3R

With her shift over, Demi felt today was the day she needed some R&R. It’s why instead of going back to her apartment she’s taken a seat in one of the many bars that line most of the streets in Xenetia City, the third largest metropolis on Mars. It’s a city that all told is home to some fifty nine million people.

“Whisky, double, no ice, make it the strong stuff.” Is the order she gives to the barman, a gruff looking type with a permanent grimace on his face and steeply angled eyebrows that make it seem as though he is forever ready to punch someone. He might be. Demi rightly hasn’t a clue what he might get up to in his down time. If he has down time that is. Bar work isn’t exactly flourishing, so it tends to be the only people who work are those are who own the establishments. For a fact the Judicor is aware that this bar, Victims, belongs to the man serving up her drink. Something he does without an ounce of ceremony or delicacy as he sloppily pours the brown tinted liquid into a glass that is not remotely close to being a shot glass. Not that Demi cares right now. However much he might pour will suit her and knowing Jarins, the barman, it’ll be at dirt cheap prices too.

Sure, he might brew the stuff out back, pretty normal on Mars, but that doesn’t mean it’s no less flavourful than what other similar establishments provide.

“That’ll be Eighty seven units.” Is what Jarins demands once the drink is poured two thirds of the way up what would usually be reserved for beer.

The grimace never falters or fades as the words pass his lips, which you might think would drive custom away but far from it. Prices speak volumes in Xenetia cause no one comes to establishments like Victims for company, conversation. They come here for one reason, cheap drinks to pour down their necks.

Demi fishes a hundred unit strip from her pocket and slaps it down. “Keep the change for my next drink.”

“Celebrating?” Is the rare question uttered by Jarins as he snatches and then checks the strip by holding it up to the light, as if Demi would use fraudulent money.

Her guess is that it is out of habit Jarins performs they charade. Especially since holding it up in front of a light will do nothing to prove its authenticity one way or another.

“No, just drinking.” Comes the reply alongside a fixed stare that insists he minds his own business as is his usual trait.

She won’t have to say anymore than that because Jarins is fully aware she is a Judicor. Some of the other patrons might be too but she can’t be sure. Not that she is dressed in uniform. No, that is back at the Damocles Complex, stored in her locker.

A grumble escapes Jarins throat and then he’s gone, leaving Demi to her drink.

She swirls it around for a while, staring down at its contents, her mind vacant. Then she feels the need, a dryness spreading across the inside of her mouth. Immediately she doses and suppresses it by gulping a large dose of the whiskey. Her grey eyes closed as she savours the taste. The burn is something she can easily ignore and does exactly that as she swallows it and feels a warmth slide down her throat until the sensation is lost to her. She smacks her lips in the moments after pleased with herself, then opens her eyes, looks around and unsurprisingly notes that not a single soul could give a damn about what she’s doing. A smile tears across her face. Here is the one place she can be surrounded by people and not have eyes on her. At five foot eleven and a hundred and sixty pounds of muscle that is almost unheard of.

Sure, Demi isn’t the tallest person, even for a woman, but when you’re ninety five percent muscle mass, with arms the size of grapefruit, meaning you have to wear men’s clothes or risk tearing shirts around the biceps, it can get quite exhausting the attention it breeds.

Even in the thirtieth century it is unusual for women to be so stacked and well defined, musculature wise. But for Demi it only felt right and not only because she is a Judicor. No, her desire for muscle goes back to when she was young. Not because she was bullied or picked on. Not a single person she ever went to school with tried that on with her. They didn’t dare. She was always the biggest in the class, until her late teens years when the boys really started to grow and pass the six foot mark. Even then few grew up on a farm like she did. And because of her rural upbringing she developed muscle early. Once her sights were set on being a Judicor she thought it only right to not only maintain but improve what she had naturally developed through hard work before and after her days at school learning.

Casting memories of her youth back into the vault of her mind, Demi takes another pull of her drink. Unlike the first time she doesn’t gulp it but rather swigs. Quickly the liquid is swished around her mouth and then swallowed. The burn this second time is disappointing, not only because of the much smaller quantity but also because this whiskey Jarins brews naturally loses the strength of its sting the more of it you drink. At least that is what Demi believes as she hears some ruckus down the bar that draws her attention.

She isn’t the only patron drawn to the raised voices, several others are too. Unlike them however her interest is observation with the intention of potential intervention if SolLaw is crossed only. It’s doubtful such a thing will happen but she has to be ready to act all the same. After all, what bigger embarrassment could there be for the judiciary than a guard ignoring an infraction by a citizen? Truthfully, there isn’t one, not really. Hence why Judicor’s have to be a certain sort; willing to always be at work even when they are not, strictly speaking, at work, in uniform and/or on duty. For most such a prospect would be, regardless of whether they would admit it or not, exhausting to the point of mental collapse. For a Judicor however that is not the case. Demi could not describe how if she were asked too and being off-duty, isn’t inclined to consider it as she watches the would-be confrontation simmer down purely because Jarins demanded it so.

It would surprise Judicor Urlanium if during his whispering he made mention that a Judicial Guard is present. He’d never point her out, identify her, but he would inform them if one is present. Doubly so, if it meant it would prevent damage to his property. How often it works well Demi can’t…

Truth-be-told it must be effective, she concludes, for Victims is always open, as far as she can recall. Yet, she seriously doubts the grimacing bar owner uses the excuse solely when she is present, and to her knowledge no other Judicor’s frequent this bar. Lucky bastard that he isn’t considered the boy who cries wolf too often, Demi concludes only to take another mouthful of brewed whiskey. The burn is almost nonexistent which disappoints her immensely and why, when Jarins is back to serving she calls him over with a high pitched whistle.

The other patrons do their best not to turn her way. It’s as if they have guessed she is not a citizen like them. They might have. Or they might’ve been informed. If they have it’ll be by other patrons. Jarins isn’t that reckless. He’s been around a long time. She’d put him at mid-fifties, but his expression might be making her add years which are not yet his. It matters little as he queries, “What you need?”

“Something strong to mix with this, it’s losing its punch.” Comes the succinct reply as her grey eyes burrow into his green ones without blinking.

A smirk appears across Jarins face and is followed by, “Thought you weren’t partying?”

“Told you I’m not; so means I’m not. You’re never usually this chatty.” Demi points out between slow exhales of thin air.

For Demi it isn’t an issue that air on Mars is thinner than some of the other colonies, and not only because she has never visited them. In fact, it’s something she doesn’t notice at all. Though, she can always tell those who are not native to the human world, like Jarins.

Where he might have been born she hasn’t a clue and in true Judicor form has no interest in learning; for that is not her role, her purpose.

Yet, why the colonies have denser air composition she hasn’t a clue. It has simply always been that humans of Mars survive on thinner atmosphere than those across the rest of Sol. Some suspect it is so continued and prolonged activity in higher gravity is easier, but she is no scientist and so cannot say if there is any basis in such a thing. To her it smacks of weakness, she thinks, maybe.

Honestly, she is foggy on her beliefs with such things, which are a rare zone of uncertainty most unbefitting of her position as a Judicor. Mercifully, it matters naught for she will never be stationed off-world for Judicial Guards have operations on and in all human colonies.

“How strong do you want it? You working tomorrow?”

The Judicor fixes the barman with a look. It suggests his question is a stupid one. He answers the stare with a nod; grabs a bottle from under the bar, the contents are pink and viscous.

Soon a glass appears, more a vial to be accurate, into which he pours some of the pink liquid. It looks more like goop Demi thinks as it is thrust into her hand.

“And this is?”

“What you’re looking for.” A wink accompanies the reply from Jarins.

If she were not a Judicor, Demi might think him to be plotting but there is no way he’d be that stupid, of that she is absolutely certain. And if she were wrong, he wouldn’t be on Mars anymore.

You might not believe Judicor’s are that efficient but seeing as crime, system wide, stands at five percent, a number which convictions amount to as well, you should be capable of seeing that those few foolish enough to break SolLaw are tried and convicted for their infractions.

Why anyone continues to subvert the rites is beyond Demi. She would’ve thought that any citizen would be capable of seeing it is futile and given up on believing crime pays, but alas they have not. One day perhaps, but not as yet has such a goal been achieved. She would like to see it, societal perfection. Judicial texts speak of it. It sounds blissful, harmonious, pure. And perhaps if achieved humanity will achieve its millennia long dream of reaching beyond its birth system, maybe to meet other lifeforms of comparable intelligence and show them the perfection of what they have achieved. But these are dreams and dreams made reality take time and considerable effort.

Snapping back to the moment, the off-duty Judicial Guard finds she is staring at the viscous pink fluid in the vial that was thrust into her hand by Jarins. Her eyes flick back to him. Unlike normal he has remained in place as if he wishes to see what she thinks. From any other barman she would consider it suspicious but past the grimace she catches genuine intrigue. Without a word or reaction she raises the vial and pours the pink goop into her mouth. Instantly she tastes sweetness mixed with fire. It’s exactly what she is looking for; bar for the thickness of it which she feels might block her throat as soon as she tries…

Effortlessly Demi swallows and the goop with the sugary sweetness mixed with spice sent rushing down her oesophagus until the feeling is no more.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” Is the confident assumption made by Jarins who looks proud in the face of certain doubt by previously displayed by the Judicial Guard.

“Ya did well Jarins. You might have to keep ‘em coming ‘til I’ve had my fill.”

“Ha. I do that you’ll either pass the fuck out or tear my bar to shit. My money’d be on the latter.” There is a pause before he continues assuring, “Its strong stuff, stupid strong; even for someone like you. But you drink my brewed whiskey and it’ll be enough, I swear it.”

Forcing doubt onto her face, more to be playful than actually disbelieving of his claims this time, Demi utters, “If you’re wrong I fire you off-world, you know that right?”

A split second of fear flashes across one half of Jarins face before he manages to strike it dead.

The out of uniform Judicor on the other hand does not show her hand, though she inadvertently learned something about the barman; he must’ve suffered injuries from something at some time in the past which required plastiskin to be used. That is why he has a permanent grimace and why only half his face reacted a moment ago.

Part of her wonders if she should pry deeper, work out if these injuries resulted in a change of identity.

“Nice jest.”

“You worked it out then?” Is the sarcastic reply followed by a sip of the whiskey in her glass.

Swallowing the liquid Demi discovers that Jarins wasn’t exaggerating at all for the burn has returned. Hell, she might go so far as to say it’s been intensified, heightened. She loves it. This is exactly what she’s been after.

“Yeah and by the looks of things I’ve another satisfied customer.” It’s an arrogant statement but one that is not accompanied by a demand for payment. Rather, the barman begins to depart.

“What do I owe you?” The dark haired woman calls after him.

“Remainder of your strip covered it. Enjoy your night.” There is a suggestive wink delivered when he gives the reply over his shoulder. It’s as if this mixture of drinks will tempt her toward actions not usually to her tastes. She ignores the insinuation, nods and returns to being a lonely drinker in Victims, surrounded by many others who are like her but also not.

Sadly, the peace doesn’t last as maybe fifteen minutes and one whiskey later Demi feels a couple presences encroach on her personal space. She sighs, her shoulders drop. She had hoped that her unbroken record in Victims would be retained and that no one would come to hit on her. In many other bars it’s a frequent issue but in Victims the patrons had always known the best course of action was to stay away. Apparently, someone hadn’t got the unwritten memo this time.

When some of those drinking around her begin to shuffle away, to make some room, Demi gets the distinct feeling that it isn’t someone planning to flirt but something else entirely. She wonders how stupid whoever is behind her must be.

It’s unlikely they know she’s a Judicor. If they did they wouldn’t dare. Would they? She supposes it depends on how utterly brain-dead they might be. And no, this is not the first time someone has thought it a good idea to pick a fight with her while she’s sat minding her business in a bar. Though usually the idiots pick somewhere secluded and without witnesses. That means whoever this is must be all kinds of stupid because they’re in a bar surrounded by people wanting to pick a fight. And sure, the patrons have cleared an area around Demi but that is just as likely to be for her as it is for whomever it is that…

A shadow looms over her, they are closer than ever. A growl escapes Demi’s lips. In a flash she does a one eighty ready to fight. There is no doubt in her mind what she is capable of, then she realises that before her are not stood thugs but… Her jaw drops.

“W-what are you doing here?” Is her incredulous reply.

“Demi Urlanium you are under arrest for the murder of Judicor Ceres Barritot.” Is the reply which answers her query without meaning to.

This information also does nothing to abate Demi’s surprise as her face twists giving the Judicor’s, colleagues of hers, the time to slap the restrains around one of her wrist. The electrical discharge immobilising her fingers before she has the chance to react. And react she does.

“You’ve got it all wrong. I’ve been here since shift end. Ask anyone, but you know me. I’m a Judicor, I’m one of…”

“You are a criminal, now come quietly or we will use force.” Is the demand made, which cuts Demi off mid-sentence.

Maybe you think, perhaps these are crooks posing as Guards. But there is no doubt these are Judicial Guards and not imposters. Contrary to some dimwit’s beliefs, it is difficult to impersonate a Judicor without it being immediately evident to an actual Judicial Guard. Still this pair, who are adorned with patrol helmets that prevent her from seeing their faces, are showing greater restraint and courtesy than is typically afforded to…

What am I saying, I’m innocent! I didn’t kill anyone let alone Ceres! Why would I kill Ceres? It makes no sense! This has to be a mistake. I should go with them…

Judicor’s don’t make mistakes, isn’t that what you said?

Fuck, you’re right. What to do, what to do.

Run!

If I run I look guilty!

You’re guilty even if you don’t.

Shit!

As the other restraint nears Demi’s one free wrist she reacts, shoving the Judicor back, knocking them off-balance. Then with little choice she throws her immobilised hand. It connects, her nails slashing at the exposed lower third of the other Judicor’s face. They scream revealing they are a woman. This gives Demi an opening; she takes it and explodes into a sprint. No one gets in her way. All the patrons stay back. Whether they do this out of respect for her or fear she cannot say and doesn’t think it matters. Right now all that concerns her is getting out of Victims, to somewhere safe.

Where is safe? I don’t know! Don’t you think you need to…

Suddenly Haymenous appears in the doorway, blocking her escape. He is without patrol helmet, a sneer across his face. She ignores his expression and focuses in on the baton in his hands that is tipped with a shock cap arcing millimetres above the gloved palm it is being repeatedly slapped against.

Feeling he has something to do with this beyond being here to apprehend her, Demi quickens her pace and barrels straight toward him. Her plan is to aim for his knee, the left; he had to have it replaced a few years back after a particularly nasty takedown that saw a bonewrecker round become acquainted with the joint. Apparently, he’d been on a routine patrol. Now, seeing him here and with accusations of murder pinned to her name Demi doubts there was anything routine about what he was doing that evening.

“Come get it.” Is the demand from Haymenous while a sick smile is slashed wide across his round face and head topped with a short strip of bleached blonde hair which runs from ear to ear with naught but stubble behind it covering the remainder of his head in its natural brown.

Regardless of the invitation Demi planned for nothing else. No way will he be expecting her to aim for his knee however. As is proven when she collides with it and he isn’t ready. Regrettably, it does not fail. The knee injury was a lie; one told to make it appear as though Haymenous has a weakness. It’s why he erupts into laughter in the face of Demi’s efforts even as he crashes to the floor tangled with her.

Surprised but unperturbed by the deception, Demi delivers a couple kicks that force Haymenous to release the cursory grip he has upon her. Still, he continues to smile wide, his teeth slick with his own blood while he cackles as if he is a mixture of crazed and rabid.

How have I not seen this side of himself before? A question for later, she feels, for when she is…

Realisation hits her that she is out of Victims, rushing down the street. That surprises and delights her in equal measures. Still, she takes the risk to peer over her shoulder. Just as she does so her body is overloaded with static discharge. Immediately, her joints lock and she falls forward. The impact is painful, adding to the debilitating overload of her senses and the pounding that feels as though her head is being bashed to a pulp.

I will not give up. That is her insistence. And so she attempts to reach, to crawl. Her body in no way obeys. It cannot. The static continuing to keep her immobile, locked in place. So much so she doesn’t feel the other restraint locked into place until she is on her feet.

“I got you. No getting away.” Haymenous whispers in her ear disgustingly before turning to the growing crowd and declaring, “This woman right here committed the worst crime there is. She killed a Judicor.” Gasps of shock fill the air. They are followed by glares filled with hate and loathing. Demi steels herself against them as Haymenous continues, “But your Judicial Guards, the protectors our society, have apprehended her. Fear not. Her fate is sealed. Punishment will be delivered.”

Without argument or hesitation the crowd begins to disperse. Demi can seldom believe it, especially when she catches sight of patrons from Victims and Jarins, its owner, shuffle off silently.

Years, she frequented and regularly visited that bar. She was known by the most regular of regulars. Not a large group, but enough. Jarins might’ve been the only one sure she was a Judicor but the others likely had guessed. Yet, they have slithered off like scared worms worried they might otherwise be food for circling birds with empty stomachs and sharp eyes. That sickens Demi; she thrashes. Haymenous without consideration pulls the subjugation collar ready for installation.

“Fuck off, are you putting that on me you traitorous bastard!” The dark haired woman spits as she continues to worm, struggle, thrash.

“Judicor, she is not tried.” One of the two patrol Guards exclaims as they approach.

“She is too dangerous to not collar.” To prove his point Haymenous surreptitiously releases his grip on Demi while simultaneously managing to force her forward to make it appear as if she is attempting to flee.

In reality she is off-balance and in danger of crashing to the floor, yet again front first. Yet, before that becomes a reality Haymenous ‘reclaims’ his hold on her. It’s all a ruse, subterfuge, to prove his point and it works perfectly as the two patrol Judicor’s flip their opinions from opposition to wholehearted support.

“You bastard, you’re not going to get away with…”

“I already have.” Haymenous interjects a nano second prior to sliding the collar into place, which locks and activates to suppress and exert its influence upon Demi who falls quiet and becomes physically calm.

“I’ll take it from here. She’s dangerous.”

“She has a collar?” The woman of the helmeted pair exclaims with confusion and doubt.

“Those are Captain Velfarha’s orders. You want to question them?”

“No. No Judicor, we do not.” Both reply following a quick exchange of worried glances.

“Then get back to your patrol.” Is the order delivered.

While Haymenous, like Demi, are technically equals, in terms of rank, to the patrol Judicor’s, they can issue orders since they operate within the Damocles Complex.

Without another word the two helmet wearing patrol Judicial Guards scurry off, fearful they might otherwise bring dishonour to their names, their families and their futures.

“So easy to manipulate it’s almost laughable. Now let’s get you to the Chamber. They’re expecting you.” The revelation sees Demi’s eyes go wide. At least in her mind her eyes go wide as she makes attempts to rail against the exertion being forced upon her will by the collar.