A/N: Nobody cares about this fandom anymore but that's ok, I still do.


Dillon was supposed to get all the necessary paperwork on the incident with the dead runner finished the next day, but he was sent to the scene of a major accident involving a city bus, two cars, and a streetlight, and spent several hours with a fluorescent orange stick in his hand, diverting traffic. He still might have gotten the report done in what time he had left at the end of the day if Julian hadn't stopped by his cubicle and insisted on recounting his date with Alexia in great detail. Dillon had decided it was best to let Julian speak his piece instead of risking offending him and souring office relations. He did, however, politely decline Julian's invitation for a drink that night.

Dillon walked into his 12th floor apartment at precisely 6:55 PM, rounding out his work shift (including the forty-five minutes round-trip spent walking and on the train) at a little over twelve hours. His accommodations were neat and clean. Spartan. Sleek and modern. His neatly-made bed occupied one corner. The only other furniture was a bedside table, a small black settee shoved under the window, a small table, and two chairs. A door separated the small bathroom from the rest of the apartment; the kitchen had just enough room for his top-freezer refrigerator, a sink, and a short section of countertop. Not lavish, but a better living situation than many in Glass could afford.

He set his backpack next to his bed and took a quick, cold shower. While a frozen dinner warmed in the microwave, he sat on the bed in his briefs, took his laptop from his backpack, and opened up the digital file on the dead runner. Unidentified male. Caucasian, coroner estimated between sixteen and nineteen years old. Fingerprints and dental records weren't in the system, so he had never been arrested and had been off the grid for a long time, at least since he was a small child. Maybe even born off the grid. Cause of death was him hitting the pavement at near terminal velocity from one of the skyscrapers above the spot where he was found. No witness reports of a weapon discharge, so the runner either had a fatal trip or got into some sort of scuffle with another runner. Although they had never been observed to kill their own, it was strongly suspected that there was some sort of competition and occasional conflict between the different cabals.

The tattoos were what was really interesting. K-Sec had been leaning on CPF to begin recording the body modifications of the runners they arrested or found dead. Although K-Sec was normally hesitant to show CPF their hand, they did deign to tell them that runners' tattoos were some form of identification. What they were trying to learn was if it was a way of marking rank, goods transported, or allegiance. So far, the few runners that CPF had had in their custody had not been cooperative. K-Sec always swooped in to take the runners to some black site or underground prison somewhere within hours.

The dead runner sported dozens of triangles of varying sizes that nestled together to form a band that coiled around both arms, up his shoulders, across his chest, and up to his jawline. All of the inked shapes appeared to be the same age, according to the coroner, meaning they weren't tattoos but all one tattoo. So not some sort of gradually-grown record of accomplishment, then. Probably not a mark of rank, either, since it was so large and there were no other tattoos on the body. If Dillon had to guess, he would have pegged it as a mark of allegiance to one of the cabals. The lack of contraband on the runner meant he likely hadn't been out on a run, so the cabal was likely somewhere near the area of the fall.

Dillon put that little hunch in his notes. Couldn't hurt.

The microwave beeped. Dillon retrieved his tray of beef, green beans, and mashed potatoes. Nutritionally well-rounded, all grown and harvested at Elysium-sponsored farms.

He padded back to the bed with his dinner. No piercings, no scarification. Nothing else of note.

Dillon included several pictures of where the runner had been found, taken by the cleanup crew, along with pictures of the runner's tattoos, taken by the coroner. He gave a brief summary of his actions upon arriving at the scene, and of course his hunch about the tattoos.

He saved the report for a final review in the morning, then leaned back against his pillows and looked out his window at the evening skyline as he chewed his bland-but-serviceable beans. The skyscrapers and office buildings looked sharp and clean from afar, distance hiding the grime he knew was there, visible on close inspection. Crammed into alleys and the crisscross of tunnels that ran under Glass. You couldn't be a cop for long and not notice it. It was his job to keep the grime at bay. To clean it up, keep it from overtaking the city. Runners were a representation of that grit. They spread across the rooftops of Glass like an oil spill.

CPF had been content to let the runners exist as long as they stayed out of the way and didn't commit any crimes too heinous. But that was starting to change. K-Sec was getting ready to ramp up the heat, big time. Dillon wondered if the runners would be up to the task. Kruger Security had some truly impressive tech, and seemingly endless finances and drive, but the runners had displayed a knack for staying out of sight and out of trouble. Relatively. K-Sec wanted to scrub that grime out, and the runners were some of the most stubborn spots.

Dillon shoveled a bite of dry beef into his mouth. He understood why K-Sec wanted the runners gone. They were law-breakers by their very existence off the grid. They made their living stealing and smuggling. But something about that life drew people in, attracted them. No matter how many runners got collared by police or fell from the rooftops, they never went away. Dillon couldn't understand it. But a very small part of him, perhaps, could respect it.