I do not own Rick Deckard, Roy Batty, Rachael, Pris, and any other names associated with Blade Runner. They're the property of Warner Bros. and The Balde Runner Partnership. Lea is mine.

Oh, and sorry about the crappy format. I'm still trying to figure out how the system works, which is rather frustrating.

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… A surge of adrenaline shot throughout Deckard’s body; it fueled his excitement and blinded his fear. He pushed through the crowds, his laser upholstered and ready to fire.

Lea was almost out of his sight. She made a sudden turn right, nearly colliding with a car. Deckard heard the screeching halt and continued to wade through.

Rain pounded down on the cement earth like thunder; Deckard could feel himself strain under the weight of his drenched coat. He came to an intersection; mass crowds of people and motorists crossed the busy streets. Lea was no where to be seen.

Damn, he thought miserably. Putting his laser away, he checked the time. Twenty to ten. He would’ve gone on longer, but with his trail suddenly cold, there was no use to continue. She’d live to see another day.

The apartment complex loomed overhead; rained dripped off its eaves. Deckard entered the lattice-designed elevator and pressed number six.

The elevator came to a stop and Deckard stepped out. He walked as fluently as he did a few years ago. When he was a blade runner. But after Rachael, Pris, Batty, and the rest of them, he decided he needed to live his own life.

That’s when he started to kill replicants for sport. To hell with them all, he thought somberly. They turned his life into a personal hell, a war against himself. He blamed it mostly on Rachael. Tyrell Corp.’s model Nexus 6. If she wasn’t so damned human, he wouldn’t be feeling this way…

But it was all in the past, now. Leaving her—it—in Seattle, Deckard went without notice to New York City. Not much different from L.A.; a lot more sunlight and not as congested. Still, there was always that looming sense of despair and darkness, that the world would eventually unravel itself into utter destruction…

Deckard came to his apartment door and entered the key code. N.Y.C. was a little more safety-weary than L.A. He learned that the key card system had been installed on every property door owned, as a way to reduce the rate of robberies and related crimes. It worked; the number of cases went down from 89 percent to a steadily dwindling 13 percent. Unless someone could find a way to jam the sequence, it was expected that the report for robberies and similar crimes would be less than 1 percent by 2024.

The key code system buzzed green. He turned the knob and opened the door. The apartment was of fair size; it was the best he could do with 23,000 dollars worth in savings account. He switched on the light and found himself in his usual lodge of old junk. It was in piles, stacked up on the radiators or jammed into ever-cramped ook shelves. Most of the mess had been there when he arrived; he just added to it.

Deckard took off his soaking wet coat, throwing it aside. He headed for the kitchen. Opening the small fridge unit, he uncovered a bottle of cheap whiskey. He studied its contents for a minute, his grey eyes focused. Then he swished it down.

Back in the living room, he took a seat and set the whiskey down on a glass table. There were also some papers. Deckard picked them up and did a quick glance.

They were poop sheets on every rogue replicant in the city. He’d figure he’d waste every one, city by city, until they were gone. The most interesting one included was a female named Lea. She was of medium height, had short black hair and green eyes, and a small build. To him, she was a remiscent of Rachael. She was his first victim, or rather, is. So far, she’d managed to dodge every attack he’d assaulted. Tonight, he was close. Tomorrow, it would be all over…

Deckard sighed and put the papers down. He’s been doing this for three, four years now? And still, he never got over his empathy for Rachael and the others.

Empathy. It was empathy that slowed him down, made him more conscious of these replicants than ever before. Yet, there existed a deep hatred for them. He started to wonder, what made him a blade runner…?

A window crashed in the kitchen. Deckard froze immediately, sitting, waiting. In one fluid motion, he grabbed his laser from its holster and started slowly, cautiously for the kitchen. At the doorway, he kept his back to the wall. Then he waited, listened.

There was a small noise from the kitchen, almost like a whine. There was the shuffling of feet, and a loud sob. Still silent, Deckard made his move. The pointer of his laser fell upon the head of the replicant Lea.

There she was, all his hate and anger before him. Lea was bloody, from head to toe. She seemed to be oblivious; Deckard managed to walk closer to her without her noticing.

Quickly, it became all too clear. Lea sprang to life, clutching Deckard’s wrist like the jaws-of-life. She knocked the laser from his hand and headbutted him. Deckard flew back, immense pain sending flashes of red and white before his eyes. He struggled to raise himself off the floor. Lea lunged at him, her eyes bewildered. Deckard saw her coming and rolled over to his side. Lea landed with a sickening thud.

Now on his feet, Deckard grabbed the adjacent laser and ran for outside. He could hear Lea’s quick footsteps. The rain had stopped to reveal grey skies. Deckard went for the elevator and pressed number one. Pausing for a minute, he checked his head and felt a slight bruise, sensitive to touch.

About halfway down, there was a heavy thud on the elevator’s ceiling. Deckard raised his laser and fired. There was a sudden screech, so loud and inhuman that it was painful. Then a sudden slump. He looked up through the hole. The edges were still hot from where the laser had gone through. Beyond that, he could see a gaping hole, right through the dead body of Lea.

The elevator stopped at floor one and Deckard got off. He wasn’t sure if he was done for the night. Once again, Deckard joined the crowd. He didn’t have any poop sheets on the replicants with him, so further retiring would have to wait.

He found himself aware of the distant souls surrounding him. They were all caught up in their own private thoughts. Deckard would give a hundred bucks to seep into their minds, to know what they knew.

The night air was charged with electricity. He didn’t have to know it; rather, he felt it. All at once did he ponder about replicants. Did they believe in philosophy, or was that, too, as alien as a concept like empathy?

Or were there those like Batty, who have attempted to feel such daunting feelings? Mind-altering drugs were illegal on Earth; they sold like wild fire on Off-World. Yet, the only people that bought them weren’t people. They were replicants.

These thoughts stayed with him as he eased his way through the mass. He passed by stalls selling fake pearls and gems; venders and stores hawking their prices for synthetic animals, none which existed on Earth; the flashing neon lights of the night life, persuasive, alluring. One place in particular sparked his interest: a virtual reality shop. The technology was relatively new; it was used mainly for television broadcastings for those who could afford it. However, there were those who were smart enough, and could manipulate the holograms into forbidden fantasies. “Riding” was the term used for the merging of the human concious and virtual reality.

Deckard entered the shop. It was small and cluttered like the other shops. Hardware and junk of sorts rested in every corner possible. Stacked from the floor to the ceiling; it was everywhere. Towards the back of the shop was a counter. Deckard walked up to it and rang the small bell. It was an odd sound, like a merry tinkling of sorts. A young woman stood up from behind the counter. She was about his height, medium in build, with dark skin, somber brown eyes, and straight black hair. She was rather attractive.

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked. Her voice was pleasant, focused. Just what he needed to hear after a “retirement.”

“Um, no. I-I was just browsing,” Deckard said. The words seemed to fumble out of his mouth.

“Oh, well, you can’t take a “ride” if you don’t have an appointment. But I’ll be more than happy to book you.”

“Do that for me, could you?” The woman nodded and reached for an appointment book. She flipped through the pages and stopped about halfway.

“I’ve got an open spot for March 5. That okay with you?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Deckard. Rick Deckard.”

He watched her pencil in his name.

“Okay, you are up for March 5th, at 6:00 pm. Have a good day.”

Deckard watched her leave through a back door.

He stepped outside into the frigid air. Tightening his coat, he headed back for his apartment. From the corner of his eye, he saw something that made his blood run cold and a gasp escape his throat.

Speaking with a vendor was Roy Batty. No doubt about it. His tall haunting frame, platinum blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and rough, charming features could not be mistaken for anyone else but him. Deckard stood stiffly as he watched Batty talked friendly with the unsuspecting vendor. They seemed to know each other.

A sudden spark snapped Deckard back to reality. At once, Deckard strode over to Batty, his anger building. He took a swing. The blow connected with the dead replicant’s jaw, its body sent flailing back by the sheer force of the punch. Deckard pulled out his laser, its pointer resting on Batty’s head. Finger on the trigger, body shaking with rage, Deckard was about to end it when, much to his surprise, Batty began to laugh.

It was bone-chilling. Deckard watched as it stood to his full height. Its face was contorted by the laughter, as if the punch were a joke. The eyes, cold and intense, were filled with malice.

A crowd began to form. People pointed accusing fingers at Deckard, their taunts and jeers killing him inside. He felt suddenly hot and naseous. He felt like retching.

“Proud of yourself, little man?”

Deckard flinched, and his eyes narrowed. Those words! Only the real Roy Batty knew these words!

It was him! It had to be him!

The two opponents circled each other, like predators stalking prey. The laser pointer never moved from Batty’s head, and those frigid eyes seemed to be sizing Deckard up.

Deckard made the first move. A shot rang out and the crowd yelled. It missed.

Batty was faster, better, and much more accurate. He lunged at Deckard, clenching hold of his wrists. Laser still in hand, the ex-blade runner struggled to get a clear shot. But before it even happened, Batty threw him into oncoming traffic.

Horns honked, cars swerved, and chaos ensued. Weakly, Deckard struggled to get out of the way. Yet his body was unrepsonsive. His laser was nowhere to be seen. Batty was coming right for him. Despite the threat of being crushed by the pushing crowd and cars, he went straight for Deckard. Lifting the man off the ground by the neck, he smiled with devilish glee.

Deckard twisted and turned, edging to get free. But Batty’s grip was strong, and it got tighter with each passing moment. The world began to tilt and spin before his eyes. It became harder to breathe, and he felt himself tugging at Batty’s fingers with his own. Finally, just as the world faded black, a shot rang out in the frosty air.

Realizing that he was not dead, Deckard opened his eyes to see a dying Batty gasp for air. A vicious portion of its head had been blown apart, taking some hair, an ear, and an eye with it. Blood spewed profusely from the wound, drenching Batty and Deckard in it. The replicant slowly collasped, dropping Deckard with it. It was retired.

Scared, though grateful to be alive, Deckard rose to greet his savior. Instinctively, Deckard reached for his neck, as if to make sure that it was still attached to the rest of his body. He didn’t see him. The swell of the crowd would have made it impossible, anyway. Deckard quickly retreated to his apartment. The police would arrive at the crime scene, soon. They would also find the body of the dead replicant on the elevator ceiling, eventually. Thank God nobody lives here, anymore, Deckard thought, extremely thankful.

Later that night, Deckard frantically went over the remaining poop sheets. One down, three more to go. Amongst them, he was searching for Batty’s. What he had gone up against wasn’t a human, that’s for sure. It was possible that it was a clone, but the chances seemed too thin. How many replicants knew those words, the ones that haunted him even now in his sleep? And how many replicants looked just like Roy? Of course, Deckard knew the answer to that one. None. The reason being was that every replicant manfactured by Tyrell Corp. was to be “a unique individual.” These questions, and more, plagued his mind as he prepared for a dreamless sleep. He never did find “Batty’s” poop sheet.