Cable car coming to a stop, four officers deposited back into the world as they step into the streets of Midtown. Much less traffic compared to 8th Avenue’s central junction, the locale’s place within the borderlands was mostly defined by a more commercial outlook when set against the industrial creation of the inner districts.

To the side streets the stacks of single-family apartments are squashed together, gridlines of artificial creation packing together the population of South into warm, homely cages.

“Welcome to Midtown.” Underfoot announces as he skips onto the sidewalk, a handful of pedestrians taking a curious look at the four police officers intruding within the neighborhood. “Anyone want a second breakfast befo…”

Collectively the voice casters at their shoulders jump to life, the weave sending forth a requesting of response from a now distant dispatcher three miles away. “All A.C.U., dispatch. Active monitoring, reply.”

A moment of silence, Sergeant Jarka speaking up for her party. “Dispatch this is H.R.D. zero-one, received.”

A few more seconds pass before the second branch speaks up, Detective Aiden Ryce’s unstable tone rushing into the channel with a complete disregard to voice-casting protocol. “Dispatch this is S.I.D. zero-one, received. So Jarka, are you guys getting into trouble? Get the rookie killed yet?”

Underfoot waves away Jason Ford’s confusion and surprise. “That’s Detective Ryce in a nutshell. Don’t worry about him.”

Sergeant Jerka ignores the Special Investigation Unit’s intrusion, instead opting to respond to one channel only. “Dispatch, H.R.D. zero-one on station active. Moving for warrant, will monitor. Requesting voice-casting check for H.R.D. zero-four., please confirm?”

“Confirmed, awaiting check.”

She turns to the half-orc rookie, the short form put right in the spotlight as she gives a knowing grin. “You remember radio protocol?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, everything’s the same except we have our own personal dispatcher. Give her a check will ya? Your code for now is zero-four.”

The rune stone at the young man’s shoulders remains still, the soul moving fingers towards the thing.

A connection between mind and weave, a reality made clear as he finds the correct frequency through neuronic impulses.

Relax, you’ve done this before.

“D-Dispatch H.R.D. zero-four, r-rrrequesting voice-cast check please? T-thank you.”

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Silence in the city of South.

Well if you ask that nicely, I’ll get your dispatcher right away.

A light chuckle from the other side, stifled laughter as dispatcher Ka’el Markin answers the new rookie in the unit. “Copy H.R.D. zero-four, read you clear. Do you want fries with that?”

Embarrassment washing over his face, Jason Ford puts down an even more nervous reply. “N-no.”

“Copy that, monitoring channel.” The woman closes.

Officer Ican and Jarka remain stoic, Underfoot nearly dying of laughter as he tries to shake away vicious emotion. “Oh gods, that was great.”

Jarka puts a light hand on the shoulders of the young officer. “You got maybe forty syllables for each broadcast depending on weave conditions. I don’t think you need to thank Markin for her work, she knows we’re very appreciative.”

“Y-yes ma’am.”

Turning back to her group, the woman answers the halfling subordinate. “Alright Officer Underfoot, we’ll get supper after we get this one done.”

Underfoot casually stretches, a response broken by a loud yawn. “Fine. But we’re getting burgers and fries after this. Cause kid, that was hilarious!”

Set into motion, the three officers move to follow their leader.

Four streets down from the cable car stop, a short hop away from the main artery of transit. Gary Blvd terminates at the very end of the street, a simple t-intersection marking the final end to a road starting nearly two miles in the distance. A solid, two laned road surrounded on both sides by well maintained apartments of varying colors and sizes. From false marble pillars beneath overhanging balconies, to simple anti-theft iron bars over clear windows; a strange mismatch of cultural origins and architectural designs.

The middle class of South, one of many isolated pockets between the slums and mansions.

Jason Ford takes in the world; the scent of midday meals, the sights of passing pedestrians, the sound of conversations. A city pulse felt, a living creature in the midst of an active day.

Mostly deserted, Gary Boulevard maintains a strange quietness with a majority working population currently out. The only real inhabitants of street found in the handful of stay-at-home spouses and commercial workers.

All stopping to stare at the four heavily armed and armored officers walking down cobblestone roads.

They all read the street numbers, a mind working through a downward count towards the fated home.

817 Gary Blvd.

“It’s there.” Officer Ican quietly notes, pointing outward with a slender finger to a three story apartment.

Average for the Midtown border; a design standardized from a derivative Aiagian architectural style. Sharp corners angling upwards towards a pointed roof, large windows matching every floor across the street facing facade. A home painted a slightly soot covered dark blue, brick and stone construction used for its foundation replaced with layers of hard-wood.

Not a bad place to grow up.

“Behave everyone.” Sergeant Jarka orders with an uncharacteristic sternness to her voice. “This is someone’s home.”

A strange wave washing over the Heavy Response Division, Jason Ford stopping in his tracks as he stares simply at the location.

The locking of armaments, readiness for any eventuality in the delivery of violation.

“Ready?” The leader asks her group.

A silent orchestra of nods, the woman taking the first step towards the door.