Little shops beyond the horrors

A wave of purple washed over the closed storefronts.

A large sign that was bolted above the empty stores lit up; it read

"Welcome to Rele Drive."

A row of finely sculpted black and white wheeled steel blocks lined the small side road, obstructing the wide car park. The dim lights flickering atop the empty squad cars illuminated the still-glistening, damp world.

Watching the commotion, a huddle of people looked on at the presence that rarely presented itself on the clean and quiet streets of Rele Drive. The onlookers watched from the sidewalk; some people were leaving their apartments above the stores to get a better look; others were simply going about their nightly routines, drawn in like moths to a flame by the sea of lights.

The crowd grew larger as time went on.

The clicking of phone screens unlocking and the beep of cameras on record caught the attention of some of the police officers strewn about. The onlookers were trying to peek past the opening and closing of the privacy screens that sectioned off the wide parking lot, either to get a scoop or out of morbid interest.

One officer spoke up, trying to disband the crowd.

Officer: Please move on and return to your homes in an orderly fashion. 'Calm and direct.' 

A line of officers guarded the arrivals and departures of people dressed in white plastic suits, ushering them in and out. One young police officer was in charge of carefully opening the air lock doors so no one could see inside. His gaze looked to the disbanding crowd on the sidewalk, then to the black van opening and closing.

The white suits completely encased the bodies of the crime scene analyst squad. Their glistening eyes served as the only distinguishable human feature behind the transparent goggles.

Just beyond the blue pop-up privacy screens, two men stood, looking down as the crime scene forensics teams did their work, coming and going. The shuffling of plastic moved about as the white blobs skirted around the living statues of the homicide detectives, donned in their rain-soaked trench coats.

A bright flash briefly illuminated the empty car park, causing a glimpse of red to flicker and fade away. Both detectives shielded their eyes from the blinding light.

An old man with slick back silver hair stood over a barely recognisable lump on the floor, pushing on the fringes of his retirement. A viscus fluid seeped into the gutter and down the drain behind him, flowing in between the poorly kept scuffed-up red dress shoes.

Reo: Oh, so much for those stab-proof vests. 'Derisive.' So, what about the other officer? (Flicking the spent, rolled cigarette onto the tarmac.) When will we be able to talk to him?

Next to the ageing fossil of the detective, a bulky man scratched the fringes of his long, black beard. He was not nearly as old as the sardonic detective, but he was slowly catching up. He had a worn look, and the words of his puffing partner rubbed him the wrong way, as they always did. The man knelt down, looking at the severed arm on the floor, not matching the body next to it—two pieces of a different puzzle in the same stylized picture.

A blue hue lit up the kneeling man's thick beard and bushy eyebrows as he scanned something with the tablet's camera. Two rough fingers pinched the screen, causing the small camera lens to zoom in on a set of engraved numbers that were blurring before focusing. The tablet speaker rattled to life with a digital female voice.

Tablet: Badge 1209-5. Officer Rammi J Dee. Age: 25, Sex: Male. District: Mykan...

A large, rough thumb tapped the screen, hushing the monotone human-like voice. The kneeling detective skimmed through the rest of the now-open file.

Huiir: Officer Rammi. It looks like he was rushed to Mykan Hospital. 'Huffing.' It looks like he will need extensive surgery on his right arm. Too bad, we can't save the arm. We won't be able to talk to him until the higher-ups and internal affairs find out what happened. (Glancing at the severed arm and closing the open file on the tablet.) I estimate that we will be able to speak with him in a day, or possibly two. 'Frowning.' You know, you should show a little bit of respect. (Picking up the stray cigarette butt.) Fionna is one of us. (Looking at the mound on the floor.)

Reo: Red tape bullshit; he might have lost his arm, but he didn't lose his tongue; time is of the essence, and they know it. 'Snarky.' She "was" one of us, you mean? If it weren't for her badge and vest, I would have had trouble discerning her from a bag of mince meat. (Reaching for another rolled-up cigarette in his pocket.) Still... (Thinking on his words.) She deserved better than this. I'd take a junky doing me in over this any day of the week.

Sparks fluttered from the antique silver lighter in Reo's left hand, partially hiding the skull emblem with his index finger. The shifting flame ignited a fresh cigarette as the man continued to speak and smoke in unison.

Reo: That arm is beyond saving; it looks like he tried to jack off a wood chipper. (Puffing on the cigarette.) You'd have better luck putting her back together than saving it; don't get me started on the one over there. 

Huirr glanced at Reo's vulgarity, then both men looked towards something making a ruffling sound.

A white pop-up tent fluttered against the wind.