The Man Named Turn

The alley was quiet.

Joren stepped over a discarded crate as he scanned the walls and stone, his eyes tracing faint scrapes that might’ve been from boots, or maybe a dragged heel. The afternoon sun filtered down between the buildings, throwing long shadows across the scene where Nyra had nearly been taken — or killed.

Bartholomew crouched beside a pile of broken wood with a magnifying lens held to his eye, muttering nonsense about “angular debris trajectories” and “cobblestone stress fractures.” He looked like a deranged pigeon inspecting breadcrumbs.

“Any real leads yet?” Joren asked.

“Of course,” Bart said, dramatically straightening. “But we must also inspect the route of escape."

Joren raised a brow. “The escape route?”

Bart took a single exaggerated step backward. "To the roof, my boy!"

In a standing position, the roughly five foot man leaped into the air like he was catapulted from something else. In one absurd leap that didn't even look like he moved from upright, Bart was already on the roof like some superhero.

A beat passed.

Bart peered over the edge, grinning with a self-satisfied glint in his eye. “Your turn, my gravity-flaunting associate.”

Joren just sighed.

He loosened his grip on gravity, feeling the weight leave his body as he drifted up with more grace, but found himself starting to spiral like a cat in midair. He bumped the edge awkwardly, fingers scraping for a grip as he imitated what looked to be a cartwheel. As he returned gravity upon his body, he flopped onto his back very ungracefully. He lay there, limbs splayed.

Still need a bit of work on that, I guess...

Bart left him laying there, puffing on a cigar he pulled out of his beard, looking like a noir detective as he scuttled along the rooftop. He paused occasionally to tap a brick, sniff a tile, or lick his finger and hold it to the air like he was testing for ghost wind.

Joren was far more useful as an investigator, finding clues and articles of cloth that might be useful for later.

Bart pointed toward a row of tiles with faint scuff marks Joren had found. “Standard weight distribution. Mild urgency. I’d say… seven out of ten on the panic scale.”

Joren crouched near a bent gutter pipe, brushing away some loose debris. A scrap of dull gray-black fabric was snagged on a sharp edge. He turned it over in his fingers, examining it, then put it in his pocket for later. “Could be uniform cloth,” he muttered. “Not Continuity though. Doesn't match their stuff."

Joren followed the line with his eyes. It looked like someone with heavy gear had sprinted across in a hurry. A few shingles had cracked under pressure—too much for a regular civilian.

“Military boots,” Joren said, kneeling down to inspect a faint tread mark in the dust. “Could be another department, or maybe an outside organization someone hired to do their dirty work."

Bart puffed his cigar and grinned. “And they leapt off right there.” He pointed to the far edge of the roof, where the broken tip of a window ledge below looked freshly chipped. “No rope, no ladder. Probably a grappling launcher or they just ate the landing.”

“Either way, they knew this area well.”

They both stepped toward the drop-off, and Joren’s boot nudged something small. A metal button skipped across the rooftop before stopping by Bart’s foot.

Bart picked it up and squinted. “Looks like department issue. The insignia’s half-scratched, though.”

Joren adjusted his sleeves, the breeze catching faint traces of dust as he stood. “You think it was an official department?” he asked. “Or some rogue unit working off-books?”

Bartholomew rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Could be either. But whoever it was had training. Gear, knowledge of the layout, and zero hesitation.”

Joren frowned. “That narrows it down to... nearly every faction here. Let's hope our findings will help Nyra narrow it down a little, because I have no clue."

“We should regroup,” Joren said, already heading toward the edge they came up from. "Not much else we can do without questioning the whole town."

Bartholomew sighed, flicking his cigar stub off the edge of the roof. “Tragic, really. I was just starting to enjoy the rooftop ambiance.”

Mid-Afternoon – Headquarters

The room Nyra had commandeered as their meeting space was dimly lit, the table occupied by the five of them now. A few mismatched chairs had been pulled around the conference table that was cluttered with papers, half-drunk tea, and a corkboard with a growing mess of pins and string.

Willow and Gus were already there, seated on the opposite side of the table from the doorway. Gus looked up as Joren and Bartholomew entered.

“Any luck?” Joren asked, dropping a scrap of gray fabric and a pin onto the table.

Willow raised a brow. “We found two leads. How about you guys?"

“We believe the attacker was one of the departments," Joren said, pointing to the pin now. "This pin seems to be one of theirs, but we couldn't tell which since it's so scratched up."

Nyra picked it up between two fingers, turning it under the low light. Her gaze was unreadable. “It's hard to tell, but this cloth might help..."

Willow leaned forward and tapped the tablet she’d brought. “The camera footage was blacked out from multiple zones, all at the same timestamp. Entry logs show one surveillance staffer on duty at the time. Cameras were also cut off and others put up about six days before it happened, which is how they were able to see the way Nyra left. That entrance didn't have cameras before then, so it must have been put up by a technician recently."

Nyra’s eyes narrowed. “Two different people, then. Surveillance staff blacking out feeds… technician rerouting cameras. Neither high enough rank to plan this alone.”

Gus nodded. “Exactly. We should question them about what they know."

Joren sat down, folding his arms. “We’re dealing with someone inside. Multiple departments working together, likely in a small group, though."

Willow added, “And whoever’s at the top knew your routines, Nyra. They weren’t improvising, they had to be waiting for something like that to happen."

Gus leaned forward. “We’ll start with the operator. See who signed off their shifts, who last spoke to them. That kind of pressure leaves a trail.”

Willow nodded. “And I’ll take the tech. They could be part of the coup group as lower members, so they might tell us what they know."

Nyra crossed her arms, her expression sharp. “If they’re not the planners, they’re still the cracks in the wall. Push the right way, and something gives.”

Late-Afternoon – Interrogation Room II

The operator, a lanky man named Tebb, sat across from Willow and Gus, arms crossed and jaw tight. He looked nervous beyond belief.

“I already told the other guy,” Tebb said, sweat forming “the system glitched. Cameras go black sometimes. We’re short-staffed, so sometimes things happen."

Willow leaned forward, putting on the bad cop act. “Right. But you were the one on duty when those glitches happened. Seems like you were the one who set up the hit on your department head. That is treason of the highest order, and that penalty is death."

Tebb blanched, color draining from his face and tears starting to form. “W–what? No, no, I didn’t—I didn’t do anything like that! I swear!” His voice cracked under the pressure. “It wasn’t my idea! I was told to do it. I was given a drive and told to put it in the computer when a certain time arrived."

Willow tapped the table, tone ice-cold. “And you just… followed it.”

“I had to, they threatened me with something that would hurt my family. I have a son who has some Auspex powers, but I don't want him to be put on some hitlist... He told me that he would bring it up at the next convention if I didn't do as he said!"

Gus’s expression softened, playing the good cop role. “Convention? You mean the Auspex committee?”

Tebb nodded quickly, breath shallow. “Yeah. Said he had connections. Said they’d frame me for negligence, that my son would get flagged for observation, that he would get me terminated from this job! It's all I have to support my family, I can't lose this job..."

Willow didn’t blink. “So you let him walk in, drop a drive in your lap, and risk the life of the woman running your department?”

Tebb looked like he might vomit. “I—I didn’t know it would lead to an attack! He just said to run the file. That’s it. He said it was a script or something, a backup. I'm not too good at that stuff, so I didn't know what all that meant. I didn’t find out until afterward. I swear!”

Gus leaned forward, voice quieter now. “This guy who gave you the drive. Did he say a name? Anything? We want to help you sort this out, but we need you to help us find out who blackmailed you.”

Tebb swallowed hard, his fingers clenching together in his lap. “He… he called himself Turn. I don’t know if it’s a real name. Never seen him before that day, but he knew exactly where I’d be and when my shift started.”

Willow’s eyes narrowed. “Describe him.”

“Mid-thirties maybe? Real clean-cut, brown hair, glasses. My guess is someone in the upper-management of the department."

Gus exchanged a glance with Willow. “Could be one of those guys we saw the first day we were here."

Tebb nodded quickly. “He said if I didn’t run the file, he’d make it look like I’d been leaking footage for months. Said he’d flag my son for 'containment review'—I don’t even know what that means, but he knew about his ability. He shouldn’t have known.”

Willow stood, cool and composed. “We will talk with Nyra about this, so you better be transparent and here at all times. Don't go disappearing on us or we will have nothing else to do but hunt you down."

Gus stepped forward, his tone softer. “You’re not our target, Tebb. But if you try to vanish, we will assume guilt. Stay visible, stay honest, and you might walk out of this with a slap on the wrist."

Tebb gave a jerky nod, clearly shaken. “I’ll stay. I swear. I’ll help however I can.”

Willow gave him one last hard stare, then turned to Gus. “Let’s go find the technician before someone else gets to them first.”

As they exited the room, the tension followed them into the hallway.

“Turn,” Gus said under his breath. “That a real name, you think?”

“No,” Willow said. “But it’s all we have."

Later that evening, the technician confirmed the same story. His role was of a different method, but he encountered the same man who also threatened his future in any branch if he didn’t comply. His description of Turn was sharper: pressed coat, department credentials, silver cufflink. They had to be someone higher on the totem pole of this department.