“When something goes wrong, panic is easy. Preparation takes practice.”

The alarm began with a bell.

Not a dramatic bell.

Not the sort that announced invasion, catastrophe, or the end of civilized pastry.

Just three sharp notes from somewhere inside the former Pie Works.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Captain Crumble looked up.

Across the operations room, Glazey Dave looked down.

He was standing on a chair.

This was rarely encouraging.

Whip Siren looked toward both of them.

“Dave.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“What?”

“The alarm.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“Oh.”

Dave stepped down from the chair.

The chair rolled away.

He caught it with one jelly coil without looking.

Captain Crumble was already moving.

The old Pie Works had not been designed as an emergency headquarters.

That showed.

Its original brick arches still crossed the ceilings. Old loading doors had been reinforced rather than removed. Portions of the factory floor had been divided into offices, equipment bays, workshops, map rooms, medical areas, and dispatch stations.

New wiring ran beside century-old masonry.

Brass pipes disappeared into walls that had once carried something very different.

A faded section of tile near the western stair still bore the outline of a pie company’s old crest.

Nobody had bothered removing it.

CES had simply built around history.

Captain Crumble reached the central dispatch table.

A light blinked beside District Seven.

The dispatcher there turned.

“Structural emergency. Lower Market edge.”

“Details.”

“Delivery carriage struck a loading support outside Bellweather Provisioners. Upper storage gallery partially failed.”

“Injuries?”

“Unknown. Caller reports at least four trapped.”

“Fire?”

“None reported.”

“Utilities?”

“One gas line shut locally. Water line may be damaged.”

Crumble glanced toward Whip.

Whip Siren already had her field kit.

“Medical and stabilization.”

Then Dave.

He was wearing his goggles properly now.

That was how Crumble knew he was serious.

“Technical extraction.”

Dave snapped one jelly coil into its harness port.

“Finally, a sentence with my name hiding inside it.”

“It did not contain your name.”

“It spiritually contained my name.”

“Vehicle bay.”

Dave was already moving.

Captain Crumble grabbed her field tablet.

The dispatcher called after her:

“Crumble.”

She turned.

“Witness says the upper gallery is shifting.”

“How fast?”

“No measurement.”

Crumble’s expression tightened.

“Get me building plans.”

She ran.

The Swirl Unit waited inside Bay Two.

It was difficult to mistake for anything else.

Broad at the rear.

Narrower toward the front.

Low enough to negotiate Pastrypolis’s older streets but large enough to carry rescue equipment.

Its body had been built by hand, like every powered vehicle in Crustara, with warm brass fittings, dark timber trim, painted CES markings, and the unmistakable wedge-like silhouette that had earned it its name.

Whip Siren climbed into the rear work station.

Dave took the forward passenger seat.

Captain Crumble drove.

Dave stared at her.

“What?”

“You’re driving.”

“Yes.”

“What happened to Pelisse?”

“Training.”

“Bram?”

“Supply run.”

“Strudel?”

“Not on shift.”

Dave fastened his restraint.

“Good.”

Crumble looked at him.

“Why good?”

“No reason.”

The engine turned.

Caramel pressure rose through the drivetrain with a low mechanical hum.

Crumble pulled the release lever.

The bay doors opened.

The Swirl Unit launched into Pastrypolis.

Dave grabbed the dashboard.

“I remembered the reason.”

The city moved aside for them.

Not perfectly.

Cities never did anything perfectly.

But bells carried ahead of the Swirl Unit, and most drivers knew what the red-and-cream CES markings meant.

Crumble threaded between a handcart and a delivery wagon.

Whip Siren stood braced in the rear compartment, arranging tools in exact order.

“Compression wraps.”

Dave opened the wrong compartment.

“Other side.”

He opened another.

“Chilled stabilizers.”

Dave handed them back.

“Scanner.”

He passed it over.

Whip looked at him.

“That was correct.”

“Thank you.”

“I was surprised.”

“Less thank you.”

Crumble glanced at the mirror.

“Focus.”

“I am focused.”

Dave was now holding three tools and a pastry.

Crumble looked again.

“Where did you get that?”

“The pastry?”

“Yes.”

“I had it.”

“Before the call?”

“Probably.”

Whip reached forward and took it from him.

Dave gasped.

“Evidence.”

“You can have it after.”

“After what?”

“After you wash whatever part of you was holding it.”

Dave looked down at his jelly coils.

“Fair.”

Crumble turned sharply onto a narrower street.

Ahead, people were gathering.

That was never useful.

“Clear the entrance,” she said.

Whip was already at the rear doors.

The Swirl Unit stopped.

CES stepped out.

Bellweather Provisioners occupied the ground floor of an old commercial building.

Or had.

The front loading gallery had partially collapsed.

One support column leaned outward.

A timber balcony above it sagged.

Crates, shelving, and broken railing covered part of the pavement.

One delivery carriage sat crooked against the building with a crushed front wheel.

Citizens stood in the street.

Some shouting.

Some helping.

Some simply staring.

Captain Crumble stopped at the edge of the debris.

She did not look first at the people.

She looked at the building.

Then the carriage.

Then the upper gallery.

Then the street.

Then the people.

All of it mattered.

“Who called?”

A flour-cake merchant raised one hand.

“Me.”

“Building owner?”

Another dessert stepped forward.

“Here.”

“Anyone still upstairs?”

“Three workers. Maybe four.”

“Maybe?”

“One went down the rear stair before it shifted. I don’t know if he got out.”

“Where is the driver?”

The merchant pointed.

Whip Siren was already kneeling beside a shaken pastry near the carriage.

“Dave.”

“Here.”

“Rear access. Do not enter.”

Dave’s face fell.

“Those last three words are very limiting.”

“Inspect only.”

“Much better.”

He fired one jelly coil toward an iron balcony bracket and swung himself lightly over a pile of broken timber.

Crumble turned to the building owner.

“What happened?”

“The carriage came in too fast.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“It hit the column?”

“Yes.”

“And then the gallery failed?”

“Yes.”

Crumble looked again.

Something bothered her.

The carriage had struck the support.

That was obvious.

But the upper gallery had sagged several feet away from the impact point.

Too far.

A simple collision should have damaged the front corner.

This failure had traveled.

Whip called from beside the driver.

“Crumble.”

Captain Crumble crossed to her.

The driver was a pear tart with one arm wrapped protectively against his body.

Whip had already stabilized it.

“Fracture,” Whip said. “Not displaced.”

The driver tried to sit straighter.

“I’m fine.”

Whip looked at him.

“No.”

The driver stopped.

Crumble crouched.

“What happened?”

“Steering locked.”

“Before or after impact?”

“Before.”

“Brakes?”

“Worked.”

“Speed?”

“Too much.”

Whip looked at him.

The driver winced.

“I know.”

“What were you carrying?”

“Dry goods. Flour sacks. Nut meal. Nothing unstable.”

Crumble looked toward the damaged carriage.

One front wheel was angled almost sideways.

“Steering failure.”

The driver nodded.

“Sudden?”

“Yes.”

Dave shouted from behind the building.

“Crumble!”

She stood.

“Stay with him.”

Whip gave her a look.

Crumble corrected herself.

“Obviously.”

“Thank you.”

Crumble crossed through the debris.

Dave was crouched beside the rear foundation.

One jelly coil disappeared into a narrow gap beneath the gallery.

“Don’t touch anything.”

“I’m not.”

The coil twitched.

“You are touching it with that.”

“That is philosophically different.”

“Dave.”

“Fine.”

He withdrew the coil.

Then pointed.

The rear support beam had split near its base.

Not fresh.

At least not entirely.

Dark staining ran through the fracture.

Old water damage.

Crumble stared.

“The carriage didn’t cause this.”

“Not all of it.”

Dave tapped his goggles down over his eyes.

“The front column got hit. Load moved backward. Rear support was already weak.”

Crumble looked upward.

The gallery sagged.

One problem had become another.

Then another.

Classic cascade.

“How long?”

Dave looked at the support.

“How long until it drops?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged.

“Could be ten minutes.”

A creak echoed overhead.

Dave looked up.

“Or it heard me.”

Crumble turned.

“Clear the street!”

Her voice changed everything.

People moved.

Not because she shouted loudly.

Because she sounded like someone who knew what happened next.

“Whip!”

“Driver stabilized.”

“Upper gallery may go.”

Whip stood immediately.

“Trapped?”

“Three confirmed.”

“Rear stair?”

“Unknown.”

Crumble looked at Dave.

“Can we brace it?”

Dave studied the broken support.

“With normal equipment?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“With abnormal equipment?”

His mouth curled.

“Yes.”

Crumble closed her eyes for half a second.

“Explain.”

“I have two expansion jacks in the Swirl Unit, three jelly coils, a collapsed timber rack, and an irresponsible amount of adhesive webbing.”

“How irresponsible?”

Dave thought.

“Regrettably legal.”

“Use it.”

His eyes lit up.

“Really?”

“Do not make me reconsider.”

He was gone.

Whip Siren reached the front doorway.

A section of fallen shelving blocked it.

“Two inside,” someone shouted from the crowd. “I can hear them!”

Whip listened.

A faint pounding came from behind the debris.

“Dave!”

“Busy!”

Whip grabbed one end of a broken shelf.

It shifted.

The entire gallery creaked.

She stopped immediately.

Crumble raised a hand.

“Nothing moves until Dave braces.”

Whip looked toward the obstruction.

“Someone may be injured.”

“I know.”

“They may be getting more injured.”

“I know.”

Whip’s jaw tightened.

Waiting was not her favorite rescue technique.

Crumble stepped beside her.

“If we pull that shelf now and the gallery comes with it, we trade two trapped citizens for six.”

Whip stared at the debris.

Then nodded once.

“Thirty seconds.”

Crumble looked toward Dave.

“You heard her.”

Dave was halfway under the building.

“I always love being timed by her!”

Whip started counting.

“Thirty.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Twenty-nine.”

Dave’s coils snapped outward.

One wrapped around a surviving timber brace.

Another hooked an iron base plate.

The third dragged an expansion jack across the pavement.

“Twenty-four.”

“I’m aware of numbers!”

“Twenty-three.”

Crumble watched the gallery.

The angle was worsening.

“Dave.”

“I see it.”

He jammed the first jack beneath the broken support.

It slipped.

“Bad floor.”

“Eighteen.”

“Whip.”

“Seventeen.”

“I require optimism.”

“Sixteen.”

Dave looked at Crumble.

“She’s terrifying.”

“Work.”

“Yes, Captain.”

He kicked a broken plank aside.

Stopped.

Looked at it.

Then picked it back up.

“Wait.”

He wedged the plank beneath the jack.

Crumble saw the idea.

“Load spreader.”

Dave grinned.

“Exactly.”

He set the second jack opposite the first.

Then looped two jelly coils around the broken support and tensioned them against the intact wall frame.

“Ten.”

“Ready!”

Crumble looked upward.

“Take load slowly.”

Dave activated the jacks.

The gallery moved.

Everyone froze.

A fraction upward.

Then stopped.

Dave adjusted tension.

The broken support settled onto the improvised brace.

The creaking quieted.

Whip reached zero.

“Stable?”

Dave listened.

One jelly coil vibrated like a plucked string.

“Stable-ish.”

Crumble looked at him.

“Define.”

“It will hold while we behave ourselves.”

Whip immediately grabbed the shelf.

“That is enough definition.”

They found the first worker conscious beneath broken shelving.

Whip reached him first.

“Don’t move.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

His lower crust was pinned.

Whip checked the angle.

“Dave.”

“I’m here.”

“Lift two inches.”

“Two?”

“Two.”

“Not three?”

“Do you want me to explain why?”

“No.”

Dave slipped a jelly coil beneath the beam.

Crumble positioned two workers outside the doorway.

“On Whip’s signal, pull him straight. No twisting.”

Everyone nodded.

Whip counted.

“One.”

Dave tensioned.

“Two.”

The beam rose.

“Now.”

They pulled.

The worker came free.

Whip caught him, checked his structure, then moved him immediately toward the street.

One.

The second worker was farther inside.

A biscuit clerk had sheltered beneath a heavy desk.

His ankle was trapped.

He was frightened but unhurt.

Whip freed him.

Two.

Crumble looked toward the rear.

“Third?”

No answer.

Then:

“Here!”

Faint.

Above them.

Crumble looked up.

The remaining worker was on the gallery.

Of course.

The stair had collapsed behind him.

He stood near the far wall, afraid to cross the sagging floor.

Whip looked at the gallery.

“No.”

Crumble agreed.

“No weight on that floor.”

The worker shouted:

“Then how do I get down?”

Dave looked up.

Slowly.

Crumble saw his expression.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You made the face.”

“What face?”

“The rope face.”

Dave looked offended.

“My face has range.”

“Your plan involves jelly coils.”

“Technically all my plans involve jelly coils.”

Crumble looked from the worker to the gallery.

Then at the upper window beside him.

“How far can you anchor?”

Dave followed her gaze.

His grin faded.

Now he was thinking.

“Far enough.”

“Safe load?”

“For him?”

“Yes.”

Dave assessed the trapped worker.

Then his coil.

Then the masonry opposite.

“Yes.”

Whip looked at him.

“You’re certain?”

Dave nodded.

The humor left his face completely.

“Yes.”

That mattered.

Crumble pointed.

“Opposite wall. Two anchors. Redundant line.”

Dave moved.

One coil shot across the street and wrapped a heavy iron balcony support.

A second anchored lower.

He tested both.

Hard.

Nothing moved.

Then he sent a third line upward.

“Catch!”

The worker did not.

The coil bounced off his shoulder.

Dave winced.

“Second attempt!”

Crumble stared at him.

“What?”

“Honesty builds trust.”

The second attempt worked.

The worker secured himself.

Dave checked the connection.

“Good!”

He looked at Crumble.

“Ready.”

Crumble looked at Whip.

“Landing.”

Whip moved beneath the line.

Crumble shouted upward:

“Do exactly what Dave tells you.”

The worker stared down.

“That sentence worries me.”

Dave looked wounded.

Crumble said:

“It worries everyone. Do it anyway.”

The worker climbed onto the window ledge.

The gallery groaned.

“Now,” Crumble said.

He pushed away.

Dave’s jelly coils stretched.

The worker swung out over the street.

Whip guided him down.

His feet touched pavement.

A cheer rose from the crowd.

Dave smiled.

Then the gallery collapsed.

The sound was enormous.

Timber snapped.

Stone cracked.

Dust burst from the doorway.

The upper gallery dropped into the space they had evacuated less than a minute before.

Dave’s improvised brace twisted.

One expansion jack flew sideways.

His jelly coils recoiled.

Captain Crumble shoved Dave backward.

Whip pulled the rescued worker away.

Then everything stopped.

Dust rolled across the street.

Nobody spoke.

Dave coughed.

“Stable-ish.”

Crumble slowly turned toward him.

“Do not.”

He closed his mouth.

Whip scanned the building.

“Everyone accounted for.”

Crumble looked at the street.

Driver.

Three workers.

Bystanders clear.

No one beneath the collapse.

She exhaled.

Only then.

“Good.”

Whip looked at her.

That single word was enough.

CES began cleaning up.

Two hours later, the street belonged to engineers, city inspectors, and the building owner.

CES had transferred the injured driver for further treatment.

The rescued workers had been assessed and released.

Dave had recovered two jelly coils.

The third was somewhere beneath half a gallery.

He stood staring at the rubble.

“I liked that one.”

Whip walked past.

“You say that about all of them.”

“They are individuals.”

“They are equipment.”

“That is exactly what somebody who never names equipment would say.”

“I name equipment.”

Dave brightened.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

He waited.

Whip pointed at her scanner.

“Scanner.”

Dave looked devastated.

Captain Crumble approached carrying the preliminary incident sheet.

“Cause is likely cumulative.”

Whip looked over.

“Not just the carriage?”

“Carriage triggered the failure. Rear support was already compromised.”

Dave nodded.

“Water intrusion.”

“Probably months.”

Crumble looked toward the building.

“The collision moved load into a weak point. Gallery shifted. Shelving fell. Stair failed.”

Whip folded her arms.

“One bad turn.”

“No.”

Crumble looked at her.

“Several smaller problems that happened to meet at the same time.”

Dave glanced between them.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s building maintenance.”

“Less ominous.”

Crumble closed the report.

“For now.”

The Swirl Unit returned to the former Pie Works after sunset.

Its bay doors opened.

The vehicle rolled inside.

Workshop crews took over immediately.

Whip Siren exited before the engine fully settled.

Dave waited until it did.

Crumble noticed.

“Learning?”

“No. My restraint caught on the seat.”

He freed it.

“Never mind.”

They entered headquarters.

The Pie Works felt different at night.

Quieter.

Not empty.

CES was never empty.

Dispatch ran continuously.

A maintenance crew worked on equipment in one bay.

Two responders returned from a canal incident.

Someone carried a stack of blankets toward recovery.

A tired citizen sat with a cup of tea near intake while a staff member completed paperwork beside them.

Emergency service, Crumble often thought, contained far more waiting than anyone imagined.

Whip disappeared briefly toward Medical & Recovery to hand over the driver’s notes.

Dave headed toward his workshop.

Crumble called:

“Debrief in ten.”

Dave stopped.

His shoulders fell.

“Nine?”

“Ten.”

“Could we compromise at twelve?”

“Ten.”

“That negotiation was unusual.”

Crumble kept walking.

Ten minutes later, Dave arrived in eleven.

Whip was already there.

Crumble looked at the clock.

Dave looked at the clock.

“Different clock.”

“No.”

“I respect your confidence.”

He sat.

The operations room had settled into its evening rhythm.

Maps covered one wall.

Incident boards covered another.

A large city plan occupied the central table.

Most of the marks were ordinary.

A burst pipe.

Two traffic collisions.

A kitchen fire.

A damaged canal gate.

A warehouse roof under inspection.

Problems.

Solved problems.

Problems waiting to become tomorrow’s problems.

Captain Crumble opened the Bellweather file.

“Good response.”

Dave looked surprised.

Whip did not.

Crumble continued.

“Whip, extraction timing was clean.”

Whip nodded.

“Dave, rear stabilization worked.”

Dave sat straighter.

“Despite being—”

“Do not say ‘stable-ish.’”

He sat back.

“Understood.”

Crumble closed the report.

“Two improvements.”

Dave sighed.

“There it is.”

“The second anchor should have gone in before the first line was tensioned.”

“Agreed.”

Whip looked at him.

“You agree?”

“I enjoy surviving.”

Crumble looked at Whip.

“You were right to push the timetable.”

Whip nodded.

“But?”

“You were also ten seconds from moving that shelf before stabilization.”

Whip was quiet.

Then:

“Yes.”

Crumble leaned back.

“We don’t win by being first to touch the problem.”

Whip tapped two fingers against the table.

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

That ended it.

Captain Crumble gathered the papers.

“We don’t panic.”

Dave and Whip answered together:

“We prepare.”

Dave looked at Whip.

“You said it with me.”

“Do not make this a moment.”

“It was a moment.”

“It is over.”

A dispatcher appeared at the doorway.

“Captain?”

Crumble looked up.

“What?”

“We received the mountain-road report.”

Everything changed.

Not dramatically.

No alarm sounded.

Nobody ran.

But the room became more focused.

Crumble set Bellweather aside.

“Bring it.”

The report was thin.

An oversized mountain freight hauler had lost braking control north of Qualden.

The Bridge of Saint Brisée had been damaged.

No fatalities.

Minor injuries.

The vehicle had somehow been redirected and stopped at the bridge approach.

That alone was unusual.

The accompanying instrument trace was more unusual.

Whip pulled the chart closer.

“That’s the same one I showed you.”

Crumble nodded.

Dave leaned over the table.

The line rose steeply.

Then held.

A long, almost level plateau.

Then fell.

Dave pointed.

“Still looks like someone told a mountain to sit down.”

Crumble ignored the phrasing.

“Road engineer’s statement.”

Whip read.

“‘Bridge experienced significant transient load followed by unexpected stabilization across the approach structure.’”

Dave looked pleased.

“Mountain sat down.”

Whip continued.

“‘Witnesses attribute stabilization to a large blue cheesecake monk.’”

Silence.

Dave blinked.

“Oh.”

Crumble looked at him.

“That is your technical assessment?”

“I had more, but it became unnecessary.”

Whip turned the page.

“Monastery robe. Blue body. Blueberries.”

Crumble reached for another folder.

Father Cuvée’s note rested inside.

He had not written much.

He rarely did when a short message would suffice.

Crumble opened it.

Brother Blue Bulk has independently perceived unusual pressure disturbances from the direction of Pastrypolis. He has chosen to investigate. I have not asked him to do so.

Below that:

I thought you should know.

Dave read over her shoulder.

“Who is Brother Blue Bulk?”

“Monk,” Crumble said.

“You know him?”

“I’ve met him.”

“What’s he like?”

Crumble considered.

“Large.”

Dave waited.

“That’s all?”

“No.”

Crumble folded the note.

“It is the part currently supported by the bridge.”

Whip looked at the trace.

“So his action registered.”

“Yes.”

“But he wasn’t creating the original disturbance.”

Crumble looked at her.

“Explain.”

Whip set the mountain chart beside another.

The Lower Pastrypolis reading.

Strawbrawler’s.

The first was sharp.

Compressed.

A concentrated burst.

The second was broad.

Controlled.

Sustained.

“Different shapes,” Whip said.

Dave leaned closer.

“Very different.”

“Exactly.”

Crumble looked from one to the other.

“Same instruments reacted.”

“Yes.”

“Same sensitivity range?”

Whip nodded.

“Close enough.”

Dave picked up a pencil.

He drew a tiny circle around the first spike.

“This one is violence.”

Whip pointed toward the plateau.

“This one is control.”

Dave drew a larger circle around that.

“So not one phenomenon.”

Crumble said nothing.

She turned toward the city map.

There were more marks now.

The old subcrust pulse.

The Lower Pastrypolis street event.

The fight near the fountain.

The mountain bridge.

Small anomalies.

Different locations.

Different behavior.

Whip watched her.

“You see something.”

Crumble hated when people said that before she did.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Not enough.”

Dave whispered:

“That means yes.”

Crumble moved two markers closer together on the map.

“The first underground reading occurred before the public fight.”

Whip nodded.

“The second followed it.”

“The mountain event happened later.”

“Yes.”

“Blue Bulk says he felt disturbances before leaving the monastery.”

“Yes.”

Crumble tapped the table.

“Then he is not the source.”

“No.”

“Neither is the strawberry fighter.”

Dave raised one finger.

“We are calling him Strawberry Fighter now?”

“No.”

“Good. Weak name.”

Whip looked at him.

“You have no idea what his actual name is.”

“I can still reject candidates.”

Crumble ignored both of them.

“If they are not causing the underlying disturbance…”

She stared at the map.

Whip understood first.

“They’re responding to it.”

Crumble looked at her.

“Maybe.”

Dave’s expression changed.

He looked at the two charts again.

“So something happens beneath the city…”

He tapped the narrow spike.

“…and somebody above answers like this.”

Then the broad plateau.

“And somebody very far away answers like this.”

Whip folded her arms.

“Or they are all interacting with the same thing differently.”

Crumble nodded slowly.

That was closer.

A dispatcher entered.

“Captain.”

“Another reading?”

“No.”

Crumble relaxed slightly.

“Report from Lower Pastrypolis.”

“What kind?”

“Public disturbance from several days ago. Witness statements finally came through.”

Dave groaned.

“Witness statements.”

The dispatcher smiled.

“You’ll enjoy these.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You will.”

The folder hit the table.

Crumble opened it.

The first report claimed two young desserts had fought.

The second claimed one of them had thrown the other twenty feet.

The third said thirty.

The fourth involved a fountain.

The fifth insisted the street cracked.

The sixth used the name:

Strawbrawler.

Crumble stopped.

Whip leaned closer.

“What?”

Crumble turned the page.

Another witness used the same name.

Then another.

Dave read it.

“Strawbrawler.”

He considered.

“That’s much better than Strawberry Fighter.”

Whip took the report.

“New name?”

“Apparently public.”

Crumble kept reading.

Young.

Strawberry cheesecake.

Recently seen in Lower Pastrypolis.

Trained fighting style.

Unusual heat distortion.

Localized paving damage.

Opponent described as pumpkin pie.

No weapon.

No serious injuries reported.

Several witnesses agreed that the strawberry cheesecake had refused to continue the fight once the opponent was down.

Crumble paused there.

Whip noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It was something.”

Crumble slid the report toward her.

Whip read.

Then nodded slightly.

Dave tried to lean over.

“What?”

Whip gave him the page.

Dave read it.

His expression softened.

“Oh.”

Crumble looked back at the map.

A strange young cheesecake with an unusual pressure event.

A mountain monk who could apparently stop a freight hauler without shattering either it or the bridge.

Subcrust instruments reacting to both.

Father Cuvée independently reporting that Blue Bulk had sensed something from far away.

None of it proved anything.

That was the problem.

Crumble liked evidence.

Evidence behaved.

Patterns did not.

Not until they were ready.

She began rearranging the incident markers.

Whip watched.

“You’re connecting them.”

“I’m testing whether they connect.”

Dave pointed toward the lower-city marker.

“Should we go find Strawbrawler?”

“No.”

“Blue Bulk?”

“No.”

“The mysterious thing under the city?”

Crumble looked at him.

“Especially no.”

Dave nodded.

“Glad I asked in descending order of danger.”

Whip looked toward the old subcrust chart.

“What do we do?”

Crumble considered.

Then:

“What we always do.”

Dave sat up.

“Prepare?”

“Yes.”

She pointed toward Whip.

“Recalibrate the structural array. I want sensitivity comparisons between the Lower Pastrypolis spikes and the bridge event.”

Whip was already gathering the charts.

“Done.”

“It is not done.”

“It will be.”

Then Dave.

“Check the old Pie Works sensors.”

His enthusiasm vanished.

“All of them?”

“All.”

“There are sensors down there older than my grandmother.”

“Then be respectful.”

“They hate me.”

“They are instruments.”

“Exactly.”

Crumble looked toward the dispatch desk.

“Any new anomaly, regardless of size, comes directly to me.”

The dispatcher nodded.

“What classification?”

Crumble looked at the two resonance charts.

One sharp.

One still.

“Unclassified.”

Whip paused at the doorway.

“For how long?”

“Until we know what we’re classifying.”

The next morning began normally.

Which meant it did not remain normal for long.

Captain Crumble arrived before most of the day shift.

Whip Siren had apparently never left.

Dave had definitely slept somewhere inside the Pie Works, although where remained uncertain.

Crumble found three empty cups near the sensor room.

One belonged to Whip.

Two probably belonged to Dave.

One contained a bolt.

She chose not to investigate.

The operations room slowly filled.

Phones rang.

Dispatchers answered.

Equipment carts rolled between bays.

A field team left for a roof collapse.

Another returned from a minor warehouse fire.

Someone complained about missing blankets.

Someone else had labeled a cabinet NOT DAVE.

Dave crossed out NOT.

Whip crossed it back in.

Captain Crumble stood at the central table.

This was CES.

Not the alarms.

Not the vehicles.

Not the strange charts.

This.

People preparing before somebody needed them.

The city rarely knew what happened inside the Pie Works.

That was fine.

On a good day, most citizens never needed to know.

A small light blinked on the subcrust board.

Crumble saw it.

Whip saw it one second later.

Dave saw both of them looking and followed their gaze.

The needle moved.

Barely.

Then stopped.

Nobody spoke.

It moved again.

A little farther.

Crumble walked toward it.

“Location?”

The technician checked.

“Lower Pastrypolis.”

Dave lowered his goggles.

Whip picked up the scanner.

Crumble watched the needle.

Not a spike.

Not yet.

A pulse.

Faint.

Measured.

Waiting.

Then the light went dark.

Dave broke the silence.

“So…”

Crumble looked at him.

He reconsidered whatever joke had been coming.

“What now?”

Captain Crumble picked up her field tablet.

“Now we find out what the city is trying to tell us.”

Behind her, the Pie Works came alive.

And in Bay Two, the Swirl Unit waited.