#glenice

“Why are we meeting out here, Alanna,” asks Glenice. She sweeps her thick brown hair into a ponytail, angular features evermore sharp. Business dress and a sidearm on her hip, she is intimidating. She crosses her arms and pops her hip. “You know I hate it here.”

Alanna nods. She looks around Lion’s Rest, where widows and widowers stand at the wall, weeping for the lost and the dead, their reflections subtly rendered in the gleaming marble facade. She pulls her long dark coat with its upturned collar shut. The winds were biting today. Or maybe it was just this space.

“Tell me about the day Petrel died,” she says.

Glenice stares at her partner. “What? Why?”

Alanna turns her head, scanning the crowd. “There is an inquiry being considered.”

“It was a bad day, Alanna,” she says through clenched teeth.

The Inspector places her hand on Glenice’s shoulder. “Yeah, it was – for me, too.”

Glenice’s lip twitches. She turns away from the monument, looking toward the lighthouse. She shudders. “As soon as I got the call from Ramirez, I geared up and set out for Dalaran.”

“There was nothing that you could have done. Why did you leave.”

Glenice pinches the bridge of her nose. She exhales. “Because if I were the victim of a hit job, I’d want someone to come look after me, too.”

“Fair.”

“I took the portal from Stormwind to Dalaran. I checked in with the Kirin Tor. One of the City guards took me into the Sewers. I called Dusky –”

“Why? Why call Dusky. You know he hates to travel.”

“...I called Dusky to supervise the autopsy.”

“And – to the best of your knowledge – what did they find.”

She dips her head, frustrated. “Why are you doing this, Alanna?”

MacLeod turns to also face the lighthouse. “Someone has complained about malfeasance on your behalf. Dusky is in it up to his neck right now, too.”

“How long –”

“From the moment you stepped through the portal. Someone’s been drafting you.”

“Fuck,” she says, before shouting: “Fuck!” loudly enough to disturb the mourners. Some of them appear understanding, like she is one of them; some of them are angry. Most are unshaken.

“Are you finished, Shadowgrove?”

“I was not careful that day, I know this. But to have been followed from the second I arrived? How would... who complained?”

Alanna shakes her head. “Don’t know. It was anonymous. But there were details about that day which suggests it’s a higher up.”

“Trask was put down two weeks before the Siege. I put the fucking bullet in the back of his head.”

She rubs her face. “...it has nothing to do with him. It cannot. He never talked. The entire time he was with us, he never talked; that was his only trump card – silence. If he wanted to do something, if he had the means to do something, he would have done it before he was executed.”

“That Au’llon woman, maybe...” Glenice’s voice trails off. No, that didn’t make any sense, either. She had no stake in that conflict. Alanna watches her friend put things together in her head. “What was it Bailey had said about Lord White? Trask? They knew each other, but they didn’t interact. She was the go-between for someone.”

“She called them ‘the tip of the spear’.”

“If that’s the tip, what’s the rest like?”

Alanna shakes her head. She stares out over the sea as a Kul’Tiran vessel docks. Transients and vagrants, emigres from Darnassus and Darkshore, rush toward it, begging for money, for bread. “Slave labor from Trask, something else entirely from Lord White. And big enough of an enterprise to funnel all of those herbs and mushrooms to Bailey – the stock came from across Azeroth.”

They fall silent as the bell tolls ten. A moment of quiet reflection for all the mourners. After a minute, Alanna jerks her thumb toward the Cathedral District. They start to walk. Glenice posits the question bothering them both:

“What tipped her off?”

Alanna frowns. “Odds are, whatever it was, it was small, like an incident report or operational notes. Maybe she was meeting a supposed contact in the Sewers?”

“That’s where anything solid about Bailey cropped up – possible, more than possible, right?”

The two women walk up the steps of the Cathedral, kneeling on the long, lush rug. Portions had been worn down over time under innumerable knees and genuflection. The appearance of opulence masks the truth of the matter – it’s all on the verge of falling apart. They start to pray.

Glenice arrived unannounced. Alanna trailed behind. Dusky looked up from the autopsy chart he had been compiling. He stripped his gloves and smock, and dropped them into the bin at his feet:

“My dears, I cannot recall the last time either of you visited me in autopsy.”

“Claire,” the two women said at the same time. Alanna shook her head, bemusedly; Glenice just kept going forward.

“…right then,” he said.

Dusky walked toward the sink. He swashed his hands up to the elbow.

Glenice looked down at the body of the teenage boy. She ran her fingers through her hair. “Intentional?”

“Oh, no, old sport. Well…” – he started to dry his hands – “…not on behalf of your people.”

“Our people.”

“Whomever,” he said. Dusky raised a finger and crossed the room. “No, no. This was accidental where that chemist is concerned. I was here when she made the mixture, anyhow. It was all by the book.”

Alanna leaned against the door frame. “So it was a competent attempt at resuscitation?”

“Oh, of course. Even administered in one of the blood vessels of lesser volume to help ameliorate the shock to the circulatory system, and –”

“Common, please?” Said Glenice.

“The shot was given in a smaller vein, as opposed to the jugular or the femoral artery. To help guard the heart.” Dusky chuckled to himself. “Glenice, darling, you simply must come over at some point. Perhaps we could set you up with one of my daughter’s friends…”

Glenice brushed the comment aside. “So what do I tell the drug dealer?”

“Honestly, Shadowgrove, getting out might do you a bit of good,” said Alanna. Alanna of all people.  “You know, to feel something other than this job.”

Dusky nodded along.

“Ugh, what is with you people and your fucking relationships? You’re all as bad as that willful Gilnean piece –”

“We only want what’s best for you, dear.”

Glenice pointed at the autopsied body of the boy. “Not seeing shit like this happen in the future is what is best for me. Work stays at work. Home is a place away from work,” she said. “Respect the mission and the rest follows.”

“Glenice, we’re not in a war zone,” said Dusky. He finished drying his hands and dropped the cloth into the same bucket with the bloodied smock and gloves. She glared at him. He shook his head. “…but to the boy. He had a congenital heart defect, a weak spot on the right ventricle. I imagine he would have died within the next two years, anyhow. No hemorrhaging in the brain, nor the sclera. He just… died.”

“That’s what I came down here for,” said Glenice. She did not catch the worried look her partner and the forensic examiner exchanged. “Alright, finalize the report, Dusk, and get in touch with the manufacturer. I’ll reach out to the family.”

“Shadowgrove,” said Alanna. Glenice turned. “You can take a break you know – Dusky’s right, this isn’t a war zone.”

Glenice pointed to the body. “You sure about that?”

Silence hung in autopsy. Glenice frowned. She looked at her feet. She dropped her arm. “Alanna, let’s do the house call together. Ok?” She banged the door open and stormed through.

Alanna nodded. It was all she could do.

Glenice crossed her arms. “What do you mean I can’t see him?” She asked Quai. “I came up here to replace him. I need to know why.”

Quai looked across her shoulder, smelling very much like whiskey. “He’s injured,” she said.

Glenice waved her forward. “I took care of partisans when I served in the Plaguelands. You think an injury is going to bother me? Or did he escape.”

Quai ground her teeth. “He didn’t escape, he’s… elsewhere.”

“Now I’m demanding that you take me to him,” she said. She placed her hand on her sidearm.

Quai stalked down the stairs of the bunker. “Well, come on then,” she said. She lifted her flask and went to take a drink, only to find it empty. She made an ugly face and slammed it next to the decanter on the small table in the commonroom. She gestured toward the sickbed. “Well, here he is.”

Glenice sucked in a breath. Wellson – barely clothed save his boxer-briefs and tactical undershirt – was sprawled on the bed. All of his veins had greyed, and he stared at the ceiling from behind black eyes. His face was swollen and bruised. He was breathing slowly; it was raspy and took effort. Even as his eyes were open, it was obvious he was not present, not mentally. A tube attached to two different IV bottles – Morphine and Saline – had been threaded into his arm. A grummle scrambled this way and that, preparing a final sponge bath before he joined the rest of the crew.

“What’d they do to him?” She whispered.

“Beat his face in,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. She turned and refilled her flask with whiskey. “His body – it adapted, shifting to a full on Shadow-form.”

Glenice sighed. “Is this what he was like after he’d been shot?”

“I’ve never seen him this bad,” she said. She paused a moment to swallow the lump in her throat. She took one last look at him, mouthed something no one could hear, and started back up the stairs.

“I am sorry,” said Glenice. She turned on her heel, adjusting her rucksack. “I’m looking forward to seeing the cutter he wrote about yesterday.”

Quai pinched the bridge of her nose. “About that…”

“You let it get away.”

“Not exactly…” said Quai. When they reached the top of the stairs, she picked up the duffle she had left outside – the duffle, navigation charts, and Justine’s spyglass and sidearm. “There was a mutiny aboard. All hands were lost, but the ship couldn’t be salvaged.”

“Please tell me you at least know where we’re going…” said Glenice. She was shaking her head. “I thought this group was more competent than to let a cutter get away.”

Quai did not argue the point. “We know where the base is, yes.” She produced a few rolled up pieces of parchment. “And we have the charts to get us there.”

Glenice stopped her. “Let’s get one thing straight, Captain,” she said, all business. She looked up at the ship’s colours: black and red. “Your ship is your business. When we are aboard, I follow your orders. But when we’re on the ground, that’s my jurisdiction. Understood?”

Quai sniffled. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, offering a naval salute.

“Good. Because the last thing I want is to get down there and have someone take out our man,” said Glenice. They continued walking toward the gangplank of the Screaming Harpy. “There will be no deals for him. You have my word. But you must give me yours that no undue harm will come to him. Don’t … force my hand. I’ve no desire to execute anyone.”

Quai nodded. “You have my word.”

“Good,” said Glenice. As the stepped off the gangplank and onto the boat, she dropped her rucksack. She stood at attention. “Captain on the deck!”

“Mister Wyatt!” hollered Quai. “Prepare to disembark.”

“Captain on the bridge,” announces Glenice.

Selene nods. She leaves the bridge for the mess. Glenice grimaces. The woman is painfully thin. She frowns. Her face throbs, her eyes, black-rimmed.

“You really don’t need to do that,” says Quai.

Glenice shakes her head. “Captain, if your crew cannot learn to respect the chain of command, to respect you – if they have nothing off of which to model respect, I should say – then what good are they in the long run? That Sentinel might be good for that. Plus she’s a damn good shot.”

“That she is,” says Quai, continuing to look out across the open sea. She taps her lip. “My crew is fine, thank you... just... mouthy.”

Glenice agrees. “Your crew is good – very good, honestly. Were that just Alanna and me…” – she gestures toward the grummle mopping the deck; he pauses to adjusts Trask’s nickel-plated sidearm he had slipped behind his waistband – “…well, we wouldn’t have made it out alive. That little one – he stepped up.”

“Birdhat is a good guy,” says Quai.

“And he follows orders,” says Glenice

Quai cannot argue with her. “He is… loyal and trusting.”

Glenice locks the ship’s wheel into place. She turns and faces Quai. “Captain, I want you to know that you have my respect.” She catches her gaze. “Have you thought about my offer?”

“Now’s not the time, Major,” she says.

“Fair…” Glenice crosses the deck. She opens a footlocker. “Look what I found.”

“Is that a ship-to-shore…?”

“It’s not secure, but it would make life easier.”

Quai inclines her head. “Does it work?”

“I wouldn’t have shown you otherwise,” she replies. Glenice squats down and picks up the mic. She fiddles with a dial. “Shadowgrove to SIU, over.”

They wait for several seconds, a seeming eternity. After a moment, another woman’s voice answers. Quai recognizes it immediately:

“Go for SIU,” says Alanna.

“What’s the word on Trask’s file, over.”

They can hear paper shuffling in the background. “Nothing you didn’t already know. Hold.”

“Holding,” she replies.

“Nice radio,” mutters Quai. “Better than that fucking mewing beast.” She massages her bruised neck. Glenice chuckles.

“SIU to Shadowgrove.”

“Go for Shadowgrove.”

“Yeah, looks like he had a wife once. Disappeared. A son…” – Glenice and Quai exchange a glance – “…who’d be 10 or 11 by now. Last known address was with an au pair. Get this – Stormwind. Over.”

Quai breaks into a devious smirk. Glenice nods:

“Get us the address,” she replies.

Alanna replies. She doesn’t ask any questions. The rest of the call was brief. Ramirez had bumbled in at some point, though he had been shooed away.

“You can’t tell the rest of the crew about this,” she says.

“I hate keeping things from them,” says Quai.

“They’ll kill the boy outright. You know I’m right.”

Quai’s silence is the only affirmation Glenice needs.

Glenice points toward Birdhat; he is situating his yellow toque. “Put him on it. No contact, just a couple of snapshots,” she says.

“Pretty shrewd… we’ll have to alter course,” says Quai. She crosses the deck, wincing. She takes out a navigation chart. “And let Brian know that we’re going back to Stormwind.”

“Major,” calls Ramirez’s soft voice from her doorway. Glenice ignores him, choosing to focus on work instead. She can hear him chewing. She sniffs the air — Darnassian bleu. Lovely. “Major,” he says again.

She gathers her papers and stacks them, shoving their ends against the inkblotter. Still chewing. Oaf, she thinks.  

“What is it, Agent?”

Ramirez pops another piece of cheese into his mouth. He wipes his sausage fingers on his stained blue oxford.

Ramirez steps aside. “You’ve got a visitor.” A woman in rather skimpy, purple plate armor steps through the door. She is short, quite petite, with slender yet powerful arms.

“Commander Petrel, Kirin Tor Offensive,” says the woman. Glenice cracks a knuckle. She taps a tiny button affixed to the underside of her heavy desk. She stands. Petrel doesn’t flinch. “And you are —”

“Pissed,” says Glenice. “The last time one of you stopped by, I lost a material witness. That fiasco with the Cenarion Circle, wondering where one of their Sentinels had gone? Still straightening it out.”

Petrel walks in. Alanna, who had been alerted by comm, comes down the hallway on soft feet, gun drawn. She ushers Ramirez aside. The fat man looks between the three women with a shrug. He returns to his desk, sitting with a loud –oof!– as he picks up a pen. Alanna shuts the door, her gun pointing toward the ground.

“I don’t know anything about that,” says Petrel. She calmly unsheathes her sword and lays it across a desk chair. “But I know who very well might. Bottom line? The three of us? We need to talk.”

Glenice nods toward Alanna, who holsters her weapon. She continues to watch the woman across from her carefully, drumming her fingers on her desk.

“About...?” Asks Alanna.

“Silithus,” says the Commander. She sits in the other desk chair, easing her fingers across the arms. “And a certain Doctor.”

Alanna stands next to Glenice. “You’ve known about this for how long?” She asks.

Petrel winces, an almost imperceptible motion. “Since it happened.”

“Two years!?” Glenice hisses. “We should lock you up, right now. We can —”

“No, you shouldn’t.”  Petrel pulls an ID card from her small satchel. She slides it across the table. “You shouldn’t because you can’t.”

The Major picks up the ID card. “Don’t pull that diplomatic bullshit on me,” she says. Alanna whispers something into her ear. Glenice sits back.

“I’ll give him to you,” says Petrel. Her voice is colder than the tundra she had served in years prior. She snatches her ID from the desk. “But we need to talk terms.”

Glenice starts to speak, but is interrupted by Alanna:

“What is it you want?”

“A rogue cell needs to be eliminated,” she says. Petrel folds her hands neatly in her lap, red fingernails gleaming in the dim gas lighting. “But I can’t do my job if our hands are tied.”

“I’m sorry – ‘our’ hands?”

Petrel nods. Alanna and Glenice trade a look.

“Keep talking,” says Glenice; she takes a small notepad and pen from her desk drawer, and begins to write.

“There’s a reason why they were in Silithus,” says Petrel.

“The Doctor, that Star– er… Holt woman, and their cohort, you mean?”

Petrel shakes her head. “Oh,” she tuts, “No, no. Were it only so simple – no. The Black Lotus. Scorpid Unit. Lord White. All of them.”

Glenice stops writing mid-sentence. She looks from behind a darkened brow. Alanna’s mouth drops ever-so-slightly. “...what?”

“You’ve been on the right track, from what I’ve read in the papers. You’re right,” Petrel says as she sits up. “It’s all connected.”

Glenice and Alanna look on as the Commander outlines her proposed terms. The two investigators reluctantly agree.

“Johnston... how can I let his death slide? Hm?” Asks Glenice. Her tone is hushed. “He was one of the best.”

“And so are our Assets,” says Petrel. “Are we in accord?”

Glenice and Alanna speak in whispers. Each give Petrel — unnervingly cruel and calm Petrel — a long, hard look. Like they are judging her. After several tense beats:

“We are,” they say.

Petrel removes a thick file folder from her satchel, an observant eye cast toward the evidence board behind the desk. She spreads the documents across it. Alanna rubs her face, incredulous.

Glenice shuts the door to Alanna’s office. Alanna looks up. Glenice removes her sidearm and cycles through the action: “Petrel’s given us the green light.”

Alanna sits back in her chair. She crosses her feet. “Where?” Glenice hands off a short note dictated by Ramirez. She waits for Alanna to finish. “We should expect resistance,” Alanna says.

“Should we?” Asks Glenice.

Alanna shrugs. “Johnston —”

“Based on their file, that was never part of their plan.”

“And you believe the file?”

Glenice frowns. She slides a clip into her sidearm. “The motherfucker apologized to me, you know...” she shakes her head. “We stick to the deal. We get what we want. That’s all that matters. They’re not so careless to start an open war in the middle of the streets. They’ve no protection here. Besides,” she added, “this is your play.”

Alanna chuckles. She stands. “Wear body armor, class three. The last thing we want is a knick from that Mason woman’s blades,” says Alanna. She crosses the room, pulling a key from her pocket. Glenice joins her at the wall-mounted armory. They insert and turn their keys at same time, opening the stout door.

“This is the right thing,” says Glenice.

“You telling me that — or trying to convince yourself?”

Glenice pulls her key from the lock. She opens the long, tall cubby door labelled with her name. She selects the right set of body armor.

“Both,” she says.

Lady Saraluna Starbreeze House of Sterren. Gilneas.

Lady Starbreeze,

Special Investigations Unit respectfully requests your presence at an informal question regarding your connections to an ongoing criminal investigation. The SIU understands a person of your stature and profile requires a great deal of discretion; therefore, while we cannot compel you to attend a informal questioning at this time, your coöperation would be strongly encouraged.

Please be prepared to discuss an incident from December, 30 ADP, and your dealings with the disbanded paramilitary organization, ‘The Conclave of Azora’. The incident under scrutiny took place in Silithus Province.

You may bring counsel with you. 

The SIU will defer to your schedule in order to accommodate you, your charity work, and the running of your House. However, we would emphasize that the earlier this interview is conducted, the faster we can work through your involvement, and clear your name.

Kind regards,

Major Glenice Morcant Lead Special Investigator Special Agent Alanna MacLeod Special Investigator

Lieutenant-Commander Lauren Carrol SIU Director

Grand Alliance Military Special Investigations Unit Capital Cities Detachment Mage District. Stormwind City.

“Ramirez!” Glenice calls. She can hear his chair scrape against the wood floor of the bullpen, and his trudging footfalls. It takes him nearly a minute to reach her office.

“Ma’am?” he answers. 

Ramirez pops a bite of cheese into his capacious mouth. Glenice eyes the man in his rumpled suit jacket and donut-stained Oxford.

“I need you to serve this,” she says. Glenice rolls the paper and seals it with a blob of hot wax. She presses her signet ring into the seal. “Take your camera. I want proof it was served and received. Understood?”

Glenice begins writing the address on a scrap of paper. She sees Ramirez nodding out of the corner of her eye. Good enough.