Red Dust and Deception
The dim glow of the neon sign outside my office window flickers, casting fractured shadows on the cracked linoleum floor. NovaTerra, the Mars colony they call it, but it’s more like a cesspool of ambition and decay. The air smells of recycled oxygen and desperation. I take a drag from my last cigarette, the smoke curling around my face like a ghost of better days.
They call me Ryker, but you can call me a washed-out detective or an anti-hero with a complex moral code. Hell, I’ve got more vices than a Martian casino. Booze, stim-patches, and memories that claw at my insides like a hungry rat. It’s okay, though. My troubled past underwrites the sins of the present. Check, check, check.
The dame walks in, dust clinging to her coat like regret. She’s got eyes that have seen too much and lips that have whispered too many lies. Her name? Lena Voss. Accused of putting a slug in her late husband’s chest. Claims she’s innocent, but the evidence says otherwise. The missing android butler, a sleek piece of tech that vanished like a ghost in the Martian dust. She says it was never registered, which means she can’t go to the regular law enforcement without risking a one-way ticket to the Martian slammer.
But this case ain’t just about murder. Nah, it’s got all the trimmings—sexual betrayal, theft, and secrets buried deeper than the Martian bedrock. I glance at the retainer fee on my desk, crisp and unmarked. Enough to cover my per diem and transportation costs. The threads of an easy case laid bare, like a stripper shedding her sequins.
Too fucking convenient, though. Threads shouldn’t be this shiny, this neatly tied. They should wiggle and squirm, lead you down dark alleys and dead-end streets. But this? It’s like someone laid out a red carpet to my doom. I swirl the ice cubes in my glass, the clink echoing in the empty room. Lena’s story smells like a week-old corpse left out in the Martian sun.
She begs me, voice honeyed and desperate. Says she’ll meet me tomorrow to sign the contract. Funds transferred, no questions asked. She’s done her part, ready to let me run on my hamster wheel. But there’s something off. She doesn’t know the guy she supposedly killed. Not really. Just another pawn in this Martian chess game.
I tail her, keeping to the shadows. The market square barks its usual cacophony to the south. She heads toward the residences, and I follow. The Martian dust clings to my coat, my boots sinking into the red soil. She leads me right to her door, like a moth drawn to a flame.
Before she steps inside, I patch my AI into hers. Infoplume access granted. Unread messages blink like distant stars. Rejections from agents, acting schools, and voice-over gigs. Urgent requests for debts paid or blood spilled. But it’s the two read messages that catch my eye.
The first: a contract. Lena’s a paid actress, playing a role. Sworn to secrecy, her rent paid for six cycles. A pawn, just like me. The second message, though—it’s a whisper in the Martian wind. A warning. The job isn’t what it seems. The missing android butler, the dead husband—it’s all smoke and mirrors.
Tomorrow, when I meet Lena, I’ll play my part. But this time, I’ll be the one pulling the strings. NovaTerra may be corrupt, but I’ve got a moral code, twisted as it is. And when the dust settles, someone’s gonna pay.
