"You know, Peregrine, when you said we were hitting the casino, this wasn't quite what I had in mind."

Unruly hair rendered even unrulier by the departure of their helicopter ride, Peregrine gave her partner a consoling whack on the back. "Sorry, Fields. But in my defence, I never said which part we'd be hitting."

"No," agreed Fields, in that very special tone of voice he'd only acquired since meeting Peregrine, the one that sounded like it was being forced between gritted teeth even when it wasn't, "but given you sat beside me on the plane all the way from Bundaberg to Perth and then on the helicopter ride from the airport to here, did it not occur to you at some point to perhaps suggest I might be a tad overdressed for galivanting about on rooftops?"

"Nah, not really. For a start, if you think back, you'll remember I was asleep most of the way. I pulled a late one last night, after all. Napping's important, you know, Fields. Not as important as snacking, but it's up there. Hey, maybe that should be the second rule of Section F—always keep your zeds up. Hmm, I'll have to give that some thought. Anyway, I forgot you were off brushing your teeth or whatever when Reggie gave me the finer details, and then you were so pleased with yourself for tracking down that outfit in Bundy that even once I remembered, I didn't have the heart to tell you. And hey, if it's any consolation, the tux looks really good on you. James Bond eat your heart out. Rowr, as the Archduke would say."

Fields had to admit to experiencing a bit of a guilty 007 thrill as he'd made the final adjustments to his bowtie—but only to himself. He'd jump off the roof of the casino upon which they currently stood before admitting any such thing to Peregrine. Squinting in the bright West Australian sunshine, he slipped on his sunglasses, viciously suppressing the recalcitrant license-to-kill vibe the action threatened to rekindle.

"What about you, Reggie? You might have said something."

"Apologies, Agent Fields, but fashion advice does not really lie within my purview. And even if it did, my usual location in Agent Peregrine's jacket pocket does not lend itself to forming an opinion. I also judged it best not to disturb her sleep. After spending several days in her company, preliminary psychosocial analysis suggests quite a high risk of volatility in the absence of sufficient rest."   

Given 'high risk of volatility' could well be Peregrine's middle name, Fields was not at all surprised. "Fine, whatever. Now, given I missed the Flykid briefing, somebody care to fill me in? What's his deal? Let me guess, he fell out a window and got bitten by a radioactive bird in the middle of a cyclone? Something plausible like that?"

"Haha, very droll, Agent Fields. Although, in actual fact, you're closer than you think."

"I am?"

"Yes, indeed. You see, radiation was involved in the genesis of his abilities. The young man in question was working as an apprentice pest-controller when his employer decided to increase the...efficacy of their extermination methods by supplementing them with a source of radioactivity—a capsule of caesium-137, to be precise."

Fields gave a low whistle. His counter-terrorism training included the potential contents of dirty bombs and he knew just how nasty that stuff was. "Wow. Hang on—where the hell does a pest exterminator get hold of caesium-137? I mean, it's not as though you can wander down and buy some from the local hardware store."

"It appears the capsule in question fell off the back of a truck."

"What? Seriously?"

"Oh, yes. It was quite a big news story here in Australia at the time.* As the relevant authorities were a little slow off the mark in organising a search and retrieval party, our exterminator seized his opportunity to swoop in and get there first. Armed with a Geiger counter purchased from eBay he retraced the truck's path until he located the capsule and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Right." While this story raised a whole host of disturbing questions, Fields had gotten very good at filing that kind away for later—or better yet, never. "So, where do we find this Flykid? Why are we here? Is he some kind of high roller?"

"Well," said Peregrine, "in a manner of speaking. He's got the high part covered, but I suspect he tries to keep the rolling to a minimum."

"Huh?"

"Follow me, Fields." Weaving between air-conditioning units and ventilation stacks, Peregrine made her way to the edge of the roof and stepped up onto the narrow ledge that ran around its perimeter. She pointed down. "High enough for you?"

Steeling himself, Fields joined her on the ledge, trying to ignore the vertiginous suck of the vast space yawning before them. Risking a downward glance, he saw a diminutive figure working away industriously on a platform suspended far below.

"That's the Flykid?" he asked. "The window-washer down there?"

"Yep," confirmed Peregrine. "Well, window-washer, groundskeeper, repairman—basically an all-round odd-jobs guy. Casinos aren't glitz and glamour and tuxedos for everyone, you know."

Fields ignored the jibe. "So, he got out of the pest-control biz?"

"Sure did. And who could blame him? After surviving what should have been a lethal dose of radiation, he probably figured he shouldn't push his luck."

"Fair enough," replied Fields, while trying to ignore the protests of his hindbrain, which was taking a very strong exception to the distinct lack of anything between him and the innocent-looking yet lethal ground so far below. It wanted off the ledge and it wanted off the ledge now. "So, we're just going to wait here for him to come back up? Right? Or maybe even over there somewhere? You know, I bet the lobby has got comfy chairs."

"Nah." Peregrine grinned at him. It was a grin with which he was all too familiar. A grin that did not bode well. "We're Section F, Fields. We're not the waiting type." She gestured to two lengths of rope, neatly coiled by the ledge. "I thought we might pay Flykid a surprise visit."

****

"Orders, sir?"

Given he was tired, frustrated and, quite frankly, downright cranky, "How about you piss off and leave me alone?" presented itself to Sam as an attractive option. But if he'd been the type to give in to those kind of base impulses, he'd never have achieved his current rank of captain in the NZSAS. Plus, if he was ever going to get himself and his men out of this damn forest, he'd have to come up with something a little more constructive than that.

With his drones out of action—the last footage from one had been a glimpse of something leathery and then nothing but flames, while the other was still broadcasting infrared images of what he could only assume were the inside of some creature's digestive system—he'd had to fall back on recon the old-fashioned way. But even his scouts were doing it tough. He'd at least been able to medevac out the two with what they swore were battle-axe injuries, but given the chopper had since ingested something into its air intake—something which, while unrecognisable when the mechanics extracted it, very definitely had horns—the poor bastard with the crossbow bolt in his butt would have to limp out under his own steam.

In the SAS, they taught you to expect the unexpected, but it would be fair to say Sam had never expected anything quite as unexpected as this. Forcing his fatigued mind to concentrate, he mentally reviewed the most recent reports to have come in from his remaining scouts and then consulted his map.

"Right, at last sight the bogeys we've been tailing were headed over that ridge up ahead. And three other patrols have multiple targets vectored on the same position." The teeth revealed by his sudden grin were a startling white against the camouflage on his face. "You know, sergeant, I think we might have finally caught a break."

"Sir?"

"I suspect we've found their base. Or their lair, or den or whatever it is these bloody things call home. Look."

The sergeant scanned the map. "I reckon you might be right, sir. Shall I call in backup?"

"Backup, sergeant? What are you thinking, the rural fire brigade, maybe? The local Girl Guides? Because the closest real backup is more hundreds of kilometres away than I would care to contemplate, up on the North Island. And by the time they get here, who knows how far and wide these things might have spread."

"What are you saying, sir?"

"What I'm saying, sergeant, is it's time to end this sick charade and kick some bloody arse. These damn Game of Thrones wannabes may well have stirred up the civilians for miles around, run the local authorities ragged and done who-the-hell-knows-what with the reservists and regular army stiffs sent out here to contain 'em—hell, they've even given us a bit of the old runaround—but you know what? The freaky bastards haven't had to face the righteous wrath of the New Zealand Special Air Services in full force, have they? No, they bloody well haven't. And it's about time we change that. It's about time we show these D&D bastards just what real soldiers can do."

"Hell yeah, sir." The wolfish grin on the NCO's weathered features matched his own. "Shall I have the squad deploy along the ridgeline?"

"Make it so, sergeant. And then let's send these weird-arse mofos running back to their mothers in Middle-earth."

****

"You know, that was some good thinking, Fields. Particularly given my abseiling's a bit rusty these days. Especially without a harness."

Standing by the controls he'd found—controls attached to the winch for Flykid's platform—as his heartrate slowly returned to normal, Fields gave his partner a resentful look. Had she been serious? Was she really prepared to jump off a perfectly good roof with nothing but a length of rope between her and an abrupt and messy end on the well-manicured grounds so far below? Or had she known the controls would be here on the rooftop all along, and just been trying—with complete and emphatic success—to freak him out? He was disturbed to realise both options seemed equally plausible. And even more so, that had she jumped off the ledge, he'd most likely have followed.

"Yeah, I'm occasionally useful, Peregrine. I assume that's why you keep me around." He pressed the 'up' button on the controls. "Now, why's it so important we take this guy by surprise?"

It was Regina who responded to his question. "As it turns out," she said, "we are not the first to attempt to recruit Flykid to our cause. You see, as rumours of his abilities spread across the Perth region, elements of the local underworld realised just how useful he could be in the execution of their illicit activities. There has been a degree of competition for his services, with some of the approaches tending towards the less subtle end of the spectrum. Consequently, the young man may well be wary of strangers bearing job offers."

Fields absorbed this. "So, the idea is we hit him up in a situation where the only way out is past us?"

Peregrine gave him a friendly shove. "You got it, baby."

"Right," he replied, rubbing his chin. "Um. Good thinking, I guess. Only..."

"Only what, partner?"

"Well, firstly, do we really want to be the only things standing between an alleged proto-superhero and the place he wants to go?"

Peregrine shrugged. "I doubt it's gonna be the last time, bucko. Think of it as practice. And secondly?"

"Secondly—"

Interrupted by the platform cresting the edge of the building, Fields turned to see a tall, gangling young man standing upon it, clad in the kind of grey overalls that might be expected on a window-washer or handyman but, curiously, with nothing on his feet. The newcomer turned startled eyes from one agent to the other. He blinked. And then, pausing only to put down his bucket and squeegee, leapt off the platform and into the abyss.

"Secondly"—Fields sighed—"can't the kid fly?"

****

"Orders, sir?"

"Um..." Sam stood there, in the warm sunshine of a pleasant New Zealand afternoon. He looked left and right at his men dotted along the top of the sparsely forested ridgeline, standing sheepishly in the positions where their glorious, take-no-prisoners charge had petered out. He looked at his sergeant's expectant face. And then he looked back down into the shallow, kilometre-wide depression ringed by the ridge on which they stood. He gave his crotch a reflective scratch.

"Sergeant, taking into account our casualties, how many in the squad are fit to fight?"

"Let's see, sir. I reckon it must be...twenty-seven. Actually, no, scrap that. Parth pulled the bolt out of his butt and says he's good to go, so it's twenty-eight."

"Right. And see those...things over there? The one's with the clubs? Let's call 'em goblins. How many of those do you think there are?"

"Ooh, must be a good forty or fifty, I reckon, sir."

"And what about those...hmm, let's say...reptoids? Lizard-people? Whatever. Those things in the grove over there, at any rate. About the same number, would you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yeah, easily fifty. Maybe even a few more. And there's what, a dozen or so similarly sized groups of assorted creatures ringed around the perimeter of the depression?"

"Sounds about right, sir."

"So, probably something of a challenge for our twenty-seven—sorry, twenty-eight soldiers, then."

"Maybe, sir, maybe. But nothing we can't handle, I'm sure."

"Oh, no doubt, sergeant. No doubt. Yet, you must admit, they're stiff odds. Stiff odds, indeed. Enough to make a man stop and think. Having said that, do you know what really gives me pause?"

"Might it be the half-dozen or so giants over there, sir? The ones eating rocks and hitting each other with trees? 'Cause they're certainly giving me the willies."

Sam gazed in the indicated direction. "No, sergeant. Although, let me just say, your willies are well justified. No, I'm afraid what troubles me most is the group in the centre. The rather large group."

"The ones lined up in ranks, sir? The orcs?"

"Is that what you'd call them? Hmm, I s'pose they do have a certain orcish quality, don't they? But yes, that's the group to which I'm referring. How many of those would you estimate there to be?"

The sergeant's gaze swept in a slow arc from one side of the depression to the other. And then it swept back again. He swallowed. "Um, well—big numbers aren't really my thing, sir—but I'd say there must be a good few hundred or so of the buggers."

"Right. So, sergeant, taking all of that into account, do you seriously need to ask what my orders are? I'll bet, if you think really hard about it, you can guess. Go on, have a guess."

"Um. Retreat, sir?"

"Bingo, man. Well done. While 'death or glory' might have its charms, there's also lot to be said for the whole 'living to fight another day' thing. Not to mention 'picking your battles.' Sound a general withdrawal." He raised his binoculars. "Hmm. And given that big orc bastard in the middle is pointing his sceptre-thing at us—and looks pretty cross—let's make it at the double, shall we?"

*This is based on a true story (see external link below):-https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Western_Australian_radioactive_capsule_incident