#linddzz

 Newt’s letter to the New York branch of the US Naval Headquarters requesting passage on a research vessel had been successfully received, and an intimidatingly neutral response had directed him to meet with the Admiral in charge of all voyages regarding the hunt for and recognizance of magical creatures along the East Coast. Theseus had assured him that he need not make an appointment with Admiral Picquery so long as he had a proper letter of recommendation and given plenty of notice of his impending arrival. And so, all he had to do was speak to the Admiral politely, keep his answers short and professional, and he would be granted his request without any fanfare or trouble.

 Of course, theoretical good fortune almost never made the transition to reality for Newt, and so he was also preparing himself for the worst.

 Silently, he stared at the rising black coal clouds obscuring the clear skies above the coast of New York. A bulging, battered journal sat heavily inside one of the many pockets of his overcoat, and an old brown leather case charmed by the powers of a kind, ancient fairy sat at his feet. The large passenger ship glided through the churning waters surrounding the towering Statue of Liberty, and men, women, and children of all shapes and sizes crowded the metal rails. Newt chose to remain seated on a nearby deserted bench, rereading his brother’s newest letter and glancing at his fellow passengers with disinterest. The past few years of sailing on the seven seas on a multitude of various transports had dampened his sense of wonderment at seeing the oncoming landscape.

 A loud horn sounded as the ship began its slow creep into the docks, and sailors in pristine white uniforms began throwing ropes and orders around in a frenzy perfected by years of routine. Among the bustling crowds of immigrants, Newt walked down the gangplank of the ship with his case held tightly in his right hand and his papers grasped tightly in the other within his coat pocket. Long rows of desks were packed with congested lines of people, all bundled in their winter coats and holding their luggage close when they were able.

 After what seemed like hours of waiting and staring at the steel beams holding the Customs building roof intact, Newt was finally summoned to a desk with a stern-faced official in a dark blue uniform eyeing him with disinterest.

 “Passport?” He grumbled. Newt handed it over almost instinctively, trying not to fidget or draw attention to his case. “British, huh?”

 “Yes.”

 “First trip to New York?”

 “Yes.”

 “Any magical heritage?” Newt blinked and tried not to look as outraged as he felt. Granted, it was quite common for Magicals to be physically indistinguishable to those with pure human bloodlines, and thus an understandable question for immigrants to be asked. Still, he felt it odd that the official felt the need to ask at all when his passport clearly stated that he was Human.

 “…my mother is an Animalinguist,” he said softly. The official nodded, either unaware of the effect his words had on Newt or simply unable to care. He closed Newt’s worn passport and gestured to his case.

 “Anything edible in there?” he asked. Newt took a deep breath to push past the awkward exchange of personal information, absentmindedly placing his hand over his breast pocket and concentrating on keeping his expression calm.

 “No.”

 “Livestock?” Unheeding of his best efforts, the magic surrounding the case reacted to Newt’s mental images of all that it contained and the catch flicked open of its own accord. Newt looked down in alarm and hastily closed it, stamping down any thoughts that might trigger it again.

 “Must get that fixed—ahh, no.” The official’s eyes had grown darker at the case’s rebellion and his frown deepened as he looked at Newt more closely. Newt fought the urge to smile innocently, as he had learned from experience that this would only complicate matters further.

 “Let me take a look,” the official finally said, placing Newt’s passport to the side and gesturing to the empty desk.

 Newt begrudgingly placed the case between them, leaning away from the desk and crossing his hands behind the small of his back. Just as the customs official placed his hands on the case to spin it towards him, Newt discreetly rubbed the small black symbol etched permanently into his right wrist with his left thumb. A familiar tingling spread through his fingers, a sign that the magic of the case was heading his call. When the official popped open the catches and peered inside the suitcase, he found only a perfectly folded pair of pajamas and other small knickknacks that Newt had placed there as a disguise.

 Unable to deny the mundane proof before him, the official glanced at Newt one last time before closing the case and handing the belongings back to their rightful owner.

 “Welcome to New York.”

Magic was never perfect, nor was it always exceptional in nature, so it came as no surprise to Newt that for all of its vast majesty and impressive murals, the New York Branch of the US Naval Headquarters was almost completely devoid of any obvious magical properties. Magical and Human individuals meandered about in equal measure, certainly, but the walls were sturdy brick, the columns hand-painted gold, and a giant gold clock in the center of the atrium ticked away using only the cogs, gears, and bolts that it was built with. A kind young receptionist had led him to a cozy leather loveseat in front of a large oak door to wait, and he passed the time alternating between staring at the framed portraits on the hallway walls and visually tracing the letters reading “Admiral Seraphina Picquery” on the golden plaque beside his head.

 Men and women in flowing skirts and tasteful suits came and went, until finally a small group of imposing professionals all in black sauntered in Newt’s direction down the expansive hallway. A majestic, blond-haired young woman in a complicated headdress led the pack, her expression angry, yet contained, and her eyes as dark as her pinstripe suit.

 “—is threatening to send a delegation. They think this is related to Grindelwald’s attacks in Europe,” she said earnestly.

 “There have been no sightings of Grindelwald or his men in the past few weeks, Admiral. I hesitate to call this piracy without further investigation,” the middle-aged man at her side argued.  The man was dressed in a smart suit and tie, his dark hair slicked back and slightly greying on the sides. Together they made an attractive couple shrouded in an air of tightly coiled confidence, and all trailing members of their group seemed almost pale and meek in comparison.

 The woman, who was no doubt the very Admiral that Newt had come to see, tilted her head in acknowledgement of her comrades’ point.

 “Whatever it is, one thing’s clear—it must be stopped. It’s terrorizing the waters along the coast. If ships keep sinking, our trade routes will become all but ghost towns! And then where will we be?” Admiral Picquery glided to a stop in front of her office door, turning her attention from her coworker to Newt so smoothly that he had to blink multiple times to mentally comprehend the transition. “Mr. Scamander, I presume?”

 “Uh, yes!” He rose from his seat and adjusted the front of his coat, extending a hand for the woman to shake. Her lips curled upwards in the shadow of a smile, politely taking his hand and scanning him up and down with her eyes.

 “Admiral Picquery. Thank you for waiting.” She nodded in dismissal to the small crowd behind her, opening the door and gesturing for Newt to follow her inside. “Your brother's letter was quite complementary when it came to your expertise, Mr. Scamander. He believes you may be able to assist our crews in their missions across the more dangerous parts of the sea. Is this a correct assumption?”

 “Well, I will certainly do my best.” Newt waited until the Admiral had begun to lower herself into her ornate office chair before allowing himself to sink into the plush cushions of his own seat. He placed his case on the ground and folded his hands across his lap. “You see, I’ve just completed a year in the field. I’m writing a book about magical creatures—a guide to help people understand why we should be protecting these creatures instead of killing them.”

 “Despite the dangers they present to our ships and the humans aboard them?” she asked calmly.

 “Well, most sea creatures are not as dangerous as they first appear. They simply react to what they perceive as threats to their well-being,” Newt clarified.

 “And our naval vessels are one of these threats?” Her expression remained smooth and neutral, but Newt would have bet every worldly possession that he owned that her tone of voice had dipped dangerously into haughty ridicule. He bit the inside of his cheek and answered her rhetorical question with a challenge of his own.

 “Admiral, what is the standard procedure on US naval ships for the sighting of a magical sea creature? Depending on size, of course.” The Admiral raised her eyebrow, but answered his question easily and politely enough.

 “Well, depending on size and classification, the protocol is to load and man the cannons and guns in the event of an attack. The men then wait for the Captain’s signal, and if the creature attacks, the Captain orders an open fire until the attack is neutralized,” she said. Newt nodded, inconspicuously rubbing the symbol on his wrist to keep the case from reacting to his racing thoughts.

 “And, if it’s determined there is no threat to the ship?”

 “Then no order is given and everybody moves on.” The Admiral leaned back in her chair, the mask of professional interest cracking slightly in the light of her growing disinterest.

 “And, if I may ask, what is the average response time of US Captains between the recorded sighting of the sea creature and the order to fire?” Newt waited a beat as the Admiral’s shoulders tensed and her expression morphed to one of confusion. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not a commonly known statistic. But perhaps you know the annual monetary losses attributed to sea creature attacks in terms of ammunition, gunpowder, and repairs to the ships after the sea creatures respond aggressively to open fire?”

 “…I would have to check the records,” the Admiral admitted cautiously. Newt’s lips twitched up in a smirk that was almost instantly suppressed, and he quickly averted his eyes before delivering his next words.

 “The English have a protocol that is almost identical to the US. The average response time of an order to fire is approximately 30 minutes after a sea creature of any size is spotted within 16 kilometers, with the average royal vessel traveling at a speed of 15 knots. This means, as I’m sure you can estimate, that the average English Captain orders his men to fire before the ship even reaches the sea creature in question, as it would take approximately 35 minutes for the ship to sail up directly beside the creature they target.” Newt paused and allowed his tirade to sink in before continuing.

 “The Royal Navy also recorded an annual budget for the past three years for ammunition and weaponry that showed a 32% depletion filed under sea creature attacks, with the remaining majority all relating to the battles in the war. For a procedure that calls for caution and patience, that number seems awfully high. It’s also quite telling, in combination with the reaction times, don’t you think?” Newt met the Admiral’s eyes again, finding them frozen, yet wide and open.

 “And what does this data have to do with your request, Mr. Scamander?” she asked softly. Newt nodded, resting his elbows up on the arms of his chair. He took a moment to swallow the bitter pill of compromise, reciting the sales pitch that Theseus had given him in their discussions of how to convince the necessary powers to approve his request.

 “If I am allowed aboard one of your ships, I have every intention of providing your officers with new protocols that should decrease wasted ammunition, gunpowder, repair costs, and all the financial burdens thereof. If we’re lucky, it might even increase the safety of your crews…and thus your subsequent recruitment numbers.”

 Admiral Picquery stared at him in the following silence, her body language almost relaxed and appraising. She took a moment to glance out the large window across the room from her desk, the docked naval ships swaying in the harsh winds of the rocky coast. Newt sat uncomfortably as he waited for her verdict, rubbing at his wrist in order to give his hands something distracting to do.

 “It seems I owe you an apology, Mr. Scamander,” she said suddenly. Newt’s eyes snapped to her, only barely keeping the panic in his gut at bay. And he thought he was doing so well!

 “Sorry?”

 “I hate making errors in judgement, but I am not so proud as to deny when I am wrong…at least, not in these types of matters.” Admiral Picquery sighed and offered him a small smile, one devoid of haughtiness or deceit. “From your letter and first impressions, I had taken you for an eccentric fool. Eccentric, you may be, but the only fool in this room is me.”

 She rose from her chair and smoothed down the front of her jacket as Newt mirrored her movements with equal amounts of trepidation and anticipation.

 “You’ve brought an issue to my attention that I was unaware even existed. If you truly think you can assist us, I have no objections to adding you to the ship’s roster.” She paused and busied herself with straightening the paperwork piled on her desk, allowing Newt a small sense of privacy while he grinned in excitement. “I do have to ask if you have any experience in sailing.”

 “Ah, yes, but mainly single-handler sailboats,” he admitted. The Admiral nodded and grabbed a sheet of paper from a nearby drawer. Dipping her feathered quill in a large inkwell with a deft hand, she began to fill in a series of boxes with a scrolling script and signed the document with a flick of her wrist.

 “Captain Percival Graves is on the schedule to set sail later today. His crew handles the recognizance and classifications of all creatures along the coast of the Atlantic, magical and otherwise. He should have plenty of room on his ship for you.” She gently blew on the ink to make it dry, handing the paperwork over to Newt without fanfare. “I’ll make sure he’s expecting you. The ship boards at 1400 this afternoon.”

 “Thank you, Admiral.” Newt accepted the paper with a grateful nod, bending down and retrieving his case. As he made his way to the door, the Admiral’s ominous voice suddenly echoed across the room.

 “Oh, and Mr. Scamander?”

 “Yes?”