Here's Where The People Are

Empty.

The tuxedo-clad detective was on vacation, but certainly he hadn't permitted his wallet to be on vacation either. Fueled by a shower of embarrassment and a growing cloud of dread condensing above the canopy of his superficial emotions, he hastily tried to run a search warrant on his own apparel. The collection of pockets couldn't resist. They had to give in, he thought.

But luck was the lawyer for his fate tonight. And the judge of his life had already decreed what was about to unfold.

"I... Please give me a moment," his speech skills summoned the most mundane lines his mind could handle. Meanwhile, his arms and hands dutifully fumbled about the domain of his garments.

"Take your time, sir," a voice replied back, scented by fresh courtesy. Feminine in nature, young in stature. "I'll be available at the counter whenever you're ready."

"Ah, sure thing!"

The detective stood up from his seat. Due to a slight anomaly in the speed of his ascent, a metallic object slipped out of his trouser pocket. Under the light of the ornate chandeliers, its silvery skeleton winked back at him with a pact signed by the night's disgruntled agent of luck itself.

Cli-nk! Clink!

The object performed a gentle hop before resting atop the floor. Car keys. Bearing the logo of the British automobile manufacturer 'Bentley'.

'Ahem,' the detective performed a swift swoop with his hand in the likeness of an eagle launching itself at a rabbit, but faster than a bullet fired from the weapon hidden within his suit. He placed his car keys back in his rightful place before throwing his gaze around the confines of the café, habitually trying to deduce if any onlookers had the honesty to capture a greedy glimpse of his keys. Luckily, and perhaps unluckily, he found none.

He heard a giggle. That same voice who had spoken a while ago. A cheerful tune that melted his stern stance immediately.

Rotating himself around, he faced the waitress. Slightly shocked.

"Don't worry, Mr Jucas," she had the opportunity to peek at his nameplate while he was dazed by his distracted self in fumbling about his pockets to trace any clues about his wallet. His surprisingly missing wallet. "These parts of town are unsusceptible to thieves or the like. People rarely commit crimes," she stated while pouring out a waterfall of latte coffee from a kettle at the counter.

"Well that's strange," the detective, presumably surnamed Jucas, swatted away his suspicions for a moment. "A town without crime is like a business without funding."

"Oh, is that so?" the waitress donned a counterfeit smile, spiced by a sarcastic laugh. She stopped pouring the coffee; the cup was overflowing. "Welcome to Vicilia, sir. May I have the privilege of asking what brings you here?"

"No," Jucas fought fire with fire, with a smile faker than hers. "I am sorry, but I'd rather not answer that."

He drew out his only hope for monetary support in the absence of his beloved wallet - the pistol buried in the womb of his suit. It was no ordinary weapon.

"E-excuse me?" the waitress took a step back dragged by the tug of reflex. "What are you doing?"

A double dozen customers occupying the environment passed on their puzzled, slightly frightened, expression in a ripple akin to a multiplexing domino effect. All eyes on the man non-native to this region.

"Committing crimes," Jucas replied bluntly.

The detective clenched his right hand's muscles, pulling the trigger five times.

American coins slipped out of the nozzle in free flight, headed towards the roof of the counter. Five of them. Five dollars.

Stunned by the unexpected scenario witnessed by the onlookers, the detective shoved an opportunity into his bad supply of luck for the night. With a pace neither too suspicious nor too slow, he reduced his displacement from the doors signifying the exit for the coffee shop.

"Keep the change."

A tiny bell connected to the doors tinkered with two musical notes, its pitch climbing up and down as the detective boldly fled the scene.

Naturally, the waitress relied on her sharp eyesight to immediately seize any remaining clues about the strange guest's whereabouts. To her curiosity's pleasure, her eyes were transfixed on a nametag peacefully reclining near the foothills of the counter. The text read : "Adam Jucas".

***

Adam Void Jucas, honorary detective from a city afar and a police force unspoken of, was dismayed by the subtle sight of his car's engine not cooperating with him.

The moonlight had fallen in love with the Bentley Continental's lustrous body, perfectly curved and cornered for optimal reflection of the stolen sunlight. The circular orbs adorning the front of the vehicle in the shape of headlights were sadly snoring inactively; the battery itself liable for standing in contrast against the ignition chamber.

Blurred out by the thickness of glass and his current distractions, the waitress knocked on one of the windows from her location indoors. Her attempts at hailing Adam's attention sunk down in vain.

'You couldn't pick a merrier moment to fail, huh?' Adam silently aimed an insult at his prized ride, riddled in rhetoric with a sauce of sarcasm. Having no choice left, he walked over to the hood of the Bentley, preparing his dexterous hands for a remedial diagnosis of the car's ailment. 'Oh well, all the more beneficial to act on it than to nag and grumble.'

With a swift stroke upwards, he pulled the metallic skin apart, to expose the internal organs of the transportation machine.

'Sigh.'

He broke free from a delusion as a personal fact rushed towards his curious mind like a tsunami overpowering a temple – Adam Jucas was not well acquainted with mechanical knowledge.

Turning around, his sixth sense merged with his peripheral sense of vision.

His nametag was in the wrong hands.