Part Two

Green Court was quiet, too quiet for Burke’s liking, and on a Friday night at that? Something wasn’t right. Burke kept his eyes peeled as he past the first couple columns of Stacks, a low-income housing solution with up to five Modulars stacked on top one another. The air surrounding the Stacks was surprisingly crisp and cool, despite the amount of people packed in here like sardines; that was thanks to the revolutionary thermal vents, the city’s way of trying to make life out here less sucky. Burke cautiously moved in and out of the shadows of the Stacks, being careful not to trigger any alarms. The last thing he’d needed was for some loud-mouthed, rifle-barring, mad man in his underwear coming out to meet him in the streets. Bullets have long since been rationed, hoping in some way that it would cut down on the amount of violence. The problem was, people are innovative and came up with another solution to handheld, killing machines: charged carbines, like making those Star Trek phasers a reality, and a little more deadly. Of course, none of this made Burke feel any easier about the situation he put himself in. Clank, clank, clank, clank, went the trio, up the metal stairs of the fifth Stack on the left, and into the second Modular. Burke checked twice to make sure the coast was clear and made a break for it, holding his fedora tight on his head as he jogged across the street. Like a cartoon burglar, Burke cemented his back to the side of the lower-level Modular, holding his breath, ensuring no one caught on to him. After a few seconds of dead silence, Burke makes his move, carefully coming out of the shadows, slowly and creepily stepping up the stairs to the second Modular. Each home, if you could even call it that, had a platform surrounding it on all sides, with about two to three feet of walking space between the railing and the Modular. Burke crept quietly around the walkway to the row of glass, acting as a sort of panoramic window. Inside, Burke spies the two original dinguses, but no girl. Without their black trenches and trying to be steampunk goggles, the two young men are relatively handsome, well-built, not the typical Bottom Feeders Burke’s use to. These guys seem like they’ve got themselves together, like they’re the sort Burke wouldn’t mind grabbing a pint with in his younger days. In walks the girl, breaking Burke’s thoughts, a wonderfully cheery young woman, rocking a  brilliant pink, pixie haircut and yellow sundress, with the bluest of eyes, eyes that Burke can’t help but feel he’s seen before. He ducks back down; okay, I’ve got a description, but what could they be after, what are they up to, Burke questions in his mind. As he percolates over these questions, a gorgeous, powder blue, Helium C6 pulls up to the Stack. Burke watches carefully as the suicide doors open. Stepping out from the passenger’s side, a very well-dressed man; he straightens his black vest and tie, looks around, and then takes a deep breath in. Seemingly pleased with the air, he waves for the driver to come around. A large, perhaps at one time professional weight lifter of a man, steps around the car, silenced carbine pistol in hand. “We won’t be needing that,” the well-dressed man calmly says to the Mr. Universe runner-up. Bruno seems a little disappointed as he pockets the pistol. Still stuck to the shadows like a cat too shy to come out, Burke remains transfixed on this man, trying to place him in his mind. Someone like this, an Elite as they're known, would've, should've stuck out to Burke. Most, if not all Elites have their own, personal, virtual ad space. Sure, some of the Elites are old school and prefer “real” media, but those who really want to make a statement have bought virtual space. Burke's no stranger to the virtual world, he practically lived in it as a kid, from school lessons to training for the academy, virtual and augmented reality's just been a part of the norm. This Elite, with his fancy black suit and combed over, blond hair however, was a complete mystery.

    As Mr. Fancy Pants and his bad cop partner took their time up the stairs, Burke could only concentrate on remaining absolutely still; one false move, one loud breath and he'd be made. When they reached the second level, Burke's nose caught the Elite’s cologne, a vanilla sort of smell, like aged bourbon sitting at the back of your mouth. Burke had smelled this smell a hundred times, maybe even two hundred, but never on a sober man. There was something uniquely attractive about his eyes, like finding two bronze coins among the brushed sand of his skin. Most men, most folk in general, Burke could place in one of his two categories: trash or useful trash, usually within about five to ten seconds of meeting them. This guy? Well, let's just say Burke's ten seconds had come and gone and he was still scratching his head. A simple knock on the door was all it took to get the wonder twins to welcome their visitors. With the sound of the pneumatic door closing, Burke finally let his lungs lose, trying hard to muffle his coughing. Probably need to cut back on the cigars, he thought to himself; he laughed at the idea. Now that the newcomers were welcomed inside, it was time for some actual detective work. Burke pulls out a small, circular camera and sticks it to the window, making sure it faced the right way. He connects the video feed from the camera to his hololens and syncs the audio to his wireless earpiece. Burke applies the facial tracking feature on the camera and sets it to follow the suit; even if the guy went to take a leak, the camera would follow. He activates his earpiece, “we agreed on a hundred thousand credits”, the taller of the two Bottom Feeders says, “yes, but now that I see the product, our agreement has changed,” calmly replies the Elite. Product, Burke thinks to himself, what product? He moves the camera to sweep the Modular; a simple, clean common room, two moderate bedrooms, your typical bathrooms, and an average kitchen. Without a camera on the inside, Burke can’t get a peek behind any of the doors, but with a deal about to go down, surely this ‘product’ would be in sight. “Now Mr. Peely, I can see you’re a reasonable man, perhaps a little naive, but reasonable,” the suit says to the taller one. Peely, Peely, Peely, why does that name sound familiar, Burke questions in his mind. The Peely brothers! Of course! Marcus and Vincent Peely, the notorious Southside smugglers; the force has been trying to catch these bastards for a year now. And here they’ve been working out of Green Court this whole time. “How does fifty thousand credits sound,” the suit questions Marcus, the taller brother. “We got another offer, for seventy-five thousand, how ‘bout we just go back to them, eh?” “There’s no reason to get hostile, Mr. Peely”, the Elite calmly replies, “nah mate, you ain’t seen hostile yet”. The big man bucks up to that and in a flash, has his carbine pistol trained on Marcus’ head, charged and ready to fire. The suit gently rests his hand on the big man’s shoulder, “now, now my eager friend, we wouldn’t want to scare the product”. What? What does that mean, Burke questions. ‘Scare the product?’ So the brother’s stepped up their game and smuggled in a living thing? That’s new. Muscles puts his gun away with the disappointment of a kid having to put away their toys. “Believe it or not, I’m not particularly fond of violence,” the Elite says, finally deciding to sit down on the plush chair, “but often times I find it necessary. I hope this isn’t one of those times?” “We called you, because we heard about you, and now you come in here, with your fancy clothes and neanderthal friend, threatening us!? Go fuck yourself”, Marcus belts, loud enough to make Burke turn down the volume on his earpiece. The Elite calmly straightens his tie, brushes his vest, and then snaps his fingers. A blink and it’s done; Marcus and Vincent, laid back, a brand new hole in the their heads, smoke coming from the big man’s barrel, the girl to in shock to even realize what just happened. The suit lets out a disappointed sigh and shakes his head, “this could’ve been prevented,” he says, wiping the blood splatter from his forehead, “truly a waste”. He tosses the bloodied cloth, “now then", he says, turning to the girl, "let’s get what we came for”.

Part One

The smell of piss and whisky met Miles Burke like an old friend, the kind that likes cigar smoke and jazz, the kind that carries credits for loose women with loose morals, the kind that finds like-minded company at the Neon Rain. Down below the fancy alloy rails of the city trains is where this best kept secret festers, like a pimple on the elegant back of the 23rd century city known as Polaris. “The Neon Rain”, Burke can’t help but smile when he says it, the sort of smile a young boy would have when looking at his father’s mags. Easy to miss if you don’t already know where it is, no signs or bouncer, not even a line stretching down the street, just a run-down brick building with a lovingly splattered, vomit graffiti on it’s surface. Burke, with his grisled, silver fox complexion, moves through the haze of smoke instantly meeting him at the door, and approaches the bar. “Evenin’ Fitz”, Burke says smoothly, “Burke”, she retorts shortly, “what gives, beautiful?” Fitz shrugs as she cleans the third mug since Burke sat down, “come on, you can spill to ol’ Burkey”. Fitz looks up from the shining glass, her baby blues melt Burke every time, but this time was different, it was like an ocean of tears were coloring her eyes. Burke had never seen Fitz like this, after all, she was a tough gal, not like the fake, double ‘D’ floozies hanging around. Fitz had herself together, a decent job, a rockin’ body and a swift right hook to keep the boys at bay, and those eyes. Burke pulls himself out of it, “well how ‘bout a whisky on the rocks then?” Fitz nods, materializes a tumbler on the counter with perfectly cut cubes of ice in the bottom, and pours Burke’s favorite malt over top. Burke takes a sip, “perfect”, he says, “and the drinks not half bad either”, he adds with a smile. Burke’s ears catch the sultry voice of Nina Remenov, belting out the chorus with the soulfulness of a caged bird. Remenov is a rare breed, unlike most singers her age, she chose the organic lifestyle, nothing artificial or genetically enhanced, just letting her body age the way it was meant to. The reign of enhancements came into Polaris like a raging bull in a china shop. You could get artificial everything, from great looking hair to getting your toes less funny looking. Burke had immense respect for Remenov and would’ve gone the same way if not for the Westing incident. But that was all in the past, Burke thinks to himself, rubbing his left knee, “you want another,” Fitz asks, derailing Burke’s train of thought, “nah, sweetness,” he remarks, “gotta head into work”. Burke places his palm on the bar counter, a warm light scans it and his total appears on the counter. Burke confirms the amount, grabs his old-school fedora and trench, his detective’s badge barely hanging on it’s pocket, and walks to the door. “Call me if you need anything,” Burke turns to say to Fitz, “I don’t need nothing from you, Burke,” Fitz comes back, with a coy smile, “except your terrible company,” they say together, like a couple of school kids rehearsing a play. Burke walks out the Neon Rain, a little happier than when he walked in.

Back out on the streets, Burke’s nose catches the foul odor of week old garbage and cheap booze, the typical smell for a Friday night. He dons his hat and coat, like taking a page straight out of a Dick Tracy comic, lights his cigar, and walks up the street. Burke’s called Polaris home for nearly thirty years now, although it’s felt more like a tyrant of a wife, telling him what he can or can’t do while everything in his soul screaming out to just leave, but then she does something nice, something that makes all the heartbreak fade away. Burke’s always wanted to be a detective, ever since he was a kid playing make believe with his younger sister. But before Burke could travel down memory lane, he catches sight of a couple of Bottom Feeders, lovingly named for their depravity, preying on those too old, or high, or just plain dumb. The dynamic duo sulk around the corner and out of Burke’s line of sight. Eighth street to Harvey, Harvey to Juniper, and Juniper to Green Court; Burke could play their route out in his mind, after all, they always end up on Green Court. He lets out a huff of smoke, “guess we’re startin’ early tonight;” he puts out his cigar with the heel of his boot and makes his way up the street, being careful not to get spotted by the denizens. This was always Burke’s favorite, tracking down the bad guys, sticking to the shadows, pretending like he was just reading the paper on the park bench, it was the highlight of this job. Coming up on Harvey and if Burke was right, he should see his marks in three, two, one, and there they are, like a couple of predictable lab rats running a maze. But wait, what’s this? Now’s there’s three? And this one looks shorter, more slender, like maybe it’s “a girl,” Burke questions in his mind, almost letting the words slip from his mouth. The trio head up toward Juniper and disappear in the shadow of Marley’s Garage. It’s a little unusual to see a girl Bottom Feeder, most of the time it’s just thugs acting like they’re the stuff, but every now and again Burke’s caught a couple of lady Feeders, tough as nails too. This one seemed different to Burke though, like a younger sister sort of different, and that just didn’t sit right in his gut. Careful not to get caught in the curfew spotlights, Burke makes his ways down Mulberry, which runs parallel with Juniper. The city streets fade into the residential, a little wider with auto-sweeps picking up trash as they go. Mulberry was considered “high-end” for this side of Polaris, with actual brick and mortar homes from the 21st century. Most everything else has gone to the cheap plasti-steel and gets printed on site. Burke comes around the corner of Mulberry, meeting up with Sunnyside Lane, and there, coming down the road onto Green Court, are his marks. Only problem is, he hasn’t seen them do anything wrong, yet. Burke’s only actually been down into Green Court a few times in his career, usually leaving the extraction to the over-eager SCEU, or Specialized Community Enforcement Unit. The SCEU’s were born out of the ever growing fear of an internal strike, so Polaris, among 95% of the cities around the country, recruited and trained civilians to be a part of this task force. They’d be seemingly normal, everyday community members, but if and when the call came for them to act, they’d be ready. Burke wondered if he could slip in, tail the three amigos, and find out what they’re up to before anyone else caught onto him. You’d think being a detective, heck, even wearing a badge would help, but really it’s just a target on Burke’s chest. This wasn’t a case ordered from the city, or even a private contract, this was just Burke’s curiosity and gut telling him something was off. But if being a detective for the last thirty years has taught him anything, it’s to trust your gut.