Captain Marcial scrolled through my phone logs. Another captain, Gaymon, was standing next to her, arms folded, watching the screen.

“Using this phone is a hassle,” Gaymon said.

“I’d have given you better if I had better,” I said. “She texted all that to me, and I don’t know how to put texts on a laptop, or where I would even get a laptop out here.”

“Whatever,” Gaymon said.

I frowned a bit, but I didn’t want to make an issue of things. I knew some of the Patrol blocks were more anti-cape than Gilpatrick’s, and Gaymon had given me that vibe and cemented it in place with his attitude.

Gilpatrick, Sveta and Chris were next to me. Ashley was a short distance away in the company of ‘Jester’, the both of them sitting on a rock by the ditch. Rain was lying across the long seat at the rear end of a bus, resting and avoiding any and all disturbances after the attention from Scapegoat.

Shortcut from Advance Guard was lurking around the periphery. Thankfully, he was staying quiet and sticking to the background.

“This Tattletale, you trust her?” Marcial asked. She was a slim woman, with a nose that had been broken at least twice, and a thin old scar that parted her eyebrow. Like Gilpatrick, she was ex-PRT. She wore a raincoat that was open in the front, because it couldn’t close around her body armor. The hood kept the drizzle off of her face.

“No,” I said. “I don’t really trust her.”

“Not so compelling, then,” she said, looking back down at the phone.

“It’s… not a point in her favor,” I said. “But I’d rather operate under the assumption that she’s telling the truth about where the Fallen are and what they’re doing. I’m going to go after them and, if she turns out to be right, put myself at risk. If she’s wrong, I’m flying for a few hours when all I want to do is get my gunshot wound looked at. Take that for what it’s worth.”

“So you do trust her.”

“I trust that the Fallen are dangerous. That trust means I’m willing to accept the hassle and the risk.”

“That Tattletale is yanking our dicks?” Captain Marcial asked, her voice about as uncaring and dry as was possible.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Children present,” Sveta said, quiet. Her arms were folded, and one finger moved, pointing at Chris.

“I don’t care,” Chris said.

“I don’t care either,” Marcial said. “If they can fight, they can hear some bad language. This feels like a wild goose chase or a trap. We’ve already been stung a few times.”