Morals and Heroes
Chapter 2
What does one think of when they think of heroes?
Do they think of a caped man who flies high in the skies, shooting lasers from his eyes and saving damsels in distress?
Do they think of an irradiated man who fires webs from his palms and deals beatings to common thugs in a spectacular display of bravado?
Or do they think of an individual who breathes underwater, coming to the surface to save those in danger of drowning or from sharks or other terrifying prospects of the depths?
Perhaps that is what some people think of when they think on that subject. But not I.
I am of the belief that heroes are real life individuals with the courage and tenacity to take a stand against both injustice and evil. Willing to sacrifice it all in the name of the greater good. Willing to risk life and limb to save a complete stranger from imminent destruction, or even a city and all of its occupants from a total annexation. Willing to stay determined, compassionate, and humble throughout trying times and total strife, and to go through Hell and back to drag you to sanctuary.
It could be said that we police officers are such heroes, and the military that continuously risks their lives to ensure we have a world to live in. In truth I believe this, and I would at times like to believe that I am a hero. But fancy as a title like that may be, I knew for truth I was no hero. Far from it. Sure, I put on a badge everyday and patrolled the streets of Boston just waiting for a crime to occur. Sure, I would draw my weapon and give chase to a suspect fleeing from Justice's righteous gaze. Sure, I have a great understanding between right and wrong. But that does not make me a hero. A morally correct character, yes. But not a hero.
For while some officers are heroes, there are those like me who are not. Bland pieces of fabric in a world woven by exciting fear and damning paranoia into the tapestry that is our lives. They say the world is the most peaceful it has been since The Omnic Crisis. But I do not believe a word of it. Lies told bitterly through a mask of remembrance akin to that of a common white lie spoken through crude fear just to make everyone feel better. But no. It was never the truth.
Take King's Row in London for example.
A Shambali monk, assassinated while advocating peace between man and machine. A building was even blown up in the act but to what end? They never found the shooter. Gone. Disappeared. Vanished into thin air like a ghost in the night. Multiple officers were killed, and rumors of an attempted prevention are paramountly unobscured. But if the world was truly at peace then what would inspire such an attack? What transpired in the mind of the assassin to commit to such a thing? Tensions were high enough as it was and Omnics everywhere are angry to the circuits about it. There isn't a day that goes by where I don't hear of an assault on an Omnic or by an Omnic.
Truly, this world is far from the vision of peace, and we can tell ourselves the lies we all want to hear, but we know this to be true. We wouldn't have made it this far if we were not able to.
War is around the corner. I fear it.
I fear the night it brings.
I fear the destruction it will wreak.
It was ten in the morning, and I had an hour and a half to get to work. The cigarette had costed me time and five dollars. The biscuit and coffee nothing. They certainly made me feel better however and I knew in the long run that it was a smart move. Despite the time I lost, I remained undeterred as I walked the city and passed by many famous sights. The Revere House to name one. The harbor from earlier. I even passed by the statue of Mr. Paul Revere himself and noticed the norm of many tourists snapping photos in front of the bronze thing. Normally I don't pass by these sights but with roadblocks set up all around the city, directing traffic and keeping certain roads absolutely clear. Some of the blockades I couldn't even pass with my credentials, but of course those roadblocks were almost always protected entirely by the military. Marines.
Obviously they were under orders to let no one but their own pass, and while it was inconvenient to me I was under full understanding. For instead of arguing like some of the odd tourist or residents did, I just elected to find a new route. Alleyways and side roads. Through quaint gardens and in between traffic backed up all the way to the city limits.
Sometimes I loathed my car-less life. But in moments like these I realized my anxiety and time thanked me dearly for my sacrifice.
Soon I found myself from Fifteenth Avenue to Haymarket Square, the historic town square of the city. It was here that I saw the most traffic on the roads, however here it had many outlets and traffic wasn't exactly at a standstill as many fled to find alternate routes to their destinations. Along the way I noticed more officers going the same direction as I. Some recognized me and called me out to talk, and some just kept on walking regardless. After all, the Boston Police Department was only a few blocks away from here and I would be there in no time as long as nothing sidetracked me. This was how it was everyday for me and each day I would never trade for another. Despite my troubles, I was proud to have this job.
Not to mention my legs adored me for it.
I stopped and glanced to my right, nearly walking right by my inspiration. Turning to face it fully, I marveled at the posters that lay there and smiled in an inspired joy as I took in every detail. Then I fell into a deep concentration of thought. Disappointment began to fill my senses, but not towards me. Rather, it was directed at my fellow mankind.
The posters depicted valiant heroes of our age. Valiant men and women, Omnics and oddities, soldiers and scientists, all now labeled as terrorists. Grout-toiling mercenaries. Good for nothing criminals. I frowned upon noticing unintelligible graffiti scrabbled under the nameplate of which was already scratched and heavily decayed thanks to years of neglect and abuse. But nonetheless I knew what this poster was of.
It was of Overwatch.
Decrepit, scratched backwards and out, and worn by both time, weather, and human intervention, these once magnificent blue posters were nothing more than gray-ish memoirs of a time since past. Of a time when oblivion was at our doorstep, and they stood as the protectors for us all. It was all the more disappointing to me that someone would deface such a heroic depiction. On the poster was the hero known as Tracer. A former RAF pilot turned Overwatch agent. Everyone knew her, or at least knew about her. A woman with the ability to jump forwards and backwards in time at will, and not to mention her iconic personality. Sporting her ballistic goggles, depicted as orange but on this poster it was nothing more than a torn fabricated piece of artwork, her iconic RAF flight jacket which sported the Union Jack on one shoulder and the RAF symbol on the other, and her once bright orange leggings, which were now belittled with defamation and neglect. Then finally was the device she bore upon her chest. One would never see her go anywhere without it, and often it was the most recognized device of hers.
Frankly the name of it escaped me. There was a time where I knew its name but that time has passed. I never understood the purpose either. But I was sure that whatever it was, it had to do with her abilities.
Depicted all around her was flying dust, dirt, and bullets while a blue trail that acted as her companion emanated from her device with each of her deft movements. She was staring at the viewer with a wide, cheeky grin and a defiant glare, holding her pistols in opposite directions and firing like a madwoman at the unseen hostiles. Not a single scratch existed on her….in a figurative sense. But in a physical sense, this poster was ruined. Soiled by the ingrates that was humanity. Destroyed by countless weather events. Forgotten by those who once hailed them as heroes. At the bottom of the poster read, in neglected and abused gray letters:
"Become the hero this world needs! Join Overwatch today!"
I marveled at the bravado, as I did everyday. Sure, this was most likely just a fabrication on the artist's part. No picture was likely taken in the heat of battle, and more so in such a perfect quality. More likely they had Tracer pose and then made an addendum the special effects. But nonetheless I felt starstruck by just staring at it.
I admired the woman, I truly did. I admired her for her bravery, tenacity, and her valor. I also heard stories about her. How she was unfazed by combat and would make jokes and giggle even in the grimmest of the fighting. That it all seemed like a fun game in her eyes. That she could be bleeding from a wound to her thigh or her stomach and she would just laugh it off and call it nothing more than a boo-boo. At first I believed this to be psychopathy, but eventually realized she's just that confident and courageous. Never doubting in her abilities or her allies and willing strike the danger head on like a bull.
A small bull, that is.
Around the building I had found myself gawking at were more posters, all of differing Overwatch agents. Green and blue posters of the agent known as Genji - brandishing his blades with the words "Become the Dragon and devour evil! Enlist now!" featured prominently upon it. White and blue posters of their benevolent doctor, Mercy; bearing her Valkyrie Battle Suit and her medical staff with the words "Join us, and be the savior we need!". Then there were a few where their commander, a heroic soldier named Jack, stood defiantly between a group of bloodthirsty Omnics and a cowering group of children. The words "Step up and protect the future!" being plastered above the hero's blonde hair. But most prominent was Tracer, owing to the fact about seven existed on this side of the building alone with her exclusively on the cover. Some were in such complete tatters that I couldn't even make out what was supposed to be depicted besides a glance of her signature outfit, and at times a passing pedestrian would roll their eyes and tell me to stop wasting my time.
"They're long gone, mac." One had informed me.
I knew that. I knew it well. This building was one of their many recruiting stations that dotted the country, not to mention the world. Now condemned and slated for future destruction. It was a shame to be sure. But what could one police officer due to object? Nothing. Most people don't even care to mention their names anymore. Branding them such labels as "terrorists". I saw this as unjust but people did what they will, and I did the same.
The only difference being that I knew and believed they were still heroes. One and all.
There was a time when I would've joined. But that time is long since past, and I missed my window too late.
My starstruck thoughts were interrupted as another body collided with mine. The sudden force of which sent us both reeling, but I only staggered a step back while they fell to their rump with a large yelp. An audible grunt of surprise escaped both our lips and I turned to look at the klutz. Yet to my great surprise, it was again that woman from the gas station; her shades going askew at the sudden meeting of force and revealing to me an iris with the tint of deep brown hiding behind them.
"I-I am so sorry, ma'am." I apologized with a surprised stammer as I froze, not completely registering what had just happened. Looking down at her, I soon caught my senses and outstretched a hand to help her up. She didn't notice the gesture at first, opting instead to set right her glasses and glance around in her daze. She obviously didn't understand what occurred at first either but the realization quickly set in. Upon noticing my hand she took it gladly.
"Ah rubbish, it's my fault. Shoulda been looking where I was going." She admitted as I helped her stand. She giggled, and dusted herself off. "Sorry, luv. Completely my fault."
When she was satisfied that any and all damage to her parka were nonexistent she looked up to me with the brightest smile I've seen all morning. The kind of smile that a child would give a parent on their first day of school, or perhaps the kind of a smile a truly happy person could give when the world has treated them right their whole lives. The freckles that decorated her cheeks only somehow made the smile brighter. She looked me over right quick, leaning in as she glanced over me over head to toe. At first I felt a little uncomfortable, not completely understanding what she was doing. But when she gave a satisfied huff and returned my personal space to me, she spoke once again with a taint of recognition to her voice.
"Oi, you're that chain-smoking bobby!" She remarked, he smile unfading. I rose a brow at her choice of words and couldn't decide really on how I felt about it. It felt like an insult but at the same time it didn't, mainly because of how casually she said it. She crossed her arms and giggled as she noticed my discomfort but said nothing else, obviously waiting for a response to her quip.
Of course, I responded with the first thing that came to mind.
"Hey, I don't qualify as chain-smoker. It was just one cigarette…." I retorted, frowning. I looked away for a minute, still contemplating on her use of the name "Bobby". I felt confused, majorly so.
"...and, eh…. My names not Bobby."
Suddenly, the woman let loose a loud and obnoxious lip bubble before erupting into an amusing and bubbly laughing fit. Each guffaw that slipped past her lips both surprised and amused me to a degree; surprise because of how loud she was. Even among the words of those around us and the honks of the vehicles at a near standstill, she seemed to deafen all else. As if that is all I could focus on. It amused me because of just how sincere it sounded. It wasn't forced, and it certainly made no sense to me. But even so she found it to be completely humorous. Her face grew red as her laughter continued, and around us a couple of passersby stopped to look at the obnoxious young Brit.
After a few moments she stopped to catch her breath, with the laugh dying out as the hilarity of what had occurred dimmed in the spectrum of humor. She rose a finger under her sunglasses and wiped away what looked like a tear and started hyperventilating in a fit attempting to retrieve the precious air her outburst denied. At some point I decided to smile and glance around, attempting not stare at her while also conveying my discomfort rather subtly. She didn't seem to notice because her inhales did not die in tone nor did she even attempt to expedite a calmness for herself.
"Something funny ma'am?" I asked calmly, resting my fists on my hips as I looked at her with a curious brow. Her breathing steadied itself slowly and in between her gasps for air she managed to voice her response.
"You….you-you really gotta… Heheheheh!" She started giggling. "You really… You really gotta brush up on your British words, luv. It's very...hooo boy..." She gasped, holding a hand up to keep me quiet as she steadied herself. I took a step forward, looking at her with concern and ignoring her gesture.
"Are you gonna be alright?" I asked slowly, not quite sure where to go from here. She smiled, her whitened skin gradually returning to its natural pigment.
"Yeah, luv. I'll be fine. I just…. Heheh." She giggled again, holding her hand to her lips as she did so. "Oh boy, that was a good one there. You have no idea." She said, shaking a finger at me as she held her side. "You're a funny bloke, ya know that?"
I chuckled, still unsure of how to proceed. But I looked at her with genuine curiosity. She started swinging her arms by her sides and her smile remained plastered where it was. Earlier she had stomped away so fast at an unjust harshness that was directed at her by me. Now she was laughing and calling me funny. I was understandably confused and just casted my eyes downwards, avoiding her searching glance. I couldn't see where her eyes were focused, but part of me insinuated that she was searching for a reaction. One I could not give….at least not the one she wanted.
But just as fast as I brought them down I brought them back up, immediately realizing I had not yet apologized for how I treated her earlier, and I knew that this would be my best chance to right that wrong.
"Hey, listen. I'm sorry for...earlier. I've just gotten tired of all the judgement my friends give me and I-" She cut me off, waving a hand and going "Nah nah nah nah.".
"Oi, don't worry about that rubbish, luv. It was the nicotine talking, I know. It does that." She said, her tone going a playful sarcastic. Her hand went to her chin as she looked skywards in faux thought. "Wot I thought initially was that you were an arsehole, but then I thought back to the comic you suggested and was like "Maybe he isn't an arsehole.". Like I said, nicotine does that to kind people." She admitted, adding a small giggle at the end of her statement and soon a honk caught her attention. We both looked to the source but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just a driver fed up with the slow going traffic. I looked back at her and quickly a question entered my mind yet I held it back a moment.
"Thanks for your understanding, ma'am." I thanked her, my stance going from a perplexed one to a calm and relaxed one. "You did seem kinda mad when you stomped off, though." I noted.
She giggled, shaking her head to tell me I was wrong.
"I was trying to get out of there, luv!" She corrected. "I've been around you fag-addicts plenty in my lifetime. God Almighty, go without a fag for a mere minute an' you smokers transform into complete and utter arseholes, like five to ten fast." She used her hands to simulate an escalation and looked at me with a small grin. I wasn't sure if she was trying to poke fun here or not. True, I was a little bit harsher than I intended but I wasn't a complete "arsehole", as she put it.
Then again, I've had my morning coffee which infinitely put me in a better mood than I could muster were it without.
"I'm not like that. Trust me." I replied, adding a laugh at the end as I knew well the kind of people she was referring to. I knew it well because a lot of my colleagues tended to their stressful, emotional wounds with cigarettes. They would become complete douches without a puff once a day, their addictions hit them so hard. On some level I was in league with that, for some of the nightmarish things I have born witness to at a crime scene could only go away with the sweet release of the nicotine. Nowadays I tried not thinking on it, and when I did it didn't bother me as much as it used to. But it still does to a degree.
However I was aware that I wasn't myself while taking a puff. My friends and family have all alerted me to that long ago. But I couldn't help it. This lady was right. It was the nicotine.
But I wasn't ready to quit. Not yet.
The young, cheery Brit responded in kind to my words, agreeing that I seem much more benign compared to other, as she put it, "fag-smokers". The way she worded it made me smile and for a second there I kinda forgot it was a vice to smoke.
But when all was said and done we kinda just stood there for a moment in not-so-blissful silence. Our surroundings were loud but we were quiet. Her smile was unfading as she continued to stare at me, waiting with a hopeful and spirited smile for me to continue the conversation. Her arms continued to sway back and forth at her sides, and for that moment I was blank. I really didn't know where to take this conversation, yet at the same time I didn't want it to end. It was so rare that I spoke to such a friendly stranger. Everyone had their quirks and their chagrins, but with her it seemed that she harbored no ill-distaste. As if she didn't have a care in the world and that this was nothing more than a passing moment in her life. A moment which would undoubtedly be long lost in memory only a week later. We would all be so lucky as to have this mindset, for being hung up on a single moment in time would prove a worse end than that of the occasional cigarette.
"Hey, I got a question." I finally said after a good moment of silence.
Her smile was unfading, yet her stance had shown that she was getting ready to back away. However, she perked up at my attempt to renew this moment of small talk and I noticed her take a step closer. "Fire away, luv."
"Did a lot of you Brits show up with the Prime Minister?" I asked. Her smile faded slightly, not entirely understanding the question. Perhaps it was how I worded and I did my best to clarify, and slowly I tried to make better sense of my question. "I mean.. Are a lot of you Brits here in Boston today?"
She giggled, and shook her head. Her smile fading a little bit further. Was that a no?
"No I know wot you meant, luv. Wot? You don't like us English?" She asked, her arms no longer swaying. Instead she opted to cross them and I noticed her brows rise above her glasses. I felt her eyes staring into mine, searching for answers. Quickly my eyes shot open fully, my eyelids almost nonexistent, as I realized what she was insinuating. I stood there, only frozen as the implications of my question set in steadily for me. I quickly stammered my response, not entirely sure why she took it the way she did. To me, what seemed like an innocent question was an insult to her directly. A cheerful smile turned into a frown rather quickly. Even though I wanted to curb the misinformation, I could only stare with the words I tried speaking.
It must've looked pathetic. Especially for a man wearing the uniform of Boston's Police Department.
"Oh, no! No-no I-I-..." I stammered, gesturing with my palms facing her and backing away a step. "I-I just… I-"
My mouth kept choking my response down, and no matter how I tried saying it, it only staggered outwards and back. The woman didn't seem impressed and moved only to close the one-step gap I tried to create. She tilted her head, still waiting on my response. A response I could not give. I didn't know how to respond frankly.
Eventually her frown slowly transgressed into a smile, and her cheeks gradually went red. Her head tilted downwards as she tried to hide her growing amusement. I could hear her muffled snickers breaking through her closed lips and I was rendered nothing but more confused as I tried to spit out my defense, and eventually she could contain her laughter no longer. She broke out, another amusing laughing fit. Her young voice repeating the same guffawing fit as before. I only glanced around myself, not entirely sure what was going on anymore.
In seconds she saw I wasn't laughing and tried her best to calm herself.
"Oi, I'm just poking fun at ya! No need to be serious!" She chuckled away, waving off the negative airs of the situation now passed. The realization slowly set in for me as I came to understand she was only joking. Slowly, my smile grew. Then I joined her in the chuckles. "You're a serious one, aintcha?" She remarked as our snickers died away.
"Heh, it's-uh… It's the morning and my anxiety mixing badly." I answered, smiling at her as she made a quiet "Ohhhh.", nodding her head in a nonverbal statement of understanding.
"Yeah, well." She started, tilting her head downwards. "Being honest, a lot of people from London flew over when the Prime Minister announced his visit and his plans to hold today's rally." She answered. She brought her eyes back to me and brought her hands to rest behind her, obviously amused at how clueless I apparently am. "My whole flight was English!"
Her whole flight was English? Then how many flights since passed were entirely English as well?
Of course, I was surprised. I knew that there was to be some British tourists here today, even days before the Chief told us to expect an influx in foreigners for the upcoming rally. But her whole flight… That is a lot of people, combined with more and more flights coming into the city, it was entirely possible that Boston's entire tourist population was British today. While that possible fact in of itself was OK, I was likely due to meet a whole new people. Both an exciting and fearful thought.
"Well… actually… It was half and half." She quietly admitted, bring her hands to scale and lifted up and down one after the other as if weighing the nonexistent numbers. "Half Japanese and half English… but still!"
Ah…
"Is this your first time in Boston?" I asked, gesturing to the city around us. She nodded in response and my smile grew only slightly. "Well how're you enjoying the city?" I added with genuine curiosity.
The girl bounced up as she responded, mentioning all the sights she's seen and all the kind people she has spoken to. The sudden burst of energy surprised me to a great degree but I listened even so. She mentioned, through a wide grin, how she had always been talking with her "chums" about visiting such a historical city but never was able to act on her plans until this rally. Saying how "This rally was a perfect opportunity.". She talked on and on, very excitedly, about how she had been up all morning walking the streets before the tourist rush. The Revere House. The Harbor. The Statue of Paul Revere. Name a place of significance, she said, and she'd been there. Photos, souvenirs, and more she mentioned, lined a friend's apartment with whom she mentioned staying with. Her eyes perked open, brows peeking past the rim of her shades, as she thought about the pictures and with a loud "Ooo!" she quickly offered to show me the few she had on her person. Even reaching into her pocket to pull out her phone, expecting me to say yes.
When I denied her offer she seemed a bit downcast as she had paused a moment to comprehend my decision. When it finally dawned on her she seemed bashful, rubbing the back of her skull and glancing away sheepishly with a deep blush as she returned the phone into its hiding place and going so far as to apologize, claiming that she was very excitable. Suddenly, as if what had happened didn't, she then went on and on complimenting the city, it's size, the architecture and it all made me smile. Smiling, knowing that even in the mornings there exist people who are determined to make any day a good day. No matter how tired they were.
If only I could be so incandescent.
"Not as big as London, mind you." She admitted. "But amazing regardless!"
She paused, as if in thought. Quickly, her lips curled from a slight bashful to highly giddy and she added: "'Course, then I met a bobby who forgot his manners at home." She jested. And I laughed, understanding well by now where this lady's personality stood at.
"Oh forgive me, Princess England." I mocked her. Sporting a Boston accent with a faux regal tint just to make it worse. "I'll go right back and grab them. Y-you want a spot of tea while I'm there?"
She giggled and I joined in with my own fit of laughter. I heard one of the passersby snicker at my remark and noticed he had glanced back to see who had made it - another police officer. Satisfied, he offered a thumbs up and shook his head in amusement as he walked on.
"Oi, now you're getting it." She commented in between the giggles. "You've got a terrible accent, though. Don't ever grace our homeland with that!"
"If I ever go to England I'll remember that."
I knew I could spare a few more minutes and we continued our conversation. So we just talked. Mainly about how she was finding Boston to her liking, the souvenirs she had purchased during her apparent week-long stay. She also commented on the fact I was the only one in this city to even offer her a passing glance. It was a surprise to say the least. She seemed rather approachable, and when questioned on this she was just as unsure. Some of the people she met were rather nice to her, including me, but I was the first she had any extended interaction with. Even her friend was always away from the apartment, doing his day-job. As she put it, it was a relief. She was bubbled up with so much excitement and glee from the past few days that she could hardly contain herself anymore. At least in her own words. That itself did explain a lot about her and why she acted so out of place. So excited in an early morning plagued by exhaustion and unwilling detours, and surrounded by people just going to work.
Sure, there was the rally. She would be attending it, she said it herself. The highlight of her day, as she put it. But if one were to ask me, she had already found her highlight. She was certainly acting like it, excitement built up prior or no.
Minutes, more so that I intended, had passed as we conversed. Her cracking the odd joke or me asking with genuine curiosity her time in Boston. The people she met. The places she's been. Just a way to kill time so I wasn't early at the station, but also because I rather enjoyed talking to her. Her energy was infectious and made me smile and actually aided me in forgetting the nerves upon which I was still suffering.
Eventually we both kinda paused as I stopped to glance at my watch to find, much to my surprise, that it was ten fifty seven. I glanced at her sheepishly before informing her I had to get going before I was late. She nodded, her cheery grin dying down a little. I extended my arm for a handshake, informing her that it was great meeting her. She took that hand near readily and assured me the same. When she got to my name she had paused, just realizing she never got my name and I the same.
"Officer…..officer…." She kept muttering, bending forward to grab a better look, through black sunglasses and curious eyes, at my nametag. "C-cr...Crohse?" She finalized with an upward inflection, glancing back up to meet my gaze. "That's an odd name, innit?" She asked, giggling at her own ribbing.
I only chuckled and corrected her mistake on pronunciation.
"Actually it's "Crouse", ma'am." I corrected, putting a heavy emphasis on my name as it slipped my lips. Her face grew an embarrassed look and she was quick to apologize for her mistake, which I only brushed off. "Mistakes happen. It's alright Ms…..?"
She did not reply immediately, rather she opted to stand there almost in a confused state for a moment. Either deep in thought or distracted by something else entirely. For a second she hesitated her reply, but eventually decided upon it.
"Oxton. Call me Oxton." She replied with a worried-looking smile accompanied by a small and indecisive shrug that didn't exactly look like it was meant for me, or anyone in exact particularity.
"Heh, that doesn't sound like a first name." I responded, raising a brow of pure skepticism at her choice. She only giggled her initial response before adding: "We're on a last name basis, luv."
I shared a chuckle with her before glancing once more at my watch and insisting on departing. She gave me a goodbye before attempting to step past me, and I past her. But before anything else could happen she stopped me one last time, grabbing me by the shoulder and offering a "Wait!" in a semi-urgent tone. I quickly pivoted, not sure of what was immediately happening, and as I faced her I gave her a serious look of concern.
"Something wrong, Ms. Oxton?" I replied, my smile fading as I immediately thought up worst case scenario. But as quickly as the worry set in, it dissipated when I noticed her wide grin. Instantly I found myself at ease, and noticed she was pulling out a piece of paper from one of her back pockets.
"Yes, actually." She started, unfolding the paper and glancing it over. "Before the rally I have one more place I would like to visit. Buuuuut…" She lead on, gesturing all around her as to imply something, but in my morning weary state I just felt like I was missing something completely. "...I'm not at home, as you know, bobby. Could you give me directions to….uhh...whatever this place is?"
She handed me the paper and stood hopeful as I glanced from her to the sheet. I instantly recognized the building printed on it as the Old State House. A Museum dedicated to the history of this wonderful city as well as one of the first seats of government for the city back in the days of America's toddlerhood. Slowly, a smile sprouting from my indifferent lips and I began remembering how my father would take me there every couple of years up until his deployment. I remembered how happy I was and how every moment was a new experience for me. New people, new knick-knacks, new hats, new everything. The curator, I remember, was an Omnic who had suffered dearly in the crisis due to prejudice and even today I recognize him only by his one discerning feature:
The one arm he still retained. The other having been ripped off by rioters a long time ago.
Poor guy.
As the memories of my youth flooded my mind like a sluice gate newly opened, I only stood there as I stared blankly with smile quickly fading into a longing stare. Remembering vaguely my first visit twenty-nine years ago. It was a wonderful time, and I was only a four year old child. My father having just become a Sergeant in the Marine Corps and my mother getting a very expensive chemotherapy treatment needed for her survival. She was never able to go anywhere with us, the cancer she was suffering from took away her energy to move anywhere and my father was hard pressed keeping us afloat financially. With the war at its head the last thing everyone around us cared about was a woman with cancer. Especially so when the Omnics would raid the city almost every other week.
The trips to the Old State House permanently stopped when he was called to arms and deployed to Germany. My mother - God rest her soul - died not long after him. The cancer she was suffering from had killed her a week after the cremation, and I was alone. My sisters were unable to take me in due to the hardships they were facing and the rest of the family spread all over the country didn't give a shit.
The rest of my thoughts became a foggy haze as I stared at the picture, and I was unsure just how long I stood there.
Eventually, I was jogged out of my trance by Oxton. I had been unaware of my frozen state as my mind gradually developed into a pitiful mess of emotions and despair. Of unfair loss and equally damning want. When she finally caught my attention I had jumped, frightened by the sudden tap of the shoulder.
"Bobby?" She had inquired with a bit of concern tailoring her words. "Are you alright, bobby?"
When I came to understand my situation I only stared at her with a blank expression with an added breath of fear. I was unsure of the previous question askd and she only looked at me, through the worry of her pupils and protection of the sunglasses, equally unsure of what had just transpired. When my continued unknowing gaze started to faze her, she waved a hand in front of me trying to draw my attention back to the world of the now.
"Earth to Crooooouse….. Hello?" She tried.
I blunk, and regained a small bit of sense.
"I...Uhh." I stammered, glancing between her and the paper. Finally finding the will to speak again. She stared at me, dumbfounded.
"Are you alright, luv?" She inquired, taking a cautious step forward. "You looked at the photo and suddenly went vegetable on me."
I didn't reply. Only opting to let my jaw hang as I stared between her and the picture she had handed me. She rose her eyebrows and cocked her head, obviously concerned for my well-being. I felt her eyes trail from mine to the paper she had handed me, and I saw her hands move to take the picture. My words stopped her, however, as I finally answered her initial question.
"I..Uh-S-sorry." I stammered, folding up the picture. "I-I know the way there. Yeah. That's the Old State House…" I started. She nodded, understanding I just wanted to move by what had just transpired before us both. I pointed past her, and she followed where I was pointing, and I informed her the proper way to her destination. She did her best to confirm my directions before slowly accepting back the picture. But even after she continued to stare at me, and I could feel her eyes searching mine not with anything but pure concern.
"You gonna be alright, luv?" She asked. "You had me worried, the way you just ogled the picture and all…"
"Yeah I'll be fine…. I just…." I waved her off, feigning positive indifference to what had occurred. She was not convinced. I could already see it. "I gotta get going I'm gonna be late."
For a second she just looked at me, her lips curling into an unsure smile. Putting her hands on her hips and cocking her head, she just stared. Either uncomfortable with what had just happened or worried all the same, but then she suddenly just shrugged.
"Well. Thanks, luv." She thanked me, offering a two-finger salute alongside her warm yet concerned smile. She evidently decided that it was time to parts ways however as she didn't attempt to hold my attentions any longer. With a small wave, she cordially offered: "You take care of yourself now, y'hear?"
She turned away. Smiling, I did the very same. I paused a minute and heard her move off, her boots stamping hard upon the snow-covered sidewalk, and past all the others who did the very same. Slowly I took a first step forward. Then another. Then another. And soon I had joined with the rest of the city on the morning rush to work and other places. I snuck a glance back behind me to see if I could still spot her but it was for nothing. She was gone; having already disappeared into the thick crowd that only grew by the minute as the sleepy city slowly but steadily awoke from its night time slumber into its busy, noisy, and occupied normal self. My smile dissipated and I exhaled a warm, yet freezing, mist of anxiety-fueled breath. Suddenly, I kicked myself mentally. Cursing underneath my breath for allowing my anxiety to take control of such an invigorating and relaxing conversation with an individual whose company I was genuinely enjoying.
True, she was odd. Energetic. A tease. Despite the out-of-norm behavior, it was a breath of fresh air to actually communicate with one who broke the average normality by herself. A decent change to a rather uneventful life, as it were. A morning person in a city plagued by unhappy early risers.
Truly, I was angry at having allowed my own mental shortcomings to scare away such an individual, and were it not for my job I probably would've found myself offering to walk her there so she wouldn't get lost. But judging based solely upon what I knew and observed, I realized faintly that she would have no trouble.
Besides, after that display of emotion, it was likely she would have declined the offer of companionship.
I sighed, stepping into a Marine as he passed by.
"Watch it, will ya?" He ordered, glaring at me through his goggles. I only apologized and moved on.
As I walked, my thoughts soon found themselves gleaming back upon the image of the Old State House. I never did possess a picture of the building, much less one with my father and I there. Yet the building itself held so much significance to me - a fond memory lost in a childhood destroyed by war and affliction and desecrated by the memories which cloud it, and perverted by youth spent foraging for both survival and the means to be better than what I had become - and yet I never made time to visit the building and relive my past. After a brief moment in petty thought, I decided it would do me some good to take a few hours to visit it. See the old Omnic as well and catch up.
After a night of hitting the bar, of course.
Soon I found myself standing at a crosswalk, just waiting for the signal so I could cross. The Police Station was only a block away, and I was nearly on time; late by only a few minutes. I knew no one would bat an eye, so many officers were still lollygagging about trying to worm their way through the ever growing street crowd. A thought hit me, and I silently voiced it as mild confusion set it.
"What the fuck is a "bobby"?" I muttered, casting my eyes downwards to avoid the gaze of the man next to me who had heard what I had said. I could tell by his facial features he was English, and he curled his chapped lips into an ugly grin, showcasing that he knew something I did not. But whatever it was, he was not telling. He stepped past me, shaking his head as the light to go went green, and the vehicles all around stopped to let us vulnerable pedestrians pass. But all the same they honked, annoyed at the sudden horde of passersby stopping the already boggled and obstructed traffic.
When I got to the other side I found myself standing before the police station, and cops were streaming in. It was a rather large building that dominated the authoritative sense this district had, and its imposing stature only served to house both the equipment, staff, and instill the continued belief in the people of this fair city that we would be there to help whenever. The parking lot was filled to the brim with hovercars, and the vans belonging to the S.W.A.T. team were parked and on standby for deployment at a moments notice, a single S.W.A.T. official stood guard, armed with a riot shield and a standard issue ZERC PDW.
The ZERC PDW - or in full name, Zeus Riot Control and Personal Defense Weapon - was the standard issue sidearm for all Boston Law Enforcement agents as well as a nationally recognized handgun among police officers. It was the eventual successor to the old 21st century glock twenty-two and handheld tasers but with many improvements. One such improvement was the change in functions, as it not only served a purpose as a lethal takedown and personal defense weapon but also offered a secondary nonlethal function in the form of a built-in taser parallel to the barrel of the weapon. A little switch next to the safety button switched modes and thus eliminated the need for officers to carry tasers. The best thing about it was its stopping power however, as it chambered forty-five APC rounds when used in a lethal situation, and when going nonlethal the wattage was enough to bring the tallest man to the ground with ease.
An obvious con to the ammo type however was the kick it possessed. When I first fired one I nearly dislocated my hand due to the fact I was not taught properly how to hold it at the time. But as timed passed in my training I got used to it. The kick became less of a burden and more of a thrilling feel, and yet me being right handed had left me without a reliable hand to fire with. It forced me to learn ambidexterity. It was a painful and time consuming process but one that was well worth the time and effort put in. One that may even save my life one day.
The S.W.A.T. official nodded at me as I passed, but did not falter in his imposing and authoritative stance. Even the civilians who worked in the department did their best to skirt his presence, and through his balaclava I could tell it amused him greatly.
I was also armed with a ZERC PDW but most officers, due to the extremely dangerous nature of the weapon, were not allowed to retain personal possession of the firearm and instead it belonged to the department, the city, and the state and was to be kept at all times - when not on duty - in the locker of the officer in question. Only S.W.A.T. officials were allowed personal possession and even then they had to possess a permit authorized by the mayor himself. In theory, this was an understandable restriction due to its extremely dangerous nature. But to some officers it was unfair because every officer was responsible for purchasing, maintaining, and purchasing ammo for the ZERC PDW and many saw the weapon as theirs, not the governments.
How I thought of it was simple: I didn't care.
Step by step, one foot in front of the other, I made my way through the crowded parking lot and past all the officers engaged in their sidewalk conversations. Some were engaged with the other officers, some with young and aged women and men with varying relationships. Mothers, sisters, wives, girlfriends. Brothers, husbands, boyfriends, fathers. Some were just standing around, smoking their cigarettes or popping a swig of their flask before work. Some were on their phones, tap-tap-tapping away at the virtual keyboard on their addictive devices as they smiled to whatever it was that captivated their attentions. But even then a good number of them were making their way into the soft blue building, surrounded by noisy traffic and tired civilians all.
We had minor outlying stations throughout the city and usually that is where most of these officers would go so as to be able to respond fast to any emergency anywhere in the city. But today was an important one and all officers were required to be on duty, and most were called to headquarters for our briefing. Even the S.W.A.T. in its entirety were here. Granted it would be a fools notion to leave the scattered smaller stations unattended to and so a small team of officers were left at each one to respond to other emergencies. The bulk of the police force being on standby to respond to a threat to either the President, Prime Minister, or anything else that requires immediate mandatory response.
Of course, I wasn't on staff for the latter. I was on staff to act as on-site security for the Prime Minister's speech alongside other officers, U.S. Marines, and the British Royal Guards. At least, that is what my assignment was said to be. A few days ago everyone in the office got notices about what their roles were to be. I wasn't too happy about this however as not only would I be out in front of a crowd; something I heavily despised, but I was also tasked with making sure that if anything went wrong the Prime Minister escaped with his life. I wasn't a soldier. If I actually had the misfortune to face anyone with the firepower and the testicular fortitude to take on both the Royal Guards and Marines, what chance did a cop - armed with a ZERC PDW and a pump-action shotgun - stand?
You're overthinking iiiiiiit.
My anxiety was killing me, and I felt the fires of worry burn deep in my bosom. My cheeks felt warm as even when I tried my best to halt my worry, I found no road to success. Stopping just short of the doors, I stuffed my gloved hands into my warm coat pockets to enjoy another cigarette. Soon, my heart-burning anxiety was replaced with a silent and distant calm. Smoke flowing through the air in a quick instant, and all feelings of worry dissipating in the flick of a gear. A content smile grew on my face, and my eyes closed slowly as I took my puffs. A sigh here, an exhale there.
My thoughts returned to my early conversation with the odd yet bubbly and smile-inducing Brit, and still the question remained; spoken yet unspoken all the same:
What is a bobby?
The morning passed slowly near a half-frigid noon, with the time being eleven in the morning. I was late only by a few minutes but with the influx of police officers no one was the wiser. As I finished my cigarette and took a step into the building I was greeted by the young receptionist. A small conversation followed that lasted not nearly as long as the one I had with that memorable Brit. The young blonde wasn't as giddy as her usual self, with bags under her eyes showing what little sleep she managed. She was never as whimsical as that odd Brit seemed to be - inherently - but she was always excited for each day and greeted every officer with a smile, a "Good Morning!", and directions to the coffee pot.
Today, however, she was quiet, unwilling, and even annoyed at the slightest of inconveniences. When pressed on her reason for being here, she stated that the Chief needed someone to log into the system each officer who arrived. According to her, most officers had already arrived with the percentage being around eighty percent. A nice surprise to me in the end.
The lobby itself was almost devoid of life as officers moved to the back offices and lockers. All of us were preparing ourselves for the day and many were at the shooting range, the lockers, the cafeteria, or bumming around awaiting word for our deployment. I myself wasn't going to nab something to eat - as I had already eaten - nor was I ready to arm myself. After giving her my credentials I moved on passed her and into the offices, where I was screened by an officer looking for my ID. After a quick confrontation he let me past. The offices were busy. Uniformed officers going to and fro in a hurry while some weren't even dressed properly as they still remained in their civilian clothes. The sounds of paperwork, printers, conversations, and announcements over the intercom filled the room with noise much akin to that of the streets, and as I hesitated a step forward I let loose a dull, weary sigh. Dull enough that it couldn't bear the idea of cutting the weakest of butter.
The officer noticed this and questioned me with a curious and concerned eye.
"You alright, Crouse?" He asked. I turned to glance at him, faking surprise that he knew more than "ID please.". I wanted to snicker at my own thought but held it in as I thought up a proper response. One I came to find quickly amidst the haze that continues to plague the borders of my mind.
"Yeah. It's…" I paused, not really understanding why…"It's just one of those days."
He nodded, and looked away as I took my leave. Past the officers knee-deep in paperwork. Past the undermanned press conference room and break room. Past the drunk tank filled with deadbeat dads, drunken late-night party girls, and other unfortunate souls who found themselves on the wrong side of the law with the wrong type of bottle. Across from it were the jail cells, where the more cumbersome lawbreakers were held. A couple were in the cells, sleeping off their crimes and not thinking of what do right next time. An officer stood guard there, armed with nothing but a baton and a computer on which I noticed he was playing Solitaire. A prisoner was watching from the corner, hanging his arms around the bars as he witnessed in odd glee his only form of entertainment in this weary yet busy place.
"Put the spade under that diamond…" I heard him advise, nearly shouting to get his point across. Several prisoners shook as he spoke, and the guard turned to look at him while continuing his game. "No, no no! The eight, not the seven!"
The guard still stared at him, but opted instead to pause instead of continuing his game. The prisoner just looked at him and nodded for him to keep going, finding that this sight was a thousand times more entertaining than any alternative in this rough side of the building. It was then the officer noticed me and he waved me over, but I shook my head. I knew who this officer was, but I did not have the time to share his day. I only pointed at my watch and his quick smile faded back into the bored shell of an unhappily-assigned man. He nodded in understanding and continued his game, forgetting his peeping-Tom. I as well opted to move on, but as I passed the cells in their entirety I heard the inmate pipe up again with more advice.
"That's an ace, keep track of that little fucker."
Eventually, through the noise and the growing disquieting angst of the police station I found my desk, alone and battered at the back of the station. Paperwork scattered all across the surface as arrest reports, analysis confirmations, and other pieces of work had flooded in overnight as the night shift hurriedly blew through their job as to go home as soon as possible to catch what little sleep we all had acquired. The papers were carelessly tossed here and there with some even on the floor impatiently waiting for my signatures.
My personal effects were disregarded by whoever had done this as the picture of my father was on its back and nearly smothered by the work. My coffee mug, which held my pens, lay shattered effortlessly on the ground besides the trash bin. All the pens had rolled off to God knows where, and there I was left. A blank stare as I absorbed the scene before me in a contemptible attitude. My nameplate - "Sgt. Daniel L. Crouse" - was left undisturbed to my greatest surprise.
I sighed and disposed properly the shattered remains of my mug and took my seat uncaring of where the pens had found themselves. For a minute or two I just sat there, unmoving. Blank, as it were. But eventually I caught myself as a passing officer, Officer Hood - a good friend of mine and fellow sergeant - gave me cause to remember the present. Our conversation - a quick talk about the day ahead of us - was short lived as he had to help the Chief ready our briefing. He departed, leaving me a desk cremated in stressful paperwork.
I retrieved a pen from a drawer in my desk and got to work. With a sigh, and a discontent mind, I worked until the day passed slowly into noon.