No News is Bad News

“If Justice is blind, it’s because someone tore its eyes out and left it for dead.”

— Erysa Vohr,

First Prophet of the First Order

***

Minutes before dawn, I woke, hollow with exhaustion and gnawing hunger. The sun dragged itself over the city, not in a blaze of color, but with a slow, disinterested crawl. It crept between rooftops, slinking down alleys and over streets where summer’s ghost lingered—thin and obstinate. It was that stubborn warmth, clinging like a memory that should’ve slipped away but wouldn’t, fighting the inevitable. There was a quiet conflict in the air, heat and cold wrestling like old enemies locked in a hopeless dance.

Tension settled into my bones, the last of the warmth curled around the earth like regret that refused to let go.

Slept like the dead —what a joke. I winced and dragged myself out of bed, feeling every stiff and aching muscle. That was a good sign; at least I could still feel. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed my fears—I looked like death warmed over, and not in the metaphorical sense.

I peeled off the tape; the gash in my neck and sides was gone, only remnants of the torn stitching remained. Cali’s help last night must have done the trick. Or was it the drink Murphy had made me? So many questions about this whole undead gig, and I needed answers fast if I wanted to avoid rotting, or worse.

Aylin’s memory lingered like a faint scent. I eyed the loose board in my room where Frank was hidden. I debated talking this whole thing over with him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It would make it all too real. I decided to leave Frank out of it for as long as possible. Besides, I managed without him for most of my life. I could handle this.

Instead, I grabbed a roll of thick silver coins from the hidden compartment in my nightstand and slipped them into my pocket. Favors, we called them. Off-market currency—the kind that didn’t exist on any ledger, spendable only in particular circles, for very particular things. I’d hoped to never touch them again. Favors didn’t come cheap, and they always cost more than you expected.

It was time to visit an old contact, Jeff “The Newsie” Brown. Put some feelers out for strange happenings and heightened demon activity. If anyone knew, it was The Newsie.

I grabbed a pair of dark sunglasses and a hat, pulling the brim low. It wouldn’t fool anyone up close, but it would keep the stares to a minimum. A scarf around my neck hid the more obvious decay. Passably human, I grabbed a cab and headed into the city.

The city sprawled—took an hour to cross on a good day, no traffic. But today? The traffic was a nightmare, way too brutal for that early in the morning.

For forty minutes, the cab jerked forward with spurts and stutters, like some wounded creature caught in a slow death march. Early bird pedestrians glided by, unconcerned, and soon we crept past them again—until the same faces reappeared. There was the mother with the stroller, pushing ahead again. Irritation gnawed at me. I paid my fare and stepped out, surrendering to the sidewalk. It’d be faster on foot.

The breeze, colder now, cut through me, sharp as a blade. Summer’s fight was futile. This was the beginning of the end, the first breath of the season’s death, quiet but certain.

The light had faded, drained of its former gold. It stretched thin over the city, pale and weary, casting shadows long and brittle, like echoes of something that was once alive but now simply... wasn’t. Trees held on to their leaves like gamblers with too little to lose, their final bets trembling on the branches. But the wind was patient, indifferent, pulling them down one by one, casting them aside to join the others already broken and scattered beneath my feet. There was a finality in the way they fell—an unspoken goodbye, not of sorrow, but inevitability.

With each step, the leaves didn’t crunch; they sighed underfoot, like a secret the earth was trying to share but I was too tired to hear. The warmth was slipping away with every breath, seeping out with each exhale. My breath fogged the air for a moment before the wind snatched it away, another piece of summer claimed by autumn’s grasp.

Everything was poised, balanced on that edge between what was gone and what was coming. The past was fading, and the uncertainty of tomorrow pressed in.

I tugged my collar tighter, but the chill sliced straight through, leaving me raw, as if I stood bare against the wind.

There was a brief period of calm before the rest of downtown woke up. I cherished it for a few peaceful minutes, enjoying the early birds, though there were too many of them. And then, like a clown with a pie, the city hit me with a slap in the face.

The noise was a living thing—horns blared, tires screeched, conversations blurred together into a buzz of chaos. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and joined the river of people flowing down the street. The sidewalk was uneven, cracked, like it’d seen better days.

The air smelled like exhaust and cheap food—hot dogs, maybe, or something fried that’d seen more grease than heat. My shoes hit the pavement in time with the rhythmic pulse of the city, every step bringing me closer to...well, nowhere really. I wasn’t in a rush. Not anymore.

Up ahead, a man was yelling into a payphone, face red, veins bulging at his neck like he was ready to burst. No one cared. People sidestepped him, like he was a pothole in their day, not worth acknowledging. He gave me a sideways glance, eyes wild, and I could feel the emptiness of his anger, like it was all for show.

The bustling streets were suffocating as I navigated through them, the living brushing past, blissfully unaware of the walking corpse in their midst.

It had been years since we’d talked; Jeff and I. He always had a knack for keeping low while running the show. Years back, he had a handful of newspaper stands dotted across the city. They hawked both holopapers and old-fashioned print—catering to those with Humanity levels too low for even basic modifications and the purists who still harbored a deep distrust of Enhancements.

The newsstand looked harmless enough—a relic of another time, its weathered frame and sagging canopy resisting the cold gleam of the witchlight lanterns overhead. Headlines pulsed across enchanted scrolls, their shifting runes flickering in defiance of the city’s grayscale monotony, a stubborn ember where no fire should be.

From a distance, it was another forgotten corner of the world. But step closer, and the air thickened, the scent of old ink and ozone sharpening into something unnatural. The arrangement was too precise, the glow too deliberate, the hum of latent magic vibrating just beneath perception. This wasn’t a place that merely sold news. It was watching. Waiting. And if you stood a while in silence, you’d get the distinct feeling that buying a paper was the least important transaction happening here.

Now I heard the Newsie had set up shop way up in Northern Goodrich—NoGo, the wealthier part of the New Amsterdam city districts, where the skyline gleamed and the streets bustled with quiet power. It was as busy as the south, but the crime here wore a suit and tie, deals inked over martinis instead of back-alley handshakes. In a city this sprawling, NoGo was a different country altogether. If Jeff was operating up there, he was playing a bigger game now. Seemed his little empire had grown into something far more dangerous—and a lot more refined.

I’d spotted him now and then over the years, lingering on the periphery, always just outside my new life. I tried to leave that world behind, but once you’ve seen it—once the curtain lifts and you catch the old man yanking the strings—the puppet show never quite looks the same. You can’t unsee the wires. And no matter how far you walked, it was always in the corner of your eye, waiting for you to look again.

The newsstand stood like a relic of another time, its weather-beaten frame and faded canopy defying the sleek glow of its digital holo displays. Headlines in flickering color danced in stark contrast to the grayscale monotony of the world around it, a beacon that shouldn’t be. From a distance, it seemed ordinary enough—a sagging canopy, weathered wood, and stacks of neatly arranged papers. But step closer, and the air shifted. The arrangement was too precise, the flickering light too deliberate.

The chipped counter bore the grime of years. An empty stool leaned against the stand, its vacancy a lie—unseen eyes trailing your every move. The smell of stale ink and lingering cigarette smoke hung thick, but underneath it was something sharper, electric, like the charged air before a deal you’d regret.

A flicker of static, a brief shimmer in the air—then Jeff materialized on the stool, a holo projection woven from illusion magic, its edges flickering faintly in the dim light.

His voice sliced through the quiet like a blade, sharp and dripping with familiar disdain. Greasy hair slicked back in a half-hearted attempt at charm only emphasized the receding hairline, his desperation clinging to him like cheap cologne.

“Well, if it isn’t the one and only,” he sneered, his image leaning forward, elbows resting on nonexistent knees, as if the projection itself carried his weight. The smirk tugging at his lips wasn’t friendly—it was the kind that promised trouble, the kind that made you check your pockets before you turned your back.

“Expanding north, are you, Jeff?” I asked, keeping my tone polite despite the contempt.

“Would appear that way,” he said.

“Thought you had ‘staff’ to run your stands nowadays. What are you doing out on the front line?”

“Oh, you know me,” he replied with a smug grin. “I like to keep my finger on the pulse. I go where the news is, Jackie boy.” He scanned the street before turning his beady eyes back to me with a dubious squint. “So, what brings you back to these parts? You back in the game?”

I gave a nonchalant wave of the hand. “Just passing through.”

Jeff wasn’t convinced. He eyed me up and down, sizing me up. I resisted the urge to smack him - he always loved to play games, act like he was somebody important. But now, after everything that’d happened, all I saw was a small-time con artist desperately trying to hold onto power in a dying city.

A wide, almost eerie grin spread across his face, revealing a glistening gold tooth that caught the sunlight and winked at me. Charming. “I heard you were working local. Trash man, they say. Chasing down local runts. Is that right? That ain’t no job for a man with your... talents.” His voice was oily and smooth, like an old hand at the used car lot, hawking lemons.

I clenched my jaw and fought to keep my composure.

“Work is work, Jeff.”

He squinted at me. “You know, you don’t look too good, Jackie. You sick or something?”

“Just tired. Long nights, you know how it is.”

He shrugged. His eyes glittered with greed as he got down to business. “Can I do anything special for you today?” He gave me a smile that stretched ear to ear but somehow never reached his cold, calculating eyes.

I mentally prepared myself, as if I were about to plunge my bare arm elbow-deep into a backed-up toilet, fingers digging through soggy clumps and slippery filth, fishing blind for whatever bloated horror blocked the drain. Only, that would have felt more dignified.

“Just looking for some news. Two questions.”

“Jackie, you’ve come to the right place. You remember the fee?” Jeff was slick and nearly as greasy as his hair.

I put two silver coins on the counter, each pressed with the symbol of the Midnight Council—a raven in front of the moon. His hand moved over them and they disappeared like an old magic trick from back before magic was real.

The city was heavier all of a sudden, the air thicker.

“One: The Rifts, they’ve been happening more lately.”

“Is that your question?” he asked.

“No, it’s a fact. My question is, what do you know about it?”

“You’re gonna need to get a little more specific than that,” he said. “I know a lot of things.”

“Any indication of the cause, Jeff? Why the increase?”

“Ah, now if that ain’t the million-dollar question, Jackie.” He set a silver coin back on the table. “Afraid that info’s been bought and locked.”

“So someone else was looking for that answer? What’s the release price?” I asked.

“More than you’ve ever had your hands on, even in your heyday.”

“How much, Jeff?”

“Fifty gold.”

Fifty gold Favors. Whoever wanted this knowledge wanted it to themselves. You could get a head of state whacked for less.

I took the silver Favor back, returned because he couldn’t provide the info. But that fact alone said a lot.

“Fine. Second question. A case a few weeks ago, Robert McGuffey, found in his study, surrounded by his own blood.”

“Yeah, I know it. A gruesome way to go.”

“He was involved in ‘collecting’.”

Jeff stared at me blankly, not giving anything away.

“Have you heard any whispers about him? Any talk along the grapevine about what actually happened?”

“I thought you retired from all this, Jackie. You’re asking a lot of questions for someone that’s retired.”

“I have, but this is personal. For a friend.”

His voice got louder, more polite and formal. “Anything else I can help you with, sir?” he asked.

Just then, a woman walked up with her daughter in tow. The little girl immediately spoke up, demanding a candy.

“You can have a sweet when we get home, Matilda,” the woman said, her tone firm but patient, before turning to purchase a holopaper update.

With a quick swipe over the glowing runes, the stand flickered to life—a pulse of arcane circuitry humming through the city’s wired bones. A shimmer of Grid Access crawled through her enhanced eyes, casting faint reflections like a neon sign caught in a puddle. The scroll twitched, ink unraveling and snapping back into place, headlines bleeding into existence. For a split second, shifting glyphs mirrored in her pupils, data scrolling past before vanishing entirely.

The little girl looked up at me. I smiled and lifted my hat slightly in a nod. Her eyes went wide and she hid behind her mother’s dress. Right, my face. I needed to get used to this.

Jeff’s voice suddenly took on a friendly and surprisingly light tone as he handed a free candy to the little girl with a robotic arm. “Here you go, little one. On the house.” She took it, and she and her mother disappeared down the street.

He swung back to face me.

I dug into my pocket, fishing out the small silver key. Its intricate filigree designs caught the morning light in mesmerizing patterns.

“That’s quite something,” Jeff remarked. I felt a sudden self-consciousness wash over me.

“Yeah, indeed it is. I think it’s connected to the death somehow. So, you got any dope on it?”

He thought for a long moment. “Is this a private inquiry, Jackie, or public?”

“What’s the cost difference?”

“Goes from silver to gold for private.”

“Christ man, inflation isn’t that bad.”

“Prices go up. Way it is.”

I didn’t have a gold coin. I spent most of my stock buying my way out of the game.

“It’ll have to be public, you little rat.”

Jeff smiled at me darkly.

“In that case, I can tell you two things. Firstly, it wasn’t no suicide, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.”

“And the second thing?”

“You aren’t the only one after that key’s mate, the little jewelry box.”

“Anything else? Can you tell me who is looking for it?”

“Afraid that’s all I got. If you like, leave the key with me. I’ll ask around a bit, no charge, for old times’ sake.” Jeff’s eyes glinted and the mechanical arm reached out.

“I’m thinking I’ll be fine holding onto it for now.” I tucked it back into my pocket.

“Suit yourself,” he said, pulling his hand back with a flourish. Jeff’s plastered grin faded, his expression turning serious. “Some free advice then—drop this one, Jack. Nothing’s worth the answers you’re looking for. You’re messing with fire here. If you keep poking around, some people might get the wrong impression. And you don’t have the same protections that you used to.”

I gave him a curt nod and swiped my hand across the payment holo. A flickering rune-etched holo-coin spun lazily in the air, glowing like it had something to prove, before vanishing into the register with a soft chime and a curl of digital smoke. Cute trick.

In its place, the “paper” materialized—parchment, or at least something doing a damn good impression of it—its ink swirling and shifting like it had second thoughts about settling. I grabbed it and stepped back into the city’s endless static hum, the witchlights overhead carving jagged neon edges into every uneven surface.

As I scrolled through the headlines under the erratic glow of a streetlamp, one snagged my attention: “ Crime Surges in New Amsterdam: Ruby Artifacts Sold to Museum Found to Be Forgeries. ”

Of course they were.

Jeff hadn’t been directly helpful, but in a roundabout way, he’d told me what I needed.

I knew that the now-confirmed murder of Mr. McGuffey was tied to the key and jewelry box, and thus to magic.

And that the rifts were speeding up, and someone powerful was behind it or at least trying to keep it a secret. I mulled over the list of players who could throw that kind of weight around. Couldn’t be Calico, could it? Maybe the Council itself?

I wouldn’t put it past those sniveling, power-hungry bastards. They were a bureaucratic nightmare, always hiding in the shadows, their filthy little fingers in everything. They hoarded knowledge like dragons hoard gold, terrified of losing their grip on power. I was all for looking out for your own interests, but these guys took it to another level. They squashed anyone who dared to threaten their so-called “order,” not out of necessity, but out of cowardly malice and hypocritical righteousness.

My stomach grumbled loudly, a not-so-gentle reminder that I’d skipped breakfast. Gotta eat. The sweltering heat of the summer afternoon beat down on me as I headed to my favorite breakfast spot downtown. The sun cast a warm glow over the freshly washed streets. Last night’s heavy rain had vanished without a trace, leaving behind a thick layer of humidity and a fresh sheen of soot beginning to form.