TamLin stared at the office for the local public security force, which this particular somewhen called StretSec. The square building looked large even if you didn’t know that it continued for several levels underground. The tile-floored foyer had an ironglass wall facing the street, and the foyer itself had wide-open design. It gave the man at the front desk clear line of sight and plenty of time to respond to most incoming threats.

The scanners and officers posted at the front doors were new.

TamLin had forgotten—as stupid and foolish as it was, he’d somehow forgotten—that the newly-designated Second had napalmed his boss’s office the day before. While he was leaving it.

Because of her, he was quite possibly going to end up arrested for terrorism or treason, and his skin tingled with the memory of what it felt like to touch her, to kiss her.

It was fucking inappropriate.

His coworker Kasy had been with TamLin, too, when their boss’s office had gone up in flames, but TamLin was still the one who’d brought the napalm-er into the building. He was the one who’d let her arm herself from the armory. He was the one who’d taken her to see Puce.

He was tempted to ask Janni for a time jump to get him past this mess, at least until records and memories could be adjusted. Enough shadows—people from other universes—lived in this somewhen that surely they could find some tweaker who needed the kinds of favors TamLin or Janni could provide.

He hated to owe anything to his bondmate, though, even if they weren’t ever going to consummate the bonding. Aside from their mutual disinterest in producing children to help keep their native universe populated, they didn’t even like each other.

TamLin shook his head against the coward’s option and strode in and through the scanners and security. No alarms went off—and Ribald didn’t even give him a double-take when he entered—so Second had been right when she said that his coworkers wouldn’t be able to pin things on either of them.

That seemed too easy. Too convenient.

Nobody sought to nudge or yank him aside for inquiry about the previous day, either, so something was definitely off. He was at the very least a potential witness, so standard operating procedure meant they needed to at least get his statement. SOP only got ignored when there was some bigger play in progress.

But what sociopolitical game were they playing? He couldn’t maneuver or disengage until he knew which game board they’d put him on.

TamLin stepped up to the front desk. Ribald kept gossiping with the mailwoman about someone’s new squeeze—maybe his, maybe his favorite stripper’s, maybe some married coworker’s. TamLin didn’t care enough to pay attention and figure it out.

He tapped pointedly on the broad front counter that was Ribald’s desk, showing the receptionist’s console and office accoutrements while also hiding the zinger and blaston that all on-duty secs were supposed to keep on hand, even when in plainclothes. OverMent—the oversight department—tended to look the other way on that particular rule, though, as long as a sec had a weapon and could prove themselves competent with it. Zingers were ineffective for some parts of town, and the lethality of blastons made carrying them against many folks’ convictions.

TamLin had lost all unwillingness to kill other sentients long before he even had to shave.

“What?” Ribald snapped.

“Kasy in yet?” TamLin asked. She’d promised to cover his ass on the paperwork, so he wanted to compare stories and get that finalized as soon as possible. Get her clear of him, reduce the risk of anyone targeting her to get to him, and reduce the possibility of someone conveniently misfiling his statement and getting him in trouble for making a delayed report.

“How the hell would I know?”

TamLin narrowed his eyes and met Ribald’s glare, rather than focusing on the man’s beard or poorly-hidden muscles, like most people did. The more fool, them.

“I’m not your fucking babysitter!” Ribald snapped.

“No, you’re our fucking receptionist, who’s fucking our boss’s wife. You have the roster on your console. Has Kasy checked in or not?” The console—a small flat minicomputer that some somewhens called ‘tablets’—was in literal spitting distance of both him and its owner. He could’ve grabbed and checked it, himself, if he’d wanted to risk the chance that both Ribald and his tech person had failed to activate the security option, but that could get him shot even without the excuse of yesterday’s mess.

The mailwoman stared at TamLin, her widened eyes confirming his decision to not bother learning her name. If he chatted her up, she’d be more inclined to loiter. The more she loitered around the StretSec office, the bigger risk she ran of getting targeted by a criminal inclined to take hostages. That was aside from the risks inherent in fraternizing with a shadow or an illegal immigrant or a grade-black sensate, and he was all three.

The results of civility were so rarely worth the costs.

Ribald’s face went white, then red. “Excuse me?!”

Not the response TamLin had been looking for, but if that was the road he was on already…

He gave his coworker a bored stare. “Penn? The secretary with the biggest melons? That’s Puce’s wife. Did she forget to mention that before she—”

Ribald leapt over the counter at TamLin.

As he sidestepped out of the way and prepared to let his coworker think them more evenly matched than they were, TamLin didn’t let himself sigh or smile. The delay in finding Kasy was annoying, but at least the fight would give him opportunity to get punched in the face, so blood could replace the distracting taste that lingered on his tongue.