Fizzy Wavelength's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Fizzy Wavelength stared at the wanted poster and saw their own aqua hair staring back. The sketch was wrong in every way that mattered. The eyes were too cruel. The smile was a stranger's. But the hair was theirs exactly, and that hair had now robbed three shops this week. Someone was wearing Fizzy's face like a mask, and the whole city believed the lie. Fizzy needed to catch the thief in the act. That meant finding a fresh crime scene. But the imposter never repeated a target, and Fizzy had no idea where the next hit would land. Every trail went cold before it started. You cannot follow footprints that haven't been made yet. So Fizzy decided to make the thief come to them. If they could not find the crime, they would build one worth stealing. They chose the silver bank shaped like a wig. It sat unlocked and stuffed with fake bills, a target too easy to ignore. Fizzy smeared a smudge of aqua dye near the coin slot, bait for a thief who loved their color. Then they hid across the room and waited through the dark. Near midnight, the door opened without a sound. A figure crossed the floor in black armor trimmed with pink. Her skin was pink too, and her hair fell in the same aqua waves as Fizzy's own. She moved to the bank and reached inside. This was the imposter, wearing Fizzy's signature like a stolen coat. "You have terrible taste in banks," the woman said, not turning around. "But wonderful taste in hair." Fizzy stood. "That hair is mine. You're wearing my crimes with it." The woman faced them. Her pink eyes narrowed, then curved into a grin. "Nerissa Darkwater," she said, like a gift she enjoyed giving. "And you're the poor soul taking the blame. How kind of you to leave me a present." Fizzy lunged. Nerissa spun and kicked the bank into their path. Fizzy tripped and went down hard. By the time they rose, Nerissa was already at the door. But she had left something behind. In the spilled dye, her boots had pressed a clear trail of prints, and one strand of aqua hair lay caught in the mess. Fizzy scooped it up before it could dry. "Keep the strand," Nerissa called from the doorway. "It won't help you. Nobody hunts a thief they think they already caught." Then she was gone. Fizzy knelt over the prints and pressed them into a fresh tray of setting clay. The trail hardened into a solid keepsake, footprints and hair locked together. It was proof, and it was a direction. Fizzy finally had a name and a physical trail. But Nerissa was right about one thing. The city still thought Fizzy was the criminal, and now Fizzy had broken into a bank to prove otherwise.