Chapter Text
It’s a sweltering, sticky haze that clots the air around midday. It’s only mildly better inside the car as tires jostle over cracked asphalt towards the West District.
Nightingale glances out of the window. The armored personnel carriers are still following at a distance. When she readjusts her back flat against the seat again, a steep bump tests the limits of her seatbelt, cap brushing the low top. Hair clings to her cheeks and neck in stubborn, wispy strays.
Next to her, the platoon leader is tightening the straps on his helmet. He speaks while slotting magazine clips into the vest pouches. “Adjutant Nightingale, we are approaching the target location. As planned, this car will arrive ahead of the carriers and then three escorts will accompany you to the negotiation.”
“Thank you. Have the 1st and 2nd squads set along the sides, prepared to flank. 3rd squad, secure the perimeter. 4th squad, rendezvous with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nods before activating the radio.
As he relays the commands to the squad leaders, Nightingale double-checks her own weaponry. It’s quick work to eject the magazine, pull the slide back, check the chamber, and test the trigger. Both pistols return to their holsters.
Rounding the bend past a collection of peeling tree trunks and withering branches, the street tapers into a single lane set towards the residential area. Asphalt transitions to gravel and with it comes a grinding crunch that permeates the car and vibrates the chassis. Piles of rubble lay between the destroyed buildings lining the road. But not all of the buildings are ruined. At the curved far end, a small cluster of houses stand whole.
The car slows, then parks at the cul-de-sac entrance. There are no other vehicles. No vibrant signs of a living community.
Nightingale studies the surroundings. From a distance, the houses had seemed fine. Hospitable. Yet now their condition becomes clear—the houses are a long way from their heyday.
Cracks slither down concrete walls like ivy, and roof shingles bow as if mourning their fellow companions down on the ground, broken and dented. Curtains safeguard house interiors, over half of them stained by dirt and swaying with the breeze. It’s decrepit even by West District standards. A perfect place to settle and lay low for a gang.
At the front of the largest house, a concrete barrier nurses a partly ruptured crater. Just the right size for a sedan to have rammed into and with just the right amount of structure remaining to not have collapsed.
“Here?” There’s a slight disbelief to the platoon leader’s question. It fades with her nod, and he grips the door handle. “We’ll exit first. Shielder, cover the Adjutant.”
Nightingale waits for the soldier in the front passenger seat to round the car. When she steps out, the difference between the car and the outside is immediate. Stark. The summer heat runs thick and weighty as the sunlight bears down on them and, with no vegetation to offer shade or regulate temperature, the annoyances turn oppressive.
She swallows down the jammed breath in her throat, tugging it through. Her sight sets upon the largest house. “Let’s move.”
The shielder keeps two steps ahead of her. Labored breaths exude from his full helmet as he hoists the tall shield upright, preventing its drag across the ground. In this weather, there’s little envy for those donning the bulky protective gear.
Best not to take too long, Nightingale thinks. Even for the rest wearing the lighter standard-issue gear of goggles and earmuffs, the platoon’s efficiency will inevitably decline as the mission progresses. She slows and gestures to the rear guard. Her index points at the neighboring house, towards its open window and fluttering curtains, and signals to keep an eye on it.
As they draw close, the platoon leader unhooks a trap detector device from his belt. The house, rightful of its size, sits at the center. The damage to it is less than the others but it’s apparent in select places. Windows ridden with soot, compiling in the edges where unbroken glass bar entry. A rooftop with its shingles still mounted, weathered but bolted.
They pause at the door.
Dust lounges in the grooves, drooping and clumping in the humid heat. Not uncommon to see, but what catches Nightingale’s attention is how the dust still coats the bottom half. There are no scuff marks from shoes, despite the swathes of varnish stripped off. No stray handprints to disrupt the fragile layer either.
Nightingale knocks twice. “This is the MBCC, here for the meeting,” she announces.
Her body is taut while she listens. It’s quiet, and the better part of a minute passes before the first sound arrives—the wind. It’s barely a whirl in her ears, dissipating when she knocks again. “I repeat, this is the MBCC. Aside from the requested meeting, we’ve also received reports of arms dealing and hidden weaponry in this residence. Please cooperate with our search or we will have to enter ourselves.”
The second minute is emptier than the first. The negotiation is a dud, and it doesn’t surprise her. She motions to the soldiers to ready for an entry. The heft of a pistol is a comfort.
“Last warning! If you do not cooperate, we will have to enter ourselves!”
Behind her, tires skitter to a stop. Over a dozen thuds and shuffling boots fill the enclosure, dispersing in different directions. The 4th squad joins her. She waits for the platoon leader to confirm that the other squads are in position.
He signs an OK. No booby-traps detected either.
A click of the radio. “A reminder for non-lethal aim if enemy contact. Our goal is information, not deaths.”
Setting along the adjacent wall, Nightingale tests out the door knob. It’s locked as expected. She nods to the shielder, who braces his shield, bangs on it twice, and then with a loud grunt, shoves it into the door. The wood crumples around the impact, crisp like twigs snapping into two. The splintered frame dangles by its hinges. The shield bashes the door again, this time breaching fully and widening the hole. He holds the shield still and utilizes its cover as he undoes the latches and locks. With a twist of the knob, the door swings open. Shattered fragments skirt the edges of his shield.
“Sweep,” she orders. “Rear, stay.”
The shielder takes point and enters first. Cautious steps pave the way. Nightingale follows after the 4th squad leader, her back quickly hidden by two soldiers.
Inside, the dust is not much better. Displaced puffs of dust decorate their boots with each step. Nightingale presses a handkerchief tight over her nose and mouth. The living room is spacious and the center of activity with three closed doors. It’s furnished with a pair of sofas and loveseats, a coffee table and end tables lain between. This, she surmises, must have been a main hideout for the gang.
Piled high on the coffee table are stacks of folders, books, and papers. Some stacks stand straight while others slouch, but they’re all equal possibilities. Two soldiers begin their search for any evidence regarding the arms trading.
On the far end, a lone desk shelters a much smaller portion of the folders. As Nightingale nears the desk, her eyes trail over blackened welts on the wall—a multitude of narrow lines, the cuts conspicuous against white plaster. She stuffs the handkerchief back into its pocket and then swipes a gloved finger down an indent. She inspects her finger, rubbing forefinger against thumb. Black and grey bits crumble. Coarse specks stick to leather. Their textures are of ash and soot and clearly not dust.
Strange. The lack of dust in the etched lines contradict the abundance of dust on the furniture, floor, and air. More so where the gaps between the window and wall face the lines, their usual gift of dust unseen in the notches. A part of her ruminates, curiosity carrying in a desire to analyze and to search for answers.
But that’s not what she’s here for.
Determined, Nightingale moves on to scour for logged data. The shielder remains vigilant by continually adjusting his position to keep in line with hers as she advances along the desk. He offers her a fresh-looking folder.
Three soldiers return from clearing the first door. They set themselves next to the second closed door, two on the left and one on the right. Their words are a backdrop to rustling papers. “Ready?” Nothing in this folder. “Three, two, one, swinging!” Nor in spring’s inventory logs.
A soldier leaves the coffee table to hand Nightingale a pile of letters. “Adjutant. Trader codenames, meetings, and drop points.”
She skims the scrawled handwriting. The listed locations and dates match up with the time frame. “Good job.” Her terminal scans the letters and transmits the photos to the Bureau. Agile hands refold the papers along their deep-set creases, compacting them before they’re tucked away inside an evidence bag. Last month’s inventory log, found crammed by the window sill, soon joins them.
As the shielder stows the bag into his pack, Nightingale watches the trio emerge from the second door. The soldier in front meets her gaze. “Cleared. Empty,” he says. His tone is even and lackluster but his hand fidgets on the rifle’s handguard. She can guess what’s on his mind. A common jinx, a common saying: if the mission’s going too well, then trouble’s bound.
The trio positions by the third door with another countdown. At the count’s end, one swings the door open while the others aim, ready for what greets them.
It is silence, then sharp clinking thuds.
“Flash—” she hears, but her free hand is already rushing to cover an ear as her knee slams into the floor.
A thunderous pop erupts.
And the world swirls.
Pure whiteness drills past closed eyelids and leads in an all-encompassing, incessant ringing. It’s deafening, disorienting, and drowns out the flurry of movement with a cascade of muffled clanging. Shrill whines dominate her senses. Upheaves her balance.
Nightingale stumbles behind the couch, groping at the torn leather. Her mind has been rendered empty; her stomach churns itself into a fit of nausea and threatens to do the same. She blinks and gasps—feels the floor quiver under a blanket of fresh gunpowder—and still cannot see beyond the reigning white.
A gritty sensation falls on her tongue, its taste a bitter and viscous mixture of sulfur, dust, and anxiety. It yanks out a sputtering cough from her. The coughs shake hands with gasps as the two bounce back and forth in a fit of frenzied fervor. Nightingale finds herself on the threshold of control, paced breaths having long fled a dry choked throat.
A firm hand on her shoulder grounds her. She reaches for it, replacing ripped leather with a familiar padded fabric and hard-capped knuckles. She grips it across the top, squeezing thrice. Slow counts of one to ten, of inhales to exhales. Yells fly overhead.
White eases to an assortment of blurred colors, layers upon layers of prickling illusions, and the sounds of bullet casings turn ever-so-slightly distinguishable in the muted haze. They rattle a fierce beat against a shield before clattering to the wooden floor in dozens.
The hand pulls—not too hard, but purposefully and steadily—and drags her out of the couch’s cover and behind the shield’s. The soldier guides her to the outside, where the thick air is a different kind of punch to her lungs. Blistering yet freeing.
Nightingale musters together a wheezing “thank you” as the soldier ducks back inside. The din of combat pulses from both sides of the building.
Afterimages continue to flicker in her vision, but the ringing no longer commands her full attention. It’s become a minor impairment. A dull, tinny whine. Her thoughts are starting to recover coherence one by one.
Of the first is a musing. For how intense the flashbang had been, its effects were surprisingly short-lived. Perhaps an intentional trade-off made during the grenade’s production. That, she wagers, or her tolerance is a frightening feat of accumulation now.
Of the second is a spark of regret. She had been the only one truly hindered by the flashbang, having not worn protective headgear. And it doesn’t sit right with her, using the excuse of overwork for a careless lapse in judgment. But she’ll learn from the mistake. Relentless gunfire drives home a present necessity to act in confidence, not falter in doubt.
Bullet holes riddle the concrete barrier in front of her, new ones added by the second, and another pop bursts from the house. Smoke pours out of the open door. It’s a losing battle to fight inside with such low visibility and tight spaces under a constant threat of grenades.
Nightingale clicks on the radio. “All soldiers, leave the house! Regroup outside!”
A buzz. The platoon leader’s voice comes through. “Roger. The adjutant and 4th squad are repositioning to the outside.”
“1st squad, moving.”
“2nd squad, pinned down. Cannot move. Requesting backup.”
“4th squad,” Nightingale says, “assist 2nd squad.”
Nightingale gingerly shifts to her feet with her hand as support. As she exchanges the radio for a second pistol, irritation digs between her palm and the pistol’s grip. It penetrates through the hammering adrenaline. The pistol drops back into the holster. A glimpse is all she needs to see her palm caked in a layer of grime and embedded with specks of either rock or concrete. She doesn’t think too hard about which before she swipes the hand against her coat, dislodging the hard bits with forceful passes.
Soldiers spool out of the house, the 4th squad arcing from the front door to the side in a continuous movement. The platoon leader crouches down by the door, across from her. The shielder is the last one out, slow stomps relaying his exit as he shuffles backwards with the shield faced forward. His head whips left and right before scooting into Nightingale.
Nightingale moves, clearing the space. The gunfire hardly halts. It persists, damaging the windows and tearing what’s left of the broken door into shreds. Two aspects of the mission are now clear: the gang has an established foothold and is unlikely to run out of ammo. Therefore, the best course of action is their second plan.
“Grenade!”
Hollow thumps strike concrete, clamorous sounds sweeping Nightingale from her thoughts and into the hurried cover of a forearm.
Experience prepares but never quite takes away the surprise.
The shattering of concrete. The sheer barrage of flying shards, born and conscripted as projectiles by an impact grenade. They both weigh down her ears, assailing in tandem. Yet that is all they do. She can see—and feel by the lack of pain—that the shield has protected her.
The shielder roars, a growl fueled by adrenaline, and swings the shield into a meaty thud.
“Keep firing!” Nightingale orders. “3rd squad, pull in to the carriers!”
She peeks into the broken window, supplementing the soldier’s fire with her own support. The gangsters are divided by the three doorways. Some shoot from behind the couches while others hide near the door. At the leftmost doorway, their presence is weak. It’s the side of the still-engaged flank squad. Her aim centers in, pelleting the room with two full clips.
She’s four clips in when the radio crackles alive. “Hostiles inbound to you, Adjutant!”
She crouches, knocking an empty magazine clip out as a stream of bullets pierce the air above her. “Status on 2nd and 4th squad?”
“Ready for orders.”
“Everyone, disengage and retreat to the carriers! 3rd squad, provide cover fire!” Nightingale motions for three soldiers to break apart first. The platoon leader and two others as the last. Then her knuckles rap against the shielder’s shoulder armor.
“At your move, ma’am,” he answers. His shield fends off another round of bullets.
The carriers are parked sideways with their armored exteriors functioning as mobile barricades. Ample room and cover for the squads, and the centerpiece of their second plan. About half a minute’s run, if not less.
The last few bullets remaining in her right pistol are sent into the living room. She dislodges the spent clip, tossing it to the ground with the rest of the empty containers. Her palm firmly pats his shoulder twice.
Rising swiftly from the crouch and into a sprint, Nightingale vaults over the broken concrete barrier. Its current state is more akin to a speed bump than a barrier, and it takes no more than a slight jump to clear. Whistling air engulfs her ears as she maintains the sprint. The thuds of armored boots stay close behind her. Gleeful yells and hollers emerge.
Halfway to the carriers, Nightingale radios in. “Platoon leader!”
With majority of the soldiers hunkered down and supplying cover fire, the retreat is smooth. She replenishes her depleted stock of ammo with a handful of magazine clips. Several go into an immediate show of firing from the carrier’s cover.
For her, it’s a standard mission. For them, it’s a golden opportunity to remove an adjutant.
“Slow! Alternate fire, 1st to 4th. Draw them to us.”
The squads shutter their fire, and each take their turn. The gang’s returning fire is sporadic on the interval. By the time the 3rd squad is firing, the gunfire has dwindled to a sputtering crackle. The extra downtime allows her senses to recover even more. It’s the barest of effects now, rare spotting in the vision and the uncommon ring in the hearing.
“Eyes on the side buildings and alleys. Ready the nets and disruptor devices.”
From the main house, a small object soars. “Cover!” Nightingale yells, taking a snapshot aim and firing. It bursts just beyond the far-gone concrete barrier, ushering in the scratchy dings of metal hitting rocks as shell casing splinters bury themselves into gravel.
She kneels behind a tire and swaps a pistol for a water bottle. Pants of exertion dot the gaps between her gulps. She wipes the sweat off her forehead and neck, then begins to free her left hand from its leather glove, loosening it inch by grueling inch. Two squads reload in the time it takes, and the encumbering heat is striding further in. Finally, a rush of air relieves the wrinkled skin.
“Status.” Nightingale shoves the slick glove into a pocket.
“Nets and disruptors ready, ma’am.”
“Good.”
On the left carrier, a soldier yells, “Enemies spotted in the alley, on our nine!”
Nightingale moves over and sees a blurry mass consuming what little space the thin alleyway offers. “1st squad, disruptors out!” she commands. “4th, update on the right alley. Watch for a flank!”
Soldiers fling disruptors into the crowd of gangsters. The compacted devices flare out upon landing, generating surges of electric currents. The first of the affected writhe. Like a string of falling dominos, the wave of collapsing limbs and crumpling bodies pulses towards their backline. It stems the flow. Hinders progress. Yelps and screams travel far and unfettered.
As the group is rendered immobilized, restraining nets are thrown, further paralyzing their movements. A shout from the right carrier comes, announcing the advance of a second group.
The right alley is wider than the left, and the gangsters approach cautiously despite being a larger group and protected by worn ballistic shields. Gunshots ring out, slamming into carriers when they fail to thread the space between. But they still succeed in limiting the squad’s return fire.
The platoon leader waves a disruptor device at Nightingale, his free hand signaling for confirmation. She motions for him to wait. The group grows in bulk as gangsters continue to trickle into the alley, perhaps being rejoined by stragglers from the now-defunct left side. Disruptors won’t guarantee victory—not when the element of surprise is lost. Information has already made its way through, she gathers that plainly enough by how their positions adjust.
Nightingale clutches onto a smoke grenade and shifts to the carrier’s end, the farthest side from the enemies. “All squads,” she radios, “ready to perform an en-echelon attack. 1st squad with me; my three escorts with 4th. Follow-up at my call.” She pauses as the squad leaders confirm the orders. To the 1st squad soldiers next to her, she says, “At the smoke.”
Her hand hefts the grenade into position, then it’s with a satisfying give that the safety pin releases from the top. She sticks her head out of cover, hears the first yells bloom, and chucks the smoke grenade low amongst their feet. Plumes of billowing grey snake up, obscuring their vision. The ones on the outermost edge charge through the smoke.
Bullets find arms and thighs with ease. As each new person is put out of combat, another replaces them. The group’s cohesion is strained. Individuals break formation to rush Nightingale’s position while some stumble into the shelter of the house.
“2nd squad, engage!”
More gangsters peel off. The left side soon becomes more heavily reinforced than the unengaged right side. The amount of bullets ricocheting off the carrier doubles.
Booming shouts are ordered about, and Nightingale can faintly hear them despite her distance. “Stay, you dimwits! Don’t break apart! Hey, don’t you—”
“3rd squad, engage!” A full clip slams into the empty magazine well. Nightingale fires a few shots; it’s closer to a showy display than active suppression at this point.
The gangsters are spread out and overextended. It’s with one last call, one final push with the remaining seven soldiers and disruptor devices, that rolls their weakened flank in. Their leader is swiftly subdued, shouting swears at both gangsters and soldiers alike before being knocked out. As the squads converge, the gangsters find themselves locked down on two sides.
Nightingale spots the uncertainty laden on their faces, slackened grips and nervous laughs. Even if they focus fire to defeat one side, they can’t escape the assault from the other. Their present predicament is, in cruel irony, a reversal of their original flanking plan.
Three escorts reunite with Nightingale. She steps out to the forefront of the building, covered by the shielder. A megaphone projects her voice far into the rooms. “Everyone inside the house, surrender now. We have you surrounded. Please come out peacefully.”
Silence.
Then the rustling of hands held up and the ginger rising of a limping man.
“On-field medics, treat the wounded,” Nightingale says. Others raise their hands and stumble out of the house. “Platoon leader, call for additional transport vehicles.”
A good number of cheeks lay sunken, whittled by hunger, and clothes fare no better, whittled by holes instead. Desperation mingles with fatigue. If West District crimes had a face, Nightingale thinks, it would be this. Necessity as its prime motivator.
On her terminal, Nightingale files a request of her own. It’s time to put the trove of old field rations to use. They’ve been well-preserved since their discovery a few months ago, but they no longer need to stay preserved. Because now is a chance to fill stomachs rather than shelves.
By the time Nightingale returns to the MBCC, any hint of adrenaline has vanished. In its stead is tiredness, compounded by irritation split between a scabbing cut and a tan plaster. The strip wraps around the side of her cheek and, on certain enunciations, she can feel the skin pull.
Nightingale purses her lips together after a particularly strong pull. She resumes the debriefing with Chief. “As we discovered evidence of their arms trading, we also made contact with a group of enemies waiting behind a door. After a prolonged engagement, we were able to successfully restrain and capture the gang’s leader alongside several dozen members.”
“You did well. Good job,” Chief says.
“No major injuries were sustained from the fight. All soldiers were treated on-field.” Nightingale glances at a nearby aide diligently transcribing the squad members’ statements. “Following their debriefing, they’ll head to the infirmary for a second checkup.”
Chief’s eyes lock onto hers, then trails a little to the side. A brow furrows—faint but undeniably present. “What about yours?”
“A scratch, nothing more,” she notes briskly.
There’s a nod, but the stare continues. It holds as if studying the same spot, and Nightingale wonders if the plaster makes the wound appear more severe than it is. Because a minor cut hardly warrants such attention.
“Preliminary scans indicate low amounts of Mania residue on the confiscated weaponry.” Perhaps it’s leftover Mania, she reasons, and bumps the infirmary visit ahead of the supply check. “Therefore, our next course of action should be to interrogate the high-ranking members for more information about the supplier. About the possible Sinner.”
“Thank you. It’ll be a good learning experience for the new hires.”
“Agreed. And that concludes my debriefing. If you may excuse me, I should be taking my leave, Chief.”
“Excused. To the infirmary?”
“Yes,” Nightingale reassures. The brow relaxes and, unbidden, a corner of her mind rejoices. It’s dampened quickly by discipline, curbed before it can tug at her lips. “To ensure there is no infection.”
“I shouldn’t keep you then. It’ll get busy.” A torrent of footsteps punctuate the words as soldiers march past. Chief shrugs, as if the din has proven her point.
The lobby empties in record time, leaving only the usual employees and operatives behind. In the alcove and a dozen feet beyond, it’s just her and Chief. The quiet brings forth the memory of a note stuck on her cap and a sleeping Chief on the other sofa. She had thought about it in the car. Pondered over the occurrence and how it vexed her, not waking up to an empty office. The question of why going unanswered, even now as she reconsiders it.
“Now it’ll really be a line,” Chief muses, breaking the reverie. “You should hurry. Was there anything else?” she adds when Nightingale doesn’t move.
Laziness? Overworked and exhausted? Neither seem right.
Curiosity coats her tongue, begging to ask why, but she knows better than to let it free. Especially in a place like the lobby, where it can easily flip between full and empty with no warning. She has a reputation to maintain and slips of the tongue often work against that.
Nightingale clears her throat. “No. I’ll be going now.”
“Take care, Nightingale.”
No signs of Mania.
A part of her feels like she’s wasted infirmary resources for such a minor scratch. But the visit is proper procedure, and it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Nightingale strides through corridors and departments, her arm burdened by a folder of freshly printed reports. She finds Chief standing alone in the middle of a hallway.
One of Chief’s hands is trailing down her clothes, careful pats over coat pockets and deep rummages through pant pockets. It’s almost a loop, but the time devoted to a pocket’s search plummets with each rotation. By the time Nightingale has traversed most of the hallway, the hand mimics an erratic ghost. It’s only when she halts in front of Chief that her presence becomes known.
“Nightingale.” The hand dangles awkwardly above her coat pocket.
“Chief.” She retrieves her own pen and slots it into the hand. She watches as Chief notates the already present papers, pen dancing across margins.
With a relieved sigh, Chief lowers the clipboard. “You’re a life-saver.” She offers the pen back.
Nightingale shakes her head. “Keep it.”
Chief nods. “And that is?” she asks, glancing at the folder.
“Last week’s mission report. At the factory,” Nightingale says. Her mouth turns dry when the gaze lands on her. She thinks back to last night, well past midnight in the dead hours. The soft glow of a desk lamp illuminating the curves of Chief’s cheeks, caressed whole by the light. The chest’s steady rise and fall. “And,” she begins, forcing through the dryness with a deliberate mulling over the words, “I wanted to thank you for submitting the papers in my stead.”
“Of course. The least I could do.” Chief accepts the packet. “This is the full version?”
“Mine and all of the squad leaders’ statements compiled together.”
“Excellent.”
Crashing metal echoes in the distance and when Chief’s head snaps towards its direction, brows craning with worry, the shadows casted underneath her eyes seem a little deeper.
Nightingale busies herself with reading.
“Construction’s going to be a while.”
It’s a loud, piercing screech this time. Neither of them can avoid wincing.
“About your cheek—what did the nurse say?”
Nightingale pauses, sight hovering over the same set of words. There’s that same-old curiosity underlain with gentle concern. “A simple cut.”
“No metal fragments?”
Her head tilts and her focus breaks away from the paper. “No. I think it was from concrete.”
“Concrete. I see,” Chief says, nodding and flipping through several pages of her own packet. She sets it back to the first page and shoves both files under her arm. “I was just about to visit the engineering bay, care to come with?”
“Only to the elevator and up, I’m afraid. I’m needed in the lobby.”
“Shame.” Chief gestures wide to the hallway’s end. “But better than nothing. I’ll take it.”
Chief reaches the panel first, jabbing at the top button. Of the two elevators, the one that opens is closer to Nightingale. She enters, blocking the side of the door with a hand until Chief is inside too and then presses the corresponding buttons for their floors.
Creaks and thumps fill the air as the elevator ascends.
Half the floors go by before Nightingale releases the question plaguing her mind. “Why did you stay?” she asks, then elaborates at the quizzical stare: “In the office.”
Chief’s attention shifts to the ticking floor counter. A pondering hum replies first, slow and easing all breath out in such a low, rumbling manner that it siphons Nightingale’s awaiting breath too. The gaze returns, fatigued eyes surveying her, and her answer finally comes—“I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”
And to that, Nightingale doesn’t know what to say.
But she doesn’t have to—not when a ding jumps in and the doors clatter open, bringing in hurried yells faster than Nightingale can respond. “Chief!” They beckon with a stack of papers, clearly stamped with red.
Chief sighs, humored and resigned, before turning to Nightingale. “Never a quiet day. I’ll see you later.”
Professionalism seizes the reins and spurs the hesitation away. “Of course, Chief,” she says.
Yet even as the doors close and the coat fades from sight, the answer still lingers. It settles next to her beating heart, takes in its heated rhythm—her hidden honesty—and curls in snug.
If only she knew what to say. If only hearts could write, could transcribe the thumps against her chest into truths and letters, the words that she can’t admit out loud. But hearts can’t draft letters. They can only beat, and Nightingale once again learns just how good they are at it.
The sun has long set alongside office lights, and it’s only now that Nightingale finds herself off work. The bathroom light flickers with a buzz. White fills her vision as her eyes adjust, and she can’t help but grimace. Most days, the color calms. Today, it’s nothing but a tiresome reminder.
She hauls out a first-aid kit from one of the cabinet drawers, fishing out plasters and ointments within seconds. She’ll have to restock the plasters soon, especially of the smaller variety. With more work meaning more scrapes and bruises, they’re almost a necessity for Chief these days.
And me, she corrects. The plaster on her cheek is stubborn and takes more than a casual pull to remove.
Experienced hands make short work of cleaning and disinfecting the area, smoothly transitioning into reapplied ointment and a fresh plaster. Routine-like in a way that she enjoys. The hands move to her ear, grasping at the metal hoop.
A hiss escapes from Nightingale, short and abrupt like the prickling sensation on her thumb.
It’s a small cut.
Her second injury of the day.
She closes her eyes, loose fists pressing on the counter, and waits for the frustration and irritation to stir once, twice, and empty with a weary huff. Another plaster travels from the first-aid kit to her skin.
Just a few more weeks and the workload will ease up.
Leaning in closer to the mirror, she checks again. The problem becomes clear—a nicked wing. It’s a tiny chip in the metal, an indented blemish on the otherwise smooth edge.
She halts and recalls. It had been fine this morning. So it must have been today. In training? No, perhaps the mission. The constant gunfire and grenades. But only a sliver of the earring is missing. A bullet would have sheared off the wing, or at least left a larger impact.
Her finger traces an invisible line between the cheek’s cut and the earring’s nick, connecting the two in a definite straight.
The concrete barrier.
Nightingale hums low, tremors against her throat stretching a trapped sigh until it has no life to give. She can’t confirm it without wasting precious resources or manpower, but the theory holds enough weight to ease her inquisitive mind. Adequate enough to file away as the answer.
The second attempt is done much more carefully, with more finesse and less fumbling. She unfastens the earring then sets it in a separate container. According to the rumors, the craftsman has become extremely busy, resulting in a lengthy waitlist for commissions and restocks. Not that Nightingale has the spare time for personal frivolities. Not quite yet. It’s not necessary either, given how minuscule the damage is.
She’ll patch up the earring.
Another day though. Exhaustion decides for her as it seeps across her bones, slopes her shoulders, and diminishes her strength. What little energy remains is spent on her bedtime routine and a readily available indulgence: music.
In the bedroom, Nightingale makes her way towards a particular bookcase filled to the brim with her collection of vinyl records. Her index flits through the rows of records, bumping over jacket ridges in its search for a light melody. Hopeful but not too bubbly. It’s a choice between three albums.
Nightingale pulls on the closest of the three and slides it out of the shelf. She gently removes the vinyl from its jacket and inner-sleeve, taking immense care to avoid damaging the grooves as she gingerly slots it onto the record player. The needle hovers over the spinning disc; she lowers the tonearm until a soothing harmony brightens the room.
The song is old and from before her time, saxophones and pianos played by people and in places long gone, delivering emotions across decades. Someday, it’ll be the MBCC’s work crossing time. Someday, when the corruption has dwindled and Sinners no longer undergo shackles but rather parole. There’d be a day of change then, and many more of the same—if not better—in its future.
Hope blossoms warm and alight in her chest.
Tomorrow, work begins anew but the journey does not. Every document, debriefing, and contract is a product of its past, a previous effort, and over time they’ll pave a road. Step by step towards the future she envisions.