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There was something oddly comforting about hospital ice cream. Detective Mickey couldn’t quite put his finger on why that was, after all it wasn’t particularly good ice cream. Maybe it carried some sort of esoteric quality about it? Store bought ice cream was mass produced and designed to be sold and subsequently consumed by consumers. Of course, hospital ice cream was mass produced too, but it was mass produced for the sole purpose of providing comfort to the sick, injured, and dying. Perhaps it was merely the belief that it was comforting that made it so? Whatever it was, Mickey tried not to think about it too hard, lest he accidentally discover the man behind the curtain and spoil the entire illusion.
It had been a week since the robbery at 7th Tyree National Bank. He tried not to think too hard about that either. That said, ice cream could only distract him so much. Whatever Anders had done to him had left him completely magicless. The doctors had originally assumed that he was merely fatigued and that his magic would return once he recovered, but after a week of rest and recovery he still had nothing. He swallowed another spoonful of ice cream to keep himself from spiraling. What would he do without magic? Paranormal crime was his whole area of expertise. And investigating the paranormal without magic? Well, that was like joining a knife fight naked, and without a knife… and blindfolded.
“Detective!” The Chief's voice boomed as he opened the hospital door, “How are you feeling?”
Mickey leaned up in his bed, “Like I went ten rounds with Maldera, and then jumped off a bridge.”
The Chief was carrying a massive arrangement of flowers. Boxes of chocolate and get-well-soon cards were nestled inside the bouquet. Gingerly he set the arrangement on the table beside Mickey. As expected, The Chief was wearing one of his wacky ties. It had a checkerboard pattern with various types of cookies emblazoned across it. He eased himself into a chair, groaning slightly as if he hadn’t sat down in years.
“Sorry, I would have visited sooner, but…” He shifted uncomfortably, “It’s been a madhouse out there. Civilian casualties were minimized, but there were still civilian casualties. People are asking how something like this could even get off the ground.”
“I mean I was dealing with demonic incursions or blood cults or whatever practically every other week, Chief, I don’t know why people are so surprised that bad guys are out there.”
The Chief nodded, “Yes, but we’re usually one step ahead of them… we didn’t catch wind of the bank robbery until they had already taken and killed hostages… you know that was the bloodiest robbery in years and more than half the perps got away.”
Mickey didn’t feel like finishing his ice cream anymore. That bastard Anders was still running around doing Arbiter-knows-what. His first victim, Sera, had been without her magic for months now. It seemed that his own fate wouldn’t be much different from hers, and he doubted he’d be the terrorist’s only victim.
“We don’t have any leads?” Mickey asked.
“We have a few, nothing that has panned out so far,” The Chief continued, “Their accomplice isn’t being very cooperative, so nothing on that angle either… regardless, I didn’t come here to talk about work - how are you holding up?”
“Physically, fine… I got off light compared to some of the other strike force guys,” Mickey paused, taking a long look at the rapidly melting ice cream, “Chief… what happens if my magic doesn’t come back?”
“You don’t need to be worrying about that right now.”
“But I am - what if I end up just like that college girl and never cast another spell in my life?” He spoke quickly, “I’m not cut out to be a beat cop, and I don’t really have any skills beyond magic, what am I-”
“Mickey,” Chief interrupted, “Relax, I don’t expect you to come back right away… You take as much time as you need and we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Hell, if I have to, I’ll create a brand new position for you titled ‘pain-in-the-ass’.”
Mickey paused, “I do like the sound of that.”
“Good,” He said and stood back up, “Now I’ve got to get back to the precinct before reporters start tearing the doors off the place. You take care Mickey.”
“Take care Chief… and thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
--
That night Detective Mickey was released back onto the streets. The hospital staff offered to call a cab, but Mickey declined. The weather was nice enough to walk and he had a couple stops to make on his way home. First he stopped at the corner store by the hospital and bought a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. Up until that night he had been using the patch. He’d been close to quitting entirely, but, well, hard to quit smoking with the kind of stress he’d gone through in the past few days. So he lit up and trudged along the rapidly-darkening streets of downtown Arcadia.
In his younger years he would’ve gone to the first open bar he could find and drink until he got kicked out. As he walked along he could practically see his younger self reflected in the depressed eyes of every wandering drunkard that he passed. More than once the thought of getting piss-drunk and giving up crossed his mind. After all, what was he without magic? Just a washed up para-detective. But as enticing as obliterating his consciousness via intoxication was, he realized he did have a lead. It was a slim shot in the dark, but a shot he could take nonetheless.
From the outside looking in, Bea’s Parlor seemed woefully out of date. Sodium lamps glowered behind the display windows, casting sharp shadows onto podiums carrying ancient tomes. Naked mannequins posed alongside the podiums, their plastic flesh adorned with geometric patterns. It was hard to see much further into the store, and from an outsider’s perspective they’d just assume it was due to the poor lighting and general clutter. Detective Mickey, however, knew that this particular effect was a glamour produced by several inconspicuously placed charms. In fact, if one wasn’t either magically attuned or specifically looking for the place it was incredibly easy to walk by without even noticing it. This concealment, however, wasn’t for any nefarious purpose. Bea just didn’t care for looky-loos smudging their curious noses against the glass.
Mickey walked in. A series of chimes sounded over his head before fading away to the ambient noises of the parlor. The buzz of tattoo needles intermingled with the low hum of meditating practitioners. Shelves ran along either side of the room, each of them lined with labeled tinctures of various inks. A brass scale sat on the sales counter, besides an abacus. Arcane sigils were carved into every exposed surface. Most of them were just for show, but Mickey knew from experience that more than a few of them were anti-theft measures triggered at the slightest hint of sticky fingers. Mickey sidled up to the counter and rang the service bell twice.
Behind the counter he could just barely see into a side room where a half-naked man was getting his arm tattooed. Mickey recognized the pattern as a modified version of Braco’s Shimmering Safeguard - an enchantment that would protect the bearer by manipulating any would-be attacker’s sense of balance. Besides that room was a large window that opened up into a studio of sorts. Rows of practitioners sat in lotus position, each of them humming or chanting incantations. Occasionally they’d stop, grab the ink pen beside them, dip it in a specialized ink, and draw a single sigil onto a piece of cardstock-like paper.
Before the detective could ring the service bell a third time, Bea appeared from around a corner. She was around Mickey’s age, late 40s. Her black hair was tied back into a short ponytail. Most striking of all, however, was the tattoo wrapped around her upper shoulder. Intricate patterns drawn from black ink formed the body of the tattoo, however they were constantly shifting and forming into new arrangements of patterns. To a layman this would seem to be nothing more than an enchanted tattoo - and it was, but it wasn’t just one enchantment. It held practically Bea’s entire repertoire of magic. With a thought she could activate any number of enchanted inks under her skin to produce whatever effect she desired. Her smile vanished when she realized who was standing behind the counter.
“Didn’t I tell you not to come here?” She said.
“You did,” Mickey said, pretended to be admiring some tricket on the shelf, “But you know how I am with directions… it’s good to see you Bea.”
“No, no, no, don’t ‘it’s good to see you’ me,” She said, snatching the trinket from his hand and putting it behind the counter, “Why are you here, Mickey?”
“I can’t stop by and say hi to an old friend?” He smiled.
She huffed and pointed to the door, “No, you can’t. Now leave.”
“Wait, I…” He trailed off. This wasn’t going well. It had been nearly a decade since their falling out, but things were still tender. What an idiot he was for thinking he could walk in and charm his way back to her good graces. He removed his hat and held it to his chest. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke again, “Bea… I need your help.”
At this she softened, but not by much. She sighed, “Cop stuff or personal stuff? ‘Cause if it’s cop stuff you can still get the fuck outta here.”
“No, not cop shit.”
“Then what is it?”
He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with her. He pursed his lips and said, “I… I can’t do magic.”
“Wait… what?”
He took a sharp inhale and said more confidently, “I got into a scrap with a perp last week, another spellcaster, and he did something to me that… turned my magic off, took it away, something, I don’t know. And, I'm not the first he's done it to either. About a month ago he did the same thing to a promising young pyromancer, she can't even light a candle now."
"Bullshit," Bea said, her tattoos seemingly riled up at the notion.
"It's true," Mickey answered, donning his hat once again, "I wish it wasn't, but it is."
"Well… what do you want me to do?"
"I've got a lead, but it's going to be dangerous," He explained, "I need scrolls, Bea, a good assortment too."
"Fuck," She muttered, shaking her head. The outright hostility had faded, but he could just tell she was agitated. She reached for a pack of smokes under the table and lit one up. She offered him the pack and he waved his hand. She asked, "Since when does the great detective Mickey not smoke?"
"Been trying to quit."
"Mhmm, good luck with that," She exhaled a cloud of cherry-scented smoke and asked, "You got money?"
"Not enough," He admitted.
"So you're just wanting free shit?"
"I'm asking for a favor, Bea," He answered, "Just this one favor and you'll never have to see me again."
"That's what you said last time," She responded and ashed her cigarette, "But, despite what it seems Mickey, I don't hate you… I just hate how things always end up when we're together."
"Yeah… me too."
"Come on back," She said, disappearing back around the corner, "You can have some of the rejects the apprentices have made."
It had been a week since the robbery at 7th Tyree National Bank. He tried not to think too hard about that either. That said, ice cream could only distract him so much. Whatever Anders had done to him had left him completely magicless. The doctors had originally assumed that he was merely fatigued and that his magic would return once he recovered, but after a week of rest and recovery he still had nothing. He swallowed another spoonful of ice cream to keep himself from spiraling. What would he do without magic? Paranormal crime was his whole area of expertise. And investigating the paranormal without magic? Well, that was like joining a knife fight naked, and without a knife… and blindfolded.
“Detective!” The Chief's voice boomed as he opened the hospital door, “How are you feeling?”
Mickey leaned up in his bed, “Like I went ten rounds with Maldera, and then jumped off a bridge.”
The Chief was carrying a massive arrangement of flowers. Boxes of chocolate and get-well-soon cards were nestled inside the bouquet. Gingerly he set the arrangement on the table beside Mickey. As expected, The Chief was wearing one of his wacky ties. It had a checkerboard pattern with various types of cookies emblazoned across it. He eased himself into a chair, groaning slightly as if he hadn’t sat down in years.
“Sorry, I would have visited sooner, but…” He shifted uncomfortably, “It’s been a madhouse out there. Civilian casualties were minimized, but there were still civilian casualties. People are asking how something like this could even get off the ground.”
“I mean I was dealing with demonic incursions or blood cults or whatever practically every other week, Chief, I don’t know why people are so surprised that bad guys are out there.”
The Chief nodded, “Yes, but we’re usually one step ahead of them… we didn’t catch wind of the bank robbery until they had already taken and killed hostages… you know that was the bloodiest robbery in years and more than half the perps got away.”
Mickey didn’t feel like finishing his ice cream anymore. That bastard Anders was still running around doing Arbiter-knows-what. His first victim, Sera, had been without her magic for months now. It seemed that his own fate wouldn’t be much different from hers, and he doubted he’d be the terrorist’s only victim.
“We don’t have any leads?” Mickey asked.
“We have a few, nothing that has panned out so far,” The Chief continued, “Their accomplice isn’t being very cooperative, so nothing on that angle either… regardless, I didn’t come here to talk about work - how are you holding up?”
“Physically, fine… I got off light compared to some of the other strike force guys,” Mickey paused, taking a long look at the rapidly melting ice cream, “Chief… what happens if my magic doesn’t come back?”
“You don’t need to be worrying about that right now.”
“But I am - what if I end up just like that college girl and never cast another spell in my life?” He spoke quickly, “I’m not cut out to be a beat cop, and I don’t really have any skills beyond magic, what am I-”
“Mickey,” Chief interrupted, “Relax, I don’t expect you to come back right away… You take as much time as you need and we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Hell, if I have to, I’ll create a brand new position for you titled ‘pain-in-the-ass’.”
Mickey paused, “I do like the sound of that.”
“Good,” He said and stood back up, “Now I’ve got to get back to the precinct before reporters start tearing the doors off the place. You take care Mickey.”
“Take care Chief… and thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
--
That night Detective Mickey was released back onto the streets. The hospital staff offered to call a cab, but Mickey declined. The weather was nice enough to walk and he had a couple stops to make on his way home. First he stopped at the corner store by the hospital and bought a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. Up until that night he had been using the patch. He’d been close to quitting entirely, but, well, hard to quit smoking with the kind of stress he’d gone through in the past few days. So he lit up and trudged along the rapidly-darkening streets of downtown Arcadia.
In his younger years he would’ve gone to the first open bar he could find and drink until he got kicked out. As he walked along he could practically see his younger self reflected in the depressed eyes of every wandering drunkard that he passed. More than once the thought of getting piss-drunk and giving up crossed his mind. After all, what was he without magic? Just a washed up para-detective. But as enticing as obliterating his consciousness via intoxication was, he realized he did have a lead. It was a slim shot in the dark, but a shot he could take nonetheless.
From the outside looking in, Bea’s Parlor seemed woefully out of date. Sodium lamps glowered behind the display windows, casting sharp shadows onto podiums carrying ancient tomes. Naked mannequins posed alongside the podiums, their plastic flesh adorned with geometric patterns. It was hard to see much further into the store, and from an outsider’s perspective they’d just assume it was due to the poor lighting and general clutter. Detective Mickey, however, knew that this particular effect was a glamour produced by several inconspicuously placed charms. In fact, if one wasn’t either magically attuned or specifically looking for the place it was incredibly easy to walk by without even noticing it. This concealment, however, wasn’t for any nefarious purpose. Bea just didn’t care for looky-loos smudging their curious noses against the glass.
Mickey walked in. A series of chimes sounded over his head before fading away to the ambient noises of the parlor. The buzz of tattoo needles intermingled with the low hum of meditating practitioners. Shelves ran along either side of the room, each of them lined with labeled tinctures of various inks. A brass scale sat on the sales counter, besides an abacus. Arcane sigils were carved into every exposed surface. Most of them were just for show, but Mickey knew from experience that more than a few of them were anti-theft measures triggered at the slightest hint of sticky fingers. Mickey sidled up to the counter and rang the service bell twice.
Behind the counter he could just barely see into a side room where a half-naked man was getting his arm tattooed. Mickey recognized the pattern as a modified version of Braco’s Shimmering Safeguard - an enchantment that would protect the bearer by manipulating any would-be attacker’s sense of balance. Besides that room was a large window that opened up into a studio of sorts. Rows of practitioners sat in lotus position, each of them humming or chanting incantations. Occasionally they’d stop, grab the ink pen beside them, dip it in a specialized ink, and draw a single sigil onto a piece of cardstock-like paper.
Before the detective could ring the service bell a third time, Bea appeared from around a corner. She was around Mickey’s age, late 40s. Her black hair was tied back into a short ponytail. Most striking of all, however, was the tattoo wrapped around her upper shoulder. Intricate patterns drawn from black ink formed the body of the tattoo, however they were constantly shifting and forming into new arrangements of patterns. To a layman this would seem to be nothing more than an enchanted tattoo - and it was, but it wasn’t just one enchantment. It held practically Bea’s entire repertoire of magic. With a thought she could activate any number of enchanted inks under her skin to produce whatever effect she desired. Her smile vanished when she realized who was standing behind the counter.
“Didn’t I tell you not to come here?” She said.
“You did,” Mickey said, pretended to be admiring some tricket on the shelf, “But you know how I am with directions… it’s good to see you Bea.”
“No, no, no, don’t ‘it’s good to see you’ me,” She said, snatching the trinket from his hand and putting it behind the counter, “Why are you here, Mickey?”
“I can’t stop by and say hi to an old friend?” He smiled.
She huffed and pointed to the door, “No, you can’t. Now leave.”
“Wait, I…” He trailed off. This wasn’t going well. It had been nearly a decade since their falling out, but things were still tender. What an idiot he was for thinking he could walk in and charm his way back to her good graces. He removed his hat and held it to his chest. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke again, “Bea… I need your help.”
At this she softened, but not by much. She sighed, “Cop stuff or personal stuff? ‘Cause if it’s cop stuff you can still get the fuck outta here.”
“No, not cop shit.”
“Then what is it?”
He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with her. He pursed his lips and said, “I… I can’t do magic.”
“Wait… what?”
He took a sharp inhale and said more confidently, “I got into a scrap with a perp last week, another spellcaster, and he did something to me that… turned my magic off, took it away, something, I don’t know. And, I'm not the first he's done it to either. About a month ago he did the same thing to a promising young pyromancer, she can't even light a candle now."
"Bullshit," Bea said, her tattoos seemingly riled up at the notion.
"It's true," Mickey answered, donning his hat once again, "I wish it wasn't, but it is."
"Well… what do you want me to do?"
"I've got a lead, but it's going to be dangerous," He explained, "I need scrolls, Bea, a good assortment too."
"Fuck," She muttered, shaking her head. The outright hostility had faded, but he could just tell she was agitated. She reached for a pack of smokes under the table and lit one up. She offered him the pack and he waved his hand. She asked, "Since when does the great detective Mickey not smoke?"
"Been trying to quit."
"Mhmm, good luck with that," She exhaled a cloud of cherry-scented smoke and asked, "You got money?"
"Not enough," He admitted.
"So you're just wanting free shit?"
"I'm asking for a favor, Bea," He answered, "Just this one favor and you'll never have to see me again."
"That's what you said last time," She responded and ashed her cigarette, "But, despite what it seems Mickey, I don't hate you… I just hate how things always end up when we're together."
"Yeah… me too."
"Come on back," She said, disappearing back around the corner, "You can have some of the rejects the apprentices have made."