Clarice gritted her teeth and muscled the "exhausted" Luke into the passenger seat.
He slumped back with a long sigh, then picked up the car radio like it weighed a hundred pounds.
"Dispatch, this is Luke. West side record factory. Need backup—send everyone you've got."
Two seconds of silence, then a stunned voice crackled back.
"Luke… what the hell happened out there?"
Luke kept his tone flat.
"Send every body you can spare. We've got… a few dozen corpses."
"How many?"
"Forty, maybe fifty. Oh, and tell the cleaners to bring extra trucks. Place is a ss."
The radio went dead.
Ten minutes later, a dozen patrol cars scread up and surrounded the factory. The first rookie through the gate took one look inside, went sheet-white, and doubled over to puke.
"Jesus Christ…"
"Jesus fucking Christ, is this a slaughterhouse?"
Even the veteran cops looked green.
One of them walked over to the car and stared at Luke through the window.
"You do all this, Luke?"
Luke gave a weak nod.
The cop sighed.
"Sorry, rules are rules. You're gonna have to co in."
Clarice stepped forward fast.
"You can't take him. It was self-defense. These people were cultists—they attacked first."
Chief Woody shoved his way through the crowd, took one look at the shredded remains on the floor, and actually smiled.
"Well, shit. Governor's gonna have to co down here himself tomorrow."
He turned to Clarice, giving her a slow once-over.
"You might wanna worry about yourself, Agent."
"?"
Woody nodded and started pacing through the carnage like he was at a garden party.
"Dead cultists everywhere. Reports, hearings, internal reviews… you won't see a cell, but the Bureau's gonna chew on you for weeks."
Clarice swallowed hard.
"Are we going to prison?"
Woody burst out laughing so loud Clarice jumped.
"Scared you, huh, FBI girl?"
He wiped his eyes and finally explained.
"If you were civilians, yeah—you'd be broke and behind bars even if you walked. But you two are governnt. Special rules. Once we confirm these were cultists, you're heroes. This story won't even make the morning paper."
He walked to the car and slapped Luke on the shoulder hard enough to rock the whole vehicle.
Luke didn't move an inch, but he still let out a pained grunt.
"Ow… Chief, ribs might be cracked."
"Bullshit. You look like you could punch out a bull."
Woody eased the pressure but leaned in close, voice dropping.
"Hoffman picked up a few businessn. We'll cross-reference with your leads. Real mastermind won't stay hidden long. Leave it to . Go rest."
The next few days were the first real vacation Luke had taken since arriving in this world.
He was checked into the hospital that worked with the departnt.
Doctors poked and prodded him for hours and found zero injuries, but Woody insisted he stay. It sent a clear ssage—Luke was a victim too.
They even posted a guard outside his room.
When Luke saw who it was, he laughed.
"Steve? They stuck you with babysitting duty?"
Woody's son stood there looking starstruck.
"Luke, I begged the chief for days. I want you to teach how to be a real cop."
Luke didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Kid, I've only been a cop for like five minutes myself."
Steve waved his arms excitedly.
"Doesn't matter! The whole station's talking. You and that FBI chick stord the cult's lair and took out hundreds of psychos single-handed. Everyone's calling you a hero."
Hundreds?
Luke felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. The rumor mill was already working overti.
He shook his head and let Steve ramble. Over the next few days he learned exactly why Woody called his son useless. The second Steve wasn't busy, his mouth ran nonstop—comics, NES gas, wild fantasies about what real police work was like. No paperwork, no procedure, just driving fast cars and shooting bad guys.
Luke tried to steer the conversation back to actual police business, but Steve's brain kept derailing.
Still, the kid was harmless. Kind of entertaining, even.
Luke tried to get news from outside, but Steve knew nothing. Clarice had gone dark—probably buried in FBI internal review.
So Luke spent his days lying in bed, arguing with Steve about which comic hero would win in a fight.
Finally, just when he was ready to grow mushrooms on the sheets, he was cleared for discharge.
Back at the station he t his lawyer.
A sharply dressed man with slicked-back hair and a perfect smile extended his hand.
"Officer Luke, I'm Kevin Ros. Your attorney."
They shook. Luke sat down while Ros opened his briefcase and handed over a thick stack of papers.
"These are the statents you and Agent Starling gave, plus everything the departnt has gathered so far. Take a look. Anything you want to add?"
Luke flipped through quickly.
The cultists' real nas were all there—plumbers, holess guys, bullied high-school kids. Bottom-rung people with nothing to lose. No wonder they'd fallen for the cult's promises.
His own statent was airtight. He and Clarice were portrayed as innocent victims who walked into a trap and fought for their lives.
"Looks perfect. Nothing to add."
Ros nodded and collected the papers.
"Good. My part's done for now. Chief Woody wants to see you alone."
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