The alley was only feet from the bustling street. But it may as well have been in the outer colonies for all the notice the passers-by took of it and the unfolding drama it bore witness to.
Two men stood, taut with hostility, an arms length apart, in the semidarkness of the alley's confines. Each had an arm extended towards the other, each held a gun, and each quivered with the strain of not firing.
Deckard took in his quarry, really looking at the man before him.
Not man, he corrected himself, it isn't real. Not naturally real. My God but it's a good replica. And a good replicant for that matter.
This mark had been the toughest Deckard had ever pursued. He'd known it would be from the beginning.
The chase had been long and hard. This replicant knew what it was doing more than any other.
At times it had almost had him. And at other times, it had almost lost him.
And just now, it had almost killed him when it lead him into this alley and surprised him.
And now they stood, hunter and hunted, face to face, cheek to jowl, gun to gun.
Deckard stood resplendent in his usual shabby-cop chic; unshaven, unwashed, unironed, and unnoticeable. His greatcoat swayed slightly around his ankles with the memory of recent movement. His cheap-but-trying-to-look-expensive imitation Italian shoes rotted slowly in the stagnant puddles at his feet. His tie hung askew. His beloved Bladerunner issue firearm, stood poised and proud before him; big and black and bad.
His antagonist positively shone by comparison. A well-tailored, expensive-and-trying-to-look-it, grey cotton suit hung neatly from slender but strong shoulders. The clean-shaven face held eyes of steely grey, matching the close-cropped grey hair above.
And the weapon pointed at Deckard's face, was a polished chrome compact, which made the Bladerunner's weapon look dirty, cumbersome and clumsy by comparison.
Seconds passed as each appraised the other.
Finally, the Replicant smiled a sardonic smile and spoke:
"Well, Richard, looks like you got me. Dead bang. Point blank. Good for you."
Deckard smiled in return, the wry, self-depreciating smile that embodied his wise-ass cop persona.
"Looks like I do, Vincent. You'd think it was in the bag wouldn't you?" He said "But it looks like I got a little problem. You see, right this minute, I have a gun pointed at my head and I can't very well collect my bounty if I'm dead now can I?"
"Guess not." Vincent said flatly, his eyes locked on Deckard's.
"So now I gotta think of a way to get out of this mess and still put a hole in you, without getting one in myself." Deckard continued. "Some days I hate this job."
"So whatcha gonna do?" Vincent asked, innocently, enjoying the game.
"Not sure yet." replied Deckard "But it's probably gonna get me hurt pretty bad."
Vincent flashed his wide smile at this. He had to respect the man's sense of humour.
"You know, that was pretty funny Richard," he chuckled "considering the circumstances"
"Thanks." Deckard said dryly. "But do me a favour, will you; call me Deckard. Only my mom calls me Richard"
"Ok, Deckard" Vincent said. "Mind if we get serious for a minute?"
"Not at all"
"Why are you after me?"
It was Deckard's turn to chuckle. "I thought you wanted to get serious!" he said.
"I am serious Deckard." Vincent said "Why are you after me?
I know why the cops are after me; you don't kill as many people as I have without the LAPD wanting a slice of your time. Unless, of course, you happen to be a Bladerunner; which brings me back to my original question. Why are you after me? Why is a Bladerunner chasing me?"
"You're kidding me, right?" Deckard replied, incredulously.
"No, Deckard, I'm not. Tell me why you're after me. Tell me now. My arm is getting tired and I'm warming to the idea of just shooting you and being done with it."
As if in support of his claim, Vincent's arm wavered.
Deckard's eyes were drawn to the gun inches from his face and the gravity of his situation came crashing back to him. He was gun to gun with the most dangerous replicant ever created. The bizarre questions were irrelevant.
"Who else would be coming after you, Vincent? Beat cops? They're not trained to take on your kind and you know it. You're out of their league. Hell, you're almost out of mine" Deckard was talking quickly, his human drive for survival overriding his usual reserve.
"My kind, Deckard?" Vincent asked. "That's what I'm talking about. You're a Bladerunner. You don't hunt humans, no matter how murderous. You hunt Replicants. Only Replicants. So why are you hunting me? You can't retire me Deckard. That would be murder…"
Oh dear God! Deckard thought. It doesn't know! It thinks it's human. How could it not know? The realisation struck Deckard like a punch to the gut. Goddamn Tyrell! Damn him to Hell! Damn them all! What have they done? How could they create this killing machine and then make it think it's human?
"What's the matter, Deckard?" Vincent asked, suspicion flavouring his tone. "You look like you've seen a ghost?"
Deckard looked up at the figure before him with wide barely focussed eyes. It was all he could do not to gape like a fish out of water as his mind reeled with the implications of this revelation. Everything he had planned…was useless.
"Deckard!" Vincent snapped. "Pay attention or you'll die and you'll miss it."
Deckard realised he had no time left to come to terms with the new situation; Vincent was still pointing a gun at him and was starting to get anxious.
As he forced himself to calm, Deckard saw a new look in the Replicant's eyes, a look that spoke volumes; a look of doubt.
Vincent had seen Deckard's mind reel when the cards were laid down. And it all but confirmed his own fears.
"You're..." Deckard began, questioning the wisdom of what he was about to do. "You're a… a Replicant, Vincent. A Replicant. That's why me. That's why a Bladerunner. You're what I do."
"No!" Vincent spat. "I'm no Skinjob. I'm human. As human as you are." Vincent's voice held the tone of one trying harder to reject the truth than to convince another.
"No Vincent" Deckard said gently, he was playing with fire and he knew it. "You're not. You're a Replicant. You're one of Eldon Tyrell's elite. You're the Vincent Grey model; the Nexus Zero. One of the first models Tyrell ever manufactured, and the only model to remain in production through all the Nexus phases."
Deckard could see the struggle within the Replicant play across its chiselled features. "You've always been at the forefront of their research, Vincent. Always the most advanced. That's why you think you're human. They made you that way."
"No!" Vincent said again. "I work for Tyrell, that's all. I do his wet-work. You're wrong."
"No Vincent, I'm not. And I don't need a Voight-Kampff test to tell me that. Do you want to know why?" Deckard's eyes met Vincent's and saw the questions there. "Because I've seen it, Vincent; I've seen your corpse, I've seen it many times.
Every time you show up and make your hits for Tyrell…you die, every single time. And do you know why? Because they programmed you that way; less loose ends for Tyrell to have to tie up. Ever since the first, back in '04, when you, the first you, were shot by a cab driver and left on the L-train. That's how it happens, every time."
"No!" Vincent insisted "I remember them; I remember all the jobs I've done for Tyrell. How could I do that if I'd died?"
"Memories, Vincent. They implant the memories. They store them up. Each time you die, a Tyrell rep shows up after a while and claims your body. They say it's for research. We know they're lying and they know we know. But we can't prove the connection…because you take the proof with you when you die"
"So how then, how do I die?" Vincent asked, his final defence, weak as it was. "I'm the best there is. No one's good enough to top me. No one. Least of all you flatfoot cops. Who kills me if I'm the best?"
"No one kills you, Vincent" Deckard pressed "That's the beauty of it. You let yourself get killed. You show up, do the jobs and at the end of the list, you make a mistake. One single mistake, but it's always enough: you're a second too slow on the draw, or you draw on the cops and get nailed, or you misjudge a jump. Something always happens. And you're so good; you get the job done right every time. You're always dead before we can even get to you, you never a leave a survivor; not your targets, not yourself… You're the perfect assassin.
And yet here you are again. That's the proof, Vincent. I could take you to the M.E.'s office and show you the bone marrow tests we've done. But you don't need me to, do you? You're a Replicant, Vincent, and you know it."
Silent seconds passed. Deckard began to sweat with the exertion of holding his arm level, and with tension as Vincent digested all the Bladerunner had told him.
"So that's it then." Vincent finally said with a sad smile. "You were my next mark Deckard, you know that? Tyrell obviously decided that you're too dangerous to leave unattended. You should be flattered.
I was wondering why I was told to hunt a Bladerunner…but soon I realised that you were hunting me, too. And I realised what that would mean."
Vincent looked deep into Deckard's eyes as he took a slow step backward, lowering his weapon as he did.
Deckard wasn't ready lower to his just yet, but he did allow it to drop slightly.
"I'm going now, Deckard" Vincent said calmly.
"Where?" Was all Deckard could think to ask.
"Back to Tyrell. To get some answers, and, probably, some revenge."
"And you think I'm going to let you go just like that?" Deckard asked, already knowing the answer.
"Like you said Deckard: I never leave any survivors, not even myself."
Vincent smiled as a heavy LA rain began to fall around them.
"I'll be seeing you, Deckard" he said simply, and walked away down the alley, quickly lost to sight in the downpour.
"I hope not," Deckard said to himself "for both of our sakes"