Arthas Brought a Droid to Dinner

TW: Murder, infidelity, guns, heavy makeup.

The cuffed killer fidgeted in his seat. “I quit caffeine recently. I have fewer headaches now. Sleep better which is the most important thing,” said Mark Brigg. He bent his neck and strained to scratch his brownish-grey hair.

            “Can you quit talking as well?” Detective Arthas Jacques asked with an Arab-French accent common to the Martian capital.

            “My concentration actually improved,” said the murderer. His tan mechanic’s boiler suit had the obligatory oil stains and burns.

            “That’s nice,” said the detective. He pulled out his gun and shot the prisoner in the neck with a tranquiliser. “Peace at last.”

            The droid piloting the ship looked back, purple eyes glowing. “If you’d shot him twenty minutes ago, we wouldn’t have had to listen to his story about the goldfish.” The program spoke with a Newcastle accent. “I could shoot him so that he never talks again.”

            “Tempting, but then I’d have to deal with the Internal Affairs Office.”

            “Docking now,” said the black droid with purple eyes.

            “What do you mean the cells are full?” Arthas asked. “How is that my problem?”

            “Until the backlog of cases has been processed, you remain responsible for the suspect,” said the guard at Olympus Mons Jail. His crimson uniform would have pained the eyes of anyone unused to the Martian fondness for red and orange.

            “What am I supposed to do with him? Take him for a walk?” 

            “Not my job to say sir. You’ll be contacted when there’s space for him. His sentencing will be fast tracked. The judge will require you to attend the trial when called.”

            “No different from any other case then. Understood.” Arthas turned to walk away.

            “Hold on. The robot.” The dock guard held up a scanner and waved it around in the air near the Spectrum droid.

            “Don’t call me that,” said Purple. “It’s offensive. It means slave.”

            “Your droid,” the guard emphasised the second word, “is operating beyond permitted capabilities. I’m going to have to seize him.”

            “No, you’re not. The Spectrum unit belongs to me. I have dispensation for the programs loaded to the hardware. They are necessary for my work. Each one of the six personalities operates just below the boundaries required by the artificial intelligence law.” Arthas pulled a device from his coat. His license for the droid, signed by a Martian Navy General.

            “I have to check this,” said the guard in a deeper imitation of Jacques own Olympus Mons accent.

            “They’re my team. Red does forensics and blood work. Orange does financial and legal stuff that I don’t understand. Yellow does behavioural profiling. Green does tech. Blue handles scene documentation. Purple is my pilot and bodyguard in the lawless void.”

            The eyes flashed red. “Hello,” said the droid with a Parisian accent.

            “Hi,” it said with a Washington DC accent and orange eyes.

            The eyes were yellow for the briefest moment as the droid saluted.

            “What’s the craic?” Asked the emerald lit robot in a Dublin accent.

            “Come on, Arthas, we don’t have all day,” said the blue-eyed program within the Spectrum unit. It spoke with a Glasgow accent.

            “Blue is right. Let’s go.” Said the Geordie sounding droid when its eyes flashed purple.

            “Alright then,” said the guard. He handed back Arthas’ documentation. “You’ll be notified when the court is ready.”

            “You are not bringing a dead body into my house!” Hissed Konnie Jacques, blocking the doorway to her home with all five foot two of her frame.

            “He’s not dead, he’s unconscious,” Arthus said, making no attempt to pretend her rage didn’t amuse him. His hand brushed the red bricks made from Martian clay. The house resembled a twentieth century Spanish villa.

            “Lukas! Tell him.” She turned around, blonde dyed hair swirling as she looked back into the house.

            “Hello uncle Arthas,” a slender girl ducked beneath Konnie’s arm and threw herself at the detective. She was a blur of pink and purple. “Can I talk to your robot again?”

            “NO,” the mother yelled, scowling as Lyra held Arthas tighter.

            “They don’t like to be called robots, princess. You’re looking even more beautiful than the last time I was here. Do you drink up your mother’s beauty at night?” The unwanted brother-in-law lifted Lyra over his head. She beamed down at him with her sapphire eyes.

            “You can’t do this,” Konnie said, hands going to her hips. “He could be dangerous. What did you arrest him for?”

            “Murder,” said Arthas, pushing his way past her with Lyra in his arms.

            “You have a gun?” His niece’s voice was high pitched adoration.

            “Tranquiliser, beautiful. And no, sorry, you can’t touch it.”

            “Awwww.” She wriggled to be put down.

            “I know, Lyra, but if you shot anyone, I would have to arrest you.” He nodded at Mark Briggs, limp in Purple’s arms. “Like that idiot.”

            “YOU CAN’T JUST SHOW UP LIKE THIS,” Konnie yelled behind him. Her daughter ignored the raging mother. “Who invited you?”

            “My traitorous brother,” Arthus said. “Where is Lukas?”

            “When are you going to let it go?” Konnie asked.

            “Never. I was betrayed by the woman I loved and my identical twin. Why should I forgive either of you?” As he talked, the detective spun his metal right hand. Lyra always loved that.

            “Sergeant Jacques,” Arthas’ living mirror image stood in the hallway. Six-foot, buzz cut hair with streaks of grey topped blue eyes and a broad nose. Their crow’s-feet were almost identical. Bags under Lukas’ eyes were less pronounced.

            “Sergeant Major dumbass,” said the detective. He raised his middle finger for a moment until Lyra turned back to look at him. “Don’t pull rank on me, you invited me here. I don’t want to hear about your work.” Arthas threw his older brother his navy-blue jacket. Police in orange text was written across the back in Arabic, Devangari, English, French, Japanese, Korean and Thai. Subtlety was not a strong point in Martian design.

            “Daddy got a promotion,” said the young girl with ribbons in her hair.

            “I know that because the pompous oaf sent me a photograph of his new epaulets. I would rather see your glitter collection. Or watch paint dry. Tell me how you’ve been doing in school, Lyra.”

            “What’s a pompous loaf?” Lyra asked, throwing herself back into her uncle’s arms.

            “Bread that thinks it’s better than everyone else,” said Arthas. He carried his niece to the kitchen. A dining table worthy of minor nobility was lined with ten seats on each side. “My goodness, is that real oak? Martian grown or did you have this flown over from Earth?”

            “It’s an Earth antique,” answered Konnie. The ice in her voice made a glacier seem warm by comparison. “Cost a fortune to import it.” She straightened her stiff white shirt.

            “It’s good to know that you’re not frittering away Lyra’s inheritance on frivolous things like education.” Arthas sat in a chair that seemed to be older than the Martian nation. “Have they been feeding you, dear niece? Or did they spend all their money on this silly little table?”

            “I eat. I’ve never had pompous loaf before though,” said the girl.

            “Lucky you,” Arthas smiled an alligator smile which had once won him Konnie’s affection. “I get pompous loaf shoved down my throat all the time.”

            “Urgh,” Lyra twisted her face in mock disgust and jumped from his lap. “Mr Robot, show me your colours.”

            “Mister Purple, if you don’t mind, Lyra.” The right eye remained purple as the left flashed through the other colours. Each program said hello. Red, then orange, yellow, green, and blue. The accent switched from Parisian to Washingtonian, Berliner to Dubliner, Glaswegian and back to the Newcastle accent Purple spoke with.

            Mark Brigg sagged in the Spectrum droid’s black arms.

            “Can I give you some makeup?” Lyra asked Purple.

            “No, but feel free to draw all over this idiot,” said the machine. The gravel of his Geordie accent was deep and smoky.

            “I don’t want to hear you talking like that near my daughter,” said Konnie. Her brow was furrowed. Her hands were clenched. Her pale cheeks were flushed. With a red face, her shirt and black trousers, she was a flag of Yemen.

            “Then head out of earshot and it won’t be a problem,” said Purple. “Only Arthas gets to tell me what to do.” The droid plonked the unconscious killer down in one of the ancient seats. Purple cuffed Mark Brigg’s arms behind his back to the chair frame.

            “Where did Lyra go?” Asked Lukas, entering the room with a bottle of wine. “Straight from the cellars of Tharsis vineyard. Best wine made on the planet.” His pastel blue shirt and beige trousers were fitted.

            “So, it looks and tastes like a vampire’s piss?” Arthas said? “I can’t drink alcohol, brother mine. I’m in charge of the suspect. In answer to your earlier question, I believe my beautiful niece is retrieving some makeup.”

            With the haste of a storm from hells fiery gates Lyra returned holding a metal box. The container looked better suited to hold a dozen grenades in Arthas’ opinion. Slamming it down on the table next to Brigg’s, the girl in a thousand shades of pink opened the clasps.

            Rolling her shoulders, the artist set to work. Applying foundation sparingly, she turned Mark’s tanned face pale as the reaper himself. Next came the blusher, slapped against the sleeping man’s cheeks until he coughed. Lipstick was drawn across the killer’s mouth with the precision of a renaissance master drowning in vodka.

            “What do you think?” Lyra asked. Her face was a mask of glowing pride.

            “Beautiful, Batman will run in terror. Maybe some eye shadow?” Arthas suggested.

            His niece nodded. Ruby eye shadow Konnie had worn to her first date with Arthas was laid on thick. The detective thought it looked as if Brigg had been shot in both eyes.

            “Apple juice for the discerning gentleman. No bits,” Lukas smirked as he lay a glass of the amber liquid down next to his older twin.

            “I want apple juice!” Lyra looked at her father with red lips and lids.

            “I want makeup remover and my baby girl back. Who is this sophisticated woman I see before me?” Lukas poured a glass made with Mars’ finest Fuji apples.

            “Cheers,” said Lyra in a mock English aristocratic accent. She held up her tumbler with her pinkie finger out.

            “Lovely stuff, what,” said her uncle, turning his impression of her inflection up to eleven.  Arthas clinked his glass gently against hers and stroked an invisible beard. “Not bad for pig swill, I say.”

            “You’re Sherlock Holmes now?” Lukas asked, leaving the room.

            “More Darth Vader I guess,” said Arthas. He rotated his black metal hand three times.

            Lyra giggled. “Do it again. Do it again.”

Mark twitched in the chair.

            Arthas pulled his tranquiliser pistol from the holster and shot Brigg.

            “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Konnie yelled. She stood up with a jolt. Her seat fell back and slammed into the laminate floor.

            “My job, beloved.” The words were honey delivered with venom. Detective Jacques put his pistol away and buttoned the holster.

            “We broke up ten years ago, Arthas!”

            “Nine,” he said.

            “Close enough.”

            “We didn’t break up, Konnie. We were engaged and you had an affair with my identical twin brother.” Arthas ran his flesh and blood left hand through his hair. “What is the point of that? We look exactly the same.”

            “How you looked was never a problem,” said the raging mother. “It was everything else. You were always away with work. You were flirting with every woman who looked at you twice.”

            “Don’t try and put it on me, Konnie. I never cheated on you. With my brother. He was my best friend.”

            “We’re onto the heavy stuff again, are we?” Lukas emerged from the kitchen with a steaming pizza. The aroma of fresh cheese, peppers and onions wafted through the icy hatred between former lovers. “Let’s not argue in front of the kid, shall we.”

            Arthas grabbed a slice from the plate and held it in his metal hand. “Well said, Judas.” He inhaled the scent of the food and smiled. “Delicious. You’ve outdone yourself.”

            “Thank you, Jesus now? You always did have a high opinion of yourself,” said Lukas.

            “That’s the pot calling the kettle-” Arthas began.

            “On the phone?” Lyra asked.

            “Not quite. Have some pizza,” the detective took the plate from his brother’s hand and slid it across the table to the girl. “Eat up before he sells it to buy more tables.”

            “You are petty,” said Konnie, “childish.”

            “Thank you.” Arthas smiled. “You were pretty too, when I didn’t know what a steaming pile of sludge you hold inside. You’re lucky Lyra only resembles you physically.”

            “Enough. I’ve had enough.” Konnie held up her hands and walked away. “If you want to put yourself through this, Lukas, be my guest. I’m going for a walk.” The front door slammed.

            “Well, that was dramatic.” The older identical twin bulged his eyes and raised his eyebrows.

            Lyra laughed.

            “You know she’s sorry,” Lukas said. “We both are. We know what it did to you.” The younger twin set aside his smile. “Lyra. Can you play in your room for a while. I want to talk to Uncle Arthas alone.”

            “Okay.” The clown princess skipped away, leaving a trail of terrifying clown looking murderers in her wake.

            “Demi was here a few weeks ago.” Lukas leaned forwards over the table. “She told me what you did at her house.”

            “What are little sisters for, if not spilling all of our darkest secrets?” The thrill of teasing Konnie had faded. Dark thoughts were pissing on the grave of Arthas’ smile. “Purple, I think it’s time we go.”

            “Yes, boss.” The droid stood and removed the handcuffs that pinned Mark Briggs to the dining room chair.

            “Can’t we talk about it?” Lukas asked. He pointed to his brother’s tight fitting black top. “Do you wear that to hide the scars? Demi told me you’d have been dead a minute later. Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “YOU?” Hot tears welled in Arthas’ eyes. “I can’t tell you anything anymore. You were the only one I could ever talk to. You and Konnie were my world.” He blinked to hold back the flood. Pushing out the chair with a screech, he thundered to the front door.

            Running footsteps followed him.

            “Uncle Arthas?”

            “Sorry, Lyra. I have to go.” He hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “You should have been my daughter. You’re perfect. I’ll see you soon.” He tried to let go but her little arms were wrapped around his shoulders. Untangling himself, he kissed her cheek.

            Picking his jacket off the hook, he threw it on. He stuffed a vintage Slaughterhouse Five from the bookshelf into his pocket.

            “See you later, Arthas.” Lukas stood with his hands on Lyra’s shoulders.

            If not for his niece, the detective would have slammed the door.

            Rage carried him down the garden.

            Konnie leaned against the wall. Her eyes were puffy, makeup streaked with mascara. “I’m sorry.”

            Checking that Purple was behind him with Mark, the detective walked past her without a glance.

Arthas’ phone buzzed. A cell has become available. A trial will be scheduled when the prisoner is checked in.

            Wiping his eyes on his palm, he strode towards the station.