Unfinished Business

Morning had barely dawned at the Department of Supernatural Suppression and Defense, its grand, two-story marble edifice standing tall in the faint glow of predawn light. Yet inside, the halls were astir with clattering footsteps and whispered orders. The Special Unit had worked through the night, dealing with the aftermath of the assault on the Script-Decipherers.

Surviving members of that organization were locked away in special holding cells. Each Ascendant went to solitary confinement, sealed using methods tailored to their particular powers. Injured Special Unit officers were transferred to the infirmary; the bodies of the fallen lay in a temporary mortuary, awaiting religious rites.

Charles walked along a corridor lit by wall-mounted lanterns, heading toward the Arcane Science Division's workshop. The echo of his leather shoes on the polished floor reverberated around him. His muscles still ached fiercely from the music box's curse, and the healing salve he'd obtained earlier had all been used on Joseph.

In his hands, he carried the handkerchief-turned-sword and the pocket watch with its tarnished edge. He wanted both items inspected—especially the handkerchief, which had proven quite the unusual weapon.

He arrived at the Arcane Science supply room, where a broad wooden door marked the entrance. Pushing it open, he was met by an odd mixture of herbal and chemical scents that prickled his nose—perhaps made stronger by sleepless exhaustion. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, filled with glass bottles, wooden chests, and peculiar instruments.

A desk stood where the supply officer usually worked, but this time it wasn't the same person who had first explained everything to Charles. An older man sat there, hair gone white, dressed in deep blue, round half-moon spectacles perched on a hooked nose. His gnarled fingers flipped through a thick ledger.

"How can I help you?" he asked without looking up.

"I need to requisition some healing supplies," Charles said, "and I'd like you to examine these two items."

The old clerk peered over his glasses. "Where are your requisition forms?"

Charles hesitated, recalling the first time he'd come here with Joseph. That had felt a lot simpler.

"I just returned from the operation at Hamilton Mansion…" he began, explaining that he was a newer member, recounting how he'd participated in the mission.

"Ah." The old man nodded. "A new recruit, is it?" His eyes roved from Charles's head to his feet. "Well, you still need the paperwork, boy. Rules are rules."

"I didn't realize—"

"I'll handle it." A woman's voice came from the doorway. Viola entered, holding several sheets in her hand. Her short, blond hair shifted slightly with each step, and a single silver-framed lens perched on her nose glinted in the lantern light. "I happened to overhear," she said.

The old clerk gave a faint smile at Viola. "Oh, Doctor Viola. I thought you'd be busy."

"I need additional supplies," she answered, handing him a requisition slip. "And that includes items for this gentleman here. I'll vouch for him."

Muttering under his breath, the old man took her forms and examined them. Then he stood and went to scan the shelves.

"Thanks," Charles said to Viola.

"Don't mention it," she answered coolly. "But remember, next time you need the proper forms. Otherwise, this old fellow won't hand anything over."

Soon the clerk returned with several small jars of medicine, plus bandages and syringes.

"Here's the emergency treatment set," he said, placing the glass jars on the table. "And the other items from the request."

Viola adjusted her monocle. "What about the pieces he wants checked?"

Charles placed the handkerchief and the pocket watch on the desk.

"Let's see you demonstrate the handkerchief," the old man said while Viola looked on.

Charles flicked it open. It transformed instantly into a sword. The old man picked up a magnifying lens to examine it closely.

"The transformation is still solid. But there's a chip along the blade's edge," he noted, pointing it out. "We'll need to replace it."

Then he picked up the pocket watch and scrutinized it. "Silver trim's tarnished a bit."

"It got caught in a sulfur-based smoke bomb," Charles explained.

"Ah, just a bit of polishing should fix that," the clerk said, setting it down.

Meanwhile, hushed voices reached Charles from the back of the room.

"Strange that the sedatives for Ascendants are missing in greater quantity than recorded…"

"Not just that—some of the ingredients for the special potions are gone, too."

Charles paid little mind to the whispers; fatigue and sleeplessness weighed on him more heavily than curiosity right now.

"Thanks," he said, accepting a bag of bottles and supplies from the old man.

"And next time," the man reminded him sternly, "bring your paperwork."

Charles gave him a sheepish grin and turned to Viola. "Appreciate your help again."

"No problem," Viola replied. "But do remember—this place is run by protocol, not sympathy."

Charles nodded, committing that to memory. Then he left, the distant whispers of missing items still drifting through the room. He was too exhausted to dwell on it. All he wanted was to get home to some peace and quiet.

Stepping out of the department, he hailed a public carriage. Weariness clung to him, but his mind still churned with unfinished tasks—like finding Michael Berg.

By the time the carriage stopped in front of his house, the sun was rising, painting the sky in soft gold hues. He hopped off, paid the driver, and gazed at his modest white-plank home. His eyelids felt unbearably heavy.

"Haven't slept again, have you?" came a kind voice from behind his fence.

Charles turned, blinking in surprise. There stood Mrs. Wilson in a pale gardening apron, gently watering her small flowerbed. Her silvery hair was pinned neatly up, her wizened face beaming a warm smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Wilson," he greeted, voice thick with fatigue. "I'm the one surprised you're up so early—the sun's barely up."

"I like to garden at dawn," she replied. "The air is so crisp, and you get to see the sunrise. But you look like you haven't slept a wink."

"I've been out on duty all night," Charles admitted, fighting back a yawn.

"Then get yourself some rest," she insisted with a nod of sympathy. "Don't worry about the yard. I'll keep an eye on it for you."

"Thank you," he said softly. He made it to his door, nearly stumbling from exhaustion.

Inside, the familiar scent of home soothed him somewhat. He set his bag of supplies on the living room table, then practically collapsed onto the sofa. His gaze flicked over the trinkets on the mantel, souvenirs from his past travels, but he had no energy left to reflect on them.

Summoning the last of his strength, he made his way to the bedroom, peeling off his boots and overcoat by the dark-wood bed. Finally, he let his body sink into the mattress.

Through the half-open window, he caught a glimpse of sunlight creeping higher, the sky brightening from gentle pink to a clear, fresh blue. But his eyes closed before he could watch it fully bloom. The last thought in his mind was of Michael Berg… how he still needed to find that missing man. Yet for now… he had to sleep.

…

Sunlight filtered into the room as Charles woke with a start, realizing he had slept an entire day. The previous night's battle had exhausted him more than he'd realized. He got up slowly, noting something strange: the nightmares—those storms and crashing seas that had haunted his sleep—hadn't visited him. Since when had they faded? He couldn't recall.

He washed up and dressed, then left the house in better spirits. Passing Mrs. Wilson, who was again tending her garden, he gave her a friendly wave before boarding a public carriage bound for the Department of Supernatural Suppression and Defense.

Though the Script-Decipherers were wiped out, he still needed to confer with Joseph about Michael Berg. The physician's disappearance remained an unsolved mystery they had to unravel.

He found Joseph in the office. His friend's injured ankle was tightly bandaged, and though he leaned on a cane, he looked better than before.

"You seem refreshed," Joseph teased at Charles's brightened face.

Charles dropped into a chair opposite Joseph's desk. "And your ankle?"

"Improving. I'll be limping for a while, though."

"Any news on Michael Berg?" Charles asked.

Joseph shook his head. "Not yet. We've had people watching the Berg estate, but he still hasn't shown. Could be he doesn't know about the Script-Decipherers' downfall yet—the raid was only last night. Or maybe…"

"…There's another reason he's not coming back, aside from fleeing them." Charles finished the thought.

Joseph nodded. "So, how should we proceed?"

"We have three options," Charles said, raising a hand and folding one finger at a time. "First, we go talk to Humphrey and get his story straight. There are a lot of details he never told us."

"Second—" He folded another finger. "We go back to that abandoned clinic. This time we'll bring arcane gear. Might help us break through any sealed areas."

"And third—" he folded the last finger "—we head back to the black market to track the people who were tailing us. Maybe we'll glean something about Michael."

"Which one do you want to do?" Joseph asked, adjusting his ankle to a more comfortable angle.

"The black market," Charles replied without hesitation.

"Why that?"

"Think about it. The clinic won't vanish; we can revisit anytime. We know where Humphrey lives, so we can corner him whenever. But if that suspicious crowd is truly up to something and they slip away… we'll lose them for good. If one of them knew Michael's whereabouts, we need to act before they're gone."

"But do we know the new location of the black market?" Joseph asked. "You planning to pay Bartholomew again? Same plan as before?"

"No need," Charles said, smiling faintly. "We overheard merchants in the black market talking about its next site while we scouted. And about Bartholomew… you're something else, you know. Even though you come from money, forty crusédo is no small sum. You gave that initial offer with no hesitation. Good thing I was there, or he'd have driven the price up."

Joseph laughed. "Don't worry. The Department covers mission expenses like that."

"Wait, what?" Charles frowned. "They do?"

Joseph nodded. "Sure. You can get reimbursed for everything—your public carriage rides, too."

Charles gaped at him, stunned.

"Relax," Joseph added at the sight of Charles's disbelief. "No need to file for every little thing right away. For small expenses like carriage fare, you wait 'til the end of the month, then turn in an itemized list to the registrar."

"So… from here on out, I don't have to worry about travel costs for official business…" Charles murmured, already mentally recalculating his future budget.

"Exactly. Just start noting down all mission-related expenses from now on," Joseph advised. He pulled a scroll of paper from his desk drawer. "Here's the official expense log with the Department's seal. Use it when we go to the black market."

"If only I'd known that earlier…" Charles said, shaking his head.

Joseph shrugged. "You never asked."

"Anything else I should know?" Charles asked, rolling the paper up.

"Oh, plenty." Joseph gave a lopsided grin. "If you buy intel at the black market, you'll have to bring at least one witness along to sign off on it—otherwise the registrar won't approve the claim."

"So that means…" Charles narrowed his eyes.

"Yep," Joseph confirmed. "I'm coming with you."

"But your ankle—"

"It's all right," Joseph said firmly. "I just have to walk slowly. Besides…" He tapped the cane. "If anyone tries something, I can still fight back."

Charles chuckled. "So, when do we head out?"

"We should wait until the black market starts buzzing. Late afternoon or evening."

"And the pass phrase this time… you know it, right?" Joseph asked.

Charles paused.