Darkmatter — Roleplayer Guild

‘Jokers!’ The pair of them Wikus thought to himself, musing on his current predicament. Some justice seeking detective trying to make a name with the brass, and some BoD cynic trying to prove a point. Facetious fools the both of them. Hauling him across the District for a conviction-less interview. If the they were going to go to the effort of perpetually perturbing his work they could at least pull some iota of a prosecution together. Their incompetence was actually irritating. 
‘Maybe we’ve just gotten this thing nailed down.’ He decided briefly. 
Now was not the time for resting neither on laurels or failures; as always, it was a time for action. He’d lost the entire afternoon and evenings worth of business. He’d missed two scheduled sit-downs to discuss the position of a fledgling lieutenant, barely more than a hyped up cap’ making shapes. The boys upstairs knew the deal though, his absence wouldn’t cause any major concerns. 

Rain feathered down from above. It was not heavy, instead it almost seemed to just be resting downwards. Scratching his head slightly, Wikus continued moving to the nearest transit hub. At the very least he could make up for some lost time. Presenting his left palm out in front of himself, a neat haptic-adaptive interface whirred into being above it. 11:47pm. A flurry of notifications flashed on, which Wikus read briefly before dismissing them all with a flick of his wrist. Navigating briefly through its index his arm dropped after a while, and a minor buzzing began humming in his ear.
“You’re out?” quizzed the voice in his earpiece, cold but friendly.
“Yes. No troubles. Same detective though.” Wikus replied, calmly.
“Bigger issues than that. BoD is breathing down our necks much more than normal. That guy you dealt with today, he can be worked with. We’ve another though, one of those occasional ‘Joans’ we get.”
“What cleaning up the districts in the name of justice? Gimme  a fucking break? Where do these clowns get off?” Sniped, Wikus.
“Yeah, essentially. ‘Katherina Wythburn’ is her name. Self professed white knight. She shouldn’t be much of an issue on her own but if any elements of the police decide to start following her lead it won’t be pretty. We’ll be keeping close tabs on her. For now, we think it’d be a tad impetuous to just off her.”
“Noted.” Grunted Wikus. “Anything more immediate or should I just presume to continue the schedule?”
“Actually, quite a bit.” Chirped the correspondent. “We’ve gotten a lot of private citizen info as of last week, and updated some side observations.” 

Tsst.
A short rasping sound split the blanket of drizzle induced noise as Wikus entered the transit station. The main foyer was rather void of people. He’d arrived during that seemingly imperceptible time between late night  outward travel and early morning drug-infused home-ward travel. A teenage couple sat on a bench inside smoking cigarettes and not saying much to each other in the dim relentless silence that ensues after a public fingerbanging session. The couple eye him oddly as he clinked his way across the glassy floortiles, descending down the staircase to the subway below.

“Go on.” Beckoned Wikus.
Staring up at the display, the transit for the Nisha-Tano borough was ten minutes away. Arriving in half that time was a transit with final stop in the opposite direction, at the far end of District 17. ‘The Asylum it is’ he concluded.
“Well there’s a pusher making some waves. We put his turf about five kilometres north side of Roxxies’.”
“Isn’t that Panacho territory?” piped Wikus.
“It’s that fuzzy grey zone. And we need more proxies. The proxy cells are doing things we could only have hoped for ten years ago. We need more outside pushers as well. Name is Derrick, uses the incredibly original name ‘D’. His file will already have been sent to you by now. Do it sometime in the next two days. You’re wanted for a meeting next week. We’ve also got someone taking hits in the Districts who doesn’t crop as a contact for anyone we have channels with. Young female. Info on whereabouts and movements is limited. If you can track her down and suss out the situation; do.”

Moving to the ticket machine, Wikus held an eye to its biometric scanner. After a few moments of internal processing, his face appeared on the machine along with the name ‘Donald Menson’, an incorrect date of birth and social code. A ticket quickly popped out of the machine.
The transit rattled into the stop, squealing to announce its arrival. A smooth, sleek machine, only clanking due to the sudden braking under its own power. 
“Good. I’ll get down to things tomorrow. That cell had me cagey. I need a drink.” Wikus’ response was a curt one.

♠♠♠♠♠♠♠♠


The Asylum. The letters were emblazoned above the warehouse entrance. Two burly looking doormen were laughing to themselves in a jovial manner, dealing with a group of particularly attractive young women aiming to get in. Reaching where they stood, Wikus gave that look that is given between acquaintances of unequal social standing; one wanting to the other desperately to like them. Strolling straight past the queue and into the club, it was evident in which was which.
Tonight was the classics, tracks from the first two decades of the 21st Century, the cultural rebirth of House music of all kinds. A massive B minor piano riffing soul track was climaxing as he entered, and in it was replaced with a tech house classic. Inside was a fervour, a cacophony of sound and circus of colour. Occupants danced and thrashed and shuffled feeling like gods with the help of their favourite substances. Muddling his way through the crowd, Wikus got to the bar with a gentle smirk.
“Jameson, no chaser and a pint of blonde.”
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