Detective noir

The Church of Science.

People used to think it was a joke—right up until they didn’t. With attendance in the hundreds of thousands, it had grown into a semi‑private institution in this dusty little berg. It might not have mattered at all if not for the strange things whispered about it. They said real weird stuff happened there. I never paid those murmurs any mind—

Not at first, anyway.

As far as the public knew, they were an actual church, born from the same brand of superstition as any other. They had a savior of sorts, a book, their own music, and a set of deeply held beliefs. It was a church. What more did anyone need to say?

The only major difference between this church and, say, every other church was that this one prayed to some sort of clockwork deity rather than the traditional God. Whose idea that was, I couldn’t tell you.

It was the night of their annual gathering, and everyone would soon be donning their best duds for the ceremony. Their leader, the esteemed Admiral Billsworth, had put on the traditional garb of his station. Everything was ready for what had become a yearly celebration. Outsiders weren’t allowed in unless they were at least an Eleventh‑Grade Follower or higher.

That was all well and good for them, but secrets like that tend to breed a different sort of individual. It was hard to imagine their mysteries hadn’t tempted someone to sneak in for a peek. In fifty years of existence, surely someone had tried. But that’s where their story drifted beyond the obvious: nothing was ever said. Their society and their beliefs were shrouded in mystery.

That’s where I come in.

I’m a detective.