Memory Playback: Matthew Carrington
Staring out the car window, I watched the streets of the city that had become both my home and my prison for nearly thirty years. I felt like I could never leave my family and my job kept me bound here. Especially my family. Sometimes, I wished I could just walk away because all they ever brought me was disappointment. But I was a man, and my duty was to provide for them, no matter how endless my wife's demands or how relentless my kids' pleas were for new toys like the latest phone or trendy clothes. Thankfully, my work as a detective and my years of solid service ensured I could afford their whims.
Damn this job it used to feel noble. Solving cases, helping people, uncovering the truth, bringing criminals to justice. That was how I had imagined my future. But reality turned out to be much darker: I had to do terrible things in pursuit of evidence, and the crime scenes I visited filled me with nothing but disgust. At first, everything was going well. My track record of solved cases helped me climb the ranks quickly and earn widespread respect. But when I got tangled up with the cartels, things took a sharp turn for the worse. They had connections in high places, and they started applying pressure, interfering with my work. Things went completely downhill after I managed to put a cartel boss behind bars after that, attempts on my life became routine.
I even worried about my family being targeted, but for now, the feds were keeping them protected, and the cartel didn't seem too interested in them. It was my blood they wanted.
At the next red light, the car came to a stop, and a bright billboard flickered to life outside. Huge letters blazed across it: "A New and Beautiful Future." The ad continued, showing robots replacing manual labor lifting heavy loads, working in the fields, operating in hazardous zones. What a beautiful future, I thought sarcastically. If machines replace us, we'll all be out of work. And then what? We'll be left to starve, to struggle. Nothing good will come of this. Feeling irritated, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took a deep drag.
Even this small pleasure had become fake. Real tobacco had long been replaced with synthetic compounds that left a chemical aftertaste. Genuine cigarettes cost a fortune now. Quitting would be the smarter choice, but the stress and exhaustion wouldn't let me. Rolling down the window, I exhaled a stream of smoke into the night air and spat bitterly.
"Bad mood, Matthew?" My partner, Brendan Fletcher, asked from behind the wheel. He had been driving silently until now, though he'd been my partner for a long time. Before him, there had been many others most couldn't handle working with me, or they met untimely ends. In our department, it had become an ominous superstition: if someone got assigned as my partner, it meant they were in for a rough fate.
"Same as always, Brendan. Our job doesn't leave room for anything else," I replied. A good day in our line of work was a miracle and miracles didn't happen.
"Fair enough," he nodded. The light turned green, and we drove on.
Our destination was the city's slums. An informant had tipped us off that Carlo DeVargo had been spotted in an apartment there. Our job was to check it out and, if we found him, take him into custody immediately.
New Caden's slums were among the most crime-ridden in the state. Every building was a breeding ground for drug dens and brothels. The people who lived here matched the setting junkies, gangsters, and prostitutes. Visiting places like this was hell for me. It laid bare the filth of humanity, its depravity. But duty called, and duty didn't care about my preferences.
"We're almost there," Brendan informed me. Looking around, I recognized the familiar landmarks.
We pulled up to a checkpoint that separated the slums from the rest of the city. These barriers were put in place to keep districts like this isolated from the more prosperous parts of New Caden.
Brendan flashed his detective badge, and we were quickly waved through. The metal gates slid open, granting us entry into a world that resembled a casino where you could lose your life at any moment.
Filthy streets were crowded with beggars pleading for spare change and vendors hawking their wares at every corner. The buildings were uniform in height and design built as cheaply as possible. They didn't even have elevators, meaning we'd have to climb up to the eighth floor on foot. What a delight.
Thud-thud, bam-bam, rat-a-tat...
Gunfights were a constant occurrence in this district, and even pedestrians no longer reacted to the sound.
Why didn't law enforcement clean this place up? Simple. The people here weren't considered official citizens of the city. That meant we weren't obligated to protect them. But if these "non-citizens" ever tried to leave the slums and sneak into wealthier neighborhoods, they could be dealt with however the authorities saw fit whatever it took to keep them from going where they didn't belong.
Our car pulled up in front of the suspected location of Carlo DeVargo. Just another building, indistinguishable from the rest.
"How long are we gonna sit here?" Brendan asked, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his social media feed.
"As long as it takes," I said. Unfortunately, that was the reality of our job. The higher-ups were breathing down our necks, pushing us to get him behind bars as soon as possible.
"Ugh… Can we at least grab something to eat?" Brendan asked again.
"Here? If you've got a death wish, go ahead," I replied. The so-called "food" sold in this part of town barely qualified as edible. To cut costs, vendors would throw in just about anything.
"Fair point. Guess we're just waiting, then," Brendan sighed and went quiet.
I decided to skim through our target's dossier again, pulling out my UIP a specialized device used to identify criminals and access a database containing information on nearly every citizen. It was a flat module with a holographic display.
"Let's see…" I thought. Arms trafficking, smuggling, and dealing in banned substances nothing unusual. I'd seen plenty of cases like that. But the attempted assassination of William Allford's son… that was serious. Allford, the head of Megatech, a corporation that manufactured military-grade weapons and tech, was a powerful man. His son, however, hadn't been so lucky found stuffed in a bag at a waste processing plant.
No wonder we were under so much pressure.
"Alright, no point staring at the same information again," I decided, putting the UIP away. Sometimes, being the best detective brought more problems than benefitst his case was proof of that.
I kept a close eye on the building's entrance, occasionally glancing up at the windows. The street outside remained calm, nothing out of the ordinary.
But something about the silence unsettled me. By now, something should've happened a fight, a disturbance, anything out of the ordinary. Yet everything seemed… normal.
Something was definitely wrong. I started scanning the area, looking for inconsistencies in people's behavior or any signs that we were being watched. My eyes darted quickly, assessing different angles nothing stood out.
Nervous tension crept up my spine. I didn't like this uncertainty.
"Damn it, get a grip. You're not some rookie. Pull yourself together," I muttered under my breath. I took slow, deep breaths in, then quick exhales out. After steadying myself, I refocused and searched for anything that seemed off.
Then, I spotted him.
A homeless man except, he wasn't like the others. He wasn't as thin as someone who'd been starving on the streets. He sat with his head lowered, wearing dark glasses that completely hid his line of sight. One of his hands was buried under a pile of trash as if he were concealing something.
What else? His position. He was sitting in a spot that had a perfect line of sight on the street. And oddly enough, hardly anyone was walking past him.
He wasn't just some random vagrant. But was I just being paranoid? I needed more proof.
Now, I started searching more systematically where could someone be watching us from? Where would be the ideal spot for an ambush?
The balcony directly above us or the one across the street both had a clear view. But no, our car was reinforced with armor. Attacking from above would be pointless we'd drive off before they could finish the job.
The windows, though? They were more vulnerable. If an attack was coming, they'd aim for those.
My attention was drawn to a van parked nearby. It had no wheels, and its hood was left open. At first, I dismissed it as just another stripped-down vehicle, a common sight in these parts. But now, I realized it was the perfect place for an ambush. There could be armed men inside, just waiting for the right moment to swing open the doors and unleash a hail of bullets on us.
I scanned the area again, checking every possible hiding spot for hostiles. Most of them seemed unlikely. But two locations stood out they were the most logical places for an attack. Yet something nagged at me.
If this was an ambush, what were they waiting for? Why hadn't they made a move yet?
Maybe I was just being paranoid. Maybe everything was fine, and my exhaustion was getting the better of me. It wouldn't be the first time my imagination played tricks on me.
"You're acting nervous. Something wrong?" Brendan asked, meeting my gaze.
I hesitated.
"No, everything's fine," I replied.
Reaching into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes, I noticed a kid staring at our car. He formed a gun with his fingers, "shot" at us, then grinned and ran off.
There was no doubt now this was an ambush. We had to act before it was too late.
"Brendan, we're in a trap," I said quietly, keeping my voice steady.
"What? Where?" He tensed up, glancing around.
"Stop looking around and sit still. Don't give us away. If we spook them, they'll start shooting," I snapped.
"Alright," he said, his voice uneasy. "But how do you know it's an ambush?"
"The van next to us. There are armed men inside. The entire street is being watched. And it's too quiet." Maybe my suspicions weren't enough proof, but when it came to life and death, I'd rather be cautious.
"Sounds like paranoia to me," Brendan muttered, but my cold stare shut him up. "Okay, okay, I believe you. What's the plan?"
"You floor it. We punch out of here. There might be gunfire, but it's our best shot." If they hesitated even for a second, we had a real chance of escaping.
"And what about Carlo DeVargo?" Brendan asked.
"Nothing. If we want to make it out alive, we leave him," I said, frustration creeping into my voice. The brass would chew us out for this, but that was better than dying here.
"And what if you're wrong?" Brendan pressed, his questions starting to get on my nerves.
"Let's test it then. If we drive up and they start shooting right away, we'll escape. If not, we'll come back after a while. Deal?" I offered a compromise.
"Alright. Should I start off normally or go full speed?" he asked for final clarification.
"Full speed," I said.
"Then on the count of three." He carefully started the car. Good thing they switched us to electric vehicles silent as a ghost. "Three, two, one."
As soon as he finished counting, he slammed the pedal to the floor. The car shot forward with a slight wheelspin. But after just a few meters, the van doors suddenly swung open, and a machine gun barrel poked out. Homeless people on the street grabbed weapons and started firing in our direction. Bullets pounded against the car's body, creating a harsh metallic clatter. The windows held up, only cracking slightly.
We sped away from the ambush, accelerating and disappearing around a street corner. My suspicions were correct they had set a trap for us. Looks like our informant fed us false intel to set us up.
"Shit, you were right. They could've killed us back there," Brandon said anxiously, pushing the car to higher speeds.
"We need a new informant. This one sold us out. Another waste of time."
"Come on, man. At least we made it out," he turned his head toward me and patted my shoulder. "You've got the best deduction skills."
Through his arm, I caught sight of a truck in the side mirror barreling straight toward us. There wasn't enough time to warn him. It was already too late.
The truck's massive weight slammed into the side of our car. Time seemed to slow down as I witnessed the crash in vivid detail the door crumpling inward, tiny shards of glass scattering through the cabin, the force of the impact sending us hurtling toward a building. Concrete shattered as we plowed through a wall, finally coming to a stop as we crashed into another one.
The car was a wreck. The force of the impact blurred my vision, and my eyelids grew heavy. The last thing I saw was my partner smashed against the dashboard, crushed into a bloody pulp.
Drifting into unconsciousness, memories of my childhood and dreams surfaced. I saw myself sitting by the river with my father, fishing together.
"So, you're saying you want to be a cop?" my father asked, winding the bait onto his hook before casting it into the river.
"Yeah! I want to fight crime and make the world a better place!" I answered enthusiastically.
"That's a noble goal, but remember it's a tough job. Be honest and fair," he advised seriously.
"I'll be the best!" I puffed out my chest proudly only for my fishing rod to nearly slip into the river as a fish yanked on it hard.
I scrambled to grab it, but it kept slipping from my hands. That's when my father stepped in, securing the rod and helping me reel in our catch. A massive fish emerged from the water.
"Remember, to be the best, you can't lose sight of anything," he said, pointing at the fish I almost let go.
"Got it," I mumbled, feeling a bit defeated.
"Don't be upset, champ. Let's go cook it," he said, gathering our gear and leading us home.
That was the last time we went fishing together. Not long after, he was killed by some damn junkie. And the court… it took his side, claiming there wasn't enough evidence to prove his guilt.
My mother and I fought. We appealed to every authority, hired lawyers nothing worked. Turned out, the bastard was related to one of the judges, and they let him walk free.
The injustice burned inside me, fueling my rage, wrecking my mental state. A month of grief later, I found myself back at that same river, recalling our final moments together. That's when I made my decision. That's when I chose to become a detective.
The dream began to fade into darkness.