"We got another one, sarge."

"Seriously?" Maia Kaur glanced up from the seemingly magical self-renewing pile of paperwork on her desk, downed the molasses-like dregs of her twice-reheated, alleged coffee, and gave the baby-faced constable the harshest glare she judged his tender rookie psyche capable of tolerating without inducing tears. "What is it this time? And don't tell me it's another bloody moehau sighting."

"Er...no, sarge." The constable consulted his notepad and swallowed. "Well, actually, we've had another three. But we've filed those ones in the, uh..."

"The low priority pile, constable?"

"Ah, in a manner of speaking..."

"Doesn't get much lower priority than the shredder, does it?" She dialled the glare back a couple of notches. "Don't sweat it, son. Prioritisation is a vital part of police work, especially at times like this, when sense and reason appear to have taken a leave of absence. That's something you'll come to appreciate over the course of your career. Now, what's this latest call about?"

"A spider, ma'am."

The sergeant absorbed this. Her glare-level drifted dangerously northwards. "A spider?" 

"Uh, yeah. Seems they've got a really big one at the Taylor place, out by the lake. Old man Taylor called it in not five minutes ago. Says his wife is a mess. Sounded pretty shook up himself, to tell you the truth."

Kaur ran a hand through her salt-and-pepper hair. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that, son. My heart really goes out to poor old Mr and Mrs Taylor. After all, who among us hasn't been traumatised by an untoward spider at an inappropriate time at some point in our lives? Please let them know our thoughts are with them."

"Uh...yes, sarge. Only—"

"Oh, and constable?"

"Ma'am?"

"There is one other thing I'd like you to pass on."

The young man swallowed again. "Wh-what's that, sarge?"

"Well, along with our best wishes, perhaps you could suggest to Mr Taylor that during a week like this, a week in which we've had reports of sheep snatched by curious creatures nobody seems able to identify, tales of strange shapes stalking the streets after dark, bizarre stories of phantasms and fantasies and things that go bump in the night, along with more sightings of New Zealand's answer to bigfoot than I've had in the previous twenty years"—the senior sergeant thumped her fist onto the desk, making the constable jump—"that instead of bloody well wasting police time with household bloody pests, maybe he'd like to head down to the corner store and buy himself a bloody can of bug spray. What does he think we are, bloody exterminators?"

"Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am. It's just, you see, I'm not sure bug spray is going to cut it."

"Really, constable? And why's that?"

"Well, see, he says he's already tried a shotgun."

"A shotgun?"

"Yeah. Turns out it's a big spider. Like, really, really big."

****

"This is a private jet."

"You know, Fields, your powers of deduction continue to astound. I'm beginning to see why they let you into the Agency in the first place. This is indeed, as you so perspicaciously point out, a private jet."

Fields had long since learned to let Peregrine's ribbing slide. Reacting only encouraged her. "Yeah, but why?"

"Why what?"

He gave the sumptuous leather armrest of the sumptuous leather seat, in which his not-at-all sumptuous backside reposed, a suspicious rub.

"Why, Peregrine, are you and I—two not-particularly important agents from a not-particularly significant section of an organisation that usually makes you fill out half-a-dozen forms in triplicate before they'll so much as replace your pencil—sipping on Mai Tais and eating gourmet burgers while soaring through the stratosphere towards wherever this next big case you won't tell me about is? What's the deal?"

Peregrine took a healthy slurp of her aforementioned Mai Tai and looked at Fields over the top of her mirrored aviators.

"Firstly, Fields, not-particularly important? Oh, please. Since you joined me in Section F, have we or have we not saved the world?"

Fields gave his own Mai Tai a suspicious sniff. "Well, yeah, I guess. Technically. But—"

"And secondly, not-particularly significant? Gimme a break. Which is the first section the director calls when something from left field comes along and stumps all those strait-laced, suit-wearing, buzz-cut bozos in vice or homeland security or whatever? Which one, huh?"

Shifting a little in his seat, Fields glanced down at his dark, well-pressed suit-jacket and resisted the urge to give his close-cropped blonde hair a rub. "Uh...us, I suppose."

"Damn straight. And thirdly, as for eating gourmet burgers, I can't help but notice you haven't so much as touched yours. Eat up, Fields. They're really good. Surely by now you've learned the first rule of Section F?"

As it wasn't all that long since breakfast, Fields opened his mouth to protest, but then, upon reflection, stuck his burger into it instead. Keeping up your carbs was one of Peregrine's very few rules and despite some initial doubts, Fields had learnt its value—the hard way. The kind of activities that came along with being 50% of Section F were many and varied but a degree of running away could usually be counted on at some point. Plus, Peregrine had outlasted more partners than she could probably remember and, despite being positioned somewhere toward the more diminutive end of the spectrum, consumed more carbs than just about anybody Fields knew. While aware correlation wasn't necessarily causation, he couldn't help but suspect a link in there somewhere.

"Fourthly," went on Peregrine, "this gig comes with with all the pencils and/or private jets you could wish for, no forms required whatsoever."

Fields took another bite of his burger—it really was excellent—and swallowed. "Really? How'd you swing that by the Agency?"

"I didn't."

"Huh?"

"I didn't have to swing anything by the Agency, Fields, because we're not working for the Agency on this one."

He put down his burger. "Peregrine, what the hell are you talking about? We're agents. We work for the Agency. It stands to reason—the clue's in the title."

"Not this time, bucko. We've been seconded."

"What? Seconded by who?"

"Someone else."

"Oh, good, well that clears thing right up then. Who, Peregrine?"

"You know, that's a good question. The director was a little hazy on that point. Seems the exact identity of our new bosses is on a need-to-know basis, and at this stage grunts like you and I don't need to know. All communication is to be conducted through an intermediary."

"An intermediary? What intermediary?"

"This intermediary." Peregrine reached into her jacket and retrieved a small sky-blue device, somewhat like a rather retro mobile phone. "Fields, meet Regina."

"Hello, Agent Fields."

Fields stared at the device from which the polished female voice had emerged.

"Peregrine, what is that?"

"Not what, Fields. Who. Well, sort of. Regina is an AI, assigned to us by our new employers, to keep us meatsacks in line. Modern times, huh? What a world we live in."

"Hang on, you're telling me we're taking orders from a computer?"

"Of course not, Agent Fields. Firstly, a computer is circuits and wires, nothing but inanimate hardware, while I, of course, am highly advanced, learning-capable software. And secondly, as Agent Peregrine mentioned, I am merely an intermediary between yourselves and our mutual employers, with whom I am in constant communication. I am simply here to relay their wishes, to provide you with information that may assist you in your task, and to report back on your progress. That is all."

"Yeah, but—"

Holding up a hand to forestall his protests, Peregrine put the device away. "Don't sweat it, Fields. Reggie is basically just Siri on steroids. Look, I figure it's like this—you know how Section F is kind of unofficial and off-the-books and on the down-low?"

He gave a wary nod.

"Well, I get the impression our new employers are like that too. Only times about a billion. Which seems to go for our relative budgets, too, 'cause these guys are seriously cashed-up. But listen, if it makes you feel any better, the director did call 'em an agency, so I guess you technically still get to be an agent. That's good, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah, great. Colour me relieved. But an agent doing what?"

"I'm glad you asked, kiddo. 'Cause that brings me to my fifth point. The reason why I haven't told you about the case before now. Or about Regina. Or anything, for that matter."

"Which is?" Fields' frown cleared, as understanding dawned. "Oh right, of course. It's security, isn't it? We needed to be airborne, away from any bugs or taps or prying eyes, before you filled me in. That's it, isn't it?"

Peregrine drained her Mai Tai and signalled to the liveried flight attendant standing by the cockpit door for another. "Hmm? Oh yeah, sure. All that stuff. But also"—she gave him a grin—"I love keeping you in suspense. You know, your face gets this particular look, kind of like a puppy who's just toilet-trained enough to know the whizz they took on the kitchen floor was a bad idea. It's a classic. In a job like ours, you've gotta find your fun where you can, Fields."

Gazing at his partner's impish expression, Fields found himself wondering—not for the first time, and in fact probably for about the millionth—why he'd elected to stay in Section F. After all, it was only a series of unfortunate career missteps, not least of which was standing up the director's daughter one too many times, that had seen him wind up there in the first place. And not so very long ago, just after he had played a key role in more or less saving the world, the director had offered him his choice of posting. The kind of offer an agent of his young age and limited experience could only dream of. Opportunity had knocked, the career of his dreams had called—and he'd said no. Some days—today being a shining example—it was a little hard to remember exactly why.

He sighed. "So glad to have been the source of your fun, Peregrine. Now, with that out of the way, can you please fill me in on just what it is we're doing for this shadowy agency of yours?"

"Recruiting."

"Recruiting?"

"Recruiting."

"Right." Fields nodded purposefully. It didn't help. "Recruiting who?"

"Well partner, it seems you and I don't have a monopoly on the whole world-saving thing. Thankfully, there are some other folk who chip in and do their bit from time to time. Or at least there was. You remember the Milwaukee thing that was all over the news a few weeks back?"

He gave a cautious nod.

"As it turns out, it wasn't a taco truck that got hit by a meteor while parked outside of a firework factory built on top a gas pipeline. It was actually an unstable interdimensional implosion some evil dweebs conjured up to suck the whole planet into another universe."

"What!" Having taken a cautious sip of his Mai Tai, Fields now spat it straight back out. "Not again!"

"Yeah, bummer, huh? So unoriginal. Not to worry, though. The folk I mentioned before saved the day. Sealed that sucker right up."

"Oh." Fields mopped at his suit with a napkin. "Oh, well that's good. Isn't it?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? Trouble is, they got sealed up too. Leaving Earth with a sudden deficit of world-saving peeps."

Slowly, Fields stopped mopping. "Hang on. When you say world-saving peeps, you don't mean...?"

"Yep. I do. And they're all toast. Or sub-atomic particles. Or in another universe. Or particles of sub-atomic toast in another universe. Or whatever. The point is, they're gone, Fields."

"Whoa..."

"Exactly. Anyways, that's where we come in."

"So, you mean...?"

"You betcha, baby. We're going superhero shopping. First stop, Tasmania."