Kamina's voice crackled through the phone.
"NOW."
The sound of a rifle shot followed. Distant, muffled by distance and the concrete walls between them. Shmuel held the phone to his ear and waited. A moment later, Kamina's voice returned, casual as ever.
"Got him. Head's gone. Body's still standing, though. White suit. No face. Just a collar."
Shmuel looked down at the corpse at his own feet. Same white suit. Same absence of features. Same collar. The body had crumpled when Rowbotham's sword had taken its head, but the suit itself remained pristine, unmarked by blood or violence.
"We've got one too," Shmuel said. "Same thing."
"Any idea what they are?"
"No." Shmuel crouched beside the body, his mechanical fingers prodding at the fabric. "Rowbotham's checking now."
Rowbotham knelt on the other side of the corpse, his greatsword resting against his shoulder. He reached out with one gloved hand and pressed his palm against the white suit's chest. He held it there for a moment, then withdrew.
"Cold," Rowbotham said. "The cold of which was never warm to begin with."
Shmuel relayed the observation. Kamina's voice came back with the same easy tone, but there was an edge underneath it now.
"So not a person that died. It is something that was never alive."
"That's what it feels like." Shmuel stood, looking down at the body. "The suit's the only thing that's real. The rest is just... shape. Like someone built a mannequin and didn't bother to give it a face."
Imogen's voice cut in from Kamina's end, sharp and annoyed. "This whole commission is weird. We were told to stop people harassing the area. First day, nothing. Second day, nothing. Then suddenly these things show up out of nowhere. All with the same face. Or lack of face."
Shmuel had noticed the same pattern. A local business owner complaining about harassment, requesting protection. Standard work for their job. They'd split up to cover more ground, Kamina and Imogen taking the eastern side while Shmuel and Rowbotham handled the western side. For two days, there had been nothing in the area.
Then this morning, the white suits had appeared.
"Cloning?" Shmuel said into the phone. "If it were cloning technology, it would violate the Head's taboo. The commission is a month old. They'd be killed by now. But these things aren't human to begin with."
Rowbotham's voice came from beside him, low and measured. "Could it be a Distortion?"
Shmuel considered it. Then he shook his head, even though Rowbotham could see him. "No. We've all felt Distortions before. There's a weight to them. These things have nothing. They're empty."
"Like a shell," Rowbotham said.
"Like a shell," Shmuel agreed.
Kamina's voice came through the phone. "We're meeting at the hotel. Shmuel, you and Rowbotham finish up there and head back. We'll compare notes."
"Understood."
The line clicked off. Shmuel pocketed the phone and looked at Rowbotham. The former Proxy was still crouched beside the corpse, his eyes fixed on the blank white suit as if he could will it into revealing something.
"You're thinking something," Shmuel said.
Rowbotham didn't look up. "I am."
"Share it."
"The Index has records of phenomena that predate the City's current structure. Stuffs that were never alive but moved anyway." He paused. "This could be related. Or it could be something new."
"Something new is going to be much worse."
"Yes."
Shmuel offered his hand. Rowbotham took it, and Shmuel pulled him to his feet. They stood together in the alley.
"We should go," Shmuel said.
Rowbotham nodded. But he didn't move immediately. He looked at the body one more time.
"If something can create life without life," he said quietly, "then what does that mean for the living?"
Shmuel didn't have an answer.
They walked out of the alley together, leaving the empty suit behind.
The alley mouth opened onto a wider street, and the sky fell.
Ten of them dropped from the rooftops, white suits cutting through the grey afternoon like falling knives. They landed in a ring around Shmuel and Rowbotham, their blank faces turning in unison, collar-lines catching the light.
Rowbotham moved.
His greatsword came up in a wide slash, a sweep that began at his hip and ended above his head. The black blade caught the first two creatures at the waist, and they folded around the edge without texture, as the white fabric parting and the hollow shapes inside collapsed like paper lanterns. Their halves hit the ground and didn't move.
Shmuel didn't have time to watch.
Two more came from above, dropping directly onto him. He pivoted on his heel, left mechanical hand snapping up, and fired both chambers. The first bullet caught the falling creature in the chest, the acceleration driving it backward into the wall hard enough to crack the wall. The second round took the other mid-air, punching through the collar and out the back, spinning it into a heap against a dumpster.
The chambers clicked empty.
Shmuel's right hand moved to his phone. His thumb found the side button, pressed twice, the pre-set signal, a short burst of vibration that would tell Kamina he was in combat without a word typed or a call made.
Then he looked up.
More of them. Dozens more. They stood on every rooftop surrounding the street, white suits lined along the edges like spectators at an execution. Some were already crouching, preparing to drop. Others simply watched, their blank faces pointed downward, collar-lines stark against the sky.
Shmuel counted. Then stopped counting.
"Sir," he said, "which idiot at the Hana Association classified this as Urban Legend?"
Rowbotham adjusted his grip on the greatsword. "I could not say."
"Because this feels closer to Urban Plague."
"Agree."
The creatures on the rooftops moved as one. A wave of white, dropping from every direction, filling the street with the sound of shoes striking pavement and the rustle of fabric that had never been warm.
Shmuel's right hand came up, fingers curling into a fist. The servos in his arm whined, recalibrating, preparing.
Shmuel met the first creature with a straight right, the mechanical fist driving through its chest and out the other side. The white suit crumpled around his arm, empty inside. He shook it off and stepped into the next, a low kick that shattered a knee joint, followed by an elbow that crushed the collar and sent the body spinning into two others.
Rowbotham's greatsword carved wide slashes through the mass, each swing clearing a circle around him.
The creatures kept coming.
Shmuel's left arm took a hit, one of them landed a strike that dented the plating and he answered by grabbing the attacker's arm and using it as a flail, swinging the body into three more. They scattered like bowling pins, white suits tangling together on the ground.
Rowbotham's sword split another creature from collar to waist. The halves fell apart without a sound.
Above them, more white suits gathered on the rooftops, watching, waiting for the moment to drop.
Rowbotham's sword dissolved.
The black blade came apart into eight perfect spheres. They hung in the air around him for a single heartbeat then shot outward in a coordinated spread, each sphere tracing a different trajectory through the crowd of white suits.
The creatures didn't dodge.
They couldn't.
The spheres punched through them like cannonballs through paper, tearing holes in the white fabric, collapsing the empty shapes inside. Eight paths of destruction opened simultaneously, and in the space they carved, a corridor appeared, narrow, but clear.
"Now!" Rowbotham shouted.
Shmuel was already moving. He sprinted through the gap, boots pounding against the pavement, Rowbotham half a step behind him. Behind them, the creatures that had survived the barrage were already reforming their line, turning to follow.
The eight spheres curved in the air, arcing back toward Rowbotham. They converged on his hand, merging, reforming and then the greatsword was in his grip again.
They ran. The street stretched ahead, empty for now, but the sound of pursuit was growing, dozens of footsteps, all in perfect rhythm, all moving as one.
"Do you think they are in the same situation?" Rowbotham asked, his voice steady despite the pace.
Shmuel shook his head. "Doubtful."
"Why?"
"Think about how they move. There are dozens of them, but they act like one body at a time." He vaulted over a fallen trash can. "But there's only one pattern."
Rowbotham absorbed this. "Then whoever created them must be nearby."
"That's what I'm thinking. The technology to make those things isn't cheap. If it could be used remotely, it would fall apart, too many variables. But that's still speculation. It could be wrong."
"It usually is."
They turned a corner, cutting through a narrow side street. The footsteps behind them didn't falter. The white suits followed in perfect synchronization, their blank faces turning as one when the path changed.
"The problem," Shmuel continued, "is we have no way to identify the controller. They could be standing with the civilians on the road. They could be hiding in one of these buildings. They could be running right now, staying ahead of us, moving the pieces from a distance we can't see."
"And we're tasked with keeping this area safe."
"Relatively safe," Shmuel corrected. "Which is a joke, because we're not even sure what we're fighting."
They emerged onto another street. More civilians here, people going about their business, unaware of the white-suited figures pouring through the alleys behind them. Shmuel slowed, just slightly, scanning the faces.
The controller could be any of them. The old woman with the shopping bag. The man leaning against a wall. The child holding a parent's hand.
"Worse," Shmuel said, "we could run into Syndicate grunts right now. If they're still active in this area, and they see us being chased by white suits, they might decide to join in for the fun."
"Complicating things."
"Significantly."
Rowbotham's grip tightened on his sword. "A wild goose chase with no clear end."
Shmuel almost laughed. "Now you see why this commission sat in the pool for so long. No one wanted it. Not enough information. Too many unknowns. I took it because it looked easy."
"It doesn't look easy now."
"No. It doesn't."
They kept running. The footsteps behind them kept pace. Somewhere above, on the rooftops, more white suits were moving, Shmuel could hear them, the soft percussion of shoes on tile and concrete, tracking their position.
"We need a plan," Rowbotham said.
"I'm working on it."
Shmuel's phone buzzed in his pocket. Two short vibrations. Kamina's signal, acknowledgment, location incoming.
"Kamina's responding," Shmuel said. "We need to hold out until he and Imogen get here."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we do what my office does best."
Shmuel glanced back at the white tide following them. Then forward, at the street stretching ahead, full of ordinary people living ordinary lives.
"We survive," he said. "And we figure out what the hell these things are before they kill someone who doesn't deserve it."
Rowbotham nodded. They ran on.
Rowbotham slowed first, his eyes tracking the white suits as they regrouped at the end of the street. His grip on the greatsword loosened, just slightly, a tell Shmuel had learned to read over the past weeks.
"Tailor," Rowbotham said.
Shmuel glanced at him. "What?"
"A tailor. Or someone using their work." Rowbotham's gaze remained fixed on the creatures. "Clothing that grants power on par with augmentation. Few can do it. Fewer still can do it at this scale." He paused. "Someone is trying to gain something from this. The havoc isn't random."
Shmuel processed this. Empirically, it made sense. The suits were too uniform. The construction is too accurate.
"Or someone is using the clothing," Shmuel said. "Someone who didn't make it but found it. Or stole it."
"Possible."
"What would a tailor gain from this? Creating empty suits and sending them into District 12?"
"Unknown. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. Tailors who sought to create garments that could think. Garments that could act without a wearer. They failed, mostly. But failure is instructive. If they went too far the head would hunt them down."
"So this is either a success or a very expensive failure."
"Yes."
Shmuel filed the theory away. It fit the evidence, which was all he could ask. But it didn't explain the controller. Where was the person pulling the strings?
Behind them, footsteps.
Two of the white suits had closed the distance while they talked. They came in. Shmuel turned, fists raised but before he could swing, gunshots cracked through the street.
Two rounds. Two clean hits. The creatures folded mid-stride, heads snapping back, white fabric collapsing into heaps on the pavement.
The rest of the white suits stopped.
For a moment, nothing moved. Then, as one, they turned. Toward the rooftops. And then they ran. They scattered into the alleys and side streets, vanishing into the shadows of District 12.
Shmuel looked up.
Kamina stood on the edge of a four-story building, katana resting on his shoulder, coat snapping in the wind. Beside him, Imogen lay flat against the rooftop, Barrett-11 still trained on the spot where the creatures had been. She was breathing hard, but her hands were steady.
"Yo!" Kamina called down. "You two look like you've been having fun!"
Shmuel lowered his hands. The servos in his left arm clicked as they reset, the dent in the plating catching the light.
"Sir," he said to Rowbotham, "I think that's our cue."
Rowbotham sheathed his greatsword with a soft click. "Indeed."
They walked toward the building as Kamina and Imogen descended, Kamina by dropping straight down and landing in a crouch, Imogen by taking the fire escape like a normal person.
"Report," Shmuel said.
Imogen was the first to speak. "We heard your signal. Came as fast as we could. Found you just in time." She glanced at the corpses.
Kamina looked at the bodies, then at the rooftops, then at the empty street. "So. What are we dealing with?"
Shmuel exchanged a look with Rowbotham.
"Sir," he said. "You want to explain, or should I?"
Rowbotham folded his arms. "A tailor. Or someone using a tailor's work. The creator is nearby. Or was nearby. The creatures retreated when we gained fire support which suggests a controller who values self-preservation."
Imogen said. "Maybe they ran out of whatever they needed."
"Also possible."
Kamina cracked his neck. "So we're hunting a tailor who makes empty suits that walk around and try to kill people. That's new."
The four of them stood in the street, surrounded by white fabric and the quiet aftermath of violence. The city hummed around them, indifferent.
"We need to move," Shmuel said. "Before someone else shows up. Before the wrong people notice."
"Agreed," Rowbotham said.
Kamina was already walking. "Hotel. I'm hungry. We'll figure out the rest after food."