Sporemageddon

A few days ago.

He was certain that the drugs and the death of local nobles was connected.

What he wasn’t certain of was how.

Fortunately, two things were in his favour. First, as a Detective sent by the Crown, he had a certain weight of authority that would allow him to poke his nose into things even if the local constables didn’t want him to.

Second, the local police didn’t seem to care enough to stop him from chasing a lead that wasn’t obviously connected to his original case.

The latter was... good. Annoying, in a way, but good. He had been in some cities where the police had been too helpful, questioning his every move and motive and sometimes pushing him away from certain conclusions that may be unpopular with certain important citizens.

In City Nineteen, he didn’t have that.

Rather, the police was helpful, but too busy with its own concerns to meddle.

It was almost disappointing, because it hinted at a level of laissez-faire that he didn’t much care for. Certainly, having overbearing superiors would be troublesome, and he might have to pull on the rank that he had the right to, but that would mean that they cared and weren’t distracted with other matters.

Travelling with a few men would have been safer, but too conspicuous for the task he had at hand.

Keeping his head low and his hat pulled down to shade his eyes, he took on the gait of a man that was a little downtrodden. Disguising himself wasn’t one of his class skills, but it was something he had learned to do via actual experience.

He moved across the more affluent parts of the city and closer to the slums, though he didn’t wander into them. Instead, he walked along the Gutter, the river running through the centre of the city, and then wandered along the edges of three streets in particular.

This was the area where several larger businesses were located. Not factories or manufactorums, but squat office buildings and a few shops that catered to the middle-class of City Nineteen.

Here was where places that sold well-trimmed suits, good hats, and clean shoes were located. There were a few small grocers, as well as a florist and a tobacco stand to one side of the busy street, but most of the businesses here were offices. Accountancy firms, notaries, the headquarters of a number of small shipping, delving and housing companies.

The people here were, likewise, the kinds of men that worked in these places. There were even the occasional young woman in a smart dress, secretaries and librarians and typists on break.

In many ways, this was the brain of City Nineteen, moreso than the noble estates lodged above the hills to the north of the city.

That was perhaps why it was concerning for him to discover three men sitting on park benches alongside the main thoroughfare, leaning at odd, uncomfortable angles and all clearly asleep. He discovered two more in an alley, and more than one person he crossed on the street was clearly nodding off as they walked.

It wasn’t everyone. Perhaps one person in a hundred was under the effects of what he presumed was Dreamveil use. Or they may have just been exceptionally tired. There were no clear, physical outliers for the use of the drug as far as he could tell other than a deep sleepiness.

He discovered two men in the shade of a tree in a small park. Just an empty set of lots that had been allowed to turn grassy and the trees within had been left untouched, lending a bit of green to the otherwise grey streets.

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Mallory moved over to the two men, taking them in as he did. Younger. Perhaps in their mid to late thirties at most. They were in need of a shave, though it wasn’t too bad. He cleared his throat, making his voice hoarser. “Hey,” he said.

One of the men blinked, only now noticing him. “Huh?”

“Hey, do you have some?” Mallory asked. “You know... I haven’t slept well in days.”

“Oh,” the man said, and instantly his gormless, confused expression was replaced by weary suspicion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I wouldn’t have any night powder even if you searched me.

Night powder? The name made sense. A common user could hardly be expected to use the proper name for a substance of the sort. “I’m not gonna rob ya,” Mallory said, matching his voice to the cadence and tone of the young man. “Just... need to sleep, you know? I’m tired, but can’t sleep.”

The man on the bench shifted, frowned, then looked around. “You’re not going to rat me to the bullies, right?” he asked.

“Nah,” Mallory said. “I mean, no.”

“Right. Who usually gives you your night powder?”

Mallory searched his mind for a moment. He had looked over a few reports, and some names jumped out. “Timothy Ricks. He’s a pal. Works at Regency Accounting? You know him? He got picked up yesterday. He wasn’t a dealer, just a friend who shared a little.”

“No,” the man said, but he did calm down a little. “Look, he probably got his powder from Ol’ Jim. You know him?”

“No?”

“By the corner of Heckle. He hangs around the Pepper Pub. Looks like he just slipped out of the slums.”

“Right, thanks friend. His prices good?”

“They’re alright,” the man said before stifling a massive yawn. “Yeah, you have to ask, but he gives good deals to regulars.”

“Thank you,” Mallory said before making his way out of the park. Finding Heckle street wasn’t too difficult. He kept up the mien of being someone a little down on his luck as he moved, and soon enough he was standing across from the Pepper Pub. It was two blocks over from the edge of the slums, four from the nearest factory. The buildings around it were mostly apartments. Not the nicest ones, but not the worst.

Slipping in, he found a place that was on the wrong side of clean, but it wasn’t empty, even if it was mid-day when most people ought to have still been at work. There was a constant hum of chatter in the air, glasses clinking, silverware on plates, and creaky old chairs shifting over an equally creaky floor. It smelled like grease.

That’s where he found the man that had to be Ol’ Jim. He was smoking a pipe at the back, next to the entrance to the kitchens. There were two younger, tougher looking men with him, standing around and obviously on the lookout for trouble for all that they looked bored.

He moved over, then nodded to the older man. “Hello, sir,” he said, slurring his voice a little.

“Oi, lad, what can I do for ya?” Ol’ Jim asked as he took a pull from his pipe.

Mallory licked his lips, then glanced around. “Heard that you were the man to ask about, ah, not bein’ able to sleep so good?”

“Hm, might be, yeah,” Ol’ Jim said. “But that kind of stuff, it just ain’t free, you know?”

He nodded quickly and stuffed a hand into his pocket while pretending not to notice how Ol’ Jim’s not-so-discrete guards tensed at the motion. He pulled out a handful of small-denomination bills. A few pounds worth, certainly. “Is this enough?” he asked, adding a bit of a shake to his hands.

“Sure is,” Ol’ Jim said. He took the bills, unfolded them so that they were neat and properly stacked, then slipped them into an inner pocket of his coat, he started to reach into another when Mallory stopped him.

“I don’t want just anything,” he said. “I know there’s some that’s cut, with flour and such. I want the real stuff. Please. It’s better. Do you get it from the source?”

Ol’ Jim frowned, looking a little incensed, as though annoyed at the thought that his drugs in particular weren’t as good as anyone else’s. “I get them from the source.”

“For real?” Mallory asked.

“Practically saw the kid grow it myself,” he said.

Mallory blinked, then filed that for later.

Drugs were handed over, and he quickly scampered out of the pub. The moment he was out he adjusted his coat and walked with a straight back, his destination the nearest police precinct. He had an arrest to arrange, and somehow more questions than when he started, but that was often just the way things worked out in his line of work.

For some reason, Ol’ Jim’s words rattled in his mind, however.

What kid?

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