Synapsis at the Firewall Pt. 01

By C.P. Perry

Edited by roftlheory & Desjardins

Special thanks to the editors: roftlheory for the great advice, suggestions, and feedback; and Desjardins for providing grammar and formatting help.

****

The thirty-foot holographic woman beckoned the apathetic crowd towards the beach. The monument of corporate greed was nothing more than a flickering blue ghost urging people to a wasteland that bordered the sea. The once beautiful ocean vista almost made up for the crowded urban sprawl that threatens to topple into it.

For Damien, this was a rare trip. His work never brought him so far west. The endless sea of blue rising into the horizon, an escape from the concrete madness of the city. From his police patrol car, he saw the tops of the security walls separating the city from the sandy beaches. The gates used to keep the beaches private for those fortunate enough to pay their way onto them, but, like the city, the walls have long since been abandoned.

The road worker turned his stop sign over to a slow sign. A sudden freshness woke him. "Finally," Damien muttered as he puts the car into gear.

Damien and the other cars in line slowly drove by the wreckage that caused the holdup: two speed racers chasing a thrill crashed and burned. Damien had heard it over dispatch. He and his partner didn't respond -- not their department, his partner had said.

"Dumbasses," Juana smirked, her voice sour. Juana always liked seeing people get what they deserved, or at least what she thought they deserved.

Juana was new to being on a beat, but far from being a rookie. She spent three years in Vice but got assigned to a regular beat after a royal fuck-up got her superiors in hot water. She was nothing more than a nasty streetjock given an epoxide vest and a badge with a city authorization for the use of deadly force: Juana was a punk's worst nightmare. She looked it, too. Average height but with muscles and reflexes like a jaguar, Juana had her black hair cut short and wild letting it grow down to the nape of her neck. Blue jeans, a plain white shirt, and her epoxide vest were her uniform.

Damien looked tame in comparison. Taller than Juana, his skin a little pale, and his short muddy brown hair, and clean-shaven face were a textbook's definition of what a police officer should look like. He was still fresh on the force, so he attempted to dress like a professional. His slacks and white collared shirt were juxtaposed against his ballistic vest.

"People think they're invincible," Juana started another one of her truisms, "but forget that life doesn't give a fuck."

"What do you mean?" Damien asked. He didn't care, but he wanted to fill the silence. He hated the silence before a dangerous job, it left too much room to overthink.

"I'm saying play stupid games, win stupid prizes. What did those guys think was going to happen on the highway? Huh? Can't zip around with so many cars. Dumbasses. Smoldering now, idiots."

Damien glanced at his partner. Juana was looking in the passenger-side mirror at the wreckage behind them, a wicked smirk on her face. The cars were nothing more than blackened hollow carcasses of warped steel and smoldering faux leather.

Juana chuckled, "I think that was a good start to our day, don't you think?"

Damien looked in the rearview mirror, firemen and road crew were spotting for a flatbed tow truck. "I think we just saw an omen."

"Pussy."

"Just saying."

"I hope these boosters play something, I got too much hardfire shooting through me. Gym am not cutting it."

"Easy, we're going into their turf."

For the few weeks Damien had worked with Juana, he was always worried that she would pick on the wrong person. Get beat up. Maybe shot. Worse, maybe killed. Not uncommon for trigger-happy cops like her. Just another streetjock in many people's eyes -- she just had body armor.

Juana smiles at Damien's comment. She always kind of liked Damien's professional nature. A yin to her yang, she always said. He played the good cop, and she played the bad cop.

"We'll have to watch our backs."

"You got that right!" Juana chuckled, "Two patrolmen got plugged there three days ago. So, everyone is still tense. They're gangsters. Boosters and pushers. They fucking hate cops, of course, they're tense."

"You got me there."

Their assignment was a typical one. The Bon Vista arcology had been the center of drug manufacturing and distribution for years. With a little over four thousand inhabits, and nearly everyone tied to a gang, no progress has been made in stopping it. For the seventh time in the month, the landlord of floor eight had called about a possible drug dealer.

The once beautiful oceanfront Bon Vista arcology had turned into a ghastly caricature of its former self. The weathered concrete tower stood like a dead tree in a dead forest. The neon and fluorescent signage that wrapped around the building look like weathered vines in the daylight. Much of the piping and window shutters were antagonized by the salt from the sea, rust spread like a dark orange rash across the building. Like with much of the city, maintenance was for emergencies only; failing architecture was not an emergency.

Damien wheeled the car into a parking space on the curb, the parking meter long since uprooted by angry denizens. Damien began to enter the status of his and Juana's duties into the patrol car's computer. Juana's right leg refused to sit still -- the hardfire in her veins was begging to be used and abused.

"Nervous?" Damien smiled. He could feel his nerves beginning to creep their way into his thoughts. Hypotheticals began to take hold of his vision. They could get jumped right here. Headlines would scream out that another cop duo got jumped by boosters. Just they're luck. But at least he isn't alone in his fears, he thought.

Juana cocked her head and gave Damien a wry smile, "Nervous? Bitch, I'm ready to get walking."

-----

Like rotten fruit, the Bon Vista arcology was uglier on the inside than the outside. Oppressive fluorescent tubing cast light all around as though mimicking sunlight for the wretched dregs of society that had the unfortunate fate of residing here. Entering through the main entrance, the two officers were corralled into an open common turned marketplace at the center of the communal tower. The hollow center stretched thirteen stories up.

The marketplace was humming with people. All manner of unfortunates rubbed shoulders while looking for the best deal. Shop owners yelled out prices and flaunted goods. Neon signage flashed and dazzled from all around. At the far end, a twenty-foot red hologram of a bodybuilder hovered in the air advertising a workout supplement more expensive than rent. Dotting around the inside of the building smaller video boards broadcasted an endless loop of commercials. It was all an assault on the eyes -- an endless stream of constant advertising.

"It's the eighth floor," Juana said.

Damien raised his voice to get it over the noise, "Yeah, I know. Let's take the elevators to the sixth floor then take the stairs. Case the place out.

"No way. Straight to the perps, gate."

"They're not perps."

"Whatever you say."

From a video board, an advertisement for eye repair and augmentations accompanied the dubious ascent on the ill-maintained elevator. The two police officers stood at the back of the elevator as a young mother of four little children crammed for space. Both officers noticed the quick glares from the mother, the hateful wonder in her eyes. Damien knew exactly what she was thinking: Which floor were they here to shoot up this time? Will it be her floor? Are they here for someone she knew? Juana moves her lips to ask what her problem was but gnaws on her cheeks instead.

The elevator stopped on the sixth floor, the mother and her kids got off and Damien moved to follow. Juana held out her hand against Damien's chest.

"We're riding straight up to the eighth," Juana said simply.

Damien gave her a look of annoyance, "What? We're right here. We can just--"

The elevator door closed. Juana shot Damien a smirk. The elevator's motors resumed the climb with a whine and soon opened to the eighth floor. Stepping into the elevator bay of the eighth floor, the two officers were met with more obnoxious advertising: video boards flash and flicker, an orange hologram resembling a woman in business attire floats at the edge of the opposite wall miming the audio to a sale pitch emanating from above. People walked by, many standing idle, some listening to music from headphones or having a smoke with neighbors. There were a few vendors in literal hole-in-the-wall shops: restaurants, tech repair, and a clothing shop are the three most notable. On either side of the commons area were corridors that narrowed into hallways like most apartment buildings.

Damien and Juana walked to the center of the commons, their eyes scanning each face. Juana pointed out a man with gang tattoos across his face, and Damien noted a woman wearing gang iconography. Then there was a third, a fourth, and a fifth. And it became apparent that these people were not unaware of the officers' lingering eyes.

"What room?" Juana asked, her head on a swivel.

"Uhm, 8203. It should be down the right hallway."

"Let's get going before these assholes decide to start chatting with us."

Damien was nervous, but attempted to lighten things, "Nervous?"

Juana snapped him a hateful look, "No, just don't wanna get jumped out in the open." Damien frowned.

The crowd grew thinner as they traveled down the hallway. At an intersection in the dirty and dim halls, they made a left. 8200, 8201, 8202... The two stop in front of a solid metal door. Rust trickled down the cold grey metal door like frozen muddy water.

"Alright, you ready?" Damien asked. Up to this point he had been simply nervous. Now, he admitted to himself, he was scared. He could feel his heart drumming, his breathing heavy. He reminded himself to stay cool. Juana seemed calm, why couldn't he be?

"Finally. We knockin', or kickin'?" Juana asked, she was unclipping her black cut-resistant gloves from her belt and slipping them on.

"Knocking. No need to start things off on the wrong foot," Damien said.

Juana shrugged; her eyes never looked up from her hands as she fastened the glove straps.

Damien gave four solid knocks, they echoed through the hall, "Police, anyone home?" There was a brief pause. Both Damien and Juana held their breath to listen. Damien's mind went racing, each thought worse than the last: Is there someone home? Are they getting a gun ready? How many will be at the door? What will--

The door's deadbolt slammed back; the knob gently turned. The metal door cracked open back into the apartment, all the sounds the door managed to hide flooded into the hall. Heavy metal music blares through shot speakers. A short bald man with a goatee and facial tattoos poked his head through the crack.

Damien spoke first, "Hello, sir. I'm officer--"

"Whadda want?" The man said, his eyes sizing up the officers.

"Sir, we're just here to talk. We're here on suspicions regarding drug trafficking."

"You got a warrant?"

"No, sir, we're just--"

"We don't need a warrant, gato," Juana interrupted, "You know how it is. We got probable cause right here," she pointed to her badge. "Don't play stupid and let us in."

Damien groaned internally: so much for being civil. The man hesitated. He took a step back and opened the door further. The inside of the apartment looked like pure squalor compared to the rotten core of the Bon Vista. Trash lined the bottom of the walls. Burnt-out LED string lights dotted the ceiling casting dim blue and red lights about the shadowed room. The heavy metal music was deafening, the bass long since blown out.

"Step further into the apartment, please, sir," Damien requested. "Make sure all the occupants and guests are in the living room, please."

"They already are," the man grunted. He begrudgingly turned and made his way down the short entranceway to the living room, the officers following. Juana locked the door behind them.

"Smells like shit in here," Juana said to no one in particular. The smell of burning tar and chemicals permeated the apartment. In the living room were five other people: three young women sat on a couch, their hair and makeup jagged and grungy with dark colors and hard angles; a man sat in a recliner, his eyes sunken with restlessness and hate; and another man was lying on the floor riding a high to space.

The furniture of the apartment was just as dingy and second-hand as the room itself. Spots of torn fabric dotted the couch like cheetah spots. The center rug had dozens of stains and burn marks. A TV sat on a small foldable table in the corner, a news program played on mute.

"Alright, if everyone would please cooperate, we'll make this simple and easy," Damien started professionally.

"Damien, holy shit, they're all chilled outta their minds," Juana grimaced, "That chick still has a fucking hypo in her." Juana pointed to the girl with long curly deep blue hair that sat at the end of the couch. An air hypo-injector stuck out of her arm; her hands too limp to have removed it. Her lost expression said it all.

The man who let them in stood in the center of the living room. He reached down to the cluttered coffee table and picks up a still-lit cigarette. Both officers had a feeling it wasn't synthetic tobacco.

Damien raised his voice, still straining to remain polite: "Sir, please put that down and pay attention. We just want to ask some questions." The man scoffed before taking a quick inhale and setting the cigarette back down.

"Is this everyone?" Juana asked. The man nodded; he released a cloud of smoke from his lungs. Damien slowly walked around the claustrophobic apartment looking to make sure no one was hiding. There was a bed next to the kitchen area, a single dirty blanket sat on top of it. The only other room was the bathroom, which Damien glanced in. The toilet was dirty, the mirror above the sink was nothing more than a collection of a million little pieces, and the floor of the bathtub was covered in cigarette ash.

Juana wasn't in the mood; she went to the speakers and turned the knobs down -- all the way down. A silence fell over the room. Tension floated in the air like a thick fog -- thick and heavy.

Juana started, "So, why don't someone here educate us on what's going on, huh?"

The man who let them in, the only person sober enough to speak clearly, replied: "Whatcha wanna know?"

"Who the fuck is dealing these drugs. Is it you?"

The man shrugged, "Isn't it obvious?"

Juana gave the same vapid gesture, "I'm fucking stupid, so tell me."

The answer was obvious. Juana and Damien knew exactly what kind of drugs came in and out of the arcology. Endorphin boosters, black lace, combat steroids, and homebrewed heroin among others. The gangs in the Bon Vista arcology were known to fight over who pushes what. Gang wars were as common as they were bloody. They were violent displays of superiority, senseless slaughter for money under the guise of fighting for gang honor and credibility.

"Ok, listen," Damien stepped in, "why not tell us where or who you get the drugs from? We're not here to arrest you guys. Not even here to make any arrests. Just here to gather information."

The truth was Damien had no intention of making any arrests so deep in gang territory. Damien and Juana were lucky not to have gotten a bullet to the head when they walked through the front door. Damien was still counting minutes -- still waiting for a gun to swing up to his face. Bang. Lights out. Call the body unit to haul his corpse off. There was plenty of time for it to happen.

The dingy group stared at them, malice in their eyes, except for the girl with the blue hair and the man on the floor, their minds were adrift in a drug-fueled haze. Their heads emptier than the space between the stars.

The man with the goatee, the only one standing, seemed to be the one in charge. Juana's accusation had merit. A room full of people riding a wild rocket to the skies and only one person to do the talking was telling. One of the women, a mean-looking fiend with a buzzcut wearing a cut-off tank top, looked to be sobering up.

"Anything can be of use," Damien said.

"These guys are nothing," Juana scoffed, "put your gloves on Damien."

Damien turned to Juana, her attention on the group. He hadn't been working with her for long, but he could tell what she was thinking -- it wasn't the first time she was like this. Juana was sizing the group up. This looked to be a one on one: easy. She stretched her arms, a shoulder popped. The man standing scowled. Buzzcut looked nervous. The shirtless man in the recliner sat upright, his eyes as wide and wild like a cornered animal.

"Easy," Damien gestured an open palm to Juana, "they're being cooperative. Right gentlemen?"

Damien was losing ground. Things were going south faster than his heart could beat. Juana no longer had any interest in playing any sort of routine. She was ready. The nerves in her body were aching, burning with a fatalistic desire to be used. She wanted to get that rush in her body that only action can give. She had been itching for a moment like this for a long time: a room shut off from the rest of the world; two cops and six druggies.

Damien knew Juana's report would make them look innocent: uncooperative individuals cause an escalation of force. There would be no question to the story -- their word was gospel.

The man standing spoke directly to Damien, "Yeah, we're being cooperative. Tell your partner to chill before we have a problem."

Damien could see the sparks running down the fuse, "We don't have a problem We just want to talk. Juana if you--"

"Damien--" Juana interrupted, she stepped towards the man.

"We're only here for an investigation."

The man lurched forward, "Tell that bitch to back off then!"

"Watch your fuckin' mouth, gato!"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Damien positioned himself between the two. They could be on each other in an instant, like two dogs baring fangs. The tension sobered up the dazed girls up, their hearts fighting the drugs, their heat rates getting in the low hundreds. All except the man lying on the ground.

"Watch my mouth? You're the one barging in here. Can't you bother someone else, huh? You no-warrant-motherfucker--"

"If you don't shut the fuck up Imma kick your teeth in!"

"--Come back with a warrant, bitch."

The sparks were getting dangerously close to the bomb. Damien's mind came to a standstill of indecision. Buzzcut stepped between the coffee table and her friend's legs, her sights set on an end table in the far corner. Damien focused his attention on her for just a second, "Ma'am, please, if you would just sit back--"

Damien nearly tumbled to the floor as Juana was shoved against him. Loud thuds, grunts, and sharp inhales blast out as a flurry of strikes from Juana and the man fly at one another.

Damien goes to break it up but felt arms around his waist. The arms squeezed and lifted him off the floor and back down onto his back with a heavy thud. Damien gasped for air. Above him, the man from the chair was standing over him, daggers in his eyes. His lips curl with anger as he draws his right foot up. It comes down hard on Damien's head.

Everything shook for a moment. The room spun. Juana had her opponent back-peddling into the coffee table as she hit with high knee after high knee. He tripped and crashed into the table, the girls on the couch screamed. Damien's attacker turned his attention to his partner.

A right hook goes flying. Juana ducks. A left gut punch gets joined by a high right jab; the man takes it. He goes in to grab Juana, but she sweeps him like a cowboy to a calf. Both land on the ground, Juana on top delivering punches with white-sounding rage.