New South Wales Police Department
Inner Metropolitan Region
Trainee Application Form
Name: Michael Timothy Cunningham
Sex: Male
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Height: 185 centimetres
Weight: 80 kilograms
Date of Birth: 17 November 1968
Place of Birth: Bristol, United Kingdom
I certify that the above information is true, and I understand that the use of a false identity is a criminal offence. I hereby consent to be governed by the rules and regulations of the New South Wales Police Department for the duration of my training session and after.
Signature:________________________________Date:____________
Michael Cunningham read the last statement twice. He wondered why anybody would want to join the police service under a false identity, but he reasoned that any official document needed that statement. He flipped back through the several pages of paperwork, checking for any mistakes he had made. Finding none, he signed a slanting signature on the line and dated the document.
Michael perused through the papers yet again before depositing them in the box at the receptionist’s desk. He walked past several other people busy filling out the same form and exited the room. Outside in the hallway were a few chairs, and he sat down next to another recruit who had completed his paperwork early.
“Hello,” Michael said to him.
“Oh, g’day!” the man replied. “I’m Tom.”
“And my name is Michael. Nice to meet you.”
The man named Tom smiled. “So, I assume that you are actually Michael, and not an impostor?”
Michael smiled back. The other man had also taken notice of the intriguing statement at the end of the form. “Oh, damn! I’ve been discovered at last!” Michael proclaimed.
The two talked for a few minutes, and a few more recruits came into the hallway. They all made their introductions, and Michael tried getting to know them the best he could seeing that he would be spending the better part of three months training to be a police officer with them.
“All right,” Michael said after a few minutes. “You are Tom, Dick… sorry, I forgot your name, Vicky, someone, Bill, James, someone, Kareem, Alice, and… erm…” he stumbled on the name of the balding man. “…Roger?”
“Bingo!” the balding man named Roger exclaimed. Michael felt genuinely proud of himself. He was horrible at remembering people’s names, so remembering three-quarters of them after only fifteen minutes acquaintance was quite a feat for him.
After all of the introductions and several minutes of conversation, the recruit named Alice finally asked, “So, where do you come from? You don’t sound like you’re from here.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Amazing revelation! You finally noticed his British accent,” he said sarcastically.
“Really, where are you from?” inquired Alice, completely unabashed.
“Well, as Tom so eloquently pointed out, I am from Britain,” Michael answered. Tom smiled and raised his hand in acknowledgment. “I am from Somerset… in the southwest of England,” Michael added, noticing that most of the others did not follow. “I just moved here to Sydney a few weeks ago.”
“So, why did you decide to move to Oz?” asked the trainee named Dick.
Michael told the others about the freak hurricane that had hit the West Country a month earlier. The hurricane had hit his house and completely destroyed everything, but Michael was thankfully away somewhere else and was not there to witness it.
“…since I was left without a home and I had to live someplace new, I thought, ‘Why not Australia? Fewer freak hurricanes there!’” he finished.
The others laughed. “And, of course, we have better weather, nicer people, fewer taxes, and more koalas! Australia sure beats England, doesn’t it?” Tom asked.
Michael paused for a moment. “Well… I suppose,” he finally muttered.
“HA!” Tom cried triumphantly. “We’ve just successfully converted a Pom!”
Before Michael could respond, the door to the hallway opened and a Police Superintendent appeared.
“Thank you for waiting, ladies and gentlemen, but more importantly, thank you for joining the New South Wales Police Department. Your training will begin shortly. Please follow me.”
Michael Cunningham and the eleven other people in the hallway got up from their chairs and followed the man through the door.
The Superintendent was a tall blonde man who identified himself as Mr. Andrews. He and the dozen trainees discussed the New South Wales Police Department for the rest of the afternoon. They learned their obligations and training procedures, and what their careers would be like once they were admitted into the force as police officers. The meeting ended and the recruits got up to leave.
“Oh yes, Mr. Cunningham? Can I see you for a moment?”
Michael hung back and asked the Superintendent what he needed.
“The thing is, I need a copy of your birth certificate, and your application doesn’t have one? Could you please provide me with a copy?”
Michael explained that he didn’t have a copy. His house and everything he had owned, including all of his records, were destroyed in the freak hurricane the previous month. Mr. Andrews accepted this fact without hesitation.
“I’m sorry,” said the Superintendent sympathetically. “Allow me to look into the British government records. I’m sure I could find a copy of your birth certificate for you.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
Training to be a police officer wasn’t quite as exciting as Michael Cunningham had imagined. The first few weeks didn’t appear to have much to do with policing: the dozen police students studied for days on end on everything there was to know about Australian law. Only after they thoroughly understood what they were supposed to do as officers did they begin to learn how to actually do it.
And learning how to do it was exactly what they were looking forward to: firearms training. They had gone over the rules for use of weapons and in what situations to use them, but now they were actually going to learn how to shoot them, and hopefully hit something in the process.
The shooting instructor was a tall, heavily built, bespectacled Senior Sergeant named Mr. Jordan. He pulled out a black handgun from the holster on his belt and held it in front of him for all of the trainees to see.
“This is a Glock 22, the gun you will be learning to shoot today. It is a semi-automatic handgun that fires the 40 calibre Smith & Wesson round. It weighs 650 grams and holds fifteen rounds of ammunition in the magazine. Now, who thinks they could remember everything I just said?”
Michael looked at the others and saw matching looks of bewilderment.
The shooting instructor smiled. “Don’t worry, you will eventually,” he said. “But let’s not worry about that right now. I’m here at this range to teach you how to shoot, and I will.”
Mr. Jordan spent the next few hours explaining the basics of gun safety. Most of what he said was just common sense to Michael, but some of the other recruits seemed to have trouble grasping these basic concepts. For Michael, it was pretty boring listening to Mr. Jordan explain gun safety; he had a strange feeling that he already knew everything that was being said.
Finally, Mr. Jordan instructed them on how to actually aim and fire the gun. It was very simple. To aim, all he had to do was balance the target on top of the blade front sight, and make sure the top of the front sight was at the same level as the top of the notched rear sight.
Each of the trainees was given a Glock and several full magazines of ammunition. Twenty metres from the firing line were a row of paper targets with a numbers on top of each target. Michael stood at station seven and examined the corresponding target.
“Now, since this is your first time shooting, don’t worry if you can’t hit anything. You’ll get the hang of it eventually. Load your weapons and fire one complete magazine when I give the command,” Mr. Jordan instructed. There was a flurry of movement as the dozen shooters inserted the fifteen-round magazines into the pistols and rocked back the slides. Michael steadied the gun in both hands, closed his left eye, and aimed.
“You may commence firing.”
Michael was the first to pull the trigger. There was a bang and a flash, and the slide on the Glock jerked backwards and spat out a gleaming brass cartridge. The slide instantly returned to its position and Michael fired again, and then again…
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Michael was the first to finish shooting. The other trainees were taking much longer, struggling to keep their handguns steady and on target. Tom was blasting away and didn’t seem to be aiming his weapon at all. Alice jumped every time she pulled the trigger. Roger was taking an agonisingly long time aiming each shot.
Finally, Roger was the last one to empty his pistol, and Mr. Jordan called a cease-fire. The instructor looked through a pair of binoculars at the targets. He panned from left to right, smiling or frowning as he examined each one. Then“
“Who’s firing at target seven?”
“Me, Michael,” Michael answered.
Senior Sergeant Jordan let out a low whistle. “Right. Everyone, put your guns down and look at your targets.”
The recruits obeyed and walked the twenty metres to the paper targets. Michael looked at his target and was surprised to discover that he had gotten all fifteen rounds within the black circle. He had even scored a few bulls eyes. He glanced at the other targets and quickly discovered that nobody else even came close.
Mr. Jordan only had eyes for Michael’s target. “Is this the first time you’ve ever shot a gun?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Mr. Jordan looked taken aback, perhaps even a little sceptical, but he soon recovered. “Well, you are one amazing shot. You’re a natural.”
He then had the recruits take down the targets and replace them with new ones. Mr. Jordan borrowed Michael’s target, disappeared for a moment, and reappeared with Mr. Andrews. Mr. Jordan had everyone fire off several more magazines of ammunition, and Mr. Andrews was watching Michael with interest.
After a good two hours and a few hundred rounds of ammunition, the firing lesson ended, and the recruits were asked to leave.
“Mr. Cunningham, would you mind staying for a moment?” the Superintendent inquired.
He was about to leave with the others, but he stopped and nodded. “Yes, is there something wrong?” Michael asked tentatively.
“No,” was the response, this time by Mr. Jordan. “We’re very impressed with your shooting. Would you like to try out some of the heavy stuff now?”
Michael wasn’t expecting this at all, but excitement erupted in his face. “Yes sir! That does sound like fun.”
The three moved down from the pistol shooting area to larger range where several police officers were practicing. Instead of boards with paper targets, there were metal silhouettes of people placed at various distances, and there were a few barrels and low wooden walls scattered here and there. Mr. Jordan opened a locker and presented Michael with a sleek, futuristic-looking assault rifle. Somehow, Michael instantly recognised it as a Steyr AUG. He pointed out this fact to the instructor and the Superintendent, and they both looked surprised.
“Actually, it’s a F88 Austeyr, but it’s simply an exact copy of the AUG. Very good, Mr. Cunningham,” complimented Mr. Jordan. “I understand you’ve never shot before today, but do you think you know how to use this weapon?”
Michael gave the rifle a quick glance. It had an optical sight on top of a carrying rail, mounted on top of the barrel. There was a vertical front handgrip, and behind it was the pistol grip and trigger with a whole-hand trigger guard. Behind that was the body of the gun, made of a synthetic material, with the magazine well and port ejector on the right side. The weapon was a “bullpup” design, meaning that firing mechanism was located to the rear of the trigger, rather than in front which was more common.
It suddenly occurred to Michael that he had no idea how he knew what a “bullpup” design was, or what optical sights and port ejectors were for that matter. He knew absolutely nothing about guns, but the knowledge about the Austeyr had just suddenly appeared from some uncharted part of his brain the moment he laid eyes on the weapon. It was a very strange feeling…
“I think I can figure it out,” he finally answered. He took the rifle and a translucent magazine of ammunition from Mr. Jordan’s hands and muttered a few thanks.
The magazine was made of clear plastic and slightly curved. Michael told himself that it probably held 30 rounds of 5.56mm ammunition. How he knew that, he didn’t know. Instead of dwelling on his mysterious firearms knowledge, he inserted the magazine in the magazine well behind the trigger assembly.
Without realising it, his right hand groped for a little knob towards the rear of the right side of the weapon. His hand felt around for a few moments before Michael noticed that the cocking handle wasn’t there. He glanced down and spotted it on the left side, up towards the front of the weapon. He gave the knob a pull with his left hand.
Instinct told him that the weapon was ready to fire now. He gripped the vertical front grip with his left, held the main grip with his right, and firmly placed the butt of the weapon against his right shoulder. The rifle felt strangely comfortable and even familiar, yet somewhat… different, all at the same time.
Michael peered through the tubular sight. In the middle of his sight picture was a little red dot. He placed the red dot on the centre of a metal silhouette and lightly pulled the trigger.
The rifle gave a short, sharp bark and there was a flash. It was much more impressive than the handgun he had been shooting earlier in the day. A loud metallic ping! told him he had hit his target.
Michael only dimly heard the exclamations of the people watching him. He fired a quick burst at the silhouette again and a sharp rattle of clangs responded. Michael shifted his aim to some targets farther out and fired a few rounds at each. The rifle barked again and again, and ejected brass cartridge cases were soon scattered about at his feet.
The weapon stopped firing and Michael’s hand automatically pressed the magazine release lever and pulled out the magazine with almost robot-like precision. He snatched another magazine lying on the firing table next to him and inserted it, pulled back the cocking handle, and resumed firing. He completely shot his way through the second magazine in very short order.
Michael repeated the reloading procedure, but he quickly noticed that there weren’t any extra magazines to shoot. He looked at Mr. Jordan and Mr. Andrews, and both had identical expressions of amazement. Another police officer nearby whistled softly.
“Blimey, even I can’t shoot that good,” Mr. Jordan admitted after a long pause. He looked genuinely impressed. However, the Superintendent’s expression was harder to read. He looked… suspicious?
“Where did you learn that?” Mr. Andrews inquired with suspicion in his voice: Michael’s thoughts about the Superintendent’s mood were confirmed. “You can’t be a first-time shooter.”
“I am. I was telling the truth,” replied Michael quickly. His mind was much less certain. His skill and knowledge of firearms had come out of nowhere, but he was completely certain that he had never shot before in his life; guns were completely alien to him. But clearly, they aren’t now, he thought to himself.
Mr. Andrews was still looking at him doubtfully. There was a long pause.
“I see.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Cunningham? Can I have a word?”
Michael looked up from the quiz on lawful searches and seizures and noticed Mr. Andrews at the door. The other police students were still focused on their quizzes and didn’t look up.
“Sure,” Michael responded. He followed Mr. Andrews out the door into the hallway. They walked for several minutes through a maze of hallways, and Michael had no idea where Mr. Andrews was leading him.
Finally, they reached a door with a brass plaque that read:
Superintendent S. Andrews
New South Wales Police Department
Inner Metropolitan Region
His office. The superintendent had never brought any of the trainees into his office before, so Michael was inside for the first time. There was a large wooden desk with a clutter of picture frames, papers, and a lamp. Two policemen stood behind the desk along the wall.
There was a metallic click, and Michael saw Mr. Andrews withdraw a key from the now-locked door. He just noticed a third police officer standing by the door that he hadn’t noticed when he walked in.
Mr. Andrews walked around his desk and seated himself. There weren’t any chairs in front of the desk to sit in, so Michael stayed standing. He gave a furtive glace at the two officers at the wall in front of him, and the Superintendent sitting, his hands folded on the wooden desk.
What is going on? he asked himself. I’m not in trouble, am I?
Michael remembered that he was locked in the Superintendent’s office with Mr. Andrews himself and three police officers. For reasons unknown, he probably was.
“Now, Mr. Cunningham, is there anything you would like to tell us?” Mr. Andrews questioned.
“I beg your pardon?” Michael replied.
“What are you up to? What are you trying to hide from us?”
Michael couldn’t believe what was happening. Mr. Andrews was… was he treating him like a spy? “Nothing,” he answered simply, but with a hint of nervousness in his voice.
Mr. Andrews noticed, and his eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “Please, tell me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you suspecting me of something?” insisted Michael. Anger was beginning to simmer…
“That I am,” Mr. Andrews stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You don’t seem to be the terrorist or spy type, but I can never be too sure. Mr. Cunningham… you are very suspicious.”
Michael wanted to shout out and prove that he wasn’t so, but he restrained himself. As calmly as he could, he said, “How so?”
“Why are you asking me? You know the answer yourself,” was the reply.
Michael was about to say he didn’t know the answer and that had no idea what he was talking about when a disconcerting thought erupted. He remembered the shooting training earlier in the week…
Mr. Andrews seemed to have read his mind and explained to Michael how he insisted that he had never touched a gun in his life before, and how he somehow was able to outshoot even Mr. Jordan, and mysteriously knew how to operate the rifles without any instruction at all.
“But how is that make me suspicious?” Michael urged, desperate to have Mr. Andrews see how ridiculous the whole matter was. “Mr. Jordan said I was just a natural shot.”
Mr. Andrews nodded, and Michael felt hopeful for the shortest of moments. He was soon disappointed as the Superintendent continued.
“You very well could be, but I have a much better reason for dragging you in here to my office.”
“What?”
Mr. Andrews didn’t answer but instead, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a thin stack of forms. He turned it around for Michael to read and pushed it to the end of the desk for him to reach.
“Mr. Cunningham, would you please read the concluding statement on this form?”
Michael picked up the sheets and discovered that it was his application to police training. He flipped to the last page and found the paragraph. An impossible thought entered his mind: is Mr. Andrews thinking what I think he’s thinking? Michael read the requested statement:
I certify that the above information is true, and I understand that the use of a false identity is a criminal offence. I hereby consent to be governed by the rules and regulations of the New South Wales Police Department for the duration of my training session and after.
After the paragraph on the line was his signature and the date he signed it. He slowly placed the form back on the desk.
“Remember on your first day here, I asked for a copy of your birth certificate? You said you didn’t have one due to the hurricane, and I said I would find a copy for you in the records, correct?”
Michael nodded slowly. The bottom of his stomach seemed to have dropped. He suddenly understood where this conversation was going…
The Superintendent continued. “I made a most startling discovery Mr. Michael Timothy Cunningham. I’ll say it to you slowly: you “ don’t “ exist. You have no birth certificate. The British government doesn’t have one either. There is no Mr. Cunningham, Mr. Cunningham; there is nobody who meets your description, I’m afraid.”
“But… that’s impossible!” Michael stammered. “My name is“”
“It isn’t,” Mr. Andrews interrupted. “Please tell me the truth. Who are you really?”
“My name is Michael Timothy Cunningham, sir. I certainly am who I say I am.”
The Superintendent obviously didn’t believe him, and the position of his eyebrows on his forehead proved that fact. Several seconds passed in silence…
“Indeed. Well then, Mr. Cunningham, I hope you wouldn’t mind if you submit to questioning then?”
“No, I wouldn’t mind at all. Go right ahead,” responded Michael quickly.
Mr. Andrews nodded, looking past Michael’s shoulder. A second or two later, Michael felt a hand land on his right shoulder.
He wasn’t even aware that he was doing it. Without planning it, without any thoughts at all, Michael’s right hand shot up from his sides and grabbed the arm holding him. His left hand soon followed, reaching over his shoulder and also grabbing the arm. He gave his hands a savage twist and pulled as hard as he could. There was a yell and the policeman behind Michael was dragged forward, his arm pointed in an unnatural angle. Michael rotated himself anticlockwise and the man was lifted off his feet. As he came around, Michael kneed him hard in the stomach and he wrenched his right hand free of the man’s arm. He bent his arm and struck the back of the man’s neck with a sharp elbow. There was a shout of pain, and the police officer crashed to the ground.
Reality caught up to Michael. He was stunned. He had just beaten the stuffing out of a police officer in less than three seconds, and had only realised he had done so after he did it. He was then suddenly aware of the two policemen at the wall behind the desk, Glock 22s drawn and aimed strait at Michael’s head: officers were trained to shoot at centre mass, but the two policemen were clearly not about to take any chances. There was a very long, tense pause. The air had gone very still.
“Mr. Cunningham, is there something you would like to tell us?” Mr. Andrews demanded as calmly as he could for the second time.
Michael Cunningham’s life had just gotten very complicated.
Notes
For those of you unfamiliar with the wonderful metric system, Michael is about six feet, one inch tall, and weighs about 180 pounds.
F88 Austeyr: This is the assault rifle used by the Australian Army and some Australian police units, and as mentioned in the text, it is an almost exact copy of the Austrian Steyr AUG. Conceptually, the F88 it is quite similar to the L85 rifle used by the British Army, which explains why Michael (or Archer Price before his memory was modified) is able to use the weapon with ease.
Thank you for reading, and please leave a review if you so desire. I apologise again for the lack of magic in this chapter, but do not fear! Michael will have a run-in with magic again in later chapters.
Tim the Enchanter
''OBLIVIATE!'' by Tim the Enchanter
Chapter Notes: I originally wrote this story as a one-shot, and I never intended to write a sequel or follow up on what happens to Archer Price (a.k.a. Michael Cunningham) after the “hurricane” incident. However, I somehow decided that I could continue this story, and even more strangely, I managed to come up with a plot for the rest of it.
Please understand that Michael is with his fellow Muggles at the moment, so I apologise for the complete lack of magic in this chapter. In addition, I know absolutely nothing about how the police system works in Australia. Any errors are completely my own.
As always, I don’t own Harry Potter. Thank you for reading and enjoy. All reviews will receive a response.