A/N: I hope the delay will be worth it. Enjoy.
Getting so caught on to these ideas, I lost track of the time. I guess when you are preoccupied with redemption you barely notice when the night completely falls around you. I looked at my watch and notice that is a quarter past midnight. The police station is indeed open the 24 hours of the day, but the administrative floor isn't, where I am currently. I would say I am surprised that no one stopped by and notified me how late it was, but really I'm not. Shaking physically my head, I begin putting away the eleven unfinished reports from today. I can't help but let my mind wanders to my to-do list; the design for the nanotechnology armour; aka the suits, are done, the weapons are also completely designed, along with their respective ammunition, they only thing that changes is the color scheme, and the sole thing that isn't thoroughly done is my signature eye-mask with a little variation from the Robin one. I have already tried the full mask with Red X and it's such a pain to talk through it, not to mention the sweat everywhere is completely disgusting. I tiredly rub my eyes and begin packing my messenger bag to handle some files and my laptop home. I doubt I will manage any work completed, but for the sake of my obsessive perfectionism, I jam them anyway. I get up my seat, stretch myself and begin walking to the exit stairs that would conduct me to the operational floor. Naturally, make sure I shut the power off the light of the admin-floor.
As I reach the op-floor, I recalled the early days when I had a field job and typically departed early from the station in favor of enjoying some drinks with colleges, which right now those days seem so distant, arriving "late" home because I was working has become a habit. That is if you could call home a vacant loft, with barely enough furniture to classify as a habited place. The trip I undertake to my loft is easy enough, I merely need to travel by bus, taking the one int the corner across the police station and hang in there for a good twenty minutes. Seeing said bus through the windows of the station, I run to get out, squishing myself between the numerous officers that are idling, barely entering the bus. One of the scarcely good things is that the transport, either by train, bus or subway, for anyone in this city, is free. I walk carefully to one of the many empty places on the bus, hoping not to fall down meanwhile the driver transforms into a Formula champion. I end up sitting in the third row on the right, next to a window. The road is clear like it typically is on the nights. Another reason I like about getting home late, is the fact that there isn't a single soul on the streets, besides the casual homeless man or women and the gangs here and there.
The road is silent and soon enough the bus is turning to the right on Rayson St. where I survey the building I'm currently living in. The building is charming in its own way, and the silver lining is that it hasn't been a crime scene in years, unless you regard the suicides. The suicide rate is higher than ever, quite disturbingly so, but, nobody seems to care enough. I mean, every day is sort of a little battle on the streets, and everyone is hyper alert on not getting killed when you cross the street to purchase food from the little shop that looks more like a prison than a store.
Remembering that I don't have any kind of edible items on my loft, I get out of the bus and instead of entering straight to my buiding I continue walking to said little shop, right at the corner of the street, just to get some bread, ham, cheese, orange juice, and chamomile tea. Indeed, tea, not coffee. It is quite a pleasant drink. It does soothe my nerves and helps my insomnia. Arriving there I knock loudly against the metal framed window and rapidly I recognize Narrk, which I guess I could address him the clerk of the store.
-Good night, Narrk, I would take the usual. - He already has my bag of groceries ready and delivers them to me through the window.
-56.77.- He barks at me, with a pronounced French accent, that doesn't quite fit his Russian appearance, but I'm not the one to judge, at least not anymore. Hastily I release him two notes, a fifty and a ten, and he shuts off the window, nearly escaping my hand.
-Hey! Narrk, my change! - I yell at him, to no avail, because I know, that he is merely going to keep it. Instead, he solely looks once more through the window and smiles at me, beckoning me off. I return the grimace, securing my things, while I powerwalk to my building. Sure, it would be delightful to have my change but right now I think is a little more important having something to consume than not acquiring them at all. After all, you can't eat money. Well, you shouldn't eat it at least.
I turn to ultimately go to my loft, rapidly getting to the building and in a bat an eye I'm at the sixth floor of it, in the fourth door in the corridor, on the sinister side. Trusting the keys through the locks I let myself in and immediately I replace all the locks, four in total, just to proceed to leave my messenger bag and groceries in the countertop. I turn on a streaming service I pay instead of cable, I change rapidly into some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, make myself a sandwich with a tall icy glass of orange juice and rapidly let the series take my mind away for a couple of hours.
-DICK! - God, it is 6 am and he is already bickering around. Nonchalantly, I close my pocket size notebook and place my pen along with the notebook in the secret coat pocket of my blazer. I'm reasonably convinced that the squeak Damian just uttered does not belong to a human being. He has a terrible high-pitched yell. The squeak one might say you could hear from a rubber duck or a dear aquatic specie.
-Affirmative, Damian? - I let my cool facade wipe through my features, not allowing him know how disturbing his squeaky tone is. I see his grin growing under the hairy caterpillar he calls moustache. I'm never keeping a moustache.
-Bring me a snack, would ya'. I'm starving. I require you in my office. - Crap. He only summons people to get to his office when he haves something on them. Has he seen my sketches? No, he hasn't, and if he did well, I hope he doesn't possess the brains to act on it. More for show than for anything else, I get up my seat quickly to get him his beloved snack, crisps. Which are bloody expensive, I mean I presumably could manufacture them from starch and they would be cheaper and healthier, the sodium they have on them is outrageous, but then again, I'm not the one devouring them. I ran from the vending machine right to his office, armed with two packs of crisps and good tranquil face. Precisely as I arrive at his office, I see Benton leaving Damian's office, who is leaning on his chair that looks like it's going to crack and is silently asking for someone to have mercy and let it go to a better life.
-Ah! Finally! You acknowledged who is in charge, right Dicky? The good guys will always win, just look at me! I started at the bottom, and now I'm Sergeant. Justice has been delivered. - He gets up, snatches the crisps out of my hands, puffs his chest and looks at the ceiling, exactly like when someone in a lame movie tries to look deep and mysterious and fails miserably. Naturally, I'm willing to maintain my place in these headquarters, so I smile. Mischievously.
-Absolutely, Damian. But how did the get the promotion? You don't quite comply with the physical requisite? Have the standards changed? - I merely said that because, well, one needs to have a little fun in life, right? And he is a douche bag. I think he deserves it, and no, I'm not passive-aggressive. Nor salty. His face suddenly causes me to remember Benton's surely they must suffer from a similar condition. When they get distraught, they turn swollen and purple. A little victory for me. See, Slade I nevertheless got it.
- Shut up! Richard, I'm Sergeant, which means I will need all the reports I transferred you yesterday, digitized by five in the afternoon. Printed, signed and in their respective files. Understood?- So much for a little victory.
-Affirmative, Damian. - I let myself out of his office before he can ask me something else and swiftly go to my desk, where I still need to establish some kind of sense from the transcripts from the eleven reports I accumulated from yesterday plus the ones I know are coming today. I should have worked at home, that's for sure. I have a long shift ahead of me.
It's nearly my deadline and after some serious use of my Ph.D. on hieroglyphics I almost managed to put together all the reports "digitized. When they get mad, they turn swollen and purple. Suddenly gathering the ten reports I printed, I rapidly check they contain all my signature and place them in their respective folders, six on GREY folders and four on BLACK folders. I place them at the front of my desk and face my favourite manatee.
-Damian, there you go, ten reports ready to go to the analogous archive, they are already reviewed, and the digital copies are already at the database, I uploaded them a little over an hour ago, their authorization number is printed at the right corner on each one. – With that I anticipate he doesn't notice the only folder that is currently empty at the other side of my desk, which I honestly cannot comprehend.
-Nice try Dick, I see you didn't get the eleven, but with you ten it's an advance. I need that one before you go today. - Busted. But, lightly? What going on? Did Benton finally scold him? Ha! I would love to, I would even pay to witness it. With a new-found pity for Damian, I found myself responding amicably, even friendly.
-Right on, sir. – And he smiled at me, with his not so ivory teeth appearing behind that little caterpillar he calls moustache. He limited himself to accept the finished reports with him, turned around and left discreetly. It is possible that I should have treated him differently, from the beginning.
I merely grabbed the last report and begin "figuring out" whatever officer Bayle-Trent tried to describe of thievery, judging the GREY code printed in the top left corner. As I continued trying to make sense of the gibberish written on there I perceived Damian coming to my desk again. Which is quite odd, considering he was with me less than fifteen minutes ago. That can exclusively mean he needs the other report ASAP, like finish that eleventh report quickly I decided to append a scanned version of the chicken scrawl filled format to the file for the poor someone who will have to follow-up in this case. Printing all of my papers, I returned running mildly to my desk to put them together in their respective folder.
-Dick...- Right as he arrives to my desk I scramble out of my seat to deliver him the las bloody report, and I am only met with a stunned face. He must know I attached a scanned version of the file, quick think. Ignorant face now.
-Sir here is the eleventh file you needed.-
-Thanks, Dick, not what I was coming for, anyway, I will require you to do the follow-ups for the last month files, you will report from now on to Officer Lieutenant Troy. Her office is two floors below this one, I'm confident you will encounter her. – Oh, so I didn't need to panic. Also, so much for being nice with him, now he is going to assign me even more work. I examine his entire face, for an ounce of smugness, realizing there is none, but there is indeed something setting me off. I ponder what it could be.
Regardless, doing the follow-ups is not my area of expertise, but it does enable me stop being confined to the administrative floor. I could walk around the entire police station, from the administrative floor to the analogous archive floor and even to the operational floor (op-floor for short) where there are the typical four little jail-like cells, bearing each one up to five infractions simultaneously, and the registration area where the officers obtain all the data of the caught delinquents and of course the cubicles where they are interrogated and where lawyers either save or sink their clients, hell I could even go to courtrooms to see the trials.
-Are you promoting me, sir? – I asked politely, but honestly, I couldn't contain myself. I could make some serious change from the inside and work as anti-hero from the outside. Integral action!
-Something like that, but you will, nevertheless get the same payment kid. – With that, I saw two newbies officers bringing a bloody cart loaded of GREY and BLACK files. I probably didn't calculate the amount of work I would have to do. - You have a month Dick, for them to be done. After that, we'll see, maybe Officer Lieutenant Troy could consume you out of my sight. Grayson, truly, if you need anything my office is open... –
-Thank you, sir. - Well, look at that. I need buying him snacks way more often.
-Dick, let me finish, from nine to noon, Mondays only. –
-Of course. - Still, better than this. With that, he left my desk, and his two lackeys trailed after him.
A/N: Hope you like this chapter. Feedback is always welcome.