Moira #4: Checkpoint

There’s a line of people ahead of her, and there shouldn’t be. Some idiots have set up portable fences around the three blocks or so that make up the city’s burgeoning waterfront hotspot. They’re only letting people in on foot, through two side-by-side gates. A police cruiser’s parked near the gates and another one’s just ahead, both with lights flashing but sirens off.

“Hey,” she says to the first person at the back of the line who looks her way, a lanky, shaggy-haired coyote guy decked out in denim. His eyes visibly widen. Maybe it’s because she’s pretty. Maybe it’s because he’s not used to looking up a half a foot at a bunny woman. “Is there some special event tonight?”

“They say they’re doing more ID checks to keep trouble down.” He shrugs. “I’ve heard it’s a lot faster now than it was before, at least.”

She snorts. He means before they privatized the cops, like they have in so many cities along with so much else. Everyone loves it. No scandals now. Nobody digs enough to notice that’s not because the cops are behaving any better, but because they have an outside PR firm now and get better news coverage. And the company that owns the cops is owned by a company owned by another company that owns other companies that own the PR firms and the news stations. A big mass of tentacles, with the new gods of capital at its center. She liked the old gods better. At least they were more honest about being brutal.

The line *does* move fast, until it reaches the first checkpoint at the first cop car. Two officers direct people into one of two other lines, one for each gate. One line's moving fast; they're just waving people on past the fences. The other line's a near standstill.

The tiger scans both her ID and the coyote’s with his phone, waves the coyote toward the fast line—and her toward the slow one.

“Hey,” she says. “Why’s that line so much slower than that one?”

The tiger doesn’t even look at her. “They’re running IDs, the other line isn’t.”

“You’re running IDs. Why are the herbivores in the slow line, and the carnivores in the fast line?”

“I scan the ID, it tells me which line you go to. I’m just following directions and it’ll go faster if you do, too, ma'am.”

The coyote’s hung back. “That’s profiling,” he protests. “You can’t do that.” Oh, he’s offended on her behalf? That’s sweet of him.

The wolf gives him a glare. “You’re in the fast line. Shut up and walk.” He turns the glare on Moira. “And don’t make this a scene, lady. If you want to get where you’re going, you get moving, too.”

“Fine.” She strides past him toward the fast line. The coyote tags along.

“Back in your line!” the wolf growls, pointing. When she doesn’t move, he grabs her arm, leading her toward the first cop car. “All right, that’s enough.”

The crowd—especially on the herbivore side—looks restless, like they’re energized by the waves of annoyance radiating from Moira. The wolf holds out his hand. “ID.”

She hands it over.

He frowns at it. “‘Moira.’ What’s your last name?”

“Don’t have one.”

“I can’t make out your birthdate.”

“Guess it’s smudged.”

He narrows his eyes at her, then gets in the car, fires up the onboard computer and scans the ID.

She realizes the coyote’s still there. She glances over at him. “Hey, don’t wait on my account.”

“I just…” He runs his hand through his hair. “Man, I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He gestures at the two lines.

“You’ve just never noticed it before.” A few of the closest people in the herbivore line overhear her and nod. “You notice that the police are all carnivores, too?”

His ears skew. “A rabbit cop woman came to my junior high…”

“I guarantee you when the force went private, she got early retirement.”

The coyote blinks, looking shaken.

The wolf gets back out of the car. “So, Moira, you match a bulletin we have from another city, and it’s as weird as you are. Looks like it came from somewhere high up in corporate.” His hand moves to his sidearm. “So let’s go down to the station and sort this out.”

“Corporate.” Moira stares at him expressionlessly. “You know what, here’s a better idea. Shut down this stupid checkpoint right now and I won’t ‘make this a scene.’”

His grip tightens on his gun for a moment. Then abruptly he slams her against the hood of the police car.

“Hey! Don’t you—” the coyote yells, cut off when the tiger slams him down next to her.

“All right, lady, let’s do it your way,” the wolf growls, forcing her arms behind her back and snapping handcuffs around her wrists.

Moira takes a deep, ragged breath, then straightens up. The wolf’s still gripping her, but it’s clear the hare is marching him backward from the police car. She straightens her arms, the handcuff chain snapping like a brittle rubber band, and whirls out of his grasp, facing him with an expression angry enough to make his tail curl between his legs.

“Oh, yes,” she snarls. “Let’s.”

He stumbles backward, and both he and the tiger draw their guns. The tiger has a radio in hand, too. “Checkpoint Riverfront, 10-33, R-requesting backup,” he stammers. “All available units, repeat, 10-33. All units!”

She moves, and suddenly she’s holding both guns. She crumples them like tinfoil.

Both lines have stopped, staring. Some of the crowd’s starting to hurry away; some of them cheer, egging Moira on. More of the herbivores clap, more of the carnivores run.

“Lady,” the tiger stammers, “There’s gonna be dozens of patrol cars here in less than two minutes.” As if on cue, the police car by the barricades, at the front of the line, switches on its sirens, and starts along the street toward them.

“I know.” She claps once, hard, and there’s the sound of a transformer exploding, electricity briefly sparking along all the barricade fences as they melt away.

More of the crowd is fleeing and screaming, but more of it’s cheering, too.

The second cop car has almost reached her. She claps again, and abruptly both cop cars—and the patrolmen inside the approaching one—are the size of toys. The handcuffed coyote, who’d been leaning against one of them, falls over with a yelp.

“Sorry about that,” Moira says. She walks over to him and helps him up, breaking off his handcuffs. “You didn’t have to stay and try and help me.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.” He rubs his wrists. “I mean, I didn’t know you were a superhero at the time.” He stares at the tiny cop car.

Sirens are in the distance getting closer. Lots of them. “I’m not.”

“What the hell did you do!” the wolf yells, lumbering toward them.

The lights of the approaching cars are visible now. The tiger was right: there’s dozens. They’re coming in from multiple streets: back the direction she came, left and right ahead of her, even in the Riverfront District. They’re moving fast, blowing their horns, forcing the crowd to part and flow around them.

Moira raises her hands over her head and grins. It’s a happy grin, and it’s utterly terrifying. She claps her hands over her head one last time.

All of the cars, all of the officers, abruptly become toy size. So do the tiger and the wolf. They barely have time to register what happened before she sends them flying out of sight with a contemptuous kick.

“Holy shit!” the coyote squeaks. The crowd is screaming and bleating, staring and pointing.

All the little cars still have their lights on. Some of them screech to a stop. Some of them go even faster—or at least try to, finding themselves weaving between paws and hooves.

“So.” She starts walking toward the riverfront district, motioning the coyote to follow.

“W-watch out,” he says, pointing down. The second toy cop car’s turned around to hightail it back toward the Riverfront, driving at what’s probably over a hundred miles an hour to them—and maybe three or four to anyone normal-sized.

“Oh, good eye. Thanks.” She starts literally hopping around the car, slamming her paws to either side. Its tiny tires squeal and smoke as it zigzags in panic. More of the crowd points at her. More of them look down at the flashing red and blue lights weaving between their legs. More of their expressions shift from frightened confusion to awe at their own relative power.

Then the driver zigs when he should have zagged, and her paw meets the car in a highly final crunch.

Screams come from the crowd: shocked, horrified, gleeful. “Oops,” she says insincerely, raising her hands as she walks on.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” the coyote mutters, looking back at the wreckage.

“Goddess,” she corrects. “Retired.”

His gaze whips up to hers, eyes impossibly wide. “You’re—I mean, you’re sure not like any rabbit I’ve met, but…?”

“I’m a hare. Hares are bigger.”

“Right.” He laughs weakly. “Everything seems bigger right now.”

They step over where the fences had been. There are still flashing lights ahead, but they’re corralled in by a crowd, nearly all herbivores. Some of them are leaning down to pick up the cars, turning them back and forth and upside down. A wine-mom deer is rolling a cruiser back and forth under one of her hooves, laughing incredulously. A cute red panda couple, guy and girl, have a car trapped between their muzzles, and seem to be trying to fish the occupants out with their tongues. A demure-looking rat girl in a classic grey skirt and white blouse school outfit holds an empty car in one hand, and a suggestive lump’s traveling down her throat, to shrieking giggles from her identically-dressed friends.

The coyote stares, muzzle agape.

She glances over. “People sometimes lose their inhibitions around me when I get riled up and do…” Moira waves a hand. “Goddess shit.”

They cross the bridge over the river, turn down the main street. The music’s loud, louder than normal. Everything seems more riotous, unrestrained. The few other carnivores around look like the coyote: fidgety but fascinated, constantly glancing up. Everything… seems…

His ears fold back. “Holy shit, I’m hip high to you! We’re all—you shrank—”

She stops, leaning down toward him. “Hey, other than the police-flavored party favors, any carnivore still here knows what they’re getting into tonight. It’s in the air. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it.”

He looks around, at the crowds of looming revelers, some of whom are dropping to their knees as if they’re somehow recognizing Moira. She can see a recognition in his eyes, too: the recognition she’s right. He swallows. “Yeah. I do.” Some of the revelers look back at him, with the interest you show an exquisite toy—or drool-worthy dessert. He smiles nervously. “What’s the chance of surviving the night with you?”

“At least fifty-fifty.” She holds out a hand.

He takes a deep breath and puts his much smaller hand in hers. “Just what are you a retired goddess of?” he whispers.

“Tonight?” She grins, pulling him along. “You.”