Page 17 of Remnants: Disruption
The elevator ride back to the precinct is tense as I stand beside Percy. Unease had been painted all over her face as we’d left the morgue. Alongside it was something like fear. Or worry, maybe. It’s always tough to tell with Percy. She always manages to have a range of emotions on her gorgeous face. Always manages to express the empathy she carries so close to her chest.
“I’m going to take a look at Remnants who might be powerful enough to siphon someone like Anders,” I say into the silence, my eyes not leaving the copy of the autopsy that Blair had provided. “Then I’m going to take an early night and head home. Clearly I’m not—”
Percy lunges forward, her hand slapping the emergency stop button. The carriage rumbles to a stop, pausing us between floors.
“Normally,” she begins, turning wide amber eyes on me, “your level of self-destruction is manageable. Normally, you tell me what’s going on.”
She steps closer, her body radiating crazy amounts of heat in the small carriage. My breath catches in my throat as I look down at her, eyes set and dark.
“But right now it feels like you’re keeping something big from me and I—”
She purses her lips, her face falling as she looks down at the floor between our feet.
“You don’t owe me explanations,” she says finally, voice tight with worry, “and you certainly don’t owe me your secrets. We’re friends. Partners. Colleague. You’re allowed your secrets.”
She says the final words like a prayer.
Finally, Percy lets out a deep breath, like it had been pent up in her chest for years. She reaches past me and pulls back on the emergency stop button. The elevator rumbles to life again.
I can’t help the stunned expression on my face as I glance down at her.
“I’m fine,” I say after a moment. “Today was rougher than usual, but I promise I’m okay.”
Lying comes easier when your entire persona is manufactured to fit the common man. It’s easier to tell the lies than to admit your truth might be dangerous. That your truth will get you killed.
Percy only nods, her eyes almost watery with emotion that I suspect has been welling beneath the surface for far longer than the last few hours.
Our masks are slipping, I guess.
After another tense few seconds, the elevator dings open to Homicide. I give her a nod and shake the papers before hitting the top floor exit.
“I’ll use my computer at home,” I say, giving her a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Percy returns my smile, but it’s strained. Which is probably for the best. Strained doesn’t break the heart. It doesn’t give you a false sense of security. Of affection or warmth.
It doesn’t get you killed.
I make for Arthur’s Coffee near my apartment. The coffee shop turned community library had essentially become a second home for me over the last few years. In a world so propagandized, paper media became the only form of information that was still untouched by corps.
The walk could have been faster had I just teleported, but the chill air and rancid smell of the city was a necessary slap to the face.
Percy catching onto my depressive mood was one thing. Dark jokes were part of my repertoire—it’s hardly new for me to say something uncouth. But she’s poking into places that could bedangerous for her. For a human. Mech or not, bionic arm or not, she’s not safe in the Remnant world.
The door to Arthur’s dings open as I pull on the metal handle. It’s an incredibly different vibe here compared to the rest of New Chicago. Granted, most of New Chicago has been rebuilt after various Remnant attacks, wars, or other catastrophic events—but Arthur’s isn’t built with the same industrial furnishings that most of the city adopted. There’s no flowing Affliction from the rafters or any semi-bionic artificial intelligence running the counter.
The couches along the back of the shop are empty, so I flop into my normal seat. It’s plush but certainly has been used and abused given the cracking vinyl cover.
“The normal, Arya?” the barista, a young woman named Alice, shoots from behind the bar.
“Yes, please,” I say, giving her my best warm smile. Her pale cheeks pink slightly before she moves through the process of brewing my espresso.
I pull out my dPhone and spread out the autopsy report on the table in front of me. Thankfully, Blair included photos of the recently deceased, so I pull out Mara’s first.
Her face is gaunt, odd angles protruding in different ways from the skull beneath her skin. Otherwise, there’s no real other difference from the way we’d found her in the hotel this morning. The wrist photograph is next, and I pluck it up before closing the folder and standing.
I move along the shelves of books, looking for anything remotely related to cult or religious activity in Nye Verden.
“Christianity in Nye Verden,” I read out, scoffing a little as I slide the book back into its spot. “Not the right type of cult.”
