Part One

//So there's this girl, right? And she wants me to find a fuckin' dental dam at five in the
fuckin' morning...//
 
Oh yeah, right: THAT story. Terry C. and the human petri dish. And ten days after he had to shoot
that lying fuckin' snitch Terry right in the lying fuckin' face, Vic Mackey wakes up still
laughing at it--in bed next to his wife, with his daughter Cassidy's slack eight-year-old weight
curled heavy across his back and little Vic Junior's hot face pressed tight into his armpit; does
that kid breathe through his ears, or what? And how come Vic's the only one ever ends up at the
bottom of this particular pile, anyway? Untapped super-powers, stuff the Academy tests never let
on about? Is he some kind of mutant kid-magnet?
 
"They don't see you all day," Corinne tells him, yawning, as she nukes the baby's six A.M. dose.
"Sometimes you don't come home 'till dawn, Victor."
 
"I know when I come home."
 
"'Course you do." Throwing back, as she disappears up the stairs: "Be sort of nice if *I* did,
once in a while."
 
To which Vic thinks uh huh, *nice.* The all-purpose word.
 
Like that ever counts for anything, in the real world.
 
Last night was the boys, decompressing after Captain Ass-a-veda's bullshit fake-I.A. jackoff
session. Then a little quality time with Officer Danny Sofer, "talking"--for a while, anyway.
Those fingernails digging into his shoulders, light but sure, just deep enough to dent; she's been
married, too. Knows enough to never leave real marks, not even when they've been slamming her
headboard up against the back wall of her bedroom since three: Good liar, Danny. Almost up to
Strike Team standards.
 
Danny, soft on the outside, wet and hot everywhere else. Messy red nest of curls tacked to the
curve of one thigh as you ease her panties down, with enough hidden muscle to snap your fingers
half-off and a smell, this fresh, salt smell that stays and stays, a shower and lots of birthday
aftershave notwithstanding...
 
Nothing like Corinne, but then, why would she be? Corinne's no cop. Not even the same species.
 
And here comes Terry's voice again, right in Vic's ear, like he's leaning in sidelong to finish
the punchline before--whoever, one of the other Strike Team members--comes back from a washroom
run and breaks that three-way tie they've been working on all day:

//So I'm really goin' to town on this girl, I'm like Gene fuckin' Simmons here...//
 
Is that new sawed-off of his in the hall closet, or the kitchen cupboard? Not out where anybody
could find it, but back behind the box full of vacation photos Corinne keeps forgetting to buy
albums for. And an extra box of shells in the glove compartment, where he stashed them from last
month's car-wash shakedown--
 
//...and she says, I can't FEEL anyhing. And I'm like: Well *yeah*, no shit, Sherlock...//
 
But: Shut up, dead man, Vic thinks, catching a look at himself in the front hall mirror--are those
circles under his eyes? Got an itch in his scalp that says two-day shadow, and no free time before
shift to shave it. Two separate busts set up for tonight, plus anything else the Cap wants to
throw their way; he can hear the kids thumping around upstairs, tackling each other like
linebackers. Little Vic's already got a wicked right hook.

Corinne, meanwhile, is already headed back downstairs with the baby slung across her chest,
looping 'round through the living room for one last stray toy search-and-secure...
 
"Look," he starts over, keeping his voice low, "V.J. I don't mind, but Cass is just too old to be
sleeping in our bed anymore, okay? That's how weird stuff happens."
 
"'Weird stuff'? Jesus, will you listen to yourself? The kid just wants to be near you, like you
were her Daddy or something. Because you're hardly ever *here*."
 
"Oh, so what--'Dad's asleep, let's jump on and hug him'?" Put that way, it does seem
kinda....pathetic. After a beat: "I'm here now."
 
"You're here now, so they're all over you now--doesn't make much sense, but who knows how they
think, Vic? They're half yours."
 
He shoots her the glare, draws a shrug in return; that same shrug, still sexy after all these
years, three trips to Emerg, a vasectomy, a reversal, eight Christmases spent with *somebody* in
the house wearing diapers. That shrug plus a dazzling, cap-toothed smile, equally familiar--the
one guaranteed to go straight to his crotch, and stay there.

Glare to grin, shark-wide: Wouldn't be fishing for number four, would you, baby? 'Cause I don't
really think my paycheck's gonna stretch *that* far, not even after tips...

"I could get home earlier, maybe," Vic offers, moving closer. To which she just snorts. Mock-hurt:
"What, you don't believe me?"

"Believe you could, sure. *Will* you, though..."

Well, that's always the question.

***

Part Two

"I'm responsible for this," Vic had said, waiting in the hospital parking lot to hear about his
dead homie's damage; truer words never spoke, which was why people had believed him at the time,
not to mention after.

But that was just the way to *play* that hand, situation irregardless. You made the call and you
stuck with it, no matter the cost, 'cause it was better--like old Cap Smith always used to say,
'round the bar at Uncle Mike's--to keep by a bad call to the bitter end than change the call
mid-game. 'Cause THAT was the kind of weak-ass shit that got your people

(killed)

Lie with the truth, let the righteous burn build: Those fuckin' animals capped another cop, so
everybody's gonna have to pay. Just flip the stories around in your head, outside-in, and *deal*
with the resultant bleed-off; keep the image fresh and WORK from it, on both levels at once. Never
let yourself forget, not--

--any of it.

Terry down and jerking, extra-long arms and legs everywhere...'cause we're all the same height on
our backs, bo. Six-two to five-six ain't much of a size difference now.

Terry, with his brains leaking out the back of his skull, all over his too-pretty Matt Damon
crew-cut. Bet you wish the LAPD made vests for your head, huh, snitch-boy?

Terry's pale eyes, more blue by default than anything else, staring up at Vic while the place
where his eyebrows should'a been wrinkled up in pure-D surprise: That's right, motherfucker. Not
so smart, after all.

You or Mr Mayor-to-be Aceveda, both.

"It's true," Dutch Wagenbach is telling Claudette Wyms, as Vic walks into the squad-room.
"Profiles of law-enforcement and criminals almost always test out exactly the same. They call it
psychological mimicry, basic predator/prey cross-ideation, right? You study the patterns, learn
'em so well you can tell what the skells you're watching are likely to do in advance, nine times
out of ten..."
 
"Think like 'em, just don't act like 'em."
 
"That's the concept."
 
And: Jesus H. Murphy Christ, what a load of college-boy bullshit. Wow, Hol-LAND, that's really
*fascinating*--you make it up yourself, or just read it in a book somewhere?

Vic's money'd definitely be on the book, if anybody was actually laying odds.

Exchanging a half-raised eyebrow with Wyms as he slides by, while Wagenbach rattles on and
on--look up "long-suffering" in the dictionary, that's definitely the face you'd see sittin' next
to it. And musing once again over how guys like Dutch inevitably seem to think their education
makes 'em better cops than Vic (or Wyms either, on some level), just 'cause they spend their day
taking names and following clues instead of bringing the Wrath of God down on any yo with a
corner: Solving big-C Crimes, uh huh, like Sherlock fuckin' Holmes. A bunch of one-man LAW & ORDER
franchises in the making.

Though what crisps their curls, always, is when they find out how all they're really qualified to
do is figure who the State needs to point somebody like Vic at next. Or whose butt, exactly, the
City'd be best served by his Strike Team putting its collective boot in.

Never ceases to amaze Vic, whenever he wastes his time thinking about it: Ten years plus of
calling it a "war" on drugs, and the suits still have to wonder how half the LAPD ended up trained
and packing like a standing army, a hundred little gangs in blue picking winners to back and
weeding out the losers in some endless neighborhood elimination derby. I'll take Drug Dealers Who
Cooperate for five hundred thousand, Alex!

Because if there's one lesson the street teaches, it's how there's always gonna be people buying,
which means *somebody*'s gonna be selling. So what it all comes down to, nine times in ten, is
just...maintenance, basically. Plus a big heaping side-order of who's willing to get up on the
wall and get shot at, vs. who just gets to sit back and watch.

Evolution, baby. History repeating over and over, with no new tale to tell--just more money,
better tech and bigger, better toys. Social Darwinism in action, LAPD style. Survival of the
motherfuckin' fittest.

Even if there *was* another way to live, Vic already knows he wouldn't want to hear about it.

Upstairs, the clubhouse still looks like somebody called the rest of Strike Team's career on
account of Terry's funeral, which--as Vic recalls--was over at least a week back. Vendrell and
Lemansky are trying to play darts, arguably the least brain cell-intensive game in existence, and
failing miserably; Derek's off today, fighting some kind of bug he picked up. As Vic walks in,
Lemonhead's just dropped his dart (again) and is doubled over with his butt in the air, trying to
pull it out of the linoleum.

"Nice view, cupcake," Vic comments. Then switches over to Shane, lurking in the corner like he
decided Vic might not see him if he just slouched down reeeeeal low: "So what crawled up *your*
ass and died?"

Morosely: "Nothing."

Man, these guys need to hospitalize somebody soon. If Terry was here--

(the fuck?)

Vic bites down on the idea hard, like it was some skell's nose, 'cause if Terry WAS here that'd
qualify for a pretty major miracle, not to mention a probable Grand Jury indictment. Then shoots a
quick glance over at the office window where Captain Aceveda lurks, all suited slouch and
disapproving glare--and familiar as the sight's already become, he just can't stop himself from
smirking at it. Or thinking:

Hey, Cap, I hear you know what I did last summer. And last month, and last week...hell, might even
know what I did last night, if you caught Danny feeling guilty enough on the rebound to spill all
the gory details...

But knowing's one thing, so get back to me when your narrow beaner ass can prove it, huh? And keep
your fuckin' paws off my squad, in the meantime.

Still: Terry, and his stories. Funny how they all fell in pretty much the same category, when you
stopped to think; gross-out sexual boasting, so reckless-proud and crazy-inventive the
ever-more-raw details almost came across like...flirtation, or something. One big tease, a single
rude anecdote stretched 'till it doubled back on itself, infinite variations on a single endless
theme--

//So I said to her, and she says to me, and there's this guy, see--this guy, this girl, this bar,
this bitch, this bucket of cum. Hey, I ever tell you guys this one before? You'd tell me if I told
you, right, Vic? Right?//

...right.

Darts goes quicker with three, though it's not like the conversation gets any better, and Vic
knows he's got nobody but himself to blame: Shot the smartest guy on your squad, didn't you,
genius? Good call on that one, you wanted to keep on laughing.

Well--yeah, Vic guesses. But it had to be done, didn't it? Because the Chief never lies on a tip,
and Terry was nothing but a fuckin' snitch anyways, that sneaky fuckin' robbery/homicide faggot.
Came up here to "bag some fresh asses", all right, plus a car and a job on the side, all for the
low, low price of Vic's head on Aceveda's wall...yeah, truth hurts, don't it, asshole? Just like a
bullet through your fuckin' traitor's skull.

Which is why Vic knows he doesn't regret a single Goddamn move he made concerning Terr, and never
will. Never. Not EVER. Not--

//--ever?//

That voice in the back of his head again, like a sudden peripheral blur of blond: Lemansky, not
Terry, lining up a new shot by his elbow. Of *course* not Terry, shit...so what the fuck was Vic
thinking, just then? And why is Vendrell looking at him like that, even more bug-eyed than
usual--like he grew a whole new head, or some equally fucked thing?

"What?" Vic snaps. Shane flinches from the sound, like a dog, which immediately has the
reverse-psychology effect of making Vic want to do it louder. Or right in his motherfuckin' ear.

But: "Your shot, Sarge," says Lemonhead, totally oblivious. And the moment, like that
hallucination of Terry's voice Vic keeps on hearing, just--sort of--

--disappears.

Five dart-games later, it's lunch--Lemonhead's turn to pick, Vic's turn to pay, and Vendrell
slinks away to the washroom before they can get his order, so fuck him. Lem takes off for Mickey
D's while Vic hits the stairwell, hoping to catch Danny sneaking a quick cig between calls. She
doesn't like to smoke in front of the rookie, 'cause of his "religious views"; his loss, in Vic's
opinion.

But it's Wyms, instead. Vic half-turns, then decides the weight-room maybe isn't such a great
fallback plan after all, not without somebody to spot him. In case he gets--

(distracted)

--again.

"They ever find out who desked your partner, Claudette?" He calls down, leaning back against the
wall. "'Cause ya know, contrary to popular belief, it *wasn't* me."
 
"Me neither, son."
 
"Hmmm." Vic shakes his head. "Real mystery for the ages, that one. Could'a been anybody."
 
"Could have," she agrees. Then: "Think you  and Officer Sofer maybe need to dial it down a touch?
Given the circumstances."
 
Vic grins, a little surprised, though not unpleasantly--Wyms is hardcore, so cop she probably
bleeds blue, so it's not like he has to be worried about anonymous tips about fraternization or
phonecalls to Corinne. Or about her poaching on his property, either, like that moon-eyed fucker
Wagenbach, always trying to come on to Danny like a sensitive New Age male...

"You my Mommy now, Detective?" He asks her, level, with just a hint of not-exactly-tease behind
it; she blows a plume, shoots him the eyes again, utterly unimpressed. Replying, equally deadpan:

"Hardly."

The implication being: But you'll do what you want, Vic; always do. Don't you, son?

He shrugs. She's got THAT right.

***

Part Three

Things things accellerate, the way they do. But Vic does make sure to come home early after all,
what with one thing or another--like midnight(ish)--and walks in to find his daughter Cassidy
waiting up for him in the kitchen, eating a big bowl of sugary powder-blue crap while watching
Powerpuff Girls.

"*You* should be in bed," he tells her, sternly. She just nods, absently, and keeps on watching; a
classic anti-authoritarian, even at eight, not that she doesn't come by it honestly. After a beat:
"They always play cartoons this late?"

The sigh's definitely Corinne's, which Vic guesses would make that grim blue stare all his--oh
Daddy, you're hopeless!

"It's a TAPE," she explains, with infinite pre-pubescent princess dignity.

And: "Oh yeah," Vic says, finally noticing the built-in VCR slit at the monitor's base. "'Course."

All that extra cash--Corinne doesn't ask where it comes from, and Vic never asks where it goes.
Good schools, great toys, a TV in every room; this life of anti-crime, 24/7. She takes care of all
that, like he takes care of the rest.

"Did you put a lot of people in jail today?" Cass asks.

"Prosecutors do that, bunny."

"Whatever." Hopefully: "Did you?"

"Yeah, I did some stuff. C'mere."

Opening his arms wide enough to let her fold herself into him and feeling her hug back hard,
sharp-nailed baby fists surprisingly painful-strong in the small of his back. Vic realizes she
must be as high as his chest now, even sitting down, which sort of phases him for a micro-second:
Kids, man. Something brand new, every single time you turn around.

"You need to go to bed," he repeats, cupping the back of her head. Thinking--

This is what you fight for, right? This right here. And this world you've made for her, for all of
them, is still the best one you can conceive of. Not perfect, 'cause nothing is. Just...

(safe)

Yeah. Safe. Always.

Always.

But...

***

//Oh, there's gotta be a little more to it than *that*, though, Sarge. Don't you think?//

...say what?

***

Aaaaaah, shit, Victor. This just *can't* be good.

***

And now he's dreaming, and he knows it: Back in the van behind Two Times' house, waiting for the
signal, with the Strike Team guys huddled 'round him football-style, cradling their
hardware--Shane on one side, Lemonhead on the other, couple of switch-hitters from downstairs
filling out the roster. Feeling the weight of Cassidy wedged over his hip in real life, as they
both doze on the living-room couch, translate way too easy into the cold, steely brace of a
confiscated AK against his thigh; amazing the shit you can find down in evidence, ain't it,
fellas? Amazing what they'll let you sign out, too, when the right guy's on watch...

All this plus dead Terry C., too--Terry in the van, on the couch, leaning over him in the dark.
Terry with his head-wound still dripping, his blonde hair still dyed half-red; Terry, smelling of
cordite and meat, weirdly appetizing even in context. Like nothing so much as a steak grilled
medium-rare over fries and a salad, at the LAPD's annual barbeque.

Terry, large as life and twice as pale, putting a gentle hand to Vic's face, his phantom fingers
cold against Vic's sweaty skin. Inquiring, equally gentle:

//Hey, Sarge. How's tricks?//

Well, you tell ME, you tricky motherfucker.

Vic's heart gives a single big *thud*, like a hammer-hit to the breastbone--pure adrenaline-spike,
anti-overdose needle plunging home. Knows he's strapped, waking or sleeping, and feels his hand go
automatically for the drop-piece on his ankle...then catches Terry's smirk and puts it down again,
flushing: Yeah, riiiight, been there already. Did that.

Did YOU.

Terry nods, as if agreeing. And "says"--

//Hey Vic, I ever tell you the one 'bout how this cowboy cop shoots his partner in the face? Ain't
too sexy, sad to say. But it sure does pack a whole hell of a lot of...//

(punch)

"You were never my partner, you king snitch fuck," Vic whispers back, dry-mouthed.

Terry shrugs. //Point taken.// Then adds, as Cassidy groans, and squirms into Vic's lap: //Better
keep it down, though, huh? I mean--//

--you don't wanna wake the kid.

Shifting 'round in his seat, now, with one long leg thrown over the armrest and the same hand he
touched Vic with just covering that spot under his jawline--small and dark as Madonna's
beauty-mark--where the bullet went in. Terry Crowley, as Vic lives and fuckin' breathes, and Terry
doesn't.

//Yeah,// Terry says. //Pretty fucked up, all right. You miss me much?//

Barely audible: "Not for a minute."

//Hmmm. That's kinda insulting.//

Yeah, well.

Vic sits there numb, on point, trying to figure out best procedure for a situation with no clear
precent. Should he shake his head, close his eyes, wait for Terry to flicker out like a decaying
picture-tube? Throw one of Cass's bunny slippers at him, and see whether or not it goes through?

And yet: It's so weirdly *comfortable* to have him here again, in its own fucked way. Because dead
or not, Terry was the guy who had an instinctive way of setting people at ease, of sliding into
place like he'd found that universal hole everybody else missed without even trying, the one
shaped just for him--that bullshit golden-boy charm lit up from here to Texas, a thin layer of
truth wrapped tight around an all-purpose lie.

Basic undercover tactics, Vic guesses, not that  he's ever really tried them out first-hand: He's
always been pretty easy to spot, one way or another.

Terry's file said he did a couple stints in Narco, though, before transfering over to
robbery/homicide. Which was probably some huge-ass sort of tip-off right there, now Vic stops to
think about it...

(Uh huh. *Now* he does.)

But anyway. On the sliding scale of bad to worse to holy SHIT this blows, Vic thinks, he'd frankly
give a million fuckin' bucks to be somewhere else right now, anywhere. Preferably someplace where
he could be shooting at someone--

//who deserved it//

Words in his head, or maybe just--feelings. Terry, either way, sneaking in through his skull's
back door, without even grace enough to lie about it. All of which makes Vic clench his fists and
let his interrogation room game face slip on, smile stretching wide and flat and dead as a shark's
fixed grin.

Thinking back, clear and cold: Oh, you mean like *you*, right? Same guy who took Aceveda's call,
cut a Justice department deal, then came here to MY HOUSE beggin' to get his cherry popped? You
mean like *that* kind of "undeserving", choirboy?

//Maybe. But YOU killed a cop, Vic; do that kinda thing a lot? Or was it a one-time offer only?//

Cass groans again, squirms again. But Vic just keeps on sitting there, prickly all over:
Projecting a clear stream of *None of your business, fuckwad,* from a thousand psychic pores,
hoping against hope it'll somehow cover up the part of his mind which wants to admit...

(...not exactly.)

Ah, but it's a tough row to hoe, keeping secrets from a guy whose current place of residence reads
Beyond The Grave.Which must be why Terry's smiling himself, now.

//Don't tell me I was your first,// he says.

Vic flushes again, scalp burning. He feels his head tilt forward just a tick, lowering, like he's
a bull and Terry's standing right smack dab in front of the corrida's half-open gate.

(Move or die, motherfucker.)

And: *Look*, he thinks--a little too level, even for his own comfort. Are you gonna get the hell
out of my...head, house, whatever...or not?

//Are you gonna confess?// Vic just snorts. //Then I think we're gonna be seeing a lot of each
other, from here on in.//

Oh, be still my beating heart.

There's a pause, long enough to count five you Cass's long, slow breaths. Then Terry looks at him
again, pale eyes narrowed. Asking:

//And you know what the truly sad part is, Victor? You don't even feel guilty about what you did.
Do you?//

Well, that one's easy, at least: *Nope*. 'Cause this City, these people...they NEED somebody like
Vic here protecting their interests, their property, their lives. Just like--day in and day out,
good, bad or indifferent--they need his Strike Team too, exactly where it already is.

//Sure they need it, Vic.//

They do. I KNOW it.

//Sure you do.//

"Said" with that oh-so-*indulgent* note in his no-voice, like he's making allowances for
extunating circumstance. Arrogant fuckin' post-mortem fuck.

*Dead man*, Vic thinks again, all-italics red, and feels that sudden familiar spurt of rage like a
fist in his throat, squeezing--hot sparks snake-whipping all up and down him like contact sports,
AK-47 kickback, spontaneous combustion. Like his knee *hard* in some yo's back, or the phonebook
connecting *extra hard* with Dr Fuck-your-kids' skinny stomach. Like Corinne's thumb slipping
sweet inside his mouth, her ring-finger tracing his lips' scars, some stolen afternoon when the
kids are safely off to school; like Danny pressed up hard against him in the back of her parked
squad-car, making out open-mouthed with one hand in his lap and her blouse flapping wide, her red
lace bra on display for any passing citizen to gape at...

All so NOT things to be thinking about when you got your kid between your legs, basically--not
even with a flipped cop's ghost giving you the sidelong eye, amused to the point of flirty, over
her shoulder. Thinking--

//Hey, whooo: Quite the rat's nest you got goin' on in there, Sarge--I mean, you EVER take a psych
eval, court-ordered or otherwise? Or is that just for pussies?//

Oh, you happy fuckin' hooker.

And: "Just shut the fuck up, Crowley," Vic snaps, a vicious stage-whisper, not even caring if
Cassidy hears him anymore--shit, the whole Court TV network could be listening, and he still
wouldn't be able to bite his tongue. "Shut UP and lie the fuck down, you hear me? You're dead just
like Two Times is and I was at your fuckin' funeral--wore a suit and everything, so lie DOWN,
that's a genuine Goddamn order. 'Cause I have had just about enough of *you*."

To which Terry nods, blush of gold over knit skin catching the light. Like: I feel you, Sarge;
believe me, I really do. Trouble is, though...

//...trouble IS, I'm just not taking orders from you, anymore. 'Cause, uh--//

(oh, and *this* should be good)

//--why the fuck should I?//

No reason that Vic can think of, earthly or otherwise. No matter how hard he tries.

Terry sits back a minute, considering. Then--

//Y'know, you're a lot shorter than I remembered,// he says. And fades away.

THE END