Sporemageddon

He glanced over to his right and noticed a young man waving him over while walking in his direction. The young man had a space cleared out in the crowd around him, not because of his own stature, but likely because of the two men following behind him.

The uniforms of the police changed from city to city, though there were always some elements that remained the same. These were a deep, navy blue, long coats that covered the officers down to the shin, conical helmets with a badge on the front and a strap under the chin. Twin rows of silver buttons, and the city's emblem on one shoulder over chevrons of rank.

He eyed the officers, then the people. They were moving back. Some respectfully, but some, he noted, with barely disguised fear.

His job afforded him a unique position to cultivate a number of skills. Many thought that being a Detective meant that he could suss out guilt at a glance, and that was a skill he had, but there was more to piecing together a puzzle than discovering who was to blame.

Often the why was just as important.

Pointing out that a young woman had killed a man was well and good, but discovering that she'd killed him because he was forcing himself upon her told a different story.

People committed crimes for good reasons. The law was there for the sake of civilised justice, it was not, in and of itself, good.

It was a lesson that a younger him had taken a long time to learn, and one that some young men in the force of justice didn't yet grasp.

"Detective Mallory," the young man said. He extended a hand. "Smithson. Wedge Smithson, at your service, sir." Mallory shook the man's hand, finally giving him a look. Innocent. For a certain definition of the word. They'd sent a bright-eyed youth to greet him. What did that say? "Pleasure to meet you, Smithson. You're with the force here?"

"Yes sir," Smithson replied. "Three years now, and loving it. We're happy to see you here, sir. Was the trip decent?"

"Rail food always leaves something to be desired, but the trip passed by quickly enough," he said. "It gave me some time to look over the report your captain sent over."

"Oh, Captain Knox mentioned sending you a report. Did it give you any clues?"

Mallory chuckled. This boy... though he must be in his mid-twenties, had likely been the sort taken by detective novels.

The bane of his career, those. They painted an unrealistic picture of things. Still, they weren't all bad. They lent him and his ilk a reputation that he could sometimes lean on. "A few ideas, maybe. But I'll have a more concrete grasp of things once I can visit the crime scene."

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"Of course. Your accommodations are in the Grumming's hotel. Just over here in East Town. We can lead you to them now, if you want?"

Mallory shook his head. "No. Can I visit the scene of the crime?"

Smithson winced. "Ah... the Milo family estate?"

"That is where the crime took place," Mallory said. He could sense that he wouldn't get what he wanted so easily already.

"I'm afraid they've closed off the estate."

Mallory hummed. "Then I've a task for you already, Smithson. Tell your Captain to lean on the Milo's. Not hard. But I'd like permission to walk the rooms. I imagine the place was cleaned up, but getting a sense for things always helps."

"Of course! I'm certain they'll be willing to accommodate."

"Good. In that case, have the bodies been buried yet?"

"Ah, I don't believe so."

Mallory nodded. "To the morgue, then."

"You don't wish to deposit your things first?" Smithson asked.

"No."

There was a way about these things. It wasn't the first time he'd been sent out from Capital City to figure out a complex case in one of the fringe cities. It was basically the main purpose of his line of work. Cities like these tended to have their own detectives, at least a few, but they were underlevelled and often blinded by what they 'knew' to be true about their city.

An outsider like himself brought perspective. It helped that he was a fourth-class detective. Fouth classers made up a fraction of the population, and it was uncommon to have one as specialized as himself.

He was already piecing some things together, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

The young officer could just be an optimist sent out to greet him, but he rather had the impression that Smithson was clueless about the inner workings of the police here, the real truth behind things.

The repost he'd received had been detailed with regards to who died and how, but light on details about who was present and the past of the victims.

It stank, just like this city did.

Outside reports painted City Nineteen as a thriving but developed frontier city. Plenty of industry to go around, and few problems.

He'd read the more realistic reports too. Central had eyes everywhere, and they painted a different picture of this place.

Rampant slums, rising unemployment, scarcity for some foods and supplies, frequent riots, a growing distrust of the justice system, corruption amongst the nobility... and a lost dungeon.

That last was the strangest.

The others... well, City Nineteen might have been trying to look good, but some didn't bother. Twelve was a wreck, Nine was more slum than city. This wasn't the greatest, but it was far from the worst.

He subscribed to the idea that crimes were often a symptom of a bigger issue. The sudden and mysterious death of four nobles? That could be something more.

No, it was probably something more, otherwise he wouldn't be here. Coincidences happened, but coincidences didn't usually require that a Capital Detective be called down.

"The Morgue that the, ah, potential victims were brought to is in Pearl Alley, right across the city," Smithson said. "It's a bit of a drive. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," he replied. "It'll give me a chance to take a look at the city. Where are you from, by the way?"

"Oh, me? Born and raised in Ironcliff, right next to Pearl Alley, in fact. We might see my place on the way over."

Mallory nodded and followed Smithson and the two officers out to a waiting motorized buggy parked next to the train station. He greeted the officers, kept the smalltalk going, complained about the tea served in the train and complimented the local street food as he grabbed himself and the others a bite.

He tried to remain stoic and gruff, but also personable.

The manipulation was simple. He was a tough man with a tough job, but he was here to help them. The officers and the law. Their enemies were his, they were on the same side.

He wasn't sure if it would amount to anything, but it was better to make 'friends' while he was here. More than once a tip-off from an old acquaintance had helped seal a case.

Now, to see the bodies of the deceased and figure out what he could about them.

Whomever did this, he'd find them in due time.

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