This interlude was written completely by Digi. Here we get a little peek into the life of Eli before the Achenleck Case. Enjoy!

INTERLUDE – ELI

He supposed he'd always been a bit odd.

He wasn't sure when it had clicked for him. Perhaps, in some way, he'd always known, though he'd never consciously thought about it. There was always just something somewhat off about the way he carried things out. He always found himself wrapped up in the news on the holoscreen, not the videos, the printed out journals on the web. He loved to read, to piece it all together in his mind instead of having it spoon fed to him in sound bytes that echoed from every telescreen in Varuna. He enjoyed cooking and preferred not to sleep in, woke up like clockwork at seven in the morning every day. He enjoyed yoga and meditating and while he supposed none of this was against the law, it wasn't terribly normal.

In spite of this lack of normalcy, he supposed his life hadn't exactly been anything strange. His childhood seemed to blend together like everything else in his life, though a letter from his cousin had assured him that he wasn't missing any great event. She'd said he was normal and a good man, and he supposed this was true. He'd always been a good boy, he came home before curfew and he got good grades, graduated with no trouble. The only thing that really stood out was the fact that his parents had been killed in a car crash when he was young, and really, it wasn't like there was anything terribly stand-outish about being an orphan in this day and age. After all, the Undesirables were always out for blood. He was just trying to keep the number of orphans down, that's all.

So while he was different, he was also the same as everyone else. And really, he thinks that's where the problem started.

He wasn't sure when he'd noticed. It was just another night like any other and he'd been laying in bed at his apartment, listening to the sounds of the city as it all whirred below him in a constant state of flickering lights and life. He'd been laying there, staring up at the blank white ceiling, and quite suddenly he'd realized he had no idea how old he was. He supposed it was somewhere in his late twenties, but the years had all begun to blend together. Birthday party after birthday party at the office, the only separation being the number on the cake and the fact that everyone else got a little fatter as time drained it all away.

It was all blending together and for an instant he felt a stab of panic and couldn't understand why. He'd laid there and his eyes had widened, chest tightening, and for an instant he'd felt as if the blank walls were closing in, constricting and tightening like a prison as opposed to his home.

That had been bad enough, but the worst part of it was that it kept happening. Now that the thought had occurred, he couldn't seem to stop.

Every day was the same. It was all a copy of a copy of a copy. His coworkers may have different shades hair in a buzzcut or one of four bodytypes but their uniforms and voices all blended together all the same. The buildings were all varying shapes and sizes, but when you really looked at them you realized they were all from the same couple of molds and there were only a few shades and types of metal to choose from. Even the flickering lights followed the same patterns and grids, never changing. The people on the streets all had the same expressions, from blank stares to wide smiles that felt all too fake. It was all the same, every day, every trip to work and forced small talk and ridiculous case.

He tried not to think about it. He'd tried to get rid of the thoughts and he wished they would stop, but they wouldn't. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be a reminder, a flash of yet another carbon copy. He'd mentioned it to his coworkers here and there, had visited the doctor about the insomnia, and in the end the answer was always the same:

Just ignore it. It's just a phase, friend, you've just spent too long listening to those Undesirable-friendly hippies. Just relax, remember who you are. Drink your rationed alcohol, smoke a cigarette, go get yourself some nice girl. An Ahimsa agent can get whoever he wants, you know? Get yourself a girl, drink and smoke, see a movie, plop down in front of the telescreen, drown yourself in culture until it doesn't matter anymore.

This didn't work. He drank, he went to bars, he tried meeting people, but in the end it was all the same. The same flirtatious glances and smirks, questions about work, standard exchanges, same red hair or blond ribbons that fell just so over bared shoulders. It was all the same and he didn't have it in him to return something that wasn't real. It was all the same and he'd go to the same damn bar with different names every night, he would come to his empty apartment alone before curfew every night and still he could not sleep.

So he tried throwing himself into his work, taking case after case and seeing if that would help. He took case after case and saved life after life, and still that didn't help. Even that was the same, same old rants about vampires who lurked in the shadows at clubs and leered at women who dressed as if they were secretly seeking the dangerous attention, same stories of mermaids hiding in sewers and werewolves gathering in parks. Sometimes it wasn't even true, it was just teenagers being silly, and other times it was a real problem and again he'd be fighting for his life and dragging some helpless creature away that supposedly deserved it and even that all seemed too similar.

Perhaps the issue lay in the fact that he was so different. Generally the Ahimsa barged in without a word, made silent arrests late into the night and shot without asking questions. They did general arrests too, but it was an unspoken fact that they were known for harsher tactics, but not him. He did his best to give Undesirables the chance to surrender peacefully, he never shot unless he had to, always knocked first, and naturally he supposed this only added to his odd reputation. He'd become somewhat infamous after one particular case wherein they'd caught a vampire holding a woman hostage. There'd been a general panic that there was no way to win this without anyone dying, but he'd managed to do what others failed.

He had talked.

He talked, figured out what was going on, used reason as opposed to bullets, and in the end they'd managed to sort it all out. The vampire had come quietly, the woman had lived, and in the end he'd been regarded with stares and grins. "Eli the hero" was what they called him, and he wasn't sure whether this was a statement of honor or bitter sarcasm. You could never be entirely sure in the Ahimsa. But still, the title had stuck, as had his reputation, and in the end he ended up with dozens of cases and word of a promotion that he was well aware would never actually happen.

He was far too different to be promoted.

But still, the cases came, and that's how he found himself standing in sector D4, feeling something within him twist as he watched a group of teenagers spray runes across government-funded screens. Considering his reputation, he often found himself in these situations, playing the diplomat where others wouldn't. He supposed he would prefer he be doing the job as opposed to any other agent, but it didn't make the job any more enjoyable. Something today seemed different, however.

So he'd walked up to the teenagers and he'd tried talking to them. His words were gentle and were met with the standard hostility of teenagers, but then had come the question they hadn't expected.

"Why are you doing this?"

He wasn't sure what had prompted him to ask it. It wasn't a part of his job to ask questions, to reason. It wasn't a part of his training, it wasn't a part of the things he'd learned in school or at the academy or from the words that rang from the telescreens. The question came from somewhere else, from that part of his mind that whirred endlessly as he tried to sleep, the part that saw everything that seemed so impossibly wrong and could not seem to rest. It came from that part of him and it felt so strange to have the words leave his mouth, and he wasn't sure if he was asking the teenagers or asking something else entirely.

And of course the kid had just stared at him oddly, and for an instant he felt rather stupid for asking. Who was he to be asking these kids anything? It wasn't a part of his job, as far as the kids were concerned he was just another stupid adult. However, just as he was starting to curse himself for asking, the answer had come, surprisingly blunt and honest.

"I don't want to be the walking dead like you people."

He'd sat in silence for a moment, simply taking the words in. Then he'd nodded, because the part of him that kept him awake, the part of him that saw it all and couldn't take it, the part of him that had asked the question, that part could understand.

"I..." He trailed off, unsure of the words he needed. His throat was dry, tight, as if something were obstructing it. All he knew was at that moment he had to step away. "I'm going to go file a report."

It went unspoken that he expected the place to be empty when he got back.

So he'd turned and went back to his car, collapsing bonelessly in the seat. He then just sat there, mahogany eyes gazing up at the skyscrapers as the same city sounds whirred around him. Same screaming sirens, same rhythm of walking feet and speeding cars, same flashing lights. It was the same as always, but strangely enough, in that moment he almost felt at peace. Not because the problem was gone, because of course he would not sleep tonight and of course it would all be the same as always.

But he had words to go with the problem, though it still was so very hard to wrap his brain around it all.

When he'd returned with the report, the area had been as empty as he'd hoped it would be. The graffiti remained though, and he was starting to get used to the strange fact that he didn't really mind The words across the wall resonated in his mind, strange and alien and frustratingly true.

"Our city is dead."