Welcome to Glimmnerport, a city that runs on scheduled emotions and synth-coffee. This exciting detective tale drops you right into the thick of it when the city’s most crucial piece of tech goes missing. Follow Jax, a private investigator who prefers his moods unregulated, as he navigates bureaucratic absurdity and shadowy figures to retrieve the stolen Mood Regulator. It’s a fast-paced journey through neon-drenched streets and murky secrets, where finding the truth is as tricky as finding decent coffee.
Chapter 1: The Wrong Kind of Quiet
Jax hated mornings. Especially mornings in Glimmnerport. The city usually woke up with a carefully curated wave of Optimism (Grade 3). Today, it felt like… nothing. A dull, grey apathy hung in the air. It was wrong.
His comm-unit buzzed. A harsh, insistent noise. Jax ignored it. It buzzed again. He sighed, rolling out of his narrow sleep-cot. The tiny apartment smelled faintly of stale synth-noodles and regret.
He slapped the comm-unit. “Jax here. Make it quick.”
“Detective Jax?” The voice was frantic, official. Bureaucrat, definitely. Probably mid-level anxiety. “Director Nimbus needs you. Civic Center. Priority Omega.”
Priority Omega. That was new. Usually, things topped out at Priority Gamma, which meant someone spilled coffee on an important form. “What’s the crisis?” Jax asked, pulling on his least-stained trench coat.
“It’s… gone,” the voice quavered.
“What’s gone? Be specific. Lost stapler? Missing motivational poster?”
“The Regulator! The Official Mood Regulator! It’s gone!”
Jax paused. That explained the city’s emotional flatline. The Regulator broadcast the daily approved feelings. Without it, people were left with… well, whatever they actually felt. A terrifying prospect for Glimmnerport officials.
“On my way,” Jax grumbled. This case already smelled like overtime and bad synth-coffee. He grabbed his hat. Outside, the usual cheerful commuters shuffled along like zombies. A few were crying softly. One person was trying, unsuccessfully, to start a spontaneous street brawl. Chaos. Beautiful, unregulated chaos. Jax almost smiled. Almost.
He flagged down an auto-cab. The automated driver sounded unusually monotone. “Destination?”
“Civic Center. And step on it. Before someone realizes they actually hate their job.”
The cab zipped into the sluggish traffic. Glimmnerport’s bizarre skyline loomed – towers shaped like teacups, buildings covered in blinking advertisements for synthetic emotions. Today, the ads seemed mocking. ‘Buy Genuine Joy!’ flickered one sign, illuminating a man slumped against a lamppost, sobbing.
This was going to be a long day.
Chapter 2: The Empty Pedestal
The Civic Center buzzed with a low-grade panic usually reserved for tax audits. Officials scurried about, whispering in hushed, anxious tones. Director Nimbus, a man whose face seemed permanently molded into an expression of mild indigestion, met Jax at the entrance to the Regulator Chamber.
“Detective Jax. Thank goodness,” Nimbus wrung his hands. “It’s a catastrophe.”
Jax surveyed the room. It was large, circular, and sterile. In the center sat a large, empty pedestal. Wires dangled forlornly. Security guards looked nervous, fiddling with their perfectly polished stun-batons.
“When did it happen?” Jax asked, circling the pedestal. No obvious signs of forced entry. Clean job.
“Sometime between the Evening Serenity broadcast and the Morning Optimism cycle,” Nimbus said. “The guards noticed the… lack of optimism first. Then they checked the chamber.”
“Security logs?”
“Wiped. Cleanly. Professionally.” Nimbus gestured to a blinking console. “Our tech team is trying to recover fragments, but…”
Jax knelt, examining the floor near the pedestal. Faint scuff marks. Something heavy dragged? Or maybe clumsy feet. “Who had access?”
“Only Level Five personnel. Myself, Chief Engineer Bolt, and Curator Fimble.”
“Fimble?”
“Curator Aloysius Fimble. He oversees the Regulator’s… historical significance,” Nimbus said, as if slightly embarrassed. “Runs the little museum attached.”
Jax raised an eyebrow. A museum for a mood machine? Only in Glimmnerport. “Let’s talk to Fimble.”
Curator Fimble was dusting a display case containing ‘Early Prototypes of Public Calm (Model B)’ when they found him. He was a small, bird-like man with spectacles perched on his nose. He seemed utterly distraught.
“Gone? The Regulator? Oh, the historical resonance! The sheer civic presence!” Fimble fluttered his hands.
“Did you see anything unusual last night, Curator?” Jax asked, his voice flat.
“Unusual? Only the usual existential dread creeping in around 3 AM,” Fimble chirped. “But nothing related to… this! Although…”
“Although?” Jax prompted.
“A delivery drone went off course near the service entrance around midnight. Made a terrible racket. Security shooed it away. Said it was carrying… plumbing supplies?”
Plumbing supplies. At midnight. Near the Regulator Chamber. Jax felt the first faint twitch of interest. “Show me the service entrance.”
Chapter 3: Down We Go
The service entrance was predictably grimy. It smelled of stale grease and desperation. A single security camera pointed vaguely towards a stained alleyway.
“Camera footage?” Jax asked the nervous guard stationed there.
The guard shrugged. “Static around midnight. Same time the drone showed up. Techs say it was atmospheric interference.”
Jax snorted. Atmospheric interference. Right. More like localized jamming. “The drone. Which way did it go after you shooed it?”
“Headed downwards,” the guard pointed towards a large ventilation grate set into the street. “Towards the Undercity access shafts.”
The Undercity. Glimmnerport’s forgotten basement. A maze of abandoned tunnels, decommissioned transit lines, and shadowy settlements where regulations were suggestions and moods were definitely not regulated.
“Right,” Jax said. “Nimbus, get your techs working on that drone’s registration. If it exists. Fimble, stay put and try not to dust anything crucial.”
He turned towards the grate. It looked heavy. And dirty. Very dirty. Jax sighed. He hated the Undercity. It played havoc with his allergies. And his patience.
He found a maintenance ladder descending into the darkness below the grate. The air grew thicker, damper, smelling of mildew and something vaguely chemical. He switched on his shoulder-lamp. The beam cut through the oppressive gloom, revealing dripping pipes and graffiti-scarred walls.
Down here, the city’s forced cheerfulness was a distant memory. Sounds echoed strangely – the drip of water, the scuttling of unseen things, distant, muffled shouts. Jax moved cautiously, his hand near the compact stunner holstered under his coat.
He followed the main tunnel, looking for drone parts, oil slicks, anything out of place. After ten minutes, he found something. A small, metallic shard, lodged in a crack in the tunnel floor. It glinted in his lamp beam. Part of a drone casing? Maybe.
Further on, the tunnel opened into a wider space, an old subway platform. Dim lights flickered overhead. Shapes moved in the shadows. Figures huddled around makeshift fires. This was the edge of the inhabited Undercity.
Someone detached themselves from the shadows. A tall figure wrapped in rags, face obscured by a heavy cowl. “Lost, Topsider?” the voice rasped.
“Looking for information,” Jax said, keeping his tone level. “About a drone. Carrying unusual cargo. Came down here last night.”
The figure chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Information costs. Down here, everything costs.”
Jax produced a few low-denomination credit chits. “How much?”
“More than that,” the figure gestured towards a darker archway. “Talk to Griz. He sees things. Hears things. But Griz… Griz has peculiar tastes.”
Jax pocketed the chits. Peculiar tastes. This was getting better and better.
Chapter 4: Griz and the Glimmer
Griz’s place wasn’t hard to find. You just followed the smell of burnt sugar and ozone. It was a small alcove off a side tunnel, crammed with blinking, sparking junk. Wires snaked everywhere. In the center sat Griz, a large, lumpy man fused with what looked like an old dentist’s chair and several outdated communication consoles. Lights blinked on his forehead.
“Griz hears you approach,” a synthesized voice crackled from a speaker on the chair’s armrest. Griz himself didn’t move, his eyes staring blankly ahead.
“I’m looking for information,” Jax said, staying near the entrance. The air hummed with stray electricity.
“Information is data. Data has value. What value do you offer Griz?” the synth-voice asked.
“Depends on the data,” Jax replied. “Looking for a drone. Heavy-lift model. Came down here last night around midnight. Might have been carrying something… sensitive.”
Sparks jumped between two terminals near Griz’s head. “Drone. Yes. Griz registered its passage. Irregular flight path. Non-standard cargo signature. Weighty.”
“Cargo signature?”
“Emotional resonance,” the synth-voice stated. “Faint. Muffled. But… significant. Like a bottled sigh. Or concentrated boredom.”
The Mood Regulator. Smuggled out via drone, shielded somehow, but still giving off a faint ’emotional’ trace that Griz’s bizarre setup could detect.
“Who was controlling it? Where did it go?” Jax pressed.
“Control signal originated Topsider. Destination… deeper. Sector 7G. Known marketplace.” The lights on Griz’s forehead flickered faster. “Value required now. Griz requires… sensory input.”
“What kind of input?” Jax asked warily.
“Novelty. Griz craves novelty. Tell Griz… a joke.”
Jax blinked. A joke? He was a detective, not a stand-up comedian. His mind raced. He couldn’t think of a single joke. His life wasn’t exactly a laugh riot.
“Why did the robot cross the road?” Jax said, dredging up a classic.
“Insufficient data,” the synth-voice replied instantly.
“To get to the other side?”
“Obvious. Lacks novelty. Try again. Failure risks… data corruption.” A low hum started to build in the alcove.
Jax panicked slightly. “Okay, okay. Uh… What do you call a fish with no eyes?”
A pause. The humming intensified. “Processing… Fssshhhh?”
“Exactly!” Jax almost shouted in relief.
The humming stopped. The lights on Griz’s head stabilized. “Acceptable novelty detected. Data logged. Drone proceeded to Sector 7G. Black market bazaar run by Fingers Malloy. Beware Fingers. He counts everything.”
“Thanks, Griz,” Jax said, backing away slowly. Talking to a half-machine informant who demanded jokes was definitely a new career low. Or maybe high? It was hard to tell in Glimmnerport.
Sector 7G. Time to visit Mr. Fingers Malloy.
Chapter 5: Fingers and a Fracas
Sector 7G smelled worse than Griz’s alcove. It smelled like damp concrete, desperation, and fried mystery meat. The bazaar was a sprawling, dimly lit cavern filled with stalls selling everything from suspiciously glowing fungi to ‘slightly used’ cybernetic limbs.
Jax kept his head down, navigating the crowds of Undercity dwellers. He spotted a stall larger than the others, guarded by two individuals who looked like they used girders as toothpicks. A flickering neon sign above it read: “Fingers’ Finds – Fair Prices (Mostly)”.
Jax approached cautiously. Behind a counter piled high with dubious tech sat Fingers Malloy. He was surprisingly small, with darting eyes and, true to his name, exceptionally long, thin fingers that constantly tapped, sorted, and counted unseen objects.
“Help you?” Fingers asked without looking up, his voice like rocks grinding together.
“Looking for something specific,” Jax said. “Came in last night. Heavy drone delivery.”
Fingers’ hands paused for a fraction of a second. He looked up, his eyes sharp. “Lots of deliveries. Lots of drones. Gotta be more specific.”
“Carried something… emotionally significant,” Jax said, echoing Griz’s description.
Fingers leaned back, steepling his long fingers. “Ah. The Big Sad. Or maybe the Concentrated Calm? Heard whispers. Very hush-hush. Very… expensive.”
“Who bought it?”
“Not my place to say,” Fingers smirked. “Client confidentiality. Sacred trust. Unless…”
“Unless?” Jax sighed, reaching for his credit chit reader.
“Unless a significant administrative fee is paid,” Fingers finished, his eyes gleaming.
Before Jax could negotiate, a commotion erupted at the edge of the bazaar. Shouts, crashes, the sound of running feet. Figures in dark uniforms – City Enforcement Patrols. Down here? They rarely bothered.
“Raid!” someone yelled.
The bazaar dissolved into chaos. Stalls overturned, people scattered. Fingers Malloy cursed, scooping valuables into a hidden compartment under his counter. His two large guards moved to block the entrance.
Jax saw his chance. While everyone was distracted, he vaulted over the counter. Fingers yelped in surprise. Jax grabbed the front of Fingers’ grubby tunic.
“The buyer! Name!” Jax demanded, shaking him slightly.
“Alright, alright!” Fingers squeaked, eyes wide with fear as the sounds of the raid grew closer. “Collector! Calls himself ‘The Curator of Curiosities’! Lives up top! Apex Tower! Penthouse!”
Heavy footsteps pounded towards the stall. Jax shoved Fingers back, grabbed a small data chip Fingers had dropped in the panic, and ducked out the back of the stall just as two heavily armed Enforcement officers burst in the front.
He melted into the fleeing crowd, heading for the nearest access tunnel back to the surface. Apex Tower. Penthouse. The Curator of Curiosities. Things were looking up. Literally.
Chapter 6: Apex and Absurdity
Apex Tower scraped the perpetually overcast sky of Glimmnerport like an insult. It was all sleek lines, shimmering chrome, and intimidatingly discreet security. The kind of place where your bank balance was checked before the elevator door opened.
Jax stood across the street, watching the entrance. Guards in crisp, unmarked uniforms stood impassively. No obvious way in for a gumshoe detective smelling faintly of the Undercity. He checked the data chip he’d lifted from Fingers. It contained encrypted transaction logs. Maybe his contact in the Tech Crimes unit could slice it open.
His comm-unit buzzed. It was Nimbus. “Detective! Any progress? The city council is attempting synchronized worrying! It’s dreadful!”
“Got a lead,” Jax said. “A buyer. Calls himself the Curator of Curiosities. Lives in the Apex Tower penthouse.”
Silence. Then Nimbus spluttered. “Apex Tower? But that’s…! That’s Tiberius Klaxon’s residence!”
“Klaxon?”
“The tech mogul? Inventor of the Self-Stirring Teacup? Pioneer of Programmable Socks? Hugely wealthy, notoriously eccentric, hasn’t been seen in public for years!” Nimbus sounded horrified. “He collects… everything.”
“Seems he collected a Mood Regulator,” Jax said dryly. “Getting in won’t be easy.”
“Indeed! Security is legendary! Biometric scanners, laser grids, pressure plates, rumour has it even the carpets analyse your stress levels!”
Jax looked at the tower again. Legendary security. Eccentric billionaire. Stolen city-wide mood machine. This was escalating nicely. “I need schematics. Access codes. Anything you can dig up on Klaxon’s security. And his sock preferences, maybe.”
“I… I’ll see what strings I can pull, Detective. But Klaxon is very influential. Tread carefully.”
While Nimbus pulled strings (probably tangled ones), Jax found a nearby synth-coffee joint. The coffee was terrible, as expected, but it gave him time to think. Direct assault was out. Subterfuge was needed.
An idea sparked. Klaxon was a collector. Eccentric. Maybe he had peculiar staffing needs? Jax accessed the public network, searching for Apex Tower service job listings. Bingo. ‘Assistant Curator of Vintage Spoons’. Temporary position. High security clearance required. Duties: Polishing.
It was absurd. It was perfect.
He spent the next hour fabricating a resume for ‘Jaximus Sterling’, a connoisseur of antique cutlery with a passion for polishing. He submitted it through an anonymous portal, routing it through three different dummy corporations. It was a long shot.
Amazingly, half an hour later, his comm-unit chimed with an encrypted message. ‘Applicant Jaximus Sterling. Report to Apex Tower Service Entrance 0800 tomorrow. Bring own chamois cloth.’
Jax grinned. Sometimes, the universe had a sense of humour. Or maybe Tiberius Klaxon really, really needed his spoons polished.
Chapter 7: Polishing and Poking Around
The Apex Tower service entrance was less imposing than the front, but the security was just as tight. Scanners hummed, automated voices requested identification, and a small robot sprayed Jax with disinfectant. His fabricated ID passed. His ‘Jaximus Sterling’ persona held.
He was escorted by a silent guard to the ‘Curatorial Wing’, a section of the penthouse dedicated to Klaxon’s bizarre collections. Room after room of glass cases. One room held only sporks. Another, novelty corkscrews. Finally, the spoon room. It glittered.
“Mr. Klaxon insists on a daily polish,” the head curator, a prim woman named Cynthia, informed him. “Use only the approved ionic chamois. Start with the Apostle Spoons. And no dawdling.” She left him alone with several thousand spoons and strict instructions.
Jax picked up a chamois. This was his chance. While pretending to polish priceless (and slightly ridiculous) spoons, he could scout the layout, look for the Regulator.
He polished. He moved from case to case. Apostle Spoons. Grapefruit Spoons. Spoons with weird handles. He kept his eyes open. Security cameras were everywhere, but they seemed focused on the displays. He noted ventilation shafts, access panels disguised as modern art, strange humming sounds from behind certain walls.
After an hour of dedicated polishing, he ‘accidentally’ dropped his chamois near a promising-looking door marked ‘Atmospheric Control – Authorized Personnel Only’. As he bent to retrieve it, he palmed a small bypass device onto the electronic lock mechanism. It would take a few minutes to cycle through codes.
He moved to the next display case – ‘Spoons of Historical Regret’. He polished a particularly mournful-looking teaspoon. The lock clicked softly behind him. Success.
He glanced around. No guards in sight. Cynthia was probably off admiring the spork collection. He slipped through the door.
The corridor beyond was stark white, clinical. It hummed louder here. He followed the humming. It led to a large, circular chamber. In the center, bathed in soft blue light, sat the Official Mood Regulator. It looked surprisingly content, humming softly to itself.
Wires snaked from it, connected to a complex console nearby. Standing at the console, wearing silk pajamas and adjusting a dial, was a man with wild grey hair and manic eyes. Tiberius Klaxon.
“Ah, a visitor!” Klaxon chirped, not looking surprised. “Come to admire my latest acquisition? A fascinating piece of civic machinery. Terribly unsubtle, but effective.”
Jax stepped forward. “Mr. Klaxon. I’m here to return that to the city.”
Klaxon turned, beaming. “Return it? But I just got it! I’m calibrating it for… nuance.” He gestured at the console. “Instead of broadcasting ‘Optimism Grade 3’, imagine… ‘Vague Unease Regarding Tuesdays’? Or ‘A Persistent Feeling That You Left The Kettle On’?”
This man was dangerously eccentric. “The city needs it back, Klaxon.”
Klaxon waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. They rely on it too much. A crutch! I’m doing them a favor. A little unregulated chaos is good for the soul. Builds character! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to broadcast ‘Mild Irritation at Neighbor’s Wind Chimes’ across Sector 4.”
He reached for a large red button. Jax moved.
Chapter 8: Unregulated Confrontation
Jax lunged, not for Klaxon, but for the console. He slapped his hand over the big red button just as Klaxon’s finger descended.
“Hey! Unhand my nuance!” Klaxon protested, swatting at Jax’s arm.
For a billionaire tech genius, Klaxon wasn’t much of a fighter. Jax easily pushed him back. “This machine isn’t a toy, Klaxon.”
“Everything’s a toy if you’ve got enough money!” Klaxon retorted, regaining his balance. He clapped his hands twice. “Security! Intruder! Subdue gently!”
Jax braced himself. Laser grids? Trap doors? Attack robots disguised as vintage spoons?
Nothing happened.
Klaxon clapped again. “Security? Hello?” He tapped a small communicator on his wrist. “Sheldon? Problem in the Regulator room. Need some gentle subduing.” Static answered him.
Jax remembered the static on the Undercity camera feed. Klaxon hadn’t just stolen the Regulator; he’d likely disabled the security grid around it, maybe even parts of his own system, to get it in undetected. Hubris. Beautiful, idiotic hubris.
“Looks like your security is experiencing… technical difficulties,” Jax said.
Klaxon looked genuinely puzzled. “But… it’s state-of-the-art! Self-diagnosing! Probably just rebooting.” He brightened. “No matter! I have contingencies!”
He darted towards a display case on the far wall. It didn’t contain spoons. It contained a single, overly elaborate ray gun. It looked like something from a cheap sci-fi holodrama.
“Behold!” Klaxon declared, hefting the bulky weapon. “The Personal Disgruntlement Ray! Set to ‘Minor Annoyance’!” He pointed it at Jax.
Jax sighed. It was always ray guns. He dodged behind the Mood Regulator as Klaxon fired. A beam of sickly green light hit the wall, causing the paint to bubble and emit a low grumbling sound.
“Okay,” Jax muttered. “Maybe not just ‘Minor Annoyance’.”
He circled the Regulator, using it as cover. Klaxon, hampered by the ray gun’s size and his silk pajamas, wasn’t exactly agile.
“Give it up, Klaxon! You’ll hit your prize possession!” Jax yelled.
“A necessary sacrifice for unregulated expression!” Klaxon shouted back, firing another blast that ricocheted off the Regulator’s casing with a sad boing sound.
Jax needed to end this. He spotted a heavy wrench left near the Regulator’s base – probably used during Klaxon’s ‘calibration’. He grabbed it. Timing Klaxon’s next wild shot, Jax darted out, feinted left, then threw the wrench hard. Not at Klaxon, but at the ray gun.
The heavy wrench connected with the Disgruntlement Ray’s power cell. Sparks flew. The green light flickered violently. Klaxon yelped and dropped the weapon as it began to smoke and make alarming fizzing noises.
Jax tackled Klaxon. They went down in a heap of silk pajamas and worn trench coat.
Chapter 9: Wrapping Up (Loosely)
Subduing Klaxon wasn’t hard after the ray gun incident. He seemed more upset about his malfunctioning toy than being apprehended. Jax used Klaxon’s own designer bathrobe belt to tie his hands.
“You just don’t appreciate true artistry,” Klaxon mumbled as Jax hauled him to his feet. “Forcing happiness on people is… tacky.”
“Tell it to Director Nimbus,” Jax said, activating his own comm-unit. “Jax to Civic Center. Package secured. Location: Apex Tower Penthouse. Need retrieval and transport for one eccentric billionaire and one large mood machine.”
Nimbus sounded relieved, almost euphoric. “Excellent, Detective! Excellent! We’re scrambling Enforcement! We’ll handle Mr. Klaxon… delicately.”
Jax surveyed the room. The Regulator seemed unharmed, humming its neutral tune. The Disgruntlement Ray was now emitting small puffs of purple smoke. The spoons remained blissfully ignorant in their cases.
While waiting for Enforcement, Jax used Klaxon’s console (which was surprisingly user-friendly once you bypassed the ‘Experimental Moods’ interface) to check the Regulator’s status. It seemed intact. He even found the command to disable the localized security blackout Klaxon had initiated. Lights flickered back on in the corridor. His comm-unit immediately picked up a dozen missed messages from Nimbus, each more frantic than the last.
Klaxon sighed dramatically. “It would have been glorious. Imagine, an entire city feeling slightly perplexed for no discernible reason.”
“The city prefers discernible reasons for its perplexity,” Jax said. “Like why someone would steal the Mood Regulator in the first place.”
Enforcement arrived – armed, armoured, and looking slightly intimidated by the penthouse décor. They took Klaxon into custody with surprising gentleness. A specialized tech team arrived moments later to carefully prepare the Mood Regulator for transport back to the Civic Center.
Director Nimbus arrived personally, fluttering around the Regulator like a nervous hen. “Detective Jax! Your efficiency is… remarkable! The city owes you a debt!”
“Just pay my invoice,” Jax grunted.
Nimbus beamed. “Of course, of course! And perhaps a Civic Commendation?”
“No thanks,” Jax said. “Just want my evening back.” He looked at the Regulator being carefully wheeled out. Soon, Glimmnerport would be back to its scheduled emotions. Morning Optimism, Afternoon Diligence, Evening Serenity. Predictable. Safe. Boring.
A tiny part of him, the part that wasn’t allergic to the Undercity or annoyed by bureaucrats, almost agreed with Klaxon. A little unregulated chaos hadn’t been so bad. But only a very tiny part. Mostly, he just wanted a drink and silence that wasn’t enforced by a city-wide machine.
Chapter 10: Back to Normal (Ish)
By next morning, the Mood Regulator was back in its chamber, humming away. Glimmnerport woke up to a wave of perfectly calibrated Optimism (Grade 3, as scheduled). People smiled blankly at each other on their way to work. The crying man from yesterday was now cheerfully whistling. The street brawler was politely holding a door open. It was nauseatingly normal.
Jax sat in his office, nursing a lukewarm synth-coffee that tasted vaguely of disappointment. His invoice had been paid, promptly and in full, with a small bonus Nimbus probably hoped would keep him quiet about Klaxon’s ‘delicate’ handling. The news reports called it a ‘minor technical malfunction’, quickly rectified by diligent civic engineers. Klaxon’s name wasn’t mentioned. Rich people didn’t steal things; they ‘inappropriately acquired assets’.
His comm-unit buzzed. He ignored it. It buzzed again. Probably another lost pet or marital dispute filtered through Glimmnerport’s emotional haze. He wasn’t in the mood. His own, natural, unregulated mood.
He looked out the window. The city gleamed under the artificial cheerfulness. Safe. Orderly. Predictable. He missed the chaos of the Undercity bazaar. He missed Griz demanding jokes. He almost missed Klaxon’s insane plan to broadcast ‘Mild Irritation’. Almost.
The comm-unit buzzed a third time, more insistent. Jax sighed and answered. “Jax. What?”
“Got a weird one,” said the voice on the other end, a low-level contact in City Archives. “Remember that Curator Fimble? From the Regulator Museum?”
“Bird-like guy? Likes dusting?”
“Yeah. Him. He just filed a report. Says one of the ‘Early Prototypes of Public Calm (Model B)’ is missing from its display case.”
Jax paused. He pictured Fimble, fluttering nervously. He pictured the dusty museum. He pictured the chaos when the main Regulator went missing.
“Any leads?” Jax asked, a flicker of interest cutting through his grumpy mood.
“Just this,” the archivist said. “Security footage shows Fimble himself leaving the museum late last night. Carrying a bulky object wrapped in a polishing cloth.”
Jax leaned back in his chair. A small smile touched his lips. Unregulated chaos. It seemed infectious.
“Right,” Jax said, standing up and grabbing his trench coat. “On my way.”
Some cases just found you. Especially in Glimmnerport.
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