A night of criminal activity to be reported, the lines of victim citizens held waiting within the dirty lobby of the massive police station. Smoke from tobacco pipes drift among the poorly ventilated space, the scent and sight of a mass of all societal strata overwhelming to an unprepared soul.
From protected reception desks the handful of deployed officers attempt to stem the flow, handouts of police report templates filled by barely literate minds; scratched handwriting left to rot behind locked doors.
Careful eyes watch as the young man approaches the far door, one of the officers on guard; a long-bearded dwarf wearing a chainmail chestplate above his blue uniform, answers him with a raised hand and graveling voice. “Hey lad, where you think you’re going? Step away.”
An answer spoken through a small stutter. “I-I… I’m looking for Chief Grunsen?”
“And what do you want with her?” The Guard replies with narrowed eyes, a pause as he quickly checks a golden pocket watch. A time confirmed, the expected arrival time bridging a welcoming smile beneath a bearded face. “Oh so it's you…”
An original, more divine, purpose evident within the interior’s iconography, Precinct Eight’s primary field office takes up the entire ground floor of what used to be the Temple of Korma. Black marble tiles scratched by foot traffic, the sound of conversation both idle and operational echoes deep within the three built floors of the sanctum turned police station.
Each layer connected by a ten square foot opening, gold inlaid railing separating lethal falls from working administrative offices. Open desks full of paperwork, quills of ink put on pages as detectives and workers fill the endless loop of documentation and bureaucracy from patrolling officers.
From the second floor one officer leans over, her voice carrying itself among the business of a shift change in the requesting of information. The response comes, harsh and dismissive as the administrative worker simply continues their own work.
The beating heart of three districts, slowly crushed underneath an ever increasing workload.
A staircase hung on steel wires, the wardened arrival of the young man ending at the steps upward.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Fourth floor lad.” The Officer informs with a jovial grunt. “Good luck, assuming you survive your first day!”
“Thank you sir.” The young man nods.
Above the primary administrative offices, the special crimes unit of precinct eight, and through the tertiary break room lies the singular oak door. A thickness created from single cuts of wood, the varnished exterior was covered with immense wear from generations of usage. Scratches and salvage obvious in the mismatched door hinges and holes from older mounting plates, an age reaching back beyond this building and towards a more unscrupulous location.
A single line written beneath the sigil of justice, the golden lettering somehow remaining pristine among the carnage of the world:
SOUTH POLICE DEPT: ARCANE CRIMES UNIT
“Gods help me…” The young man prays quietly as he moves towards it, hands reaching towards the brass handle.
Cold steel against warm flesh, ancient hinges creak as a single push opens the door with an unwanted announcement of arrival.
Warmth blasts exposed skin, condensed central heating pushing stale air out into the world in a rush of pressure equalization. A world within a world, the cramped office nearly filled to the brim with random assortments of weapons, armor, and filing cabinets.
Built right into the roof of the cathedral, the angled walls cramming itself into the two flanking sides of the space while the central line maintains an uncomfortably cavernous implication in its architecture. A placement of a planning board currently crowded with red strings and arcane copied renditions of suspects is placed on the right side of the room, the opposite enhanced with a single workstation of gargantuan proportions covered in disposed pizza boxes and takeout containers.
Five souls split into three groups, the current occupation of the office environment taking up only around two thirds of its expected quantity. Three officers standing at the center of the space, dark blue uniforms beneath body armor in the midst of a chaotic mess of non-lethal martial combat.
Boredom at the state of life, a current combative situation executed via inflated balloons crudely shaped into longswords and daggers. Humorous combat executed by professionals with the tools of children, eyes turning towards the remaining two individuals scattered around the locale.
One currently hovering over a small kitchenette built into the corner, the young human woman in a mess of a uniform filling a dirty tankard with water from a faucet. A quick sniff of the liquids within, deemed viable as she guns the contents directly into her system, hands moving to fill another serving.
Behind the massive, oak desk at the very back, the dwarven woman sits straighter at the sound of the opening door; an expected arrival coming to fruition in tardiness.
Jason Ford takes it in with moments of perception, eyes glancing across the room as incomplete visual noise is processed within a subconscious. An introduction prepared, interrupted as the dwarf speaks up with a boisterous authority.
“Officer Ford!”