Jerry woke up to Braxton touching his shoulder until he woke up. The events of last night had left him so mentally drained, spiritually zapped, and morally injured, he had wasted no time to take his clothes off, shower, or even have his nocturnal drinking session.

  An uncomfortable patina of adrenaline-infused sweat covered most of Jerry’s body, making him feel as gross and sticky on the inside as he felt on the outside. At least the three hours of sleep he had snatched kept his brains functional enough to still make sense of things.

  “Whuh? What’s happening?” Jerry mumbled. “I didn’t mean to hurt the kid like that. He just got in the way of things.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nevermind my mouth running as usual.” Jerry sat up and rubbed his eyes before looking at his husband. “What time is it and what’s going on?”

  “A little after 0600. Anthony sent out a call. He said we need to go to the field office as soon as possible,” Braxton said. “Apparently there’s been some interesting developments with our current case.”

  “Interesting in a good way or interesting in a bad way?”

  Braxton scoffed. “Anthony was scarce on the details for security reasons, but what do you think, darling?”

  “That was a dumb as Vullen question, huh?”

  “Of course, but I find your moments of dullness endearing, like watching an old dog chase its own tail ”

  “Thanks. Either way, I gotta shit, shave, eat something, and shower the scent of sin off my body, then we’re out of here.”

  “You got it, J.”

  Once the two arrived at the New Chemeketa Triple Division field office, they were met by a civilian employee of the division standing alone in the lobby. The employee was a scrawny, underfed-looking Affrodian man with thick glasses and large, awkwardly fitting clothes laid over his thin frame. In other words, the queer-looking man resembled the archetypal geek.

  Jerry and Braxton gave the man the standard professional greetings and introductions. The gentlemen’s name turned out to be Varny Prince, a rare Bassarkian underneath the Affrodian racial umbrella. He also turned out to be the field office’s director of surveillance technologies.

  So not just a regular bean counter, Jerry noted, but the biggest bean counter who manages the lesser bean counters. That must be a nice and cozy position. I wonder what kind of shots he has the power to call?

  “How would you two gentlemen like to see something neither of you have ever seen before?” Varny asked Jerry and Braxton.

  “That is a very alarming question to come from the mouth of somebody employed by the Triple I Division,” Jerry said, “but I guess a little novelty here and there in this line of work hasn’t killed my husband and I—yet.”

  “That’s the sort of adventurism I equally loathe and love to hear from the field agents around here,” Varny said. “Follow me.”

  Varny led Jerry and Braxton to one of the field office’s many elevators. He pressed a long, complex sequence with the help of the elevator’s floor numbers. A unique chime Jerry had ever heard went off. The elevator arrived. They all got into it and moved downwards towards previously unknown and unmarked floors.

  “This is some wicked cool espionage stuff you got going on here,” Jerry said to Varny. “I thought my husband, friends, and I were the ones who were supposed to be the cool super-secret spy shit around here.”

  “My team and I just look at screens all day until our eyes burn so we can tell people like you, your husband, and your friends who need to get caught, how they can get caught, and why they need to get caught,” Varny said. “This is all ‘wicked cool espionage stuff” in the same way making coffaux is a transcendental spiritual experience. Not very.”

  Jerry found himself offended at Varny’s words. They weren’t rude, but so blunt and matter of fact, they felt rude. Considering Varny’s technological prowess, Jerry wondered if he was one of those types with Vandrick’s Savant Syndrome. They always found their way into technology heavy fields because of how their technical skills often outclassed their social skills. Or maybe Varny was of those types that were so blunt, honest, and unvarnished with their words, what they said became oddly offensive, like Rosa.

  “Some people consider caffeination to be a spiritual experience,” Jerry said.

  “Then those people would be silly individuals,” Varny said. “I’m a hard materialist, and I suspect you are one, too.”

  Jerry chuckled. “Is that so?”

  “I believe all sapients from Hissians to humans lack divinity. And there isn’t a single spark of divinity to be found within those horrifyingly blue eyes of yours. This goes double for sapients who happen to be Touched like you and your husband.”

  Jerry’s chuckling turned into outright laughter. “I think I like you, Mr. Prince. I think I like you a lot. You’re another real character on a long list of real characters I have met in this hellacious country we call the Mendakian Union.”

  “Thanks…I suppose?”

  “Don’t take it personally,” Braxton said. “The parts of this man’s brain that are responsible for things like impulse control, maintaining an inside voice, and being a normal person were replaced by boiled sweets.”

  “That is unfortunate to hear,” Varny said. “Hopefully a cure for his boiled sweets brain condition will be discovered, and your husband will discover the joys of being a personable individual.”

  “It’s terminal, I’m afraid.”

  “You looked me right in the eye and correctly called me a Touched, Twelveless freak,” Jerry said to Varny. “How could you tell? Access to my official records? My dark, ominous energy? I’m sincerely curious here.”

  “I have VSS, so when the Touched or other so-called ‘supernatural’ beings get too close to me, horrible tastes like aluminum, iron, blood, and burning plastic fill my mouth.”

  “That’s some properly gnarly shit,” Jerry said. “Sorry my husband and I are doing you so bad just by standing too close to you.”

  Varny shrugged. “It’s fine. Though I do not believe in the Twelve, I have read some interesting things from Their Combination Codex. For example, one of Them said that if we are always comfortable, never irritated, and given whatever we want, whenever we want, we would be no better than sheep tied to poles being fattened for a slaughterer.”

  “That’s Saint Muntrass,” Jerry said, “ from the Book of Caged Water.”

  “Thank you for the reminder, Mr. Genovesi.”

  “Seeing as you don’t have much of any faith in the Twelve,” Braxton said, “may I ask who you think is the slaughterer in this extended metaphor of yours?”

  “The slaughterer of all sapient beings,” Varny said. “Life.”

  Following an excessively long elevator ride to the secret, subterranean bowels of the field office, the doors opened. Before Varny, Braxton, and Jerry was a long, well-lit hallway that terminated in a pair of massive, blast-resistant doors. The trio made their way through the hallway, clicking boots and shoes on the tiled floor.

  To the side of the blast-resistant doors were four layers of security measures: A fingerprint scanner, a retinal scanner, a keypad full of blocky numbers, and a two-way intercom system.

  Varny went through the first three within seconds, but stopped to speak into the intercom system. “This is Director Varny Prince speaking. I am requesting access to the operations room. I am with Jerry Genovesi and Braxton Olumana, two special agents of the Triple I Division working on a recent case of high importance.”

  “Noted,” A crackling, digitized voice said through the intercom system. “Mr. Prince, do you know the difference between a birdeye bot and a pervert?”

  “A birdeye bot loves to see you be, while a pervert loves to see you pee.”

  There was a short pause. “Welcome to the operations room, Director Prince.”

  The blast-resistant doors split open, exhaling a gust of wind so frigid, Jerry’s breath became dense clouds.

  “I should’ve worn my trench coat for this,” Jerry hissed. “It just got colder than a Touched’s tit in here! Is this where you mole people keep the bodies of ghouls for black site research or something?”

  “Yes, in a special morgue off the side,” Varny said without a touch of humor. “But this is the operations room for the rather extensive surveillance network of New Chemeketa and its surrounding suburbs. This room needs to be kept cold all the time so the servers don’t burst into flames. Our funding is ample, but not ample enough to burn things as we please.”

  “And you don’t mind being so cold all the time?” Jerry asked. “Where the husband and I are from, we’re the types to take sweating buckets over shivering our balls off.”

  “That is true, crudeness aside,” Braxton added. “The wintery harshness of New Chemeketa has always been one thing I’ve hated about it, including how much it rains all the time.”

  “I personally disagree,” Varny said. “I find the constant cold to be meditative, therapeutic for my sensory issues, and good for enhancing the focus my team and I need.”

  The three men walked into the operations room, which was as breathtaking as it was massive and freezing. The operations room was a semi-circular place bathed from floor to ceiling in ethereal blue lighting that somehow made the room feel colder even if that wasn’t really true, and brought to mind the famous blue hours of the Mendakian Union’s immense coast.

  Descending rows upon descending rows terminated in front of a massive projector in the style of a college lecture hall. Dozens of diverse staff ranging from the usual humans to Hissians to Mosquitogese to even the exceptionally rare Freelian subtype manned large, bulky computers with thick glass screens. Everybody save for the Hissians wore parkas and beanies as they worked, adapted and utterly indifferent to the intense cold of their conditions.

  Two questions struck Jerry at the same time. The first question was how he and the other Rangers remained in the dark about all of this for nearly half a decade, and the second question was how mad Anthony felt upon seeing all of this. Anthony had spent years trying to get a modest holographic projector for the Rangers’ conference room, only to be shooed away by both Mr. Moon and his Triple I Division superiors, but there were apparently enough fat racks of revolutionaries for this level of sophistication?

  Guess tax dollars only know how to work for some people that aren’t me and mine, Jerry thought bitterly.

  “What do you two gentlemen think about this?” Varny asked.

  “This is easily one of the most impressive and expensive things I have ever witnessed in my life,” Jerry said. “The cold is giving me some bad goosebumps, though.”

  “What he said,” Braxton added. “Quite the technologically lavish place, but I think my nose might start running pretty soon.”

  “Trust me, if you worked here all the time, you would get used to the cold,” Varny said. “I thought the Touched were immune to the negative effects of unfavorable conditions, especially of the cold variety.”

  “Nah,” Jerry said. “We Touched are all over the place when it comes to stuff like that. Some of us get weakened by the cold. Some of us get strengthened by the cold. When it comes to my husband, it can kill him like a mundane human. But when it comes to me, I barely register the cold until it makes my fingers fall off.”

  Varny hummed with intellectual curiosity. “Interesting! Now resume following me.”

  Braxton and Jerry followed Varny to one of the large morgues off to the side. He entered a code into a keypad that allowed them access through the sliding doors. The morgue was even colder than the operations room. Sitting in several chairs were all of the Rangers while Mr. Moon stood off to the side, idly examining his sharp, immaculate nails.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Everybody except Varny and Mr. Moon within the morgue exchanged the usual greetings before quickly expressing their collective fascination concerning the operations room. When the conversation came to a natural stop, Varny showed the Rangers a large, curiously archaic key of metal. Jerry was briefly reminded of the night he had spent some time with two between his teeth at the scene of Bradley’s gruesome demise.

  “Before we get into the meat of the matter everyone came here for,” he said, “who wants to be privy to something most individuals on Catto Occulo will never see?”

  The red flag of a high level Triple I Division employee offering to show Jerry something rose in his head, but he was too excited and giddy to think cautiously. Jerry felt like he was a little kid again, reliving the rare, but fond memories he had shared with his father whenever he took his mother, his brothers, and him to the Henryson State Fair that made him feel like a normal child for once.

  “Sure thing,” Jerry said. “Lead the way once again, Mr. Prince.”

  Varny led the Rangers and Mr. Moon deeper into the morgue, where all of the specimens were kept. Jerry thought of Bradley’s mysterious disappearance, and felt a sudden chill that was there as soon as it was gone run down his spine.

  Could something like that happen right here, right now?

  Varny led the party to a mortuary cabinet with an IV bag full of blood running into it. Jerry’s initial excitement faded, replaced by a deep sense of apprehension.

  “Excuse my language, Mr. Prince,” said Jerry, “but what the Vullen is going on with this?”

  “Scientific study that is out of my domain, but fascinating nonetheless.” Varny then slammed his fist on the mortuary cabinet three times in a row. “Subject 4234, wake up! You have guests to gawk at you!”

  “Fuck off and fuck you, Carny,” a muffled, feminine voice in the mortuary cabinet barked back. “When I get out of here, I’m going to eat you from twelvedamned tail to snout like the long pig prick you are!”

  “Subject 4234, there is no need for such violent words in front of guests,” Varny said.

  Jerry blinked in shock. “There’s…there’s a person in there.”

  “Close, but not quite correct,” Varny said. “In this cabinet is an imprisoned ghoul. That’s why I asked about you and your husband’s cold tolerance earlier. Ghouls seem to have extreme tolerance for the cold, so I was wondering if it was the same for other Touched.”

  Jerry felt a little offended, but understanding of Varny’s genuine curiosity. “Mr. Prince, I can assure you that my Touched friends and are nothing like ghouls, even if we can get little kooky like my friend Mr. Kamikan, emotionally detached like Mrs. Rodriguez, or overly aggressive like…nevermind.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” Varny said. “After all, you and your friends don’t seem like you have murderous tendencies that enabled you to eat eight men and nine women in the Crimson Rock Confederacy over several months.”

  “Now we need to see this,” Rosa suddenly said. “Some people say that looking into the eyes of such a remorseless killer can teach you lessons few are capable of teaching.”

  “What kind of insane people have told you that?” Jerry asked. He looked at Howard. “Was it you, Crazy Kamikan?”

  “Get off it with that,” he said. “You know she doesn’t listen to me about anything ever, Jerry.”

  Varny unlocked the mortuary cabinet and pulled its metal handle. A small and unexpectedly beautiful Mentonese woman with porcelain skin, long, inky hair, and grey eyes the color of stormy sea water looked up at the Rangers, Mr. Moon, and Varny. There was a metal anti-bite mask over her small face, a red-tinted IV in one of her deceptively delicate arms, and leather straps all over her body that kept her fixed well in place. Yet despite the woman’s apparent beauty, she emitted near-tangible killing intent and a grotesque scent of rotting meat and roses so strong, everybody but Varny grimaced. Mr. Moon, with his impeccable sense of smell, excused himself from the morgue.

  “Why does she smell like that?” Jerry asked, his eyes and nose watering from the stench. “Are you sure this ghoul isn’t rotting alive or something?”

  “Subject 4234 is a type of ghoul classified as cavernosums, also colloquially known as…fuckheads,” Varny said. “This class of ghoul seems to excel at seduction, biological body modification, and charming until they can strike like a beautiful, but incredibly venomous snake in the grass.”

  “Charm isn’t the first thing I think of when it comes to ghouls,” Jerry said.

  “Don’t be like that! You’re such a ruggedly handsome cut of meat,” the ghoul said to him. “How about you slit Varny’s throat, cut off a chunk of his arm to give me, and I promise I will suck the pigment off your prick like pork ribs that have been slow roasting for days.”

  “Wow!” Jerry laughed. “Darling, girls, ghouls, and girl ghouls aren’t exactly my type.”

  “It was a good attempt,” the ghoul said. “Go fuck yourself Varny, you pencil-dicked bastard.”

  “Stop being so antagonistic,” Varny said. “The worse you treat others here, the worse the doctors will treat you during the surgical experiments, Subject 4234.”

  “My name isn’t Subject 423-fucking-4,” she howled. “It’s Samantha Xue! SA-MAN-THA. XUE. SAMANTHA. XUE. SAMANTHA. XUE. SAMAN—”

  “Okay, enough of that nonsense. Goodbye now!” Varny closed the mortuary cabinet, leaving poor Subject 4234/Samantha Xue to scream her name at the metal ceiling within. Her small stature belied her massive lung capacity.

  Jerry looked awkward and uncomfortable, which Varny quickly noticed. “Is something bothering you?” he asked.

  “I know that woman was a murderous ghoul and all,” he said, “but…is that how you’re supposed to treat them?”

  Varny shrugged. “You can treat those things however you want, frankly. They are barely sapient, hardly considered people, and have all the legal rights of a rabid dog.” Varny glanced at Mallory. “I was talking about her ghoul status, not her being Mentonese if you were wondering. Mento is a wonderful, beautiful land full of amazing cultures that is unfortunately plagued by those horrible hungry ghosts.”

  Mallory regarded Varny with a befuddled look, but said nothing.

  Varny professional readjusted his large, unwieldy shirt collar and said, “Now with that sideshow attraction done, let’s move onto the main event.”

  The Rangers, Mr. Moon, Varny Prince, and his Mosquitogese assistant director Afonso Ahmonza stood before the massive projector of the operations room. Though the projector was quite the captivating sight to Jerry, Mr. Ahmonza was an even more captivating sight. He struggled to focus on the projector.

  The Mosquitogese were an exceptionally elusive type of sapient who seldom left the farthest sections of South Almandica, but when they did, they were always quite the spectacle. Like the few Mosquitogese Jerry had ever seen in photos, videos, or real life, Mr. Ahmonza was on the stockier side with short black hair, long, fuzzy antennae protruding above his all-black eyes, elongated limbs with arms that went well past his knees, and skin that was darker than Braxton’s—as in skin that was the color of obsidian. Jerry simply couldn’t get enough of looking at the man, not out of attraction or anything like that, but sheer fascination.

  “I know my kind is a rare sight,” he said without looking at Jerry, “but I would appreciate it if you didn’t stare at me with such naked curiosity, Mr. Genovesi.”

  He ripped his eyes away from Mr. Ahmonza and returned them to the projector. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bug, shit, I mean bother you any.”

  Braxton regarded Jerry with a tired glance, but said nothing.

  “No offense taken,” Mr. Ahmonza said. “I used to get very upset and even angry when other sapients, especially humans, looked at me like I was a monster. But then I came to terms with the fact that I technically do resemble one of the greatest historical killers of humanity that learned to talk and walk and think, but without the mindless hematophagy.”

  “I wouldn’t dare think that of you,” Jerry said. “You look like the only thing you suck down is a nice cup of black tea here and there to hit the spot.”

  “Thanks for the pleasant, sapience-reaffirming comment,” Mr. Ahmonza said. “And as long as you and your friends don’t ask me any weird, invasive questions about my Mosquitogese-ness, the rest of our time together should be pleasant enough.”

  That seized Jerry’s attention. “Weird, invasive questions such as?”

  “How Mosquitogese men handle being a race that is ninety-five percent male, or what female Mosquitogese look like,” Mr. Ahmonza said. “But since I’m such a nice Mossie, I'll satisfy your curiosity a little. The first answer to the first question is to use your imagination, and the second answer to the second question is something I can’t tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I literally do not know. Only the most trusted, vetted, and venerated Mosquitogese are allowed near the breeding pools.”

  “Breeding pools?”

  “Remember what I said about weird, invasive questions?”

  “Sorry,” Jerry said. “I’m just too damned curious for my own good sometimes.”

  “No harm done,” Mr. Ahmonza said. “I do hope a Triple I Division field agent would be more curious than the average citizen.”

  Varny used a large remote studded with many buttons to activate the projector. It took a few moments to come to life, but when it did, it emitted a furious hum and an intense blast of heat that was soon subdued by the air conditioning. What was projected into the frosty air was the view of a dark, holographic blue-tinted street rendered in poor, grainy quality. Upon closer inspection, it was a very familiar street to Jerry.

  “Isn't this where Mrs. Adnot’s house is?” A steady trickle of anxiety mixed with guilt made Jerry’s mouth dry. “Did something happen to her?”

  “Just watch and see what happened,” Anthony said. “I looked over some of the footage with Mr. Prince before everybody got here. Fair warning, it is a bit of a hard watch at times.”

  Varny resumed the playing of the security footage, but sped it up. Nothing happened for what looked like a few hours skipped over, but then a large truck stopped by the outside of Mrs. Adnot home. Two masked men hopped out. The first masked man seemed to be heavily injured and limping. He leaned against the truck, acting as a lookout based on how often his head whipped back and forth down the street. There was a pistol in his hand. The second masked man rushed towards Mrs. Adnot’s door. He hid the handgun in the back of his pant’s waistband before frantically knocking on the door.

  When the door opened, Mrs. Adnot looked at the man on her doorstep for a few moments. Some unheard words were exchanged, then she embraced him with a firm hug. It was a sincere, loving hug that looked very motherly in response to a strange man showing up on her doorstep near 0300.

  Jerry put it all together. He asked Varny to pause the holographic footage, which he did. “Let me guess,” he said. “That beat-up son of a bitch by the truck is Lee Wortles, and the man who got hugged by Mrs. Adnot was her son, Charles?”

  Anthony nodded.

  Varny resumed the footage. Charles Adnot and his mother appeared to be engaged in an argument that grew visibly heated by the moment, but not heard. Because of technological constraints, digital space concerns, and budgeting issues, the most recent line of citywide birdeye bots lacked any sophisticated audio-capturing features. The argument escalated into Charles grabbing his mother by the arm and attempting to force her towards the truck, but the small, hunched-over woman, despite her physical disability and age, was having none of that nonsense. She silently screamed, pulled her hand back, and even slapped Charles’ face. The windows of several nearby row houses lit up while the fight raged.

  Jerry grinned. “Attagirl! Claw his damned eyes out!”

  Varny hushed him.

  “Sorry.”

  While Charles and his mother were engaged in a struggle she was already beginning to lose, Lee pointed down the one way street and screamed something. A gendarmerie patrol car had arrived. Two officers emerged from it. They cautiously held their carbines at the ready for potential violence, but not quite drawn.

  Lee turned the potential violence into certain violence by shooting at the gendarmes. Bullets and fire burst from his handgun, forcing the gendarmes to run behind the back of their car for cover. Lee’s aim was subpar and nothing but pitiful. Every one of his shots went wide or ricocheted off the car and its bulletproof windshield, barely cracking the glass and failing to penetrate.

  Charles used the firefight as a distraction to carry out an act of supreme cowardice. He sucker-punched his mother in the face to stun her, then half dragged, half-carried her limp, boneless body towards the truck. He tossed her body into the left passenger side seat, then ran back to the right driver’s side without supporting Lee. Charles drove off without waiting for his supposed friend.

  Lee attempted to stagger towards the already long-gone truck, but quickly gave up. Even if he wasn't hurt, there was no way he could’ve caught up to the fleeing truck. The two gendarmes behind their cars ordered Lee to drop the handgun. But instead of doing that, Lee violated the cardinal rule of a firefight—attempting to draw on not just one, but two individuals who had the draw on him.

  Lee’s lone handgun was no match for the dual rifles of the gendarmes. The moment he raised his handgun towards them, they fired unmercifully on him, tearing the man apart in a hail of gunfire.

  Literally.

  The twin burst fire of hollow point bullets from the rifles took him in the chest, face, and abdomen with abandon, ripping each respective section open. Lee hit the street a second later, his arms and legs splayed, handgun thrown off to the side. He remained unmoving as the gendarmes advanced on him and looked down at his disemboweled, well-perforated corpse. It was obvious they knew that rendering first aid would’ve been like trying to reconstitute smashed bricks. Varny paused the footage and killed the holographic footage faster than the gendarmes had killed Lee.

  Jerry looked at Howard, Mallory, and Noura, who looked the most queasy out of the three. “Consider it even now, folks! He tried to go tit-for-tat with our dearest Howard, but got turned into tatters in the end.”

  “Please don’t be so crass,” Mallory said. “We just watched a recording of a man get sent back to the Wandering World.”

  “I wish he surrendered,” Noura said. “That’s no way for a young man to die, even if he was planning to do terrible things.”

  “I hope they washed those cobblestones well,” Howard added. “The streets often tell me they hate getting blood on them.”

  Jerry shrugged before looking towards Varny and Anthony. “What now?”

  “Charles made a clean getaway with his mother as a possible hostage,” Anthony said. “The gendarmes tried to catch him, but all they found was the truck, which was stolen if you’re wondering, in a field in rural North New Chemeketa. Burned. A citywide BOLO was issued, but other than that…” Anthony threw his hands up in defeat.

  “As a small upside, I am requesting the city to issue more birdeye bots to survey the area where Bradley was last seen.” Varny suddenly grinned. It was an act Jerry found more than a little unsettling due to the recent footage. “And if I can work the system even more in my favor, my team might be able to get a squadron of unarmed strigikings from the Mendakian Union Airforce to fly over rural North New Chemeketa! Did you know the latest models come with facial recognition technology that is seventy-eight percent accurate?”

  “Varny.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I say something that might offend you?”

  Rosa raised her eyebrows. “Jerry asking for permission before saying something that might be offensive? What a sight to behold.”

  “Cut it out,” Anthony hissed at her.

  “Go ahead,” Varny said.

  “First, you’re excited about a female ghoul trapped in the morgue close to us, now you’re getting excited about possibly putting drones known for blowing bastards up in the sky over the rural outskirts near the poorest parts of New Chemeketa? Has anybody ever told you to your face that you’re a little weird?”

  “Be nice,” Braxton growled at him.

  Varny laughed. “There’s no need to defend me here, Mr. Olumana.” He turned his attention to Jerry. “Mr. Genovesi, I was diagnosed with Vendrick’s Savant Syndrome when I was twenty-five. Before the diagnosis, I used to be called much worse things than ‘a little weird’ and hated myself for it. But after the diagnosis? I wear my weirdness with the pride of a new mother holding her freshly firstborn child.”

  “Right on, I guess,” Jerry said. “I’m glad your weirdness is the useful kind instead of the terrifying kind that gets you chased around by Triple I Division field agents like the Rangers. For now.”