Lowe had arranged to meet the museum's remaining senior staff - sans Nuroon - later that afternoon at Cuckoo House. He'd even booked one of the more unpleasant interview rooms, the one which smelled of damp wood, desperation and just the right amount of spilled blood.

His thinking had been simple: get them off their own turf, away from the Director, and maybe, just maybe, they'd spill something useful about what had happened to the two . Oh, and if he were lucky, maybe he'd get a lead on where the fucking had vanished too. Because right now, with Nuroon refusing to play ball, Lowe had absolutely nothing to go on.

He was being stonewalled by a man so steeped in arrogance and privilege that he was practically dripping in smug. Even without Latham's doom-filled warnings, the little chat the two of them had had—the one where Nuroon all but told him to fuck off with his banal questions and stick to the nice, tidy corners of Soar that didn’t ruffle any feathers—was still a raw wound in Lowe’s mind. It had been the kind of conversation where every word had put his teeth on edge.

Nuroon hadn’t just warned him off; he’d practically shoved him out the door with a pat on the head and the assurance that the adults would resolve the matter and that he should go and play with his toys somewhere else. It had left Lowe groping in the dark with the miasma of the Director’s aura hanging over him, and every attempt Lowe had made in the last twenty-four bells to move the case on was being met with roadblock after roadblock. Polite but firm ‘no’s’ to every request. Even the had stopped replying to his messages, and Penarth could always be relied upon for at least a hearty 'fuck off'.

Lowe's frustration had clawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, but all he could do was grit his teeth and keep moving forward - which was why he had arranged for interviews to take place off museum grounds.

However, just as he left Latham, who was happily munching his way through his fourth plate of sandwiches—seriously, where did the put it all?—his Sending Stone was buzzing in his pocket. He fished it out, expecting the usual—some bullshit update or another complaint from the Mayor's office. Instead, what he read made his blood pressure spike so high that Roll with the Punches activated on its own to prevent him from stroking out.

It was a written message from Nuroon's , a polished vulture with an icy smile, informing him that all proposed interviews were off. And what is more, if he wanted to "interrogate any museum employees, he could only do so in the museum’s library—under the supervision of in-house counsel," no less.

"Are you fucking kidding me!"

Lowe's voice bounced off the grimy glass windows of the shopfronts, scattering a flock of Bloodgulls that had been pecking at some unfortunate soul's corpse.

Pernille Staffen, who was unfortunately on the other end of the connection, flinched and turned down the volume on her own Sending Stone, flopping back in her chair like a cat that had decided not to care, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

"It's hardly a completely bullshit request, Inspector," she replied.

"Oh really? When was the last time you allowed a murder suspect to be interviewed at their place of work? At a time of their choosing. And with their own legal advice! Maybe I should take a picnic with me and a bottle of something chilled? You know, just to play nice! I don't know, Commander, I thought we were the Soar Security Service, not a fucking village newsletter!" He spat out the words like they tasted foul, which they absolutely did.

Staffen's eyes narrowed, and though Lowe couldn't see her - standard Cuckoo House tech didn't have the visual function on the Sending Stones - he felt the weight of her anger settle upon him. He figured she had triggered her Implacable Stare Skill, the kind of Epic ability that sent better men than him scrambling for cover.

In truth, Staffen was just as pissed off as Lowe. Grackle Fucking Nuroon was pulling strings like a puppeteer who never intended the show to end. This last-minute switch of interview venue was just the latest in a long line of arse-fuckings the Security Services had taken since the second liquefied body had been discovered. The sudden, colossal interference in hundreds of cases under her purview hadn’t been easy to take, but she wasn’t about to let Lowe add to the burden.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

From the minute Lowe had begun ferreting around, it was like the Mayor had apparently got her on speed Stone; the Council wanted hourly, in-person updates on progress; and dark noises were coming from the Temple that Arkola was displeased their favourite Museum Director was being bothered with such "banal trivialities" as a couple of meaningless slayings. Oh, and she was reasonably sure someone had broken into her house last night and licked all her teaspoons.

But if anyone in Soar thought any of that would bother her, they'd misjudged their woman. And that included Jana 'Oh Woe is Fucking Me' Lowe.

"Tell me you aren't raising your motherfucking voice at me!"

The power of Staffen's fear-inducing Skill crashed down the connection into Lowe like a late for lunch. The strength of her displeasure sent him reeling backwards, swerving into a wall, a -20% Courage debuff settling on him like a death shroud. He might have even wet himself a little.

"Because I can tell you this for fucking nothing," Staffen continued, her voice the kind of chilly that burns. "The last wanker who spoke to me like that is still having his fucking arse cheeks stitched back on."

Lowe's angry frustration drained out of him like a gutter run-off. He squeaked an apology, the sound so pitiful he almost didn’t recognise it as his own voice.

"That's better," Staffen snapped. "Look, I don't know what you want from me here, Lowe. There's been a murder. You're a fucking murder investigator. Do I need to hold your dick while you piss too? Suspects won't come to you? Boo-fucking-hoo. What do you want me to do about it? Slap them on the arse and tell them to stop being mean to you? Quit your bleating and do your fucking job. Get your backside to the museum and find out who's killing its . It really ain't more fucking difficult than that. I couldn’t give Arkola's left ball sack about where you ask your questions. But I'll tell you this for free; if night falls without some sort of progress for me to pass up the chain, you'll discover why I'm Blurian's chosen bringer of vengeance. Are we on the same motherfucking page?!"

Lowe didn’t trust himself to answer without gibbering, so he dragged his mana out of the stone and dropped it back in his pocket, the weight of it suddenly much heavier.

Until relatively recently, he had prided himself on his ability to navigate the twisting alleys of Soar's power structure - I mean, sure, a little voice chimed in his head, you can keep telling yourself crap like that. Still, if we're going to start hallucinating bollocks, perhaps we can do so a foot taller and ten pounds lighter? - but on days like this, he felt like he was wading through a quagmire of bureaucratic bullshit.

Leaning back against the wall, Lowe adjusted his collar, damp with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the weather and cursed under his breath. Staffen's words rang in his ears, each syllable laced with disappointment. The kind that didn't wash off. And it was all the worse because she had a point. Since when was his go-to response to difficulty to run to 'mummy' complaining about the unfairness of it all?

Since your Classtration, subsequent betrayal by your best friend and the realisation the gods of Soar really couldn't give a fuck, the little voice in his head added snidely.

Well, there was that . . .

Looking around, Lowe didn't think it was just the residue of Staffen's fear Skill that was making it so the streets of Soar had never felt so menacing, each shadow a potential threat, each cobblestone a trap waiting to trip him up. He knew he'd been in worse situations before - this wasn't even making the top three after the year he had had - but there was something about this case. Something rotten. It was like Soar itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next shoe to drop. And knowing his luck, it’d have a fucking Orc's foot in it.

Maybe it was the fear Skill. Maybe it was the look in Latham's eyes as he had passed on his warning. Or maybe it was the residue of the necrotic slime still freaking him out.

But whatever it was, Lowe couldn't help but feel his life would be an awful lot easier if he just put a warrant out for the arrest of Martha Culloden on suspicion of murder and filed his report.

"You okay, boss?" a wandering asked, eyeing Lowe like a vulture that had spotted a wounded animal: he'd sensed a commercial opportunity in Lowe's staggered steps, white face, and general attitude of vulnerability. The vendor's cart, filled with dubious meats on sticks and bottles of even more questionable liquid, looked like it hadn’t seen a health inspection since Arkola was in nappies.

"Just regretting some recent life choices, mate," Lowe muttered, flicking the man a silver coin before steadying himself and crossing the intersection of Triumph and Disaster to join the queue for the Portal Stone.

The vendor watched him go, a sly smile curling on his lips, then pulled his own Sending Stone out of a grubby apron pocket, its surface greasy from too many unwashed fingers. "Yeah," he said into it, his voice low and conspiratorial, "he's just on his way there now."