Page 7 of Remnants: Disruption
It’s Mara Anders, alright. At least, the person using that name.
“Goddamn,” I swear under my breath. “That’s fucked.”
“That was my assessment, too,” Percy says from behind me. She walks toward the head of the bed, stopping half a foot away. “The NCPD chip in her arm identifies her as Mara Anders.”
So not a pseudonym.
“She’d been tagged?” I ask, glancing at the woman’s face again. She was as unrecognizable as anyone else I’d met, arrested, or fought in my time as a PI. Even in my off-time, I hadn’t ever seen the woman—she was as indistinguishable from Eve.
“Her last arrest put her in the highest level of security clearance required for more information. You know how it works,” Percy says, studying her DAEMON Pad.
I sure did. Because I’d spent nearly ten years doing everything I could to avoid being on that list. Or any list, really. Arya Skovsgaard was, indeed, on RISE, but she was the only one.
“Fyre,” Percy whispers passing me the tablet. “A Tier 4.”
I take the device, turning it to face me. The RISE system was just a fancy way to keep track of the people who were unlucky enough to have been arrested or detained for their powers. It always claimed “safety” for the Remnants, but it was always about control.
Known Associates: Bloody Mary, Beowulf, Morgana, Azazel
“Oh shit,” I grunt, reading Fyre’s associates.
“Same,” Percy says, her face looks gaunt with the light of the room. “I don’t like those names.”
I don’t like the idea of facing them myself, but Percy’s only human. Her own body has been through so much in the line of duty.
“Can you read her?” she asks, sidling closer to me. Her nearness and warmth send a thrill through me despite the setting.
“Sure,” I say, voice hoarse.
I step closer and realize there’s no smell. There’s nothing, actually. No scent of death or decay. The entire scene is grisly and demented, but the woman herself doesn’t even look dead, minus the way her body looks vacuumed out.
As before, I place my gloved hand just above where her towel meets her upper chest.
Darkness.
Chapter 4
Ritual
Five Thirty A.M., October 22 nd , 1030 A.D.
Skovsgaard’s ability, while invaluable, will not hold up in court. The only reason she is not dismissed as a fraud is that the reliquary reported her powers as stemming from the incredibly rare death essence.
An internal memo written by the NC Chief of Police Aaron Travers in 1022 A.D.
The scene swirls through the darkness, filling in like a painter in the middle of their magnum opus. Colors are diluted in some places, while oddly saturated in others. The bed, then the window to the outside. Then a wardrobe, a dresser. The end tables swirl in, forming the room I had just seen moments ago.
The room sits like a disembodied part of the world. Like reality had just cracked this section off and thrown it into space.
“Please—” the voice sounds before the body appears. The woman, who I assume is Mara, inches back on the bed, her body wrapped tightly in a towel.
She’s pretty, in a sort of roguish way. Her flaming red hair is soaked from the shower, her shoulders dabbled in beads of water. She’s slim, but muscle is evident in her bare shoulders and back. But those muscles are bulged as she scoots herself as far back as she can from something—someone—unseen.
“You know what happens now, Mara,” a strange, discordant voice comes from somewhere within the room. They don’t sound angry. They sound sad. Disappointed, even.
With a pop, sound cuts out. Like someone had just hit the mute on a dPad. Mara’s mouth is moving, but nothing comes out. The rest of the room, though, is normal volume. I can hear the street noises outside, but the room itself is drenched in silence.
A figure appears, hovering near the foot of the bed. They’re tall. Taller than me, even, which is impressive. Their face is hidden in the darkness of a hood, their body fairly lithe despite the commanding presence in the room.
