He looked different in the uniform.
Youthful dreams made reality, the actualization of a lawman’s place in the world coming too soon, without enough training. Just a simple half year in classrooms and practicals in urban facades; the simplicity of becoming an officer of the law concerning any preconceptions of actualized skill and experience.
Dark blue patrol uniform, freshly cleaned and specially tailored for him alone, is worn above a simple cotton undershirt. Coloring distinguishing him from the masses of South, the shoulder insignia of the eagle in flight is inlaid with but a single, eight pointed star.
A rank representative of a first step in adventure, the simple Officer thrust into the reality of this world with only the backing of social construction and fear of authority to protect him.
Officer Jason Ford, staring at himself within the illusory mirror.
“I think you look pretty good kiddo.” Corporal Underfoot scoffs alongside the placed compliment. “It fits you.”
“T-thank you?” Jason Ford attempts to reply, interrupted by Sargeant Jarka’s return.
Overloaded between dragging sets of armor, armaments, and utility items the leader of the division simply opts to dump it all on the floor. A set of half steel plate stacked alongside slightly moldy leather jambeaux sandwiching at least two feet of miscellaneous armor, a collection of weapons hailing from claymore-styled greatswords to small, needle pointed daggers. One size fits all utility belts tangled together in a horribly organized pile of fabric spaghetti laid atop a sealed wooden box marked with simple words:
CAUTION: FRAGILE
POTIONARY/ALCHEMICAL
“Thought I’d just bring the armory to you instead…” Jarka scratches her nose as she nods towards the new member. “Alse’s bringing the other things, but for now pick and choose your gear.”
“I-I don’t… I don’t get it issued?” Ford begins to ask.
“We’re Arcane Crimes.” The leader answers casually, crossing her arms as she leans on a stool, amused expression watching the show unfold. “We get a thousand gold to fix million gold problems.”
The analogy takes a moment to process, Officer Underfoot chuckling in realization. “That was a good one.”
“Thanks. Now Officer Ford, take your pick of the bunch. Just keep in mind you’re gonna be our Striker, so try not to weigh yourself down too much.” The Sergeant orders casually.
Too many choices overloading the mind, formal training expecting a simplistic assignment now thrust into a world of independent decision making. The voice of his father speaks up first, the suggestion synthesized from tales of adventures in the world beyond the borders of the great city.
Your armor will save your life.
The young man kneels down, picking through the selection of steel and leather protective gear.
From all sections of quality and fitness, with half of the pile verging on the borders of absolute uselessness from decay. Tarnishing and rust eating away at the fringes of metallic plates, leather armor now molding away into useless slabs of organic material find themselves between items of useful quality.
If one is willing to search of course.
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“I don’t think we’ve opened the armor case in…” Underfoot scratches his head as he opens the palm of his hands. “Well, it doesn't matter.”
The weave of reality pricked by five fingers, a single spell woven together from astral linen. Green-blue in color, the energy wraps itself around his wrist in a cylindrical form. Arcane spells from scientific precision, of power drawn from the most fundamental foundations in mathematical perfection.
A sigiless spell harkoning towards Ford’s own education, watching as the simple cantrip solidifies into a single round ball at the halfling's fingertips. Casually tossed onto the pile, the spell takes effect.
Three dimensions fold into four as the orb of arcane power spreads onto the pile of armor. Everywhere, nowhere; mold cleaned away, rust dissolved under self-insulated heat and power. Leather rewoven and steel reforged in the milliseconds between reality; a reparation of decay executed in less than three seconds for the whole pile.
Task completed, the created blanket of energy reforms back into a small sphere that the mage recalls back into his palm.
Spoken words, articulated perfectly, send the next spell into motion. A blaze of fire flashing heat across the office space; the collected molecules within the orb of particulates incinerated with a single blast of energy.
“Alright, done.” Underfoot happily snaps, dusting the debris off from his hands.
A much more complete pile this time around, every piece of armor maintained with immense care and precision from the magics of the universe. Conversion executed with a single thought, the selection now available once more to the rookie.
Picking through the remnants, Ford discovers a singular piece of steel. Shining amongst the fabrics and bounds of leather.
A sheet of individually interlocked metallic plates, heavy enough to require the excursion of musculature to pick up, is taken from its staging point. Leather straps fitted tightly like dragon scales, the mail sheens against the light from arcane lamps as the young man carefully observes its forging.
Carbon reinforced steel, masterful craftsmanship executed in industrial forges by ways of mass production. A hundred individual hands within its creation, from distant managers to lowly workers; the chain of production tying souls together in an amalgamation of pay scales and operational capacities.
All focused on the corporate logo stamped upon the bottom of the armor piece; a huge fire breathing dragon roaring forth a stream of flames towards a shielded knight:
Thakkar Steelworks.
Size: Medium
“Scale male?” The young man asks curiously as he presses the armor atop his chest, checking it for size.
Sergeant Jarka crosses her arms as she gives the classification. “Loud as hells with all that clanking steel, but a lot better than what the rest of us are wearing. What brand is it?”
Her subordinate answers with near encyclopedic knowledge, Underfoot taking a minor interest in his own cleaned work as he kneels down alongside the rookie. “It's the Thakkar one we got from the Black Hand case last month. Good company, but people think the logo is racist against dragons. Armor’s quite underrated though. I think Ryce wears one of theirs?”
“I-Is that good?” The young half-orc asks innocently.
“If it fits, I’d say go for it.” Jarka shrugs as she pulls her attention from elsewhere. “If you don’t think you can block a ganger coming at you with a sword, it's perfect.”
“A-and it goes…”
“Above the uniform.” The Sergeant informs, working a motion above her head. “I know back in the Academy they say if you wear any armor you need it under the uniform, but I mean the chief wears half-plate and I don’t think that’ll be a good fit under the robes. Plus it's getting cold so it's good to have a layer under all of it.”
From her desk the barely visible movement of Chief Grunsen is detected, the dwarf woman filing the conversation away for future reference within a vast mind as she returns to work.
Armor covering the torso, Officer Jason Ford takes a moment to adjust to the weight on his body. Rolling shoulders confirming actionable movement, stretches determining flexibility, and a small jump for operational weight.
Cold steel bleeding through a layer of fabric, a small chill running through the young man’s spinal column as he makes a realization of its actual purpose.
See that’s there to make sure your insides aren’t pulped when some ganger tries to blow your guts out.
The voice of the Sergeant snaps the young man from the implication, a command given to underlings. “Mirror.”
“On it.” The Mage follows as ordered, the illusory surface once again projected into the space.
An uneven mismatch of dulled, yet reflective armor and a darker uniform. Jason Ford’s position in the world more like a child’s doll than an officer of the law, a motion not lost as the next member of the squad returns.