I waited at the morgue for as long as I was able, watching emergency responders bring bodies in from last night’s inferno. But despite how badly I wanted to have an answer, regardless of whether it meant good news or bad, I wasn’t able to stay forever. Court still started at eleven.

  I left the DC Medical Examiner’s building with barely any time to spare. If I were a normal person, I wouldn’t have made it one block before time was up and I was late. But I wasn’t a normal person.

  And if the NMR was going to let me have a flier’s license, I thought as I collapsed into flame and threw my existence at the highest rooftop I’d been able to see, then I was damn well going to use it.

  The first two jumps were easy; they always were, but experience had taught me that too many jumps in short succession was never a recipe for a good time. Bracing myself for what was likely to be a miserable endeavor, I took a deep breath, eyed my target, and let my physical form fall apart.

  I reappeared atop the building I’d been looking at in a flicker of flame, yelping as the wind nearly threw me on my ass. I pressed a gloved hand against a rooftop HVAC unit to steady myself and catch my breath, experience telling me that I needed to let the disorientation fade before going further. Three breaths later and I stepped high enough up to spot my next destination, let the rest of my existence align with that kernel of foxfire at my core, and disappeared from yet another rooftop.

  Two more similar jumps finally got me across Pennsylvania Avenue and within line of sight of the H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse, which the DC Superior Court called home. After so many successive flashes of fire, it was getting tiring to fling myself across space as little more than a roaming consciousness, and while there was a more efficient way, that would just cause a panic. The winter weather wasn’t doing me any favors, either, the cold and wind both carving the heat away from me, regardless of how brief the moments were that I spent existing somewhere between tangible and incorporeal.

  One more deep breath, and I stood up straight, eyeing my next destination. Then, with a flex of will, and a brief wince as the biting cold found purchase, I flickered into flame and reemerged in front of the courthouse.

  I barely got my feet under me as I returned to physical form, ears popping at the sudden descent from fifteen stories to street level, and I had to close my eyes at the surge of dizziness. A small stairwell was two steps in front of me, so I stumbled over to it and held on tight to the metal railing, incredibly glad that I’d worn a pair of decently sturdy, court-appropriate boots, because I did not want to imagine walking in pumps while my vision swam. Going from one elevation to another with no in between was always the worst, and my inner ears were not happy about it.

  But I was almost there, now. Just a little more. God, I hadn’t even been that far away, why did downtown DC’s sight lines have to be so awful?

  No, no, there was nothing for it. I just… needed to finish. I took a deep breath, and planned. One blink to get in the building and onto the third floor. One more to get in front of the courtroom. Then I could just get inside, apologize to the judge for any tardiness, and… what? Fuck if I knew… but I’d just have to see.

  I stood up straight, letting the cold of the railing seep through my gloves, and walked up it. My gaze fell on my next endpoint, and I took a few steps to the side for a better line of sight.

  Then I looked the court’s police officers in the eyes, fell apart into flame, and completely ignored both them and the security checkpoint they were manning.

  Shouts of alarm came from below me as I slumped against the glass railing of the courthouse’s third floor, coincidentally the same section that’d had to be replaced after I had sent that one villain racing to his own capture ten months ago. The shouting kept me from just slumping to catch my breath, and with a final, exhausted shove, I pushed off the glass, flickered into flame, and reappeared at the far end of an incredibly long hallway.

  Two more shaky steps brought me to the courtroom door, and I leaned against it for a moment to take a heaving breath, then a second, and a third. But then I tilted my ears towards the hall, and heard footsteps on marble, which meant someone had noticed my little security skip. With an exhausted heave, I pulled open the door and dragged myself inside the courtroom, one eye closed and hands helping guide me past the seats in the gallery as I shuffled my way up to the bar of the court. I was panting from both the exertion and the heat of my winter wear, but I only felt steady enough to remove my winter coat once I was leaning against counsel’s table.

  “Ah, apologies f-for my, hah, tardiness, y-your Honor,” I gasped out, finally feeling like I’d be able to talk without coughing or gasping. “I was,” I took another deep breath, “trying—”

  The doors at the back of the courtroom burst open.

  “Courtroom Police! Unknown Moonsh—”

  “Officers!”

  I looked towards the back of the courtroom and saw several armed courtroom police officers squeezing their way through the door, sidearms or tasers in hand, I wasn’t sure which. The judge’s angry utterance had apparently taken all the wind out of their sails, though, because all of them just had these confused expressions.

  “S-sir, that Moonshot just—” One of them spoke up, likely the leader.

  “Thank you for your diligence,” Judge Friedman began, giving them all an angry glare. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re going to point at the attorney and say that she skipped past security. Counsel, do I have the right of it?”

  “Y—” I tried to answer in the affirmative, but found myself coughing, the effects of the dry winter air still wreaking havoc on my ability to put a complete sentence together. Instead, I just nodded, and finally remembered to remove my beanie, which a thankful client had hand-knitted for me from purple yarn to have little pockets for my ears. Taking it off always felt a little ridiculous, because the ear pockets always went inside-out, but it kept my poor ears even warmer than my fur alone.

  “Ordinarily, I would admonish you for that,” the judge said, before turning towards the assembled officers at the back. “However, the metal detectors out front wouldn’t do shit to find dangerous items on her, because she doesn’t need them, officers. Thank you for being attentive and diligent in your duties to this court, but this is an exception. Now, please leave my courtroom.”

  The officers, again, just looked at one another in moderate confusion. And again, it fell on the leader among them to step up and take charge.

  “Our apologies, your Honor,” he said with a tip of his hat. “We’ll try to keep that in mind.” Then, with a motion to suggest that he had his eyes on me, the lead officer pulled his men out of the courtroom and closed the door.

  Silence reigned, if briefly, and one of the others at my table took the opportunity to press a bottle of water into my hand. I felt at the top to see if it was open, and once I noticed it was, greedily brought it to my lips to provide some much-needed moisture.

  “Counsel, where were you such that you felt the need to use literal superpowers to skip past the security line?”

  “O-one moment, your Honor?” I asked.

  Judge Friedman nodded, and I muttered my thanks before turning to grab something out of the inside pocket of my winter coat. It was a tube of chapstick, tinted a wonderfully pale pink, which both helped ease the awful feeling on my too-dry lips and refresh the color. Once I’d used it, and the sting of dry lips went away, I took a deep breath, calmed my racing heart as much as I could, and faced the bench.

  “I was at the county morgue, your Honor. I was there until two minutes to eleven.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The judge made a show of checking his wristwatch, but then looked back up at me with surprise on his face and a question in his eyes.

  “I, um… I can go very fast,” I said, not able to fully meet his gaze.

  “I’d say, three minutes from Southwest to here,” he said. “But, ah. Was there any news?” Concern tugged down at the corners of his mouth, and his frown only deepened when I heaved a sigh.

  “None yet,” I said, shaking my head. “I stayed as long as I could, but estimates for identifying even the earliest arrivals are sitting at a few days out, and more keep coming in.”

  “I see,” he said, offering a sigh of his own.

  “A moment, your Honor?”

  Judge Friedman glanced at the defense’s lead attorney, a somewhat-overweight man with an above-average (but still obvious) combover, and waved his assent.

  “Thank you,” he said as he stood. “Your Honor, while the defense deeply sympathizes with Plaintiff’s counsel at the moment—”

  I couldn’t help the disbelieving scoff that came from my lips, and if my ears weren’t lying, Fatima hadn’t been able to resist that urge either. Combover glared at the two of us, but I just rolled my eyes and gave a dismissive flick of an ear.

  “As I was saying,” he said after clearing his throat, “regardless of counsel’s current situation, the fact remains that opening statements were slated to begin several minutes ago, and the Plaintiff is not here. While this is not a criminal proceeding, and therefore the Confrontations Clause does not apply, what is important is that the sole party bringing these two claims against mine and co-counsel’s clients is not present, and given the news this morning, presumed dead.”

  I bristled, ears pinned back with anger, but I didn’t have anything productive to add. And while the judge was nominally on our side of things, I had to maintain a reasonable level of civility if I wanted it to stay that way.

  “And what of it?” Judge Friedman asked.

  “Permission to approach?”

  “Granted.”

  Combover stood from his chair and pulled a few documents out of a folder in front of him.

  “At this time, the defendants would like to jointly file our Combined Motion to Dismiss for Lack of Prosecution, under Rule 41(b)(1).” He handed a document to the judge, then made a pit stop over at my side of the courtroom and laid a copy in front of me. “Let the record show that I have furnished Plaintiff’s counsel with a copy of the document.”

  “So noted,” Judge Friedman said in a sour tone. He picked up the document in front of him, flipped it open to the last page, and scowled. “Counsel.”

  “Yes, your Honor?” Combover hadn’t sat back down yet, and stood next to the defense’s table.

  “The events affecting our proceedings here happened less than eight hours ago,” the judge began, then held up the document so we all could see it. “Given that, would you like to explain exactly why this motion is anything more than one paragraph long?”

  “Well, your Honor—”

  “Because it’s an understatement to say that you having a five-page motion ready before we even know whether the Plaintiff is alive or dead is rather presumptuous, at best!” Judge Friedman finished. “So before I even turn the page, I want you to tell me: why do I have more than just one paragraph citing the rule, and a second page with a proposed motion? Why do I have three extra, fully written pages here?”

  I took the packet in front of me and passed it over to my juniors with a scowl. I didn’t even want to look at that piece of garbage, but from the way Fatima nearly tore the front page off, she was practically chomping at the bit to shred, defeat, dismember, and otherwise tear apart the defense’s arguments, even though it looked like she wouldn’t have a chance.

  “Well you see, your Honor, most of it is boilerplate, and, ah.” Combover swallowed and tugged at his tie before continuing. “It’s simply a template we have ready as a just-in-case. Copy, paste, fill in a few blanks. That’s it. It took maybe twenty minutes to produce that motion.”

  “Well then you should have spent twenty-one minutes considering whether presenting this to me was a good idea or indescribably stupid!” Combover winced ever so slightly and looked about to scoot himself back into his seat, but the judge wasn’t done. “I’m of a mind to give this motion to my next slate of summer clerks and have them go through every single case your firm has had before this court to prove that! But frankly, it’s not worth the time or effort to find out if you lied to me just now, nor does it matter.”

  The judge turned the motion sideways, gripped it with both hands, and tore it in half, then half again. He tossed the papers off the front of the bench with a dismissive hand, any respect the judge may have had for the defense’s attorneys joining the torn fragments of paper on their slow journey to the floor.

  “Your motion is denied. Now sit down.”

  “Sir—”

  “Sit. Down.”

  Combover grimaced, but did as he was told.

  “Counsel.” Judge Friedman turned now, and addressed my side of the courtroom.

  “Yes, your Honor?” I asked, standing up.

  “Loathe as I am to agree with any part of the defense’s statements, the fact does remain that your client is not here,” he said. “Now, I am entirely sympathetic to the issue you currently face, and do I not want to dismiss this case for something so… tragically coincidental,” he said, stressing his disbelief.

  “I understand, your Honor,” I said. “To that end, we request a continuance until such time as we have ascertained the whereabouts and potential well-being of our client.”

  “Your request is granted,” he said. “I am giving you until two weeks from this coming Monday. If the unfortunate determination is made that your client no longer draws breath, then you will need to find some other way to let this claim proceed without her. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to dismiss this case.”

  “I understand, your Honor. What of the jury?” I asked. “On the assumption that the case can continue, will we be seating a new cadre of jurors?”

  “Oh, I dare say the current jury will be more than happy to have a two-and-a-half-week paid vacation,” Judge Friedman said, a conspiratorial look in his eye. “I shall take the liberty of ensuring the jury remains informed of the goings-on. However, should it happen that one or more of our jurors request dismissal due to the delay, then we will be forced to go back through the selection process. Do we understand?”

  “Yes, your Honor,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” Combover said, on behalf of the defense.

  “Very well.” Judge Friedman picked up his gavel. “This court grants a two-and-a-half-week continuance. We shall reconvene at eleven in the morning on Monday, January 25, on the assumption that either the Plaintiff yet lives or her claim can continue regardless. Court is adjourned.”

  He brought the gavel down, and with it, our timer started ticking down.

  “What do we do?” Julio asked. His voice was rough and harsh, with considerably more gravel to it than I’d heard before.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m running on fumes,” I said, making no moves to stand up from my chair. Instead, I slouched a little further down, not caring if my skirt or blazer got any more wrinkled.

  “Take the day?” Fatima suggested, her tone somewhere between concerned and pleading. “Rest back up, think on it, reconvene tomorrow?”

  “That,” I pointed at her, “is a great idea. Log the time from when you woke up to when you go to sleep, fuck it, take the free billable hours. Meet up tomorrow, nine thirty, coffees on me.”

  “And do what?” Julio asked. “Let’s be real, our client’s dead. The fuck’re we supposed to do, put her ashes on an urn ‘n set it on the table?”

  I glanced up to share a look with Fatima, and both of us sighed. These were, unfortunately, Julio’s big issues: pessimism, and defeatism.

  “Look, Julio,” I said, sitting up in my chair and drawing his attention with a hand. He looked my way, expression still utterly despondent. “I get it. It sucks. But this isn’t the public defender’s office. We have time, we have resources, and the judge is actually willing to help, but we’re gonna need all hands on deck for the next little bit.”

  “... okay,” he murmured. “What’s the plan?”

  “Go home,” I ordered. “Rest. Think. Eat. Sleep.”

  “And then?”

  “And then,” I said, “we do our jobs. Figure out how to keep this going. Hope for the best, plan for the worst, and pray the former finds us first.”

  [CLICK HERE]. Note that this particular type of dismissal is usually reserved for inactivity, as opposed to "the plaintiff just kicked the bucket". It's extremely presumptuous of the defense to file this motion at all, let alone so damn early, but it's not without cause — the expected delay for this kind of matter can be counted in literal years, sometimes — and while it's a dismissal without prejudice, meaning somebody could refile? Well... nobody else suffered a wrongful death in the initial fire. So if this case got dismissed at all, it would die with Destiny Banks.

  could file this motion here; no, you normally wouldn't; yes, this is the kind of mistake you see lawyers make all the goddamn time. The firms the defendants hired are specialized in "stall until the litigation goes away", so having a robust motion to dismiss for lack of prosecution, particularly with copious boilerplate to account for plaintiffs dying during extended proceedings, is eminently likely.