New York - June 21, 2039

The vast city of New York sprawls across the distance in spectacle of neon lights, oddly shaped futuristic skyscrapers and the noise of thousands of vehicles flying about the city in various directions. The bleak looking night shadowed the super tall buildings as some of their lights faintly shone out of the darkness covering them. The obvious population in this city was staggering to say the least, in almost every major capital around the world; people over crowd them with their continued population boom. With global community uniting and world economics becoming singular, the mixed nationalities and subsequent merging of cultures, religion and beliefs soon created a new subculture that the youth of the future share. Every city had this mish-mash lingo from the united languages, the street slang that came about from this new subculture was gaining to be as big as the two most spoken languages in the world, English and French, but with a good portion of the Asian and European nations becoming one, it seemed that this new dialect is the wave of the future. The streets of New York where filled with electric neon signs, crowded sidewalks, ground vehicles and noise of everything around.

NYPD Spinners, land and air vehicles of the police hovered over the many streets on a daily basis. Cops here are well-employed thanks impart to the large crime rate and public safety concerns. Descending from the sky and down into the massing crowd of people, was a Spinner that carried Derek Mason. A now middle aged man with a worn look about his face, his trench coat was made of dark brown leather and looked as if it had seen better days as well. His very short hairstyle suggested he was not a man of vanity, but one of practicality, easier to manage and less time trying to clean it. It is also apparent that he doesn't like to grow facial hair either; he still likes to keep a clean look about him and even splashes on the aftershave a little heavy at times. The inside of the Spinner has a faint air of his brand of choice, but not enough that it overpowers everyone inside of it. The Caucasian male driver sitting beside him is more well dressed then the frumpy looking Blade Runner was, a fully dressed Police officer with a black uniform and sporting a pilots helmet with a large faded police shield symbol on it. As he guides the craft down towards their landing destination, he notices the afro-American looking down and writing on something. In his hands were a ballpoint pen and a small note pad, something that it a rarity in this day and age. Scribbling away in it he jots down bits of information and even the thought or question he has on his mind of the day. This was his only creative outlet as his life of solitude gives him plenty of time for inner thoughts and observing people from a distance.

"You're an original you know that?" The driver says to him over the loud noise of the vehicle's engine.

Mason's pen stops scribbling as he hears the man and glances over at him, the break of his train of thought irritated him as he showed the frustration in his face.

"What?" Derek answered sharply.

"You're an original I said." The Spinner pilot grins again at him. "I've never seen any one use the old pen and paper before in my entire life. What's a matter? You not a technology fan or something?"

Derek turns his head back to his writing pad and continues to scribble as he answers the smug officer.

"It's been around longer then the computer kid and you don't have to charge a power cell to make it work."

"Uh huh." The driver sarcastically utters. "Well guess everyone has got their little quirks. Take me for example, I still like to collect 20th Century wristwatches...I mean...the guys think I'm a nutball for doing it. I mean come on...they're only watches, right? Its not like I'm going out of my way to get the most ugly one ever made...."

"Kid." Derek says to the young pilot without looking up to him.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up and just drive this thing." Mason grumbled to him.

The young cop quit smiling and turned his head around, the gruff man's response made him realize that getting a friendly conversation out of him would be impossible.

"Uh...yeah. Ok, sure. Here I go...shutting up."

The Spinner hovered over a large crowd of people gathering around the crime scene, other officers and NYPD Spinners where stationed near by and were trying to control the crowd. Mason's vehicle finally touched down as the land mode wheels unfolded from the sides. The blue pod like craft opened up its side panel door automatically as Derek flipped his note pad shut, placed it in his pocket and stepped out of the craft. The wet pavement glistened with the dazzling array of lights; the rain had come hours before to drench the entire city and then simmered down to gentle spittle. With the cops creating a half circle around the accident scene, Derek had plenty of space to walk through as he made his way over. The tightly crammed shops that littered along the building were the normal sights of the commercial space here, but the one he came out too was an obviously trendier boutique as it nearly took up an entire length of space that several shops could have been placed in. The large display windows stretched up nearly to the next floor, the images of beauty, models and decedent behavior graced in behind the glass barrier. The door at the bottom of the building arched in-between the two massive windows, giving it a built in effect and esthetic look. But now the right window of the posh fashion shop called "Rendezvous Noir" had been shattered to pieces and cracked the remaining shards still attached to the other side.

Derek was looking at the whole scene and walked over the bits of glass that scattered all over the ground from the result of the broken window. Ahead were three cops surrounding the body covered in a white sheet, the blood dripping from the windows bottom ledge left a pool that trickled into the various cracks of the cement sidewalk. Blood was also smattered on the surrounding floor as it lay half way inside the display room, the broken glass and red blood mix would have been enough for anyone to be appalled by the sight, but instead, the cops investigating the scene treated no more different then any other working day. As Derek finally came to inspect the body, the three cops began to taunt him.

"Oh great this is just what we need." The first one said with disgust.

"Look buddy, we don't need you here to solve this thing ok? We did you're job so go back in that car over there and beat it, huh?"

The third cop just laughed at the other's comments and shook his head as he walked away from them all. Derek looked at him with a calm demeanor and shoved his hands into his comfortable leather coat.

"Is that supposed to be your professional courtesy you're showing me? Or have you always been New York's finest example of an asshole."

The cop didn't like that one bit. He rushed over to hand got ready to pound the crap out of the smug Blade Runner, the second officer quickly bolted after his friend hand stopped him from decking the black man as he pulled him back.

"You son of a bitch!" The infuriated cop screamed. "It's a crying shame real cops have to clean up what you skinjob boomers leave behind! If I had my way I'd be the one hunting all of you no good bums down and putting you out of your misery!"

Derek didn't even budge from where he was standing, he just shook his head and waved 'goodbye' in a very sarcastic manner as his fellow officers soon took him away to cool down. With that out of the way, Mason crouched down to view the corpse and peeled back the blood soaked white sheet. It was a female, Caucasian with chestnut brown hair and the greenest pair of eyes he'd ever seen in his life. What didn't surprise him was how un-natural she looked skin wise, it might have been a Replicant, but more then likely it wasn't, just another older woman trying to shed the years off of her ever decaying youth. He touched her face and felt the surface of it with a stroke of his fingertip. Smooth and responsive to his touch, it was now very clear to him that it was just a human female; he'd know the difference after being in the business this long. Replicant skin, while just as convincing and responsive, has a more of a solid feel to it. Human skin is hard to maintain and keep youthful looking, while artificial kinds are more polymer in design and longer lasting...even in death.

As he pulled the sheet back over her head as those green eyes of hers stared up at him with a frozen horror in them, he rose to his feet and thought about the officer's harsh comment that was directed at him. 'Skinjob boomers' he said to him. A racial slur for Blade Runners in this town, he'd heard the word 'skinjob' to refer to a Replicant in Los Angeles a long time ago, but now the Runner's had gotten one for themselves. Even after all this time, their unit gets little to no respect. A lowly career that many people would love to see gone and given back to the police to deal with. Some even call the Blade Runners the 'Replicant Squad' just because they only deal with their kind alone. Still, it made Derek chuckle a bit as he thought of the history of man, after all this time, people still like to belittle the others that are beneath them.

"Captain wants to see you Mason." A young Asian looking officer says to him as he appears from behind.

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"Yep...I figured he would." The man sighs. "Thanks Skippy...time to get some much needed love."

He pats the officer on the arm and walks over to the spinner he arrived in. The young pilot that drove him down was standing outside behind it and chatting with another officer trying to control the crowd. Derek plopped himself down into the driver seat and looked at a small built in monitor that was part of the interior dash of the vehicle. The image was of a slightly balding Caucasian man, haircut down to the bare stubs with a look of grey and white in them. His face was very stern and with the age lines nearly detailing his gruff looking appearance, it was hard to know if this man ever cracked a smile in his life.

"Captain Barnes, checking to see if I made it here or is this an actual call just to hear my report?"

"Cut the crap Mason, is this a Rep or ain't it?" The captain speaks to him in a harsh tone of voice.

'Rep' was the captain's abbreviated word for Replicant, not too complicated to understand, but not very imaginative in Derek's view. Barnes was the kind of cop that didn't like fooling around too much when dealing in police work. If there were a murder or severe crime, he'd lay down a strict law about dealing with it as a professional. Many on the force respected him, some found him to be a hard ass, and Derek thought him to be just another cranky old policeman that had seen better days.

"Nope. This is where my job ends and yours just starts. You seriously got to train them boys on how to spot one a little better."

Barnes rubs his face in frustration and looks back at Derek. "Well unfortunately you're the expert on these Rep's so unless you want to be out of a job totally I suggest you curb that suggestion right now. Have you talked to the witnesses yet?"

"Look Barnes...you called me down here to identify the body, not start an investigation with your men. Which by the way...need to learn to bite their tongues when someone comes to help them." Derek yawns out as he rubs his eyes.

"What's a matter Mason? Can't stand a little humor?" The captain snickers.

"Oh no, the joke is funny. It's the twit that says it that makes the punch line work."

"Uh huh." The captain simply smirks. "Well then, we'll take over the crime scene then and you can toddle off home to get some sleep. How bout that then?"

"Great...do I get pay with that?" Derek says to him as he leans back in the driver seat and closes his eyes.

"No. But from the look of ya I think you need it. Come see me tomorrow morning and I'll start you on the next assignment."

Derek's eyes pop open and gazes at the flickering color monitor. "It's not another stack of runaways is it? You know they don't pay me much for doing those shit cases."

"Nah, it's a real doozy. You'll love it." Barnes almost smiles at him. "You have a meeting with the head of OBE corporation...they want you to...get this...", he says snickering again. "They want you to do a Voight-Komff test on a new model they're making."

Derek sat up in the seat and gave an inquisitive look. "What? Why me? Don't they have their own people for that?"

"Well apparently, they want to see if a Blade Runner, such as yourself, can detect their new Nexus Delta version within the specified Kampff guidelines you've been given."

"Doesn't make sense Barnes. You sure that's what it's about?"

The captain's face on the monitor scrolled slightly as he gave his response.

"Hey...the fuck do I know? It's a day in the park job and they're paying you double of that thing you call a salary. You want it? I can always hand it to someone else in the unit."

Derek sighs and leans back in the seat. "Fine. I'll talk to you tomorrow then. Is that all?"

"Finished. Now go home and rest...you look like crap...as usual."

Derek leans in and turns off the monitor as he watches the police captain's face smirk again at him. Mason stands up out of the Spinner and reaches into his pocket for his small pocket book and pen again. Flipping it open, he writes down on a new sheet the job he was just assigned too and the company's name. Then looking up, he notices the building's sexual design works in the window and of all the suggestive positions the images are in. Scanning down past the smutty imagery, he looks into the broken window display and sees the officers questioning the unisex looking shop owners. They were fairly young people, wearing too much make up and the latest bizarre fashions for the time. He jots down everything he's just looked upon and flips the notebook cover back up as soon as he finishes. Placing the pen and book back in his pocket, he walks over to the corpse again and takes another close look. In her hand, tightly held in a death grip, is a gold chain with small dolphins adorning it. He pries it out of the woman's hand and looks at it curiously. His thoughts become locked on who would wear such a trinket, especially a nicely designed one for this sort of outrageous fashion shopper. The woman's body was just as overly trendy in the latest styles as the rest being questioned inside, so why would she have such an odd piece of jewelry that didn't match her other ones?

He took out a plastic bag from his pocket and placed in, folding it over he looked at it with intensity and continued to question it in his mind. Looking back around quickly, he made sure no one saw him remove it from the body and shoved it into his other coat pocket. Rising to his feet, he walks slowly back to the Spinner and opens the door on the other side of it. Before he leans in to sit, he notices a person in the crowd looking at him with vacant eyes. The white male was thin in build and yet metrosexual in appearance. A very ghostly pale complexion this man has with painted lips of mauve and dark makeup around the eyes. As the two locked in vision, Derek saw the pale man back away from the crowd and lowered his eyes as if he was afraid of him. Not knowing what to make of all that, Mason just lowered himself into the vehicle and kept an eye on the strange man disappearing from his sight.

* * * * * *

Mason entered his small apartment as the door gave an electronic click from his ident-card, a light in the narrow passage that led to the main room switched on as he finally stepped in. The bland look of the place was typical of his amount of pay, it was full of furnisher that might have been bought from the previous decades, stylish to some that might have used it back then...but this was way out of date now. His clothes were all over the place and his only eating table was littered with empty take out boxes and bottles that might have, at one time or another, contained alcohol. As he took off his jacket and set it down on the chair in the main part of the room, he gave a long sigh and entered into his mirco-kitchen unit adjacent to the living area. Switching on the dimly yellow light overhead, he looked at the mess in his sink and realized he didn't have a clean glass to be found. Searching the small glass covered cabinets over head, he found the only cup left he could use to drink from. It was a thin square shaped coffee mug and chipped on the top. Shrugging his shoulders, he took the mug and stepped out into his living space towards the table.

Fumbling with the various bottles sitting there, he gave a worried look like a child not finding a toy in their surprise burger meal. Frustrated by the fact that nothing was left in them, he prowled around the rest of the place looking for any source of alcohol he could find. The small closet like bathroom built into the narrow entryway to his place was filthy and had a constant dripping tap that could be heard even if one closed the door shut. He almost gave up searching after giving yet another sigh of disbelief, when he suddenly remembered where he had one last bottle. Flopping down on the small black leather style couch beside the plush brown chair where he left his coat, he felt underneath the couch and licked his lips as his hands frantically probed for it. With a sudden smile and a happy response, he lifted the bottle of whiskey out of its dark spot and kissed the bottle. He opened the lid and poured the strong beverage into his thing coffee mug.

Taking a sip from the glass, the man let out a pleased 'aah' and retracted into his comfortable old leather couch. The wall beside him sported a very tacky looking portrait of velvet made cat with great big eyes. The yellowish-gold fur and the strikingly haunting green eyes on it made him glance up and remember the victims were just as green as that cat on the wall. It was a chilling thought to him, this woman who tried to be young and ended up dead in her later years was enough to make him realize of his own mortality. Picking up his mug and giving it the odd sip now and then, he walked over to the wall farthest from where he was sitting and opened the steel blinds on the widescreen like window. There was the city in all its crowded glory in front of him. The dark buildings that took up his entire view were littered with lights of distant windows, neon signs and even of the traffic floating by in a rush. This was a far cry from the sort of place he was born and raised in, he could still remember his grandmother's cooking and being there to share the food and fun with all of his family in North Carolina. His accent was washed out from being in the big city, the twang in his inflection showed no roots to where he might have hailed originally. Without so much as a letter or even a call from home, he gives a sad and lonely stare out the window, as his life has become something he wishes it wasn't.

'Get some sleep' his employer had said to him. Sleep was an impossibility for him, every time he closes his eyes at night he can still see the image of his sister's face still giving that look of shock and screaming out over the gun shots. Even though his therapy had cured him of the uncontrollable guilt he suffered afterwards, it still sent his mind into a depression and used the only thing that could dull the memory of it now. The whiskey was all the help he needed to forget the loss; it gives him some peace of mind. If only for a little while, and at the very least, help him to get the sleep his body needed. Sleep would be a wonderful thing to him if he could find some other way of easing his thoughts, he'd often close his eyes and envision the vast blue ocean. The ocean was the place he could always remember vividly, as a child, his parents use to take him to the Atlantic waters and stare at the rolling waves crashing down on the sun beaten sands of the beach. It was like he could hear the seagulls crying out into the distance and feeling the warm sand between his toes. One day he'd love to return to see the oceans again, to be at peace there and never have to worry about Replicants or his job ever again.

Opening his eyes, the dream switches off and reality sets in. There's never going to be a chance for him to get away. He's stuck in this role for life or until some Replicant ends up killing him when he's not looking. Returning to his comfortable sofa, he sits down and backwashes the rest of his drink. Reality is a hard thing for him, there was a time he was so lost in what was real and what wasn't that it drove him to the point of insanity. One that cost him the life of his dear sweet sister, Shania, her very life. Opening up the bottle beside him again, he put the mug down on the floor and continued to drink from the open bottle. The time to forget his miserable hard life had come, the alcohol would make sure of that in as soon as possible. He could still hear the officer from hours ago tell him that if he were in charge, he'd kill all the Blade Runners and put them out of their misery. It would be a welcome idea to Manson. If only to escape the bitter times he's in right now.