Petyr leaned his back against the brick pillar, giving his bad leg a rest.

What a distraction that had been. It felt odd for the big stories to just suddenly stride into the room with no effort on his part. But then they always happened to someone without prior input. It was just a shame that the Bomber was still running loose.

He took his notebook out and briefly continued an earlier effort to decide on a headline. Delivering the actual facts without seeming to be bragging about having actually personally grappled with the city’s chief terror was presenting a bit of a challenge. But then so was the desire to actually brag about it, without being too obvious about it.

You didn’t do it for glory, you fool, he told himself. You did it because there was danger.

He went over his latest page again and added a bit more of those awful chicken scratches his handwriting had somehow developed into.

And you didn’t actually stop him, did you? he added.

He did manage to narrow his headline selection down to two choices, although previous experience promised more if he didn’t start writing an actual story soon.

There was an odd quality to the sound of the train tracks up above. They clanked or groaned rhythmically as the train approached, sounding almost like hoofbeats before he even heard the thundering train itself. Like so much else these days it was probably a sign of disrepair, and he reminded himself yet again to do a story on the subject. He liked the idea of nagging more than he did the prospect of covering a catastrophic derailment.

The hoofbeats sped up into a rapid-fire musical clanging and then came the train itself, roaring up above him on the raised tracks. Petyr covered his ears and stepped away from the pillar. It was time to get back to work anyway.

It was a short walk to the Long Light Diner. Several plain bulbs shone onto the chipped paint that formed the place’s name just above the windows. Petyr moved around the puddle that seemed to be in permanent residence just outside the door, then stepped onto the tiled floor.

The interior consisted of one long, open space, with a bar and some stools on one side and booths up against the windows on the other, as well as a small cooking area behind the bar. Despite the state of the streets and sidewalks of the surrounding areas the floor was only dirty at all if one looked closely. Lia took an odd pride in running a mop over the tiles several times a day, but most of the time it was just with plain water.

A man sat on a stool by the centre of the table, and a woman a bit further away. Five more people were spread out among the booths. It would have felt like an oddly big crowd in most diners, given the hour, but then this place catered heavily to the lost and destitute. There was a certain stoop in every spine in sight, although Lia straightened hers at the sight of him.

“Ah, there he is,” the middle-aged, baggy-eyed woman said.

“Here I am,” he replied and put up a polite smile.

“Back from the dead,” she added and moved closer to him as he found himself a stool.

“Back from being busy.”

“What’ll it be?” Lia asked.

He could tell she was tired. It seemed she pretty much always was. But she put some effort into dredging up some cheer to make him feel welcome, and he appreciated it.

“Just a coffee, a toast with cheese and...” He lowered his voice. “Some space to work.”

She was smart enough to understand, but just shrugged.

“I can keep my own distance. Can’t promise more than that. Not around here.”

“I know.”

She crossed over into the kitchen to prepare his beggar’s dinner, and Petyr surreptitiously checked out the man closest to him. He wore a decidedly humble cotton jacket and hadn’t shaved for a few days, and a glance at his hands confirmed him to be a labourer.

The wooden, brick shaped radio up on the bar was playing piano music. Petyr sat down in front of it, ostensibly to listen, in reality to get close to the man.

The smell of melted cheese wafted over from the kitchen and the song came to an end, replaced by a smooth, rich voice most if not all people of the city had come to know.

“My friends,” it said over the scratch of the broadcast. “This is Police Chief Matew. If you haven’t heard yet, then you will soon hear of another attack by the menace we have come to know as the Green Bomber. I am pleased to report that no one was injured this time around, but sadly this monster still stalks our streets as a free man. We have reason to believe he is injured, so I ask you all to keep that in mind. If a suspicious figure asks for aid with a wound, or if your neighbour is inexplicably favouring one side all of a sudden, do consider letting my people know.”

Chief Matew took a momentary break.

“I will not deny that these are troubled times,” he then went on in a soothing tone. “You all know that these are troubled times, and let me assure you that I regularly sit down with the mayor to discuss the way forward. So now more than ever we must adhere to the sanctity of the law. We cannot risk the elaborate system that holds our community together. We must continue to pay our dues, pay our rent, and pay whatever prices merchants-”

“Bunch of rot, isn’t it?” Petyr said.

The man looked his way. His eyes were every bit as bloodshot as Petyr had expected.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Rot and rot.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Do you feel like chatting?”

The man shrugged listlessly.

“Sure. But I warn you, if I start ranting about High Town I might not stop for a while.”

“Sometimes ranting is all we have,” Petyr said, and the man responded with a faint smile.

“It’s better with a drink, though,” the man said. “Like most things. Except for shaving.”

Petyr chuckled politely. Lia brought him his order.

“Are you managing alright?” he asked. “Since the war?”

The man waved a hand through the air, as if swiping at a particularly slow, fat fly.

“I’ve been keeping a roof over my house so far. Handymen are going cheap these days. I’ve been doing some janitorial work when I can, but I’ll need to find something new. You? What do you do?”

“Well,” Petyr said. “I’m a journalist for the Morning Voice.”

As expected, Petyr saw a hint of wariness come over the man.

“I hear things aren’t going great there either,” the man said neutrally.

“Getting things out there is proving a bit unreliable,” Petyr replied. “But there certainly is plenty to talk about.”

“I’m sure,” the man said, and fixed his eyes forward.

“For instance, I have been looking into the Woodforth Building.”

The man’s wariness increased visibly.

“There is a big story in there,” Petyr went on. “A big story being kept secret. And that means it’s something the public needs to know. It’s the only reason the higher ups ever hide anything.”

“There was an accident,” the man said stiffly. “The foundations were found to be unstable. That’s all.”

“There are plenty of unstable buildings these days. None of those warrant secrecy, or a police cordon.”

The man seemed to struggle with deciding what to do with his hands. He kept on looking forward.

“You sought me out, didn’t you?” he said.

“I have been looking for anyone who worked there. Given that they all now have plenty of free time on their hands it’s been surprisingly difficult.”

“It’s become easy to lose your home,” the man said neutrally.

“Sure. But look, friend,” Petyr went on. “You know the thing about secrets? Once they’re out there is no point in trying to silence people over them. The damage is done and whoever is hurt by the truth must focus their energies on trying to fix it.”

“Bad foundations,” the man insisted stiffly, and Petyr could see fear. “That’s all. I don’t know anything else.”

As usual, Petyr’s instinct was to push. He fought against it with reason, wary of alienating the man entirely.

“It will come out eventually,” he did say. “Whatever it is. And the sooner the better. Please think about it, at least. And if you decide you have something to say, you can contact-”

“I don’t think you heard him,” said a raspy voice.

Petyr turned on his stool. From a nearby booth rose a tall man in a flaxen coat, with unkempt grey hair. Something in his manner made Petyr stand up and give himself a bit of space. One other man rose from the same booth and joined his comrade in walking over.

There was menace in the air.

“He’s got nothing to say,” the tall man added with razor-edged good cheer.

The face was much younger than the hair up above it but lean and predatory, marked by violence.

“Isn’t that right?!” he went on and patted the seated man on the shoulder, a little too hard to be friendly.

“Just here for a sip,” the man replied softly and kept on staring ahead.

“No other reason to be here,” the tall man said and turned his attention fully on Petyr. “None at all.”

He popped the collar of his flaxen coat. A dark greyish-brown circle of fabric had been sewn into it, and it was the same for his comrade. It didn’t make for a convincing fur collar, but the character of the two men kept the sight from being silly.

“You would be Wolf,” Petyr said for the sake of saying something.

“That’s what they call me,” the tall man said, showing his teeth in an ugly, swaggering grin that really put Petyr in mind of the animal.

Wolf held his finger up a few millimetres from Petyr’s face.

“And I know your face,” he said. “It flitters about the streets like a fly, vomiting out questions and shitting out opinions.”

“So you read my articles,” Petyr said, keeping his voice and face carefully neutral. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Hah!”

The diner had gone very, very quiet.

“Tell me,” Wolf continued. “Busting your mouth or your hands... which will work better to silence you?”

“No reason not to do both,” said his comrade, a baby-faced man with vicious eyes.

“I am not a victim,” Petyr said evenly. He kept his body on alert, his reflexes primed.

“You are if I want you to be,” Wolf said. “A pack takes anyone down.”

“If you have something to say, say it,” Petyr told him.

“Oh, he’s making demands,” Wolf replied with showy pretentiousness. The menace never left his posture or his eyes, and as the fake cheer drained out of his face it was all that remained.

“You’re poking,” Wolf said. “Asking. Reporting. I don’t like it.”

“That’s my job.”

“My job is breaking people,” Wolf pointed out. “If you keep doing your job... I’ll do mine.”

“Are you willing to go on record with that?” Petyr asked, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t.

“Heh.”

Wolf’s exhalation had more to do with another show of teeth than humour. Then his quick strike met with Petyr’s readied reflexes and they cancelled one another out. Petyr deflected the blow but was pushed back a step. The other man rushed in to grab him, and gained a half-decent grip.

Petyr’s raw strength sufficed to throw him off and into a booth partition, but it bought Wolf a clear shot. Petyr ducked and blocked, and took a clip on the side of the head rather than a power-blow to the face.

The grey man grabbed him by the hair and the arm and tried to slam his head into the bar. Petyr managed to halfway brace a leg against the bar, just enough that neither of them was happy about the impact. Petyr’s free hand wrapped around the mug Lia had put down for him, and he slammed it into Wolf’s head.

The mug smashed, drawing blood, and Petyr tore himself loose again and followed with a strong blow aimed at the man’s face. Wolf skilfully ducked under it and hopped out of immediate reach. Petyr’s instinct was to follow, but a spasm of pain from his leg stopped him.

The gang leader’s eyes darted down at the bad limb, and his grin made it clear that he’d caught the weakness. It was also clear that the broken mug hadn’t had much effect, in spite of the blood. Evidently the man’s grit matched his swagger.

The baby-faced brute recovered from his momentary stunning and Petyr waited for the next move. It turned out to be a simple, soft but notable sound. Lia had brought a dinky old revolver out from beneath the bar and pulled back the hammer.

“Oh, what’s that?” Wolf said calmly. “The old bitch has one tooth left?”

“That’s enough,” the woman said. The gun was aimed at the ceiling, but the hand holding it was rather steady.

“Heh. Don’t bring the pack down on yourself.”

Wolf turned his attention back to Petyr. He dipped an index finger in the blood seeping down the side of his face, stuck it in his mouth, then withdrew it with a plop.

“The streets have lots of teeth,” he said meaningfully. “And eyes.”

Wolf started walking, keeping close to the line of booths, while Petyr stayed at the ready by the bar. The other man followed his leader with some reluctance. Petyr didn’t relax when they passed him by, nor when they were out of immediate darting range, nor when they reached the door.

“Be seeing you, paperman,” Wolf promised, then stepped out the door, followed by his comrade.