Chapter 1: JUNE 17th, 2039 - AM 10:03:25
The chair squeaked. The lumbar support was terrible and the armrests weren't wide enough to do their job. Maybe that explained why Hank felt so uncomfortable.
"It's just a matter of time before more of these start popping up, so I'll be keeping you posted."
Captain Jeffrey Fowler didn't seem to notice his subordinate. He continued.
"Of course, with all this new legislation being handed down from Washington, the DPD is going to have a hell of a time sorting all these cases out. We're forming a special task force. There's even talk of creating a new division—although nobody can seem to make up their minds about whether it should be separate or integrated." Jeffrey made a half-hearted attempt at a laugh. "Things sure were a lot easier when I didn't have to think about payroll for plastic officers."
"Hey—I'm not the one who thought it was a good idea to partner up with CyberLife's wonder cop in the first place," Hank retorted, momentarily distracted. He raised his hands in good-natured protest before crossing his arms once more. "Looks like you got what you signed up for."
Fowler shot him a warning glare. They had played at this charade for years. "Keep talking," he said, nodding. "Let's see how much overtime you earn for yourself."
Shifting in his seat, Hank dismissed the threat with a smug snicker.
Fowler, however, didn't rise to it. He paused, the glare losing some of its irony—softening, despite itself. Uneasiness crept back into Hank's gut.
"What is it?" Hank pressed.
Fowler clearly didn't want to say. The detective in Hank read the telltale signs with trepidation: tense shoulders, pursed brow…the way he fidgeted ever so slightly with his thumb and forefinger. The police captain's gaze seemed to be fixated away from both his lieutenant and the terminal in front of him. Naturally, Hank's attention shifted to the unwanted report reflected in the computer's transparent screen.
And his world ground to a halt.
"…It's this Thursday," Hank heard Fowler explain. "A parole officer has already been assigned."
Riveted in place, Hank didn't respond. Fowler's jaw tightened.
"I know," he agreed solemnly. "I thought he had at least ten years. But the bastard came up for parole."
Silence.
Jeffrey searched the grizzled detective's stoney features, doing a little investigating of his own. Hank's ruddy alcoholic complexion had evaporated. Disbelief and an emptiness the captain didn't even have a word for showed plainly on his haggard face. There was no trace of the usual ire Hank loved dishing out. No spark in his eye. Nothing. The painful absence left a sick feeling in Fowler's stomach.
"Hank," Jeffrey insisted. "I wanted you to hear it from me. I'm your friend. And as your friend, I thought you should know before you read about it in some random memo."
Hank's gaze ghosted slowly from the terminal, stopping with such intensity on Jeffrey's face that the captain found himself leaning away from it.
"Thursday, huh," Hank finally replied. His tone betrayed a welled-up dam of deep-seated pain.
And anger.
"That's right," Jeffrey concurred. Scooting forward in his chair, he leaned his elbows on the desk and folded his hands in front of him. Anxiety always made him fidget. He waited.
After a moment, Hank turned and read over the report a second time…backwards though it might have been. He skipped the major details. He'd know them in his sleep. Only the name and the first charge stood out to him.
'STEPHEN UNDERWOOD - POSSESSION OF METHAMPHETAMINE'
The dam burst.
"Jesus." Fowler almost wondered if he meant it. "That's at least a five year sentence," Hank spat. "We knew that going in. The judge gave him double that. How the fuck is he walking in four?!"
"Officially? A spotless record behind bars and a parole turnaround time you wouldn't believe," Fowler explained. "Unofficially—." He rubbed his thumb across his middle and pointer fingers. "The man's well off…or, he was before all this. He knew people. There's a chance someone agreed to help him out in advance. There's a chance…" Fowler sighed heavily, "…he just got lucky."
Hank was out of his seat before Fowler could stop him. "That fucker took more than ten years from me, Jeffrey," he growled indignantly. Wounded. Pointing wildly at his chest like what was inside it was breaking. "He took my LIFE. You understand?" Hank hissed. "My goddamn LIFE. Ten years wasn't even close to what he fucking deserved! And now you're telling me I'm going to have to live with him just—just walking out of there?! Free as a goddamn—."
"I'm not telling you anything," Fowler retorted, trying to assuage his colleague as much as his overworked patience would allow. "Except that this Thursday, Stephen Underwood will be released on parole."
The flats of Hank's hands came down so violently on Jeffrey's desk that a stack of reports jolted and slid free, scattering the contents across the floor. Under normal circumstances, the police captain would have barraged his lieutenant from all sides for the incident. It took some doing, but Fowler managed to bite his tongue.
There was more where that came from—every inch of Hank promised as much. But as the reality of the news settled over him, the energy behind the outburst went cold. Rage dwindled to defeat.
"There's no fucking way," he managed, turning towards the door. His heavy steps were the only sound to be heard.
"Hank." Fowler's tone held a warning. Hank paused, his back to the captain. "I want you to head home. Take a day. Take a week if you need it. But don't even think about starting something with him. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
Hank walked the remaining three steps to the glass door and stopped. He grasped the handle so hard his knuckles went white. Loosened up. Gripped tighter.
"He took my son from me," was all Hank said before he pulled open the door and walked out of the precinct.