Montague stood before a burning building. The flames roared ever higher, tasting the sky with long fiery tongues. But rather than being scared, he laughed at the destruction. His heart was light in his chest.

        He looked to his left and saw Pike. His features were blurry, and he didn’t look quite the same, but Montague knew it was him, the way you always just knew in dreams. His friend beamed at him, smile wider than he’d ever seen it when he was awake.

        Pike grinned at him and opened his mouth-

 

Montague woke up gasping. He bolted upright, gulping in oxygen like a drowning man. Clean air filled his lungs instead of the stinging smoke he was expecting. Still he shuddered and choked. Clutching at his sheets, he fought to get his breathing back under control, skin slick with sweat. The memory of flames wavered before his eyes like a mirage. He let out a pained hiss, lifting a trembling hand to pinch his nose.

God, his head hurt.

The door to his bedroom swung open. In the blink of an eye Montague had snatched his gun out from under a pillow and aimed it towards the door.

“Alright, Montague?” called a tired voice.

Montague blinked sweat from his eyes until he could make out the shape of his partner. Detective Pike stood in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was in his undershirt and socks. It was a disarming look, far from his usual uptight appearance. Pike squinted blearily in the darkness before reaching to flick the light on.

Montague flinched at the sudden brightness. When Pike turned back, his brow was pinched with concern. The sight of the gun made him pause.

“Easy,” he said under his breath.

“What did you say?” Montague demanded. He was shaking.

Pike slowly raised his hands, palms out. “I just asked if you were alright.”

Montague shook his head so hard sweat flew from his hair. He jabbed the gun towards the other man, driven by a desperation he didn’t understand, one that was slipping away with each second he was awake.

His partner didn’t flinch, but he did watch him warily.

Montague insisted, “You said something before that! You asked me a question and I didn’t hear it properly. What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything before I came in here,” said Pike. “Put the gun down.”

Montague stared at him. Then he slumped. All of the fight went out of him in a single breath, the gun dropping into his lap. His jittery hands slipped on the metal, slick with perspiration. Still, his head pounded.

Pike lowered his hands and took a few steps into the room. The bed dipped slightly as he sat on it.

“You’re alright,” he said. For a man who’d just had a gun waved in his face, he appeared oddly calm. “Tell me your name.”

Montague closed his eyes and just breathed for a moment.

“Montague. Detective Chase Montague.”

Pike relaxed a touch. “Some detective you are, pointing a gun at me. Can’t even recognise your own partner.”

“Of course I recognise you.” Slowly, like water dripping out of a bucket, Montague felt his tension unwind. His shoulders relaxed from their tight position. After a moment he opened his eyes and looked at the man sitting on his bed.

“Why are you here?” he asked in confusion. His memory scrambled to rewind, but it kept stalling on the fading details of his dream. Red and urgent, fiery and dismal. It took up a stubborn residence in his mind.

Pike tilted his head at him. “You got your arse kicked yesterday. I stayed over to make sure you didn’t choke in your sleep.” He paused as if waiting for a reply. He didn’t get one, and his tone turned sardonic. “You’re welcome.”

“You slept on the couch?”

“Yeah. I bet I fit on it a lot better than you do, and my back’s still killing me. It’s a piece of shit.”

As if to demonstrate he lifted his elbows and craned his back until it cracked. Montague let out a weak laugh, wiping sweat from his brow. His fingers caught on the scar tissue at his temple, still unsettling after all this time. Pike took the gun and set it on the bedside table. Montague made no move to stop him.

“What happened?” asked the other man. How he could continue to be sympathetic after just having a gun pointed at him, Montague didn’t know.

He shook his head, chest heaving less now that he had calmed down. “Just a dream. The same dream.”

Vague memories of heat left the bed feeling stuffy, and he threw back the covers to get up. On nights like this he usually felt too wired to go back to sleep. So he’d work instead, and eventually crash on his couch sometime in the early morning.

Although it seemed that tonight, his couch was occupied.

“Did I say that you could stay the night?”

He threw on some clothes and led Pike out of his bedroom. His memory was always a little spotty these days, but never more so than when he had just woken up.

Pike’s footsteps followed him down the hallway. “I didn’t ask.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

It was blessedly cooler in the kitchen. He got lucky and found a single clean cup left in the cupboard. Montague fetched a glass of water, and the slip of the liquid down his throat slowed his heart rate back to a regular rhythm. Feeling more like himself, he padded into his living room, following a familiar siren song.

As per usual the place looked like a tornado had swept through it. There were the usual suspects of a messy owner. Unwashed coffee mugs decorated the low wooden table, which desperately needed a good dusting. Pike’s shoes on the floor were the neatest thing about the place just for the fact that they sat side by side, a perfect symmetry.

But the majority of the damage came in the form of notes. Post-its, printouts, scribblings on the back of old envelopes. Stacks of tape recorders, all adorned with bright labels. The old and wobbly standing fan caused the pages to rustle as it struggled to achieve the bare minimum of airflow. Despite its efforts, the room still had a stale air to it.

In the corner, a cork-board bore the weight of Montague’s most important documentation. There was even string wound between points of data, not so much because it was helpful but because Montague just liked the look of it.

The room was a monument to all of his cases, past and ongoing. But everything on this board belonged to the Swarm. Montague set his glass on the already teetering pile of mugs and walked over to inspect his notes. A new addition caught his eye, and he lifted a finger to tap against a large round coin that he’d at some point taped to the board. He must have picked it up somewhere along the way. One good thing about being a detective was that sticky fingers came in handy. You never knew what could turn out to be a clue, at the very least, a souvenir.

“What’s this?” he asked, tilting his head at the token.

“I don’t know. I’m not the one keeping track of every used tissue. Maybe one of your million diaries will tell you.”

“Why do I even keep you around?” muttered Montague, peeling the coin free and weighing it in his hand. His memory buzzed, coming to life like an old motor, slowly but persistently. Memories of the day before faded in and brought with them the awareness of bruises on his face and ribs. He winced and poked at his jaw. It felt swollen, and now that the adrenaline of his nightmare had worn off, the pain was beginning to stir.

“I found this in their safe house.”

“Good for you,” drawled Pike. He had taken up residence against the lone windowsill, arms crossed in disapproval. “You’ve resorted to stealing petty cash. Remind me to watch my wallet around you.”

“I swear I’ve seen this logo somewhere…” He turned the coin over in his hand, frustrated when the dots refused to connect. Working with his fault memory always felt like trying to jump start a car, tapping wires together and just praying for a spark.

“You should be resting.”

Montague rolled his eyes. “Thank you, you can go home now.”

“Yeah, not bloody likely.”

“Seriously Pike. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“That’s debatable. And anyway, it’s 2am and you’re too skinny to throw me out,” said Pike.

Montague looked outside the window and shook his head at himself. “Fine, you can stay, but if you want to sleep you might want to take my room. I’m going to be up working for a while. Don’t want to keep you awake.”

Pike cast a longing look in the direction of the bedroom. Then he sighed and pushed himself away from the counter.

“What are you working on? I’ll help.”

 

 

 

 

A city like El Calor never truly slept. The sun going down was a prelude to a neon nightlife, and a different sort of crowd came alive in the dark. Some people were looking to have fun. Some of them were out to cause trouble. And for a few, the two were one and the same.

So no, a city like El Calor didn’t sleep. But in the earlier hours of the morning, it could almost feel like it was dozing. Like the world was breathing a little slower, a little quieter, car horns and loud music replaced with the sounds of people either collapsing into bed, or just crawling out of it.

Montague sat in his car, turning a shiny silver token over and over between his fingers. It had sat forgotten in his pocket, forgotten, after he’d swiped it from the Swarm’s hideout. The only thing to come out of that debacle other than a bruised face and ego. He was lucky he had found it before it was lost forever to the abyss of the washing machine.

The token was almost worn smooth. Either very old, or well-loved. Maybe a memento that one of the gang members liked to toy with now and then.

His eyes were on the building across the street. Its neon lights were even brighter than the faulty streetlamps, a beacon in the night.

An arcade. The weathered details on the coin matched the logo above the door. Montague folded the token into his palm.

It was a long shot coming here. But what did he have to lose?

The detective slipped the token back into his pocket and got out of the car. He kept his coat on as he entered the building, trusting the tall collar to disguise his features. With his cheek still aching and swollen, the last thing he wanted was another run in with a fist.

The arcade was quiet this late at night, but it still had a few customers. Rowdy kids that were up way past their bedtime. A few adults who were clearly regulars, amassing impressive piles of prize tickets beside whatever machine they were playing on. In here the lights were not quite as obtrusive. Everything held a soft glow, and Montague weaved his way between the games as he searched for…

Something. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he let his feet lead him. Past the kids and their loud shooting games. Past the bored girl working the counter, and the regulars with one goal in mind. Eventually he found himself in the back corner of the arcade. There were fewer machines here and it was darker as a result. He could almost sink into the shadows.

A chiming sound drew his attention. Montague caught sight of blue hair and moved quickly, ducking behind a machine. After a tense moment in which nobody cried out in alarm, the detective carefully peered around the corner.

There was an old timey pinball machine set up by the wall. Standing at it was petite woman with vibrant azure hair, working the controls like a pro. The machine let out a few triumphant noises. Then it surrendered its bounty and a long strand of tickets poured out. The woman turned slightly as she put in another token, and Montague recognised her.

It was the Swarm member known as Flea. The same woman who had shot at him less than twenty-four hours earlier.

The game started up again and her hands returned to the controls. Pinging and shuttering noises rose up from the machine.

“What’s up bug?” she called, and for a moment Montague didn’t know who she was talking to. Then a stout man moved out from behind a machine. The neon lights bounced oddly off his bald head, and his mouth was twisted unhappily, moustache bristling.

Detective Pike stepped into view, and greeted the criminal like a friend.

“You guys have to cancel the heist,” he said. Montague reared back in shock.

Flea had a similar reaction, looking at him sharply. “What?”

“Montague knows something’s up. He’s too close to the truth. Unless you want police to show up in the middle of the job, you’re going to have to make new plans.”

She growled in frustration. “What are you even doing if you’re not taking care of shit like this?”

She kicked the machine, and a few more tickets spilled out of it, joining the steadily growing pile on the floor. Pike glowered at her.

“I’m keeping an eye on him, Flea, which you’re not helping with.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you kidding me? Yesterday you gave him a head injury.” He made a disgusted sound, nose wrinkling. “Like the bullet didn’t do enough damage?”

“He was shooting at us, Jim,” she defended, never taking her eyes off the game. “What did you expect us to do?”

“I have to spend every day of my life being careful around Montague, and you all can’t handle him for ten minutes!”

“We did the best as we could,” she said. “You know how much he hates being outnumbered-”

Pike cut her off, “Montague doesn’t know shit about being outnumbered. Jesus, Flea, that’s the fucking point! This is what none of you are getting through your heads! Chase Montague is not our friend, and if you keep treating him like it, somebody’s going to get hurt. You have to follow my rules.”

Flea abandoned the game, finally turning her attention to the man beside her. There was a disappointing clunk as the ball dropped, and the machine let out a chime of defeat. The flashing lights dulled. It stole all of the levity from the room, leaving the pair standing in solemn comradery.

“Okay,” she said, a guilty look stealing across her face. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just hard. For all of us, but for you most of all.”

Pike took a deep breath and nodded, eyes shut tightly.

“I hate this too, you know,” he told her. “I hate Montague so much.”

Flea put her arms around him.

Swallowing hard, Detective Montague drew back from his hiding place and made a hasty retreat. It wasn’t until he finally made it outside and the cool air hit him that he realised he was breathing too fast. He stumbled to lean against the wall. One hand went to his chest, feeling how his heart raced. His legs were shaky so he let them fold, sliding gracelessly down to the ground. He put his head between his knees and fought to stop hyperventilating.

His own partner. Montague couldn’t believe it. Just like every time he hit a block in his memory, his brain refused to process the thought. All this time, Pike had been the one constant in his life. Always there, always helping, whether it was with cases or headaches or even just reminding him to eat.

Had that really all been fake?

He shuddered, folding even further in on himself. It couldn’t be true. But he’d heard it from the man himself, spoken with such hatred.

Montague fumbled in his pocket for his phone. He pulled it out and with practiced movements navigated to his voice memos. There were countless audio files on the device, some of them case related, others just reminding him about chores and errands. Whatever details he felt were important. And this was important. He couldn’t forget this.

“Detective Pike’s real name is Jim,” he said after he hit record. “Jim is a traitor.”

Montague hesitated. The words itched at him, something wrong about them. After a moment of thought he rewound to speak over the recording.

“My partner’s a traitor.”

He hit the button to play it back, listening to the message over and over until it finally felt real. The words sank into his brain like a bullet. Eventually he couldn’t stand to listen to them anymore.

Montague stopped the playback and made a call.