The glass trembled slightly as he swirled the red liquid, small little creatures fizzling under the dim light coming from the lamp. He called them little critters. They were akin to the fuzz an aerated soda or drink would make, but only this time, these critters were acting up because their half-life was approaching. A quiet sip calmed them down, but only for the time being. The man scoffed at the taste, clearing his throat. This drink promised clarity through the adverts, but tonight it was more ritual than relief.
Babylonwas the only place that felt like home. It was one of the few cities that had a huge chunk of its population classified as humans (even though they had some minor tweaks in their body), albeit their brain still had that soul in them. But modified? Modified were different. No Soul. No Feelings. No empathy, either. That gave Damien a motive.
He was a human, and fragile in a world built for the modified, but his mind… his polished mind was why he was appreciated more over the other humans.
A sharp chime echoed through the apartment, holographic lines lighting up the room. The caller ID blinked an alien glyph he didn't need a translator to recognize.
"Detective?" The voice was rough, with the rasp alien resonance—Xelthar, head of the BPD(Babylon Police Department, the department no modified really wanted to be in.)
"I was just… sampling my...", he smiled as he swirled the glass again, which gave rose to a cheering by the critters, "evening.", Damien muttered.
"This isn't a request. There's… something you need to see. The scene—", Xelthar's mandibles chattered involuntarily as he remembered the scene. "It's… unspeakable. Homicide. We need your help. Immediately."
Damien downed the rest of the critters in one motion. The burn was enough to chase the sleep away from his veins. He tapped the console at his wrist, pulling a tiny inhaler. A dose of synthetic highly concentrated oxygen surged through his lungs, firing every neuron awake.
The streets were a buzz of neon and steam. His bike, a sleek black vector with glowing lines, hummed to life beneath him. Humans moved submissively between alien limbs, faces downcast in awe and fear. Minority, expendable, unnoticed—he moved through them all, riding the line between predator and prey in this city that had forgotten what humans could do.
The building loomed, half-shattered and screaming with light from internal fires. Police drones hovered lazily, scanning the perimeter in sterile blue sweeps. BPD's holographic tape shone like an electric scar across the cracked pavement.
He ducked under it and entered.
The first smell hit him before the sight: a coppery scent, thick and metallic, overlaid with the faint acrid scent of burnt circuitry. He stepped up the stairs and finally stomped to the door, and froze at it.
The scene was… cinematic. The victim was laid out bare in the open in the room of his apartment. His head sat meekly on the seat facing the door, almost as if greeting Damien. His torso on the table in front of the seat, with his robotic limbs, oozing green fuel staining the couches on either side of the table.
Damien took a deep sigh and gave a small nod to the pseudo alcohol he downed, with which this process would be much easier.
One thing he noticed is how the head's eyes were hollow. Damien tried to brush over them but instead, his gloved fingers went inside. A nervous gulp, followed by him extending his arms, which felt really heavy at this point of time, raised the victims head.
Pretzels are a type of baked bread product made from flour, water, and salt, traditionally shaped into a distinctive knot, or twist, and often topped with salt, though they can also be sweet or seasoned in other ways. They come in both soft and hard varieties, with soft pretzels having a chewy texture and hard pretzels being crunchy and brittle. Originating in Europe, particularly Germany, pretzels are enjoyed globally as a snack.
Damien's heartbeat steadily rose, as he saw the victims legs folded at the joints into near 180 degrees, into a neat pretzel like shape. He could classify them as legs only after he'd seen the remnants of the victims toes. The two limbs were compressed into little treats that could fit in his palm under intense pressure with the help of superhuman robotic strength, and cooked to perfection, with the help of a sub-atomic particle torcher.
Xelthar's alien silhouette emerged from the shadows, clicking mandibles in a sound that might have been a nervous cough.
"Alright," the Xelthar rasped, voice vibrating unnaturally. "Everyone else, air out. Give him space."
The remaining officers and technicians filing out, leaving only the faint hum of neon and the drip of leaking fluid. The room seemed to shrink, the shadows pressing closer now that he was alone with the scene.
Damien walked backward until he hit the wall, which promptly lit up the integrated TV inside the wall. His world started to blur out as he closed his heavy eyelids, and only the faint flashing afterglows of the adverts would fill up his dark-filled vision. This was his palace. It allowed him to see through the killer's perspective, to step inside the mind that had orchestrated this grotesque display.