Drizzling rain and fog shrouded the island of Yuuyami-Saigo, even in the middle of the long spring. The wisps of ghostly white had risen from the water and curled around its picturesque cliffs and shores even before the ferry had started moving, and by the time Darren’s boots fell on the cobbles of the long stone harbour, the very colour of the trees that traced the shape of the mountain and the edge of the island seemed to have been leeched off into the ether. With the sun sequestered behind a cloud, what little slivers of light that peeked through like daggers illuminated, for brief moments, the glimpses of shrine among the leaves, winding their way up the mountains, along with the edges of dark tiled roof jutting out from beyond the boundaries of the obscured valley. The light shower intersected with these shafts, casting errant shadows over what little land he could see, and onto the must itself. It was from there a soft hum and its accompanying lights emerged, slicing through the fog as a man on a motorcycle slowed and came to a stop at the base of the steps. His large, almost oversized poncho fell over his eyes, obscuring the top half of his face.

“Darren Sirovsky?”

He stomped down from the harbour, rainwater displaced by the shifting of his weight. “That’s me.”

The man nodded, and pulled his hood back, revealing a face much more aged than Darren had assumed, with standout creases in his forehead and under his eyes, plus a wisp of scraggly graying hair that placed him somewhere in his mid-50s or 60s - not that Darren was any good at judging people’s age, and that was without considering what living in an isolated colony did to one's cosmetic routine.

The man noticed his stare, and patted the extension of the seat behind him. “Come on. You’re late enough as it is.”

“You’re Taiko, then?” Darren clambered onto the bike. Something about the mood told him that asking about the lack of helmets would be inappropriate.

“Taiko is dead. I am Toshiie.” Before there could be any reply, the bike took off, leaving Darren to quickly wrap his arms around the older man so as to not fall off.

He didn't blame them. Territories like Yuuyami-Saigo were not only outside of the Empire's jurisdiction, but the ministerial gymnastics and inter-Divisional politics involved in assigning resources for such an investigation, deriving a solution, and arranging an agent to travel all the way to a frontier world…he could certainly see it making his head spin. But despite the red tape, in the end, their tardiness could hardly be attributed to the usual suspects; and so the task was thrust upon him the very day his suspension had expired, and here he was, picking up the pieces of somebody else’s forgotten work.

It wasn’t long until they got to the village. The first sense of it Darren got was a veritable wall of fragrant incense smoke cutting straight through the petrichor, and with each home they passed, he caught sight of the cause, sticking out of ceramic vessels placed outside of the doors. A bleating found him next, and he turned just in time to see a figure in a raincoat, sitting next to two small goats under the awning of a wooden roof. Their bike turned down another dirt road, and the same tiled roof he had seen from the shore came into view, connecting to a wide, slightly curved roof over what seemed to be a temple complex. That sight went as quickly as it had come when they turned again, and after more goats and incense pots and the occasional stone statue peeking out from behind loose brush and buildings, they came to a stop outside an older house, its wood slowly beginning to rot from the looks of it, but otherwise completely intact.

Darren let go of Toshiie. “It’s tonight?”

“I will be back at sundown. You can fix this?”

“I can stop it.”

Toshiie squinted at him for a moment as if trying to bore a hole through him, before gunning the engine and turning back the way they came. Darren stood there and watched him go, until the red flash of his tail light was swallowed up by the fog.

Cold and miserable despite the protection of his own raincoat, he shrugged it off on the veranda and left it on the wooden bench outside, before sliding the screen door open and ducking into the dark of the old house. He fumbled semi-blindly along the wall until he felt metal and plastic, and flipped the switch on, finally illuminating his surroundings.

The small house - he’d call it a hut if he cared for semantics - was effectively two rooms: one he had just stepped into, with cheap linoleum counters and a microwave and kettle, surrounding a low table with two cushions for sitting on. His eyes found the handles in view and he counted. One on the microwave. Three under the counters. Another one in what looked like a small cupboard. A quick peek into the adjoining room confirmed at least four more on the rudimentary wardrobe, and probably more past the door he assumed was the toilet. He furrowed his brow at the uncomfortable futon and deflated pillow on the floor, and then reassured himself it was only for the night. Discomfort was at least tame compared to the quarters on the freighter and its constant machinic hum, and especially his own cot in the barracks back on the homeworld.

Darren spotted the small black briefcase leaning against the far side of the wardrobe, adding one more to his count. Picking it up, he held his thumb to the small panel under the handle, and just like that, its locks popped open. Inside was a folded tablet computer, two rolls of thick black polymer tape, and a pair of what looked like goggles, their lenses tinted orange against the matte black casing.

Outside, despite the light train, thunder echoed in the distance, striking something somewhere out in the mountains.

He picked up one of the rolls of tape, looked to the closest window, and got to work.