The Fallen Part I

Saul paces his cramped office, phone pressed against his ear. The harsh fluorescent lights cast deep shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw.

"No excuses, Macallister." The voice crackles through the speaker. "Gilmore's got connections all the way up. We need results."

"Chief, I've got leads-" Saul's knuckles whiten around the phone.

"Leads don't cut it. Three weeks, and what do you have? A handful of nothing."

Saul's free hand brushes against the case files scattered across his desk. Gilmore's face stares up at him from surveillance photos - that perfectly manicured goatee, the tailored suit, the smirk that says 'you can't touch me.'

"Get to it." Static cuts through the chief's words. "Or should I put someone else on this?"

The threat hangs in the air. Saul's reflection in the window shows the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble he hasn't bothered to shave.

"Give me more time." His voice comes out rougher than intended. "I'm close to something. I can feel it."

"Feelings don't hold up in Caspia, Macallister. You've got one week. After that, I'm reassigning the case."

The line goes dead. Saul drops the phone onto his desk and winces as pain shoots through his shattered arm. The cast feels heavier today, a constant reminder of his failure. He slides into his chair, the metal creaking under his weight.

A wheezing cough wracks his body, and he fumbles in his pocket for his RespirX maintenance kit. The bionic lung interface glows a warning amber - another payment due soon.

"Should've had backup," he mutters, injecting the calibration fluid into the port beneath his collarbone. The familiar burn spreads through his chest as the system recalibrates. Each dose costs a week's salary, but it's better than drowning in his own blood.

The RespirX in his chest hums as it filters another breath. Another reminder of the ticking clock - solve the case, or lose everything. His career. His health. His chance at redemption.

Saul pushes through the precinct's heavy doors into the night air. The city's neon glow bleeds through a haze of industrial smog, casting everything in sickly purple and red. His boots crunch against broken pavement as he paces the alley behind the station.

A glint catches his eye - a half-crushed cigar box wedged between garbage bins. The label's worn but the gold embossing still shows through: "Corona del Rey." High-end stuff.

One pristine cigar remains inside. Saul rolls it between his fingers, studying the precise wrap of the tobacco leaves. The sweet earthy scent reminds him of his father's study, though he'd never dared try one himself.

His RespirX whirs as he brings the cigar to his lips. The flame from his lighter dances in the dark as he draws in that first puff. Immediately his throat constricts, raw and burning. He doubles over coughing, the cigar falling from his fingers.

"Damn it." His eyes water as his bionic lung struggles to filter the unfamiliar toxins. The taste coats his tongue like motor oil mixed with dirt.

Saul grinds the half-lit cigar under his heel, watching the embers die. His father always made it look so sophisticated, but all Saul feels is nauseous and foolish. The lingering smoke mingles with the city's perpetual haze as his breathing slowly steadies.

Heavy footsteps echo behind Saul as Officer Chen emerges from the precinct's back door. His uniform collar hangs loose, tie long discarded during their double shift.

"Thought I'd find you out here." Chen leans against the brick wall. "Rough call with the chief?"

Saul grunts, kicking at the crushed cigar. "That obvious?"

"Your face says it all." Chen pulls out a protein bar, breaks it in half. "Here. You look like shit."

"Thanks." Saul accepts the offered half, though his stomach turns at the thought of food.

They stand in silence, watching neon reflections ripple through oily puddles. A police drone buzzes overhead, searchlight cutting through the smog.

"Remember when this job felt simpler?" Chen crumples the wrapper.

"Nothing's simple anymore." Saul stares down at his broken arm. "Can't even breathe without owing someone."

"Or walk." Chen taps his Gull leg against the pavement. The metallic ring echoes down the alley. "But hey, at least we're alive."

"For now." Saul's RespirX whirs. "Got any bright ideas about this Gilmore case? I'm running out of options."

Chen chuckles, a rough sound. "Man, if you want dirt, you're asking in the wrong place. Try East End."

"The red light district?"

"Those working girls hear everything. Amazing what people say when they think no one's listening." Chen grins. "Don't ask how I know."

Saul raises an eyebrow. "Official police work?"

"Let's call it community outreach." Chen pushes off the wall. "Just watch yourself down there. Place has gotten rougher since Gilmore's disappearance."

***

Saul waits until Chen disappears around the corner before slipping back inside. The precinct's night shift hums with subdued activity - officers filing reports, the occasional ring of phones, the whir of coffee machines.

He makes his way to Chen's desk. The drawer where Chen keeps his prized Cyberblade MK-IV squeaks as Saul eases it open. The knife's sleek titanium handle catches the fluorescent light.

His hand hovers over the weapon. Chen had shown it off countless times, demonstrating how the neural switch activates the laser edge. "Latest tech," he'd boasted. "Cost me three months' salary."

Saul's fingers close around the handle. The metal feels cold, foreign - a physical reminder of his betrayal. He slides the blade into his jacket pocket, the weight pressing against his chest like guilt.

"Sorry, Chen," he mutters, closing the drawer. His partner's desk calendar stares back at him - photos of Chen's kids smiling up at their father. The same kids Chen's been saving up to send to better cities, away from the toxic air.

Saul's RespirX whirs louder, as if protesting his actions. He touches the bionic lung port, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his fingers. The knife in his pocket seems to pulse with its own accusatory beat.

But East End isn't a place for clean hands or clear consciences. He needs an edge - something more than his badge and broken arm. The knife might make the difference between answers and another dead end.

***

Neon signs paint the wet pavement in shifting hues of red and purple. Saul adjusts his leather jacket, the civilian clothes feeling foreign after weeks in uniform. His boots splash through puddles as he takes in East End's nightly parade.

Holo-ads flicker across building facades, promising escape through Bile or flesh. The sharp click of mechanical limbs mingles with distant music. Steam rises from street vents, carrying the acrid smell of industrial waste. Through the haze, dealers huddle in doorways, showcasing their modified Gulls. One opens his coat to reveal an array of prosthetic fingers, each tipped with retractable blades.

A group of workers stumbles past, their RespirX units glowing blue beneath threadbare shirts. They laugh too loudly, pupils dilated from cheap stimulants. One man's bionic lung wheezes audibly, the sound of components grinding together betraying its black market origins.

Saul's own RespirX hums as it filters the thick air. His broken arm throbs in time with the bass bleeding from nearby clubs. He watches a street vendor adjust the holographic menu above his stall, prices scrolling endlessly upward. The smell of synthetic meat fills the air, making his stomach turn.

Women in sheer dresses line the neon-lit doorways, their silhouettes casting long shadows across rain-slicked pavement. A redhead with flashing cybernetic eyes beckons to Saul, her fingertips trailing along the exposed metal of her collar bone.

"Looking for company, handsome?" Her voice carries the artificial sweetness of someone who's repeated the same line a thousand times.

Saul keeps his gaze forward. His broken arm throbs as he pushes through the crowd. More calls echo from the brothel entrances - promises of warmth, comfort, escape.

A prostitute with silver-chrome fingers steps into Saul's path. "Haven't seen you around before." Her fingers trace patterns in the air, catching neon reflections. "First time?"

"Looking for information." Saul keeps his voice low. "White-haired girl. Young. Captain of a ship."

"No ships dock here, honey. But I could show you something better." She gestures toward the open doorway behind her, where red light spills onto the street.

Saul moves on. A woman with golden cybernetic arms reaches for his jacket. "Information costs, officer. Why don't we discuss it somewhere private?" Her metal fingers trail down his sleeve. "First hour's half-price for law enforcement."

Another dead end. His fingers drum against the cast, trying to distract from the itch that intensifies with his frustration. The motion sends sharp pains through the poorly-healed breaks. Shiro knew exactly where to strike - the memory of her calculated violence makes his skin crawl beneath the plaster.

A sharp whistle cuts through the neon haze. Saul turns to find a lean figure emerging from the shadows between buildings. The man's coat hangs loose, pockets bulging with hidden merchandise.

"That arm giving you trouble?" The dealer's eyes fix on Saul's cast. His fingers dance across a row of luminous pills nestled in his palm. Each one pulses with an inner light, like tiny captured stars.

"Not interested."

"Pride's expensive these days." The dealer steps closer, voice dropping. "Especially for an enforcer working East End cases."

The dealer holds out a single glowing pill between thumb and forefinger.

"Quick fix. Takes the edge off everything." He presses the pill into Saul's good hand. "First one's free. Consider it professional courtesy."

Saul's fingers close around the pill before his mind catches up. The warmth seeps through his skin, promising relief from the constant ache.

"I'll be here when you need more." The dealer melts back into the shadows.

Saul holds the pill up to the neon light. Nanobots swirl beneath its translucent surface, a galaxy of artificial stars dancing in suspended animation. They pulse in rhythm, their synchronized movement hypnotic against the backdrop of East End's gaudy glow.

"Just insurance," he mutters, sliding the pill into his jacket pocket. The weight of it sits like a secret against his chest, next to Chen's stolen knife. His fingers linger on the smooth surface before pulling away.

He tells himself it's for evidence, for understanding what flows through East End's veins. But the lie tastes bitter, even as the pill's warmth seeps through the fabric of his pocket.