“Every thought mundanity takes for granted has survived a history of trials and refutations. None has been tested more harshly than the idea of Humanity itself. We doubt it, betray it, outgrow it and fall back into it. Through Ages of Convergence, it has tightened around us like a cage. Still, under quiet suspicion, Humanity endures. Not as a doctrine or law, but esemplastic force simplifying Era.” – The Suspect History, Kadmon Taneshev

  His stomach twisted taut, an agitated band of bile. Even kneeling over the porcelain basin became difficult. Muscles locked, throat filled and emptied. Cold sweat slid across his forehead. A dry heave bent him forward as his body purged itself. Successive splashes struck the water below. Another spasm followed before he could breathe, squeezing him tighter and producing nothing. The pain drained out, leaving his throat scoured and abdomen hollowed. Cold, fluorescent lights hummed above, highlighting his collapse within the narrow walls. It’s still down there, lodged… He rose shakily and became aware that someone else was in the bathroom.

  Slowly he straightened, adjusting his tie and ID lanyard. He opened the stall door and turned on a faucet. The other man was washing his hands with slow, deliberate ease. His tall frame never stooped, his head swaying lightly as he hummed an aimless tune. The sharp notes of his cologne overwhelmed the sterile air. When he was done, he wiped his hands and turned with a smile.

  “You must be the last Senior Investigator—Stravinsky, correct? Wash your hands first, please.” He glanced away to adjust his tie in the mirror.

  Stravinsky braced against the row of sinks, clearing his mouth directly from the stream. “I remember you,” he said after spitting out the last remains. “You sat next to Karrbach. Difficult job, attending him from that close. Congratulations on your new station, Assistant Director.”

  “Oh, you did see me?” Lugo’s voice was polished, underlined with zest. “Seemed to me you were dozing off mostly. You only stirred awake when the Division Leader stood to speak. Is the new job already too much for you?”

  “I was paying attention,” muttered Stravinsky, drying his hands before offering one. “Senior Investigator Lars Stravinsky.”

  Lugo examined the hand before taking it, not rushing to close the distance. “Assistant Director Mattias Lugo. I look forward to reading the reports of your important work.” He withdrew, returning to his reflection with a sincere smile. “If there is anything I can do to ease your transition, let me know. That’s what I’m here for.” Stravinsky nodded, pretending to shelve the words for later. Tapping a quick rhythm on the counter with his fingertips, he continued, “Well, I won’t keep you. The Director’s probably tormenting some poor soul.” At the door, he paused and turned around. “Oh, one more thing: your left eyebrow’s bleeding.” He left before Stravinsky could respond.

  In the mirror, Stravinsky saw a trickle of blood just above the tail of his gray eyebrow. Tiny, but sharp against his blue skin. The faded scars, thin as spider legs, had flared up around his violet eyes. The skin immediately around them was pristine, a shade darker than the rest of his face. Eisenstadt likes a good freak. He patted it with a tissue and looked for the bathroom’s first aid kit.

  The AAD hallway outside had quieted. Only two impatient Junior Investigators lingered behind. Harun Rivash was leaning against the colorless wall, idly weighing a compact Bureau-issued phone in his palm. Almost unvaryingly Soshanaha, he was spare and angular with hair dyed black. Diana Lowry crouched beside him, holding the same model close to her pale face with both hands. The cyan monochrome of the screen reflected in her pine-green eyes.

  “Can you believe they’re just giving these out?” she was saying to Rivash. “You can barely find these in Eisenring stores.”

  “You get excited by anything free,” Rivash said to her. “I’ve seen lighter versions. We’re still grunts.”

  Lowry grinned at him and saw Stravinsky approaching. “You hit yourself?” she asked, standing up and noticing the small bandage over his brow. “Or piss off the Director’s pet?”

  “Lazy stitchwork,” Stravinsky said. “Apologies for running off mid-conversation. Let’s get you two outfitted.”

  They followed the corridor into the lobby. At the front desk sat Administrative Clerk Neexa Lindenbaum, her posture placid and face pleasant, patterned Aryanaha fur visible at the edges of her pink blouse. Her new coworkers were glad to have her as the Division’s welcoming face. Across from her, leaning on the counter, was Managing Quartermaster Ricardo Accard, a Kalzanaha of combined stock and purplish-taupe complexion. He scratched one of his eminent horns, his long tail swaying lazily as he whispered something that made her laugh under her breath. They were the only full-time administrative staff assigned to the AAD.

  They broke off when Stravinsky walked up with Rivash and Lowry in tow. Lindenbaum straightened somewhat. “SI Stravinsky,” she said quickly, her voice pitched formal, before smiling at the recruits. “Juniors.”

  “Easy girl,” chuckled Accard. “You know he won’t mind our tail-braiding.”

  “Neexa, Riki, good to see you both again.” He turned toward the Managing Quartermaster. “Have something for us?”

  “Small world,” said Accard and patted a small lockbox on the counter. “Your badges came in this morning. Issuance forms included. Supervisor’s signature on all six,” he added, handing Stravinsky a clipboard of documents, ledger and cheap pen.

  Stravinsky began placing his name in all the different spots with unhurried and unimpressive handwriting. Meanwhile, Lindenbaum and Accard leaned against the counter between them, heads almost touching, their matching dark eyes scrutinizing the Junior Investigators. Rivash crossed his arms and looked away. Lowry shifted her weight on her feet and yawned.

  Signatures in place, Accard shut the clipboard between the ledger with a clap and opened the lockbox. The badge Stravinsky received was simpler and slimmer than he remembered, the design neater. The Bureau’s horizontal emblem still shone at the top, while his cleanly printed name, rank, and number did likewise at the bottom. Between them, occupying most of the square matte surface, a stylized blackbird obscured its torso with two sharply-feathered wings. The beaked profile of its head showed one hollow, piercing eye. He slid it into his pocket alongside the Bureau ID.

  Lowry turned hers over with a critical expression. “Gloomier than I expected.”

  Rivash held his up to the light. “Homay’s blackbird isn’t this stout.”

  “First-timers,” remarked Accard with a grin. “Now for the oath. Raise your right hands and repeat after me, civil servants.” Both recruits hesitated, then limply raised their respective hands as he began solemnly, “In the name of Peace and Concord, by powers secular and sacred, before the law and its representatives, I swear to uphold—”

  “Riki’s only joking,” Stravinsky cut in flatly. “You’re free to join the others. See you on Monday.”

  The recruits dropped their hands, their cheeks coloring. Lindenbaum swatted Accard with a magazine, though she was giggling favorably. “You’re trash, Riki,” she hissed.

  Rivash cleared his throat. “Are you coming along too, sir? It’s a big day for everyone.”

  “Doctor’s appointment,” Stravinsky answered, “Can’t miss it. Enjoy yourselves.”

  “A doctor’s appointment,” Accard echoed. “That’s the worst excuse I’ll ever hear. Remember what the DL said: full respect owed to Bureau employees. Lie a little better, pal.”

  With Lowry and Rivash gone, their chatter fading toward the Eisenring, Stravinsky left Findrake Street and boarded a southbound tram. He sat with his back to the window, watching only the reflections on the floor as the carriage began to shake its way downhill. The light behind him dulled station after station. The Sunken District was six more down. Each stop brought tighter streets and older buildings. Blocks leaned against each other, roads twisting through half-finished repairs and makeshift detours. Splendor lost its way between buildings that had begun their descent decades prior.

  When he stepped off, the ground felt uneven. His eyes relaxed and he moved slower now. The narrow alleys opened at times into crowded clearings full of color and noise. Signs and banners hung over storefronts; some painted in scripts he didn’t fully recognize. People brushed past close and quick, while the streets stayed mostly empty of traffic. Above, the skeleton of a collapsed tram line stretched across blocks, its rails dangling into rust. The weather hit harder here. Winters sliced deep, summers scorched longer. Central Eisenstadt had its tricks: vented air, controlled heat, the illusion of undrainable power. Down here, everything was raw and left to itself.

  The Demimon waited between two larger buildings that had slouched together over time, their facades cracked and damp. It was small, dim, and easily missed. Stravinsky approached the desk. The Vanahan worker behind it barely stirred, flipping through a worn magazine. His neutral face was perfectly symmetrical; features balanced into something forgettable. Cheap Doll. Must be.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Stravinsky pulled a slip of paper from his coat and read it anew: “A room with four corners, no windows, one exit and two entrances.” Crooked way of saying four-zero-one-two.

  The worker processed the words in silence. “Your room is this way,” he said, voice perfectly fitting its face.

  Stravinsky followed down a dilapidated corridor of peeling wallpaper and encrusted carpet. The place seemed to host no one visible, but muffled voices could be heard from behind the doors. Stravinsky’s room was unimpressive, its thin walls shaking faintly with the sound of nearby streets. The worker stepped inside after him, closing and locking the door. His rosy eyes settled on Stravinsky without clear intention. After a long pause, he approached a flimsy wardrobe in the corner. The whole thing wobbled on its low legs when touched.

  Stravinsky watched the worker open both wings and press an open palm against the back panel. The pulpwood snapped securely into place, anchoring against the wall. Doll or not, he shouldn’t be able to do that. Evocation must be embedded in the artifact. Then, with a dull creak, the panel came loose and dropped to reveal a numbered metal locker. He stepped away then, clearing the space for Stravinsky, but continued to observe.

  This time, only scraps awaited him. Stravinsky pulled them out file by file, tucking them into a section of his attaché. Seven in total, with a small note at the end reading: No more. The handwriting was female and otherwise unrecognizable. He shrugged, crumpled it and dropped it into his bag. The rosy eyes tracked all his movements, hurrying him to be done with the storage artifact. Noticing the unrelenting stare, Stravinsky stood and balanced one of the files on the worker’s head. The paper bowed slightly around the square head. All skin and no sense. The Dollmaster had priorities with this one.

  “Please be mindful of motel property,” uttered the Doll as he uncrowned it.

  “Uh-huh,” he exhaled undeterred. “Our business seems concluded. I don’t think I’ll be spending any nights here, so Saints-bye.”

  The Doll might have smiled. It opened its palm again and extended it mechanically. Stravinsky reached into his pocket and placed a purple Eisenmark into it. The fingers folded around the bill as the Doll turned around, produced the key and unlocked the door. It said nothing more but stalked him as he made his way toward the front door.

  *

  A bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside. The herbal store was abnormally lush; shelves crowded with jars, samples, and satchels. Bundles of dried plants hung in orderly clusters above the living ones. The air was thick but not oppressive, layered with scents so complex they seemed to change with every breath. Sweet, bitter, medicinal, overstocked. A waiting room wrapped in fragrance and foliage.

  A young Yatanaha man attended the counter, his gloomy features elevated by the glow of a small portable television set propped beside the register. He looked up angrily at first, but when he saw Stravinsky, his shoulders eased. “You can go right ahead,” he said, pointing toward a staircase behind him with his thumb. Triumphant noise coming from the set reabsorbed his attention.

  Stravinsky gave a quick sign of thanks and moved between the rows of greened metallic shelves. The scent thinned as he climbed up. The room at the top was small and sparely lit. Dr. Julian Toumin sat with his arms folded, watching the same program the boy below had been fixated on. A Yatanaha like him, though smaller, frail in frame, with tender features further softened by age. His hair was a rich auburn-brown, touched with hints of silken strands. He turned as Stravinsky entered, with the warmth of recognition spreading across his face. His expression soured as he caught a closer sight.

  “My friend,” Toumin yelped, rising with effort. “What happened here?” He reached forward with a tentative hand, his tone sharpened. “No—don’t brush it off. Sit. I need to take a look. Trouble already!”

  Stravinsky sank onto the examination seat, turning his head just enough for Toumin to peel the bandage off. “Came out of nowhere,” he muttered and frowned. “And your herbal mixture isn’t helping. Stomach’s fighting me, no matter what I do or don’t.”

  Toumin gave a self-assured scoff. “Herbal mixture? Please. What I gave you was a precise concoction, planned and prepared for your obscure needs.” The long fingers of his gaunt hands moved attentively as he removed the bandage and dabbed the area underneath. “There. Better than your improvisation. Although this wouldn’t have happened if you would only listen to me.”

  “Thanks,” he said, scratching the redressed surface. “Whatever it is you gave me, I’m not feeling better. What about your other offer?”

  “Of course.” Toumin threw away the old bandage and returned the alcohol. “As for your other condition,” he muttered, reaching into a cabinet. “My offer still stands. Hetero-pigmentation might have been in fashion when you were younger – I know it was during my heyday – but fashions move on. As must we. Besides, gray and blue really are not a winning combination. Consistent, warm skin tones – that’s what Eisenstadt’s lifeless crowds like nowadays. Even the Azure Angel herself is getting a tan. There is no taboo around it… Ah, here they are.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Fine,” he sighed, opening a cardboard box. He presented Stravinsky with four white, unlabeled pill bottles. “These should help with your parasomnias, without affecting your daily performance.”

  Stravinsky took one and opened the lid, peering inside to see three dozen off-white capsules.

  “Don’t think it’s some herbal alternative,” instructed Toumin. “This is a product of Eisenstadt’s native ingenuity. Fungal ataractics, farmed and processed in the Undercity. A single pill before sleep is quite enough. Don’t play around with these. They’re not fun.”

  Stravinsky shrugged and stashed all the bottles in his attaché. He produced two purple bills from his leatherette wallet. “For your advice and continued discretion.”

  Toumin received them gladly, adding: “Now, perhaps we can revert you back to a nice pale-gray? Or accelerate the natural process and make you a nice, enticing cobalt sooner? At least let’s get all those cicatrices cleaned up, it’s not good for my business if you’re going around like that and saying it was my work. I know a trusted, professional Cosmeticist–”

  “I know him too, Julian. You’ve told me plenty about him in the last three months. Kasper might as well be my brother at this point.”

  “You’re being playful with me, but I am trying to tell you that Kasper can…”

  Stravinsky’s face sank between his hands. Dr. Toumin’s pleas passed over him.

  Leaving the herbal store, Stravinsky kept south, away from the Sunken District. His way led up, but the streets drew him down. Slanted alleys bent toward the Undercity, overcast and tight, some little more than tunnels with faint specks of light far inside. He stopped at one such entrance, staring into the tangible dusk. The current of bodies pressed past him; shoulders brushing, hands shoving lightly, no one stopping. For a moment he felt unmoored, undecided between homeward and downward. Not tonight. No reason.

  The scent of such places rose after every heavy rain. Gutters spat up silt, drains coughed gray water onto the street. Stravinsky took the same route he’d used days before, but the streets had shifted since. Floodwater had gnawed through a stretch of pavement near a canal, turning the street into a streaked slope of mud. Municipal workers were already on the scene, men in rubber aprons and heavy gloves, pushing the brown sludge back toward the gutters while locals collected the trash. A whole two-story block had listed sideways, the lower wall cracked and sagging.

  Stravinsky paused at the edge of the scene, his soles sinking just enough to stain. The mud wasn’t brown but bruised, veined with an oily purple sheen. Fragments turned inside the daimonic mass; smoothed glass, chewed plastic, waterlogged dross. The flood had dragged up forgotten junk deposits, buried who-knows-when-or-where, into the gleaming consciousness of the city. Enticed, Stravinsky pushed the filthy debris around with his shoe before stepping onto one of the temporary walkways hammered into place. He followed the makeshift path until it joined a stairwell to an elevated alley. The stairs were slick, but the higher ground gave some relief from the stench below. At the top, he paused once more, looking back at the drowned stretch. People shouted over the noise of pumps and the slap of soapy water against concrete. The mud receded.

  The space ahead was open and orderly, a plain relief in contrast to the cityscape north of it. A small kenotaph stood in the park’s corner, a modest slab with no flowers. Pensioners sat serenely on benches, watching the evening gather itself in the company of their chatter. Some recognized and greeted him, happy to see him about.

  The walls of his building showed red brick; an old material, almost absent in Eisenstadt’s concrete face. It was one of many low, stretched blocks like it in the neighborhood. The two-room apartment had plenty: heavy drapes, a bed that suited him, a coffee table between couches, and more floor than furniture. A sliding door of blurred glass, framed in white wood, divided the bedroom from the rest. The wallpaper had once been pale green but had faded unevenly, leaving bleached patches where he’d never thought to look. A small radio on the cooking counter murmured its static, red indicator glowing alongside the stove. Nothing was lacking.

  Undressed and unpacked, he measured out the herbal mixture carefully. Steam curled lazily from the green tea; the scent mild and inoffensive. He lifted it reluctantly and sipped sparingly. Warmth spread through him, easing the edges of the discomfort in his stomach. The files from the Demimon waited disorganized on the coffee table and couch. Many more like them were strewn around the room.

  Knowing that he wouldn’t make it through the bunch tonight, he pressed a hand to his forehead, sighed and retired to the bedroom. The herbs had dulled his nerves enough to entice the hope of sound sleep. He slid the door shut. The pills… Tomorrow.

  *

  Dreams crept in the shadow of alertness. Hazy hands submerged him into a realm of vision; the usual distant corridors, undefined figures, blurred faces whispering words that could not reach him. The same webs, the same reaches, the same uncertainty. Lidded murk backgrounded views shining from a veil within. Unmoving, unaware, he watched this nocturnal multitude erupt into an intimate darkness. Denser, viscous, no longer the absence of light but its own presence. It clung to him, not like a shroud, but like damp and pulsing tissue. Floating, he pushed along through curving tunnels that dissolved his coating. The liquid was slow, thick with floating bits, organic and unfinished. They went down, he against them. He grew and grew, crawling and filling the cramped coils. He pushed through a round portal and fell into a hollow of acid.

  Stravinsky jerked awake. A convulsion wracked his body, engendered by a putrid frost in his stomach. Worse than ever before. He fell to his hands and knees, gasping. Scrambling toward the bathroom, he nearly dislodged the sliding door. Chyme, gory spittle, and green tea. Something solid resisted expulsion. Sweat and panic seemed to thaw the orb of ice within him, setting it loose. The chill scraped up his throat, slid over his tongue. It hit the water with a soothing splash as he collapsed backward and breathed.

  The right side of his face rested on the tiles between the sink and shower. His arms secured his abdomen as he stared thoughtlessly at the shower curtain. For a moment, his vision switched, and he saw only the cracked ceiling with its flickering lightbulb. The switch was abrupt and clean. Stravinsky twitched, turning his eyes upward. He saw the same ceiling from a slightly different angle. The water in the toilet bowl lapped gently and he saw it again. It wobbled and drifted aside. His chest rose and fell into shallow breaths as curiosity and concern forced him up. He stumbled back toward it; seeing, as it saw him, his own dazed expression framed by the rounding porcelain. Floating in the spew, sickly-coated, an eyeball gazed idly up. The violet of its iris seemed bleached; its pupil worn out.