Grayhill Depository sat on the highest floor of a building on the fringes between Bricktown and Little Yukoto. Depositories were the modern graveyards. Instead of being tossed into a box and thrown into the ground, bodies were typically burned and stored in depositories like this. Took up was less space, or so it'd been explained back when the Fang interred my parents.

I had to sign in before entering, which I did under a random name. After that though, I was free to look around at my own leisure. I walked around the place, feeling that usual vibe that clung to depositories. Eventually, I just used the directory to find where the old foreman was interred.

Grayhill Depository consisted of several massive rooms, each holding a chilly, solemn air that seemed to press down onto me. The rooms were almost dead silent, the only noise being the occasional whisper and the trickles of small fountains in each room. Incense burned in the corners of the place. It was all very zen.

Little square cutouts covered the walls like bank deposit boxes, each one marked with a name and date. Some had fresh synthetic flowers placed on the small alcoves next to urns of all shapes and sizes. There was everything from poorly welded together steel urns to ones that shone gold with speckled gems. Probably fake? It wasn't stolen yet, so no way it was real

The area wasn't absolutely filled with people, but a surprising amount milled around the area. Most had bitter looks on their faces and there were a fair few who were weeping quietly to themselves. People from all strata were gathered equally in the face of death, both the poor and the middle class.

Certain areas seemed to have groups set up around, and they all talked at a slightly louder pitch as if they didn't care anything about respecting the dead. I could see small looks of frustration on a few of the grievers' faces at the blatant disrespect, but nobody said anything.

I wasn't sure what exactly they were doing over there, but by the way they were grouping up as if to block line of sight, it was probably some kind of drug deal. Or it could even be some kind of weapon smuggling. Looked like gangers at a glance. Either way, it wasn't my problem.

A bit more searching, and I found the right place. Leanara's alcove was completely inconspicuous, blending in perfectly with every other alcove. Her urn was the typical treated wooden kind that most people got.

A small vase of flowers sat next to the urn, holding a real flower. It was quite surprising to see the wilted petals and leached colors of the flower. It wasn't as colorful as the synth ones or as eye-catching, but there was a certain level of beauty that synth stuff just couldn't obtain.

Insight drew my attention to a note clinging to the neck of the vase just as the flower clung to its feeble life. The handwriting was sloppy, and there were stains from what looked to be tears along the bottom lip of the paper. 'Love you Mom.'

I headed back to the reception area of Grayhill Depository, catching sight of a pale man in gothic-inspired clothing quietly reading. As soon as I approached, he looked up. His eyes were chrome of some kind and had been changed from normal pupils to small black hearts. "How can I help you?"

"Can I see the visitation logs?" I asked, keeping a low level of voice just like almost everyone else. Unlike some people, I could respect the solemnity that a resting place of the dead deserved.

The receptionist frowned, his black-painted lips pulling down sharply. I couldn't help but notice the man's canines were longer than normal. "What's it to you?"

I pulled the Crusade badge from my pocket and flashed it at him. I had it, so it'd be criminal not to abuse the power it granted me. "That wasn't a request."

The guy's face seemed to pale even more than the white chemskin allowed. "I-I'll have to get the manager."

"'Course. I'll wait here." I leaned onto the desk, watching the man scampered off to a back room. The Crusade sure had an effect on people. As I waited, I took the time to look around at the visible rooms from the reception areas.

My thoughts inevitably drifted to my parent. It'd been a long time since I visited their graves… maybe I should go again sometime? I typically tried to avoid the place- tried to avoid the haunting memories of a far happier time. It was… easier this way. It wasn't exactly filial though.

Before I could come to a decision, the goth guy returned with a frail-looking old man. The old man had an aggressive sneer on his face. "Are you the Crusader? Shoo! Come back when you have a warrant. You aren't getting anything out of us."

I laughed lightly, slightly taken aback by the sure aggression toward the Crusade. A few puzzle pieces started to connect. I'd nearly been caught enough by the Crusade to know how they worked, so I didn't even think about trying to get a warrant.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

"Sure, I can go get a warrant… but we'll have to search the whole premises… make sure there's nothing," I motioned to the gangers using urns as a drug drop spot, "illegal going on, you understand."

The manager's face pinched up in a sweet Cue. I had him exactly where I needed him. "You-"

"Understand, the Crusade doesn't make threats. We make... promises." I crossed my arms and stared him dead in the eye. "Or, you can let me see the full visitation logs and camera feeds, and I'll go on my way after getting what I want. I don't have time to bother with this kinda thing."

"Gah! Fine. Frank! Show her what she wants… just leave after you're done. You're not welcome here anymore." The manager stalked off right toward the group of men, not even trying to hide that something was going on at this point.

It felt bittersweet brute forcing my way into what I wanted like this. In the past, I might've tried to break in at night or something, but using the pure intimidation of the Crusade was also an effective strategy… Maybe I should keep my trench coat stored on my bike? Go full Crusader when I needed to? It felt oddly good to intimidate someone with the power of 'justice'.

Frank, the goth guy whose name definitely didn't fit him, had a seriously downcast look on his face. He hesitantly guided me to the manager's office. "R-right this way."

I followed him into a small office located in the very middle of Grayhill Depository. The entire place was a mess with papers and books scattered about at random. A small server bank and terminal sat on the far side of the room, equally as messy.

"P-password is on the bottom of the keyboard. The visitor logs are on the shelf." He headed for the door, moving in a way that faintly reminded me of an animal scurrying for safety. "U-um, d-do you need anything else?"

"No. That's it." I wasted no time heading for the logs.

I've never seen a flower actually wilt before, so I had to look it up on my phone to figure out the time that Leanara's kid would've come. It turned out most flowers wilted between three and five days if there aren't any kinds of preservatives in them.

Looking through the logs, I narrowed it down to four days ago. One Christopher Strun came and visited Grayhill Depository near midnight. After finding him and the time, I looked through the video feeds of the same time, glancing through all of the people who arrived.

It took some manipulations of the camera feeds to find the right angle. Eventually, I got a clear image of a man walking in with the same vase I saw in Leanara's alcove. He was a well-built man wearing a heavily stained shirt. Grease, maybe. It faintly reminded me of the smudges all over the letters that Mr. Abernathy showed me.

The man wore normal work clothes—Tattered jeans and a shirt covered in months worth of stains. Maybe he followed in his mother's footsteps and worked at a factory? It certainly narrowed down where I needed to look.

After finding everything I needed, I took pictures of it and hopped onto the Crusade back door. It took a while to find the right file, but eventually, I found a small record for one Christopher Strun. He'd been picked up a couple months ago for being in a bar fight just south of the primary ASCorp factory.

Sometimes the right answer was the simplest. With my next destination in mind, I left the Depository behind and hopped back onto my bike. The factory wasn't too far off, so I headed there next and put in a call to Clarence, the butler. He confirmed Christopher Strun had a job at the factory, and was currently on the clock. He also put in word that I'd be coming in by.

Security waved me into the factory's yard rather easily. Forklifts and trucks were everywhere, constantly moving products and raw materials to and from the factory. The entire shipping yard was a mess of moving vehicles and crates, which made me a bit nervous considering how easy it'd be to get crushed by any number of the vehicles around. All I would need is a single truck not to see my small bike and it would be over.

Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened. I parked in their parking garage and moved to the front door. A man in grease-stained clothes already awaited me. "Miss Shiro?"

I shook his offered hand. His calloused hand easily encapsulated mine with a strong grip. "That's me. You are?"

He put on that typical corpo smile I've seen around. It looked sterner than usual. "Micheal Schwartz, the current factory manager. Mr. Clarence informed me to give you whatever you needed on behalf of Mr. Abernathy."

"Perfect… Do you know Christopher Strun?" I asked as he led me past the reception area.

That instantly got a reaction. The corpo smile dropped into a frown. "Yes… if this is about that bar fight, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those slags didn't even-"

"No need to worry. I just need to ask a few questions."

"Right." He sighed and shook his head. "Sorry. If you'll follow me."

We headed through the hallways, passing by several offices and out into the workshop of the factory. He opened the door for me, letting the loud hum of machinery into the hall. Clanks and clatters rang constantly from the depths of the shop and workers busily moved from here to there. Several assembly lines were set up all over the place, each producing a different product in mass.

After stepping into the factory, Micheal Schwartz pulled the walkie from his belt. "Christopher Strun. Christopher Strun. Copy?"

A few seconds later, the walkie-talkie crackled to life. Ambient noise nearly drowned out his voice. "Copy."

"Come to my office. Someone from corporate wants to talk." He slid the walkie-talkie back into his belt and opened up another door for me, this one leading into a small office off to the side of the factory. Three of the walls were covered in a large, grated window, allowing full view of most of the factory.

"Thank you." I stepped into his office. It was quite cramped, and covered in a chaotic mess of files and documents.

"Call me when you're down." Micheal glanced at me one last time before heading back out into the workshop.

I moved over to his chair to take a seat behind his disk. It'd hopefully assert myself? Put me on the upper hand and all that. Additionally, if he really was the blackmailer like I suspected? It'd give me a physical barrier just in case.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.