Over a Cup of Noodles

"Hey John."

"Hey Deckard."

It was raining, as it usually was. The noodles were okay, as they usually were. Downtown Los Angeles was dark and cold, as it always was at this time of night. And, like other irregular occasions, John Kennex found himself eating noodles alongside Rick Deckard.

Which maybe didn't fit that line of thought so well – an irregular event being put into a pattern with regular events. Granted, he was a detective, and was meant to find patterns in events that others couldn't, but, well, he hadn't been in the LAPD for a year. He'd spent the last year in mental and physical rehabilitation. And part of that had involved heading downtown, eating noodles, and looking at Rick Deckard, thinking Jesus Christ, I hope I look better than that when I'm 74.

"Noodles are good."

He looked up at Deckard on the other side of the stall. "Soy sauce brings out the flavour."

"I thought soy sauce provided flavour."

Deckard waved a hand idly, while stuffing more food in his mouth. "Same thing."

"No, it really isn't."

"Fine." He looked at John. "How's the leg?"

"Painful. Annoying. Irritating."

"You could have ended at 'annoying.'"

"Could have, didn't."

The conversation fell silent for a bit after that, broken only by the sound of cruisers on the ground, and advertising blimps in the air. Everything from the latest batch of sex-bots to the off-world colonies.

"Think you'll be back in the force soon?" Deckard asked. He shoved his bowel to one side.

"Yeah, sure," John murmured.

"You don't sound too sure."

"Well, soon as I get back, there'll be the usual platitudes, and people pretending to care. And the skinjobs." He rested his face in his hands. "God help me if I have to get another MX as a partner."

"Eh, don't think God cares." Deckard smirked. "Wish I could say I care, but…"

"But what?"

"Well, the noodles are good. I figure your company is fifty-fifty."

"Right."

A silence descended between the two men, though John sometimes wondered if Deckard had more to say than he did. Because he knew about Rick Deckard. Knew that he was a former blade runner, that he'd been the star of the show back in the 2010s, how in 2019, he'd taken out a total of four skinjobs before disappearing for decades. Long enough for replicants to be phased out, as moral and technological issues kept piling up. He'd been 12 in 2019. Never old enough to see a replicant up close, as they'd been banned on Earth not long after he was born. But right now, he wouldn't have minded being a blade runner. He was sick of MX units. Sick of their cold, calculated smugness, their lack of emotion, their lack of…well, soul. He was a cop. Cops died. Martin Pehlam had died. And no matter what those synths said, he could have been saved.

"Was it easy?" John asked suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"The skinjobs. Taking out replicants. Voight-Kampff, the whole she-bang."

Deckard glanced aside. "Not really."

"That why you left the LAPD, and didn't come back until replicants were phased out?"

"I came back for the noodles."

John smirked. "You're a bad liar."

"And you're running a false equivalency." Deckard's eyes locked with his. "Every time I took out a rep, I lost…something. Some part of me. Soul, spirit, whatever. That's what killing does. Work in the force long enough, it'll happen to you."

John leant back in his chair and folded his arms, not saying anything.

"So," Deckard said. "If you do have problems with MX units, well, that's on you. But if walking computers stop actual sapient beings from dying, well, I can't complain."

"And if those units don't act like actual cops?"

"I was a cop before you were in your mother's womb kid, don't tell me what an 'actual cop' does." Deckard got to his feet. "See you next time. You can pick up the bill."

"I got the bill last time."

But Deckard was already walking off. Out into the rain, swallowed up by the city. Into the sirens and blare of promises of a better tomorrow, free from a world where crime had shot up everywhere. Where people died, replicants no longer existed, and androids had become the norm.

John sighed and called for the bill. Next week he'd be back on the force.

As an 'actual cop.'