Chapter 15: The past is near
Sitting in the half-ruined house, I stared into the abyss of emptiness through the window. The clock on the wall slowly moved in its circle, marking the passage of time. With each passing minute, parts of the space began to return to their former state. After eight hours, everything returned to normal. All this time, I felt detached, as if in a fog, unable to take my eyes off the wall clock, sitting in a dazed state.
Mode active
Status analysis
Multiple errors
Numerous damages
The list of all damaged modules and the state of the systems began to load. The logs showed that I had been fully restored.
Body condition satisfactory
Starting up...
The darkness before my eyes began to dissipate, and I saw a concrete ceiling above me. The heavy burden disappeared, and I didn't even want to get up, just lying there, finally able to think freely. And there was much to think about. Carlo de Vargo had survived, and it seemed he had killed me. A quick search on the internet and a check of databases showed that Carlo de Vargo had been registered as dead on July 7, 2030, killed by police during an attempt to break through a checkpoint. Reading this record, I couldn't understand how it was possible unless it was his double or something similar. A forensic examination would have immediately identified a fake.
Exactly, the tattoo. Quickly recreating it in my memory, I started looking for information in police databases about various criminals who might have it. The dossier flashed before my eyes. No, no, different gangs, age, gender — any criteria. The main thing was the tattoo. I stopped at one point. A member of the Maelstrom gang, crazy psychopaths loaded with chrome. Many gang members had tattoos, and only a few had similar ones. Due to the limitations of the databases, I couldn't find much.
"Hey, you okay there? Not losing it? You've been lying there for more than eight hours," Santiago's voice rang out.
"I'm fine," I replied, finally getting up and immediately opening the status window to check my indicators.
"You fixed me," I said, looking at him intently.
"Yeah, not for free. I had to get rare parts, so the repair wasn't cheap. You owe me ten thousand," he replied.
Rummaging through my pockets, I pulled out the winnings chips and handed him a chip worth ten thousand.
"Great, now you can leave. You're taking up space, and I have a shift starting soon," he said.
"Alright," I replied somewhat distantly, getting dressed and heading to the door. "Thank you. You could have left me on the doorstep, but you helped," I said in parting.
"For a client's money, any service," Santiago replied simply. But he didn't know if I had the money. We had known each other for only two days. I did the right thing not trying to intimidate him. As they say, if you want to receive good, do no evil, or something like that. I always had a bad memory for such phrases. I never took other people's advice well, though I should have.
Stepping out onto the street, I looked at the city in a completely different way. And my body felt different too. It felt like my hands were real, but there were no sensations—no breeze, no touch, and so on. I walked a little and, for some reason, wanted to sit down, which I did, looking at the blue sky. So why am I here? I thought, watching people with my new perspective. To live, a person needs a goal. What will my goal be, final and irrevocable, that I will pursue? I don't believe Carlo de Vargo survived these forty years, but I must make sure his corpse is in the ground. So, I need to learn about the tattoos. That will be a secondary goal. The primary one is to understand why I was revived and what the "Life After Death" project is really for.
Today, I had no plan except to wait for someone to contact me. Tomorrow, it's back to work. Getting up, I headed to my temporary lodging. As I approached the building, I saw a car with "Sixth Street" gang markings and people standing nearby. Trouble found me again. Preparing for a possible fight, I approached them.
Whistle
"That's the cop," said a gang member who noticed me. Strangely, they didn't draw their weapons but waited for me to come closer.
"Hello," said an African American man. He had a thick beard and a stern look.
Name: Green Sullivan
Age: 38 years
Occupation: Mercenary, member of the "Sixth Street" gang (demoted serviceman of the NUSA army)
Crimes: Armed conflict, robbery
Marital status: Married, one child
Recommendation: Do not engage.
"What do you want?" I asked, keeping an eye on their every move.
"Recently, there was an unpleasant incident here. Heard anything about it?" Green asked.
"If you want to know if I was the one who killed your guys, yes, it was me," I said. There was no point in lying; there were so many witnesses who saw me carrying the bodies of the gang members, and the only cop living here is me.
"Not trying to dodge, I respect that. Yes, but what you did was disgraceful. Their behavior was unacceptable, but you killed members of our gang, and we cannot forgive that," Green said.
"And now what?" I asked. The tension immediately rose between us.
"Don't worry, we won't try to kill you right now. You will go to our boss Rick Morton, and your fate will be decided there," Green said.
"So why should I go with you to a place from which I definitely won't get out, and most likely I'll just be dismantled for parts? What stops me from killing you right now?" I replied. He didn't even raise an eyebrow at that.
"Nothing, you're free to do as you wish, but let me tell you what will happen then. You might be able to kill us, maybe you will even succeed, but then the Sixth Street gang will put a bounty on your head and everyone with a gun will want to shoot you. Sooner or later, you will be dead. Now, my option is you come with us, we talk and resolve our conflict. I served in the army and I want my city to be safe and clean. I'm grateful you helped reveal the rot at our doorstep, so while you are still alive, you are a cop and bring good to our city. So, what's your choice?" Green said.
"I agree to go with you," I replied. He seemed reasonable, and they behaved completely differently from those thugs. They were more organized, disciplined, and acted like soldiers. Facial recognition confirmed this.
"Great. Get in," he said, pointing to the open door.
I had to go with them. They started moving immediately. By the time we left Heywood, I realized from the map that we had crossed the bridge and were in Santo Domingo.
"What about Katherine?" I asked.
"She's fine, we apologized for the improper behavior of our people and gave her an extension on her payment," Green said.
"Why did you take in such scum?" I asked.
"Heywood, a territory where we're not well established, so we had to recruit whoever we could find," Green replied simply.
"I see," I answered. It became clearer why things had turned out this way.
The car approached Arroyo, which the databases indicated was the main base of their gang. Getting out of the car, they didn't try to bind or disable me; they just surrounded me and led me along. Passing through an area with several houses, each cottage had a flag waving, and there were patriotic symbols everywhere. There was also a lot of weaponry—not just any weaponry, but the most advanced and expensive. Not surprising, though, as the military always has plenty of weapons.
We reached a real fortress made of concrete and steel. This city wouldn't stand a chance when even the police don't have proper rifles. It was eerie to see drones and automated turrets.
"Impressive, isn't it? A true bastion of safety and freedom, our pride," Green said.
"Yeah," I replied, though I wanted to say it shouldn't be this way.
They led me inside, taking me to a spacious office with flags hanging and a panoramic window overlooking the district.
"General, we've brought him," Green said.
"So, this is Matthew Carrington, right?" Rick Morton asked, dressed in a military uniform adorned with epaulets, patches, and medals that jingled with his movements.
Name: Rick Morton
Age: 43 years
Occupation: Leader of the "Sixth Street" gang (former NUSA army serviceman)
Crimes: Armed conflict, robbery, violence, extortion
Marital status: Single
Recommendation: Do not engage.
[image]
"Yes," I answered simply.
"Alright, let's get started. You admitted to killing our people, but for that, you have my gratitude, as you rid our city of those thugs. But what kind of general would I be if I didn't avenge my men? It's a dilemma that's hard to solve. So, tell me, what should I do?" he asked, lighting a cigar.
"They were causing harm and ruining your reputation. I'll put it this way: if you truly want the best for your country and this city, then just thank me," I said, understanding that I shouldn't speak from a position of weakness with him. It was better to speak directly, clearly, and unwaveringly under his gaze.
"HAHAHA, you're bold. I like that. Here's what we'll do: from now on, you work for me," Rick said, sitting down in a wide chair behind a massive desk.
"I already serve the law and fulfill my duty," I said. He immediately fell silent, picking up a twentieth-century revolver. He spun the cylinder and pointed the barrel at me.
"I don't like this. The choice is simple: a bullet or working for me," Rick said, cocking the hammer.
"Bullet," I said. It wasn't insane bravery; my analysis showed the rounds were blanks.
"You chose this fate yourself," Rick said, pulling the trigger and firing. But there was no bullet. "Not bad composure. Alright, you've earned my forgiveness, but you'll complete my tasks, and then we're square, and the woman's debt will be cleared," Rick said.
"Deal," I replied. It was the optimal solution. Resolving the conflict and helping a single mother at the same time—I knew well how hard it could be to raise children alone, as that had been my wife's fate; I was always at work.
"Great, I'll contact you when there's a job," Rick said.
As quickly as I got in, I found myself outside. Sixth Street turned out to be a gang with a noble goal—to protect and make their country and city safe—but as often happens, things go too far. The goal becomes the justification, and the actions become more and more horrific. Like their usurious activities: they lend money to those who can't get a loan from a bank, and they clearly don't take kind words as repayment if the debt isn't paid.
I had to make my way back on my own. A quick metro ride, and I was back in Heywood.
I needed to find more information about Maelstrom. There was too little information in my databases. I could approach my partner with this problem. Just a regular investigation, nothing more.
I sent a message to Damian Todd: "Hello. I have a problem. My databases are incomplete, and I would like to find out something."
I didn't have to wait long.
D: "What's the question, partner? What do you want to find? Hope it's not illegal Braindances?"
Braindances? A quick search showed that these were recorded segments of someone's memories with various sensations.
M: "No, I need information about Maelstrom, specifically anyone with this tattoo."
The reply wasn't quick.
D: "Don't get involved with them, the price of a mistake is too high. Sorry, but I don't want to get into this, and I don't want my partner dealing with them. They are psychopaths and will do anything."
M. "I need to see if one of them is alive."
D: "And still no. Sorry, I have too much to lose."
M: "Understood. See you tomorrow."
D: "See you tomorrow. The database is in the office, Herman will let you in."
Seeing the last part of the message, I wanted to smile, but I couldn't. Damian is a good person, and although he doesn't want to take risks, he still tries to help. I appreciate people like that more than those who shout they'll be with you till the grave but betray you at the first opportunity.
So, the matter remains until tomorrow.
*******************************************************
The next day, I arrived at the station a bit earlier, before the shift started, to get access to the databases. Passing by everyone, I approached the evidence room. This is where not only all the cases but also various data carriers and paper documents were kept. Some things couldn't be trusted to electronic protection. Strangely enough, the most reliable source has always been paper. Despite all its shortcomings, it has one main advantage—paper is a physical carrier and leaves no trace when destroyed.
Right in front of the entrance sat a guard. There was Herman. He was large, with many implants in his body, almost completely replacing his limbs. His gaze fell on me. He stared at me intently, then got up from his chair and approached me. He towered over me and then simply walked past, allowing me to enter. It seems Damian had warned him.
Upon entering, I immediately saw the desk with ports for connection. I took out my port and plugged it in.
Connecting to the Night City Police Department database.
Many search categories appeared before me. I was looking for just one name—Carlo de Vargo. Information started flowing in from all states and cities in the US. There he was, I found him. Information erased from the database due to the AI uprising, a backup copy made, and all data stored in the city archive. Damn, missed again.
Alright, search by external criteria—excellent. Tattoo criterion. Again, a vast amount of data. Members of the Maelstrom gang started appearing before my eyes, most without faces and with cybernetic modules installed. Names, presumed locations—all this was added to my database.
Unauthorized user detected in the system. Warning, disconnect immediately, or sanctions will be applied.
It seems I was noticed, so I quickly disconnected. I got the important information, and for now, it would be enough. Quickly exiting the storage, I passed Herman. Heading to the assault team department, hoping to catch Richard. Luckily, he was there.
"Hi, Richard," I addressed him. He was sitting at a table cleaning his weapon.
"Oh, it's you. Good to see you! You look radiant, did you polish the chassis?" he asked with a smile, standing up and extending his hand for a handshake.
"You could say that. I came to ask something. Why does Sarah have such a bad attitude towards me?" I asked.
"You shouldn't take it personally. She's a good person and knows her job. She just has a hard life, like many here," Richard replied.
"Won't you tell me?" I asked. I wanted to understand whether it was worth trying to build a relationship with her or if I should stick to Santo's services.
"Of course, I'll tell you. But these stories are better not discussed sober. Tomorrow I have a day off, let's meet in the evening at the bar. The guys from our squad will be there, we'll hang out, play, drink," Richard suggested.
"I think I'll be a third wheel," I replied. My body was incapable of feeling any pleasure.
"Don't worry, we'll find something to surprise you with. You definitely won't be a third wheel," Richard said.
"Alright, I'll come. Then see you later, my shift starts soon," I said.
"See you," Richard nodded, going back to polishing his weapon. For those risking their lives, their rifle is the most reliable friend in battle. If it fails, it's over.
A message from Damian: "Come down to the parking lot, we've fixed our car."
Without delay, I headed downstairs. Samuel was working on our car, wiping it with a cloth and muttering something. Damian stood nearby, looking a bit bored, and immediately noticed me.
"Alright, that's enough, Samuel. My partner is here, it's time for patrol," Damian said, clearly not for the first time.
"Just a little more, I've worked so hard to get it in order. You're not planning to dive under bullets again, are you? My old girl can't take it anymore," Samuel pleaded, finally closing the hood of the car. A strange but loving attachment.
"I can't promise you that," Tod replied wearily, catching Samuel's almost murderous glare. "I'll try, and a crate of beer is on me."
"Deal. Alright, goodbye my beauty, come back whole and unharmed," Samuel said, gently patting the car one last time.
We exchanged looks with Damian, and we both shook our heads simultaneously. Well, time to go. I settled into the passenger seat, and we set off on our way.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone