-The Strays-
A month later.
...
The time was 7:30 am when Chris's alarm went off.
Groaning, he blindly reached for his cell phone, his fingers fumbling clumsily until they found purchase on a cold slab of machined aluminium. Without hesitation, he hit snooze. Three minutes later, the incessant blaring of the alarm once again cut through the haze of his slumber, forcing him to rise from his bed of beanbags to confront the throbbing headache that was slowly coalescing between his temples. He yawned, crusted eyelids sliding open to reveal bloodshot eyes and pupils that constricted in the morning light.
This is a shitty morning to be alive, the corporal decided as he rubbed the gunk from his eyes. Sunlight peeked from across the horizon through a gap between an opposite pair of skyscrapers before painting his balcony in a hazy golden glow.
Moving was a chore, yet somehow Chris managed to force himself to his feet. Shambling forward like the second coming of the mummy, he marched towards his kitchen, empty beer bottles clattering noisily in his wake. Upon arrival, he found the place in a similar state of disarray as his makeshift bedroom, only with fewer bottles and a few oil-stained styrofoams on the counter. All of which he also promptly ignored.
What he couldn't ignore however was the furry black ball sleeping on his microwave.
"Oh, for the love of..." Chris muttered as he reached out to lift the cat by the scruff, glaring at it. "You again? How do you keep getting in here, you little shit?" The corporal blinked, his eyes searching before settling on a window that was slightly ajar. A cold draft blew in, carrying with it the sharp, acrid scent of the city below. It seemed he had once again forgotten to call to have the broken latch repaired.
With a sigh, Chris deposited the stray back on the microwave before turning his attention to the medicine cabinet above it. Retrieving a bottle of Venlafaxine and Paracetamol each, he popped about a dozen pills and washed them down with a cold beer from the mini-fridge in the corner before finally turning his attention to his apartment.
"I could have sworn it wasn't this messy yesterday," Chris groused, eyeing the shredded strips of kraft paper littered on the floor with suspicion. His annoyed glare swivelled to settle on the cat curled up on his microwave.
The critter stretched its lithe frame as it stared back at him.
With another sigh, Chris set to work, tossing the bottles, styrofoam plates and paper scraps littering the place in the bin before starting up the vacuum and leaving it to be harassed by the suddenly energetic stray. Groaning, he stumbled into his bathroom, peeling off his crumpled underwear before reaching for his toothbrush, a tub of exfoliator, and some toothpaste from the dispenser. A glance at the mirror had him wincing at the sight of his reflection. Soot and grime from the previous day still stained his face, with his eye bags and five-o-clock shadow doing little to enhance his image.
Bathtime was a brief affair with Chris emerging from the shower five minutes later. The closet offered up a clean set of stab-resistant skivvies, bulletproof padding, and his nano-weave uniform – crisp, dark blue, and entirely unwrinkled. The corporal dressed efficiently, slipping on his badge, holstered gun and utility belt before returning to the kitchen for breakfast: a pack of bacon and half a dozen eggs.
"Meow."
Chris glanced down at the cat seated by his feet looking up at him expectantly. Amused, he shook his head as he slowly brought up one morsel to his mouth. "You break into my apartment," he said to the animal, one brow arched in askance, "make a mess of the place and then deny responsibility. Now you are begging for scraps beneath my table? Have you no shame, mister?"
The stray blinked, tilting its head in response.
"If I feed you again it would only encourage you to keep coming here, wouldn't it?"
"Meow."
"You wouldn't?"
"Meow."
"How do you expect me to believe that? Uhn? You gotta sell it. You gotta make me wanna believe. Capeesh?"
"...Meow?"
Chris stared at the cat silently for a moment. It blinked, staring at him before pawing at his calf beggingly. The corporal tutted before he gathered a handful of bacon in a paper napkin and offered it to an animal that was canonically the symbol of misfortune.
...Fitting.
"Meow."
"Yeah, yeah," the corporal laughed as he scratched the critter behind the ear. "Well, don't get sassy about it you, little shit."
***
Chris finished his meal about five minutes later. The cat was done as well and left without so much as a goodbye. The corporal tsked to himself as he walked to the window to watch the feline outside as it fearlessly navigated the tiny ledges jutting out of the building's side. His gaze panned down to the street several dozen meters below; from this height, the vehicles below would have been nothing more than ant-like specks to the average person. Of course, Chris could see them just fine, but that was beside the point.
"Nope," he said shaking his head as he stared at the cat leaping nearly eight feet between two ledges that couldn't be more than six inches wide. "Couldn't be me."
He grabbed his old jacket from the rack by the door, slipping into it before stuffing his phone in one of its larger pockets and glasses in another. A pair of brown, steel-toes oxfords made their way to his feet as the door to his apartment slid shut behind him. The flickering light of a faulty lamp above hit his face as he stepped out into the hallway in the direction of the elevator. Fifty-seven floors later, Chris arrived at the underground parking lot and immediately laid eyes on his ride – the blue and white vehicle bore the emblem of the district's police department as it sat menacingly in one dimly lit corner.
Chris waved at it and a pair of headlights flickered in response, one door opening soundlessly as he manoeuvred to the side. Smiling, the corporal slid into the driver's seat as the massive console on the dashboard lit up with a subtle blue hue.
"Mornin' skipper," the car greeted him in a distinct pre-sunder accent.
"Good morning, Roadman," Chris replied. "Thanks again for yesterday. You did well."
"No sweat, boss. So... we heading to home base or out on patrol?"
"The station, first. I have incident reports to file in."
"Ait." With that the car eased out of the garage onto the street above, turning at an intersection before joining the primary traffic heading north. The district buzzed with its usual activity. As always, towering megascrapers loomed like monoliths of steel, glass and concrete, casting elongated shadows that merged with the shards of sunlight peeking past the daunting cityscape. Holographic advertisements danced through the smog and morning mist as a symphony of neon lights, painting the district in hues of electric blue, caustic green, and fiery red.
A while later Chris and Roadman arrived at their destination. Gravel crunched underfoot as the up-armoured sedan manoeuvred into a vacant spot in the parking lot. The corporal hopped out, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose before patting the car. "Be good," he ordered as the door shut behind him.
"Sure thing, skipper."
***
Within the confines of the precinct, order reigned supreme.
Access control was not just a protocol here—it was a way of life. With the proliferation of innumerable, and often challenging-to-counter, paranormal abilities, the force had been forced into an evolutionary arms race against the very concept of randomness. For that reason alone, investing in only the best became more than a matter of simple prestige, it became a requirement for the precinct's continued survival. Every corridor, door, and terminal was encrypted with layers of code so dense and intricate that most conventional supercomputers could waste centuries futilely attempting to crack it and still come up short. Mystical biometric scanners, sentient firewalls and multidimensional intrusion detection systems form a near-impenetrable web that would have most Enigmas, Shifters and Savants blanching at the thought of even approaching the building, talk less of attempting to breach it. And with walls made of high-strength Forticrete composites, getting past with brute force alone is a non-option for all but the most powerful threats.
The 11th Precinct was a fortress through and through. There was simply no disputing that.
As Chris walked towards the entrance, a pair of pressurized blast doors slid open to admit him into an air-lock that scanned his body for bio-chemical contaminants. Past that, he found himself enveloped by the steady hum of activity—the sound of ringing phones and muffled chatter leaking from the building's interior into a well-lit lobby. As he inhaled, the overwhelming aroma of freshly brewed coffee intermingled with the faint scent of printer ink slammed into his perception with the force of a runaway maglev freighter. Mildly displeased, the corporal forced a smile as he exchanged pleasantries with a few colleagues stepping out of the coffee room with mugs of the foul thing cradled in their palms.
Chris quickly tuned it all out, turning his attention to his left the large holographic bulletin board displaying a few notices ahead of him. Not finding anything of import he continued on to the elevator, punching in the number thirty-four on the console. A few minutes later he arrived at his desk, settling into his seat as his desktop lit up. He had just started sifting through emails and reports when a pair of muffled footsteps approached him from behind.
The corporal looked up to see an old friend-cum-annoyance standing behind him with an amused grin plastered on her freckled face.
"I heard about yesterday," Sarah said, her lips bearing a smile of near-blinding intensity.
Chris blinked, then sighed as he recognised the nonsequitur for what it was.
"Nope," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to his screen.
"Oi!" the woman said sticking her head in front of his computer, her nose mere inches from his. Her short, tousled, chestnut brown hair fell sideways covering one of her hazel eyes in a manner that Chris would have found amusing had she not been hellbent on annoying him this morning. "Stop ignoring me!"
"Not even a "good morning"?" He asked with another sigh.
"Oh, don't be like that," Sarah pouted as she nudged him on the shoulder before plopping herself down on his desk. "Come on. Spill."
"There's nothing to spill, Sarah," Chris drawled, peeking past her attempt at blocking his screen to read one email that looked vaguely important. "It was just a routine operation."
"Routine operation? Dude! You nearly bagged an entire squad of class fours with just a pair of droids and five men; two of whom were trainees!"
"You do remember the operative word in that sentence is "nearly", right?"
"Come on, bro."
"Nope."
"Asshole."
"You can read the report once it gets out?" Chris suggested as she rose to leave. Sarah flashed him the middle finger in response.
"Oh!" the woman said, freezing mid-stride.
Chris sighed. "What now, Sarah?"
"Uhm, the boss said he wanted to see you."
"...Chief Anderson? Why?"
The brunette shrugged. "No idea, but it seems serious. My oh my, what could our favourite poster boy have done now?"
Chris exhaled. "Fuckin' powers. You are so immature, Sarah."
She flashed him the bird again before finally disappearing around a pane of frosted glass.
With yet another sigh, Chris stood up and made for the elevator. His trip to his superior's office was thankfully uneventful and upon arrival, he found the door to the corner cubicle slightly ajar, held open by a small cardboard box lying on the floor.
Chris knocked once.
"Come in," said a dull, gruff voice from within.
"Morning, sir," Chris greeted as he entered. "Sarah said you wanted to see me?"
"Yes. Morning, Chris," the chief answered, looking up from the file he was reading to regard him. "Thanks for coming in. Please, have a seat. How's everything going?"
"Everything's good, sir."
"And Amelia and Chloé?"
"They are fine, sir," Chris replied, poker-faced.
Anderson leaned back in his chair, eyebrows scrunching into a frown as he folded his hands on the desk. "None of that today, Chris, okay? Be straight with me."
"...I am not sure I understand, sir."
The chief exhaled before leaning forward. "I've been getting some very … concerning reports about your recent approach to your duties. Everything from reckless pursuits and a sudden propensity to take unnecessary risks, to overshooting your allocated work hours ... I know you, Chris. I know you're a damn good corporal. My perception of you aside, your record speaks for itself! But, recently you've been conducting yourself in a manner that has me worried. What's going on? Talk to me. Any problems at home? How's the wife? It has been a while since I and Gwen had you guys over; she won't stop bugging me for another dinner party, but I've just been so busy lately."
Chris stared at his kindly superior for a moment before looking away as a sigh escaped his chest. "...Actually, sir. I am getting a divorce."
"...Oh. Oh? Oh. That explains a lot—a contemplative pause—Look, Chris, I get it. Okay? I understand. We all have our struggles. If you need some time off, to, you know, sort things out, just let me know. We can work something out."
"Thank you, sir, but I'd rather stay focused on my duties in the meantime."
Chris held the older man's stare until he relented. "Just… dial it back a little," Anderson finally decided.
"Understood sir."
"Alright then. On a different note, Detective Martinez is in the building. He wants to consult you regarding that mess from yesterday."
"The asshole from PASIT, sir?"
"Yeah, that one. Take your time regarding this matter, okay? No rush. It's their fault the incident devolved into what it is now. Let them also suffer a bit."
"Understood, sir."
"And Chris—"
"Sir?"
"—Remember, we're here for you. Don't hesitate to talk if you need it."
The corporal managed a sincere smile. "Sure thing, boss. I won't."