Chapter 1: The Fool

There are things living in The City that are not human. ‘Mythics’ is the widely accepted name. That’s the name the higher-ups landed on. That’s the name that stuck. The scientific name was not nearly catchy enough.

The space between history’s lines is filled to the brim. Blood, paper, steel, and bone. Ever since man took his clumsy steps out of the dark, he has never walked alone. Races of magical creatures found an imperfect neighbor in humanity. They make up communities living under our very noses. They are the Oneroi of Astoria, the Nilalkali shapeshifters of the Theater District, and many more. They are the bodega owners, the line cooks, the security guards, and the delivery drivers. The nurses and the cannibals. The nuns and the killers. They are New York.

There are things far worse than Mythics, though. They plot and weave their little webs. We call them “Entities”. A catch-all term. Gods, monsters, spirits, and everything that fits between those three. They have one foot in our reality, one foot out. To stay “in”, they form bonds with mortals. Within these bonds, there is magic.

Magic exists in two major ways. The first is in the bodies of magical beings, those not native to our reality. The second is in the relationship between a human and a magical being. In North America and Europe, this relationship most often manifests as a binding contract between two or more parties.

Towering above it all are the Owls, or Panics as they are colloquially known by the Mythic population. The United States Para-Natural Containment Division (with its many international counterparts) is a clandestine institution, tasked with keeping it all a secret, no matter the cost. The men and women of the PNCD work tirelessly to prevent, suppress, and liquidate threats, as well as any memory of their existence. By 2005, 95.9% of all written evidence of magic in the United States had been erased.

Man is not ready to give up his seat at the top of the food chain. Magic is the stubborn stain on humanity’s nice throw rug; can’t get rid of it, might as well hide it. The methods used to do this are rarely pretty, with the magical population bearing the brunt of the suffering. This brutality is exactly the point. Man has always been this way. Son of the Ape, Second Cousin to the Devil.

The events that took place in one particular rainy New York summer, which would later go down in PNCD history, all revolved around one name: Nick Romeo. To PNCD agents who heard the legends, the name is either a sore subject or a source of endless intrigue. The most accomplished PNCD investigator of the decade. A selfish, arrogant genius. A murderer and traitor. A Crow in a parliament of Owls. This is how it happened. This is how Nick Romeo died.

This story will end how it begins, with a phone call.

In Little Odessa, on the southern tip of Brooklyn, a wet stench hangs over Section Captain Maloney. His head cranes over the drain, with dark rainwater pouring in from the street. “I’m not sending my boys in there.” He says, gripping his blackbox in his hand. The little black communication device is off, but Maloney is prepared to call for backup.

Across from him, leaning on a lamppost, Senior Investigator Hamada rolls his eyes upon hearing this, chipping away at a cigarette while shielding it from the moisture. “Typical Animal Control bullshit.” Next to him is his partner. A cold cut of clay in a raincoat and a soaked Knicks cap. His brow adds extra protection from the rain, protruding in front of his eyes. To Maloney, he looks like the violent neanderthal he imagines the Senior Investigators to be. The partner doesn’t speak. His primary concern seems to be simply dodging the rain as best he can.

Maloney grimaces, feeling cold rainwater warm up and run tepid through his smile lines down to his chin. “Hey, why don’t you SI prima donnas sack up and do it yourselves then?”

Hamada’s partner finally chimes in, “Afraid of a little water, Maloney? Back in the day, you were first in.”

“I’m responsible for these men. One of them’s got a kid on the way.” He points to the van behind him.

Hamada smiles and ashes his cigarette in the drain. “If he wants his kid to get into an Ivy League school, he better sack up and get down there.” He points down. The two begin arguing, Maloney pointing to the dark green van across the street. In the van, the five men under Maloney in Squad Number Six of the Mutate Control Sector sit and wait. The two in the front seats have been trying to read the body language of their captain and the Senior Investigator.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Passenger seat says, his croaky voice interrupting the pitter-patter on the windshield.

“Who cares?” Driver’s seat says, eyes shut and hands behind head. Get some rest, we’re going down soon.

“You don’t know that.” A voice from the back seats chimes in.

“Bullshit.” Driver’s seat says. “We’re dead meat, just like the last squad was.”

“Only half died.” Passenger says.

“Only half survived.” Driver corrects. “Word of advice, pal, I know you’re new here, but Animal Control isn’t for the shaky types.” Driver looks at Passenger with one eye open. “Get some rest, or at least stop bothering me. We shouldn’t even be getting this goddamn assignment. Rusalki are X-ray targets, not ours.”

Back in the rain, Maloney and the Senior Investigators find themselves at an impasse until Hamada has the brightest idea he’ll have all week.

“Hold on.” He cuts through the argument between the captain and his partner. “We could just…” He wiggles his black box in the air, “you know.”

“Jesus Christ, Hamada. Back in our day, SI had a bit of dignity, y’know,” Maloney says. “A bit of shame too.”

“Alright, calm down, Cap. Offer still stands to send your team down there.” Hamada smirks, seeing Maloney’s damp and thinning hairline under the streetlamp, “Make hay while the sun shines; he won’t be around forever.”

Maloney sweats over it for less than a minute, looking back between the drain and the van. “Screw it, fine.” Maloney bums a cigarette from Hamada.

Hamada places a call on the blackbox communicator. “Dispatch, SI-62 here. 10-20, we are on scene. Confirmed contact with M6. Situation is… extremely volatile. Requesting escalation protocol, 10-78. We want to place a request for special asset assistance. How copy?”

The box frizzes between raindrops. “Received. 10-78 denied. There are no backup teams available within your AO. Investigator Hamada, this is the ninth time this month.” A nasally female voice answers. “It seems the special assets never pick your assignments.”

“Maybe luck is in the air tonight,” Hamada replies. “Strongly recommend use of Special Asset, send in the 10-81.” Hamada jokes; the number 81 stands for friendly fire.

“Your attempt at humor has been noted and documented, Investigator Hamada. Very well. Patching it through. Expect an answer shortly.” The black box goes quiet. Hamada turns to Maloney, who’s shaking his head.

“Nine times? It’s only the fifteenth,” Maloney says.

“What can I say, I really liked Gartz. Maybe tonight, we kill two birds.”

Across Brooklyn and the river, in an apartment overlooking Battery Park, High Ranking Praetor of the PNCD, Anton Rhyner, is pulled away from his take-out crawfish étouffée by a call on his blackbox.

“Rhyner.” He says, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. He turns down the stereo to hear better.

“Praetor Rhyner, special asset request, submitted by Senior Investigator Hamada, SI-62, agent number 873.” The female voice says.

“It’s only eight. He doesn’t start until ten.” Anton rubs his brow, already regretting becoming involved with yet more bureaucracy. But this, of all things, is worth it, he tells himself.

“The matter is urgent, and the schedule of the special asset is of minimal concern. Three for tonight, details have been sent.” A beep plays, followed by quiet. Anton sighs, looking up at his food getting cold on the teak tabletop. Over at the wall of his apartment, a tracery of thread connecting documents, photos, and post-it notes replaces the usual van der Leck that he bought two years ago. A picture of the current Director of the PNCD, Levi Tanzer, at the center of the collage. Different people, all connected by one man. Anton scratches at his stubble and dials “N.R.” on his blackbox.

The rest of New York is alive with blistering light. Dark and silence themselves recoil from the valley of glass and steel. The booming cacophony of languages and machinery is colossal. People clock out, and others clock in. Working folk with skill sets, ready to live another night in the great Manhattan disco ball.

In Harlem, in the apartment nestled above Madame Sandu’s Fortunes and Medium Services, another cigarette slowly burns in accompaniment to an old Moldovan jazz song. A man is lying in bed, enjoying his last two hours of tonight before the call eventually comes in.

“Hey, you mind turning that down?” Nick Romeo says, his eyes glued to the ceiling fan. The lack of response makes him look to the side. He sees Natalia Sandu’s scarred back, lean muscles rolling inward as she throws on a silk bathrobe. She flicks her wavy blonde hair out of the robe’s collar the way she always does when Nick irritates her.

“Turn it down yourself if you don’t like it.” She goes into the bathroom, and soon enough, Nick can hear the shower turn on. He hears a buzz somewhere and begins rifling through the pile of clothes scattered below the bed. He looks for the shirt Natalia pulled off him two hours ago. His black jeans are not the source of the buzzing. Naked, Nick goes prone, puts his head to the floorboards, and sees his black box buzzing under the bed. He reaches it and answers.

“I’m assuming this isn’t a social call,” Nick says, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“Very funny. You’re on the clock.”

Nick double-checks his wristwatch. “What was the point of giving me a time, Anton?”

“I told them,” Anton says, picking at a shrimp with a fork.

“Sure you did.” Nick pulls on his socks and pants.

“How are you? You been eating well?” Anton asks warmly before taking a sip of wine.

Nick finishes his Säntis cigarette. “Let’s hear it.”

“Fine.” Anton reads out the menu for tonight. “We got a Satori sighting in Central Park.”

“No go, I ran out of psionic blockers,” Nick remembers the last time he tried to fight a telepathic ape without those pills; it did not go well.

Anton continues. “That one buys you two days. The next one is at least two confirmed Rusalki in a Little Odessa sewer. That one is 3 days.” The number makes Nick’s brows hike.

“How generous. Last Rusalka I killed only got me one day.”

“These killed half a Squad and an SI team.”

“What’s the third one?”

“Anguilles infestation for one day, a pier near Meatpacking.”

“How many?” Nick asks, hearing the shower squeak shut.

“At least eight.”

Nick shakes his head, “I’m low on polymer rounds.”

“I can get you some.”

“I’m alright.” Nick ties the laces of his boots, thinking. “Give me the mermaids.”

“Copy that. I’ll let them know.”

“Three days, nothing to scoff at.”

“It’s three days for a reason.”

“Scared?”

“Just don’t be stupid, little brother. Don’t get that partner of yours killed either.” Anton says, referring to Liv.

“She’s not my partner.”

“One last thing. When you’re done, I need to meet up with you. I have something I need your help with. Delicate matter.” The words come out with a guilty twang.

“Sure. Is something wrong?”

“No. Call me when you’re done. Meet at the bookstore.” Anton hangs up, leaving Nick to search for his jacket. The bathroom door opens, letting out some whisps of steam.

“I hung it at the entrance.” Natalia emerges with only a towel on her head. She gets dressed in her jeans, shirt, and kerchief.

“My gun too?” She nods. Nick pats his pockets. “You know, I could come back after I’m done.” Nick throws it out there. He stands up, letting Natalia get a better look at him in the dim lamp-light. His back is adorned with painful patterns. Some are pink and fractal-like, others are long and shallow, running down his side and along his spine. Soft and fleshy ones from the deeper stab wounds dot his sides. One of them is a radial collection of tiny, needle-like tooth marks. If Nick’s skin were a work of art, it wouldn’t be a very good one. The patterns clash. Tree-like Lichtenberg figures are interrupted by illogical bite marks, the origin of which Nick could not remember. Natalia studies each scar, trying to gauge how much each one hurts. Imagining Nick living through each of those injuries is its own type of pain for her. She has asked him about them many times in the past, and each time he changed the subject.

“I’ll be sleeping.” She says.

“And if you’re not?” Nick asks, putting his shirt on.

“If I’m not, give me a call.” She answers with her back turned to him, applying cream to her arms and legs.

A silence falls on the room. “Nat, are we cool?” Nick asks before monitoring the back of her head. She turns around to look at him and forces a smile.

“Let me give you a reading.”

“You know how much I hate fortunes,” Nick says.

Downstairs, with thirty minutes before opening time, Natalia sits Nick at the same chair where “-so many other chumps waste their hard-earned money.” As Nick says.

Natalia stares him down, “You’re about to go kill mermaids in Brooklyn.” Natalia is one of the few privileged people Nick has felt at ease with, so much so that sharing details of his ridiculous line of work comes naturally. After an assignment, Nick usually finds himself in Natalia’s bed, telling her about the monster he had to kill. He has not, however, had the heart to tell her that he is no longer an official member of the PNCD and has not been for nearly two years. Confessing that he’s on death row and actively pushing back his own execution does not make for good pillow talk. Their time together has stretched to such a point that the idea of sharing feels redundant.

“Rusalki don’t have fish tails.” Nick jokes. Natalia finishes getting ready and kisses him on the crown of his head. “Let’s get this over with.”

She sits down and looks at him. “Would you like a specific question answered?”

“Any question?”

“Any question.” She answers. Nick thinks for a bit, questioning what he is even curious about in this dead-end life of his. He thinks of Sandu, and how she might view him if he asks the question he actually wants answered. So he lies.

“Will I finally get promoted soon?” He asks, his voice like melting wax. This foundational lie at the beginning, Nick hopes, will reveal tarot readings for the sham they are. He scratches his head and frets at her lack of immediate response. When Natalia thinks Nick is not looking, the corners of her lips curve downward. She feels his hand, the grooves of the hands that held her moments ago. She looks at his dark hair and tired green eyes.

She smiles flatly, shuffling the deck. “I’ve been waiting for you to let me do this for weeks.”

“It’s your lucky day, then.” Nick jokes.

Natalia shakes her head, setting the first card down. “The Fool. Reversed.” The image of a blonde man with a lyre hangs bat-like in front of Nick.

“How nice.”

“Shhh… The Fool tells us you are standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying, but you’re too afraid to leap. You cling to what you know. You are encouraged to take a step back and look ahead before it is too late to change anything. The risks you do take are reckless and come from a place of self-betrayal. You must ask yourself: who am I and what do I want?”

The next card is revealed.

“The Hanged Man. Reversed.” The card appears to Nick as a man, right side up, simply standing on an upside-down crucifix. From this perspective, the man looks like he isn’t in any trouble. “You’re bound, caught in a web of your own making. This is a transitory state of being. You feel as though there are things that require your all, but give you very little in return. This is a good card to draw, however. This means there is change. Great change, coming your way soon. It will require more than you think you can give. You will need to let go of things that no longer serve you. If you want to break free, you’ll have to surrender. Sacrifice something. Something precious.” She licks her lips and continues.

“Death -“

“Super.”

Natalia ignores him, “Death Upright represents endings and beginnings. Some endings are beginnings in disguise, space for rebirth. The price of change is always steep, but the alternative is much worse. This also signals that a career change is fast approaching. It might not be what you expect or even want initially, but the cards foresee that you will leave an unfulfilling position and move towards something you see as your calling. You may have to adapt to financial loss, upheaval in your worldview, and a general chaos in your life.” Natalia breathes, feeling a heaviness, like a tribe of elephants has taken up residence between her ears.

She feels Nick’s fate, but does not see it the exact shape of it. It is a fate full of hardship, violence, and madness. Natalia thinks to how her and Nick met, to the night that she reported one of her clients missing to the police. She described to the dismissive officers the situation, after which she was promptly contacted by the PNCD and told someone would be over. Soon thereafter, a handsome and unkempt man darkened her door. He did not look like the government type.

Nick asked her questions about the missing client. They spoke about music and history, about Moldova and what little Natalia remembers of her time there. Natalia offered him tea, but he politely declined. They went on to speak of Nick’s occupation and she could tell he was trying not to embarrass himself when describing the nature of his work, which she found cute. After determining that the man was taken by a Jorōgumo, a woman-spider hybrid from Japanese myth, Nick left for a few hours. He came back, with a a split lip, trembling hands, and smelling of gun-smoke. He had a wild look in his eyes as he asked her about that cup of tea. Ever since then, he would come to her come early morning. Their near-nightly ritual of holding eachother under the covers, his head pressing against her chest as he falls asleep, has become strangely comforting for her as it has for him. When she holds his sleeping head in her arms, she wants to catch all of his bad dreams, to remove all pain from him. She imagines what kind of life this man had led. What conditions led to him becoming this man who lied in her arms?

She continues speaking after some thought. “The combination of cards signals that you must embrace what is coming, without panic. You must shed what you are in exchange for who you are meant to be.” The fourth card is placed on the dark wood table.

“The Tower. Upright. It represents an upset in the order. Upheaval. The foundations you lean upon will crumble. People may surprise you. You’ll lose what you’ve built. It will leave you exposed. Relationships that you thought were either irreplaceable or completely irrelevant will shift, revealing harsh truths.” Nick smiles at Natalia, thinking how beautiful she looks when she’s working.

“The Moon. Reversed.” A crescent shining in the night sky is revealed. “There are lies you believe, things hidden beyond earthly perception. You’ve been living in half-truths for so long, you’ve forgotten what the light looks like. To survive, you’ll need a light. And nothing compares to the blistering light of the truth.” She closes her eyes and exhales before placing the final card.

“Judgement. Upright” A blonde, Apollonian figure sternly blows a horn at naked people, praying to it like a god. “This card shows the past isn’t done with you yet. Self-reflection is of the utmost importance. Soon you will be weighed, measured, and judged. What you do next will define the rest of your life. Or end it.” She finishes and takes a breath.

“You understand what I have outlined? The future that is waiting for you? These are as much a warning as they are a guideline. All of these cards point in only one direction. Not back or around the problem, but through it.”

“How spooky,” Nick says flippantly. “Same time next week?” He gets out of the chair, amused at the little parlor trick put on by his lady friend.

“No, Nick.” Sandu picks at her cuticle. “Tonight was the last time.” Nick stops in the doorway.

“What?” He laughs.

“You’re going to die. Neither of us can stop it. This started as something we both thought to be purely physical, but… I am beginning to—” Natalia has so many ways of ending that sentence. She is beginning a lot of things. Lose hope, feel something towards Nick, like this could go somewhere. These feelings make the future all the more bitter. She wishes she could change his fortune, to tell him, like a parent reaching out to redirect the child’s destiny.

Nick puts up a hand. Indeed, the past few months have been fun. Nick figures now is as good a time as any. This one lasted longer than the others, anyway.

“I’ll stop you right there. Gonna save us both some time.” His facial expression shifts like quicksand. Something begins boiling in his chest and throat. “It was fun while it lasted.” He can see Natalia’s lip quivering. “Take care of yourself.” He says. Nick knew this would happen eventually. She’s just like the rest, couldn’t leave well-enough alone. Her care for him is selfish. He did not ask her to care. Her caring is not some altruistic pure force that can help him. If she really wanted to help, she wouldn’t do this to him, she would accept this situation as is and give him what little comfort he asked.

Nick zips up his jacket and leaves to the sound of a bell. Natalia remembers what Nick told her hours ago under the covers. Something he told her stays between them. His tone and tired voice ring in her head, causing a warm trail of tears down her cheeks.

After a few missed calls, Nick texts Liv: ‘We’re on the clock. Get ready.’

In an East Harlem apartment, Liv Rivera stares at her vibrating phone while already on another call. She declines and texts ‘5 min.’

“Livy! You there?” Alyssa Rivera asks over the phone.

“Yeah, mama, I’m here.”

“When are you done at the hospital? Why do you feel the need to work these late shifts constantly?”

“Mama, I told you that I don’t decide these things. We need to reschedule dinner.”

“No me importa, Livy, I just want you to get home safe. Your apartment is far from the hospital.” Liv calms her mother down as best she can, eventually tiring her out with small talk.

“So… Meet any cute doctors there?” Her mother asks. Liv smiles darkly to herself, imagining her one and only coworker at her real job. Nick’s skeletal face is probably handsome to someone like her mother, who would likely equate him to some obscure celebrity.

“I don’t know, Mom. The residents mostly lecture us and act like jerks.” Liv’s nails dig into her forearm. She receives a text message from ‘Nick Romeo.’ It reads: ‘Pick you up in 20. Stop ignoring my calls.’ Liv looks at the message and interrupts her mother. “Mama, could you also tell Miggy to stop ignoring my calls? I get he’s a moody teenager, but this is becoming ridiculous.”

“Sure, if I ever get him to stay for dinner.” She says before changing the topic. “You know, I’m always bragging to all my coworkers at the hotel. About how my daughter’s a big shot doctor, saving lives.” A moment of honest silence escapes Liv.

“Thanks, mama. It’s all thanks to you.” The conversation finishes with a quaint goodbye, and Liv is left alone in her studio. Sirens echo from outside and light leaks in from below. She looks up at her wall, above her bed, is a picture of her with her mother and Miguel from when he was nine. Liv wishes she could have her annoying little brother back for one day. Liv also wishes her mother could just find out without telling her.

She turns to look at her corkboard. Around a bunch of yellow sticky notes from med school that Liv should throw away, hangs a portrait. Liv finds herself under the gaze of Lieutenant Rivera’s service portrait. Jose ‘Bishop’ Rivera was known in the precinct as the guy with the cutest daughter, crazy about her old man. The same photo was used for his funeral. “Don’t look at me like that.” Liv pleads. Next to the portrait is a photo of her and him hugging in front of a Yellowstone geyser. She kisses two fingers and presses them to the portrait. She grabs his police badge from her table and puts it in her jacket pocket before leaving.