The thing came off the fire escape like a nightmare that had learned to move, all six limbs and slick grey hide and a jaw that hinged sideways in a way that made the human brain want to simply refuse it. It had been feeding in the alley — James hadn’t wanted to look too closely at what — when they’d cornered it, and cornered turned out to be a generous interpretation. Cornered implied it was afraid. The Keltarian beast swung its broad, flat head toward him with the total calm of something that had never once in its life considered the concept of losing.

James moved.

He rolled, hitting the ground hard, tucking his chin against the impact, the alley grit biting into his forearm through his jacket sleeve as the beast came flying over him in a rush of displaced air and the hot, ammonia-sharp stench of alien biology. He came up onto one knee in a single fluid motion, already clearing the holster, both hands finding the weapon the way they’d been drilled to — no thought, just muscle memory pulling him through the moment faster than conscious decision ever could — and he fired. The pulse hit center mass and the alien dropped like a bag of wet cement, all that terrible momentum arrested at once, six limbs scrambling briefly against the asphalt before going still.

It hit and stunned the beast, long enough for Agent K and J to subdue it.

K moved in from the left without any particular urgency, the way a man might approach a parking meter he intended to feed. J came from the right with slightly more visible enthusiasm, locking the restraint cuffs around the nearest limbs while the creature twitched and gargled something low and resonant in its chest. The alley smelled like burnt ozone from the discharge and whatever the beast had been eating, and somewhere above them a cat had knocked over a trash can in its haste to be elsewhere.

James stood up, brushing grit from his knee.

“Nice work, M.”

“Thanks.”

Agent K nodded slowly, the kind of nod that carried weight, unhurried, the nod of a man who had seen considerably worse than this on a Wednesday afternoon. He looked at M the way a watchmaker looks at a piece that’s been running reliably — noting it, filing it, not particularly surprised.

“You need some off time.”

“I do?”

“Yes.” He nodded again. “You did good today, but you’ve worked seven days in a row. Take a break, slick, before you burn out.”

“Sure.”

“You still hooking up with that cute doctor?”

“Uhm.”

K smiled, a rare and slightly unsettling thing. “You don’t think that we monitor your off-hours engagements?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled. “The neuralyzer was created for a reason. Go, have some fun, and report back Monday.”

“What about Zed?”