The city is its own living creation.
From trained perception he studies the world, a pulse of the streets passed from an ancient lineage of distant woodlands and snaking rivers. Trees of brick and mortar, creeks of alleyways, and animals of incongruent sapience. Great machines in a distant harbor, disgorging great cargo holds of supplies to the world alongside the still living beings of draft horses dragging wagons of commodities.
By proximity he detects it.
The bell ringed opening of a door, casual thanksgiving with the rustle of paper baggage. One human on approach, crossing the nearly empty residential street towards the Officer. Unkept, unshaven; long black hair messily pulled under a patrol cap, and green eyes darting as the man sprints across the street.
An adjusted patrol jacket, tattered and dirtied from years of abuse, still remains beneath a visibly scratched anti-stab vest of studded leather. Five sheathed daggers on his vest, a non lethal steel club attached to his belt, and a single compact crossbow folded on his hip.
A bag of unknown materials carried in his arms, the brownish coloring of processed paper and glue arriving in short notice.
Detective 3rd Class Tanithil Balquinal greets his incoming partner, the elf leaning back on the motor carriage’s frame with a bored note. “What did you end up purchasing?”
A straight smile on the human’s face, the paper bag set on the cargo trunk of the carriage. “Well bad news for you Tan-Tan, they’re out of fish cakes.”
Tan sighs at his technically superior ranked partner. “Then what did you purchase for me?”
Police Detective 1st Class Aiden Ryce takes a moment to look into the bag, reaching in to fish out one of the two items. “Well I got you a tuna sandwich. No tomatoes.”
“No fish cakes, but they have tuna?” The elf raises an eyebrow calmly. “Interesting point.”
Ryce pulls forth the item from within its cowling, a large roll of bread and canned fish wrapped in waxed paper bagging. “You want it or not?”
“I’ll take it certainly.” An open palm follows the answer, Detective Tan taking the compacted meal from his partner. “What did you purchase?”
“Pastrami and ham.” Ryce replies as he reveals his own item, unwrapping one end of the giant vessel of sodium based flavor and caloric energy. “Three copper for the whole thing.”
A quiet sniff of the item, confirmation of culinary integrity through the thin traces of spice, salt, and cooked meat smashed between soft bits of white bread. Meal made in minutes, simplicity of creation for the convenience of consumption.
“That contains quite a bit of salt.” Tan begins. “The bi-yearly exam is next week. I do not suppose you should consider cutting down… ”
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“Oh shut up.” Greedy bite already taken, the Detective doesn’t even pause to chew in his response. “When was the last time someone in the Unit got a level eight result?”
There’s a pause in his own answer, a mental personnel inventory created within a mental palace of names. “I don’t remember.”
“Exactly.” Ryce spits out a few crumbs as he continues to devour his food, leaning onto the carraige’s closed door. “It’s a conspiracy by the Chief, so nobody can transfer us out of her umit. Nobody gets to level eight.”
Methodically peeling open his own meal’s wrapping, Tan scoffs. “It still does not mean we can attempt it.”
“Oh you’re still jealous of me getting a seven last time?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie Tan.” Detective Ryce watches the childrens’ game, groveling to himself in a minor bit of superiority against his partner. “Keep clearing cases like the Black Hand’s and we’ll be stuck here forever.”
The elf doesn’t respond, mind instead moving towards a careful bite taken out of his own sandwich.
Still cold from elemental refrigeration, the mush of tuna carries with it the sourness of pickling liquid and unknown condiment. Bread processed through industrial processes, smooth texture hampered by the subtle taste of unnatural filler.
Spectators watching youth play, a sporting event filled with fumbling mistakes and minor insults. Mistakes in team balance adjusted on the fly, children still attempting to comprehend the consequences of mediated conflict.
“Have you met the newest member of the Heavy Response Division?” Tan asks beneath the howling of seagulls.
“Oh Farhill’s replacement?” Ryce replies. “Should I have?”
“I have not met him.”
The human gives his partner a look. “Seriously?”
“I was just curious. He is half human.”
“And what you think I know him?” Ryce takes another bite of his sandwich. “At least the Unit’s diversity audit is going up, not that it matters.”
“His evaluation was at level five.” Tan informs. “I do not believe diversity was part of the decision making process.”
Detective Ryce almost spits out his mouthful of cold cut meat, produce, and bread at the number. “You’re kidding me. How old is he?”
“I believe Chief Grunsen said he was twenty years standard.”
“Gods…” Ryce grumbles out.
“He is quite capable from what I have heard. Specifically in terms of sw…”
From within the carriage’s cabin the voice springs out.
The strings of reality, woven in between the fabrics of matter and time, plucked together like the strings on a lute. Voice transmitted through the interference of arcane engines, the weave itself adding one more spell to its already buckling back.
Across ten miles of distance, the voice of Dispatcher Ka’el Markin brings forth new orders. “S.I.D., Dispatch ten-fifty-one in progress, Leon Gate crossing Quartering Avenue at Landing. Precinct Fourteen Beat Officers on-site requesting assistance. Break message.”
Detective Tan pauses at the numerical code, uptight voice betraying a hint of confusion. “Why are we being requested for a blocked street?”
The dispatch continues as the transception array recharges. “Continuing: reports of force warding preventing passage at central gate. Unknown arcane action in-progress, believed to be Green Front attack. End message.”
“That’s why.” Detective Ryce sighs, rolling his eyes as he throws open the door to grab the vehicle’s own voice-caster. A square metal box with a single glowing rune atop its form. Weave frequency tuned to the correct channel, he replies with a mouth half-full of lunch. “Dispatch, S.I.D. zero-one. Seriously? We’re ten-seven off, nobody ever heard of a private practice wizard or something? S.I.D. responding, ETA fifteen minutes min. End message.”