive out of my hand and holds it out toward Gagnon.
He blinks. Gaze shifts from me to Ann to the hard drive. Another blink. Another round about the room.
Ann grunts and takes a seat at Kevin’s computer desk.
Kevin lunges. “Hey, you can’t do that,” he cries. “This is, is, is…this is illegal search-and-seizure.”
“Go cry that bullshit to a Mounty,” I say. “We don’t work for any government. Our rules are a little more…fluid.”
He moves toward the computer.
I let my hand make a wide, obvious movement toward the gun on my hip. Kevin freezes. Good boy.
Ann plugs the hard drive into the computer. After clicking through a couple folders she sighs and swivels in her chair. “Really? This is what you’re worried about?”
Kevin’s face scrunches up. The poor guy must think this is some sort of cop-trap.
“What is it?” I peer over Ann’s shoulder at the screen. Fuzz is all I can see.
She faces the screen. “All right, we’ve got the entire “Die Hard” series, everything remotely related to Terminator, about a hundred gigabytes of music, and a dodgy folder titled ‘Special Videos’ that I don’t exactly feel like clicking on.”
Kevin blushes. Having one’s secret stash unearthed by an SHI agent is pretty high up on the embarrassment charts.
“Any information about AHA?” I keep my gaze on Kevin, hoping for some kind of tell.
“What the hell is AHA?” Kevin infuses gusto in his voice, as if not getting arrested for all kinds of copyright violations has given him a set of balls.
“The Anti-Hero Alliance.” I cross my arms and stare. Tired of playing games, my hunger has climbed beyond the airline sandwich level. “We have information that you are a member who has been in contact with Leroy DeLaCruz.”
“Oh, wait, you mean that bullshit ‘Fuck the Capes’ forum?”
At the mention of the word ‘cape’ Ann stands up from her chair, hand on her gun, jaw clenched.
Kevin puts his hands up and trembles. I don’t blame him. “Okay, okay, take it easy, Lady. Yeah, there’s this forum where humans can get together to complain about the ca—” Kevin swallows the word. “Complain about the heroes. They get everything handed to them. They are above human law and above human government. It’s bullshit.”
“How many people are
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