Someone else's memory

Replaying Matthew Carrington's memories.

Looking out of the car window, I watched the streets of the city that had become both my home and my prison for almost thirty years. I felt that I couldn't leave it—family and work bound me here. Especially family: sometimes I dreamed of walking away from them because they only brought me disappointment. But I am a man, and it is my duty to provide for them, despite my wife's endless requests and the constant whims of the kids, who never stopped asking for new toys, like the latest phone and fashionable clothes. Fortunately, my job as a detective and my good service allowed me to earn enough to cover all their whims.

Damn the job, I thought it was noble. Solving cases, helping people, finding the truth, and catching the guilty—this was how I envisioned my future. But the reality turned out to be much darker: I had to do terrible things to find evidence, and the crime scenes I visited filled me with disgust. At first, everything was going well; my track record of successfully solved cases allowed me to climb the career ladder quickly and earn widespread respect. But when I got involved with the cartels, things went downhill fast. They had connections in high places and began to pressure me, hindering my work. It got even worse when I managed to put a cartel boss behind bars—after that, attempts on my life became more frequent.

I even worried that they might harm my family, but so far the feds were successfully protecting them, and they didn't seem to be of much interest to the cartels. It seemed they only thirsted for my blood.

At the next traffic light, the car stopped at a red light, and a bright advertisement billboard lit up outside the window. It featured a large slogan: "A New and Wonderful Future." Then a video played, showing robots replacing hard labor, lifting heavy loads, working in the fields, and operating in hazardous areas. What a wonderful future, I thought sarcastically. If we are replaced by machines, we'll be fired immediately, and then what? We'll be struggling to survive, suffering from hunger. This won't lead to anything good, I thought gloomily as I pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

God, even this one pleasure has become fake. There's no real tobacco in them anymore; they're made from synthetic substances with a chemical taste. Real cigarettes have become incredibly expensive. It would be better to quit smoking, but stress and fatigue wouldn't let me. Opening the window, I exhaled the smoke outside and spat bitterly.

"What's got you in a bad mood, Matthew?" asked my partner, Brendan Fletcher, who was behind the wheel. Up until that moment, he had been quietly driving the car, even though he had been my partner for a long time. Before him, there had been many others, many of whom couldn't handle working with me, or met an untimely end. In our department, it had become something of a bad omen: if someone was assigned to be my partner, it meant they were in for a tough fate.

"Same as always, Brendan. In our line of work, there's no room for any other mood," I replied. In our practice, a joyful day was a miracle, and miracles didn't happen.

"True enough," he agreed. The light turned green, and we continued on our way.

Our path led to the city's slums, following a tip from an informant. Carlo DeVargo had been spotted in one of the apartments in this area. Our task was to verify this information and, if we found him there, to apprehend him immediately.

The slums of New Caden were among the most crime-ridden in our state. Every house was a breeding ground for drug dens and brothels. The people living here matched the environment: addicts, gangsters, and prostitutes. Visiting such places was absolute hell for me. It revealed the true essence of humanity, its vices, but the job required us to be in such places.

"We're almost there," Brendan informed me, and as I looked around, I recognized familiar landmarks.

We stopped at a checkpoint that separated the slums from the rest of the city. These were set up to isolate such areas from the more prosperous parts of New Caden.

Brendan showed his detective badge, and we were quickly allowed through. The metal barriers parted, opening up a path into a world that truly resembled a casino where you could lose your life at any moment.

The filthy streets were populated by homeless people begging for alms and various vendors pushing their wares on every corner. The buildings were all the same height and design—this area had been built on the cheap. They didn't even have elevators, so we had to climb up to the eighth floor on foot. Quite the joy, really.

Rat-tat-tat, bam-bam, rata-tat-tat...

In this area, shootouts happened constantly, and even passersby paid no attention to the sounds. Why didn't law enforcement impose order here? It was simple: the residents of this place were practically not considered citizens of our city, and therefore, we weren't obligated to help them. But if these "non-citizens" tried to leave the area and get into the more prosperous districts, they could be dealt with as harshly as anyone pleased—just to discourage the rest from attempting to go where they didn't belong.

Our car stopped in front of the supposed location of Carlo DeVargo. Another building, indistinguishable from the others.

"How long are we going to be stuck here?" Brendan inquired, pulling out his phone and starting to scroll through his social media feed.

"As long as it takes," I replied. Unfortunately, that was our reality. The higher-ups were pressuring us to get him behind bars as quickly as possible.

"Can we grab a bite somewhere?" Brendan asked again.

"Here? If you want to die, go ahead," I answered. The food sold around here could hardly be called that. To cut costs, they put anything and everything into it.

"Fair point. Then we just wait," Brendan said, falling silent.

I decided to quickly go over the dossier of our target, pulling out my UIP, a special device that helped identify criminals and contained a database on practically every citizen. It was a flat block with a holographic screen.

"Let's see," I thought. Weapons sales, smuggling, and dealing in illegal substances, nothing unusual—there were many cases like these. But organizing an assassination attempt on William Allford's son, the head of Megatech Corporation, which produced military-grade weapons and special equipment, was a serious crime. The son couldn't be saved, and his body was found in a bag at a waste processing plant.

No wonder we were under such pressure. "Alright, enough looking at the same information again," I decided. Being the top detective sometimes brought more problems than benefits, as in this case.

I kept a close watch on the front door of the building, occasionally glancing at the windows. Everything outside remained calm, not deviating from the ordinary.

The silence started to bother me. Usually, something would have happened by now: a fight, a strange event, or some other unusual occurrence. But everything continued to seem normal.

Something was definitely wrong. I began searching for details, discrepancies in people's behavior, or signs that we were being watched. However, as I quickly scanned different directions, I found nothing outstanding. Nervousness began to take over; I didn't like this uncertainty.

"Damn it, calm down. You're not a coward, you're a real man. Get a grip," I whispered to myself. I started taking slow, deep breaths, then quick exhales. Slightly calmer, I focused and began looking for any signs or clues.

Watching a homeless man, I noticed he wasn't particularly skinny, as if he wasn't starving. He sat with his head down, wearing dark glasses that hid the direction of his gaze. One of his hands lay under some trash, as if something was hidden there. What else was odd about him? His position—he was in a spot with a perfect view of the street, and hardly anyone was passing by him.

He definitely wasn't a regular homeless person, but this could just be my paranoia. I needed more evidence. I now searched more methodically—looking for spots from which we could be watched and potential places for a sniper. A balcony directly above us or the one opposite on the other side of the street would be ideal. No, the car was reinforced with armor, and firing from above would be pointless; we could quickly drive away. The windows were more vulnerable, meaning they might try to shoot at them.

"What's got your attention, Matthew?" Brendan asked, noticing my shifting gaze. Up until that moment, he had been quietly driving the car, even though he had been my partner for a long time. Before him, there had been many others, many of whom couldn't handle working with me, or met an untimely end. In our department, it had become something of a bad omen: if someone was assigned to be my partner, it meant they were in for a tough fate.

"Same as always, Brendan. In our line of work, there's no room for any other mood," I replied. Unfortunately, that was our reality. The higher-ups were pressuring us to get him behind bars as quickly as possible.

"Can we grab a bite somewhere?" Brendan asked again.

"Here? If you want to die, go ahead," I answered. The food sold around here could hardly be called that. To cut costs, they put anything and everything into it.

"Fair point. Then we just wait," Brendan said, falling silent.

I decided to quickly go over the dossier of our target, pulling out my UIP, a special device that helped identify criminals and contained a database on practically every citizen. It was a flat block with a holographic screen.

"Let's see," I thought. Weapons sales, smuggling, and dealing in illegal substances, nothing unusual—there were many cases like these. But organizing an assassination attempt on William Allford's son, the head of Megatech Corporation, which produced military-grade weapons and special equipment, was a serious crime. The son couldn't be saved, and his body was found in a bag at a waste processing plant.

No wonder we were under such pressure. "Alright, enough looking at the same information again," I decided. Being the top detective sometimes brought more problems than benefits, as in this case.

I kept a close watch on the front door of the building, occasionally glancing at the windows. Everything outside remained calm, not deviating from the ordinary.

The silence started to bother me. Usually, something would have happened by now: a fight, a strange event, or some other unusual occurrence. But everything continued to seem normal.

Something was definitely wrong. I began searching for details, discrepancies in people's behavior, or signs that we were being watched. However, as I quickly scanned different directions, I found nothing outstanding. Nervousness began to take over; I didn't like this uncertainty.

"Damn it, calm down. You're not a coward, you're a real man. Get a grip," I whispered to myself. I started taking slow, deep breaths, then quick exhales. Slightly calmer, I focused and began looking for any signs or clues.

Watching a homeless man, I noticed he wasn't particularly skinny, as if he wasn't starving. He sat with his head down, wearing dark glasses that hid the direction of his gaze. One of his hands lay under some trash, as if something was hidden there. What else was odd about him? His position—he was in a spot with a perfect view of the street, and hardly anyone was passing by him.

He definitely wasn't a regular homeless person, but this could just be my paranoia. I needed more evidence. I now searched more methodically—looking for spots from which we could be watched and potential places for a sniper. A balcony directly above us or the one opposite on the other side of the street would be ideal. No, the car was reinforced with armor, and firing from above would be pointless; we could quickly drive away. The windows were more vulnerable, meaning they might try to shoot at them.

My attention was drawn to a van parked right next to us, but without wheels and with an open hood. Initially, I thought it was just another car that had its wheels stolen. But now I realized it was the perfect spot for an ambush. There could be people inside with heavy weaponry, and as soon as they saw an opportunity, they would open the door and start shooting at us with everything they had.

Rechecking all possible hiding spots for the bandits, I ruled them out as unlikely. The remaining two options stood out from the rest, and thus were the most probable. But one question plagued me: if they really had set up an ambush, why were they waiting? Why weren't they taking any action? Perhaps it really was my paranoia, and everything was actually fine. I needed to calm down. Everything I was feeling was the result of severe fatigue and overwork. Maybe my imagination was just playing a cruel joke on me.

"You seem nervous. Is something wrong?" Brendan asked, meeting my gaze. I pondered for a moment.

"No, everything's fine," I replied.

As I reached for a pack of cigarettes in my pocket, I noticed a child looking at our car. He made a gun out of his hands and "shot" at us, then ran away with a smile.

There was no doubt now—this was an ambush. We needed to act before it was too late.

"Brendan, we're in an ambush," I called to my partner quietly, hiding my concern.

"Ambush? Where?" he tensed up and started looking around.

"Stop fidgeting and sit still. Don't give us away. If we provoke them, they'll open fire," I snapped at him angrily.

"Alright," he calmed down a bit, "but how do you know it's an ambush?"

"The van next to us. There are probably armed men in there, along with watchers all over the street, and the abnormal calmness outside." My assumptions might not be enough, but in a situation where our lives were at stake, it was better to be safe.

"I think you're just paranoid," my partner didn't believe me at first. But my cold stare made him continue, "Alright, I believe you. But what are we going to do?"

"You floor it, and we get out of here. There might be a shootout, but that's our chance to escape," if they reacted too slowly, we had a good chance.

"What about Carlo DeVargo?" Brendan asked.

"Nothing, if we want to make it out alive today," I replied with regret. We'd have to endure another reprimand from the boss, but that was far better than dying here.

"And if you're wrong?" another question from him, which was beginning to irritate me.

"We'll find out. If we drive off and they start shooting, we'll know I was right. If not, we'll come back later, alright?" I compromised.

"Alright, so should I drive off normally or at full speed?" he asked for final clarification.

"Full speed," I said.

"Then on the count of three," he carefully started the car. Good thing they had replaced our cars with electric ones, so they ran completely silently, **"3, 2, 1."

As soon as he counted to one, he floored the pedal. The car took off quickly, with a slight skid. After just a few meters, the van's doors suddenly swung open, and a machine gun barrel emerged. Homeless people on the street grabbed weapons and started firing at us. Bullets pounded the car's body, creating a metallic sound. The windows held up, only cracking slightly.

We quickly sped away from the shootout, accelerating and disappearing around the corner. My suspicions were correct, and we were indeed walking into an ambush. It seemed our informant had fed us false information to set us up.

"Damn, you were right. They could've killed us back there," Brendan said nervously, increasing the car's speed.

"We need a new informant; this one sold us out," I said, frustrated at the wasted time.

"Well, thanks to you, we got out," he turned to me and patted my shoulder," you have the best deduction skills."

Through his arm, I noticed a truck approaching in the side mirror, heading straight for us. There was no time to warn my partner, and it was already too late. The truck crashed into the side of the car with full force. It felt as if time had slowed down, and I saw the moment of impact in detail: the door caved in, tiny shards of glass scattered across the interior, and the force of the collision pushed the car towards a building. We broke through a concrete wall and finally came to a stop after crashing into another wall.

The car was badly mangled from the impact. The force of the crash blurred my consciousness, and my eyes began to close. The last thing I saw was my partner, crushed against the dashboard, literally flattened.

In a daze, I recalled my childhood and dreams. How we used to sit by the river and fish with my father.

"So you want to become a policeman?" my father asked, baiting the hook before casting it into the river.

"Yes, I want to fight crime and make the world a better place!" I replied enthusiastically.

"That's a good goal, but remember, it's a tough job. Be honest and fair," my father advised seriously.

"I'll be the best!" I proudly puffed out my chest, and my rod almost fell into the river as a fish started pulling it away.

Clumsily, I tried to grab it, but it kept slipping out of my hands. My father then took the rod and helped me reel in the catch. We caught a huge fish.

"Remember, to be the best, you mustn't lose sight of anything," he said, pointing at the fish I nearly lost.

"Okay," I replied sadly.

"Don't be sad, champ. Let's go cook our catch," he said, taking our gear and heading home.

That was the last time we fished together. Soon after, he was killed by a wretched junkie, and the court sided with the murderer, claiming there was not enough evidence to convict him. My mother and I appealed to various institutions and hired lawyers, but it was all in vain. It turned out the killer was a relative of one of the judges, and he was let off the hook.

Such injustice enraged me, taking a toll on my mental health. Only a month after the tragedy did I manage to pull myself together. I went to the river and remembered those last moments with my father. That was when I decided to become a detective. Thus my life took a turn, and I became who I am today. The dream started to fade, and darkness set in.