Playback

Grey Alley (a.k.a. The Cut) - Blanco

“Now, don’t talk when we meet these guys. If you get flatlined out here, no way I’m sticking around to clean up the bits.” Chuck said it with such nonchalance that Blanco almost had to stop himself from asking if he was serious.

The two officers had been working the beat on the main drag of Grey Alley for two weeks now, and Officer Blanco Estrella had stopped hoping for a reliable partner in Chuck after their first day. They’d tried to bust up a coke deal outside a VR bar that first day, at least, that’s what Blanco thought. But Chuck had wandered up real slow and started making conversation with them, chatting about a baseball game of all things. After about five minutes, the guys handed over a credit chit and wandered back into the bar. Chuck didn’t even give Blanco the time of day, let alone an explanation. The academy had warned him that his first post would be a challenge, but Grey Alley was a whole different kind of wrong.

“Yeah, sure. What’s the deal here? You getting paid?”

“We’re getting paid, kid. You keep your mouth shut and don’t say anything sideways to these guys, and we walk out of here a whole lot richer and, most importantly, still breathing.” Chuck opened the door of their cruiser and stepped out, his boots making an immediate splash as they hit a puddle.

“Fuck, I just got these boots. Come on, Blanco, hustle.”

Blanco stepped out onto the sidewalk and took in the night air. Grey Alley smelled like shit on a good day, but tonight there was an especially metallic odor in the atmosphere. The street they were on was dimly lit—a bad sign anywhere in Vargos, but especially nerve-wracking in Grey Alley. The place had a higher violent crime rate than any other district and almost no cops working in it. Blanco had always suspected that was purposeful—so the department could siphon money from the activity, and working with Chuck proved it.

The two officers made their way from their squad car to a ruined petrol station, its flickering lights still clinging to power like it hadn’t been cut off from the city grid decades ago. Blanco felt his stomach turn as his ears picked up a total lack of city noise from where they stood. In Vargos, silence wasn’t a sign of absence but a sign of removal. Like something had reached out and scraped all the sound away so all that remained was the weight of whatever should have been there.

“Fuck this, Chuck. I’m out. I’m not getting killed here.” Blanco turned to head back to the car but was stopped by a sharp grip on his shoulder.

“That shit, right there. None of that. You want to leave, that’s fine, but don’t fucking talk.” He leaned in, pressing his lips so close to Blanco’s ear that he could feel the moistness of his breath. “But I will tell dispatch you bailed. And they’ll send out a Wraith. Think you’re nervous now? Try being on a list.”

Blanco didn’t need to think it over. Chuck was right—that was about as sure of a death sentence as being shot point-blank while tied to a chair. He turned to Chuck and mimicked locking his mouth and tossing away the key. Chuck grinned and motioned for him to follow.

They entered the empty station and coughed at the immediate stench. Dead body. The rot had already started. Blanco drew his weapon in sync with Chuck, their body lights flickering on and their cybereyes beginning an analysis of the building. The place had been shut down permanently thirty-two years ago after the Third Union Riots tore Grey Alley apart—back when it was still a place people could call safe by Vargos standards. The stench of decomposing flesh was a bad sign in an already sketchy situation.

They moved through the station slowly. The convenience store area was void of any products, but the shelves still stood throughout the space. The light from Chuck’s vest dimmed as he made his way toward the maintenance garage entrance on the building’s side. He signaled for Blanco to check out the office—the only other room they couldn’t see from the shelving area. Blanco grumbled.

“I can’t see shit in here, Chuck. Where are these guys we’re supposed to meet? My eye isn’t picking up anything.” He hissed under his breath. Blanco turned the corner into the back office of the station and—

What was that?

His eye flashed a biosignal in the far corner of the office, but neither his cybereye nor his natural eye could see a thing. He aimed his sidearm at the corner, facing a darkness that didn’t just sit there as it coiled and folded in on itself as if watching him back. His cybereye flickered, feeding him nothing as if the void was swallowing the data before it could reach him.

“Chuck?”

He couldn’t hear Chuck’s footsteps anymore, and he wasn’t responding. Blanco had enough—it was time to bounce. He started backing up toward the office entrance but almost dropped his gun when he bumped into the shut door.

“Chuck!” he screamed.

When did the door close? He hadn’t heard it. No grinding of metal, no hydraulic hiss. His breath hitched, beads of sweat running down his forehead like water through a dam. He turned his eyes back to the shaded corner, and his stomach twisted the longer he looked at it. The light from his vest seemed to vanish into the darkness like water down a drain. It had no shape—just a radiating feeling of dread, an essence that oppressed everything in the room and smothered his light as if the air itself were clouded with black shadows.

He pressed on the door with his hand again, refusing to take his eyes off the corner but growing more desperate as the metal sheets refused to budge. The place hadn’t seen life in years—its doors shouldn’t have even been operational.

He activated his radio, but only static crackled through. A clear indicator of signal interference. But that didn’t make sense—his eye shouldn’t have been able to bioscan without access to the police hub. He turned and started kicking the door, smashing into it with both fists. His grunts turned to small, panicked shrieks with each strike, but he knew his boots and hands were taking most of the damage at this point.

He turned back to the corner.

Empty.

Just a vacant, dust-coated space, now easily illuminated by his vest light.

“What the hell…” he whispered.

He stepped closer, waving his hand around the empty air. Nothing. No oppressive dread, no wrongness, nothing. He turned and gave the door another hard kick—this time, it popped open with ease.

Blanco bolted out of the office, calling for Chuck.

Silence.

He swept the convenience store, then the garage. Empty. No sign of Chuck. No footprints, no spent cartridges, no footprints, like he’d never even walked in. He couldn't even remember seeing the body they’d assumed was inside, but the stench of decay still choked the air.

Something was wrong.

He turned tail and ran out of the station, gripping the silence outside as all he could hear was the pounding of his boots against gravel and the ragged draw of his breath. He hopped into the squad car, hands shaking as he took a few deep breaths and looked back toward the station.

No one came out after him.

He hit the squad car’s radio. Static. But this time, the interference wasn’t the same.

The pattern was different.

Tuning the frequency slightly, he tried reaching the secondary station line for the local precinct. The static thinned, breaking apart like something peeling itself open. Then came a voice.

His own voice, but wrong. Like it had been chewed and spit out by something trying to mimic him.

Blanco’s breath hitched. The playback was wrong—high-pitched, distorted, and looping with ear-shattering feedback.

“Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck!”

The voice cut off in an instant—replaced by the sudden, deafening flood of police chatter, coming through the radio clear as day.