#squaliday

“More curfew-breakers dead in the streets, Jihs,” Bavorid greeted their partner when she made it into the precinct. They stretched their whole torso across their desk, lanky arms extended past its edges as they flipped the data-chip filled the early scans up into the air with their thumb and forefinger. “Is our entire job about cleaning up PCDs?”

Jihs swiped the chip out of the air swiftly, and took a sip from her steaming hot water. “There’s no easier way to die,” she muttered, “than out on the streets, past curfew.” 

From three seas away, Jihs was a tall woman with dark purple hair, impeccable style, and a disappointing lack of faith in coffee. She only believed in hot water, the occasional tea leaf, and an old-fashioned adherence to the policy of soldiering through.

“You read this already?” Jihs asked in her normal voice, deep and rich. She leaned against Bavorid’s desk, longs legs stretched out in front her. Bavorid glanced down at them longingly, and then pushed themself up from their upper-body sprawl. If someone had told them Jihs had made a deal with a devil for her beauty, Bavorid might have believed it—she was that gorgeous.

“Yup,” Bavorid replied shortly. Jihs turned her head and shot them a look—rosebud lips pursed and hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously, which was common enough for her—then palmed the data chip open one-handed. The early scan files sprung into being, hovering above Jihs’s hand in streams of black and white light. The streams’ texts summarized the nightly security videos’ findings.

Jihs whistled low and long. “Fuck me,” she said. Then, sourly, she added, “Shut up, it’s a figure of speech.”

Bavorid spread their arms wide. “I didn’t say anything,” they declaimed their innocence. “You could be more trusting, Jihs.”

“And you could’ve given me a warning,” Jihs shot back, irritated.

That was another reason Bavorid would’ve believed the devil compact story—only a demon would give such a permanently bad-tempered woman so much beauty.

“I thought you’d want to find out for yourself,” Bavorid replied cheerfully. “City Councilor Oqan is no small fish.”

“Thank you, Bavorid,” Jihs said. “I wasn’t aware.” Picking up her mug, she straightened and stalked off to her own desk to read the early scan report on her own.

The scene of City Councilor Oqan’s final moments was already blocked off by the time Jihs and Bavorid arrived. The shimmering illusion-wall perimeter projected the image of a quiet city corner, and the unlucky owners of the cars caught inside it would have to wait until after the walls came down to pick up them up.

Jihs eyed the well-heeled armored vehicles and shook her head. “How many angry calls have there been so far?” she asked, crouching down beside Kado to give the City Councilor a good look. Squatting, she was over a head taller than the coroner, who knelt as he inspected the corpse.

Bavorid preferred to stand to the side. They didn’t really like looking at the bodies, and focused instead at the parked cars (and the pretty perimeter techs.) “I’m sure they understand the needs of the city come before theirs,” they suggested.

Kado snorted. “The chief’s phone has been ringing nonstop. The understanding gentlefolk of the city are pissed.”

Bavorid shrugged, but said nothing. The Chief’s phone was always ringing nonstop, which was why the Chief had a PR assistant to man it for him.

“At least the other three post-curfews in our district were clearly voluntaries. Nothing to do there but make sure the next-of-kin are contacted. You might still get home to Unan before night,” Jihs said, patting Kado’s shoulder sympathetically—and, alright, maybe she wasn’t always bad-tempered.  “Me and the Chief and them”—she jerked her thumb at Bavorid—“are pretty fucked though.” It was mostly just Bavorid she didn’t like. And the Chief. And Lauren and Angelo.

“There could always be a daytime killing,” Kado said morbidly. “Not all deaths are post-curfew deaths.”

Bavorid strongly disagreed; all the deaths they’d worked so far had been PCDs, and though Jihs rarely verbalized her agreement with them, her frown as she scanned Councilor Oqan’s body from head to toe spoke for her. Killing or dying was easy, when all you had to do was step out into night without a mask. 

“You’ll get home, Kado,” Jihs told the coroner, in an odd mix of impatience and encouragement. “Now. There were more gaps than usual in the nightlies. What do we think about this one?”

“Well, it’s obviously not a voluntary,” Kado began, glancing down at the pool of blackened and congealed blood around the victim’s body. “Councilor had no reason to let the night kill him, and obviously the night doesn’t kill people with stab wounds. But there weren’t signs of a struggle, either. It was probably a surprise attack, a quick in and out. Probably a knife.”

“Theft?” Jihs asked. “The Councilor had one of those new filters, didn’t he? That kind that could last you three nights before it needed additional power. Could it have been an addict?”

Kado shook his head, and gestured at the Councilor’s face. “No, look at his face. The Councilor’s filter was stolen a good few hours after he died—there’d be signs of poisoning, if it happened while he was dying or just after. The nightlies didn’t catch the thief either, though.”

That much wasn’t a surprise. The night-time digital security sweeps were patchy at best; the audio was nonexistent and the video, when it worked, was always a grainy, pixelated mess—something about the way the toxic air interfered with the cameras. It was always best to wait until after the light of day had burned up the fog before coming to any conclusions.

“Maybe it was an addict, or some other desperate,” Bavorid suggested. “But then they got so overwhelmed, they fled and left the pickings for another.” Jihs shot them an unimpressed look.

Kado let out a morose sigh. “This was definitely a targeted attack.” Sliding a gloved hand under the Councilor’s head, he pushed the long hair out of the way and lifted the head and shoulders just enough to allow Jihs—and Bavorid, when they got closer and leaned in—to see the three-pointed, lopsided star burned onto the back of the Councilor’s neck. “This happened after death. I think we’ll all be bunking at the precinct tonight.”

Jihs took one look at the thing and swore.

The night didn’t used to be poisonous, though nobody had living memories of the old days. They had all sorts of recorded memories—moving and still and abstract and tiled into grand floors or ceilings—of starry nights, of lovers holding each in beds of woven grass, of rebellious youths sneaking out after the sun dipped into retreat and their parents surrendered to slumber, of sailors sleeping on the open decks of ships bobbing calmly across the three seas.

Well, they still did that, after a fashion. Lovers risked their lives for a thrilling fog-filled jaunt across town, and teens stole their parents’ filters to make it out past dusk. But no one saw the stars any more; they didn’t sail any longer, either. They had enclosed underwater arrowboats for sea travel, and enclosed airships and enclosed armored cars and bullet trains for everything else.

The fogs were a punishment sent by the gods, the religious leaders used to say, punishment for the flagrancy of bygone eras. The Councils-Across-the-Seas were in accordance with the flagrancy, though they would pretend the night air was healthier than puriwater and join the voluntaries, out in the fog filterless, before they admitted to having anything in common with the believers. Instead, the spoke of the excess of progress, and the need for restraint for the sake of their planet.

When Jihs looked around her, she saw neither moderation for the Spirits’ sake, nor for the planet’s. Humanity did what humanity had always done: they made do with what they had. And those on the top did what they had always done: they flaunted the best of everything, damn the consequences for anyone else.

Jihs and her critical eye were far from alone. She couldn’t get the image of the three-pointed star on the back of Oqan’s neck, an ugly burnt black laced with poisoned purple.

“Ritz, Jihs, was there a ghost back there or something?” Bavorid asked when they got back to the precinct. Jihs shot them a withering look, and headed silently for her own desk. They’d asked about the star only a dozen times on the trip back from the crime scene, and then as now Jihs had ignored her rookie partner.  

Bavorid followed her. “Jihs,” they wheedled. “I’m serious!” Slim and darker-skinned than Jihs, with shortly cropped hair and lips which they constantly painted different colors, Jihs thought of Bavorid less as her partner and more as her very annoying shadow.  

Yanking her chair out, she threw herself into it. Stretching out her legs so that Bavorid couldn’t get any closer, she frowned up them. “Go ask your father about it,” she told them flatly.

The goodnatured smile on Bavorid’s face froze. Their father wasn’t in law enforcement, but he was a very well-connected under-minister for the city’s Council, and rumor around the precinct had it that the Chief was Bavorid’s godsparent to boot.

Jihs bit her lip. Though she complained about it frequently—and oftentimes bitterly—everyone knew that this was the reason she’d been saddled with the kid. She was the only one who was ever affected by Bavorid’s glimmers of ashamed self-awareness, which meant she was the only one who could be trusted not to strangle them while they were out on the job.

“Alright, fine,” she grumbled. Pulling up her legs, she gave Bavorid enough space to squeeze by her and sit at the still-empty desk behind her, where her old partner had sat, and where she had forbidden Bavorid from taking up residence. “What do you know about the Seakings?”

They thought about it. “They were a group of radical believers, right? Something about breaking the Council-Across-the-Seas and freeing the Spirits from our landmasses.”  

“They were a group of anarchists,” Jihs corrected sharply. “Believers and councilors and people who just didn’t give a shit about either included. But yes. The three points of their star represent the destruction of our three continents.”

“Right,” Bavorid said slowly. “So… they’re back?”

Jihs tossed crime scene’s data-chip up into the air repeatedly as she thought. “Some of them, at least,” she decided. Probably a rogue group finally ready to make a move, years after the Seakings’ old leader had been captured.

She had a sinking feeling about all of this. No—a catastrophic one.

“This is a very unusual request,” the Chief said sternly, frowning at Bavorid from behind their desk.

“I know,” Bavorid said, and they did know, because they’d told Jihs the same thing. But Jihs was right. It was the next logical step—their only potential lead, actually, since even Kado’s post report had only rehashed the information they’d received at the crime scene. “But we’ve got nothing else to go on, and it was a nice filter. It stands to reason we might be able to find something out at the black market.”

The Chief arched a brow at Bavorid. “Have you been to the underground markets before?” he asked critically, and Bavorid shrugged in what was clearly a never. Like anyone they knew, they were vaguely aware of the markets' existence, but they’d always thought they were digital.

“My partner has experience there," Bavorid reported. "She has contacts we can lean on."

"That's not going to be enough for your father," the Chief replied. "If he hears I let you and your partner borrow filters from evidence to go on a nighttime jaunt into the slums of the city--"

“—well, you wouldn’t necessarily have to tell him,” Bavorid half-suggested and half-protested. When the Chief shot them a disbelieving look, Bavorid tried to wear their most confident smile.

“Don’t touch the straps, don’t let anyone else touch them, and for the love of every last Spirit, don’t say a word.” Jihs secured the last buckle on Bavorid’s mask, and then ran her fingers against the straps again to make sure they were indeed the sturdy, metal-threaded fabric they were supposed to be. It was possibly the closest Jihs had ever deigned to stand next to Bavorid, and they were having a hard time containing their excitement. If Jihs noticed, she’d probably make them stay behind—for safety, she’d claim.

“You can trust me,” Bavorid insisted, fingers fluttering up make the same checks Jihs had just finished with. Slapping their hands down, she scowled at them and finished securing her own.

“Have you been out at night before?” Jihs asked while she pulled on a thick jacket with a stiff hood. Bavorid wondered if it was armored, and if it was, why Jihs owned it. Neither of them were were wearing the uniform standard, which meant Bavorid had protective leggings and a purple long-sleeved shirt under a black dress with a long skirt. They had lifted a grey scarf out of evidence, and was now securing it around their head and the straps of the filtering mask. Jihs wore jeans and calf-high boots, and a long-sleeved shirt under the hooded jacket.

“Of course!” Bavorid protested. Jihs eyed them skeptically, and they added, “Well, once with my dad.”

“What about training?” Jihs prompted, eyeing Bavorid’s skirt skeptically. “There’s a whole night unit.”

Bavorid scuffed a foot against the ground, coincidentally showing Jihs the long slits up the sides that allowed for ease of movement.

“Mine was simulations only,” Bavorid admitted. At their partner’s look of scathing disbelief, Bavorid rushed to explain in a low voice. “I wanted to join my cohort at night, but my dad fought against it. My mom… She died. She walked out on us, into the night. When I was little.” 

Jihs’ eyes closed. “Shit,” she muttered. “She went out voluntarily?”

Bavorid nodded. "She didn't want -- well, she was sick." 

And then their father had used all of his considerable power and influence to keep Bavorid from even breathing by a closed window at night. 

When they looked up again, they saw something like sympathy in Jihs' eyes, even through the protective shield of her mask. But she didn’t ask again if Bavorid was sure they wanted to come along, and didn’t say anything about keeping Bavorid behind to avoid their father’s wrath.

Bavorid was grateful for that.

The fog was difficult to see through, and Bavorid’s breathing was loud in their ears. It was different from the simulation—the fog in the simulation felt wet and was equally as hard to see through, but the fog outside was… different. It was like fine spiderwebs dragging against their clothes as they walked. Bavorid had spent the entire circuitous walk—filled with circling and doubling-back and the occasional curse from Jihs—trying not to focus on the sensation of the fog, or the way they felt like they had to push their way through its silky mist-tendrils.

The market was not the chaos Bavorid had imagined. They were held under dark tarps strung out between the alley-facing first floor balconies on a tiny back street. The whole thing looked temporary enough that Bavorid suddenly understood why Jihs had had some trouble getting them there. They decided she must have been reading signs of some sort on the street.

However, they were organized in a way that spoke of practice and efficient capability. Everyone wore masks, of course. None were of the best quality, but Bavorid did see some very good ones. Their standard (but safe) pair did not stand out.  

“Stop staring,” Jihs muttered by Bavorid’s ear, and they had to tear their eyes away from clusters of people evaluating boxes packed neatly with rows upon rows of data-chips. Bavorid couldn’t even begin to guess what was on them - but if they had to, their money was on banned media. Under other tarps were blankets lined with various precious coding tools, only the smallest and lightest, and all arranged in ways that could be rolled up easily and packed off with a moment’s notice. Jihs ignored all these first stalls, and took them deeper into the alley. She seemed to have an idea of where someone would be selling masks.

To Bavorid’s surprise, she stopped to yet another tarp over a box of data chips. The more they had walked, the more Bavorid had seen how the majority of the market seemed to be data-chips, but they didn’t realize what that meant until Jihs started picking some up and accessing them.

The information for the goods to be exchanged were stored in chips, and exchanges must be arranged during the day. Of course, Bavorid thought. This explained a lot. 

Their realization was interrupted by a stranger’s voice. “If it isn’t Jihs,” someone said, full of amusement. Jihs turned around to face the speaker. “What brought you out into the night, babe?”

“Murder,” Jihs said bluntly. “Obviously.” 

And that was the last thing Bavorid remembered.

When they woke up, it was very orange. A pale orange—

No, it was the light behind their eyelids. Groaning, they opened their eyes and turned their head away from the lamp hanging over their head. Then they turned their whole body too, and realized they were in a bed.

“Oh, good,” a voice said from above them.

Jihs. She sounded different.

“Wh…at?”

Jihs sighed. “It’s still night, and we’re at my apartment. Your mask is broken, but you’re fine.”

“Right,” Bavorid muttered. “I’m gonna sleep.”

“You do that,” Jihs snorted, and left the bedside. Bavorid heard the door close behind her before they fell back asleep.