Scorn

1 - All in a day's work

 A loud explosion bellows from the 67th floor of the Rosaline Cooperation building. The upper three levels collapse and turn to dust, leaving only 66 floors behind. Screams arise in the air, creating an ironic chorus of fear. Many are dead, but no more shall die. At least, that was how my assignment was supposed to go. I jump from a window on the third floor, landing into a dumpster. I exhale sharply, from the fall mostly, but also from landing on my side. I throw myself over the lip of the dumpster and dust myself off. This had been one of my easier missions for sure.

I take off my vest and pull up my dress shirt, peeling it away from the wide and deep gash in my side. Crimson and dark red mix, creating an ugly mirage on my body. I touch the wound and wince. It will certainly take time to heal. I push my shirt back down and slowly redo my vest, which happens to be scorched only a tad. I take out a cigar and lighter, and with a click, ignite it. I take a deep breath, the smoke filling my old, tired lungs, and the rush of calm flows over me. I put the lighter back and make my way out the dark alley.

By the time I've walked into the light, all forces are there. The fire trucks have flown up to the top of the building, extinguishing the flames. Police and their robot counterparts question witness to the explosion and the workers that were inside. An ambulance readily awaits for those injured, but the only injured one is me. The rest are either dead, or shaken up. I smile at the mild chaos I've created; the police will find nothing but twenty or more bodies so scorched they're unrecognizable, and the employees have no idea what went down at work.

Nonetheless, I expect to see this on the news and theorized for a couple of weeks until it's finally swept under the rug. I spin on my heels and head down the dark sidewalk towards the even poorer side of New Quebec. Sixty years ago, Canada had gotten sick of America's 55th president treating his people so cruelly. Canada had actually been planning for years, but finding support from the citizens of United States of America only made it easier to invade and take it over. However, a few years later "Old" Canada and "New" Canada had officially separated, almost exactly like the Roman Empire. Shortly after, New Quebec was formed in Michigan and was promised to be the land to prosper for New Canada, like New York City or San Francisco during the gold rush. Few years later I was born, and New Canada only continued to plummet. Turns out Old Canada just didn't have the funds to suddenly support a country twice their size and left all New Canadians to fend for themselves.

There are some wealthy, high-tech cities however. Like the previously mentioned New York City. They're sprinkled across the country, where the upper class retreat to avoid the bums. I, myself, quite enjoy the bums. They're the realest people you'll ever meet. As I turn there stands Ms. Roche, where she always is, holding on to her rusting old shopping cart. I smile at the old woman, even if i'm still years older than her. I remember knowing her as a kid, when her mom fell too deep into drugs and she was forced into homelessness.

"Haven't seen you round in a while." She greets.

"Been busy." I smile as her eyes twinkle brighter.

"With that explosion, sure sounds busy." She chuckles, her face wrinkling into smaller smiles.

I sigh happily and pat her head, "Well I have to go. I'll bring you some loaves of bread and sparkling juice in the morning." I hurriedly skipped off to my apartment building.

"You know you don't have to! And don't think I didn't notice the huge blood stain!" She called after. It always seems like I can never keep anything from that wise old woman.

The big difference between her and I is that she's had to sit around; she has nowhere to go, and nothing to do. I, on the other hand, have plenty to do. Clearly. I entered my rundown apartment building through the door that was barely on its hinges. I went up three flights of stairs and unlocked my apartment door, 12B. I came in, didn't bother to turn on the lights, threw off my vest, and sat down on my old leather couch. I reached over to my end table and poured myself a glass of whiskey, some that my old pop gave me when I turned eighteen. The cold liquid slid down my throat, and the burn of the alcohol bothered me little. I was about to pour myself another glass when my phone rang.

I reluctantly got up and answered it, and swiftly sat back down. Roger McGregor's hologram image appeared before me, his usual bored expression in great detail. He looked as old and tired as I did, but he had much more grey hair than me, and had more wives and children than me. We've been good friends for as long as I can remember, and we've been pretty much the same person. And yet, even now, we're so different.

"How'd the mission go?" Straight to the point, like always.

"You see the news?" I replied snarkily.

"I did. Of course I did. Seems like you killed a lot of people." His mocking tone was prevalent.

I waved his jab away, "Only the ones I was supposed to. I rigged the explosive up to only destroy the floor they were on, and the empty floors above." I poured another glass of whiskey for myself. "You know, I'd rather you'd see me in person. We could share this whiskey." I lifted up the bottle for him to see.

He chuckled, and then coughed. "Oh I'd love to, but I'm actually far away right now."

"Can't even see an old friend?" My smile stretched from end to end of my face.

"Sorry old sport."

"Old sport?" I laughed, "You're two years older than me, you know."

"Yeah, yeah." He shrugged off my last comment, "I know, I know. Anyway, are you absolutely sure that only the Slithers gang was killed?"

I swirled my glass, the conversation was growing dull and only focused on work. Such a shame, "Yes. All the twenty or so goonies. Of course there will always be more out there but at least I stopped the deadly moonlight drug from going anywhere."

"Who knows what could have happened if that hit the streets..." His voice turned grave, "Anyway, the police have no idea?"

"You and I both know that the bots are thirty years old and are dumber than a rock. The people are worse. Nothing will come to light, and if anything does you know I'll take care of it." I was growing quite tired of him running all the bases. I don't particularly care that he's head of IRIS, this could always be dealt with later. "Anything else?"

"Uh, yeah actually Earl."

"E." Even if he was the closest person I have, I still make him call me E just to annoy him. He needs to smile more. Or I need to at least.

"Whatever. The main reason I called is that we need to meet."

"What happened to being far away?"

"I'm taking a jet to New Quebec, quit your worrying."

"You rich old hag." I joked. He wasn't really rich, a lot of his money went to child support, but he had more than me. "When?"

"Tomorrow. Mayella's cafe. The usual. Don't be late."

"I plan on being fashionably late." I let out a chuckle, and with that we hung up.

I leaned my head back against my couch. What could be so important that we needed to meet tomorrow? I finished the whiskey and put the glass and bottle on the end table. I got up and wandered to my balcony. Here, to an outsider, the nights seem eerily quiet. The truth is, the people have become so distant to themselves and everything around them, that they slumber peacefully. They have become delirious, but comfortably numb. I'd probably give a lot to be like them, but alas I have a job and that job lets them remain like this.

Aside from the chaos from the (now) put out building, this side of New Quebec is pretty at night. The metal and concrete come together to form a unique landscape, all tinted blue from the streetlights. This is home for me. This is home for the people that deserve so much more. I stood there for a long time. I didn't know how long, but the sun began to rise when I finally went inside. I would awake in a few hours, to encounter a task I never thought I'd have to face. But, for now, I slept.

***

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