DATELINE: SESEN: Part Nine - [Comm-Links](https://api.star-citizen.wiki/comm-links) - DATELINE: SESEN: Part Nine DATELINE: SESEN: Part Nine ========================== Undefined Undefined Dateline: Sesen [Previous](https://api.star-citizen.wiki/comm-links/13635) [Next](https://api.star-citizen.wiki/comm-links/13637) Content ------- English New United Reporter Kills Man during Mission. Yadav Claims Self Defense. Advocacy Claims Murder. “No, no, no, no …” Yadav repeated, over and over, while scouring the vest for a med kit. Blood dribbled from the corner of the shooter’s mouth, and gurgles surged from deep in his chest when he tried to talk. With a jerky pivot, he turned his head toward Yadav, pleading with his eyes. “Hang on,” she begged. And though her fingers tore at the pockets, she knew there was nothing she could do. The chase wasn’t supposed to go this way. Bile rose in her throat, and she had to consciously fight to keep it down. She tried being rational with herself — he’d tried to kill her. She couldn’t feel bad about defending herself. But he was so young. From far away, with his black hood up, she’d been unable to gauge his age. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. She pulled out the sanitary wipes, but what good were they? Second-skin for burns was useless. But here, this — a stim. A hit might take the edge off dying. That is, if he could inhale anything. She lit it anyway. There was no interviewing him now. All she could do was wait for the light to go out. She kept her thumb against his wrist, monitoring his pulse. The rhythm slowed with each beat. After the last thump, she waited a full minute before closing his eyes. Then she unzipped his black jacket. She needed to give him a once-over before leaving. I’m not heading back to the hill before I know why you tried to kill me. He wore no shirt beneath, and his chest and arms bore an army of tattoos. Everything from a Banu profile, to two Cutlasses dogfighting, to a free-form poem adorned his skin. It all looked home-made. Some might have been self-applied. Pushing up both sleeves, she examined his forearms. On the inside of his left wrist, in a similar placement to her press tattoo, was an abstract symbol that caught her eye. She’d seen the symbol somewhere before. Recently. It was the same as some of the graffiti — the ones she’d seen covering up other markings. Was he a gang member? Biting her lip, she re-opened his eyes, pulling back on the lids. Maybe he was just a crazed junky with no particular motivation to kill Yadav. A random shooter. Perhaps he just didn’t like her face. But his eyes looked clear, as did his veins. He was, however, wearing an unusual contact. Gently, so as to make sure it didn’t tear or pinch, she extracted it from his eye. A holographic image seemed to be imbedded in the lens. Hygiene made her hesitate, but curiosity won out. She pulled down her lower lid and slid the contact over her right eye. Dry and scratchy, it forced her to blink repeatedly before the imbedded image came into focus. Her fingers itched to rub her socket, but she knew it would only make the irritation worse. It was a map — but not a static map. A small, red dot blinked at the left of her vision, beckoning her. No matter which way she turned her head, the dot remained fixated on the same place in the distance. Forgetting the body, she rose and stumbled in the direction of the blinking light. It led her only a few buildings away, to an abandoned three-story apartment complex with a giant hole through its center. She could see from the ground floor all the way up to the sky. This place had a funny smell — instead of the crusty scent of sun-baked earth, it had a chemical twinge. Something industrial had been through here recently, clean and new. Freshly acid washed, perhaps. Embedded in one interior wall was a large, armored door. Thick, with heavy bolts. It reminded her of an old hotel vault. “You look out of place,” she said, surprised to find such a thing. But, sure enough, the blinking red light settled in its dead center. Had the shooter been leading her here all along? Was he supposed to stuff her body in there? Weird way to dispose of a kill, in her opinion. But what else could be inside? Why would he need a map to get here? What was it for? Too many questions. She hated having so many questions in play. Sometimes she thought that was why she ferreted out answers — to silence all the uncertainties banging around in her head. On the door, just below a barred handle, sat a scanner that looked to be Chimera Communications in origin. Clearly it controlled the locking mechanism. But what was the key? What kind of input was it looking for? As a test, she placed her palm on the scanner’s glass face. Nothing happened. It looked too big for an eye scanner, but she leaned forward anyway, hoping the contact was both map and key. No go. She glanced around for clues. Someone had to have been here before, used it before. Maybe they’d left something behind. More rubble. More graffiti. Nothing out of the ordinary, except the damn door. With a huff, Yadav sat down on a lopsided slab of what used to be a wall. Red and brown splotches stained her hands — a mixture of dirt and blood. The manic frenzy of adrenaline that had coursed through her during the chase was gone. Drained, physically and mentally spent, she didn’t move for several minutes. She simply stared at the door, hoping something would jump out at her. Her mind wandered to Haddix. Maybe, when she got back to headquarters, she could track down his next of kin and … and what? The thought was foreign, strange. She’d never thought to seek out a dead colleague’s family before. But then again, she’d never had to shoulder the blame for a death. Guilt was an unusual emotion for Yadav, unused for many years. It felt crusty, like sun-damaged leather. She lived without attachments, beholden to no person but herself and no entity save New United. Things were simple that way. People were the only true cause of tragedy. They dredged up all the rotten things in the world and left complicated, sickening emotions — hurt, anger, guilt, sorrow — in their wake. People were complicated, but news stories were simple. She was a traditional kind of reporter. Just the facts. No spin, no tilt. Just who, what, where, when. Whys complicated things, got messy, and were always up for interpretation. She didn’t like interpretations — they skewed reality. But this job didn’t feel straightforward. Haddix was dead, and that changed everything. His children would ask why, and she would have to give a reason, interpret the situation for them. Dry facts wouldn’t be enough. She rubbed her hands against the edge of the slab, buffing off the spots. Sighing, she tilted her head to the side, attempting to get a new perspective on the gargantuan door. It presented a physical road block, but also seemed to represent a mental block. If she could break through, what would she find on the other side? Her gaze was drawn once more to the blob of graffiti next to the door. It was another layered set, with a red emblem on top — the one that matched the shooter’s wrist tattoo. She groaned as she put two-and-two together. The tattoo was the key. Dragging her feet, she reluctantly left the building and wound her way back to the body. It was still there, untouched, staked through by the iron rods. How was she supposed to get his wrist from point A to point B? Option one involved sliding his body up and off of the rods. The rebar was short — rising perhaps ten centimeters above her head. Doable, maybe, if she could find the strength. Option two was the simpler route, but it turned her stomach. If all she needed was his tattoo, why not just cut it off? Surely there was a knife in the vest. Nope, option two was not happening. She’d already caused his death, she wasn’t going to desecrate his corpse, too. Yadav positioned herself under his ribcage, and pushed up with her shoulder blades and back. Thick, sticky blood coiled down the iron poles like dark molasses. With her first attempt, he only rose half a meter. It took her four more tries to get him fully over her head, and a fifth to push him off and over. He hit the dirt with a sickening thud. She paused for a moment. Pursing her lips, she turned away from his prone form. Uh. The morbidity of the situation barreled down on her full-force. Her lungs stuttered with each breath, and she gagged twice before regaining her composure. The distance from where he’d fallen to the building with the vault door had seemed short before. Maybe a few hundred meters. But now, hauling a limp body through uneven alleys, it felt like light years. Finally she arrived back at the door. As the body drew near, the scanner came to life. It could sense the key. Out of breath, her muscles aching, Yadav pulled one more burst of energy from deep in her gut. She hoisted the body up by one arm, and positioned the tattoo over the scanner. The door did the rest. Mechanisms inside the walls groaned and squeaked. The bolts slid back with well-lubricated ease. Slowly, the door automatically swung outwards, forcing Yadav to pull the shooter’s body out of the way. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find inside. More corpses? Guns? A secret stash of diamonds and rubies? Whatever she’d imagined, it hadn’t been anywhere near the truth. On the other side of the door lay a spiral staircase. It snaked down, down, down into the darkness below the city. to be continued … Neuer United Reporter tötet Mann während der Mission. Yadav beansprucht Selbstverteidigung. Advocacy fordert Mord. "Nein, nein, nein, nein, nein, nein, nein..." Yadav wiederholte, wiederholte und wiederholte, während er die Weste nach einem Med-Kit durchkämmte. Blut tropfte aus dem Mundwinkel des Schützen, und Gurgel stiegen aus der Tiefe seiner Brust, als er versuchte zu sprechen. Mit einem holprigen Drehpunkt drehte er seinen Kopf in Richtung Yadav und flehte mit seinen Augen. "Warte mal", bettelte sie. Und obwohl ihre Finger an den Taschen zerrissen waren, wusste sie, dass es nichts gab, was sie tun konnte. Die Jagd sollte nicht in diese Richtung gehen. Galle erhob sich in ihrer Kehle, und sie musste bewusst kämpfen, um sie niedrig zu halten. Sie versuchte, rational mit sich selbst umzugehen - er hatte versucht, sie zu töten. Sie konnte sich nicht schlecht fühlen, weil sie sich verteidigt hat. Aber er war noch so jung. Von weitem, mit seiner schwarzen Kapuze oben, konnte sie sein Alter nicht einschätzen. Er konnte nicht älter als achtzehn oder neunzehn Jahre sein. Sie zog die Hygienetücher heraus, aber was haben sie davon? Die zweite Haut für Verbrennungen war nutzlos. Aber hier, das - ein Stim. Ein Treffer könnte den Tod lindern. Das heißt, wenn er etwas einatmen könnte. Sie hat es trotzdem angezündet. Es gab jetzt kein Interview mit ihm. Alles, was sie tun konnte, war zu warten, bis das Licht erlosch. Sie hielt ihren Daumen an seinem Handgelenk und überwachte seinen Puls. Der Rhythmus verlangsamte sich mit jedem Schlag. Nach dem letzten Schlag wartete sie eine ganze Minute, bevor sie seine Augen schloss. Dann öffnete sie den Reißverschluss seiner schwarzen Jacke. Sie musste ihn noch einmal durchgehen lassen, bevor sie ging. Ich gehe nicht zurück auf den Hügel, bevor ich weiß, warum du versucht hast, mich zu töten. Er trug kein Hemd darunter, und seine Brust und Arme trugen eine Armee von Tattoos. Alles, von einem Banu-Profil über zwei Entermesser Luftkämpfe bis hin zu einem Freiformgedicht, schmückte seine Haut. Es sah alles wie selbstgemacht aus. Einige wurden vielleicht selbst angewendet. Sie schob beide Ärmel hoch und untersuchte seine Unterarme. Auf der Innenseite seines linken Handgelenks, in einer ähnlichen Position wie bei ihrem Pressentattoo, befand sich ein abstraktes Symbol, das ihr ins Auge fiel. Sie hatte das Symbol schon einmal irgendwo gesehen. In letzter Zeit. Es war das gleiche wie bei einigen der Graffitis - diejenigen, die sie gesehen hatte, die andere Markierungen verdeckten. War er ein Bandenmitglied? Sie biss sich auf die Lippe, öffnete seine Augen wieder und zog sich an den Lidern zurück. Vielleicht war er nur ein verrückter Junky ohne besondere Motivation, Yadav zu töten. Ein zufälliger Schütze. Vielleicht mochte er nur ihr Gesicht nicht. Aber seine Augen sahen klar aus, ebenso wie seine Venen. Er trug jedoch einen ungewöhnlichen Kontakt. Vorsichtig, um sicherzustellen, dass es nicht reißt oder kneift, zog sie es aus seinem Auge. Ein holografisches Bild schien in die Linse eingebettet zu sein. Die Hygiene ließ sie zögern, aber die Neugierde gewann. Sie zog ihr Unterlid herunter und schob den Kontakt über ihr rechtes Auge. Trocken und kratzig zwang es sie, immer wieder zu blinzeln, bevor das eingeschlossene Bild in den Fokus kam. Ihre Finger juckten danach, ihre Pfanne zu reiben, aber sie wusste, dass es die Irritation nur noch verstärken würde. Es war eine Karte - aber keine statische Karte. Ein kleiner, roter Punkt blinzelte links von ihrem Blick und lockte sie an. Egal, in welche Richtung sie ihren Kopf drehte, der Punkt blieb an der gleichen Stelle in der Ferne fixiert. Sie vergaß den Körper, stand auf und stolperte in Richtung des blinkenden Lichts. Es führte sie nur wenige Gebäude weiter zu einem verlassenen dreistöckigen Wohnkomplex mit einem riesigen Loch in der Mitte. Sie konnte vom Erdgeschoss bis zum Himmel sehen. Dieser Ort hatte einen komischen Geruch - statt des knusprigen Geruchs von sonnengebackener Erde hatte er einen chemischen Stich. Etwas Industrielles war hier in letzter Zeit durchgedrungen, sauber und neu. Frisch gewaschene Säure, vielleicht. In eine Innenwand war eine große, gepanzerte Tür eingebettet. Dick, mit schweren Schrauben. Es erinnerte sie an einen alten Hoteltresor. "Du siehst fehl am Platz", sagte sie überrascht, so etwas zu finden. Aber sicher genug, das blinkende rote Licht setzte sich in seinem Totpunkt ab. Hatte der Schütze sie die ganze Zeit hierher geführt? Sollte er ihren Körper da reinstopfen? Merkwürdige Art und Weise, einen Mord zu beseitigen, ihrer Meinung nach. Aber was könnte sonst noch drin sein? Warum sollte er eine Karte brauchen, um hierher zu kommen? Wofür war das? Zu viele Fragen. Sie hasste es, so viele Fragen im Spiel zu haben. Manchmal dachte sie, dass sie deshalb Antworten aufspürte - um all die Unsicherheiten zum Schweigen zu bringen, die in ihrem Kopf herumschwirren. An der Tür, direkt unter einem vergitterten Griff, saß ein Scanner, der aussah, als wäre er ursprünglich von Chimära-Kommunikation geprägt. Offensichtlich hat es den Verriegelungsmechanismus gesteuert. Aber was war der Schlüssel? Welche Art von Input suchte sie? Als Test legte sie ihre Handfläche auf die Glasfläche des Scanners. Nichts ist passiert. Es sah für einen Augenscanner zu groß aus, aber sie lehnte sich trotzdem nach vorne, in der Hoffnung, dass der Kontakt sowohl Karte als auch Schlüssel war. Auf keinen Fall. Sie sah sich nach Hinweisen um. Jemand muss schon mal hier gewesen sein, hat es schon mal benutzt. Vielleicht hatten sie etwas zurückgelassen. Noch mehr Schutt. Mehr Graffiti. Nichts Ungewöhnliches, außer der verdammten Tür. Mit einem Schnaufen setzte sich Yadav auf eine einseitige Platte aus einer ehemaligen Wand. Rote und braune Flecken fleckten ihre Hände - eine Mischung aus Schmutz und Blut. Der manische Adrenalinrausch, der sie während der Jagd durchquert hatte, war vorbei. Entleert, körperlich und geistig verbraucht, bewegte sie sich mehrere Minuten lang nicht. Sie starrte einfach auf die Tür und hoffte, dass etwas auf sie zukommen würde. Ihr Verstand wanderte zu Haddix. Vielleicht, als sie zurück ins Hauptquartier kam, konnte sie seine nächsten Verwandten aufspüren und... und was? Der Gedanke war fremd, seltsam. Sie hätte nie gedacht, die Familie eines toten Kollegen zu finden. Aber andererseits hatte sie noch nie die Schuld für einen Tod tragen müssen. Schuld war ein ungewöhnliches Gefühl für Yadav, das viele Jahre ungenutzt blieb. Es fühlte sich krustig an, wie sonnengeschädigtes Leder. Sie lebte ohne Bindungen, sie war niemandem außer sich selbst verpflichtet und kein Wesen rettete New United. Die Dinge waren so einfach. Menschen waren die einzig wahre Ursache für Tragödien. Sie gruben alle verrotteten Dinge der Welt aus und hinterließen komplizierte, widerwärtige Emotionen - Verletzung, Wut, Schuld, Trauer - in ihrem Gefolge. Die Menschen waren kompliziert, aber die Nachrichten waren einfach. Sie war eine traditionelle Art von Reporterin. Nur die Fakten. Kein Drehen, keine Neigung. Nur wer, was, was, wo, wann. Warum komplizierte Dinge, wurde chaotisch und war immer bereit für Interpretationen. Sie mochte keine Interpretationen - sie verzerrten die Realität. Aber dieser Job fühlte sich nicht einfach an. Haddix war tot, und das änderte alles. Seine Kinder fragten, warum, und sie musste einen Grund nennen, die Situation für sie interpretieren. Trockene Fakten würden nicht ausreichen. Sie rieb ihre Hände an der Kante der Platte und polierte die Stellen ab. Seufzend neigte sie ihren Kopf zur Seite und versuchte, eine neue Perspektive auf die gigantische Tür zu bekommen. Es stellte eine physische Straßensperre dar, schien aber auch eine mentale Sperre dar. Wenn sie durchbrechen könnte, was würde sie dann auf der anderen Seite finden? Ihr Blick war wieder einmal auf den Graffiti-Klecks neben der Tür gerichtet. Es war ein weiteres mehrschichtiges Set, mit einem roten Emblem oben drauf - dasjenige, das zum Handgelenkstattoo des Schützen passte. Sie stöhnte, als sie zwei und zwei zusammensetzte. Die Tätowierung war der Schlüssel. Mit schleppenden Füßen verließ sie widerwillig das Gebäude und wand sich zurück zum Körper. Es war noch immer da, unberührt, von den Eisenstangen durchbohrt. Wie sollte sie sein Handgelenk von Punkt A nach Punkt B bekommen? Option eins beinhaltete das Schieben seines Körpers nach oben und unten von den Stäben. Der Betonstahl war kurz - er erhob sich vielleicht zehn Zentimeter über ihren Kopf. Machbar, vielleicht, wenn sie die Kraft finden könnte. Option zwei war die einfachere Route, aber sie drehte ihr den Magen um. Wenn sie nur sein Tattoo brauchte, warum nicht einfach abschneiden? Sicherlich war da ein Messer in der Weste. Nein, Option zwei war nicht möglich. Sie hatte bereits seinen Tod verursacht, sie wollte nicht auch noch seine Leiche schänden. Yadav positionierte sich unter seinem Brustkorb und drückte sich mit ihren Schulterblättern und ihrem Rücken nach oben. Dickes, klebriges Blut wand sich wie dunkle Melasse über die Eisenpole. Bei ihrem ersten Versuch stieg er nur einen halben Meter hoch. Es dauerte vier weitere Versuche, um ihn vollständig über ihren Kopf zu bekommen, und ein fünftes, um ihn von und zu schieben. Er traf den Schmutz mit einem ekelhaften Schlag. Sie hielt für einen Moment inne. Als sie sich die Lippen streichelte, wandte sie sich von seiner neigenden Form ab. Äh. Die Morbidität der Situation hat sich mit voller Kraft niedergeschlagen. Ihre Lungen stotterten bei jedem Atemzug, und sie würgte zweimal, bevor sie ihre Gelassenheit wiedererlangte. Die Entfernung von dem Ort, an dem er zu dem Gebäude mit der Gewölbe-Tür gefallen war, schien kurz zuvor gewesen zu sein. Vielleicht ein paar hundert Meter. Aber jetzt, als ich einen schlaffen Körper durch unebene Gassen schleppte, fühlte es sich wie Lichtjahre an. Schließlich kam sie wieder an der Tür an. Als sich der Körper näherte, erwachte der Scanner zum Leben. Es konnte den Schlüssel spüren. Außer Atem, ihre Muskeln schmerzen, Yadav zog einen weiteren Energieschub aus der Tiefe ihres Darms. Sie hob den Körper um einen Arm hoch und positionierte die Tätowierung über dem Scanner. Die Tür erledigte den Rest. Mechanismen innerhalb der Wände stöhnen und quietschen. Die Schrauben schoben sich mit gut geschmierter Leichtigkeit zurück. Langsam schwang die Tür automatisch nach außen und zwang Yadav, den Körper des Schützen aus dem Weg zu ziehen. Sie war sich nicht sicher, was sie erwartet hatte. Noch mehr Leichen? Waffen? Ein geheimer Vorrat an Diamanten und Rubinen? Was auch immer sie sich vorgestellt hatte, es war nicht annähernd die Wahrheit gewesen. Auf der anderen Seite der Tür lag eine Wendeltreppe. Es schlängelte sich hinunter, hinunter, hinunter, hinunter in die Dunkelheit unter der Stadt. wird fortgesetzt..... New United Reporter Kills Man during Mission. Yadav Claims Self Defense. Advocacy Claims Murder. “No, no, no, no …” Yadav repeated, over and over, while scouring the vest for a med kit. Blood dribbled from the corner of the shooter’s mouth, and gurgles surged from deep in his chest when he tried to talk. With a jerky pivot, he turned his head toward Yadav, pleading with his eyes. “Hang on,” she begged. And though her fingers tore at the pockets, she knew there was nothing she could do. The chase wasn’t supposed to go this way. Bile rose in her throat, and she had to consciously fight to keep it down. She tried being rational with herself — he’d tried to kill her. She couldn’t feel bad about defending herself. But he was so young. From far away, with his black hood up, she’d been unable to gauge his age. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. She pulled out the sanitary wipes, but what good were they? Second-skin for burns was useless. But here, this — a stim. A hit might take the edge off dying. That is, if he could inhale anything. She lit it anyway. There was no interviewing him now. All she could do was wait for the light to go out. She kept her thumb against his wrist, monitoring his pulse. The rhythm slowed with each beat. After the last thump, she waited a full minute before closing his eyes. Then she unzipped his black jacket. She needed to give him a once-over before leaving. I’m not heading back to the hill before I know why you tried to kill me. He wore no shirt beneath, and his chest and arms bore an army of tattoos. Everything from a Banu profile, to two Cutlasses dogfighting, to a free-form poem adorned his skin. It all looked home-made. Some might have been self-applied. Pushing up both sleeves, she examined his forearms. On the inside of his left wrist, in a similar placement to her press tattoo, was an abstract symbol that caught her eye. She’d seen the symbol somewhere before. Recently. It was the same as some of the graffiti — the ones she’d seen covering up other markings. Was he a gang member? Biting her lip, she re-opened his eyes, pulling back on the lids. Maybe he was just a crazed junky with no particular motivation to kill Yadav. A random shooter. Perhaps he just didn’t like her face. But his eyes looked clear, as did his veins. He was, however, wearing an unusual contact. Gently, so as to make sure it didn’t tear or pinch, she extracted it from his eye. A holographic image seemed to be imbedded in the lens. Hygiene made her hesitate, but curiosity won out. She pulled down her lower lid and slid the contact over her right eye. Dry and scratchy, it forced her to blink repeatedly before the imbedded image came into focus. Her fingers itched to rub her socket, but she knew it would only make the irritation worse. It was a map — but not a static map. A small, red dot blinked at the left of her vision, beckoning her. No matter which way she turned her head, the dot remained fixated on the same place in the distance. Forgetting the body, she rose and stumbled in the direction of the blinking light. It led her only a few buildings away, to an abandoned three-story apartment complex with a giant hole through its center. She could see from the ground floor all the way up to the sky. This place had a funny smell — instead of the crusty scent of sun-baked earth, it had a chemical twinge. Something industrial had been through here recently, clean and new. Freshly acid washed, perhaps. Embedded in one interior wall was a large, armored door. Thick, with heavy bolts. It reminded her of an old hotel vault. “You look out of place,” she said, surprised to find such a thing. But, sure enough, the blinking red light settled in its dead center. Had the shooter been leading her here all along? Was he supposed to stuff her body in there? Weird way to dispose of a kill, in her opinion. But what else could be inside? Why would he need a map to get here? What was it for? Too many questions. She hated having so many questions in play. Sometimes she thought that was why she ferreted out answers — to silence all the uncertainties banging around in her head. On the door, just below a barred handle, sat a scanner that looked to be Chimera Communications in origin. Clearly it controlled the locking mechanism. But what was the key? What kind of input was it looking for? As a test, she placed her palm on the scanner’s glass face. Nothing happened. It looked too big for an eye scanner, but she leaned forward anyway, hoping the contact was both map and key. No go. She glanced around for clues. Someone had to have been here before, used it before. Maybe they’d left something behind. More rubble. More graffiti. Nothing out of the ordinary, except the damn door. With a huff, Yadav sat down on a lopsided slab of what used to be a wall. Red and brown splotches stained her hands — a mixture of dirt and blood. The manic frenzy of adrenaline that had coursed through her during the chase was gone. Drained, physically and mentally spent, she didn’t move for several minutes. She simply stared at the door, hoping something would jump out at her. Her mind wandered to Haddix. Maybe, when she got back to headquarters, she could track down his next of kin and … and what? The thought was foreign, strange. She’d never thought to seek out a dead colleague’s family before. But then again, she’d never had to shoulder the blame for a death. Guilt was an unusual emotion for Yadav, unused for many years. It felt crusty, like sun-damaged leather. She lived without attachments, beholden to no person but herself and no entity save New United. Things were simple that way. People were the only true cause of tragedy. They dredged up all the rotten things in the world and left complicated, sickening emotions — hurt, anger, guilt, sorrow — in their wake. People were complicated, but news stories were simple. She was a traditional kind of reporter. Just the facts. No spin, no tilt. Just who, what, where, when. Whys complicated things, got messy, and were always up for interpretation. She didn’t like interpretations — they skewed reality. But this job didn’t feel straightforward. Haddix was dead, and that changed everything. His children would ask why, and she would have to give a reason, interpret the situation for them. Dry facts wouldn’t be enough. She rubbed her hands against the edge of the slab, buffing off the spots. Sighing, she tilted her head to the side, attempting to get a new perspective on the gargantuan door. It presented a physical road block, but also seemed to represent a mental block. If she could break through, what would she find on the other side? Her gaze was drawn once more to the blob of graffiti next to the door. It was another layered set, with a red emblem on top — the one that matched the shooter’s wrist tattoo. She groaned as she put two-and-two together. The tattoo was the key. Dragging her feet, she reluctantly left the building and wound her way back to the body. It was still there, untouched, staked through by the iron rods. How was she supposed to get his wrist from point A to point B? Option one involved sliding his body up and off of the rods. The rebar was short — rising perhaps ten centimeters above her head. Doable, maybe, if she could find the strength. Option two was the simpler route, but it turned her stomach. If all she needed was his tattoo, why not just cut it off? Surely there was a knife in the vest. Nope, option two was not happening. She’d already caused his death, she wasn’t going to desecrate his corpse, too. Yadav positioned herself under his ribcage, and pushed up with her shoulder blades and back. Thick, sticky blood coiled down the iron poles like dark molasses. With her first attempt, he only rose half a meter. It took her four more tries to get him fully over her head, and a fifth to push him off and over. He hit the dirt with a sickening thud. She paused for a moment. Pursing her lips, she turned away from his prone form. Uh. The morbidity of the situation barreled down on her full-force. Her lungs stuttered with each breath, and she gagged twice before regaining her composure. The distance from where he’d fallen to the building with the vault door had seemed short before. Maybe a few hundred meters. But now, hauling a limp body through uneven alleys, it felt like light years. Finally she arrived back at the door. As the body drew near, the scanner came to life. It could sense the key. Out of breath, her muscles aching, Yadav pulled one more burst of energy from deep in her gut. She hoisted the body up by one arm, and positioned the tattoo over the scanner. The door did the rest. Mechanisms inside the walls groaned and squeaked. The bolts slid back with well-lubricated ease. Slowly, the door automatically swung outwards, forcing Yadav to pull the shooter’s body out of the way. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find inside. More corpses? Guns? A secret stash of diamonds and rubies? Whatever she’d imagined, it hadn’t been anywhere near the truth. On the other side of the door lay a spiral staircase. It snaked down, down, down into the darkness below the city. to be continued … Links ----- No links available. Images ------ 1 image/jpeg [ ![](https://robertsspaceindustries.com/media/x3l6h1jdbgno8r/source/DatelineSesenFI3.jpg) ](https://robertsspaceindustries.com/media/x3l6h1jdbgno8r/source/DatelineSesenFI3.jpg) DatelineSesenFI3.jpg [Details](https://api.star-citizen.wiki/comm-links/images/1292) Last Modified 12 years ago Size 1.52 MB [Source](https://robertsspaceindustries.com/media/x3l6h1jdbgno8r/source/DatelineSesenFI3.jpg) [Info](https://api.star-citizen.wiki/comm-links/images/1292) Metadata -------- CIG ID 13636 Channel Undefined Category Undefined Series Dateline: Sesen Comments 63 Published 12 years ago (2014-03-27T00:00:00+00:00) [RSI Article](https://robertsspaceindustries.com/comm-link/serialized-fiction/13636-DATELINE-SESEN-Part-Nine) [API](https://api.star-citizen.wiki/api/comm-links/13636)