AN: I am so excited to be posting this! I started writing it pretty much right after I left the theater of Dredd 3D, but only recently got enough of the outline stabilized to feel comfortable beginning to post. Been a long time fan of the comics and I absolutely fell in love with the movie. All content belongs to original creators, I'm just playing nicely with other folks' toys. Reviewers will have adoration lavished upon them. Several minor errors corrected as of 3/22 with deep gratitude to Darth Gilthoron for bringing them to my attention.
They say every city is a living breathing thing; it's alive and it has a soul. Anyone who sincerely believes this has never laid eyes on Mega-City One. It's a dead city that just isn't smart enough to stop moving, built on ruins of an old world that history has forgotten. Home to 8o0 million people crammed on top of each other, trapped between the Black Atlantic and the irradiated Cursed Earth; out of work, out of luck, and just looking for a reason to take it out on you. From space you can see the oily cloud of smog stretching from New York to Virginia, pierced here and there by towering Mega-Blocks. Up close they're as good as a city in their own right, holding populations anywhere from 50,000 to 90,000. Too close, you can't see the top of the structures, they just disappear into the sky, but you can see the broken windows, the graffiti, the litter, and the corpses of two woman slumped in a corner in a tangle of limbs and yellow hair.
Two Judges pull up to the small sad pile of human, stern and austere in their black leather suits and helmets and Lawmaster motorbikes, the slighter figure tugging her helmet off and shaking her halo of blond hair free as she dismounts. She balances her symbol of office on the seat then kneels by the dead women as the accompanying Judge stands back, surveying the surrounding boulevard. With respect and dignity, she pries an eyelid open, sniffs mouths hanging slack, and glances over the deep bruising around thighs, arms, and necks before standing, her analysis complete. She engages the communicator in her glove, "Control, this is Anderson. Send the meat-wagon; we've got a double homicide on Second West by Westerly Block." For a moment, she closes her eyes, feeling out for a mind which carries the dark smears of rape and murder; the street is clean of that particular crime, and she opens her eyes, looking up at the impenetrable black visor of her colleague. "He's inside."
Judge Dredd doesn't even bother to nod in acknowledgement, simply loosens his Lawgiver in the holster on his thigh and takes point in front of the grey steel door at the end of the alley. Anderson hits the panel, falling in at his side as they enter the crowded interior, shop keepers and hawkers and customers falling silent on their approach and resuming their arguing and bargaining as the two specters of justice pass by on the hunt for some other unlucky bastard. As far as Dredd is concerned, they're all guilty; he just doesn't have the time right now to figure out the specifics. He pauses when they reach the square courtyard in the center of the block, lit as much by the blinking neon signs as the dingy light filtering in from 200 floors up.
Nine months into her career as a Judge, the routine is familiar by now. Dredd takes point, and she reaches out for the perp's location. Anderson sends out a pulse of feeling, trying to make sense of the thousands and thousands of minds she can feel living stacked one atop the other. "He's on this level," She announces after a few long seconds of sorting through the thought cacophony.
Dredd considers this information, weighing the benefits of covering twice as much ground against Safety Operating Procedure 6. : Street Judges are to work in pairs to reduce risk, increase ratio of operational success, and prevent opportunities for corruption. "Go left," he orders, heading towards the right corridor, towards the warren of private apartments.
Anderson wants to insist that she take the residential section and he should take the merchant sector; she's better suited than a Norm to searching out people behind closed doors. He's hardly a Norm, she has to admit, and his methods speak for themselves. Even if they tend to gravitate towards property destruction and kicking doors obeys and moves left, all senses primed for anything or anyone looking out of place in this swarm of humanity.
The telltale sign comes from a smoky dark corner of a 2-cred noodle bar, stillness where there should be motion: a flinch or careful aversion of eyes less they attract her unwanted attention. Only a guilty man would work so hard to suppress the reflex to look away. Anderson lets her feet carry her past the cramped bar further along the hallway, focusing her telepathy on the mind behind her. He's still warm with pleasure, privately enjoying the memory of the women beneath him going limp, pulses fluttering in harmony under his palms before ceasing. Anderson pulls herself back to her body with a suppressed shudder of revulsion. "Anderson to Dredd, I found him sitting at Ting's Noodles; flushing him now." She draws her Lawgiver, weapon humming to life at her touch, and turns on her heel, marching back to the darkened restaurant just as the perp is settling his tab with a placid Hispanic woman behind the steaming serving line. The words 'Drop it, creep' are still forming on her tongue when the man catches sight of her, scattering his change and sprinting down the hall. She makes the snap decision to pursue rather than take her chance with a shot; there are too many innocent people clustered too tightly to risk it, "He's running," she informs Dredd shortly, and follows the fleeing back, civilians scattering before her like pigeons, none wanting to be slapped with a 6 month cube stint for Obstruction of Justice. The runner doesn't seem to need any assistance in planting obstacles for his pursuer as he tries to escape, turning corners randomly and kicking over anything which might slow the tailing Judge down.
However fast Anderson might be, she's unable to close the gap, unable to do anything beyond keep pace with the creep and leap over the obstacles he kicks in her direction. Burning legs and lungs are irrelevant; nothing matters but the chase and the arrest at the end. She's teased into thinking she'll catch up when he stops at a blank stretch of wall at the end of an empty hall, but it's only long enough to palm a hidden sensor, and dive through the door as it begins to creak open. Seeing her chance, Anderson reaches for one more burst of speed, throwing herself through the thick slab of steel as it begins to slide close, tucking her head as she tumbles artlessly down a steep flight of stairs, rolling to her feet and ignoring the angry throbbing of raw scrapes and bruises blooming beneath the thick black leather of her suit. She doesn't pause in her pursuit, continuing down the long dark hall, following the sounds of ragged breathing, feeling for that particular mind amid the fearful chatter pressing down and around her. Rounding a corner, she finds faint cracks of white light outline a door, and she preps herself as best she can for the blinding brightness waiting on the other side of the barrier to disorient and confuse her. Not for the first time she wonders if the benefits of wearing her helmet might sometimes outweigh the drawbacks of the blind, deaf, claustrophobic feeling that comes with wearing it. Slitting her eyes against the onslaught, she kicks the door open, taking aim at the dark figure trotting down towards the tangle of gleaming copper and white plastic machinery and their silent, careful attendants. He's slowing, and she takes the opportunity to fire a burst of rapid shots after him, sending the lab workers scattering for cover as a bullet finds its mark in his shoulder, the impact spinning him around, spattering red on the slick white tiles, but not stopping him. "Anderson to Judge Dredd; where the hell are you?" She snaps into her communicator, resuming pursuit.
"Right here," The low, rough voice carries from the other end of the room, bouncing and echoing off the clean white walls, and the perp slows again to look around for the source, before staggering onwards towards one of the many basement level exits. Tragically for the would-be escapee, there's another back clad figure waiting, Lawgiver out and ready. "Sit your ass down, punk." The heavy black gun follows the man down to the floor, where he waits, hands held submissively above his head. "Two counts of murder and resisting arrest; the verdict is guilty, the sentence is death." He pulls the trigger, and watches with cold professionalism as the criminal slumps over, a single dribble of blood spilling from the neat hole between his eyes.
That criminal well in hand, Anderson turns her Lawgiver onto the scattered scientists slinking unobtrusively towards escape routes. "Get on the floor! I promise you, the next person who moves an inch is going to be very, very sorry." It's a relief when they all obey, slow and clumsy with fright. "Control, we're going to need a transport wagon and forensics team down here." She corrals the scientists into a cluster in front of Judge Dredd. Careful to maintain her cover of the prisoners, she runs an eye over the production lines of vats, tubes, and chemical printers still holding half-printed sheets of bright blue stamps. "Buzz? Really?" She shakes her head with disbelief, such an impressive facility seems too grandiose for manufacturing such a low grade narcotic.
"Those aren't Buzz printers," Dredd jerks his head toward the complicated lines of silver and white machinery stretching along either side of the space without splitting his attention from the huddle of scientists in front of him.
Anderson shakes her head; Buzz hasn't been on the street three weeks and already Dredd is an expert. She's never quite sure how he keeps so perfectly current on crime trends, but he's never wrong, so she approaches the banks of twisted metal cautiously. They're in pristine condition; no residue in the clear silicone tubes, no fingerprints on the gleaming silver buttons and dials, etched in mysterious symbols. The raw chemicals are wrapped in blinding white, no labels or identifiers, as anonymous as the vials half-filled with oily clear liquid, sealed and cushioned in huge white crates. A faint scent wafts from the tray of open containers, and gingerly Anderson brings her nose down to it, sniffing inquisitively. It smells familiar, bitter and sterile, transporting her back in time, to a different mega-block in a different sector, one lying flush against the lead lined barricades holding the Cursed Earth and gamma radiation at bay. Injections sold to ward off the effects of radiation sickness and reduce the likelihood of suffering cancer or genetic mutation. "It's medication for the wall blocks." She informs him quietly, staring down at the stacks of crates filled with thousands of doses. "But why is it here?"
"Leave it to forensics," Dredd grunts; sure it's an interesting question, but not relevant to their jobs and therefore of zero import. Street Judges don't get involved in the whys of a crime, there are simply too many happening in a given day to ponder intentions. Every moment a Street Judge wastes wondering about motive is a moment where he's not focused on the next crime and that is unacceptable.
Anderson nods once in acknowledgement, but refuses to be distracted from her examination. Gently she pries one of the sealed vials from its nest in the transportation crate, biting through the thin membrane sealing the medicine, dripping a few drops onto the tip of her gloved finger and touching her tongue to the bead of liquid. She stares at the ceiling, working her mouth around the taste, before spitting onto the ground violently, letting the vial drop, oily contents oozing slowly onto the tiles. "It's wrong." Her voice takes on a dead, flat timbre, "Fakes, Dredd." Slowly, ominously she advances upon the scientists, Lawgiver in hand. "The penalty for counterfeiting medicinal drugs for distribution is 15 years. The penalty for distributing counterfeit medicinal drugs is death."
"Stand down, Judge Anderson!" Given a physical form, Dredd's shout could have cracked skulls. "Wait for forensics, I said." He scowls at the junior Judge until she recognizes the command and holsters her Lawgiver. Sometimes he forgets she's still greener than goop. "When's Control getting here?"
Anderson takes a deep breath in an effort to control her racing pulse; adrenaline is a simple biological reaction to stress and anger, particularly being shouted at be Judge Dredd. It's unseemly for a Judge to be anything other than perfectly in control. She doesn't have to feel very far past the frightened minds of the scientists and the stone cold mind of Joseph Dredd to find the solid, dutiful, reliable minds of the meat-wagon drivers. "They're here; Anderson to Transport Wagon Five, we're in sub-level one, east wing."
"Roger that, Judges, bring them up."
Anderson doesn't meet Dredd's eyes behind his blacked out visor; she simply starts shoving the pliant scientists into a rough formation, and moves to the back of the column, letting him head the formation up the stairs he's been standing rigidly in front of, shoving the door open to reveal the bustling street, roped off by an industrious driver against the curious onlookers. She stays vigilant at the back of the column, keeping the group within her sights as Dredd pushes the barred door of the Transport Wagon open, and silently ushers the file in.
The cheerful Wagon Driver saunters over to the two Judges leaning against the tailgate of his wagon, whistling softly at the dense square of humanity which has managed to cram itself into the trailer. "Good catch, Judges; drugs bust?"
Anderson shrugs, "There's a body for the meat-wagon down those steps, as well as the two around the other side." Her eyes flicker to Dredd for a moment before she makes a request, "Would you please ask forensics, when they get here, to make sure a copy of their report finds its way to my desk?" She smiles encouragingly at the man's quiet affirmation. "Thanks a lot. We'd better be going." She doesn't need to read him to know that behind his helmet and standard scowl, Dredd is irritated by her further delay for a request he considers a waste. She falls into step beside him as they make their way back toward their Lawmasters. "What've we got now, Control?"
The report is sitting on the desk in her tiny living quarters by the time Anderson's street shift ends. She stares tiredly at the blinking display on her desk, peeling out of her body armor as she considers her next step; no real choice at all. However terribly she might need to know the contents of the report, there are protocols that must be followed to maintain her health. It's the best feeling in the world to peel off protective black suit, and place the two out outer garments in the decontamination zone of her wardrobe, enjoying the cooler air currents playing across bare skin and sweat-damned skivvies, letting the glass doors slide shut and begin the five minute laundering process. Tiredly, she steps into her small shower unit, flicking the taps until a trickle of icy water comes dribbling out. With the aid of a small towel, she rinses off the sweat and dirt accumulated from a day of hard work, paying special attention to the minor abrasions and bruises dappling her arms and legs. The process isn't the most efficient method of attaining the necessary standard of hygiene, a few seconds in the chemical shower would be faster and more thorough, but she craves the sensations against her skin, water and rough fabric cooling and healing, something to wash the anger and fear of the day's events away.
Ablutions completed, she dries herself and eases into her chair, shifting slightly as the hard seat pressures a bruise on the back of her leg, and pulls up the analysis of the two substances discovered. The first is Buzz, all she expected and not very interesting, and she scrolls past the irrelevant information impatiently until she reaches the second section. Most of the details of the report are beyond her comprehension, but the few lines that she does understand leave her breathless with anger. 'Compound B exhibits many properties identical to the gamma reaction-inhibitor medication 4Na2PhLz3OH5 created by Red Pharma Industries, more commonly known by its generic name, Clavax. Compound B shares a molecular structure with 4Na2PhLz3OH5, but lacks the enzyme Lysonerase rendering it completely inert...
The last word bouncing around her head, Anderson continues to read, determined to understand the breadth and depth of the crime before suiting up and going out to destroy whoever is responsible for such exploitative cruelty. There is little else she deems important in the report, not interested in lingering over an adoring analysis of the high quality of the equipment and base chemicals. There's no debate over whether the drugs are fake, but between the dull pages of chemistry there's awe at the professional quality of the raw materials and the production line. Finished with her review, Anderson kicks back in her chair to stare at the empty void of her ceiling, reigning in her temper and organizing her thoughts. Two questions make themselves visible immediately: who is responsible and what is the scale of the operation? Her gut tells her that she won't find the responsible party by interrogating the technicians in queue to be interrogated, and thus she's better off searching the quiet corners of Meg-One for similar facilities. But first she must follow due process and see her morning's work brought to conclusion. Meditatively, she powers down her desk display, dons fresh underthings and zips back into her clean bodysuit, before heading back to the Hall of Justice.
She arrives in time to see the end of the last interrogation of the technicians: a simple question and answer process in a plain white room with a quiet Interrogator on one side of the table and the terrified worker on the other. Questions are asked, and asked again: What is your name? What were you doing down there? Who is your boss? Do you know what the penalty for your crime is? What is your name? What were you doing down there? Who is your boss? The unwavering pattern repeats again and again as lies are worn away under brute repetition, responses wavering between civic helpfulness and frustration and fear until the interrogator is satisfied and the perpetrator is led to a waiting containment cube.
Dredd is there, standing squarely to attention before the glass partition separating observers from the interrogator in the center of the room amidst and apart from clusters of other witnesses. "Guilty," he says with his standard eloquence as Anderson approaches, stopping beside him.
From here she can smell the street still lingering on him; Dredd hasn't taken the time to clean up since his shift ended, and she can too easily imagine him in that sterile room, all the more terrifying and out of place as he questions the scientists. "I could have assisted with this," she tries not to sound reproachful. Telepaths are gifted in that particular regard, and she's proud of her ability to aid.
Dredd might not respond to her insistence, but she doesn't need to read him to know he's irritated with her. It's usually a safe bet with him. Psionic powers are not covered by the processes of Law, and thus he won't deal with them willingly, not in the heart of the Halls of Justice.
"Yeah, but this leaves a record; we can see it. No offense to your mutie powers." The anonymous voice carries through the hushed room, and Judge Cassandra Anderson has no response to that.