An episodic murder mystery from the streets of Dis. Let me know what you think, and if people like it, I will continue writing. Also, if you have any suggestions, let me know.

Rain splattered down on a muddy alley in the northern Oberis-Dis slum. Obsidian droplets rudely disturbing the oil rainbows that bloomed in each polluted puddle. This rain brought no relief, and slacked no thirst. It was a tired rain that never knew heaven.

The slum was on the seaward side of the Oberis-Dis hive complex, east of the resting yellow cranes of the Oberis port, wedged between the spires of inscrutable corporations and the equally alien depths of the Hudson Sea. Massive walls, with baroque serpents cast into their smooth metal, separated the aristoi and citizens of the city from the unclean and indebted slave-classes who lives in the exposed ghettos that sprang up between and around the Dis hives. Long train track arched over the slum like filaments of a spider’s web, supported by tall pillars driven deep into the ground. Trains raced silently overhead, emerging from seemingly tiny holes in the wall, carrying unseen passengers quickly on their journey between the hives. Oberis-Dis loomed over the slums, reminding those who might have forgotten who the masters were. They were ones who rebuilt Babel many times over, the ones that ran the Holy Republic, the ones that commanded the Legions- the ones with the favor of the Tree.

Black towers squeezed the moisture from clouds blown in off the sea on tempestuous breezes, extracting water from them like taxmen after gold. The falling drops caught the smoke and vapors that vomited from the forest of factory stacks, and brought them crashing to earth. Torrents of rain that lashed against the walls ran down in streams, cutting fissures and trenches in the earth. Murky rivers ran through the slums, carrying dirt and garbage to the cliffs of the endless sea.

Decades of this abuse had long ago leeched out any goodness from the soil, leaving a wretched clay matrix that harbored eternal chemicals, birthing monstrous blooms from molds and bacteria that were hearty enough to withstand the toxins that ate away at all other life. Eeffluence from countless factories and myriad bodies saturated the earth. Each molecule was a testament to engineering, each was substance immortal. This mud was a whimper of a dying world. It was a mighty work for people of the future to look upon and despair.

The street was lined by apartments in various states of decay. Acids pocked the concrete walls of government-built housing, and dissolved paint, leaving the alley a uniform shade of brownish-gray. The occasional street light still sputtered to life, casting long shadows that lurched alarmingly. This alley was no place to live, but humans occasionally trudged tiredly among the shadows between doorways, heavily weighed down bodies and even more heavily weighed down minds. Their respirators wretchedly gasped for air, greedily scavenging the fumes for a few breathes of oxygen.

It seemed almost a relief to find a body in the mud, for human imagination is simply not meant to imagine a worse place than this. His life was to be no more consumed with repaying an imagined debt to the inhuman Tree. His first moment of freedom was identical with his death.

And yet the city dragged on, its gears had already forgotten that he had ever existed, if he ever truly had. All his lessons were forgotten, all his private thoughts were untold. Every moment he had tried to find permanence and meaning in the caress of a woman would fade-- a taste of nectar upon a starving tongue. Fickle history never speaks of such men, as the inexorable tide of events washes away any footprints that they had ever made. His name would be reused to denote another replicable person, his body burnt to cinders, his blood evaporated to form rain. Rain would never knew heaven.

Only one woman stood vigil, her face as hard as her respirator mask. The hood of her cloak dripped, and she recorded her observations into her mouthpiece, detailing this scene with detachment and precision. She occasionally used the camera next to her glass eyes to take a picture, turning the world into a succinct entry of a database. She briefly allowed her thoughts to migrate to this database, some vast repository of death. A museum of ways to die, and catalogue of how the human body can stop working.

Her partner was off in a futile mission to question the neighbors. Of course, none of them would know anything-- but for various reason. The TV or air-processing unit was too loud; they were asleep; they were on-shift at some factory. There was a hidden reason that people were reluctant to tell the police, which was noticeable because no one mentioned it. They were too intoxicated with drugs to hear the screams. They found some sense of peace in a pill, or took a vacation in a syringe. Worse still was that some people did hear but did nothing, was even more terrifying than drugs. Drugs were understandable in a place such as this, but indifference said that people did not care anymore. Isolated in their little boxes, they could hear a man dying and feel nothing.

The partner slogged back to where the female officer was still describing the scene. The streetlights flickered, and made her motions look surreal. The black sky had fiery flecks, indicating that high above them, above even the toxic rain and polluted clouds, morning was here.

“Nothing, Sergeant”, the male officer, Castor, reported through the transmitter in his mask. “I got zilch from the helos around here”. He reflexively reached up to his head to scratch, before realizing that his helmet made this impossible. “This is pointless, just another red file that no one cares about. He was missing for three days before he appeared dead in this slime, and no one even reported him missing. Shit, they didn’t even waste money on a bullet, they just opened his throat like a fatted sheep.”

Maria whispered a couple of words to save and file the current case workspace that abstractly hung around her head. The interface that was transparently layered over her vision quietly shrank away, leaving her with the image of Castor kicking at the mud like an impatient kid.

“Yeah, I’m pretty much done here myself. Nothing to go on, the rain washed out most of the tracks, and the only camera in the area,” Maria pointed to an armored box attached to streetlamp, “is out of commission.” She took a pull on the drinking tube in her mask, moistening her mouth, “The mud ate away most of his face, but we have his tattoo and I took some pictures of his teeth. I submitted an ID request to the Tree, but it is probably queued until tomorrow.”

Maria took a final look around the scene and start walking towards their car, which was parked on a more major street, “We have a bag team on the way to burn the poor shit. Let’s get out of the rain while we wait for them.”

The car doors slammed as they got in, and threw their contaminated cloaks were thrown into the passenger-side footwell. Both of them watched the trolleys cut along rails sunk into the pavement, throwing up filthy water when they hit one of the pools that collected on the street.

“Any plans tonight, Sergeant?” Castor asked, breaking an awkward silence as they both listened to the rain beating on the plastic roof of the car. “I was thinking of tossing some dice with a couple of my old friends. Maybe a couple of drinks if Fate favors us, who knows.” Both Maria and Castor were citizens from inside the walls who did not have the contacts to avoid a stint in the slums. Most of Dis’s police force was outside the walls, and they waited to collect the necessary seniority and influence to get a hive assignment.

“Was that an invitation, Castor?”

“Well sure, I know you’re not much for gambling, but…”

“Thank you for the offer, but the Lieutenant invited me to a Teahouse with some of the other Lieutenants. The Captain might make an appearance too, I hear. Climbing the ladder, you know.”

“I understand Sergeant.”

They both fell silent again as the rain fell on the roof and the windshield, and they waited for the bag team. The headlights of passing cars reflected off their mask lenses, and they patiently refrained from making eye contact.

No comment, except that I'd like to read more of this story. :yes:

Very good atmosphere.

If I wanted to be picky, there's a fair amount of editorial work which could be done. It still gets the point across. As Ess said, I'd like to know more.


One detail which I think must be resolved - identity:
1) He was missing for 3 days
2) No-one reported him missing
3) ID request queued until tomorrow.
These 3 points seem to contradict each other.

I'm sorry - I don't see how so...

To be missing, he has to be missing from somewhere, where they presumably know who he is. If he hasn't been reported missing, then they don't know how long he's been missing for. If they're waiting for an ID, they don't know where to ask about his last known appearance.

Ahhhhh! Thanks! :D