The Crystal Gumshoe

by Earthstorm

The Voice. It was the only clue to who, or what, he was. It had spoken to him a single command which resonated in every fibre of his being. It welled inside of him like an orchestra's crescendo. Rising and swirling, but never decaying, it carried a purity greater than any crystal spring. And yet, it was only a part of a far greater symphony, of immeasurable voices from an endless choir in perfect harmony.

A pity then, that he did not understand it. It was speech without words, and whilst it filled him with purpose, he could not fathom it… yet. There was only one word, if it could be called such, that he had managed to garner: Malakite.

He leaned back in his office chair, placing his feet on the desk and loosening his tie. The cramped office space was cluttered and hot in the Perth summer heat, the only fan having long rusted out. The writing on the door which used to read 'private investigator' was now barely legible, thanks to years of peeling. Whist he told his few clients that his name had similarly worn off the door, the truth was that it had never been there, as his name remained as much a mystery to him as the Voice.

Malakite. He knew that it was a referral to him, though he also knew it was not a name. He also knew that his surroundings were a farce. Despite the appearance of the stereotype private eye's office that had been worn down by decades of his use, he somehow knew he had only recently arrived. He remembered his whole life before this moment, but it seemed somehow pale, and the memories carried with them no emotion.

Of course, one give-away was that the office was not cluttered with files but with artifacts, both holy and infernal, that he had supposedly collected. Foremost of these was a large sword; a katana, not lying in a heap like most objects in the office, but on a stand in a position of (relevant) prominence. It was his, and when wielded felt as if it were an extension of himself. Especially when striking down the users of demonic power which he hunted.

"So", he mused, "a private eye with biblical relics, a bloody great sword, no name, and the West Australian Symphony Orchestra inside him. Whoever created this scenario was either stupid or just plain not trying."
Of course there was another possibility. That this crafted life was not made to fool him, but others.

Tired of thinking on things he'd pondered too many times, he stood, took his coat and hat, and left the office. Walking out of Perth in a full coat in the middle of Summer got him more than a few quizzical looks, but he ignored them, much as the gawkers quickly dismissed him after passing.

He walked into King's Park, appreciating the spot of nature and relative peace so close to the city. Leaving the usual paths behind, he wandered into the secluded bush, finding it easier to relax away from the noise of the families and picnickers.

But something broke his concentration. Ahead, he noticed a faint green light. Something that seemed to raise the anger within him. He crept forward, and as he got closer he heard voices speaking in both English and Infernal tongues, until he saw in a small clearing a plume of unnatural green light, surrounded by strange robe wearing people with the same light in their eyes. Most of all, he noted the rather inconspicuous fiery demon that towered above the others.

He sprung forward, unsheathing his hidden katana as he leapt, and sliced through the closet cultists. He felt no remorse, he knew that these lives were not human any longer. The third cultist sent a blast of energy at him that caught his shoulder. It stung, but the flesh of the wound was healing already. A flash of steel, and the cultist crumpled on the ground as the large demon stepped forward. He thrust upward, wounding the fiery beast, but recieved a raking of claws down his ribs for the trouble. These too started to regenerate flesh immediately after they were inflicted.
The next blow he deflected with the blade of the Katana, before leaping up and bringing it down on the demons skull, cleaving it in half.

He looked around at the results of his fury. His shoulder was fine, and his ribs were now only slightly sore. One of the first cultists was still alive, though barely. He knelt on its stomach…
"So, demon worshipper…" He began, letting his voice carry his rage "mind telling me what this was all about?"
The cultist laughed pitifully, but still scornfully. "Paragon… ley lines… the angry earth…" was all it could manage to say.
He put the blade through it's brain.

"So Paragon has a demon problem" he thought to himself, also unable to understand quite why such a rage had taken him when seeing the demon. "Guess I have a plane to catch"

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