Internal Affairs

Internal Affairs

The evidence locker erupted at 5:47 AM, just as the first rays of sunlight painted the Dragonfly course in amber. The blast sent UV-reactive powder billowing across the parking lot like phosphorescent snow, coating early-bird players preparing for their practice rounds. 💥🌅

Captain Ironclad arrived within minutes, his coat still smoldering from proximity to the flames. The Regulators' entire collection of bag tag evidence—weeks of painstaking investigation—had been reduced to molten plastic and ash. He crouched near the twisted metal door, blacklight trembling in his grip. "This whole operation reeks of a setup, if you ask me," he muttered, watching the powder settle.

Across the scorched asphalt, Eric Pearson worked his tablet frantically, his Sector Marshal tag pulsing with each security camera feed he accessed. The footage showed nothing—a perfect eight-minute gap starting at 5:39 AM. Professional work. Eric's tactical overlay highlighted blast patterns radiating from three distinct points. "Shaped charges," he announced grimly. "Someone who knew exactly what they were doing." 🔍💻

High above on the maintenance shed roof, Clinton Atwater adjusted his reactive camo gear and smiled. The Covert Hammer tag at his hip had done its job, scrambling the security feeds while he'd planted his signature micro-charges. Phase one complete. He slipped down the ladder, transforming seamlessly into just another grounds crew member heading to prep the course.

By midmorning, Internal Affairs had descended on Dragonfly like carrion birds. The destroyed evidence had contained proof linking several officers to the bag tag conspiracy. Now, with that proof gone, suspicion fell on anyone who'd had access. Detective Sarah Chen from IA set up her interrogation station near the first tee, her eyes cold as winter steel. 🚨⚖️

The first Regulator called in was Officer Marcus Webb, whose Protocol Enforcer tag had logged him entering the evidence room two days prior. "Standard inventory check," he insisted, sweat beading on his forehead despite the morning chill. But Chen had done her homework—Webb's financial records showed three mysterious deposits, each exactly $2,000, spaced weeks apart.

Ironclad watched from the rough near hole seven, his hand unconsciously drifting to his coat pocket. The narrator noticed how players' throws curved suspiciously today, as if the very air had been poisoned by betrayal. A particularly sharp hyzer flew out of bounds, and Ironclad scribbled furiously in his notebook. "Drive that crosswind," he whispered to himself, then squinted at his own handwriting.

The Whisper observed it all through high-powered binoculars from the apartment complex overlooking the course. The chaos was delicious—Regulators turning on each other, trust evaporating like morning dew. They reached for their modified putter, its rim catching the light. Time for the next act. 🎭🔭

Atwater had reached hole thirteen now, ostensibly checking basket heights. In reality, he was planting something far more sophisticated—a micro-transmitter inside the chains themselves. When activated, it would broadcast on the same frequency as police radios, creating untraceable ghost communications. The perfect tool for misdirection.

Back at the clubhouse, Chen's investigation had taken a darker turn. She'd discovered that someone had been using department resources to track disc golf tournaments statewide. The data showed a pattern—wherever certain players competed, evidence in local corruption cases mysteriously vanished. The common thread? All the affected players carried tags from the same series.

Eric Pearson made the connection first. His sector analysis revealed that the blast patterns matched demolition signatures from three unsolved cases—all targeting police corruption investigations. "We're not dealing with an inside job," he told Ironclad quietly. "We're dealing with a specialist. Someone who's been doing this for years." 🧨📊

As if summoned by the revelation, a small disc rolled across the scorched parking lot, stopping at Ironclad's feet. Etched in its flight plate was a simple message in UV-reactive ink: "The house always wins. -W" The Whisper's calling card, as theatrical as ever.

Chen's investigation reached its crescendo when she called in Ironclad himself. "Captain, your access logs show you were here at 5:15 AM. Care to explain?" The trap was elegant—Ironclad had indeed been here, following a tip about suspicious activity. Now that very diligence painted him as a suspect.

From his perch on hole sixteen, Atwater triggered the final phase. The chain transmitters activated simultaneously, flooding police channels with encrypted chatter. Fragments of conversations, out of context and damning: "Package secured." "Payment confirmed." "Target eliminated." Each transmission seemed to originate from different Regulators' radios.

Paranoia bloomed like a poisonous flower. Officers eyed each other with fresh suspicion. Who could be trusted? Who was compromised? The Shadows had achieved more in one morning than weeks of direct action could have accomplished. 🌺☠️

As the sun reached its zenith, Ironclad stood alone on the eighteenth tee. The investigation had stalled, mired in mutual distrust. Evidence destroyed, allies questioned, integrity shattered. He pulled out the UV-etched disc, studying it under his blacklight. There—barely visible—was a second message hidden within the first: "Your partner says hello."

The words hit like a sledgehammer. His old partner, thought dead these three years. Could it be? No—The Whisper was playing games, had to be. But the seed of doubt was planted, and in this game of shadows and lies, doubt was all it took.

Clinton Atwater packed his maintenance gear as the day shift arrived. Mission accomplished. The Regulators were effectively neutralized, too busy investigating each other to pursue The Whisper's larger plan. He touched his Covert Hammer tag once—a salute to another perfect demolition.

As sirens wailed and accusations flew, a figure in a plague doctor mask watched from the woods beyond hole nine. Neither Shadow nor Regulator, they served a different master entirely. The mask tilted slightly, considering. Soon, very soon, all the players in this game would learn the true stakes.

The day ended with the Regulators in shambles, their evidence destroyed, their trust shattered. Internal Affairs had opened seventeen separate investigations. The Shadows had won this round decisively, and somewhere in the city's depths, The Whisper smiled. 🌃🎯

After all, in a game where everyone cheats, the house always wins.