The night had been silent upon the house. But this wasn’t unusual, as we lived in the rural area of town. This was until the fires started. We didn’t know what had caused the fires to rise high and flames to spark. Everyone was still it the house, within the fire. I was the only one that had made it out. The house was full of deep sleepers but I didn’t know that they would sleep through the fire that was slowly burning the childhood room we had all grown up in. I fell to my knees as I watched the flames get higher and the cracking got louder. I heard screaming from the inside, almost like echos. The screams could scar me for life, standing here knowing I couldn’t have saved them.

“Dinner was great. When should we—“ He stops mid-sentence. Mouth agape. the sound of ripping tears through the silence in the room. A scream. Not bloodcurdling, but a low, daunting one, as if someone is struggling to breath.

I look to my left. A mother, covered in…greenish blood?

I look to the right, (human?) men in armor, shooting at the ceiling. But there’s nothing there.

Before I look again, I catch a flash of something sprinting in my periphery. Just as I turn, I see my date, exiting through the back door. Just great. Looks like I have to deal with this on my own.

You can never free him from the inevitable death He dug his own hole now he must pay He has no right to defend himself no more He is dead to me and to our family He has no place here

You can never help someone like him change If he tries to hurt me again I will destroy him If he tries to hurt you again I will destroy him My hand holds the knife that can cause his end One push and he’ll be dead

Maria pulls Frank by his hand into the swinging saloon doors, as a man rolls down the stairs and lays on his back at their feet. The man on the piano acts as if there is no one in the bar but him and that piano, playing a generic ragtime tune. Stepping over the passed out gentleman, Frank turns around and puts the drunken man’s hat back on his head. He had no signs of getting up any time soon. Walking closer to the bar, there are multiple fist fights happening at once. All seemingly for different reasons. Four men to the left of the bar fight around a poker table. A woman to the right laying over top a table that seats two, grabbing a man by the collar with her arm cocked back ready to fire. Two men on the floor, in Frank and Maria’s path, rolling around fighting over a bottle of whiskey.

The catwalk above the bar, where the man that greeted their feet was thrown from, was just as chaotic. Men having their backs pushed against the banister as if they are being given a ultimatum. The doors of the rooms upstairs being either slammed shut or flung open. A woman with a gun is chasing a man down the stairs and out the door.

Once they make it to the bar the bar tender rises up from being crouched down, taking cover from all the madness that surrounds him. Covering his head with a serving tray he says “What will y’all be having today?” Frank looks at Maria with the widest eyes, because she is leaning over the bar grinning from ear to ear as she says, “Two bourbons please!” Frank looks around for a stool and doesn’t want to touch anything just in case it starts a fight. There is two drunken men sitting next to him sleep on the bar. The one closest to Frank is in a coma like sleep, the man beside him wakes up abruptly and looks very confused. He finds an empty beer bottle and breaks it over the man’s head that is sitting next to Frank. The drunken man that showed no signs of waking up jerks up and throws a left hook to his attacker. They join the other groups in the middle of the floor trading blows. Well now they have two free stools. He sets one under Maria and slides his right next to hers. Maria sits back on the stool and says “I love it here!”

Ingrid tapped her finger tapped at the glass divider - strong enough to withstand the conditions should there be a breach in the hull of the spaceship. On the other side her co-pilot Dana had arranged samples from a recent touchdown on an otherwise unremarkable planet.

“Good harvest?” Ingrid questioned, keeping her helmet on. There were a few checks she needed to make, Dana was her last port of call before she went out into the void of space.

“Good enough.” Dana shrugged, her biohazard suit wrinkling slightly when she moved.

“Good enough.” Ingrid repeats with a nod, “Well I’m on my way out. Need anything from the store?” She joked.

“Oh. Chocolate milkshake,” Dana grinned, and waved her hand. “Be safe out there,” she reminded.

“I always am.” Ingrid saluted before turning to make final preparations to go.

Her suit sealed, her helmet checked and double-checked, she hit the airlock button. All doors around her sealed, depressurisation taking place. Once she was out into space, she hooked herself to the side of the ship and climbed up to the top using the ladder that was built into the side of the ship. Once she was up there, as she often did, Ingrid took a moment to look down at Earth. The big blue - it never stopped being something that stopped her in her tracks. So much so that she almost missed the flurry of movement in her peripheral vision as something approached her.

The creature looked similar to the samples they’d collected - almost scorpion in body with multiple appendages. It bristles before leaping again, managing to snag the line and send her falling down the side of the ship. She screams inside her helmet, desperately trying to grab the line and pull herself back up.

A burly sailor sits at a bench holding a well worn notebook “You know every half educated quack telss ya that keeping a journal helps deal with the stresses of life as you keep it recorded.” He hacks and spits out the porthole next to him onto whatever remains of the deck above the water. “Don’t do ya much o good taking time to write down your worries when they may be the death of yer”… the oddly calm crewmate sitting across from him replies “it also would help if ya stopped SHOOTING THE OCTOPI WITH A 12 GAUGE!”… gruff man “yer right when yer right, but what if the next one is a cthulu?” Crewmate creases his eyebrows as he holds his hand to his face “for the last time Mcdoogal that doesn’t happen twice… yah already got the weirdo before”… Mcdoogal:…. “Oh… can I still shoot the sharks in case of them being a leviathan Jeffery?” Jeffery:……………..”yeah sure, just stop aiming at the boat”…

A pot boiling over. The washing machine beeping that it finished. A toddlers delighted squeals running around chasing the cat.

Most nights sounded like this. The TV blaring the soundtrack to the movie Frozen, or Frozen 2. Doesn’t really matter which one. Nobody’s watching it anyway.

“How was your day?” “Yep fine-“ I started, but was cut off by screams of a toddler who had tried to grab the cats tail one too many times and got the business end of its claws.

Tears, screams. Big feelings and small scratches. They never know what hurts more: the small red mark on their arm, or their bruised ego that maybe the cat gets a little annoyed.

Cuddles and soothing, letting the big feeling be heard, and slowly, one by one, the noises fade.

The TV is turned down. The stove is turned off, and the exhaust as well. The washing machine is turned off.

Breathe in, 2, 3, 4. Hold, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

The clock struck 4 and with that came a loud ringing noise. Martha, a single mother of 3, has an alarm set everyday at 4pm. She’s startled by the sound of the blaring alarm despite hearing it the same time everyday. One of her kids, Stewart, is practicing their violin in the living room. Martha’s littlest, Johnny, is holding onto her leg as she walks, causing her to slug across the kitchen trying to get to her phone. She frantically tries to stop the alarm, and gives out a sigh of relief when it stops. Johnny starts biting her leg, causing her to groan. She picks him up, prying him off of her leg and sets him into his high chair. Claudia, her 7 year old, walks up and tugs on her shirt, “Yes love?” Martha says, trying her hardest to not sound as annoyed as she feels. “I’m done with my homework can I have a treat now?” She looks at her mom with bright eyes, excited for her after school reward. “Yes, i’ll get it for you right now. What a great job finishing your homework.” As Martha walks to the cupboard Johnny starts slamming his sippy cup on the high chair’s tray. He has gotten riled up since his sister is getting something that he can’t have. Martha rolls her eyes to herself before looking back at Johnning and saying “Just a minute sweet boy.” She grabs a snack out of the cupboard for Claudia and grabs some juice out of the fridge. Her oldest, Rupert, is stringing good notes and bad notes, stopping and starting their playing. Johnny sees Claudia get her snack first and starts to cry. Claudia sticks her tongue out at her little brother and runs away into her room. On her way she bumps into her brother, causing him to drop his violin and yell out in frustration. Claudia says a quick “sorry” but ignores the situation and just goes to her room. “Mom! Claudia just ran into me and didn’t even care that my violin fell!” Martha, still being screamed at in front of her, finishes her current task by getting Johnny juice before walking over to the living room. “Mom! Mmoomm! Mommm!” Rupert continues to yell until he sees her come around the corner, “Did you hear, Claudia’s running around again.” “I’ll go talk to her, please continue your practice.” Martha walks to Claudia’s room, knocking twice before peeking into her room. Claudia motions her to come inside, and she sits on her bed next to her, letting out another large sigh before collapsing on her back onto the bed.

His feet heavily thump with every trudged step on the concrete street below. Around him, the air is heavy with sweetened hot wine and the chorus of multiple conversations intertwine with joyful music playing from hidden speakers amongst the decoration. The crowd is dense, and with every step he takes, he must wait an extra few seconds before the drunken group before him shifts. Congested markets are overwhelming, and being behind a large group dead set on not separating amongst these narrow streets is worse. Only one member within the ranks seems sober, a designated driver perhaps. A tall women who seems 1 more uncoordinated stumble away from breaking down on the street as her dark-haired friend with a red hat trusts all her weight onto her side. Red hat can barely stand, yet seems more than happy snuggling into her sober friend’s side, chattering endlessly to another inebriated man to her right. It looks tiring preventing someone from face-planting into the concrete. Yet a gleam of fondness is hidden behind the tall woman’s eyes past the panicked sheen. A look he doesn’t have much interest in noticing. Instead, he looks at a stand’s homemade tea leaves collection to busy himself. But not a second later hears a muffled thump in front of him. Fascinating considering how loud it is but a single glance tells him red hat dropped her purse. Their whole crowd bursts in scandalized ooh’s. Hearing this, the tall woman shifts to the right to pick up the purse. Leaving an opening to her left. “Thank god” he mumbles and before his chance slips, he quickly slips by her (ignoring the ruffled “hey” yelled at him after bumping another patron). With a relieved sigh of freedom, he looks ahead. Only to groan in dispair seeing another intoxicated crowd in front of him.

Mr. Turner and I arrive at the scene of the murder of Mr. Archer right at the height of the afternoon. There are people at the edge of the shimmering Shield spell that conceals whatever had happened in the alleyway to the Mundane public. I can see it, of course, and Henry as well, so we go through the shield after pushing members of the public out of the way.

The last few times I did this, though it was long ago, the Examiners, magickers with the one job—and power—to Search and Find were always present. They are commonly used in place of search dogs in the Magickal community; they take their job seriously.

They are here now, already, crouching on the ground with their notepads, Search spells adorning the brick walls and shuffling on the wall as the spell structure twists in the middle. The spells are above the blood that seems to be dried and stained on the walls.

Which is a strange dark blue-ish sort of color. How peculiar. It certainly isn’t the blood of a Vice, which is black and has a pungent smell to it. What kind of creature bleeds like that?

The uncertainty of the whole situation causes my stomach to twist.

_It’s not a Vice, it’s not a Vice. _I think to myself. But even that doesn’t give me ease. Whatever killed the Archer man is dangerous. It seems only Fate that I have been chosen to deal with it.

I need the pain, the strain. But problems are most likely to arise from this case. I still don’t have a wand, even after six years of being shoved into the Magickal Community. I don’t want to.

I have my own reasons for that.

A chubby, middle-aged man steps forward, face drawn taut like a bow and his back straight and refined. He gives me a nod and outstretches his hand. “Mr. Greyhead, Mr. Turner, a pleasure to meet both of you, though I wish it was under different circumstances.”

I nod, but make no move to take his hand. He lowers it after a second. “As do I.”

“And I as well, sir.” Mr. Turner steps forward, extending his hand, which the man takes swiftly, eyeing me in question before giving his attention to Mr. Turner. “Who might you be?”

“Warlock Wilson, I’m the new head of the Examiner unit.” He waves behind him where the Examiners were still working quietly. “I didn’t think I’d ever be graced by your presence, Mr. Greyhead.”

I sigh inwardly at the obvious interest and praise in his tone. It makes my heart thud heavily and my stomach twists at odd angles, most likely trying to punish me for almost feeling a sense of pride at his tone. Almost, of course, never truly. “Well, I never thought I’d be back in the field…Mr. Wilson.”

“Sir Wilson, if you may.” He says it with such arrogance that my immediate thought is to stay as far away as I can, and my stomach settles back after seeing that I no longer feel that rare feeling anymore.

“Sir Wilson,” I nod to Mr. Turner who steps forward as if we’d been doing this all our lives, although he had just joined me about a year ago and during that time, I was out of the field and deep, deep into the work of the four-walled office building, “Mr. Turner will be”—I hesitate for a moment, trying to recall what I used to do in these moments—“asking you questions so that I may be informed of what you know at the moment.” Mr. Turner gives me a smile, though I turn my head so that my stomach does not pain me again. I’ll have to take my pills again as soon as the moment is over. The coffee seems to have diluted the effects of them. “Is Examiner Winn still employed?” I ask this question as flippantly as I can, though the answer that Sir Wilson supplies will either give or take the small amount of hope that I have.

Hope? My, these pills really are out of their usual spin.

Sir Wilson nods, then jerks his head to the farthest of the alleyway. “She should be over there, the noticeable one she is with the hair and all.”

I excuse myself, checking back once more despite myself to make sure that Mr. Turner is settled—he is, though it shouldn’t surprise me that a person such as him could tie the strings of any environment to his pleasure— then I go to where Sir Wilson gestured, moving swiftly through the sitting Examiners, careful not to get too close to their wandering spells. Last time I touched one, a spell that my opponent summoned during a competitive contest my aunt entered me into just five months after leaving Smallerville, the spell disappeared.

Later—it had happened when I was still living with my paternal aunt and cousins—a doctor was called to the house and it was discovered that I had absorbed the magickal energy of the spell and made it my own. My aunt was startled, but a form of pride and greed flashed into her eyes not even a minute after this became clear.

Then, the tests began. I never screamed, though I did cry, but through it all, I believed that I deserved every single part of it. She was right, it was my choice. And I chose to leave him in the rain.

I stop walking when I see a woman touching a wall where the blood is still wet. Her red hair is stark against her white, buttoned up cloak—the common attire for Examiners—and her bright green eyes, sharp as a cat’s, are watching her spell closely, waiting for it to show a sign that it found something. Her plain wand is in her hand—a wand made from a factory harvesting apple tree wood rather than a skilled Carver as Higher-Ups usually have. Wands for the Higher-Ups are made from their most valuable memories; the wands can take the shapes of objects, animals, and even people. The factory-made wand is customary for Lower-Downs, those who score below five thousand on the annual Scoring Test held by the Board. The Scoring Test determines who is worthy and who is not. Who is the highest of magickers and who is lowest and near mundane.

I scored 40,000. The highest ever was 12,000 before I was scored. It didn’t matter at the time to me at the age of nineteen. It still doesn’t matter. Your magickal ability doesn’t matter if you cast the one person who knew and loved you away out of fear.

Winnifred Jackson never talks to anyone who is rude, and if she doesn’t talk to you, you won’t get the information that you need. So, against everything inside of me, my stomach, mostly, I start the conversation. “Hello, Winnifred.”

“Hello, Mr. Greyhead, I thought you said you quit doing this kind of thing. Got bored with all those documents?”

“The opposite, really,” I straighten the neck of my coat to shield myself against the cold wind that has found its way into the alleyway, “I was getting very comfortable with it. But what the Board says goes. What have you found?”

She’s quiet for a moment, and we both watch her spell pause and pulse above a spot on the wall before stopping and flaring a bright red. Other Examiners stop and turn their attention to the spot on the wall that the spell stopped on.

Winnifred gives me a grin. “Something now.” She tilts her head to the side and points behind me. “I think Mr.—” She stops herself then says in a posh, mocking voice, “I mean Sir Wilson, is asking for your presence.” Indeed, when I turn, both Mr. Turner and Sir Wilson are beckoning to me. I turn back to Winnifred, who’s gathering her pens and papers and signalling all the other Examiners to start wrapping up also.

“Well,” I ask, ignoring the two men behind me for the moment, “Did you find anything useful?”

Winnifred has started moving to the opening of the alleyway where the rest of the Examiners are going through the Shield spell. “Yes, I have, though you may want to check in with Sir Wilson while I take this back to the lab.” She gives me a smile, then a quick pat on my back, quick enough that I can’t push her away. “You know where to find me.” Then she steps through the spell, leaving me watching her red hair disappear.

“Mr. Greyhead!” Sir Wilson and Mr. Turner approaches my left, Sir Wilson flicks his wand quickly, but not so quickly that I can’t tell the summoning circle he’s creating. A reverse Shield spell is what I gather. After a few moments, it seems I am right, and the mundane are revealed to the alleyway. The crowd that was once there has dispersed and all who remain are some pedestrians hurrying and scurrying to wherever they need to be. Most know better to peek, others seem to forget that nosiness is rude.

I feel their stares on my face. My heart races. I need to go home and get my pills. Or maybe the office—did I leave them there?

As I stumble my way out the alleyway, Mr. Turner calls for me. “What?” I snap. Everything feels too real. I hate it. I want my pills.

“Uh, Mr. Greyhead, Sir Wilson says that the Board needs us over at the MPFH” —the Mundane Police Force Headquarters, of course, human interactions will be the death of me if whatever the creature we’re searching for doesn’t kill me first— “He said that they have someone for us.”

“Yes, Mr. Greyhead.” Both men still when I turn to them. I wonder what expression is on my face. I feel irritated, so my face must be the same. Sir Wilson clears his throat and holds his wand at the edge of his fingers, light and loose. The summoning stance. “If you will please, sir.”

I reluctantly step into the arm width, and he completes the spell. Mr. Turner, a bundle of excitement than I ever saw him, is looking at me with a smile on his face. I’d forgotten that I was four years his senior; Henry Turner was fresh out of study when he was assigned to me and  Miss Bass. This was probably how I should have been when I was starting in the field.

I was not.

 “Never thought I’d be able to do something like this before,” his breath quickens as Sir Wilson finishes the spell. Teleportation. It lights up a dull grey and pulses for a few moments. “My brother and my sister, both are older and have more magick than I could ever dream of having, are in the BMI—did I already tell you that, Mr. Greyhead?”

I shake my head and watch the spell below me. I never knew Mr. Turner had siblings.

That’s because you never asked.

Pills. I need my pills. Please, any god out there that can hear me, please hurry this up.

“Sorry, my wand has been acting up this past week. I need to buy a new one and throw this hunk of junk out—ah! there we go.” Sir Wilson smiles in triumph and looks at me as though he expects praise.

I stay silent, hand above my heart and my mind a flurry, as the grey spell, almost as grey as me, engulfs us.