The Zealous DA

Detective Judas Miller didn't hurry. He dragged Arthur Penhaligon by the collar of his expensive wool coat, the fabric scuffing against the salt-crusted concrete of Pier 19. Arthur’s heels kicked weakly, leaving twin trails in the grime. His motor functions were firing in haywire bursts—a side effect of the bismuth tuning fork Miller had pressed against his temple. To anyone watching, it looked like a drunk being escorted to a cab. But there was no one watching. The Order had already harmonized the sector.

"You always had a flair for the dramatic, Arthur," Miller said, his voice cutting through the rhythmic slap-slap of the water against the pilings. "The 'Zealous D.A.' taking on the titans. It’s a good story. It sells papers. But stories don't keep the lights on."

Miller stopped at the edge of the pier. He hoisted Arthur up, propping him against a rusted bollard. Arthur’s eyes were bloodshot, his jaw working fruitlessly as he tried to form a syllable. The "Static" was a physical presence now, a swarm of invisible needles humming at a frequency that turned his thoughts to gray slush.