Hunting the Raven Man – Pt. 2

Crimson Tear dials the Dorumegian Imperial Forces. She asks to be transferred to Detective Frostine Mist.
“Tear?”
“Detective Frostine, it’s me. I need a favor.”
There is a long silence over the phone. Tear wonders if she is presenting too hard a front to her ex-best friend.
“Ah,” says Frostine. “Why?”
“Because you owe me. I’ve taken on a job. I’m tracking a killer.”
“I thought you left that line of work.”
“That wasn’t entirely my decision, was it?” Tear growls. “I’ve got a commission. The sponsor is the head of the Merchant Guild. It pays well.”
There is another pause.
“This is about the murder of that prostitute bot, huh? The one that’s the spark-sister of the Merchant Guild head?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re lying to me, Tear,” she says softly. Her voice is desiccated from their shared years of pain. “We’re… we used to be close. So I know you, at least, I think I do. It’s not about the money.”
“Yes it is.”
“Tear,” she sighs with a hint of kinship that Tear has not sensed in years. “Wait a moment. I’m moving into my office. We need to talk in private.”
Tear waits out a few minutes by staring at the security footage above her office door. Elevator music plays from her phone, periodically interrupted by a recruiting advertisement for the Dorumegian Imperial Forces.
Beep.
“Alright, I’m in my office,” says Frostine. “Look, this might not be the best time, but… I’ve wanted us to talk again.”
Tear feels a surge in activity from the Governor Chip. It is functioning. She is functioning.
“Talk? Sure.”
Frostine stutters a little. Tear can hear Frostine try over and over to speak, but the words are caught in her speech module. She huffs and hums, and Tear can hear the discomfort in Frostine’s voice from the other end. Crimson Tear hears the tapping of a foot against the floor, the clicking of a pen cap, the fidgeting of little bibs and bobs on Frostine’s desk. Tear feels herself losing a little bit of patience.
At long last, Frostine speaks.
“I’m sorry, Tear. I’m sorry for how everything happened.”
“You pushed me out of the Force,” Tear snaps.
“I know I wasn’t the only one that’s hurting. You were hurting too, and I lashed out at you. Windham was my fiancé, but he was also your spark-brother, and-”
“And we were my best friends. Were.” Tear draws out the were to let the venom seep in.
“Yes. And I hurt you horribly. I’m really sorry,” Frostine continues. “Is there anything I could do for you to forgive me?”
Tear’s hand – the one that’s not holding the phone – writhes and rattles and roils into a clenched fist.
“That’s not what I called you for.”
“Tear,” Frostine pleads, “can’t you consider me?”
“No,” says Tear,
“̸͍͐I̶̹̐ ̴̘̀d̷͚͗o̶̹̐n̵̰̽’̸̱̀t̸̛͎ ̷̳͌c̶̲͆a̶̢͋r̸̜̊e̸̬̐ ̴͚͠f̴̗̎o̴̳͌r̷͉͑ ̴̜͝y̷͖̽o̷̻̽u̵̪̚ ̶͖͊á̶̼t̶̹̅ ̵͈̚a̵̗̎l̶͉͂l̷̹̆.̸̤̚”̶͖́
The bluntness in Tear’s voice shocks even herself. She reaches beneath her neck and confirms that the Governor Chip is still installed.
Frostine draws out a tired sigh.
Tear hears the gentle drop of a pen atop a desk.
“Alright. I deserve this. But because I loved Windham, and this is what Windham would have wanted, I’ll let you use my holocomp. Come to the station in sector B15 tomorrow night, after closing.”

Frostine directs Crimson Tear to her desk, a surface busy with the activity of paper clips, disorderly rows of pencils, pens, and erasers, and two piles of paperwork balancing precariously against each other. Her holocomputer, an imposing, beige tower accompanied by a monitor of similar stature, stands at the center.
Tear begins by searching the DIF database for cases where automata escorts had been killed by a suspect equipped with an umbral cloak. Nothing. She broadens her scope to escorts in general. Though this returns a few results, there is no clear connection between the cases, and most have already been resolved.
Maybe I’m approaching this from the wrong angle, Tear thinks. She submits a new query for cases involving an automaton victim who had their synthetic core stolen. She further narrows the results to only include cases where the victim also had their memory drive destroyed. There are 102 results.
Tear quickly compares the facts for a few of the cases. She glances over the photos of the victims dispassionately, scrolling from image to image like paragraphs of a book she didn’t want to read. She casually measures their expressions on a scale of discomfort, comparing their faces with Joan’s. W̸̞͑̐i̷͍͌͂͜t̷̂ͅh̶͖̓̔ ̷̙͗W̵̖͌̾ȋ̵̫n̷̦̺̍d̷̜̮̆h̴͎͈̑͘a̵̯͘m̴̡̊̐’̸͙͙͌s̵̞̓̌.̶̖̖͋ As Tear filters for common details, she realizes that there are 34 incidents where the victims were murdered in the exact same way as Joan: a bullet through the charging port to offline the victim, two clean cuts down the chassis to pry the chest open, followed by taking the victim’s synthetic core and terminating their memory drives. They were all killed in their homes, located in the dusty pockets of Gloamspire. There were no signs of struggle. Joan was the 35th.
There’s nothing about an assailant with an umbral cloak, but Tear knows she’s on the right track. The killer in question was experienced. Tear continues filtering by additional details, controlling her queries by the careers, criminal records, and the manufacturers of the victims. Nothing lines up.
She pulls up the report for Joan’s case and studies the photo taken from her bedroom, her gaze tracing the outline of pneumatic oil spilled from Joan’s lifeless body into the corners of the image. She examines the closet door mirrors, the bottles of perfumes and lubricants atop the dresser, and the Gearthrive powercell beside the bed, its metallic surface gleaming under the harsh flash of Detective Frostine’s camera. An electric unease flares within her circuits.
She compares the photo of Joan’s bedroom with those from similar incidents. Many of these homes are furnished similarly to Joan’s – somber spaces housing second-hand items, each room suffused with a pervasive sense of neglect, as if the owners believed they could never escape their poverty. Tear swipes through the photos, her hands becoming frenetic as she notes the repeat actors between the scenes: the gray plastic tables native to SaveCo cafeterias in the kitchens, the same brand of faded, threadbare rugs, the chipped rims and handles of porcelain mugs.
A knot tightens in her chest as she continues flipping through the images. She imagines Joan going about her day-to-day in her apartment, holding herself together in a setting that looked like it could fall apart at any moment, feeling desperation and sadness as she waited longer and longer for Jean to come back for her. Tear thinks about the state of things in Azoth: the transformation of Central Gloamspire from a rural town into an industrial zone, the relentless march of innovation, the growing, nagging fear that she would be left behind someday. As her thoughts race between fury and melancholy, she scrolls faster and faster through the photos from the 35 victims, begging herself not to entertain the one question she has wanted to ask herself since Windham’s death: How am I any different?
Tear halts, stopping herself just before her Governor Chip can intervene. She stares at the photo on the monitor, gazing into the victim’s lifeless eyes. She examines the gaping bullet wound in the victim’s charging port, and traces the path of the charging cable in the bot’s hands to the Gearthrive powercell beside their sofa. The case report indicates this automaton was killed mid-hibernation.
Tear’s eyes drift back to the photo of Joan’s bedroom again. She stares again at the Gearthrive powercell, its presence now a glaring presence in her mind. Hadn’t she seen this many times before?
Tear swipes back and forth between the 34 case reports, her gaze narrowing as she goes through all the photos once more. Her synthetic core pumps a little faster as one case after another, she spots telltale powercells in the homes of the victims – the common thread linking the crimes. In each home, beside each victim, a Gearthrive powercell was always present, always overlooked.
She downloads her findings into her memory drives and leaves the station without a word.

Tear meets Johnny Goldknot at a hot dog stand beneath an abandoned metro project. It smells of rat piss and rotten eggs, likely due to the battery disposal site nearby. Johnny, a lanky man with a rough demeanor, leans against the stand, his delivery bag slung over one shoulder. He squints at Tear and motions her to come closer.
Tear orders two chili dogs and hands one to Johnny.
“So you wanna know about the murder,” Johnny says, taking a bite from his food. “I already told the Forces everything I know.”
“I’m not with the Imperial Police,” Tear replies. “I’m a private investigator. I just want facts. I’m seeking the truth. Would you mind recounting your story?”
“Sure. It was just a routine delivery. I work swings, so I tagged in around 3 PM at the warehouse in South Gloamspire. I dropped off packages at a few dozen different residential compounds – Industrial Housings, Ironwood, and a couple of others. Last one I visited was Gloamspire Residencies. That wasn’t supposed to be my last stop, but you know what happened.
“So I went up to the third floor of Gloamspire Residencies. The lady – you know, the bot that turned out to be the victim – had a powercell subscription, so I was used to dropping by their place. Didn’t know she was an escort, though that explains all the interesting sounds I’d hear whenever I’d deliver a package to her place.
“When I went to her place, I realized that the boys had made a mistake, and they had not given me everything the lady had ordered. Only the powercell. So I dropped it off, went about the rest of my deliveries, and then returned to the warehouse.
“The second time I was there, though, I heard a loud bang! as I was going up the stairs. So I immediately turned back to my truck, drove a couple blocks away, and called the Forces after. You know the rest.”
Tear scans Johnny’s face, analyzing his micro-expressions for any signs of deceit. His pulse is elevated, but that could be due to retelling an intense experience. She decides to change tactics.
“Gearthrive,” Tear says slowly, “has a history of employing individuals with criminal records. You, for example. Do you think they might be using their employees for anything illegal? Or have you heard anything odd about their powercell products?”
Johnny flinches at the mention of his past. “Hey, I’m clean now, alright? Gearthrive gave me a second chance. I’m just an honest guy now. I bring people the things they buy. That’s it.”
“Do you know what they’re buying?”
“I-I, I don’t know,” Johnny shrugs, “powercells, probably? Look, when I show up to work, some people load boxes into my truck, and then I drive around. I don’t ask questions. I just do my thing.”
Tear’s gaze remains fixed on Johnny. “So you don’t know of anything unusual happening at Gearthrive’s factories? I need you to think, Johnny. Really think. There were 34, now 35, cold cases with connection to your employer’s products. A Gearthrive powercell was present at the scene of 35 murders. Call it coincidence, but you’d think that even beggars are choosers, and that a few of the victims might have chosen some other third party brand, like I-SOL or Metric Force.” She chooses her words carefully. “You’re the delivery man, Johnny. The report says you have a solid alibi, but no matter how you dice it, this is a very bad look.”
Johnny rubs the back of his neck. He finishes his food, wipes his hands on the sides of his jeans, and his brow furrows in thought. He inhales. His eyes dart back and forth, and he checks over his shoulder. He exhales. He puts his palms together and he drops his head low.
“I’ll tell you something. But it stays between us.”
Tear nods.
“I don’t have many friends at the warehouse. As I said, I’m clean now. Most of the guys there still hustle in the ways I’d left behind. If there’s anything shady going on, I try not to pay attention so that I feel no temptation about these things. I stay away from anyone who would want to tell me their business.
“Anyhow. Every now and then, my boss would pull me aside and tell me that a customer won a surprise or some kind of lottery. Whenever that happens, I’m supposed to deliver a different sort of powercell to the customer. It looks the exact same as the usual stuff, but they’re stored in a special room within the basement of the warehouse I work at.
“What’s strange is that every customer that received said surprise would close their subscription within the following month. For the longest time, I assumed Gearthrive was intentionally delivering faulty product to push customers to sign up for Gearthrive’s premium subscription plan, which includes a quality guarantee on the monthly powercell delivery.
“Believe me or not, but that’s all I know.”
Tear processes this information. Johnny might be telling the truth, or he could be too scared to divulge more. Either way, she decides to take matters into her own hands; her systems have already mapped the quickest route to the nearest Gearthrive warehouse.
She needs to know what’s in those powercells.
“Thank you, Mr. Goldknot,” Tear softens her tone slightly. “I will keep this between us.”

Sneaking into a warehouse is easier said than planned, and easier planned than done.
Click. Tear ejects her Governor Chip.
She thinks that something about this investigation isn’t right. She considers calling Jean and informing her that the entire Gearthrive corporation is suspect for the death of her spark-sister, that the case has headed in a direction that lies outside her jurisdiction, that she was not the capable bot that Jean had thought her to be, that the killer is still out there.
Tear has failed before, and it cost her everything.
Click. She pushes the Governor Chip back in.
Tear stands by the periphery of the Gearthrive warehouse, a monolith of cement fenced in by barbed chains and security cameras. Though the umbral cloak draped around her will render her invisible to electronic sensors, she knows she must stay out of sight. The veiling nature of the cloak is weakened in direct light, and though the new moon overhead would not betray her presence, the numerous lampposts around the warehouse campus prevent direct entry into the building. She adjusts the hood of the cloak as she stalks the perimeter of the fence to calculate potential paths through the shadows cast by the trees around the building.
Once she has settled on a route, her thermal vision detects a guard stationed facing her direction – unusual for a regular warehouse. She notes that he tends to look away roughly fifteen seconds at a time. She starts an analog timer and watches the guard intently, measuring the variations in his movements. Once she feels confident in her path of entry and the expected behavior of the guard, she takes a deep breath and focuses on her fingertips and toes. She feels electric energy condense within her limbs as her synthetic core pumps pneumatic oil faster and faster through her veins.
She is ready for the hunt.
Tear leaps over the perimeter fence and darts behind a tree. Her lithe frame darts from shadow to shadow, advancing the warehouse fifteen seconds at a time. With each step, she feels a semblance of the confidence she once possessed as an Enforcer; the sparks coursing through her circuits revives a sense of purpose that had been dormant for too long.
Reaching the side of the building where the guards are not patrolling, Tear summons a small, black box from her belt and attaches it to the handle on a door. The screen on the device lights up, initiating a sequence of scripts to fry the door’s electronic lock. Within seconds, the door clicks open and Tear sneaks inside.
The warehouse interior is a cavernous expanse of dimly lit space, its high ceilings disappearing into shadows. Rows of towering metal shelves line the concrete floor, filled with crates and boxes marked with barcodes. The air is thick with the smell of oil and metal, mingled with the faint scent of plastic. Overhead, a network of catwalks and industrial pipes crisscrosses the space, creating a tangled web of steel.
Crimson Tear scans the area with her thermal sensors. No guards are present.
She cautiously navigates the maze of machinery, keeping to the shadows as she tiptoes toward the basement. The eerie buzz of machinery provides a steady backdrop to her hushed steps as she snakes through the aisles and around the various machines lining the room. She is careful not to place too much weight on either foot; she executes each of her movements with an exactness necessary to avoid bumping into anything. As she approaches the staircase leading to the basement, she scans again for any signs of guards.
Confident that no one is present in the lower levels, Tear descends quickly and quietly. The air grows colder as the sounds of machinery above fade into a distant murmur.
In stark contrast to the warehouse above, the basement is an underground labyrinth of silence. The air carries a musty scent of damp concrete and aged wood. The walls are rough, unpainted cinder blocks, with patches of mold creeping into the corners. Dead, bare bulbs hang from the low ceiling; the floor is uneven; shelving units are placed haphazardly like the walls of a maze. In one corner, an ancient boiler sits dormant, its hulking mass forgotten in grime and dust. A narrow corridor adjacent to the stairs leads deeper into the basement, its walls closing in and the ceiling lowering further. At its end is a heavy steel door with a reinforced frame.
Tear retrieves her black box once more and attaches it to the glowing keypad beside the door. She covers the flickering screen of the device with her cloak as it overrides the security measures. Moments later, she pockets her gadget and slips inside, the door closing silently behind her.
The moment she enters the storage room, the first thing that hits is the sterile, clinical scent of disinfectant, cutting through the stale air of the basement. The room is bathed in unnaturally bright, cold light emanating from recessed lighting panels in the ceiling. The space feels removed from the rest of the warehouse: remote, surgical, impersonal.
A long metal table lines one side of the room. Its surface is a neatly organized affair, featuring a parade of powercells, strange devices, and sticky notes. Beside each powercell is a synthetic core, stripped apart and labeled.
Lori Proudhands: formula 001, reads one,
Zenith Stone: formula 007, reads another.
These were names of prior victims. Tear moves to the end of the table and reads the label beside the synthetic core:
Joan Haze: formula 035.
As Tear covers her mouth with her hands to suppress a scream, her sensors indicate the presence of faint electromagnetic fields emanating from hidden surveillance equipment. There are no switches to turn off the lights.
She has been compromised.
Tear turns her attention to the powercell beside Joan’s heart. She frantically tears its casing with a knife. Her hands are shaking.
Her mind is shaking.
She is shaking.
Don’t think about Windham don’t think about Windham don’t think about Windham don’t think about Windham don’t think about Windham don’t think about Windham don’t think about Windham don’t think about Windham-
Her ears pick up faint sounds from above. The muffled footsteps of guards. Time is running out.
Tear balls her hands into fists, digging her fingers into her synthetic skin. The urgency of the situation amplifies her anxiety, and her frame trembles with a desperate need for steadiness. She knocks her fists against each other, the pain jolting through her system in an attempt to numb the overwhelming surge of nerves.
Take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot-
With a final, forceful smash, she wills the pain to override her panic. She removes a small vial from her belt and carefully extracts a sample of the ener-gel inside the powercell.
Alarms blare throughout the warehouse as she clips the ener-gel sample to her belt. Her circuits flare with urgency as deafening sounds echo off the concrete walls and red lights flash in a frantic rhythm to mobilize the guards above.
Tear bolts out the storage room, weaving through the towering shelves of the basement. Her umbral cloak flutters behind her, struggling to keep pace with her desperate dash. She rapidly turns corners and uses her momentum to slide beneath shelves before ascending the staircase.
Atop the stairs, a guard stands in position with his gun raised.
Crimson Tear does not think. Her reflexes kick in and her body twists mid-stride to avoid the shot that narrowly misses her shoulder. In one motion, she swings her leg out, connecting with the guard’s knee and landing on the main floor.
More guards converge on her position.
Tear springs forward, ducking under a baton swing from one guard and countering with a sharp elbow to his ribs. She sidesteps another guard and uses his momentum to throw him into a stack of crates. The crashing sound momentarily drowns out the alarms.
As the guards radio for reinforcements, Tear barrels toward the door she used to enter the warehouse and bursts into the darkness of the new moon night. As she draws the last of her energy to escape, the warehouse roars with alarm, and she hears the distant sounds of more guards joining the chase. Her synthetic core is racing.
Her mind is racing.
She is racing.
She reaches the perimeter fence and leaps into the dense shadows of the surrounding trees. For a moment, she pauses to ensure that she is alone. The cacophony of alarms fades into the background as she blends into the darkness. A few tense seconds pass as her sensors scan the area; the faint heat signatures of the guards shrink into the distance as their muffled voices and footfalls become silent.
Then, once she has gathered herself, she slinks into the night.

“So what is it?”
The Good Doctor spins in his chair as he holds the sample of ener-gel up to the light. He turns his wrist back and forth to feel the weight and viscosity of the fluid within the vial.
“Where did you get this?”
Tear keeps her mouth shut.
“Doctor-patient confidentiality. I’m no cop,” he smirks. “Granted, you used to be one.”
“I’m paying you to tell me what that thing is, not to pry into my activities.”
“Well it’s ener-gel fluid, that’s for sure,” says the Good Doctor, “but I can tell it’s a new formula. Nothing on the market is like it. So if you want me to tell you what I know, speak up.”
Tear looks away. “A warehouse. A Gearthrive warehouse.”
“You broke in?’
Tear nods. “It sounds crazy, but I suspect it’s connected to a string of murders.”
The Good Doctor sets the vial down on his cluttered workbench and begins to assemble a series of intricate instruments. Tear watches as he carefully places the vial into a small analyzer, the machine humming softly as it begins its work.
“Tear,” says the Good Doctor. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
The Good Doctor pockets his glasses. He looks directly into Tear’s eyes.
“This isn’t about the murders.”
Tear crosses her arms. “You don’t know me, Doctor.”
“I know you well enough. I met you on a night many years ago. You were broken. You held a synthetic core in your hands. I offered you my services. I installed your Governor Chip, and I swapped out your heart for the one you held. I’m a doctor, and I’m good at what I do. That’s why they call me the Good Doctor. And I can tell that something about you is off.”
Tear’s eyes narrow. “I’m not here for therapy.”
“And I don’t need your money. But depending on what’s in this sample, I’m going to need you to tell me the truth, Tear. What’s going on?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
The Good Doctor hangs his head low. He buries his head in his palms before dragging them down his face before he reclines into his chair.
“It takes being broken to know how to fix things. And a broken man comes to know what things are broken very well. I can see when a screw is loose; I can hear when a dial is in pain; I can feel when a part does not move just right. When I fix things, I enable them to tackle their lives again. A phone is not a phone if it cannot make calls. A bike is not a bike if it does not have wheels. Crimson Tear is not Crimson Tear if she makes it personal.
“This investigation you’re doing? It’s not just a case to you, is it? In none of your other cases have you tracked a killer, nor have you broken into places for your clients. Something about you is changing, and something about this case means something to you. And that’s a very dangerous thing, Tear.
“You may have experienced it already. Your body is beginning to reject the Governor Chip. You’re mixing up your own signals. Scrambling your feelings. Ditch the case, Tear. Take it from me: leave this while you can. Run.”
“You’re wrong!” Tear snaps.
The Good Doctor lets out a strained sigh as the analyzer beeps. He grips his knees with his palms as he spins in his chair before studying the readout on the analyzer’s screen. He hums as he processes the results on a terminal nearby, tapping the keys louder and louder each time, as if he is channeling his frustration into his fingers. Then, his usual demeanor begins to fracture as a nervous energy surfaces from beneath.
“Doctor?”
“Well this is unexpected,” he mutters, more to himself than to Tear. “Whoever developed this was creating a power source that is poisonous to robotkind. This ener-gel is toxic to a normal automaton and would quickly deteriorate the user’s synthetic core, leading to shutdown that mimics natural wear and tear.”
“Poisonous? But why?”
The Good Doctor leans back in his chair as he thinks. “Maybe it’s elimination. If this gets widely circulated, a lot of robots are going to die.”
Tear recalls the table in the storage room lined with powercells and synthetic cores. That would explain the murders; the victims had received these powercells as part of a subscription service. If the final powercell each victim received was intended to kill them, a murder would act as the perfect cover.
But why go through the lengths to test the poison across 35 victims?
“This is really remarkable, however,” says the Good Doctor.
“Remarkable? I thought you said this is poison.”
“In a way. Too much of any good thing is poison,” he says. “Years ago, Gearstride invested significant funds into R&D to create cheaper powercells. The idea was simple: manufacture longer-lasting powercells to sell at a higher price. The increased duration means they could lower their manufacturing rate. This would also yield additional cost savings in raw materials.
“The project was scrapped just a few years into development, however. There was no notice given to the public; the product line was simply canceled. Around that same time, the Kaiser and her Senate quietly passed legislation regulating the legal range for the energy density of a powercell.
“I remember rumors circulating shortly after about some high-profile scientists that had been let go from Gearstride Automatics. Something about manufacturing an intelligent superweapon, and a rivalry between two colleagues that had gone south.
“The short of it is this: the ener-gel sample you’ve acquired has triple the energy density of what is legally permitted by the Kaiser’s court. That’s definitely not something a normal automaton would consume. About your guy? I don’t think your killer’s endgame is about merely killing robots anymore. He’s building something. Something that would require a lot of energy. And he plans to fuel it with that.”

The Raven Man studies the recording displayed by the projector. The subject is a medium-size, 2nd-generation automaton. The robot’s armor glows magenta beneath its umbral cloak, and a vial of blue fluid dangles from its toolbelt.
“At 1:04 AM, our security captured this photo from our South Gloamspire site,” Strix says, standing beside the projector screen. “The intruder was equipped with a security bypass device and an umbral cloak, remaining undetected until they accessed our storage room. They have taken an ener-gel sample from iteration 35. I believe-”
The Raven Man sits back in his chair as Strix fidgets with the datapad in his hands. The room is a claustrophobic accident, a little alley between the engineering garage and the operations center in the AAL safehouse given purpose as a conference space. To his left, Strix taps nervously at the screens of various devices strewn around him as he speculates the parties responsible for breaking into the Gearthrive warehouse. Opposite Strix, the Vulture swirls a chalice in his hands.
Strix’s eyes dart between his datapad and the Vulture. “We’ve got a serious problem. If a competitor to Gearthrive manufactures and distributes our formula, a lot of automata are going to die.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that,” the Raven Man quips. “A dead bot is a dead bot. Doesn’t matter to me how you skin a cat.”
“Gearthrive is our front,” Strix snaps. “If the Forces start investigating Gearthrive, it’ll only be a matter of time until they find us.” Strix exhales through his teeth, producing a low whistle.
The Vulture remains calm. He twirls his long, silver hair with his fingers, observing how the strands shimmer against the backdrop of the projection. “Relax, Strix. This is nothing for us.”
“Nothing? Why, I-”
The Vulture erupts from his chair and shoves Strix into the wall. He pushes a gloved index finger over Strix’s mouth, and uses his other hand to signal Strix to zip it. Once the Vulture has led Strix back to his seat, he pats a few wrinkles out of his emerald coat before swiping the projector controller from Strix.
The Raven Man hears an audible gulp from his left.
“Listen carefully,” the Vulture growls. “Word of this does not leave the room. Our project must stay the course. If anyone asks, this is not even an inconvenience. It’s an opportunity for the glory of the AAL. We will not be undone by one rogue bot. Do we understand?”
The Raven Man folds his arms and sits up in his chair. “What do you need me to do?”
The Vulture makes a thin smile. “It is critical that you hunt the intruder, Raven. Whatever that thing plans to do, we must terminate it before it has a chance to act on the information it has gathered from the sample it stole from us.”
“But how can we even find it?” asks Strix.
The Vulture steeples his fingers. “Did you not notice?” he asks as the security footage replays. “Look at it. Its eyes. Don’t you see it? Look at the way it looks over the names beside the synthetic cores. The expression on its face. That thing is motivated by something. That’s no corporate agent; our formula won’t be leaked anytime soon. But it’s no thug, either.”
“I don’t follow,” Strix shrugs.
“That thing seems to actually care about its kind,” replies the Vulture. “We flip the script. We move forward with our powercell delivery schedule as planned. If a mole is present within the warehouse, they’ll inform our guest, who will undoubtedly arrive to intercept the delivery.” The Vulture’s eyes gleam with calculated resolve as he stares at the Raven Man. “Select a target that is similar to our prior target – that robot that called itself Joan. I leave the rest to you.”
“I know just the one,” he says before standing to salute the Vulture. And then he departs.

Tear does not know where to begin.
An automaton support company manufacturing toxic powercells? The synthetic cores of 35 unrelated victims displayed like trophies within one facility? Did Joan know about any of this? And what did the Good Doctor mean about the killer’s goals?
Weeks of work have gone by, and Tear has little to show Jean. She can tell Jean that Joan had been killed by a skilled assassin, that Joan had somehow become connected to a corporate scheme that Tear herself couldn’t understand, that perhaps it is best to turn over all details of the case to the Dorumegian Imperial Forces. But how does that make the situation any better?
Tear dials Johnny Goldknot as she exits the Good Doctor’s office.
“Hello?”
“This is Tear.”
“Ah,” says Johnny. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve found out some troubling things about Gearthrive.”
“Alright. I’m almost on my lunch. Give me a minute and I’ll call you back.”
Johnny hangs up. The phone rings almost immediately.
But it’s Frostine, not Johnny.
“Tear. We need to talk.”
Tear bites her lip. “You get five minutes. Shoot.”
“I’ve done a little follow-up on Joan Haze’s case. Your search logs on the terminal found 34 similar cases to Joan’s. Digging a little deeper, I’ve determined they were all Gearthrive customers.”
“I already knew that.”
“But what you don’t know is the timing. 5 of the murders occurred in West Gloamspire, so I was able to track the activity of Gearthrive’s delivery vans through the surveillance cams WGPD installed over the intersections of our city. When comparing the time of the last delivery the victim received with the time of the murder, the difference always rounds to roughly 4 hours. That’s about the time necessary for a full charge from 20%. Most Gearthrive customers are from impoverished communities. By the time a bot’s receiving their subscription, they were likely close to empty anyway. I’ve confirmed by observations by comparing notes with detectives from North, South, and East Gloamspire as well. Four hours after the delivery. Every. Time.”
4 hours. That would explain why Johnny was present when Joan was murdered.
“I then had our forensics team examine the composition of the ener-gel of the last powercell each of the victims received prior to their deaths. Our analytical tools can’t parse what’s in those things. Gearthrive’s R&D is either far more sophisticated than their competitors, or they’re designing their chemistry to hide something. Either way, it’s bad news.
“The WGPD is officially reopening the 5 cases that occurred in our sector. Gearthrive’s C-Suite received a warrant so we can scrutinize their products and they are pissed. They’ve sent lobbyists to the Kaiser’s Court, and a few of their friends in the Senate are threatening to cut our budgets. Your little case from the Guildmaster is ballooning out of control. I’m not looking forward to this, and I recommend you back off.”
Tear focuses hard on her Governor Chip.
“Back off? And what if I say no?”
“That’s the answer of someone who knows more than they’re letting on,” Frostine says, “or someone who wants something that an Imperial inquiry would not find.”
Tear feels a wave of bitterness before her Governor Chip numbs her thoughts and holds her in place. Tear is way out of her depth. The police might not know the contents of the ener-gel at this moment, but a clean investigation would reveal whatever conspiracy Joan had become entangled in. But none of this would find the killer.
“I thought you said this was only about the money, Tear. If you know something-”
“I know nothing. And so do you.”
Tear hangs up the phone, her thoughts drifting back to her conversation with the Good Doctor. Though she senses the restraining grip of the Governor Chip weakening, she is reluctant to be without it. The chip enables her to function at full capacity, evoking a semblance of how she felt before losing Windham. It steadies her, preventing her from unraveling.
Tear’s phone rings again. It’s Johnny.
“Alright, I’m in a private spot. What’s going on?”
“I’ve figured out that Gearthrive is directly related to the deaths of those 35 victims I mentioned to you the other day,” says Tear. Her voice is edged with urgency. “I need to know, Johnny. Has anyone been scheduled for another lottery?”
Johnny hesitates before responding. “Incidentally, yes. I was just going to contact you about it. I delivered one of those special powercells to an apartment just this morning.”
Tear feels her synthetic core run cold. “Delivered? As in, past tense?”
“Yeah. It was the first thing on my docket when I clocked in today,” Johnny continues, oblivious to her growing panic. “I know you’re suspicious of me and all, so I made sure my supervisor was present with me throughout the whole thing. This means I’ve got an alibi this time, so-”
Tear blocks out Johnny’s voice, her mind racing back to her conversation with Frostine. Four hours. Every time. She feels a relentless drumbeat of anxiety thrumming against her ears, the realization sinking in that the clock is ticking. She needs to find the killer. Fast.
Tear cuts off Johnny Goldknot mid-sentence. “What time was the delivery?”
“10:14 AM.”
Tear briefly holds her phone away from her face to stare at the clock. 1:22 PM. Her eyes widen as she calculates the dwindling minutes.
“Send me the address right now,” she demands.

Tear arrives in twenty minutes. She slams her fists against the door, the force of the impact echoing through the corridor of the apartment complex. She begs to herself that the tenant inside is still alive, that she has made it in time, that she can finally right a wrong that has haunted her for years.
She takes a step back as she hears a light click from the other side. The door opens just a crack, revealing a set of wary eyes peeping through the gap.
“Who are you?” a shaky voice demands.
Tear quickly pulls out her badge. She covers the expiration mark with her thumb. “Crimson Tear. Enforcer for the Dorumegian Imperial Forces,” she lies smoothly. “You are not under arrest. I repeat, you are not under arrest.”
The occupant hesitates, his gaze flickering between her badge and her determined expression. “What’s this all about, then? I’m not in trouble?”
“We need to talk. It’s a matter of life and death,” she replies.
“Then… I’m in trouble with someone else?”
Tear notes that a barcode is printed on the front of his neck that translates to: PROPERTY OF THE KAISER’S LEGION – RECON PLATOON 062 – UNIT 441. She quickly runs his details through the Automaton Citizenry Database: his name is Tim Howell.
“Tim, let me inside, and I’ll explain.”
Tim stares at Tear intently, as if measuring the sincerity of her words. Then, after a tense moment, the door opens wider, and a hand reaches out to beckon Tear inside.
Tim’s base chassis is a 9G-M32, developed by Gearstride Automatics for recon and rescue. Beneath his tattered hoodie and baggy cargo pants is a slender frame intended to squeeze through tight spaces and navigate uncertain terrain. Tear notes that the Recon Platoons were disbanded a few years ago after the Kaiser agreed to a peace treaty with the kingdoms bordering Azoth; she had heard that many humans and automata alike had trouble adjusting to civilian life after honorable discharge from the Kaiser’s Legion.
Tim leads Tear to the back of his studio and nudges her to take a seat beside his dining table – a piece of wood skewered atop a bigger piece of wood. He asks if she would like anything to drink. She declines as she quickly scans the room for cameras, scanners, and out-of-place heat signatures. Tim’s apartment is a lot like Joan’s: second hand and mismatched furnishings strewn here and there, periodically interrupted by a makeshift solution for the pieces he couldn’t acquire.
Tim sits down beside her. “What’s going on, officer?”
Tear holds out her hand, keeping her fingers together and pressing her thumb into her palm. Tim reciprocates this movement as Tear transmits the case information of the 35 prior victims – including Joan – into Tim’s memory drives.
“These are all victims killed in the past few years,” says Tear. “I’ll keep it brief: there is a pattern in the killings, and you’re up next. Each of the prior victims were Gearthrive customers that were given deliveries of a poisonous powercell formula.”
Tear then shares the images of the 35 prior victims, highlighting the Gearthrive powercell present in each of their homes. “Each one had their synthetic core stolen and their memory drives destroyed. They’re all dead.”
Tim looks up, shocked. Tear notes that he has already used the powercell he had been delivered.
“Poisoned powercells?” he shrieks. “And then someone kills them after they use it?”
“It appears so,” replies Tear. “Roughly 4 hours after the delivery, someone kills the victim.”
Tim draws back his hand and withdraws into his hoodie. He shakes violently as he holds his head in his hands. “Get out. GET OUT.”
“Tim, listen to me-”
“GET OUT! I’m gonna call the police!”
Tear hears the fear in Tim’s voice, and it reminds her of #####. She can feel the Governor Chip routing her decision tree, weighing what she should and should not do. If Tim involves the police and no one shows up, Tear’s reputation will be ruined, and she will be sent to prison for misusing an expired Imperial Police badge. If Tim does not call for help and he dies, Tear knows she wouldn’t be able to live with the guilt.
“Aren’t you the police anyway? They only sent one of you? Hold on,” he thinks to himself, “Are you sure you’re not the killer? What if you’re the killer?”
“Tim, just look at the pictures. They were all like you-”
“This is suspicious. How did you get these pictures anyway? Show me your badge again. SHOW ME YOUR BADGE AGAIN,” Tim says as draws a gun from beneath his hoodie. “SHOW. ME.”
Tear bites her bottom lip as she stands from the table, both hands in the air. She slowly moves a hand toward her pocket – the one containing her expired badge – as she scrambles to think of anything to get herself out of this situation. Her Governor Chip swings wildly in its estimations as her mind races for anything that could let her save Tim and herself.
Two slow knocks come from the front door.
“Ah, about time,” Tim stands from the table and walks towards the front door. “I was wondering when my appointment would come up.”
“Appointment?” Tear whispers to herself as she checks the time. 2:22 PM.
Tim mutters to himself, a stream of grievances spilling forth about the insanity of his life. He curses Gloamspire and its oppressive gloom, rails against the Kaiser and the fickleness of people, both human and automata alike. His contempt extends to the Imperial Insurance System, society at large, and even the cats and dogs. As he grumbles, he opens the front door slightly, his litany of complaints a testament to his profound disillusionment.
Tear sees a man with bristly, gray hair dressed in business casual standing outside.
“Hey Tim,” the man says in a friendly tone. “How are you?”
“I’m alright. Just an unexpected guest this evening,” Tim snarls as he continues aiming his gun at Tear.
“Unexpected guest?”
“You know how it is-”
The words from their conversation fade into white noise as Tear sharpens her sensors on the man. Something is amiss. Her thermal sensors report an abnormal chill emanating from him; her electronic sensors register his absence; her visual sensors struggle to lock onto his elusive figure.
“… but you know. I’ve got it under control,” says Tim.
“Alright, that’s good. Do you mind if I come in? You did say last time that you’d show me your equipment for cooking Transmorfine-”
A creeping realization settles over Tear. The erratic data, the strange absence in her readings, the inconsistencies in his presence. Her synthetic core pulses faster. The chilling cold. The unsettling aura. The outfit matches that of a man that wanted to be so ordinary that he would go unnoticed in any setting. His eyes flicker with calculated malevolence. A predator disguised in plain sight.
And just for a moment, their eyes meet.
“Zak? You okay?”
The man that calls himself Zak is quiet. A humming noise becomes a thrumming beat becomes a drumming rhythm as an engine roars within the man’s chest. Tear sets her backup energy pool to maximum output.
“… Zak?” Tim whimpers.
Without warning, the door bursts into splinters as the man lunges forward, a glint of metal flashing from his arm. Tear throws herself in front of Tim, drawing daggers from her belt to block the attack. The impact reverberates through her frame as she is thrown onto her back. As she gathers herself, the man morphs into a creature of durasteel as his clothes vanish beneath a facade of gunmetal. Claws and blades extend from his arms as he drapes an umbral cloak around his neck, and kinetic cannons unfold from his back.
The man transforms his arm into a blaster and shoots, the bullet striking Tear’s right shoulder. She tackles him down as the pain from the bullet hits, and she wills her Governor Chip to numb the pain.
The man flips her over and delivers a punch straight to Tear’s face. Her optics hardware is immediately compromised, and as her OS scrambles to reroute her circuits to regain control, the man picks her up by the neck and repeatedly slams her back against the wall. With each brutal impact, she feels a jarring shock course through her body. The pain is excruciating, and her Governor Chip struggles to mitigate the damage she feels as her synthetic nerves scream in protest. She begs the man to stop, but her mouth will not move; she begs her body to catch itself, but it will not listen; she begs her eyes for clarity, but she is blind.
The man howls as he pushes the pistons in his body from one extreme to the other and the engine in his chest roars with rage. Slowly, he grips Tear’s body by the ankles, one in each hand, and with a spin, he smashes her body into the ground. A crack resounds as her Governor Chip fractures, and her senses deteriorate into a cacophony of noise.
Crimson Tear is offline.

Her spark-brother is in bad shape. His legs have been carved off, and he is bleeding pneumatic oil all over the ground. He is pinned down by a large man wielding a blaster in one hand and a chainsaw in the other. The man aims his blaster at her spark-brother’s back.
“Don’t move!” the man shouts. “I know your kind. This is exactly where his memory drives are. You sneeze? You make one false step? I blow him up.”
“Sister!” her spark-brother shouts. “Take the shot! Do it!”
Crimson Tear does not move, does not speak, does not think. She’s been here before, many times, in the prison of her mind. She has held herself captive to this singular experience for years.
“Windham!” she calls out to her spark-brother. She forces herself to play the part. She knows how this will end.
“Sister,” he says, “can you hear me?”
Tear stops herself. This was not how the memory was supposed to continue. She becomes aware of an eerie serenity around her. She glances at the face of the man, blaster in hand, standing completely still. She blinks, confused, as she looks around herself. The distant hum of traffic, the cars driving on the overpass above, the internal clock programmed into her systems, all seem to have stopped.
A soft, familiar voice breaks the silence. “Tear.”
She turns, and there he is, standing beside her, as radiant as he was before… everything. His eyes are filled with warmth and understanding.
“I see a lot’s happened to you,” he says.
“Windham?” she whispers, her voice trembling. “How?”
“It’s said that when an automaton passes, their last memories are imprinted into their synthetic core.” Windham points a finger at her chest, right above where her synthetic core lives. “You installed my synthetic core after I died. That’s given us the opportunity to have one last moment together.”
Overwhelmed, Tear reaches out to Windham, and she takes his hand. “I miss you so much,” she chokes out. “Every night, I’ve thought about the day I lost you.”
“I know,” he says. “But you need to let go.”
“I don’t know how,” Tear admits, her voice breaking.
His gaze is tender. “Sister, remember that I will always love you. I hold nothing against you. I want you to live a life as Crimson Tear – the Crimson Tear. You have so much life left to live. Don’t shackle yourself to the worst mistake you’ve made in your life. Give yourself the opportunity to make many, many more.”
Tear nods slowly, feeling a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years.
“I love you Tear. Always.”
— SYSTEM REBOOT SUCCESSFUL —

When Tear awakens, she hears Tim screaming.
“I don’t want to die! Zak, no! STOP! I don’t want to die!”
Tear can’t feel her legs at all, and her arms feel as heavy as lead and as inert as rubber. The smell of burned electronics and pneumatic oil permeates the air like a wartime perfume. Tim’s gun has been tossed to the corner of the room. The man that calls himself Zak stands in the center, disassembling Tim piece by piece. His eyes dart to Tear to make sure she is watching as he tears through Tim’s synthetic skin and claws apart his limbs. Pneumatic oil spills onto the ground and Tim goes offline.
The man begins opening up Tim’s chest as Tear crawls on her elbows, dragging her feet behind her. She feels like she is trudging through a thick syrup, and every part of her body screams for her to stop. Her systems send warnings about permanent bodily damage, irreversible circuit shutdowns, and the nothingness she feels when her systems probe her Governor Chip for guidance. But the sharp pain she feels brings her a clarity she has not felt since Windham passed.
She reaches Tim’s gun and sits up against the wall. She points the barrel at the man that calls himself Zak.
The man backs away, holding Tim’s synthetic core in his hands. The kinetic cannons mounted on his back begin to swivel and aim toward Tear.
Tear’s hands are shaking as she holds the gun. Her vision flickers and she feels nauseous. A pounding pressure hovers over her head as she engages her auto-aim systems.
Take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot-
There is a vulnerable spot in the man’s chest. A fracture in the engine in his chest.
The man’s kinetic cannons begin charging.
There are two bullets in the chamber. Tear calculates her odds. She runs the numbers. She’s careful to tally the ones each time. There is a roughly 47% likelihood of failure.
“I can’t get a good shot in-”
“Yes you absolutely can!”
Tear takes a deep breath. There is nothing else to turn to. No Governor Chip. No one else is in the room. All she has is this moment, and like all people in their chosen times, all she can have is faith.
Tear’s first shot catches the man’s engine. The man screams as he falls onto his knees as his engine sputters, screeches, stops. He claws at his chest and roars, as if willing himself to move.
The second shot pierces where Tear imagines the man’s heart would have been. A clean hole pierces the front of his chest to his back. The man collapses as his cyborg body shuts down.
“Sister! Take the shot! Do it!”
“Windham!”
Tear drops the gun. She lets out a big breath as she feels herself slump into the floor. Her hair drapes over her eyes. Her breaths become erratic as her body withdraws into her chest. She feels joy and sorrow, excitement and fear, gratitude and resentment, and as her bottled up feelings churn inside her, she knows, at last, that it is over.
“I love you Tear. Always.”
She considers calling the police. She considers calling Jean. She considers calling Johnny to drag both herself and Tim to the Good Doctor. But she is heavy with the absolute relief of forgiveness, and though she does not know how long this feeling will last, she chooses to stay in this moment a little longer.

Esperanto Writes is not officially affiliated with either Grand Archive TCG or its creators, Weebs of the Shore.