After scanning the city streets, I decided to take a closer look at the neighborhood I called home. According to the data in the system, it was primarily a residential district densely packed with buildings and teeming with people from all walks of life, from the filthy rich to the dirt poor. Three gangs operated here, and their territories often overlapped, leading to frequent and brutal clashes. I'd seen cartel wars before, and nothing good ever came out of them. But here? No one even bothered to keep it in check. Gang members roamed the streets openly, without fear of being chased down. The sergeant didn't react to them at all, as if they didn't even exist. But I saw the patches. The symbols. Clear as day on their clothes.
"Patrol car 4318, Code 38, Fourth Avenue, 'Pink Dolphin' club," came the dispatcher's voice, crackling from the radio embedded in the dashboard.
Code 38 — two or more individuals involved in a physical altercation, no fatalities reported.
The system immediately pulled up the code definition on the HUD.
"Patrol car 4318, copy that," the sergeant replied. The vehicle surged forward, engine growling."Stick to protocol. You're backup stay out of the way unless it goes sideways," Demian said.
Soon we hit a heavy stream of traffic. The sergeant flipped the siren on, and we started weaving between cars like lunatics, cutting into oncoming lanes and forcing our way through gaps that barely existed. We finally skidded to a stop on a street so drenched in neon it nearly blinded my visor despite the bright daylight.
Getting out of the car, I watched as the sergeant marched confidently toward the entrance of a club, marked by a glowing pink dolphin sign. I figured right away it had to be a nightclub. Two bouncers stood at the door, but the second they saw us, they stepped aside. One of them spoke into a comms link, probably alerting the inside.
Inside, the barrage of colors hit me like a flashbang. Bright, chaotic lights strobed across the room. Music blasted at full volume while people danced like maniacs, lost in some fever dream. Whether they were partying from last night or just starting their day this way I couldn't tell.
A club staffer met us and led the way, cutting through the crowd. I caught glimpses of pure madness in people's eyes they had no clue where they were or what was going on around them. My onboard software kicked in, scanning for signs of intoxication. Beyond the obvious alcohol, these people were pumped full of other substances. It was no surprise a fight had broken out here. What was surprising was that they'd called the cops at all. Most places like this handled things in-house security didn't usually want badges involved, especially with all the drugs floating around.
The staffer pushed open a door ahead of us, and the moment we stepped through, the music died impeccable soundproofing. We climbed a flight of stairs, and soon, screams echoed down the hallway. A bright neon sign marked the VIP lounge. That answered the question it was someone important, and the club owner didn't want to ruin any high-end relationships. If the cops cleaned it up, there'd be no heat on him.
Thump-thump.
Two muffled gunshots rang out from upstairs.
"With me, rookie. Code 30C," the sergeant said, drawing his sidearm. I hadn't been issued a firearm yet. All I had was a non-lethal shocker embedded in my arm.
Code 30C — two or more individuals involved in an armed confrontation.
We rushed up the stairs. People were already fleeing the scene, ducking gunfire. There was a wide panoramic window overlooking the dance floor below no one down there had a clue what was going on. The music was too loud, and they kept dancing like nothing was wrong.
We weaved through the fleeing crowd and reached the room where the shots had come from.
"Sorry, kid, but you're going in first you've got the armor that can eat pistol rounds like candy," the sergeant said.
"Understood," I replied. Made sense. I had nothing to lose he did.
I stormed into the room, lit only by crimson ambient lights. A half-naked man stood inside, wearing only pants. He clutched his face with his left hand, constantly rubbing his eyes, while his right hand held a pistol. He wasn't aiming just firing wildly.
Name: Peter Johnson
Age: 29
Employer: Militech Corporation
Position: Head of Testing Division
Criminal Record: Fraud
Marital Status: Single
Directive: Armed. Neutralize using non-lethal methods only.
*
Weapon: M-10AF Lexington
Type: Pistol
Caliber: 9mm, automatic
Magazine: 20/4 (remaining rounds)
He was firing into an overturned table. Not exactly the best cover, but it blocked line of sight to any potential targets a common tactic when you're desperate. Not that it mattered with aim like his. You could stand still, and he still wouldn't hit you.
The sergeant came in right after me, keeping low behind my back and pointing his weapon at the suspect.
"Drop the gun and lie down on the floor, or I will open fire," he ordered.
Peter saw us and started to nervously raise the pistol. I acted first closed the distance fast and struck him hard in the gut. The impact sent him flying across the room and crashing into a couch. He started coughing, holding his stomach, gasping for air. I picked up the weapon he'd dropped, glanced at it, then holstered it to my thigh.
"Damn, rookie, you didn't need to hit him that hard. He's no longer our problem," the sergeant muttered.
"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.
"He's got Trauma Team gold status. It's easier to let them take him than to waste time on reports and hearings for the next month," the sergeant explained.
"But he broke the law. Discharged a firearm, might've even killed someone," I argued.
"You're new, so listen up things work differently here. We've got limits. If he killed someone, sure, we charge him. Otherwise, we're powerless," he said, walking over to the makeshift barricade and peeking behind it. "Alright, rookie, grab the first aid kit. Poor bastard caught a couple rounds."
I walked over and saw a man bleeding heavily, clutching his leg. The wound didn't look life-threatening. I pulled out a stabilizer from the med-kit and injected him.
"Okay, you're stable for now. Do you have a Trauma Team policy?" the sergeant asked him.
"Y-Yeah, I do. They're already on the way," the guy muttered.
"Good. Then our job's done. We wait for pickup, and we're out," the sergeant replied.
Then I noticed a girl lying on one of the couches. Something was off. She was barely covered by a thin sheet. I walked up and activated the analyzer. The scan showed a massive cocktail of substances in her bloodstream she was in critical condition. Full-blown overdose. It wasn't hard to piece it together. Some corpo types decided to "party" and picked a victim to drug out of her mind. The fight was just a side effect of too much booze, too many chemicals… and maybe an argument over who gets to go first.
"What about her?" I asked, unsure of what to do.
"We're not an ambulance. She doesn't have insurance and can't afford care," the sergeant said flatly. I realized then money really does rule everything in this city. Just leave her to die because she can't pay us? I pulled out a detox injection and administered it anyway.
"Anything you use outside of standard protocol gets docked from your pay," the sergeant said without even looking.
"I don't care," I replied.
"Got it. Then take her with you. Otherwise, the moment we leave, someone else is just gonna pump her full of crap again," he added.
I checked her data.
Name: Miranda Hill
Age: 21
Occupation: "Pink Dolphin"
Position: Escort
Criminal Record: Fraud, Robbery
Marital Status: Unknown
Recommendation: Do not engage
With a little digging, I found her address deep in the poorest block of Heywood. A couple minutes later, Trauma Team burst into the room. Their gear was top-shelf better than ours by a mile. Strange, how they were better armed than my commanding officer. He had a compact pistol. They had grenades, rifles, and body armor.
Two medics rushed to the collapsed corpos with small field kits, stabilizing them fast. The rest formed a tight perimeter, weapons ready.
"Officer, was client Peter Johnson the initiator of the conflict?" one of them asked the sergeant.
"That's correct," the sergeant replied.
"His gold status will be revoked. Future premiums will increase by 40%," the medic stated. Why they told us that, I had no idea.
After injecting a series of treatments, they loaded the corpos onto stretchers and whisked them away.
"That's it. Let's move," the sergeant said.
I picked up the girl, gently wrapping her in the sheet, and followed. I couldn't just leave her here. I'm no saint, but there's a limit. Letting someone die just because they can't afford to live? That's messed up. Then again… what am I even saying? It's always been like this. The only difference now is nobody's pretending otherwise.