Evidence secured in airtight preservation bags, three major pieces combined with twelve sub sections brought together in a complete grouping of criminal activity. A story told in the contextualization of an attached police report; brought down the stairs in the arms of the uniformed half-orc.
A family living room in the midst of tragedy, parental figures in emotional devastation. The tears fallen from eyes, of wailing barely kept against the request of knowledge from a seemingly sympathetic officer.
Sergeant Jarka sits on a sofa across from the remaining two members of the Romez family, her thin form leaning forward as she pens in answers on a standard battery of investigative questions. Next, remaining standing, the horned form of Officer Ican holds itself like a statue. A woman of absolute control, a neutral gaze remaining distant from the world and the terrifying implications of a dying family.
“Jarka.” Officer Underfoot snaps respectfully to his superior as he carefully makes his way down the tall steps like a ladder. “We’re done.”
A deep breath taken by the woman, a tragic smile from reddish amber eyes bridging an empathy to parentage. Warm voice speaking forth procedure, a suggestion given to the two souls. “I believe we can leave this here. The officers at Precinct Fourteen can handle the rest.”
A mother nearly destroyed with tears barely acknowledges the allowance, a father nodding his head in response.
“Just one question though.” The halfling speaking up, a seriousness to his tone matching the legal implications of a son’s history. “Are any of you familiar by any chance of what Davin was doing on his days off from school?”
“H-he would go with friends…” The father answers.
A magical spell approaching his fingertips, the police mage conjuring an enlarged, illusory version of a memorized business card into existence.
Parental eyes gaze at the thing, watching as the stained brown paper slowly rotates for a full 360 degree view.
Choking through tears the mother asks in retribution. “What is this?”
“We were hoping you knew.” Underfoot snaps his fingers, the illusion dissipating into nothingness. “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ve taken some items as evidence with us, you can contact precinct fourteen for their retrieval once the case is finished. You should also visit your son as well.”
An exchanged glance between Sergeant Jarka and Officer Underfoot closes the conversation.
Bodies all standing, four officers completing the procedure as gracefully as possible.
To the door, leaving behind the remnants to their world.
The city of South still lives.
A distant bustle of traffic from Eighth Avenue echoing into the mostly quiet residential street; a handful of infants both in motherly arms and in the attempts at walking clog the sidewalks. Multi-family gathering of house spouses; elvish, human, gnomish, halfling, and even a pair of goliath and dragonborn women situated in a small lot turned park.
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Parenting advice exchanged alongside rumors of drama between mutual friends, the raising of children lifted alongside the rare socialization for lives consumed by the flesh of one’s own creation.
They all watch as a rare motorized carriage casually makes its way down the street; the popping of its elemental engine resounding through a relatively calm atmosphere with a cacophony of steam and machinery. Terrifying sound stopping all observers in their tracks, the personal vehicle placed at the center of attention before making its way off to the main arterial road.
South remains as it was before, the destruction of a family as routine as a distant factory shift whistle.
An immediate change in tone, Sergeant Jarka clapping her hands as leads the team down the sidewalk and towards eighth avenue. Voice strangely jovial out of context, a preparation for activity already coming to fruition in her trained mind. “As promised, supper time!”
She turns to her much taller counterpart, Officer Ican looking down as they make eye contact. “So what are you craving for Ican?”
A voice quiet, the body following the superior’s trajectory. “I want steak, if they have it.”
“That’s gonna be a tall order.” Jarka reaches her voicecaster, rune grabbed and broadcast sent out into the weave. “Dispatch, H.R.D. zero-one. Advised completed warrant. Unit on Gary Street Eighth Avenue cross, any good diners for lunch? Gotta have steak. Break.”
A continuation of the message, the Sergeant continuing from her stopping point. “Also require evidence transportation, prefer precinct fourteen officers for current case.”
Dispatcher Markin takes a moment to reply, the rustle of papers in the background obvious despite arcane voice isolation. “Copy H.R.D. zero-one, please hold for diner location. Am contacting precinct fourteen, please hold.”
They leave the Police Mage and half-orc behind them, the mage-crafting pair pausing as Jason Ford takes a moment to stare at the house.
A home created by ties of blood, destroyed by the mistakes to be both blamed on parentage, circumstance, and youthful immaturity.
Whose fault is it, when a child falls?
They listen to the city and watch fellow co-workers, interrupted by Officer Underfoot as he notes the young man’s expression. “Not how you imagined police work, right kiddo?”
“S-sir?”
“Ninety eight percent of police calls here in South are non-violent and non-investigative.” The halfling police officer informs with a learned knowledge, putting hands in pockets as he begins to walk towards the rest of their squad. “It’s not all action novel sword duels.”
A pause, the young man nodding along as his superior continues. “But you did a good job today.”
“I-I d-did?”
The halfling scoffs. “Well I’ll be honest today’s not over yet. But at least coming from me you’ve got a good arcane foundation, and you do what you’re told so that’s really important.”
“Th-thank you sir.” The young man attempts to accept the praise, adjusting the bags of evidence carried on his arms.
Officer Underfoot scoffs at the reaction. “Relax a bit kiddo. It’s your first day, and plus you’ve lived in South your whole life right?”
“Yes sir… y-yes I’ve lived my entire life in South.”
In a gilded cage called Tideson.
“Well it's your city, your home.” The police mage smiles warmly. “The fact that you’re with us means you’re already pretty gods damned good at your job. You don’t need to prove anything to us, just that you can watch our backs and your own.”
A silence of understanding between spellcrafters, the senior officer yelling outward to the remainders of the squad. “Hey! Jarka, where we going for second breakfast?!”