A mild breeze accompanies me as I rush down the lane on my rented scooter. The pods can only take you so far in this maze of a city and upper walkways are flooded by people riding scooters.
I look up at the dull gray sky and admire the rainbow-colored sheen of our city's weather control dome. It's said to be one of the kind on the entire continent. It's also said that most of the outside world is nothing but a lawless wasteland.
The timer on my scooter is nearing its last minute but I'm already at the address.
Everything's gray here, just like our citizen uniforms. Other buildings in the city dot the landscape in happier tones. Brick red, yellow sandstone, blue steel, black marble, each presiding over smaller sectors, each assigned only to certain kinds of activities and purposes so you know at a glance what's what.
But all residential blocks are gray and massive.
This towering box of cement is no different. Two hundred apartments per entryway. At least the ones facing this walkway have a nice view of the city.
I lean against the railing and find myself imagining a place where life isn't so neatly arranged, not as pragmatically boxed up and where open spaces are truly open and endless. Like the sea. I have a gallery of old photos with bodies of water that I occasionally peruse during downtime. And right now I'm tempted to bring them up in AUGi and indulge for a while.
But in the corner of my eye, a familiar tall silhouette makes its appearance. My partner for the day — One. Named so after her ranking among the Wardens. I used to be number one. But last year's evaluation hadn't gone as well as I'd have liked.
"Good morning, Three," she greets me in a linear tone that reminds me of the city's public announcements.
"Good morning, One," I respond in kind and keep my gaze fixed on her deceivingly warm carob eyes.
"Where is your badge?"
I freeze in place. She is quick and never seems to miss a thing or to pass on an opportunity to point out any misdeed. Number one for a reason I suppose. Did I use to be like her?
Once I retrieve my badge out of the inner pocket of my jacket I pin it to the left side of my chest with clear, confident gestures. All the while I'm biting my tongue.
She's eying me from head to toe. I don't flinch.
"I wear my badge all the time while I'm in public," she reveals in an even tone.
"As per Control's regulations, I put it on only when on duty."
"We are always on duty, Three. It's what being a citizen means," she says and her brows raise slightly.
Sanctimonious bitch.
I nod and turn to face the building where our mark lives.
"Times are changing, Three. You've said it yourself four years ago at your rank evaluation."
An inevitable frown crosses my face as I glare at her confused. I had no idea what she was talking about. My face returns to its go-to normal bland expression yet I'm wondering how or why she cares about the ranking speech I gave four years ago. She was probably still a rookie Warden back then.
"The number of marks per month has more than tripled in the past decade. It is a dangerous trend, one most likely brought on by foreign elements from the outside of the city, and we must all be diligent, we must all be true citizens. Control needs us, the city needs us, and most importantly, the revolution needs us," she recites and lets slip some of her admiration in her tone.
It was a nice speech, sure. Now I remember and almost shrug at the memory. But I don't let my shoulders rise. That speech clearly means something to her. But somehow along the years, those ideas have lost their power over me. Only a shadow of my youthful enthusiasm remains. That was the speech that had turned me into number one. A hell of a performance for a role that I thought I wanted. In truth, nothing changed. Not Control, not the city, not my daily life that was now playing on repeat, empty and meaningless.
So I guess that's changed. I stopped being a revolutionary. I'm just doing my job, let someone else figure out the rest of society's problems.
***
Our footsteps echo inside the empty hallway. It's narrow and only one of us fits between these pasty olive walls while we approach the mark's door. Yellow dull lights flicker to life when we pass motion sensors and my AUGi interface changes color to remain visible.
Control has given us access to the Eyes inside the mark's apartment and I'm watching the middle-aged man saunter across his room, on the way to the kitchen area. He's busy rummaging the fridge by the time we get to his door.
What is he looking for in there? Rations have been so poor lately that I hadn't had any leftovers in six months. And all rations are the same no matter what your citizen job is.
My partner moves to open the front door and barge in on the mark as any Warden can and should, but I grip her wrist and a chill runs along my spine.
"What is it?" One asks and her brows raise in the most annoying quizzical manner.
"The fridge is a blind spot."
Her eyes widen and with a few taps of her thumb on her index finger I can guess that she's requesting access to ultimate measures. As am I just before I nod to signal that I'm ready.
We move in fast but speak clearly and without rush.
"Citizen Lars Byron, we are Wardens on a routine check," One takes lead as her rank requires.
"Please step away from the fridge and show us your hands," I manage to say but the mark's already reaching deep inside the fridge swiftly as if to grab something.
I activate the ultimate measure without thought. The man screams and jolts back, holding on to his right arm and hitting the wall behind him in a frenzy.
The technology that allows us access to AUGi's or in his case, to Cora's interface is the ultimate measure. Tiny circuits inside the man's arm muscles spark to live and stimulate enough nerve endings to cause a debilitating amount of pain. It's like being burned alive, like being flayed slowly with a blunt knife. Or so I have been told.
It lasts a few seconds but takes the man a long time to recover from the agony. By the time he's coherent or seemingly so, One has him handcuffed.
"Fucking Wardens. Kids that play to the song of a damn machine! It's all going to shit already. You can't stop it! So do whatever you want to me!" the mark yells at us.
"You will be sent to a re-education camp as per article 72 of the Control Citizen Regulation," I respond calmly and without thought since I've been saying this same line for over a decade now.
I'm curious about the fridge. It has been a blind spot, meaning that the Eyes had no way of seeing inside it, so I expect to find some illegal articles like homemade alcohol, extra rations, paper photos that may have escaped the burnings fifty years ago.
But I'm not ready for the contraption inside the fridge shelf. Red wires going in and out of a bloated tawny package, crimson digital letters smack dab in the middle. Not counting down to anything, but only a switch away from detonation.
At this moment, I wish nothing more than to bash in the face of this bastard. He could have killed me. He could have killed many people with that damn bomb. Re-education camp is too lenient for this murderous fiend.
I allow Control to intercept the feed from my badge and make sure that it sees what the mark has been up to all along.
One tilts her head and frowns a bit. Yes, she is seeing it too.
My hand itches to smash the mark's round pale face but losing my shit would be just that — losing my shit and everything. We are not animals, we are better than our instincts.
"Sentence rescinded. New sentence available. Forced labor camp for life," One utters in a mechanical tone as if she's possessed by Control itself.
I, however, lack any trace of control at the moment and the usual mantras don't do their magic. Heavy steps bring me closer and closer to the mark and I'm about to kick the shit out of him when my AUGi interferes with a red alert message, blinking at me from the middle of the man's face.
***
"Who was assigned to this investigation?" I yell at Control even though it can't hear me.
It can only respond to my interface interactions through AUGi.
My partner assumes that I'm asking her and responds, "There was no team assigned to Mel Storm. She was-" One hesitates a bit which makes her following statement sound even more ominous, "She was not a mark. Control didn't tag her. Not once."
I can see that she is right as Mel Storm's records scroll by to the right of my view keeping most of my vision clear so I can drive the Hoover, navigating between the walkways stretched across the City like a spider's web.
The Hoover consumes a lot of resources, in other words, it is very expensive and Control sends them only for Wardens to use when they arrest high-risk marks or as it is now the case when Wardens have to deal with casualties and special incidents.
A suicide hasn't happened in over thirty years. Control can see the signs. Why didn't it see the signs? Why didn't Control prevent this from happening?
Within ten minutes, me and One were already at the scene. Control had evacuated and sealed that walkway using its Crowd management drones, but it was up to us to take away the body after a full report made it on our records. We used the badge feed for this and thankfully I didn't need to look at the blood for too long.
"Initial assessment, Three?"
"Mel Storm jumped from this building and scattered her brains all over the walkway," I say slightly annoyed. Isn't it obvious? Do I need to spell it out for you?
"That can't be right," One said plainly.
"I know. But it's what happened."
"No. It was an accident or she was pushed. There must have been a blind spot near one of her windows, or on a balcony, or..." One's voice fades as I share the Eye view from half an hour ago, in Mel Storm's apartment.
I watch in awe, over and over again as the young woman strolls from her bed to the window, not a care on her face, no emotion. She is a blank slate. Even as she opens the window. Even as she discards her shoes. Even as she steps on the window sill. Nothing betrays any sort of emotion. No trembling of the hand, no uneasy balance of the body. Pure determination. And then she jumps. It takes ten seconds for the entire thing to unfold, yet it feels like an eternity.
"It was a suicide, One," I say in a bland defeated tone.
She nods and for a moment her perfect face distorts with emotion, cringing under the weight of trying to understand such an act. And then One is back to her usual self.
"Let's clean this up."
***
It takes us an hour to make the walkway pristine again. We're both sweaty and exhausted as we sit inside the Hoover, ready to go and put this whole thing behind us. I reach inside my pocket for a handkerchief and a paper card drops.
One quickly catches sight of the odd thing.
"What is that?"
The Eye inside the Hoover hums gently as its probably adjusting its focal points to allow a perfect view of the card.
Paper is a rare sight. And paper is something I've never used but only seen in displays when I was a teen still under my tutors' care.
"Nothing," I utter as calmly as I can muster despite my heartbeat racing.
"Why do you have paper?" One presses the matter.
I pick the card up and make sure to obscure anything on it with my fingers covering both sides and with a smooth swift gesture, I slip the card back inside my pocket.
"I'm considering handwriting. You know, as a hobby." I've never been so quick to lie in my entire life.
"Really? People do it as a hobby?"
I nod. It was thankfully true. Regarded as a waste of time, handwriting still had its fans throughout the city.
"That is so stupid," my partner said. Clearly not one of the fans, then.
She went on to elaborate as her fingers activated the Hoover engine, "It should be illegal. People can hide things in handwriting."
"Not everything is a conspiracy against the revolution, One," I muss.
"It will be illegal. Soon. You'll see, Three. People shouldn't be allowed to write secret things down. All writing needs to be in the records. AUGi or Cora. Otherwise, Control can't help us stay pure and civilized."
Is that what Control is doing?
The Hoover rumbles and groans as its taking off carrying only me, One and Mel Storm's body. It was built to transport over a dozen men and their equipment, yet now it can barely make the trip back to Control's black marble building with just the three of us.
Maybe the bomber mark was right. Maybe it's all going to shit already. Maybe Control's grip on society is slipping and we'll soon revert back to the old days from before the first revolution a hundred years ago.
Maybe I just need a good night's sleep and a ton of ocean photos to stare at to simply forget this awful day and never look back on it again.
But the presence of that paper card in my pocket puts a dent in my plans for the rest of this night. Who would plant such a thing on me and why?