A massive shadow stretched across the cobblestone ground of Concorde Square. Accompanied by a clamor of clashing metal, the three-story-tall steam automaton slowly rotated its torso.
Two rows of Parisian police officers, dressed in deep blue uniforms, marched forward in perfect formation.
Leading them was their old acquaintance, Inspector Jacques.
“That’s your reinforcements?” Vivian felt her migraine about to return.
“Are they here to catch monsters or hand out tickets?”
“Sometimes it’s the same thing,” Cicero added cheerfully.
Inspector Jacques stopped about fifty meters from the steam monster.
He took a deep breath, raised his brass megaphone, and shouted in a booming voice:
“Heavy industrial machinery unit ahead! I am Jacques Dubois, Inspector of Section Twelve, Paris Headquarters! According to Article 442, Clause 3 of the ‘Paris Urban Security Regulations’, you are suspected of illegal parking, damaging public greenery, and—”
He squinted at the monster’s leaking, oil-smeared thigh.
“—and the unlawful discharge of industrial waste! Cease operation immediately, shut down your engine, and present your factory certificate and road permit!”
The air froze for three seconds.
The steam monster let out a roar like a drawn-out whistle.
“Woooo—!!!”
A jet of high-pressure steam blasted straight at the police ranks.
“Attention, all units! No matter what happens, maintain formation!” Inspector Jacques shouted, not retreating a single step. Instead, he whipped out a hardbound notebook, his mustache quivering in the steam as he scribbled rapidly.
“Very good. Resisting law enforcement, insulting an officer—an additional charge!”
Vivian gaped. “He can understand that whistle is cursing him?”
“That’s not important,” Cicero shrugged, “what matters is, my old friend is about to become a legend.”
The monster was clearly enraged by being ignored. Its chest cavity snapped open, revealing a row of whirring crimson pistons.
“Boom!”
A red-hot lump of coal shot out, smashing directly into the police wagon behind Jacques.
Jacques went pale with fright. He performed a tactical roll, diving behind another wagon like a startled penguin.
“Return fire! This is an armed riot!” Jacques roared at the top of his lungs. “Everyone, prepare to fire!”
The twenty well-trained officers drew their pistols and fired at the steam monster. It had some effect, but not much.
Jacques, meanwhile, dug out a wad of colorful forms from the inside pocket of his coat. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he rapidly checked boxes, muttering under his breath:
“Encounter with heavy firepower… Form A-74… no, that’s for human rioters. For a machine like this, I need B-12, ‘Compulsory Dismantling Application for Illegal Modified Vehicles’… Damn, why is the ink dry now!”
“What on earth is he doing?”
“Probably a little Parisian police hobby,” Cicero seemed to be enjoying the show.
“If you don’t fill out the ‘Weapon Use Application’, every bullet will be a nightmare to account for later. Jacques would rather be stomped to death by a monster than face the wrath of Madam Finance.”
“Looks like he’s about to be stomped into a meat patty!”
The steam monster began to move, each step making the ground tremble.
It seemed to have locked onto the officer who was furiously filling out forms, raising a lamppost and charging at Jacques.
Jacques was still frantically stamping his forms, his hand shaking so badly the seal came down crooked.
“Damn! Now I’ll have to fill out the ‘Stamp Usage Error Explanation’!”
“If I save him, do you think the police will give me a reward?” Vivian sighed.
She stood up abruptly, tying her skirt at the waist, revealing those white-stockinged legs.
“What are you doing?” Cicero raised an eyebrow.
“Making some extra money, boss.”
Vivian dashed out, leaping over the rubble as nimbly as a white cat.
Jacques was still writing his report when he suddenly felt a gust of wind. His revolver was snatched from his belt.
“Who?!” Jacques looked up in terror.
He saw the skirt whipping in the wind.
“Borrowing your gun!” The girl’s crisp voice rang out sharply amid the gunfire.
The monster noticed the tiny figure rushing toward it. Its bronze, bell-shaped head turned with a series of clacks.
The lamppost swept through the air with a howling gust.
Vivian didn’t slow down. At the very instant she was about to be struck, she bent backward in an exaggerated arc, sliding underneath with a dramatic move.
The thick iron pole grazed the tip of her nose, the wind scraping her cheek painfully.
“Shoot its knee!” Cicero had already followed.
Vivian didn’t hesitate. While sliding, she raised the gun.
“Bang! Bang! Bang!”
Three shots in quick succession, pure instinct.
One bullet drilled straight into the hydraulic pipe at the monster’s left knee.
“Hiss—!!!”
A sharp venting noise echoed through the square. The hydraulic pipe burst open, boiling oil gushing out.
The massive steam monster lost its balance, toppling to the left.
“Boom!”
Like a felled iron tower, the monster crashed heavily to its knees.
Dust billowed everywhere.
Vivian turned and saw Inspector Jacques, mouth agape as if staring at an alien.
“Don’t mention it.” Vivian walked over, spun the revolver around her finger, and handed it to Jacques, grip first.
“By the way, it shoots a bit to the left.”
“Inspector Jacques,” Cicero’s voice chimed in at just the right time.
“I think this young lady just saved you at least five hundred francs in survivor’s compensation.”
At last, Jacques regained his senses. He picked up his stack of forms, straightened his slightly crooked hat, and put on his detestable bureaucratic face again.
“I’ll apply for a reward with the bureau,” Jacques cleared his throat.
“But this young lady’s act of seizing a police firearm is still a serious violation. According to procedure, you need to come back to the station with me and file a statement. It will require filling out twelve forms, including a two-thousand-word ‘In-Depth Reflection on Why I Believed I Had the Right to Use Police Arms.'”
Vivian felt herself harden—her fists, that is.
“Cicero,” she smiled at her partner, “do you think if that monster accidentally squashed someone, there’d be less paperwork?”
Before Cicero could answer, a sudden commotion broke out among the officers behind Jacques.
“Inspector! Look!” A young policeman shouted, pointing skyward.
Everyone looked up.
In the gloomy sky, countless white sheets of paper floated down like snowflakes.
Thousands upon thousands of forms: applications, approvals, self-reflections, receipts… They spun in the wind, blotting out the sun—a scene at once grand and absurd.
To make matters worse, the steam monster with the broken leg had its boiler rupture from the earlier shock, emitting a shrill screech, then—
“Poof!”
A jet of black oil mixed with steam shot skyward, spraying directly onto the whirling sheets of paper.
Moments ago pristine, the forms were instantly turned into grimy, greasy rags.
Inspector Jacques numbly stretched out his hand, catching an oil-soaked “Heavy Weapons Use Application (Copy)”.
He’d spent two minutes filling that one out, every checkbox marked with heartfelt care.
Now, it looked like a piece of used kebab wrapping paper.
“My forms…” Jacques’ voice trembled. “If I have to redo these… I’ll be working overtime till Christmas…”
His knees buckled, and he collapsed in despair among the sea of greasy papers, letting out a heart-wrenching wail.
“No—!!!”
Vivian watched the scene and couldn’t help but press her face against Cicero’s arm, her shoulders shaking violently.
“If you want to laugh, just laugh,” Cicero sighed helplessly.