The Problem of Integration (Inquisitors Lee and Haig)
In the early part of the new millennium, as the paper industry declined and news went online, daily papers collapsed in the shrinking market. Somehow, the Sun-Times kept a toe-hold, enough to keep a Sunday edition in circulation. Rhiannon knelt at a solitary street corner stand, where a half-dozen once huddled together. Inside a plexi-glass panel, the front page announced the week's biggest headlines. She balled up her gloved fist and wiped grime away to get a better look.

"I can't believe they still have these." It was spoken with wonder. She stood up. Behind her, a storefront window reflected her image. The Inquisitor's hair was wound into a severe bun on the crown of her head. The thick sleeves and pants of her uniform were uncomfortably hot in the May climate of this city, Chicago. Even the wind blowing down the busy street was of little use, heated by the exhaust of automobiles. She looked at her hunting partner.

Warner glanced briefly at the newspapers, his expression impassive as his gaze returned to the street. "I don't understand this place," he told Rhiannon, his voice verging on monotone. "Despite the scourge that's so obviously present here, they still walk freely and carelessly." He gestured to an upscale bar across the street where a group of people were gathered, waiting to get in. The male Inquisitor frowned, resisting the urge to draw a weapon. "I think we should make a sweep. Perhaps in one of these places. I need to understand what we're dealing with here."

Rhiannon nodded, quelling her interest in the idiosyncrasies of the world to focus on the objective. A horn blasted in the intersection, which a spurt of evening traffic had brought to a standstill. She stepped off the curb and walked between the vehicles. "Shall we find one that isn't quite as monitored?" she suggested. The bar was noisy and dark, but the primary problem was waiting in a queue, where a security detail might check them for weapons. When they set out, she had left her heavier equipment at the warehouse the squad acquired, but a pat-down would reveal gadgets beneath detachable panels in her shirt and trousers. Also, it would be highly inappropriate.

Another thing quickly noted about this world. The women wore little, traveled unescorted at night, and allowed scandalous levels of physical contact in public.

Rhiannon walked on the inside of the sidewalk, Warner to her left. "They'll be more difficult to spot here," she observed, turning an incredulous eye to a brown-haired woman, who walked by in ripped trousers and a sleeveless shirt. Permanent ink was drawn around her bicep, a chain of thorny roses. A bra strap draped beneath the tattoo like an underline. After rubbernecking for several steps, Rhiannon faced forward again. "They all look as if they've scavenged their clothes from a garbage heap."

Warner would have believed that to be so, if it were not for the displays behind the darkened windows of the shops that dotted the street. "They sell those things here," he told Rhiannon, an incredulous sort of anger creeping into his voice. "People pay money to look like...that." His eyes darted toward the woman that had walked past them. To their left was a garish store front with neon lights and odd music blasting out from within, aural pollution that filled the sidewalk. It was a tattoo parlor, and the front door had been propped open to allow for the warm breeze to come in.

"Do you think they'd be hiding in there?," he asked her, a hint of restrained humor in his tone.

"I'm sure you're welcome to look. I'll take my chances they're elsewhere," she said dryly, sending him a sidelong glance. It was then that she caught the tight twist at the corner of Warner's mouth. One of her winged eyebrows lifted. "Are you attempting humor now, Mr. Haig?" Rhiannon slipped between a pair of teenagers, who gabbed about a film just seen. The atmosphere, no matter how shocking, made her more talkative than she usually was, and she felt bold enough to suggest something. "I believe you wanted a reason to investigate that shop."

Up ahead, coffee shop patrons spilled onto the sidewalk at small tables. Some busied themselves with bulky computing machines. Since the group numbered above ten, Rhiannon drew an electronic unit from her pocket. It was palm-sized, brass and wood. She spun a dial and a small screen pulsed light as it scanned for body temperature. All registered in the proper range.

His expression shifted slightly, and if one looked closely enough, they might guess he was slightly embarrassed. But it passed quickly, and he regained his usual demeanor of hardened authority. Warner studied the device in her palm before looking up and past the cluster of tables. His gaze rested upon an establishment on the corner up ahead, and his gray eyes narrowed slightly. "I suggest we start there," he said, if for no other reason than the windows were darkened, but a large white sign overhead assured passersby that they were, indeed, open.

"They serve food," the Inquisitor added. "We can have a meal and do a visual search at the same time." Despite being wary at what this world would try to pass off as adequate sustenance, they would need the energy.

Having traded a small piece of unnecessary equipment at a trading post -- or pawn shop -- Rhiannon had spending money in the proper currency. She looked up and frowned. The diner's sign was white with a sketch of a cheerful woman exclaiming, 'Mm! I think you should eat!' The style of art, recognizable to natives of this world as retro 1950s, was unfamiliar to her. It stirred a strange feeling in her stomach.

"That's... quaint." Letters in neon tubing listed menu items: burgers, pancakes, omelets. "What do you suppose a burger is?" she asked, stowing her equipment away. At the door to the eatery, she hung back and waited for Warner to open it.

"I don't know, but if it were worthy of eating, I'm sure we would have heard of them before," he replied, opening the door for Rhiannon. When she had passed, he followed, halting at a sign that read 'Please wait to be seated.' Nearly three-quarters of the booths and tables were full, and wait staff bustled around them with trays full of barely recognizable food.

Warner attempted to see the place through the eyes of a Fugitive -- something he didn't want to admit was easy for him, as he had once been plagued by the demonic taint. Thankfully, though, he had been purged, and had elected to join the Inquisition. His past was not something he enjoyed talking about.

But he could see the allure, of blending in with the poorly dressed crowd, the bright lights and steadily rising decibels of the commotion around them making a good place to scurry about, undetected.

For her part, Rhiannon seemed not exactly oblivious to Warner's compromised genetics, but unconcerned. They were all purists, but cared about original bloodlines to varying degrees. Rhiannon was privileged by birth, 100% human. One of the lucky ones, only disadvantaged by her gender. As long as Warner saw the rightness of being cleansed, she had no qualms with what came before.

Waiting at the sign, she saw no inhuman oddities in the eatery. Soon, a woman with un-stylishly short, spiky hair led them to a table. While they walked, Rhiannon's eyes wandered the ceiling. It had checkerboard patterns and sections painted to look like a cloudy sky. The cheerful atmosphere seemed completely at odds with what went on outside. She forced her eyes away and sat down. One finger at a time, she loosened her gloves.

"Hi, my name's Candace. I'll be serving you tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?"

"Yes, I'd like a glass of w--" Rhiannon's hand shot to her utility belt and twitched at a device used for stunning fugitives. The waitress, pretty and young with a shock of pink hair, had a trio of horns at each temple, tiny but unmistakable. She watched Rhiannon with open interest, but no particular fear. An ink pen hovered near her notepad.

Rhiannon ground her teeth together and darted a look at Warner.

Warner shifted in his seat; he had noticed at about the same moment as Rhiannon. One hand inched to a concealed side pocket in his clothing, when a small group of local authorities entered the restaurant, and another server sat the group at a booth near them. They had badges, blue shirts and black pants, and guns openly displayed in their holsters. His mouth tightened to an aggravated frown. How could the police just stand there and do nothing about this demon? He turned back to his companion, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. They couldn't act now, not yet. "Two glasses of water," he told the horned woman brusquely.

His fingers almost itched to draw his weapon, his muscles rigid and tense as he barely maintained his composure.

Rhiannon felt her face warm. She remained guardedly passive as the waitress placed menus on the table and walked away. Daring to turn her head, Rhiannon watched in disbelief as the authorities allowed the girl past. One man nodded at her, as if familiar. She bit her tongue and went back to making eye contact with Warner. The gloves hit the table with a soft sound.

"Please tell me those were replicas," she murmured, a somewhat rhetorical request since she knew full well they weren't.

Not for the first time, disorientation washed through Rhiannon. This world was so disarmingly familiar and yet different from theirs that it set one's teeth on edge. Had it been entirely opposite, the surroundings might've been easier to digest. But the language was similar, written and spoken. So were the plants, the sky, the basic structure of the buildings. The technology was different in construction but, despite its rudimentary nature, had nearly identical function.

Stranger still, a face had looked familiar. It was a man who entered the pawn shop at the same time as she. While he spoke to the shopkeeper, Rhiannon had stood with face cast downward, listening with an uncomfortable tickle of recognition in her mind. It was like an inaccessible word nagging at her subconscious. Privately, she couldn't wait for the operation to be accomplished. As curious as she was about the world, she battled down a panicked sensation at every street corner, afraid she might turn it and witness something her mind wouldn't accept.

She kept such fears to herself.

"This is madness," he said quietly, looking down at the table and busying his hands with arranging the silverware around a bread plate. Next to his right hand, there was a coffee cup, set upside down over a paper napkin. A swivelling tray held glass bottles of ketchup, mustard, more napkins, and a glossy plastic placard enticing them to purchase a dessert after their meal. Warner took in a deep breath, gaze flickering up to meet Rhiannon's. The waitress returned quickly, and set tall plastic tumblers filled with water in front of them. Ice clinked in his glass, and he stared at the rivulets of condensation that dripped downward.

His eyes were glued to the laminated menu; he couldn't even bring himself to look up at the demon, because if he did, he was afraid he'd lose his self-control. The temper that had marked his days as a demon hybrid still remained past the purging, and he kept it in check by focusing instead on his duties as an Inquisitor. But if he couldn't even perform those here, what would he do?

"I'll give you a few moments to decide," Candace told them cheerily before departing.

The demonic waitress had no concept of the irony in her words. Rhiannon exhaled in a rush. "They're allies," she said in awed confusion, looking over her shoulder at the law enforcers, whose firearms remained holstered, their manner with the waitress bland but open.

"Reconnaissance," she suggested. Rhiannon wasn't sure what their firearms were capable of, but there were four officers of unknown skill level. It wouldn't be wise to confront the waitress here and risk running afoul of local authorities so soon, especially since the waitress wasn't a fugitive from their world.

As she waited for Warner's confirmation, Rhiannon grew uncomfortable. Enemies were black and white at home. Confronting demons in Warner's presence (or Connor's or Cian's, for that matter) was simple. Here, where hybrids seemed almost... integrated into society, it dawned on her that her squad member might not see it as ludicrous, despite his verbal pronouncement. She said nothing, but her expression clouded.

"Reconnaissance and we'll report our findings to the squad," she said carefully. "What say you?"

Warner considered for a moment, staring sightlessly at the so-called dinner specials listed on the menu. After a minute or so, he nodded stiffly. "That would be wise," he said, a tone of defeat creeping into his voice. "Despite my frustration at not being able to take action," the Inquisitor added in a much quieter voice, should anyone around them be eavesdropping. An idea occurred to him, then, and it calmed him slightly, his hands relaxing to rest palm down on the table. "Perhaps we should procure a map," he told Rhiannon. "Mark the spots where we've encountered similar situations as this. If it becomes a pattern...if this is the norm in this world..." He trailed off, meeting her eye.

"Well, maybe our assistance will be needed here."

She nodded. "Perhaps."

Rhiannon observed him a second more than she normally might, attempting to intuit if Warner felt anything past his spoken reaction, which was the height of appropriate. After making sure she wasn't seen, Rhiannon rolled up her sleeve and showed him the piece of equipment she used upon their arrival, which tapped into available satellites and computer networks to determine the city's name and basic geography. "We're on Belmont Avenue, are we not?" She used her fingertip to make a notation on the device.

Soon after she finished and pulled the fabric down, the waitress reappeared to take their meal preferences. The hybrid mentioned a 'special'. Having paid no attention to the offerings on menu, Rhiannon nodded at Warner to affirm that the hamburger would do.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look up at the woman. "Two hamburgers...please." The nicety was difficult to force past his lips, but he managed it. Even here, manners had to prevail, or he would appear no better than the fugitives that they sought. "And that will be all." Warner gathered up his and Rhiannon's menu and handed them over. After the waitress jotted down their order and departed once again, he took a long, fortifying sip of the cold water. "I wonder what the others have found," he remarked contemplatively, casting a furtive glance toward the darkened windows.

Outside, people still streamed past. Were they oblivious to the dangers inherent in the night? But they must not have been, if the horned woman was any indication. Was there some sort of treaty between the humans and the supernatural here? The thought sent a tremor of unease through him. Warner could only imagine the appeal of such a place to the fugitives.

Rhiannon's shoulders, which rested in an impossibly erect posture, lifted in a shrug. "I can't say, but I'll hazard a guess. Dens of refuge?" She scratched the nape of her neck, where a few pieces of hair had come loose from their pins. Her thoughts went to Connor, ever the calculator who measured things in statistics and probability, ever disciplining himself into the Inquisition's ideal.

She wet her lips and leaned closer, allowing herself the informality of his given name. "Warner... Forgive me for voicing the obvious, but without tagging them with the proper equipment, we can't hope to trace where they go. How will we tell them apart?" She cut a look at the other patrons in the eatery. "If they procure supplies from these people... Assistance from those sympathetic to their cause..." Previously, the concern had been for the spread of infection; Now, it seemed much worse.

Warner frowned, allowing himself a moment to imagine what could occur if the things Rhiannon were suggesting came to pass. "Then we'll have to quell those who get in our way," he told her firmly. "And cut off their lines of supplies. If we can establish a larger base here..." He looked up sharply, and the idea brought a tinge of a smile to his lips. "Perhaps colonization, to use a rough term, would be advisable. These people obviously do not know the dangers that await them, but if they realized the threat these...things impose on a decent way of life, then maybe they will see the need for our cause."

He sat back against the overly padded seat. "I don't mean just knowing that the demonic taint is present and active. They're obviously aware of that much. But understanding what they're capable of."

"How they've managed to mask their true nature, I don't pretend to know." Rhiannon made herself ease away from the table, not wanting to seem so intimate. She dropped her hands into her lap. There, they fidgeted inside her sleeves, hidden away from Warner's eyes. "We cannot let them be," she said, watching the waitress weave been the tables with practiced ease. "They'll strengthen in number here, build another generator, and come home. We've killed so many of their--" She hesitated on the word family. "Kin."

The idea of their carefully forged peace being shattered, and of all the years of struggle reduced to naught, upset her. Never had fighting demons seemed a futile battle to Rhiannon. By the time of her birth, demons had already been chased into hiding. But looking at this other world, overrun with the demon scourge, uncertainty crept into her.

Hardening her resolve, she said, "Nevermind. We won't let it come to that." Rhiannon searched for another train of thought. "Do you think a hamburger is made of pork?"

As if in answer to her question, two large, white ceramic plates were set before them. The hamburgers were set next to a pile of greasy french fries, and a piece of lettuce as a garnish. "I suppose it's some sort of sandwich," Warner remarked wanly, forgetting his etiquette for a moment and giving the bun an exploratory poke with the tip of his index finger. "I will try it first," he offered. "In case it's unsatisfactory. There is no use in both of us becoming ill." Wiping his hands on a napkin first, he picked up the hamburger and brought it toward his mouth. He took a quick bite, chewed and swallowed before taking another drink of water.

"It's...strange," he said. "But not entirely repugnant. It will have to do, for now."

Rhiannon took a small bite of the greasy sandwich. She covered her mouth while she chewed. "It's beef," she said, as soon as it was polite. "I like it." She peeled back the bun to look at the patty. The line of condiments drew her attention. She turned the ketchup bottle upside down and dumped a splotch on the hamburger, following it with mustard. Those worked well with the minced meat.

"Well," she said between bites of fried potato, "Here's to one relief."

He ate in silence for a few moments, grateful, at least, that he was able to have this hot meal. "We'll have to tell the others that the food is different here, as well. If they haven't already discovered that for themselves." Warner ate in larger bites now that he was getting used to the taste, and it was only when his hamburger was half gone that he realized how hungry he had been. He began eating some of the fries, dipping them in the thick, red ketchup. Wiping the corners of his mouth with a clean napkin, he shook his head slowly. "I think, right now, to keep our spirits up, we must focus on what advantages we do have. Our technology works here, and we haven't received any unwanted attention or resistance...so far."

"My watch fetched a good price at the trading shop," she said between bites. "At least, I hope it was a good price. He thought it an antique, which was almost offensive." Rhiannon was careful not to unload any equipment that reached beyond the world's technology. If she needed to trade again, she would part with a piece of jewelry kept under her clothes. But that was a last option. "So far, the weather is good. Better than London," she added with a small smile. "And best of all, if any of us should lose our trousers, I doubt anyone would notice."

"The weather is particularly fair," he conceded with a slight tilt of his head. "Easier, by far, for us to move about by night as well as day. Less of a chill." Warner raised an eyebrow as their not entirely human waitress placed a piece of paper on their table, face down. He turned it over, trying to decipher the hastily scribbled sum at the bottom. "I believe we owe 16.92 in this world's currency. That seems quite a bit, but the exchange rate might be vastly different." The Inquisitor wondered how the others were faring, whether they had the foresight and ingenuity to do what Rhiannon had done. If it came to it, he'd trade the pocket watch his human father had left to him. It held little sentimental value to him after he was purged; it only served to remind him of the old man's foolishness and impropriety.

While at home, courtesy dictated that a gentleman pay for meals. However, this was not home, and their squad shared resources. Rhiannon reached into her pocket and pulled out a note. "Twenty," she said, setting it beside the paper. She wasn't sure if the gratuity was correct, but couldn't bring herself to lay more precious currency on the table, especially for a demon. "That should cover our bill. Shall we go now?" She drank a few swallows of cold water, unsure how far they would walk or when she might get another glass.

"Yes," he said darkly. "I believe we've learned all we need to know from this place." Warner pushed his plate away before sliding out of the booth. Once standing, he offered a hand to Rhiannon. "Perhaps we should look into securing our own supplies from a shop. Food, and sundries. Anything that will make us more prepared." He glanced surreptitiously at the police seated across the aisle.

"For now, it's probably best to operate covertly."

Rhiannon took his hand and let Warner help her out of the booth. "As long as you don't suggest I dress the part." She raised her eyebrows and left Clarke's a step ahead of him.