Sarwan led me to my new desk, a stark island of clean, grey laminate in the bustling sea of the precinct. It was functionally nice, sterile and empty save for the humming computer terminal. It screamed for a personal touch—a photograph, a trinket, something to claim it—but that was a luxury for later. All around us, the hive was buzzing; detectives, officers, and mythicals of every description were already buried in their own cases, their focus a tangible force in the air. Sarwan had mentioned that Spring was usually a calm season, but a quick glance around told me that "calm" at the Solomon Precinct was a relative term, far busier than the 11th Dike had ever been.
"We should move," I said, the urgency of the new case prickling at me. "I still need to gear up."
With a final, decisive motion, I slid the thick, worn case file concerning my parents into the desk drawer. The click of the lock was a familiar, heavy sound, a promise to myself that this drawer would not stay empty for long.
"I must say sorry for my little prank. We always do something like that when a new guy joins us."
Sarwan was looking at me, his earlier mischievous glint replaced by a genuine, almost sheepish apology.
"You really got me there, I must admit."
"I know! You should have seen your face! It was hilarious! Hoot hoot hoot!"
His laugh was a unique, booming sound that seemed to start deep in his chest, and I found myself grinning despite myself. It was infectious.
We navigated the maze of the precinct down to the basement, a journey that felt like descending into the city's bedrock. I struggled to keep pace on the steep, concrete stairs, my city shoes slipping, while Sarwan moved with a practiced, effortless gait. The armory was a fortress within a fortress, sealed behind a heavy-gauge steel cage. A single, small opening served as a transaction window, guarded by a police officer who seemed utterly absorbed in a thick, leather-bound book.
"Hey! Manny! I got a newbie! We need his stuff!"
The officer was a Kobold. He looked up with the profound lethargy of someone interrupted from a truly captivating passage. His features were unmistakable: a compact, crocodile-like head with wide nostrils flaring slightly, green, green pebbled skin, and large, pointed ears that twitched in mild annoyance. His eyes, large and golden, regarded us with profound disinterest.
"Papers...."
His voice was a reedy, monotone drawl. I slid my transfer papers through the gap. He took them with deliberate slowness, his eyes tracing each line as if deciphering a dead language. I could see Sarwan's foot beginning to tap, his patience a visibly dwindling resource. He opened his mouth, no doubt to issue a complaint, but Manny was faster.
"Everything seems in order... I will get your equipment..."
He vanished. One second he was there, the next, a blur of green motion. Kobolds were famed for their speed, and Manny was a testament to his species. Behind the cage, the armory was a chaotic arsenal of the modern and the mystical. I caught flickers of his shadow as he darted between shelves, snatching items with impossible precision. In what felt like the space of a single heartbeat, he was back, and my gear was laid out on the counter as if conjured from thin air.
"Here it is," he recited, his voice still bland. "One 'MG700 pistol' with four magazines. One magazine with silver-tipped rounds, one with mithril-piercing cores, one charged with mana-disruption bolts, and the last one is standard-issue enhanced ballistic. One 'LS Protective Vest,' stab-proof, rated for low-caliber ballistics, and enchanted for anti-magic deflection up to Level 3. And of course, your new badge and security card. Do NOT lose any of the items provided!"
The gear was impeccable. The pistol, a sleek, black piece of deadly engineering, fit snugly into its holster on my belt without any need for adjustment. The vest was heavier than it looked, the faint, ozone-like hum of its enchantment buzzing against my fingertips. I decided to carry it for now. But the badge… that was something else. It was a weighty, golden shield, emblazoned with the skyline of Wonder City. Across the front, in bold, sapphire-blue letters, was "WCPD," and below that, three stars gleamed, marking my rank as a 1st Class Detective. I fastened the holster and clipped the badge to my belt, the metal a cool, reassuring presence against my hip.
"Ho ho ho! 1st class! I must say, that is impressive! I'm only 3rd!"
Sarwan was looking at the badge with a mixture of admiration and yearning.
"Well, one day I'll get there. Ho Ho Ho! Hey Manny! We need a car. Chief's orders."
He stretched his hand out toward the Kobold with great anticipation.
"Yes....Yes.... Here you go. The keys to the Ford-258-85."
"WHY? WHY the Ford? It doesn't even have air conditioning! It's a piece of crap! Give me something else!"
The genuine despair in Sarwan's voice was almost comical. He looked at Manny with the wide, pleading eyes of a scolded puppy, but the Kobold's face was a mask of unmoved annoyance.
"Last time you crashed the Interceptor chasing a Perpetrator through the Gnome District. The time before that, you 'scratched it' while parking, which required a full body panel replacement. And shall I recall the incident with the Pixie-dust residue and the—"
"OKAY! Okay! I'll take the damn Ford!"
He snatched the keys with the air of a man accepting his fate. Manny, his duty done, simply returned to his book without another word. We exited through the heavy rear doors into the parking lot, and there it was. The ugliest piece of junk I had ever laid eyes on. A Ford Crown Victoria, the classic "Interceptor" from a bygone century, painted a miserable, faded brown with all police decals removed. It sat there, hunched and forlorn, a monument to neglect amidst the newer, sleeker vehicles.
"Yea, I know what you're thinking. But don't worry, it's only temporary."
I pushed down my own disappointment. A car was a tool, and it was the work that mattered. The interior, however, was a surprise. It was worn, the leather seats cracked in places, but it was clean. Sarwan took the wheel—an unspoken rule that the new guy never drives on his first day. He fired up the engine, which coughed to life with a grumble that promised future reliability, if not comfort. He keyed the radio.
"Dispatch, this is Det. Sarwan and Det. Theopha—"
"Just say Theo," I interjected.
"—Det. Theo, with unit 258-85, leaving the 'Castle.' Do you read me?"
A crisp, female voice crackled back through the static. "Loud and clear, 258-85. Good luck out there!"
Sarwan pulled the behemoth into the chaotic flow of traffic, a grimace still plastered on his face.
"Gosh! I still can't believe he gave me this piece of junk."
"Oh, it's not that bad!" I offered, trying to be positive.
"Not that bad? It's still morning, so the temperature is okay. But wait till noon. It gets like an oven in here. These leather seats get so hot I start to smell like roasted chicken!"
He had a point. Even now, the early summer sun was gaining strength. On the streets, a vibrant tapestry of humanity and mythicals flowed past, most in light summer wear. My leather jacket was suddenly feeling like a very poor choice. The rush hour traffic was a nightmare, a symphony of honking horns and the occasional burst of magical energy from a passing vehicle.
"So, Theo, what brings you to the 1st?" Sarwan asked, navigating the congestion with practiced ease.
"Well, the 22nd was great, but there was something I needed to do here."
"Something personal?"
"You could say that."
I didn't plan on being secretive forever, but for now, my true objective was a burden I needed to carry alone. Perhaps later, I could enlist help, but first, I had to understand the landscape of my new home.
"Well, I won't pressure you into talking, but if you need any help, I'm here. We are partners, after all... Well, it's only the first time that we're working together, but still.... I mean, we're colleagues.....Well, you know what I mean."
Sarwan's eyes were sincere, his offer warming a part of me I kept guarded. He was a good guy. The rest of the drive was filled with easier conversation, a getting-to-know-you session between partners. He was an only child, his parents ran a small shop in the city—a humble but happy life. He was eager to share, chatty in a way that was endearing rather than annoying. I found I didn't mind; his openness was a welcome anchor in the strangeness of the day.
After what felt like an eternity in the hellish traffic, we finally arrived. The Dryad Dixie Apothecary was a quaint, two-story building nestled on the main Latiner street, its facade now defiled by a crisscross of blue police tape. Two uniformed officers—one an Avian with sharp, watchful eyes, the other a canine Beast-man with his ears perked—stood guard, holding back the small crowd of curious onlookers. Sarwan expertly nudged the brown Ford onto the curb, careful not to block the busy sidewalk.
"Ready?"
I did a final, instinctive check. The solid weight of the MG700 on my hip, the cool metal of my badge, the firm presence of my ID. All there. All part of me now.
"Let's go."
We ducked under the tape with a nod to the officers, who simply grunted in acknowledgment. Stepping inside the apothecary was like stepping into the aftermath of a hurricane.
"A mess" was a catastrophic understatement. It looked as if a rampaging Minotaur had been set loose among the shelves. The place was stocked with the arcane and the rare: jars of glowing fungi, shimmering feathers, bottled essences, and meticulously labeled roots now lay shattered and trampled into a colorful, magical slurry. The air was thick with the cloying scent of a hundred spilled potions and crushed herbs.
Moving through this chaos with an almost supernatural grace were the CSI technicians—Brownies. Dressed in pristine white coveralls, they were a whirlwind of meticulous activity. They photographed, sketched, and collected evidence with a delicate precision, their small forms weaving through the wreckage without disturbing a single mote of dust. They were the best, and the entire case would hinge on their work.
"Man, this will be a pain in the ass. I hope the nerds find something useful in this mess."
"I heard that, Sarwan!"
"Crap..."
Sarwan winced and scratched his head nervously. A Brownie was picking his way toward us, his gloved hands held up. His ID badge read: CSI: Tick Lars.
"Do not call us nerds!"
"Ah, Lars! You're leading the CSI today? You know I was just joking! It was a joke."
"Humph! Yea, right! Keep up your jokes and maybe I'll start documenting things EXTRA detailed."
Sarwan began to sweat visibly. I immediately understood the threat. "Extra detailed" from Lars wouldn't mean thorough; it would mean being buried under an avalanche of irrelevant data—every broken twig, every spilled drop cataloged, turning our investigation into a needle-in-a-haystack nightmare.
"I said I was joking! I learned my lesson with the Leprechaun gold case...."
Lars harrumphed again, his sharp eyes then landing on me. They traveled from my face down to the badge on my belt, and his eyebrows lifted a fraction.
"And this is?"
"Ah, yes! This is Det. Theo. He's my partner on this case. Came in today, fresh from Dike!"
Lars looked me up and down with a critical, appraising stare.
"And I was hoping he was your supervisor, here to keep you in check!"
"Nice to meet you. I'm looking forward to working with you," I said, extending my hand.
He looked at my offered hand as if it were a contaminated specimen. "I'm sorry, I can't shake hands with you. As you can see, I'm working and have my gloves on. I'm afraid of contaminating the evidence. Being a 1st Class Detective, you should know that."
The condescension in his voice was palpable. My first impression of CSI Tick Lars was now fully formed: a world-class douchebag.
"Since you are here," he continued, "go do whatever you 'cool guys' do and do not disturb my men or touch any of my evidence! The supervisor of the shop is in the back. Her name is Lilly. Tell her she can clean this mess up when I say so, and not a moment before!"
With that, he turned on his heel and marched away.
"Douchebag..." we both sighed in unison.
"Man, I hate that guy," Sarwan muttered.
"Does he have anything against you in particular?"
"No, he's like that to everyone. He's just a giant pain in the ass. But he's good at what he does, so at least that will make our work easier. Come on, let's go talk to the supervisor. And watch your step—disturb one of Lars's precious clues, and our lives become a living hell."
We picked our way carefully toward the back, and I used the opportunity to scan the room. My eyes were drawn to the cash register, its drawer shut and intact. Peeking behind the counter, I saw the floor safe, its door closed and seemingly untouched.
"See the register and the safe?" I pointed out to Sarwan. "They're not damaged. Money wasn't the motive. In a place like this, it has to be about the inventory. Something specific they came for."
Sarwan nodded, his expression turning more serious. "Good catch."
We pushed through the door into the storage room. The destruction here was more focused. While the main shop had been vandalized, the storage had been systematically ransacked. Crates were pried open, their contents scooped out. The heart of the crime was in this room.
In the center of the chaos stood a Dryad, her form radiating fury. She was arguing heatedly into a crystal communicator, while three frantic Pixies fluttered around her, clutching notepads and chirping soothingly.
"They have taken almost all of it! Your magic formation didn't do ANYTHING! Didn't you say that it is a newly developed Lvl.7 magic alarm and protection formation?! That it is unbreakable?! How the hell did they walk in here like they were in a supermarket?! I DON'T CARE! Send your representative to the shop RIGHT NOW!!!"
She slammed the communicator shut, her entire body trembling. The beautiful, bark-like patterns on her brown skin seemed to darken with her rage. She was a Hamadryad, her hair a stunning cascade of overlapping red leaves. She was, in a word, breathtaking, even in her fury.
"Cough! Excuse me. You are the manager of this place? Miss Lilly?" Sarwan approached cautiously.
She whirled around, her leaf-like hair rustling angrily. The sight of our badges acted as a slight coolant to her temper, though a deep frown remained etched on her features. She waved a hand, and the three Pixies shot away with relieved sighs.
"Yes, that's me. But we'll see if I remain the manager after this."
"Ho Ho! Don't be so negative. We will do all that we can to catch the criminals."
"I hope so. They've taken so much, it will take me a week just to inventory what's missing."
"So, Miss Lilly, can you tell us anything about the robbery? Please start from when you closed the shop last night."
"Yesterday we closed around 8 PM. It was busy, but nothing out of the ordinary. Myself and two other employees were the last to leave. We closed the register and the safe. After they changed, I came back here to the storage and activated the magic formation..."
"Are you sure you activated it correctly?" I interjected.
She pulled a small, inscribed amber stone from a pocket in her fibrous tunic. "This is the activation rune. You simply touch it to the control circle. It activates. To deactivate, you do the same. It requires no personal mana. It's the latest model, cost a fortune."
Her voice dripped with venomous sarcasm. "And it seems it is completely USELESS!"
In a fit of rage, she hurled the rune across the room. It whizzed past the head of a Brownie, who didn't even flinch, his focus absolute.
A Level 7 formation that required no mana? That wasn't just expensive; it was state-of-the-art. It should have been impervious to anything short of a tactical siege.
"Calm down, Miss Lilly," Sarwan soothed. "Tell me, do any of the other employees have an activation rune?"
She looked confused. "Yes, there are three. Mine, my assistant manager's, and a backup, which is locked in a small safe in my office. And before you ask, I trust my employees. They are all good people."
"Ho Ho, just covering all the bases. If you wouldn't mind, could you show me that backup rune now?"
"Sarwan, you go ahead with her," I said. "I want to check the delivery bay, see if there's anything out there."
He nodded, and Lilly led him toward a small office. I turned my attention to the large, reinforced delivery door. It was big enough to accommodate a truck. Pushing it open, I stepped into the back alley. It was a narrow, grimy corridor of the city, lined with four large dumpsters that reeked of spoiled ingredients and magical decay. The trash hadn't been collected yet. My eyes scanned the asphalt for tire marks, oil stains, any sign of the vehicle that must have been used to haul away the stolen goods.
Then I saw it. A small, neat hole was punctured in the corner of one dumpster, from which a thick, green liquid slowly dripped. I crouched down, dipping my fingertips into the substance. It was sticky. A cold dread settled in my stomach even before I lifted my fingers to my nose.
The scent was unmistakable—sweet, organic, and deeply wrong out of context.
"Fuck! It smells like tree sap... Hey! Sarwan!"
He was beside me in an instant, his approach so silent it would have startled me if I wasn't already keyed up.
"What's wrong, partner?"
"I think this just changed from a standard B&E to a high-priority case."
"Why do you think that?"
I didn't answer with words. Instead, I gripped the cold, metal lid of the dumpster and heaved it open. The stench of rot and magic billowed out, but it was the sight within that froze the air in our lungs. Amidst the bags of trash and discarded alchemical refuse was a tangle of woody limbs, a body composed of bark and leaf. A dead Ent, its ancient, peaceful eyes staring blankly at the grimy alley sky.
"Goddamnit..." Sarwan breathed, the word a heavy exhalation of shared dread. The game had just changed entirely.