"For the last time, I'm telling you to rein in your...your..."

"My peoples?"

"Yes! Well, I suppose. Your legions, your creatures. Your loathsome monsters and hideous brutes and what have you. Whatever the hell you want to call them. You need to tell them to pull their heads in."

"Into what?"

"Huh?"

"Me tell them to pull heads into what? Pulling off the heads, this I get. This we good at. But pulling in? This is some strange human custom? The pulling in of the heads?"

"What? No, of course not. It's just a saying. It means they need to stop haring about all over the place and making such a ruckus."

"Me not understand. Me thought you want the haring about and the ruckussing up of the place. Was that not why the bringing of them here? The bringing of me here?"

"No! Well, yes, I guess so. But it's supposed to be my ruckus. They're supposed to hare about where and when I tell them to."

"And this they have done."

"Yeah, maybe, but that's not all they've done, is it? I mean, holding up pizza places? Stealing sheep? Raiding kids' birthday parties and going on bloody dragon-back joyrides to the bloody North Island? What the hell do they think they're playing at?"

"Oh, those things? That all just some good funs. Some, how you say...hijinks? Shenaniganses and so forth. See, where we from there is not so much funs. Oh no, just about zero funs at all. But here? Oh, here is so many funs. So, is natural they want to explore, no? You know how these young peoples are. They want to spread the wings. To gouge with the talons. To kerthunk the clubs. All these kinds of stuffs. This whole new world for them and they like it very much. They want see more. Where the harm?"

"Where's the harm? Where's the harm? The whole bloody region's in lockdown and the rest of the country's pretty much in a state of panic, you great leathery wanker. And you're seriously asking me where's the bloody harm?"

"Yes. Was this not clear? So sorry, my English, she is—how you say—a bit crusty. But yes, this is what I ask. What all the fuss, please?"

"Oh, I'll tell you what's all the fuss. And where's the bloody harm. Not content with stirring up the local population and the police, those wretched bloody minions of yours have only gone and taken out half the New Zealand army, haven't they?"

"Ah, right. That. Of course. Yes, now me see problem. But it okay. Don't sweat on it, my little human friend. In fact, be chilly. You leave it to Smorgon. Give me day or two and I have my peoples take out the other half, no problem. Then it funs and pizza all day and pizza all night, me right? C'mon, high four!"

"What? No! Put that hideous claw down, you moron. You're not listening to me. You tell that rabble of yours to stay the hell away from the army. What's left of it, anyway. They need to be less noticeable, not more. In fact, they need to be bloody well invisible, right up until the moment I say otherwise. The very last thing we need is even more scrutiny. Well, that kind of scrutiny, anyway."

"Yes, but—"

"No buts, you great hulking meathead. You'll do as I say. Let's not forget who's in charge around here."

"Me not forget."

"Good. See that you don't."

"Because Smorgon in charge."

"Damn straight I'm in...wait, what?"

"Smorgon in charge. Is it not me what commands the legions of Gloomn?"

"Okay, yes, fine. Technically, that's true. You do command that rabble out there. Or at least you say you do. Given their behaviour lately, I'm beginning to wonder. But my point is, who's in charge of you?"

"What?"

"You heard me, Smorgon."

"Not understand. English not so good."

"You understand me just fine, you duplicitous piece of shit. You think I don't notice the hours you spend watching TV or reading or poring over that tablet I gave you? You know exactly what I'm saying. So, quit stalling and tell me, fang-face—who's in charge of you?"

"Me can bite off heads, you know. Not figure of speech. Actual bitings. Actual head off. Actual ow, ow, spurt, spurt, munch, munch, mmm, gulpy, yummy snacks, burpa. Me know, 'cause me done it before. Many lots times."

"Yeah, yeah, but you're not going to, are you, big guy? Because, bite my head off and you might get a yummy snack—you might even get a little sick satisfaction—but you're not going to get it, are you? You're not going to get the one thing in the world—in two worlds—that you desire above all else. In fact, Smorgy-worgy, bite my head off and you can pretty much guarantee it will be lost to you for forever. So, how about you pull your head in, and just bloody well do as you're told, like you agreed you would? Listen, you do your bit, and I promise you I'll do mine. That way we both come out of this winners."

"Okay, fine, whatevs. But you better get some decent internets in here, like me asked, pretty damn quick. Wi-fi in this stupid cave suck dragon balls."

****

"Low-rollers, Fields." Peregrine nodded at the velvet-lined tables arranged across the vast basement level through which their captors were marching them, each a soft-lit island of unhurried yet strangely intense activity.

Not for the first time, Fields wondered whether maybe having the word 'huh' tattooed across his forehead might be a good idea, if only to save everyone some time.

"Huh?"

"That's who these people must be," she replied in hushed tones. "Kasprowicz from Vice was telling me about 'em over a few drinks a while back. Big shots who want to be high-rollers but need to keep a low-profile, if you get my drift. Drug-lords, gang-bosses, tax attorneys, fossil-fuel lobbyists—you know, the scum of society. The very worst kind of people. Apparently, there have been hints and rumours for years, in casinos around the world, but without any concrete evidence or proper witnesses. I reckon that's what we've stumbled into here. A lovely little nest of low-rollers."

"Shut it," growled one of the heavies, prodding Peregrine in the back with his gun. "Save your talking for the boss."

Although not expecting Marlon Brando, or even a cat for that matter, Fields was still a little surprised by the 'boss' when they were herded into a spacious and well-appointed office at the rear of the level. Rising from behind her desk, the diminutive grandmother-like figure, adorned with pearls and clad in a knitted cardigan, gave them a warm smile.

"Why, hello there. Come in, come in. How delightful to have guests. Please take a seat. Now, I expect you'd both like a lovely cup of tea?"

"Uh..." This was not at all the reception Fields had been expecting. "I think I'm good, thanks." Never a tea-fan to start with, neither the abject failure of their mission nor the gun pointed at him were doing much to change his mind on the matter. Peregrine, however, was made of sterner stuff.

"Ooh, that sounds awesome. Milk and three sugars, please. And I'm a mad fan of the dunk, so if you have anything dunkable, that would be even awesomer, thanks."

"Oh, I think we can rustle up a biscuit or two for you, young lady. I'm quite keen on a good dunking myself. We might even have some Tim Tams, if you're very lucky. Now,"—she turned to Flykid who, having trailed the agents and their captors across the gambling floor, now stood fidgeting in a corner—"how about you, Oliver? You young men are always hungry. Some biscuits for you, too? And maybe a glass of milk?"

He gave her a nervous smile. "Yes please, Aunty."

"Excellent. And when you've eaten, would you mind ducking out and giving room 506's windows a really good clean, dear? Poor Mr Pitt on table seven has had a run of bad luck on the roulette wheel and I'm afraid his credit rating is not quite what it should be. Perhaps you'll spot the odd trifle or two in his room that might help to make up any shortfall."

"Yes, Aunty."

"Oh, and then be a darling and swing by the western sub-penthouse, please. We have some newly arrived guests who'll need to be given the access code to our little establishment. Do you think you can manage that for me, sweetie?"

"Yes, Aunty, of course."

"Such a polite boy," she said, turning back to her 'guests.' "Manners seem to be a thing of the past with so many young people these days, don't you think? But not with our Oliver. It's just one of the reasons we do so love having him around."

"Aunty?" queried Fields.

"Yes, yes. Well, not technically, of course. But I like to think I'm something of an aunty to all the lovely young men and women in my employ—after all, that's what they call me. So, when that ghastly previous employer of Oliver's treated him so poorly, I naturally insisted he come to work for me. It was the least I could do. And, of course, the fact he's now practically family is another reason we're very keen to keep him with us."

"Right," said Peregrine. "Gotcha. And I'm sure the whole scoring a superpowered cat-burglar/errand boy thing didn't even come into it."

'Aunty' gave no appearance of having heard. "Yes, young Ollie is really quite a valued member of our little team. So, I'm sure you can see why we might get a tad cross when people such as yourselves come along and try to take him away from us. Besides which, you're quite happy here, aren't you, Oliver?"

"What? Er..." Eyes widening, Flykid swallowed a mouthful of milk. His eyes darted from Aunty to the agents and back again. "Y-y-yes, Aunty."

"There," she said, positively beaming. "You see?"

Peregrine nodded. "Yep, seems pretty clear we're wasting our time. I mean, who in their right mind would want to sign up with a new and elite force of superheroes, probably with all kinds of perks and fame and girls and stuff, when they could stay here to wash windows and nick stuff and maybe scoff the occasional Tim Tam instead? Seems like a pretty sweet gig. Apologies for the inconvenience and all that, nice to have met you, great place you have here, etcetera. C'mon, Fields. Let's go." She got as far as pushing back her chair before a liveried waiter guided a heavily laden trolley into the room. "Although, you know, we probably don't have to go just yet."

"Uh, actually"—Fields took her by the arm—"we do, Peregrine. We really, really do. Because we're late for that, um...thing that, er...we're late for."

"Oh, I don't know," she replied, resisting his attempts to make her stand, "I'm sure that thing can wait a little while longer. Because, you know"—she gestured at the trolley—"Tim Tams."

"Well said," agreed Aunty. "Because Tim Tams, indeed. Given I can never stop at one, you simply must stay and help me and my cholesterol levels deal with this lot. I won't take no for an answer." She winked at the two thugs standing behind Peregrine and Fields' chairs. "Will I, boys?"

"No, Aunty," they rumbled in assent, nudging the agents with their guns to reinforce the point.

"C'mon, Fields. You heard the lady. And her...um, nephews. It'd be rude to leave now. We'll just stay for a cup of tea, a chocolate bickie or three and then we'll chalk this one up to experience and be on our way. Where's the harm?"

Not for the first time in their partnership, Fields found himself struck by the surprising streak of naivete Peregrine could occasionally display. Sometimes he had to remind himself that for all her seniority to him, for all her exposure to the weird and wonderful and potentially world-ending stuff Section F had to offer, she didn't actually have a whole lot of experience with the everyday, run-of-the-mill, garden variety type of bad guy or girl. Or grandma, for that matter. The boring kind of criminal who didn't mess with the fabric of reality or kidnap interdimensional princesses or turn out to be from another planet but was nevertheless quite happy to shoot you in the face if you got in the way of them and a quick buck.

Fields, on the other hand, despite the brevity of his pre-Section F career, had a bunch of experience with those kind of criminals. And for all her sweet, little-old-lady image, Aunty was giving him distinct 'shoot you in the face' vibes. One way or another, it was time to go. He just had to somehow insert that information between Peregrine and her industrial-grade carb fixation, without further raising the hackles of their captors.

"Sorry, Peregrine, but we really should be on our way. Like I said, we don't want to be late."

Having demolished one biscuit in short order, Peregrine paused (briefly) on her second. "Chill, Fields. Have a Tim Tam."

"No, I'm good, thanks. Because, you see, if we don't leave right now, we're going to be"—he squeezed her arm to emphasise his next word—"late. Really, really late."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time." She took a healthy slurp of tea. "Ooh, hot!"

He squeezed harder. "Uh, I don't think you're quite getting my drift. If we don't leave now, we're going to be late, as in late, if you see what I mean. As in, we will be the late Peregrine and the late Fields. We will be late, both individually and collectively. And literally."

She stopped pouring milk into her tea in order to give him a quizzical look. "Huh?"

"Oh, come on!" He thumped the desk with his fist, making the teacups rattle. "Do I have to spell it out for you? We will be late as in dead, Peregrine. Dead, deceased, departed. Because if we don't get out of here Grandma Soprano and her goons are going to kill us!"

With every evidence of unconcern, Peregrine reached for another biscuit. "Kill us?"

"Yes! You think they're going to waltz us through their secret underground illicit gambling den, feed us snacks and then just let us waltz right back out again? When Kasprowicz told you there were no witnesses for these kind of places, did you ever stop to think why that might be? Huh?"

She gave this some thought. "Um. Because he's a little tosser who likes to big-note himself?"

Fields ran a hand through the stubble of his blonde hair. Being 'late' was starting to seem like an attractive option. "Not why did Kasprowicz tell you. Why are there no witnesses?"

Peregrine thought some more. "Ooh, ooh, I know. It's probably because they got killed before they could tell anybody!" And then, pausing only to give her partner a wink, she dashed her cup of tea over her shoulder and into the face of the heavy standing behind her, slid her chair back into his belly with sufficient force to make the big man double over, and then stood up, driving the top of her head into his face with an eye-watering crunch. Snatching the gun from his hand as he crumpled, she whirled to aim it directly between Aunty's bright, birdlike blue eyes. 

 "Or, you know," she continued, "it might be because they weren't us."