"It's your lucky day," Fulcrum says sourly, dabbing at her bleeding nose with her free hand as she manhandles the cuffed black hat into a chair in her office.
"It is?" Whippoorwhill grins up at her lopsidedly. "What do I win?"
"You win 'you're enough of a pain in the ass that someone's poached your arrest from Protected By'," Fulcrum says. "Billionaire playboy philanthropist crimefighter The Sugarglider is saving the day by taking you off our hands and processing you into custody himself." Her lip progressively curls around billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, crimefighter, saving, and the entire end of the sentence. "Grats. Your arrest record is long enough to make you PR for techbro Effective Vigilantism."
Whippoorwhill grabs the hem of her anorak. "Oh jesus," she says, white-faced and all semblance of good humour gone. "Sugarglider? You can't — don't hand me over. Please don't."
"Do I look like I'm in charge of what billionaire philanthropists do?" Fulcrum tries to shake her off. "We got back here and the paperwork was waiting for us. It's a done deal. We're just waiting for him to turn up in the," and she heaves a sigh through her teeth, "Sugarglidermobile—"
"No," Whippoorwhill says, "no no no, Fulcrum, you can't. Don't you — look, everyone in a black hat knows you don't get arrested by the Sugarglider, because if he slaps cuffs on you it's fifty-fifty whether you ever surface as an arrestee, and the rest just — don't. He puts them in the stupid car and drives off to the Sugargliderhideout or whatever and nobody sees them again."
"Sure he does," Fulcrum says sarcastically. "That's the kind of spooky campfire story you guys tell, when you're not hurting people, is it? Oooh, the billionaire philanthropist playboy takes people to his black site and eats their livers with organic quinoa and a Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon. Boo." She wiggles her fingers.
"Nobody knows what the fuck he does with them," Whippoorwhill says. "Because they don't come back. And they never show up in the system, either. C'mon. Fulcrum. You're telling me you believe a billionaire wouldn't? You?"
"What do you mean, me," Fulcrum snorts. "As if you know me—"
"Like I don't know you?" Whippoorwhill stares up at her, face open and dreading. "C'mon, Fulcrum. C'mon. You've spent more time shooting the shit with me than you have the local PB good ol' boys. We're — don't wanna sound, like, Javert about it, but we've got a détente. Some days I know it's you coming and I half-ass it and scram early, yeah, some days you know it's me and you pull your punches and keep running after me when you know I'm a lil' bit faster insted of tackling me onto my face, we're kinda friends—"
"You think I'm letting you get away?" Fulcrum says, high and startled and upset.
They stare at each other.
Fulcrum takes a step back, away from her, and swallows hard, face crumpling. "You think I fuck up my job on purpose?" she says. "You think — shit. Shit, I'm a total fucking failure. You think we're friends?"
Whippoorwhill half rises, hands out placatingly. "Fulcrum—"
"Sit down," Fulcrum barks.
"You're not a failure."
"Says you and your pity arrests," Fulcrum says, and turns on her heel. "Sugarglider's gonna be here in, like, forty minutes."
"Fulcrum." Whippoorwhill stares at her retreating back. "Oh, fuck. Fulcrum. Fulcrum!—" and flinches when the superhero slams her office door.
