Chapter Text
It’s pouring again, like it always is this time of year. Decades of climate shift have knocked the whole troposphere off-kilter, like a leaky faucet nobody’s got the tools to fix. It’s always warm to the touch, too—like the whole sky’s bleeding, boiling over, waiting for some good Samaritan to come by and staunch its wound. It’s got no idea that nobody’s coming.
People like that don’t exist anymore.
Not that I mind too much. Rain like that always washes away the grime, the noise, the evidence.
“Y-you’re on borrowed time, bitch—”
I slash his throat. It’s simple. Boring, even: a simple cut across the carotid. But somehow, even through an impromptu tracheostomy, even through two pints of his own blood, he’s still leering at me.
I don’t bother to respond. I don’t talk to corpses. I won’t ever even learn his name.
Borrowed time. The way he’s smiling, you’d think he almost had a point. But everybody’s on borrowed time—even little infants in their cribs know that. From the second you’re born, you owe the house everything you’ve got. Practically cliché at this point, really.
House always wins. House always collects. That’s just life. You keep on flipping chips ‘til you either break big or you bust.
This guy, though? He’s still flapping his gums, clawing against the wet pavement for…a weapon? Something to stem the bleeding? I don’t even know. There’s a look in his eyes: a cornered animal, desperate, instinctive. Just like any animal, it’s unpredictable, and there’s danger in unpredictability.
So I kick his teeth in. Maybe I used a little more force than necessary, because he’s not moving much anymore. So sue me—if you can afford the billable hours, anyway. I’ve got plenty of cards left to play. Self defense, for one—he came after me. He saw a woman in an alley, tried his luck, and ended up with a bust. That’s not my fault. That’s the invisible hand.
Of course, it’s not really why I killed him. Mid-thirties, scraggly blonde hair, hanging out in the Lower Wards? He had the kind of profile to fit no profile. I would’ve picked him anyway.
Borrowed time? Don’t make me laugh. Desperate son of a bitch was already sitting on a hand of twenty-four, and he’s still begging the dealer for another hit.
Nothing more annoying than a loser who doesn’t know when to pack it up.
7:03 AM // August 29th // 2086
In Transit
I don’t even know what got me all worked up last night, honestly. A superstitious person would blame my karma. Bad feng shui in my room, maybe. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Divine punishment for my sins, if you’re feeling spiritual.
I’m not that kind of person. It takes a real sucker to look at a kink in a three-year-old box spring mattress and call that an act of God.
Besides, if there were such a thing as the cosmic scales, I would’ve gone broke the moment I took my first breath. Can’t cheat a feather with a pretty smile. And yet here I am: about to set foot into my fourth hefty paycheck of the month.
Daisy Koury, repo agent, charged with grand theft auto. Cop who apprehended her claims her license was expired, she claims otherwise. It’s such a routine thing that one would be forgiven for wondering why the state even bothered to press charges.
The only wrinkle: the auto in question belonged to one Cory West; celebrity superstar, and Olympia Pictures’ ten digit cash cow. My client hadn’t quite spat in the face of a meg, but only by technicality. A detail I’d only found out about after agreeing to the job.
So maybe that’s it. The threat of having my face blown up all over the news if this goes wrong. That’s what’s got me on edge. Two weeks after my last brush with the media, I’m right back where I started. Same boulder, same hill. It’s enough to drive anyone insane.
Not that I needed any help in that department.
Whatever. I can get her out of this. It’s a razor-thin margin my client’s found herself in, but it all relies on the facts, and the facts are in her favor. As long as I play my cards at the right time, in the right order, the trial’s a done deal—
“—Adonai? Are you thinking about something?”
Serra’s staring again. It’s been almost two months, and I still can’t get used to that—the too-human way she watches people. Attentive like a high-res camera, but curious like a baby animal.
It grates.
“...No. What makes you think that?”
“You were quiet, but not asleep—your eyes were open.” She sticks a finger in the air. “I used deductive reasoning!”
Well. She’s got the Sherlock act down at least. “You’ve figured me out,” I say. “Ten points for pointing out the obvious.”
She purses her lips. “Adonai, are you… nervous?”
Now where on Earth did that come from? “When have you ever known me to be nervous about anything?”
“No, you’re right. Nervous was the wrong word, I think. Adonai, are you…?” She takes in a deep breath, “...starstruck?”
…What?
“...What?”
“You probably already know Cory West is the world’s most talented actor,” Serra blurts out, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think I see actual stars in her eyes. “But his last three movies each set new records for streaming numbers, and that’s not even mentioning his performances. His role in Freedom Drive was so compelling, so passionate—”
“Cory West isn’t even going to be there. He’s got an army of lawyers, and even if he didn’t, this is a criminal case, not a civil lawsuit. It’s the State’s job to prove guilt, not the property owner.”
She deflates like a sad balloon. “...Oh.”
“Sorry to disappoint…?”
Serra pouts. “You could’ve told me that earlier…”
“What happened to all the reading you've been doing? How did you not already know this?”
“I, um…” She glances away sheepishly. “It didn’t occur to me.”
Translation: she was starstruck. Too distracted by the idea of meeting a celeb to think about the basic details of the case. Guess an educational diet consisting of only black-and-white classics (and more recently, modern blockbusters streamed on my TV) had a lasting effect. They say the media rots your brain, but it’s rare to actually see that so clearly happening in real time.
Serra’s got a way of setting the curve, it seems.
“You really wanted an autograph that bad?”
“Well, yes. He's a generational talent!”
“You know the editing booth does most of the work, right? Practically every frame is assembled together in post like a bad jigsaw.”
“Not true,” she argues. “When you see pain and shock in his eyes, genuine emotion, that’s real, Adonai. You can’t fake that.”
No, you certainly can’t.
She was right about that: you could manipulate the audience with music and lighting and post-effects, but that pure expression of betrayal? You couldn’t recreate that even by puppeting the facial muscles into the exact right shapes. There was something deeper there, buried below the layers of meat and gristle. Something human. It’s why Adds are used around the world for police work, for security posts, for military action—doesn’t matter how realistic they get, or how much work Noble puts into perfecting their ambient microexpressions. They don’t feel pain, so they can’t show it. Not like a human would.
And I’d know better than most.
Serra puts her hands against her hips, frowning. “Adonai, if you are not starstruck, then why are you so nervous?”
I look her in the eyes and press a smile to my lips. “I’m not.”
And that was the truth. No, if anything, I'm pissed.
7:46 AM // August 29th // 2086
State Building
The lobby is strangely serene for an impending trial, but I’ll take it. Less eyes means less chance someone sneaks a photo of me to the press. Thankfully, there’s not a single journalist roaming these halls today. The State must be playing things close to the chest, if they’re pushing for a rush trial for an expired license. Normally a case like this gets sent straight to the automated filing system, where an algorithm generates a verdict and six weeks later an adjudicator signs off on it—never even touches human hands.
But this? Olympia Pictures must be ready to wage war if they’re getting the State to put on a hustle.
The way they’ve set things up, it’s in my best interest to make sure the whole process is as painless as possible. Turns out it’s not so hard to stack the deck in your favor when you hold all the cards.
For my part, all I have to do is make it to conference room 704 before anyone—
“Oh,” says a familiar face. “You’re here.”
Goddamn it.
I put on my brightest fucking smile. “What a coincidence!”
“Detective Reyes,” Serra says. “Good morning!”
“Yeah?” Reyes sneers. “Says who? Trial’s almost started and I haven’t even gotten my coffee yet. Goddamn machine…”
“You seem chipper this morning,” I say. “What’s got you up so bright and early?”
“You kidding? Who do you think booked your client?”
“Oh, that was you?”
“You didn’t read my report?” She laughs, and it’s forced—trying too hard. A would-be playground bully who hasn’t put the practice in. “Your client’s in for a rough time. Got herself a lawyer who can't even do the homework.”
I have read the report. I’ve read it a dozen times over, in fact. But it’s always more useful to play from the back foot.
People tend to let their guards down when they think they’ve got one over on you.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll have time to look through it soon,” I say.
“Uh-huh. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Reyes says. “What’s the mob connection with Koury?”
“Excuse me?”
“She do contract work for Ikariya or something? Or is that something you’re not allowed to tell me? Attorney-client confidentiality or whatever.”
“She’s got nothing to do with them,” I say, pressing my smile wider. “And neither do I!”
“Bull. I’ve seen you sharing drinks with that Sosuke guy. Last week, even. You’re really gonna try to spin that as just a night out with friends?”
“Seen me? Have you been stalking me, Detective?”
She snorts. “Not you. Sosuke. Just in case. Guy like him probably expects it, anyway. Call that a professional courtesy—with his crowd, having a cop keep tabs on him is probably a sign of respect.”
“Even though he was cleared of all charges?”
“Cleared of five specific counts of murder. Doesn’t mean he’s squeaky clean, and you and I both know that.” Reyes shakes her head. “Quit dodging the question. What is it you’re doing with him, huh?”
I can’t tell her the reason I really met with him: to make sure he doesn’t remember anything else from that night that we first met. I don’t leave loose ends lying around. Not if I can help it.
“What can I say? Some of us do make friends now and then, you know.”
"It's true," Serra adds helpfully. "He's a good friend of Adonai's in a non-work related context!"
"See? Adds don't lie. Hope that answers your question, Detective."
“Uh huh. And I suppose you two never talk about work, right?”
“What he does for his employer is none of my business. But if you want to talk about work so badly, where’s your partner?”
“Detective London? He’s in the same boat as me,” she grumbles. “Looking for coffee. Figures. I stay up all night, rescue an actual fucking Eclair, and I don’t get shit for it except a pat on the back and one long sleepless night.”
I raise an eyebrow. “‘Rescue’ is an interesting word to use for impounding a car.”
“Rescue is the right word for it. You know how important that thing is?”
“It’s worth quite a lot of money, I’m sure.”
“I’m not talking about money, lady. I’m talking about value. You know it’s the last time Zydeco ever put out a hybrid silicon carbide nitrous fuel system, and—”
Oh God. I’ve gotten her started.
“—she’s got functionally over two thousand horsepower, right before they set the legal racecourse maximum at fifteen hundred—”
How do I get her to stop? What can I do?
“—and not to mention the carbon fiber manifold that keeps weight at a minimum but the center of mass just below—”
“That’s very interesting,” I say. “Is that all in your report, too?”
“What? No. It’s not relevant to the case.”
“Ah. How very…unfortunate. Maybe you can slip it in as an addendum.”
“You kidding? They don’t give a shit about what the Eclair really is.”
Yeah. I can relate.
“I do!” Serra says brightly. “It sounds like a very impressive car—”
I clap my hands together. “Well—I shouldn’t keep you. I’ve got a file to read, after all, and I think you have more important business to attend to.”
Serra frowns. “But Adonai, I thought you already—”
“Not right now, Serra.”
“Hm…” Reyes gives me a death glare, but either she figures it’s not worth her time to dig further, or she’s just really out of it.
I can guess at the real reason she’s so frazzled—and it’s got nothing to do with staying up all night. A cop like her probably pulls all-nighters just for fun. But not if she’s used her eye recently. The migraine from mod overstimulation can last almost 24 whole hours—more, if you’re not sleeping. Or so I’ve heard.
She starts to wander off toward the elevator, not giving me a second glance.
Good girl.
“Serra?”
“Yes, Adonai?”
“Get the Detective some coffee, please.”
“...Huh?”
“You’re my legal assistant, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Sometimes the most important thing a paralegal can do is keep everything running smoothly. Grease the wheels, so to speak. Detective Reyes needs coffee to function, so it’d be doing us all a favor for you to facilitate that. Get it?”
“Um. I suppose I could—”
“And make sure that coffee’s black.”
God knows she’s wired enough already—any added sugar and the poor woman might die of a heart attack before she ever reaches the witness stand. And while I wouldn’t really care if she croaked right in front of my eyes, it’d certainly make my job a whole lot more difficult.
But more importantly, as long as Serra’s distracting the good detective, neither of them will be bothering me.
“Understood, Adonai! I’m on it!”
She offers me a tiny salute—I’m not sure where she picked that up from—and then walks off, presumably towards the nearest source of caffeine. Maybe she can talk to the coffeemakers through the building’s IOT. Maybe she’s just wandering aimlessly. Not my problem either way.
Finally, some peace and quiet. Time for me to figure out my game plan. It’s good timing, too, because I’m about to finally meet my client, and nothing’s adding up.
What’s really odd is that I only got the job an hour ago, meaning that up until the literal morning of her trial, she wasn’t asking for representation.
So what’s changed? Something’s off, and I don’t like walking into a situation like this with so many unknowns. Hard to bluff when you don’t even know what’s in your hand.
Damn it. I hate to do this, but I can’t step into that courtroom blind. I need something to work with.
WITCH
What can you tell me about Cory West?
lmao
you really ⌷⌷⌷⌷ed up this time kid
Not helpful. I’m asking for actual advice
one sec
im still laughing
I’m glad you think it’s so funny
Because nobody else is laughing
well if they nail you to a cross for this one, at least u got another career option
court jester
Ha ha
dont even have to change location
What do you know about Cory West?
they could post u up by the bailiff, have u do tricks
Cory West
fine fine
he’s an actor
Yes, I knew that part
lemme finish
he’s an actor
for one of the big three studios
the biggest of the big three
he knows he’s that guy
so of course he’s an egomaniac type
loves the smell of his own shits
never represented him but i knew ppl that did
everyone with a net worth less than eight digits was invisible to him
wouldnt even talk to his own lawyers half the time
sometimes he even made his rep handle his cases completely in the dark
remind u of anyone?
That’s why I’m talking to you. So I’m not going in blind
i kno lmao
i can smell the desperation on u
might wanna take a shower b4 the trial
Are you going to help me or not?
look
u want some real advice
dont poke the sleeping bear
doesnt matter if its basically halfway awake
get in and get out fast
and dont make any statements that might affect his image
or imply judgment of his character
or impugn the PR of his meg
ESPECIALLY not anywhere your being recorded
You’re*
oh so whose making jokes now
Who’s*
autocorrect
You don’t use autocorrect
im blocking you're number
What a… monumental waste of time. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. I already regret asking.
Cory West is an egomaniac? Of course he is. He’s the kind of interchangeable smile that sold well to the lowest common denominator, the focus groups; a mask made mostly of mods and plastic surgery that could be shoved onto any skull at any time. He can’t even act, really. Couldn’t sell a smile to a clown. But he’s got the kind of family friendly brand that most megs would kill for. It’s an odd interchange of worthless and priceless, but that’s a celeb for you: like an Add, they’re more property than person. Except in this case, the property gets to see its own price tag and grows an overinflated ego about it.
Wait, hold on—she’s sending something else. A text with an embedded link.
“‘Read the fucking news’—?”
I do read the news! Just not the pop culture schlock that usually ends up filtering into my inbox. Nine times out of ten it’s meaningless fluff about celebrity divorces or gun violence statistics or thinly-veiled advertisements for plastic garbage—the kind of low lows that pop journalism stoops to these days to justify its own existence. Ninety-nine-percent certified recycled crap launched straight from the factory into my junk mail box.
But she’s insisting on this article, and she wouldn’t do that without a good reason, so…
Cory West to Headline Anti-War Conference
You already know the name. He’s a worldwide sensation, five-time Oscar winning superstar, billionaire philanthropist, and national heartthrob. But now he’s venturing into new territory: politics.
Famous for his most recent film Freedom Drive, West is taking his character’s activism to the real world, officially sponsoring the 2086 Mineral Rights Coalition Conference (MRCC) and taking center stage, where he’ll be giving the opening speech. Surprised? Don’t be.
West has dabbled in activism before—he’s been a staunch defender of animal rights since 2083, donating millions from his own pocket to fight against animals used in inhumane conditions for mod testing. But now, he’s putting his mouth where his money is. He’s taking a stance against wars in nations with rare earth minerals, demanding an immediate armistice in foreign conflicts, asking for long-term de-escalation, and—
You’ve reached the end of your free word limit. Wanna add more? Subscribe right now and get an extra 10,000 words per day. That’s a 75% extra value! Don’t stay ignorant. Spend your hard earned cash on the one thing more valuable than money: knowledge. Or don’t, poser.
Interesting, but ultimately irrelevant. Maybe West thinks he’s the next great revolutionary, or maybe there’s some hidden ulterior motive, but either way—angel or devil, my client stole his car. Doesn’t matter how heavy his soul weighs.
Either it was a legal seizure, or it wasn’t. For once, the case really is black and white. Nothing I can do but look through the documents and ride the whole thing out.
And reviewing the docs, the evidence is… thorough.
The car in question is a ‘36 Zydeco Eclair, some kind of classic high powered supercar from the era when octane was still in fashion. A stone age relic, basically. A collector’s item worth more than I’d ever make. Reyes could probably tell me more, but I’d rather be run over by the damn thing than be forced to hear another bit of trivia about it.
At 9:09 PM last night, my client was seen breaking and entering into the vehicle—which is legal, given that she’s a licensed repo agent, and the vehicle itself was parked in a publicly accessible garage. At 9:09 PM, the vehicle was reported as stolen by the owner, and police tracked the vehicle using its GPS. At 9:12 PM, Detectives Reyes and London pulled my client over near the intersection of Tenth and Carroway, arrested her, and booked her on the spot.
Textbook. All of it.
And the real kicker: the license was legit. State file says her Vehicle Repossession License was registered five years ago, active the night of the arrest, and will still be active until December of this year. She even had a physical VRL badge on her person at the time of arrest. They just couldn’t verify it from their police cruiser.
And the Eclair itself was overdue on a payment. Just by a day, sure, but Zydeco’s policies are hardline—even one day is enough to justify a repo. It’s all aboveboard.
There’s not even a shred of doubt that my client’s innocent. Just a case of one bad server check, one lost packet in an ocean of missing data. It happens all the time, really.
So why push all this? Why the song and dance? The State must know this is a waste of everybody’s time, right?
There’s gotta be something. No way in hell Emma Rockford would show her face in court if she didn’t have an ace up her sleeve.
Well—maybe my client can shine a light on everything for me. It’s the last shot I’ve got. I exit the lobby down one of the side hallways, headed straight for conference room 704.
There’s a few people in suits scurrying by—junior state employees, judging by their cheap suits and the way they won’t meet my eyes. The corporate types usually have steel running through their veins, and anyone showing weakness like that wouldn’t last long.
It’s a matter of professional pride.
Room 702, 703, and—Ah. Finally, I’m here. Finally, I can get some goddamn answers—
And suddenly I freeze.
Because I know that sound. I know it like the beat of my own heart. It’s dulled by the closed door, thick walls, and carpeted floors, but there’s nothing quite like the report of a gun.
Bang.
My mind’s racing a mile a minute. The profile’s sharp but quiet; most likely a magnetic weapon—a railgun. Practically silent compared to gunpowder and twice as lethal. But that lethality comes with drawbacks—modern safety features mean that every trigger pull is registered in the cloud, Tagged and traced. Plus, we’re standing in a no-fire zone that stretches out six city blocks. If you’re not a badge, your weapon’s a paperweight.
Unless you jailbroke it. But even the most cutting-edge hacks only keep your weapon functional for so long. You get one, maybe two shots if you’re lucky.
One shot’s been fired.
So am I in danger?
Am I feeling lucky?
One moment passes. Then two. And I’m still frozen. I’d reach for my own gun if there was a chance in hell it would fire, but I know it won’t.
So I move. It feels like I’m violating an unspoken law. Nobody else has so much as breathed, so neither do I.
But I still move. The motions are practiced, smooth; easy. I put myself behind a column, obscured from sight. From here, I’m practically invisible.
It’s a coin flip whether or not the gunman is still armed. But there’s a letter opener in my pocket. It barely even sees use these days—haven’t been handed actual paperwork since I was a paralegal. But it’ll work, if needed.
With the right amount of pressure, it can cut straight through the vital arteries. Which one I actually pick is dealer's choice. Easiest way to rig the odds in my favor.
My fingers wrap around the handle, buried inside the depths of my coat pocket. The ceramic is cold to the touch, like it’s sucking the warmth straight through my skin.
But I pause. Because if I kill someone here, it won’t be long until someone makes the connection between me and a dozen cold cases scattered across the city. I’ve been dealt a shit hand, and the House is tapping its feet. Time’s running out. Play the fifty-fifty, or fold.
I should run. But I don’t. My feet keep me pointed straight forward, eyes toward the enemy. My fingers tighten, knuckles white. And yet my heart's barely even beating.
Twenty seconds have passed. The door still hasn’t opened. My window to run, if there ever was one, has turned microscopic. And in the heat of the moment, something comes back to me. Two words.
Borrowed time.
Then, finally, the stalemate breaks. The cavalry’s arrived. Six heavily armed police officers storm past me, crashing through the door like it’s tissue paper—taxpayer funding on display in full force. I brace, expecting the inevitable explosion of violence… but there’s nothing.
Knock, knock. Nobody’s home. Coin’s landed on its side—statistically impossible, but in my line of work, that’s not a draw; that’s a rain check.
And all I can see before a too-helpful officer pulls me away is one dead body lying in a pool of blood, face down on the carpet. Female, brunette; average height, weight, build. Crumpled like an old parking ticket.
My client.
8:57 AM // August 29th // 2086
State Building // Break Room
“Adonai, are you okay?”
They’ve corralled everyone into the seventh floor break room like it’s a work-mandated pizza party—and just like the real thing, nobody here knows each other, and nobody gets to leave. The air around me is warm. Too warm, like the kind of stale breeze you find in a police holding cell; quadruple-recycled, faintly smelling of piss.
But everybody’s sitting close together. They’re scared, but their body language is still open. All the data entry grunts and security personnel and junior attorneys—even the Adds standing vigil by the doors. Everyone’s huddled together around their little tables, chatting, waiting hand in hand for the whole thing to blow over.
Funny, isn’t it—how quickly the lines change as soon as a body drops. Suddenly the fact that I’m their opposition doesn’t matter anymore, because by virtue of being near death, we’re all somehow comrades in arms.
They don’t understand yet. I can see it in their eyes. They think that we’re all survivors of a tragic incident.
They don’t get that we’re all suspects.
“I’m fine,” I say to Serra. “Wasn’t even in the room when it happened.”
“That’s… not what I meant.”
“I’m fine.” I flash her what I think is a reassuring smile. “I’ve seen dead bodies before, you know. This isn’t my first dance.”
“Still, seeing something like that… it has an effect on people, Adonai.”
“Come on. I was shot at just a few weeks ago. This time, they weren’t even aiming at me. And I didn’t even see it. The door was closed. Trust me, this is nothing.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure."
“Then I trust you.”
She says it so easily. Like it’s that easy for anyone to trust anybody. She doesn’t even know me, really. But somehow, despite everything, I don’t doubt her words. I’m good at reading people, which is how I know she really means it.
What I’ll never understand is why.
"Did you get Detective Reyes that coffee?”
She grins, self-satisfied. “I did!”
“...And?”
“...She said that ‘it tasted like dirt’ and that she prefers her coffee with a lot more sugars.”
“...How much more?"
“Well, the last time I interviewed her, she told me she likes her coffee with two. But this time she told me to go and get her six? Which did strike me as odd...”
Six sugars? What the hell? Is she an actual child?
Or was her headache even worse than it seemed?
“She’s just messing with you,” I say. “It’s a joke.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.”
“In fact she probably really liked it—so much that she was embarrassed to show it. So next time make sure it’s exactly the same.”
She nods vigorously. “I will! That actually explains a lot..."
Doesn’t matter what the media tells you—it’s never too late to corrupt the youth.
And then finally, the hallway door swings open, and in comes Detective Qasim London. Providence. I let out a breath I’ve been holding for the last two hours. He’s whispering something to the cops in the room—a waste of time when a simple memo would do, but maybe he likes keeping things analog.
I hope so, because the alternative is that he’s feeling paranoid about sharing info with his own guys. Which means that there’s a chance that our mystery shooter is a uniform running around with an itchy trigger finger.
I need to hear it straight from the source. So I get up and approach him with all the dignity and bravado that my station affords me:
“Detective London~!”
He turns. That’s gotten his attention. We’ve played this game enough times that he probably realizes my cheer’s only skin-deep, at least this time.
“Counselor Morgan. Why is it that we always seem to meet in these situations?”
“Comes with the line of work, I’d assume. I’m a criminal defense attorney, and you’re a homicide detective. Statistically, it’s where the bell curves line up.”
“Not sure that’s how statistics work.”
“Didn’t know you were a mathematician.”
“I dabble. You stick around long enough, and the numbers start to make a whole lot more sense.”
“Such as?”
He shrugs. “Such as the ninety-seven percent conviction rate. The longer I work homicide, the more it makes sense. You see enough of these crime scenes, and eventually it clicks.”
“That the modern surveillance state keeps us all neat and tidy and safe?”
“No—that it makes sense why the three percent exists. Why they haven’t just automated the whole department away." He falters. I guess he's surprised himself. Showed more of his hand than he'd intended. "Anyway,” he coughs. “Not the time. We’re pretty busy right now, if you can imagine.”
“I can imagine. Look,” I lower my voice. “You mind telling me what’s going on?”
“It’s… an active investigation, Counselor. There’s not a whole lot I can say—”
“I know, I know. But this was my client. Don’t you think I deserve to know what happened to her?”
“You’re not representing her anymore.”
“That’s cold, Detective. Even for you.”
He sighs, and I know I’ve got him by the balls.
“Don’t go spreading this around, alright?”
“Of course not. Attorney-client confidentiality. My lips are sealed.”
“...Right. Well, we’ve already got the whole room scanned into ARCS. And… we’ve got the body processed. I've gotta say, as far as these things go, it was relatively tidy. Preliminary autopsy shows cause of death as a single bullet through the heart—”
My heart skips a beat.
No way…
“Death was instant. She was shot in the back, falling forwards onto the desk. Somehow, the killer wasn’t caught on camera. Not even a single frame from OPTICS.”
No fucking way.
“Honestly, Counselor, I’m not usually the kind of guy to jump to conclusions, but it’s starting to look a lot like this was—”
Extraordinarily bad luck? A cosmic joke at my expense? Divine punishment for my sins?
“—Heartbreak.”
I force a smile. “A Heartbreak copycat!” I say. “Heartbreak’s insane, but he’s not stupid enough to do his business in the courthouse.”
“Yeah,” he acknowledges. “Probably.”
Of all the places for a Heartbreak fanboy to do his dirty work, did he really have to drop a body right on my goddamn doorstep?
“So I’m assuming the trial is cancelled now?”
“Pretty hard to hold a trial when the defendant is dead, yeah. But… I don’t think I need to tell you—”
“That there’s a whole new game. I figured.”
“Until we’ve cleared every single person in the building, I’m afraid those doors are going to stay locked. You understand.”
Yeah, I do. Because as soon as that gun went off, every silent alarm in the city went off. Every exit door would’ve locked instantly. That’s the cold calculus of government work—if no one can escape, the shooter can’t, either. Doesn’t matter if a few bystanders get taken out in the meantime, as long as the State doesn’t end up with a black eye without a pound of flesh to show for it.
London says that we’re stuck here until every single person is cleared, but he’s either misspeaking, or he’s intentionally putting the PR spin on it, because I know what he really means: nobody gets to leave the building until they find their suspect, whether that person is really guilty or not. Especially now that they think there's someone plastering the Heartbreak brand all over their shiny waxed floors.
One way or another, someone’s leaving this building in shackles.
“Detective London,” I say, clearing my throat. “Keep me updated?”
“Can’t make any promises, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll try.”
“Thanks.”
He leaves without another word. More work to do, I suppose.
All around me, the atmosphere is growing more and more stale. London and I were quiet enough that nobody really overheard us, but that doesn't mean we didn't have an audience. The whole room saw us talking, and the fact of the matter is everybody's still here. No one’s coming to set us free.
Gravity’s starting to set in for everyone now. They’re realizing that this whole debacle’s gonna take a whole lot longer than they thought.
And maybe they’re starting to realize that the music’s been stopped for some time now, and somebody’s gonna end up without a chair. Maybe it’s the blonde woman in the corner who’s been quietly crying the whole time and won’t shut up. Maybe it’s the dark-haired guy in a suit and tie who won’t meet anyone’s gaze. Or maybe it’s the skinny red-haired man in the front of the crowd who looks like he’s about to charge for the door. Somebody's gotta take the fall.
It’s a murder on State property, after all.
The number of people that could’ve pulled this off…
Well, it’s a short list. And it starts and ends with the people currently inside this building.
My first thought is that Olympia wanted her shut up. It wouldn’t be the first time a meg’s plucked out a thorn in their side using a scalpel instead of tweezers.
But no, the facts don’t line up.
Megs are allergic to attention. The invisible hand needs to stay just that—invisible. They get caught stealing from the cookie jar, and it’s billions in image rehabilitation down the drain. A high-profile murder like this just isn’t cost effective, and Olympia knows it better than anyone else. If they’d wanted to kill Koury, they would’ve orchestrated a suicide, and they sure as hell wouldn’t have done it in a public building.
Whoever did this wanted attention. Demanded it, even. And now they’ve got mine.
But something tells me I’m not the intended audience. So who is?
The State? Olympia? The general populace? The protestors outside Noble HQ waving Heartbreak signs? It’s a signal meant for someone, and as soon as I can figure out who that someone is, I can start to decipher its actual meaning.
But I've got one key piece of information that the cops don’t have—that this wasn't Heartbreak. Can’t be. Not when the genuine article was standing outside the crime scene when it all went down.
I don’t have to prove that any particular party is guilty. That’s the State’s job. No, all I have to do is prove that Heartbreak had nothing to do with it.
And that’s a slam dunk.