Chapter Text
“Good on you, Tav.”
Gaz patted Soap's shoulder. “The old man finally let you take the reins.”
“Aye, thanks mate.”
Soap said, after a beat. He gently rubbed the file folder with his fingers, his eyes seeming a bit vacant.
A top-secret casefile.
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Soap walked out of the office, starting his motorcycle mechanically. He felt the emptiness of the seat, as if it still echoed with the soft murmur meant for two.
He really missed the feeling of being carried by someone.
“Am bloody freezing…” He mumbled.
“Nearly home, Johnny. We'll get some tea.”
“Fucking Brits”
The helmet hid the faint curve of his lips, and shielded him well from London's biting wind.
Out of nowhere, a shape took form upon the road ahead. The shriek of the tires as he slammed the brakes tore through the silence, rousing everyone on the street.
“You blind bastard, watch where you're going!”
The low Manchester accent faded from his mind, replaced by his own string of apologies spilling out into the cold air.
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D.S. Mactavish's fingers grazed the paper.
Manuel Roba, a name London Police Department had learned to dread. A Mexican narco whose sprawling drug operations spanned continents, yet whose ambitions bled further still, into the trade of human flesh.
The few fragments of evidence gathered hinted at something darker: experimental endeavors, the nature of which one could only guess.
For years he had cut a swath along the Atlantic seaboard, brazenly provoking the authorities, moving with the meticulous cruelty of a predator who never left a track he didn't mean to.
“Creepin' Jesus… These bloody detectives. Every single thing they dig up contradicts the last!” Soap flung the papers down on the table and pressed his fingers to his tired eyes.
“Roba, ye sleekit bastart,” he fair raged inside himself.
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Soap took out the half-empty bottle of bourbon and poured himself a glass. The amber liquid seemed to swallow his sobriety, sip by sip — but this bottle always brought him back to Simon.
His Simon.
Nothing left but an arm, severed above the elbow, the ink of a tattoo still coiled around the skin — lying in silence inside the refrigerated vault. Three months now, since that nameless parcel appeared at the gates.
A naked taunt.
A small, jagged stone that broke the last of Soap's hope.
D.I. Simon Riley, marked MIA for four months — now KIA.
Soap drank on. The room blurred, and Simon was there — walking toward him, tea in hand, grumbling about ridiculous cases and detectives who wouldn't follow orders. He was so close Soap could almost smell the tea.
The cup slipped. It shattered before it hit the ground, and suddenly Simon's arm was streaming blood. “Still sittin' on yer arse, aren't you, Johnny?” His brown eyes stared at him, hollow and hopeless.
“It 'urts. Why’d you leave…”
“Naw, no — Si, I…” He threw himself forward. The remaining bourbon spread dark across the floor.
He pushed himself up on his palms, red-rimmed eyes scouring the room. The strong smell of bourbon hung in the air, needling him.
Simon was gone.
Shaky and unsteady, he dragged himself to his feet, mopped up the spill with a wad of tissues, and fell into bed. He lay there, waiting for the clock to drag him back to work.
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Soap rode his motorcycle to work, same as always, same route.
Billboards flickered endlessly along the street, each one hawking the latest android model from rival manufacturers. They were everywhere — walking beside their masters or carrying out tasks with that dead-eyed efficiency. He felt a strong sense of disgust in his gut. He twisted the throttle and sped up, wishing he could wipe himself clean off this road.
He liked to think of himself as a person who kept up with the times. Domestic androids did a fine job, he'd give them that. But when he saw them creeping into every profession, saw people gazing into those dead plastic eyes and calling it love, he felt nothing but contempt. What a bunch of daft bastards.
He parked his motorcycle, pulled off his helmet, and ran a hand over his mohawk to check it was still in place.
Same as always.
“Soap.” A familiar voice cut through the air. He looked up to see Price walking over, closing the gap between them.
“Mornin' sir.” He replied, his voice worn weary.
“Another late night, son? Right, let's get to the office.” Price smiled around his cigar, the corners of his moustache twitching upward.
“Roba that bastart, he's been leavin' us nothin' but false trails, deliberate as ye like.” He sighed.
“Lucky for us, Shepherd has finally seen fit to send us a proper pair of hands. We'll take down that bastard.” Price gave Soap's shoulder a firm pat.
“Wot? Who is 'e then?”
“GH057, point is, he'll be helping you out.” Price let out a quiet chuckle and turned down another corridor. “My office. Three this afternoon.”
“Fuckin' Androids.”