Detective Fenn Olivares did not enjoy being rushed. He was a slender man, and perhaps by means of compensation had developed an imposing character—-one that, while soft-spoken, delivered a penetrating insight coupled with sardonic wit, instilling in his co-workers a healthy amount of wariness, and an even healthier amount of respect. And yet, despite his hard-earned place of esteem, Olivares found himself once more scurrying down the bland halls of Central district’s interrogation chambers with a scanner in hand, annoyance warring with apprehension as he inwardly cursed that rat-sucking bastard Pikeshanks—-always too eager to start an interrogation without his partner present.

Olivares arrived just in time to see Pike deliver a hard backhand across the detainee’s pale face. The girl was painfully thin—-starved, even—-and her face and neck showed signs of bruising much older than those Pikeshanks was currently inflicting. Tough love, thought Olivares, a slightly irritated frown twisting his lips as he entered the room. As his sharp brown eyes settled on the suspect’s black longcoat, however, the frown deepened into a scowl, and he paused. The material was very high-quality. Unlike the coat of every officer in the building, the fabrics were not recycled. Any junkie who’d managed to retain a piece of cloth like that was either astoundingly tenacious (not a trait commonly found amongst those who lost themselves in the Littles) or very high up the chain, protected by a den-runner with definite pull.

“Pike—-”

Before the detective had time to interject, Pikeshanks’s meaty fist slammed into the bound woman’s stomach. She barely made a sound at the assault, reflexively doubling over in the chair, breath interrupted. Her arms were twisted behind the back of the chair, making movement difficult, but her eyes remained closed. Based on what they’d found in her coat pockets, Olivares guessed that the waif was simply too stoned to register the pain—-probably for the best, considering his partner’s primitive interrogation methods.

“Dammit, Pikeshanks! Lay off, we haven’t ID’d her yet.” Olivares moved to grab the taller man’s arm with his free hand and found himself staring up at a solid wall of muscle that seemed, upon closer inspection, to be haphazardly stitched together by sheer spite. Atop this beastly frame, surprisingly white teeth were bared beneath a challenging sneer.

“An’ we ain’ gonna ID ‘er! Fucksake!! You know it, I know it—-jus’ some slut needle-kisser from th’ gutter! Gotta get ‘er runner’s name, don’ I?” Olivares wondered, distantly, whether Pikeshanks stood before a mirror every morning, practicing how best to flex his neck muscles. Focusing on minutia helped maintain his calm as Pike shoved a hard finger into his chest. “I said, ‘don’ I??’ ‘S mah fuckin’ JOB, ain’ it??”

As the man’s obscenity-laden outburst cascaded over his unblinking face, Olivares mused once more on the fact that Pike Shanks was by no means an attractive man. He’d fought and scratched his way up from the streets of Rat Town to a place on the police force, though rumours were varied as to how he’d been assigned to Central district. The perpetual sneer marked him a troublemaker, and his considerable physique made most hesitate to call him on the shit he pulled. His brutish temperment and fearful reputation brought forth constant hostility in Olivares—-it was pure luck that Pike’s abrasive tactics were just barely held in check by Olivares’s constant edge of disdain.

“She’s marked, Pikeshanks. Use your tiny eyes next time.” Olivares cooly distanced himself from the confrontation, circling to the back of the chair. He bent to yank the girl’s sleeve up, revealing the brand on her right wrist. Fenn let out a slow, quiet breath, secretly relieved that his hunch was correct. He straightened, smoothing his shirt casually, pleased to have his aura of superiority intact.

“…Fucksake, Fenn.” Pike snarled, retreating a few paces. He crossed his arms with a sullen glare, directing his bitterness equally between the other man and the opaque series of twisting lines beneath the captive’s skin. A tense silence reigned briefly before the hulking menace shrugged, grudgingly voicing his curiousity. “How’d you know?”

Olivares allowed a wan smile to grace his lips, brows raised as he threw his partner a glance. “My keen fashion sense.”

Pike gave a disgusted grunt and turned to go, leaving Olivares to study the silent figure handcuffed to the chair. It didn’t take much to lose Pikeshanks’s interest—-the promise of paperwork was one such deterrent. Fenn relaxed slightly, glad of a moment’s peace in which to work. The young woman’s eyes were still closed, expression slack, unaware of the men’s conversation. At least the girl hadn’t lost her breakfast when Pikeshanks punched her… all Fenn needed today was to get stuck playing maid in the interrogation room. She really is too skinny, he thought to himself, glancing at the teenager’s bloodied nose and shaved head as he crouched to pass the scanner over her wrist. Poor fool. These kids think money alone will be enough to keep them out of the Littles, and then they get—- Fenn’s thoughts halted abruptly, dark eyes fixed intently on the screen in hand. The name displayed there made his jaw clench. Suddenly, cleaning vomit off the floor seemed far more attractive than what the rest of the day had in store.

The wall towered, hundreds of feet tall and encircling the city utterly. Its mottled surface spoke of countless repairs and old wounds patched over with brick, concrete, and plaster. How many years had it loomed silently at the edge of the metropolis? Or had it been decades? Centuries? Of all the people who fell into the ceaseless current of Central Avenue, not one so much as glanced up at the immutable fixture. The city’s residents had accepted it as a permanent backdrop to their everyday lives, and indeed, no one could remember a time when the wall had not stood guard at the perimeter of their world.

Troy Roski, however, glared up and wondered, for the hundredth time this week, whether anyone else in this goddamn pithole held even a shred of curiousity in the depths of their furtive and oblivious hearts. Troy’s was a face lined with brooding thoughtfulness, and despite his twenty-odd years he carried with him the weight of a philosopher—-a plethora of defunct histories and depressing truths that he had inherited with his uncle’s impressive collection of contraband literature. This love of the printed word had, unfortunately, left Troy afflicted with a passionate case of idealism, and as this romantic notion was entirely at odds with everything he saw in the world around him, he found himself constantly depressed. From his bitterness toward a world that grew increasingly alien to him blossomed the barbed sarcasm of a hermit. One of the few things that could entice him away from the comfort of his extremely illegal library was a call from Fenn Olivares—-the irony of which was not lost on Troy.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed off from the weathered brick wall of Grenloch’s Goods, one of the businesses he passed by on his way to the precinct. Today they were sold out, turning his mood sourer than usual. Troy missed the familiar routine he’d fallen into these past few months—-stopping to chat with wizened old Grenloch, purchasing this week’s ration of cigarettes, then pausing to light the first smoke of the day just inside the mouth of the alley beside the building. It was an excellent strategical position for moody silences, and he enjoyed the momentary lull before the bustle of the day almost as much as he did the relief of the cigarette’s chemical rush. Today offered neither luxury, so he grudgingly ducked his head, weaving himself seamlessly into the flow of bodies along the avenue.

It was unnecessary to say that Central never slept. The city’s vendors crowded the main street, eagerly vying for customers with brightly-painted signs, while the more upscale businesses proudly advertised their wares with coloured lights that glowed—-courtesy of Re-Gen. Of course, he thought wryly, these days, everything’s “courtesy of” Re-Gen. Electricity, water, sewage, healthcare… Troy stepped back onto the curb to avoid a bus that sped soundlessly through the clamor of the streets, battery-powered public transit being another of Re-Gen’s seemingly stringless gifts to the community. As he approached the corner where he turned toward the precinct, a man covered in patches of green, leathery skin grinned up from his seat on the pavement, rattling his coin-box.

“Sparrah cuppul cred fah’n ol vet, ayy?”

Troy paused nearby, one hand already seeking a couple of the old metal coins that passed for currency amongst the city’s poor. He nodded in greeting, his eyes drawn to a black sedan parked in front of the station’s entrance.

“News today, Hobb?”

“Ah, seh, som stef-nik cuns’lorr druv up, dem ner rund meh orr! Mussa ben fickt aba sum’n—-ben inder rite ba’aff ‘nurr nah. ‘N ah bit Kep’n ayn tuh ‘appy abaddit, seen as ‘ow ee gut droog uppan ‘urr aforeez doo twark. Ol kaja luffa, det, nawwamin?”

The vagrant’s particular brand of gutter-speech (not to mention odor) assailed him at breakneck speed, earning a playful grimace from the younger man—-something unpleasant was happening in that building… unpleasant, and important enough to warrant a personal visit from a City Counsellor. Very few things persuaded <em>that</em> lot to come down from their tower and mix with the lower classes. An extra credit clinked in along with his usual donation as he gave the ragged man a short smile and wave, hurrying on toward the precinct. Troy found himself grinning as he jogged casually up the stairs, curiousity giving wariness the boot as he tugged the door open by its cold brass handle and slipped inside.