Declan “Boot” Loranger didn’t like it much when they cried. He figured if a guy was going to make the executive decision to hold a firearm and point it at an officer that he should just stand there and shut the fuck up when his ticket gets punched.
No, he didn’t appreciate the crying, the begging, at all. Made him want to really drag it out. Break a finger or two before he puts ‘em down.
2 A.M. on a Friday, neon-drenched main street. One guy bleeding out in front of the Virtu-sex den, shot through the back. And the other one, hands up, pissing himself, pleading, green mohawk quivering.
“Boot. Shoot ‘em or cuff ‘em. Cmon.” She said, tapping at her wristwatch. A woman, dressed similarly as him in a pressed black uniform with a brass yellow PhalanxCorp badge pinned on her lapel - name-plate read Annie Stoltz but he called her Fletch on account of her predisposition towards flechette pistols. She had a velvety voice, not quite clear but not too harsh of a smoker’s rasp. He liked her. Had a thing for blondes, especially of the platinum variety.
They fucked, once or twice, but it didn’t go anywhere, seeing as they were coworkers, and partners, and he wasn’t the marrying type anyway.
The perp’s eyes widened into saucers. “No man, don’t shoot. Please. I got a kid.” He dropped his gun, finally, and raised his hands.
Declan sighed. “Cuffs tonight, I guess.” Sounded disappointed. Then - turning towards Fletch - “Hey, turn off your bodycam for a sec.”
She rolled her eyes and turned her back on him, fished out a cigarette and lit it. “Just don’t overdo it.”
“Oh, he’ll live. Which is more than what the virtu-jockey laying in his own piss and blood got.” Declan said, jutting his chin at the dead clerk with 3 roses blooming out the back of his store uniform.
He extended his baton, and got to work, felt the bone crunch reverberating up black steel.
The truth was, it didn’t matter whether or not he turned the bodycams off. Stable of corporate lawyers would make any trouble go away, and it usually did go away given those they came after were considered scum. And their boss sure as shit didn’t get on their backs about it. Perks of going private. Creds are king, and the only thing that mattered was protecting the subscriber’s life and property - so what if the perps got an extrajudicial beatdown along the way?
He shoved the perp, whose face now looked like synth-burger meat, into the back of Archangel, spat on the heap of flesh that used to be Michael Beck, felon, and slammed the armored doors shut.
He climbed into the cabin. Issued the voice command to ignite the engine and the dash flared into streams of neon reds and electric blues. HUD showing a 3D map, and a half naked woman winked at him, hologram pin-up and 3D representation of the on-board GPS AI. Declan called it Jodie. Fletch hated her. And Declan personally just liked how pissed off she got at the thing, only reason he kept it around.
“Where to, hun?” The hologram asked, synthesized voice asked and trying its damndest to sound sexy. She winked again, smiled.
“Meatlocker.” He said.
“Huh? Not taking them to HQ?” Fletch asked, making a point of avoiding looking at Jodie.
“No room. ‘Sides, scumbag murderer like him don’t deserve PhalanxCorp jail. Now, the Meatlocker, shit makes PCorp look like a goddamn 5-star resort.”
. . .
They dumped the felon onto a conveyor belt, with the perp bound like hog. The belt rolled him away, muffled screams cut short by a high voltage electric prod spearing his ass. Declan rubbed at the scar tissue lining his left cheek, watching the kid get taken away, knowing the belt will lead to a cold, dark pit at the end of it, where he will be caged underground and fed every 24 hours by a packet of recycled nutrient paste dropped down by robotic limbs.
He heard a chime tone, and his mouth curled upwards - pavlovian response.
“Annnd payment’s just gone through. Another night done. Wanna call it?” Fletch said around a mouthful of cigarette.
“Yeah. Good work. Want me to drop you off?” Declan, checking the HUD at the top right of his retinal display for the wire notification. +10,000 creds. Not too shabby.
“I’ll take an auto-cab. Thanks though. Drive safe, Boot.” She was already out the door, hand raised over her shoulder in a wave, the Meatlocker’s sterile-silver doors sliding open to reveal the neon glow of New Hanei.
And with the glow, came several gusts of acrid ammonia, perpetual stink of the slums, given the Meatlocker was based at the very edge of Corporate controlled space, and over the concrete walls and lines of face-plated sentries, was anarchy.
Declan pulled his own face-plate back down, and the helmet’s hermetic seal hissed shut. Tiny fans spun in the back and the sides, keeping him thermo-regulated, and filtering the piss out of the air okay enough. PHALANX-CORP was emblazoned in a brutal red font against the matte black of his faceplate.
He and Annie weren’t wearing their armor tonight, powered exoskeleton shells that withstood most small arms fire and augmented natural strength. Left it in the back of Archangel, the military surplus armored jeep that was more a small tank or APC than anything else. A little present from his time fighting in the 2nd Great Corporate war. He was sure glad he brought the helmet along though, at least.
“News.” He muttered, and the inside screen of his face-plate blinked open a talking head on the top right, leaving enough visual real estate for him to get into the driver’s cabin of Archangel.
“Home.” He said, not waiting for Jodie to even ask.
He settled into the worn leather seat, rain pelting against the windshield and a neon kaleidoscope washing over him as Archangel made its way through a labyrinthe of choked streets, escaping the border-zone before climbing onto a behemoth of an express-way, 20-lanes in both directions, funneling motorists, auto-cabs, imported speedsters, and even A/Vs in designated sky-lanes to Hab-blocks throughout the corporate controlled sectors.
“Today marks the 5th anniversary since Armistice Day.” The talking head began, a brunette in her 30s in a tight pencil skirt, hair in a bun. “Veterans and their families are out enjoying the parade, and Governor Melrose, along with President Shelby of Aegis International, will be giving a speech shortly-”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Declan winced. “Switch.”
The screen at the top right switched to another news channel.
Rail-thin male, bald. “Digital crimes are on the rise. Various criminal elements are utilizing so-called ‘hackers’ to pull off daring-”
“Switch to entertainment.”
Two men juiced on Primer circle one another on stage. The crowd hollers. The bell chimes. They rush in. Blood is quickly drawn.
By the time Archangel pulled off the expressway and into Sector A-9 - Designated Residential Zone, the one known as Manny Octavio was laying face down in a pool of his own blood, camera zooming in on one of his chipped teeth embedded in the canvas mat.
“Off.”
Declan clambered out, slammed the door shut. “Security protocols. Lethal.”
He stood in the lot for a beat, waited for the familiar high-pitched hum of the defense array starting up, and only when the red strobing light on the dashboard flashed through the windshield did he head on towards the elevator. Parking structure’s on sub-level 2B, and that’s him being privileged with an assigned spot only 2 levels belowground.
He kept his helmet on, full face-plate hiding his identity. Useful for when he wants to avoid getting gutted by cop haters, gangsters, whoever else he’s arrested and beat to a pulp before but got out the next day for a bit of good behavior and a whole lot of overfilled jails.
Elevator-displayed ads are continuous, merciless. Everything from depression medication, penis pills, chest augmentations, to some bizarre Japanese robot-girl band holding a concert in virtual reality. Fucking hell.
“Mute.'' He muttered, but the helmet only dampened the volume of the ads instead of cutting it completely, a product of some back-room dealings between PhalanxCorp’s armor manufacturers and the advert companies, he supposed.
The funny part was the elevator itself was falling apart. Rusted metal, squealing on its chain like a stuck pig, and yet the advert monitors were built to last, pristine as the day they were installed, despite the tenants’ best efforts. Cigarette butts all over the elevator floor, dents on everywhere besides the advertisement screens. Scuffs and stains of indeterminable origin on the doors.
And now, on the 56th floor of the mega-building Declan called home, he marched through the narrow corridor like he had a purpose, face-plate still down, one hand underneath his long-coat and clutching the butt of his .45. An antique passed down by his great-great-great (for however so many greats) grandfather, a relic from before the water wars, but it got the job done.
“Hey get the fuck outta here.” He said, lifting his coat and flashing the Colt .45 sitting in its shoulder holster at the VR-visored junkies sitting around the front of his apartment.
Stood there, hand pressed against the panel. Scan done in 5 seconds, retinal scan done in 1. Door with 56-AA5 stenciled on it in a brutalist black font hisses to the side, and his face is immediately slammed with a cool gust of A/C, hints of ozone but otherwise smelling clean and properly purified (which it damn well better be since he shelled top cred for the best filters).
“Welcome home, hun.” Jodie said. (Declan tinkered with the smart-home AI and integrated it with Archangel’s on-board AI. Of course, this was after he and Fletch had already broken up.)
“Uh huh.” He mumbled. Rubbed his shoes dry on the welcome mat, placed his helmet on the nearby hat rack, hung the shoulder holster with the .45 still in it on the rack as well.
Shrugged out of his long-coat and draped it over the lone chair sitting in the cramped living room that was about the size of a Corporate suit’s closet. (He knew this because he’d answered a call for service at a suit’s mansion before.) He stepped past his workbench, dissected assault rifle laying in pieces alongside a rag, and his apron left its side in a heap. Magazines in the process of being loaded line the edge of the bench, and a pair of oil-stained gloves sit atop the apron.
Framed photographs of him and his old squaddmates sit on cramped shelves. He’s in the center, his two best buddies on either side of him. They didn’t make it.
He didn’t hang up any of the medals AegisInt handed him for valor or whatever the fuck, and they all sat in a dust-laden box shoved beneath his bed.
“Jodie, get the water hot. I’m taking a shower.”
“You got it, hun.”
Stripped the PhalanxCorp uniform, a black synth-cotton button-up and pair of gray slacks, stepped into the shower.
Where a torrent of boiling hot water smashed against his back, flaking off dirt and stray bits of dried blood from his hands, neck, arms.
Rough day. Shot a few guys. Almost got shot dead himself. But end of it all, bought one in alive, and got a pretty nice paycheck, so call it a good day.
The scar riding down his left cheek and arcing across his chest ached like it always did, but the hot water helped. Mementos from his time in the war.
Fighting under Aegis International, a mega-conglomerate intent on maintaining its monopoly on the planet’s potable water supply. Fucking useless war. Killed a bunch of guys just like him, ‘cept they were on the other team - Kellogg-Mizutani Heavy Industries. Almost got torn in half, almost died. Only made it out thanks to her.
Rosa Diaz. Squaddie that he first thought was green and useless. Proved him wrong quick. Fucking ambush came out of nowhere.
He remembered the Mizutani borgs in their exo-suit armors.
Remembered his squadmates getting torn apart by the limbs.
Their screams.
How one of them sliced his chest and half his face open with their arm-blades.
And then he started hyperventilating.
“Oh shit. Fuck.” He gasped, leaning against the shower tiles.
“Honey, are you alright? I’m detecting elevated levels of cortisol, and an elevated heart rate, sugar.”
Normally, he’d chuckle at how ridiculous a ‘sexy’ voice talking all technical sounded, but this time he only choked out, “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
Still, it helped shake him out of it.
He stepped out, toweled off, letting the automated drying system blow-dry his hair with a chrome limb, the other limb combing his hair. Stared into the mirror with his hands resting on the porcelain sink as Jodie did her work.
Black-ringed hazel eyes stared back at him. The dull pinkish-brown scar running down his left cheek looking especially grotesque tonight against his otherwise pale skin. Light brown hair getting fussed over and combed until it was just right.
He rubbed at his pointed chin, clenching and unclenching his jaw, working out the stress. Then sighed.
“Something wrong, hon?” Jodie, synthesized concern sounding awfully real.
“It’s nothing. Just remembered some bad shit.”
“Um… Thinking about ‘that’ again?” Jodie asked, and Declan was feeling a mixture of creeped out and impressed at how smart Jodie was, despite messing around with her for a year by this point.
“Yeah.” He said, and closed his eyes.
“Declan… if I may. You should really see someone about that. Professional help, I mean.”
“Nah. Jodie, if Phalanx or Fletch or anyone even gets a whiff I went to a shrink, I’m fuckin’ done. You know that. Out of a job and selling ass in the slums. They don’t want basket cases.”
He opened his eyes. Dug through the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Dumped out two pills, Xanax derivatives he picked up off his dealer, a rat-faced kid named Felix who he decided to let off with a warning the one time he caught him dealing in Corporate square. Now he sells in the border-zone next to the slums and that’s just fine with Declan, gives him a discount too, calls him “Boss.”
He gulped, swallowed dry.
Collapsed onto the ratty arm-chair facing the rain-streaked window overlooking the mega-city, New Hanei. Supposedly, they modeled this city after Tokyo, but, like many corporate projects, the growth was cancerous, and now it’s grown into whatever the fuck this’s supposed to be. There’s the brutalist elongated pyramid poking through above the clouds, higher than even the 56th floor of his apartment. PHALANX glowing in red neon. His workplace HQ. He glanced at the other logos and signs, either hard neon or holographic. Too many to count.
An airship roared by, spotlights nearly blinding him as it swept across the building, vibrations sending gustlets of dust sprinkling from the asbestos riddled ceiling.
Declan coughed. “Fuck you.” He muttered, fishing in the drawer next to his chair for a cigarette. Lit up with a gold engraved lighter with the letters D + R etched on the bottom. Another keep-sake from the war.
He took a drag, watched the smoke spread out and the neon rays streaking through the window get clouded by the haze in an ethereal purple. Looked pretty.
“Not good for ya, hun.” Jodie nagged.
“BIte me. What’s for dinner?”
“Protein paste. Splurge and you can get the teriyaki flavor tonight.”
“Oh yeah? How much?”
“500 creds.”
“Do it.”
“Five minutes, hun.”
Robotic arms shoved a tray of splotchy green stuff at him. Looked like a baby puked in a saucer and smeared it around with its bib.
Tasted alright, though.
Bed-time. He crawled into his twin bed, quickly fell asleep.
And again, had the same nightmares. Dead soldiers. The ambush. Rosa.
Where is Rosa, anyway? Hadn't seen her for a long time, ever since he got discharged. And the trauma of the ambush gave way to thoughts of her, before he was taken by a deep and dreamless sleep.
. . .
When he woke at 5AM, there was already a video message waiting for him from his chief, Lori Cullen.
A new “special assignment”’s just come in. Apparently from some big shot.
Fucking great, because Declan just loved to rub shoulders with suits. But those ones tended to pay good, so Declan figured he might as well hear her out, well that, and he needed this job, anyway.
. . .