This Isn't About Reya

Chapter Twenty-Four

Michel Petrushev had never been great friends with Vlad; this much he willingly admitted.

But he had never held any hatred for the man.

And then, staring blankly at the twisted and seeping remains of the most decorated military police chief in the NSU, he felt many stabs of regret. If he had insisted that Vlad stay for a short drink, might he still be alive? If he had sent an officer to follow him out of Ozero, could they have sent for help in time? What might he have learned if he had made friends with Vlad before he died?

Michel's face was pale, and he could only look in shock upon the murder scene. The body was mangled and parts of it had been torn and strewn across the alley. Blood spattered the nearby walls, some droplets reaching almost twelve feet up. A hardlight barrier had been shattered like glass a few yards away, and yet, there wasn't any sign or clue to identify the killer.

It had been three days since he went missing. Three days of searching by the police, and three days of rotting by the corpse. Three days before they finally found Vlad's body. Three days that the killer had used to run far from Ozero.  

Who did this, Michel Petrushev wondered, and how? 

A lower-ranking officer approached Michel cautiously from behind. He heard the policeman advancing, his footsteps unsure, afraid, but could not take his eyes off of the scene laid out before him. 

"Chief?" the boy asked warily.

Michel tried to answer, but his vocal cords offered up nothing. He coughed, tried again. "What is it?"

"The Ram wants to speak with you."

Michel was not surprised. He nodded without turning to face the other officer and reached back, expecting to be handed a mobile hologram projector.

He heard the officer shuffle uneasily, but did not feel the projector touch his hand. Michel turned and looked at the officer expectantly. 

It was the officer in charge of the receptions desk back at headquarters. Leonovich, or something like that. The man was young, dark-haired, naive as a lamb, and also empty-handed.

"The Ram is requesting a personal audience," Leonovich explained, his hands fidgeting in front of his stomach. His eyes kept glancing from Vlad's body to Michel's face.

"What?" Michel asked, incredulous.

"Uh, the Ram has expressed - " Leonovich started, then glanced at the corpse again and blanched.

Michel waved his hand curtly, sparing the boy an explanation. But a personal audience? He had been caught off-guard. Few people spoke with the Ram personally, and never a simple MP officer such as himself. Michel collected himself quickly and said, "Alright, when and where? One of the Towers, as soon as possible, I presume?"

Leonovich nodded weakly, one hand pressed firmly to his stomach. He was still pale. "The Tower of Victory. A short-range teleporter cued in eight minutes ago and is awaiting your departure."

Michel raised an eyebrow. Teleportation portals were not easy nor inexpensive to create. This was more important than he had suspected.

He spun back to look at Vlad's corpse one last time, almost froze in shock once more, and then hurried past Leonovich, toward the teleportation center.

"Leonovich," Michel called as he strode away, "make sure we've collected all the data we can, then clean that up."

As he rushed away through the twisting alleyways, Michel could still hear the poor boy vomiting.