The place hadn’t changed in twenty years - which is probably why Rourke likes it - thought Agent Jack Mercer, of the New Corinth Field Office, as he stepped in.
You know the place: low ceiling, wood paneling that had gone dull with age, a TV over the bar, all tuned to different things - sports, mostly, one news channel running muted with captions crawling along the bottom. The kind of dive where nobody asked questions as long as you paid your tab and didn’t start anything loud. A last bastion of an old world. Not a lot of women here.
Mercer paused just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust. It didn’t take long to find his (now-ex) co-worker.
Rourke was three stools down from the end of the bar. Jacket off. Wrinkled shirt. No tie. A short glass in front of him with just enough whiskey left to suggest it wasn’t the first. Plus there were two more empties pushed back near the rail. Mercer took that in. Filed it. Then walked over.
Rourke didn’t look up right away.
He was watching the TV - no, not really watching it. Just facing it. The screen was running a news piece Mercer had heard earlier that afternoon, something political. Clean studio lighting. A gorgeous woman at the desk, probably speaking with that polished, measured tone the networks all seemed to favor in their (mostly female) anchors lately.
Rourke’s glass tipped slightly as he swirled what was left, half-melted ice clicking faintly.
Mercer stopped beside him. “Thought you said you didn’t drink on weekdays anymore,” he said, “only on weekends.”
Rourke snorted, still not looking over. “Every day’s a weekend now,” he replied, “Plus, it’s after five. After six, in fact.”
Mercer glanced at the clock over the bar. Six-twenty.
“Right.”
That got a faint smirk out of Rourke, and he finally turned his head.
Up close, it was clearer. Not sloppy drunk, not yet. But loose. Edges softened. Eyes a little glassy in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.
“Well,” Rourke said, taking Mercer in too. The younger agent reminded him of himself, maybe twenty years ago. “Look at that. Still got the badge?”
Mercer pulled out the stool beside him and sat. “Last I checked.”
“Yeah?” Rourke tipped his head slightly, “She didn’t send you packing yet?”
‘Who? Ward?” Mercer signaled the bartender with two fingers. “Not today.”
“Give it time.”
The bartender set a fresh glass down in front of Rourke without being asked. Mercer caught the look - familiarity. This certainly wasn’t his first visit here.
“What are you having?” the bartender asked.
“Whiskey,” Mercer said, after a beat, “Same as my friend here.”
Rourke let out a quiet laugh at that. “Oh, we’re friends now?”
Well we’re certainly not colleagues anymore. The thought was there, but Mercer didn’t voice it, just rested his forearms on the bar, eyes flicking once to the TV, then back to the glass in front of Rourke. Then back to the TV.
Alicia Ray, new anchor-lady for Channel 5, was mid-sentence onscreen, expression composed, voice muted but somehow still present.
Rourke followed his glance. “They’re on every channel now,” he muttered. “Swear to God. Blink and there’s another beauty queen - or porn star maybe, look at those tits - reading the news.”
Mercer didn’t respond to that. Not yet. Instead, he reached for the drink the bartender had just set down for him, turning the glass slightly between his fingers before taking a sip. It burned going down. Clean. Simple. The way he liked things. The way he knew Rourke did, too. He set it back on the bar. Then, finally: “Sorry about what happened,” he said.
Rourke’s hand stilled on his own glass.
For a second, the bar noise - low voices, beer bottles clinking, the soft hum of the TVs overhead - filled the space between them. Rourke didn’t look at him this time. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Funny how that worked out.” He took a drink, finishing what was left in the glass, and set it down with a soft, deliberate <click>. “Woke up Monday,” he went on, eyes still forward, “still an agent.”
A beat.
“By lunch?” A small shrug. “Paperwork.”
Another beat.
“By Tuesday?” He huffed, something like a laugh but without any humor in it. “I’m a guy sitting at a bar at 3pm.”
Mercer let that sit. You’ve been here since three? The silence sat. He didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t soften it. Just nodded once, slow. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “Sorry.”
Rourke glanced at him then, something sharper flickering through the haze for just a second. Then he leaned back on his stool, reaching for the fresh glass the bartender had poured him, rolling it once between his palms like he needed to feel the weight of it.
“Well,” he said, voice lighter now, like he was trying something on, “congratulations.”
Mercer frowned slightly. “For what?”
Rourke tipped the glass in a lazy half-toast. “Still being invited to the meetings.” He drank, and this time he didn’t bother to hide how much of it he took down. He set the glass down. “They were real polite about it,” he said after a second, “I’ll give them that.”
Mercer said nothing. Just waited.
Rourke nodded to himself, like he was replaying it. “No scene. No supervisor pulling me aside with a sad face. No ‘we hate to lose you.’ Just…HR.” He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “HR on a Monday morning. That’s how you know you’re fucked.”
Mercer exhaled quietly through his nose.
“What’d they say?” he asked.
Rourke shrugged. “Nothing you could argue with.” He ticked it off with his fingers, loose, imprecise. “Reorganization. Strategic realignment. Operational efficiency.” He snorted. “They hit every word on the bingo card.”
“And that was it?”
“That was it.” Rourke picked the glass up again, turned it, watched the light catch in what was left. “Badge, gun, credentials. Done by lunch.” A beat. “They even had a box ready.”
Mercer’s jaw tightened just slightly. “You weren’t the only one.”
Rourke didn’t look at him. “Yeah,” he said, “I figured.” Another sip. Smaller this time. “How many guys?” he asked.
Mercer hesitated. Not long. “Enough,” he said, “Same day. Same paperwork.”
“They didn’t replace us with just anybody,” Rourke went on, slow breath through his nose. “I can picture the type, too.”
Mercer didn’t answer.
“How fast?”
Mercer’s thumb traced the rim of his glass. “Desks were filled by noon.”
Rourke barked a laugh at that. “Of course they were.” He leaned back a little on the stool, looking up toward the TVs like the answer might be written there somewhere.
“Let me guess,” he said, “Fresh faces. Sharp suits. Don’t know where the coffee filters are yet.”
Yeah, that. Also: high heels. Mercer didn’t smile. “Some came with her,” he said, “From Atlanta.”
Rourke’s mouth twitched. “Her girls.”
“And others,” Mercer added, “transfers. Fast-tracked...”
Rourke turned that over. You could see it happening. “…all in skirts,” he said.
It wasn’t really a question. Mercer took a sip instead of answering. That was answer enough. But yes…all women.
Rourke nodded slowly, like something had clicked into place that he hadn’t wanted to look at straight on. “Yeah,” he murmured, “Okay.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“You walk in there now,” Rourke said, “what’s it look like?”
Mercer took a second before answering, hearing the strange change in Rourke’s voice. The interest wasn’t purely professional. “Different,” he said.
“Different how?”
Another beat.
“Well, quieter,” Mercer said. “But not in a bad way. Just…less friction.” He searched for the right word. “More…aligned.”
Rourke made a face at that. “Aligned,” he repeated.
“More women,” Mercer added, because it didn’t make sense not to say it, “Most of the office now.”
Rourke huffed. “No kidding.”
“They move differently,” Mercer went on, almost to himself. “Less posturing. Fewer arguments that don’t go anywhere.” He paused. “Things get decided faster.”
“And you like that?”
Mercer didn’t answer right away.
“It’s efficient,” he said finally.
Rourke studied him for a moment, something sharper cutting through the whiskey. “Yeah,” he said, “I bet it is.” He picked the glass up again, drained the rest of it this time, and set it down a little harder than before. I bet they’re all fucking gorgeous, too.
Around them, the bar hummed on like nothing had changed. Glasses clinking. Someone laughing too loud at the far end. The TV above them shifted to another segment - Alicia Ray again, poised, perfectly composed, with tits the size of cantaloupes. There was a group of guys, four of them with beer bottles in hand, looking like they just got off a job site, staring at her, not saying a word.
Mercer noticed that Rourke hadn’t looked up this time. He just stared at the bar.
“That means they knew,” he said after a moment.
Mercer glanced at him. “Knew what?”
“This,” Rourke said, gesturing vaguely between them, the bar, the four all-but-drooling guys, the absence of something that used to be there, “All of it. Before Sunday. Before the speech. Maybe even before the bomb.” He shook his head slowly. “You don’t move that fast, install that many new people, unless it’s already decided.”
Mercer didn’t respond. Because that part - that part was probably true.
Rourke let out a breath. Then, quieter:
“So tell me,” he said, eyes still down, voice just starting to edge back toward curiosity under the alcohol, “what are they actually doing in there now?”
He finally looked up.
“After they close the doors.”
Mercer didn’t answer right away.
“You are on the new task force, right?” Rourke pushed, “I heard it through McGintly. Ward put you on the bombing.”
Still not answering, Mercer took another sip instead, slower this time, like he was buying himself a second he didn’t know what to do with. Then he nodded. Yeah. Don’t know why - they’re all female, everyone else assigned to the bombing. That didn’t need to be said.
“They’re not pushing for arrests,” Mercer said, finally.
Rourke blinked at that. “What d'you mean?”
“They don’t want to bring anyone in yet,” Mercer added.
Rourke let out a short laugh. “That’s the whole job, Mercer.”
“I know.”
“Bomb goes off - or almost goes off - you find the guys, you roll them up, you put it on paper, you’re done.” He frowned. “That’s not complicated.”
Mercer nodded slightly. “Right. But that’s not what they’re doing.”
Rourke leaned in a little now, attention sharpening despite the alcohol. “Then what the hell are they doing?”
Mercer glanced once toward the TV, then back.
“They want to map them,” he said, “track growth. Connections. Who’s talking to who, where it’s spreading, how fast.”
Rourke stared at him. “That’s what…that’s step one?” he said, “You do that before you take them down?”
Mercer didn’t interrupt.
“They’re just…taking their time,” Rourke added, like he was trying to make it fit.
Mercer shook his head once. “It’s not that.”
Rourke waited.
“They’re letting it breathe,” Mercer said, “see what happens to the threat level. See how it plays.”
A small silence opened up between them.
Rourke leaned back again, slower this time. The stool shifted under him. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“No,” Mercer agreed, “It doesn’t. At least not to us.”
Another beat.
“Language they’re using,” Mercer went on, quieter now, “it’s different. Not ‘disruption’. Not ‘containment’.” He glanced down at his glass. “It’s ‘Development’. ‘Amplification patterns’.”
Rourke’s face tightened. “Amplification of what? By who?”
Mercer didn’t answer immediately. “That’s the question,” he said.
Rourke rubbed a hand over his mouth, then let it fall. “You still think this is about the bomb?” he asked.
Mercer looked at him, didn’t say anything. That was answer enough.
Rourke let out a breath through his nose, longer this time. “Jesus,” he muttered.
The TV above them shifted segments again. Channel 5’s Alicia Ray, back on camera, calm and composed, her voice still muted but somehow still present in the room. The closed-caption crawl rolled beneath her, talking about growth trends in girls, shifting demographics, something about generational data.
Rourke finally glanced up at it. “There,” he said, nodding toward the screen. “That’s what I mean.”
Mercer followed his gaze.
“They’re talking about it like it’s the weather,” Rourke went on, “Like - ‘hey, tomorrow it might rain, also young women are getting taller and stronger and are going to be taking over half the boardrooms in the country.’” He shook his head. “And everybody just…nods.”
They’ve already taken over the boardrooms, Mercer silently acknowledged, and now the Bureau too. He watched the screen for a second longer than he meant to, enraptured not by just the tits of the stunning young anchor, but by the knowing glint in her eye. It was almost like she was aware of him watching her.
“She’s good,” he finally said.
Rourke snorted, also staring at her. “Yeah, no shit she’s good. Good for ratings. Probably sucks off the station head every night after the cameras go off.”
Ah, you stupid old fossil, Mercer thought to himself, glancing into his whiskey. “I don’t know if that's the way things work anymore.”
Rourke looked back down at his glass, tapping it lightly against the bar. “Yeah well…it’s everywhere now,” he said, “Work, TV, walking down the street. Feels like the whole thing just…shifted.” He frowned. “And nobody sent out a memo.”
Mercer didn’t disagree.
“At the office,” Rourke went on, “it used to be - what - eighty-twenty? Guys to women? Then sixty-forty, recently?” He waved a hand. “Now what is it? With Ward, after yesterday? The other way? Forty-sixty?”
“A lot worse than that,” Mercer said. She cleaned house good.
Rourke let out a low whistle. “That fast?”
“That fast. And it’ll be more than just New Corinth, after January.” The new bosses. The Martin Administration.
Rourke shook his head slowly. “And nobody thinks that’s worth talking about?”
“They are talking about it,” Mercer said, “Just not like we are.”
“Yeah,” Rourke muttered, “I’ve noticed. They talk about it like it’s the most normal thing ever. Like it’s the way things should have always been. The natural world order.”
Another pause.
“Even out there,” Rourke added, nodding vaguely toward the street, “You seen it? Girls, women, walking around like they own the sidewalk. Not-” He caught himself, searching for the word, “Not just attitude. Just…like it’s already decided it’s theirs.”
The sidewalk? Or the world?
Mercer thought about that for a second. “Confidence, yeah,” he said.
Rourke glanced at him. “Is that what you’re calling it?” he scoffed, “‘cuz I’m calling it for what it is. Female Supremacy.”
Mercer didn’t answer.
On the TV, Alicia Ray shifted slightly in her chair, the camera angle changing just enough to keep her centered, composed, in control of the frame. Mercer followed it. Then watched her smiling, setting her shoulders, chest pushing out into the living rooms of the greater New Corinth viewing area.
“…and guys just sit back and watch,” Routke said.
Mercer’s eyes flicked back to him.
Rourke gave a small, crooked smile. “Don’t pretend you’re not watching too.”
Mercer took a drink instead of responding.
Rourke leaned back again, letting his head tilt slightly, eyes drifting between the glass in his hand and the screen above. A bachelor, just like Mercer, he suddenly knew what his evening would be when he dragged himself home: a box of Kleenex - or maybe an old sock - and a replay of that Channel 5 interview of that tall office manager chick from the crime scene, that medical center. Forget the half-baked dud the morons left at the foot of that statue. She was the real bombshell in all this.
He let out a quiet laugh. Was he really this helpless? Could he resist, if he wanted to? If he really tried?
“Anyway,” Rourke said, dismissing it all with a small flick of his hand, “my point is - it’s not just the Bureau. It’s…everything.”
That hung there for a second. Then, softer:
“And we’re just supposed to what?” he asked. “Adjust?”
Mercer looked down at the bar, at the reflection of the TV light in the wood, at his own hand wrapped around his whiskey glass. “Yeah,” he said.
Rourke let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah,” he echoed.
And for a moment, neither of them spoke, as Alicia Ray looked out at them, over the bar.
Rourke let the silence stretch for a few seconds longer, then tilted his head slightly toward Mercer. “So what about you?” he asked.
Mercer didn’t look up. “What about me?”
Rourke gave a faint, crooked smile. “Come on,” he said. “You gonna make me spell it out?”
Mercer took another sip instead.
Rourke watched him do it. “You good with all this?” he asked, a little more directly now.
Mercer set the glass down carefully. “That’s not really the question,” he said.
“No?” Rourke leaned an elbow on the bar. “Sounds like a pretty simple one to me.”
“It’s not about ‘good with it’ or not,” Mercer replied, “It’s the job.”
Rourke stared at him for a second. Then he huffed, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “There it is,” he said. “Knew you were gonna say that.”
Mercer didn’t react.
Rourke shook his head slowly. “You always did that,” he went on. “Wrap it up nice and clean. ‘It’s the job.’ Like that explains anything.”
“It explains enough.”
“Does it?”
Mercer didn’t answer.
Rourke leaned back, studying him now - not drunk exactly, not anymore. Just…off-kilter in a different way. “You don’t sound like you believe that,” he said.
That landed a little closer than Mercer wanted. He shifted slightly on the stool. “I believe it’s happening,” he said.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” Mercer admitted.
A beat.
Rourke nodded once, like he’d gotten what he needed from that. “You’re already in it,” he said.
Mercer’s jaw tightened, just slightly. “I’m still doing my job.”
“Yeah,” Rourke said. “That’s what I mean.”
Silence again.
The TV flickered above them - Alicia Ray transitioning to another segment, her expression steady, reassuring, like nothing in the world was uncertain. Leaning forward, just a fraction, towards the camera. Making sure all the little eyeballs out there were exactly where she wanted them.
Mercer had glanced up at it for a second, then more than a second. Then back down.
“…it’s working,” he finally said. The words came out quieter than he expected.
Rourke didn’t interrupt.
“Whatever they’re doing,” Mercer went on, choosing each word a little more carefully now, “it’s…coherent. There’s a direction to it.” He paused. “Things move faster. Fewer gaps.”
Rourke’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Cleaner,” Mercer added.
That hung there.
Rourke let out a slow breath through his nose. “Cleaner,” he repeated. Not mocking. Not agreeing. Just…trying it on.
“And that’s enough for you?” he asked.
Mercer didn’t answer right away. He looked at the bar. The reflection of the lights. His own hand around the glass. “It’s not about ‘enough’,” he said finally, “It’s what’s there.”
Rourke watched him for a long second. Then he leaned back, shoulders settling into something looser. Not relaxed. Just…decided. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You always were good at that.”
Mercer glanced at him. “At what?”
“Seeing what’s coming,” Rourke said. “Getting in line with it before it hits.” A small shrug. “Surviving.”
Mercer frowned slightly. “That’s not what this is.”
Rourke gave him a look - tired, a little amused, a little sad.
“Sure it isn’t.”
The bartender drifted past, wiping down a stretch of the counter. Rourke lifted two fingers without looking. Another drink appeared in front of him a moment later.
Mercer noticed he didn’t hesitate this time. Didn’t swirl it. Just picked it up.
“You ever think about it?” Rourke said, before taking a sip.
“Think about what?”
“What happens next,” Rourke replied. “Not at the office. Not the case.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing everything else. “All of it.”
Mercer didn’t answer.
Rourke nodded to himself. “Yeah,” he said, “Me neither. Not until I started sitting here, today.” He took a drink. Set the glass down. “You don’t get pushed out,” he went on, voice quieter now, more to himself than to Mercer. “That’s the thing.”
Mercer’s eyes flicked toward him.
Rourke stared at the bar. “You just…stop fitting.”
The words settled between them. Neither of them moved to break it. On the TV, Alicia Ray smiled, perfectly in control of the frame.
Mercer reached for his drink, finishing what was left in the glass in one slow pull.
Rourke, beside him, was already halfway through his next.
For a moment, they sat like that.
Same bar. Same night. Watching the same screen.
And not in the same place at all.
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