Lost Limbs

"Can you still move? Can you stand? We need to leave!"

The voice was panicked, and it broke the young man out of his trance. A woman was standing in front of him. Well, more like a young girl. Her clothing was cut to shreds, but the few tatters that remained were stuck to her from sweat and blood. Some of her wounds were superficial, but there were others that looked deep.

He rattled his bonds. A metal cuff was latched to each hand, and chains linked them to the wall. Behind him was a solid stone wall of concrete, and the chains were built into it. He pulled with what little strength he had, but the chains wouldn't budge. The woman watched him as she weighed her own options. A makeshift bandage covered her left eye. As he continued to struggle, the woman leaned in close and tried to pull the chain with him, but it wouldn't budge.

"I'm going to get help. Stay put," the woman told him, apparently deciding to give up for now. He tried to respond, but found his mouth was too dry to make any sound come out. How long had he been down here? He knew his clothing was in a similar state to hers, though his shirt had long since been cut off. His shorts, now nothing more than elastic and a few strips of cloth, were all keeping him decent. His mind still felt clouded, and he felt the cut along his face crack as he tried to speak.

The woman slinked away from him, and the man felt himself drifting away again. How had he gotten here again? It was hard to remember anything.

After some time, a feminine scream rang out, and the man knew his would-be savior had probably been caught. Despite his tiredness, he could make out the outline of a figure slowly moving towards him.

"Seems like we had a bitch slip her leash. Too bad, she didn't offer much sport," the large figure spat out, the young man feeling a familiar chill run through his bones. He began to shake uncontrollably, knowing what that voice would bring. A stump of an arm with a makeshift metal hand reached out and clutched his face. The stinking smell of cigar fumes and alcohol filled the young man's nostrils. Despite his lack of food and water, he felt his bowels loosen. The metal fingers of the false hand dug into his cheeks.

"Well, kid, you won't last much longer. Anything you want to confess before you go? If you're willing to give up enemy secrets, I'll let you have some water. Maybe even a bite to eat."

The young man let out a choked sob and tried to speak again, this time the blood from his face wound wetting his lips. "I'm... not enemy, sir. J-just, please... let go. I beg you."

The man scoffed and pulled his metal hand away. The device scraped against the young man's skin but didn't cut him. He felt a wave of anxiety run through him as the man stared him down.

"Fine, the knife then. I'm almost tired of this."

"No, please," the young man begged, newfound strength from terror filling him. "I swear!"

A strange whistling sound, like a reed flute being played, filled the room. And as it did, countless knives fell onto the young man. Slicing, stabbing, gutting. He screamed as new blood filled his vision.

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Brokheim woke with a start, his left hand outstretched, making a claw in the air. He felt beads of cold sweat trickling down his body, and he sighed as the panic slowly subsided. The bland white ceiling was colored with a hint of orange as the light of dawn filtered in from the window of his room. Looking around, he scratched at the stubble that had formed overnight with his right hand, slowly rising from his mattress.

"That dream again, huh?" He mused, trying to remember the last time it had plagued him.

The room was sparsely decorated, with a dusty wooden chair in the corner, and a nightstand holding a lamp and a clock next to the bed. The bed itself was relatively small and sagged in a few places, but it wasn't completely unusable. Two doors led out of the room. One was closed, the other opened up into a bathroom. Slowly, he rose and walked over to the latter, using his right hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. Turning on the shower, he looked himself over in the mirror.

Detective Brokheim Misthenkul was a man in his late thirties to early forties. His short-cropped hair was mostly brown, with several rogue grey hairs dotted around. Even the stubble of his beard had hints of silver, though it merely poked out from the edges of his face. His eyes were brown with a hint of green, and cold as he looked himself over. Using his right hand, he traced over one of the long diagonal lines that ran from the top of his forehead down to his chin. The scars were long healed over, but he still grimaced as he touched them, his lips twisting into a snarl for just a moment. The bridge of his nose had a horizontal scar across it as well, and his nose ended in a sharp downward slope, making it look like the tip of it had been cut off at some point.

Across his body were similar diagonal scars. They ran up and down his front and back without end, with the exception being his left arm. The skin there looked new and untouched up to his elbow. On his left wrist was a steel watch, plain in design, with several buttons branching off from the watch face.

He jumped into the shower before it could properly warm up, the cold shock of the water waking him up as the warmth slowly spread from the water. With actions that had been repeated hundreds of times, he washed himself off and dried off with a towel hanging from the shower handle. He picked up the razor next to the sink, but after a brief look-over he thought better of it, muttering "I'll add that to the list. The blade's been pretty dull lately. Maybe I should ask her to get one for me?"

Returning to the bedroom, he picked up the clothing he had been wearing the night before and gave it a sniff. After a moment, the detective shrugged and started to put it back on. Laundry day was tomorrow, the current clothing would have to do.

Exiting out the other door, Brokheim entered the rest of the apartment. Small, cramped living quarters gave way to a small kitchen and a table. The table had a glowing computer screen and a petite figure sitting next to it. He waved and got a half-hearted response back from the girl there.

"You're up early this morning," he remarked, still straightening his tie. "Did you even get to bed?"

The girl mumbled something, but her eyes didn't leave the computer screen. On the table were a few empty dishes, which Brokheim gathered up and set in the sink. He shook his head and looked her over for a moment, his eyes lingering on a small smiley face pin attached to her shirt. After a moment, he patted her back and sighed. "Okay, well just take care of yourself. I've got to head in and meet the new guy. As always, if you need me call the station."

The girl nodded and mumbled again, looking down at her feet. Brokheim paused, but after a moment he started getting his things together. He threw on his shoes and grabbed a small metal case, straightening his tie one more time before he headed out of the apartment.

It was only after he left that the detective sighed and realized he hadn't asked the girl to get him a new razor. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he made his way down the steps into the lobby. This early in the morning, a few people were already up and about. Several nodded in his direction, but none called out to the detective as he walked by. The hum of florescent lighting accompanied him as he made his way out and over to the parking space where his vehicle was parked.

The car itself was painted a generic black, with several dings and scratches decorating the bumpers and sides. A small black pine tree hung from the center window, and the seats were a generic white fabric. Brokheim sighed as he unlocked the door and threw his metal case in the passenger seat. He took a moment to adjust his mirrors and check arond him before turning the key to start the vehicle. With a slow, high-pitched whine of a serpentine belt kicking to life, the car rocked to life. He started on his journey to the office while turning on the radio.

"Hey folks, it's your favorite DJ, The Radio, giving you the best hits this side of the wall. As most of you would know, we're on the thirtieth year of The Cease Fire. To commemorate that, there's talk of a celebration and our favorite mayor giving a televised speech. Sounds like some pompous talk to me. Of course with our watchful overlords of the military, who are we to complain? I sure don't want to end up in their little vault. So for now, let's forget the heavy news and listen to a few of the best my memory has to offer. Stay tuned, ladies and gents!"

A song with an impromptu beat began to play, with the DJ adding a few lines here and there. At times he rhymed, other times he seemed to forget the lines and adlibbed what he could. It wasn't terribly entertaining, but it was the only station available in the city. Brokheim watched the roads carefully as he drove past dilapidated buildings and broken roads. A few ripped up tents could be seen down some alleyways, but there was no motion around them. The few people stirring were ones going to or from their respective jobs. A few stopped and watched the oncoming car as if fascinated, but every time they saw Brokheim at the wheel they'd face downwards and keep walking. A few people smiled and waved, but they were few and far between. The detective took no notice, carefully avoiding potholes and broken streets on the way to his destination.

Eventually, a large black building began to take up the view, dwarfed only by the large wall encasing the city. The large, looming structure, was a mess of antennas and concrete. While the buildings nearby looked old and broken, this one seemed new and intimidating. The number of people increased, as well as the number of people wearing suits and ties. Here, more people waved to Brokheim as he passed. Unlike further out, this area had functioning street lights and even a few cars that ambled by. While they all seemed old and beat up, they all chugged along reliably.

Eventually, the detective arrived at a parking structure next to the large black building. A man dressed in traditional police guard waved him through, and Brokheim waved back to him.

"Hey Chuck, how's it going?"

The guard shrugged and made a note on his clipboard. "Same shit different day. Heard you have a new partner coming in. Is he the new asshole?"

Brokheim shrugged back and sighed. "Seems like it. But what can I say? We need this to keep funds coming in to the PD. If I said no, we'd have to shut the lights off."

Chuck grimaced and gave a knowing smile. "Well, good to know we have a detective that cares about the little people. Y'know, while The Sword and The Spear are out there spitting on anyone they look at. Glad we have The Balls lookin' out." He chuckled and handed over a small rectangular parking pass. "There's some grumbling 'bout the 30 year Cease Fire celebration. You taking care of that too?"

The detective groaned and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he used his left hand to grab the parking pass. "Chief said we're on tent-cleaning duty til then. Gotta keep the riff raff from appearing on cameras. Sure the new guy will be content with the attractions for now."

The guard smiled and waved him on, apparently done with his conversation. Brokheim nodded and continued on, parking at the first level of the structure and grabbing his metal case before continuing inside.

The interior of the building was a strange mix of new and old. The foundations were old, with several pillars appearing dusty and sagging, but the outer shell of the building was reinforced and covered in large panes of glass. Inside, a receptionist sat at a large wooden desk and nodded as she saw Brokheim enter. He nodded back, but didn't exchange pleasantries. "Is he here yet?" He asked, no sign of a smile on his scarred face.

The woman shook her head, "No, not yet. I think they told him to come in at noon. But who knows." She sighed loudly and shrugged to emphasize her frustration. The detective nodded knowingly.

"I'll be up in my office. Send him up when he gets here."

The woman nodded and Brokheim entered the elevator. With a look around, he hit the button for floor 4.

No music played as the doors slid shut. Slowly, with a metallic grinding noise, the elevator rose up to the proper floor. The buttons showed a total of 18 floors, but there were also several buttons leading to basement floors. The detective showed no interest as the indicator above the doors alerted him to his arrival.

The doors slid open to reveal a narrow hallway with four doors. Each door had a metal plaque on it, denoting the names of the occupants. Brokheim's door was at the end, and he nodded to the security camera that pointed at the elevator as he passed by. While it was only so slight as to seem like an optical illusion, the camera nodded back for just a moment. Fumbling for the key for just a moment, the detective opened his door and entered the tiny room inside.

There wasn't much to the office. No windows accessed the outside, and only a couple filing cabinets decorated the walls. An ancient computer sat on a desk in the center, with three chairs for various occupants in the room. One was situated at the desk, while the other two dusty chairs sat facing the door itself.

The detective situated himself as he booted up the computer. After several moments, a generic screen showing basic functions slowly blinked into existence. He spent the next several hours answering emails and checking paperwork left for him.

Finally, around eleven in the morning, a knock sounded at the door, and Brokheim cleared his throat expectantly. "Come in," he ordered, not looking up from his work.