Myra rubbed her eyes, wondering how much sleep she’d actually gotten. It was strangely hard to estimate, or even remember the daylight.

Ah, the joys of the night shift.

Lion Station was moderately busy, even in the dark. The city’s troubles did not rest, after all, and her uniformed colleagues were milling about, going to and fro like small blurs in the corner of her vision, ideas more than people, as she took in the mess of papers that was her desk.

She liked to think she was good at her job, but organisation always seemed to elude her. Which she supposed presented a real chance of making a poor inspector.

Brown sat over at his own worn wooden desk, going over witness statements yet again while Myra supposedly went over the police reports they had so far.

She sighed silently and went to work arranging the paper folders into chronological order.

The first event, in retrospect, had been an odd discovery in an alley, in a virtually abandoned part of the city: Severe scorch marks on the surrounding brickwork, as well as ashes that were believed to be organic in origin.

The second had been in a garden nestled between three apartment buildings. The residents were awoken to screaming and ranting, and some had looked out the window just before the blasts started. Lit by his characteristically strange explosions, the Green Bomber had earned his name. Two uniformed officers had responded and found him walking along a sidewalk. They’d just exited their auto when he turned around and destroyed it, then made himself scarce.

The first confirmed fatalities had been during the third event. People had been dining at an open air eatery and no one had seen him come. All anyone knew was that suddenly there was a green flash as the Bomber disintegrated a couple dining together at one of the tables. They are false, they are false, the madman had shouted as people shrieked and ran, demanding they heed him and screaming in frustration when they didn’t.

Next time he was witnessed lobbing his blasts at the exterior of a bank, thankfully closed for the night. Ranting, of course.

Not found right away was the heap of ash and bone he’d left behind in one of the parks, and an addled homeless woman had reported a flash of green in the night.

For the sixth event he’d strolled into an apartment building and stalked the hallways, shouting through people’s doors, blowing a few of them away to look his listeners in the eyes.

Next, late-working factory employees had just been leaving when they saw a man exit an alley at a terrified sprint. The Bomber followed, and hit the man from behind. Two more remains had been found where they’d both come from.

The eighth event had been relatively tame: He’d entered a dingy bar, after blowing up a parked automobile outside for attention. He’d settled for ranting that time. Even the war veteran who had charged him had escaped with a crack over the head.

Then came the Parlour Slaughter. Sheer, utter madness. Six dead. Picked off one by one, as he blocked the only exit.

And now that whole business with the loft. The second Sanctuary, now destroyed.

Ten events, plus some supposed sightings of the man simply walking about. Twelve confirmed dead. And no real leads and no real pattern. Though the tone of his message remained the same, he seemed to strike only when the madness gave him the whim. And how was one to predict such a thing?

She leaned back in her chair, gazing emptily up at the ceiling. She hated the idea of simply hoping that the Bomber’s next attack would provide a crucial clue. Surely the point of all this was to prevent more deaths, not hope for another one to work with.

Myra looked to a large map of the city, pinned to a nearby wall. The incidents were spread about the city in no particular pattern, save for the fact that the Bomber had yet to strike at High Town. Perhaps it had something to do with the better lighting and wider, more open streets. Or the annoyingly inescapable fact that it was simply better patrolled by the police than the rest of the city. But then that indicated a certain amount of rationality, didn’t it?

Overall, she could only conclude that whatever grudge the man felt he had it wasn’t with bankers, business leaders, old money families and the like. Too bad.

“Any fresh revelations?” she asked Brown.

“Guy’s crazy,” the man replied calmly. “Yourself?”

“Guy’s frustrating,” she said.

“See? We’re getting somewhere.”

Myra managed a bitter smile. She didn’t notice the uniformed officer until he was at her desk.

“Hey. Chief wants to see you.”

The man left with no further elaboration and Myra slowly and reluctantly stood up. She smoothed out her hair as best she could with her hands, if only to feel like she was at least trying, and checked the state of her shirt.

“I’ll be with you in spirit,” Brown said flatly, still engrossed in the witness statements.

“I’d prefer plain old spirits, I think,” Myra joked.

She crossed the length of the main desk space, walked past the break room, the file room, the basement stairs and the door leading to the main cells, then ascended the stairs leading up. The top floor was a quiet place, home only to storage, more file rooms, and the chief’s office.

Stolen novel; please report.

She knocked on the opaque window in the door, before turning the knob and entering.

“Ah, Myra,” he said. “Do sit. Those were quite some heroics you carried out yesterday.”

She pulled up the wicker chair opposite the ornate desk and sat.

“I let him slip through my fingers,” she admitted bluntly.

“The two of you came closer than anyone else so far, and you may have prevented another massacre,” Chief Matew countered. “Hardly a bad evening’s work.”

Myra wasn’t all that reassured, but the man had a way of putting people at ease. Between his voice, impeccably coiffed dark hair and pleasant face he had charisma to spare. And he was surprisingly young for his position. If it wasn’t for him being her superior, Myra would have allowed herself to feel attracted to him.

“Have the patrols found anything?” she asked. “Any word from the locals?”

“Nothing yet, I’m afraid,” he told her. “The Bomber has made his getaway for now. But no doubt you dulled his claws some.”

“Or made him angrier,” Myra said. “I will do better next time.”

“I have faith that you will,” the chief replied.

He then opened a drawer and brought out a bottle, such a rich brown in colour and with such an illegible sticker that it had to be expensive. He also took out two glasses.

“Do you want one?” he asked.

She smiled politely.

“Not on the job, Sir. But thank you.”

He grinned at her.

“And who is going to hold you responsible?” he asked.

“I am. I’m very annoying like that.”

He chuckled and poured himself a small drink. The bottle and spare glass went back out of sight and he relaxed into the chair after the first tiny sip.

“I spoke with the mayor earlier,” the chief said. “And he is as disturbed by this awful spree as anyone. We agreed that the approach so far simply hasn’t been working. I have been trying to maintain order all around, but I need someone fully focused on catching the Bomber and I believe that someone is you.”

Myra nodded.

“So I drop the rest of my caseload?”

“You do. And you don’t take part in the general patrols anymore. You and Brown go back to being proper inspectors. In times of lean resources one uses them wisely, and they say it takes a hero to stop a monster.”

“Sir, please stop flattering me before I start believing all that,” Myra said and dredged up another smile.

“I do not have many officers willing to leap between rooftops, Myra,” he told her.

“He has to be stopped, Sir,” Myra said, not backing down from her anti-defence. “This is no time to be timid or hesitant.”

“No, indeed. How is your leg, by the way?”

“It’s fine,” she said and moved the limb for proof. “Much better than I would have expected.”

“Then there’s nothing stopping you from bringing all of that righteous energy to bear. Or is there? You seem a bit dour tonight.”

“I don’t think anyone’s feeling chipper these days, Sir,” Myra said.

He just sat and waited for her to be more honest, with an air of patience that she decided not to contend with.

“I passed by another eviction on my way here,” she admitted. “Families being put out on the street. Literally, in the case of their belongings. By our uniformed officers. It was hardly a dignified scene; the uniforms were angry and careless, and the father of the family was yelling at them. The children were upset. The landlord just stood by in a doorway, like a shadow against the light.”

She reflected on the scene.

“It isn’t fun to witness regular people being reduced to impotent despair, as they’re thrown to the bottom rung of society. That’s not why I do what I do. And... I think those officers would be better used on patrol, until things stabilise.”

He watched her neutrally, and she mentally checked over her just-spoken words. There was nothing in them she hadn’t actually meant, and the more she thought about it the more just her words felt.

“Come here,” the chief said as he stood up. He gestured for her to join him by the window, and she did.

The office took up one of the building’s corners and the windows covered almost the entirety of the walls. With the station being situated on a bit of a hill it provided a beautifully wide view of the city. The three districts of Cliffs, Fields and Black Bend, that last of which cut a sadly meagre figure in the night due to insufficient lighting and seemingly unsolvable power problems. Winding along all three was the river, itself split by Champion’s Bridge, close enough to the station that Ana could just barely make out the uniformed officers guarding it in these troubled times. And beyond that was the glowing glory that was High Town, crowned right in the middle by silent immensity that was Sentinel Tower.

“What do you see, Myra?”

She kept her sigh on the inside. She got that he was trying... something. But she just didn’t go for these kinds of displays.

“Houses. Fewer lights than there should be. Smog. I am not a poet, Sir,” she settled for saying, in what she hoped was a neutral fashion.

His smile, reflected in the window, was good-natured enough.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I see. I see a vast system, made up of streets and businesses and homes and people. And rules. Society runs on rules, Myra. They are what keeps the foundations from crumbling. And in times like these society needs its foundations like never before. People need to know that the rules still apply and that things will continue on as normal. I fear that if we relax things, the damage left by the war will simply not heal. Unfortunately, that also means people have to pay their rent as usual.”

His reflection looked at hers.

“We are the bulwark. And you, specifically, are a fighter. You belong on the front lines, holding fast and hunting the monsters. Let other people worry about the big picture, and save what you can. That’s why we have overworked mayors and city councillors, after all.”

“I thought they were for filling out suits and facilitating kickbacks,” Myra snarked, but with a smile on her face.

“Well, someone has to keep the tailors in business,” he replied.

Myra nodded, though she didn’t really know what the gesture was supposed to mean.

“I’ll go talk to Brown, Sir. We will get the Green Bomber, then the entire city will have one less problem.”

“And something to celebrate,” his darkened silhouette told her. “Think about that, as you work. Think what a morale-boost the end of this nightmare will be.”

“I am sure it will be,” she said.

“And Myra?”

“Yes?”

“Strike decisively next you see him,” he told her seriously, his reflected eyes looking into hers. “Be swift, and be hard, and be as brave as you’ve proven yourself to be. Put a stop to the Green Bomber, and you will be the hero this city needs so badly.”

She hesitated.

“Yes, Sir.”