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rainbowfic2023-07-08 04:32 pm
wallwalker) wrote in rainbowfic2023-07-08 04:32 pm
Chestnut 6
Author: wallwalker
Story: Crimson Conspiracy (pt 1)
'Verse: Crimson Conspiracy
Colors: Chestnut 6: Money Trail
Supplies: Acrylic (Obsessed)
Word Count: 2145
Rating: T
Warnings: Blood, murder, discussed violence.
Summary: A P.I. discovers his old man is dead, and that he left him something that he'll probably regret receiving: A job, of sorts.
Notes: The daily prompt is quite old - it was from when I started writing this. If it doesn't count then that's understandable. Attempt at Cyberpunk Noir style. Need a story tag for this one, please.
---
His old man was dead. They’d stabbed him in a blind alley.
Silverman got the news when he hooked up in his office that morning. He could’ve gotten it earlier, but he didn’t trust the wireless in his building; his neighbors all had headaches first thing in the morning, and he heard ‘em screaming at night. He’d paid good money to have the receivers torn out without causing permanent brain damage, and it had been worth every credit.
Hertz had flagged it during the night and sent it on. Unidentified man found dead in an alley in Crimson Hills, the article had started, and Silverman had to hand it to ‘em; if you had to choose a place to stab a man to death, anywhere called Crimson Hills was a damn good place for it. But he hadn’t smiled when he read it, not with the way they kept showing the photos. The blood had still been crimson against his clothes but black on the filthy pavement, like they’d stabbed him and booked it just in time for the drones to come. And yet, the old man had been almost smiling at the end.
“Good old dad,” Sil said quietly, pulling the plug as he sat back in his chair, fists clenched in his lap. Ghost images flashed through his mind still, of his father’s perfectly calm face. “You always had a plan. Smartest guy in the room, all the time.” He opened his eyes, hoping the sight of his cluttered and yet somehow empty office would scare his face away. “World’s shittiest dad, but definitely the smartest guy.”
His name, which the article hadn’t mentioned, was Mortimer Domzalski, one of those names that most people would run away from really fast. Not his ex-wife, though. They’d been friends up until Morty had dropped out of contact a handful of years ago, even though he’d bailed when Sil was six. She and Anika - her new lady-friend, who Morty apparently had also been friends with even after she'd started sleeping with his wife - had raised him and his brother and sister pretty damn well, although Sil had still spent most of his time in his room, reading or watching old hard-boiled detective stories, telling himself that he didn’t miss Dad at all.
His moms had always said their father had needed his head refitted, had his brainwaves trained to something a little less paranoid. And yeah, they might have been right. But he’d done right by Sil a few times, or at least he had once he was grown up. Helped him get set up as a detective, told him old stories, even stuck his neck out a few times on a few of his cases. Sil couldn’t let this pass. It was time to talk to some old friends.
He didn’t have any business anyway, he told himself as he locked up the office. He could spare the time.
He straightened his old-style hat - he didn’t feel like much of a P.I. without it, thanks to the old stories - and headed to the other side of town.
---
The Bakehouse stank the same as ever, burnt circuitry and the sweet smoke of synthetic hallucinogens. Sil shuddered and pressed one finger against the bridge of his nose, flipping on the barrier - he needed to have his wits about him. Got a couple of funny looks, mostly kids who’d never had an old-fashioned switch before. Everything was touchless now and Sil was refusing to move with the times.
Ronni recognized him, at least. Good old Ronni, with the vatgrown muscles and designer tattoos and the grafted-on mask. They looked up, gave him a nod. “Silverman,” he said. “You makin’ it?”
They’d heard. Sil couldn’t say he was surprised. He nodded, sitting at the bar, giving the side-eye to the nozzles and plugs that bristled all around him. “What’ve you heard?” he asked. Stick to biz, he told himself. Old man would want it that way.
“Same as everyone. They broadcast that picture all over. Said it was just a random killing.” Ronni kept their face straight, didn’t give a damn thing away.
Sil nodded again, waiting.
“You oughta take a load off,” they continued, punching some numbers onto the desk’s display. Sil assumed that was what they were doing, anyway - he couldn’t see the display. Goggles gave him a headache so he didn’t wear ‘em unless he had to. The implants... no, he wasn’t going to think about that. “I’ll give you his special, free of charge. Go all the way down the hall.”
Sil stood up. “Thanks, Ron. I’m gonna need it.”
---
There were no vidplugs or nozzles waiting in his old man’s room. Sil didn’t want to think how much that had cost in a place like this. Privacy came at a premium, especially in a wireless world.
He wouldn’t want to get his old friend Ron in trouble, so it had to be hidden. Sil looked quickly, turning on his analog implants for the x-rays, searching through itchy blankets and old software.
He almost missed it. Three tiny chips, buried in a pillow, two red and one white. Sil grabbed the white one, slotted it in and clicked on.
Old man’s voice started up. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, out-of-breath as if he’d been running for a block or so. “They’ve caught up with me. I got one foot on the money trail and they sussed me out. Probably gonna make an example of me, but I ain’t gonna let them win. You’re the only person I know who’s got the spirit to follow up on this. I’m sorry I’ve gotta involve you, but you’ve gotta keep the other two chips safe. They don’t know I’ve made these copies, so you’re safe for now, but be careful. Don’t tell anyone that you don’t wanna see dead about this - especially not your moms or your brothers and sisters, I never wanted any of ‘em to get hurt in this mess - and keep moving. Always keep moving.”
The message cut off.
He sat down, taking out the white chip and quickly dropping it into a small bin, seeing the flash of light that meant it had been zapped. He shook his head, staring down at the two red chips in the palm of his hand.
The money trail, he’d said. That had been his obsession in the last few years, the few times Sil had made time to see his old man. The reason Morty had been such a bad father was that he hadn’t ever wanted kids. He’d wanted a partner, someone who’d listen to his crazy ideas and take ‘em seriously, and Sil had stumbled into that role when they’d started talking again. He’d been thirty by then, and they hadn’t said a thing about family or regrets or whatever. But the more Sil talked to him, the more he made a certain kind of sense.
”We’ve gotta be careful, he’d said at the end of their last conversation, and Sil could remember the haunted look in his old eyes. ”There’s a trail they don’t want us to see, a money trail that goes all over. We’ve gotta follow it without them knowing, or we’re not gonna wake up tomorrow.”
He’d looked so damn tired. Old man kept saying they were reading his dreams, but he didn’t even have a wireless hookup and kept the analog plugs sealed when he slept, so how could they read him? Made no damn sense. Maybe it was just the paranoia talking, but he’d been right about too many other things for it all to be in his head. What was the old saying? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you, something like that.
Or maybe he was just his father’s son and Momma Anika was right that he oughta get some custom brainwaves done.
But it couldn’t allbe bad brainwaves. He’d found proof.
He looked down at the chips that glittered in his hands, frozen drops of blood.
Had he? Did they actually have any data on them at all? Sil had one halfway to his own interface before he pulled back - if the info they carried was that dangerous then he didn’t want it anywhere near his own brain. Instead he settled for studying the chips themselves, hoping to find even the most subtle of makers’ marks... but no, besides the unusual color, there was nothing. They were the most generic chips he’d ever seen, which in itself was odd, but unfortunately untraceable in their oddness.
Don’t go to anyone you don’t wanna see dead.
Poor Ronni, he thought idly. Still, hopefully his dad hadn’t told them anything about what was happening. Maybe that would be enough -
Outside. A sound like grinding gears, and a startled shout. No one he recognized.
Sil jumped to his feet out of habit, forcing himself not to immediately leap out of the room - that was a great way to get someone killed, usually himself, his father had told him. Instead he reached down to his hip, fingering the antique slugthrower along the smooth-worn grip. Safety was on, he reminded himself, telling himself he’d have to flick it off when he drew; some of the newer guns were hooked up to guidance systems, would react automatically to a thought, but he’d talked to the newly-hired legal officers whose main selling point had been mandatory smartgun training and implantation for all of their personnel. He didn’t like the idea of not knowing whether it was him or the gun in control, or at least not believing the higher-ups when they told them it was him.
More quiet grinding. Then a loud thump as if someone had fallen from a great height, even if they were on the first floor. Then... footsteps.
Sil swore, drawing his gun and aiming it at the door, flicking the safety switch to off. He hadn’t planned to shoot anyone that day, but he knew the protocol - walls and doors were bulletproof, they’d have to open the door. He stepped to the side enough that they’d have to walk through and turn to see him, finger on the trigger -
Four raps. Then a pause. Then more syncopated rapping, too fast for most people to manage.
“Balls,” he swore quietly with relief, although he didn’t dare lower his gun. Not til he knew for sure.
The door opened silently, swinging in on his hinges. Sil finally relaxed, seeing the arm, tattoos deactivating and glowing faintly against brown skin. “Hey,” he heard Ronni grate through their mask.
“Hey.” Sil took a deep breath. No time for the pleasantries. “How many?”
“Three.”
“Corpo? Tats, uniforms?”
“Nope.” Ronni showed their face, then - or their mask, rather, opaque and flashing the same sickly green as their tattoos. “Shabby. Generic work. But one of them had this.”
They tossed something then, and Sil caught it, staring back at it. Plastic card, solid black, if there were any marks or magnetic strippings on it he couldn’t find them. He’d have to get someone to examine it - he was willing to bet there was a door somewhere that this would open. Just had to figure out who he could trust to do this that wasn’t someone he gave a damn about.
He sighed. “I’m leaving, Ronni,” he said.
“I know,” they said. “Won’t be back?”
“For a while. Maybe never.” He took a breath. “You’re on their radar anyway. Be careful.”
“I’ll figure it out.” Ronni’s laugh was like a radio transmitter being fried by a storm. “Always do.”
Sil nodded slowly - no one knew how old Ronni was or what they’d done before they opened the Bakehouse. No one dared ask. “Thanks. Good luck.”
“Same to you.”
---
He left through the back, through a hidden entrance not many people knew about.
If this had been an old detective novel, he thought bitterly, they probably never would’ve published it. He had too many McGuffins already, and no real idea where to go with either of them. He didn’t even know who wanted him dead, not yet. All he had was a black card, and two chips he didn’t dare slot himself, and a lot of confusion. If someone had come to him with this case - even his old man - he wouldn’t have taken it.
He wasn’t going to be working for a while, he thought, sighing. Good thing he had his savings. He didn’t have any jobs, so hopefully no new clients would come by, asking for his help. He had to help himself, right now.
Right, he told himself. Card first. If he had to resort to reading the chips he didn’t want to be the one to do it.
He adjusted his old gray hat once again as he headed off into the harsh noon light.
wallwalkerStory: Crimson Conspiracy (pt 1)
'Verse: Crimson Conspiracy
Colors: Chestnut 6: Money Trail
Supplies: Acrylic (Obsessed)
Word Count: 2145
Rating: T
Warnings: Blood, murder, discussed violence.
Summary: A P.I. discovers his old man is dead, and that he left him something that he'll probably regret receiving: A job, of sorts.
Notes: The daily prompt is quite old - it was from when I started writing this. If it doesn't count then that's understandable. Attempt at Cyberpunk Noir style. Need a story tag for this one, please.
---
His old man was dead. They’d stabbed him in a blind alley.
Silverman got the news when he hooked up in his office that morning. He could’ve gotten it earlier, but he didn’t trust the wireless in his building; his neighbors all had headaches first thing in the morning, and he heard ‘em screaming at night. He’d paid good money to have the receivers torn out without causing permanent brain damage, and it had been worth every credit.
Hertz had flagged it during the night and sent it on. Unidentified man found dead in an alley in Crimson Hills, the article had started, and Silverman had to hand it to ‘em; if you had to choose a place to stab a man to death, anywhere called Crimson Hills was a damn good place for it. But he hadn’t smiled when he read it, not with the way they kept showing the photos. The blood had still been crimson against his clothes but black on the filthy pavement, like they’d stabbed him and booked it just in time for the drones to come. And yet, the old man had been almost smiling at the end.
“Good old dad,” Sil said quietly, pulling the plug as he sat back in his chair, fists clenched in his lap. Ghost images flashed through his mind still, of his father’s perfectly calm face. “You always had a plan. Smartest guy in the room, all the time.” He opened his eyes, hoping the sight of his cluttered and yet somehow empty office would scare his face away. “World’s shittiest dad, but definitely the smartest guy.”
His name, which the article hadn’t mentioned, was Mortimer Domzalski, one of those names that most people would run away from really fast. Not his ex-wife, though. They’d been friends up until Morty had dropped out of contact a handful of years ago, even though he’d bailed when Sil was six. She and Anika - her new lady-friend, who Morty apparently had also been friends with even after she'd started sleeping with his wife - had raised him and his brother and sister pretty damn well, although Sil had still spent most of his time in his room, reading or watching old hard-boiled detective stories, telling himself that he didn’t miss Dad at all.
His moms had always said their father had needed his head refitted, had his brainwaves trained to something a little less paranoid. And yeah, they might have been right. But he’d done right by Sil a few times, or at least he had once he was grown up. Helped him get set up as a detective, told him old stories, even stuck his neck out a few times on a few of his cases. Sil couldn’t let this pass. It was time to talk to some old friends.
He didn’t have any business anyway, he told himself as he locked up the office. He could spare the time.
He straightened his old-style hat - he didn’t feel like much of a P.I. without it, thanks to the old stories - and headed to the other side of town.
---
The Bakehouse stank the same as ever, burnt circuitry and the sweet smoke of synthetic hallucinogens. Sil shuddered and pressed one finger against the bridge of his nose, flipping on the barrier - he needed to have his wits about him. Got a couple of funny looks, mostly kids who’d never had an old-fashioned switch before. Everything was touchless now and Sil was refusing to move with the times.
Ronni recognized him, at least. Good old Ronni, with the vatgrown muscles and designer tattoos and the grafted-on mask. They looked up, gave him a nod. “Silverman,” he said. “You makin’ it?”
They’d heard. Sil couldn’t say he was surprised. He nodded, sitting at the bar, giving the side-eye to the nozzles and plugs that bristled all around him. “What’ve you heard?” he asked. Stick to biz, he told himself. Old man would want it that way.
“Same as everyone. They broadcast that picture all over. Said it was just a random killing.” Ronni kept their face straight, didn’t give a damn thing away.
Sil nodded again, waiting.
“You oughta take a load off,” they continued, punching some numbers onto the desk’s display. Sil assumed that was what they were doing, anyway - he couldn’t see the display. Goggles gave him a headache so he didn’t wear ‘em unless he had to. The implants... no, he wasn’t going to think about that. “I’ll give you his special, free of charge. Go all the way down the hall.”
Sil stood up. “Thanks, Ron. I’m gonna need it.”
---
There were no vidplugs or nozzles waiting in his old man’s room. Sil didn’t want to think how much that had cost in a place like this. Privacy came at a premium, especially in a wireless world.
He wouldn’t want to get his old friend Ron in trouble, so it had to be hidden. Sil looked quickly, turning on his analog implants for the x-rays, searching through itchy blankets and old software.
He almost missed it. Three tiny chips, buried in a pillow, two red and one white. Sil grabbed the white one, slotted it in and clicked on.
Old man’s voice started up. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, out-of-breath as if he’d been running for a block or so. “They’ve caught up with me. I got one foot on the money trail and they sussed me out. Probably gonna make an example of me, but I ain’t gonna let them win. You’re the only person I know who’s got the spirit to follow up on this. I’m sorry I’ve gotta involve you, but you’ve gotta keep the other two chips safe. They don’t know I’ve made these copies, so you’re safe for now, but be careful. Don’t tell anyone that you don’t wanna see dead about this - especially not your moms or your brothers and sisters, I never wanted any of ‘em to get hurt in this mess - and keep moving. Always keep moving.”
The message cut off.
He sat down, taking out the white chip and quickly dropping it into a small bin, seeing the flash of light that meant it had been zapped. He shook his head, staring down at the two red chips in the palm of his hand.
The money trail, he’d said. That had been his obsession in the last few years, the few times Sil had made time to see his old man. The reason Morty had been such a bad father was that he hadn’t ever wanted kids. He’d wanted a partner, someone who’d listen to his crazy ideas and take ‘em seriously, and Sil had stumbled into that role when they’d started talking again. He’d been thirty by then, and they hadn’t said a thing about family or regrets or whatever. But the more Sil talked to him, the more he made a certain kind of sense.
”We’ve gotta be careful, he’d said at the end of their last conversation, and Sil could remember the haunted look in his old eyes. ”There’s a trail they don’t want us to see, a money trail that goes all over. We’ve gotta follow it without them knowing, or we’re not gonna wake up tomorrow.”
He’d looked so damn tired. Old man kept saying they were reading his dreams, but he didn’t even have a wireless hookup and kept the analog plugs sealed when he slept, so how could they read him? Made no damn sense. Maybe it was just the paranoia talking, but he’d been right about too many other things for it all to be in his head. What was the old saying? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you, something like that.
Or maybe he was just his father’s son and Momma Anika was right that he oughta get some custom brainwaves done.
But it couldn’t allbe bad brainwaves. He’d found proof.
He looked down at the chips that glittered in his hands, frozen drops of blood.
Had he? Did they actually have any data on them at all? Sil had one halfway to his own interface before he pulled back - if the info they carried was that dangerous then he didn’t want it anywhere near his own brain. Instead he settled for studying the chips themselves, hoping to find even the most subtle of makers’ marks... but no, besides the unusual color, there was nothing. They were the most generic chips he’d ever seen, which in itself was odd, but unfortunately untraceable in their oddness.
Don’t go to anyone you don’t wanna see dead.
Poor Ronni, he thought idly. Still, hopefully his dad hadn’t told them anything about what was happening. Maybe that would be enough -
Outside. A sound like grinding gears, and a startled shout. No one he recognized.
Sil jumped to his feet out of habit, forcing himself not to immediately leap out of the room - that was a great way to get someone killed, usually himself, his father had told him. Instead he reached down to his hip, fingering the antique slugthrower along the smooth-worn grip. Safety was on, he reminded himself, telling himself he’d have to flick it off when he drew; some of the newer guns were hooked up to guidance systems, would react automatically to a thought, but he’d talked to the newly-hired legal officers whose main selling point had been mandatory smartgun training and implantation for all of their personnel. He didn’t like the idea of not knowing whether it was him or the gun in control, or at least not believing the higher-ups when they told them it was him.
More quiet grinding. Then a loud thump as if someone had fallen from a great height, even if they were on the first floor. Then... footsteps.
Sil swore, drawing his gun and aiming it at the door, flicking the safety switch to off. He hadn’t planned to shoot anyone that day, but he knew the protocol - walls and doors were bulletproof, they’d have to open the door. He stepped to the side enough that they’d have to walk through and turn to see him, finger on the trigger -
Four raps. Then a pause. Then more syncopated rapping, too fast for most people to manage.
“Balls,” he swore quietly with relief, although he didn’t dare lower his gun. Not til he knew for sure.
The door opened silently, swinging in on his hinges. Sil finally relaxed, seeing the arm, tattoos deactivating and glowing faintly against brown skin. “Hey,” he heard Ronni grate through their mask.
“Hey.” Sil took a deep breath. No time for the pleasantries. “How many?”
“Three.”
“Corpo? Tats, uniforms?”
“Nope.” Ronni showed their face, then - or their mask, rather, opaque and flashing the same sickly green as their tattoos. “Shabby. Generic work. But one of them had this.”
They tossed something then, and Sil caught it, staring back at it. Plastic card, solid black, if there were any marks or magnetic strippings on it he couldn’t find them. He’d have to get someone to examine it - he was willing to bet there was a door somewhere that this would open. Just had to figure out who he could trust to do this that wasn’t someone he gave a damn about.
He sighed. “I’m leaving, Ronni,” he said.
“I know,” they said. “Won’t be back?”
“For a while. Maybe never.” He took a breath. “You’re on their radar anyway. Be careful.”
“I’ll figure it out.” Ronni’s laugh was like a radio transmitter being fried by a storm. “Always do.”
Sil nodded slowly - no one knew how old Ronni was or what they’d done before they opened the Bakehouse. No one dared ask. “Thanks. Good luck.”
“Same to you.”
---
He left through the back, through a hidden entrance not many people knew about.
If this had been an old detective novel, he thought bitterly, they probably never would’ve published it. He had too many McGuffins already, and no real idea where to go with either of them. He didn’t even know who wanted him dead, not yet. All he had was a black card, and two chips he didn’t dare slot himself, and a lot of confusion. If someone had come to him with this case - even his old man - he wouldn’t have taken it.
He wasn’t going to be working for a while, he thought, sighing. Good thing he had his savings. He didn’t have any jobs, so hopefully no new clients would come by, asking for his help. He had to help himself, right now.
Right, he told himself. Card first. If he had to resort to reading the chips he didn’t want to be the one to do it.
He adjusted his old gray hat once again as he headed off into the harsh noon light.
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I'm still working on fully building this world - I already have ideas for this guy's brother and sister as they're going to end up involved with this, much against his will. :D
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That's exciting - I'm very much looking forward to the next installment!
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Thank you!