Haarlee's Tale ((Closed, though comments are welcome))

She rolls out of bed, the mattress thin, the dense fibers within not holding up as well as they once did, frayed edges showing obvious signs of having been fixed with poorly applied laser cutters.  She bears noticeable scars on her toned and taut body, sitting there on the edge of the bed.  She runs her hands through her closely-cropped, very light blonde hair, the left resolving to a pleasurable scratch of her scalp.  And just as easily, those hands move to the meager, plasti-pel nightstand, fishing a darkly-covered stim-cig from the plastic box, plucking it between her lush lips and applying practiced pressure to enact the chemical reaction that lights up the tip.  She inhales deeply of the amphetamine-laced smoke, not even turning her head back when the hand comes up from the other, playing gently over her back.

She ignores her, rising out of the small bed and padding over to the window.  She doesn’t bother to change the settings, leaving it dim, dark, pressing close as though trying to see through it.  Her eye-piece is back on the nightstand, so her natural, pale eyes could not be seeing much through the tinted plasti-glass.  She slides her right hand along the surface, moving it up, eventually leaning on the raised, bent appendage.  She brings her left hand up, holding the cig just long enough to turn her head and exhale a plume of smoke.  The woman in the bed moves, propping up on an elbow, watching.

“You’d better leave,” she says, her voice somewhat deep for a woman’s, seeming almost to barely be uttered above a threatening bed of gravel.

“Why?” the woman in the bed asks back.

She puts the cig back between her lips long enough to take another deep, lung-filling drag, then exhales through her nose, the smoke rushing into the surface of the window before her, then spreading out in some seeming chaotic array.

“Because I’m leaving soon,” she answers.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting out of here, leaving the planet.”

“What?” comes the concerned reply, finally being uttered after a stunted pause of what obviously must be disbelief.

She hears the sounds of her slipping out of the bed, urgency now, not seduction, and she comes over, wrapping arms about her, leaning into her.

“Why?” she adds.

“I need to get off this rock,” she announces, “You ought to know enough about me to know that.”

She feels as the other woman holds tighter to her, a clinging caress of suggested insistence, meaning so much more by the manner in which it is done.  It promises much, sings to her from within a shroud of naiveté.

“I don’t know as much about you as I would like,” she finally says, her voice like a breath, “I wish you’d let me know more.”

She then turns, holding the burning stim-stick in her fingertips, not letting it come between them, merely looking upon her with her pale eyes, boring, willing a silent point, exposing her in this moment to the very situation in which she has always been, burning away the fairytale defenses.  The other woman finally slips away, her arms falling, her face turning away and looking down, coated in sadness.  She says nothing more, just picks up her clothes and goes into the dank, tiny apartment’s meager bathroom.

She turns back, looking again into that tinted window, seeing … what?




It had been some time ago, relatively recently, in fact, but as these things go, it might as well have been another life.  She glanced over, looking as her partner, Stone, conversed casually with a heavily augmented civilian.  The man kept throwing strange glances her way, and she made a decent effort of seeming as though she cared nothing for him.  The guy was nervous, paranoid, and very mistrusting of women, so she took up a satellite position to the questioning.  The guy was not under arrest, even though they knew he engaged in a career of small-time illegal activities, but in the grand scheme of things here in the double-city of Tyrena, it was so much dirt under the fingernails.

She tangentially registered the charismatic confidence of her partner.  He was a bit more of a veteran than she, and though they both had many years left to them, they were something of senior agents in their department.  For a myriad of reasons, it seemed no one lasted too long in Homicide.  There were many transfers and early retirements, and of course, the occasional casualty, that led to the department’s record rates of attrition.  They both knew those reasons well, and they kept up their guards even as they made sure to be as close to them as possible.

“Anything?” she asked, pale eyes peering up at her partner’s darker-hued orbs; she dangled a cigarette in her lush lips, unlit, almost as though unwilling to take the chance of lighting it beneath the gray skies, swollen with the promise of misty rain.

Stone looked up at those same clouds, blanketing over the Skids.  It seemed as though the weather worked its own manipulation to hinder this part of the generally prosperous metropolis.  He shook his head, glancing back down at his partner as they calmly walked away from the area.

“Guy’s a waste,” she grumbled about the still unlit cigarette.

Stone chuckled, “Don’t trust the woman hater,” he grinned at her, “I don’t blame you.”

“I don’t trust much of anybody,” she said.

He chuckled more, much freer to show such expressions on his handsome face than it seemed was his more stoic, guarded partner.

“You wanna go grab a drink or something until-,” but his invitation was cut off as both were alerted to a call through their comm-links.

The drinks would have to wait.




They both gazed upon the scene with a professional detachment.  The area had been reasonably roped off, the bright, electronic police cordon cycling its words of warning through the receiver pegs.  They had, of course, walked right through, their implanted i.d. chips keeping such a breach from setting off any alarms.  Most of the handful of beat officers were doing their best to keep the eager dredges from mucking up the scene.  She could tell from a quick glance that some of them had no idea what they were up against here in the Skids.  These people were vultures, predators of one stripe or another, but what she and her partner saw now seemed to give all of them pause.

“The hell do you think did this, Dace?” Stone asked her, both of them stuck in the habit of only referring to each other by last name, no matter the time they’d shared.

She knelt down near the messy mass of what remained of the victim, its torso thrown open, innards spewed out like some almost beautiful abstract display.  She moved her head slowly from side to side.

“Not a blaster,” she commented, her voice low, an indication she was entering that highly-regarded analytical state for which she was valued as a detective, “Look here,” she pointed with a finger, seeming unhindered by any discomfort at increasing her proximity to the fresh corpse, “And here,” she continued, “These are cuts, and not by something generating its own heat.”

“You think this was done by a blade of some kind?” he asked, his voice tainted with obvious incredulity, despite his direct awareness of her deductive skills.

She glanced up at him, “You know this wasn’t done by a blaster.  Way too messy.”

“Well, right,” he said, seeming to coat the second word in the hiccuped defense of an exhaled chuckle, “But …”

“But what could do this, right,” she finished for him, angling her focus back to the mess.

They finally backed off when the Medical Examiner showed up.  The man seemed less eager than the two detectives to get in close and do his job.  As he worked, they spoke with other officers, but though the condition of the scene indicated it had not been long, none of the gawkers proved reasonable witnesses.

“The heart is gone,” the Examiner informed them.

“What?” Stone replied, disgust coloring his features, “How can you tell in all that?”

“It’s my job,” the man answered, seeming unhappy to announce such, then he wrapped up what he had left, exiting the scene as quickly as he could.

“This isn’t good,” Stone commented as the two of them stood back near the barrier, looking at the hideous stain where the body had been, watching passively as final bits of evidence were collected before the clean-up crew would come in and probably just give a cursory spray of unclean water over the spot.

“Nope,” Haarlee agreed, finally having that cigarette, pulling in a deep drag, her chest rising beneath the drab gray shirt and open synth-leather jacket she seemed to always choose as her ‘uniform’, “This is the first.”

He nodded, both of them still gazing at the scene, seeming lost in it.

“You knew the heart was missing, didn’t you?” he asked, still not looking at her.

“Yep,” she dryly responded.




The place was dark, dingy, just what one might expect in this part of the city, and despite the somewhat early hour of the evening, it was already filling up.  Some people knew they were cops, either by recognition or merely noticing the bearing, and they gave them a wide berth.  Eyes of both genders scanned them eagerly, some thinking of them as potential pleasure, unaware of their intent.  They meandered through the crowd and walked through a reinforced door in the back without the slightest detour offered by the large alien guarding it.

There were two people inside the room, one seated, the other not.  It was obvious the dark-skinned person in the seat was in charge.  He did not seem perturbed at all by the sudden arrival of the police, finishing up whatever instructions he had been offering in a low-pitched voice, then sending the young, skinny thing away.  He turned his golden eyes onto his latest visitors.

“Detectives,” he greeted, grinning with confidence.

“Djimon,” Haarlee returned the greeting as the two walked closer to the seated man, the room dark, richly decorated without seeming obviously ostentatious, warm, rich colors giving comfort and a promise of power without seeming too wealthy and inviting covetous grabs.

“Would you two care for a drink?” he offered.

“No, thanks,” Stone chimed in, placing his hands at his waist as the two stopped, close enough, but keeping enough distance to not seem overly threatening.

“Not a pleasure call,” their host deduced.

“Nope,” Haarlee replied, then grabbed a nearby chair, sliding it closer and taking a seat, looking at the man, “We need help, Djimon.”

“Of course,” the man replied, opening his hands and arms in a gracious gesture, “What may I offer you?”

He noted how the other, Stone, moved a bit closer to his partner, taking up a defensive posture.  Did the two even suspect, he wondered, but said nothing.

“You know anything about the two murders?” she asked.

“Ah, so they are related,” Djimon said.

“Cut the crap,” Stone uttered.

The man looked up at him, his own expression of warm gentility dropping by several degrees.

“Is that how you wish to play this, Detective?” the man gave back, “I am very hospitable to you two, and I do not like these slayings any more than you,” he said, leaving his statement deliberately ambiguous.

“Necessary evils, right, Djimon?” Haarlee asked, and the man turned his attention back to the woman, peering at her for a moment before nodding, “Us, you, government, politics, crime … necessary evils, but whatever is doing this, that is not necessary.  Do you know anything that might help us?”

“I wish I did,” he admitted, exhaling a bit, leaning forward somewhat toward the female detective, “I am alarmed at this, very alarmed.  The savagery is frightening.  I am already checking various avenues for what may be going on.”

“And you haven’t found anything?  Come on,” Stone said, exasperated.

The host looked up at the tall man, changing his expression by subtle measures as his attention moved between the two, “Believe me, Detective Stone, I am eager for this to end, but it has only just started.”

Stone glanced down at Haarlee, though she kept her attention on the other.  Djimon turned his eyes back to the woman, looking at her again, letting the moment drag.

“You know this,” he declared, “You are more gifted than is he,” the man said, his right hand giving something of a dismissive gesture to Stone, but neither reacted, because they knew it true, “You almost seem to have something of the Sight,” he added, then looked away after his comments continued to elicit no obvious reactions, “Two nights, two murders.  This killer is not worried of self-restraint, nor worried of being caught.  It will continue to work to slate its appetite as it will.”

“Is it a demon?” Stone flatly asked, eyes drilling into the man to convey his seriousness.

“A demon?” Djimon replied, then erupted with a stream of deep chuckling, continuing it for a moment, even though the other two did not join in, “You are serious?” he asked, a grin still on his features, then casting his eyes from the man to the woman, neither of which vocalized any answer or denial, “I do not know, but it is a monster.  That is certain.”

“We already know that,” Stone quipped, scowling.

“I am sorry I have not helped you, Detectives,” the man said, going back more into his role of gracious host, “But when something comes up, I will be sure to pass it along.”

“How do we know you will?”

“He will,” Haarlee said, her words coming out quickly on the heels of her partner’s question, and she took to her feet, “This killer is going to be bad for everyone’s business, but no one is going to want to face it, so he’d rather send us in after it.”

“You are very correct, Detective Dace, very correct.”

After they had left, she wondered about just what she had been ‘very’ correct.  About her assertion that they would all want this thing to stop, or that she had referred to the killer as an ‘it’?

Things proved quiet for the next few nights. Such was a rare pleasure for the two Detectives, as it seemed the usual level of chaos and crime was reduced by the fear imposed by the killings. They had arrived at the station, actually looking as though some sleep had found them, ready to answer the call of the analyst, a young man who seemed stuck in a perpetual state of nervousness.

“See?” he asked, handing over a mostly transparent vellum, upon which was printed a colorful rendition of some outré output.

Stone gently took the somewhat rigid, surprisingly heavy thing, holding it steadier for their perusal.

“It-it,” the analyst began, then swallowed, “It’s not like anything in the registry.”

They had gotten lucky, or so they thought, when it had been determined that there was DNA evidence at the crime scene which did not belong to the victim. Assumptions ran, of course, to it belonging to the killer. They realized they had not been lucky when further similar traces were found at the second site. The killer seemed unconcerned with leaving such behind.

“This guy doesn’t have a record,” Stone said, looking at the analyst.

The man shook his head quickly, short, jerky movements that barely registered, but seemed to serve as a mute stutter as his mouth opened but nothing yet emerged.

“Unknown biological entity.”

Stone turned his eyes from the analyst to his partner, the words uttered from her mouth like a grim announcement. He then looked back at the scientist who nodded, seeming relieved at not having to admit the results.

“It has s-similarities … of course,” he said, the last two words jerked out of him, his lips curling into a very quick grin, a defense mechanism trying to say many things at once, “But-but, it’s unknown … advanced … in a way.”

“Augmented? Engineered?” Stone pressed.

Again the short, shakes of the head, “No … I’m not sure. It-it could be … I guess, but-."

“There’s significant history of augmentation and engineering against which to compare,” she said, either exasperated with the analyst’s pace or trying to help him, “This is an unknown.”

He nodded, “Exactly,” he spouted, eyes darting between the two.

She exhaled, rising, and Stone took the cue, setting the vellum back on the work surface, also rising, eyes on the researcher, “Well, keep at it,” he said, offering the man something of a crooked smile of encouragement.

They turned, walking off, heading for the station’s exit, so they could get back to the place where the real action was occurring. He turned his head a bit, eyes cutting to her.

“What?” she finally asked.

“Looks like it really is a literal, fucking monster.”


But the Skids was not the only haunting ground, and the action bled off into the surrounding area. They were called to a ‘normal’, legitimate place of business, one that had closed for the evening, the robotic sanitation crew summoning their human supervisor when something interrupted their cleaning. The man had shown up, exasperated and impatient, only to find the corpse of the business’ manager waiting for him. Their witness sat under a blanket, white as a sheet, as the Detectives looked over the scene, the other, ubiquitous officers also about their business.

“Well, this just got loads worse,” Stone commented, and Haarlee nodded, “I wonder if the mayor’ll come leaning on the Department now,” he added, kneeling down next to where his partner held place, close to the mess with which they were becoming all too familiar, “Honest businessman getting ripped up like this, not some Skid dredges who no one ca-."

“Stow it, Stone,” Haarlee quipped, her tone all seriousness, and so her partner did just that, rising back to his impressive height and deciding to leave her to examine the gore as he meandered back to the Sanitation Supervisor.

The man looked up at him, eyes haunted. He’d been holding a poly-foam cup of stimcaf, but one of the officers had gently taken it from his hand, the shaking threatening to spill the hot liquid.

“Your bots didn’t find any signs of forced entry or exit?”

The man shook his head, “N-no.”

“I guess it’s too much to think they got a look at our perp,” Stone continued, seeming more to muse than asking the question with sincerity, “Still, we’ll need to review all the memory banks from after they got here.”

“Sure-sure,” the man managed.

Stone looked back at him, then nodded to the officer holding the cup who promptly offered it to the man.

“Heh,” Stone smirked, “You want a sedative instead of that?”

The man grinned back, weakly, after taking a chug, “I might need one later, but … no,” he seemed suddenly clutched by grim seriousness, eyes going back to the mess.

Stone followed the gaze, noticing as Haarlee stood and walked slowly over to them, her steps deliberate, heavy boots carrying her seeming of their own will, even as her focus seemed lost in thought. She stopped, eyes coalescing on the man. The Supervisor returned her gaze, and she took a quick second to size up the situation, then turned her attention to her partner, an unspoken question passing between them, to which she shook her head.

“Alright, we’re through,” he said, “Officer, why don’t you make sure our ‘witness’ here gets home safely?”


They sat in a different cantina, the evening wearing on. They sipped at short, stout glasses of strong liquor, having chugged a few with less reserve when they first arrived. Smoke swirled about them, lingering off the tip of Haarlee’s ubiquitous cigarettes.

“Maybe we ought to hire a Hunter.”

She cut her eyes over to him, giving him a stone look.

“What?” he retorted to her seeming silent rebuke, “If it’s some monster and not even a sapient, maybe it’s out of our jurisdiction.”

The gaze remained the same – steel pressing into him, curtained by the hazy of drifting smoke.

“What?” he tried again, this time offering a grin and bit of a soft chuckle to punctuate his question, “Look, Dace, you know I’m not the kind to back off of things easily,” he began in a more serious vein, “Hell, you and I have turned down bribes and cush job offers more times than we probably remember. We get the Skids because they know we’re the best for it, not because of some punishment, and we don’t use our seniority to get assigned elsewhere. We’re cursed, because we care.”

Her expression softened, seeming as though a pent-up breath had been released. She turned her eyes away, taking a deep pull of her drink, chasing it with a drag of the cig-stick. In her own way, she was showing sorrow at his pronouncement. She then nodded slowly.

“But we’ve seen three savage kills in seven nights. Djimon is clearly upset by this. He’s gone silent since our initial call, and now Analytics is telling us the damned DNA is unknown. If some mutated slice hound runs amok in the city, they’ll call animal control and put it down, not us. It may not even be a murder case.”

“It’s a murder case,” she flatly stated, exhaling a thick plume of smoke.

“How do you know?”

“The hearts,” she said, then turned her head just enough to give him a mostly sidelong glance, “Because it’s taking the hearts.”

“Maybe it’s just eating-,” and he stopped in the wake of the resolute shaking of her head.

“No traces. It takes them clean. Trophies,” she continued, then took another deep drag on the cig, finishing it and dropping the butt in the small waste receptacle atop the bar, “Whatever it is, it’s sapient, and it’s committing murder.”

She then downed the rest of her drink, rising to her feet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said after looking at him for a moment.

“Dace?” he called out when she was halfway to the exit; she turned, looking at him, “You alright?”

“Sure,” she finally said, then left.


Rushing through endless tunnels of darkness. No, not darkness, but blackness, applied across the vision as though broad strokes from a dark palette, giving up its presence and jagged edges to other colors – blues and grays fighting for some place, and then the red, too much red, spiking out in a rich, bright array. There were noises, and though it seemed they should be screams, they were like sounds to a symphony, adding their essence to the beauty just like the colors.

And the thumping, the thumping which grew and grew and grew, a homing beacon, a metronomic sound that was interrupted in its rhythm by the intrusion, only to finally cease. And oh, the hot beauty of it, the dead light that bathed so invitingly.

She startled out of sleep, jerking in position as though having ripped herself from paralysis. Her eyes were wide, perspiration coating her body. She sat up, the light beside her bed rising to a warm dim at her motion. Her breathing was far too rapid. She peeled the sheet away from her chest, feeling the clamminess of the room’s night time air as it hit the moisture of her sweat.

Crap. It was like she was a kid again and had wet the bed.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, cradling her head in her hands. What the hell had she just dreamt? It seemed obviously tied to the killings, but it had felt so odd, so deep. It had torn her up. She looked at her comm device there on the nightstand, waiting for it to chirp at her. The killings seemed to always happen at twilight, but she kept expecting the notice to come that another had happened.

After a few minutes of this, she relaxed a bit. She reached for the pack of cigs, but then decided against it. She pulled in a deep, slow breath. She needed sleep. Was this thing even taking that away from her?

She spent some energy pulling the damp sheets from the bed, crumbling them in the corner of her sparse bedroom. She actually felt some good as she climbed back in, slipping into the embrace of the clean linens. What an excuse to change her sheets. A sardonic grin began to have its way with her face, but then it fell away with the deep experience of another breath. It took her some time to fall back asleep.

They made their usual rounds, going through the motions, hoping they’d see something out of the ordinary.  Haarlee didn’t like it, tedious, but as it had before, it yielded some fruit.  They were waiting within a crowd of people, folks coming out of a popular eatery running into the flow of others coming off a congested pedestrian walkway, and she happened to glance across the way and she spotted the face.

The woman stared right at her, eyes accentuated with heavy make-up, peering out from within the tattooed face.  It was bold, not something one would do to increase a lack of notice, as if the smirk on the thickly painted lips might indicate otherwise.  Haarlee did her own version of a double-take, one that might not be easily noticed by most.

“What’s up?” Stone asked, nudging her, showing that he was better attuned to her than most.

“Over there,” she said, quickly cutting her eyes to him, then back, and in that split second, the person was gone.

“Where?” Stone pressed.

“She’s gone,” Haarlee informed.

“Who?” Stone kept at it.

“I don’t know,” she said, seeming a bit confused, and this caused her partner to stop looking in the direction she had indicated and glance down at her, no little amount of concern evident on his features, “Thought I saw someone I recognized, watching us.”

Stone furrowed his brow, still looking at her, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She began moving as it seemed the jammed up pedestrian crowd might finally loosen.  He moved also, keeping pace with her.  He kept more of his attention on her as they began to slowly resume their normal gait.

“Dace?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, still not looking at him, “Just thought I saw-.”

“Someone you recognized, yeah,” he said, “And not someone waving at you all friendly-like from across the way.  What’s going on, Dace?”

She glanced up at him, briefly, and he realized that was all he was going to get – her idea of a shrug.  They walked in silence, keeping up their pace, their awareness seeking out like a radar.  He tried to tell if she was more openly keen on keeping tabs of her surroundings, but he couldn’t tell any change in her.  They eventually made it to Djimon’s place, heading inside.

They wandered over to the bar when they found out he wasn’t in, not getting any decent answer to where he might be or when he might return.  The alien who passed them this info was not giving them anything more, despite any not so subtle attempts on Stone’s part to intimidate further from him.  The two ales were set on the bar almost before they could complete saying what they wanted, the light colored liquid leaking bubbles up through the slightly tapered, broadly curved glasses.  They both took obligatory sips.

Haarlee slipped a stim-cig into her mouth, her jaw flexing lightly as she bit the stick into ignition, the tip flaring to intensity as she inhaled.  She exhaled through her nose, the twin plumes angling out to either side of the cig still held in her mouth as she turned, looking out over the growing crowd.  And there she was again, off on the other side of the place, leaning against a corner, looking at her.

Haarlee did not make any outward signs, not even meeting the tattooed woman’s eyes for any longer than the sway of her cursory glance might require.  She then leaned on the bartop, her right elbow acting as her anchor, nonchalantly completing her motion, a full circle, until she leaned full over the darkly reflective surface holding her drink.  She removed the stim-cig from her mouth, exhaling another of her seeming ubiquitous plumes of smoke, almost as though such expulsions were part of her natural respiratory system, and within the quasi-camouflage of the smoke, she spoke in low tones to her partner.

“Behind me, seven o’clock, corner,” she murmured, then brought her glass up, having a meager sip of the complimentary ale.

Stone showed his experience, not jerking his head over to obviously peer in the direction indicated by Haarlee.  He took his time, hiding his movements in the same sort of casual display as had the other detective.  Eventually he found his way back to leaning over the bar, his face quite close to Haarlee’s.

“Is that who I think it is?”

Haarlee took a casual drag on her cig, “She’s made some obvious changes, but yeah, it’s her.”

Stone tensed up a bit, “The hell?  Why wouldn’t they let us know she was getting out early?  And why the hell would they let her out early at all?”

Haarlee managed a shallow shrug from within the bulky synth-leather confines of her jacket, “Politics,” she offered, as a seeming universal answer for anything that didn’t make sense.

Stone seethed a bit, his face stretching into a display of tension, his lips pressing together as he sucked in the inside of the lower.  He stood up straighter, hands clutching the edge of the bartop with some degree of anxiety.

“Calm down,” Haarlee said, trying to cut something of the edge off her normal tone.

Her partner did not seem to react, pushing away from the bar and turning, seeming fit for a challenge, which was his obvious intent, but then he stopped, blinking, his entire attitude changing.

“What?” Haarlee asked.

“She’s gone,” came the answer.


“Why didn’t you notify us that Jonix was cut loose?” came Stone’s gruff question, sounding more like an accusation.

Lieutenant Kaeb’jin looked from one to the other, seeming to almost plead for help from Haarlee, though nothing but a silent stare seemed coming from the detective.  She exhaled.

“I just found out myself not too long ago.  I’m not surprised you found out first.  You two are more on the pulse than I am.”

They knew the Lieutenant openly lamented her desk job, but they all also knew it was mostly an act.  She navigated the political landscape quite well, and she had her sites set much higher than being officer-in-charge over the Homicide Department.  She peered out beneath the bangs of her very dark hair, the majority of its length pulled back into a seemingly utilitarian but rather precisely coifed bun.  Her skin looked flawless, and Haarlee wondered how much time she spent making sure she was beautiful.

“We didn’t get word, Lieutenant, we saw her,” Stone continued in the growing silence after giving a glance to his partner as though waiting for her to speak if she so chose to take a turn, “She was tailing us.”

“And you made her.  Good,” Kaeb’jin tilted her head a bit, a gentle curl taking her lips as she nodded once.

“She wanted to be seen,” Haarlee finally broke her own taciturn repose, “And our comms aren’t malfunctioning or undergoing maintenance, so why no message?”

“I just found out,” the Lieutenant repeated, leaning back into her chair, effectively using the slick desk as a barrier and opening her hands as though silently pleading her position.

The looks she received from her two subordinates seemed to imply they thought they were being fed a portion of bullshit.  She affected a sigh, then leaning toward them, resting her elbows on the desk, letting her eyes pointedly settle on both in turn.

“This case you two are on is not normal,” she began, “and I was very shocked to find out about Jonix’s early and quite sudden release.  I don’t know if they are related, but it seems you two are getting in deep.  I know you’re both careful and capable, but be more careful, okay?”

Haarlee nodded once, all she’d give as any indication of buying this attempted show of candor.  Stone saw it, then blinked his eyes back to their boss.

“Right,” he acquiesced, “Should we requisition some upgraded scatterguns?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” the Lieutenant gave back, speaking the answer with a capable mix of sarcasm and sincerity.


She turned, looking up into his eyes.  He had walked her to her apartment’s door, which was rather uncharacteristic.  She indulged it, knowing of his protectiveness.  She shared that feeling toward him.  She gave him no words, merely looking at him.  They knew each other well enough to communicate volumes without uttering a word.  He looked up and down the hallway, pulling in a breath and exhaling it forcefully through his nose.

“I guess it’s safe enough,” he finally said, then looking back at her, his concern an obvious etching on his face.

“Safe enough,” she repeated, then turned her lips up into a bit of a smile, trying to offer him something, because he seemed to need more soothing and assurance than she.

“Dace, we can post a patrol, or hell, I can even sleep on your sofa-.”

Her expression interrupted his rambling as effectively as any vocalization.  He sighed deeply again.

“Damn Lieutenant,” he cursed, “I can’t believe she didn’t tell us.”

“Good night, Stone,” she said, grinning a bit more, “See you in the morning.”

He looked down at her again, drilling his eyes into hers, then nodded, “Alright.  You take care, and call me if anything … anything comes up.”

“Will do,” she agreed, then watched for a short time as he begrudgingly left, finally heading into her place to try to wind down.


Haarlee woke the next morning much the same way as she went to sleep, reaching for a fresh cig as she sat on the side of her bed, then upending the room temperature contents of the glass on her nightstand, nothing much more than the leavings of melted ice in there or offer any eager respite to a parched throat.

She verbally triggered the coffee machine as she padded by, peeling off her tank top and panties, using the time it would take the beverage to brew for a quick shower.  She even brushed her teeth, which seemed something of a milestone.  The coffee was bitter and strong, and after she somewhat chugged a mug, she poured the rest into a flask, slipping it into an inside jacket pocket, opposite the side where her blaster hung from its shoulder holster.

She had sent a quick alert to Stone, letting him know she was fine and was preparing to head in to the station.  He had replied that he’d be happy to come by and pick her up, so they could carpool again today, but she ignored it.  Less than half an hour from when she woke up, she passed through the sliding front door of her apartment, prepared to take on another day.

She noticed the object when the door slid back closed behind her, locking automatically.  She had barely seen it in her peripheral vision, and she wondered that whoever put it there must not have been too concerned that she’d find it.  She turned, looking at it, noting what seemed a decent thickness and weight to what appeared to be tawny-colored and somewhat scraggily paper, the piece obviously torn from something larger, but the bold symbol etched on it drew more attention, seeming painted on with a deep red ink, the artistry going more for brazen than precise.

She pulled out her comm device, recording a few quick images of the item, then dropped the thing into a small evidence bag.  She already had an idea of where to take it to figure out what it might mean, more than one, really, but she’d let Analysis look it over first, make sure it wasn’t poisoned or bearing of worthwhile fingerprints.

So, someone had visited her as she slept, and she wondered if this calling card was meant to be a threat or a clue.


“It’s not flesh or leather, looks like it’s just a high-density, fairly rough parchment-like paper.  Not the easiest thing to find.”

She nodded, “Yeah, we know that.”

He looked up at the two detectives, letting his eyes rest on them for a moment, seeming unperturbed.

“Indulge me my mental verbalizing,” he said, speaking in his characteristic rapid pace, then looking back down at the object, his boney fingers all but stroking it, “I don’t know what you know, anyway,” he added, seeming as an aside.

The man, Bahlka, had been a promising archaeology student who had turned to drugs as he blazed through his collegiate training.  What looked to be a rewarding career had fallen to the wayside, and he had found himself ‘stuck’ on Corellia.  He still held potential, but most of it had been quashed, so now he helped various people with such assignments as this, and the detectives paid by looking the other way regarding his habits.

“It’s Sith, obviously,” he said, the words seeming to explode into the silence like a hissing dart.

“Sith?” Haarlee managed to get out before her partner, both seeming knee-jerked into the same response.

“Well, that or something to do with the dark side of the Force, something to do with the more occult side,” he elaborated, still not looking up from his study.

“The occult side?” Stone took his turn, “What are you talking about, Bahlkey?  Like the Force is easy to understand to begin with,” he added, curling his lips into something of a sarcastic, challenging expression.

The archaeologist then looked up, peering with upturned eyes beneath brow, his long, lean face seeming to return the challenge just as forcefully.  After a short second or two of locking eyes with the other man, Bahlka pushed back on the hover-chair, turning in the same motion until he stopped up against a nearby bookshelf, seeming choked full of books, displays, cubes, objects, and other such things.  He looked about for a moment, seeming reasonably familiar with the mess, then pulled forth a somewhat decent-size, thick tome, returning to the desk and letting it fall open.  It took him another few seconds of rapid, eager page flipping before he found what he sought.

“There.  See?”

The two moved closer, angling bodies and craning heads to look, and there, about two-thirds of the way down on the right page was a sigil that looked very similar to the one scratched out on the piece of paper, albeit in a much more professional looking rendition.

“That’s it, alright,” Stone declared.

“What does it mean?” Haarlee asked, her words chasing right on the heels of her partner’s.

Bahlka looked up at Haarlee, his eyes moving in a flash before returning to the page, “Well, that is up for debate,” he said, speaking a bit slower than usual before moving back into his quicker pace, “This book was written from the collected journals of Hau’erth, an infamous explorer who supposedly spent some time on the planet Droxine.”

“Never heard of it,” Stone quipped.

“Horrible place,” the archaeologist quipped just as efficiently, “I don’t recommend it.  Hau’erth claimed to have discovered the remnants of some dark civilization, one that became extinct due to the success of the other, nastier sentient life on Droxine.  This symbol was supposedly rather prominent amongst them, and it basically meant something along the lines of forbidden, evil teachings and worship of darkness, malevolent energies and corruption, etc., etc.”

Haarlee turned her eyes to the man, her eyebrows slowly rising, “Uuuuuh …?”

He looked up at her, “Yes, yes, hard to swallow, I know,” then back down at the book and the symbol on the scrap of parchment, “But even if incorrect, a symbol may take on the power of whatever meaning is ascribed to it, and this one is decidedly … evil.”

“As opposed to the good Sith?” Stone snarked.

“You might be surprised,” Bahlka gave his cryptic response, looking up at the taller officer.

“Thanks, Bahlka,” Haarlee offered, taking the scrap back, which elicited a tiny expression of remorse on the face of the archaeologist.

“Always welcome, Detectives,” he said, the words running together in a rush as the two left his dark hovel.