The Twilight Shore

Title: The Twilight Shore - Working the Beat (2/20)
Author: Rann Aridorn
Notes: So, I'm not dead, and neither is the story.
Part two has been sitting around for awhile, finished, but I was hoping to have part three finished before posting it. But I entered into one of those long periods where I just couldn't seem to focus my creativity properly and buckle down to writing. I'd have little bursts where I'd work on other things, short fics in other universes, stuff for various online games or tabletop games, but just no Twilight Shore. I won't give any of the various excuses of stuff going on IRL, I'm just gonna try harder.
I think I need to buy a season of KP on DVD or something, to help keep me in the spirit of it when I get into that area.
Anyway, all that aside, this part is with thanks to the actor Dennis Franz. I think you'll quickly see why.
Legalish notes: All characters having appeared in Disney's Kim Possible are the property of Disney, and are used here without permission, but with no intent for profit. All other characters are original and the property of Rann Aridorn.


"I don't like it. Feds are bad as it is, but those GJ guys, they're not even Feds. They're... somebody else's Feds, y'know?"

"Aw, c'mon, Simmins, don't be ridiculous. Everyone loves Global Justice!"

"Yeah, everyone that's twelve years old and still reading comic books." The older cop tilted back in his chair, sipping morosely at his cup of coffee. "Don't you know anything about anything?"

"Apparently not. Why don't you explain what crawled up your rear entrance and made itself at home?"

Simmins rolled his eyes, then thumped his chair back into place, leaning forward to speak in a lower tone to his brash rookie partner. "Listen, Lee, it's not a happy day when the FBI comes knocking, they make themselves at home, step all over our feet, sneer down their noses at us, and then walk off with all the glory. But at least they're part of an American agency and they're working for American goals."

"Ah, patriotism."

"Cram it, Lee. But these GJ guys, y'know who they answer to? The UN. The U-fucking-N. And they've got it so that they can waltz into any nation that's a UN member and just order guys like us around like they WERE the Feds. How do we know they've got our best interests in mind? We don't."

"Don't they have the world's best interests in mind, Simmins?"

"No, they've got the UN's best interests in mind. They ain't always the same thing." The pudgy, mustachioed detective thumbed his nose. "You just wait and see. There's gonna waltz in here some guy with a buzzcut wearin' his blue jumpsuit an' his fuckin' jackboots and say we're not allowed to pull anyone darker'n a light tan over even if they're doin' ninety and firin' a missile launcher out the window."

"Hey, you Simmins?"

Both cops looked up and gave a simultaneous blink at the person standing there. The blue jumpsuit was right, but the thick pink hair pulled back and barely restrained into a broad ponytail didn't exactly fit in with the prior description, nor did the leather biker jacket, the fairly sizeable breasts, or the little silver skull pendant with cat ears.

"Uhhhhhh..." Simmins replied.

"Guessin' that's a 'yeah, sure'. I'm Punk, the GJ goon being inflicted on you." Punk scanned over the desk, taking in the sheer disorder that seemed designed to keep any actual work from being done. These seemed like her kind of people, even if they were cops. (But then, did she get to say that anymore? It -had- been two years, after all.) "Look, I'm gonna try and make it as painless as possible. The next two weeks, you drive me around, you help me find people and bring 'em in, help pull records, all that stuff. Your partner here can hang back here and wait for us to call stuff in. That's it, two weeks, one way or the other, I'm gone and out of your life."

"Well, ah... Agent... Punk..."

"Just Punk."

"... Right. Seein' as we haven't got much choice, I guess it's fine an' dandy."


"So where's our first stop?" Simmins asked as he pulled on his seatbelt and started the car. The wipers screeched across the dry windshield, but he didn't bother to turn them off, as it was pouring rain outside, like it seemed to most of the time.

"Jake's Sporting Goods over on Hopwell."

Simmins nodded, putting the car into gear, but keeping his foot on the brake long enough to put a cigarette in his mouth and light up. He half-hoped his new burden would complain or protest, give him some excuse to argue that it was his car and his God-given right to smoke in his own damn car, but instead she simply asked, "Can I bum one of those off you?"

He passed the pack and lighter over without comment.

They drove through the rain, silent, neither of them making a move toward the radio. Every so often the police band would chirp and spit out some bit of chatter, but nothing to actually cause either to pay attention.

"Hey, slow it down."

They'd barely passed onto Hopwell street when Punk said the first actual words of the drive. Simmins glanced at her in confusion and a bit of annoyance, but gradually decreased the pressure on the gas pedal.

"See, check that out." Punk waved a finger towards the buildings. "Starts right there. No graffiti or shit on anything. Not a broken window, not a security gate up during the day, nothing. Then there's those two stores over there, one's got a gang tag on it, the other's got plywood in the window."

Simmins frowned, actually pulling the car over into a convenient parking space, then craning his neck. As much as he wanted to say 'so?' and shrug it off, the cop in him wouldn't let him be quite that cavalier. "Yeah... yer right... notice what else?"

"Eh?"

"The ones that are busted up, they're a Square M and a Cometdough."

"Okay...?"

"They're the only chain stores on th' street. Everything else is little local-owned or independent place. Souvenir shops, hardware stores, clothes shops, there's your sporting goods place."

Punk rubbed her chin a little. "Yeah, that kinda fits."

"Kinda fits with what?"

The pink-haired woman hesitated, then said, "I'll tell you later today. I don't have the time now to explain right now and make sure you know how to play this too."

"Oh, fine, lead on then," Simmins grumbled, turning off the car and jabbing the button for his seatbelt.

Punk and Simmins did a quick run into the sporting goods store, pausing to shake some of the water off of their jackets, before heading towards the front of the store where a middle-aged man was tending the counter.

"Yes, what can I help you with today? You seem to be a skiier!" he said jovially.

"Good guess, but no." Punk leaned a hand on the counter. "You're Jake Hughs, right? You own the place?"

"That's right."

"Jake, I'm with Global Justice. This is Detective Simmins, he's with the local police. We're gonna need to have a look at your books and receipts."

Jake instantly grew stony-faced. "Do you have a warrant?"

Punk reached into her jacket and retrieved a folded piece of paper, holding it up.

"... I'll need to have my lawyer see it."

"Sorry, but no, it's legal and you're seeing it, that's pretty much what you're entitled to before I go through your stuff." Punk gave the paper a small toss onto the counter. "Actually, what I think we need to do is me and the Detective here are going to help you get the books together, and you're going to come back to the station with us so we can ask you a few questions."

"What's the charge?" the store-owner demanded.

"No charge. It's just some questions, that's all, and they're just gonna be based on what we see in the books and receipts. That's the 'you cooperate with us and we're grateful' version." Punk leaned forward. "The other version isn't so nice, I call that one the 'you fuck around with a very serious investigation and I nail your ass to the wall' version. You cooperate, I'm very grateful, I apologize profusely for taking up your time, you're all good. You dick around with me, I'm gonna go and I'm gonna find something on you, and I'm gonna come back in a squad car with the lights and siren on, during the busiest part of the day, and I'm gonna have Simmins here read you your rights nice and loudly as we put the cuffs on."

Jake decided he was going down to the police station that day.


Kurt Simmins stared in the window as he watched Punk settle into the chair across from the suspect, or whatever he was. He wasn't sure how to feel. On the one hand, he didn't even know what this guy might've done, and she'd come down pretty hard on him, harder than he'd seen some of the meanest cops in the force do. On the other hand, in his long career he'd been dicked around by too many people acting like they had something to hide just for the sake of being uncooperative to feel too bad for the guy.

He also considered his temporary partner. She looked like something out of a music video he might have seen his kids watching during the eighties. There were black boots and a uniform, alright. (He didn't know if those were actually jackboots or not.) But the rest of her was about as nonconformist as was possible. Were those things on her face makeup or tattoos? And what kind of surgery had she gotten to make her ears look like that?

Him, he looked like half the other police detectives in the world. Pushing sixty, a ring of still mostly brown hair around an utterly bald scalp, trying to make up for it by a thick mustache hiding his upper lip. He was short and pudgy and he hadn't exercised properly in something going on a decade. He smoked too much and drank too much and his doctor bitched at him. He bet this chick didn't even have a doctor.

"Okay, Jake," Punk said as she laid the file on the table. "Sorry I had to come down on you so much to get you here, but I thought it was better than just slapping the cuffs on and putting you through the system, huh?"

Jake glared, apparently not that grateful.

"Right." Punk flipped open the file and glanced through. "Now, we just did a very quick look-through of your records. Brought in some GJ analysts, very fast at their work. And what it tells me is that going back at least three years, you've been allotting over 2,000 dollars a month to petty cash." She looked up at Jake for a moment. "Considering that's almost one tenth of what your store takes in every month, that's quite a chunk of change. Hollywood agents do pretty well to get a cut like that."

"We like to plan for unexpected expenses," he replied flatly.

"Uh-huh." Punk turned a page. "And then a few months ago, you changed over to allotting 500 dollars a month for petty cash." She leaned back and closed the folder. "Decide to stop worrying about the unexpected?"

"... I do not understand what you mean."

"You know, it's a real bad idea to lie to me, Jake." Punk frowned, leaning forward and folding her arms on the table. "I can -hear- it when you lie to me. And I don't mean just in your voice. I can hear your heartrate jump as you get ready to lie, and stay up there as you wonder if I'll buy it. So right here's where you do what's good for your heartrate." She let that settle in for a few moments, then continued. "Look, up until a few months ago, you were paying off Scarapini. You know it, I know it, Seattle knows it. And then a few months ago you stopped paying off Scarapini... not only that, you started paying off someone else. But you and your shop are still upright, so I want to know why."

Jake said nothing, just staring at her.

"Give me a name, Jake."

"... I don't know the name," he said finally.

"Alright. What do you know?"

"Each month, a young man comes to pick up the payment. The same week, but a different day each time. Sometimes just as I open, sometimes after I close."

"What's he look like?"

"Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Tall."

"And what threats did they make to get you to pay 'em off?"

Jake scowled. "No threats."

"... Seriously?"

"No. No threats. No intimidation. Scarapini's thugs were just robbing us every month. One month I paid them and they busted up my store anyway, helped themselves to some equipment, said that if I reported it stolen my daughter would be invited to a 'little party'," he said, almost spitting the words. "These people, they keep Scarapini's goons away, they keep the gangbangers and hoodlums from vandalizing or robbing my place. I would have paid them the 2,000 for it if they'd have let me."

"... And they never used a name?" Punk asked slowly.

"No names. The boy came in, explained how it was. When Scarapini's goons didn't show up for a week after collection day, I took him at his word and paid what he asked."

Punk just looked at the man for a few moments, before taking the file folder and standing, walking out of the interrogation room.

"You buy all that stuff?" Simmins said as she emerged, disbelief plain in his voice as he shook his head.

"Well, he's tellin' the truth about it," Punk replied, tapping the folder against the one-way glass.

"... What, you mean all that stuff about you hearin' his heartbeat...?"

"Yeah, they don't just look freaky, they're useful." Punk tapped one of her ears with the folder, then shrugged and tossed it on a nearby desk. "Cut 'im loose."

"Not gonna try to get a full statement out of him?"

"Full statement of what?" Punk shook her head. "Legally, the guy's paying 500 a month for a security guard, under the table. Without coercion, we've got no evidence of a crime. And not much help with my case, either. And that's probably what we're gonna find in every case, even though we're gonna try. They didn't hit up the chain stores for the same reason Scarapini didn't... the corporate goons won't pay anyone else's goons."


"So you said you'd tell me what this was all about."

Punk leaned her head back and let out a smoky breath into the already hazy interior of the car, a small sound of acknowledgement coming from low in her throat. "Oh yeah, I did." She leaned forward to snub out the almost exhausted cigarette in the already too-full ashtray. Snagging another from the pack that was now sitting in the middle of the dashboard, she leaned back again to light it, giving a few light puffs before finally continuing. "You remember Kim Possible?"

"Yeah... yeah, kinda. The, ah, the cheerleader girl, saved the world a few times or somethin', right? Then faded off the map after that thing with the terrorist."

"Yeah, well, taking a country's leader hostage with flows of liquid hot magma doesn't exactly get you nominated for a merit badge," Punk said wryly.

"It does in my book."

"I hear ya. Still, someone like her deciding the laws didn't apply to her didn't exactly go over too well."

"What, c'mon, she was just a kid."

"A kid that had saved the world a few times. More than a few, really. A lot of really powerful people were pretty scared of her. I'll let you read 'er file, then you can decide whether you're scared that she seems to be angling to take over Scarapini's racket, at the very least."

"You're kiddin' me. Can't be more than fifteen, sixteen..."

"Eighteen. Nineteen in another month. She's got Scarapini scared of 'er, s'what the reports say."

"No shit. Hunh."

"Look, whether the kid's -bad-, I dunno, I ain't the one to decide that. That she's broken the law and is still breaking it, that we know. So I find her, she goes in. Simple as that, really."

Simmins nodded a little. He'd had more than a few "simple as that" cases in his day. They never seemed to sit well.


"So how's somebody like you wind up working for Global Justice, anyway, if you'll pardon my askin'?"

Punk apparently did pardon it, since she simply finished chewing her bite of chili dog and swallowed before answering. "Got drafted, kind of."

"What, drafted, they can draft people now?" Simmins wiped off his tie without really caring too much. Detergents were good enough to get out most stuff these days.

"Not literally." Punk ate the last of her lunch, wiping off her mouth as she chewed, then continued. "Had a little villainous past of my own."

"Yeah. Hey, yeah, now I remember you. You usedta run around with that, eh, that Pisces guy."

"Gemini. Yeah, that's me. Didn't make the news as much back then, that kind of stuff, but hey."

"That was, what, twenty years ago now, eh?"

"Little less." They both walked out of the small restaurant, Simmins still holding his cup of soda as they went. Punk headed for the newspaper stand next door, reaching into her pocket for her money clip and peeling off a few bills, pointing to some of Simmins' brand of cigarettes and holding up two fingers. "But when the thing with Possible came up, they said they'd let me out of my cage if I'd go bring her in."

"They do stuff like that?"

"Special circumstances and all. Been over two years now, mostly doing other stuff. Guess I'm just kind of used to the work by now." They both settled into the car, Punk tossing one of the packs onto the dash.

"So, what, you're reformed, you're a good guy now?" Simmins sounded more surprised than anything as he started up the car.

"I dunno that you'd call it reformed. I don't exactly get a deep sense of satisfaction out of this or anything." Punk shrugged, lighting up the latest cigarette of the day. "But it's what I do now. I get up in the morning, I put on my little suit, I go see someone I used to be rather fond of so they can look at me like I was a little green bug and give me my orders."

"Sounds rough," Simmins said after a few seconds.

"Eh. Ya do what ya do."


Over the next several days, as they drove around questioning more shopkeepers, tracking down various leads that mostly resulted in dead ends, Simmins found that his temporary duty wasn't chapping his ass as much as he expected it to. He and Punk actually seemed to have more in common than he and Lee did. They smoked, they talked about sports, bitched about the annoyances of working for other people in a chain of command, and generally got to be on fairly easy terms with each other.

In fact, it reminded him a lot of the last partner he'd had before Lee, someone who'd been closer to his own age and mentality.

"You got kids, Simmins?"

It was late, and the rain had slowed to a light drizzle as he drove her back to her hotel. He glanced aside at her, a little surprised at the question, then shrugged.

"Yeah. Got two, boy and a girl."

"One of each, huh?"

"Yeah. John's working the beat over in a different precinct right now. Mary's got another year of college to go."

Punk nodded a few times, not responding, seeming satisfied with that information.

"What about you?" he asked after a moment, more to keep the silence from stretching. Neither of them had ever turned on the radio when a game wasn't on, they had yet to figure out if their musical tastes were as different as they seemed likely to be.

"What, me? Nah. Y'know, I was still fairly young when I went away, I guess. Well, not young-young, but whatever."

"So you ever think about it or anything?"

"Not really. I don't figure myself for the good mom type, y'know?"

"Well, y'never know, might happen for ya someday."

"Doesn't seem likely."

"Eh, like I said, y'never know."


Simmins walked into the precinct, expecting to find his temporary partner standing over at the table eyeing the mediocre selection of breakfast pastries like usual. Instead there was just a platter lacking anything but a few slightly deflated crullers.

"Hey, where's the GJ chick?" he asked Lee, wandering over to his desk.

"I think she's getting some stuff from the Global Justice infogeeks they brought in. They're set up in the crime lab area."

Giving a low harrumph at having to go in search of his temporary partner, Simmins headed for the elevator. A minute later he emerged into the floor that housed the building's various labs, and headed for an area where he'd seen a few blue-suited figures disappear into.

He spotted Punk immediately, but then she was tough to miss. She was leaning over a computer, apparently reviewing something. Before he could try and get her attention, a redheaded woman in a wheelchair rolled up to him, pushing her glasses up on her nose as she looked up. "Hello, can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm here ta see what's holding Punk up," he murmured, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He couldn't seem to help it in situations like this, meeting people who... it was just in his nature.

"Ah. You must be Detective Simmins." She offered a hand. "My name's Babylon Cordon, I'm the information expert on Punk's team."

"Nice ta meet ya," he replied quietly, shaking her hand carefully, as if afraid it might fall off.

"Hey, Simmins." Punk wandered over, nodding. "Sorry, had to come down to pick some stuff up on a lead."

"Yeah, no problem. You ready?" He thumbed towards the door, as if just to make sure they would in fact be leaving.

"Here's the printouts," Babylon spoke up, holding up a file folder.

"Thanks, hon." Punk took the folder, and before Simmins could really start processing that she was apparently the kind of woman who called other women 'hon', she leaned down and kissed the redhead briefly on the lips.

"I'll see you tonight," Babylon whispered with a smile, giving Punk the sort of look that left little doubt as to the nature of their relationship, her eyes half-lidded and lips curled up just so, before she turned her chair and wheeled over towards the computers.

"Got our first stop here," Punk announced, heading out the door, Simmins trailing after her silently.


"So. Uh." Simmins realized he was leaning a little too far forward over the wheel, and forced himself back. He managed about a centimeter. "I guess she's your... y'know."

"Yeah." Punk looked off out the passenger window, seeming a little nervous herself. "She's my... well, my girlfriend, yeah."

"Right. Sure, obviously."

They drove in silence for awhile, before Punk rubbed at the side of her nose with her thumb. "I mean, does that bother you, or..."

"No. No, I mean, it's different, sure it's different, but ain't nothing wrong with it. I guess. I mean, I don't guess, there's nothing wrong with it, you two seem... yeah, y'know. It's fine. Well, you don't need me to tell you it's fine, it's just... it's fine."

"Right."

The silence stretched, filling up the car in lieu of the usual cigarette smoke, both of them not having managed to light up yet. Finally, Simmins cleared his throat and leaned back a bit more.

"Look, I'm sorry about that stuff last night, about the kids and all. I mean, I didn't know, but still."

"Nah. Don't worry about it, no big deal."

Punk finally snagged a cigarette and pulled her lighter, puffing on the stick lightly to get it started. Simmins had the sudden urge to ask her if she was the "man", but valiantly managed to repress it.


"So, Ling Chun. You could be in a lot of trouble."

"Ah? Really?"

The calm, refined Chinese woman in her bright red and green silk robes and tasteful, shiny gold jewelry seemed out of place in the interrogation room, which seemed to be designed to be as uncomfortable and bland as possible. Punk sat across the table from her, Simmins lurking in the corner.

"You're running a whorehouse, so yes, I'd say you might be in a bit of hot water," Punk continued, dropping her file on the table as if that were all the evidence needed to convict.

"I believe you are mistaken," Ling replied in a mildly cheerful, conversational tone. "I run a womens' dormitory. I believe that is what you will find listed as my occupation on my residency application papers."

"A womens' dormitory where men come in and pay to sleep with the women, maybe," Punk replied, smirking.

"Oh? Do you have some proof of these activities?" Ling queried, sounding honestly curious.

The smirk waivered a little. 'God damn she's good. Not even a flutter of the heartbeat as she looks me in the eyes and lies. How does she do that?'

"Look, we know why you're really here. We know who brought you here."

"The airline?" Ling said sweetly.

"Kim Possible. You showed up to establish your 'dormitory' very soon after she made her move on Scarapini. We have reason to believe Possible may have been associated with your mother back in China. I think you came here on her say-so and I think you know where she is."

Ling looked thoughtfully at Punk for long moments, then rested one elbow on the table and propped her chin up in her hand. "You like smart girls, don't you?"

Punk blinked. "... Bwuh?"

"Smart girls, very mouthy, probably quick on their verbal feet, am I right? I'm guessing you also like them just a liiiiittle bit broken, get some of that damaged goods feeling. That way you've got someone intelligent, nice to talk with and tease with, but your insecurities get the boost of feeling like you're more worthwhile if someone smart likes you, and them having issues makes you feel like they're more suited to you."

Punk glanced over her shoulder. She really hoped she didn't look as gawky as Simmins did. "And you run a dormitory."

"Are you going to submit being uncannily good at figuring out what somebody likes in a woman as proof in a court of law, miss?" Ling replied with a sincere, sweet smile.

Punk had to smile as she put a hand to her forehead. She wondered how many offers the mistress of the house got herself on the average night. "I guess not."

"I run a dormitory, indeed," Ling continued, still smiling. "There are many women in this city who have had difficult lives, of course. They have been beaten, robbed, and worse. They turn to drugs, to keep themselves awake, to keep themselves from hurting, to keep themselves from feeling. In my home there is no beating and there is no theft. There are no drugs, I make certain of that. They are never far from help, whatever help they need. Eventually, feeling something is no longer something to be dreaded. It is a very good concept for a dormitory, don't you think?"

Punk looked down at the table, her jaw working slightly. Then she stood and left the room, Simmins giving Ling a last glance before following after.

The head of the Vice division was waiting on the other side of the wall, turning from the one-way glass to look over at the two as they exited. Punk shrugged at him. "Cut her loose."

"What, are you saying you're won over by that stuff? We -know- she's running a house of prostitution, we-"

"Have no proof other than that we know." Punk tossed the file on a nearby table. "You saw her, she could charm the pants off an eighty-year-old fundamentalist. She's also got all her legal papers in order, she's a model student in her naturalization classes, and she's probably best friends with half the judges in the city by now... and we're not even talking blackmail-type best friends, they probably actually like her. You're gonna put that up on the stand and say 'Well we know she's doing it, just convict her'?"

The Vice officer sighed, nodding. "... Cut her loose." He turned and went to do the paperwork.

"So, what, that's it?" Simmins frowned. "She sounds like the best lead you've had. All those shopowners and contractors we talked to, this is probably the only one we've brought in that's actually seen Possible, and you're gonna stop there?"

"What'm I gonna do, Simmins? Sweat her under the lights, shoot her up with sodium pentothal? Her heart didn't so much skip a beat as she looked me in the eye and said she runs a frikkin' long-term hotel for women. We put her under the lights she's likely to strip down and start tanning." Punk pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. "No, all it would do is risk screwing things up for your precinct. I could take her back to GJ, but I doubt it'd do any good and I really don't want to."

Simmins shook his head, turning to look through the glass at the still calm, smiling woman inside. The damnedest thing was, he couldn't even be annoyed with her for it. Punk was right... she'd have the jury foreman proposing marriage before the end of the trial, no matter which bathroom door they walked through.


"So doesn't seem like you're gonna find this kid before your two weeks are up. Only got a few days left," Simmins commented that night as they made the drive back to the hotel.

"Yeah. It wasn't likely, anyway. She's smart and resourceful, and teamed up with other smart, resourceful people. She's got a whole city to hide in and two years of training to tell her how to do it."

"So whatcha gonna do?"

"Turn over all the info to the team taking over. They'll probably work out of the local FBI office and start surveillance work on places we know they go. Maybe they'll get lucky."

"That's it?"

"That's it." Punk shrugged. "Look at it this way, Simmins... you've been on the case with me. You've heard all the stories, you've seen all the same stuff."

"Yeah."

"After seeing and hearing all of it... would you rather have your son walking the beat in a town with Kim Possible, or a town without it?"

Simmins didn't answer. He wanted to, because it seemed obvious. But if he ever wanted to keep wearing his badge and get through another "just the way it is" case, he couldn't.


It was the last day of the two weeks, and when Simmins walked in that morning, he again saw no leather-jacketed, pink-haired woman at the doughnut tray. His heart sank a little as he wondered whether she'd just up and left without saying goodbye. But he manned up and walked over to Lee. "Eh, that bunch gone already?"

"I think most of 'em left this morning, but pretty sure I just saw your buddy go downstairs to the labs just now."

Simmins' heart lifted back up, but outside he forced a frown and jabbed a finger at the younger man. "Hey, enough of this buddy stuff. I put up with her like I put up with you, an' that's just barely." Without another word, he turned and stormed towards the elevator. Storming was quicker than walking.

He poked his head into the room where he'd seen the Global Justice nerds a few days ago, but now it was almost empty, save for a few computers and Punk, sitting on a table along the back wall and smoking, in flagrant violation of city ordinances.

Simmins lit up as he walked over. "So, this it? You just gonna slack off on the last day?"

"Not really. I was told two weeks for the investigation. Today I head back to HQ to debrief the team taking over the case." Punk hopped down from the table, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets. "My flight leaves in about a half an hour, so I don't really have time for your driving. Sorry."

"Hey, not like I wanted to take time outta my day anyway."

"Heh, yeah."

"So, what." Simmins shrugged a bit. "You just hanging around to say goodbye?"

"Yeah, that. And one other thing."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"You're my father."

Simmins blinked. Then he did it again. Then he laughed nervously, shaking his head. "Oh, as age jokes go, that's a lame one."

Punk grinned ruefully, giving a single soft snort of laughter and a tiny shrug of her shoulders and bobble of the head. "No joke. You're my father."

"... C'mon, now, Punk, this... this ain't..."

"Thirty-eight years ago, my mother had me at Northwest Hospital, and listed you as the father. She gave me up for adoption that night." She gave a soft chuckle, sliding a hand out of her pocket to flick over one of her ears. "I guess this doesn't exactly say 'love me', huh?"

"You're... you're Pammy's daughter?" Kurt whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"Yeah." Punk gave a single nod.

"... Whatever... whatever happened to Pammy... I mean, Pamela?" He cleared his throat, trying to clear the tightness that had hold of it. "I mean, she just... she was just gone, I never saw or heard..."

"She, um..." Punk looked down and to the side, blinking a few times and quickly. "She died?" she continued, voice sounding a little lost, a little uncertain, though not of what she was saying. "She got caught up in this cult thing, and... she died."

Kurt bit his lip, then nodded a few times, trying desperately to hold back the tears. He quickly wiped away the ones that escaped.

"Babs looked all that stuff up for me not too long back... I mean, I didn't ask her, but she just thought... so when I knew I was gonna be in Seattle for awhile, I had someone check into it and confirm it, and... you're my dad." Punk dropped her cigarette and ground it out under her boot, staring down as she did it as if to make sure it was done properly. "I asked if they'd assign you to me so that I could just kind of... see what you were like. I wasn't even sure I was gonna say anything, I didn't want you to think I... wanted anything, or anything like that."

"But, you uh... you decided to tell me, huh?" Kurt inhaled hard through his nose and wiped his thumb under it quickly. It wasn't a sniffle.

"Yeah. I guess it didn't quite seem right to leave, and to not tell you." Punk swallowed heavily, then looked off to the side again. "Like I said, I didn't expect anything, you don't have to do anything. I'm not exactly anything anybody would want in a daughter. I just... wanted to spend some time with you, and I guess let you know."

Kurt looked down at the floor, his jaw tight, lips pressed together. If he wasn't a full grown man, it almost would have been a pout. He looked up, and quickly wiped his hand across his face again. "Don't you say that. Don't you ever say that again, you hear me? You don't spend two weeks like this with someone and not know if they're bad people. You'd've made one hell of a cop. I don't care whatever the hell else you've done, I'm God damned proud of you."

Punk looked at him, her eyes shining, tears spilling the moment she blinked. "... Thank you." She wiped her own cheeks quickly, then gave her own hard sniff. "I... I really do have to go."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." He nodded, probably a little more and faster than was necessary. "But, um... you tell me one thing, first."

"What?" Punk blinked again, curiously this time, though it still dislodged a few built-up tears.

"These Global Justice guys... they bein' good to you? They treatin' you bad just 'cause of your past or anything like that?"

Punk glanced down, looking at her own chest, at the GJ emblazoned in the globe on one side of it. She raised a hand to touch over it, but for a moment almost seemed as if she was trying to touch something deeper. Then she raised her head.

"I think... they're okay." She took a deep breath. "They treat me more fair than I probably deserve. And they do some... really stupid shit. But in the end, it seems like they usually come around to making the right decision. So yeah... I'm okay with them."

"Yeah. Okay, that's good."

"I really gotta go."

"Yeah. Okay."

She shifted in place a little, then held out a hand. He took it and shook for a moment, then pulled her in closer, patting her on the arm. It wasn't quite a hug, it was just... a start.

"Yeah. Yeah, alright. Okay, you make sure and... come back and visit or call or somethin', okay?"

"Yeah. Okay," Punk replied quietly, squeezing his shoulder.

Kurt stepped back and released her hand, giving under his nose one last wipe. "You just, uh... you just let me know you're coming by, I'll kick that loser Lee out and you and me will partner up any time, alright?"

Punk let out a little, slightly shaky laugh, nodding. "Yeah. Sounds good." She smiled at him for a moment more, then turned and walked out the door. He wondered if he'd ever see her again.


Detective Lee looked up from his paperwork as his partner exited the elevator. He blinked some at the sight of Simmins rubbing at his eyes and moving like it was the end of the day instead of the beginning. He watched the older man sink into the chair across from him before asking, "You okay?"

"What? Yeah, fine," Simmins muttered dismissively, plucking a pen out of his pencil holder and starting to work on some of his own backlog.

"Guess you're pretty glad to have those Global Justice weights off our back, huh?" Lee said with a grin.

Simmins paused, glancing towards the elevator, chin jutting out a bit. "Yeah, well... mebbe those Global Justice guys ain't all bad."

-End Part Two