Chapter 3 — Pack Your Bags

  Allen stood on the stoop, foot tapping erratically against a worn and faded ‘welcome’ mat. He glanced at his watch like it had personally betrayed him. This was far from his first encounter with the local tinkerer, and despite his impatience, waits like this were pretty par for the course.

  THUD THUD THUD.

  “Damn it Georgy — open the door! It’s fuckin’ cold out here!”

  Muted grumbling filtered through the apartment door, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of bare feet and morning resentment.

  “..for the love of , Dessel it’s nine in the ” Georgy barked as something metallic clacked behind the door.

  A pause.

  “shitGeorgy muttered — apparently having forgotten the deadbolt — followed by more muted fumbling. The door finally swung open, revealing a groggy, half-dressed mess of a man, swaddled in a fluffy down comforter like a toddler who couldn’t untangle itself from the bedding and gave up mid-exit.

  Allen blew past him into the warm apartment, offering no greeting — though he couldn’t quite stop the withering glare that slipped through, partially obscured by his hands as he attempted to breathe warmth back into his fingers.

  “Hey, hey, hey — ever heard of manners?” Georgy shot, irritated, as he slammed the door shut and turned to find Allen holding his hands close to the radiator.

  Ignoring the jibe, Allen shot back over his shoulder, “What’s the point of a key if you’re just going to throw the deadbolt anyway, you ass?”

  “What, you want me to trust my safety to measly little lock?” Georgy said with mock incredulity. “In part of town?” he gestured vaguely around him with a hand jutting from the clutch of downy-comfort.

  Georgy shuffled past him, blanket trailing like a bedtime crusader, and started rummaging through the detritus piled up on his cluttered desk.

  “You’re lucky I was up when you called or I would’ve made you wait ‘til tomorrow,” he said, rifling through a bin full of leather fold wallets.

  Georgy grumbled under his breath as he withdrew the item Allen had come for.

  Holding it up like the holy grail, Georgy gestured to Allen’s brand new R.U.C. badge with reverence.

  Allen snatched it without ceremony and inspected it with a frown.

  “The shield’s crooked…” he said, almost in disbelief.

  Unfazed by the irreverence, Georgy nodded as he turned for the doorway to the kitchen.

  “I thought the same thing,” he agreed, mind already on the coffee pot.

  As Allen continued scrutinizing his new credentials, the clatter and clamor of Georgy putting himself together echoed through the kitchen doorway.

  “You got those feathers in yet by the way?” Georgy called. “That dream-catcher kid’s been beatin’ down my door lately,”

  Walking back into the den — now without the blanket, but with two mugs in hand — he passed one to Allen as he finished, “Something that’s been happening an lot lately,” Georgy added, casting an accusatory glare.

  “Sorry, Georgy,” Allen replied, gratefully accepting the coffee — not for the drink itself but rather as something that might finally thaw his fingers.

  “Picked up a case this morning, and Mrs. Drewniany’s gonna come down on me about rent today. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Dropping into the armchair with a and a splash, — — Georgy nodded along as Allen explained himself. “Fresh case, eh? Where about?” he asked, with the barest glimmer of interest.

  “West side of Hollow Glen, near that old bridge,” Allen said nonchalantly — though Georgy was quick to read between the lines.

  “Ah, so old-magic shit,” he muttered.

  Allen nodded. “Yes and no,”

  taking a seat on the couch, he continued, “All signs seem to point to a pimp nest.” he said matter-of-factly.

  “...Pardon?” Georgy blinked, head cocked, confusion written all over his face.

  Chuckling at the misunderstanding, Allen clarified, “P. M. P. — Passive Manifestation Parasite. Given how close it is to Cathexis I’m guessing a student accidentally let a couple through in a practice ritual or something.”

  “Ah, fuckin’ Crest Kids,” Georgy nodded, annoyed on Allen’s behalf.

  “Hopefully,” Allen agreed. “Four official disappearances — a blend of suit and civvy — and a slew of additional missing persons says it’s gonna piss me off, whatever it is.”

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  “Well, best of luck to ya,” Georgy closed the topic with aplomb. “Oh and before you go…”

  he stood and made for the urn sitting on his mantle. From it, he withdrew a small wad of cash and passed it to Allen matter-of-factly.

  “Your cut from that ritual circle debugging,” he explained at Allens confused glance.

  Allen did a quick count and frowned. “There’s an extra hundred bucks here, mate,” he said, withdrawing and offering the aforementioned bill.

  “Keep it. Turned out your part was the lionshare of the issue anyways,” Georgy said, waving him off. “Give it to old lady Drewniany.”

  “You sure..?” Allen asked, skeptical — catching a whiff of unwelcome charity, “I just fixed the inner circle. You had the whole outer ring—”

  “Yeah, I’ll show you later,” Georgy cut in. “But once you un-fucked that, all I had to do was flip the power conduit channel.”

  Still suspicious but unable to challenge what sounded like a legitimate story, Allen relented.

  “Alright…” he said slowly. “I got those feathers, by the way — came in a bigger batch than expected, so I’ll just pass you the whole wad later,” Allen added pettily.

  Sighing in realization, Georgy accepted the reverse-charity. “Alright Dessel, thanks a bunch, now get the fuck out.” he said, waving him toward the door. “Got a lotta sleep to catch up on and all that.”

  “Sure, sure, you lazy bum. Thanks for the badge,” Allen called over his shoulder.

  “Feels like I should be apologizing for that actually,” Georgy replied dryly.

  Allen laughed as the door slammed shut behind him.

  —

  Allen muttered, mentally ticking through his loadout for the preliminary investigation.

  Upon realizing he was out, he ambled over to his shoddy crafting table and began drawing small rune circles on a few Bicycle playing cards using some home-brewed ink.

  He was out of squid ink, so the usual vodka-special wouldn’t do.

  Leaning on his days in the alchemy lab, he substituted with a splash of his own blood — carelessly blended with the lifeblood of a beheaded ballpoint pen, gently-used re-ground folgers paste, and a dash of cumin.

  Eyeing the mix critically, Allen shrugged and threw the vodka in anyway for good measure.

  It was a far-cry from the good stuff, but for something as minor as these parasites, these MacGyver’d trap cards would do just fine — at least until he could punt the little bastards back to their home realms.

  He slid the cards into protective collectors sleeves, then turned to the makeshift attunement clamp humming softly on his bench. A freshly crafted cylinder rested in its grip, still warm from the final rune press. Allen hovered over it, uncertain.

  The revolver — revolver — was Allen’s proudest invention. Clunky, heavy, probably illegal, and absolutely irreplaceable. He’d built it from the rusted corpse of a cast-metal cap gun from the 1940’s — a bargain bin find that most people wouldn’t bother stealing. It wouldn’t shoot bullets. He didn’t need it to.

  The first real breakthrough came during his university days — back when lab materials were free and deadlines were just threats. He’d fought tooth and nail with cylinder design until he finally stumbled upon the faithful “brass ‘n’ glass” build: an all-brass cylinder with reinforced, etched-glass chambers. It didn’t do much — barely the magical equivalent of a .22 — but it was stable, reliable, and damn-near indestructible. That first cylinder found a permanent home in the original frame. A relic now — preserved, revered, taken out of its display case on the wall.

  After trying and failing to find another toy gun with the same weight and charm, Allen had eventually settled on an ancient Colt Police Positive. Ironically, the real revolver held up worse than the toy — though, to be fair, it was the field-testing workhorse. The sacrificial lamb of magical science.

  The revolver itself was already in its holster, a standard replica Brass ‘n’ glass — or BnG

  The shitkicker on the bench, though? That was

  This one had seen fire — quite literally. Allen had been experimenting with synthetic rubies as focus mediums for fire spells. The latest trial hadn’t melted the gun's muzzle — — which, given his testing record, qualified as success.

  He was pretty confident he wouldn’t need it today, but if things got weird enough to need fire… well, ‘better to have and not need,’ as Ms. Petrovich always said.

  Allen thought as pounding came at his door. He’d suspected this moment was coming, but no amount of mental prep could have prepared him for live-fire.

  “ALLEN!” Mrs. Drewniany shouted through the door, “I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE ALLEN — OPEN UP!”

  Bashfully trotting to the door, Allen readied himself for the litany he was about to face. He opened it with a winning smile.

  “Mrs. Drewniany! You look spect—”

  “SAVE IT Allen!” she snapped. “Three months,” she leaned in for emphasis, “THREE MONTHS without rent! What am I supposed to do, eh?” Then she launched into a tirade with the force and cadence of a disgruntled drill sergeant.

  Allen nodded along like a paddled schoolboy, hoping this was as cathartic for her as it was stressful for him.

  “...LAST Warning David! I won’t—”

  “Ah — Mrs. Drewniany, it’s Allen, David moved to the coast last year, remember?” Allen said helpfully. It was a stroke of great fortune that she’d slipped up. Nothing quite derailed Mrs. Drewniany like being reminded of her fear of Alzheimers.

  It was just a spot of phobia really — her mind was a steel trap once she latched onto something— but she had a bad habit of mixing up names in the heat of the moment. Those who knew her had learned to use it as a kind of soft reset button.

  “What? No, I said Allen… Didn’t I?” she asked, suddenly uncertain, the wind knocked from her sails.

  “Yes, most of the time ma’am — it just slipped in once or twice,” Allen reassured her, seizing the momentum.

  “But on a lighter note — here you are ma’am,” He quickly pressed a wad of cash into her hands.

  “I know it’s not the total amount, but I just got promoted last night, and I’m wrapping a case today — so I should have the rest real soon!” he urged, praying she’d take the bait.

  “Promoted? What promoted — that Georgy boy give you something new to work on?” she asked, puzzled.

  “No ma’am, I’m contracting for the government now.” He flashed the badge. “Got a badge and everything, see?”

  Fortunately, the badge's primary function was to magically lend legitimacy — and Mrs. Drewniany took it at face value.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful dear — marvelous!” she beamed,

  “You’ll have the rest soon then? You know I don’t like to come down on you, you’re a good boy, but I—”

  “I know, Mrs. Drewniany. I know,” Allen said, gently cutting in.

  “And I understand completely. I’m sorry for putting you in this position, but I’m getting things all ironed out now — this’ll all be behind me soon.”

  “Excellent,” she said, visibly cheered. “Splendid. Well then, have fun on your case, deary. And do please slip the rest under my door if I’m out when you come by.”

  “Of course ma’am, if not tonight, then tomorrow,” Allen said, sliding in a soft deadline extension and praying she wouldn’t call him on it.

  She didn’t.

  Leaning against the closed door, Allen wondered just how he was going to manage to come up with the rest of the cash by tomorrow — because this case sure as hell wasn’t gonna cover it.

  .