En route to the second location, I get a very annoying ping in my head. It's like a mental floater bounding around my head. Ambient but impossible to ignore.

I reluctantly answer it, willing my body to accept the intrusion. I'm not chipped, so cranial to cranial communication like this is opt in. Whoever's calling better have a good reason.

There's a syrupy-smooth voice in my head now. Clare. Just Clare. Her voice has a malice she thinks she's clever enough to obscure. "Hello there, my favorite Exile. Has the wasteland changed? Did they finally put a spa there?"

I'm glad she can't see me grimacing. A spa, a private joke, as if personal hygiene is a foreign concept. I keep my thoughts neutral and expected; she can surface-level skim my thoughts, and I can do the same for her. She doesn't hide her pity.

"No, but we did renovate the fuck pit since you were there. Now it's a members-only fuck pit, very fancy, very exclusive; I don't think they'd let you in."

Her thoughts fluctuate to disgust. She always was the squeamish type.

" Okay, let's stop with the taunts. Thank you for coming back, that's all I wanted to say. I requested you personally."

She didn't have to tell me that. "The only reason I took this case was that it seemed interesting."

" And is it?" Her voice has an unashamed excitement, the verbal equivalent of rubbernecking at a car crash.

We come to a quaint little cobblestone bridge. Underneath it, the city spreads out in all directions, on the walls, at odd angles; every inch of space is occupied by architecture.

"It doesn't matter what I think. I've committed to this case. The only thing left to do is solve it."

She chuckles. Her presence seems to fade. I think that's the end of it; this pointless call is over. But then she says, "Do you remember when we were growing up in this city? How bright the world felt then."

I start running faster, the adrenaline I'm getting from the memory fueling me. "I barely remember it." That's a lie; she can definitely tell it's a lie. Here's something truthful, she always brings this up, and it's always the worst.

"You were like my shadow back then. Wherever I went, you followed." A pause, her recollection is making her nostalgic. It's making me sick. "But like, a bright shadow. Nothing like you are now. Now you're just… a shadow's shadow. You're so dark it's like a black hole. But sometimes, you know, we need that. The city needs that. Because we get black holes of our own."

We're coming to the house now, a grand golden mansion artfully encroached by vines. There are people here. "I can't say it was fun reconnecting. I have to go now, got a murder to investigate. Can't say this was fun."

" There's always a place for you here, Hesselti. There always was."

She leaves my brain, and I can finally breathe again.

.

.

.

"That Automaton plays such wonderful music!" A woman wearing an Ent mask says to her companion. They're referring to what appears to be a well-dressed robot at the center of the party, playing a jaunty tune on a player piano for the pleasure of 30 or so people.

"Yes, it's so charmingly retro! And it came with the place. Can you believe it?" Says a second. She's coated in an identity perfume that smells of lilac and leadership. She must own the house.

The three of us are cloaked up; only the light from the frosted windows betrayed our presence, and you'd have to be looking for us. None of these people are. They're all high on Simulacrum or too focused on being the center of attention. It's one of those Forever Parties, which have always been in style. Judging by the still unpacked crates looming on the second floor, they only recently moved in. This doesn't bode well.

"Past target, or future?" Kal's smooth voice crackles in my mask. It's not cranial communication; it's just through my exoskeleton, way more my speed. A partygoer bumps into me and looks around, confused momentarily, before they shrug and walk it off.

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The Automaton moves strangely. I've seen a lot of Automatons, different from other synthetic creatures because their movement is programmed and predetermined, perfect for roles such as a piano player. Still, there's something different about this one: it plays far more fluidly than its robotic joints should allow. It wouldn't surprise me if these idiots had lost the plot on the appeal of an Automaton and just hired a guy to pretend to be one, but it didn't seem like a mistake more than a giveaway. It wears a mask not in any style familiar to me, an iron bowl with pockmarked holes. Something grey moves under it. "Past target"

The man who bumped into me once is coming back for seconds; he brought along a friend, a bored-looking woman wearing a giant, fully functioning eyeball as a hat. "I'm telling you, it was like a force field. I just stood there and then-"

And then I decloak. He screams and hides behind eyeball mask, who is still just as disinterested. I do a needlessly showy bow as my two friends also decloak. The focus of the party is squarely on us, and yet the Automaton keeps playing. Probably not a guy in a suit, then.

I put a razor-sharp finger on the bored eyeball woman's neck. In response, a nervous gulp. "Everyone... get the fuck out of here."

They know we're Ultimatums. They know we'd kill them if we needed to. We've already been exiled, made lapdogs of Nusquama. What are they going to do if we killed a bunch of civilians who didn't listen to us, send us to a patch of dirt twice as far away?

Not that I would ever do such a thing. I wield the threat of death lightly, but I try to avoid it. I have killed only 275 people. If this sounds like a lot, you've led a charmed life. It's a rounding error among my people.

Kals killed a small country, something in the tens of thousands. As for Sweats' number, she can't count that high. And a majority of my kills were when I was young and reckless and on behalf of Nusquama. Those who live in Utopia never like to talk about it, but their gardens always sit atop skulls.

Now, I'm effectively a pacifist. I haven't killed someone for a good 167 years, around one and a half spans, and the last time I did it was a favor.

Of course, none of these people know that. When an Ultimatum appears out of nothingness and threatens to slice your neck, you don't take it lightly. They leave quickly, panicky but still very ordered; one guy even gets to the front of the crowd and makes it like he's the line leader, and as terrified as the crowd is, they play along. Single file they leave, looking quite ridiculous.

"Yeah, yeah." As soon as they leave, Sweats surveys the place up and down, her head moving exceptionally fast. "This will make a great headquarters. Good thinking, Jen!"

"Something weird to you about… that?" Kal gestures to the Automaton. He takes up attention now that all is quiet but the creaky notes of his piano. Well, not all. The absence of the partygoers makes a ruffling sound, coming from underneath the Automatons mask, quite clear.

I flash-step over there, my bladed finger at the Automaton's throat. Just confirmation, it's not just a very committed human performer. It keeps with that same uncanny competency. I notice for the first time it's foot is tapping. More than that, tiny, razor-sharp strings are attached to it and are coming out of a small crack in the piano. Putting a finger to my mouth, I slowly carve open the front of the piano; there's a complicated but analog machine the strings are all attached to. Levers and pulleys that correspond with the movements of the Automaton. But it's not an Automaton. That is clear now. It's a corpse.

I slice away all the strings at once; the body falls limp, its illusion of life put to rest. Like a magician unveiling a trick, I grab its mask with a flourish and rip it off.

Moths come out, hundreds and hundreds of moths unleashed in a torrent that goes on for far too long, and all flutter around chaotically, going straight for the top of the cathedral-like building and picking fights with the rafters.

I look into the body and wrinkle my nose.

It's been hollowed out. A body without organs. There's no face, just a massive hole. Coated with the dead and squished bodies of moths and their cocoons alike are the sides. Peering down to the bottom of the hollowed corpse, I can see a pile of dead moths that go up to the hips.

"Kal, carbon date this please." I take my leave from the ugly sight. Moths are still coming out intermittently, like a leaky faucet. Their flapping is far louder than the piano playing, and I grow nostalgic for a time only a few moments ago.

His hand turns into a scanner, which reluctantly goes down the body. There's a beep, and he can't get his hand out of there fast enough.

"The… cocoons are all six months or so, to the date." He wipes the hand that has defiled the corpse with a piece of cloth. I don't know where he got it, but I'm glad, for his sake, he has it. The corpse itself is harder to date, but judging by the, um, marks left from the removal of the organs, they seem to be from around the same time."

" Seem to be?"

"Look, I don't know, there's a discrepancy of around a few hours, but it's basically the same. I just- I kind of want to move on from this." I couldn't agree more. He looks down before responding. "I'm pretty sure they survived by feasting on the dead ones, in case you were interested."

I wasn't. The moths flap restlessly above us. We were dealing with someone who had taken full advantage of their invisibility. Another dead body, months dead, and just like the last unidentifiable. This time, by having their chip scooped out.

"I'm going to make sure to ask who the fuck sold them this house, that could be a lead. Till then, let us see what else they left for us." As I leave, I make sure I keep the door open. A courtesy for the moths.