Dead Body and Living Soul

Incoming Call: Henry Baker.

Of all people, I didn't expect a message from him. Glancing at the date, I realized it had already been a week since I was revived. Time feels entirely different now.

"Detective Matthew speaking," I said. The words came out automatically, a phrase deeply ingrained in me after years of service with the police.

"Hello, Matthew. Have they reinstated you already? I'm calling to let you know—you have an appointment tomorrow. I wanted to request a day off for you, but it looks like you've already had some unscheduled rest? The gangs on the streets are completely out of control. If there were more like you, the situation would improve," Henry said. I fixated on the word more—are they planning mass production?

"No, just a habit. Yes, I remember. I'll be there," I replied, though I had completely forgotten about the scheduled meeting.

"Alright, I'll see you at ten. We'll check if everything's in order and upgrade some implants. I secured some budget and purchased a few new ones. See you tomorrow," Henry said.

"Goodbye," I responded, and the call ended.

Upgrade? I wondered what exactly he planned to install. I had lived through the heyday of cybernetics, when humanity was obsessed with enhancing their bodies beyond what nature had provided. I always felt neutral about it—never would've voluntarily opted for such modifications myself, but watching the developments had been fascinating.

"Matthew?" A female voice interrupted.

I turned my head to see Catherine. I had stopped by the hospital entrance to take the call. It wasn't surprising to run into her here.

"Yes, it's me. Good to see you," I said.

"What are you doing here? Came to see me?" she asked, giving me a sharp look, as if scanning every detail of my body. "Do you need help?"

Only now did I remember my injuries. I had completely forgotten about them, feeling only a vague sense of something off, lurking at the edge of my awareness, like something wasn't quite right, but not important. It seemed I had been too deep in thought. But when she mentioned it, I suddenly felt a slight discomfort, an unclear sensation.

"No, I'm actually on my way to the ripper to patch myself up. I was escorting someone, and they got a bit roughed up," I said.

"Sorry to hear that. A lot of people have been hurt by those gangs today. They're becoming a real problem for the city," Catherine sighed.

"And you just decided to step out for some fresh air?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"Yes, there was too much blood today... It's a constant feeling. I came out for a walk, to breathe and relax a bit," she replied, gazing at me thoughtfully. "I can help you with the repairs. I'm not too bad at it, and I'm actually working on improving my skills right now."

I didn't have much money at the moment to be throwing it around. I'd have to go to Sarah again, but for now, at least I needed to fix the damage to reduce energy consumption and get rid of the constant blinking error messages in my interface.

"I'd appreciate the help," I replied, accepting her offer.

"Let's go inside, we'll take a look at your damage," Catherine said.

The last time I'd seen her, she seemed downcast, drained, like she was stuck in a whirlpool of routine. Now, though, there was life and energy in her words again, and hope for a better future in her eyes. They say that coming close to death can change a person beyond recognition, but I don't believe that. I've faced death many times myself, and I've learned only one thing—it just makes you see life from a different angle. It's like all the cards are laid out in front of you, if I can put it that way.

Catherine led me to a small lab equipped with tools and sat me down in a chair.

"You know, Matt, when you talked about children back then, I realized I had to keep living for them. Yes, I have a debt hanging over me, and they might kill me for it. But my children aren't to blame for any of this. I made the decision to bring them into this world, and now I'm responsible for them," Catherine confessed unexpectedly, opening up as she began working on repairing my implants.

"You have quite a mature outlook," I remarked. I didn't mean her age or wisdom from life experience, but rather her ability to see the core of things. Not everyone can think that clearly, and some people even fool themselves, ignoring the obvious.

"I realized it too late… Did you have children, Matthew?" Catherine asked.

"Yes, I did. I had two children..." I began, but suddenly froze. Why can't I remember who they are? Their names and faces are once again shrouded in fog.

"Did I touch a sore subject? I'm sorry if I upset you," Catherine quickly responded, likely assuming that my silence was due to the pain of memories. But that's not it. I simply can't remember. Come on, Matthew, remember! You held them in your arms, you rejoiced at their first steps. Has all of that really just disappeared?

Risk of cognitive failure: 67%.

"Two children... My daughter, my treasure, Eliza, and my son, named after my father—Derek. I loved them more than anything in the world, and I swore when they were born that I would protect them and never leave them..." I said. The words seemed to be forcing their way out of me with great difficulty.

Risk of cognitive failure: 89%.

Critical level. Enter sleep mode.

Memory block V6.12 error.

Data decryption in progress.

Playback memory: Matthew Creighton, June 12, 2021.

I'm so tired. My body still aches after yesterday's fight. That bastard nearly broke my ribs. I had to fight him hand-to-hand, and he turned out to be no ordinary junkie—he moved fast, and I took a beating. But why does my body hurt this much? Seems like I fell asleep on the couch, and something keeps tickling my face...

"Derek, Eliza, don't bother your father, he's tired," came the voice of my wife, Rachel.

"Hee-hee," Eliza's laughter followed. I always loved her cheerful, ringing laugh.

Stretching groggily, I opened my eyes. We were in the living room, and it looked like I'd dozed off in the chair. My kids stood in front of me, whispering to each other and sneaking glances at me. Sleepiness still held me tightly, but I managed to open my eyes and noticed markers in their little hands. The moment they realized I was awake, Eliza and Derek quickly hid their "weapons" behind their backs. Derek ran off immediately, but Eliza stayed.

Standing up, I stretched my stiff body a little and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the TV screen. My face was painted all over.

"Eliza, would you care to explain the motives behind your actions?" I asked sternly.

"You came home so sad yesterday... and your face was all bruised. I wanted to make you happy," she said, blushing and stumbling over her words.

Looking at my painted face in the reflection, I smiled at her, this time genuinely.

"Dad will try to smile more often," I said. Scolding her for such a prank didn't make any sense. She had no malicious intent, only the desire to make her father happy, even if in such a strange way. "Go to your mom, and I'll wash up."

Filling the tub, I began washing off the clown makeup. I had to admit, they did a pretty good job—almost flawless work for kids.

Memory block replayed.

"Matthew... Matthew, are you alright?" Catherine's voice sounded distant.

"Matthew?" she called again.

I came back to reality, shaken by the sudden wave of memories.

System load: 54%

"Yes, I hear you. I just got deeply lost in past memories," I answered, gradually regaining my composure.

"Don't scare me like that. I almost called for emergency assistance," Catherine said with relief.

"My apologies. These are difficult memories for me... I made many mistakes in the past, and I'll never be able to fix them. It haunts me," I admitted.

"We're all human, and we all make mistakes," Catherine replied, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I made a mistake too. I couldn't recognize in time that my husband had gotten involved with the wrong people. At first, everything seemed fine, but then he started taking his anger out on me and the kids. It got to the point where one day, he would have killed me with his own hands. But he was killed in the street before that could happen, and I was told they found his body in an alley. I felt relieved, but life didn't get any easier. One problem replaced another—constant struggles to earn just a little more eddies," Catherine said sadly.

"You're a strong woman," I said sincerely.

"Thank you. But I don't consider myself strong. I'm finished," she replied.

The critical errors were gone, and all systems were restored. Only the missing limb remained as a reminder of the damage.

"Thanks for the help," I said, rising from the couch.

"You're welcome anytime," Catherine said.

"Well, Catherine, I won't distract you from your work any longer," I added.

"Oh, no, it was my pleasure! Plus, it was nice to take a break from the endless stream of patients. We've been assigned the night shift," she hesitated briefly, "I have a small favor to ask. Could you watch over my kids and make sure they go to bed, instead of wandering the streets at night unsupervised?" she asked.

"I understand. You want only the best for them and want to protect them from the dangers of the streets, but they might not see it that way," I said, recalling my own experience.

"Yes, you're probably right," Catherine agreed with a slightly sad smile. "That's what being a parent is—we punish them, and then we forgive. So, will you do it?"

"I'll keep an eye on them. Do you trust me that much to leave them under my care?" I asked.

"I've seen everything I need to. Call it a woman's intuition. I'll be back by morning," she said with confidence. Ah, that secret ability women have.

"I'll be waiting," I replied.

We said a quick goodbye, and I headed back home. On the way, I thought about the memories that were coming back to me. It felt like the barriers in my mind were starting to fade, and I began remembering many events involving my children... but not my wife.

So, maybe it wasn't all bad. I had been a good father, and I loved my family. But everything changed because of my job—it made me angry, cold, and emotionally distant. I pushed away the people closest to me. For what? For a dream of making the world better, stopping crimes, saving lives? One thing I know for sure now—it wasn't worth the sacrifices.

The walk didn't take long, and soon I was standing in front of Catherine's door. She had given me the pin code to enter. After entering it, I opened the door and stepped inside. The house was fairly quiet, and I made my way to the kitchen. Since my last visit, a lot had changed here. Fresh paint on the walls, a new table—a small renovation, but noticeable.

Looking around the kitchen, I decided to check the contents of the fridge to see if there was anything in case the kids got hungry. Opening the door, I saw a variety of food neatly packed in containers with labels. Catherine turned out to be quite practical; the food, prepared for several days ahead, looked homemade.

"Who are you? I have a weapon," came the sudden voice of a girl. I turned and found myself looking at a teenager.

Instantly recalling her name, I closed the fridge and started to speak.

"I'm Matthew Carrington. A friend of your mother's. She's working an extra shift today, and she asked me to look after you," I explained, noticing that she was holding a gun. Then again, why was I surprised? It seemed like everyone here had a weapon.

"Mom didn't say anything about that," she replied warily, not lowering the gun.

"You can call her and ask," I suggested. The girl studied me for a few moments, then her eyes blinked a few times before she finally lowered the weapon.

"Just don't tell her I took her gun," she said and quickly ran off. I heard the sound of her footsteps, and soon she returned.

The kitchen light switched on, and I was able to get a better look at her. She resembled Catherine, but the differences were clear: short hair and several tattoos visible on her forearms and neck. She was dressed casually, wearing loose shorts and a T-shirt.

[image]

"I'm already sixteen, I've grown up long ago, so I don't need anyone looking after me," she said defiantly.

"It's dangerous on the streets right now. Your mother will feel better knowing her kids are safe. Where's Chelsea?" I asked.

"She's in her room. I told her not to come out when I thought it was burglars," Mary replied, her pupils blinking again a few times.

At that moment, her younger sister joined us, a girl of about eight. She shyly stood behind Mary, peeking out from behind her and looking at me curiously.

"You're the one Mom talked about, the nice policeman who saved her," Chelsea's voice was clear and warm.

"Yes, that was me," I replied.

"Saved her from what?" Mary asked, confused and suspiciously narrowing her eyes.

"That time when you were running around with your friends," Chelsea said.

"You mean when our apartment got trashed? But Mom said she was just changing the lights and fell badly," Mary countered, her voice full of doubt.

"Silly Mary, that's not what happened. I came home before you and saw Mom cleaning up spilled blood. She asked me not to tell anyone," Chelsea added.

Mary immediately shot an angry look at her sister.

"You betrayed me! We're sisters, you were supposed to tell me everything," she protested, outraged.

"Blech! As if! You never take me with you when you leave," Chelsea responded, sticking out her tongue.

"You're still too young. Where I go, it's no place for you," Mary replied irritably. A heated argument broke out, each trying to prove their point, cutting each other off.

It reminded me of those times when my kids used to argue over trivial things.

"Please, there's no need to fight!" I intervened.

"And what's it to you? I'll do whatever I want," Mary snapped, throwing a sharp glare at me from under her brow.

"I have a recording of you pointing a gun at me," I said, using a simple but effective method.

Mary narrowed her eyes angrily, her lips twitching slightly, but she said nothing. Eventually, she turned and stormed off to her room, clearly still furious.

"Are you staying with us for long?" Chelsea asked, coming closer.

"Just for the night," I replied.

"It's hard for me to sleep when mom's not around. Can you stay with me?" she asked shyly.

"Of course," I said.

After checking the apartment door, I escorted her to her room. Chelsea wrapped herself in a blanket and settled comfortably on the bed, watching me. I sat next to her, adjusted her pillow, and turned off the bedside lamp.

"Mom talks about you often," Chelsea suddenly said in the quiet.

"Really? I hope it's in a good way," I asked with a slight smile, surprised by her words.

"Yeah, you're kind. You helped mom. She's been happier and in a better mood most of the time," Chelsea answered, her brows furrowing, as if deep in thought. "Do you have anything under that armor?" she asked curiously.

"I wish I did, but unfortunately, no," I replied.

"Why did you decide to give up your body?" Her question caught me off guard.

"I didn't make that decision myself," I answered, pondering how to explain it more clearly. "Others made it for me. But I'm planning to get my body back, I just need money for it."

This wasn't exactly the topic I wanted to dwell on, so I decided to shift her focus.

"You know, there was this one time during my service. I was working as a detective when a woman called the police, reporting that her little girl, Lisa, had gone missing. The police spread out bulletins and mobilized almost all their resources, but sadly, the search led nowhere. Then, they reached out to me. And believe it or not, I found her. Only, it turned out it wasn't a child, but a doll, a very well-made one. The person who 'kidnapped' the 'child' just made a mistake and took the toy, thinking it was a real girl. He wanted to get back at the woman. In the end, the pseudo-mother took back the doll as if nothing had happened."

"Hehe! Tell me another story!" Chelsea asked.

Over my career, I'd collected plenty of them, so I kept sharing stories until she finally fell asleep.

The door to the room was slightly ajar, and I noticed Mary watching me, apparently trying not to be seen. She was being cautious—an admirable trait in this city.