“Fuckin' hate this city, man.”
First day on the job, and this guy's said the exact same thing three times. Every time we get in and out of the interceptor. I glance in the direction of my assigned partner. Officer Bobrovnikov, my superior officer, is seven-foot-one worth of synthmuscle and chrome. The kind of guy that I wouldn't want to tussle with if I was causing trouble.
First time in a few years that someone's made me feel underdressed while we're wearing the same outfit. I pull down the sun visor mirror to check myself out and pause when I realize I forgot to wash up this morning, and my unbrushed dirty-blonde hair got me looking like a pop star that just rolled out of bed.
Thump. That sound nearly made me jolt out of my seat. Oh, it's just Bobrovnikov resting his massive chrome mitt on the roof right above my head.
“Kid. You gettin' ready to go on a date, or what? Come on.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Makin' me wonder how the hell you made it four years overseas without gettin' a rocket shoved up ya ass.”
“Came close a few times.” I crack a smile, bracing myself to step back into the drizzling rain. He wasn't wrong, I'm already starting to hate this weather. At least we'll be heading inside soon enough to sort out whatever noise complaint got called in.
Bobrovnikov flips through something on his communicator, sighing in the same tone that a disappointed father would after he sees his kid's report card. “Our noise complaint just got upgraded to potential gunshots. Policy says we gotta dick around 'til we got at least another squad car in on this, what with you technically not bein' a full officer.”
I can't help but silently give props to him. He's not like the other guys on the force who seem all too willing to run in guns blazing like they've skipped the part where they’re not military. Something I was always worried I'd do the moment Black Wolf Security called me up at the end of my tour.
“Chambers, huh? Strong name. You don't seem like you’re from around here, though. Neighborin’ arcology?” he asks as he flicks out a ciggie from his jacket. “Ain't supposed to be smokin' on the job, but… kind of lower on the ‘gettin' in shit’ scale than runnin' in without back-up. They don't wanna have to pay your insurance policy out.”
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I look down at my badge's barcode and then back up at him. He must have cybereyes too. “Huh? Oh. No, I'm from the Palisade District, from around Ostrov.”
“The docks, eh? Explains the tour of duty and riskin' gettin' yourself killed.”
“Those smokes will kill you too," I blurt out without thinking and regretting it right after. Cue my sigh of relief when he laughs loud enough that the few smatterings of people passing through the rainswept street turn their heads to gawk. I guess the sight of two cops loitering on the street with their interceptor's lightbar flashing isn’t enough to stir these people out of their shopping stupor.
“You know what would actually kill me, kid? Retirony.”
“—what's that?”
“Gettin' shot three days before retirement.” He pats his chrome hand on the roof of the interceptor again. “I ain't checked our insurance policy in a couple’a months, but I'm pretty sure we ain't covered for lung cancer. Just gettin' shot, stabbed and run over by scavs, scrags, and gangbangers. Besides, I ain't plannin' on livin' forever. Rather go out gettin' a bullet through my chrome dome than dyin' a slow death at the hands of the old lady.”
I don't know why he's talking to me like we've been friends for years. I guess that's why he got assigned to train me, given that my transfer was relatively short notice and all. If I didn't see him slam a perp hard enough into the pavement to leave an indent, I'd think this guy was the archetypal gentle giant. Though, maybe a few storeys shorter than what you might run into in the deep wilds.
Two other interceptors peel in after what feels like an eternity of waiting around, both proudly displaying the Black Wolf Security decal on their side doors. Three other guys I don't recognize and McNamara. Hard to miss McNamara. Tall, wiry, and blonde. Classic elven looks. He probably tailors his uniform to show off his natural muscles like that. Prick. Apparently he’s the main reason that the gym is the nicest part of the precinct, despite half of us not needing it. The upside of chrome muscles? Not having to pump iron to maintain them.
“The hell are we loafing around for? Nobody told me that we're being paid to stand around and smoke,” the elf shouts.
“Try not to acknowledge him too much, kid.” Bobrovnikov shares that nugget of wisdom with me under the guise of hunching over to kill his cigarette on the ground.
“You got it.” Can’t help but agree with him. It’d be a waste of breath. First potential shooting I've been to, and we're finally in the clear.
“Dispatch said we had a shootin'. Halfway down the block—”
“You're forgetting where we are, big guy,” McNamara cuts in. “The end of the block is the end of our coverage zone.”
Bobrovnikov pushes past and rushes down the street. Never seen someone so big take off so quick.