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C R E S C E N D O (IC)

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Cylarn
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C R E S C E N D O (IC)

Postby Cylarn » Tue Jan 30, 2018 4:57 pm

C R E S C E N D O
A survival horror roleplay by Cylarn


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0430
Aboard the MV Verrazzano
Somewhere in the Caribbean
Unknown Date 7/17


It was pitch black, on the churning waters of the Caribbean Sea. The violent tempest called "Roxy" was bearing down on this tropical part of the world, bringing with it a hard-bearing, endless rain, and the violence of high winds. This concoction - this natural phenomena capable of inspiring both terror and awe - had been brought to bear against this part of the world. For what purpose? If a deity exists, doth thou will the storms? Or do they just come as they please?

Be that as it may, Roxy was a herald of destruction. Her journey had brought her from the depths of the Atlantic in infancy; from there, Roxy gathered her strength as she traveled through the West Indies. Each day brought more rain and stronger winds to the people of the Caribbean, as Roxy brought herself over the populated islands. Shingles and whole roofs were torn from buildings, ships crashed uncontrollably into piers and harbors, and the streets became flooded with water and detritus from the storm. Eventually, Roxy would move on her way up into the Gulf of Mexico. In her wake were bodies and the remnants of what life had been for many people.

For Roxy, she did not bother herself with mortal affairs. Existence is nothing to an elemental force. The story of the MV Verrazzano concerned her much less.

The cargo freighter rocked and shook violently against the force of the waves, the deck cargo shaking and straining against its restraints. Up and down she went, up above the waves - and then back down to be partially engulfed. Her Colombian flag listed violently to the north-west. The process repeats itself; for the average mariner, this is how a hurricane goes because in what logical way can a human being stop a hurricane? There but for the grace of God, as the saying goes. There is nothing odd about it. What is odd is the seeming lack of lights aboard the Verrazzano, and her lack of direction in the storm.

The Verrazzano was dark - something unacceptable for any merchant ship in the dead of night. No deck lights, no running lights, not even cabin lights; it was as if she were abandoned by her crew. Something was off.




"¡Cualquier persona que quede viva, llega al puente!" a voice at the other end of Javier's walkie-talkie crackled.

The merchant sailor kept running through the pitch-black passages of the ship, running for the life of him as his maglight beam stretched ahead of him. Javier made no efforts to direct the beam, but each movement illuminated the swaths of blood that stained the floors and walls of the passages. Screams and gunshots echoed off of the metal walls that made up the bowels, but Javier did his best to ignore it all. The only shot for salvation for him was to get to the Bridge. The Captain was there, and maybe the rest of the surviving crew. Once they regrouped, there was a chance that they might be able to survive whatever madness they had wandered into. Through corridor after corridor, Javier continued onward.

Just two weeks prior, everything had been normal. The Verrazzano had left Capetown with a full load of cargo; high-end electronics, luxury furniture, and similar items. In the cargo containers that crowded the deck, that's what one might find. Below-deck, packed below endless stacks of crates were the type of good considered to be extremely valuable; artifacts taken from the remains of bygone civilizations. These items were particularly lucrative - as well as particularly dangerous, for two reasons.

The first - Javier knew - was that national governments had a tendency of grabbing up any remnants of "extinct peoples." There were the moral implications of disturbing the dead, but also there was the matter that government officials stood to make money off of artifacts. Legal auctions and the trading of museum pieces often merited big bucks for the men and women who knew how to play the game. It was sheer principle that the unregulated smuggling and sale of artifacts was to be heavily despised by those in power.

The second reason for caution that Javier picked up on were the stories. An altar supposedly recovered from ruins in the Empty Quarter had left a trail of blood in its wake; a plane carrying the altar had crashed, a driver transporting the truck through Africa was found brutally murdered on the side of the road, and two workers in Capetown were injured during a crane accident as they loaded the altar. The Muslim crewmembers were particularly fearful of the altar, spouting stories of long-forgotten cults that should have died back in the days when Muhammad had bashed the idols of the false gods.

Javier, of course, cared little for the ravings. He had other things to worry about.

For most of the voyage, nothing outwardly malevolent happened. The only thing that classified as "odd" to the crew was a shared feeling of unease that cast itself over the holding areas below-deck. The hold was a large, open area that was made into a maze by the stacks of crates and boxes. The feeling that someone - or something - was watching whomever happened to be in the hold was something quickly dismissed by the captain.

What came next would shake the crew to the core. Awakening one morning, Javier and his mates discovered the grisly sight of a mutilated crewmember in the hold. Accordingly, the command staff launched an investigation, detaining the night crew to their quarters and diverting the course for Aruba.

The storm followed shortly after. Unable to make it to safe port, the Verrazzano continued on its original course as the water and air churned together to create a massive storm. The murder of the crewman was overshadowed by a truly exigent fight for survival against the surges, squalls, and wind that threatened to send the ship down below. In that time, whatever overlooked evil aboard the ship began to manifest itself further. Bulkheads and chambers were sealed inexplicably, forcing the crew to cut their way through the passages of the ship. The tension rose, bringing the crew into altercations with one another.

If it couldn't get any worse, the engines eventually shut off and the Verrazzano was left stranded in open water. After that, the killing started.

Within hours of the engines breaking, mayhem erupted. What had begun as a verbal argument between the kitchen staff transformed into the cook being vivisected with a gutting knife by a kitchen hand. Further incidents followed quickly after; the Chief Engineer was thrown overboard, the Navigator was shot and wounded, and men were hunted by their fellow crewmen through the winding passages and corridors below deck.

Javier would die if he didn't reach the stairs.

He ignored the echoing shouts and demented laughter that was peppered by pleas for mercy and blood-curdling screams. He knew them all; the killers and their tainted black eyes, and their victims. No thoughts could be wasted as Javier sprinted through the passages, leaping over lifeless corpse after lifeless corpse. A crack resounded through the chambers; a pistol, Javier thought as he ignored the static in his ears. Three more crack followed in rapid succession. Even within the metal confines of the Verrazzano, Javier caught on that the shots were very close by. His suspicions were at least partially confirmed when he heard a crack. It wasn't the sound of gunpowder igniting; it was mixed with a distinct squishing sound - followed by a thud - that could only have come from a blunt object striking a human skull.

Javier knew what was going on - his pursuers were nearby. Their laughs were only dark reassurances that they were indeed nearby. Possessed, maniacal laughter mixed with hysterical crying. His flight paid off; before him was a set of metal stairs, stairs that led all the way up to the bridge. The seaman felt a mood of cautious relief as he refused to slow down. The stairs were right there, cast in the beam of his flashlight.

"Ahora no es este un crucero maravilloso, ¿verdad, Javier?" a male voice called out. Javier froze in his tracks as a chill shot through his entire body.

"¡Te cansarás, amigo! Mejor tomar un descanso, ¿sí?" the same voice said.

Javier knew the voice: Santiago, one of the engineers and Javier's drinking friend. Despite the strange distortion in his voice, Javier could detect that unmistakable Dominican dialect belonging to Santiago. Javier slowly turned around, slowly stepping back towards the stairwell. The doorway that he had just passed through was shrouded in darkness - yet Javier could hear the distinct sound of boots stomping on the metal floor, and the scraping of an object along the floor. From the darkness came Santiago, his yellow jumpsuit stained with blood. In fact, Santiago was covered in dark red blood from head to toe, as if he had immersed himself in a vat of blood.

The eyes of the possessed engineer were dark-black with a strange ichor, blood pooling in the tear ducts before they formed a distinct red stream down his ashen, blank face. Even amid the blood, Javier could see six holes in his jumpsuit, along with what appeared to be copper wire tightened in a ring around his neck, digging into his flesh. Down by his right side, clutched in his right hand was a fire axe, its flesh-caked blade resting on the floor. The flashlight caught Santiago directly in the light - yet it did not penetrate the darkness behind him.

Javier took one backwards step up the stairs, still staring at Santiago.

"¡No eres Santiago, demonio!" he half-heartedly yelled at his lost friend. While his left hand directed the beam at the six-four lunatic standing not but three or four meters from him, his right hand reached into the small of his back. He gripped the familiar metal and checkered-wood handle of his .45. His hand trembled, thumb reaching up to pull the hammer down as his arm retracted his hand - and gun - from his waistband.

Santiago cracked a smile; an uncomfortably wide and toothy smile that revealed teeth that were not supposed to be sharp.

"Usted tiene una pistola detrás de su espalda, una que está a punto de dispararme. ¿No ves la evidencia en contra de eso?"

Javier ignored the warning, instead drawing the weapon forward and aiming with one hand. His shaky hand fired three shots; two missed, one struck home directly between Santiago's eyes. The possessed man flew backwards, an explosion of gore erupting from the back of his head before his body slammed into the metal. Javier quickly turned away, charging up the stairs. There were many flights of stairs, but Javier cared little about that. All he cared about was getting to the top.

As Javier bounded up onto the surface deck, an iron crowbar would jut out from the darkness and slam into Javier, knocking him back down the steps. Despair took over as Javier fell back down to the bottom of the steps, landing with a thud that would send pain coursing through his body. Most notably, Javier screamed out in pain, gripping his left ankle and gritting his teeth against the pain. He knew instantly that he wasn't going anywhere. He had dropped the flashlight and his gun; the beam was gone, leaving him stranded in darkness. His breathing increased, head darting around as he heard more footsteps, coming closer and closer. Javier unclipped his walkie-talkie and looked at it, noticing the absence of a glowing screen. He turned pale, as he heard Santiago once more.

"Lo último que debes hacer es luchar, Javier. Después de todo, somos amigos. Deberías confiar en tus amigos, ¿verdad?"

In an instant, a powerful grip seized him by the leg. Javier cried out once more as he tried to struggle, his assailant dragging him off into the darkness, wailing all the way as he traveled to an unknown, terrifying fate.




1950
New Anglia Police Department
New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17


The sky was gray, the clouds were moving fast through the sky, carried by the wind like the smell of the salt seas. The orange hue that made Floridian sunsets almost unforgettable was but a faint blur in the horizon as the overcast darkened New Anglia. Main Street, with all of its window-front boutiques and cobblestones, was abuzz with traffic. High-priced SUVs and sedans were mixed among the minivans and trucks of the locals as both parties attempted to leave town ahead of the storm. Horns blared and bright-lights were shone by angry motorists into the vehicles of other angry motorists, as the general sense of hurricane panic/thrill contributed to a stall in traffic at the intersection of Main and Highway 357 - the road that contained the Palance Bridge, which linked road traffic from New Anglia to the rest of the Keys. Two black-and-white Police Caprices were parked at opposite ends of the stoplight, approaching the congestion in order to try and direct some semblance of traffic.

What sucked was that it was less than ten minutes before those two "Brown-and-Tans" would be able to join the traffic off-island with their families. Here they were, clearing up a traffic jam in the midst of a coming barrage of high winds and rain, when they could have been boarding their windows and leaving town like most everyone else.

Poor fucking bastards.

Those were the words in the head of Sal Ayala as he directed his Explorer onto a sidestreet, hoping to take an alternative route past Main and 357, using the back streets to navigate to the station. His window was open, a cigarette grasp between the index and middle fingers of his left hand as his right controlled the steering wheel. His radio hummed with Nowell singing "Wrong Way," accompanied by the familiar concoction of ska and punk, the mixture that made Sublime catchy, even for a cop to listen to. His fingers tapped to the beat on the steering wheel as he took a drag from his cigarette, the ash burning down to encompass half of the cigarette. Sal kept his eyes focused on the road, and allowed himself to think.

Driving was second-nature to him by now. He had always enjoyed driving, even before he became a cop, a job which involves more than a fair share of driving solitary in a vehicle. He could not only remain aware of the road and his surroundings, but driving gave Sal an inner peace that he could use to retreat inward and think without consequence. Thinking and driving were two things that were familiar to Sal; he had plenty to think about.

Right then, you have nothing to worry about, Sal. Oscar Luis is with your folks in North Carolina, hundreds of miles away from the last two crazy bitches I'd trust him with - Tata and Roxy. Heh, that's a good one. Gonna be an uneventful couple of days; just make sure you don't drown or anything.

Sal chuckled at his own thoughts as he pulled up to the main gate leading to the employee parking area behind the two-story, modern police station. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and drew his work ID from his pocket, using it to swipe a scanner which in turn opened the solid metal barrier. Slowly, the Explorer pulled into the lot, driving past the Crown Vics and Caprices, and the other cars that happened to be in the lot. Once he brought his car to a stop, Sal looked up at the rearview mirror, taking a moment to look at himself.

Like many of the other officers in the wake of Roxy, he had forsook the standard NAPD uniform for his own duty wear. A long-sleeve black raid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. On both arms of the shirt, in large white letters, was "POLICE." The front had a single emblem of the NAPD on the left breast, and the back of the shirt read - in large white letters - "NEW ANGLIA POLICE," across the back. The shirt was tucked into a pair of tan cargo pants, which were themselves tucked into a pair of black waterproof boots, made of canvas and rubber. His pistol was secured within a black plastic retention holster, attached to his belt along with a retractable baton, handcuffs care, two spare magazines, and a pocket flashlight contained within a canvas case. It wasn't a standard loadout, nor did Sal wear a standard duty belt. As a Lieutenant, he was allowed to pick his gear.

Showtime. Gonna meet with Flores, then we're gonna do the shift change.

After turning off and securing his vehicle, Sal grabbed his black duffel bag and entered the station. Civilian employees, officers, and detectives alike were running back and forth as they attempted to complete their work with as much haste as possible. The Cuban officer smirked as he walked through the hallway, brushing past everyone on his way to his second-floor office.

It was your standard supervisor's office; a glass room shut off from the rest of the office floor, which contained a desk, chairs, filing cabinet, and bookshelf. Not much thought was needed for Sal as he unlocked the door with his ID and tossed his duffel into a chair, and left the door to close itself. After all, LT Stephanie Flores was likely wanting to go home as much as anybody else. Sal walked past the desks and cubicles that belonged to the detectives, officers, and office workers, taking an abrupt right into a conference room where a blonde-haired, middle-aged woman sat on a table, his sunken, tired eyes staring at Sal as she took a sip of her coffee. A faint smile appeared on her face.

"You look like shit, Flores," Sal stated, his voice carrying fluent, clear English with a strong Havanian accent.

Flores sighed, her left hand adjusting her windbreaker.

"Arguing with Mike again," she said. "He skipped work but still made me take time from here to go pick them up. Got stuck behind a jack-knifed trailer and dealt with that for an hour before I got the kids home - and lo an-"

Sal held up his right hand, prompting Flores to halt her explanation of her day and offer a wry smile.

"Thought so, Sal," she said, taking a sip of her coffee. "What about you? Keeping your son with you?"

Sal chuckled and shook his head, pulling a chair from against the wall - not from the rows of chairs arranged in front of Flores - and pulling it beside of her table.

"He's up in North Carolina; town called Blowing Rock, I think it's called. Parents have a cabin up in the mountains, so they picked him up this morning - made the detour from Boca and everything. That takes some shit off of me. What time are you and yours leaving?"

"Whenever we can get through this fucking shift report?" Flores stated, holding up a piece of paper for Sal to see.

"What's new in 'ole New Anglia?"

"Fucking traffic, probably won't clear up until ten. Other than that, Chief wants us to track any flooding. Other than that, just standard shit."

"Mhm..."

Sal looked up at the clock. They should be showing up now.
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Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award and the Best Crime RP Award for 2013 in P2TM. Recipient of the Best Crime RP'er Award of 2014 in P2TM.

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Tayner
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Founded: Oct 09, 2014
New York Times Democracy

Postby Tayner » Tue Jan 30, 2018 9:58 pm

PO1 William J. Polk
NAPD, New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17


William awoke at six in the morning, his alarm clock piercing his ears as he funneled around in his bed. After smacking the older and somewhat outdated device that sat on his nightstand he finally found some peace, sighing as he checked his phone like he did every morning. News alerts and weather alerts covered his lock screen as he scrolled through his notifications, only stopping to see a message from his mother.

Dad and I made it to your aunt's in NY safely, love you and keep safe

He simply replied with a yes ma'am and an I love you too before almost literally slumping out of bed and beginning his daily routine. He took a shower, got dressed, ate some cereal and an apple before finishing his meal off with a protein bar. After that we brushed his teeth before turning on the TV to catch any important news to be caught. Nothing that reporters hadn't been taking about all week, Roxie. After about 15 minutes he checked the time, seeing he was running a little behind his normal schedule.

The time was 1912, and he usually liked to be out of the apartment by 1930 to get to work a solid 15 minutes early, allowing him to take his time getting from point A to B. However he had to equip himself for the upcoming storm, a task that would likely take more than a couple minutes. He quickly threw on a black windbreaker with the NAPD logo and name inscribed upon it's front, and the word 'POLICE' on the back, and then he dawned some blue jeans on along with some black water resistant boots before topping it off with his black NAPD hat and the standard utility belt. Securing his weapon to his belt along with his other normal gear, he proceeded to head outside to his car.

The 2006 Dodge Charger was a hand me down from another department, but she ran fine and was in good enough condition, the only issue being the backseat being stained from over a decade of use by the police. He made the commute to his work, simply crossing the digested roads and using back roads to circumvent the bad traffic that the exodus had caused. Locals and tourists alike were flooding the main roads in an attempt to escape the island, and likely the entire state.

A long trek to be sure, some of them might not make it. Will though before getting rid of the thought, opting not to be so pessimistic. It'll probably end up fine, I just have to be ready to do my job. And with that he ended his internal monologue and rounded the last corner on his commute to the station. He swiped his ID card, cursing the modern security measure and it's mundanity, not having to take such measures back in highway patrol. He sighed as the scanner failed to properly register his card, forcing him to repeat the process of swiping the card.

After he finally parked and entered the building he checked his watch, 1952, him being only eight minutes early. Back in the Corps he normally ended up much earlier to work, often because the chain of command would add to the amount of time to be early as the order got passed down. When the Gunny said be there at 0700, you were there at 0615 because for some reason, you were told to be there 15 minutes earlier by the guy who was told to be there 15 minutes earlier than the Gunny told him to. By all means, only being 8 minutes early was practically being late.

But this wasn't the Corps, and he'd move on. He entered the building, clocking in before moving on to the office area, nodding to some of his peers as he made his way to his desk, even greeting a few before passing by the Watch Commander's office. He glanced through the window, seeing the empty room before continuing on and catching sight of Lt. Ayala and Lt. Flores in one of the conference rooms. He gave a slight wave to his watch commander, a simple acknowledgment before heading to his desk to push pencils and stack papers. He got to his desk and logged on, the background of his desktop being dark blue with the NAPD insignia centered. He sighed as he pulled up applications and started working, filling out paperwork and reading emails before sitting back in his chair, and slowly spinning around, observing the office around him.

He'd have plenty of time to fill out paperwork and read emails while on the graveyard shift, especially while on desk duty. For now he just watched as many people worked frantically to finish reports so they can join the traffic jams to get out of Dodge.
Last edited by Tayner on Wed Jan 31, 2018 4:41 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Reverend Norv
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Founded: Jun 20, 2014
New York Times Democracy

Postby Reverend Norv » Wed Jan 31, 2018 2:55 pm

1930
1219 Coronado Drive
New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17


The rain would start soon. Luther Floyd smelled it. His scuffed-up street shoes sank into the sand of the beach, and the low, choppy waves broke and rolled in around them, and he smelled the hurricane: iron and ozone, high atmospheric pressure pounding gently in his sinuses. The smell of the atmosphere being stretched to the breaking point.

Luther had spent most of his life in New Anglia. His birth parents had never evacuated during hurricanes. They had preferred to shoot up and wait out the storm in their trailer. The Carvers never evacuated either. Maybe Edna had thought that in the chaos of the highway, someone might ask questions about the unhealed burns on a foster child's belly. So Luther had ridden out more than his fair share of hurricanes, and he knew the smell of the storm. He looked out over the water, and saw the ocean gathering its strength, and thought: In about two hours, I should be a long way from the beach.

The detective cast a long, slow glance around him over the sand, glistening pale beneath the evening clouds. He saw something. He took a few steps over to it, and then waved to Saoirse Gallagher. "Take a look," he called. Luther's accent was old, old South Florida, the nasal drawl of men who had fled into the swamps and the islands two centuries before, and only emerged when the tourists arrived to demand frozen umbrella drinks from the locals.

It was a footprint. A men's sneaker, size nine or nine-and-a-half. There was another just over two feet away. "Long stride," Luther told the young detective-trainee beside him. "Means he was running." Luther cocked his head. "Gait irregular. Trouble with his balance. Probably high. Depressant, most like, given his swaying. Something powerful enough to make him crazy without putting him straight to sleep." Luther pulled a cheap cell phone from his pocket and snapped a few photos of the footprints. "He steals while he's high. Not common, not for pills or fentanyl. We should check for botched pharmacy robberies in town." The detective cast one last glance at the threatening sky, and then turned away from the beach. "Come on. Let's head back to the house."

The New Anglia Police Department had all of three detectives. In theory, two worked the day shift and Luther took the night. In practice, they all helped each other out. Cruz and Mitchell, the day-shift boys, were getting their families evacuated, so Luther was following up on their case: a botched home invasion. Some guy tried to break into the waterfront bungalow of a retired middle-class couple. The residents called 911 and the thief ran when he heard the sirens, but the old folks from Wisconsin were shaken, and they still wanted the case investigated. Luther didn't blame them, but he didn't rightly understand their line of thought either. In twenty-four hours, their bungalow would probably be kindling floating on the tide anyway.

But Luther Floyd had a job to do. He dusted the doorknob and several nearby windowsills for fingerprints. There were latent prints on all of them. Luther arranged his lifting tapes on a stiff pasteboard notecard, then beckoned Saoirse again. "Doorknob," he said briefly, pointing at the complete prints. "Windowsill." Those were the incomplete prints, disrupted by the rough wood surface. "But we take both, because the residents' prints are also going to be on the doorknob. Not the windowsill, though. So we can cross-reference with the incompletes, rule out everybody but the perp."

Someone said something. Luther wasn't sure just who; the voice was to his left, and it throbbed in his deaf ear like the sound of the ocean waves, dull and inchoate. He turned his head and saw the couple from Wisconsin, standing next to their station wagon with a packed suitcase, looking at him expectantly. He knew what they saw: a tall man, powerfully built, in a crumpled and almost painfully old-fashioned seersucker suit. His duty gun was in a shoulder holster, his flashlight and handcuffs were clipped to his belt. He didn't carry a baton; Luther had heavy, calloused hands that turned large and hard as dumbbells when he clenched them.

"Sorry," Luther said, "could you repeat that?"

The old man nodded. "Cate and I are going now. Will the house be safe until we get back?"

Luther smiled briefly. "From robbery? I expect so. Whoever did this, the sirens scared him pretty bad. From the ocean?" The detective offered a simple, apologetic shrug.

"Right," the old man nodded. "I - well. Thank you."

Luther waved. "Good luck."

The couple piled into their station wagon and started off toward the highway. Luther headed back to his Crown Vic with Saoirse. It started on the second try; the battery had been acting up lately. "We'll give the prints and the photos to Georgina," Luther told the trainee next to him. He drove slowly toward Main Street; his highlights swung back and forth across the pitted asphalt. "See if she can come up with anything. If she does, we'll pass it on to Cruz and Mitchell. Their case, their collar."

It wasn't like it would matter in another twenty-four hours, anyway.

* * *


Closer to the center of the Key, traffic choked the roads. Luther weaved through it, using the unmarked back roads he had learned as a child, wandering the island when his parents forgot to take him to school. Now and then, he cast a thoughtful, appraising glance up out his window at the glowering sky. He played country music on the radio, but so quietly that neither he nor Saoirse could actually hear it over the roar of traffic from the highway.

At length, Luther stopped the Crown Vic near the intersection of a residential drive and Main Street. He cast an apologetic glance at Saoirse. "Meeting someone."

A long line of traffic snaked by alongside the parked car. Round children's faces studied the two cops from the windows of minivans, and then were gone.

After a while, a woman walked up on foot next to the Crown Vic and rapped on the window. She was in her mid-thirties, tall and trim and blonde, with a stubborn pointed chin and wide-spaced brown eyes. "Just a sec," Luther told Saoirse, and he climbed out of the car.

The rain was closer now. He could smell it stronger, like a woman's perfume.

"I'm not going," said the woman.

"Judy," Luther sighed.

"I'm not going, Luther. Hurricanes are news. I'm a reporter. I stay."

"You're also a mother."

"And you're a father. Why don't you take Harry and ride out the storm in Tennessee?"

Judith's voice was sharp. Luther leaned back a little. "I can't. People need me here. Judy - "

"People need me too."

A pause.

"If you need me," Luther said quietly, "I mean - if you need anything - call. Okay?"

Judith covered her mouth with one hand, wiped quickly at the corner of her left eye. "Luther."

"Promise you''ll call if you need help."

Judith nodded. "Yeah." She cast her hand heavenward, a helpless little flick of the wrist. "Okay." A pause. "Stay safe?"

Luther couldn't look her in the face. "I will. You too."

Another pause, another nod. "I should get back to - you know."

"Harry." Luther smiled with one side of his face; it was all he could manage. "I have to get to work too."

"Okay." Judith took two steps backward. "Bye, Luther." She turned her back.

Luther waved to her. She didn't see. "Bye," he told the evening.

He climbed back into the Crown Vic. Traffic streamed by alongside the car. He took an unmarked dirt road, already starting to flood, to avoid the highway. He remembered being a child, remembered walking down this road until it reached a dead end at the beach. Nothing but water up ahead. No way out.

Pain weighed down his belly. It was a hard cancerous growth. Luther wondered if it was killing him. He kept driving anyhow.

* * *


At the station, it took Luther two tries to get his ID card to raise the barrier that barred the entrance to the parking lot. He parked the car and turned it off, wondering distantly if it would consent to start again. Then he clambered out and went into the station and climbed the stairs to the second-floor squad room. Cops swarmed the hallways, frenetically trying to finish their paperwork and get home before the storm hit in earnest. One man, not looking where he was going, ran shoulder-first into Luther and bounced off. "Sorry," Luther said. The other lawman blinked in surprise, because Luther actually meant it.

In the squad room, Luther dropped off the plastic bag with his latent lift card at his desk. He couldn't see Georgina in the office yet; he'd give her the evidence later. Will Polk was already in: he sat at his desk, a solid slab of muscle, and spun his chair in lazy circles. Luther thought he was very young.

Sal Ayala was in the conference room, talking to Lieutenant Flores. Ayala was relatively new, a transfer from Miami. Luther didn't know much about him. He didn't need to; for the most part, the New Anglia PD let its detectives do whatever they wanted, as long as they kept their expenses within reasonable limits.

"Good work today," Luther told Saoirse. It was true enough. The girl was smart and driven, and in New Anglia that was all a good detective really needed. Maybe it was all a good detective needed anywhere. Luther wasn't quite sure.

He grabbed a styrofoam cup of coffee from the office urn and sat at his desk. The desk was mostly empty; Luther spent most of the night behind the wheel of his car rather than at a workstation. Fatigue ached in his bones.

And still, somehow, deep inside the building, he could still smell it: electric, pregnant, silent.

The storm.
Last edited by Reverend Norv on Wed Jan 31, 2018 3:13 pm, edited 2 times in total.
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647

A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer

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Riysa
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Ex-Nation

Postby Riysa » Wed Jan 31, 2018 8:11 pm

19:30
Intersection between Main and 5th, New Anglia
7/24/2017


Martin let out a grunt, sounding similar to what might've passed for language among Neanderthals. "Of course, what was I expecting?" He mumbled to himself as he gazed at the barely-moving traffic through the window of his Tahoe PPV. Main, being the main road leading to I-357, was backed up through pretty much its entire length thanks to the evacuation, essentially splitting the tiny island town in half.

Unfortunately for Sergeant Clark, his house was on the opposite side relative to the police station, forcing him to cross Main in order to get to tonight's shift. Typically, this was the quickest route, and he had left early specifically because he expected traffic, but this gridlock was on a level he hadn't seen since US-23. Caveman-grunting again, he checked his surroundings and turned the SUV around. This intersection was still pretty close to the junction with 357, so maybe he could find one further down that wasn't as congested.

And so he drove down Franklin Street, trying to find another way across Main, with Once in a Lifetime playing in the background. He chuckled, hearing the lyrics. "Once in a lifetime, eh? This is certainly it." It was true - "Roxy" was one of those storms of the century, and he was going to be pulling duty while it was at its strongest. He wasn't coming unprepared, however; he wore a pair of tall rubber boots and a black jacket, featuring "N.A.P.D" written on the back, the department's crest on the shoulders and left breast, and his rank right underneath it on the sides. A translucent poncho and a high-vis vest with "POLICE" written on it sat in the seat next to his, just in case he needed it. After all, he had signed up for this shift.

"Though, really, how did I get here?" He thought to himself, referring to the metaphorical lyrics of the song. Glancing at all the boarded up buildings on the side of the street, he idly thought back to the path that took him here, with all the twists, turns, and decisions both good and bad. Talking Heads was right, it was a strange road of life that led him here, a once in a lifetime journey with the days going by all too fast. After all, who knows what was waiting for him around the corner?

"Well, today's shift certainly will wash me away!" He joked to himself, as he turned into another intersection - one thankfully less crowded than Main and 5th. The detour was pretty pretty long, but the department wasn't too far away now. He'd still be there early like most days, serving with a lot of the typical night shift people.

Same as it ever was.

19:54
New Anglia Police Department, New Anglia


Marty pulled up his PPV into the parking lot of the department headquarters, the song having changed to the morbidly cheerful tunes of Nena's 99 Luftballons long ago. Hopefully, there wouldn't be any nukes ending the world tonight either. He adjusted his utility belt and grabbed the rest of his stuff from the patrol vehicle, along with a large box of donuts from Sarah's Sweets Shack. These delicious treats - which contrary to their name, actually weren't overly sugary - had kept him and other officers going for many shifts over the past several years, and they'd sustain them tonight as well.

Before starting his shift, there was still one last thing he needed to do. He pulled out his Samsung, and sent a text to his parents and his sister.

"Arrived safely, will txt on break, love you"

No matter where they go, no matter how far away they, the Clarks were still one family. After all, it was the least he could do to make them feel less worried.

With a sense of urgency, he walked into the building, reviewing tonight's shift in his mind. Since Roxy's landfall was in roughly 40 minutes, the evacuation would end a little bit after his shift started, so there'd be some traffic enforcement. Most of the night would probably be just making sure that everyone was safe, and that none of the storm parties were getting into trouble.There was also the danger of looters, and since so many people were gone, now was a better time than ever to start smashing up places. That was the real danger, and even in a close-knit town of a couple thousand people, there was always a few bad apples to look out for.

Passing by some brown-and-tans in the hallway, obviously in a rush to get out before landfall, he dropped by the break room and set the box down on the counter. A large warning written with a Sharpie stood out on top of it.

"NIGHT SHIFT ONLY - YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!"

Satisfied at making his thoughts on donut larceny known, he hurried back out to the hallway. He walked past the cubicles and office space, nodding at the officers already present, and hit his office, dropping the extra gear to the side of his chair. His Suunto watch said "19:54". Good, just in time to get some paperwork done before role call and shift start. Any moment now, more officers would start filtering in.

Same as it ever was.

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Kentucky Fried Land
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Ex-Nation

Postby Kentucky Fried Land » Thu Feb 01, 2018 6:17 pm

1820
Tuscany Forest Apartments, Room 203
New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17


Miles woke to the shrill giggling of his alarm clock. His eyes, red and blotchy, blinked in fervor at the belting beast, still screaming off the walls of his apartment. He wanted it to be quiet more than anything in that waking moment, but alas, the mechanical monster did not have mercy. No! In fact, it relished in torturing him, each ring gnawing into his eardrums, ripping them to gored and bloodied scraps of flesh. He growled, snorting, before reaching away from his body and slapping his hand on top of the sinister clock. It stopped, finally ending its hail of fury on Miles’ ears. He winced in the quiet. The tumultuous silence was broken by a yawn, followed by the cracking of joints as Miles stretched with a creak. He wiggled his toes, rolling off his mattress onto the floor, spilling his blanket with him.

His apartment was but two rooms, a bathroom and a combo kitchen slash bedroom. His furnishings were a plush twin mattress sitting on the floor, (with no bedspread to clothe it, even) a navy blue cotton blanket he had picked up at Goodwill, an elderly flat screen TV he had picked up at a yard sale (a 2010 Sony type), a cable box sitting on the wooden stand that the television rested itself on, a glossy window that peered down upon the streets. Miles groaned, blinking with dismay. His alarm clock sat on a small nightstand with a glass lamp, towering above the height disabled mattress. The man on the carpet flooring pushed himself up, rubbing furiously at his eyes and somehow stumbling onto his feet. Another day, another dollar.

He was shirtless at the moment, with nothing on but a pair of gray boxers. His night had been restless, full to the brim with tossing and turning and cold sweats. He fumbled over the mattress, putting one hand on the beige wall for support. Leaning over, he reached into a duffel bag full of clothes that he had taken to the laundromat to be clean. While his uniform happened to be one of those things, he had draped it over the kitchen countertops in an effort not to wrinkle them too bad. It was just his luck that he had done laundry just the day previous, and had a full collection of cleansed clothing. Yawning once more, he pulled a black tee over his head and made his way into the kitchen portion of the apartment.

In little to no time at all, he had managed to pour a bowl of Fruity Pebbles for himself, (stealing silverware, the bowl itself, and the Fruity Pebbles from his cabinet, while the milk came from his admittedly empty fridge). He’d have to go grocery shopping before long. It wasn’t like he was even THAT poor; just a bit demotivated, he supposed. Miles had a sizable amount in the bank, but that was reserved for finding a new apartment. Not buying a bunch of comfort food to give him the sweet taste of instant gratification. Sitting down on his mattress with the bowl in his lap, he turned on the TV and began flipping through the channels.

Lot of local news on at the moment. Mostly just talk about Hurricane Roxy. Some garbage movie on AMC. A reality show on Bravo, some kind of cooking competition. Some more of the same ol’ same ol’ on the History Channel. Discovery was useless. He continued flipping, before finally settling on a clip of a bunch of kids, with a woman singing one of those kids rhymes in the background. Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, knees and toes… head, shoulders, knees, and toes, knees and toes… She crooned, and Miles’ spoon sunk into the milk. His head tilted, neck cocking to the side with wonderment. He shivered and shuddered out a quivering breath, goosebumps sprinting along his arm. Deja vu. And talk about it, too. He switched the TV off, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

He got up soon after that, tossing the emptied bowl into the sink, building upon his tower of dishes. When it came to stacking plates and forks, he was the best goddamn architect in the world. Miles quickly got dressed into his brown and tans, a nickname he had found endearing since he had started up at the New Anglia. He brushed his teeth in the bathroom, which was little more than a glorified closet. After spitting and applying deodorant, he decided to grab a midnight snack from his fridge, in the form of a chicken taco wrapped in plastic. And thus, he was finally ready to head out of Tuscany Apartments.

There was nothing about the complex that suggested why it was called “Tuscany Forest.” There was no forest in this… poorer, more urban area of the town. While it was a tourist trap, the officials took special care to separate the less fortunate from the rich folk. Tuscany was another mystery. Miles thought that he caught the landlord’s last name as Italian, but that was a thought, and Miles had done well not to rely on what he thought might’ve been true. Either way, the apartment was certainly not a place you’d think was called Tuscany Apartments. More something like “New Anglia Housing Authority.” Miles pulled his door open, slamming it behind him.

The walls of the stairwell were once stained a putrid white, but that had now melted into a moldy brown. The metal railing leading down and up was rusting and colored with children’s artistic ventures. The remains of Crayolas had been etched into each rung, reds and blues and greens and puke yellows. Miles’ hand fumbled onto the railing, guiding him down the stairs. Today was going to be an exceptionally average day, and Miles was certain of it.

***

1954
New Anglia Police Department
New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17


Officer Greene pulled into the parking lot, running only a little late. He checked the time, swallowing and hopping out of his patrol car. He wasn’t tardy yet, at least. Miles lumbered across the blacktop, hopping onto the sidewalk and stepping to the front doors. Pushing them open, he entered the New Anglia Police Department.

There was quite the hustle and bustle inside. The day shift workers were taking off through the aisles, finishing up their work for the day before pushing into the free air. The smell of sweat, testosterone, and bad cologne permeated the department, and Miles waltzed into the break room. And that was where he began his daily confrontation with Officer Jason Shearer. This officer had been on the job for a while now, and he did enjoy partaking in the night shift’s food supply. The man was in the fridge right now, and looked back when he saw Miles stepping in. “Hey, Miles, mind passing me a donut?” He motioned towards the donut box that the sarge had undoubtedly left on the table for the night.

“Read the sign, you illiterate motherfucker.” Miles mused to Jason, a teasing voice referring to the man’s sudden infatuation with swiping a donut. “Night shift only.” He finally said, enunciating each word with a particular vigor full of good humor and ever so slight annoyance. Jason ran a hand through his slick brown hair, doughy fingers catching on the gelled strands. “Come on, Miles. Just toss me a donut.” He grinned, yellow teeth peeking out from behind his fleshy lips. Jason was a bigger fellow, and he didn't try to hide his love of food. “Nah man, like I said, night shift only.” Miles was steadfast in his mission to protect the donuts - hell, it might even be good for Jason to lay off. Miles felt a twinge of guilt for even thinking such a thing, and his gaze faltered. Jason continued to press.

“Look, man, I’m fleeing a hurricane here. The least you can do is throw me a bone.” He pushed, making Miles roll his eyes, albeit with a smile on his face. “That’s the thing, man, I need these donuts. What if we get cut off by the hurricane? We’ll starve without enough donuts.” He toyed and prodded, the game of banter a continuous struggle between the two opposing shifts. They had used to be on the same schedule, the same neck of the woods, at least until Miles requested a change in schedule after his disability started to rear its head. “You’re really not gonna give me a donut?” Jason pouted in mock hurt.

“I’m really not gonna give you a donut.”

“Hmph.” Jason grunted, staring at Miles in quiet for what seemed a longer period than should happen. But before the officer could even think to break the awkward silence, Jason pushed past him, opening the box with lightning speed and pulling a glazed ring from a dozen others of assorted flavors. “Oh, fuck you dickless.” Miles called, in abstract shock at the incident. The pastry thief made haste, holding up a middle finger through the hole of his donut, before disappearing in a series of giggles down the hallway. Miles squinted, leaned against the counter, then gave one exasperated sigh. He scooped his chicken wrap in one hand, fondling the plastic, and shoved it into the fridge.

His first police activity of the night had failed miserably; surely a good omen for things to come. Miles walked out of the break room, pushing past the hurrying day shift, who were busying themselves with getting out before Roxy caught them in her curled talons. “Fucker.” He mumbled under his breath, still cursing Jason’s name to this very second. Shaking his head, he plopped down at his desk and yawned, stretching his arms under the mix of wood and metal. What was he to get to work on today, Sarge? He waited for further instruction, sand in his eyes abolishing any wish to get his paperwork done. He decided to wait for Clark’s instructions. His or the new Lieutenant’s, at least. Said new Lieutenant was standing in the conference room with the day El Tee, the discussing something or other amongst themselves. Whatever that was, was sure to be very unimportant, and as such Miles relegated himself to staring down at his desk.
I don't know what I'm s'posed to do.


INFP (obligatory? probably)

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Forest State
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Ex-Nation

Postby Forest State » Fri Feb 02, 2018 6:21 pm

Rick Buchanan

The night shift. That was just Rick’s luck, that he would get the night shift during a major hurricane after not working at this job for very long. It was one hell of a way to get introduced to the actual job, after managing to get through training and cover up the shady things from the past that nearly popped up and kept him from passing the first interview… Well, shady things was an understatement. He’d gotten the job despite the international drug running in the past, but now was the time when he would see what he was made of.

Before leaving for work, Rick stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom of his small apartment and looked himself over one more time, not quite satisfied with his appearance. He hardly knew the coworkers, after all, and making a good impression was key. People respected you more when you presented yourself well early on, and that was something that he’d realized when he was young. When he was dealing with the wrong crowds and walking with criminals who would eat you alive if you showed weakness in front of him. His new coworkers weren’t that, but the same concept applied. Look good early on, and things would go better later.

After running a comb through his hair once more and then deciding to throw on a leather jacket over his uniform for now, which would probably help with the weather, Rick nodded in satisfaction. Not satisfaction, really, but he had reached an acceptable standard. That was what he was aiming for much of the time, anyway. Just good enough, because it wasn’t that often that he was truly satisfied. He stepped out of the bathroom and pulled up the directions on his phone, because he still didn’t know all the streets by heart in New Anglia.

It seemed strange to choose a job that would have him serving a city he hardly knew, especially because of his past, but that was just how life worked out sometimes. It just so happened that he’d seen the openings in the police department soon after moving to New Anglia, and it just so happened that he had a desire to “redeem” himself in a way, from his past with the wrong crowds. Or maybe he just wanted to fight people that reminded him of the ones that had taken his brother on that day in Texas. He didn’t quite know his own motivations for sure, but that was just how things had worked out.

Rick arrived just on time for the shift, and would wait around without speaking. There’d be more time to get introduced with the others later.
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Hastur
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Founded: Jul 01, 2017
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Hastur » Sun Feb 04, 2018 5:02 pm

PO2 Saoirse Gallagher
19:30
1219 Coronado Drive
New Anglia, Florida.
07/24/17





The storm was brewing away on the horizon, the dark overcast foreshadowing what was about to hit them. And the last place Saoirse wanted to be was on a beach set to disappear under the incoming tide. But duty had called. And that call out was a botched home invasion at a beach side bungalow set on one of the keys many scenic beaches. The same ones that she spent so much of her early childhood wandering, although now cast in a much grimmer light by the ominous overcast as she watched the rough waves clash with the white sand. It wasn't technically her shift yet. But unfortunately, the other two detectives, Cruz and Mitchell, where too busy to take it on, likely consumed in the last minute panic as most began evacuating their families from the impending hurricane that loomed over the town.

So it landed on Graveyard shift. Floyd and herself. The veteran detective and the trainee.

Saoirse wasn't a detective, not yet, at-least until she got her degree from FLU and was able to take the detectives exam. Today just happened to one out of two days in the month in which she did her assigned her in service training. It required her to tag along side one of the detectives, aid them and generally try and learn something from it. That was in addition to the department already occasionally assigning her to working investigations when needed. What that meant for the time being, she was practically attached to Luthers hip as the two of them investigated the case. A rather bulky but soft spoken man, one with a reputation and strong moral conviction. He had done a lot to help the New Anglian community, especially those down on their luck. So far, he was also proving to be an excellent mentor. It was why she had been quieter than usual. Not saying all that much as she tried to take as much of the experience as possible. That and she didn't want to potentially vex her supervisor.

Her attention was snapped away from the sea by the distinctive Floridan accent as he beckoned her over. Drawing her attention to footprints. Two of them, from a size nine sneaker if she had to take a guess. Both of which where roughly two feet apart from each other and judging by the direction and freshness, they where more than likely the suspects. The detective continued as he drew out an old cellphone, taking pictures of the evidence as he gave insight into what he saw, and his own experience taught him.

"Long strides. Gait irregular. Trouble with balance. Probably high. Depressant. On something powerful enough to not knock him out. Steals whilst he's high, not common, not for pills or fentanyl. We should check for botched pharmacy robberies in town."

She made a mental note in her head on each point as her mentor continued. Somewhat surprised at the sheer amount of information he was able to get from the two tracks alone, analyzing each part of it carefully and deducting a well throughout out theory that made sense. Or at least she thought it did.

"Come on. Let's head back to the house."

The two detectives headed back up towards the bungalow, treading through the soft sand as they marched back. The old couple that owned it, a couple of middle class retirees from Wisconsin, where packing their belongings into the back of the station wagon, getting ready to leave with the many other evacuees. it was a depressing sight, knowing that their home was more than likely going to be a shell of its former self once they returned following the hurricane. Their problems where only just beginning today. They still wanted the home invasion investigated despite the futility of it. But it was their job to do so, even though, as she saw it, it seemed extremely low on the couples priorities. The detective quickly set about brushing for prints, moving between the windows and doors carefully brushing down the surfaces with the fine powder. Within a few minutes, they found a set of complete prints and partial, a number on the door handle, and one the the window sill respectively. potentially a good haul. Luther was again quick to chime in with more valuable knowledge, pointing out the prints and their significance, with Saoirse crouching in close to take a closer look.

"But we take both, so we can cross-reference with the incompletes, rule out everybody but the perp."

Common sense. Although the fact that the prep was potentially not wearing gloves was strange, although probably on account of the aforementioned suspected substance abuse. If the perp had robbed somewhere else, she had a good enough feeling that his prints had likely been left at the other crime scene, and if he wasn't wearing gloves here at least. So chances where, they'd find the guy with any luck.

"Cate and I are going now. Will the house be safe until we get back?"

The old man called out from beside the station wagon, suitcase in hand, the vehicle now packed up and ready to hit the filled highway. It took Luther a few seconds to respond to the mans question almost as if he hadn't heard them properly, turning his head as he tried to determine where the sound came from, glancing over at the man before politely asking him to repeat himself.

"From robbery? I expect so. Whoever did this, the sirens scared him pretty bad. From the ocean?"

Poor bastards.

She exchanged an apologetic look with the couple, knowing the position they where in and that all of them where completely powerless to stop it. With a wave goodbye, they climbed into the station wagon and began their journey out of state. Driving up the gravel road, towards the blocked highways filled with a number of other people who had similar ideas. Luther and Saoirse following closely behind having done everything that they could. Climbing into the Crown Vic that they had arrived in. The older car taking two goes before it's engine finally purred to life.

"We'll give the prints and the photos to Georgina, see if she can come up with anything. If she does, we'll pass it on to Cruz and Mitchell. Their case, their collar."

"Sure." Saoirse acknowledged as the car maneuvered off the beach, making its way back to the police station for the start of their shift.




The roads where packed with towns folk all fleeing from the incoming chaos that mother nature was about to hit them with. The radio played country music softly, being overtaken by the sound of engines and car horns from the highway. It was quiet from within the car however as it navigated the traffic, taking a number of back roads in order to avoid the getting jammed up in the fleeing populous. It didn't take long for her to pick up on the fact that luther was taking a slight detour. She had grown up here, and she knew the town well enough. The route he was taking wasn't the fastest. Sure enough, the unmarked police car pulled up in an residential area. A quick glance at the detective confirmed that he had other plans by his apologetic glance.

"Meeting someone."

Saoirse simply nodded in acknowledgement. It was understandable. Everyone here had somebody they had to look out for. Soon enough, a blond women in her thirties appeared at the window, rattling her knuckles off the window to grab the occupants attention. She recognized her from somewhere, but couldn't put her finger on it. Her mind was drawing blanks.

"Just a sec."

"Hey, take your time.." Saoirse added with a hearted smile. Luther climbed out of the car, closing the door behind him, cutting out the sound of the howling wind as he did so. She glanced out the window at the detective as he engaged with the women. It was obviously somebody that he was clearly close with, or used to be. The two stood close, but looked fairly awkward. The length of the meeting added to that, ending in the meeting in minutes with a certain abruptness. Whatever it was about however, was none of her business. Personal issues.

With a one sided wave goodbye on the detectives part, the man climbed back in, and started up the car again, taking an unmarked dirt road towards the station. Finally on the last hurdle.




The station was much like the highway. Packed with hurried people looking to get to safety. Cops rushed to and from their workstations as they got ready for their shift to come to an end. The halls of the station having a certain claustrophobic feeling to them, making her feel tense as she tried to navigate their way into the main area of the building. One cop even slammed right into luther as he tried to bullrush his way past. Saying very little as luther apologized. Rather rudely continuing on as they made the pair finally made it inside the squad room. She could breathe a little easier now at least.

It was a mix of people populating the room. One of the few times that day and graveyard shift met, although at the moment it seemed to be more day shift than night. Saoirse took a seat at her desk, leaning back as they waited for the shift to start.

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Tiltjuice
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Ex-Nation

Postby Tiltjuice » Sun Feb 04, 2018 10:45 pm

PO1 Clare Price
1945
New Anglia FL
Seraph House
2300 Coronado Drive


"Be good for Grandpa and Aunt Jackie, okay?"

The twins standing in the entry hall both nodded, Isabelle looking a little sullen or shiftless and Michael lifting a little hand to wave goodbye. They were good kids, typically, never fussing much about staying with "Grandpa 'n' Auntie". The three adults had managed to keep the disagreements away from them, and the twins loved hearing her dad's stories about building things at bedtime, and about the graveyard shift the next day over brunch... but that was when there wasn't a massive storm headed their way. Which also, in a way, explained Isabelle's crankiness - the girl loved sunshine and good weather, and being caught in the path of a hurricane would be extra not-so-fun. Normally, Clare herself would have stayed in her usual spot at the Tuscany Forest as a familiar place to fort up, but her family had insisted that bringing the kids over was safer. And it was, to be fair, in the bigger manor house that her dad had bought up for his retirement. Fixed up, too, come to that. He hadn't slowed down any with age, that was for sure. The brick-red monstrosity was his pride and joy second only to his family.

She glanced at her watch. Just enough time to get there before shift briefing and assignments. Maybe a coffee, if she was lucky.

"Come here," she said, squatting and waving her hands at them. They ran up, and she hugged them, pecking each on the forehead. "Mommy will see you when I get off work, OK?"

She felt the two muffled "OK"s through her arms, and smiled.

The trip across town was hectic with traffic, everyone who could rush out of New Anglia doing just that. A solid carpet of light from everyone's head and taillights... She sighed and shook her head as she followed a far taller pair of officers into the station, pausing in the hallway outside the briefing room to work out some of the ruffles in her uniform that the vest had put there during the drive.

She stepped through the door and took a seat.
Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. -Khalil Gibran
Cut red tape with the Red Book / Bureaucracy is a system - #ApplyTNI / Think globally, act locally
At fifteen, I set my heart on learning. At thirty, I was firmly established. At forty, I had no more doubts. At fifty, I knew the will of heaven. At sixty, I was ready to listen to it. At seventy, I could follow my heart's desire without transgressing what was right. ~Analects, 2:4
I wear teal, blue, pink, and red for Swith.
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Cylarn
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Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Tue Feb 06, 2018 9:32 am

Sal watched from the conference room as his officers entered. First was Polk, followed by Sal's brown eyes as the officer made his way to his desk.

Like any good Lieutenant, Sal studied his shift members to varying degrees. Polk wasn't much of a tough nit to crack open and figure out; a former Marine and State Trooper, a young buck who personified the motivation and attitude of a typical young cop. Sal wondered if Polk felt restrained at New Anglia, given the differences between being a Trooper on the Iron Pipeline, and being a beach cop in the Keys.

Detective Floyd and Officer Gallagher entered next. The last real Cracker in Florida, and the only Mick in town. Sal looked over at Flores - she was standing up, her eyes focused on the detective and his trainee. She started towards the glass door. Sal looked up at the clock - it was coming close for the shift change. Flores opened the door, peaking her head out of the doorway. Sal heard the distant, disembodied voice of his Sergeant, Martin Clark, down the hallway. It sounds as though he was having an argument - though not one laced with a tirade.

"Floyd, Gallagher, come on in," she called out, walking back over to the table. She looked at Sal.

"B&E." She grinned after she said her piece, walking back over to her chair and taking a seat.

"A little early for B&Es, right?" Sal quipped, crossing his left leg over his right.

Flores chuckled, following it up with a long sip of her coffee. Once Gallagher and Floyd had entered the room, Flores sat her cup down and gave a smile - a tired, ready-to-get-off-this-island smile - as her green eyes focused on the pair.

"Gimme the run-down: snowbirds call 911 about a B&E, you guys show up, and...?"

She trailed at the end, expecting one of them to finish the summary.
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Beiarusia
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Founded: Dec 29, 2014
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Beiarusia » Thu Feb 08, 2018 10:53 pm

Vivian Townsend
New Anglia Police Department, New Anglia, Florida
7/24/2017 — 19:57


The motor strained with a pitiful whine as the little Miata hurried past the intersection, stop, go, forcing a path through the traffic that was unwilling to budge, families and old folks and last-minute-vacationers heading north to dryer climate before Hurricane Roxy made landfall. Abigail was driving; Vivian was riding shotgun, her drivers license having gone unused for several years now. Vivian was running late to work but Abigail was optimistic that they'd arrive on-time. At the very least the horrendous traffic could be blamed for the failure in punctuality. The main roads were stuck at a standstill, and even a few of the backroads were beginning to clog as impatient drivers searched for appropriate detours.

"I can be a bit late," Vivian reasoned, holding on as the Miata sped ahead to merge with lighter traffic.

"Almost there." Abigail took a right, catching the last moments of a yellow light and, true enough, the police station was up ahead. She stopped in front of the building, put the car in park, and then looked to Vivian with a pleased grin. "We made it. With a minute to spare. Same time as always? Nothing going on because of the hurricane?"

Vivian shrugged as she opened the car door. "I'll call if my hours change. Don't stay up all night watching TV."

"No promises." Then she added a small, "I love you." Not so much a declaration but a statement as normal as calling the sky blue. Something that just was. A reminder in case it was forgotten.

Vivian gave a small wave as Abigail drove off towards home. I love you. Three words that Vivian had yet to say, but Abigail didn't seem to mind, content with the here-and-now of their relationship, their figuring it out as life happened. She loved Abigail, a girl just as broken and messed up as she was, but there remained an uncertainty that had yet to be approached. Two definitions of the same word. Abigail had made clear her intentions time and again, and each time Vivian was left with too many thoughts inside her head. The Miata was no longer in sight when Vivian snapped to. She hurried up the cobblestone steps and into the building — making sure her ID badge was visible against her semi-casual attire — passing a few officers on their way out. Many would be leaving town. Stopping by the break room to grab herself a donut, Vivian scurried over to her station but paused to peek inside an open conference room. Officers were gathering for roll call. She listened in, a bit curious about the local goings-on and how the hurricane would affect tonight's shift.
Last edited by Beiarusia on Wed Feb 14, 2018 11:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Romic
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Postby Romic » Fri Feb 09, 2018 8:41 pm

PO1 Glen D. Irons
NAPD, New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17

Glen looked up at the mirror with water dripping down his face. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist, his wrist shooting with pain. Since he was hit on a traffic stop in Des Moines. The hurricane flared up the arthritis in his wrist, he wiped the water from his face and replaced his glasses. Tonight was going to be one hell of a shift. His guess was that he'd be doing a lot of welfare checks, traffic stops, and ensuring that people are generally not being stupid. He sighed and looked up toward the ceiling. "Fuck." he shook his head.

The drive to the PD was largely uneventful as it was mostly people that were sane were evacuating, others were slowing down and driving pathetically as soon as they saw his patrol car. He turned up the radio a bit to catch up on the news around the rest of the states, not a whole lot going on, everyone was focused on this hurricane.

He was walking into the muster room, sat down and looked over the room. He watched the others wander in and sit down.
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Camicon
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Postby Camicon » Fri Feb 09, 2018 9:58 pm

CSI Georgina Francesca Dupin-Abello
2000
New Anglia Police Department
New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17


Wake up.

Shit. Shower. Shave.

Time?

Afternoon.

Georgina looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to see if the circles under her eyes were actually there or just a trick of the sickly yellow light cast by the lone incandescent bulb above her head. A dull, tequila induced headache was throbbing behind her eyes.

Fuck it, she thought, and went to dress.


A forensics technician, Georgina normally worked what could loosely be called the "day shift". New Anglia was small, and cases that required her expertise were infrequent, so the time she actually spent in her lab or at the department, on most days, was a few hours spent filing paperwork or preparing documents for an upcoming court case.

Most of her time was spent requalifying various certifications, and pouring over recent studies and journal articles to remain abreast with the latest advancements in her field; it was as important as the time she actually spent on a case, as the work she did was only as accurate as her knowledge of the subject, and her testimony only as trustworthy as her qualifications. And this was something that could be done at home as easily as the department. Easier, in fact, as she didn't have to compete for bandwidth on their barely acceptable internet connection. As long as her work didn't slip, and she was available to answer questions by phone or examine a crime scene when necessary, the brass didn't much care about whether or not she was actually in her office. It was better that she wasn't buddy-buddy with the uniforms and detectives, in any event; her job was to examine evidence and deliver a report, not catch criminals. A little distance between the lab and the bullpen made the judiciary happy.

So it was likely a surprise to most who saw Georgina walking into the NAPD offices with a large, olive-green duffle bag over her shoulder just as the night shift was beginning their briefings. Georgina waited out most hurricanes at home, sturdy little pillbox that it was, but Roxy promised to be something different. So, she had packed up most of her clothes and her "irreplaceables" as she called them - those things that were either expensive or took a long-ass time to replace - and motored in on her ancient Vespa to hunker down in her lab for the next twenty-four hours. Although she'd probably end up making coffee for the stretched-too-thin uniforms that were being left to contend with Roxy as she came barrelling into the Keys. Either way, the next few days promised to be various shades of boring.
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Riysa
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Postby Riysa » Mon Feb 12, 2018 2:38 pm

New Anglia Police Department, New Anglia

Marty walked down the hallway, heading towards the conference room. After having set down his duty bag and checking his paperwork, he decided to get an early start with the shift by talking to the lieutenant. The guy, Sal, was relatively new here, but he'd heard that he was an experienced officer, so he was looking forward to seeing how this night shift would turn out.

"Brrt, brrt!" His phone vibrated repeatedly in his pocket. That was a text from someone. But who was it? Dad had already messaged back, in his usual stoic tone, so it was either Mom or Sherry.

Oh dear... it was Sherry, who on top of her "good luck! xoxo<3" response was trying to wrangle some emergency dating advice, about another one of her soon-to-be boyfriends. Considering that Marty was currently as single as he was when he left the womb, this was probably a bad idea. Nevertheless, it was his solemn duty as the older brother to help her out.

"Don't act overly friendly or touchy-feely, don't act like a klutz, don't smash your food and pop like a hog, and for the love of everything holy on this earth, stop asking out weird guys" He rapidly typed out on his phone. "And if he starts acting up, show him that selfie of me. I'll talk to again you when I'm on break." For a 23 year-old who'd cycled through boyfriends like pizza slices, she was still surprisingly innocent and easy to read. Perhaps that's why she had so many in the first place after all.

As soon as that was done, he got a text from Mom. He had talked with her last night, so the message was short, but it was clear that she was still a bit worried.

"Mom, you need to worry about Sherry instead, I trust her taste in men as much as I trust GAC's ripoffs of Ford cars." He typed out. "I'm a 33 year-old police officer, everything will be fine. I'll update you and Dad when I'm on break."

And so, with his family affairs now in order for the shift, he finished his journey to the conference room. "Evening, LTs, Floyd, Gallagher." He greeted the couple of officers that got to the room before he did. "Did I hear something about a B&E?"

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Cylarn
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Postby Cylarn » Tue Feb 13, 2018 9:39 am

Riysa wrote:"Evening, LTs, Floyd, Gallagher." He greeted the couple of officers that got to the room before he did. "Did I hear something about a B&E?"


Before the detectives could answer the question, Sergeant Clark had entered the room to inquire about the case in question. Flores turned her attention to the Sergeant.

"Yeah, over at one of the Coronado bungalows," she answered. "Some snowbird retirees called in about a dude breaking in. Like, why bother? If Roxy inches one closer north, then those bungalows are fucked."

The storms that battered New Anglia in the summer were not quite catastrophic, but they often persuaded the locals to hunker down. High winds that tossed debris around the town, a never-ending downpour of rain, and the ever-encroaching tide that could take down a bungalow - if the conditions were just right. The "less-fortunate" avoided the town during storms, often preferring to hunker down and wait for it all to blow over.

Flores turned her head in the direction of Sal.

"What are you thinking, Ayala?"

"Send a car by in the night, see if the creep comes back," Sal stated, though not with great enthusiasm.

He motioned over Clark, standing up and extending his right hand as the Sergeant walked over.

"Ey-yo, Sergeant," he called out. "What's it looking like out in the Pit over there? We got everybody?"
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Kentucky Fried Land
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Postby Kentucky Fried Land » Wed Feb 14, 2018 7:43 pm

Officer Greene stared at his computer screen, eyes glazed over. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. He was expected to get a report done from the last time he headed out on a call; just something short, but something he sure as shit didn’t wanna do. He looked down at his notepad, yellow with red lines going through it, the pages all connected together with a wire spiral. He sighed, flipping through pages of his sloppy handwriting with indignation. Name, date of birth, blah blah blah shit. It was just one of those calls where some old pissant had gotten worked up because the young’uns decided to throw an egg at his house. Grumpy old fuck.

Miles sighed, leaning back in his chair and groaning. It was going to be a long night. He wasn’t even sure he was going to get called out, considering the storm and all probably taking an absolute bite out of crime. Roxy should’ve been their next hire with the way things were sure to go. Rubbing at his eyes, Miles left his computer on the log-on screen, lest a troublemaker decide to come and mess with one of his precious reports.

He stumbled away from his desk, tugging at his yellow raincoat. A black POLICE was emblazoned on the back, and it made him feel at least a little cool, stepping through the aisle as he was. But the feeling faded, and he pushed his way into the meeting room to discover the higher-ups discussing something; he didn’t dare question what that was. Chain of command, baby. “Sirs, ma’ams.” Was all he said, coming into the room with a slack disposition. He saw Saoirse standing next to the detective; something he resented, if only slightly. She had been there for a bit less time than he had… but he was happy for her. They were friends, after all. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her, turning his gaze quickly and taking a seat just as fast.

Patiently tapping his foot, Miles awaited further instruction.
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Tiltjuice
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Postby Tiltjuice » Wed Feb 14, 2018 11:38 pm

Things outside the conference room were so lively, so frantic even; while inside, time seemed to slow to a crawl. That was par for the course, as far as the Academy instructors had said sometimes in asides, when they thought none of the cadets were able to pick up on it. It was a neat reverse of her own self - anxiousness to get started, get out there and do something, but keeping steady on the outside. Breathing in and out - even a Hawaiian felt excitement and nervousness now and again. And breathing exercises helped when surfing...

But hurricanes were no weather for that. Clare knew better than to have coffee while already so amped up, but nothing else was happening; so, notepad and pen momentarily set aside, she stepped out again for a cuppa. And promptly ran into Townsend, just outside the door.

"Oh no - I'm so sorry! I - oh, hey!" Veronica was one of the few Clare had exchanged more than a few words with in the Academy. "Didn't throw you off too much, did I?" She dropped her hands from the other woman's shoulders in a reflexive grab. "I didn't know you were on this shift. New development?"
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Hastur
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Postby Hastur » Sat Feb 17, 2018 4:08 pm

"Floyd, Gallagher, come on in." The day shift lieutenant called from the glass door.

Saoirse quickly followed the command, getting up from her desk, making sure to log off before heading into the conformance room, taking a seat in one of the available chairs. She paid close attention to her superior as she focused on the two with a very tired smile, a look not all too similar to everyone else on the day shift.

"Gimme the run-down: snowbirds call 911 about a B&E, you guys show up, and...?"

Before she could finish the summary however, their night shift sergeant, Marty, poked his head in. Offering greetings all round. Soarise responded with a quick nod before the sergeant moved onto the second topic of the day, the B&E, to which he received a swift update from the lieutenant.

"Yeah, over at one of the Coronado bungalows, Some snowbird retirees called in about a dude breaking in. Like, why bother? If Roxy inches one closer north, then those bungalows are fucked."

She wasn't wrong, in the next twenty-four hours, chances were those old bastards wouldn't have all that much to come back too, unless they were particularly lucky.

"So, yeah." Soarise said, clearing her throat as she prepared to give the quick report. "Guy didn't actually make it into the house, fuckin' booked it when he heard the Brown and Tans showing up." She added. "Questioned the retiree's. They called it in when they heard a commotion outside their house, but they didn't get a good enough look at the prep to give us a description, they were spooked." Soarise leaned back, looking over at Luther as she moved onto what they actually wanted. Evidence. "We scanned the area, Luther found a couple of footprints in the sand that are about a size nine, a partial fingerprint on the window which we reckon is the preps, and a bunch more on the door handle. We'll just need to hand that shit off to Georgina when she shows up."

Her eye was quickly caught by more of the night shift flowing in. Most notably Miles. Her old partner and good friend, although she was starting to sense a slight resentment between them. Miles was gunning for detective and had been here longer than her, so her getting in house training had put a slight burden on their relationship. He tried to pretend that it didn't bother him. But she could tell.

A short smile was exchanged between the two as he got seated, before she continued back on the status report. "Perps probably a junkie. Luther has an interesting theory on that one, and it makes sense." Soarise continued. "I mean, out of all the places you could try to rob, the perps pick one that isn't boarded up and has a car outside, in broad daylight. You'd have to be extremely fucking high to try that." Regardless, she'd imagine that the B&E would be the lowest of their priorities tonight.

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Beiarusia
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Postby Beiarusia » Tue Feb 20, 2018 11:29 pm

Vivian Townsend
New Anglia Police Department, New Anglia, Florida
7/24/2017


Still outside the conference room, Vivian was listening in to the little pre-shift meeting, more-or-less ignored by the officers as talk of a breaking-and-entering made the rounds. With most of New Anglia having gone north to escape the hurricane tonight would be the perfect opportunity for the burglar to strike. Sure, the criminal mastermind was likely to be blown away in the process, a valid risk, but the evacuation had offered a literal smorgasbord of empty homes to choose from, and no witnesses. The patrolmen were in for a long and wet night. Vivian could not say that she envied them.

Vivian was turning to leave when another officer bumped into her. "Oh no! I'm so sorry!" apologized Officer Price, grabbing onto Vivian's shoulders to steady the both of them. "I... oh, hey! Didn't throw you off too much, did I?" Officer Price dropped her hands. "I didn't know you were on this shift? New development?"

"I've been on nightshift for awhile now," Vivian answered. She and Officer Price hadn't talked much, if at all, and it was obvious that neither knew much about the other aside from what little had been acquired in passing. Of course, Vivian was partly to blame, what with her being a tad bit awkward, like a social butterfly that had lost both its wings. She was friendly, but distant, and had only a few close friends at the precinct, Office Price just wasn't one of them. Vivian was not opposed to the idea of friendship with Officer Price but there existed a notable lack of communication between the two beyond the usual niceties exchanged on those rare occasions they just so happened to be in the same place at the same time. "You forget something?" Vivian asked a moment later, more curious than indignant at having almost been toppled over. "There might be some donuts left in the break room."

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Riysa
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Postby Riysa » Thu Feb 22, 2018 9:41 pm

Marty chuckled, hearing from the gathered people about the BNE. "Yeah, you've got to be desperate, an outsider, or a plain idiot to go after them, and a couple who haven't evaced no less. Floyd's guess might not be so wild after all!"

"Honestly though, I was afraid of something like this - I saw some of the houses boarded up on my drive here, and they look like nice, juicy targets for looters. Dunno what their actual value is, and doubt that any sane family would leave their valuables behind, but I still think its something we're gonna have to look out for." He shook his head.

Cylarn wrote:He motioned over Clark, standing up and extending his right hand as the Sergeant walked over.

"Ey-yo, Sergeant," he called out. "What's it looking like out in the Pit over there? We got everybody?"


Marty walked over to his LT. "Yes, sir?"

"Ah." Marty thought for a second. "Nah, I didn't see anyone missing from this shift. We should be ready on your orders, LT."

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Romic
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Father Knows Best State

Postby Romic » Fri Feb 23, 2018 2:35 am

PO1 Glen D. Irons
NAPD, New Anglia, Florida
07/24/17

Irons heard about the 810.02 and closed his eyes and shook his head. Who the hell breaks into an elderly couple's home. Then he realized his job he messes with people that do this on a daily basis; however this was much better than Des Moines PD. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He wished the meeting would just get over with so he could get on the road, do some traffic crap, and catch up on his reports. He was in a the middle of daydreaming when he shot up, one hell of an itch popped up in the middle of his back under his vest. He squirmed in his chair to try and relieve the itch, for now..... It has not worked.
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Cylarn
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Left-Leaning College State

Postby Cylarn » Sat Feb 24, 2018 9:00 am

Riysa wrote:"Ah." Marty thought for a second. "Nah, I didn't see anyone missing from this shift. We should be ready on your orders, LT."


Sal gave a nod - the streets were chaotic enough as of the present, and they would get worse as the number of officers on the street dwindled. Flores, her interest in the B&E sated, walked back over to the table and took a seat behind it. It was time for the shift change to start, and the officers eventually took their seats in the conference room. Flores looked across the room, with tired eyes.

"Right, now that we're all here, let's do this thing," she stated quite bluntly, her eyes drifting down to the paper resting flat on the table. The Lieutenant took a moment, mouthing off several words under her breath before turning her gaze back to the officers. Sal leaned back in his chair, his eyes shifting from Flores and to the officers in the room.

"Okay, some of this shit is real self-explanatory, but Chief wants us to read it all. First order of business - Hurricane Roxy should be hitting the Keys sometime tonight, but apparently we're not getting it as bad as everyone else - according to the State. Curfew will begin at 9 PM. Chief wants a presence at the intersection of Main and the highway, and everyone else is required to either order people off the street, or blast on about it with intercoms. ESCC put out a flood advisory, so we all need to be ready in case the streets flood. We've got three skiffs - two on trailers behind the Fire Department, and another skiff docked at the Yacht Club..."

Her eyes went back down to the paper, repeating the same ritual of mouthing the words and then saying them aloud - this time talking about some complaints and curfew times. Sal leaned his head back, eyes gazing at the white ceiling above him. Sometimes, it's hard for me to decide if this is worse than getting shot. It's pretty fucking close." The B&E shifted into focus in his mind. Gallagher and Floyd asserted that the suspect was on drugs when he broke into the house. Meth, gotta be fucking meth. That's what they say, right? Why not pain pills, though? Why can't a perp pop a perc-30 and then go steal some shit? Anyways, that's probably all water under the bridge.

"...and last contact was on the sixteenth with the Dutch Navy. They told the Coast Guard that they tracked it up towards the Gulf before they lost its trail. Again, it's the Verrazzano, and the Coasties came by yesterday to say that they might need us to ride along in case the Verrazzano gets close enough for them to bring it in safely."

Sal blinked. The Coast Guard was calling in local police - untrained mariners - in the event that they had to wrangle a merchant ship. That's fucking lazy of them.

"Why the hell are they doing that?" Sal spoke up. "Don't they have a cutter at Tampa? What are wee going to do with a skiff?"

"That's all on them, Sal. And by the way, it's your turn to take over. I said my piece, I'm out."

Abruptly, Flores stood up, picked up her cup, and power-walked out of the office. Sal watched her as she walked out, then turning his gaze back to his unit. They were a young bunch, men and women. Sal was surprised by that - ten or so years prior, when he was a young officer, they chose to go where it was the hottest. He himself had chosen Miami City for that, and got more than he asked for. But isn't the point of being a cop to effectively deal with more than you're asking for?

"Right...so, I'm gonna keep it brief. Officers, pick a haunt, call it over the radio. Floyd, I'm gonna keep you locked up here with Townsend, Clark, Abello, and myself. Gallagher, you and Greene ride together. When nine rolls around, I want Polk and Price locking down Main at the intersection. Everyone else on the beat is to enforce the curfew for a solid hour. Anyone caught outside is to be warned; if they resist, detain them and facilitate communication with someone they know to come pick them up. If you can't dial someone, bring them back here and put them in Holding. Clark and I will drive around and do check-ins. I feel like everything else really...goes....without saying; stay frosty, don't let your guard down, and all that."

"Go get 'em, Graveyard Shift. Stay awake, too."
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