Page 11 of Remnants: Disruption
Or me, I guess—but I hope it never has to come to that.
“Arya Skovsgaard,” I say to the speaker as the ride share peels out of the underground garage.
The only response is the buzzer sounding and the green light beside the thick steel door. It swings open as a flush of cool air hits me, sending a shiver to my core.
“Careful, Skovsgaard,” the guard beside the door says as he pulls the door shut beside me. “The inmates are a bit hyper today. I think it’s a full moon, but it’s not like we can see the fucking thing anyways.”
I snort but give him a grateful nod. And, sure enough, as I swing open the antechamber door to the first floor, I see what he means.
The entire NC compound is a single, towering structure built deep into the ground. It’s stood the test of time for the last thirty-three years, having been built right after the end of the Affliction Wars. Each cell that rings the outer wall is its own little prison apartment with the most dangerous Remnants being much lower in the tower.
Ideally, the cells are built such that the folks within can’t do so much as make muffled screaming noises. Today though? Today they’re loud as shit.
I walk out from the entrance and step onto the elevating platform that takes the boys in blue to the lower levels. Turning to the main control panel, I slide my ID tag along the reader and push the button for Homicide.
There’re a few cat calls, but I do my best to ignore them as the open-air platform descends several floors. The smoothness ofthe elevator leaves much to be desired, but it eventually reaches the floor about halfway between the entrance and the basement.
“Hey, bitch,” a voice trills louder than the other ruckus as I move toward the lit entrance with the words “HOMICIDE” written in large font above.
Against my better judgement, I turn to the source of the voice and see a greasy, dark-haired man grinning at me from his boxed in sitting area that sticks far over the tunnel.
“Mark,” I grunt, turning to stand near the precipitous ledge, the only barrier a fairly flimsy railing. “Enjoying sixty-to-life?”
“It could be worse,” he sneers, his reedy voice at grotesque contrast from the metal-bending, blade-wielding serial killer Shadowblade had been. “I hear you’ve got your hands full.”
“What’s it to you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at the man. His face is still somewhat hidden in the darkness of his cell, but I can almost feel the malicious gleam of his eyes. His powers are relatively useless against me, but Percy had almost lost her bionic arm.
“I bet that mouth can do something useful,” his voice drops grossly. “I imagine that pussy of yours doesn’t get much use these days, what with you being a freak and all.”
I huff out a shaky breath, turning away so he can’t see the way my face pales. Not from the blatant sexism; that’s not a new insult.
No, it’s that every waking moment of my life has been a nightmare because I can always fucking feel the dead. They’re always around. Always talking. Always whispering.
They hadn’t always been like that. It had once been manageable.
Not anymore.
And, yeah, he’s right, because it’s really not conducive to a healthy relationship.
“Yeah,” Shadowblade continues, voice dropping an octave. “You should be in here, too. With us. It’s only a matter of time before Containment gets you.”
I glance around at the cameras. The full-room surveillance makes it difficult to lash out, but I think I can manage.
A tendril of darkness pushes out from the shadows around Shadowblade. His malevolent grin is still on me, so he doesn’t notice the way the shadows wrap around his ankle.
With a flick of my wrist, his feet go out from underneath him. His head rebounds off the floor, a sickly cracking echoing from the cell.
“Good thing Remnants don’t live all that much longer than humans,” I say, moving towards the department door. “Immortality would be a real bitch when you’re serving life.”
The door to Homicide opens to a dimly lit warehouse-like room. The rafters are interspersed with air vents and fans, letting off a gentle hum. Affliction winds through the piping in the room, giving off the classic red light as the fluid powers everything in the room.
Hell, everything in Nye Verden.
“Did they give you trouble?” Martha, the receptionist, asks when I walk through the wooden doors that separate the outer antechamber from the precinct.
“Mark was chattier than normal,” I shrug, giving her a small smile. Of the people in Homicide, Martha and Percy are the two that always treated me like I’m one of them.
Some ignore me. Most openly despise me.
