It was a beautiful day. For the first time in months, the sky was clear, as clear as the persistent smog above the city would allow. The afternoon sun shone bright and silent, bathing the field of artificial grass in a golden haze with its exhausted intensity. The Upper Class air tasted of lilacs, the metallic scent of disinfectant, and sweaty bodies masked under expensive cologne.
And Vice's father was being lowered into the ground.
The grave plot had cost a small fortune. Any land these days were, especially for the dead. He should have let the old bastard burn like the rest of the world. Instead he had spent several years' savings just so his father could be better than everyone else in death, as he was in life. Full circle.
The crowd was dispersing now, the ceremony already ended. Vultures had had their fill, and they were leaving for their nest to digest their prize. There were more of them than he had expected, multiple high ranking officers under his father's direct command, businessmen who were his associates, and even the Commissioner dropped by to say a few words over the body, before hurrying away to more pressing businesses. No family. He was lucky enough for that.
Most of them stopped and spoke to him on their way back, offering fake condolences, fake sadness, fake empathy. No fake tears, though. That was too much even for them. And most of them he answered with nods and thanks and sent them on their way. Eventually their faces blurred into a featureless indistinguishable progression of ghosts.
He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and his Captain's voice in his ear: "Take as much time as you need. We will talk when you get back." The Captain's tone was even, respectful but distanced. Take as much time as you need. Your ticket on the luxury train had expired, and you're down here on the dirty common class car with the rest of us now. Get used to it. He understood that well enough.
The cemetery was empty. He found himself staring at the gravestone, an ugly metallic thing with his father's name lazered across it without much care. A wind picked up, parting his hair to reveal the ragged scar across his forehead and tugging at his suit, pressing it into his skin. He had always hated the thing, just as much as he hated the occasions that forced him to wear it. It was no different now. At least it would be the last time. The air still smelled faintly of lilacs, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out where it was coming from. His cheeks felt wet, and he looked up in surprise, expecting dark clouds and rain. There were none. Vice tasted salt on his lips.
It took most of his strength to peel his eyes off his father's grave and walk away.
_ _ _ _
The AA02 smelled of absolutely nothing. The harsh white light overhead left no room for shadow, just as the muted color palette of the floor, wall and ceiling was unnaturally spotless, a place seemingly outside of time, untouched by all the taint of the world. Miles zipped by in a blur, and the perfect stability of the Skytrain gave the illusion of it being stationary while the world flew by outside. He could see how the Elites could grow to view themselves as gods, this and so much more.
Vice lit a cigarette, drawing glares from the two other passengers on the Train, a man and a woman, both high class lawyers from the looks of them. He ignored their disapproving scowls, took a long drag and started coughing uncontrollably. The smoke was cheap stuff, completely new to him just like the clothes he was wearing, a rumpled shirt with no tie, khaki and a dark coat. Nothing remotely appropriate or fancy, but that was what he was going for. Clothes he had never allowed himself to wear, habits he had never allowed himself to develop, invitations he never would have accepted. In many ways, he was trying to be himself, by being the furthest from who he had been. As soon as the coughing had subsided, he took another pull and held it, testing how it felt on his tongue. Freedom. A new life. Or at least, an attempt at one.
The two passengers' glare followed him as he exited the Train into the marbled courtyard. Its extravagance was distasteful, but expected. He had been here before, once. Another purpose, another life. It was another life, he told himself.
The glass doors slid silently aside into the entrance hall. There were more awards and decoration than the last time he had visited. But of course, the place was made to impress and couldn't fall behind the time. Would they build another hall, he absentmindedly wondered, when this one is filled?
The receptionist wore a mask of perfect courtesy and professionalism, and offered him a polite smile as he approached. Vice felt strangely vulnerable without his own mask. It would take some getting used to. The woman scanned his implant, confirmed his identity and said in an all too cheerful manner: "Welcome back to Big Bux Co., Officer Krmski. Please proceed down the hall to my right to room 509. And please, no smoking in the building.” No smoking of this foul cheap stuff, she meant. He returned her unwavering smile with one of his own, just as empty, and put the light out on a nearby ashtray.
There were already others in 509, a couple he didn't recognize, someone he thought he had seen pictures of around the precinct, and one of Madame's girl. That alone burned half of his theories on why Matrikt had invited him. That was bad news, because the other half were far-fetched at best, and ridiculous at worst.
Feeling parched, Vice headed for the drinks and nodded in greetings to anyone who looked his way.