Patrick, "Pat," Kennedy (No relation) stared up at the two masked men looming over him impassively. More than intimidated by the heroes, he could only scoff at the situation. The two of them, dressed in white and blue, acting all serious...well. He wasn't in a position to talk, given his orange jumpsuit. Still, he knew enough about cape culture to know that they couldn't afford to rough him up. They had to worry about their image.
Unbelievable.
The bearded one, Armsmaster, spoke up. "Patrick Kennedy." Somehow--something in the enunciation, or perhaps the body language--the hero managed to convey a sense of authority as he spoke.
The man could act, Pat would give him that.
Pat leaned forward in his chair, giving the chains that bound him to the centre of the table some slack. "Armsmaster."
"Do you want some coffee?"
Pat very carefully kept his face from twitching. That...wasn't in the script. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"
Armsmaster paused, and then seemed to consciously shift into a more comfortable posture. "I said, would you like some coffee?"
There was a moment of silence. The third man in the room, Chessman, looked on with a frown.
Pat wanted to put his hands in his head. This old trick. And with Armsmaster as...well. Suffice to say, the Protectorate had a long way to go when it came to extracting confessions. "You know what? Sure. I would love some coffee."
"Sugar?"
Again, Armsmaster's voice came out like an admonishment. Pat wanted to cry. "No sugar. One cream, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."
Nodding, the tin man--Pat's buddy Frankie was convinced that he was a robot created by Dragon up in Canada, a theory which wasn't as completely unbelievable as Pat would have liked, considering the source was usually high on god-knows-what--turned around and marched out of the room with precision that would make a drill sergeant weep.
Pat shook his head, and looked up at Chessman.
The room was quiet.
Pat leaned back. Finally--
"You made. Him. The good cop."
Chessman didn't react. But for the flaring of his nostrils, Pat would have believed him but a corpse. Or a statue come to life, Frankie and his odd conspiracies.
"Now I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, sir. Me, I'm just a crook. Always have been, always will be. So I don't know how you decide these things. But, buddy, look--that man is no good cop. The lovechild of Robocop and Mirror-Spock ain't gonna convince me he gives a damn what happens to poor ol' Pat Kennedy, yeah? And you? I don't know you, Mr Hebert, but I've done some jobs with your boys--real jobs, I mean. The kinda stuff I could tell my Ma about, back when she was around. My point is: you've got yourself a bit of a reputation, among your old colleagues. Good ol' Danny Hebert. Incorruptible. Proud. In this city full of crooks, and druggies, and Nazis, and all those corner-cutting thieves in those ivory towers of theirs, you're one of the few men who always kept himself clean. Somethin' I can respect.
"So I'm trying, man, but I can't believe for one. Second. That you're gonna be the bad cop."
Daniel looked down, his expression unreadable.
He sat down, looking Pat in the eye.
A slight smile made its way across his face.
"Hello, Tryingman."
The colour drained from Pat's face. No.
"I'm Dad-cop."
----
Miss Militia shook her head. "This has got to be illegal."
"Told ya he could do it. Chip?"
Sighing, the heroine reached for the bag proffered by her colleague.
