"Prime Minister, I have the New Zealand PM for you on the secure line."

"What? Now? Whatever for? He can't be calling to gloat already. I mean, we haven't even played the wretched rugby yet. Have we?"

"I don't believe so, ma'am. If I recall correctly, the first Test Match is scheduled for this weekend."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. So what does he want then?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Prime Minister. But he's on line two, if you'd care to ask him."

"Seriously? Isn't this why I have aides? Aides like you? To, you know, find out stuff for me?"

"Yes, ma'am. Only, in this case, the NZ PM was quite adamant the subject in question is for your ears only. He did however indicate it was of potentially global significance."

"Global significance? And this is definitely the prime minister of New Zealand we're talking about?"

"Definitely, ma'am."

"Right. And he's calling me?"

"Yes, Prime Minister."

 "And it's not a wrong number?"

"No, Prime Minister.

"Wow. Hmm. Okay, then. Now, let me see. Is this the button I press?"

"No, Prime Minister. It's the one with a '2' on it."

"The one with a...? Oh, right. Got it. Hello?"

"Hello, Moira. Jim here."

"Ah, Jim. So good to hear from you. Looking forward to the big game, I suppose? You know, I've got a feeling this could be our year."

"Well, both history and common sense would tend to suggest otherwise, Moira, but I do admire your optimism. Having said that, the rugby is not why I'm calling."

"Very wise, Jim. Counting chickens is an exercise fraught with danger, as we all know. In that case, how can I help you? How are things across the Tasman?" 

"As a matter of fact, Moira, they've been better. As you're no doubt aware, we're having a spot of bother over here. Supernatural bother, to be specific. And, well, it's actually more than a spot. A lot more."

"Hmm, yes, I do seem to recall seeing a briefing at some point. What was it again? Sightings of oversized wildlife? Innocent sheep being snatched in the night? Some fellows in fancy dress stirring up the civilians and an AWOL army company or two? Is that the bother you mean?"

"Yes, although to be frank with you, that's just scratching the surface. Strange things are afoot, Moira."

"It certainly sounds like it, Jim. Although, supernatural is a bit of stretch, isn't it? There must be perfectly ordinary, mundane explanations for all these things, surely. I mean, it's not as though you're Elrond and I'm Théoden and big, bad Sauron is on the way."

"Sorry, Moira—what?"

"You know, from Lord of the...never mind. My point is, it seems a bit of a stretch to jump to the supernatural as an explanation for your current troubles. You know, Occam's razor and all that—the simplest answers are usually the right ones. And this sounds like a bunch of pranksters and troublemakers to me."

"Trust me, Moira, there is nothing simple—or natural—about what's going on over here."

"Well, if you say so, Jim. Still, you Kiwis are a competent lot. I'm sure rounding up a few weirdos, supernatural or otherwise, and tracking down your soldiers' latest drinking spot shouldn't present too much of a problem for you. Although, if they're inclined to go wandering off, perhaps in future you might think about microchippping the buggers."

"A-ha-ha, Moira. Very good. As always, your dry Aussie humour comes as a great comfort in this time of national crisis."

"Oh, come on now. A crisis, Jim?"

"A crisis, Moira. In fact, that may be understating it."

"Right, I see. Well, in that case, pardon my levity. Why don't you fill me in? What's the problem?"

"Not to put to fine a point on it, Moira, we're being overrun."

"Overrun, Jim? What on Earth do you mean? Some kind of a pest problem? Giant sheep-stealing locusts or some such?"

"Well, no. Not that I've heard about, anyway. Yet. But perhaps overrun isn't the best choice of word. It's more a case of invasion."

"Invasion? Invasion by who?"

"I'm afraid that's the wrong question, Moira."

"Huh? It is?"

"Yes. You see, it's not so much a matter or who. It's much more a matter of what."

****

"Woohoo! Mexican standoff. Just like in the movies."

Gaping up at his partner, it took Fields a moment to switch from the unfamiliar ground of convincing-Peregrine-to-do-something mode to his more habitual territory of figuring-out-what-the-hell-Peregrine-just-did mode.

"Huh?" he queried. "Mexican standoff? How do you figure? I mean, you've got the drop on the old b-..., er, that is to say, the offender."

"Yes," confirmed Aunty calmly, after an unhurried sip of tea, "she does. But then, I think you'll find the more upright of my two men still has the drop on you."

"He does?"

"He does," confirmed Peregrine.

"I do," growled the goon, placing the cool barrel of his gun against the back of Fields' neck. "So don't do anything stupid."

It was all Fields could do not to laugh. Anything stupid? Ha! The ship had long since sailed on that one.

"I don't think it's me you need to worry about," he said. "It's my partner who has your precious Aunty squarely in her sights. And when it comes to doing stupid things, she's the master."

"Hey!" protested Peregrine.

"Sorry. The mistress," he amended.

"Much better. But the point is"—Peregrine locked eyes with Aunty—"if Fields gets so much as a scratch—well, a new scratch, anyway—I might just do something very stupid. And trust me, you have no idea of the depths of stupidity to which I can plummet, given the right motivation." 

"How lovely." Expression serene, Aunty gazed up at her. "I do so like to see a bit of spirit in our young people. It give me hope for the future, it really does. Well done, my girl, well done, indeed. Now, why don't you put that silly gun away and then we can talk this over like civilised people."

"Well," replied Peregrine, "that's tempting. It really is. But do you know what? I'm not so sure I am all that civilised. And I'm even less sure about my present company—Fields excepted, of course. So, I think I'll keep my gun right where it is, thanks. But if Goony McGoonface here"—she nodded at the heavy glowering at her from behind Fields chair—"wants to put his piece away, well then, that would be super-awesome. Not to mention helpful in maintaining health and safety standards." She gave Aunty her sweetest smile. "Particularly yours."

For the first time since the agents had met her, a hint of steel crept into Aunty's expression of grandmotherly benevolence. "George, dear," she said to her remaining goon, "you keep your gun right where it is. And if either of these two give you the slightest excuse to use it, then please don't hesitate."

"Uh, Aunty?" Virtually forgotten in all the kerfuffle, Flykid still stood in his corner of the room, a melting Tim Tam clutched in his hand. "You don't really mean that, do you?"

"What, boy?" With a visible effort, she arranged her features back into a smile. "That is to say, what was that, dear?" 

"You don't really want George to shoot anyone, do you? And all that stuff"—he waved the Tim Tam vaguely in Fields' direction—"he said about us killing them—that's not true, is it? I mean, I'm not dumb or naive or anything—I know all that gambling out there is kind of a bit, well, not legal, and that it's not really right for me to break into people's rooms and nick stuff, even if they are a bit behind on their debts, and that we're...we're...criminals and all that, but I didn't think we killed people. We don't really, do we?"

"Of course we don't, child. This is all just adult talk, and adults sometimes say things without really meaning them. You'll find that out for yourself when you grow up."

"Grow up? Aunty, I'm nineteen."

"Precisely, dear. Now, why don't you run off and attend to those chores I mentioned and leave the grownup talk to the grownups? Off you pop."

"Don't listen to her, kid," said Fields. "I know a killer when I see one, and no amount of pearls or cashmere can hide the fact that good old Aunty there is a killer."

"Oh, what nonsense," declared Aunty. "Who are you going to believe, Oliver? The woman who took you in when you had nothing, who gave you shelter and protection from all those misfits and ne'er-do-wells who wanted nothing more than to take advantage of you for their own selfish means? The woman who gave you love and a new family and gainful employment? Or this tuxedo-wearing nobody from nowhere wanting who knows what? Hmm? I think we both know the answer to that. Now, for the last time, back to work, please."

Hanging his head, Flykid turned to leave. "Yes, Aunty," he mumbled.

"Hang on just a second," blurted Fields. "Okay, that's true. You don't know me and there's no reason you should trust me. But just think about one thing. Out of all the criminals and lowlifes who have come calling on you with job offers, all the underworld headhunters you've turned in to Aunty and her cronies, how many of them have you ever seen again? Ask yourself, did any of them seem the type to take no for an answer? And yet, how many have come calling with second offers? I'm guessing it's none. Tell me I'm wrong."

The young man paused. He turned to the old woman behind the desk. "Aunty?"

"Come now, that doesn't prove anything." Putting down her tea, she shifted in her chair. "We just had a lovely chat with those people and helped them to see the error of their ways, that's all. You'd be surprised how compelling a well-reasoned argument can be."

"Yeah," agreed Peregrine. "Especially coming at you at 350 metres per second from the barrel of a Smith and Wesson."

"That's right. Wait, what?" Aunty glared at her. "No, that's not what I meant at all."

"Oh, right," said Fields, "so you're more the Glock type, huh?"

"What? Glock? Oh, please. As if I'd waste my time or money on those overrated pieces of...er, that is to say, I'm sure I don't know what you mean, young man. Now, enough of this pointless chitchat. For the last time, Oliver, run along."

After a single tentative step towards the door, Flykid paused again. With a visible effort, he steeled himself. "But what he said is true, Aunty. Half the bad people in Western Australia gamble out there in the basement, but after you've, um...had a chat with them, I never see any of the ones who offered me a job again. Plenty of them before, but none of them after. Why is that?"

"Well, it's because...you see...oh, bloody hell. Enough of this nonsense. Look, you little shit, it's about time you face the facts of how things work around here. No more mollycoddling or sugarcoating. Yes, we're criminals and yes, if people are stupid enough to try to take our property, then we make those people go bye-bye. What did you think we did, give them a lollipop and send them on their way? You need to harden up, you ungrateful brat. You think any legitimate businesses would look twice at a freak like you? I don't think so. Especially not with the long list of crimes the police would magically know all about were you to so much as consider seeking employment elsewhere. We may not be angels, boy, but we're all you've got. And make no mistake, we've got you. So, now you're all wised up and fully cognisant of the precise the nature of your employers—and your employment—you can put down that bloody Tim Tam and make yourself useful by taking care of these two troublemakers for me."

Flykid blinked. "What? Me? Take care of? You don't mean...?"

"Of course I do, you idiot. They've just had a firsthand, closeup view of one of the largest illegal gambling dens in the southern hemisphere and now this wretched girl has the temerity and barefaced gall to point a gun at me. In my own office! And she just broke poor old Rodney's nose. It's past time you started to properly repay our investment in you. Take them out, boy. Take them out, now."

"I...but...yes, Aunty."

Fields tensed. Although still in the dark as to the range and extent of Flykid's powers, presumably Aunty wasn't. And she seemed distressingly confident he could do as she asked. "Listen...uh, Oliver, was it? Listen, Oliver. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah," added Peregrine. "We can offer you a better way, kiddo. You can get to be a good guy. Don't you want that? And don't forget about all the perks and fame and girls and stuff."

The young man shook his head sadly. "It's too late. Aunty's right. I'm already a...a...criminal. I'm sorry, I really am."

"Yeah..." Fields suppressed a sigh. Looked like it was the hard way. Again. Twisting abruptly forward and away from the gun pressed to his neck, he rammed his elbow into George's side, continuing his turn as he rose to a standing position and followed up with a roundarm cross to the chin, sending the goon crumpling to join his companion on the floor—but not before Fields snatched the gun from his grip and whirled to point it at Flykid. "...so am I. But we can't have you doing anything stupid now, can we?"

"Damn straight," agreed Peregrine. "After all, that's my thing. Stand down, kid. Let's talk this through. I'm sure we can sort something out."

"Enough!" snapped Aunty. "Enough talking. Oliver, do as I say. Take out these two. Take them out now, boy!"

"Wait just—" Fields blinked. The figure in his sights was gone. "What the—?" And then the sights were gone. Along with the rest of the gun. Slack-jawed he stood, empty fist upraised, pointing at nothing.

"Uh, Fields?"

He turned to Peregrine. Hand also empty, she pointed—upwards. Behind Aunty's desk, Flykid hung from the ceiling, suspended by his legs alone, a gun in each hand. Expression unreadable, he smashed the two weapons together, the pieces scattering across the floor.

Aunty's benevolent smile returned. "Well done, Oliver. Well done, indeed. Although, strictly speaking, I did ask you to kill them. Still, never mind." Reaching into a drawer, she retrieved a small silver revolver. "There's something to be said for watching and learning. Observe, boy."

She raised the gun. And then twitched in surprise as it too disappeared. Somewhat prepared this time, Fields caught the flash of movement and felt the displacement of the air above his head as Flykid sprang over the desk, presumably snatching the weapon on the way, and alighted on his feet behind the two agents. They turned just in time to see him again destroy the gun—this time by snapping it in two.

"I'm not a boy."

"Wow," breathed Peregrine. "Didn't see that coming."

"Oliver," snapped Aunty, "what on Earth are you playing at? That was my favourite gun! Stop playing the fool and kill these two, right now."

"I don't think so, Aunty." He straightened from his usual slouch. "I'm not a killer."

"Nonsense, boy...er, Flykid. You're whatever I say you are."

"That's where you're wrong, Aunty. In more ways than you know. Because, you see, it's not even Flykid. We were treating an infestation at the dog shelter when I had my...accident. So, it's Fleakid. A reporter covering the story misheard me—Mum always said I was a mumbler—and when I tried to set things straight, nobody wanted to listen to me. Not even you.

"It's true that you took me in when I had no place else to go. When I lost my apprenticeship and everyone thought I was a freak and my family didn't want to know about me. And it's true I've done bad things, illegal things. I'm in deep trouble and I should have known better. But doing more bad things is not the answer. Maybe, if what these two say is true, I can start to redress the balance. To square the ledger. To do some good things. Maybe I can find my true calling. Just maybe, I can find my destiny.

"And also, um..."—a look of assumed nonchalance replacing the expression of stern determination on his features, he turned to Peregrine—"what was that thing you said about girls?"