Quid ego poenas?-LVIII

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DATE:13th of July, the 70th year after the Coronation

LOCATION: Concord Metropolis

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I got called early in the morning about some murder that happened. Precisely, it was a hero from another agency. They wanted me to investigate it as apparently I was considered "competent". I wanted to decline, but they offered to pay me. A 5000 Zol advance payment and another 10000 after I finished it. The sum was large, considering it was one of their own, but I thought it was too much. Something didn't add up... Anyway...

So off I go!

It was in an apartment on the first floor of a pretty cozy block. The neighborhood seemed safe too. I wouldn't receive help from any heroes nor the Royal investigators. The agency wanted to keep the issue internal.

I put on some gloves and went inside, the door being unlocked and entered the murder scene, the bathroom.

It was suffused with an acrid smell, faint but noticeable, likely from the chlorine gas residue. The body of the mother lay on the cold tile floor, her expression twisted into something between pain and shock. I crouched by her, examining her skin. There were no bruises or visible signs of a struggle, though her fingers were clenched as if in agony. Poison or an ability seemed the only logical causes.

The red dots scattered across the bathroom tiles caught my attention again. They weren't blood—Emily had confirmed as much—but their exact composition eluded her analysis. The yellow substance draining from them was liquid chlorine gas, an ominous and highly unusual clue.

"Emily, could this have been a deliberate deployment?" I asked under my breath, glancing toward my phone screen.

"Possibly," Emily responded, her voice analytical. "However, the presence of the red component complicates matters. It doesn't match known substances in my database. The combination of these factors suggests an ability may be involved."

I rose to my feet and surveyed the room once more. The bathroom itself was modest—ceramic tiles, a tub with a showerhead, and a single window, slightly ajar. It wasn't large enough to allow an adult to escape unnoticed, which meant the perpetrator likely left through the main living area.

The older boy stood nearby, visibly shaken but trying to maintain a stoic demeanor. His younger sister clung to him, her patchy hair a striking contrast to her pale skin.

I turned to the boy first. "What's your name?"

"Adrian," he said softly, avoiding my gaze.

"Adrian," I repeated. "I heard you have a sharp sense of hearing. Did you hear anything unusual before… this happened?"

He hesitated, his face tightening with a mix of fear and guilt. "I… I heard her scream. And then... there was this weird popping sound, like bubbles bursting."

"Popping?" I pressed.

He nodded quickly. "It wasn't loud, but it came from the bathroom. I thought maybe she slipped or something, but…" His voice trailed off as he glanced at his mother's lifeless form.

"Did you tell anyone else about this sound?"

He shook his head.

Turning to the younger sister, I softened my tone. "What about you? Did you notice anything strange?"

She shook her head, her eyes wide and watery. "I was in my room. I didn't hear anything."

I studied the two of them for a moment, weighing their responses. Adrian's ability to hear could be useful, but his evasiveness hinted at deeper layers to his story.

"Emily," I murmured, stepping back to focus on the red dots again. "Could these dots be the source of the popping sound Adrian described?"

"It's plausible," Emily replied. "If the dots were formed by some reaction or ability, they might release gas under certain conditions. However, determining the exact mechanism requires a closer sample."

I knelt near the largest cluster of dots, careful not to touch them. A faint acidic tang hung in the air around them. My gut told me this wasn't a simple poisoning—it was something far stranger.

I glanced at Adrian once more. "What were things like at school for you recently?"

His head snapped up, his expression a mix of surprise and defensiveness. "Why does that matter?"

"Just answer the question."

He hesitated, then mumbled, "I was getting bullied, okay? But it's not important. They wouldn't do anything like this."

"Maybe not them," I said evenly. "But someone might've been trying to send a message—either to you or your mother. Think hard. Did she have enemies?"

Adrian exchanged a nervous glance with his sister, who looked confused and frightened. His silence spoke volumes. Perhaps I am not that mature to talk to him like this. Some other hero would keep him away from the corpse to reduce trauma. But why would I care. This 'quest' was already hard enough.

The yellow chlorine substance, the strange red dots, the popping sound—it was starting to form a picture, but it was incomplete. The mother's death wasn't random, and whoever—or whatever—had done this wasn't finished.

I honestly thought they should bring some of the inquisitors. I am sure one of them has an ability precisely for this.

If the agency didn't do that, this means that the killer was extremely unpredictable or dangerous or perhaps it was an inside job. Either case was problematic. I should just give up...

I decided to take a look around the house. The living room and the parents bedroom were normal. I did find some antidepressants in the bedroom, but the death was too strange for it to be suicide. The pained expression didn't align with this hypothesis.

The dead hero's ability was to fly, and she was quite fast at it too, apparently.

Her husband was working in Albion at a business. They didn't inform him of her death out of suspicion, but apparently someone confirmed he was indeed in Albion.

I only had the kids bedrooms.

The boy stopped me at his door, saying it was 'private' but I pushed him away.

Inside the room certainly was incriminating.

There were scratch marks across the walls with a poster of the villain 'The Haymaker'. It was from when he was a hero, but even still.

I looked inside his desk, despite him trying to guard it and what do you know? A knife and a pistol.

I look at him and he falls to the ground crying, pleading he didn't kill his mother.

I put both the weapons in a zip-lock and place them in a bag before turning to the boy. I say I believe him, but I still need to take these. There was an obvious reason why he wasn't the killer. His ability shouldn't allow him to kill his mother. Cases where heroes had more than one ability were Soo rare. This couldn't be one of them.

I looked around the boy's room again, noting the chaotic details. The scratch marks on the walls weren't just random—there was a pattern to them, deliberate but unclear. Adrian's trembling form on the floor only added to the tension. His sister peeked from the hallway, her patchy hair and wide eyes framing her in the doorway.

"Adrian," I began, my voice low but firm. "You need to explain this. The poster. The weapons. What's going on here?"

"They're just for protection!" he blurted out, wiping his face hastily. "The kids at school… they said stuff. That I was weak. That… that if someone came for me, I'd be dead in a second. I—" His voice cracked. "I didn't kill her. I swear."

I studied his expression. It was a mixture of fear and shame, but it didn't carry the telltale signs of deception. Emily chimed in quietly through my earpiece.

"No evidence of foul play linked to him so far. His biometrics suggest he's being truthful."

I nodded subtly and crouched to his level, still clutching the bag with the knife and pistol. "Adrian, I believe you. But this room… the scratches, the weapons—it paints a different picture. If someone else sees this, they might not believe you. I'm going to need your cooperation to make sure we figure out the truth."

He sniffled and nodded, though he didn't seem convinced.

I turned toward the scratches again. They were deep, almost claw-like, as if someone—or something—had gouged the walls with incredible force. "Did you do this?"

He hesitated. "No," he whispered. "But sometimes… when I wake up, they're just there. I don't know how."

A shiver ran down my spine. Sleepwalking? Or something else?

His sister finally spoke, her voice soft but clear. "Sometimes I hear him mumbling in his sleep. About… things."

I straightened up. "What things?"

She fidgeted, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "About her. Mom. And… flying."

Adrian looked horrified. "That's not true!"

"Quiet," I said, raising a hand. I paced around the room, thinking. Adrian's ability was hearing—he had no known way of causing physical harm, especially not something as strange as his mother's death. But these scratches, the murmuring, and the unusual residue in the bathroom hinted at a hidden element.

"Adrian, has your ability ever… changed?" I asked carefully.

He shook his head furiously. "No. It's just hearing. That's all it's ever been!"

Emily interjected again, her tone cautious. "You might want to consider a latent or dormant ability. Some abilities manifest unpredictably under extreme stress."

I didn't respond to her aloud but filed the thought away.

I glanced at the sister. "Your room is next."

She looked startled but nodded obediently. Adrian started to protest, but I silenced him with a look.

I stood in the girl's room, a sharp contrast to her brother's chaotic den. Everything was meticulously clean, almost unnervingly so, except for the sheer amount of plush toys cluttering the space. The room felt like a façade, as if it was designed to project innocence and normalcy. But despite combing through every nook and cranny, there was nothing unusual.

The girl sat quietly on her bed, watching me with a guarded expression. It wasn't fear—it was something else, something harder to place. I decided not to press her yet.

I returned to Adrian, who was sitting in the hallway, hugging his knees. "Your father," I began, crouching to his level again, "how often does he come home?"

"Not much," he muttered. "Mostly Saturnalia and sometimes birthdays if he's not busy."

"So he hasn't been around much," I said, half to myself. "Your parents… were they still together?"

Adrian hesitated, then shrugged. "They… they didn't fight or anything. But it's not like they talked much either. Mom was always doing hero stuff. Dad was always working."

I nodded slowly. A strained marriage, a father away for long periods, and a mother juggling a career as a hero. It was the kind of environment where resentment could fester quietly.

The girl's voice broke the silence. "Mom said Dad was coming home this Saturnalia for sure. She was excited."

That was new. I turned back to her. "She said that recently?"

She nodded, clutching a stuffed pony tightly. "Last week. She said it would be different this year. That he promised."

Something about that struck me as off. A sudden promise from a mostly absent husband. The excitement of a wife who'd been effectively single for years. It wasn't much, but it hinted at a possible motive—or at least a lead.

The problem was, I wasn't used to piecing these kinds of things together. I was a killer, not a detective. Cases like these needed careful observation and patience, neither of which were my strong suit.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that the answers were somewhere in this house. I just needed to look closer.

I went over what I knew and concluded I wouldn't find anything else. I covered the bodys and decided to return home. Supposedly someone from their agency will come to prepare the corpse for burial. I for one wouldn't do that even if I was payed.

At the hallway leading to Alice's apartment I found the administrator, a pretty lively old man. I walked past, thinking he was one of the the residents, but he approached me while I was grabbing the keys.

He presented himself as the Balßh Tower administrator.

I nodded as the old man introduced himself, his voice carrying the overly friendly tone of someone who enjoyed his position a bit too much. "Balßh Tower administrator," he repeated, as if the title gave him some kind of authority over me.

"Alright," I said curtly, fitting the key into the lock.

"I just wanted to introduce myself," he continued, unperturbed by my indifference. "You're Alice's boyfriend, yes? Moving in together?"

I paused, glancing over my shoulder. He had that eager, slightly nosy glint in his eye that old men sometimes got. I could already tell this wasn't going to be a short conversation. "Something like that," I muttered, turning back to the door.

He chuckled, rocking back on his heels. "I like to know the people in my building, you see. Keep things running smoothly. Balßh Tower has a reputation to uphold."

He handed me a large package from his trolley, saying it was very heavy. Despite that, the old man raised it for me to pick up with no difficulty.

I would say it had about 25 kilos. The old man was doing good if this weight didn't bother him.

I ignored his attempt to sound important and opened the door. "Good to meet you," I said flatly, stepping inside and beginning to close it behind me.

"One last thing!" he said, sticking his foot in the doorway.

I stopped, staring at him with an eyebrow raised.

"Just a little advice." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Keep an eye on your windows at night. Strange things happen in this building sometimes."

His tone had shifted—lighter, but with an odd edge to it. I tilted my head, scrutinizing his face. "Strange things?"

He gave a small laugh, stepping back. "Oh, nothing to worry about, I'm sure. Just thought I'd mention it." With that, he tipped an imaginary hat and wandered off down the hallway.

I closed the door and locked it, shaking my head. The administrator had seemed harmless enough, but there was something unsettling about his parting words. Still, after the day I'd had, I didn't have the energy to think too deeply about it.

The apartment was quiet when I stepped in, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator. Alice was still out. I set my bag down, leaned against the wall, and tried to piece together the fragments of the day.

Murder. A broken family. A suspicious old man. And now, apparently, strange things happening at night.

This case wasn't just difficult—it was becoming downright eerie.

I opened the package, revealing a large metal cube. Resting on top of it was a letter from the Professor. I unfolded the paper, skimming through the precise, almost clinical handwriting. He explained that the cube contained an exoskeleton designed to enhance my physical abilities.

Curious, I examined the cube closely. On its surface, I noticed a small, inconspicuous button. Tentatively, I pressed it. The cube began to shift and unfurl, metal spiraling outward until it assembled into a full exoskeleton, standing upright and roughly my height.

According to the Professor's instructions, I was supposed to place my hands along marked areas on the suit. It would then tighten to fit my frame automatically. I hesitated. Trusting the Professor always came with a risk, but if he had wanted me dead, he'd had plenty of opportunities by now.

With a sigh, I positioned my hands on the marks. The exoskeleton responded immediately, tightening around my arms, legs, and chest. It was surprisingly smooth, the metal conforming to my body without causing discomfort.

Emily's voice chimed in, calm and efficient. "Connection to the exoskeleton established. Calibration complete."

I raised an arm, flexing experimentally. At first, it felt no different from before. Skeptical, I decided to test it further.

Walking over to the couch, I crouched down and gripped its base. I lifted. To my surprise, the couch rose off the ground more easily than I expected, though it still required effort. It was clear the exoskeleton was helping, but not to the degree I'd hoped.

As I lowered the couch back down, I frowned. The exoskeleton was clearly designed to enhance my physical abilities, but it wasn't the game-changer I had hoped for. The professor had a knack for making things sound more impressive than they actually were.

I tapped the framework wrapped around my arm, feeling its cool, metallic surface shift slightly under my touch. "Emily," I asked, "is this really working? Doesn't feel like much."

Her voice came through, calm and direct. "The exoskeleton's enhancements are operational. It is designed for efficiency and longevity, not brute force. However, I can optimize its functions as we test it further."

"Great," I muttered, straightening up. "A glorified strength training tool."

Still, I couldn't deny there was potential here. I walked over to the bookshelf and gripped the edge of it. With a bit of effort, I lifted it an inch off the ground. Without the suit, this would've been impossible.

Emily chimed in again. "The suit can adapt to your movements and gradually increase output based on the stress applied. However, I recommend testing its functionality in real-world scenarios."

"Real-world scenarios," I repeated. "You mean like getting into another fight."

"Or evading an ambush," she quipped, her tone light but with an edge of seriousness.

I sighed and sat down on the couch, feeling the exoskeleton shift slightly as I moved. It wasn't uncomfortable—if anything, it was surprisingly natural. "I hope the professor didn't just send me a prototype to test his latest invention."

Emily paused before responding. "Would you prefer that he had sent nothing?"

I smirked, shaking my head. "Touché."

The exoskeleton might not make me Alice-level strong, but it was better than nothing. And in my line of work, better than nothing could be the difference between life and death.

Also in the box was a flak armor I believe I was supposed to wear while using the exoskeleton. I think I can see what happened. He wanted to send me this bulky equipment I usually avoid so at my complaint he also sent the exoskeleton to preserve my mobility.... Or so I theorize.

After testing the exoskeleton, I decided to put it back into its box. The metal spiraled neatly, returning to its original cube form. I pushed the box to the side of the room and turned my attention to something more immediate—dinner.

The kitchen wasn't anything special, but it did its job. I rummaged through the fridge, pulling out a few ingredients. The simplicity of cooking was oddly grounding. It was something I could control in contrast to the chaos of the investigation.

As I stirred a pot on the stove, Emily spoke up, her tone analytical. "Based on the evidence, the probability that the boy killed his mother is significantly high. The scratches on the walls of his room indicate suppressed aggression, and his enhanced hearing could have contributed to an emotional outburst. The physical strength required to carry out the act matches his capabilities."

I sighed, turning down the heat. "That's a neat theory, Emily, but you're missing something."

"What am I missing?"

"The boy's power doesn't add up for a kill like this. His ability to hear better doesn't explain the chlorine residue or those red dots in the bathroom. Sure, he's troubled, but there's no direct link to the method of murder. For all we know, it could have been someone with a power like the Psyker's back at the casino."

Emily paused for a moment. "A telepathic or psychic ability could account for the lack of a weapon and the unusual chemical traces. But why target this woman specifically?"

"That's the question," I muttered, taking the pot off the burner. "Her colleagues should know better than me. Until we get a better lead, we're running on speculation. The boy's got issues, sure, but that doesn't make him a killer. Not yet."

Emily didn't respond, but I could sense her processing the information. I finished preparing the meal and sat down, trying to push the investigation out of my mind for now. It wouldn't solve itself tonight. For now, I just needed to eat and gather my thoughts.-*-*-*-*-*

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DATE:14th of July, the 70th year after the Coronation

LOCATION: Concord Metropolis

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The next morning, I decided it was time to meet the deceased hero's teammates. If anyone had insights into her recent activities or enemies, it would be them.

Her agency wasn't anything like the sprawling headquarters of the Hero League. Instead, they rented three floors in a modest office building in the city. Nothing about it was concealed—no flashy signs, but not hidden either.

It struck me as unusual. Hero agencies were rarely strapped for cash. Between brand endorsements, security contracts, and personal appearances, there was a steady flow of income. But this place lacked the polish I'd come to expect.

At the entrance, I showed the guards my badge, and they let me in without fuss. After taking an elevator up to their floor, I stepped into the hallway of their office space.

The air felt heavy. I didn't need enhanced senses to feel the anxiety radiating from the people inside. It wasn't long before I encountered a small group of heroes—her teammates.

They were a mixed bunch, dressed casually but unmistakably fit and sharp. Their expressions betrayed their unease, a mix of sorrow and fear.

"Detective," one of them greeted, his voice steady but subdued. So pompous!

I nodded. "I'm here to ask a few questions about your teammate. Any information you can provide about her recent activities or... anything unusual could help."

They exchanged glances. It was clear they were processing the shock of her death. Still, none of them looked like they knew anything concrete.

"We didn't see her much outside of work," one woman admitted. "Most of us are focused on different things—modelling gigs, acting jobs. We're not... frontline heroes, if you know what I mean."

That matched what I'd noticed about the agency. Despite their physical capabilities, they were more about appearances than action.

"Did she mention anything about trouble at home? Maybe someone threatening her?" I pressed.

"No," another teammate said, shaking his head. "She seemed... normal. Busy, but normal."

It wasn't much to go on. Still, their unease felt genuine, and nothing they said pointed toward any hidden tension within the agency itself. For now, I'd have to keep digging.

I returned to the apartment, the faint hum of the hallway lights doing little to mask the tension in the air. Inside, I found Alice moving frantically, her movements erratic and her expression almost unrecognizable.

"You didn't call," I remarked, trying to keep my tone light, but the words felt out of place. Something was clearly wrong. Her face wasn't just upset—it was horrified.

For a moment, she didn't respond. I thought she might ignore me entirely. Her gaze turned toward me, unfamiliar and cold. Not quite anger, but far from comfort. The usual light in her moon-shaped eyes was absent, replaced by a shadowed intensity.

"I really hoped that terrible man was lying," she began, her voice uneven. Her hands trembled as she held up a stack of papers, pressing them against my chest. "But..."

I took them and glanced down. The grainy images showed faint but undeniable moments of me captured on cameras during past missions. I recognized the settings, the actions, the aftermath. The kind of work that only The Nameless could have done.

"You really are him, aren't you?" she asked, her voice breaking.

I nodded, my expression neutral. There was no point in hiding it anymore.

Her hands trembled as she clutched the edges of her sleeves. "Oh, gosh..." A tear escaped down her cheek, but her voice grew sharper. "You killed Kevin. You really did. And I slept with you?" She pushed me back weakly, collapsing into sobs against my chest before pulling herself together with shaky breaths.

Then, she pulled out another photo—a different one. I froze.

It was of William Carter. The real William Carter Jr. He was bloodied, tied to a chair, his face a grotesque mixture of pain and desperation.

Alice's voice was steady but cut like glass. "Do you remember this? This was in his camera. Or did you not even realize it was gone?"

Right. I had noticed his camera had disappeared not long before she left. It hadn't seemed important then. Now that I look at the picture I do remember seeing it when I first got the camera. I should have deleted it, but in hindsight this wouldn't have saved me.

"I didn't kill him," I said plainly.

"I know," she replied, her voice softening for a moment. "But that doesn't excuse what you did. You killed his cousin. You then became him."

When she said it like that, yeah, it sounded bad. Messed up, even. But there was no use denying it.

"I'm not going to ask about the past," she continued, her words trembling as she fought to hold herself together. "I don't even want to know. But I need to ask you this." She paused, looking me straight in the eyes. "When you said you loved me, was that a lie too?"

I didn't hesitate. "No. It wasn't. I do love you."

It wasn't a lie. Was IT? I'm really not sure...

Tears welled in her eyes again, but she bit down hard on her lip, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

"This is so messed up," she whispered, her voice cracking as the tears finally broke through. She pressed her hands to her head, her shoulders shaking. "You can't live here anymore."

The words hit me harder than I expected, but I didn't flinch. I simply nodded. "I understand. But can I at least grab my stuff?"

She nodded faintly, though her face was tight with pain and conflict. She wasn't angry in the traditional sense; it was something deeper—hurt, betrayal, and disillusionment all mixed together.

"I need to think," she muttered, her voice barely audible.

Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone in the silence. The apartment felt cold without her presence, and for the first time in a long while, I felt... hollow.

If I'm being honest, I betrayed Alice's trust just as her father had. Not in the same way, but betrayal is betrayal. There was no easy way to tell her the truth, not that it justifies anything.

What surprised me most was that she didn't kill me—or turn me in to the police. That must mean something, right? She still cares about me, but she's conflicted.

As I packed my things, the room was filled with an unbearable silence. Alice leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her gaze heavy and sad. She wasn't looking at me, though. Her eyes were fixed on the picture of the real William Carter Jr. She had laid it out along with others she'd printed.

"I can't believe I didn't realize," she muttered, almost to herself. "You two don't even look the same. He was forty years old and you..."

"Thirty-eight," I interrupted without looking at her, continuing to pack. "I didn't get experimented on or anything. This is just how I look."

Her eyes flicked to me briefly, then back to the photos. The exoskeleton the professor had sent me was proving cumbersome to pack, and I was trying to fit it into a bag without much luck.

"Quit the League," she said suddenly, her tone firm. "William already left Sarah's life a long time ago. You don't need to..." She stopped herself, realizing how that might sound. Her voice sharpened. "I'm not forgiving you. Frankly, I think Sarah would break if she heard of this."

I paused for a moment but said nothing. There wasn't anything to say.

Before leaving, I turned to face her. She was still leaning against the wall, her expression torn between anger and sadness.

"You know," I began, my voice calm but deliberate. "I'm sorry. Words can't change much at this point, but I needed to say it."

That was her breaking point. Her composure shattered, and tears spilled down her face as she let out a choked sob.

"Get out!" she yelled, her voice raw with emotion.

I didn't argue. I zipped up my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and left. I wasn't particularly sad about it, if I'm being honest. I understood where she was coming from. In her place, I would've killed me.

As I stepped out of her apartment for the last time, the weight of everything began to settle. My past, my lies, my choices—all of it had led to this.

I still had about 25,000 Zols to my name, the sum of what I had left from the assassination, my salaries and what I received for starting that investigation, but that wasn't much. Not for what I'd need to start over. My funds in Concord were long gone.

It was time to move on. Either back to Ventia to dig up old caches or to Normandia to find steady work.

I'd lingered in this place too long.-*-*-*-*-*