Since Beat’s detective story is so detailed and heavy duty, I think it’s time to fast forward to another chapter to give you (the reader) a break. Hope you enjoy this brief respite before diving back in.
From the chapter tentatively titled, Resonant Frequency’s Ghouls.
It was another rain-slicked night under the neon in the city. Sometimes, Res thought this town was made out of clichés. She was sure that someone had good intentions once upon a time, a long time ago, but judging by the current aesthetic of her surroundings, those good intentions had been layered over with papier mâché or plastic, with every surface obnoxiously bleeding advertisements of all kinds. Despite the typically wet weather, tourist groups in busses passed by, wearing VR glasses and marveling at what the city once was and the history it lived through to get to what it is now. Growing up here, Res never viewed it as a tourist. She’d seen all the statues, the post-modernist red sculptures in corporate squares, and a few landmarks from the city’s glory days, when entertainment required space to view and much more space to create. It didn’t surprise anyone that a city which revolved around creating and selling fantasy, eventually became a cliché-filled parody of itself.
Res nearly stepped off into a deep puddle with a rainbow-colored surface as she walked to the bar. She was distractedly deep in thought about a recent meeting with a potential client. The client insisted they meet via commlink which provided security, audio, and video, but the artificiality of it all meant the client could be anyone or no-one at all and gave no clues about their location.
People used all manner of tactics during these types of meetings to hide their identity. Voice changers, high resolution backgrounds, video feeds of hired actors or AI-generated people who never existed. It was never 100% real, on either end of the call. Res herself preferred to appear as one of her favorite video game characters, only made to look more human, and it was such an old throwback from a 2020’s video game, very few ever spotted the reference. This client did, and complimented her on her choice. To Res, that immediately dated the client, in their 40’s at the very least. But that was the only clue she felt confident identifying. Everything else about the client was a black hole. Still thinking too hard, she bumped shoulders with a patron leaving the bar as she walked in. She mumbled a quick “sorry” and found a spot at the end of the bar, where the bartender expected her to be.
“The usual?”, he asked, as Res slung her wet jacket over a hook under the bar in front of her seat. “Sure”, Res replied, and got a shot of Jack Daniels with a beer chaser before she could get situated. He must have seen her coming in and had it ready. That’s what you call your home bar, and being a regular comes with those sorts of privileges, in the right places. Res was pretty sure the bartender’s name was Kirk, or Keith, but she wasn’t great with names, even after coming to the bar for the better part of 5 years. To be tricky, she just called him K and spared herself the embarrassment. K looked her over for a moment and asked, “something on your mind? You’re looking distant tonight.” “Yeah. Work”, she replied, and he met her with an understanding smile as if to say, you don’t have to go into it. Res downed the shot and followed it with a mouthful of Red Stripe beer. She liked to unwind and slowly drain the bottle until she loosened up a little before getting seconds.
Looking around the room, it appeared to be full of locals. Cliques that were easily identified by their conformity to one style or another. In one corner, she saw the WW3 vets, usually wearing old fatigues with high and tight buzz cuts, and visible scars worth a story. Nice guys for the most part, as if they’d already had their share of fights so only the good stuff was left. Further down the bar she saw a group of Moderns, with their shaved heads, glowing fingernails, and designer skintight clothing, each outfit built specifically for each person from a single designer in the middle of the country somewhere. They mainly kept to themselves and stuck to Smart Drinks, microdosing psychedelics to keep them sharp. Next to the Moderns were the Luddites, a group that intentionally rejected technology and were the polar opposites of the Moderns, not a single cell phone or set of VR glasses among them. They were just chatting quietly to themselves and deliberately, intentionally, sipping aged whiskey.
Over at the pool tables near the jukebox were some younger people she didn’t recognize, wearing custom slogan shirts. One man’s shirt read “Who is Genesis 15?”, and it was animated to fade to white, then paint itself as if a black paintbrush was inking it one letter at a time. Animated shirts were extremely popular with that age group and they regularly traded animation patterns with each other based on pop culture, memes, recent news or whatever else they found funny or relevant. They were all products of their own online culture and many of the designs were inside jokes, adding to the cool factor.
Res took another slug of beer after cataloguing the room. She was comfortable here, and didn’t stand out in any particular way, other than being essentially unaffiliated with these groups. She knew a person here and there from each group and they’d chat from time to time, but they always approached her wanting to talk. As she relaxed into her barstool, her mind drifted back to the client meeting. She was mulling it over, trying to identify anything else from the call. It was her nature, and part of what made her good at her job as an ASE. The client had told her all the standard things from people who want to be Shielded. “I have a valuable life, and privacy and secrecy are paramount to my existence. I have made enemies thanks to my decisions, and some of them want me out of the picture. I’m not paranoid, I am hyper-aware.” Knowing what Res knew about the DAA’s in the past, it was most likely true, but something sounded like it was worded awkwardly. The client continued, “I seek your company’s services not out of desperation, but out of a need to remain safe. I have seen the invisible, and I think it’s a threat”. That last sentence… what could the client be hinting at? A lot of things are invisible, like the air, but a stiff breeze blowing leaves down the sidewalk makes it visible. Did the client actually witness something outside normal perception, or was it just a clunky metaphor for finding out something they weren’t supposed to know?
She didn’t put much more thought into it. She was here to relax, and by the time she raised 2 fingers, K was setting down another shot and another beer. Suddenly, from behind, someone grabbed her left elbow just above the joint. He leaned in close and whispered in a deep, gravelly voice, “don’t panic. No sudden moves. Come with me, we need to talk.” She was startled, but as he let go and headed towards the corner with the WW3 vets, she downed the shot, casually patted her hip to make sure her self-defense was in place, and followed him. He was much taller than Res and cleared a path through the room past the vets and into a short hallway leading to the bathrooms. It was a little quieter there than the din of music and conversation in the rest of the bar.
“This the way you pick up girls, stranger? Does it ever work?”, she teased, trying to hide her nervousness. “Dunno, never tried to apply it that way. I’m supposed to deliver a message, and I’ll make it quick.” “Well, I’m here and I’m listening”, she replied. He continued, “I’m Dec, and I’ve been trying to find you on behalf of a certain someone who can’t be here to tell you himself. So, listen very carefully. You are about to stumble across a ghost. When you do, ignore it. It will save everyone a lot of time and trouble. There are things that are above your pay grade, and mine.” Dec paused for a moment as someone exited the bathroom, then went on. “I have a pretty good idea of what you do. But what you do is not the top of the pyramid. There are others above”, he said as he pointed upwards, towards one of the many cameras. That’s when Res caught one interesting detail. On that same hand, Dec was wearing a flat-topped ring with an insignia stamped into the surface. A triangle with an eye suspended in the middle. He then said, “I apologize for startling you, but I find it very effective in getting people’s attention. Hope I didn’t leave a mark. And remember, leave the ghosts alone. Don’t get too curious.”
Dec turned and walked back into the bar, as Res ducked into the bathroom to relieve some liquor and beer. By the time she was done, she went back to her spot at the bar and Dec was gone. Hastily scribbled on a napkin under her beer was a name and number. Dec. 101-338-0FDA. No note, nothing else, and she had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Ghosts? Like, actual ethereal ghouls that haunt old buildings, or a metaphor? Just who the hell was that guy, and why does he think he knows so much? His ring hinted at the Splicer organization, but as far as she knew, they didn’t have goons walking around scaring people with crab-claw elbow grabs and vague warnings.
Two more fingers up, and K was right there with another shot. “You ever see that guy before”, she asked. “What guy?”, asked K. “The guy that left this number on this napkin. And who uses hexadecimal code in a phone number? 0FDA?” “Sorry hon, I must have missed him. Busy night tonight, some thirsty strangers here along with you locals. Is something wrong?”, he replied. “Not sure”, Res said, “this has just been a weird day I guess.” She looked at the napkin again before stashing it in her purse. She finished most of her beer, got her tab squared away, and headed out into the rainy streets to go home, nervously glancing at the shadows as if someone was hiding, waiting for her to walk past for another ambush. She made it home safely in a few minutes, and moments after entering her high-rise apartment unit, she tossed her wet jacket on the rack, her keys on the kitchen table, and carefully unfolded the napkin and left it there too, face up, as if she would forget. She ran a hot bath, soaked for a while, and crashed out for the night. No ghosts yet.
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