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Daylight languished under a planned seven-day rainstorm. The leaders of the city, through political and literal backstabbing, had managed to land the contract for a prestigious inter-city sporting event. There were to be parades and pageantry, in the upper city at least. However, before the flocks of PR drones could be unleashed to take pictures of Daylight looking her most magnificent the stains and grease of her ceaseless industry must be washed away.

Cloud seeding and meteorological newtech were employed to set up a massive deluge. At the highest reaches of the city, amid the sparkle and glitter of the sky palaces, tiny radio-controlled hover units blasted soapy detergent and slippery polish onto the chromed surfaces. Rich chemical lather gathered in corners before being swept away by concentrated blasts of pressurised rainwater. The idle rich gathered on balconies and watched the waterfalls from behind personal hydro shields. To them the rain was a novel, interesting diversion.

In the middle towns the industrial centres swirled with rain. The Ironworks sizzled as the water pattered onto the hot metal roofs of the factories. In the Medical Quarter patients queued beneath temporary, fizzing parasol shields. The Glassworks became home to coiling serpents of light as the water snaked down the sheets of coloured glass, refracting the light from within. Although some drains backed up, there were plenty of workers on hand to make sure that the chugging, frothing liquid was directed where it was meant to go.

Mostly, that was vast, underground storage tanks. Technically Daylight had endured several minor droughts in the past few years. The games were an excellent excuse for the nobles to shell out to fill her belly with water once more through this unnatural storm. But even with the waste processors, storm drains and sluices working at full, there was too much water for the system to handle. So the rest was dumped down-town.

There, amid the slums and worker ghettoes, the water flowed ankle-deep. Flash floods when emergency tanks were voided could reach as high as the average feline's neck, sometimes higher. Crude sandbags were piled here and there, trying to channel the water into less destructive areas. But still, it kept on coming.

At least after the second day it was no longer as acidic as usual.

The only place that was untouched by the constant, maddening drumbeat of the rain were the mines that surrounded the city. Heaven forbid that the petrochem deposits be diluted by even one drop, or the workers on the coalface be prevented from breaking their backs for a single second. Miners were queueing up for double, even triple shifts. Sleeping near the grinding machinery of industry was a hell of a lot better than being in a soaking tenement building listening to the constant patter of rain and leaks. It could almost have been part of the plan, thought Dreb'n bitterly. He ducked behind a street-stall as another erratic spattering of gunfire came his way.

The rain, of course, had brought out the crazies as well.

Detective Dreb'n and his second, Purity, had been out on another patrol. The precinct house was a humid hellhole since water got into the roof space and transmuted to muggy steam by the air filtration system. That and the water that had leaked in past the sandbagging had been swilling through the offices, tracked in by muddy paws. Rather than sit in the sauna they had been roaming the streets in their cruiser, water sloshing in the footrest, and keeping an eye out for trouble.

Purity had spotted it first. Dreb'n had been too busy trying to manoeuvre around what appeared to be a fresh pothole in the road, the cruiser raising a wake behind them. The canine pointed a group of two dozen or more doomsday cultists trying to push through a sodden street market. Under the best of times so many people muscling through a busy commercial district would cause a brawl. With tempers one spark away from exploding thanks to the rain, this was a riot in the making.

Dreb'n had tugged on his rain suit and filter mask. The hard plastic covered the crescent scar of white fur on the feline's cheek. The rest of his fur was a patchwork of mongrel colours, leading up to the mangled, bullet-and-blade ruined stubs of his ears. He had tugged his hood up and checked that his pacifier was locked and loaded before stepping out into the ankle-deep flow.

On the other side of the parked vehicle Purity had clipped the arm-brace for his monstrous-calibre pistol. He had let the rain (now mostly water and only partially effluent from the industrial zones) run over his dark brown fur before pulling up his own hood. Watching faces from the windows of the ragged tenements around them peered at this possible source of entertainment. It beat watching pans and cups fill and overflow for the hundredth time that day.

By the time they had reached the first soaking stalls a loud argument was in progress. Rain battered against crude coverings of rags, plastic sheeting and scrap iron, making it tricky to overhear the exact wording of the exchange. The doomsday cult were apparently preaching something that was annoying the ragged and soaked collection of felines, canines and rodents. People were shouting. Dreb'n saw someone get shoved. He was about to yell, to announce his presence, when the first cultist whipped out a vicious-looking pistol and drilled a shouting canine through the head.

It was of course ironic that with all this rain, a powder keg like this could still be ignited so suddenly.

The crowd scattered and Dreb'n threw himself into cover behind the closest stall. It looked solid enough; a rusted metal frame with sackcloth to keep the rain away. Peeking over the top he saw the cultists were trying to lead one of their members towards a trio of gang-tagged buildings on the other side of the market. From the scrawl and the screaming females piling back inside it looked like brothels. This was confirmed a moment later when one of the ragged band screamed about 'burning down the temples of fornication'.

Purity knelt in the churning water nearby, loosing off deafening shots from his pistol at the group. "Police! Stand down! Stand down!" Dreb'n yelled the words more to get the 'law abiding' citizens out of the way. The doomsday cult were too far gone to listen to any temporal power. One of them turned and began unloading rattling shots from a heavily-modified streetgun at Purity. The canine ducked down as glass jars of home-brewed liquor exploded on the stall he was hiding behind.

Dreb'n popped up from behind his own cover and put a round through the cultist pinning his second. The feline crumpled like a puppet with his strings cut, joining the growing body count floating in the water. Threads of red were already beginning to pollute the rancid pools, drummed into dilution by the continuing rainfall. Drteb'n racked the slide of his pacifier to chamber another round and took stock of the situation.

More shots were ringing out as the vendors and various gangs began to pull weapons on this common foe. Dreb'n cursed and ducked as lead began to fly almost indiscriminately. Worse, he and Purity were opposite the trio of brothel's that the cultists were aiming for. As the gang heavies within threw open windows hammered shots into the cult, many of the bullets were heading their way. A ricochet, from whom, he didn't know, slid along his cheek, ripping his rain-suit's hood open, cracking his filter and leaving a gash of pain along his jaw.

Ducking into cover and patting at the bleeding wound, Dreb'n began shouting. "Police! Police! For fuck's sake stop shooting!" A couple of gangers that could see him hesitated...then continued to plug away at the rapidly diminishing cult members. "Fantastic," he muttered, looking at the blood on his fingers.

"Should we just leave them to it?" Purity wondered out loud as he cracked open his pistol to feed in more rounds. Dreb'n shook his head.

"Tempting but no." He risked another peek over the stall. A cultist, ragged with self-flagelation and wide-eyed on vision-inducing narco came charging towards his position with a flail of barbed chains whirling around his head. Dreb'n and Purity shot him almost simultaneously, Dreb'n's shot doubling him up and Purity's hurling him onto his back in the murky water of the street. Shouting and screams drew Dreb'n attention. Gangers and vendors alike were running away, clearing the area at speed.

On the plus side it meant less random lead was filling the air. On the down side it let him see that the street-preacher leading this band had thrown off his sopping-wet robes. He revealed a malnourished body riven bald in places with acts of fanatical devotion. It also revealed that he was wired with a harness containing about half a dozen mining-charges. "Oh...just fuck my life," Dreb'n mumbled into the rain.

He popped up and grabbed Purity by the collar, hauling the yelping canine with him. The other officer had still been reloading and had not noticed the imminent danger. Once he glanced over his shoulder he soon found his feet and was outpacing Dreb'n. Behind them the gunfire was replaced by the blare of alarm sirens. Dreb'n risked a look and saw that the emergency shutters were stuttering into place on rusty tracks on the three brothels. Clearly the gangs inside had hacked the system years ago to turn them into fortresses in case of attack. It made a lot of sense to deploy the sturdy metal bulkheads now.

The pair of them sloshed to a halt behind a ruined groundcar. They were just in time to see a pair of cultists that were trying to hold the entrance open get caught in the descending metal slabs. One lost an arm and staggered back, venting gore from the stump. The other managed to wedge his body into the gap. If he hoped it would prevent the door from closing he was...right. For about five seconds. Bile rose in Dreb'n throat as the door sealed in place with a crunch.

Putity tried lining up a shot on the leader with his pistol, but Dreb'n put a paw on his arm. "Don't bother," he panted. "Even if you miss the charge they'll probably have another way to set it off." The pair of them contemplated the cultists, who were milling in some confusion. A few more enthusiastic gangers were taking pot shots at them from behind cover and from nearby rooftops, but everyone with half a brain was running away still.

"You know..." Purity gestured at the group as they all began to gather around the ranting, drug-addled preacher. "That is an awful lot of mining-charges he has there." The pair of them thought about this for a moment...then turned and resumed running away.

They made it to the end of the street before the cult, stymied in their attempt to wipe away the wicked, sinful whores and pimps, detonated their explosives. A wave of pressure, followed by a literal wave of stinking water and debris, chased the two as they tried to make it into the cover of a side street. But physics is a harsh and unforgiving bitch, and the pair of them were caught and hurled forward by the shock.

---

Dreb'n lay face down on a rickety metal gurney in the back of an ambulance while a medic pulled glass out of his back. He invented new and interesting curses for each shard pulled free. Thankfully he had not broken his spine when he had impacted with the windscreen of the groundcar he had been hurled into; instead he had to enjoy having his wounds emptied of glass and then patched up with coagulant and healing plasters. His ears were still ringing and he felt like someone had shaken him by his ankles for an hour.

Speaking of ankles he looked over as Purity gave another bark of pain. He was at on the edge of the ambulance's bay having his ankle twisted back into place. A rodent medic was chittering at him to remain still but each pull, even with an injection of numbing drugs, was making the canine flinch and complain.

A particularly long shard eased out of Dreb'n's shoulder and he gritted his teeth. He heard a decisive snap followed by Purity cursing out his helper. The rodent stepped past his field of view to get an ankle brace and the feline closed his eyes. At least, he considered, taking a few days of medical leave or desk work would keep him out of the rain. As if sensing his mood the rain fell heavier on the roof of the ambulance, drowning out the sounds of the city outside.

Somewhere Daylight, high above, Dreb'n's file was placed on a desk of imported hardwood. A scaled finger tapped his profile picture. ++This one,++ grated a metallic translator, void of emotion. ++We chose this one.++