Page 57 of Remnants: Disruption
Not Omen, though. Just me.
Now is the time for vengeance.
I slip the paper into my jacket pocket. Right against my left breast. For some reason, it feels like the only thing I need from this apartment. None of this stuff means anything. This apartment had only ever been temporary solace from the horrors outside.
And now it just feels like a violation.
Another act of othering. Another decision made for me. Made about me. Made against me.
With a final look at the living, I step into the darkness. The movement is never instant. Distance, while trivial, had always added a delay. The spirits aren’t here, either. They never have access to this place, even though it’s made entirely of shadow.
The rooftop overlooking the NCPD building is abandoned as I perch at the ledge. I had never thought about breaking into the building before today. I had never really needed to. The morgue had been easy enough, but I doubt the higher ups cared all that much about protecting dead bodies.
Homicide, though, might be protected like some of the more important places were in Nye Verden. Even though magic itself doesn't exist, it has never stopped the utilitarian Remnants from figuring out ways to counter those of their kind.
It was why anti-Remnant tech existed, after all.
I’ve never found it in me to be upset with them. Like the rest of us, they're only doing what they can to continue to be useful. So, they won't become another victim.
With a quick thought, I step backwards into the shadows created by the afternoon light.
And, to my surprise, her office appears. The bullpen sits on the other side of the closed door and windows with blinds drawn.
In the darkness, the spirits return in a frenzy. It’s like the last few nights had just been a warmup for this. For something like an intrusion between the worlds.
“Why don’t you just storm in there and demand answers?” I hear one whisper. They don’t show themselves, but their voice is just beside me.
“Because I don’t want to get shot,” I hiss.
“Again,” another chips in.
Oh, they’ve got jokes now.
The bullpen is busy. Officers that I don’t recognize move about the space. I see Bellick sitting at one of the open desks, hisear to a phone tucked against his shoulder. Across from him sits McRoberts, equally busy with something in front of him.
If they’d been frazzled before, they both look downright manic now.
My gaze catches on the billboard propped against the wall beside the entrance.
Across the top, “Remnant Killer” is written in a tidy scrawl. And on it are three pictures.
Mara Anders, Malachi Blackwood, and her.
There’s a handful of figures, data, and some pictures of the other two corpses. The bodies I’d seen just this morning.
But none of her. None of the one that no longer has the bionic arm.
Images flash through my mind and I feel the shadows respond. Something falls over in the closed office, but there’s so much activity outside that no one notices.
The windows along the private office vibrate against my hands as the darkness pushes against them. A fast pace, thrumming beat matches the rapid tick of my heart.
An officer glances toward the office with a curious expression before returning to the file in his hand.
“They’ll catch you,” a voice whispers somewhere behind me.
“I’d like to see them try,” I grit out, my breaths coming in gasps.
One breath. Then two.
