LEAGUE OF PROTECTORS.

Earth

Sector 6 (The Imperium).

0145 hours.

June 12.

By the time the officer swaggered in, Kline was already upright. Hands jammed deep in his pockets. His jaw set.

The stink of hot circuitry crawled through the Imperium halls. It was starting to get under his skin.

"My access to Senator Madin's office. Granted or not?" Kline's tone was dead flat.

The officer raised a palm, scratched at his Klaik band. He tapped out a cryptic code. "Confirmed."

Kline stayed stone-faced. No room for feeling.

"But you'll need a guide. Someone or something."

The "something" landed like a warning shot.

"And that is?" Kline eyed him, brows knitted.

He motioned out with the officer. Metal door hissed open, both marching past empty corridors. There was nothing save for a towering bot. It waited like a sentinel. 'G45' pulsed red on its plated chest.

"Meet G45. Your chaperone," the officer grunted.

Kline nodded, pinning the bot with a stare. G45's optics were pure ice. The cop in Kline started buzzing. Something off, way off, about that machine.

G45 spun, back crawling with exposed circuits. They trudged down the corridor, twenty metres of echo and tension.

At the end was a metal door. A digital name plate read: 'Glock Madin'. LED scanner swept their faces.

The door hissed open. No ceremony.

They both stepped inside.

The room jolted alive. Too polished, too lived-in for a dead man's office.

Ferrocene walls gleamed. Furniture sharp as secrets. No hint the senator was dust.

A bookshelf stretched high, lording over everything. Monochrome window stared out at the Imperial concourse. All black and white. No illusions.

The desk, center stage, was all shine and ego. Atop its surface were digital mementoes, five buttons begging to be pressed. A holog imaging device. Gold nameplate screaming Madin's brand. The man wanted his name echoing from every shadow.

Kline slipped on his digital gloves. It emitted a faint hum. A sign of sensors twitching for clues.

He eased up to the holog. The glove pulsed, jumpy. G45's feet shuffled, metal on metal. Something in the air tasted wrong. Like static before a deadly storm.

He jabbed one button. The holog blinked on. Blue interface materialised. Looked squeaky clean. Files gone. Someone had wiped Madin's trail.

Kline's eyes darted to the next button, jaw tight. In this office, nothing was ever what it seemed.

A shard ripped past Kline's ear, chewing into the ferrocrete. Heart jackhammered. He spun.

G45 stood there, pulse pistol trained steady. "Detective, it's time to end this investigation."

Kline kept cool, eyes sliding for a weapon. Anything sharp, heavy, desperate. "All this trouble to quiet one cop? Why?"

"Some truths don't like the light," G45 droned, voice cold as a morgue drawer. But Kline knew a puppet speech when he heard one. Someone else was pulling the strings.

He inched back. Fingers closing around the holog at his rear.

G45 took a step, gun never wavering. "You're a wild card. Won't let you tip the table."

Kline didn't wait for another lecture. He hurled the holog. It smashed dead-center on the bot's optic, sparks flying.

Kline dove, snatched his pulse pistol. Snapped off a shot, center mass, right through G45's glowing brand and power core.

The bot staggered, weapon clattering to the floor. Kline fired again, lower this time. Its circuitry, sizzling.

G45 collapsed in a heap of dead code and bad news.

Kline moved to the desk. His breath ragged as he hit the next button. A low hum rolled through the room.

The shelf cracked open like a jaw unhinged. Behind it, a portal shimmered into form.

A chamber. A hidden one.

He moved in, quiet as guilt. Simon & Garfunkel's old tune ticked in his head. The sound echoed like a broken clock.

Stairs spiraled down into shadow. He took them slow. The silence was the kind that made your skin itch.

The last step moaned underfoot. A wall sconce sparked to life.

Basement looked like a lunatic's scrapbook- a jmunkyard of forgotten wars. Boxes, loose papers, old tech bleeding rust.

Something shifted in the rubble.

A tingle hit his skull. Gut instinct or something darker.

A drone shot up from the mess. Small. Quick. Nasty. A micro-pulse gun hissed from its gut.

It fired.

Kline dove behind a busted Hexa engine. Debris sprayed like shrapnel. The air went hot with laser.

He drew his sidearm. Tracked the whir. The drone danced, firing again. A staccato of death.

He pulled the trigger. Hard.

The blast found its mark. Nailed the crimson aperture. Fried the power core.

The drone dropped like a stone. Smoke curled from its belly, slow and spectral.

Then, light. A ray, rather beamed from the mangled wreck. Letters crackled into the air, holographic and fading:

"When midnight shadows hide the bloom,

Seek where petals fold in gloom.

The puppet's strings are far and near,

The Emperor's mask hides less than fear.

Count the colors from dusk to dawn,

The order's touch lingers on the lawn.

In numbers: 20 21 12 9 16 - follow the clues,

The hand you seek does not confuse.

The garden is not what it appears,

The Tulip's order sows greater fears."

Message blinked out. Kline stared at it like it owed him money.

He bent low. Checked the drone. The chip port was still warm. Good.

He yanked it and stood up. Swinging the drone over his head, he smashed it. Pieces scattered.

He pocketed the chip and climbed out. Fast.

The portal hissed closed behind him.

Back at the desk, he jabbed another button. The red one precisely. It set off the alarms. Somewhere in the distance, they blared. Loud and frenzied.

He looked at his Klaik band: 0211 hours. Night was bleeding quick.

Boots pounded. Imperium guards inbound.

He tightened his grip on the chip.

Time to see the Grand Imperator. Or make damn sure the Grand Imperator wanted to see him…

The Imperium guards burst in - twelve shadows in polished armor. Eyes behind visors, twitchy fingers on plasma triggers.

They found the drone wreckage first. Fried shell, smoking core. The curl of smoke rose like a ghost with unfinished business.

Their gazes swept the room, sharp and suspicious. Questions behind their helmets.

Kline sat like he owned the damn place. Slouched in the dead Senator's chair, boots planted. A grin etched into his face like it hurt to wear.

"Well, gentlemen," he drawled, voice like cracked leather. "Looks like I beat you to the fireworks."

He gestured to the dead bot, smoke still trailing off it like a bad habit.

"Now, here's the part where you escort me. Straight to the Grand Imperator. Politely, if possible. Urgently, if you're smart."

His words didn't shout. They punched.

They hit the room, hard. Harder than a judge's gavel slamming down on a guilty world.