Short Story: Neon Shadows

"Mr. Anderson?"

The query is from a woman who looks to be young, maybe her early twenties. Chrome'd eyes with magenta LEDs contrasting with her hair that is ombre blue. Her smile seems smooth, easy, as though she's already charmed by something I've said.

I tap the metal of my cigarette holder into the metal of my right palm, the dispenser popping the small roll of tobacco free in a slight puff of air. My eyes, the chrome in them matching the woman, no, girl's, lock on hers. I run an indentiscan, looking through her personal history in a few seconds as I leisurely pick up my lighter, a family heirloom by way of my father. The inlaid figure of the USS Nitro is dingy with accumulated corrosion, but it belonged to my great great grandfather and I've always considered it lucky. The reassuring sound of the flint striking steel is smothered by the din of the club's pulsating electronica, the jittering multicolored lights of the floor show bouncing off of chrome from a hundred different bodies. The warm orange glow of the lighter wars with the technicolor barrage as I raise it up to my cigarette and light it, inhaling the smoke deeply.

Ah, the perks of a government health package; free lung scrubbers. I'm sure great great grandpa would be jealous, considering he'd had two bushes with cancer and lost his bladder to it in one of them. Only a hundred short years ago, amazing how technology can improve our lives in such a short time. I ponder the family stories I've been inundated by for my thirty some years of life as I wait for the scan to finish, eyes still locked on the girl's. It's done in a second. Marie Anne Chen, 21, recent graduate of New York University, no known affiliations with any corps, job unlisted. Hmm. Suspicious.

"Depends. Who are you?" I ask, leaning back in my seat as I tap a bit of ash off the end of my smoke. I'd refilled with one of those new promotional random flavor packs, an excuse for the Philip-Meyers-Squib to unload aging stocks of flavorants I'm sure, but it meant cheap smokes for me. A sickly blue raspberry flavor fills my mouth and I do my best to suppress a grimace, although all I want to do is to spit it out.

Her smile widens as she slips into the metal chair opposite my booth at the table as though I'd invited her to join me. I hide my annoyance, doing my best to watch her hands and not look down her revealing top, but my eyes flick to the material it's made out of for a moment. Not synth-leather, the kind of stuff everyone can get their hands on, the tell tale mottling showing me it's the real deal. Hmm. Expensive, hard to get. Doubt she's a thrifter, hands aren't worn enough for it. Maybe a single serving girlfriend with a corpo sugar daddy? Then why is she speaking to me? No, she doesn't have that look of exhaustion they all have. She's probably got a *very* nice expense account. So, honey pot or assassin. But which corp?

"I'm Marie." She says, offering the back of her hand to kiss. Hmm. West coast proclivity, a trendy new little thing they do out there. So, she's been in LA recently, maybe Seattle, or at least she wants me to think that.

"And who is that?" I ask, my eyes cold as I ignore the hand.

Her smile stays on her face, though I detect a hint of something behind her eyes as she withdraws her hand. She puts her elbows on the table, placing her chin in both of her palms, looking almost angelic, long lashes fluttering. "I could be a friend, if you're interested." She says.

I look at her fingernails and wrists, the left is natural, but, her rights as fake as mine. The joints are nearly seamless, the flesh a perfect shade of natural skin. Too perfect. This isn't a street model, or even a high end private piece. So, she either works for GE or Dynamics, or for someone who can afford a custom job from one of them.

"Depends. What would a friend want from me?" I ask, inhaling deeply to finish the disgusting cigarette as I lean back and run a scan on her arm. Ah, slight warble in the junction where her shoulder connects to her body, where the nerve impulse matrix is located. That's definitely GE's work, a distinctive spike in the current of the UJT they still use at the socket. It makes them harder to detect by sight or scan. Unless you know what to look for.

"Just some time alone. Maybe we could go somewhere more... quiet, and have a... discussion." She says, her smile implying I would enjoy my time with her immensely. But there's a tinge to her voice now, a nervousness. She'd expected this to be easy, like all her other marks. Definitely a honey pot, and one used to the work. But not one that's working for someone who has tried to bribe me before. I run through the list in my head of all the corps that have sent a girl like this to work me, my mind lingering on the first time it had happened, right after I'd joined the agency. The only time it had worked. I suppress a chuckle at my youthful mistake. I'd only gotten out of it because I'd recognized the trap for what it was when she'd started to try and press me for info. Seduce the rookie, get him hooked on your charms, ask him innocuous questions after a quick fuck when he's stupid and half asleep. But none of the companies I'm looking into right now would be stupid enough to try this method, at least not *again*, so who the hell does she work for?

"No thanks." I say, watching as a little bit of sweat breaks out on her brow. She's worried. About failing her mission? Even if she does, they wouldn't kill her over it. This type of probe in my defenses is normal, why waste a perfectly good resource? Something doesn't add up.

"Oh come on." She says, trying to be affable, leaning forward so her top practically dumps her out on the table. "It'll be worth your time. We could have quite a good talk." Her hand reaches towards mine, so I pull away before her nails can touch me. If she is a killer, pretending to be a nervous honey pot would be a good way to get me to let my defenses down, just so she could scratch my hand with a dermo-poison on the tips of her claws. Lost Wizseky that way.

"You've got two seconds to fuck off." I tell her, my voice flat and even. I reach for my cigarette case, gently grazing the grip of my pistol below the table where she can't see it.

Her eyes flash to the crowd, her nerves on edge. "Please." She whispers, leaning in furtively. "I need your help."

Interesting. Never had this one run on me before. "With what?" I ask, my hand slowly coming back up with the cigarette case. This time luck is with me and I get a menthol.

I light it as I watch her eyes roam the crowd near us. "I-- I have-- I work for a bank. I have evidence--" Something in the crowd catches her eye and she jumps slightly, then seems to settle. My hand drifts back to my pistol. "I want to get out, but I need your help." She tells me, her eyes pleading. Hmm. So she wants to inform on her corp.

I tap the cigarette against the ash tray to buy myself a few seconds to think. I've had this happen before, not like this, specifically, but I've been approached. Usually in private. Odds are 50/50 that this isn't a trap to get me alone, but depending on the corp, it could be worth the risk. "Who do you work for?" I ask, simple, plain.

"Can-- can we go somewhere--?" She starts to ask, but I raise my hand to cut her off.

"You're feeling nervous, they're watching you, worried they trailed you here. Right?" She nods in answer to my question. "I can't do anything till I know this is worth my time. So; who?" I ask again.

She bites her lip, debating with herself if she should just run and hide, or risk telling me. "Case number CF-21031031-17-1."

———

I practically flinch when she rattles off that number, the cigarette falling from my hand onto the table. I collect myself and calmly toss it in the tray before fishing out a fresh one. "You've got my attention." I inform her. I reach into my pocket and pull out a card, write down an address for a motel. "Go here." I tell her, slipping the card to her. "Take public transport. No taxis, no ride shares, no private car." I check to make sure she's paying attention, she's focused, listening eagerly. "Tell the front desk that Bruce is on his way, wants his usual room. Wait for me. I'll be there in an hour. Lock the door. Don't let anyone in except me. Don't order delivery. Don't go outside for a smoke. I'll knock twice, pause, and ask if I can use your restroom." Ronny, the desk guy, is one of my CI's, a guy who owes me more than one favor. He'll keep an eye on her for me. "You on anything?" I ask, my eyes latching onto her's again. She shakes her head. "You sure? MTTs? Quist? Ludes?" She shakes her head again. I believe her. Her eyes aren't dilated or bloodshot behind the chrome. Left arm is clean of track marks. She could have an injection port in that right arm, or shoot up between her toes, old school style, but I doubt it. Real-leather-top kind of money would stick to something that goes up their nose or in their eyes, track marks aren't in vogue right now. Good. I won't have to pick up anything to keep her from getting shaky while I ask her questions.

She grabs the card and heads for the door. I get up after a second and follow after. I watch as she gets onto a city bus headed in the right direction. I head to my car and give it a once over. It's old, as in pre-automated driving old. Technically shouldn't be on the streets, but it can't be controlled remotely which is a plus for someone who doesn't want to die in a car accident arranged by some net junkie paid to jack it remotely. A... friend of mine over at the DMV keeps it street legal on the books, in exchange for some leeway with a bad habit of his staying private. The arrangement works for me in a lot of little ways, and I've always been the type of person who figured if you're not hurting anyone, then the law probably doesn't matter that much. Doesn't mean I can't exploit a sticky situation though.

My scanner checks the status module I'd hidden in it, coming up all green for the connected systems. I scan through the video footage of the cameras and find nothing obvious, no one getting close to the dumpy little black car. I check the back of the car before I get in anyway. Montoya says I'm paranoid. I say I'm vigilant. Having survived one car blowing up under my ass, I think it's fair to be cautious.

I hop in and head out into Chicago's night, the sky scrapers in the distance lighting it up like massive towers of votive candles. My office, not the one I keep at the CFPB building downtown, but the private one I pay for quietly through a series of shell companies, is only several blocks away. Traffic isn't as bad as the daylight hours, but it still takes me twenty minutes to get to the office. I hurry upstairs, rushing past the darkened doors of the other private businesses that nest here to arrive at the door to mine. It's a simple wooden door with a plexiglass glazing, the material tinted black to prevent people from peeping. Thick white letters declare it to be the *Remington Cleaning Company*, but like everyone else in this building, it was a front. My grandfather had taught me that the best place to hide from snakes was among other snakes. As I approach I notice the splintered wood on the floor, the door kicked in.

I quietly slip to the side and pull my pistol, quietly flicking the safety off as I listen from the door. I don't hear any breathing but that doesn't mean much, any corpo who'd be able to find this place could equip their wet worker with oxygen exchangers. Running the numbers quickly, I know I have to go in there. The evidence I've been collecting on a half dozen cases and things that weren't-cases-yet were in there. I steel myself and slowly push the door open. It creaks on the hinge as it goes back and I wait for sounds of movement, restlessness. Nothing. Either there was no one in there or they were extremely patient. I don't have time for this. If this is related to Marie then she could be in danger or dead already. If it isn't, if this, for instance, just extremely bad luck and a third party is involved, then she could still be in danger if someone is following her. Time is of the essence, but rushing could get me killed. Hmm.

I pull my cellphone, flipping the camera around and pointing it into the room. I sweep side to side, looking for any flash of movement, any sign of someone inside, but I don't see anything other than the destroyed contents of my office. I put the phone away and enter quickly, sweeping the gun back and forth as I check the corners of the room. It's a small office, not a lot of places to hide. I hit the light switches and find it empty, the windows still intact.

My desk has been torn apart, the drawers ripped out of their compartments, the contents dumped on the desktop. The three, small, beige filing cabinets I keep have been similarly emptied. The chairs have been cut open, the tables flipped and tossed around, even the small red rug I kept under the coffee table had been turned up. I walk over to where the rug used to sit, carefully pulling boards out of the way. The safe I keep my files in hasn’t been touched. Which means that either they couldn’t find it, or—

The sound of a hammer cocking behind me stops my train of thought. “So that’s where it was.” Marie says from behind me, her voice smug. I sigh, hanging my head. Should have known. Going to have to tell Montoya I told her so. “Gun, please.” The corpo says from behind me. I carefully put it on the floor. “Slide it back.” She instructs me. I do so, the metal scraping on the wooden floor boards. Hope it didn’t leave any marks. Refinishing wood floors is expensive. “Now open the safe.”

I reach down and punch in the code, then hit the enter button. There’s a slight beep and then the sound of the lock releasing. I turn the heavy metal handle and the bolt slides back with a satisfying *ka-chunk*. “Do me a favor.” I say, hesitating before I open the door.

“What?” She asks.

“I want an open casket. It’s tradition.” I inform her.

She laughs. “Sure.” She says.

The door swings open, settling with a *thunk* on the wood. There’s a deafening blast from behind me and I’m thrown a few feet forward as a heavy round hits me in the back. Definitely bigger than a 10mm. 357? I grunt slightly as the force of the bullet shoves me forward, tumbling over the safe, landing with my back up towards the ceiling. Gotta be a 357. A second bullet shatters one of my ribs, carving up my left lung and tearing through my front.

Marie holsters her weapon, but I wait till I hear her bend over and start to rifle through the contents of the safe. Knowing her eyes will be on what is in her hands, I roll over, pointing my left hand in her direction. The thin layer of synth-skin bursts as the hidden barrel of my backup gun surges forward from within the cavity behind my wrist. I see her eyes go wide as she lunges for her weapon, but it’s too late. I pull the trigger and a hot spray of pellets rip through her face, tossing her clear of the safe. The force of the hidden shotgun rattles my teeth, and I wheeze lightly as I stand up taking stock of my frame. System scans show my left lung is shredded, gonna need to be replaced. Right lung is at 54% capacity. I’ll need repairs, and soon. I walk across the room and stand over Marie, watching as she gasps through shredded meat and torn skin, sucking in air through what used to be her cheek.

“You’re a fucking synth?!” She manages to choke out, blood sputtering out of her mangled face, her tone incredulous and angry.

I tap my head with my right hand, my left still pointed at her, the sound of metal against metal filling the air with her wheezes. “Yup.” I admit, smirking at her. “Now,” I say as I crouch down next to her, “I’m happy to call an ambulance for you, all you gotta do is tell me who you work for.”

——

I listen as the ambulance wheels out into the night, carrying Marie with it, sirens blaring a klaxon warning to clear the way. I wonder if she’ll survive her hospitalization. Most people in her position have a tendency to wind up dead under mysterious conditions. But it doesn’t really matter, I know who sent her now. I unpack another smoke, but stop myself from lighting it when I hear a disgruntled cough from my midsection. The tech who has been replacing my lungs gives me an irritated look. I smile back weakly. “Sorry.” I mutter, putting the pack down.

“Wow.” Montoya says, pulling off her hat as she steps into my destroyed office. She’s wearing her favorite trench coat, even though it isn’t raining, and she tucks the fedora under it as she looks the room over. A particularly appreciative whistle comes from her vocal emitter as she looks at the damage my shotgun did to the floor, the bits of bone and blood embedded in the wood. “That’s gonna cost you an arm and a leg.” She says, laughing, her synthesizer grating slightly. Montoya is an older model than me, her casing still metal, her facial features less animated than mine, though at least she has some, unlike our boss Chen who just has a screen with a fluctuating line on it.

“Oh, it’s gonna cost someone.” I say, malevolence tinging my words. The tech pulls back, slipping closed my front casing and carefully sealing the synth-skin back up.

“Take it easy for a few days, get a diagnostic run on you, and get that synth-skin changed out within the week to prevent any fungal build up.” He tells me simply, bending down to pack his tools up. I nod, sending a tip along with my payment to his company. Mikey does good work, even if he does get irritated that I smoke and give me an earful every time he has to replace one of my scrubbers. “Try and keep yourself in one piece for the rest of the month. I got vacation.” He says over his shoulder as he leaves.

I chuckle and button my spare shirt as Montoya approaches me. “So,” she asks, “got a name?”

“BoA.” I tell her.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” She says, her tone torn between being elated and incredulous. I shake my head and a small smile lights up her face. “You got a *name* name?” Montoya asks.

“Executive Vice President Phillips.”

Montoya whistles again. “Well, I guess we better get to work.” She says.