A/N: Had an idea bouncing around in my head and decided to give it a go. This fandom needs some love anyway.

I've played both the original Mirror's Edge and Catalyst. Have not read any of the comics. I'm kind of taking the two worlds of the original and Catalyst and mashing them together. The city is a lot more similar to the original (didn't quite dig the really futuristic feel of Catalyst's city), but is called Glass instead of The City. So far the only canon characters I plan to make an appearance are the original set. But we'll see where we end up!

Reviews are always a treat.

It was a bright Tuesday morning when a call came in reporting a runner on the sidewalk between 15th Avenue and Pegasus Drive. Dillon McKnight was patrolling just a few blocks down in his cruiser, and begrudgingly volunteered to evaluate the situation. Runner cleanup was never a pretty sight, but leaving a splattered corpse on the side of the street was unacceptable.

There was indeed a body lying facedown on the pavement, just a few feet from the bus stop. A small crowd had gathered to gape at the gruesome display. He saw Caucasian skin, blonde hair matted with half-congealed blood. Dillon waved them off with some rote dismissals about there being nothing to see. Upon spotting his deep blue uniform, they obediently moved on, afraid of being charged with disobedience or obstruction of justice or half a dozen others. He retrieved several orange cones from the trunk of his squad car and positioned them in a circle around the corpse, sectioning off an area twenty feet in diameter. He called in for a cleanup crew. Then he squatted next to the body, polished black boots creaking.

The bright red shirt and sweatband made it clear the crumpled, almost deflated man had been a runner and wasn't just a jumper (those, unfortunately, were more common than runners). Wearing eye-catching red had become a sort of cultural taboo in Glass since the runners took it on as their own. Anything more than red lipstick or a ruby ring was met with suspicion. The runner scare was amping up. According to the news, anyone could be a runner. Your barista, the middle-aged man who lives in the apartment above yours all alone, even your friends and family.

Dillon scoffed to himself, scratching at the short stubble along his jaw. Runners were a rare breed, few and far between. Odds were your aunt wasn't moonlighting as a runner.

And if you did see a runner, you let them go. It wasn't worth a broken neck. The City Protection Force was briefed and trained on how to identify and handle runners of course (training mostly consisted of some sprinting exercises), but it was common knowledge on the force that the actual number of reds was comparatively low, and bumping into one wasn't commonplace. The sons of bitches were fast and quiet, and mostly stayed out of the way. The only runners Dillon had ever really seen had been ones that made a fatal mistake on the roofs.

Dillon felt oddly moved, seeing one of those sky-dwellers down on the street. Like a dead bird, or a fallen angel. Which was stupid, because logically the runners came down to street level sometimes. Some of them passed for normal citizens, led a double life with a job and an apartment and a pet. Not most, but some. According to Kruger Security's studies. Those that they had deigned to share with the CPF.

The pavement around the runner was stained with blood. His head was twisted at an awkward angle, face turned away from Dillon, both legs clearly broken. A dirty, white sneaker had flown loose. Geometric tattoos ran up both arms, and droplets of blood flecked the glass wall of the bus stop. Dillon wondered what had made him fall.

He didn't want to turn the body over, didn't want to touch it. But he had to. He had to check for identification. Runners weren't known for carrying ID, but it was procedure. Then he'd have to stand guard over the grisly scene until cleanup arrived. If nobody claimed the body within twenty-four hours, it would be incinerated. Glass didn't hold dead runners in high regard.

Dillon grasped the young man's shoulder with one gloved hand and turned him over. The body made a wet sort of sound. The skin of his face was raw. His nose was squashed flat, one cheekbone shattered, and several teeth busted loose. Thankfully, his eyes were closed. Dillon searched the runner's pockets, finding only a flattened pack of chewing gum. The discovery disturbed him, as did anything he found on a runner's body that wasn't contraband. Speaking of, there was none to be seen. If the runner had been carrying anything, a civvie might have taken it. He'd have the cameras checked.

A white van labeled "City Protection Force" pulled up to the curb. Three men stepped out in white hazmat suits. They unceremoniously bundled the runner into a black body bag and tossed it into the back of the van. One of the men took Dillon aside while the other two began spraying down the sidewalk.

"Any identification?"

Dillon shook his head. "None. Like usual."

The cleaner nodded, unsurprised. "We got it from here."

They didn't help Dillon load the cones back into his car. He felt a bulge in the back of his pants when he flopped into the driver's seat. He'd unconsciously pocketed the runner's pack of gum. His skin crawled, and he resisted the urge to fling the pack out the window. Littering was unacceptable. And if he was spotted by the cleaners or a civilian and reported, he'd lose his job. He drove back to resume his patrol route, crushing the cardboard in his fist, and chucked the pack into the first trash can he found.

He was still thinking about the runner when he went to bed that night. His dreams were fitful, all flashes of red and pounding feet and dizzying heights.