Det. Sgt. Bennet Drake walked a different route home from work that evening. It had been a trying day of work with Detective Inspector Reid and Dr Jackson that warranted a slow, easy journey. He forgot to be mindful of the road he travelled as his left foot surpassed his right and back and forth. He approached a pub he knew was full of criminals; all of Whitechapel knew it. The police needn't keep an eye on it too hard because the villains inside kept one another in check on its premises, but on this night, a fight spilled out of its doors. As much as Drake wanted to continue walking, didn't and pulled his features from those of displeasure to the stern Detective Sergeant Drake who would end this chaos.
He shoved and beat his way through the door with his bare hands incase his occupation prompted a mass convergence of angered bodies on top of him, and at last within the walls of the establishment, he paused, deciding his next move to assert control. A gun shot racked through the air from a large weapon within the building, away from the mass of men grappling with one another. Every soul within and immediately without hesitated, waiting to see if more shots were to be fired, and who had been hit. Eyes turned to dust crumbling from the roof above the gunman's head. Only, it was a woman. She wore a fine dress, of layered green patterns that had sadly been stained and marred in the scuffle. She stood on the bar, large gun in her hands looking larger against her feminine frame, and challenged anyone to move with her angry eyes.
"Either sit back down," she ordered, "or I'll show you out of this life and into the next."
The hesitation lasted a heartbeat longer before people shuffled back into order. At a loss now that there was no reason for him to be inside the bloody Copper Belle, Drake approached the bar. He wasn't sure how to behave now; he had rushed into a fight that had dissipated the moment he was going to end it. Following his usual pattern inside of a Public House, he walked to the bar and ordered a drink. The girl with the shotgun served him with a smile that didn't belong on the face that could threaten to kill criminals and have them believe she would; it was a sweet smile. It made her look more youthful and spritely than he had first thought she was. As she poured his whiskey, she brushed loose strands of her tightly pulled-back black hair behind her ears, revealing cuts, bruising, and scars from a lifetime working behind that counter. She passed him the drink and asked quietly and curiously,
"Are you a man of the law?"
The smirk that played on her lips set Drake at unease.
"Off duty, miss." He replied politely.
"Doing some ear-ee-wigging on the likes of our patrons?" she continued, passing someone else's order to them.
"No, miss." He assured her and returned his attention to his own order. She moved directly in front of him and slid her arms on the counter so that she could lean towards him and tell him quietly,
"Then finish your drink and take your leave. You put these men on edge and they aren't known for their co-operation with the law."
He held her gaze incredulously; he had no intent to impose the law on anyone else that evening, but her sombre gaze spoke volumes. She moved on from him, allowing him to finish his drink in peace.