Page 5 of Synnr's Ride

No fire.

No bodies.

The bomb wasn't on this street.

He’d almost been plowed down by a biker speeding away. Whoever it was, they were long gone now, and Jori had other things to deal with, but his mind snagged on it, turning it over while he ran.

Already, the childminders were gathering the kids, so he forced himself to turn away.

He followed the path of destruction around the corner and walked into the underworld.

It was eerily silent, though several Zulir staggered down the street, one with his wings wrapped around himself in a comforting pose usually only seen in young children.

A woman huddled on the side of the street, half sitting in a puddle of liquid that Jori desperately hoped wasn't blood. His feet scuffed on the ground, the sound somehow breaking through the strange cloud of silence, and she looked up.

All he could see in her eyes was sorrow, and it was a lance through the heart.

He had nothing but basic first aid training and already could hear the emergency sirens echoing down the street. He had to do his own work, help in his own way. And that meant heading deeper into the smoke and debris.

This couldn't be good for his lungs. He'd be sent to the infirmary for sure, but if a bit of smoke inhalation was his worst injury in this war, he'd be thankful.

It was a farce to call it a war. Wars had battles. Armies fought one another.

This was a slaughter of civilians.

The roar of a fusion cycle engine cut through the smoke, and Jori saw headlights for a half a breath before the red and yellow beast ripped out of the shadows, barreling straight towards him.

He jumped to the right as the vehicle skidded left. This time, Jori gave chase, but on foot he was no match for a vehicle.

But he did make out a strange sigil on the helmet of the rider.

He'd seen something like that before at one of the bike exhibitions aficionados put on. There were clubs in the city full of men and women who swore by bikes. Who was hiding out in their ranks? In the middle of a crisis, everyone was a suspect.

Jori pulled out his communicator and sketched out the sigil to the best of his memory, even though the drawing looked like a particularly unskilled child had sketched it.

He had other skills.

And anything was better than nothing.

His communicator buzzed with an incoming call. Jori answered. Even in the middle of a war zone, he'd take a call from Major Ozar. "Where are you, Harek? We've got reports of a bombing, and you were due in my office fifteen minutes ago."

Fifteen minutes? Had it really been that long? Time compressed in the tragedy, and Jori couldn't even say what day it was, let alone the hour.

"I'm on site, ma'am." He gave a brief assessment, including his suspicion about the biker, but there wasn't much else to tell.

"Good. Stay there. I have teams converging and want your eyes on this. We'll have to reschedule our meeting. Is there anything urgent you need to tell me?" Jori couldn't tell if she really wanted to know. The major was brusque at normal times. In a high pressure situation, her tone would be considered churlish if she had a lower rank.

And Jori had enough self-preservation to keep his issues to himself. His cock would have to deal with it for now. "No, ma'am."

On the bright side, he didn't have to face Hanna today.

But he'd face her every day for the rest of his life if he could undo the destruction all around him.

* * *

Another day, another interrogation. Hanna wondered what she could tell them next. Her grandmother's secret cookie recipe? That she had stolen candy from the corner store when she was six?

What crime would Jori believe?

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