All That Remains

Isn't it funny that we should find the hidden beauty in the things that we leave behind? Labored by the hands of a craftsman, materials gathered and manipulated into form. Minutes stretched into hours which gave way to days that strung into weeks. Rough hands worked the tools of their trade, forged in fires to heat their metal, molds cast to bring shape to life. Used to remove and clear away the uneven perfection of nature, dumped and discarded out of the way. The ground leveled to give a stable base to what was to sit upon it, a much needed and most unremarkable barn. At least, that is the storied life that it was to have, but a path intended isn't always the path that we choose in the end.

Wilbur Friendly knew this all too well, and he'd never set out to be a detective, let alone one that would find himself in a barn in the middle of nowheresville, somewhere between heaven and hell. He assumed this was some punishment for an unspeakable act he committed in some former past life, contemplating from the driver seat in his sedan. You see, in the beginning, he'd started his life as a preemie to a family that had no intention of keeping him. If not for the kindness of a single nurse known as Fern, Wilbur might have found his end before it even began. Tirelessly she watched over the tiny pinkish-skinned newborn, hours beyond her scheduled shift and into the nights she should have been enjoying her youth.

Life as a runt can be cruel, "Mr. Friendly, you've arrived at your destination."

He'd almost forgot that the navigation on the sedan was still on when the voice startled him, shaking his reminiscent brain from its moments wading through the past. Wilbur had followed the case he was now on for years, scrutinizing every detail, following every lead, and it led him here. A barn, dilapidated by the years of neglect, weathered by the storms that passed by. Quietly nestled beneath the overgrowth of the forest that had at one time been a simple farm, how long had it been removed so quickly from the sight of others.

"Mr. Friendly," the disembodied voice began to repeat its phrase when he reached forward to shot off the navigation on the touch screen.

"Damn you, I know," he was irritable, "…I know." Wilbur Friendly was anything but his namesake, life was rough, and years of neglect and ware were beginning to show on his face. You see, Wilbur was slightly overweight, growing up in the Zuckerman Orphanage; the children use to call him 'little pig' due to his height and stocky build.

Wilbur shut off the engine finally, removing the seat belt from around his waist and stepping free from the confines of the car. Whether luck or by a curse, the sky opened up above him and began to pour rain in large cascading waves, it felt as if he was getting hit by the surf of the ocean. Reaching back into the car to retrieve his gear, a sling bag that held the most basic forensic tools he scored from the precinct before leaving, and a black briefcase with a specialized tool to help search the area.

---

To frame the barn's design, they had chosen to sink oak posts, twelve large shaved and smooth cut posts, with notches in each for the rest of the frame to be attached to them. Centuries of building and due to oaks cellular make up as a slow-growing denser wood, the durability and flexibility are unmatched when choosing wood to build anything that lasts. Those that had received payment to construct this structure used large iron nails and oaken pegs to fasten the frame together. They toiled tirelessly for a few days to erect the inner bones of the barn. It rained on the day they had set to construct the roof, a sudden downpour of God's blessing. Not any different to the moment Wilbur Friendly was having, as he trudged through the long wet grass through the quarter opening of the large sliding doors.

"Just what I needed," a sigh exited his lips, out of contempt for the moment of dampness and the job; it was a summary of the life he lived. Moments of joy were fleeting, from orphanage to foster families, nothing ever entirely stuck to him, not like the food did to his ribs. Nothing stuck, not for Wilbur, not as a boy, not until he found somewhere to focus the inner turmoil and release it in a burst of adrenaline-fueled athletics. Football had been cathartic for Wilbur, somewhere to channel that anger into solid hits from the line of scrimmage and gain some sense of respect from others.

"I think we've both seen better days," Wilburs eyes adjusted to the lighting in the barn.

The detective wasn't wrong in his assessment of the building. Holes in the tin roof spoke of how time eats away at the metal, that at one time, the top had been made off wood and was updated before discarded as it was now. From the floor to the ceiling, there were small openings within the entirety of the barn. Planks hung loose or lay at the feet of where they belonged. Broken stalls and missing sections spoke of a time lost to a world that was all but extinct in this day of modern and future technological advancements.

"Time to get to work," Wilbur wasn't one to dally or waste time in places that gave him no comfort or solace. To the sturdiest of railings of one of the stalls he could find, the sling bag hung over his shoulders, as with a hoist of his hand, he brought the black box atop the wooden rail. He was popping the latches so that he could swing the top of the case open, revealing an advanced circular drone the size of grapefruit.

It took only a single press of a small indicator button, causing the inner case to light up blue, sending the screen in the case's lid to start up. It'd been charged in the hotel the night prior so that the R.A.T. would be ready to go. Given the name 'R.A.T.,' to stand for the essential functions of its given parameters Reconisence, Analyzation, Theorization, the new tool A.I. tool given to each detective. Fans initiated inside of the little machine and lifted it from the box. Rotating right and then left, backward and then forward, until three circles appeared on one of its windows. Cameras built beneath the light transparent alloy allowed for it to scan the entire room until it recognized the commanding officer in the room.

"Hello, Detective Friendly," the little robot activated and hovering toward Wilburs face, which already made him uncomfortable enough, "I am Tempelton." It spoke in a perceived male British accent, appearing to be as human as possible so that conversations between it and the detective moved more fluidly.

"Initiate first contact analysis, reconstruction protocol and residual matter playback," with the commands issued that supported the parameters of the search Templeton took to the highest point that allowed it to scan the central area.

Sounds of the whirling of its biometric scans, the technical mumbo jumbo, was all too complicated and mathematical for him. After high school football, he got into a good school and started taking classes in psychology and sociology, which he would need to be a cop in the new world built on propaganda politics. From those moments of fleeting comfort and peace came a tale as old as time, boy meets girl, boy loves girl, boy marries girl, girl disappears in the dead of night. Four years had passed since his wife disappeared one evening, walked out the front door, no sign of a struggle, no blood, no phone taken or car driven, nor clothing packed. She was just gone.

"Detective Friendly, Sir," Templeton interrupted his trip down memory lane. "I've completed my initial findings, and if you've brought the goggles and the gloves, I can initiate biosynthetic playback."

---

It was now nearly complete. It stood tall beneath the sun. Red paint was beginning to coat the outer shell of the barn. White would adorn the accents and highlight the color. Coat after coat applied to finish the labors of man. Castavica farms would have the first of their barns, the smallest and most easily forgotten on this new pig farm. Used to house the animals more akin to family, the ones you didn't take to the market to slaughter. Young Charlotte A. Castavica was curious for her age, even as she walked with the pitcher of lemonade to refill the cups of those working. Science, technology, and biology would eventually become her focus. Fascinated by the threads weaved amongst the dew in the morning grass on her lawn.

"Okay, Templeton," Wilbur spoke in a bit of a labored breath, "show me what we've found," as he pulled the augmented reality goggles.

"Of course," the programming within Templeton stuttered for only a moment, "Detective Friendly."

Before the detective's very eyes, a world unlike any other sprang to life, and data threads appeared all around him. To the naked eye, there was nothing there, no matter how hard one squinted their eyes to see it. Information floated on tiny light blue threads, but here, in this place, on the childhood farm of the infamously notorious Spider Queen. Each line was gathered, weaved, and spun to create a glorious immense webbing of information and data. What would he find at the end of these strings?

"Templeton, what am I looking at here," Wilbur was not wholly unfamiliar with these types of hacks, but this one was elegant. Wilbur Friendly didn't move while in the augmented space. Architects were known to set traps and warnings when people stumbled upon their information caches and data mining tangles, but what was one doing out here. So far from a metropolis or data hub. Having gotten an anonymous tip from an unknown source, he'd have never looked into the financial holdings of Charolette A. Castavicas and stumbled across this farm.

"I'll attempt to access the information and data flowing around us," the little drone began to hover from one section of the data web to another, "attempting to access through a backdoor."

---

Restrained only by the physical form of her own body, Charlotte excelled through school, gaining her first doctorate by age fourteen. She ignored standard conventions of love and relationships. Not until twenty-one did it even occur to her to have children, but the hassle of feeding or taking care of something would take her from her work. So she tested numerous birthing methods, ever the curious how each of those children would turn out in the end. She chose to have three of them and immediately put them up for adoption, a scientific hypothesis to see which would grow up stronger. All that remained now was to collect them.

At the moment Templeton tried to access the web, the light blue threads ignited into a shaking red, sending out a horrible sound through the headset. The electronic auto-strap tightened around his head, causing the pressure to send his hand to the side of his head. Whirling about as he did, Wilbur Friendly caught sight of tiny red spiders moving on the threads, seemingly riding the webs from every direction and creating new lines of information.

Wilbur Friendly had been an orphan, a runt. Everything about his life had been an ordeal. It served as building blocks for the man who lay upon the floor now—clutching to his chest as the rain finally began to subside. With the sight of three women in view, hand outstretched as he passed from the physical world and into the digital one.