Hey, thanks so much everyone for the feedback to the prologue, it was very useful. Apologies for spamming two entries in a row, but they are related 
Here's the opening chapter - you can (hopefully) see the obvious connection to the prologue. So far I've received mix feedback, some put off by the prologue but enjoying this opener, but I can't quite decide myself. So, I'm open to all critique, obviously, but in particular I'm interested in how this feels in relation to the prologue - if they go well together and you like it, or this is better without it etc. Also, in general, if this leaves you wanting to read more. Also if the title (Time Without End) sounds ok
CHAPTER ONE:
Floyd tugged his coat a little closer around him, wincing as the rain began to seep through some of the shabbier seams. The city glow was muted in the downpour, streetlights dim above the pavement, the rare vehicle streaming past carving waves through the water that ran across the tarmac. Neon signs on the shop fronts added a nauseating mismatch of washed-out rainbow colours, punctuating the gloom. His wide-brimmed fedora helped keep the rain from running rivers down his neck and soaking him, and the coat’s high collar and knee length folds offered some protection, but by any measure this was an awful night to be on shift. Of course, there were always those who had it worse. Like these poor bastards. The bodies lay a meter or two apart, covered now with disturbingly wide-spread black plastic sheets. Darker rivers ran from under the covers, snaking across the sidewalk to join the miniature cascade of water into the gutter where shadow and the broader torrent claimed it. There wasn’t much more to do now except to wait for the pickup, and for the data to download properly, which seemed to be taking too long. Everything was taking too long tonight.
‘Floyd? It’s ready.’
He turned to take the proffered tablet, lifting it up to peer at the dimly lit screen. Sam Lee and Richard Kamara. At least their Spirits had survived the fall. As suspected, both Renters. Next of kin were listed as a Sarah Lee and Bruce Kamara. That was a pain. It was going to be a long night at this rate. He touched the glowing orange script to access Sarah’s address, before flicking backwards to the previous screen and scrolling down slightly. He paused, lost in thought.
‘The meat van’s arriving. Took their time about it too.’
Floyd’s colleague passed him to speak to the driver of the large truck that was pulling to a stop. Floyd glanced up, noting the characteristic bulk of the truck’s sides, emblazoned with the letters O.W.C in thick, six-foot characters. His eyes then drifted back down to his screen. Insuritas. That was the sixth, this month? It wasn’t easy to keep track, and with the latest economic slump there was no shortage of jumpers. But he and Scott had been keeping tabs as usual, and he was pretty sure the others in the database had the same insurance. Anyway, food for thought when he found himself with desk-time to spare. He had two households to visit now. He hoped there weren’t children.
‘Scott, let’s go see the next of kin, then we can call it a night.’
His partner, looming tall and broad beside the truck, turned and nodded, his anorak hood concealing all but a brief emerging of forehead from the shadow. His coat hung low on him too, but below his knees his trousers sat heavy with water over dark synth-leather boots.
‘Give me a minute to verify the organic waste transfer and I’m good to go. They local?’
Floyd rechecked the tablet and nodded. ‘Yeah. No surprise, I guess. Hey, can you check their last hire point?’
Scott nodded again as the driver’s door swung open and a tall woman in overalls and a poncho jumped down from the cabin. Another man rounded the front of the truck and splashed up onto the pavement moving to slide open a bulky door on the side of the truck. The woman walked over to Floyd.
‘Shitty night for it,’ she said, jovially.
Floyd grinned despite himself. ‘Is there a good one?’
‘At least, you know, with the sunrise or something. Clear skies.’ She paused as if imagining the scene.
The woman’s tablet buzzed softly in her hand, and she glanced down at it. ‘Well, transfer’s done,’ she slipped the device into a large pocket and rather belatedly pulled her poncho closed and the hood up. ‘Enjoy the end of your shift.’
Floyd nodded, curling back in against the rain as Scott joined him and they squelched their way into the night, passing between dimly lit circles thrown the intermittent streetlights.
‘Funny thing,’ Scott said as he made his way around an expansive puddle. ‘There’s no data for the last hire point.’
‘What do you mean no data?’
‘Just that, no data. Blank. Last rental is logged, but with no hire point.’
‘Maybe there’s a glitch in the system or something. Outdated servers. Or their local network went down.’
‘Yup. Anyway, let’s get through tonight, we can work on it later.’
Floyd nodded. The first contact, Sarah Lee, was no more than five blocks away, although in the rain it felt longer. They didn’t talk on the walk over, the rain closing them down into their own huddled world. The dark patches between streetlamps grew longer as the number still functioning decreased, and the shadows held dark mounds where the pavement met buildings. Occasionally the mounds sheltered by doorways shifted as they passed. They were approaching the old Docklands, an area of the city that had once been prosperous, with countless glass and chrome high-rises. That was before the floods and the diving property values.
The Lees lived on the seventeenth floor of a dilapidated apartment block. The entrance was marked by a shelf of concrete that stretched out to cover half the pavement outside, sheltering two heavy-set metal doors. Cracked glass filled the panes of one, the lines spidering outwards in fractals, and cardboard had been taped roughly over the gaping holes in the other. The entranceway was dry. Two figures huddled in one corner, sat on several layers of folded cardboard, and wrapped in decrepit looking sleeping pods. They avoided Floyd’s eyes as he glanced at them and shrank in on themselves as the officers stopped before the main doors. A small panel to the right flicked from red to green and something clicked. Floyd pulled the doors open and entered the building.
The foyer was in worse repair than the entrance, the tiles cracked and darkened with grime. Thr ground floor apartments stretched out to either side, the corridor lit by soft yellow spotlights in the ceiling, most still working. Opposite the entrance stood two sets of elevator doors. The one to the right had a hand-written note taped to the front reading ‘out of order’. Thankfully the small panel to one side of the other elevator flickered to life as they approached, glowing softly. The doors slid open with a ping, and the men entered.
‘Seventeen’, Floyd said as the doors closed. The box remained motionless. ‘Seventeen’, he repeated, wearily. With another soft ping a panel lit up next to him, with old fashioned buttons displayed on the touchscreen in small circles with floor numbers inside them. Floyd pushed the one that read seventeen, and the elevator jerked into motion. Scott stared at his boots and muttered something incomprehensible. Floyd said nothing, eyes fixed ahead as he slowly counted his breathes, forcing them to a steady pace. He tried not to think of the last time they had been stuck in one of these aging boxes.
Here's the opening chapter - you can (hopefully) see the obvious connection to the prologue. So far I've received mix feedback, some put off by the prologue but enjoying this opener, but I can't quite decide myself. So, I'm open to all critique, obviously, but in particular I'm interested in how this feels in relation to the prologue - if they go well together and you like it, or this is better without it etc. Also, in general, if this leaves you wanting to read more. Also if the title (Time Without End) sounds ok CHAPTER ONE:
Floyd tugged his coat a little closer around him, wincing as the rain began to seep through some of the shabbier seams. The city glow was muted in the downpour, streetlights dim above the pavement, the rare vehicle streaming past carving waves through the water that ran across the tarmac. Neon signs on the shop fronts added a nauseating mismatch of washed-out rainbow colours, punctuating the gloom. His wide-brimmed fedora helped keep the rain from running rivers down his neck and soaking him, and the coat’s high collar and knee length folds offered some protection, but by any measure this was an awful night to be on shift. Of course, there were always those who had it worse. Like these poor bastards. The bodies lay a meter or two apart, covered now with disturbingly wide-spread black plastic sheets. Darker rivers ran from under the covers, snaking across the sidewalk to join the miniature cascade of water into the gutter where shadow and the broader torrent claimed it. There wasn’t much more to do now except to wait for the pickup, and for the data to download properly, which seemed to be taking too long. Everything was taking too long tonight.
‘Floyd? It’s ready.’
He turned to take the proffered tablet, lifting it up to peer at the dimly lit screen. Sam Lee and Richard Kamara. At least their Spirits had survived the fall. As suspected, both Renters. Next of kin were listed as a Sarah Lee and Bruce Kamara. That was a pain. It was going to be a long night at this rate. He touched the glowing orange script to access Sarah’s address, before flicking backwards to the previous screen and scrolling down slightly. He paused, lost in thought.
‘The meat van’s arriving. Took their time about it too.’
Floyd’s colleague passed him to speak to the driver of the large truck that was pulling to a stop. Floyd glanced up, noting the characteristic bulk of the truck’s sides, emblazoned with the letters O.W.C in thick, six-foot characters. His eyes then drifted back down to his screen. Insuritas. That was the sixth, this month? It wasn’t easy to keep track, and with the latest economic slump there was no shortage of jumpers. But he and Scott had been keeping tabs as usual, and he was pretty sure the others in the database had the same insurance. Anyway, food for thought when he found himself with desk-time to spare. He had two households to visit now. He hoped there weren’t children.
‘Scott, let’s go see the next of kin, then we can call it a night.’
His partner, looming tall and broad beside the truck, turned and nodded, his anorak hood concealing all but a brief emerging of forehead from the shadow. His coat hung low on him too, but below his knees his trousers sat heavy with water over dark synth-leather boots.
‘Give me a minute to verify the organic waste transfer and I’m good to go. They local?’
Floyd rechecked the tablet and nodded. ‘Yeah. No surprise, I guess. Hey, can you check their last hire point?’
Scott nodded again as the driver’s door swung open and a tall woman in overalls and a poncho jumped down from the cabin. Another man rounded the front of the truck and splashed up onto the pavement moving to slide open a bulky door on the side of the truck. The woman walked over to Floyd.
‘Shitty night for it,’ she said, jovially.
Floyd grinned despite himself. ‘Is there a good one?’
‘At least, you know, with the sunrise or something. Clear skies.’ She paused as if imagining the scene.
The woman’s tablet buzzed softly in her hand, and she glanced down at it. ‘Well, transfer’s done,’ she slipped the device into a large pocket and rather belatedly pulled her poncho closed and the hood up. ‘Enjoy the end of your shift.’
Floyd nodded, curling back in against the rain as Scott joined him and they squelched their way into the night, passing between dimly lit circles thrown the intermittent streetlights.
‘Funny thing,’ Scott said as he made his way around an expansive puddle. ‘There’s no data for the last hire point.’
‘What do you mean no data?’
‘Just that, no data. Blank. Last rental is logged, but with no hire point.’
‘Maybe there’s a glitch in the system or something. Outdated servers. Or their local network went down.’
‘Yup. Anyway, let’s get through tonight, we can work on it later.’
Floyd nodded. The first contact, Sarah Lee, was no more than five blocks away, although in the rain it felt longer. They didn’t talk on the walk over, the rain closing them down into their own huddled world. The dark patches between streetlamps grew longer as the number still functioning decreased, and the shadows held dark mounds where the pavement met buildings. Occasionally the mounds sheltered by doorways shifted as they passed. They were approaching the old Docklands, an area of the city that had once been prosperous, with countless glass and chrome high-rises. That was before the floods and the diving property values.
The Lees lived on the seventeenth floor of a dilapidated apartment block. The entrance was marked by a shelf of concrete that stretched out to cover half the pavement outside, sheltering two heavy-set metal doors. Cracked glass filled the panes of one, the lines spidering outwards in fractals, and cardboard had been taped roughly over the gaping holes in the other. The entranceway was dry. Two figures huddled in one corner, sat on several layers of folded cardboard, and wrapped in decrepit looking sleeping pods. They avoided Floyd’s eyes as he glanced at them and shrank in on themselves as the officers stopped before the main doors. A small panel to the right flicked from red to green and something clicked. Floyd pulled the doors open and entered the building.
The foyer was in worse repair than the entrance, the tiles cracked and darkened with grime. Thr ground floor apartments stretched out to either side, the corridor lit by soft yellow spotlights in the ceiling, most still working. Opposite the entrance stood two sets of elevator doors. The one to the right had a hand-written note taped to the front reading ‘out of order’. Thankfully the small panel to one side of the other elevator flickered to life as they approached, glowing softly. The doors slid open with a ping, and the men entered.
‘Seventeen’, Floyd said as the doors closed. The box remained motionless. ‘Seventeen’, he repeated, wearily. With another soft ping a panel lit up next to him, with old fashioned buttons displayed on the touchscreen in small circles with floor numbers inside them. Floyd pushed the one that read seventeen, and the elevator jerked into motion. Scott stared at his boots and muttered something incomprehensible. Floyd said nothing, eyes fixed ahead as he slowly counted his breathes, forcing them to a steady pace. He tried not to think of the last time they had been stuck in one of these aging boxes.
