It was 8:30 AM on September 1st when the Writer burst into their lodgings and told them to gather in the main room. Though the city of Reville didn’t have many planted trees on ground level, it did have a fair amount on top of buildings. With autumn’s slow arrival, a small scattering of orange and red leaves draped the city and fell into the small streams of water running through it from Larueszeradt.
Sato yawned, stretching her body across the couch in the main office. The fading orange gleam of dawn shone through the wide windows to her left. “Why’d you have to wake us up so early, Sygg?”
Tien, opposite of her and full of energy, looked at the Writer with excitement. She gasped loudly. “Is it a contract? Finally?”
Sato let her head fall backward lazily against the cushions as she stared up into the ceiling. “Why are you so excited to work? I’ll never understand it…”
“Yes, it is,” the Writer replied, unperturbed by Sato’s comment. “Our first one. Though, it is a relatively odd one. Our client isn’t exactly one person… In fact, a subsection of the Union contacted us. Our very own government.”
“The Union of Isles? They’re the ones who own Reville, yeah?” Tien asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Yes, which did make me glad at first, seeing as how Vroque isn’t too well-known outside of this city. Unfortunately, that didn’t last. An official from here contacted them, and they contacted us. It’s about a very sudden and strange murder that occurred early this morning. Let’s see… it must have happened… three hours ago.”
“A murder, huh? Why can’t the Union handle it? Or just hire the Nye Inkorpt like they always do?”
The Writer grinned strangely. “Excellent question. I don’t really know, either. My best guess is that they’re still busy with all the other syndicates running around the city. That and the endless tourists waiting to enter it.”
“Hm. Whichever it is, it’s true that the Union has their hands full right now. Better yet, this could be just what we need to get our name out there. Vroque has always played second fiddle to the Inkorpt, but if the Union’s trusting us with this instead, it could help us at least become equal to them in the people’s eyes.”
The Writer chuckled and turned to stare out the window into the busy sunlit streets. Small children walked along the walkways, most likely toward Exilliei District, which was where a great deal of schools and other educational buildings stood. Their faint voices and laughter could barely be heard through the glass and the blowing wind outside.
“What are the details, then? About the murder.” Sato spoke up, raising her head to attention.
“I was getting to that, but we can’t start without Ma’at. Where is she?”
“Here,” a voice came from the doorway. The Sirithisian woman of the same name with her shoulder-length, fluffy hair stood there. It was clear she was tired, but finally ready to work after her recovery. She had laid in bed with nothing to do for far too long, and Sato’s endless talks as she healed did not help her situation. If anything, it annoyed her to no end that she couldn’t even escape it. Now, though, she could leave and work in perfect silence apart from her own thoughts rattling off inside her head.
“Great!” the Writer exclaimed. “Well, why don’t you and Sato head to the crime scene and Tien here can help me with some things. I have the utmost faith in you two.” In one smooth motion, he snapped his fingers, pointed at them, and winked. It was exaggerated and weird, as if the very action itself was sarcastic.
Ma’at and Sato stared at him in confusion and made it known audibly.
“What do you mean? Leave Sato here, I can handle it myself.”
“What? Aren’t you gonna give us the details, at least?”
The two stopped and looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
“Why don’t you want me to help?” Sato asked.
Ma’at sighed. “Because I can handle it myself. You’d slow me down. Just help him and Tien with the paperwork or whatever.”
“Right… because you handled the Gunblades just fine without my help.”
Ma’at’s eyes darted away, gazing into a dark patch of shadow beneath the Writer’s heavy desk. “That… was a minor mistake. It was a busy day, and that Cloak guy is real quiet when he needs to be…”
“Minor? You call getting shot in the leg minor?” Sato stared in disbelief at her colleague’s bandaged limb.
“Shhhh,” the Writer shushed them, putting a finger to his mustachioed lips. “Stop this bickering, now. Do as I say. About the info, Sato. I’ve got the client waiting there. He’s an officer of the Union. Red cape, gold-trimmed. Can’t miss ‘em. Now go to the crime scene and bother him, okay? Go, go!”
With that, the two women were shushed and pushed out of the office, left out on the street in an awkward alliance.
Ma’at looked off into the distance as she always did, avoiding the annoying conversation that would soon latch her to the Maiden of the Rain beside her.
“You lied. What’s the real reason you don’t wanna work with me? I thought we were friends.” Sato’s purple puppy-dog eyes made her feel sick to her stomach with guilt.
Ma’at crossed her arms and stepped down from the curb. She patted Deimos on the snout. “Look, it’s nothing personal. I just like to be alone, I told you that. You might thrive with a partner, but… I’m not so social. So don’t expect much from me.”
Sato looked at the mercenary as if she were talking to a little girl. She felt as if she understood her a little better, but also that her personality wouldn’t get in the way of their camaraderie. “Haha, well I will. The first step to improving your social skills is to talk to people! Luckily, your big sis Sato can get along with anyone, no matter what!” She stood triumphantly, then slowly began mounting the back of the dark horse in front of her.
Ma’at stifled a chuckle. “I’m older than you and Tien. If anyone is a big sister here, it’s me.”
The two rode upon Deimos through the streets. After a short while, they arrived at the edge of Valeigh Street: the long, winding street of art and music. There, surrounded by a small crowd, was the crime scene. Beside a bent lamp post, a red, mutilated thing clung sloppily to the cobblestone. The bulk of it was hidden underneath a pale tarp, but the seeping sanguine liquid leaking from it made it slightly transparent. The crowd were covering their mouths and mumbling amongst themselves. Holding them back was a team of around ten Union soldiers dressed in white and gold.
And near them, a tall figure stood garbed in a red cape with gold trims. His hair, too, was golden. Long blond locks rolled down his immaculate armor. His skin was pallid and pristine. Noticing the Vroque girls, he turned and began walking toward them with a prideful gait as if he were walking the red carpet. A silver-gold rapier on his hip jangled in its sheath and let out small echoing clicks. It reminded Ma’at and Sato of the silver rounds the Gunblades had used for their weapons. Perhaps they were made of a similar compound. “Niale! Good morning. Uhp, well, maybe not so good. No morning paired with a murder could be described as ‘good’. Just morning, then. My name is Raphael, Captain of the Union’s 11th. I assume you are the lackeys Vroque sent, yes? You do not look like common citizens to me.”
“Lackeys…?” The word struck an odd cord in Sato. She wasn’t sure if the man was being rude on purpose or not, but from his hoity-toity stance the latter was probably true. “Yes, we’re both from Vroque Investigations, Vroque’s 7th Iteration. I’m Sato, and she’s Ma’at. We weren’t given any prior information, so if you could give us any details, that would be great.” She flashed a half-forced smile.
Raphael nodded passively, then turned to his side to look at the mess of red and white at the scene. “Sad state of affairs, I’m afraid. An illum pauper, his wife said his name was Drosen. There were some witnesses, we have two here. They say it must have happened mere hours ago. Quite unfortunate that only a drunk and a beggar were around to see what happened. We don’t have much to go on, really. Though it’s better than no witnesses at all, I suppose.” He shook his head, but it wasn’t remorseful. It was as if he only did it to fake remorsefulness. He was sad about how it added to his work load, however.
“Can we see the body?” Ma’at asked the blond-crowned man.
Raphael smirked. “Right this way. Keep in mind that there isn’t much left. To call it a body at this point teeters on the edge of comedy.” He fully turned around, his red cape swinging to his side. The two women followed the short distance, occasionally taking glances past him at the crimson mess draped in white. “Clear the crowd! Then reveal the mess for our friends here. They’re from Vroque.”
Half of the men draped in white and gold, Raphael’s closest soldiers, nodded firmly and began ordering the masses to leave the area.
One of them, closest to Raphael, stepped forward. His silver helmet lined with gold shone regally in the morning gleam. It had three eccentric slits in the front for his eyes and featured a curved, eccentric horn-design that stopped abruptly after leaning forward. He spoke quietly with his captain for a moment, then nodded solemnly and knelt down beside the cloaked mutilation. He gripped the tarpaulin fabric tightly, then removed it from its place.
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There it was. The body of an illum man, stretched, battered, minced, and bent at the same angle as the dented post. He wore simple clothes, now drenched in rustic red and black. His legs were broken, his torso disfigured, and his neck snapped. His bloodshot gaze was filled with an onyx ichor like two glasses of dark red wine. Whatever color his irises were had been erased and lost to any who hadn’t known him in life. His pointed ears, characteristic of the illum, were pale. In contrast, though the illum normally featured pale, ghostly skin, his was dyed in complete crimson and deathly decay. No remnant of life remained within him. The most striking of it all, Ma’at noticed immediately, was his twisted torso. His guts spilled out from numerous rips in his abdomen, yet there was no real trace of a blade being used. Yet, that was not the most concerning object of fascination. Growing from his mutilated intestines were beautiful vermilion roses speckled with dew. Small white stars dotted their petals. In any other situation, the sight could be seen as beautiful. The man had been turned into an immaculate recreation of a rose garden.
The stench was unbearable and unrelenting. Sato and Raphael wore visages of disgust while Ma’at, unfazed, checked every inch of the strange phenomena.
“Well? What do you think? Magic, surely?” the Union Captain posited, his hand a dam containing the contents of his stomach.
“Has to be,” Ma’at responded unceremoniously. “Whether it’s from a spell or a weapon is unclear.”
“How could a simple magical weapon do this?” Sato gulped, also straining to contain herself in the midst of the pooling fumes. “Look, there aren’t any slice marks. And no bruising on the body itself.”
“You’re right, but…” She stared into the strange wounds, trailing off. “...but we can’t be so sure. Could be a weapon capable of hiding its true nature. For now, though, we should assume it’s due to a spell or hex of some kind. Hm? What is it?”
Sato pointed at the bent lamp post. The lantern light it once held had fallen and shattered in a dozen pieces. A small puddle of dried oil snaked along the ground.
“I was wondering about that, too. Can you bring one of those witnesses you were talking about?” She eyed Raphael with a commanding stare.
“Right away,” he replied, leaving to fetch them. He was simply relieved that he would be able to get away from the smell for a short time.
Ma’at stood and took a few steps back, still eyeing the corpse how a predator might examine its dead prey. It was a technique she had learned years and years ago from a friend of hers. Sometimes, to get a better understanding of something, one must learn to take a step back and look at it from another angle. Looking at it too close would mean you could miss the obvious in the background, and looking at it from too far would mean missing the clear clues hidden in the fine details. “Hmph,” she smirked.
“What is it?” Sato asked, turning to her with one eye still trained on the body.
“Nothing. Just funny how merc work is. One day you’re hired to kill someone, and the next you’re investigating it yourself. What a dumb, absurd world we live in.”
Sato responded with plain silence. It was a statement that she couldn’t exactly refute. It was the truth, if a bit exaggerated. Part of her was stunned, too, by Ma’at’s investigative abilities. The Writer had told her so when she’d met him following the initial deal with Vroque’s executive, but to see it in action was another thing entirely.
“Okay, here is the first witness.” Raphael lightly pushed a man in his late thirties toward them. He was unkempt and wore a brown, checkered coat and dirty pants. “State your name, fool.”
The man’s dreamy look dissipated slightly, and he held up two hands as if to calm Raphael’s fiery disdain. “Ah, right, right. Sorry. My name is Jeri.” His voice was hoarse from factory smoke. He fit the bill for such a worker.
“And!?” Raphael cried, violently pushing the man again. “Say what you saw. Be proud. It’s the only time you’ll be truly useful to the Union, dog.”
“Sorry, sorry. Niale, ladies. Umm… to get to it, it was just a few hours ago now. I was walking down the street-”
“Drunk, with a bottle in your hand. Do not obviate any information, no matter how critical!” the Union Captain chastised the man.
“Fine, fine. Yes, I was a bit drunk. I was walking down the street, swaying this way and that, when I saw it. This man… what was his name?”
“Drosen,” Sato reminded him.
“Right, right. Drosen. I saw this man, this man whom I once saw working with my brothers at the factory. He was stumbling, drunker than a bunch of skunks. Drunker than me! He passed the light post here, when suddenly… he was thrown.”
“Thrown?” Ma’at repeated.
“Thrown. He went flying backward into the post and knocked the lantern off its hinges. Whole thing bent backward. Then… he grabbed his stomach. I thought he was gonna puke. But, no. He didn’t. It was like… he was possessed or something. He screamed, then his legs… ugh…” Jeri put a hand to his balding head, rubbing it to calm himself. Beads of sweat dripped down his face.
“Did you see anyone else? Anyone who looked suspicious nearby?”
He hesitated slightly in thought. “No, no. Nobody. Not a soul. Except for her,” he pointed at the other witness. She was a studious looking woman wearing an artist’s apron. Her black hair laid across one shoulder, and her eyes shone in the gloaming of the towering buildings. The faint sputter of a soaring airship above them passed as it disappeared into a cluster of white clouds.
Ma’at stared at the woman, then laid eyes on the broken lamp. Its glass shards were not pristine and clear, they were an oily black. It looked as if something had passed through them. “Thank you. Let him go.”
Raphael pushed the poor man away, leaving him to stumble off and leave the scene.
“You don’t think it was him?” Sato asked her quietly.
Ma’at shook her head slowly, contemplating her next move. “Have you noticed it yet?”
“Noticed what?”
“The glass shards. They’re black.” She knelt down beside the post.
“We don’t have time to analyze some city fixture, ma’am. We called you Vroque people to solve the murder, not repair a light.” Raphael scoffed, clearly pleased with his remark.
Ma’at leered at him from over her crouched position. “Make yourself useful and get the other witness, reht’ka.”
His grin faded instantaneously, then he turned and left with the same regal demeanor. His pride, however shallow, remained stalwart in the face of her mockery. What helped him, too, was that he didn’t know the meaning of the word she’d uttered.
“What’s a… reht’ka?” Sato asked her, truly curious.
Ma’at smiled and nearly laughed, yet held herself back. “It’s a Sirithisian word. In your tongue, it would mean something similar to…” She thought for a moment, a wry smirk appearing on her tanned face once more. “It’d be about the same as calling someone an idiot. Or a dumbass.”
“I see…” Sato took in the information as if she were sitting in an actual classroom learning the language. That same childlike side to her seemed to come out whenever she was flustered or curious about something she didn’t know about.
“More importantly, the shards…”
“Right. You were talking about how they’re black. Aren’t they just covered in oil? Or dried blood?”
Ma’at shook her head, her dark hair swishing left and right. “No,” she continued in her usual, brusque manner of speaking, “they aren’t painted black. The glass itself has had its properties altered. Here,” she said, picking up a shard. She passed it to Sato. “Can’t you sense it? Probably better than I can.”
The Maiden gripped the piece of glass between her thumb and pointer finger intensely, focusing her mind on it. A feeling coursed through her phalanges and entered the shard like a neural probe. “You’re right. They aren’t dyed black from some liquid. They were colored black through some powerful magic. Pinpoints reflected back and forth almost ad nauseam. It’s like… light-”
“Light reflected through a mirror,” Ma’at finished her thought.
Sato stared at her, then looked downward, lost in a deluge of questions with no answers. In the deep dark, in the abyssal black, she could feel something else present. The remnant emotions in the magic. Though faint and broken, she could feel a pinprick of love. Thorned love. Obsessive and destructive, but born from pure adoration. Desire filtered through a wretched lens.
“Haven’t you noticed? There are a lot of mirrors around here. Glass, puddles…”
“Here’s your last witness. Make it quick, then solve this thing so we can all go back to sleep.” Raphael stepped away, and the woman Jeri had pointed out stepped forward. Paint splattered her apron.
“What’s your name, miss?” Sato asked.
“Reina. I’m a painter, as you can see.”
“Did you know this man? Drosen?”
The woman doused in many colors adjusted her rounded glasses. “In a way, I did. Not personally. My sister knew him.”
Ma’at examined the woman. She didn’t seem outwardly suspicious. In fact, she seemed like the timid type. The type that wouldn’t dare to ever commit a crime. Despite that, she gripped the side of her apron anxiously. She was afraid of something. Afraid of the inevitable question that was to come. “What’s your sister’s name? How did she know him, exactly?”
Reina took a couple of measly steps toward them, her eyes cloaked in hidden fear. “Please, I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “I’m afraid.”
Ma’at glanced around the street. Aside from the crowd pushed back by the Union soldiers, the only ones who dared to come near the scene were random passersby. “Afraid of what?” she whispered back.
“I’m worried. I’m worried that… my sister has done something awful. But… she couldn’t have done this. There’s no way she could have. She’s too… sickly.” A flicker of light in her eyes. Blue and serene beauty. Love and care for her sister. Bitter sadness and self-loathing for her suspicions.
“We’re here to help. Could you take us to her?” Sato gave the woman a trustworthy look.
Reina pulled her hands up to her chest, clasping them. Holding herself for warmth. Warmth for her body and spirit. Her eyes darted back and forth from Ma’at and Sato to Drosen’s roseate remains. “O-Okay. We don’t live very far. It’s just me and my sister. We’re down the street.” The bespectacled woman closed her eyes for a moment almost as if in prayer, then led the investigators away.
“Where are you going!?” Raphael cried after them.
Sato grinned mischievously. “To solve the murder, reht’ka! Hmhm.”
Ma’at went wide-eyed, her mouth nearly agape. “Wow. I thought you said you could get along with anyone.”
She deflated, a bit defeated. “Well, maybe I was wrong. Maybe there’s just some people you’re destined to dislike, no matter what.”
“Hmph. Maybe. He really is an asshole, though. Can’t see anyone getting along with him.”
The two ladies followed Reina to her tenement. Time would tell if their hunch would lead to valuable progress in the case or doom them to fail their very first contract.