38-1 Fate of the Hacker
><i>There is only one true heroism in the world: to see the world as it is, and to love it.</i>
<i> —Romain Rolland</i>
Elysium, a cold steel jungle. A city of near-perpetual night.
High above the bustling streets, a virtual model beams from a massive holographic billboard, her tireless smile hovering as her high heels seemingly stride through the dense crowds below.
Neon lights from countless billboards twist through a haze of smoke and steam, painting the skyscraper facades in electric color.
Then, the night rain arrives right on schedule, like an old friend tasked with blurring the smog into a streaky watercolor.
From her usual high vantage point, the purple-haired woman gazes down at the metropolis. A line from an old novel surfaces in her mind—
"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."
She glances toward the distant harbor, where pinpoints of light struggle to pierce the oppressive gloom.
Not even close.
In her earpiece, the police channel buzzes with relentless dispatch codes.
Incident 2077. We have a call about anomalous sounds in Apartment 703 at 442 Arclight Avenue. Sector 94, respond and investigate.
12A94 copies. En route to 2077.
All units, stand by. 12A94 is responding to Incident 2077.
12A94 on scene at apartment 703. Knocked. No answer.
I've got visual on blood under the door! Requesting emergency entry.
Copy that. Please upload photos and video footage of the scene.
...
This is 12A94, cleared for entry. Breaching now.
...
12A94, acknowledge. What's the status on Incident 2077?
...
12A94, Code 1. Do you copy?
12A94 copies, Code 2-H. Confirming one civilian casualty. I repeat, one civilian casualty.
This is ED03, "The Unwinged". Intel received. I am inbound. 12A94, lock down the perimeter. Do not contaminate the scene.
A moment of silence falls over the radio channel.
Patrol officer Johnny huddles under the scant shelter of a dripping eave, waiting for the visitor's arrival.
Moments later, an anti-grav car that belongs to the Department of Public Safety descends before 442 Arclight Avenue. The door slides open, and a black umbrella unfurls against the curtain of rain as "The Unwinged" steps up.
Johnny meets the lavender-haired woman on the pavement, the rain immediately plastering his hair to his forehead.
Hello, I'm patrol officer Johnny from the 12th Patrol Division...
The patter of rain and the relentless drone of the nearby billboards swallow his words, blurring his form into the neon-smeared backdrop.
Ahem... unit designation 12A94. My partner's upstairs securing the scene.
He raises his voice.
Honestly, it's a real relief you're here, Inspector...
Moineau.
Her tone is a flat, polished stone, leaving no room for the pleasantries he was attempting.
Right... This way, Inspector Moineau.
Any urge for small talk he might have had is now gone.
"Ding, ding, ding... Ding!"
The elevator shudders to a halt on the seventh floor. Likely to keep residents in good spirits, the management had installed these relentlessly cheerful cartoon jingles—a stark, almost cruel contrast to the scene awaiting them.
Moineau steps out, her eyes immediately tracking the door numbers down the hall.
730, 729...
Tsk.
The numbers are running backward.
She pivots, heading toward 703.
Give me the sitrep.
The caller is Allen Blake, male, 42, lives alone in 704. Said he called us after hearing some unusual noises from next door.
What time did he hear them?
715, 714...
Uh...
Sigh. When was the call logged?
Let me check... It was 8:12 PM.
Your ATA?
Um... we were on scene by 8:18.
Time of death?
He fumbles, wringing his hands.
With all due respect, ma'am, we're patrol. We don't have the training for that...
Best guess is, it was very recent.
706, 705...
Victim's ID?
His face contorts, a mask of fresh discomfort.
What is it?
The victim's name is... Christina. She's a Construct.
Moineau's scanning gaze halts at 703. It passes over the flickering yellow holographic tape and locks onto the floor inside the open doorway.
A pool of deep, glistening vital fluid soaks through pink synthetic hair. The young girl, Christina, lies broken and motionless.
You've got to be kidding me...
The night rain bleeds neon through the haze, swallowing the city whole.
Inside Apartment 703 at 442 Arclight Avenue, the forensic investigator snaps off her gloves.
Time of examination, 9:03 PM. Estimated time of death is between 7:20 PM and 7:50 PM.
The victim...
The forensic investigator looks up. Moineau, the department's star agent, stands with her arms crossed, her attention clearly elsewhere as she checks the time on her terminal.
She hasn't heard a word.
Sigh...
She understands the distraction. In fact, every officer at the scene is watching Moineau, their attention taut. They all know who Moineau's partner is.
A soft commotion echoes from the hallway—murmurs of surprise, the sound of officers greeting someone.
...Inspector... right this way.
Every officer holds their breath, their attention fixed on the doorway where Moineau's partner—and the victim's spectral double in hair color—is about to appear.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Moineau steps forward.
I wasn't aware you had another "sister."
Teddy.
Inside the Sewer
Elysium
Dock
This is the city's lower intestine, a world away from the gleaming lights and glass facades above. Here, the only spectacle is the murky effluent of urban waste.
Rust, decay, and things better left unnamed stew together in a witch's cauldron, brewing a stench that doesn't just assault the nostrils, but seeps into the soul.
Squelch.
Ugh... what is that...
Oh no... Elean's going to kill me...
Okay, don't panic. A bouquet and a home-cooked meal. That's the price for ruining her floor. She'll forgive me.
Right. Mission first. Focus, Moore.
Inspector Moore of the Crime Investigation Bureau dismisses the unidentified filth beneath his shoe, his attention already returning to the scene.
The sewer system under the docks is such a maze. So this is where our tax money is really going.
It's easy to get turned around down here, even for me. A regular person wouldn't stand a chance.
Jack, oh Jack... what were you thinking, coming to a place like this?
The missing person case flashes back into Moore's mind. He tightens his jaw and hardens his gaze.
Moore has been working on the case of a man named Jack, missing for over 48 hours. A painstaking review of surveillance footage traced Jack's last known movements to the docks, where the trail went cold again.
Hey, have any of you seen this man? 34, brown hair, about 5 feet 8, and around 155 pounds.
Nope. Don't know him.
Probably jumped into the drink. Folks are fragile these days. One bad day, and they give up.
Hold on... I might've seen 'im.
Really? Tell me what you saw.
Yesterday, during dinner, I saw a guy in the distance. Looked like he was huntin' for somethin'. Pretty sure he ducked into the sewer access over there.
Can't swear it was your guy, though. Only saw his back.
But...
But what? If you know something, tell me.
Well, it's not really a lead, but there's been some weird noises comin' from down there lately.
What kind of noises?
Like machinery. A few of the guys say they've seen weird-lookin' mechanoids skulkin' around, ones with a red glow.
My guess? It's just some company testin' new gear. Seein' how it holds up in the muck.
After interviewing the dock workers, Moore entered the sewers to begin his search.
There you are.
Moore crouches, his eyes cutting through the filth until they lock onto a single, clear footprint.
He follows the trail of scattered impressions, his own form swallowed by the oppressive gloom of the sewers.
Click. Clack.
(Someone's here.)
He quickly drops into a low crouch, his footsteps going silent. He presses against the damp wall, carefully leaning to peer around a corner.
There, he sees them. The "mechanoids" the dock worker mentioned.
And beside them, Jack, sprawled motionless on the ground, long past his last breath.
Then, in the darkness, a dozen visual sensors bloom with malevolent red light, all turning toward him in unison.
