Several kilometers below Nova City.

The stench—saturated with decay, a miasma of rotting foods, and the dustiness of shifting smog—burned Gibs's throat the second he climbed out of the air-sterilized chaser. Grimacing at the mildew taste infesting his mouth, he flipped the mask in place. While rolling his shoulder in an erratic shrug, he activated his enhanced left eye, hoping to pierce the gray air blanketing the crime scene.

Standing amid a vortex of pollution was Martin Davis, hunched as he studied something in his hands. The dampened light glimmered off his receding hairline. His glasses flickered as he read information from the precinct's databases off the lenses.

Gibs tightened his coat around his crumpled uniform despite the wet heat dewing sweat on his brow. Stomping toward Davis, he scanned the eroded buildings, searching for unfriendlies. The Deadzone denizens were unworthy of life above the pollution layers. Poor air, a rat diet, and dodging law enforcement meant a good life was impossible for them. They scavenged what fell from the upper levels, arming themselves with discarded weapons of various ages. Gibs had recharged the blaster strapped to his thigh, and if that didn't work as new tech was known to do, he kept an antique Glock holstered to his side.

"Detective Gibson Shaw, what the frack?" Davis spat something onto the sponge-like ground covered in decades of rotting litter.

Gibs gritted his teeth. He would have to incinerate his boots after this. Who knew what disease still lingered in the moist mass beneath him?

Davis deactivated his lenses and peered through the clear glass at him. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Who reported this?" Gibs stiffened then slid his fingers around the grip of the blaster.

In the shadows surrounding the crime scene, faces appeared then faded. He wasn't up for a shoot-out today, not when they surrounded him with unknown firepower.

"Anonymous." Davis pursed his lips, flicking a glance at the shadows. "Relax, they won't touch this no matter how much they can sell it for."

Gibs released his grip and exhaled, easing the tension in his shoulders. "What do you have?"

He tugged on sterilized gloves as he approached the demarcated area. Neon lights scanned and verified his credentials when he stepped through the holographic bands. If the precinct hadn't granted him access, the bands would have tasered him.

"I've never seen the like." Davis was the dinosaur of the forensics department, preferring a solo existence in the abandoned bowels of Nova. His knowledge was invaluable hence his delayed retirement, and for that, the Force showed him respect. "It, or she, is missing an eye and its recordings." He tapped his left eye, his bushy gray eyebrow twitching. "Whoever took their frustrations out on the inkjob didn't want us to identify them."

Sprawled in an unnatural pose, as if it had plummeted from above, lay the remnants of an AI in the guise of a young woman. It was nude except for the various encoded ownership tatts covering its limbs. The 'wounds' were serrated as if a wild animal had raked its claws across the eternally youthful skin, and its inner mechanical workings were spewed out in a tangled mess.

Its hair splayed out like it was underwater. Images flashed in Gibs's mind: a young boy, swirling hair, lifeless eyes.

Shaking his head, he crouched beside the tattooed synthetic known as an inkjob. "Destruction of private property still applies."

Green lubricant oozed from the tubes spilling from its abdomen. No expression crossed its face, not in life nor death, and neither did he expect emotion from a machine. There was something artistic about the pose, though, as if someone had taken the time to arrange the limbs with care. This wasn't a crime of passion—this was premeditated, but for what purpose? Perhaps the vandal killer practiced before he targeted humans?

Gibs frowned, tempted to rub his jaw in deep thought as he worked through the possibilities. He stiffened his fingers, pulling his gloves tight. After he sterilized himself, he would ponder the whys and hows.

"The owner reported it missing hours ago. If it wasn't for its older encoded tatts, I wouldn't have identified it." Davis flipped his stylus to gesture to the shredded, palm-sized tatt of a cat. "That's the current owner's stamp. The embedded data is unreadable."

"Personal vendetta?" Gibs mused aloud, not veering his focus from the tatt. It was familiar though he couldn't place it. "It would explain the removed video footage and the crime itself. The inkjob didn't fight back, which meant its owner wasn't present or in danger."

"Or they commanded it not to defend itself." Davis shrugged.

"Frack. Summoned here for this?" Gibs huffed and rose to his full height, stretching his old knees. "I don't do mutilations or anything to do with synthetics." He hadn't pissed off any gods or politicians, just one woman, who had shacked up with his boss—his now ex-wife, Tamara. "Any clues?"

Whatever Davis gave him, he would start there. Whoever had attacked and mutilated a defenseless synthetic had to hate the owner.

"Thomas Walker, son of Senator Walker," Davis said, his tone dismissive as if who the inkjob belonged to didn't matter.

"Frack," Gibs muttered, now placing the cat-like tatt.

The Walkers had more than the usual number of enemies. And he would have to change his clothes. No way would their butler let him in with the stench of Deadzone Nova clinging to him.

Dealing with the rich worsened his mood. Notorious for their disrespect of the law, their disregard for possessions, and their political clout twitched pain behind his left eye. That little shit Thomas must have given permission for someone to ravage his inkjob out of boredom or an artistic display of overindulgence. Gibs shook his head. Both sounded unlikely. Thomas wouldn't report it missing unless for the insurance.

"There was a partial footprint in its lube which I managed to scan before the litter absorbed it. I've got no fingerprints, and I can't see for shit to find hair or skin flakes, not even with my upgraded bionics. There is evidence of sexual activity. I took a sample for DNA analysis." Davis dropped to his haunches to snap his tool kit shut. "I got the drones doing a multi-dimensional scan. I'm hoping for residual heat signatures, and there's an abandoned yet active sec-cam. I'll send you the vids of that. I tasked the department's inkjobs to search for the murder weapon." Davis chuckled. "I sure as hell don't think we have a wild animal roaming these streets."

He shuffled closer, and in the humidity of the fog, Gibs fought to remain immobile. With Davis's body heat and potent odor consuming what oxygen remained, claustrophobia pressed down on him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew in slow, calming breaths and circled the inkjob, hoping to gain some distance and a pocket of untainted air.

"Tech's on the way. They'll check the inkjob further before sending it to Renovare for incineration." Davis crouched to brush a blonde curl off the inkjob's temple. "It's a pity. It's a beaut—one of the deluxe entertainment models."

"The Walkers can afford to splurge." Gibs tugged off his biodegradable gloves and tossed them onto the littered ground. "Let me know if you find anything else." He strode to his chaser hovering twenty meters away. As he approached, the door opened. He climbed in and ripped off his mask to suck in gulps of purified air.

"Welcome, Detective Gibson Shaw," the automated driver said in a calm feminine voice.

"Deep cleanse and home." He deactivated his enhanced eye and rubbed it.

Air gushed around him, cooling the sweat on his brow and stripping some of the stench saturating his coat. The doors sealed, and the chaser climbed the kilometers to the present surface. Old neon signs and flickering three-dimensional faces appeared through the swirling fog, as abandoned as the streets below. Light pollution dimmed the night sky, but he didn't care that the view wasn't perfect. The sight eased his tension, and he released the death grip he had on his knees.

Other vehicles sped past, using designated, well-lit pathways. His chaser slipped into traffic and headed for his small apartment bordering the shitty side of Nova. He couldn't afford anything else after the divorce. At least, a bottle of cheap vodka waited for him. Just thinking about it had him salivating.

Bile pooled at the back of his throat, and he coughed, tasting fresh mildew. Frack, he hated the Deadzone and rookie cases. His furious glare reflected off the panoramic windows. For a moment, he didn't recognize himself. A week-old stubble darkened his jaw. Shadows under his eyes screamed his insomnia. He ran a hand over his face as if it would alter the years wrinkling his eyes and mouth.

"Call ahead and schedule an appointment with Thomas K. Walker."

A few seconds later, the auto-driver said, "Appointment scheduled for 1800 hours."

Gibs grunted and shifted in the seat, searching for a comfortable position. He didn't need to command his chaser to wake him. It would do so out of protocol. Folding his arms across his chest, he closed his eyes, hoping the circulating air would lull him to sleep.

He rubbed his neck, hoping to massage away the headache forming and ease the tick in his eye. Questions swirled, blurred, reformed until he drew in a long breath. Perhaps this case was just what he needed.

***

Date: 2170.10.10

Nova's Blue Sector AKA "The Holies"

Nate

Nate climbed out of the taxi, swiping his wrist to pay. He stepped onto the metallic platform jutting out from The Skin Canvas, his small tattoo parlor. Wind whipped his hair across his face, and he sighed as the warmth burned his temple. Whining chasers darted past, their anti-gravitational engines whirring as they dropped off their fares.

A glance at the level below showed various shops opening for the day, and beneath that, thick fog swirled in a haunting pattern. Despite the railings, people still fell off as if they offered their idiotic selves to a faceless god. Nova's mayor gave his assurances that there were safety nets to catch the unlucky. No one had traveled below to confirm this.

The front door chimed as Nate entered. He readied a smile for his receptionist, Lissa. Two owners and their modelesque inkjobs waited for him. One was a housewife who stroked the inkjob's angular jaw and broad shoulders, her lustful gaze implying the poor synthetic would be used for more than housework. Almost humanlike, Nate could see the appeal. Loneliness drove people to do desperate things, and in this case, fucking a synthetic. He'd never been tempted, but then again, he'd never been lonely enough to consider it.

Fighting to keep the smile in place, he nodded a greeting without meeting his clients' curious stares and slipped into the back room. How he longed for a job where he could test his artistic mettle.

After he draped his jacket over the back of his chair, he pulled the synthetic identification kiosk closer. He couldn't complain. He shouldn't. Tatting inkjobs with their ownerships kept The Skin Canvas afloat, and it was Half-Price Wednesday, so he was bound to be overwhelmed by midday.

"We have a lovely couple wanting joint tatts." Lissa giggled, placing a fresh cup of coffee-flavored sludge on his side table—she made it strong enough to resurrect the dead. Brown curls bobbed, echoing her merriment as did the swaying of bright-yellow hoop earrings and a matching summer dress.

Nate shook his head and smirked at her words. "Married?" He pinned his hair into a bun, tugged up his sleeves, exposing his ink-stained forearms, and gestured to her to escort them in.

"Just this morning," she said before skipping from the room to usher them in.

Nate had known Lissa for years, but what mattered the most was her bubbly personality. He had never seen her sorrowful. No shadows lingered around her, with nothing triggering his unusual gift.

Last night, he had seen Kylie's mood the moment he stepped through his front door. As much as he adored his wife, he hated it when she was sad, with darkness engulfing her figure and blurring her sweet smile.

As a Rights-4-Synthetics advocate, what she dealt with daily would scare the hell out of him. Inkjob abuse formed a large portion of her struggles since no laws prevented the destruction of one's own property. Thankfully, the government had denied Renovare permission to manufacture child synthetics. His home life would have been in constant darkness, with her mood swinging from light thunderstorms to full-on hurricane-mode.

"Nate, Mr. and Mrs. Collins," Lissa said, a bright smile breaking across her plump features. She was a romantic at heart, and her enthusiasm spilled over anyone in her vicinity. He loved that about her.

The diminutive man escorted his wife with a courteous hand on her back. Pale hair fell across his face and glasses, and an unavoidable smile warped his cheeks. He was happy now, but regrets had a way of sneaking in. His entertainment-model wife had various tatts screaming her history. She was well-loved, having known many owners.

Mr. Collins guided her into the chair and scanned his wrist across the kiosk. A stylized woodpecker appeared. Each client chose from the available tatts when they purchased the rights to own a synthetic. Exchanging or selling models without tatting and notifying Renovare was a chargeable offense and included the possibility of a lifetime synthetic ban. That law kept Nate in business.

"Where would you like the tatt placed, Mr. Collins?" Nate gestured to the inkjob, who sat stiff as a board, staring at the wall behind him.

"On Viv's left wrist, please," he said, turning the AI's arm with a gentle touch.

Within moments, Nate had the encoded tatt printed and branded into Viv's skin. With Mr. Collins, he traced the pattern and inked it on the corresponding spot to his wife's, but he used The Skin Canvas's patented drug-laced ink. His client would experience a gentle euphoria for two days, keeping buyer's remorse and thoughts of divorce at bay for a little while longer.

"Weren't they adorable?" Lissa lingered in the doorway.

Nate pasted on a smile, hiding his boredom as the 'happy' couple left. For a moment, a darkness hovered above Viv's auburn curls. He blinked, a frown forming as he studied her departing figure. Shaking his head in disbelief, he gestured to Lissa to usher in the next client. While he waited, he squeezed his eyes shut, pinched his brow, and prayed he'd imagined it.

No way was an AI sorrowful. They didn't have emotions.

But he had seen the darkness, and it wasn't near her husband.

Nate's ink had made sure of that.