A message appeared on Klasiq St Germain’s optics. She had the latest gen of cyber optics, grown in the Samsung BioTech lab in Seoul. The message popped up as a semi-transparent text box in her field of vision. It was her sister.
> > Can u come over?
It was a while since they met. She hoped Czapphire wasn’t in trouble again. She typed out her answer in her head.
> > I can’t tonight, sis. Working. Bodyguard for a high roller up in Chinatown. We’ll link up tomorrow.
The reply was instant.
> > Come as soon as u can. It’s important.
It sounded urgent, but it had to wait until tomorrow. She couldn’t let her client down; she would be out of work.
> > Ok. See you tomorrow.
The next day, she took the train into the city. Klasiq felt tired, having slept for only two hours and still wearing her work outfit. She had a nagging feeling that something was off. She had not received any message from her sister since yesterday. Klasiq hit play on her audio implant to drown out her thoughts. A rumbling bass line overlaid by a syncopated glitch beat reached her ears. The AI-generated soundtrack was a perfect backdrop to the train ride.
Klasiq stood outside her sisters’ apartment. Dread washed over her. Striped police tape sealed off the door. She pulled a knife from her pocket, a blade sprung out at the touch of a button. She sliced through the tape in a quick motion. The retina scanner unlocked the door and allowed her to enter.
Everything looked normal. Too normal. Her sister was messy, and someone had cleaned the apartment. “Weird,” she said to herself.
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She looked through her sisters’ cupboards. They were empty except for a few cereal boxes. “Don’t you have anything to eat that doesn’t have children’s puzzles on the back?” she muttered. The apartment was clean, which was strange, but she couldn't find anything obvious that explained the police tape.
She looked around and noticed a few drops of red liquid on the floor below the kitchen sink. Blood. “Oh no, Czapphire,” she whispered.
“Who are you?” she spun around when she heard a raspy voice. A man was standing in the doorway. He wore a yellow coat and yellow spiked hair.
“And who are you?” she said.
The man flashed a badge for a fraction of a second. “Detective Lynkon. What are you doing here? This is a crime scene.”
“Czapphire St Germain lives here. She is my sister.”
“Oh, yeah?” said the man. “We are looking for her.”
Everything about the man and the situation seemed wrong. Klasiq rewound the last seconds of their conversation, it was all recorded on her optics and stored on a remote server. She zoomed in on the badge the man had shown her. It was a low-grade image displayed on her optics, but it was clear the face on the badge did not match the face of the man holding it. He was not a cop. “Can I see your ID again,” she said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, I insist.” The man appeared jumpy. High on some chems, she thought.
“Well, I’ll paint the walls with your pretty little head, bitch,” said the man and reached for his gun.
Klasiq reached for her gun. She had a small-calibre auto pistol concealed inside the waistband.
The man was quicker. There was a loud bang, and the bullet hit her in the chest. Despite the body armour with ceramic plates in several layers sewn into a vest of neoaramid, it felt like a kick from a horse. A big fucking workhorse, like the ones you see in old black and white low-resolution photos*.
Her chest hurt. She took cover behind the kitchen island, almost hitting her head on a metal bar stool. Her gun was in her hand. The man kept shooting like a maniac, hitting the coffee maker and spraying bits of glass over the kitchen.
She shot off a couple of bursts with the compact polymer-framed auto pistol. Pray-and-spray. Brrrt. Brrrt. Brrrt. Bullets stopped coming towards her, the man fell to the floor.
“Oh hell, what have you gotten yourself into now?” she said, looking down at the lifeless body. How was she supposed to un-fuck this fucked up situation?