Boredom Ensues

The Problematic Case

This is a short side-story based on a re-write of Project M, based in universe #41841 following Detective Stalone Edgar Everton in the strange message and uprising of Project M and their Followers of Chaos: P.O.M.S.

The clock strikes midnight as the last repeat of Project M's death plays to its fullest, and then disappears from the wide web for good, like a spider full from its evening meal. I take another gulp of the setting wine resting on my desk as I stare out into the city broken asunder. The orange glow of flames and ash illuminate the dark grey walls of my office, piercing through the slivers of my blinds and casting ominous shadows to the floor and ceiling. The clouds of charred smoke rise up to the night sky, covering the stars and moonlight. For once I crave the cool feel of the moon and starlight on my skin, wishing for the many mesmerising dots of wonders to reappear from hiding and bring back some freedom from this chaotic world. The sounds of sirens soon reach my dusty ears, followed by the screams of men, women, and children of all ages. Some shout in anguish, others in fear, and the rest in confused insanity as they see the world befall into a new order: an order of chaos that I gag in thinking about.

The message ends once more, and I rub my brow tightly. This seems to be the makings of a mastermind, and yet the ideology is that of a child's dream: True freedom, unity through no sense of structure. Yet their words seemed to have persuaded the world's inhabitants to let go of their morals and begin wreaking havoc. In all my years as a detective in Poero Vill, I have never seen so much madness occur at once. I must admit, the way the mysterious spokesperson gave their speech on that video sounded inspiring, but their words were that of a sadist craving the greatest plan of violence. I brush my scruffy brown hair away from my eyes once more, looking away from the chaos in the window and drawing my attention to the transcript of the entire video. Some of the folks in the office are calling it In Final A Capella, or The Final Speech, I'm calling it a desperate attempt for attention. This P.O.M.S group are terrorists that have no idea what they're doing in my personal opinion, and like any terrorist group I've come across: I plan on removing them from their invisible podium and bringing them to the cold harsh reality of justice.

I sit down in my chair in front of my desk, firmly staring at the words on the paper, hoping to find any sign of location, motive, or name. Nothing makes sense, not even their ability to broadcast this world wide on loop for 24hrs. Rumours were spread about the Federal Bureau of Investigation pulling the plugs on satellite transmissions to America, just to try and stop the broadcast. Those rumours then went on to say that the cursed message kept ringing out across the country, even when no connections could be made. However, they're all rumours, right?

Yeah, rumours. Rumours I shouldn't worry about if I'm going to solve this Mystery.

I take another gulp of wine, close to finishing the bottle of deep, blood-red liquid that poisons my system slowly. If I am to be brutal, I would rather die from this alcohol in my hands than in the hands of a rioter, a follower of Chaos. Maybe I'm hoping that this bottle does kill me? Perhaps that wish is more fortunate than whatever hell this journey ends on. Yet my stubborness gets in the way, unable to rest with the knowledge that this could become my first cold case if I let it slide. Worst case scenario, it's my last case ever, but I believe death won't be coming towards me anytime soon. I've escaped being shot, stabbed, shocked, even drowning - if death really did have my life in its cold thin hands, then they should've tightened their grip a long time ago.

I don't notice at first, but the screams and sirens begin to die down outside, perhaps the world has finally settled? Maybe the chaos was only from the strange hypnotic sound of the mysterious spokesperson's voice? It couldn't be that easy, however, as the smoke still rises from the many fires set ablaze and destroyed homes that now lay waste. All I can think of is that the world has given up. The sirens saw it as too much, the screams have lost their voice, and we're all doomed to the Followers of Chaos. Well, I'm not one to give up too easily. If they want the world to lay on its belly, play dead in the hopes they don't get shot behind a shed, then I'll be the tiger that refuses to beg. If they want this world quivering, then they better get the coldest weapon they have.