The man they’d taken into custody was named Zack Knoll. A drug dealer who sold product outside the bounds of the drug laws.
He shared nothing further than he had under torture, but he did mutter his way through a few facts about his own baggage.
That room was where he’d made the drugs.
He’d come back from war, found no one willing to hire him, and been forced into that industry.
He’d just needed the money.
He’d never met the victim.
Someone he’d sold to likely put that Jump sigil there as a prank. (This was a feeble excuse. The room’s security measures were rock-solid.)
Rogue and Miseria interrogated Zack at the local station, and when they learned what they could, they dumped him in a cell and headed back to the Sixth Precinct. On the elevator ride down, Miseria reviewed what they’d uncovered.
“Zack Knoll claimed a child came to him. Claimed that child forced him to make the sigil. This child knew Zack Knoll was ex-military, so he believed they must have connections in the army.”
“I guess we’ll have to follow that lead.”
“You have an angle?”
Rogue nodded. He’d heard nothing about problems in the military, and they were keeping a lid on their business. If he was gonna dig, it would need to be in the past.
“……You’ve heard about the Cleansing War?” he asked.
“The Cleansing War?” Miseria seemed distant. “Did we have one? When someone gets to my age, memory’s the first to go.”
“Like you’re going senile. How old are you anyway?”
“One thousand two hundred.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
Rogue didn’t know that much about the war.
It’d taken place as magic spread among the common folk worldwide.
The conflict started in the Zegmed Theocracy. “Magic is a gift from God above, and the lower classes cannot be allowed access to it.” Zegmed used that as an excuse to wage war against their neighbor.
The Two Great Noble Houses of the empire sent troops to aid that neighbor, and Zegmed was destroyed. This led to accusations of excess intervention from opponents at home and abroad.
As a result, squadrons involved in the Cleansing War were disbanded at the war’s end, and to protect their privacy, all records of those involved were destroyed. Detectives couldn’t access their files.
“We’re here,” Miseria said.
The elevator doors opened. Rico was waiting underneath a light.
“Welcome back, Detective Rogue, Miseria,” she said.
This came as a relief. A novel sensation, but a strange one. It genuinely felt like he was back where he belonged.
Largely the fault of his companion.
“Hi, Rico, having a good one?” she said cheerily.
“Not really.”
“Oh?”
Rico pointed further in. “I was looking after the witches,” she said.
Rogue understood. There was a whole crowd waiting for them. Clearly making themselves at home, some were playing cards, while others were eating or chattering away.
But when Rogue stepped into the hall, it became silent enough to hear a pin drop.
Heads swiveled.
Their faces were blank, but there was curiosity in their eyes, like he was an uninvited guest.
Probing the reason for his safe return.
The air crackled. He could feel the tension on his skin. The relief he’d felt not ten seconds before was a thing of the past.
“My, my, what’s the matter? You look ghastly,” Miseria said, acting perplexed. Clearly on purpose.
Rogue waited on tenterhooks for what the other witches would do next. And finally, a voice came from above.
“We’re wondering why you didn’t kill him!”
He looked up in time to see someone vault over the railing. They flipped several times in the air, then landed in front of him. A drop of several meters—yet they barely wobbled.
There stood a girl wearing a jacket with studded shoulders, and a pair of sunglasses. She wasn’t exactly tall. She was a full head shorter than Rogue. She would look like a kid playing dress-up were it not for the collar around her neck—identical to Miseria’s.
______She’s also a witch?
As he wondered, Miseria beamed at her.
“Hello, Humafu. How are you?”
“Bitch, please. You’re the registered newbie killer! You know damn well I had money on him croaking out there.”
The sunglasses girl’s voice was a low growl.
“Did you? At my age, memory’s the first thing to go.”
“Eat shit!” The sunglasses kid grabbed Miseria’s throat with one hand and lifted her into the air. Her strength was shocking. She didn’t even look like she was straining herself, but Miseria’s feet were completely off the ground.
“Humafu, this temper of yours is not your best feature,” Miseria said, kicking.
“And your worst feature is how you go around winding everyone up! I oughtta snap this skinny neck!”
Miseria winked at Rogue. The sunglasses girl caught it.
“The hell was that?” she asked.
“We haven’t known each other long,” Miseria said boastfully. “But Rogue and I are now good friends. He’ll gladly step in to chew you out on my behalf.”
“Huh…will he, now?” The sunglasses girl’s voice got even deeper.
She glared at Rogue, baring her razor-sharp canines.
Miseria, you fiend! Leave me out of this!
“Maybe I’ll kill you first, then!”
She tossed out this threat so easily, he could only assume she’d plain forgotten about the collar. Is she nuts? How can she make a threat like that when she’d die the second she followed through?
If logic wouldn’t work, he’d just have to go for broke.
“……Let her go,” he said, glaring back.
Frankly, he’d spent the bulk of his career handling dim-witted thugs like her. So what if this one was a witch? This type wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Miseria.
“Son of a… You trying to stare me down?!”
The girl—Humafu—moved toward Rogue. She was so pissed off, she forgot what she’d been doing. He saw her toss Miseria aside.
Her hands went inside her clothes and came back out clutching a pair of fruit knives.
“The crappier the weapon the better. I’ve killed hundreds with shit like these! You’re about to find out what a dull blade can do!”
She pointed the knives at a round table and chanted: “Engine.”
Silver streaks flashed, and the table’s legs were severed. The sound of it collapsing resounded through the hall. The blades had flown so fast, he hadn’t even seen them. He’d worked it out after the fact, when he saw the knives fly back to Humafu’s hands.
The fruit knives were floating some centimeters above her palms. They’d shot out with dragonfly-like precision, slicing through the table legs.
Object control magic. He’d never seen anyone this good. His rational mind was sounding the alarm, ordering him to turn tail and run. He did glance over his shoulder, but the doors were tightly closed.