Secrets
I often wonder if I was supposed to die ten years ago. Instead, I wake up every morning knowing it was a damned mistake. My body should be rotting in the Badlands. Not here. Not experiencing all of this.
The elevator ride back to the precinct is tense as I stand beside Percy.
Unease had been painted all over her face as we’d left the morgue.
Alongside it was something like fear. Or worry, maybe.
It’s always tough to tell with Percy. She always manages to have a range of emotions on her gorgeous face.
Always manages to express the empathy she carries so close to her chest.
“I’m going to take a look at Remnants who might be powerful enough to siphon someone like Anders,” I say into the silence, my eyes not leaving the copy of the autopsy that Blair had provided. “Then I’m going to take an early night and head home. Clearly I’m not—”
Percy lunges forward, her hand slapping the emergency stop button. The carriage rumbles to a stop, pausing us between floors.
“Normally,” she begins, turning wide amber eyes on me, “your level of self-destruction is manageable. Normally, you tell me what’s going on.”
She steps closer, her body radiating crazy amounts of heat in the small carriage. My breath catches in my throat as I look down at her, eyes set and dark.
“But right now it feels like you’re keeping something big from me and I—”
She purses her lips, her face falling as she looks down at the floor between our feet.
“You don’t owe me explanations,” she says finally, voice tight with worry, “and you certainly don’t owe me your secrets. We’re friends. Partners. Colleague. You’re allowed your secrets.”
She says the final words like a prayer.
Finally, Percy lets out a deep breath, like it had been pent up in her chest for years. She reaches past me and pulls back on the emergency stop button. The elevator rumbles to life again.
I can’t help the stunned expression on my face as I glance down at her.
“I’m fine,” I say after a moment. “Today was rougher than usual, but I promise I’m okay.”
Lying comes easier when your entire persona is manufactured to fit the common man. It’s easier to tell the lies than to admit your truth might be dangerous. That your truth will get you killed.
Percy only nods, her eyes almost watery with emotion that I suspect has been welling beneath the surface for far longer than the last few hours.
Our masks are slipping, I guess.
After another tense few seconds, the elevator dings open to Homicide. I give her a nod and shake the papers before hitting the top floor exit.
“I’ll use my computer at home,” I say, giving her a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Percy returns my smile, but it’s strained. Which is probably for the best. Strained doesn’t break the heart. It doesn’t give you a false sense of security. Of affection or warmth.
It doesn’t get you killed.
I make for Arthur’s Coffee near my apartment. The coffee shop turned community library had essentially become a second home for me over the last few years. In a world so propagandized, paper media became the only form of information that was still untouched by corps.
The walk could have been faster had I just teleported, but the chill air and rancid smell of the city was a necessary slap to the face.
Percy catching onto my depressive mood was one thing. Dark jokes were part of my repertoire—it’s hardly new for me to say something uncouth. But she’s poking into places that could be dangerous for her. For a human. Mech or not, bionic arm or not, she’s not safe in the Remnant world.
The door to Arthur’s dings open as I pull on the metal handle.
It’s an incredibly different vibe here compared to the rest of New Chicago.
Granted, most of New Chicago has been rebuilt after various Remnant attacks, wars, or other catastrophic events—but Arthur’s isn’t built with the same industrial furnishings that most of the city adopted.
There’s no flowing Affliction from the rafters or any semi-bionic artificial intelligence running the counter.
The couches along the back of the shop are empty, so I flop into my normal seat. It’s plush but certainly has been used and abused given the cracking vinyl cover.
“The normal, Arya?” the barista, a young woman named Alice, shoots from behind the bar.
“Yes, please,” I say, giving her my best warm smile. Her pale cheeks pink slightly before she moves through the process of brewing my espresso.
I pull out my dPhone and spread out the autopsy report on the table in front of me. Thankfully, Blair included photos of the recently deceased, so I pull out Mara’s first.
Her face is gaunt, odd angles protruding in different ways from the skull beneath her skin. Otherwise, there’s no real other difference from the way we’d found her in the hotel this morning. The wrist photograph is next, and I pluck it up before closing the folder and standing.
I move along the shelves of books, looking for anything remotely related to cult or religious activity in Nye Verden.
“Christianity in Nye Verden,” I read out, scoffing a little as I slide the book back into its spot. “Not the right type of cult.”
“Can I help you find something?” I startle hearing Alice’s voice behind me.
I turn to face her, only now realizing just how much shorter she is—probably five foot five or so. She gives me a small smile. Her soft, blue eyes glint up at me with curiosity.
“I’m looking for something like this symbol,” I say, passing her the photo of Mara’s wrist. Alice hesitates for a moment before she takes the photo.
She bites down on her lower lip, studying the symbol.
“I’m not sure I recognize it,” she says finally, sounding apologetic, “but you might try one of the churches.”
I take the photo back from her, giving her a grateful nod. “I’ll try that next, thanks.”
“Anything else?” she asks, and I can’t help but notice the way she watches my lips.
Alice is definitely pretty—blonde hair, blue eyes, and a full figure.
Except she’s at least a decade younger than me. And definitely not a Remnant.
“No,” I say, giving her a polite smile, “thank you for the coffee.”
Thankfully, she takes the rejection in stride. Her smile returns, but it’s professional now, rather than anything more.
I return to my spot and pick up the hot cup, reveling in the warmth as it permeates my hands. With my dPhone on the table, I warily open the news app.
Double homicide: is there a serial killer loose in New Chicago?
Rubbing my eyes fervently, I groan into my next sip of coffee. Of course, the media already learned about the murders. I’d blame Bellick or McRoberts, but I know they’ll never cop to the malpractice.
I switch over to a social media app and scroll through my feeds. The DAEMON logo is literally plastered on every single page. When nothing interesting appears, I swipe to the learning app I've been using to catch up on twenty years of missing memories.
Be it fate or simple misfortune, the page opens onto the corporation in question.
DAEMON is always involved, and they either own the business or are in the process of purchasing it.
Monopoly laws fell to the wayside after the Affliction Wars, especially given how influential DAEMON’s arms dealing operations were.
They ensured which power-brokers received which city-states in the final carving of post-war Nye Verden.
The Affliction War and DAEMON share nearly the same history.
Robert Damien I began his company as a simple investment firm.
In the years following the Second Disruption in 900 A.D.
, civil discussions between Remnant groups and official authorities became tense.
DAEMON was formed in 930 A.D. with the intent to fund programs that would care for the needs of Remnants while also ensuring the sanctity of the human political landscape.
DAEMON became the necessary evil in a world that was in dire need of structure. I know that as much as anyone else does. It was like the wound that refused to close. The bleeding and seeping corruption from the company is there. We all see it—but no one can, or will, do anything about it.
DAEMON became the next step in Nye Verden’s evolution to a globalized economy and freer market.
Their influence turned from corporate to political.
Presidents and political figures from the city-states looked to DAEMON for their marching orders.
They looked to DAEMON for the next steps in peace between Remnants, humans, and those who sought to use Affliction for their own benefits.
The learning app is, of course, sponsored by DAEMON. Their information is likely to be tainted by what DAEMON wants us lowly citizens to know and removes what they’d rather we never figure out.
But the gist is there.
And DAEMON has sown its roots deep into Nye Verden. From the city-states that actively owe their independence to the company, to each militia that uses its weapons and ammunition.
The only thing DAEMON doesn't own are the Remnants.
Because we're always too dangerous to control.