It’s been four weeks since the Lexios case and yet I still cannot shake this feeling of apprehension. This feeling that we are toying with forces beyond our capability to handle. It took a monumental moment to scar my morality before I could realize that this dread was no stranger to me. Though before I had no origin to this weight on my shoulders. But now it’s different.
Lexios.
A boogeyman to cast my shadow upon.
Lexios.
I thank you.
______________________________________________________________________________
Some days are harder than others. One can only wake up so many times alone before the longing for silence overtakes you. I live on the seventy-sixth floor, all I would need to do is slide open the window and fall into the next life. If I one day find myself in Hell, at least there would be constant company in this suffering.
Time for work.
______________________________________________________________________________
Glenn and I sit hunched over our desks. If he were less a man he would have been ignorant to my struggle, but Glenn is no lesser man. This repetition, sitting and waiting for the worst to happen, the career of my choosing, I thought I would be helping the living, instead I only provided solace to the dead.
Too little.
Too late.
______________________________________________________________________________
It was about 10:30 when we received the call, murder-suicide. We took Glenn’s sky car. It was on the north end of the city, the Gregon Apartment complex. A hive of rich, white-collar criminals and cooperate snakes. A unique occurrence for domestic crimes in this area, they’re almost immediately covered up.
I look out across the city from high above it. The night is dark, but the lights and buildings cast a peculiar shadow across the populace. I wonder how far away the moon is, I wonder if the smog will ever part so that the children of Terron Street will finally see the sun again.
______________________________________________________________________________
We landed on the roof of Kakashi Tower, a one-hundred-and-two-story residential complex. Two officers were waiting for us, their features were concealed by their many layers of armor and a thick raincoat. The doors of the sky car open upwards. We step out simultaneously, the rain crashing down onto our uncovered shoulders.
“Inspectors.” One of the soldiers shouts. “Seventy-third floor, make it hasty.”
“The RPD hasn’t been hasty in 70 years, What’s the rush?” The officers and Glenn laugh.
“Media’s on its way. There are a hundred ways reporters can get in here. Better get a move on and take a look before things get chaotic.”
“I appreciate it,” I replied before moving to the stairwell.
______________________________________________________________________________
A dimly lit room smelling of charred and rotten flesh. A terrible place to die. There’s one body, a daughter, who couldn’t be more than nineteen years old. As I take a step closer to her body it feels as if I had stepped over roaring fire, the heat radiating from the corpse was still felt thirty-six minutes after the murder. I could just walk out of the room and leave, turn in my badge, and go live a normal life as a depressed fry cook or paralegal, but instead, I turn my flashlight on.
I will never forget the sight. The image will always linger in the corner of my eye, following me, judging every move I make. It will keep me company in my bedroom before and during my slumber.
Her ribs were flared out from the inside, and her chest, guts, and organs were splayed around the room. The skin around her chest and down to her groin was completely black, contrasting her Caucasian arms, legs, and face. The bones of her spine were melted and pooled at the bottom of her chest cavity like a back brace. Two clamps are lying in the puddle of bone, rubber cord runs from them to the power breaker in the wall. Her mouth was open, and her teeth shattered from grinding and biting, most likely from the pain. The skin around her eyes was black, crusty, and hardened, different from the rest of the wounds, her optic implants must have overloaded from the current. Her eyes had burned or overcharged, so all that remained of them were black marble-sized pits of sclera, the cornea and iris were no longer visible. Most of her hair was burned away, except for a few crimson strains sticking out on the back side of her skull.
Is there a greater sin than stripping away the life of one who is supposed to trust you most?
“Did you get a name for the girl?” I ask Glenn, who stands by my side, equally enthralled by the display. His eyes are unmoving, and his brow furrows, he is being taken by the horror. I reach over and shake his wrist, “Glenn.” He rips his arm back, and turns, looking me in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” his eyes returned to the girl. “What did you ask?”
“Her name.”
“Annette, Annette Winston. Daughter of Galea Winston, the killer.”
I take both hands and place them together in front of my chest, tilt my head down, and close my eyes.
I pray for the soul of one taken at life’s precipice.
I pray that Annette Winston is guided to a place far from here.
I pray that she is only allowed to suffer for mere minutes and not an eternity.
Please guide her now with courage, not fear.
Away from a place where the light could ever touch her still heart.
A room of peace and acceptance.
A home of love and companionship.
A new world that has not forgotten where it began.
Amen.
Faith is the greatest touchstone of all. Not just faith in a higher power, but belief in those who would never let you down. However, the concept that belief is the perfect scapegoat for actions of madness and impure desire is unavoidable.
Annette, I’m so sorry your faith was betrayed.
“What’s there to say? What’s there to do?” Glenn Asks, looking at me. The cause of death is obvious, the murderer was caught, and the motive is clear. Liquid chrome can be found reflecting off of our flashlights' rays. Cerebral meltdown, faulty implants digging into the brain. Most of the time it is a painful but quick death, others it drives them to madness. It is not a tragedy of any sort, such a condition is brought on by the use of illegal cyber enhancers. An uncontrollable vice led to this. Glenn’s eyes begin to swell, and a tear begins to sneak gently down his cheek. He’s staring up at a picture on the wall, a family portrait. The gathering is massive, this daughter was not an only child. She was stunning: flowing curly hair, alabaster skin, and pupil-less eyes that looked like pools of red wine. Glenn’s showing of weakness in the face of life-changing reality soothes me in some twisted way. There are still humans left amongst humanity.
“I’m going to head to the hospital to try to figure out who the mother’s supplier was. I’d appreciate it if you could go back to HQ and start the report.” I say, attempting to divert him as far away from the flesh of this case.
“Are you sure?” Glenn replied, a quiet conviction still rooted in his hushed tone. “I can go with you. I just need a moment to collect myself.”
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“It’s alright.” I begin to walk outside of the room.
“She just looks like my sister.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.” Glenn follows me out into the hall, and the other officers give us a knowing look.
“It’s not something I’m fond of talking about. Darker times.” His bashful persona continues to fade momentarily, it’s dejecting.
“I’m sorry Glenn, I-I didn’t know…”
“It’s alright, she is always with me, that’s the only thing you need to know.” Drawing strength from the pains of the past.
True resolve.
A characteristic that is all too fleeting.
“Just head to the station, the quicker we get through this, the better. They’ll get pictures we can go over later if need be.”
“At least let me give you a lift over there.”
“Sounds good, partner.” I take one look at the room through the door and look at the two officers standing guard. “Cover the bodies. The journalists and politicians will not throw these images up during a debate.” The last time the rest of her family saw her face should have been when she was brimming with life.
Once again, I serve only ghosts.
______________________________________________________________________________
“Forget what you know, live with what you hear.” My mother always told me that. I never understood what that meant. Nights like tonight make me want to call her and make sure she and her father are doing well.
The victim's father is away on a business conference, though he ensured there were three gallons of liquid sensor spree at home for his little cognophile. A charge will be thrown his way so help me God. These wealthy types could slap the Prime Minister and within the hour would be posting bail and sipping scotch laughing that the authorities had the gall to stall their weekly golf game.
Back at Saint Judas.
The hospital was busy, it could not be. I had to head to the first floor to find the room number of the suspect. Crowds surround the desks seeking check-in. I look for the security officers there to let me in. Those in the waiting room look decrepit and desperate. Some wait for hours or even days. Some simply wait to die in a place outside of the cruel elements of the metropolis.
One of the men, old and weathered, sits in a rusted folding chair. His grip on life was faint, eyes glazed, mouth agape. He’ll be dead within the hour, joining the other decaying corpses that have yet to be discovered or tossed out into the street by those seeking a seat in this bizarre affliction. I am playing hopscotch over vomit, feces, urine, and sleeping souls to reach the security checkpoint.
Not a single man or woman stopped me as I waltzed through the contraband detector. All of my implants are legit, and officers aren’t allowed to carry firearms anymore so there was no ping of danger. Neither nurse, doctor, or custodian could tell me the exact room number of the suspect, but I was able to acquire a floor number. My odyssey through the most chaotic building in the city leads me to the fourth floor.
I walk through the level swiftly, searching for a room that has a security or police officer standing guard. After a few minutes of awkward shuffling and vigilance, I found room 423, where one RMPD officer stood to watch. As I approached I flashed my badge.
“Hello officer, is the patient stable?” I ask.
“Yes,” her voice croaked from behind her helmet. “We’ve been having trouble getting her to shut the hell up.” I worry about what I will do to this woman when I enter. Not for her safety, but so that no one has to tell my parents that they raised a murderer.
“Can I get your name?” I ask.
“Basara,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re more than just a suit of body armor.” I forget this, far too often. I enter the room.
The sight was grizzly, the woman was covered in black marks, and cheap metal implants. Some of the material was fried and poking through her hollow porcelain skin. Her face was mutilated, looking like half of her skull was missing. Her head was shaved all but for a few loose strands hanging over one red synthetic eye. The other eye was in the process of recreation, halfway rebuilt in the socket. She had a wild stare, the kind that would make the devil question his career choice.
A reconstruction surrey was holding up the top part of her body and head. It looks like body scaffolding, sealing and recreating precious pieces of brain matter, skull, and cartilage. A wonder of modern medicine wasted on a piece of trash like this subhuman killer. Her eyes follow me as I walk closer to the bed.
“Who the fuck are you?” Her voice rang out hollow, it caused a twinge in the ear like scratching silverware on an empty plate.
“I’m a police officer,” I replied coldly. “Here to ask you some questions about your daughter's murder.”
“Ah, who gives a shit.”
“I. Do.”
“If you’re looking for a confession you’re wasting your breath, I shouldn’t even be here.”
“And where exactly should you be Galea?”
“Burning in hell, with my daughter.” She spat words that felt like venom upon the soul. “Looks like you will be too, one day.”
“What gives you the right to say such a thing?” Her eye was halfway through completion now, the other pupil unmoving in contrast to the other darting like a true addict. The whole mechanism stopped for a moment, preventing it from overheating.
“Because I can see from your face your days are numbered.”
“Tall talk from a woman in your position.”
“I’ve seen you as a hero before, you're a big shot detective.”
“People talk, but that’s not what I’m here for” She cuts me off.
“Does it bother you?” She begins to tremble underneath her holdings. “Dogs like you get to show up on Holo and play the hero.”
“You have an exaggerated perception of the number of people who watch or read local news.” The fact that she sits here and is nursed perfectly back to health while there are those dying just a few floors down makes me sick.
“I want to be like you, I want the world to see me.” Wickedness has completely taken over, there is no saving or quelling this person’s vile spirit.
“Is that why you killed your child?”
“You’re right.” She replies without a moment of hesitation. Is there a place for this creature on Earth? I suppose that question is outdated. Is there a place for this creature in the galaxy?
“I was going to probe you about your supplier, but instead I think it best I leave you to you stumbling.” I go to leave as she attempts to sit up in her bed to no avail.
“No wait.” She shouts, “Do you think…” A coughing fit overtakes her. “Do you think that my eyes will burn too?”
“What?” I stopped walking.
“My eyes. Will they burn too?
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“My husband, my daughter, when I killed them. Their eyes ignited in a beautiful spectacle.” Her face was filled with genuine joy, “And the way he screamed! Oh, the pain he must have felt.”
“Your husband”
“And my beautiful Annette, how she was so scared at first, but then, in a mad moment… She was laughing.” She is drooling all over her chest, it splatters upon her face and the machinery, “She had made it, to wherever the flames engulfing her eyes had taken her.”
“Stop this display,” I stormed over and placed my hand on her forehead, holding her still in the machinery, stepping behind her, out of her sight.
“She was so happy, the light showed her something… something not of this world.”
“Stop. Or I’ll knock your teeth out.”
“The doctors will just rebuild them,” she snarled from under my grasp. “My only regret is that I will not be able to show the rest of my children this flame.” I look around the room, there is not much besides a tray with a scalpel, augmentation glue, and a pair of scissors. “Look at me,” I step in front of her and hold the scissors up to her chest.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I cannot control myself, something else has taken over, a part of myself that has been hidden within my subconscious. I shift my hand over her mouth and take the scalpel, only millimeters away from her half-recreated eye. She begins to wail knowingly through my fingers. I place the scalpel at the top of what has been built, right in the center of the iris and now I wait. She is held perfectly in place by the rest of the machinery, the machinery that is just about done cooling down.
Muffled cries for help are meaningless, the hustle of the hall and my hand make any attempts at calling for Basara useless. Her good eye darts back and forth in disbelief, looking for a way to have the nightmare end. The machine starts again, like the hissing of a snake, it makes a consistent noise as flesh starts forming around the scissor in the eye.
I was hoping it would be excruciating.
My wish was granted.
“A terrible thing,” I say, completely still “A terrible thing indeed.”
This suffering brings me no peace. But I have to do it, she needs to feel the consequences of her intrepid actions, one last time before she spends the rest of her days in a padded cell.
The flesh of the eye is growing and forming around the metal, and the middle of the scissor is completely encased. However, the machine does not understand the obstruction, causing it to cause the metal to rithe ever so slightly, undoing and redoing the reconstruction process. The other eye began to falter, drifting slowly upwards before her eye closed. She passed out. I remove my hand from her mouth, yank the scissors out, and toss it onto the tray I found.
I step back and stare at this thing. Its agony has left it looking like a corpse. My left hand is covered in blood and saliva. I wipe both onto her chest, but as I touch the soft silken robes I realize that the top two notches of my index finger are missing.
I take a step back, surprised as blood spews from the wound. The adrenaline must have completely numbed the pain. I take my right and inspect her mouth. Towards the back of the throat, the finger sits, clogging the airways. When I pull it out, she exhales deeply, had it remained any longer, she would have suffocated.
I looked through some of the drawers and found some loose clothes, they looked clean enough. It’s time for me to split before the nurse sees this mess I made. I shove my injured hand into my side jacket pocket and go for the door. A good day to wear black.
The same guard, Basara, stood there waiting for my exit.
“Am I going to have to detain you, officer?” she said with a disgusted look on her face.
I was taken aback. I feel many things about what I’ve done, but regret is not one of them. The words cut me deep.
The city continues to consume.
“She’s breathing, and I’m done here.”