Eighth Avenue branches forth like a river delta; the street stretching all the way northward in a nearly straight path. An end point twenty miles away, invisible against the smog and citizenry of the world.

An artery of commerce, one of a dozen within the great city, is coated in a thick layer of commercial and residential plaque.

Newspaper sellers, young souls all, scream out headlines across street corners. A chorus of knowledge tempting curious souls towards them; stories and tales from adventurers rooting necromancers in the distant city of Uther, of market futures rising against a slowing market, and of armies engaged deep in trenches within the tundra of the bitter north.

Sidewalks crowded, street grocers spilling onto walkways as crates of fresh vegetables and fruits are set out. Pricing reasonable against immense competition surrounding them, family owned cartels in a silent agreement of profit and industrial niches. House spouses negotiating pricing, friendly banter echoing between them all as friends reunite among lines and produce selections.

Apartments squatting atop commercial fronts, the lower-middle class of South making their livings packed together in spaces barely private. Thin paper walls separating massive families of all species; a line of poverty unable to afford schooling yet enough to guarantee a place of youthful employment within the industrial centers of the city.

Five factories take residence across 8th Avenue, each monstrous property jutting out from the churn of the streets with smoke stacks and ventilation systems. The largest holds dominion over the entire industrial capacity of its one mile block; United Textiles’ primary manufacturing center taking up nearly two acres and five stories of brick and mortar. A fenced off receiving yard acting as the front facing end of the business; massive rolls of industrial fabric covered with a protective layer of treated cloth prepared for delivery to distant sub-industries by a line of horse drawn carts. Between the bustle of traffic, the throbbing tone of machinery spills from the location’s dusty windows. Guargatian machines separating, treating, and weaving massive billets of raw fiber; a non-magical production capacity now exceeding the power of arcane creation in both quantity and economy.

A single wizard tower stands among it all.

Smashed between an apartment complex and Fren-cain Company’s canning factory, 8th Avenue’s local arcane caster’s residence was a massive crystal obelisk that reaches up towards the clouds. Arcanely grown crystalline matter shines against the gray skies, the black surface an impossible combination of light absorption and refraction. Almost three hundred feet tall, the shape simply tapers off at the very tip of the triangulated shape; weave antennas spiraling out both for transmission, reception, and experimentation.

Beat officers patrolling the streets, bodies moving through the light touch of rain as they remain vigilant. An armament of simple nightsticks and short swords, armor found with treated leather anti-stab vests. Forms in casual movement as they exchange short snippets of conversation between comrades, the divides between species bringing forth conversational topics of cultural stereotypes, exotic foods, and the behaviors of spouses. Jokes and laughter, distraction against the reality of the shadowed alleyways beyond.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

Cable cars mercifully carving through the thoroughfare, shapes of wood and steel connected to rails running through the center of the massive street. Public transportation half-filled in the post-morning commute hours, a smattering of late workers, shoppers, and families traveling within open-air interiors; dirty seats left unoccupied as the great majority simply stand in travel. Clothing of rags to well tailored suits, riches and poverty squished together in the stratas of city-wide transit.

Signs specifically requesting the avoidance of mounting while in motion ignored by officers of the city, bodies sprinting to keep pace with the moving machine. Vanguards of the squad the first to enter, outstretched arms gripping riding posts. Jason Ford and Officer Ican hoisting themselves in, turning to assist the trailing forms of Sergeant Jarka and Officer Underfoot.

The intruding power of enforcement arriving upon sacred spaces, gazes placed upon the four in grave concern of criminal activity to come.

Masterful manipulation of the conceptualizations of social order, Sargeant Jarka bridging a bright smile towards the passengers as she announces the intentionality with a joke. “Don’t worry everyone, even the law hates walking.”

A single spoken sentence releasing held tension somewhat, civilian gazes still rightfully aware of the four officers in their midst as one splits from her the group to reach the front of the cable car.

An operator’s booth occupied by a goblin operator, the sky-blue overcoat above a tiny form of green skin signifying an employment by public services, and an immediate connection to the woman. A flash of the golden badge beyond the safely glass automatically waives transportation fees, the eight pointed star upon an eagle’s shield the representation of enforcement by the name of Sergeant Luria Jarka.

A nod by the goblin man, confirmation of new passengers as his gaze returns to the flow of traffic direct front.

Seats cleaned by the wave of arcane spells, hardwood arcanely refreshed in the blue hues of scientific castings. The halfling pulls himself onto an open seat, his stature short enough for him to nearly lie down on the bench.

“Almost… missed the stop… ” Underfoot manages to exhale, trying to catch his breath.

Jason Ford quickly corrects his superior. “W-we did miss the stop, sir.”

The Police Mage continues to complain. “Your watch was wrong Luria, so wrong!”

“I said I’ll get it adjusted.” The superior answers as she returns to her group, pausing as she catches herself mid-lie. “I know I said that last week but I promise I’ll find time to do it.”

Hands gripping riding bars, the cable car relatively stable yet inherently unbalanced in its lazy movement northward. Small bumps in imperfect steel tracks, a ride augmented by the irregularities of a moving cable running beneath the rails.

Through traffic, a dominating power found in the sheer tonnage of the train as crossing pedestrians and horse-drawn traffic are instinctively brushed aside through raw size and the ear piercing sound of its directed bell.

Settling in for a half hour’s travel, the four police officers find their footing in the moving car.

Officer Ican stands, her tall form reaching high enough to nearly rest on one of the handlebars while her halfling counterpart simply lies down on the relatively oversized seat.

Sergeant Jarka and their rookie opting instead to sit down across from the two.