The halfling interrupts the silence of transportation, his voice carrying with it a half-sarcastic, half-genuine notion towards both superior and subordinate. “So kid, how good’s your handwriting?”
Jason Ford takes a moment to process the request, a mind finding the implication nearly immediately. “I’m… I’m alright at it sir.”
Jarka bridges the gap, a calm voice speaking to the nervous young man. “Just to let you know, it's tradition to have the rookie fill out the case report on their first trip. It eases you into the whole ‘I’m a cop now’ line of thinking.”
Jason Ford nods as the Sergeant continues. “You know what? Let’s get it started now.”
An index finger motioning to the leather bound casebook on the rookie’s utility belt, the half-orc removing the thing alongside a steel quilled pen from within his well organized pocket.
A hundred twenty pages multiplied by two, bleed-through paper allowing for an instantaneous copy of wording through penetrating ink. Technical marvel in the most absurdly simple craftsmanship, the thick leather and glued paper custom manufactured in the hundreds to thousands.
Boxes and lines, prompts to fill forth from a standardized template. Printed ink awaiting fulfillment of purpose, the lettering at the very top listing out its incorrect ownership:
P̸͍̚R̷̠̂E̵̺͋C̷̪̚I̶͔͑N̵̰̕C̷̪̀T̸̹̈ ̷̪͛0̶̬͂4̷̰̅
I̵̻͗n̸̥̓s̴͖͑u̵̡̔l̸̳̈́’̴̮̅ą̸̛,̶̨̅ ̵̯̀s̸͉̋ǎ̸͚v̵͈̒’̶̲͝a̶͓̚t̵̂ͅo̵̭̔ř̸̼i̵̖͝a̶̼͑,̵͇͝ ̴̹͆d̷̖͠o̶͎̚’̴̻̿ṣ̸̌i̷͔̍ṋ̴̃.̷̫̊
“Ignore that.” Jarka notes the confused look on Ford’s face.
Underfoot gives the context to the printing error, boring reality pushing past any concept of sexy supernatural twists. “The printing company made a mistake on Precinct Four’s new casebooks three years ago. And since we’re the only active unit that isn’t at the precinct level, the Chief decided the best way to save some coin was to salvage those for us. That was fifty gold saved right there, and we’re not even making a dent through the crate.”
The Sergeant shrugs, reorienting the conversation back to the central topic. “Either way, the casebooks themselves are good. Now, get ready to fill this information here:”
Search and seizure warrant reproduced, the young man takes a comparative look between printed words and his own unfilled report.
“Everything is mostly standard for us, so start at the top.”
Three layers of checkboxes, three different categories each with an uneven number of possible formats. From parking tickets to autopsy reports, a near-universal template to brush the surface of police work.
In the second row he finds it.
Sergeant Jarka makes the order, a long finger already pointing towards the empty box. “So check off the S&S w/Jud War.”
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
The young man does as he is told, a pen brought from home gliding across the paper with ease. A sanctity broken, the casebook now committed to the bringer of order.
His eyes already move to next portion of the template.
“Now we get to fill out a much more comprehensive sheet once we’re done, but we normally just divy it up between the four of us after we get back. So focus just on jobbing down notes to help us later.”
“Y-yes m-ma’am.” The young man nods.
“Perfect. Now: suspect name.”
An unknown within the search warrant, the living target found simply in the Residential Property of 817 Gary Blvd.
“The kid’s parents are named Mathias and Karai Romez, and they jointly own the property.” Jarka informs. “So just put their names down, as we are searching their property.”
Underfoot interrupts with the technicality in the law, a keen mind pulling forth an exception from publicized court cases as he remains lying flat on the bench. “Normally in cases such as these, when we already have a suspect whose specific residence we need to search, you’re supposed to put his name down. But since our guy’s a minor, to be possibly tried as an adult, we gotta use his guardian’s names.”
Ford continues to nod, penning down the names.
Words in neat form, easily drawing the eyes of superiors towards the delicate lettering of the common language.
“Next up is the location, which you can just fill from the warrant.”
817 Gary Blvd, Midtown, City of South.
The image of well maintained facades of middle-class apartment housing become apparent in the young officer’s mind; the borderlands between Tideson and Midtown defined by those crushed between social classes. Families numbering enough to get by, a living of minor luxuries and minor hardships.
Kinda like you actually. Well, minus the hardships.
He pens it in, moving onwards.
Sergeant Jarka chuckles. “Now I hope you remember all our names. You just met us afterall.”
OFFICERS PRESENT TO INVESTIGATION:
A battery of memorization listed out, the young man simply writing down the phonetic spellings of a multi-species, multi-ethnic, multi-language group.
The Sergeant corrects him in-process, finding the undercommon spelling mistake. “My familial name’s spelled with an ‘Ä’ and a к. Underfoot is just a common spelling, you got that one right.”
The police mage makes an objection. “Hey, halfling is an immeasurably complex language that takes many years to become fluent in.”
“Haifling's literaliy yin o' th' foundations o' common Pippin’.” The superior shuts down with linguistic talent, continuing onwards the silent and tallest member of the group. “Also Ican, did he spell your name correctly?”
Bending her head to slide horns beneath the railing, the woman leans over to read the spelling of a half-infernal, half-common naming scheme. A voice quiet, she nods as she says it. “It’s correct.”
“Now don’t forget yourself there, cause you are with us.” Jarka reminds him gently. “Jason Ford.”
Penning it together, the young man completes the initial portion of the template.
A full three quarters remaining, a world left undiscovered to a future to come.
“Honestly, easier to get it all done before we get into the actual case.” The Sergeant informs. “If bad things start happening then there’s not exactly enough mental space to sit down and… well fill out the busy work.”
A moment of silence as the young half-orc processes the words, Underfoot interrupting the digestive process with a simple question. “I gotta ask kid, did your mom name you after that Actor?”
Jason Ford answers with simple honesty, the face of human fame staring back at him from motion-pict movies.
“S-she did.”