Title: The Broken Mirror
Author: DareDelvil
Disclaimer: It ain't mine, guys; you know the score by now.
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and character death. Yes, in the first chapter.
Spoilers: Possible ending spoilers in this chapter, but nothing ground-breaking. Definite ending spoilers in later chapters.
Pairing: None at all. Wow. There'll almost certainly be some pairings mentioned in passing during later chapters, though, and as ever with my work if you don't like slash you might want to tread carefully.
Words: c.3,500
Summary: Post-game.Understaffed, underpaid and overworked, dealing with more looters and petty criminals than you can shake a stick at in the remains of their once-proud city while desperately trying to preserve what remains of their dignity.Things can't possibly get any worse for the new Mintakan Law Enforcement Department - until they end up with a murder on their hands...
Author's Notes: My first extended piece in a while, and I am determined to finish this one. Badger me. Please. This first chapter gave me a few problems about half way through, where I hit a large area of no dialogue and had to puzzle my way through some descriptive paragraphs – bear with me, everyone, I find this difficult sometimes.

Dedication: For Tori, Pumpkin, Lissi, Samus, Cyc, Katrini, Mugzie, Pixi, Doctor K, and my much beloved koneko-chan: all the wonderful people who've encouraged me thus far.

The Broken Mirror

Chapter One – No Rest for the Wicked

This is a story about things going wrong. Spectacularly wrong. It happens. That's life, people say with a shrug of their shoulders, all the while desperately hoping it isn't. You'll get over it. The universe doesn't always behave as people would like it to. Most of the time, a slight change of plans and a lot of perseverance will see the unlucky victim of the mishap through to their goal. This story is about the rest of the time, the possible disasters that don't bear thinking about, the kind of unadulterated catastrophes that would make any sane being pray to gods they've never cared about for the faintest hope of exemption. This is a story about what happens when things go so horribly pear-shaped that all one can do is search for a bigger fruit bowl and prepare to make a lot of pies.

Most of the people in this story have become very, very good at making pies.

The ragged young man haring down a side-street, for example, while he'd never even heard of a pear, was quite used to the flavour of ill luck. His rough cloth bag was testament to that, as were the contents he had pilfered from an unattended shop downtown. He'd have been hoping that the goods might bring a taste of something better, had he not been preoccupied with his attempts to outrun the woman behind him. She, on the other hand, knew exactly what a pear was. She'd even liked them as a child – as she skittered around a corner she remembered, incongruously, smirking into the rough, mottled skin of imported fruit and savouring every drop of liquid gold within, always keeping a shrewd eye upon the largest of the covetous many from across the schoolyard. Doubtless this miscreant would have been the sort to stand and watch her eat until he thought she was off her guard, then make a snatch for the fruit. There'd been a good few of those. She'd taken to carrying a rule (imported wood, of course) purely for the purpose of knuckle-rapping. The things we love are worth defending.

By the time her target had vanished without a trace into the ruined quarter of Mintaka, though, she was about ready to choke the universe on its bloody pear.

Defeated, Vallye returned to the Law Enforcement Department's main headquarters at a veritable snail's pace. The sun gleamed on gold and brass – she squinted and shielded her eyes from the glare – perhaps six o'clock in the evening, by her best guess. She hated summer. She hated pears. She hated a lot of things. After years of practice, hate was something she could do. It was only natural, therefore, to declare some form of the sentiment to the office at large as the door slammed behind her.

"I hate Mondays," she growled, well aware that the door could probably have done without slamming.

Her brother Skeed, his quill scratching over the umpteenth document of the day, did not look up from his work. He would have preferred that she hadn't slammed the door either – he was usually the one who ended up fixing it. "Today," he declared in his customary disinterested monotone, "is Tuesday."

Vallye didn't know what to say to that. She snorted dismissively in lieu of an answer before dropping into her chair, taking to glaring anywhere but at him.

"You lost another one."

The words had teeth. Icy teeth. She winced inwardly. "Yes."

A sigh from behind the desk – a surprisingly patient sigh, all things considered. Vallye risked a look. Skeed was regarding her quietly from behind half-moon spectacles. In glasses, and in patience, he gained years.

"Why didn't you take the team with you?" he asked.

"They were on the other side of the city. We split up to patrol. By the time I'd called everyone out for assistance he'd've given me the slip anyway." She reached for a scrap of paper and scrawled herself a note to look for the looter's file. "Little bastard. Should have put a plasma charge in his back when I got a clear shot."

"That's not justice, Vallye."

She gave him a withering look. "And yet, after going out there every day only to have them laugh in my face as they flout every law of this country in gleeful succession, I just can't seem to care."

Skeed looked heavenwards. "You can't shoot every looter you see, you know."

"You won't let me shoot any of them. And it'd damn sure get our message across if we did start using lethal force."

"Is that the message you want to give to Mira, then?"

Vallye paused. Damn. She'd almost forgotten about that. "…Wouldn't encourage the Duke to support us, would it?"

"Not so much, no."

"How's he been taking it all so far? The country's a mess – are we getting the sympathy vote, or is he just looking down his nose at us?"

Skeed took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Hard to say. We're doing what we can with virtually crap all; he respects us for that at least. We might yet have some luck with him if we play this well enough."

"And better him than Diadem."

"Oh, so much better." He set the glasses down on the desktop. "I know we're supposed to be leaving the old ways behind, and I know they've been all right to us so far, but the fact remains that we're essentially a civilised nation that's been conquered by savages. I've spent all this time looking down my nose at barbarians and now I'm expected to accept help from equals? It's past all bearing."

"And yet the barbarians have some of the best trained people for law enforcement purposes. We'll have to deal with them at some point."

"We shall indeed. But I'd rather rely on them as little as possible, despite the fact that we're essentially beggars at their feast."

Vallye glared at the world in general. "King Lahdidah is never going to let us forget this."

"Ladekahn. It's King Ladekahn."

She waved him off, adding the memo to the overflowing note spike and rising from her chair. "Whatever. It's six o'clock, and I'm going home. You'd better be back before your dinner gets cold."

"I'll do my best."

That earned him a glare from his sister as she stood at the door. "Seven thirty, Skeed. Sharp."

She heard him grumbling behind her as she left, letting the door close of its own accord. The poor thing had suffered enough.

The capital shimmered in the desert like a forgotten jewel left in the dust, its sharp corners rounded by the heat haze rather than by time or ill use. To distant observers, it still held all the glory of the Imperial years. Only upon closer inspection did the chips and cracks become apparent; only when walking through the streets could one begin to see the damage wrought by demon and human alike, or learn just how ill-gotten the old glory had been. As she made her weary way home, Vallye wasn't sure whether she was a metaphor for the city or vice versa, and found herself wondering if metaphors were allowed days off. Goodness knew she needed one.

Skeed still hadn't oiled the hinges on the front door. It protested loudly at being moved from its resting place. She'd probably end up doing it herself again – that was usually the way of things. She had a feeling Skeed was doing it on purpose, knowing that if he left things that annoyed her for long enough she'd do something about them. Bother him, the lazy sod.

Seven thirty came and went. She ate alone, quietly cursing her brother's working habits and pretending not to worry. Today was the same as any other day. He came home late, but he always came home. Today would be the same. Had to be. Life was dull, but she didn't want excitement that badly.

She caught herself flinching at the howl of gunfire out in the city.

The clock had just chimed eleven when the front door's rough squeak announced his arrival. Wisely, he avoided his sister's gaze as he dropped into his armchair.

"Three and a half hours, Skeed."

He did not respond.

"Three and a half hours I've been waiting on you, wondering whether someone's put a plasma charge in your back. Your dinner's cold."

Still no answer. He was staring at the opposite wall.

"Aren't you going to eat something?"

"Not hungry."

An exasperated sigh. "You hardly ate at breakfast either. And I know you didn't stop for lunch."

"I'm not hungry, Vallye."

Vallye closed her eyes. "Skeed, you're never hungry. It's not doing you any good, not eating."

"I've gone from two to three hours at a desk each day all the way up to eight or nine hours," he said flatly. "I don't need to eat as much any more."

"And that's not doing you any good either!"

"Someone has to do it."

"Not all of it!"

He turned to look at her. "Then who else would you trust with it?"

"…" She didn't have an answer for that one, either.

"QED."

"Oh, shut up…"

He sighed, returning his gaze to the wallpaper. "Go to bed, Vallye. I'll eat something in a bit. Promise."

"You'd better."

She left him to his staring, increasingly dissatisfied with normality now that he was home safe. He might at least have brought a fight home, called one rebellious thought: that would have cut through the boredom most effectively. She kicked it firmly out of the way as she ascended the stairs to the attic and the wide, airy room she called her own. A flick of the switch at the door, and the lamps suspended from the highest point of the ceiling flared into life. Between the two of them they bathed the sloping roof and dark wooden furnishings in a soft, fire-like glow. It was dark outside, or as dark as Mintaka ever became. A few bold stars twinkled in the night sky, their more cautious brethren outshone by the street-lanterns reflecting off gold and brass. Deceptively warm colours, Vallye considered, for such cold surfaces. Desert nights were as unkind in their chill as the days in their blistering heat. She pulled the nearest window shut – the tall sash was letting in far too much cold air, and it was hardly fresh enough to do her much good in any case.

Lingering for a moment, resting her hand on the low, broad arch above her head where the window had been set into the roof, she watched one of the tall lanterns flicker, gutter and die.

Searching for anger, frustration, even mild irritation at the continuing disappointments of the world, she found none. In its place there was only a strange, quiet sadness mixed with something that might have been hopelessness. Or perhaps the better word was lassitude. She strongly suspected that she was worked too deeply into this rut for any escape attempt to be fruitful. She'd have to grow wings and fly, and even if she'd been born with the necessary accoutrements she'd have lost them, just like everyone else, when the Ocean came. Besides, the rut was so indistinguishable from her life that she wasn't sure she'd know how to exist without it. She was a fancy rat, bred to race. Her gilded cage was safe and comfortable. What worthwhile thing could she find on a river bank?

Life, said that same rebellious thought before she silenced it with a swipe of her hand. Her fingers caught the window latch. She swore under her breath and tucked the bruised fingertips into her mouth before she could curb the reaction.

Remembering that no one was around to see, she left them there.

Five and twenty past eleven found her curled into the tangled sheets, just on the verge of sleep. She hadn't bothered with the shower, though it was only a floor away. The kind of dirty she felt didn't budge under soap and icy water. Her mind wandered back to the events of the day, and the image of a young man with his bag of loot flashed across her mind. He was laughing, vanishing into the distance as she looked helplessly on. Some credit to the new Mintaka she was turning out to be. It wasn't like her to think it, but she probably deserved every one of Skeed's accusing looks and disappointed sighs. Sobering, that. Not that she needed sobering.

Skies damn it, she needed sleep…

That same scene played through her mind again – chasing the miscreant through back alleys full of jutting pipes and clouds of tasteless white water vapour. This time, though, she didn't waste time trying to run him down. She drew out her rifle and fired a plasma charge towards his retreating back just as he turned the corner. It missed. Rather than taking him down, it ripped through the neck of the rough cloth sack in his hand. The contents of the bag scattered across the floor. Startled, but knowing better than to try taking the stolen goods back, the young man fled. Vallye watched him go with an air of chill apathy. Perhaps he'd know better next time.

She hunkered down and gathered the mottled brownish fruits back into the remains of the bag. One, two, three, four – wait, she was sure there'd been five pears. One for Mother, one for Father, one for Skeed (though since he didn't like them it usually ended up being Almarde's instead), one for Lyude and one for herself. She counted again. No, definitely only four pears. Where was that fifth one? The little bugger had probably eaten it before she'd found him –

Something tapped sharply against the smooth flagstones at the other end of the alley – a cane? It was too dark to see clearly at this distance – the street-lanterns were dying in their dozens tonight. The stars were out in force, scattering the sky like so many lost diamonds, and what little light they provided was barely enough to sketch the outline of the approaching figure. Vallye could just make out a top hat, dusky charcoal on the purple-blue-black of the witching hour, and the cane that was striking the flagstones with a bold, rhythmic precision. Shadows slid over its bearer like so much silk – as they fell away, the silver top of the cane showed far enough from beneath a small, pale hand for a star's reflection to twinkle upon its polished surface.

Slap of one skin against another. The stranger was tossing the fifth pear in its free hand. Her free hand, Vallye observed with interest, noting the curves in the cut of the waistcoat and the manner of movement affected by booted feet and stocking-clad legs.

By now, the lower part of the face was visible beneath the wide-brimmed hat. Painted lips formed a delicate half-smile – chillingly flawless, naggingly familiar – and then a word. A name.

Her name.

"Vallye!"

A man's voice, somehow perfectly synchronised with the movement of her mouth –

"Oh, for goodness sake, Vallye, wake up!"

Skeed?

She opened her eyes, only to be greeted by the sight of her brother in his pyjamas. He had been about to shake her awake, so it seemed, and his face was a mask of urgency. "Finally – come on, we have to go to the Fortress at once – "

A glance at the clock. Zero two colon zero seven. "Skeed, it's two in the bloody morning."

"I know – come on!"

He'd snapped. All the work had finally become too much for him. Vallye regarded him through half-closed eyes without a trace of patience. "Er, Skeed? Three hours sleep? Piss off?"

Skeed seemed about to tear his hair out. "Oh, for the love of – this is important!"

"Two in the morning after three hours sleep important?" She rolled over. "Get out."

"Duke Calbren's been shot. He's dead."

That woke her up. "WHAT?"

Satisfied that he had convinced her to move, Skeed bolted for the door. "Come on – we have to get over to the Fortress!"

Vallye fairly fell out of bed and scrambled after him, snatching her dressing gown from behind the door as she fled the room. Here was that excitement, muttered the little voice, receiving a swift kick for its trouble as Vallye leaped down the last few stairs. Skeed was already out of the door and running by the time she hit the ground, having caught up the keys for the little inland skycraft with his trailing hand – all the more reason to catch him. Vallye dived outside, locking the door with a practiced dance of fingers over the keypad, and followed him to the boathouse.

"Left or right?"

She shut the door behind her. "What?"

"The key – start the engine, left or right?"

A gesture towards the boat doors. "Out. I'll do it. Doors."

He jumped out as she hopped in. It was left. Skeed hauled the boat doors open to let her pass, swinging himself back into the little craft as she pulled away.

"I can't believe you," Vallye snarled. "I thought that place was supposed to be secure!"

"I thought it was," Skeed muttered crossly.

"Clearly you were mistaken, and a fine time you chose for it, too!"

"Oh, so you're allowed to make mistakes and I'm not? Is that it?"

"This is beyond a mistake! He's the Duke of bloody Mira, skiesdammit, and what's more, you're the Head of our House! You go down, we all go down!"

Skeed glowered at her. "Vallye, there's only two of us left," he snapped. "And you're quite capable of producing some truly shocking cock-ups all by yourself. One man. Just one man. You've lost more to a 'mistake' in your time. Now either shut up and drive, or let me do it."

"Let you drive?" she scoffed, leaning on the accelerator and spinning the wheel hard to the right. "After what you did to my last skycraft? The hell I'm letting you drive!"

The craft scudded towards the Fortress in the manner of a very determined cloud. Thankfully the guard at the gate recognised the pair of occupants before it was too late to admit them: Vallye would not have taken well to any further delays.

"Commander? Oh, thank God you're here – "

A flustered-looking deputy scurried up to the boat as Vallye turned off the engine, almost collapsing in front of Skeed when the siblings disembarked. His glasses were falling off his nose. "It's a shambles, sir," he panted. "Shot in the back, just one shot, killed him instantly from what we can tell – holding the three who tipped us off just in case, they're in the holding cells on level four – no alerts from outside, no one inside heard gunfire, nothing…"

Skeed cut him off. "Where is he?"

"In his doorway – the three troublemakers I mentioned said he fell on them when they opened the door…"

"Which floor?" Vallye demanded, pushing past Skeed.

The young man pointed. "Level three. Take the stairs."

So she did. Skeed was not far behind her. They managed to climb the rear stairs without touching most of the steps.

When they reached the third floor corridor, Vallye stopped dead in her tracks.

"…Skies…"

Duke Calbren of Mira lay sprawled across the passageway, an air of unbreakable stillness surrounding him despite the movement of Skeed's fellow investigators nearby. Even at this distance, she somehow felt it – the Duke was dead, quite dead. That much she had expected.

What had given her pause was the top hat that had fallen to the polished floor by his head, and the soft glimmer of moonlight upon the silver-topped cane in his hand.

"You poor bastard," Skeed murmured under his breath, approaching the body and kneeling to examine it. Him, until not so long ago. "You poor, poor bastard."

Vallye followed, shaken from yet another reverie by her brother's voice, struggling to remember what day it was. The scene of the murder was not so much horrific as it was pitiable – suddenly, lying dead, the Duke looked every moment of his sixty-two years and more. Perhaps it had been time for the old man to go, but…no, not like this. It shouldn't have ended this way for him. Not kind, steady, peaceful Duke Calbren. She'd almost liked him.

And to think that only eight hours ago she had been longing for something to happen. Life has a funny way of going from the sublime to the ridiculous. Not that Vallye was laughing.

Gazing down at the pale face, knowing it would never again be graced with that gentle, dimpling smile, Vallye said just three words.

"…I hate Thursdays."

To be continued in Chapter Two – Candyman, Candyman…

Reviews/concrit/suggestions are, as always, love.