1. inCide - The Dominic Rexford Chapter

Prologue: ... is the Victim (31/12/2086)

The thick crimson ooze leaked onto the concrete and asphalt slabs, staining the soles of 2000- maybe 3000 onlookers. The empty cavern within the laying girl's chest, which once held her heart (or something much like a heart), now nursed a crammed cache of explosives. Little was left by which to recognise the girl, save for a well-polished necklace stringing the letters SWEETIE which glistened with a sheen reminiscent of the cheap sparkle her eyes have- used to have. The buzzing mob stood, fidgeting and scouring for thoughts or something to say, but all words resided far beyond their reach, in the distant galaxy to which their collective self-control also had relocated. Or maybe their thoughts were simply drowned out by the blaring noise of the industrial music, erupting from the speaker fitted into Sweetie's ajar jaw. Staring down, one man drifted towards a question: the biggest question among the crowd at this hour, "Did she deserve this?". The man, Dominic Rexford, shook himself in an attempt to counter the sadistic notion but his conscience wouldn't discount the idea. And stepping back from the scattered remnants of the maimed 14-year-old, Dominic perused the frontmost members of the mob. They hauntingly stared like a gallery of 4 clench-fisted villains whom, although faceless, made no attempt to hide their identity from Dominic. Nearest to the severed cadaver of The Sweetie and most soaked in blood was Noel, a youthful figure hanging onto a shimmering shard of glass. His head remained held high whilst beside him, the hunched, geriatric Mr. Touchshriek bowed his head, resentfully rather than regretfully. A dented ball and chain, wrapped around his wrist, rested on the ground and flirted with the boot of the woman who neighboured him in the crowd. This Wonder Woman, Helena, towered above the crowd, thanks to the steely platform boots she donned and coordinated with a plated set of riot armour. In each manicured hand, she gripped an empty syringe that appeared commonplace among all its brothers on the streets. Dominic's mind couldn't wholly focus on these wicked figures in the street, as his attention became wrapped around the 4th member of the front line. The man's middle-aged face supported a twisted expression of upturned lips and a cocked eyebrow. The mad disarray in his eyes signaled a tingling discomfort in Dominic's spine, just as he began to realise whose face he gazed upon. Furthest away from the body by now, the 4th crooked face was his own. Dominic's ever-curious brain pecked at the cracked jigsaw puzzle before him, and he settled on another question - "Who killed the Sweetie?"  His calloused, tired hands dripped a spot of viscous blood: the very same that stained the souls of 2000- maybe 3000- onlookers.