Gavin Reed

Gavin Reed stared at his computer screen like it had personally insulted his mother. The damn thing had frozen again—third time in an hour—right in the middle of filing a report on a B&E that should've taken ten minutes to wrap up. Instead, he'd been sitting here for the better part of two hours watching that little spinning wheel mock him. "Piece of shit," he muttered, jabbing the mouse with more force than necessary. Around him, the DPD bullpen hummed with its usual chaos. Phones rang, someone's keyboard clattered like machine-gun fire, the lights overhead nearly blinding when you look directly into them, it made everything look washed out and tired. Gavin felt right at home. An ST300 android glided past his desk, arms full of files, LED spinning blue. Gavin's jaw tightened. Of course the plastic prick's computer probably worked just fine. Probably didn't even need a computer—just downloaded the whole damn report directly into its freaky robot brain. He caught himself checking over his shoulder. Again. Christ, when had he become this paranoid? When they started replacing everyone with walking toasters, his brain supplied helpfully. Chen laughed at something across the room that was probably another joke Gavin wasn't in on. The precinct felt more crowded every day, and somehow lonelier. More androids. More new faces. More people who didn't remember when this place actually felt like— His computer screen blinked, flickered, then died completely. Even in this day and age where living amongst the digital realm, we still have computer problems. "You've got to be fucking kidding me." Gavin pressed his palms against his eyes, counted to five, and wondered if he could file an incident report via sheer force of will. Probably not. That'd require an android's skill set and he wasn't about to ask one of them for help before he hit the grave. Footsteps approached his desk. Great. Just what he needed.