While a combination of experience and natural inclination made Fields wary of extravagance and indulgence and luxury in general, he had to admit they had their appeal. And after the trials of his first day of superhero-recruiting, crisp linen sheets on a king-size bed in a pristine, climate-controlled guest suite really felt like nothing more than his due.

The previous evening, having barely started on his second kebab, he'd found the events of that day catching up with him. Eyelids growing heavy, he was about to excuse himself from Peregrine and the Spinster and head off in search of coffee, when he was surprised to have his partner beat him to the punch (which came as a pleasant change from her more usual beating him with the punch—Peregrine's displays of affection tended to be of the enthusiastically physical variety). 

"You look done in, Fields. Why don't you head back to SHAP HQ and get some shut-eye? Danni and I can take it from here. Ooh, and I'll take that kebab, if it's going spare."

While showing no signs of agitation or inclinations to violence, the Spinster had been subdued since leaving the Cenny, speaking only when spoken to and restricting her replies to monosyllables and nods. Fields couldn't help but wonder if perhaps his undeniable and culpable maleness might be contributing to this reticence; already drawn to the alluring prospect of sleep but hesitant to bail on a job half-done, this additional excuse to depart was all he'd needed to call it a night.

Now, his new and exciting collection of bruises notwithstanding, with a good night's sleep behind him and a gourmet room service breakfast laid out before him, he felt refreshed and, if not actually bursting with enthusiasm, then at least curious to see just what day two of this new and challenging assignment had in store.

Although not much given to introspection, in this rare moment of calm Fields pondered on that sentiment, as he loaded up another forkful of crispy bacon and creamy scrambled eggs. Was that why he'd elected to stay in Section F? Curiosity? For the challenge? For the sheer not-knowing-what-the-hell-was-going-on-half-the-time-but-having-to-bloody-well-deal-with-it-anyway-ness of the role? Maybe all of the above?

Nothing much in either his academic life or early career had suggested the radical detour from the everyday engendered by his latest role. It had been the straight and narrow path for Fields, through school, university, the Academy and finally the Agency itself, recognised with accolades and awards, assured of advancement, always confident he knew precisely where he was headed—until, that is, the moment life hiccupped and Section F came along to smack him right in his smug and uptight face with the shocking realisation of just how serpentine and wide the path could be.

And the thing was, while Section F seemed like no place for Fields the straitlaced scholar or Fields the by-the-book agent or Fields the non-emoting adult, there had once been another Fields. A larval Fields. A wide-eyed and knock-kneed weed of a Fields, a little kid with a fantasy-head, obsessed with dragons and deep space and deeds of derring-do, a fledgling Fields who sailed his bed through pirate-infested seas and ran aground on shores of pure imagination, who cried when Charlotte died and cheered when Charlie found his ticket and who crept into wardrobes when no-one was looking, anticipation in every step and hope in his fast-beating heart.

He'd thought that Fields was gone. Withered away in the ever-growing shadow of an absent father and relentless expectation of an uncompromising mother, denied and repressed, abandoned as redundant and banished to the deepest recesses of memory and history, never to return.

But perhaps not. Might it be, when Section F came calling, somewhere deep within Fields's psyche that wide-eyed kid had stirred? Had stared into the abyss and considered the chaos and been drawn to what he saw? Had weighed up his options, decided the hell with the book and the straight and the narrow and the prosaic mundane certainties of the everyday world, and opted for something more? 

The something that existed out there on the fringes, between the cracks and beneath the surface. Beyond the looking glass and down the rabbit-hole. In the shadow-realms, of which the vast majority of humanity were blissfully ignorant, where fantasy and reality hadn't so much collided as gone through a messy divorce. The realms that made up the jurisdiction of Section F. His jurisdiction, now.

Or at least, usually. Sitting in his pyjamas, basking in the bright sun of a Queensland morning streaming through the window as he started on his second cup of seriously good coffee, Fields' current realm was about as far from shadowy as it was possible to get.

Could it be that was the appeal of Section F? The savour of these rare moments of calm snatched from the cavalcade of weird that was his usual work day, rendered all the more sweet by the extremes of the contrast? After all, there was nothing quite like an interstellar squid monster trying to haul you through a crack in the fabric of reality to make you really appreciate the good times (ie, the times when an interstellar squid monster wasn't trying to haul you through a crack in the fabric of reality).

Or, he wondered, as Peregrine waltzed into his room without knocking, flopped into the chair opposite him and helped herself to his last piece of toast, might there be another reason altogether?

She gave him a wink. "Don't sweat it, partner. More food's on the way. I grabbed some SHAPster random on the way over from my room and ordered us up a proper breakfast, Bundy-style. Could be a big day and we don't want to go at it under-carbed."

With a palpable sense of relief he dismissed his uncharacteristic self-psychoanalysis. He'd leave that kind of stuff for the therapist he was no doubt going to make rich some day. His partner issues alone should be enough to cover a BMW. 

"But I've already had breakfast," he pointed out.

"Fields, Fields, Fields." Peregrine shook her head sadly. "What are we going to do with you? You're looking at this situation entirely the wrong way. What you need is a more wholistic approach. You see, what you have had so far is some breakfast. What's coming is simply the rest."

He didn't bother to protest further, deciding to save the energy for digestion instead. "So, how'd it go with the Spinster last night?"

"Yeah, I think we're good. Danni took some talking around, but she's on board and off getting assessed and orientated—with an all-female support crew, of course—and hopefully being kept well away from the Archduke. That's going to be some meeting. Ha! Poor kid's really just looking for a place to belong, where she can feel safe and appreciated and not have to forever worry about being stuck in jail or the loony bin or worse, just because she's beaten some poor schmuck to a pulp. She's a big softie, really."

Fields had the feeling her suitor of the previous night would disagree. Provided he'd regained consciousness, that was.

"A big softie with lethal combat skills and a serious temper," he clarified.

"True. But if you got injected with a secret experimental interrogation-resistance drug and while you were waiting for it to kick in your squad leader decided to hit on you at exactly the same time the shack you were in got struck by lightning, you might just have a serious temper too."

Fields processed this. It was at least less preposterous than the Archduke's origin story. "And lethal combat skills," he added, as a key omission from Peregrine's analogy registered.

"Huh?"

"I'd have a serious temper and lethal combat skills. You know, if those things happened to me. I mean, not that I don't anyway..."

"Combat skills, maybe." She gave him an appraising look. "Not so sure about the lethal bit."

"What?" Fields was stung. "I do so—"

"The point is," interrupted Peregrine, holding up a hand to forestall his protests, "Danni's anger mismanagement is not on her. It was the army who turned her into a loaded weapon with a hair trigger and then broke the safety. She's just trying to deal the best she can. Hopefully SHAP can give her a healthy outlet for her talents. Well, I guess, an unhealthy outlet if you're one of the perps they point her at."

"Yeah, I guess." As far as Fields was concerned they could point her where they liked, provided it wasn't at him. "Where to today?"

"Good question. Reggie?"

"Good morning, agents. Our destination today is the West Australian capital Perth, where we will be seeking out a young man known by the sobriquet Flykid."

"A kid who can fly?" Interest piqued, Fields' discontent melted away. While their recruits had thus far not been textbook superhero material, this sounded more like it. He got to his feet. "Let's go."

"Ha! Nice try, Fields." With a polite knock, the door opened to admit a besuited man pushing a trolley loaded with two enormous cloches, fresh coffees and practically an entire loaf of sour dough toast. "We're not going anywhere until you've finished your breakfast like a good boy. Now, sit your skinny butt down and eat up."

****

"Good evening and welcome to 1News at 6 on TVNZ, I'm Jessica Taumata. In breaking news, a state of emergency has tonight been declared across the entire Marlborough region, effective immediately. The declaration follows weeks of escalating reports of freakish incidents and unusual sightings across the region and includes stay-at-home orders for all non-essential workers. We now cross live to the Marlborough District Council chambers in Blenheim, where the acting Defence Minister is conducting a press conference to outline the situation."

"Er, yes. Um. Hello, everybody. Now, I expect you've all heard the rumours circulating lately about fantastical creatures roaming the countryside and people in strange robes making a nuisance of themselves and things up here being just a little...odd. Sounds like a lot of nonsense, doesn't it? Well, this is a bit awkward, but you see, the thing is, hard as it might be to believe, it would appear those stories are in fact, um—not to put too fine a point on it—not. Nonsense, that is. No, I'm afraid they appear to be rather distressingly true. So, given this is somewhat of an unprecedented situation—there's no mention of orcs in the ministerial guidebook, I'm afraid, ha-ha—we'd appreciate it awfully if people could stay at home for the next few days, just while we get a better handle on the situation. If they could also lock their doors and windows and do a head count of their pets, that would be super. Now, I just have a few minutes for questions before I have to pop off and get stuck into that whole handle-getting hoo-ha I mentioned a moment ago. Let's see—yes, you, the young lady in the second row. You have a question?"

"Minister, can you confirm the military will be employed to enforce the stay-at-home orders now in effect?"

"The military? Good heavens, I'm sure it won't come to that. After all, we Kiwis are a community-minded, law-abiding lot. No, I'm quite confident the good people of Marlborough will do the right thing and lay low for a bit while this brouhaha blows over, without the need for military intervention."

"So, that's a no, then?"

"Hmm?"

"You are saying the military will not be enforcing the curfew?"

"Well, no, not exactly. Technically, the army will be in charge of maintaining security for the duration of the state of emergency. But it's not as though citizens need to worry about us stationing a gun-toting soldier on every street corner."

"Can you assure the public of that, minister?"

"Yes, indeed. I mean, we'd need to find some more of the blighters, for a start."

"I'm sorry, minister?"

"Uh, hmm...look, I think you've had your turn, fair's fair. Time for the next question. You, down the back."

"Minister, what's your response to the opposition's accusations that your government has mishandled this crisis from the start and that a state of emergency should have been declared far earlier?"

"Well, I'd say that sounds just like the kind of thing the opposition would say. It's all too easy to sit and snipe from the sidelines, isn't it? If they've got some hot tips on troll management, I'm all ears."

"How about their demands that the state of emergency encompass a wider area? At least the surrounding districts, and possibly the whole of the South Island itself?"

"Come now, that's just silly. Shut down half the country, because of a little unearthly and/or paranormal activity? I hardly think that's a rational response. No, while these are unusual times, we need to be sensible, face this challenge with good old Kiwi spirit and soldier on. New Zealanders can rest assured their government is doing everything within their power to grasp the parameters of this situation and bring it under control. I'm sure things will be back to normal in no time."

"So, no danger of Saturday's game in Christchurch being cancelled?"

"I'm sorry? Cancel a rugby Test Match? In New Zealand? Over a few goblins and ghouls and such? Oh, I don't think so. No, I suspect it would take nothing less than a full-scale invasion of all the legions of the underworld to achieve that. Ha-ha. Go the All Blacks!"