“How do you suppose the victim died, detective Blowfly?” Cherilyn asked, getting a little closer to the dead bug. She knew solving a murder mystery as remuneration was the best part of grave robbing for her little sister.

To Millie, there was nothing like a little whodunnit roleplay to lighten up the mood after another long day spent searching for mummified bodies of the Forgotten instead of relaxing for her last week of recess from university.

Cherilyn told Millie she didn’t have to come along anymore; that Millie should focus on her studies, since Homeland University would reopen for another academic year soon. But Millie insisted there was no better way of gaining experience in her field of study than conducting real-time autopsies on varied subjects.

The sisters’ years of scavenging proved invaluable in Millie’s freshman year amongst those spoiled True Bug scions, apparently. They’d visited a morgue for Millie’s first class and most of the snobs had never seen a cadaver in their lives; that their faces looked more ghostly than the dead is what Millie told Cherilyn.

Cherilyn remembered when Millie left for university two years earlier, saying she’d publish a bug-reviewed journal on scavenging in the Murks before graduation. She’d come a long way since then.

The week before they departed for this particular scavenge, Millie argued this was a one-of-a-kind research opportunity. Cherilyn doubted Millie’s motives, but she knew that if any Homelander (of the Diptera) could do it, that was Millie.

It wasn’t an upright business, but there was a moral code, Millie believed, to grave robbing; the way Millie saw it, even the dead bug had something to gain from the morbid affair.

The quartet of maggots ([Larvae]): a pair of scavenging sisters (Millie and Cherilyn) and two brothers (Oliver, the co-pilot and Lennon, the contraptor) together would “clean up” the Forgotten bugs’ indestructible exoskeletons (well, indestructible to the maggots), leaving the chitinous armor as lustrous as the day the Forgotten became Sapien.

Because exoskeletons, at the end of a life, served both as the Forgotten’s headstones and convenient mummification pods (Lennon slurred often), this was the maggots’ way of performing last rites for the fallen heroes.

So even as memory of the Forgotten ebbs to time, Cherilyn and the other maggots, at least, would remember the valiance of the Forgotten’s chitinous armor (that she so wished they could take apart)... and all the loot they’d scavenge for obscene profits. Cherilyn cleared her throat as Millie walked closer, standing next to her.

Of late, the maggots had to venture further into the Murks than any of them would admit to Daddy just to find any decent loot.

It was risky business and Cherilyn knew Lennon couldn’t keep wiping their ornithopter’s flight log forever. Daddy’s zealous Kin (henchmaggots, really) would sooner report the inconsistent flight-time to fuel consumption ratio than accept a bribe; let alone any of his Offspring (all Sapien) there was no lying to those eyes.

But what did it matter when they’d bought the damn fuel themselves with their hard-earned currency?

Of course, it mattered. The maggots knew that all too well. It was likely he’d seen right through their ruse already. This was Daddy they were dealing with. He was probably getting off to knowing how screwed they’d be when he’d charge the maggots twice as much for renting one of his logistics ‘thopters under false pretenses; then flying her deep into the Murks for a lucrative grave robbing side-hustle that he’d been dipping his long legs into decades before any of the maggots were born.

Cherilyn knew it was all a load of fruiflies. Really, paying twice as much of the standard rental fee made them no sacred cow; supposing she could afford it (Oliver and Lennon’s wages, and saving for Millie’s tuition fees, spread Cherilyn thin enough).

Letting carelessness or greed lead her to grounding one of Daddy’s ornithopters out here meant there’d be hell to pay back in Pond 57 (assuming the maggots made it back alive, that is).

But, again, what did it matter if Daddy was going to take half their loot for himself, anyway?

“I’ll have to observe the victim from a certain proximity to be conclusive... is that okay, inspector?” Millie replied, scrunching her eyebrows as she gazed at the three-meter tall, armored bipedal bug, thinking hard. Her bloodshot eyes, much like her sister’s, reduced to slits.

But it was Millie’s short antennae peeking through her long, braided, dark-blue hair that mattered here. Not those eyes (not yet, anyway).

“Knock yourself out, detective,” Cherilyn grinned. She looked much like her little sister, but taller; with shorter hair. Cherilyn stood just shy of 170 centimeters, taller than average for one of Diptera blood, but still much shorter than most Homelanders.

Cherilyn Blowfly had an oval face, pale skin, and a toned figure. With dark bags under her bloodshot eyes; the whites of her eyes—black; her irises a bright red. A scar runs up her eyebrow, disappearing into the blue of her hair—one of her antennae missing on that side. At 26-years-old, she wasn’t counting on growing it back.

The maggots had been studying the crash site of a large military ornithopter; hovering in their own rented ‘thopter for the past week. As usual, Lennon scoured the marsh for mines... or other threats with drones and laser topographers.

That’d been the right call. There were no mines in this area, but the marsh had nearly three-dozen whirlpools, each hundreds of meters deep and just as wide across. The winds directly above one nearly brought down their logistics ‘thopter; it took both Oliver and Millie piloting in tandem to avoid disaster.

The pressure inside even the smallest of the whirlpools was so great that it’d flatten the resilient composite material of their ‘thopter like an empty soda can under a hydraulic press. The good news, Lennon said later on, was that they’d have died too quickly to feel the pain.

Lennon first picked up an encrypted SOS signal from the military ‘thopter that must’ve crashed within the marsh over six decades earlier, given the cipher they’d used—military grade. It would’ve taken cryptanalysts of that time hundreds of years to crack it with conventional methods. But this was a different time; no more was there a military, and they hadn’t accounted for him.

Lennon thought it strange, though; wouldn’t a bug want anyone at all to save their skin when their wings were wet? Why use encrypted messages for an SOS? Sixty years ago was centuries after the last Swamp War; it couldn’t be caution against enemy [Flyers]. So what were the coveted Soldierbugs hiding? There had to be something interesting down there.

So the maggots persisted for over a week: Painstakingly plotting routes, and taking appropriate measures to defend themselves in case other [Scavengers] or Daddy’s Kin wandered this far out. Oliver and Millie found a suitable spot close enough to the military ‘thopter for landing; but it was tricky because at least a dozen whirlpools, varying in size, surrounded the ‘thopter; the largest having a radius of nearly 50 meters.

Oliver was unusually quiet the whole time, but an excited grin marred his face, betraying his aloof facade. It was thanks to his and Millie’s brilliant piloting that they’d pulled it off, landing within the spirals of death.

The maggots’ modest, but modern, rented logistics ‘thopter landed a few hundred meters from the huge, vintage, military one.

It was near the military ‘thopter that an imposing sentry crouched—one of the Forgotten—long impaled with some type of double-edged long sword with jagged barbs like shark teeth firmly lodged in the Forgotten’s abdomen.

With a streamlined charcoal-black exoskeleton covered in green moss, twisty vines, and bioluminescent blue algae, the Forgotten looked like an abominable shogun committing seppuku.

Three chitinous horns—iridescent in the yellow light—stuck out of the Forgotten’s armored headpiece, telling Cherilyn all she needed to know.

“I say this bug was a dry-humping Beetle, detective Blowfly,” Cherilyn said. “You still have a long way to go if you have to cop a [Feel] to know that.”

She got a few laughs from Lennon and Oliver as Millie nodded; scribbling something onto her tablet with a stylus. But Cherilyn was serious about this. She never joked when roleplaying as Homeland Security. Something about her sister getting in the right mindset first, and then everything else would follow. She didn’t want Millie wasting her potential.

“That’s right, inspector. I’ve a ways to go, still,” Millie said, chagrined as she stood by the crouching giant; she walked closer.

Millie’s fingers trailed the cold, smooth surface of the Forgotten’s exoskeleton as she walked around the imposing bipedal figure; her head reaching only up to its slumped neck. Millie cleared her throat, saying,

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“You’ll notice these hardened forewings are the elytra that the Coleopterists so aptly named their Twin Cities after,” she said, pointing up to the enclosed, lustrous fore wings, strange runes forming a dotted pair on each wing. “Unmistakably, a Beetle attribute for protection of hind wings and flight-stabilization in some extinct families.”

Cherilyn nodded for her to continue.

Millie’s short antennae perked as felt the blood rush to her face; she took a steady breath, eyes closed, her hand settling on one of the Forgotten’s firm triceps, saying:

“Female victim: 63 when she last drew breath. Died about fifty-five years ago, given the rate of exoskeleton decay, we’d have to move the Forgotten to a lab to determine the exact time of death.”

“Cause of death?” Cherilyn asked; her one antenna was perking.

“Suicide by sharp force trauma, right through the vestigial liver, is what the novice would suggest, given the visceral laceration in the lower abdominals—as chitinous residue matches the victim’s own hemolymph—wrong.

“Though the novice would be correct in suggesting a trained assailant veiling their true modus operandi with the victim’s supposed act of self-harm. Because on closer inspection...” Millie took a shallow breath, her hand lingering on the smooth, metallic feel of the exoskeleton; she frowned for effect, her antennae perking further. Millie reveled in the attention she got when she was right about things; she smiled a little at the punchline:

“...you’ll notice that while there’s not a scratch on the exoskeleton’s thorax, or on the body’s chest cavity within, the victim had cells within her vestigial lungs combust with every breath. A synthetic hemoglobin-like substance attached itself to her alveoli, reacting violently with the oxygen in her blood; the reaction charred the spongy organs black.

“Despite nicotine levels suggesting the victim was a regular smoker, forgive my crudeness, inspector: Smoking blunts didn’t kill her... however, it might have later on.”

Cherilyn scoffed at the obvious jeer, wishing she had an e-cigarette to smoke right then. She held in a laugh, saying: “Your conclusion, detective?”

“This is the work of a Sapien with an impressive [Concocter Trait]. Slow, painful death. That explains why the victim attempted to end her own life. The [Concocter] poisoned her.

“Though, considering the assailant didn’t know to mask traces of the quasi-hemoglobin with the victim’s own hemolymph as is common practice since new wave [Concocters] of the late seventies, discounting the usual [Concocter] hubris, this matches my time of death estimate of at least fifty-five years ago.”

“And that’s why we’re paying for your tuition fees by robbing graves! Bravo, detective Millie Blowfly! But the case isn’t closed just yet,” Cherilyn said. “The victim impaled herself with her own blade before the [Concocter] got to her. How do you explain that?”

Millie frowned. She couldn’t have missed that, could she? But Millie knew Cherilyn was a much better [Feeler] than she was.

Millie steadied her breath, tightening her grip on the cold, lustrous armor. She peered into the victim once more: Millie could [Feel] the victim’s toned muscles, the delicate skin in some places, her battle scars, the lines of the victim’s beautiful, aging face; eyes wide, mouth gaping, at the time of her death... Millie [Felt] it all; goosebumps forming on the young maggot’s body.

She was afraid... of course she was. Millie thought.

She went deeper, [Felt] more... then Millie’s lips parted slightly before she clenched her jaw.

“I… you’re right, inspector. It seems I was too eager for a clean close.”

“A [Feeler] must have strong convictions, but remain open to possibility. Don’t impose your version of the truth on the victim because you want a clean, ‘case closed, inspector!’

“Most cases you’ll encounter are vile and dirty. It’s why they start with a death,” Cherilyn said, her voice grave.

“You gleam truth by [Feeling] the victim’s pain, not with emotion, but with cold, dialectic reasoning. Read the clues she left in the wake of her woes. Use your chemosensory abilities, Mill. What do you [Feel]? Acknowledge it, but remember, it’s not yours. Separate yourself from it, then think.”

“The victim's pheromones suggest a mind in disarray,” Millie said. “I [Feel] her pain... fear... grief... resignation... and then, nothing... I’m sorry, that’s about as much as I can gleam, Cher.” Millie said, her shoulders slumping. She opened her eyes, took a step back from the Forgotten then sighed; looking right at her sister as she chewed her lip. “I can’t tell at all what came first: the poisoning, then her impalement, or vice versa. I’m not as good as you are at filling in the blanks.”

“You like hard facts. Nothing’s wrong with that. Sure, when it comes down to it, does it even matter why the victim died when you already know how? I think it does. It gives the victim solace that someone cared enough to gnaw at their brains until she learned the truth. To let the victim know she mattered so much that how wasn’t enough.

“And you’ll address your superiors properly, detective Blowfly,” Cherilyn said. “You wouldn’t want to get court martialled now, would you?”

“Of course not, inspector. Forgive me,” Millie said, her antennae curling into her hair, face burning.

What was she doing getting frustrated like a child who couldn’t jump high enough to reach a bar at the jungle gym? What good was that? Millie cleared her throat, saying,

“Well, taking your word for it, inspector, if the victim impaled herself before meeting her painful fate with the [Concocter]... that could mean,” Millie gasped. “The victim knew her assailant... more likely, the nature of her assailant’s [Trait]; she determined she had no way of fighting back; choosing to end herself with a fatal blow, than face her assailant. But she didn’t count on that working against her.”

“Hmm, how so, detective?” Cherilyn said, eyes filled with pride as she looked at her little sister pacing around in little circles.

“It’s obvious when you look at the synthetic hemoglobin’s structure; like any good knockoff, it has four protein chains. Two normal beta chains and an adapted alpha pair: one breaks down tissue, the other grows and repairs it, but at abnormal rates. The assailant’s [Concoction] healed and counter-healed, keeping the victim living for as long as possible—days, possibly—while inflicting unrelenting pain.

“The assailant wanted something from her; she died of slow torture. That’s just... cruel.”

“It’s no wonder Sapiens with the [Concocter Trait] live with all those restrictions—they’re nasty in wars,” Oliver said, his gaze beyond the Forgotten Beetle, to the military ‘thopter looming in the background. “Most of them are pretty cocky, too. Choosing slow-killing methods that inflict the most pain, daring anyone to neutralize their [Concoction].”

“If someone can even find traces of it,” Lennon said. “[Feelers] like Mill and Cher, are the exception, not the rule.”

“Okay, okay... we found another dead Beetle. Cool! But has everyone else forgotten about the ‘thopter in the back, the reason we made this risky pit stop? That baby’s a vintage beauty!” Oliver’s pitchy voice rallied as his slight frame dashed nimbly across the marsh, approaching the rusted old flying contraption in the back.

“Hey, Ollie! There could be mines in this area, you [Flyer]-junkie! What if you blow us all to bits? I won’t die because of you!” Millie’s bloodshot eyes burned with an imaginary flame. Oliver was certain he could feel the flame scorching his skin each time she blinked. The menace! But he braced himself, quoting:

“‘For we must serve, the honor is ours, we are bugs of the Homeland, we live for the Homeland, we die for the Homeland...’ then it’s been this bug’s honor flying with you, Captain,” Oliver said, saluting and adjusting his aviator goggles as he looked back at Millie with a straight face, the best one he could pull anyway, but his lips trembled as he stifled a laugh.

He finally burst into laughter as Millie’s cheeks went red, her throbbing antennae curling into her blue hair to hide from the palpable shame; clearly not wanting to [feel] it twice.

Fruitflies, the little [Flyer]-junkie knows! Millie thought. He knows!

Detective Blowfly ejected from the cockpit in a heartbeat; barely pilot-age nineteen-year-old criminology major, Millie Blowfly, had taken over flight control and she was nosediving into a cesspool of her own shame because her short, annoying childhood friend (best friend, but they didn’t say such embarrassing things anymore) just spilled one of her secrets to the world—which was two other people: one who knew all her secrets, and another who didn’t care for them.

While Millie acted nonchalant, Oliver knew she was just as much of a ‘[Flyer]-junkie’ as he was, maybe more so, considering she was secretly a zealous Homeland Security nut, too. Millie had been playing the Forensicbugs’s For the Homeland anthem in the cockpit throughout their flight to the Murks. Lennon and Cherilyn in the cabin couldn’t hear it, but it was audible in his headset, too.

Oliver couldn’t bring himself to tell Millie, so he snickered all on his own the entire flight, and she couldn’t quite understand what was so funny.

“So what if Homeland Security’s anthem doesn’t use inclusive language? They still protect us all—bugs, flies, whatever, it doesn’t matter; it shouldn’t matter!” Millie snapped back a little louder than she’d intended, her tight fists turning white.

“Okay, ‘Ladybug’, calm down. Besides, Len’s so paranoid he had us hovering for a week because he wanted to use three different topographers. There ain’t no mines here.” Oliver shrugged; then pointed to his aviator goggles. “Oh, and don’t worry, Captain, I’ll watch my step.”

He noticed Millie’s antennae twitch at the Ladybug snide and chuckled; Millie had herself to blame for that one.

But not wasting any more time, the young maggot dashed forward (he could always tease Millie later), slower this time because the soil near whirlpools, no matter the size, was clingy. The black dirt had a nasty habit of holding you down and never letting go.

But Oliver could see through it. The trick was in spotting areas where the shallow water was clearer because all the gunk had sunk into the whirlpools below; steering clear of those. He spotted a few more Forgotten scattered across the marsh, some deep into the dirt up to their necks.

More sentries? Oliver thought.

Olivers’ feet sunk a few inches deeper into black water as he got closer to the military ornithopter, but he paid little heed to such things; suddenly the world turned into a blur, Millie’s voice a mere whisper.

Lennon got the brothers into the scavenging business to pay their bills and Daddy his dues, but Oliver was just glad he got to co-pilot with Millie whenever they were out here. He was glad he got to fly at all.

And moments like this were the best. Even rusted beyond recognition for most, her glory days long past, Oliver knew a Robber 'Thopter: Model Ryu when he saw one.

She was huge up close, a thing of beauty. The once-clear chitinous panels of the Compound-Eye Cockpit had turned yellow after decades of neglect. Each Ommatidium Cell, once capable of spotting and predicting movement in the fourth dimension at supersonic speeds, had dimmed into a blur of a glorious era past. Shame.

The Model Ryu’s streamlined hull remained mostly whole, save for a ghastly rupture on its side. But with its crowning jewels, the dynamic-wing set-up remaining intact. Each of the four wings could move independently, and weighted bevels and veiny groves on each one’s surface, added for superior flight control.

“They don't make 'em like they made her anymore.... this baby could break the sound barrier flying backwards and sideways simultaneously, in her glory days; and all you care about is a dime-a-dozen mummified bug with a sword?” Oliver yelled back at the maggots.

“Well, it’s just a heap of heavy metal now, isn’t it? Won’t pay the bills. What’s inside it might be a different story, though,” Lennon said, laying explosives all over the Forgotten Beetle’s exoskeleton. He’d entertained Millie and Cherilyn’s little conscious-clearing skit long enough—it was time for the actual business that had brought them out here.