Journal 1 Entry 7
There’s a new Watchdog trainee to add to my files.
She goes by Bax. From what I can find she’s originally from Lower, grew up in an area run by the Deaden gang. I think her primary trainer is that blonde watchdog—Nick? NK? I’ll have to check his file again— but I have yet to confirm if he’s the one in charge.
She’s barely got her first tattoo, just a slim, dark red band on her upper right forearm, but it’s enough to give her all the benefits of being a Watchdog, and enough to keep me from following up on the murder cases she’s leaving in her wake.
It’s hard to look someone in the face and tell them that you know what happened but there’s nothing you can do because the perpetrator was one of the Reds. Even if their kid was a gang member.
Bax. Dark skin, shaved head, and a red band that glows in the street-view video recordings like a halo. The sign of the untouchables.
I know that they’re necessary. I know that if we didn’t have them things would somehow be worse in this city, but that doesn’t mean that I have to agree with the whole program, right?
Maybe I’m jealous. After all, they get to have a modification that helps them read situations, catch liars, and avoid emotions and all the pain that comes with them. They basically get a cheat code to solving crime implanted in their brains. Wouldn’t that be nice.
The train station is busy this morning, everyone starting their commute, the billboards prepping to broadcast Jay Murphey’s good ol’ Watchdog PSA that they put out at precisely 8 o’clock. Do they really think it’s necessary at this point? Who are they informing? Everyone knows about the Watchdogs. Everyone knows the best thing to do with a Watchdog is avoid them. I’ve heard this PSA so many times I could recite it in my sleep.
And here it goes. “It is a beautiful morning here in Satellite...”