The team of Techs stood around, trying to look like they had a clue what they were doing, but failing miserably, as the Senior Agent arrived.

The doorway was cordoned off with green and yellow tape proclaiming, 'Slippery Surface, please take care!', not exactly suitable, but the closest the Techs could find.

'Update?'

'Morning, Agent. Erm, let’s see… call came in at 05.57, from the Citizen over there,'

He pointed to the scruffy looking, bearded man, leaning against the wall, ashen faced, pulling deeply on his cigarette.

'Chillhead? Double-check his statement and coms.'

The Tech cursed himself for not noticing the heavy smell of Chill in the air. The mix of 98% synthetic cannabis, 2% synthetic tobacco masked by the other odour hanging over the area.

'Some sort of building manager, the unit is split up between six different companies, small time stuff, data and medical on the whole. Witness, the, erm, Chillhead guy, came in to open up for the day….all pretty regular, normal routine for him…until….

Anyway, he found the, erm, situation inside, contacted Accident Investigators immediately, time of call confirmed by his coms log. No internal or external visual recordings, the place is a dead spot.

Obviously when the Acc Team arrived and found….well, we thought this was more of an Agency incident, you'll see why when you get inside. Second office on your left. As the signs say Agent, please be careful, it’s still pretty slippery underfoot in there!'

The Senior Agent ducked under the tape, wrinkling her nose at the unfamiliar odour permeating the building.

Small glowing markers shone red around the floor, leading to the office, dimly illuminating yet deeper redness.

Track marks from the HazMat robot crisscrossed the floor, perfect dark diamonds geometrically dividing the space, search routine missing nothing.

The machine was unconcerned with the crimson spills, merely following the System programming. Due to the medical nature of the business over 600 human DNA samples had been logged.

Tacky, and already browning, blood tainted the stale air.

Those at the scene tasted copper, smelled death, primal sensations that disturbingly made their mouths water, triggered hunger. In one corner, a young Tech wretched against the wall.

In one of the side rooms of the small building, amidst the smashed electronics, medical equipment, and cheap furniture of the office, sat a figure.

The Agent took in the surroundings, trying to gauge the situation before examining the casualty.

No heavy machinery, nothing explosive stored in the room, no obvious hazardous materials, merely numerous pictures, each tattered and torn, damaged beyond repair by whatever caused this.

Fragments of paintings and prints amid the blood, strange images, disjointed faces, unreal landscapes. Crazy images cluttering a crazier scene.

Standard med lab, what was left of it. DNA analysis, blood centrifuges, swab kits, bio-data readers, all smashed or blood-spattered.

She turned to the casualty.

Male. Early sixties maybe.

Arms unfettered but in a strange position, as though he'd spent hours with them tied behind him, joints stiffened, darkening bruises at his wrists.

Head drooping forwards, thick trail of blood and spittle dripping from the open mouth, into a matted beard, and down onto a stack of notes.

A quick glance at the stack of old-fashioned cash, thousands of credits in bloody bills.

Untouched. Placed neatly, as though they'd just been carefully counted. Too neat a stack, jarringly perfect amongst all that carnage.

'Preliminary scans show CoD was blood loss. We've estimated approximately 180 deep lacerations on the erm…on the subject. Each deep enough to bleed profusely, but no one cut proving fatal.

The poor guy was conscious throughout….. erm, whatever caused this, er, fatality, he must have felt every single cut!'

The Senior Agent pulled on latex gloves, covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve, and leant in closer, almost wrenching as the sweet copper taste invaded her throat.

Cheap, and very illegal, alcohol fumes from the corpse failing to mask the crimson stench.

She carefully pushed the head backwards, grimacing at the sticky noises, pushing the dirty tangle of hair aside.

Deep into the victim's forehead, carefully carved, neat, and unhurried, was 1.8.0.

The Agent stooped, pushing through the sticky debris at her feet with a finger, she looked up, concern, and what appeared to be recognition, on her face.

'Can you access the database Archives from here?'

The Tech, happy to be tasked with something normal, nodded.

'Get me everything you can on an old Code, search for '10-17'. Please.'

The Tech looked baffled, but stabbed at the tablet, drawing up files and records from the vast Archives.

His face turned white as he realised what he was looking at.

This couldn't be happening. Literally could not happen.

The screen showed the last recorded 10-17 had occurred 67 years previously.

He scrolled down, cross checking the (hopefully corrupt) search results.

But, no, his stomach lurched, as he read:

[10-17: Pre DDV - antiquated Law Enforcement Code - 10-17 indicated something called 'Homicide'.]

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