The Chief of Police

Nancy continues through the door, “It's like, the chief, they totally got a hot hostage situation at, like, a bank… again. Oh Em Gee, crooks never, like, learn.”

The doctor shrugs as he gets up and hustles to the door, shouting, “I want them stupid. It's the smart ones that cause real trouble. Route it to my cell…” as he heads to his car, grabbing his trench coat on the way. His earpiece rings, and he calls out “Answer” to the voice assistant as he opens the door to his car.

The chief of police gets right into it as soon as the transfer completes, “Hate to bug you…” there is absolutely no vocal veracity in the man's tone, “...but we have a hostage situation again. Mind stopping by at Third National Bank? Yes, we have a couple of sheep to cover the direct expenses.”

“You know if they lay into me too hard everybody dies…” the doctor begins as he buckles up and closes the door.

“I'm hoping for a ‘pink bomb’, doctor,” the doctor can hear the chief's smile as he starts the motor and hits the accelerator.

“You know you won't be able to get much in the way of convictions if I do that,” Benjamin banters as he hits the switch for the lights and sirens the police mechanic installed in the over-amped custom electric vehicle, “You'll barely be able to tell who's who.”

“Official priority from on high in a hostage situation is the lives of the hostages,” the chief recites regulations with obvious glee, “everything else is secondary. If you set off a ‘pink bomb,’ I can just announce that we have a dozen male officers and no pants, and everyone will immediately surrender and come out begging us to take them, no lives lost.” He pauses, “To take them IN,” he amends, insincerely.

“Just marriages broken when the assorted hostages also turn into… well…” Dr. Bimbo cringes.

“They won't be dead, they'll enjoy themselves, they'll still be able to do their jobs, and my priorities are written right into city law,” it's easy to tell where the chief's priorities lie, all right.

“And this is why I keep turning down getting an actual badge from you… I won't take your orders, I'll absolutely start by trying to talk them down,” the good doctor practically spits as the lights all change to green for him as he races to the scene.

“Your loss…” the chief hangs up. He knows very well any further pushing won't help him get his way.

“Maybe I should use a ‘pink bomb’... and make sure it reaches a little past the inner police line this time…” the doctor rubs his chin as he pulls up to the outer police line, one of the uniformed officers briefly pulling the barricade aside to let him through, “...the chief will be on site… might change his view on things…”

The doctor dons his trench coat and helmet as he exits his car. Officially they're mementos of his time serving in The War to End All Wars… which was followed by an even bigger war a few decades later. There's nothing left of the original material, however, and the designer from nineteen fourteen probably wouldn't recognize it as the same design. The current coat is aromatic polyamide cloth wrapped around some very expensive custom ceramic plates; it weighs about fifty pounds, but it will soak one clip from most **** rifles (or one shot from a fifty caliber… barely), and covers him almost everywhere; the helmet gets most of the rest that might come his way. Sure, the doctor is effectively immortal… but staying alive can have some very real costs for everyone else, and the doctor knows this.

A new Sargent asks about the coat: “Why so loud?”

The doctor chuckles, “The same reason a poison dart frog is so colorful: It lets predators know I'm the wrong target,” as he walks past, his body forcing a sashay - mostly masked by the extremely thick clothing - as he heads to the field HQ trailer.

This particular one is a folding model: There's some heavy-duty hinges in the walls and ceiling; they park it, open one side, fold the extra walls and flooring into place, lock it all, and the thirty foot trailer has a fifteen foot wide steel-enclosed meeting space to go with the couple feet of desks, chairs, and equipment on the other wall. It makes a pretty usable field HQ. The doctor has seen it before, however, and doesn't care.

A freshly transferred lieutenant, however, doesn't understand the score, "Hold up, how'd you get in here, Ms…?”

Fortunately, an experienced Sergeant comes to his rescue before he gets his foot too far into his mouth, “That would be Doctor Benjamin Maddox Beaux, and if HE,” a very strong emphasis there, “is here, then the chief called and asked HIM,” again with the emphasis, “to come. And it's a good thing. There's only three ways this ends now. If the bad guys do the smart thing, they'll all fold like wet cardboard, and we're good to go. If they're particularly stupid, they'll shoot at the good doctor until THEY all die: The doctor HIMself will be fine… and then we clean up and go home. Now, I personally hope they take option three, and annoy the good doctor by, say, shooting a hostage in HIS presence, because if they do…” the sergeant whispers something into the lieutenant's ear.

The lieutenant turns beet red, but smiles, “Welcome Dr. Beaux! The chief is right over there…” the man steps aside.

The doctor chuckles as he waves at the chief and walks over, “So… what do we have?”

The chief, a muscled and bearded bear of a man starting to turn gray, grins, “Ah, good… they killed the cameras; four customers that didn't make it to the door, four gang bangers… the tellers managed to duck away in the confusion of the alarms.”

The doctor shakes his head, “Fourth time so far this year… all right. Back in a bit…” still shaking his head, Benjamin grabs a handheld radio on his way out, walks, past the inner police line, and pauses to briefly look at the bank:

Cinderblock construction, with a faux-brick tile facing on the front. Two big glass windows, framing glass double doors, showing with stancheons to manage lines to the counter, where glass separates the customers from the workers. It looks fragile, but that's deceptive: All the glass is class III ballistic rated, and the door has a magnetic lock. Under normal circumstances, you either need the key, or a battering ram to get in when the place is closed.

However, these aren't normal circumstances: The police shut the power down already, and the tightwad bank manager has been putting off replacing the backup batteries for the magnetic locks for the last decade. There's nobody in the lobby, so the doctor simply pulls open the door and steps in.

Taking a moment to listen, he hears some worried, hushed voices… a couple men and women… Dr. Beaux can't make it out clearly, but they seem both worried and excited. Well… geniuses these are not, by rights there should be some kind of watchman here… so far, so good.

Following the noise, the good doctor quickly finds the eight folks at the vault, which is standing open, everyone inside (it's a roomy vault). Four obvious gang bangers with guns, simple halloween face masks, and green bandanas tied to their left wrists. The hostages are all women in cheap clothes, mostly tanned save for a lighter section of skin on their left wrists.

The doctor shakes his head and mouths, ‘there are no words,’ as the gangbangers react and grab the hostages, each putting a gun to their respective lady’s head. As one gang banger starts to take a breath, the doctor shakes his head, “Don't bother. You're not going to shoot your own lookouts. If you do, your own people will abandon you. You've already lost. Just do the smart thing and surrender to the police outside: You have no bargaining chips.”

The four look at each other briefly, and point their guns at the doctor, who rolls his eyes, “You know what happens to people who shoot me, right?”

“But you're not that strong otherwise…” a guy with a pig face mask has an evil glint in his eye, “Grab her and hold her down, boys… I know how to handle this bitch…”

The other three men abandon their ‘hostages’ (who make no move to run, just looking in, grinning, one even sliding her hand under her skirt), and approach the doctor… who makes no move to run, himself. As the three thugs surround the doctor, he shakes his head, “You really don't want to do this…”

“Yeah I do…” the pig-masked man starts pulling down his pants as the three men grab the doctor. As the apparent gang leader's meat rod springs free at full attention, the doctor sighs, and does what the police chief wanted all along: Floods the room with pink energy. A heartbeat later when the pink light clears and everyone can see again… all eight of the gang members are gasping on the ground, tearing at their shirts… because the pressure from their new breasts is making it hard to breathe. All eight now have long blonde hair down to asses fit to shame Kim Kardashian, puffy lips, narrow faces… they're not quite clones, but it would be a simple matter to mistake them for close sisters.

As they scramble to figure out how to get their way-too-tight shirts off before they suffocate, Dr. Beaux gets on the radio, “You can add attempted **** to the charges. And good news: The ‘hostages’ were also in in it. There are no civilians in the building. Oh, and they're all in the vault, trying to get their shirts off… please send your best-behaved officers in with scissors, so the poor women can breathe again. Situation is otherwise stable.”

There's a pause, and the radio crackles up, woth the chief's voice… he sounds really happy, “On their way, ETA thirty seconds. You need to work on your radio discipline, over.”

“No, I don't,” the nominal hero walks out of the room, knowing the police have it from here, and that the women will be getting what their new desires will make them beg to have, “I'm just a civilian consultant, I don't actually take orders or need to follow regulations. Where'd you leave the sheep? I should ‘eat’ before I go anywhere.”

The doctor hears a ragged and rushed gasp behind him as one of the women successfully rips her shirt apart, letting her big beautiful milk makers fly free so she can breathe. The radio cackles back to life, “Horse trailer just north of the field HQ. Bought ‘em from a new guy, as the old guy needs some time to replenish his stock. Enjoy. I know we will.” He pauses, “...we will enjoy the sweet taste of victory of yet another bloodless solution to a crisis. Thank you. Over and out.”

The doctor shakes his head as he calmly walks out of the bank. No, the chief and his men are going to enjoy the freshly minted bimbos’ bodies, completely carnally. As far as the police are concerned, it won't be ****, because the women will be literally begging for it, and there will be absolutely no **** or **** in their systems to say they were compromised.

But they were compromised: A high libido takes effort to control, and anyone affected by the doctor's power get theirs amped up a LOT until the power is drained. Still… they were about to participate in a **** themselves, so it's not going to bother the doctor too much. After all, the officers in the precinct know to use rubbers.

The doctor finds the indicated trailer - still hooked up to the truck that brought it - without difficulty, finds it unlocked, and goes inside, hearing the sheep… at which point, the door slams shut behind him, and the truck starts up….