Rainy Rumors and Phantom Shadows

Midland's sky hung heavy with rain, turning everything gray and sodden.

As the downpour hammered down, Sergeant Harry Welsson flicked on the wipers from the driver's seat. They scraped across the windshield with a rhythmic thunk-thunk, sweeping away the smeared rainwater.

Then the passenger door swung open, letting in a rush of damp air and Detective Daniel Gibson, soaked to the bone. He clutched two takeaway coffees in his hands.

"Ugh, what the hell—rain out of nowhere again. The forecast said clear skies today, didn't it?"

"The weather mages warned of a deluge, though. All that talk about supercomputers and AI forecasts, wasting billions, and they're still no match for some old geezer with a crystal ball."

Harry kept his electronic eyes fixed straight ahead as he took his coffee. Daniel, brushing wet blond hair from his forehead in the passenger seat, let out an awkward chuckle.

"Sarge, you actually trust the weather mages' predictions?"

"Why not? They're about as accurate as the Weather Bureau's supercomputer."

"...Come on, though... still..."

Daniel trailed off with a smack of his lips. Harry's point wasn't entirely wrong, and he didn't want to ruffle the feathers of this romantic orc idealist.

"Fair enough... Lately, it's all weird rumors floating around. Stuff that sounds bogus, but eyewitnesses are piling up..."

"What rumors?"

Harry sipped his coffee, gaze still locked on some distant point. Daniel swallowed a gulp of his own and continued.

"The wildest one's the back-alley ninja. Hides in the city's shadows and slices up anyone committing evil the second they strike. More detailed versions say the ninja's gunning for Isumi."

"A ninja taking on a megacorp. Sounds like a novel."

"Then there's that professor disappearance in Little River a while back—the one they told us to bury from above. Weird rumors there too. Guy was a nutjob collecting dragon relics, worshiping their power. Neighbors heard bizarre noises like a fight on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the night he vanished."

"I hear he donated big to the mayor's office. So what, the Midland government's got a shadowy dragon cult pulling strings?"

Harry's tone stayed utterly calm, mismatched to the wild speculation. He just stared ahead, sipping his coffee in silence.

Daniel sighed deeply and sank into his seat.

"And lately, some 'road demon' biker gang's popped up. Spots a supercar or muscle car downtown and challenges it to an impromptu street race. Punks who think they're hot shit are losing their minds, dying to take him on. Word is, the guy's an insane racer."

"Midland's always had speed freaks. Half a century ago, there was a legendary one everyone knew. Ended the usual way—smashed into something at full throttle and blew up."

Daniel rubbed his face with one hand as he listened.

"And now, the guy we're after: hacks implants to make victims kill themselves. News is hyping it up, but he leaves zero traces—no real evidence. What'd Intel call him?"

"Ghost. The Ghost of East Babylon."

Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered in frustration at Harry's reply.

"...Feels like too many weird things lately. When I first joined the force, it wasn't this bad. At this rate, dragons might come back from extinction..."

"Midland's always been like this. You're just finally seeing the city for what it is."

"...You think?"

"Yeah."

Daniel let out another heavy sigh and nodded at the orc's matter-of-fact answer. They were cops, after all—keepers of law and order in this mess. Time to tackle the case at hand, step by step.

Then a sharp chiik crackled from the radio.

Harry jolted, pressing a hand to his ear.

"Sniper team? Who ordered—"

Harry grimaced and replied.

"Fine, warrant's out—whatever. What manpower you using to nab this guy? He's a mage; strength unknown."

Harry slammed the wheel.

"That slimy bastard. Always fucking up on his own terms."

"SWAT teams?"

"Yeah."

Daniel drew his pistol from his hip with a hollow laugh.

"Special Task Force sitting it out again, huh? Their excuse? 'Global diplomatic gray-zone mediation and intel protection'? Something like that."

"They always do. Not catching criminals—they import 'em."

Harry pulled his own pistol. As they moved to exit, Daniel's terminal buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out, face twisting.

"Who?"

"...Isumi secretary chick. From the abandoned factory corpse dump? Grabbed food a couple times after."

Harry checked his ammo.

"Corporate type, eh?"

"...Not like that."

Daniel pocketed the device and bolted from the car. Harry followed close.

They dashed across the street through the pouring rain to a low-rise building opposite. Inside the lobby, SWAT in body armor, masks, and rifles prepped to ascend.

As Harry and Daniel caught up, the SWAT team leader nodded in greeting from the command spot. Harry nodded back, eyes asking: Paulson? Leader's eyes replied: Command vehicle.

Harry bared his teeth in a growl. Figures. Coward prick.

Muttering curses, he stripped off his drenched coat and tossed it in a corner. Shirt-sleeved with just his pistol, he pushed to the front of the SWAT heading up the stairs.

"Sarge! Wait—Sarge!"

Daniel whispered urgently, hurrying after. Ballsy orc, no vest.

The SWAT and detectives hit the target fourth floor fast. Harry scanned the empty hall, then tapped his ear.

"Sniper team, target sighted?"

"Good."

The SWAT and detectives crept silently down the hall, flanking the target door. Harry signaled via silent comms, then kicked it in. The flimsy lock shattered.

"MLPD! Drop weapons and surrender!"

Harry led with pistol raised; SWAT poured in, clearing threats. Silent comms buzzed: rooms clear, corners clear.

Harry's face twisted in confusion. Building empty. He tapped his ear.

"Sniper team! Target?"

"Where? No one's here!"

Harry whipped forward. Empty air shimmered with static chiik—revealing a freak in a large plastic hood. Two small drones hovered behind his shoulders, glowing purple.

"Suspect! Drop the gun!"

Not Harry's shout. He turned—a SWAT yelled at the wrong teammate, then snapped his rifle up at something.

By the time Harry's eyes returned, the freak was gone.

SWAT rifles erupted—muzzles aimed at comrades. It spread like wildfire; both teams fired on each other.

Chaos ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠exploded in gunfire.

Roque poured himself coffee in the kitchen and took a sip. Elizabeth had brewed it that morning after waking, but he hadn't let her have any.

The aroma was decent, so he carried the mug to the living room. There she sat on his usual spot on the sofa.

Standing with mug in hand, Roque watched, wondering if she was sulking. But stroking Bini on her lap while blankly staring at the rainy window didn't look like mere pouting.

He sipped as he regarded her thoughtful expression. Her gaze flicked to him at the sound.

"...Coffee good?"

Sulking after all. Roque shrugged in reply. A faint pout creased her blank face.

"Elizabeth brewed that."

"Mm. Thanks. It's good."

"Elizabeth can drink coffee too. Elizabeth's big now."

Roque shook his head naturally.

"If that's 'big,' your future's bleak."

"...Elizabeth will grow more. Means Elizabeth's big enough for coffee now."

"Kids who drink coffee can't sleep. Then they won't grow tall. You don't wanna stay this height forever, right?"

Elizabeth mulled his logic, lips twitching wordlessly, then turned to the window with a huff. Roque sipped while gazing at the rainy city beyond.

For a moment, they watched the gray sprawl. Elizabeth's face went blank again as she murmured.

"...Elizabeth thinking hard."

"About what."

"Elizabeth's life—in three sentences."

Roque froze mid-sip, then drained the mug smoothly.

"I see."

Bini on her lap perked up with a beep-boop, scanned for threats, then curled back like a puppy. Without knowing its cyber-space walking-tank form, Roque might've dismissed it as a toy.

Stroking its fidgeting back, Elizabeth suddenly asked.

"...Was Elizabeth ever a bother to Roque?"

Her blank face looked up. Roque didn't meet her eyes, just sipped from the mug, staring out the window. No answer. Her head drooped slowly.

Then Roque spoke.

"Know what's most important to become an Aura Master?"

Out of left field. But Elizabeth lifted her head to meet his gaze.

"Don't know."

"An Aura Blade is an inscrutable power no magic, ritual, or tech can replicate. But to wield that inscrutable sword? Just innate talent and endless repetition."

Rain streaked the window in his black eyes, pulling his mind to the past.

"...And of those two, endless repetition matters more. Mages who swim cyber-space rave about zeros and ones, rune wonders. But for an Aura Blade? No time for that. Just body and mind, drilled relentlessly."

Roque sipped again. The cooling Elizabeth-brew held a fine scent.

"Repetition starts vomit-inducingly brutal, ends so familiar you could do it blindfolded. Familiar, not easy. Before the light-sword, everyone's just ordinarily trained. Real hell? Foreseeing endless future grind, drowning in despair and pain. Where most quit."

Roque glanced at the near-empty mug, swirling the dregs.

"Anyway, I crossed that line to Master. Know how?"

Elizabeth shook her head, listening quietly.

"Don't know."

"Shifted my thinking. Decided to like—no, love—the grueling, annoying drudgery. Sure, annoyances lingered after... but..."

He paused.

"...At least since meeting you, no annoyance."

He tossed back the last drops and turned. He felt her chin on the sofa-back, watching, but didn't look—just scratched his jaw awkwardly and refilled from the pot.

As Elizabeth opened her mouth to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠speak to his back—

The doorbell rang. Roque set the mug down and headed over. One presence outside.

The intruder knocked lightly.

"Harry Welsson here. Roque live here?"

Harry Welsson—orc sergeant badly hurt in the Tree's Children case, Daniel's mentor. A cop.

Roque sensed annoyance arriving unbidden, contradicting his words to Elizabeth. It solidified seeing the orc's rain-drenched, glum face as he opened the door. He moved to shoo him.

"Merc here. Want work? Bring dollars."

The orc silently offered papers.

It was an official MLPD tactical consultant request. What caught Roque's eye: the per-incident performance bonus. Matched two solid merc jobs.

Sergeant Harry flashed a bitter half-smile.

"This is official Midland PD request. Not my personal ask."