The Last Drop

The sun bled red through the haze, low as an accusation over Oasis. Even in the soft glow of dawn, the city’s silhouette was jagged—steel and concrete teeth biting at the dry sky. Mara Keane stood watching the armored security gates as they hissed open in a puff of filtered air. Her badge caught the light, and the guards nodded her through without meeting her eyes.

Water vault 17-A glimmered behind polyglass walls and barbed wire. Rumor said the vaults were older than the Consortium itself, patched together through decades of drought and sabotage. You could believe it, up close: weld scars, ancient keypad, the air around it humming with risk.

Mara set her jaw and stepped in. Two sentries stood stiff near the doorway, rifles hung loose against chest rigs. Inside, the chill sent a ripple of goosebumps up her arms. She tugged her coat tighter, then glanced at the scene: white floodlights; the stench of bleach and disappointment; a man splayed out awkwardly in the shadow of the reservoir’s main tap.

Cutter was here, already. His sharp suit and sharper profile marked him as a water merchant, not Consortium—but he got everywhere. He folded his arms, waiting. One of the guards—a rookie, Mara guessed by his fidgeting hands—offered a grimace. “Ma’am. Found him an hour ago. Door logs show only him coming in. Or… should have.”

She knelt. The victim’s lips were blue, eyes clouded with the city’s permanent hunger. No gun, no knife, just a blossoming bruise on his jaw and another at his temple. Mara’s fingers brushed the hand, and she frowned. Something. Folded paper, slick with dried blood, jammed between the victim’s fingers.

“Who is he?” she asked.

Cutter exhaled. “Name’s Gregor Hale. Small trader. Did runs for the lower cisterns. Not Consortium, not really competition. Just a hustler.”

Mara studied the body. Cheap shoes, little sand still clinging to the cuffs. His work vest’s pockets sagged with old ration tokens, nothing fancy. She snapped on gloves, gently pried the note from his grasp. The writing was shaky, ink pooled and smeared:

‘Seek out the Mirage. Look below the skin.’

No signature. No answers. She held it up for Cutter, who only raised an eyebrow.

“Meaningful?”

“With Gregor?” Cutter shrugged. “He talked a lot. Heard things. Unless he pulled a trick on the wrong people…”

The vault’s security officer entered—lean, nervous, sweating despite the cool. “We got a problem, detective. Footage is gone for the last eight hours. This place is like a fortress, but someone wiped the logs clean.”

No forced entry. No alarms. Mara circled the vast steel tank, eyeing the gleaming connection pipes and the spotless tap. “Any water missing?”

“No, ma’am.” The officer pointed a scanner at the gauge. “Levels untouched to the liter.”

“So whoever came, killed Hale, and left. Didn’t take a drop?” She chewed on that, glancing at the braided chain sealing the main valve. “What about access? Only scheduled for maintenance this morning?”

“Just Gregor. And us.”

Mara grunted. The no-theft meant motive wasn’t water, or if it was, someone wanted it to look otherwise. She pressed the note flat against her pad, snapped a shot. “He was holding onto this for a reason. Think anyone knew?”

Cutter shook his head. “If they did, they didn’t come to me.”

The room echoed with the slow, mournful glug of the reserve tank. Mara’s thoughts roiled. Who erased the tapes? Inside job or someone with Consortium reach? And what about this Mirage—the word was acid in her mouth. Last time she’d heard it, it was whispered in a riot, just before the tear gas.

She stood, cracking her neck. “Lock the vault. No one in or out. I want lists—shifts, deliveries, maintenance. And run Gregor’s comms. Check for any contacts flagged for subversion.”

Cutter lingered as the guards stepped out. “You think this is politics? Or something else?”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble not to steal a thing,” Mara replied. “Gregor was a message. Find out who wrote it.”

Outside, the heat pressed back in, thick and oily. Sirens wailed faint in the distance—a reminder that Oasis didn’t bleed for one dead man. Mara touched the note in her pocket and headed for her rig, scanning the horizon for answers, for ghosts. Each step felt heavier, as if the city itself resented the loss of even this little water merchant. The investigation had only begun, but Mara already felt the jaws closing in around her. She would not let Gregor’s secrets die with him.