The Department of Justice’s building in March was built like a bunker. A repurposed defensive structure turned to utility, the fencing surrounding it barbed with deadly points of sharpened steel.
A form dominated by brutalist architecture and armored silted windows, the massive thing stood out against the relatively tame commercial buildings surrounding it. Foot thick walls of reinforced, sun bleached concrete protect justice within, a defensive line against a neighborhood of the rich and orderly.
The sentry at the entrance’s shaded guard post stands straighter as the armored vehicle approaches her, recognition at the black form. Without pause the gate is swung open, Judge Greyson guiding the vehicle into the confines of the property. “Welcome to your new home sir. We share this place with Precinct One of the March Police Department, so it does get crowded sometimes. But, you’ll get used to it I’m sure.”
Judge Murphy remains silent at the revelation, watching as a squad of seven uniformed police officers runs across the parking lot towards an armored truck.
A mixture of combat rifles upon armored forms, peacekeepers armed for conflict.
“What’s that?” The old Judge asks.
“Another out call I suppose, probably in the old city districts.” Greyson answers as he haphazardly parks the vehicle in one of the open spots. “Come on, let’s get you out of the heat.”
The howling of wind, dust picked up by the breeze as the armored doors are swung open.
Shadowed by the half mile tall leyline tower, two forms quickly dash towards the entrance beneath the rage of five suns above them.
A cold breeze greets weary judges from within, the twin sets of doors sealing the building’s air supply against a hostile world.
Concrete receptionist desk unattended, the seven gold bars of the Federated Cities on the wall behind it slightly dull against electronic lighting.
A passing police officer notices the returning form, quickly standing at a slight attention before a wave of the hand dismisses him.
“Today’s been a busy day.” Judge Greyson reports as he guides Judge Murphy around the front desk. “Judge Chase and our Cadet are on the beat for the rest of the day, and Hoppe’s finishing up this month’s paperwork.”
“In that case, you didn’t need to come pick me up.” Murphy begins to object.
“All due respect sir, it would’ve been disrespectful for me not to. Southland tradition, afterall.” Judge Greyson smiles through well maintained teeth. “Now come on, Judge Hoppe’s been meaning to meet you.”
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Through a jungle of repurposed hallways and offices, the guiding of the ancient soul is targeted towards a direct path.
“Upstairs is the habitation section. Most police officers live off-site so it’s just us judges. You’ll have your own private room, which I’m certain would be a nice change.”
“It’s certainly better than traveling.” Judge Murphy admits.
“I’m certain a lot of things are better than that sir.” Greyson comments as he continues down the halls.
A massive space located behind a thick plastic door, the area reserved for the Judges of the City of March uninspired for its serviced population. An armory rack covered in firearms of all calibers, workshops for maintenance staining an entire wall within the room. An idol of Mar, an unbalanced scale iconized within glass, hangs above a drawn map of the City of March at the very edge of the visual range. Roadways cleanly marked in empty space, colored plastic pins mining an indication of criminality throughout the districts. Seven desks flanking the entrance, with one currently occupied.
Buried in a stack of files piled above the plastic surface, the woman stands with trained reaction time as she notices the new arrivals.
A tightly bound black shirt layered with a loose plate of ceramic body armor, the golden badge of seven bars and an unfired bullet catching the light upon her right breastplate.
Brown eyes beneath bound black black hair, irises opening in surprise. “Judge Murphy!”
Greyson nods, stepping forward as he introduces the two forms. “Judge Natalia Hoppe, Judge John Murphy.”
Maintained emotion barely erupts, a shaky voice speaking forth calculated words to the old man. “It’s an honor to meet you sir.”
“Thank you Judge.” Judge Murphy replies strictly. “It's good to meet you.”
A pause left in static air, the scent of drying ink and lubricating oil converging in silence; an engagement broken as curiosity boils over.
“I-If I may ask…” The woman trails off, a rank equalized by structure yet utterly alien from a rift in experience. “May I see your weapon?”
“Judge Hoppe here is our best negotiator and arcane gunsmith.” Greyson informs with a smile. “She’s very interested in the magic items that end up in the city.”
The old man unholsters the weapon at the request, the divine form of the deathly black receiver catching rays of artificial light. Safety mechanism engaged, the weight of the thing checked as the Judge confirms the presence of ammunition stored in the internal magazine.
Souls inexplicably drawn towards it, something within minds pulled into primordial terror against an unseen beast of ancient eras long dead.
Judge Hoppe widens gray eyes at the sight, hands left at her side as she takes a defensive step back. “Gods… real wood. Centralis Cedar buttstock and handguard, .306 caliber barrel… arcane receiver that takes all ammunition. It’s a near-perfect copy of a GOD GUN fragment, used by the first seven Judges of the Federation.”
“If it was a fragment copy, I wouldn’t be carrying it around.” Judge Murphy coldly informs as he reholsters the thing.
Greyson clears his throat, bringing attention back to himself. “If you need a weapon or magic item maintained or modified, Hoppe here is the one to ask.”
“Yes, I graduated top of the Judiciary School in weapons maintenance.” The brisk woman smiles, stopping in realization of an unrealized workload. “If that is all sir. Again, it’s an honor to meet you sir.”
A shock quickly internalized, the woman returning to the typewriter on her assigned table. The clicking of keys, efficient and effective in their application. Words upon structured lines, a tale of justice woven together in cold prose.