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12

One week prior...

Detective Brady Falken, his only assignment completed for the day, pulled his unmarked cruiser into the spot beside his truck at the Bellemont Police Department and parked. He switched off the car and looked at the radio for the time: 3 PM. His shift didn't end until seven.

The Belgian Malinois grumbled and unbuckled, removed the keys, and opened the door while trying not to spill the coffee he'd just bought. The warmth of the cup was heaven on his stiff hands, but it did nothing for his aching feet. Nice shoes were Brady's vice, and his brown Oxfords clopped on the Police Department's parking lot as he tapped his heels to ease the pain. He sat his coffee on the roof of the car and looked at his worn but costly footwear. He needed new_and more _practical shoes. He hadn't even walked that much today.

"To be so damn expensive, you think you'd be more comfortable," he said, gruff voice on the verge of a growl. But then he smiled and looked around, casually stretching his right foot out and wriggling the Oxford back and forth. The leather glimmered in the sun like polished mahogany. "But, vanity comes with a price besides the one on the tag I guess."

He smoothed his gray khakis, readjusted his gun-belt, and started toward the department. He made it half way across the parking lot before realizing he'd forgotten his coffee. After retrieving it he took a hearty swig, staring into the backseat of his cruiser and rolling his blue eyes as the black liquid rolled down his throat.

He'd left his case-file folded in amongst his trench coat and some protein bar wrappers in the backseat. He opened the door and grabbed the file, then the coat, and then realized he didn't want to carry the coat because the other officers always made fun of it. He'd get enough ridicule because of the case alone. And, besides, it was warm out. He took another sip of coffee and tucked the file protectively under his arm, to hide it there with his sweat stain and hope no one said anything. What did it matter, though, honestly? It was work. He was doing his job, and he was good at it. If Peggy Lutz needed to find a big bronze lawn ornament that was stolen right out from under her nose, then by God Brady would find it, no matter if the thing was worthless to begin with. Even the guys who'd taken it to sell for scrap metal found it wasn't worth much. Call it irony, but Brady called retrieving the thing justice, and when you lived in a city like Bellemont--a city founded and overseen by a Super--there doesn't tend to be much more justice for a detective to dish out.

Brady kept himself busy, though. Idleness wasn't a trait that he possessed. He felt that, as a detective, there was always something or someone out in the world to be investigated. That feeling ate at him day in and day out, nagging in the back of his mind, an itch that--as of yet--he hadn't been able to satisfyingly scratch. The little things he did for the department and for the city, the little crimes he'd solve and pack away into his file cabinet, kept him content. The simplicity of his work hadn't left him feeling hopeless yet.

The department's western door opened with a squeak as Brady pushed with his left shoulder. He half expected someone to be there to greet him, but--like always--he was met by an empty hallway. The other guys and gals were out on patrol, but there were a few officers in the squad room on the left, and Brady waved through the door's glass window as he passed. They waved back, one giving a sarcastic salute: Grange, Brady realized--a smartass coyote, but a nice guy who did good work. His wife was expecting; Brady had a card for them in his desk. The other officer, a paint stallion name Beck, nodded in the Malinois' direction and smacked Grange on the shoulder. Brady knew the young but assertive horse did his best to uphold respect and stability within the department. The dog often saw him helping out the staff in other divisions just for the hell of it. He was a good kid.

Brady kept walking, his heels aching with each step. He had to drop the case-file off in Records, so he passed by his office on the right. Evidence storage was on the left, the armory on the right, and around the corner was the break room where he bet some of the communication ladies were catching up on daytime dramas. Surprisingly, though, there was no one. Only a half-eaten sandwich sat on the table with a Styrofoam cup next to it, the rim indented with bite marks. There was juice in the cup: raspberry. The sandwich was a cucumber and mayo. Only one person in the department ate that, and the bite marks on the cup were signature.

"Chief?" Brady called to no reply.

He sat his coffee down on the table, knowing better than to take it into Records, and then he stuck his head out into the hall, ears swiveling around.

"Falken? That you?" he heard to the right: the girls at the communications desk.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, still leaning out of the break room. He took the file from under his arm and held it at his side.

"He's back, Maddie..."

Wheels skittered on the floor, and a grinning doe rolled into the hall still sitting in her office chair. Her red hair was tied back, wireless headset around her neck, the top of her blue shirt partially unbuttoned. Her ears were perked and her brown eyes were bright.

"Hi, Brady," she said.

Brady blushed out of habit. "Hey."

"Glad you got the weather vane back to Peggy," Maddie said. "We bet you'd finish quickly, but we weren't expecting you back this early."

Brady walked toward the pretty doe and leaned against the wall, scratching the back of his head with his free hand before slipping it into his pocket. He tapped the file against his leg idly. "You were expecting me, huh?"

Sue, a heavyset and placid rabbit, appeared in the doorway beside Maddie. She pulled off her own headset and crossed her arms. "Peggy called an hour ago."

Brady's ears perked. "Oh?"

Maddie tapped her fingers across her knees. "Gave you some positive feedback."

"Really sang your praises," said Sue.

Again, Brady blushed. His tail wagged a bit. "I was just doing my job."

"We know," Maddie said. "But you do it well. For a lowly detective, you put away a lot of perps."

"Solve a lot of little crimes really quick," Sue said. She smiled. "And you could do more, I'm sure."

Heat bloomed in Brady's stomach as he gazed at the two women. He could take the compliments--he didn't like to, but he could. His modesty was unbecoming, but he dealt with it. Something was unsettling him, though. Where was all of this coming from?

"Don't get me wrong," he said, straightening up. He leveled his blue eyes at Maddie and Sue. "But what's this about?"

"You'll see," Sue said with a wink before heading back to her station.

Brady looked to Maddie, and the doe was all but vibrating out of her seat. "The chief wants to see you," she said. She started wheeling herself back toward her desk, watching Brady over her shoulder. "And good luck! It's about time!"

Brady tensed. He didn't have to be a detective to figure out what Maddie had meant.

"Promotion?" The words were bittersweet.

He lingered against the wall to let the idea sink in, but he guessed it wouldn't fully until he'd talked with the chief. Still, his mind was oddly silent at the news. He walked back to the break room but paused in the doorway when he registered someone sitting at the table.

"Afternoon, chief," Brady said.

The old wolfhound grimaced and sat his cup of juice back down, waggling a hand at Brady. "I'm on lunch, son, not in the office."

Brady smiled. "Sorry, Ladson."

Ladson nodded and picked up his half a sandwich. When Brady continued to stand, Ladson pushed the chair opposite to him out from under the table with a foot. The Malinois jerked out of the doorway and took it. The wolfhound smirked at him while he scooted closer to the table, and then he took a bite of sandwich, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"I wasn't expecting a dramatic reaction from you," Ladson said, "But I was expecting some...I don't know...meager excitement at least."

Brady just stared at his chief, pointed ears erect, his case-file clutched tight in his lap.

Ladson shook his greying head. "I heard Maddie tell you the news."

"She just told me you wanted to see me," Brady said with a cocked grin.

"And I know you know what that implies," Ladson said with a grin of his own. He took a swig of juice and smacked his lips at the bitterness of it.

Brady watched Ladson and averted his gaze when the elder dog looked him in the eyes. "I don't know what to say."

Ladson crossed his arms on the table and leaned toward Brady. "Your work speaks for itself, son. The only words I want to hear are..."

"I'll think about it."

Ladson frowned, his ears folding back a tad. He tapped sharply on the tabletop. "Those weren't the words, Brady."

Brady shrugged, still smiling. "Sorry, chief. You knew I wouldn't give you a 'yes' straight up. Give me a little time to think--weigh the pros and cons."

"You think too much," Ladson said. "Even when an answer is simple enough to answer."

"I'm a detective," Brady said. "No single answer is ever simple enough."

"It is when you deserve the result," Ladson said, leaning back. "You'd be a sergeant, Brady--more pay, more authority? As hard as you work now you'd be a lieutenant in no time at all. I already know you can coordinate and supervise a watch; you did that just the other day at the League College fiasco while investigating the scene."

"Chief..."

"And you've supervised before--many times! Son, you're too talented to be the rank you are." Ladson pointed toward Brady's lap and the file he was clutching. "And you're too talented to be running around solving petty little crimes like that. I know you can do so much more, and I know you want to do more. Am I wrong?"

Brady huffed and glanced down at the file. Of course he wanted to do more. He wanted to live up to Ladson's expectations.

The chief had been mentoring him since he'd arrived, after all, when he'd left his Podunk town in rural Illinois ten years ago. Back then Bellemont was still being rebuilt after the Super-war, and the city's police force had been reduced in numbers following the evacuation of inhabitants. Many left and didn't return, afraid that, eventually, another war between the Supers would break out and destroy the town again. Others found the risk worth taking and helped rebuild the city. They crafted their new home with their own two hands and those of a near demigod, and, although the destruction was sickening, Brady found that his resolve grew with each step he took and with each stone he helped place as Bellemont's new foundation. He'd felt like a part of something bigger than his hometown seemingly frozen in time, bigger than anything he'd ever known. Bigger than himself.

Brady had a little apartment on the outskirts of town while the city was being rebuilt. It wasn't much now, he bet, but it was home for his first couple years in service of the city. Mayor Belle made sure that poverty wasn't an issue, but if there had been a ghetto in Bellemont, that's where Brady had been. His place now was nice enough--an upscale townhouse near the city's heart: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big kitchen and living room. Not to mention the enormous balcony. That was Brady's favorite part of his home. He stood out for hours just watching and observing the people down below, listening to the ambience of city-life and feeling the wind across his face. He lived there at a discounted rate, thanks to him being a police officer and for aiding in rebuilding the city. Electricity didn't even cost that much thanks to the apartment building's solar-panel arrays, and water was, well, _water._Not too costly. The perks of his new life saw that he was comfortable, even at a lowly detective's rate of pay. Still, it would be nice to have a little extra money.

It'd be nice to have a little more responsibility, too, with more things to do and more authority to get them done quicker and easier. He'd still get to investigate--maybe not in the field so much, but what did that matter. Brady didn't like the thought of becoming a desk-jockey, but he always saw himself as an adaptable fellow. At least situated at a desk his feet wouldn't pain him so much...

Ladson cleared his throat. "You know I'm not wrong, son," he said.

Brady sighed. "I do."

Ladson pushed himself up, and Brady watched him as he threw his empty cup and wrappers into the garbage. The wolfhound filled the doorway, tall and surprisingly robust for his age, his graying fur and hair like polished steel in the hall light. He looked plumb heroic. "Remember what I told you when you were a rookie?"

Brady smiled. He couldn't help it. "Yep. Be all you can be, and..."

"Be all the more fulfilled," Ladson finished. "But, regardless, think about it if you must. I still expect to hear those overdue words tomorrow."

Brady rolled his eyes and laid his case-file on the table before him. "I know you do."

"And the drop-board is coming along," Ladson said, brushing crumbs from his uniform lapel. "Making headway with any of the cases?"

"Every day," Brady said with a smirk, tail thumping the side of his chair.

The elder dog winked and began to walk toward his office. "Good. Keep cracking them open."

"I will," Brady said.

After gathering his thoughts, Brady made his way to Records. The door handle was rigged with a punch-code so only authorized personnel could access files, and Brady thoughtlessly punched his in without looking. The lock turned with a chime, and Brady shoved open the door. He flipped on the lights to reveal rows of file cabinets along the walls and four thick book shelves right in the center of the room. Close to the door was a table big enough for five, a single fold-up chair open next to it. Brady brushed some dust from his seat's back rest and relished in the musty scent of archived paperwork.

Regardless of his aversion to life at a desk, Brady thrived when submerged in the records that surrounded him. When he was just starting out as a police officer, Ladson allowed him special entry into Records whenever he wished. The elder dog knew of Brady's interest in detective work, and to wet his whistle he tasked the young cop with an...exercise of sorts: to take out old dropped cases, look over how they'd been worked, and then try and solve them. In all honesty, Ladson never expected Brady to become so invested in the menial task, but become invested he did. He sharpened his skills and learned to think in all manner of ways, weighing every scenario, looking at them from every possible angle and perspective. While hunched over in Records, Brady learned to not just _think_like a detective, but he picked up on his personal instinct for work as a sleuth. No single answer dictated in those dropped cases was ever good enough for Brady; no single answer was ever so simple. Thus, the drop-board came to be.

Brady leaned against the table and gazed at the wall in front of him where the drop-board hung. It was an enormous tack panel with an enlarged map of Bellemont pinned to it. Photos, sticky notes, index cards, and multiple strands of taut yarn stuck to the map traced the dropped cases he'd looked into. All of their dates, perps, and locations were circled and starred, and they mingled with one another in imperfect harmony. Why he'd chosen to track multiple cases all at once he didn't know--it just happened. Still, as he stared at the chaotic jumble of photographs, faces, and crime scenes, he felt that they were all just a big puzzle. He just hadn't found the piece to put them all together. If they were related. Brady had a hunch that they were, though, regardless of reason.

Eventually his eyes began to hurt from squinting, and Brady ignored the board and went to the file cabinets. He pulled open the bottom drawer of one and fingered through the manilla folders until he found one labeled with a big letter "L."

"Lutz," he said, satisfyingly slipping the papers from the folder in his hand to the one in the drawer. "Case closed."

To the left of the drop-board, hanging on the wall, was a dry-erase board. A black line divided it in two with the number 108 to the left and 304 to the right. Brady went over and stared at the numbers for a moment, his blue eyes dulling in the fluorescent light, and then he grabbed a marker from a plastic bag on the table. He licked a finger and wiped the "4" off of "304" and put a "5" instead.

"305 solved," he said, tail flicking. "108 dropped and unsolved." He replaced the marker in the bag and went to the door. "For now." He switched off the light and went out.

Brady spent the rest of his shift doing paperwork, looking in on a few new cases, and helping out around the office. His drive home was uneventful and quick since the police department was just a few miles from his apartment. He often considered just walking to work, or maybe buying a bicycle. He'd always liked bicycles, but since ordering a few cycling catalogs and looking up reviews online, he had yet to come to a decision of what model of bike to buy. There were so many choices, after all. So many variables. Even when he was off duty his ways of thinking as a detective followed him home. He didn't know how he hadn't gone crazy yet.

He parked his old Ford truck at his spot by the curb before grabbing his trench coat, lunchbox, and empty thermos and heading inside. His building didn't have a doorman, but each resident had a card to slide to gain entrance. Brady fumbled with his, quickly opened the door, and then made sure it was shut behind him. The hallway smelled freshly vacuumed, and the plush carpeting past the entrance was soft beneath Brady's feet. He thought about slipping out of his shoes and heading upstairs barefoot, but then he thought against it. His ears flicked to the sounds behind closed doors that he passed: laughing voices, televisions, radio music. A blue light glowed around the edges of one door, and for some reason Brady paused and stared at it. He didn't know why he did it, but the light was mesmerizing. Only when a shadow passed by the other side of the door did he move along to the elevator. On the fifth floor he exited and, after a left and a right, he opened his apartment door and stepped on something to a resounding crunch in the dark.

"The hell?" He stumbled and threw his coat and things on the kitchen counter, and then he switched on the light. There was a magazine sized USPS envelope with a designer footprint in it there in the hall. It had been slipped beneath the door. That was odd. Brady didn't handle _odd_very well.

He sniffed the envelope and gently nudged it with a foot before deeming it was safe to pick up. Whatever he'd crushed rattled about inside as he plopped down on his couch and held the thing up to the light. It was a bit heavy, and it was indeed addressed to him, but he didn't recognize the sender. "B.A. Carlyle from Chicago, huh? Never heard of ya'." He thought about grabbing his laptop and running the name through the national criminal database, but then he realized he was being too paranoid. Or he hoped he was being too paranoid. He was from Illinois, after all. Maybe this Carlyle person was a distant relative. Brady wouldn't be surprised. "Well, lets see what we've got."

He carefully tore off the top of the envelope and poured its contents onto the coffee table before him. A picture frame slid out, and with it pieces of broken glass. Brady's ears fell as the image of a young and beautiful lioness greeted him. Her golden hair was up in a bun, and she was in a dress of some sort--scarlet, with open shoulders and short, ruffled sleeves. She looked young, but the picture looked fairly old itself. Brady carefully removed anymore broken glass and brushed it into the garbage, then he peeled off the shipping label before looking for a note or something in the envelope. There wasn't one. He tossed the envelope into the garbage as well then stood the picture up.

"Interesting," he mumbled, scratching his chin and gazing at the lioness's curvy body. "But who are you supposed to be?"

Then he noticed something sticking out from in between the frame and its felt backing: the corner of a piece of paper. Brady grinned at the discovery and pinched the corner, gently easing the thin strip out. When he had it free, the dog frowned, clearly more confused. The paper was some kind of parchment cut down to playing card size, and the only thing on it was...well, Brady didn't know what it was. A black symbol of some kind, etched in a wispy, calligraphic style. It looked like a lowercase "r." He flipped the thing over, but nothing was on the back.

"Help me out, babe," he mumbled to the photo, and then he chuckled and laid the parchment flat on the coffee table. "I like a mystery, but this is kind of..." He pressed the fingers of his right hand against the symbol itself. "Strange."

Brady yelped as a pounding energy shot up his right arm and into his chest in an instant. His heart clenched, and he recalled grabbing hold of an electric fence when he was a pup. This feeling was the same. He couldn't let go of the parchment like he couldn't let go of the fence wire. His head seemed to be splitting in two. His eyes rolled back and he fell into darkness.

He dreamed and he remembered.

He remembered the League College explosion and what had happened: a gas leak. But it _hadn't_been a gas leak. Had it? No. He recalled walking amongst the debris of the dorm building and seeing the damage. The scorch marks and burns...they'd come from something hotter than burning natural gas. He remembered Raymond showing up and thinking that the mayor's arrival was odd. He remembered kicking over a cinder block from the building's wall and finding that it had been...melted. He remembered picking through things and finding a strange...cube _thing--_a probe of some kind. It had been undamaged. He'd stuck it into a plastic baggy as evidence. He remembered someone screaming for help and running to find an officer standing over a body. A charred body. Dead. He remembered Raymond coming over. There had been a man with him, a black cat, said he was with forensics, but Brady recognized him: Dante Beryl, aka Magus the Archmage. Brady remembered looking him in the eye and feeling odd. He remembered the cat going to the body and motioning over it. Then Brady remembered how time seemed to stop. No one was moving. Everyone but Raymond and the cat were glassy eyed and drooling, staring off into nothing. The cat took the body, just levitated it, and then they'd vanished. He remembered everything going black, but he also remembered feeling trapped and manipulated. He remembered everyone going about their duty, oblivious to what had happened. He remembered _being_oblivious, and he remembered everything afterward up to getting home and finding the lioness's picture and the strange rune...

Brady awoke sprawled on his couch with the sun shining in through his glass balcony doors. His head was killing him, and for a moment he thought he'd gotten drunk the night before. Then he realized he didn't drink. He was still in his work clothes, and the lioness was still grinning from her broken frame. The parchment was still on the coffee table as well, but it was blank--the symbol had vanished.

The dog rubbed his throbbing temple and hissed as the bright sunlight made it throb more. He felt sick on his stomach. He felt tainted and lied to. He thought the things he remembered may have been just a dream, but...no, they weren't. They just weren't.

"Shit." He squinted at the lioness. "Thanks for the memory." He closed his eyes. "What the fuck is going on?"

And then Brady went to work.