By: Aithne
Let me tell you, being a journalist in Hathian is like fishing in a swamp with a Q-tip. Sometimes you stand there for hours, swatting metaphorical mosquitoes and catching nothing but existential dread. Other times? Well, other times the swamp practically throws a mutated catfish holding the winning lottery ticket right into your lap. Today was a catfish day.
My journalistic spidey-senses (mostly just boredom and hunger) initially tingled near the Vudu Spice shop. Music? Revelry? Could it be… normal fun? Unlikely, but worth investigating. Lo and behold, a glorious machine was chugging out suds like it was trying to cleanse the very soul of Hathian, one iridescent sphere at a time, turning the street into a foam party waiting to happen. Nearby, kiddie pools, bravely repurposed by adults presumably seeking refuge from the Louisiana “Spring” (read: Satan’s armpit), offered minimal cooling solace. Food lay scattered about, a veritable buffet of potential gastrointestinal adventures.
Now, as a delicate flower from Missouri and a card-carrying vegetarian, the Vudu Spice shop hadn’t exactly topped my “Must Visit” list. Cajun spices and my internal plumbing have a… complicated relationship. But seeing folks actually laughing? In Hathian? Clearly, bordering on unique! Maybe they have tofu jerky that tastes vaguely of swamp magic? Note to self: investigate later.
Duty called, however, specifically my flickering office computer screen. Trudging down Hathian Highway, resigned to writing about potholes or perhaps a particularly grumpy-looking stray cat, my eyes snagged on something far more compelling: flashing lights. Red and blue flashing lights! The universal symbol for “something interesting/potentially disastrous is happening!” Like a moth to a very loud, potentially dangerous flame, I completely ignored the turn towards responsibility and followed the pretty colors.
And oh, what a tableau awaited me! One unmarked police cruiser, parked just short of a spike strip. Inside, an officer looked decidedly unwell amidst a constellation of shattered window glass. Outside, her partner was doing her best to use the car door as her shield from further attacks. Reinforcements were arriving in a marked car, disgorging officers ready for… well, this.
Gunfire! So much gunfire! It seemed mostly outgoing, as HPD apparently decided the best way to handle the situation was with overwhelming noise and lead. Meanwhile, the alleged perpetrators, cunningly disguised as your average, everyday construction workers (because nothing says “subtle heist” like high-vis vests), were loading boxes out of the cop car’s trunk into their van. Amidst the symphony of destruction, I caught snippets like “C’mon! C’mon! Go go go!“
Sledgehammers were flung (at what, I couldn’t quite tell – maybe just for dramatic effect?), more bullets flew, crates were Tetris’d into the van, and someone yelled, “We is transformers.. not Hoppers!” I haven’t the foggiest what that means. Maybe it’s a local construction union rivalry? Or perhaps they genuinely believed they could morph into Peterbilt trucks? Hathian keeps you guessing.
Then, the inevitable “Come on ya’ll.. lets skeedaddle!” just as the backup cops started pushing forward. One woman, clearly the designated drama queen of the crew, screamed, “Get out get fucking out, Admiral Alice is going down with the ship, I repeat going down with the ship!!!” effectively volunteering as tribute while her pals made their escape.
The getaway van, presumably packed to a satisfactory level of stolen goods and escaping felons, did indeed skeedaddle, peeling out with impressive haste. No thrilling car chase ensued; the cops seemed more interested in assisting their injured comrades and dealing with the lone martyr, “Admiral Alice.“
And “dealing with” is putting it mildly. Officer Snakebite seemed personally offended by Alice’s continued existence outside of a cell. Amidst the chaos of her capture – during which, according to the flurry of activity, she apparently decided the best defense was to brandish something… memorably anatomical (let’s just say it wasn’t a standard-issue weapon, and my brain is actively trying to forget the details) – Snakebite engaged in what looked less like an arrest and more like a wrestling match against the much smaller opponent, aggressively throwing her onto the hood of his car and giving her a thorough, non-consensual polishing against the vehicle before stuffing her in the back. Classy.
It was during this single, profoundly weird arrest that one cop nearby suddenly lost her entire mind, yelling, “OH GOD DAMMIT! CHOLERA! TYPHOID! RABIES! SMALL POX!” like she was playing Pathogen Bingo and just hit the apocalyptic jackpot.
Naturally, I attempted to engage with HPD’s famously transparent policy asking for a statement for the press, ever the optimist.
The response? A succinct, traditional Hathian greeting: “Go fuck yaself.” Ah, consistency. It’s comforting, in a way.
So, piecing together this little mess: it looks like our construction “transformers” set a trap, the cops stopped just short, got ambushed, and were relieved of several crates of… something. Something valuable enough for HPD to stage a daylight shootout over, cutting off poor Admiral Alice (and her questionable choice of defensive implement) from escape with the others. This stolen something apparently makes at least one cop think of history’s greatest plagues. Biological weapons? Stolen from HPD? In Hathian? It sounds ludicrous, but honestly, it would explain the extreme reluctance to chat and the officer’s sudden terror of communicable diseases.
What else could be in those crates? Killer bees? Aggressively multiplying tribbles? The Colonel’s secret recipe? Who knows. But just in case Officer Panic wasn’t merely having a bad day, maybe keep an eye out for surplus biohazard suits at the pawn shop. Can’t hurt, right? Welcome to Hathian. Never boring, frequently baffling, occasionally requires vaccinations.
