Abigail Lawful had a thing for horses.

  She lounged in the bed of her Washington, D.C. townhouse bedroom, idly waving her hand, directing the hologram projector to shift between channels, sometimes multiple at once, watching the big game between the Pareidolia City Piranhas and the Dawson's Creek Crackshots, beating the ever-loving tar out of each other in the Terror Ball playoffs. “Who's winning?” the big blue unicorn asked, coming out of her bathroom, brushing his teeth.

  “Crackshots ahead by seven,” she answered, indicated by the heads of opposing players mounted on a row of metal pikes surrounding the arena. “I can't believe this game actually exists. Baseball, football, I guess the bloodthirstiness of the American consumer just cannot be satiated by mundane means.”

  “You sure get philosophical a lot about the past, boss,” the hunky blue unicorn said, hopping into bed beside the tall, leggy blonde woman. She wore black-rimmed glasses, her long hair pulled into a thick, messy braid designed for utilitarianism and functionality instead of style. She wore a gold lamé bikini, its brilliant sheen matching her golden locks, and its ridiculous nature matching her unequivocal sense of not giving a damn what anyone thought about her ever. Except her father, and he wasn't here.

  “I'm a lot of things,” she replied tartly, turning off the hologram projector with the blink of an eye and scooting under the covers, cuddling up to the elegant equine, running her fingers over his hard pecs. “Now shut up and do as your told, come kiss me. Watch the horn.”

  “Hey, last time wasn't my fault, you sat up too quickly!”

  “You sassing me, boy?”

  “Oh. No ma'am.”

  “That's a good horny corny, you'll make chief bottle washer yet. Now let's make some pony porny!”

  No sooner did they start smooching than the hologram projector flickered to life on its own, brightening up the room an electric emerald-teal, and a huge green face that put the Wizard of Oz to shame strobing into existence. A flattop, like LITERALLY a top that was flat, not the hairstyle, dominated his craggy head, long and drawn out, scars crisscrossing his otherwise strangely rugged, handsome features, a pair of rusty bolts screwed directly into his neck. He wore dark sunglasses and a white earbud lodged in his ear.

  “Director Lawful, good evening.”

  “FRANKENSTEIN YOU FLIPPIN' GOL' DURN MUDDER LAMBER-” She grabbed her gold-plated Desert Eagle off the nightstand and unloaded three rounds into the huge floating head, passing through harmlessly to impact on the far wall. She got up, seething, her eyelid twitching, in her righteous rage all her adipose tissues jiggling like jell-o. “I told you to NEVER contact me on this channel!”

  “Emergency situation gets the emergency channel,” the huge green face said. Slowly, he lowered his sunglasses, coal black eyes taking a good long look at the hapless unicorn peeking up from off the floor where he fell in the madness. “Agent Tarmac, enjoying your night off?”

  “D-Director Frankenstein,” he gurgled before ducking under the bed.

  The ancient homonculus chuckled. “Always had a thing for horses, Ab.”

  “Shut up and get to the point before I personally cut you up and sell your parts to mad scientists for cheap wine money.”

  “It's Pareidolia City,” Frankenstein replied tersely. “It's under attack.”

  Lawful blanched, her already pale skin turned an ever whiter shade of pale. “You don't say.”

  “Roughly 12 o'clock their time,” Frankenstein explained.

  “And why does this concern me and not the military?”

  “Well, for starters, you have family there, that alone should make it worth your while. But more importantly, it was a pirate ship.”

  Abigail stared at him. “I don't fight pirates.”

  “They hit the Fifth National Bank.”

  At this, her eyebrows arched slightly. “You don't say.”

  “Indeed I do say.”

  “Fiiiiiine, I'll be right down.” She tossed on her robe and marched for the bathroom. She stopped, staring at Frankenstein's still floating head. “You can turn that off now.”

  “One last thing,” Frankenstein said calmly. “The President himself has made this a personal thing.”

  She frowned. “WHY?”

  “Think about it. Hawaii attacked, a good portion of it blown to hell, and in the first year of his historic administration. Not a good callback to have hanging over one's head, let alone the first Japanese-American elected to the nation's highest office.”

  She clenched her teeth, jaw spasming, feeling the sharp pangs of her long fingernails driven into her palms. “Oh brother.”

  “Do you need me to come, boss?” Agent Tarmac stammered, peeking over the bed sheets. “I am officially off duty.”

  “What you think I'm doing, ya lousy hoofed freak? Whistling 'Dixie'? Get your pants on, if I suffer, you ALL suffer. Plus you're my I.T. guy, I need you to do all that computer crap I hate.”

  In short order, they were dressed and collected by a government-mandated limo, cruising in with the Washington Monument rising in the distance, the whole of the nation's capital gleaming around it. As law dictated, no structure in the city could surpass the Washington Monument in height, so unlike Pareidolia City or many another city of the future, it remained relatively untouched by the passing of time.

  The limo landed atop the roof of the Department of Supernatural Intelligence & Investigation, an elegant building with a rich Corinthian colonnade facade. Abigail stepped out of the back seat, having ditched her fun clothes for serious, a black turtleneck, slacks and trench coat, her Desert Eagles strapped to her hips. Tarmac trotted obediently along, hooves clicking nervously. They stepped onto the lift and it activated, the edges glowing, and it lurched downward, the hapless unicorn rotating his arms to maintain his balance.

  “Director Lawful!” No sooner had she stepped off the platform, Tarmac scurrying off for the data center, than a tall, gorgeous young Latino strode up, shoulders broad and square as was his goatee, wearing an immaculately tailored suit. “Have you heard about Pareidolia City?”

  “Hello to you too, Emmanuel.”

  He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Manny, please. You sound like my mother when you call me that.”

  “I'm old enough to be your grandmother. Maybe great-grandmother considering how young you Mexicans have kids. Rabbits breed with more restraint. Anyway, what about Pareidolia City?”

  “I want in,” he said bluntly. “However you divvie it up, I want in on the crew.”

  “Why's it so important to you?”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I make no bones about it,” he said, walking alongside her as they strolled through the pristine white hallways, hologram displays flickering into view, hovering in the air and off the walls. Scattered about with almost zero rhyme and no reason were random stacks of books, cluttering the halls, sticking out by their antiquated design, ancient tomes bound in genuine leather and annotated by the hands of monks and mages long ago, ages past. Manny deftly avoided colliding with one such stack of tomes, jumping over a bubbling cauldron, while broadswords and scimitars lay propped up against the walls. “I care about Snap.”

  “Why would you care about HER?”

  “Why not? She drives me crazy.”

  They approached the door. “She drives EVERYONE crazy, what makes you special?”

  “Because I want to invite that craziness into my life and make her my wife.”

  She laid her palm on the readout, the scanner flashing green. “When was your last psych eval?”

  “I can't get her out of my head!” Manny groaned.

  “Robin Hood and William Tell and Ivanhoe and Lancelot? They don't envy him.”

  They stood at attention for the seven-foot tall powerhouse approaching. Sharp suit and tie, shoulder holster with good old-fashioned Glock at the ready, shoes polished till they showed a reflection, but that visage, heavy scar tissue, gangrenous flesh chilled over and reanimated, and a scalp bolted on, there was no mistaking the monster behind the legend, the name no one doubted – Frankenstein.

  “Director,” he greeted, offering a perfunctory nod. “Agent Vasquez.”

  “Assistant Director,” she replied and the two strode off, Manny keeping pace. Even though she was a good two feet shorter than the green-skinned man-monster, Abigail had no issue keeping up with his long legs, in fact she seemed to simply hum with a bumblebee energy, forcing Frankenstein to keep up with her.

  “I don't understand why I'm not allowed to express my valid feelings for someone's well-being,” Manny muttered. “Of course I'm concerned, I care about her! A lot!”

  “One, because it's totally unprofessional,” Director Lawful replied tartly, “and two, because she's my frickin' niece and only 17. Keep it in your pants, muchacho.”

  “My mama-sita was 15 when she got married, and Papa was 24! Bigger gap! I have no guilt! No qualms!”

  “You'll have a few qualms if she smacks you with one of those fifty pound fists of hers,” Frankenstein said wryly, “should you decide to exude any of that Latin charm without her permission.”

  Manny frowned, adjusting his necktie. “Duly noted.”

  The reached the nexus of the DSII headquarters, the panopticon of the paranormal, supernatural situations both mundane and multifaceted on display from all corners of the world. Tibetan monasteries, Jerusalem dig sites, ancient temples dedicated to Marduk, Jove and Quetzalcoatl all alive with strange arcane magics, kept in check and in balance through the dedicated law enforcement agents of the Department. Where things went bump in the night, they were the ones who were there to bump back with every muscle the United States government had to bump with.

  “Director,” an adjutant handed her a dossier folder. “All the information collated on the attackers. Steely Dan McCool and her flying submarine, The Naughty Lass.”

  “Good, good,” she murmured, opening it up, cringing at the hideous black lips grinning back at her. “Well, there's a mug only a mother can love. And hellooooo nurse.” She whistled, admiring Chicago's gorgeous face, frowned judiciously at Floyd and his oversized cranium, and then blinked curiously at the cute little girl who seemed absolutely normal. “Okay, that's an eclectic bunch.”

  “They're like an evil version of your sister's family,” Manny mused, peeking over her shoulder. “Crazy.”

  Abigail rolled her eyes, slapping the folder into his chest, causing him to stagger. “My sister's family IS the evil version.”

  A row of holographic monitors rearranged themselves into one giant display. The image of a middle-aged Japanese gentleman appeared, sitting behind his desk aboard Air Force One, black business suit with bright red necktie, American flag pin on his right lapel. His hair grayed at the temples, and while the first hints of the premature aging curse inflicted upon American Presidents was starting to emerge, aside from the lines around his eyes, he still retained his youthful good looks that helped get him elected.

  “Ah, Director Lawful,” President Watanabe said, folding his hands, resting his elbows on the desk. “Thank you for responding on such short notice.”

  “Mr. President,” she replied tersely, probably one of only three people in the system who could address him with such a tone and expect zero repercussions. “I hope you realize I was about to have some really great sex, and you interrupted it. Well, technically HE did.” She nodded at Frankenstein, the big green guy massaging his temples. “But you told him to.”

  “My apologies for not realizing your love life trumps national security matters.”

  “What national security matters? A bunch of rogue agents. No hostile foreign nation involved. Nothing local authority can't handle.”

  “Madam Director,” the President said firmly, “I'm certain you're aware of my Japanese heritage?”

  “No! Really? You don't say.”

  “More than eighty years ago, the Empire of Japan declared war on this nation. As a result, there was a hard line brought against the Japanese population. While my grandfather fought in the Pacific front on behalf of this great nation as a proud immigrant, my grandmother and eldest uncle, merely a baby at the time, were interned in the Pacific camp.”

  “I kinda remember that war!” she beamed. “My old man fought in it too. He killed a LOT of you guys!”

  “Good Lord, Abigail,” Frankenstein groaned.

  “What? It's true!”

  “Please understand how personally I'm taking this,” the President insisted sharply. “Not only did I serve as senator from Hawaii before achieving election to the highest office in the land, I find it bizarrely, nay, insanely improbable that Hawaii suffers its first attack on sovereign soil since Pearl Harbor and it's when I am president!”

  “You surely can't believe this was staged to make you look bad,” Abigail said.

  “I don't know WHAT to believe. You say they're rogue agents, are you one hundred percent certain of that?”

  “Well,” she grimaced, “no.”

  “Then the possibility remains. This could be staged to make me look bad. I would appreciate it that come next election I can get more than the otaku vote.”

  Manny frowned. “The o-taco vote? What? What's he talking about? Excuse me, what does 'o-taco' mean exactly – OOF!” He doubled over, Frankenstein ramming his elbow into the young man's abdomen.

  “All we know for certain, sir, is that they knocked over the Fifth National Bank of Pareidolia City. Literally, it is now a pile of rubble, but there you have it! Pirate raid, they stage the biggest bank heist ever. All for bragging points with their pirate buddies!”

  “Why not the First or Second National Banks?” President Watanabe asked. “And you can't tell me this was a cash run. What's fiat currency to pirates especially when digital and crypto are much more liquid. What were they really after?”

  “Oh my! Would you look at the time?” she gasped, looking at her wrist with no watch on it. “It's turpin-time! Wanna rub?” She turned around and shot a bitter look straight at Tarmac, slashing her throat. He blinked at her blankly then gasped in understanding, cutting the transmission.

  “What a political tool,” she groused. “Honestly, J. Edgar had the right idea – never let 'em get too uppity, they'll ruin a good thing!”

  “He does have a point,” Frankenstein said. “What if it is all being directed by a hostile foreign entity who hired them?”

  “If it is, then they're dealing with powers beyond their comprehension. Do you know what's in the Fifth National? Or was in there as they no doubt acquired it in the chaos.”

  Frankenstein frowned. “I have an idea.”

  “Then take that idea, bury it in nutrient top soil, water it, and let it grow!”

  “Off the top of my head, I'd say those pirates are after the Seven Seize.”

  “Well pin a rose on your nose.”

  Manny frowned. “Seven seas? Oh, oh, I know this one! It's like in ancient times, they said there were seven great seas, the Mediterranean Sea, the Caspian Sea, the Black Sea, the Red Sea-”

  “Those are known as the African-American Sea and the Native-American Sea nowadays,” Frankenstein interjected.

  “Say what?” Manny sputtered, flabbergasted as the senior agents chuckled.

  “Enough chit chat and camaraderie, you're making me sick,” Abigail groused. “Now get your gear, we're hustling to Hawaii. Time to drop in and say hi to my sister and her bratty daughters.”

  “You think Uncia's a brat too?” Manny asked. “I always figured she's the level-headed one.”

  “I mean 'daughter' singular, but it popped out wrong because she has daughters, all right? Oh my gosh, I made a mistake, I guess I should resign right the eff NOW!”

  “I'd be happy if you did,” Frankenstein said, smirking.

  “Oh I bet you would, you green son of a bitch.”

  Her assistant director shrugged. “Several actually.”