CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR - MUTALITH

Tanner wasn't much of a person for dreams. Not in the waking world, and not while she slept. Dreams were for other people. Not that she didn't have dreams, she just didn't have them often, and she placed about as much stock in them as most people placed stock in... well, if some people saw dreams as palms to be read, Tanner saw them as the unique prints on a person's toe. Yes, they were unique. Yes, if you were sufficiently motivated, you could analyse them. But why would you do that. They were toes. The simple process of analysis was impractical, unsanitary, and embarrassing. The sort of people who could perform this analysis for you were people you didn't really want to, because only a strange, strange person analysed toeprints. And doing it to yourself just felt like a recipe for throwing out your back. Thus, dreams. Capable of analysis, yes. Worthy of analysis, probably not. The fact that Tanner had mostly experienced dreams as unpleasant, shaky things that left her feeling uncertain for the rest of the morning was besides the point. The fact that the last time she'd had a memorable dream she'd just lain in bed, staring at the ceiling for half an hour before she could muster the willpower to get up. Dreams felt like sinking into a mire. There was nothing to be found in it - best to move on.

Didn't stop her tonight.

Four hours of sleep, and somehow she managed to dream. If it was a dream.

It began with her in bed. Began with her sitting in the cold, cold darkness, swaddled tight in slightly dusty bedclothes, growing intimately acquainted with all the ways cold air could infiltrate. But she slept, she rested, and slowly the tension unwound. Her limbs began to sprawl in all directions, and soon she was completely unbound from her covers, too busy trying to imitate a spider-creature. A lock of hair found its way into her mouth, and she chewed it sleepily, barely aware of what she was doing. Her limbs were heavy with sleep. Her eyes moved vaguely under their lids.

And then, something moved.

She was still asleep. The dream was conscious of that point. She was immobilised by sleep, her limbs were heavy, and even if her awareness stirred vaguely, it could only feel a vague presence. Everything was fuzzy. Her limbs refused to move, even in her dream, no matter what she willed. Something was in the room with her. Her mind twitched erratically, sometimes trying to sleep again, sometimes coiling around a centre of absolute fear... that refused to be represented in the rest of her body. The dreaming mind was a trapped mind. Her heart wouldn't beat any faster. Sweat wouldn't flow. Adrenaline wouldn't pump. And she remained, watching through closed eyes, as this fuzzy, indistinct, maybe-there-maybe-not presence moved across the room towards her. She felt convinced that if only she could move a little, she could pull the sheets tightly around herself, trap herself until morning light entered, and the sheets would be a suitable defence against anything. If she kept her eyes shut, if she refused to acknowledge the thing, it wouldn't find her. It might come within an inch of her face, she might feel its fetid breath, but it wouldn't find her if she didn't find it. Perhaps a part of her mind knowing this was a dream. Knowing that nothing was real until she acknowledged it fully.

And so she lingered.

The presence was closer.

It crawled on the ceiling like a moth.

Wings made of... of tree roots, fused into luminous green glass, slithered around its lithe, powerful body, and all she could think of was how those wings would whir past her ears, over and over, how those strange, bent, too-quick legs would fill with haemolymph and guide the creature to move over and over and over and over her body, now on the small of her back, now on her leg, now on her arm, now on her neck, now over her mouth, always fast enough to move to her mouth and slither inside. Too big for that. Much too big. Was it? The wings parted, very, very slightly... and great eyes stared at her. Textured like a cactus fruit - spheres studded with little spikes, each one tipping with a shimmering point of dew. Tasting the air, tasting her. She saw great pores over its strange, unrecognisable face, pores leading into nothingness. What lay inside? Feelers? Other creatures? Or nothing? Only the promise of something? Her mind twitched sleepily once more, now comatose, now alive, now somewhere in between... always her eyes remained shut. She imagined it forcing her to run her hand over those tiny holes, over and over and over, feeling the gaps, the promise of something about to emerge, the promise of something about to pop...

Was it closer?

Was it gone?

Had it ever been here?

Tanner's dreamless sleep returned. Her body relaxed. Her limbs remained sprawled, and she relished the cool air over her warm skin.

And when she awoke, there was no memory of the night.

And the moth with wings of glass tree roots and cactus-fruit eyes was nothing but a shiver in her mind, that passed before she could understand what it meant.

If anything.

* * *

Morning. Rise. Wash. Dress. Pin back hair. Move automatically, mechanically, still not quite revived from last night. A tempting bottle of citrinitas lay on the bedside table, and as Tanner buttoned up the many, many buttons of her dress and skirt (she was starting to run out of them, too many were damp or filthy, she needed to stop chasing people through snow and mud), she... ah, hell. She gave into the temptation. A small glass. Near-luminous liquid. A quick wrinkling of the nose in preparation... and a gulp. The explosion of energy through her body shocked her eyes fully open, and she felt like each and every one of her pores had just been flooded with ice. Her nervous system pulsed, her skin felt deeply, deeply sensitive, she could feel every single individual thread of her dress, hoo. She was charged. She was ready. She already wanted another one, and barely restrained herself. Did find herself humming happily as she buttoned up the rest of the way - chest, sleeves, legs... she knew this sort of dress had been out of fashion for a little while, she really did, but there was something viscerally satisfying about having so many buttons. A hundred things to fiddle with at any given moment, without adding too much complexity to things. Oh, she-

She was investigating murders.

Stop humming the theme music from the Annals of Tenk. Deeply uncouth. Deeply improper. How long had she slept? What, four hours? Outrageous. Outrageous waste of time. No more letters to Eygi as punishment - letters to Eygi took time, and she couldn't afford to waste it. Not now. She stalked downstairs, her hum ceasing, her face flattening. Quietly, she reached for her wrist and pinched the flesh slightly, feeling a little jolt of pain run up her arm. Focused her a little, chided her for wasting time, for being such a little layabout. In the time she'd been asleep... oh, how many more had died? How many were waiting in their houses, bleeding or swinging from ropes or lying with crushed throats and skulls, waiting for her to come along and go through their belongings to find any hint of why they might have died. Poor excuse for an executor. Marana was waiting for her, staring at the stove as she tried to get some damp fuel to light up properly. They hadn't been here in a bit, things had... gone downhill. Just a little bit. A musty scent creeping in around the edges. A cold that penetrated through clothes and furniture, embedded itself in the structure. Keen reminder that this place wasn't really meant for humans or their works. Only flat, unyielding stone survived, and that was rendered cold enough to be painful to touch. She didn't move for the kitchen, just sat down near Marana, grabbed her papers, and forced herself to focus on them.

"Tell me about the cast-iron decorations, please."

"Good morning to you too."

Tanner bit the inside of her cheek, and continued to get herself ready.

"Please. I don't want to waste time."

"No, no, I suppose that's fair."

Marana swung around, the stove coughing feebly as it tried to generate any quantity of heat. Pointless, Tanner would be out of here soon, and she needed all the help she could get, so Marana wouldn't be here. Not alone, anyway. Come to think of it... crumbs, idiot, shouldn't be out here, there were killers on the loose, and all her strength wouldn't matter if someone pressed a gun against her head and pulled the trigger. Dolt. Well. Unless there was a soldier watching the house now, which was... eminently possible, she'd arranged it for when Tom-Tom was here, so... no, no, anyone could be corrupt, anyone could be ready to wipe her from the face of the earth and leave no-one behind to solve things. She hunched over her paper, and waited for Marana to speak. Still remembered the cloying scent of paranoia - rotten-egg stench from gunpowder, metallic tang from old iron, the thick haze of dust, and the acrid hint of sweat, all mixed together. Could smell it in her nose, even now. Ought to get to the mansion. Didn't feel comfortable here. Definitely didn't. And... well, maybe not paranoia, but there was definitely some sort of smell. Should've come back here sooner.

Marana coughed a little.

She looked strangely uncomfortable.

"...so, Fyeln and I, well, you know Fyeln, or you know what I've said about him. Anyhow. Fyeln and I met up, and I asked him a few questions about those decorations. And he said that they were... often inherited from parents. Not everyone took them seriously, you see. They're just pretty, and serve as... very visible markers of identity, I suppose. You had it out in Krodaw, shove enough people together, and the most important parts of culture become the visible ones. Accents, incomprehensible slang, art, clothing... the intricacies of a philosophical system are lovely and all, but that's too woolly, too indefinable. Need something physical to anchor it in place. I take it the shantytown in Fidelizh has been placed under similar conditions to Krodaw."

"...hm."

"Eloquent. So, for a fair number, the cast-iron decorations are just that. Some people have unique accents, or form a unique, informal merging of their own language with the host city's language, and these people have wall hangings."

"That's it?"

"Of course not, you archaic goose. He told me much more, especially when I tickled his nipples."

Tanner threw something at her. No idea what it was, but it sounded heavy.

A thump.

"Missed. And anyway, I didn't tickle his nipples, that would be vulgar, and beneath me. I did something much worse, which I will leave out of your fragile, sensitive brain, which can handle all the mysteries of the law, and yet not a single factoid about erotic entanglements, which every generation has engaged in since the beginning of our wretched species, including your mother and father, but anyway. He told me quite a bit about the deeper meaning. Strained his memory for any little hint, anything he'd been told in the old days. His father told him about them, once - and that positively murdered the mood, talking about fathers saps all eroticism, take heed young friend, take heed. They're not just aesthetic objects. There is a greater meaning, or used to be. See, in the old days, apparently, these decorations were used almost like flags."

Tanner's pen flew, all vulgarity forgotten and forgiven.

"Go on."

"I asked him about them, about what they meant, and he was willing to give me something. Well, once, they had rather more... specificity to the designs. Reflected particular groups. Not quite... cults, or lodges, or secret societies, but not quite a clan either. More of a... private member's club, which people could join (including those born outside of it), and in exchange would gain certain titles, ranks, responsibilities... but he knew nothing about it. Nothing more than the basic gist. Couldn't provide a single one of the titles or the ranks, and he had no idea of the overall purpose. Exodus south destroyed most of them, or severed all the bonds that tied them together, and now... just pretty pictures to hang on walls. Most likely, no-one in this colony knows what they mean."

Tanner scribbled.

"Anything else? Did he mention anything about hammers, or eyes?"

Marana blinked.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose he mentioned eyes. Nothing about hammers. Well, what do they look like? These decorations, I mean?"

Tanner looked up momentarily, eyes narrowed slightly. Sniffed - that fuel Marana was using was awful, smelled funny.

"Like rectangles of metal mounted on wood, and hung on a wall."

"That's how they are now. And notably, you've only seen them as rectangles, and complete rectangles, no holes, no aberrations. Not always so, not always so. He seemed quite proud of knowing this, did dear old Fyeln. Quite proud. Seemed to be an unusual spot of trivia, the way he told it. Apparently, the 'eye' part is because the rarest and finest of the plates had holes perforated through the centre - and these were the very apple of the... ah... hm. Name. Cartel, let's say cartel. 'Coalition or cooperative arrangement between political parties intended to promote a mutual interest', particularly by avoiding competition... yes, that'll work. Cultic cartels. You see, these special ones had holes in the middle, where jewels could be mounted, or coloured glass, or precious stones... the eye. See, the decorations are just iron, nothing else. Only the finest were permitted to have eyes. He had no idea why they were like that, though. The belief died out, seemed to be secretive knowledge, and once enough people perished, and their temples were burned... well. Well. And I doubt Fidelizh was very fond of the concept of cartels in their shantytown. No idea of any further specifics. But there's your eye."

Tanner spoke softly.

"The hammer and the eye."

"Hm?"

"Suicide note I read. Mentioned the hammer and the eye."

"What?"

"The h-"

"No, the suicide note."

"Someone committed suicide. It's fine, I took care of it, went through his house."

She shuddered at the memory of the... vulgar book which made unpleasant insinuations about judges and their habits. Marana stared at her. Blinked a few times.

"...are you alright, my dearest pet?"

"I'm fine. I think it was a distraction, it was a bouncer who was connected to the case, and was a pretty plain attempt to wrap things up in a straightforward fashion. Claimed that he'd impersonated Tyer due to being in love with his lover, and had committed suicide when things went too far, and he was overwhelmed by guilt. I don't believe it, personally. Far too convenient, and it overlooked major details. I think someone was trying to throw me off, not sure who, but..."

She shrugged.

"I'm working on it."

"...right. It's only that... seeing a dead man is something that..."

"I'd seen four before him. And he was only hung, not sliced open, not with his head cracked, not bludgeoned to death, just a clean hanging. They do it to criminals all the time. Judges used to do it."

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She was feeling a spasm in her stomach again. Another ripple of unease. Honestly, she was feeling a little ill. Well, that happened when you were forced to think about the visceral sensation of witnessing a dead body. Obviously seeing the hung man had affected her. Obviously. But she had to focus, and that meant clamping down on those feelings, and shoving them where they couldn't affect her. Just another reason to avoid sleep until absolutely necessary - didn't want to experience any nightmares, not right now. Four hours hadn't been long enough for that. Her silence seemed to make Marana follow suit, and the two sat together for a minute or two... strange smell in the air was stronger. Definitely needed to get more fuel.

"So, the hammer and the eye, these decorations used to have eye imagery... but not one mention of a cage, and no mention of statues, and not even a hammer. I think... I'm not sure what I think, I need to check records. What I..."

Marana was being uncharacteristically silent.

She should be making a comment.

Should be calling her some sort of animal.

She glanced.

Marana looked back over. Her eyes were... slightly glazed, actually. And her entire demenaour seemed... oh, gods, had she found something, some kind of hard narcotic, something... again, what was that damn smell? She glanced angrily at the stove, and...

And a sense of horror crept around her.

They hadn't been to the house for a while.

And there were killers out there who were doing anything in their power to stop them from pursuing them any further.

She rushed, papers clutched determinedly under one arm, and grabbed Marana, who... who sagged forward slightly, a trickle of frothing spit emerging from slack lips. Oh, gods, gods, gods... she held her breath and plunged towards the door without a second thought, as more and more of the smoke from the stove spilled into the air, long wispy fingers dancing across minute internal currents, spreading out hungrily to get them. Marana was dangling in her arms like a loose rag-doll... gods, the fuel, how potent was it... Tanner could feel something in her head, something... something clawing at her thoughts, something that was making her fingers numb... clumsily, agonisingly slowly, she fumbled at the handle, doing anything to...

Locked. Locked from the outside. The handle did nothing. Even if she had a key, it wouldn't matter, the door wasn't designed that way.

Oh, gods.

They'd locked them in with poisoned fuel. Marana wasn't even gurgling, and in her panic, Tanner couldn't even see if she was breathing. Right next to the stove. Hit with a higher dose. They'd just been sitting there, waiting for their own death sentences to catch light, and she'd been cursing it for being damp. The smoke was rising, stopping before it reached the ceiling, too heavy, undulating slowly towards her like a living thing, reaching out to entangle her, reaching to slip down her throat and poison her...

Door.

Her face was turning red.

She dropped Marana unceremoniously, not even able to open her mouth to apologise, and slammed her shoulder into the door. It shivered, the wood flexing, but... no, no. Windows? Too small, too small. Break them, break a window and let the gas out, and... too late, too late, the gas was already pawing at them lazily, the cloud growing, and a hellish glow at the epicentre of the silent, sluggish storm, the stove still burning even now, the gas oozing through the grate... idiot, idiot, should've noticed, should... she slammed into the door again, feeling her bones shake. Damn thing was fresh, well-made, not old or brittle. But she could feel something. Her muscles tightened. Her jaw strengthened.

And she pounded into the door once more.

Could feel it giving way.

Another.

Closer, closer...

Another.

Closer still, she could feel the metal protesting, the little bars sealing them in were straining...

Another. Another. Another.

She could feel bruises blooming across her skin like a fungal infection, could feel her bones shivering with each strike, didn't care. What use was all this damn muscle if she couldn't do something with it at the most crucial possible moment? A crack had appeared in the wood, thin, bright, maybe... yes, yes. Issue was leverage, the issue was leverage. Her fingers wedged into it, splinters already digging into the skin, and she began to tug, gritting her teeth so tightly she feared they'd snap right out of her head. Smoke was here. Smoke was coming. Marana was staring sightlessly ahead, no, no, no... Tanner felt a burning thing light up inside her. A desperate, simple urge to survive... and a blistering anger at whoever had done this. Inhibitions were gone. Her muscles strained to their limit, and she heard the door splintering further, she remembered hollow bones splintering, remembered the loveliness of handling eels, creatures too tough for her to accidentally brutalise, remembered a childhood playmate squealing as she snapped his arm like a twig, remembered crashing through fences to find Tyer...

A low roar escaped her throat...

And with a crash, the door tore in half around the crack, widening beyond any reasonable limit. Tanner grabbed Marana forced her through the door, watching as she fell limply and silently into the fresh snow. Tanner kept working, even as the numbness continued to spread, widening the door until it was enough for her, too. A tug...

And she had enough.

She squeezed through.

Plunged into the blissfully cold snow, already scrambling to pick up her fallen papers, her notes, her pens...

Gas was coming. No time.

Her hands were running red with blood from countless splinters, and she didn't pay attention. Grabbed Marana, and started to haul her through the snow as quickly as she could. Feet were numb - no boots, no damn boots. Both of them were shamefully unprepared. The gas was seeping out of the front door like pus from a wound, pale and hideous, licking along the snow like a curious animal. Tanner stared at it with mute horror.

They'd tried to kill her. They'd tried to kill both of them.

She crouched over Marana, face flat with panic. Lips too frozen with adrenaline for her to speak, to beg her to wake up.

Pressed fingers to the side of her neck. Like with father. Check...

A little pulse.

The houses all around were dark, but one person was looking out, curious... Tanner barked warnings at her, her voice strained and hoarse, gas-flayed... the smoke was still coming, but the wind was already capturing it... nuts, nuts. Tanner momentarily abandoned Marana, already feeling a stab of guilt at that. There was firewood scattered around, wood, loose clothes... grabbed anything she could while the local woman stared on, confused and afraid. Started to stuff them into the gap in the door she'd made, anything to keep the gas from getting out... she could feel it over her skin, irritating the flesh, could feel it pressing against her lips like an eager lover, trying to get in, to finish the job of killing her. If she wasn't so large, she might be like Marana right now. Frothing at the mouth, dying on the spot. Thank all the gods for that. She barked at the woman staring udmbly at her, ordering her, with all the authority of a very panicked judge, to get over here and start handing her material, anything to plug up the damned gap.

It didn't take long for the gas to stop.

They hadn't intended for the gas to kill the whole neighbourhood. Too heavy to be carried everywhere, seemed like... too slow to spread out too fast. Maybe it would dissipate quickly, lose potency...

"Don't go close. Find a soldier. Immediately. Tell him what's happening."

The woman nodded, terrified. And Tanner rushed to a still-unconscious Marana, picking her up and sprinting towards the mansion, towards the nearest doctor. Colony didn't have many, only a handful, mansion was close to one of their offices. Not far from the mortuary office. Her feet were bare, save for stockings, and she was already feeling spikes of pain lance through her leg as the chill penetrated deeper and deeper. People were staring, and she didn't care, didn't care about how she looked. She wanted to murmur reassurances to Marana, but... no, no, her mouth refused to work, too numb, too panicked. Of course they were going to try and kill them, of course, but she hadn't expected gas. Why would she, no-one had died from gas, no-one, and...

Had no-one?

Maybe that was how they hung Myunhen without him struggling... choked him with gas, then strung him up. Could this stuff be detected after death?

Maybe there was a man with a spade in a nearby street, wondering how long he'd have to wait before he had to come and bury their bodies.

Tanner's pace increased.

Marana bounced in her arms, unresisting, silent, pale, eyes... eyes glazed. Her pulse was still there, she was still breathing, but it was slight, very slight indeed...

The mortuary office flashed by. And she dearly hoped that there'd be no need to visit it today. Doctor. Not met him before. She burst in, ignoring the squeak of a startled assistant, and gently, gently placed Marana on a long table. The doctor was out in moments, eyes hollow from a similar lack of sleep, face peppered with greying stubble, suit hanging off him like a funeral shroud. Got to work immediately, and Tanner stammered out what had happened... the doctor glowered, but said nothing. Just started gathering tools, forcing Marana's mouth open, forcing something down her throat... decontamination, in fluid form. Would rip up her insides and purge anything inside. Good for mutation. Bad for the person underneath. Already Marana was coughing wildly, little pieces of red matter coming up, and... and he was going for a jar of something. And only now did he speak. Only now.

"Did you breathe any?"

"...s-some, sir, maybe a little-"

"Pill for you. Take it. Hold still-"

He reached up with a dropper filled with clear liquid, and Tanner stared in fear as it descended... a little flash of cold across her eye, first one, then the other, clearing out any residue. He did it a few more times, before turning his attention back to Marana, barking to one of the nearest assistants, bleary and with the remains of breakfast around his mouth.

"Take her, put the decontamination liquid on her skin if any areas show signs of blistering. Take care of her hands, boy, and fast."

Did he know this gas? Was it common? Or... no, if, he was still guessing, just doing the most universally effective methods. The assistant bustled her out, and Tanner found herself standing dumbly while the lad slowly and carefully removed the papers from her hands, stained with blood, and gently sat her down so he could get to work on the splinters embedded deep in her fingers and palms.

A long, shuddering, painful breath emerged from her throat.

And she no longer had a home besides the mansion.

Neither of them did.

* * *

"Criminally lucky."

The doctor's voice was hard, curt, practically devoid of inflection.

"Oh."

Tanner looked down. Her feet were soaking in a warm water bath - turned out running through the snow in this sort of weather in nothing but stockings was bad, and she hadn't exactly been treating them well to begin with, what with the frigid black rivers yesterday. So. Here she was. Foot bath. The doctor grunted.

"Criminally lucky. Said she was standing by the stove when the gas emerged?"

"Yes, sir."

"Criminally, criminally lucky. Criminally so. She'll live - I take it you removed her quickly enough to avoid permanent damage, and as for yourself... you're fine. Free to go. Take decontamination pills once a day, and come back if there are any further symptoms."

"What was it, sir? I mean, what... what was actually..."

"Gas."

"...what kind?"

"Toxic. Mutalithic vapour. Not uncommon around here, you find it in some bad fuel. Possible you got scammed, possible someone's being an idiot. Governor's dead, but I'll file relevant reports, don't worry."

Tanner grimaced, and pressed on.

"Mutalithic?"

The doctor shot her a withering look, and popped a cigarette into his mouth, lighting the thing up casually and expelling a great cloud of smoke into the air. Did he... that was possibly the worst thing he could do at this exact moment, come on. Tanner tried to see past him, towards Marana, and... just a single pale hand was visible through the door. Still as a corpse. Kept thinking of her face when she was being poisoned. Kept thinking of how it was her own fault. Another body that was her doing. If she stared at that still, still hand, she could almost imagine she was dead, and that Tanner had yet more to mark up as a complete and utter failure. She'd dragged her into this. Made her help, as an investigator. Might as well have put that poisoned coal in the house herself. No, no. Focus. Focus. Do something. Work, just work. If she worked, she was accomplishing something, and that meant getting closer to the truth. She was closer to the truth, she was. Guilt and anger mingled in her stomach, two volatile substances stirring each other higher and higher. Guilt feeding anger, making it bright. Anger feeding guilt, making it more cloying and subtle. Paranoia feeding both, stinking of rotten eggs and steel and sweat and dust.

The governor wasn't riding on her back. No god would.

Witchcraft was afoot in the world.

And... she felt heat in her. Heat that refused to leave. A tension that needed to be released, but couldn't be. Not as she was. Not with her role, her responsibility.

Focus.

The doctor spoke suddenly, his voice carrying the distinctive wheezing growl of a terminal smoker, and she could see, for the first time, an odd halo around his head. She thought he was balding, but... no, no, he had a skull clad in rigid steel-grey hairs, and around it, a loose halo of thinner hairs, wispy, straggling, and turned a pungent yellow by tobacco smoke, until it seemed like his head was wreathed in some sort of exotic fungus. His dark eyes narrowed as he spoke.

"Contamination. Underground rivers. Mutants live in them, eat each other, kill each other, shed shells. Constant process. Bodies drift to the bottom, accumulate. Dead, but aberrant. Leave them there long enough, crushed under the pressure of the river, they form a thick black layer not dissimilar to coal or oil. But if you burn this stuff, sometimes it does nothing, sometimes it burns your throat out. No contamination left in it, don't worry, but toxic. Underground rivers move. Mutaliths left behind. Bad for miners. Sometimes an idiot doesn't check the shipments before they head out, someone gets a stove filled with toxic gas. Mutalithic. Muta-lithic. Mutant stone. She'll be fine, just needs to purge everything, give it time. Short but intense exposure is better than long-term with this stuff."

Tanner blinked.

"...might I ask, quickly, could this... has this been used to kill people? Silently?"

The doctor lit another rancid cigarette, already done with the first, stubbing it out in a green porcelain ashtray shaped like a frog - he fed the cigarette into its gaping mouth, and a low trail of smoke emerged from it, along with a faint, hellish red glow. The assistants looked immune to it - one of them was even starting to develop the same sickly halo of stained, wispy, finely smoked hair. Did the doctor have a name? Gods, she'd forgotten. Again. In her defence, she thought one of her only... friends? She thought her strange alcoholic mother-aged room-mate was about to die because of a vengeful conspiracy that was operating for reasons she completely lacked comprehension of. Couldn't ask now, could she? Too awkward. And she didn't want the embarrassment. Already walked in here with nothing but stockings covering her feet. Wait. He smoked, he'd smoked his hair to a fine consistency. What else did you smoke?

Dr. Herring it was.

Dr. Herring grunted, letting out smoke from his nose.

"Wanted to kill someone with mutalithic vapour... yes, it's possible. Stupid, but possible. Leaves residue, seeps into other areas. Bad way to murder someone if you didn't want to get caught."

Tanner blinked. Thought suddenly of Tanner's gas mask, the stuff the workers in the city used to stop their lungs from being mutated.

"...what if you were, theoretically, to force someone to wear a gas mask, and then pumped this gas inside?"

Dr. Herring stared at her.

"That'd certainly be possible, honoured judge. Very well thought-through."

A flush built along her collarbone, and she shuffled uncomfortably, wincing as her new bruises moved with her. Why did bruises hurt? She didn't have skin inside her muscles, did she? Why did her organs feel the need to make her feel pain, she didn't even get to see them most of the time.

"I'm just... has it been known?"

"Probably. Couldn't say. Was that all?"

"...yes. Do you have a pair of shoes I can borrow?"

Dr. Herring stared at her flatly.

"Nothing that would fit."

Tanner had loved her size when it was saving her from poisonous gas, and stopping her strange friend from dying to said gas, and stopping the rest of the street dying from said gas, and hauling herself to an office to preserve her life from said gas, but now that it wasn't protecting her from embarrassment, she despised it once again. What a capricious creature she was. There was a desperate knock at the front door to the surgery, and the doctor didn't bother going over - just barked 'enter', and stalked back to his patient when he saw it was someone without a bleeding chest wound. It was, in fact, a soldier. A soldier armed... oh. He was geared out for mutant duty, it seemed. Thick, wax-covered poncho over his front. Similar trousers, tucked into similar boots, with a strange helmet over top that combined military and civilian, helmet and gas mask and fire helmet all at once. His visor of smoked glass was pulled up, showing sweat-stained skin and bright blue eyes. Not a soldier she recognised... but she knew the tank on his back, nozzle strapped up, and the little metal detector on his waist. Strange, her addled mind thought, how they never brought back any armour from the Great War. Never bothered. Too expensive. When every human life mattered, and every human life lost was more meat for the advancing horde, it was vital to guard the flesh, to guard the man, to keep him intact until he could be immolated, to give him equipment that could survive him and be passed down to the next poor conscript in line.

War without mutants... well.

Times changed, apparently.

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

And he spoke, in a voice that... oh, no, wait. Female soldier. That armour was bulky, hid most of her form. Odd, she thought they got rid of most of the female soldiers after the Great War ended.

Oh, hell, she dressed in a cape and ran around failing to solve mysteries, she couldn't judge someone else's profession.

"Ma'am! Honoured judge!"

A sharp salute - a gauntlet clunked against the helmet, and the whole thing shook. Tanner nodded back, feeling... too tired to do much. Someone had just tried to kill her. No-one but a mutant had tried that before, and mutants were... mutants. This was... oddly, she didn't feel much of an urge for revenge. Until she looked at Marana. Then, she felt very much intent on doing things. Not violent things. Judicial things. And... oh, crumbs, stomach spasms... no, that was decontamination, nothing else, just...

Right, soldier.

"Oh. Ah. Yes?"

"Kal reporting!"

Kal? Right, junior, first rank. New recruit, then.

"Did you find the house?"

"House has been entered, gas has been found and neutralised, should be safe to return in roughly a day, ma'am, assuming proper ventilation, ma'am!"

Her heels clicked.

Alright.

"Oh. Excellent. Thank you. I'll... just be getting back to work then."

"...do you not want to rest, honoured judge, ma'am?"

"No time. Just..."

She coughed up a chunk of flesh and blood. Decontamination was awful, left her throat feeling raw for days afterwards... the soldier squirmed a little at the sight of it in Tanner's handkerchief, and Tanner did the decent thing, and threw it into the nearest bin... crumbs, she liked that handkerchief. Well. Stay away from pollen, then, unless she wanted to make a damn fool of herself. Tanner stood shakily, moving towards the door. Marana would get better. Tanner could keep going. Countenancing any other possibility would just paralyse her. She was on the right track, she knew it, she damn well knew it. And-

"Also! Ah. One thing, ma'am, honoured judge?"

The girl was shuffling to keep ahead of her, masses of equipment clunking and clanking.

"Oh? What is it?"

Her tone was understandably distracted. Work to be done. Kept thinking about Marana's frothing mouth, pale face, glazed-over eyes, limp limbs, kept thinking about how she'd helped do that by getting her involved, she'd gotten her hurt, maybe killed, and if she stopped, then she made all of this worthless... stomach spasming, and she wasn't sure if it was the decontamination, or just dread.

"...I was sent to inform you, honoured judge, at your place of residence. The, ah, man you had... brought in for interview, ma'am?"

Tanner froze.

No.

No.

"He's... gone."

Tanner turned very slowly to face her.

"What?"

"He's gone. Vanished overnight. From a locked room. With no entrances beyond the ones guarded by our men. We've already taken them in for questioning, Sersa Bayai is attending to them now, or he'd... be here. Sorry, ma'am."

Tanner stared.

The girl stared back, and her fingers were clearly itching to pull down her visor, block all eye contact, sweat in the cloying darkness of the helmet in peace.

Tanner's fists clenched very, very slowly.

A trickle of blood ran from her lips where the decontaminant was slowly purging her insides of foreign material, the smoke from burning ancient mutated matter. Cuckoo coal seams.

A very, very slow, controlled breath whistled out of her nose.

And she kept moving.

It wouldn't be proper to do anything else. A judge should be poised. A judge should be refined. A judge should never lose her temper in front of others. A judge didn't have a temper, they were machines serving a mechanical, logical purpose, and ideally reduced themselves down to this state, like peeling an onion until only the smallest, toughest point remained. No, like honing sand into a pearl, that was it. A judge was a pearl, and behaved as such. A judge was an eel, and even if they were wounded, damaged, decapitated, they kept on going. An eel's head could still bite after it was severed, an eel's body could still move, every part of the eel was devoted to its purpose, and that was why they were admirable. Their faces and slime were why they were adorable. Tanner was an eel. She was a judge. And-

The crunch of snow.

A judge also needed shoes.

A feeling of sharp crystals.

A judge needed socks.

"...I was instructed to bring shoes, ma'am!"

"Thank you."

And a judge definitely didn't forget to ask for a person's name. A judge definitely didn't forget to ask, then became too awkward to ask again, once too much time had passed.

Ms. Blue handed her a pair of brown boots, polished until they seemed like they were made of chestnuts.

Time to find out what fresh hell awaited her.