Deckard glared across the hotel lobby, ignoring its lush splendour, looking only at the girl at the reception desk. His crumpled clothes and his angry, rugged face marked him out as someone who didn't belong in the building and he liked that. Deckard didn't belong anywhere and he made a point of not fitting in. He didn't do undercover or subtlety. He was a sledgehammer and he knew when they called him that tricks were out the window and secretiveness was not an issue.
He strode over to the desk, letting anyone get out of his way or get shouldered out of the way - whichever they chose. He didn't stop and he didn't apologise, however powerful the guests must be to be staying in a place like this, a mirage of the past on this crumbling, dying planet.
At the desk he lifted his damp, old briefcase onto the surface and stared straight at the woman. She gave him a flicker of a smile which died under his loathing appraisal.
"How may I help, Sir?" She said, recovering some formal manners.
Deckard curled his lip, drinking in her skin, her eyes, her perfect, natural movement. There had been a time you could tell by looking at them. Even when they got really good, there was just something uncanny about them. Now they were perfect. Replicants. Fucking monsters. And able to move amongst the crowd undetected. The only thing left to detect them was instinct, and Deckard had that.
"Sir?" She asked again, recoiling slightly from his look.
"I'm onto you sweetheart. Are we going to make this easy or difficult? Difficult for you that is," Deckard growled.
"I'm not with you sir. Do you have a reservation?" Her eyes, beautiful, brown, deep and soulful flickered over his face, fear briefly in them before she regained her composure.
"No, but you do." A crooked smile wrenched itself onto Deckard's lips.
"I'm sorry Sir, I don't understand. If you have a reservation I'll need your name, otherwise I'll have to ask you to leave." She darted a look over to the security guard and, gaining reassurance, waited a beat before finishing; "Well if you don't have a reservation, you'll need to go."
She raised her arm to signal the guard and Deckard reached across the desk and grabbed it, twisting the arm down on the the desk.
"Listen, you bitch," he snarled through gritted teeth, "you don't tell me what to do. OK?" Flecks of Deckard's spit flew onto the woman's hair as her head was bowed down to her pinned arm.
"Please," she cried out. "You're hurting me."
"Bullshit!" Deckard shouted.
"Sir, let the lady go." Deckard turned to see the security guard to the side of him now, a security special held tightly in his hands pointing at Deckard's head.
"You, my friend, are making a big mistake," Deckard hissed.
"Five, four..." the security guard licked his lips which had dried with the adrenaline, "..three, two.."
Deckard snapped his hand off the woman and she fell back, clutching her bruised arm.
"Happy," Deckard asked the security guard, turning to face him.
"No, not really. I'd like to shoot you." The guard's hands were trembling with the pent up energy as he held the gun.
"Then you'll go to prison for a long time. Police." Deckard reached into his jacket with no apparent recognition of the gun pointed at him and pulled out his badge, throwing it onto the desk so it slid in the direction of the guard.
The guard edged towards it and picked up the leather cased object with one hand while still holding the gun on Deckard with the other one. He inspected the badge and carefully placed it back on the counter.
"Put the gun down now," Deckard said quietly. He waited and then barked out the word, "Now!"
The guard did as he was told, lowering the pistol. "Sir, you'll need to explain..."
"I need to explain shit. Get the fuck out of here." This time it was Decard's look that gave the abrupt command, "Now!" which made the guard do as he was told. He carefully backed off.
Everyone in the lobby was standing watching. Deckard stood still at the counter staring at the woman as she rubbed her arm, and she glared back at him with fear in her eyes. He waited and let the crowd begin to move again.
"Deckard," he said.
"What?" The woman asked.
"Deckard. The name's Deckard."
After a moment of incomprehension the woman nodded and moved to her computer. "Room 812," she said. "Do you have any luggage?"
"Just this." Deckard jabbed a finger at the tatty briefcase. "You can get that for me."
"Get that for you?"
"Yes, get it for me. Carry it to my room."
The woman behind the desk looked more astounded than when he had grabbed her arm. "We have bellboys who can do that for you."
"I don't want a bellboy to do it for me. I want you to do it for me," Deckard said evenly.
The woman's jaw moved and she couldn't find any words. She looked stunned.
Deckard smiled at her. "Ready?"
Looking round nervously, the woman behind the desk took the bag and hesitated hoping for backup.
"Don't worry," Deckard told her. "I'm sure the security guard will see the desk gets covered. Now, let's get moving."
Deckard let her take the lead, following her to the elevator in the grand lobby. As they approached, the door opened and eight people got out and filed past. Deckard grabbed hold of the receptionist's arm as he could see her twitching, aware that her chances to escape were getting fewer and fewer.
Another guest tried to get in the car with them, but Deckard flashed his badge and punched the floor button and the pair travelled up alone.
"My name's Miranda," the woman said.
Deckard nodded slightly, and said nothing.
"I've worked here for eight years. It's my birthday next week. One of my chil..."
"Can it. I'll ask you questions when I'm ready." He looked at her, loathing and amazement on his face. So real and yet so artificial.
They left the elevator and began walking up the corridor. Deckard fell behind and eased out his gun. It was well-timed as moments later she turned to try and run. He was used to it, the rats feeling the trap closing, getting more desperate the tighter things got.
"Easy," he said and let a self-satisfied smile onto his face.
As she opened the door, Miranda was crying, her slight shoulders trembling. Deckard stood well back to avoid any trickery and followed her into the room.
The room was once splendid, but now tatty. The upkeep that was maintained downstairs was not something that they could stretch to throughout the building and it would be pointless. It could only be a year or two before this place closed down, the people who mattered running out of reasons to visit the planet. Loose ends were nearly all tied up and only the poor and ineligible would remain. And they weren't going to pay to stay in a hotel like this.
"Sit," Deckard commanded, waving the pistol towards the dining table that stood before the bedroom doors.
Miranda walked over, still crying and sat at the table. She put the bag on the table in front of her. It had nearly dried out in the atmosphere of the building from the rain that had soaked it.
"My daughter's having an operation next week to fix her lungs. We'll need to wait a month to see that everything's OK, and then we'll be able to go off-world."
Deckard ignored her as he pulled the machine from the briefcase and slung the case onto the floor. He placed the machine flat on the desk.
"My husband said that I should go on ahead with Chris, our son..." She interrupted herself with a sob as Deckard attached wires to her wrists and then pushed a wired pad onto her chest inside her blouse, his rough hands popping one of the buttons off.
"I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave Lilly." Now she started to cry fully. "What are you doing?"
Deckard had sat down opposite her and extended the iris reader so that it was straight up from the machine at the right height for Miranda's eye.
"What are you doing?" Miranda asked again, but this time it was actually a wail.
"I'm just going to ask you a few questions and to test your reactions to them," Deckard said repeating his script rather than directly answering her question. "I'll need you to relax and answer them as quickly and honestly as you can. OK?"
Miranda was shaking her head slowly, bewildered, although she did answer a meek 'yes' to the question.
"You're walking in a wood," Deckard droned, the script old and dull to him, the tone measured not to influence the interviewee. "You see a bird's nest that's fallen out of a tree. Three of the eggs are broken. One still is intact. What do you do."
"I..why are you doing this," Miranda managed through her tears.
"Answer quickly, please."
"I...I..leave it and report it to the authorities."
Deckard stared at her eye through the eye reader, and glanced at the meters on the machine. "Further along in the wood, you find a bird with its wing broken. It has been there for days and is struggling feebly. What do you do."
"How far am I away from town," Miranda asked. She was calming down now, with the gentler tone of Deckard and the seemingly innocuous questions.
"Just answer the question," Deckard intoned.
"I can't unless you tell me how far I am from town."
Deckard scratched his chin and looked her full in the face. "You're two days walk from town."
"I kill it," Miranda said without passion.
Deckard watched her intently and looked at the readings again. He tapped the machine on the table and checked the readings again.
"Is there a problem?" Miranda asked.
"Rain isn't too good for these things. You're driving in a car and you hit something in the road. What do you do."
"Where am I driving?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters. Are my children in the back?"
"Answer the question."
"No. Ask a proper question. Is my husband with me?"
"Answer the fucking question." Deckard slammed his hand onto the machine and caught the iris reader, which snapped off. The machine emitted a piercing beep and light from the dials died.
"For christ sakes," Miranda shouted. "I'm not having anything more to do with this. If you want to question me, you'll need to take me down to the station.
"Sit down!" Deckard yelled. Miranda was rising, ripping the wires from her arm and chest. "I said SIT DOWN!"
"No," Miranda screamed, her voice wavering in panic. She turned and was heading for the door.
Deckard was on his feet the gun in his hand. "If you don't sit back down, I'll shoot you."
Miranda didn't look back. "Then you'll have to shoot me," she cried and broke into a run for the door.
Deckard fired. The bullet smashed into the back of her head and her momentum carried her forward into the door, which was already bloody from the bullet's exit through her face. She rolled along the wall, leaving a sporadic, bloody trail until she fell back, crumpling to a sitting position. She looked like a rag doll, sitting unnaturally with her legs splayed, arms by her side, and the top of her body leaning forward. Then she toppled sideways, obscuring the remnants of her ruined face from Deckard's view.
The resonance of the gun still filled Decard's ears, even as Miranda lay dead. Slowly, he put the gun away and then clicked his neck by stretching it. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one up, and sat back down. After he'd taken a couple of draws, he leaned over and retrieved the battered case and put the broken machine back into it and lined it up in front of him.
Deckard had nearly finished the cigarette by the time he heard noises in the corridor. He ground it into the carpet with his foot, and pulled his gun out again and put it on the table next to the case and waited.
"Deckard." The voice came through the door. Deckard ignored it. The annoying voice of Gaff, another officer who didn't speak English and made Deckard's name sound entirely alien. The call came again, this time with a pounding on the door.
"Yes," Deckard responded on the second call.
Slowly the door swung open and Gaff stood there, his gun casually drawn, not expecting trouble now he'd heard Deckard. He stepped in, walking slowly with his cane, and stood over Miranda's body on the floor, looking at Deckard. Then he looked down at the corpse and turned the head upwards with his stick to look at the face, which was only half a face, before letting it drop to the floor. There was a whimper from the doorway and Deckard heard another colleague moving people away from the doorway.
Gaff smiled at Deckard and limped over, putting his gun away. Then he pulled out a radio and gently placed it in front of Deckard, before standing behind him either like a bodyguard or a warder.
"What?" Deckard snapped without looking round.
"Bryant." Gaff said.
Deckard glanced round and then turned back and picked up the radio and called in.
"For fuck's sake, Deckard. What's going on there?" Bryant snapped. "I've got reports of a shooting."
"Yeah," Deckard said. "Just retired the skin-job."
"Oh God." Bryant went silent for a moment. "Why?"
"Why?" Deckard repeated.
"Yes, why?" Bryant snapped. "You were only supposed to bring her in."
"She made a run for it." Deckard said. There was the sound of a snicker from Gaff although, when Deckard looked round, his face was set.
"She was a false id," Bryant hissed. "She was a fucking false id. Someone with a grudge gave us a malicious tip. Didn't you test her?"
Deckard looked at the case and reached over and touched it. "Machine was broken," he murmured.
"The machine was broken?" Bryant repeated incredulously. "And you shot her?"
Deckard shrugged. "She made a run for it."
He looked over to the body lying on the floor, the blood on the walls and the gore soaking into the carpet. His eyes traced the outline of the buckled body. The names Chris and Lilly ran through his mind and he realised he didn't know the husband's name.
He felt nothing.