“Don’t!” You shout, reaching for the bronze sword you’d set on the kitchen counter.

The masked intruder drops their walking stick, slides a silver wrench from their sleeve and hurls it towards Fausta’s skull.

Fausta levels her pistol at the masked intruder and pulls the trigger.

The silver wrench twirls through the air...

…it halts in midair and drops to the ground, landing softly on one of your throw-down rugs.

Flames burst from the barrel of Fausta’s pistol…

…it coughs out a silver bullet that drops to the ground and rolls across your fuzzy, faded carpet.

“Die!” Fausta shrieks. She blinks once and looks down at her gun.

The masked wrench-thrower tilts their head to the side, hand still stretched out in a throwing motion.

Cookie, the pit bull, downgrades his high-pitched bark to a cautious growl.

Fortuna lowers her hand, the streams of acrid smoke around her fingers dissipating. “Huh?” She says.

You throw yourself between Fausta and the masked figure, arms spread wide. “Stop!” you shout. “Bad! No killing!” You make eye contact with the masked figure. “She’s here to help!”

You make eye contact with Fausta. “They’re here to help!”

To everybody: “Everyone’s here to help!”

The masked figure’s shoulders slump like a preschooler sent to time-out.

Fortuna crouches down by Cookie and scratches her pet’s ears. The smell of rotten eggs has vanished, but the girl’s fingertips are flushed red, almost as if she brushed them against a hot pan.

What the hell, you think?

What the hell, indeed, Diesel.

“Dieselnoi,” Fausta says, tucking her pistol away. “What’s happening? Who is this?”

You elect to answer the first of her questions: “Have you ever played survival horror video-games?”

Fausta’s brow wrinkles with tension: “What does that have to do with—”

“In survival horror games, you have these places called safe rooms,” you tell her. “They let your character relax, heal, and save the game without having to worry about monsters jumping you.”

Fausta looks just as confused as before.

Fortuna looks up from the floor, fingers kneading expertly behind her happy pit bull’s folded ears. “So,” she says, “Your room’s a safe zone?”

“Exactly!” you say with a snap of your fingers. You gesture at the walls, at the swirling Yantra shapes and C++ code diagrams running up and down the plaster. “This room’s enchanted up the wazoo; good luck charms, sacred wards, kinetic redistribution algorithms...!”

You sense you’re losing them again.

“Basically,” you say, “my room reduces the energy of all attacks to zero.” You turn around and scowl at the masked figure. “Which you damn well should have remembered from the last time you came!”

The masked figure averts their eyes in shame. You cell phone chimes, and you hold it up to read the new text:

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

「C」 Contact

Saturday 11:35 AM

[Sorry. I saw the broken doors and

thought there was a home invasion.]

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“It’s okay,” you tell C with a wave of your hand. “Just think it through next time, alright?”

Fausta coughs loudly into her closed fist, dragging your attention. “Dieselnoi,” she repeats. “Who is this person?”

“This is C,” you say, pointing to C. “C, this is Fausta!”

C, masked emissary of the Cryptatown Anarchists, doffs their bowler hat to Fortuna in silent greeting. The hair on their head is short and curly.

“I should have told you about them ahead of time,” you say to Fausta. “And for that I’m sorry. C’s one of the good guys, honest!”

Fortuna points at C’s bone-white face. “But he’s got a Hitler mustache!” she points out.

This is technically true.

C’s bone-white mask closely resembles the Guy Fawkes mask popular among protesters and hacktivists. Instead of an ink-black curved mustache and goatee, their mask sports the toothbrush mustache associated with decidedly genocidal dictators.

“It’s…it’s not a Hitler mask,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s…look, C, can’t you explain it?”

C pops their bowler hat back onto their head and retrieve their bamboo cane with a flick of their foot. They shuffle around the room like a waddling penguin, cane tapping out a staccato rhythm on the ground. They stop and give Fausta a look.

Fausta stares at C with narrowed eyes. She twitches in surprise. “Chaplin?”

C nods enthusiastically.

“Why are you dressed like him?” Fausta asks.

C tilts their head to the side, a quizzical, bird-like motion.

A chime rings out from Fausta’s purse. Fausta digs out her phone and reads the text.

“There’s power in Symbols and Theatrics,” Fausta reads out loud. “I see…I think.” She looks the masked medic up and down with curiosity. “Do you have medical training, C?”

C nods and joins Fausta by your bed. They lean their bamboo cane on the windowsill and place fingers on Mr. Lynn’s wrist. They take out a battered old watch and time the old fellow’s pulse. Then they turn towards Fausta and stare intently.

Fausta’s phone chimes. She reads the next text message.

“Hmm,” she says. “Good point. But we’d need an X-ray to confirm it. Is your”—she hesitates—“Anarchist clinic far off?”

C nods. They hold up a finger, asking Fausta to wait for a moment. They duck out through your flat door and return with an antique doctor’s valise in hand.

“How...classic,” Fausta says dryly.

C pops the latch on their valise, reaches in, and pulls out medical doo-dads by the handful. A stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, an ear scope…medical junk starts piling up at the food of your bed, while Fausta stands by and observes with naked curiosity.

C sticks their arm into the doctor’s bag, right up to the shoulder. They pull an X-ray machine—one of those dentist’s X-ray machines that look like a death ray—out of their petite bag, Mary Poppins-style, and then drag out a tall stand to mount it on.

Fausta goes bug-eyed. “How did you...?” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Of course you can do that magic."

You feel a mite insulted. After all the times you’d waved your magic sword around in front Fausta, she choses to be impressed by C’s magic doctor bag?

"I don’t suppose you have healing magic, do you?" Fausta asks C.

C shakes their head.

Fausta sighs: "Of course it wouldn’t be that easy."

C shrugs.

"Well then," Fausta says, rolling up her sleeves. "I suppose we’ll have to use good old-fashioned scientific medicine then."

C shuffles over to Fausta, dental X-Ray machine in tow. Fausta starts spouting medical jargon at C. C responds with quick nods and sharp, mime-like gestures from their gloved hands.

You shake your head ruefully, knowing that your bed’s going to be a mess for a long, long time.

You get some clothes from your closet and go to change in your bathroom, ruffling Cookie the pit bull’s ears as you pass by.

You freshen up with soap and a rag. You don a pair of flexible slacks, sneakers for running, and a snazzy style of shirt favored by petite drug lords. You strap your sheathed sword to a special belt and sling it over your shoulder.

You check the toilet, making sure the spike traps haven’t been tripped. Safe zone or not, you don’t want any creepy-crawlies getting into your flat through the plumbing.

Exiting the bathroom, you see little has changed: Fausta and C are busy rewrapping Mr. Lynn’s splints. Fortuna is spinning around on your desk chair, picking away at her phone with a look of restless boredom.

“Tell me if it hurts more or less when we do this,” Fausta says to Lynn, tightening the weave of the bandages.

Mr. Lynn groans softly. “More,” he whispers. “Less? No, more.”

“Do you need me to get any drugs?” You ask Fausta. “Painkillers? Antibiotics?”

Fausta tenses. “I…yes, yes,” she says absent-mindedly. She turns towards C. “Can you write him a prescription?”

C nods and pulls out a notepad with an ‘℞’ watermark.

“Fortuna!” Fausta shouts, walking over to her rapidly revolvingdaughter. “Stop spinning the chair around like that: we’re a guest in this house!”

You feel a leathery hand grip your wrist with bone-grinding force and pull you down. Felix Lynn’s glazed eyes bore right into your face. “I heart you talking,” he wheezes. “You’re a private eye.”

You strain against Lynn’s surprisingly strong grip. “Not yet, technically,” you say. “The private eye’s always been my spirit animal, you could say…”

“Find my Philip,” he tells you between clenched teeth. His other hand fumbles around, pawing at his pants pocket. “Please.”

With a bit of elbow grease, you yank your hand free. “Let him go, Mr. Lynn,” you say, your words rimed with frost. “Your ‘Philip’ doesn’t want anything to do with you. Judging by the attempted patricide, I think he might even hate you.”

Lynn flinches. You feel a pang of guilt, but…no, he needs to hear this. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you tell him. “Your ‘Philip’ just isn’t worth it, that’s all…”

“I’ll pay you,” Lynn says, pulling a wallet from his pants pocket. “A standard private eye fee. I can afford that, I think.”

You fall silent.

You have been running late on rent. Not that you pay your rent with money: still, if you can convert his retainer fee into the local Cryptatown currency…

“Philip isn’t who you think he is,” you tell him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lynn, whispers hoarsely, sagging like a pricked balloon. “Just bring my boy home.” His eyes flutter closed. “Just bring him home.”

C comes back and pushes you away from their patient’s bed: beneath the dark eyeholes of their Charlie Chaplin mask, you sense a surge of medically backed disapproval.

"Okay," you say to C. "I hear you. No bothering the patient."

You back away, lean again against your kitchen counter and think.

It doesn’t matter?

What does Mr. Lynn mean by that? It doesn’t matter that his son was replaced an Ogre changeling? It doesn’t matter that his Ogre-son tried to kill him? It doesn’t matter that his real son’s been held in faerieland for years?

Then again, Mr. Lynn may have a point. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. You’ve got a client. Your client wants you to bring his son home.

You think back on all the changeling faerie myths you’ve heard…yes. If you can get your hands on Philips the Ogre and give him enough noogies, maybe you can make him return Mr. Lynn’s real son.

“Okay,” you whisper to Felix Lynn. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Mr. Lynn doesn’t respond. From the looks of things, he’s nodded off again.

That’s fine, you think. You can always talk about fees later. Not like he’s going anywhere after all.

C nudges your shoulder. You look up. They hand you a prescription for what looks like antibiotics and painkillers.

“Will do,” you say, tucking the paper into your front pocket.

You turn to go...

You stop, and turn to look across the room. Fausta is leaning against your desk chair, glancing over her daughter’s shoulder at her phone screen. Fortuna babbles cheerfully about all the virtual critters she’s training, while Fausta, like any good mother, nods along and pretends to understand.

By any reasonable measure, those two should be worn out from a long day of Ogre-baiting, first aid, and surprise attacks from a Charlie Chaplin impersonator. But they still seem chipper—restless, even.

You decided to test a theory.

“You’ve done more for Mr. Lynn than we had any right to ask, ma’am,” you say, pitching your voice soft and gentle. “C should be able to take care him from here. I can escort you and your kid to Cryptatown’s exit, make sure you get home safely…”

Fausta holds up her hand, cutting off your chivalrous speech. “Nobody in Chicago knows Cryptatown exists, right?”

“Most of the local monsters and spooky folk know about it,” you point out. “There’s a few occultists in the know, a few conspiracy nuts—”

“But few people know, right?” Fausta asks, studying your face closely.

“…right,” you concede.

Fausta’s eyes twinkle with a fey light. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Worawoot,” she says smoothly, “but we’re going to stay until I’m sure that Mr. Lynn’s going to make a full recovery.” She pats her daughter’s shoulder. “We wouldn’t want all my hard work to go to waste, now would I?”

“No siree!” Fortuna chirps, giving you a jaunty salute.

“No…” you say after a moment. “I suppose you can’t.”

You roll your heard back and forth, stroll over to your kitchen nook. “I’m heading out, C,” you tell the vaudeville medic. “Best of luck!’

C flashes you the peace sign, then resumes ministering to their patient.

You open your fridge door, survey it’s contents and pull out the finest bribe one could give in Cryptatown: a paper bag of fresh fruit.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” you tell your houseguests, slamming your fridge shut “There’s more food in the fridge and cupboards. Help yourself!”

You walk out the doorway, hesitate, then duck your head back in. “But don’t touch the jar with the silver stuff!” you tell them, focusing your gaze on little Fortuna. “It’s filled with nanomachines, and they will eat your face!”

Fortuna’s eyes go round as eggs. “Eep,” she whispers.

Fausta frowns at you. “Why do you keep something like that on your kitchen counter?” she asks you.

Instead of responding, you doff you porkpie hat in farewell, then duck out through the open door. He stroll down the hall towards the stairs a whistle on your lips, a spring in your step, your sword clinking back and forth in the sheath across your back.

Well, well, well. Aren’t you pleased as punch, Diesel? After weeks, months of being a glorified thug, you can finally say these words:

“Dieselnoi Worawoot,” you whisper under your breath, “is on the case.”

Next Chapter: Episode Four: Silent But Deadly (Revised)