november 2038. administrative, sanctioned, municipal. the sky hangs low and metallic, a dull pewter lid pressed down upon the skull of the city, and the rain comes tap, tap, tap and slicks the asphalt into mirror-dark plates, neon police strobes refracting through broken windows and chain-link fences. this house is hardly standing like most of them on this city block, burnt-out shells sag into themselves along the block, ribs of two-by-fours exposed, vinyl siding blistered into curling, carcinogenic petals. the backyard is choked up with junk: rusted appliances, a shopping car, tarps stiff with rain and mud. the call came through as a disturbance. possible deviant activity. procedure dictates containment: arrest, question, deactivate. in that order. the words slide too easy through his head: worn the grooves smooth. jim hopper hates the city and hates what has become of it, what has infiltrated it. boots sink into mud as rain needles down onto the back of his collar, flashlight slicing through the dark in hard and surgical lines. then there comes a sound. a rustle, almost too soft and he twists hard to face it. the gun is up before the thought even finishes forming muscle memory, academy drilled, flashlight aligned with the barrel of the pistol in his other hand, arm braced over arm. the voice arrives rough, command-coded, “ detroit pd. come out with your hands up. ” silence answers. so, he advances slowly, a foot after the other. the flashlight beam catches the edge of a tarp, shuddering under the rain, snagged on a broken lawn chair and table. hopper's jaw tightens. another command, and nothing. he reaches out, fingers hooking fabric and rips it back in one decisive motion.
a child. small and folded in on herself, knees tucked tight like she's learned how to occupy less space. rain-speckled hair is plastered to her face, eyes far too large and reflective. hopper's weapon dips before his brain truly stops it, instinct overriding indoctrination and his voice follows suit softer than intended, rough with recognition. “ easy. don't move. ”
he begins cataloguing the makes of her, injuries? none obvious. posture? defensive. “ you're just a kid, ” he says and the rain seems to rumble louder with it. “ you hurt? you alone? ”
the flashlight wavers, beam drifts, and there it is. just above the ear, bright red and perfectly circular. YK500. “ .. christ. ” the designation slams through his like a verdict, stomach dropping out. “ you're one of them. ” the city snaps back into focus, harsh and procedural and suddenly he can feel the weight of training again as it presses down steady on his shoulder. this is not a child, not fully. a deviant android illegal by design, engineered to replicate vulnerability so convincingly it might border on cruelty. for a moment, just one, he lets himself look. really look. at the trembling hands, at the terror so meticulously rendered it feels obscene. voice rehardens and armor snaps back into its proper place, “ o okay. out. hands where i can see 'em. ” gun lifts upward again, “ now. ”
＊ ☆ * verses starter call. ... @mcxine
