John Darcy: Private Investigator

A red glow washed over Yorktown’s city skyline. It was weirdly beautiful, even if rampant pollution and energy spikes caused the color. The city burned bright like a sun, unsleeping and unending. Neon lights buzzed high overhead, even further above than most cars were legally allowed to fly in the Undercity. Those lights blended with the red glow in a collage of light pollution. A radiant sign for the Coolage Group consumed enough energy to power an entire district, but by god, did the board want their name out there. They needed the people to know who fed them, clothed them, watched them, ran them.

At this level in the Undercity, the exhaust from all the vehicles and industry, both above and below, could be sickening for those not used to it. A steady smog hovered over most of the Undercity sky, separating the far more luxurious Districts 15-21, which sat above the clouds and could see the sun. Tall skyscrapers crafted a mechanical jungle of teetering steel, an eternal night situation, only alleviated because the government's cleanup efforts did just enough to let the sun peak through. Even then, threats of budget cuts loomed over the Undercity and positioned it to forever be masked from the sun.

Even with headlights, the smog proved difficult to cut through. The summer air, heavy and hot, fueled the density of pollution, and without tracking GPS, most drivers would be flying blind. For John Darcy, he was glad his CX-7 model possessed a slightly updated GPS. The older cars, CX-6 and below, could barely function in smog like this and were all but obsolete at this point. Sometimes, John thought about upgrading to the CX-14, or even 15, but that meant being a slave to another expensive lease. Rent, food, fuel, clothes, entertainment, all of it piled on him with the weight of every decision he ever made in life. A new CX model was not in the cards…

For the time of night, traffic was heavy. John had been idling, one could say floating, in the southbound lane for the last twenty minutes. The smells and gasses gave him a headache; his filter levels showed low on the dash. The CX-7 was not known for comfort. It had been billed, at its release some 15 years ago, as a simple two-seater, perfect for a young couple starting out. Comfort was a luxury most couldn’t afford, and the filters in these things barely worked. They were never created with this much smog in mind.

John lit a cigarette, knowing that even the chemicals and smells from it would serve his body better than the pollution occupying his cabin. He glanced out the window, unable to see the ground or even the cars in the lane below him. The high lanes were the fast ones. Why were they taking so long today?

The radio buzzed on, only barely drowning out the plethora of advertisements around him and the whooshing of other vehicles pulling off while traffic sat at a standstill, honking at each other like crazed animals.

This just in with a breaking news report! Police are on the scene of a shooting at District 13’s Neko Resource Management offices. Currently, it is unknown how many victims there are, but we have received reports of four fatalities. Police currently do not have a suspect in custody. As we receive more information, we will report it.

This news broadcast is brought to you by the Coolage Group, bringing to you a sunnier tomorrow.

The music, the news, the sports, even the commercials were all brought to you by the Coolage Group.

Still, it was crazy to think of a shooting happening at a NRM facility. Not that John was surprised. Maybe, he was more surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. The rigmarole those places put Nekos through earned them a reputation even amongst humans. They were understaffed, underfunded, and under cared for. Guess it was finally time someone snapped, like so many seemed to do in Yorktown’s Undercity.

The radio broadcast was cut off by a call, a dull ring emitting from the vehicle’s speaker system. John answered it from the wheel, and a crackly voice buzzed through one of the speakers. The Carphone had been a mess for the last two years, but not repairing it offered an excuse to ignore calls.

There were only a few people he’d answer for: one being his secretary, Elle Brockman.

“Hello Elle,” John said after seeing her caller ID pop up within the dash, blipping in and out of existence like the fuel level and speed displays.

“John, where are you? You were supposed to be back an hour ago.” A youthful voice came back at him. “Mr. Strull has called five times today. I’m running out of excuses!”

“Traffic sucks,” John muttered, “Haven’t moved an inch in the last twenty minutes. What’s Strull so concerned about? I said I’d get the photos. He’ll have them by week’s end. That was the deal.”

“Do you have the photos?” She was quite stern on the other end.

“I have… a few photos.”

There was a long pause on the other end before Elle finally asked, “What does that mean?”

“Well, good news. Mr. Strull’s wife is not cheating on him with that doctor.” There was a very loud sigh of relief on the other end. “She’s cheating on him with one of the nurses.”

“Like a male nurse?”

“What do you think?”

“Oh no… he’s going to be even more mad…!” Elle sounded panicked on the other end.

“He’ll still pay.”

“If I call him back, he’ll want to know…”

Oh… true… she shouldn’t be dealing with the fallout anyways, confidentially and all that jazz. John cleared his throat. He didn’t really want to tell the guy either, but it was his name on business: Darcy Private Investigations. “Call Mr. Strull and tell em’ I’ll give em’ a ring tomorrow morning. You shouldn’t even be aware of these details anyways.”

“Really!” Elle was almost shouting. “Oh my god, thank you so much! Given how much he’s called, I’m pretty sure he hates me at this point.”

“Elle, answer me this, why are you still at the office? It's past nine.”

“I’m waiting for you…”

“You don’t need to do that,” John said, “Get some dinner. Go home. Go to bed. We can deal with this shit tomorrow. Honestly, I’m not going anywhere from the looks of it… Prolly going to pull off and wait it out.” His vehicle had moved a couple feet, which was something…

“Ok… well, be safe out there,” Elle said, “See you tomorrow.”

“You be safer.” John cut the call and let out a long groan, rubbing his eyes as the smoky air distorted his vision. Why Elle thought to wait up was beyond comprehension. He appreciated her tenacity and dedication, but it was late. Girl like her needed to go home and do something. Have a life outside of this shit… Even in the thralls of frustration, he couldn’t be mad. She was the best secretary he could have hoped for. He wished his last two had given even a quarter of her dedication.

John pulled down on the elevation stick, left of the flight controls; the CX-7 lurched downwards, pressing down on John’s stomach. It was a feeling he never got used to even after driving as long as he had. The CX-7 descended into the exit lane, where a collection of other drivers had opted to do the same thing. It created a momentary jam, but within a few moments, John exited into District 8.

Finding a parking spot, a block or two from his usual drinking spot, John touched the CX-7 down. It jolted as it connected with the parking pylons; the signal on his dash indicated it was charging. A friendly message from Coolage Group reminded him of the price of fuel and a counter began to tick up. Greedy bastards were even charging for street parking now, and with the recent refinery explosions in the south, Syntha-Fuel was at an all-time high.

John stepped out onto the street and locked his vehicle. A light drizzle, a cocktail of pollution, rainwater, and waste from Uppercity, drifted over District 8. He wiped his face, freeing it momentarily from the moisture. Down here, the smog was nowhere to be found. It hovered several miles above like a cruel god. Neon lights reflected off the smoke clouds. The streets were illuminated in red, blue, green, and pink as the signs shifted their images and flashed. Rainwater drained from the ground-level roads into large grates situated into the sidewalks. From there, it would drizzle down into a collection system and some to the irradiated earth some ten miles below. Yes, even the bottom most areas of Yorktown were not truly the ground.

Hands in pockets, a damp cigarette in his mouth, John made his way past the throngs of night owls, humans and Nekos alike. Some were just trying to live their lives; others hawked junk or sex at him like this was some sort of industrial farmer’s market. John ignored them as he pushed passed, shifting down a neon illuminated alley. There, he found Art’s Speakeasy. It was hardly a real speakeasy; those had been extinct for hundreds of years. However, people enjoyed the pretentiousness of the name.

Inside, the staleness of old cigarettes, dried booze, and body odor was enough to knock one on their feet. John greeted the bouncer in the foyer and made his way into the bar. It was dark except for a large blue sign that flicked on and off, advertising a beer that was long defunct. A scrawny, sickly looking fellow, Arty, stood behind the bar counter, popping the tops off Coolage Group branded beer, pouring it into Coolage Group branded glasses, and sliding it along a bar counter sourced by Coolage Group contractors. When Arty saw John, he offered a simple nod, which John replied in turn. He took a seat at one of the many open barstools.

Arty was already popping the top off a Shteps Light, a Coolage Group beer with an advertised zero calories. Everyone knew it was shit, and even though it tasted terrible, John couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for the kind of drink he remembered from his police academy days. These nights, when the guys would go out drinking and flirting and booze goggles made any young woman look fine, stood out most in his mind.

“How’s business, Arty?’ John asked as he took a sip, wincing passed the intense bitter taste. Refreshing…

“Shit,” Arty shot, “But it’s always shit. Coolage is down my throat to push this crap. Customers won’t drink it.” He referenced a sign that advertised some fruity cocktail type drink. It was the kind you’d see in the hands of a college co-ed, drinking away her insecurities and sorrows. “I can’t get the good stuff anymore less I hawk it. Coolage’ll freeze ya’ out.”

“Well, I’ll take one,” John said, “Call me a good Samaritan.”

“There’s little good about you… But, look at me? Moving the stock! Second one tonight!” His words were rife with sarcasm.

“The second?”

Arty nodded. “Yup. Got a gal who's been ordering them left and right.” He jerked his head to the right, indicating towards a young woman sitting alone at the bar. “She’s been here the last hour. Been keeping the riff raff off her if you know what I mean. Some you fuckers can’t let a girl drink in peace.”

John leaned forward to get a better look past the tap. With auburn hair and white ears perched upon her head, a Neko sat alone at the far end of the bar counter, nursing a can with the Coolage Group logo on it. She wore a short red dress with nude hosiery; her lips were as red as her dress. Her stunning aloofness sent a dizzying ring through John’s chests; she was beautiful. He figured her no older than her late 20s.

“Seen her before?” He asked.

“Nada. She’s a new one, but if she wants to keep ordering this shit, I ain’t stopping her.”

John would call it a bit strange if he wasn’t seeing it. Nekos avoided establishments operated by humans, and many weren’t allowed in “human only bars”. Art’s Speakeasy was not one of those places but seeing a Neko here was… safe to say… different. Especially a young woman by herself at this time of night.

“She with anyone?”

“Not that I know,” Arty replied, “No one’s come in looking for her, and when I asked, she just ordered another drink. Not my place.” It wasn’t anyone's place. She could do as she pleased.

For some strange reason, John wanted to know. No, he needed to. Perhaps it was having a Neko secretary for the last six months? It made him consider them more than he used to. His own fearful instincts could be at play; District 8 was not a safe place. She would have been better served to find a bar in Districts 6 or 7, where the Neko population was denser, but they hadn’t fallen into massive disrepair like Districts 1 or 2.

Still, there was no reason for them to interact. She was a girl having a drink, and he was stopping in until the traffic finally let up. It wasn’t until the Neko pulled out a smoke and a pink lighter that John’s curiosity roared like a flame. She flicked the igniter multiple times, but not even a spark fluttered. Possibly out of fluid. Possibly damp from all the moisture. In that instant, John grabbed his drink and crossed over to her. Everything told him not to.

He pulled out his lighter; the Neko side eyed him before striking with a “Fuck off…”

“You’re out of fluid, I think. Got your light here,” he held up a lighter crafted with polished stainless steel. “No strings attached. Promise.”

It had been a line that John was sure she'd heard before. Thinking, she twirled the cigarette between her fingers before ultimately patting the seat next to her. John obliged, holding out a steady flame. With the cigarette pinched between her red lips, the woman leaned forward, catching the tip with the soft blaze and puffing out an impressive cloud of smoke.

“You use that line on all the girls smoking?” she asked.

“I’m not that smooth.” John lit up a second cigarette.

“Ah, so you’re humble,” she said. She eyed him again as silence took over. John sipped at his beer. “I believe this is the part where you’d ask my name?”

“What’s your name?”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I can be indifferent if you’d like. Comes with the territory.”

The Neko frowned. “I can’t tell if you’re flirting or dense.”

“Neither. Sorry to break it to you.”

She laughed instead. “Fine, Mr…”

“John Darcy.”

“Ah, a Mr. Darcy, I see. That is a fun name. Do you get a lot of Austin fans pining for you?”

John flicked the ash off his cigarette. “I’m not much of a reader.”

“Books are boring,” the Neko said, “Why would anyone want to read when you have pleasure suites, multisensory entertainment experiences, or if you can really pay, virtual sex?”

“Won’t lie. Those multisensory things scare me. Plugging right into a person’s brain is… well… disturbing.”

“It can be quite-” the Neko giggled to herself, “-fun, you know. Depends on what you want to do. I’m sure getting tossed into a war scenario wouldn’t be quite as enjoyable as, say, two gals giving you their undivided attention.”

“You must really think you know me?”

The Neko shook her head. “I just assume what you men want.”

“Tell me what I want then? You’re the expert.”

The Neko leaned back and blew another smoke cloud up into the rafters. She thought for a moment before a very sly grin returned to her red lips. “Well, you came over here, offering me a light with ‘no strings attached’, but there are always strings attached, Mr. Darcy. You wouldn’t have bothered me if you didn’t want something. Is it to talk? Flirt? Take me home? It’s somewhere in that realm.”

“Your name,” John replied, “What I want is to know your name?”

“Amber Vallis.”

“That was easy.” John swung his legs over the stool to face her. “Why does Amber Vallis find herself in District 8?”

“Do you want to see my papers? You’re not secretly the police, are you?” She stuck an extended figure into his chest. The pressure was enough to leave a mark.

“Curiosity. I’m not a cop.”

Amber eyed him cautiously as she sipped at her drink. “I’m a singer. Well, sort of. Tonight was my big break, you could say. It was supposed to be anyways.” She began running a finger along the outside of the glass. “My ‘contact’ was supposed to pick me up from District 8. That was… an hour ago… So, I don’t think my show’s happening.”

“You pay this guy anything?”

Amber shook her head. “I’m not that stupid. They probably found someone better. Don’t need the Neko girl if someone better comes along.”

“I’m sorry that happened,” John said, “Getting all dressed up and whatnot. You, uh, look nice.”

“Is that your attempt at a compliment?”

“It is.”

“Is that your attempt to ‘pick me up’?”

John laughed. “Like I said, no strings attached.”

“Well, please. Continue with the compliments,” she said with a soft smile at him that lacked the sardonic tone that radiated with the rest of the conversation.

“That’s as good as it's gonna get. Sorry, I ain’t too good at this.”

“So you are trying to pick me up!” Amber slapped the bar, “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not interested. Thanks for the light though.” She flicked off ash from the cigarette. It was nearly gone.

“No problem.” John stood and finished his drink, tossing down some money to pay and tip Arty. “Can you get home ok?”

“I’m a big girl.” she smiled.

“That you are,” John said, “Have a good night, Amber. Good luck with your singing career.”

“Hey wait…” She stopped John before he returned to the other side of the bar. “You never said what you did.”

Why was she curious? A friendly conversation or perhaps a quick test? John reached into his wallet and handed her a business card. It contained his office information and phone number. Amber’s eyes widened as she read the card.

“A PI?”

“If you ever need help investigating anything, give that number a call. My secretary can get you in touch.” He offered her one final wave before heading back to his stool. Amber left shortly left, but John noticed she kept peering over at him, jerking between the business card and the man who gave it to her. After another twenty minutes, John left Arty’s as well, offering the bartender a sizable tip and thinking of the beautiful woman he just met. What a shocker to see someone like her here.

He was more shocked to see that traffic was still utter garbage.