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.