I Wish You Were Never Reborn

Early on a Monday morning, Tyvan Valorum received a call from his least favourite Merlin.

The noise of young children clamoured in the background. Considering the time, perhaps they were making arrangements to depart for their learning institution?

Merlin was an independent contractor hired by Tyvan’s organisation. He’d never met her, personally. He knew that she presented a feminine voice and her phone number changed two to three times per moon. Her real name, her background, even whether or not she was human; he was not privy to that information.

The ever-diligent ⟦Oracle⟧ itemized each fact and rumour she provided, and she compiled a bill to be paid at the end of each month. That was in addition to her contractual salary.

Tyvan had little doubt that she would provide such details if asked, but it was beneficial both for his professionalism and his pocketbook that he did not.

“I heard an old friend of yours has come back to town,” Merlin said, “someone in way over their head.”

“......What does that mean?”

“Oh, y’know. He’s the kinda guy that tends to bite off more than he can chew.”

Hm. That idiom was far easier to understand.

The conversation ended shortly after-- and rather hurriedly on Merlin’s part.

Tyvan made another call, one far more pleasant and far less mysterious. The recipient provided a location and, checking the time, it was only a short walk away.

He exited his office, jogged across the courtyard, and entered his apartment. He crawled underneath the living room coffee table. Then, he climbed up through the ⌈Sigilla⌋ to emerge behind the lounge chairs of the indoor pool.

There were no tenants currently utilising the amenities, but one had left a decorated, orange duffel bag. It likely belonged to a certain, forgetful mermaid. He made a mental note to task his secretary with returning it.

He hastened his steps to the far edge of the pool and hopped into the deep end.

He landed in the second stall of a lavatory in a neighborhood park. Luckily, the ⌈Sigilla⌋ was in perfect condition, as his clothing remained dry. Also... it was rather fortunate that the stall was unoccupied. There had been incidents in the past.

Tyvan made his way out of the park, hurrying toward the cross streets he committed to memory... just in time to see a police vehicle park in front of a fire hydrant.

A familiar gentleman emerged from the driver’s side, wearing a thin black jacket and a scowl on his razor-burnt face.

Tyvan made another mental note to recommend his favourite brand of shaving soap. In the interim, however, there was a more pressing matter to resolve.

“Walter.”

Dark hair, cut short to police standards. Dark eyes, sharp despite his overworked exhaustion. Walter’s scowl deepened as he turned to address him.

“Valorum,” he groaned. “I haven’t even been in Archangel long enough to greet my daughter, and you’re the first guy I see?”

Tyvan gestured to the fire hydrant.

The veteran policeman rolled his eyes, but he re-entered his vehicle, moving it to park in a proper, legal space. After a few short minutes, he returned, wearing a black ballcap emblazoned with the word ‘police’-- as if the badge on his jacket sleeve was negligible information.

“You got taller, kid,” he said, offering his hand. “What happened to joining the military?”

Tyvan shook Walter’s hand with a firm grip, appreciating his new ability to look straight into his eyes instead of up.

“I did. I returned a few months prior. And you-- are you returning to service here, Detective? Or have you been promoted, since?”

“Looks like it,” Walter nodded, “And no, I haven’t. Not enough people have died for me to make Lieutenant-- not that I want that, so don’t get any ideas.”

He began walking. Tyvan followed.

“You here to ask for money, kid?” Walter asked-- “Or d’ja hear about the blood, guts, and shit I’ve been assigned to?”

Tyvan expected as much-- both Walter’s suspicions and his newfound troubles. Merlin’s phone calls were never about mere pleasantries. However, the latter, he was certain he’d become engrossed in, soon enough.

“You mentioned you were fond of your apartment at the Arcadian Gardens,” he said. “I kept it serviceable, expecting your eventual return.”

Walter briefly stopped, turning to give Tyvan a look of shock and incredulity. “That’s... possibly the nicest thing anyone’s done for me these past few years.”

He narrowed his eyes, his suspicion rekindled. “What’s your angle, Valorum?”

“I now have the resources to do more than advise,” Tyvan replied.

Walter steeled his expression and began walking again. “Just because you got a little taller doesn’t mean you’re any less of a brat.”

Tyvan returned a gentle smile. Walter’s statement had no indication of rejection. The anxiety in his scent had notably waned. A nonverbal pact had been formed-- and would be expounded upon at a later date.

Walter was a valuable ally, a diligent peace officer with a sound, rational mind. Some years prior, he was nearly mauled to death by a werebear. After that, he supplied Tyvan with information on cases he and his companions were slightly more equipped to handle and vice versa.

His transfer away from Archangel was disappointing. But his return was ultimately beneficial for them both. Tyvan preferred to be made aware of issues before they escalated. Walter strived to keep himself and his peers well-away from blood-crazed, quarter-tonne shapeshifters.

Together, they entered a funeral home, in which the administrator--

“Bishop,” Tyvan frowned, “What are you doing here?”

The unreasonably tall, blue-haired gentleman seated at the front desk was Bishop Latorre, one of Tyvan’s full-time employees. However, he had a habit of freelancing-- for personal enjoyment, he assumed.

Bishop adjusted his dark sunglasses, (which he wore indoors,) and adopted a bright, carefree smile.

“Hey, Boss! I’m a front desk clerk today! It’s awesome.”

He adjusted the nametag on his breast. It was properly aligned, but... on closer scrutiny, his surname was mispellt as ‘Iatorre’.

“We have a front desk at home.”

“I know!” Bishop said, grinning proudly. “It really helped having that on my resume. Anyway, how can I help you guys?”

“I’m here about an incident,” Walter said, brandishing his credentials.

Bishop thoughtfully reached his hand out, rubbing his fingers on the police detective’s ID and badge.

“You uh... a cop?”

“...Yeah.”

Walter cleared his throat before putting his wallet back in his coat, “But nevermind that-- is the director in?”

According to Bishop, they were not. However, he was able to recommend a coworker more capable of answering their questions.

He provided explicit directions to reach the mortuary.

Cold, sterile, and uncomfortable.

Ugh.

Tyvan was glad to be wearing his coat and gloves. Detective Chu, with his windbreaker-type jacket, was not so glad. The lines of grimace cut deeper as he addressed the attending technician.

Susie Quigg, according to her nametag-- a diminutive for Susan, perhaps. Her brown hair was arranged in a neat bun and she was dressed in sanitary garb, though without gloves. The straps of a facemask and a pair of safety goggles hung around her wrist.

She was no martial artist, but a respectable artist of her particular craft, nonetheless.

Her desk was tidy and organised enough. She had a rolling cart adjacent that carried medical instruments, everything upon it arranged in a neat and orderly fashion. On the wall behind her, dozens of coolers contained bodies of the deceased.

They shared a certain, macabre smell, their fluids replaced with something human-made and resistant to rot.

Walter introduced himself and and began his standard inquiries: what’s, when’s, and who’s.

Susan tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, tilting her head toward Tyvan as she spoke.

“I think... my coworkers might have stolen the body. They’ve gone missing since last night and the director said he can’t get ahold of either of them.”

“Don’t hear much about corpse-stealing, nowadays,” Walter muttered as he scribbled onto his notepad.

Quigg’s heart rate was elevated and her breathing was erratic. Though that might have been suspicious, Tyvan had no reason to believe in foul play. The presence of an authority figure, particularly a law enforcement agent, produced similar symptoms.

...Ah. Tyvan also exuded an authoritative aura. The longer Quigg stared at him, the worse her condition deteriorated.

“Mrs. Quigg--”

“MISS Quigg,” she corrected-- “And just... just Susie is fine-- or y’know what? Call me whatever you want. Or when-ever, even!”

Tyvan hesitated as he tried to decipher the confusing request. To avoid being rude, he decided to avoid referring to her entirely.

He had her identify the compartment in which the missing body was stored.

Susan had a negative response, the sweet scent of her discomfort almost cutting through the pungent brine in the air. But whether her fear was derived from guilt or harmless anxiety had to be seen.

Tyvan broke away to make cursory inspections.

Walter confirmed the names of the suspects. He also noted the lack of cameras covering the storage cabinets.

There were a series of superficial cracks on a wall at about shoulder height. Tyvan asked about them. Susan hadn’t even noticed.

“Officer Chu,” he said, “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Walter replied. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“W-wait!” Susan called.

Odd. Tyvan turned expectantly. “How may I be of service, young lady?”

She put her hands together, tapping her fingertips anxiously before mumbling. “H... have a nice day.”

Strange girl... but polite.

“You as well,” Tyvan replied with a nod.

He returned to the lobby. He spent a moment appreciating the more reasonable temperature. Then he approached the front desk.

“Bishop, did you already look around?” he asked. Then he realized his mistake, adding, “I mean that figuratively, mind you.”

Bishop sighed, rendering a shrug with his hands raised.

“Nah. Are there Kingdom matters going on, Boss?”

“A body’s gone missing,” Tyvan said. “And I surmise it may have walked out on its own.”