Ch 6

A Dangerous Thing

He took another glance out into the firetruck bay, it seemed even bigger now. Across the vast space stood another strange suspended room, connected to Clark's hallway by a catwalk that ran along the wall from its far side. With no more doors to be opened here, Clark sprinted for that room. Boots pounding against at first tile, then grated metal. Finally he hit the door, knocking the bolt and strikeplate right through the frame. The plate flew off and impacted with a clang against the far wall. Once again his red-dot found no targets.

His eye, however; caught a juicy one.

A glowing bluish rectangle taunted him from across the darkened room from atop one of the few clean desktops. Clark stepped around a stacked pair of water-bottle crates and grasped the laptop. If he had found this place while it was entirely empty he'd never have been so bold. This laptop would have been prime bait.

Clark looked down at the simple password screen, his head peeked up quickly to the now empty table. No sticky-notes or reminders, sadly. Only so much complacency could fit into one organization, apparently. No problem, he didn't need to carry the computer out anyway.

His fingers worked their way into a seam in the clamshell casing, the aluminum began to peel back like the skin of a chocolate coin. The guts of the machine slowly became exposed to him. It had been years since Clark had poked around inside a computer, probably a decade in fact. He tossed the bottom shell against the wall and held out the exposed machinery in from of him.

In many ways the computer architecture was familiar to him, the first thing that jumped out was that the motherboard was blue. There was a silver rectangle in the lower left corner of the board, a glossy white sticker reading "Solid State-5TB".

Sounded about right. Once again his fingers wormed their way down to the mounting brackets, the screws stripped themselves on the way out. There was a snap, something hot bit his finger.

Fuck. Clark dropped it. Looking back, he should have disconnected the battery first. He picked up the laptop again and pulled an off-textured latch to the side, the battery slid right out. The white stenciled electric Dust symbol was a nice touch, he had to admit. Even as he did his best to ignore the scent of burning plastic.

The drive came out easily, and with his only other companions in this room water-bottles and empty desks there was no longer any reason to stay. He jogged out the wide open door back out onto the catwalk.

Clark looked down at his wrist out of habit, only to find it bare. No watch, and no time to waste pulling out his scroll. He still needed more.

He paused halfway across the catwalk and looked down.

At some point over the last years of this building's active life it had been converted into some sort of office. At the other end of the bay there sat a neat grid of desks. Four squares of four desks, with a final ornate one at the end centered in a large transparent cubicle. They were all covered in fast-food wrappers and old reams of paper.

There was probably a set of stairs somewhere, but time was burning fast. Clark lifted a leg onto the railing, but it only took a beat for him to figure out why that felt wrong. Stupid, John. This was a firehouse, they already had a way to get downstairs quickly.

Hell, his father had been a fireman, this wouldn't even be his first time down the pole! He was sprinting now, having wasted enough time on recrimination.

The hook was yanked out of the eyelet with a metallic ping, the pole seemed to slide itself under him until his feet thumped into a circle of gym-padding. Judging from the smell of oil, grit, and sweat, this is where most of the building's modern magic happened.

He streaked across the bay, noting the snowflake symbol etched into the pelican crates even as he passed them by, those would be the higher-grade Dust crystals probably. He moved on past the filthy desks, kicking aside fast food wrappers as he went. The door to the cubicle was already open.

The desk itself was exactly what one would expect from your typical self-important middle manager. The wood was a rich warm brown, with a column of drawers down the left side. Clark started on the bottom, a large drawer which seemed to snap itself open when he pulled.

Only a finely-labeled collection of molds and fungi looked back at him. He moved onto the next drawer with a growl, scanning it's contents for anything of value. The compartment was defined by an old wooden divider, and filled with loose junk. Pencils, pens, paperclips. Nothing, nothing and nothing.

The lock on the last drawer didn't even slow him down, its only contribution spraying sawdust into the drawer's contents. Fingers swam through the junk. Straws, straight-razors, paperclips. Hell, there was even an old pager unit, though God knew what Remnanites would call it. Clark shoved aside a brochure

Finally his hand came into contact with the metal teeth of a key.

The paper label on the ring gave it away immediately, but as he grasped it to bring it up to his eyes there came a screeching from outside. He was out of time. The key went into his jacket-pocket, then handfuls from the trash-filled desk followed it. A van came sailing in through the farthest garage door, sending the folded metal flying back like a loose curtain. The van's windscreen also was savaged, even as it swerved to the side and slammed sidelong into the far wall of the entrance bay.

The sound of tinkling glass and debris tapered off, Clark stood rooted to the concrete, trying to force his eyes away from the hole. Well, it's simple… I'll give them that. Of course not even a second later the shouting started.

Clark sprinted back towards the desks, cursing his refusal to leave with just the drive. His eyes caught at least six black-clad figures before he ducked behind the wood. He hadn't seen a Walther submachine gun since at least the eighties, but the stamped-metal monstrosities sprayed bullets with the best of them.

He felt more than heard the guns open up, the shots seemed to shake the entire room and the bullets carved grooves into concrete. A round splattered into the floor next to his desk, spreading flame in a wide cone. Even from three feet away the heat was scorching, but without fuel it snuffed itself out. Clark gave a glance to the wall behind him, it was covered in scorches, potmarks, and ice-crystals. The voice from over the phone screamed, trying to make itself heard over the cacophony.

"What the fuck do you idiots think you're doing! Why are you using Fire-Dust rounds inside!" The staccato tapered off. Clark popped up and aimed towards the voice of reason, a white masked stocky man cuffing the back of another's head. His mask blew into splinters as a golden sheen flashed over him. Clark switched targets to the cuff-ee, who fell into a limp pile as the .40 Atlas passed through the eye of his mask.

Clark's vision was replaced by wood and concrete again as they spray of gunfire resumed in earnest. The terrorist's weren't 'talking guns' or anything of the sort, they were just holding down triggers and seeking accuracy by volume. It was a tried and true tactic, and it had its benefits. After all they were between him and the door, and had him at a five to one advantage.

"Mov.. mov fughuh! Kill the fughing lights!" That first shot had probably crushed the cell-leader's nose then, served him right for running around with a glorified Halloween mask. Clark's eyes shot up to the lights, found a white painted conduit, tracing their way down the wall to a crude switchbox nestled between the bays. A wirey-looking faunus began a dead-sprint towards it, Clark's first shot hit him in the outstretched arm, knocking a cloud of dirt off of the black hoodie. His second took the terrorist in the side just under the ribs just before Clark was forced back into cover by a near-miss, which blew splinters of the desktop into his face. A golden sheen flashed over his eyes, thankfully keeping them clear.

It wasn't much consolation.

"Careful! He's got Aura!"

Clark edged his way around the outside corner of the desk, he needed to keep changing angles. Keep them off-balence. The amateurs hadn't even taken cover, these White Fang were more "African militia" than Taliban. Hell, if Clark'd had a couple of Mujaheddin or Peshmerga with him this fight would have been over in the first fifteen seconds.

One of the terrorists appeared before him, trying to tiptoe around and flank Clark's former hiding place. Clark couldn't see his eyes, but he imagined that they got as wide as basketballs before Clark's shot hit him in the throat. The man went sprawling to the floor face-first, choking and clutching at the spurting wound.

No time to waste, his friends were between him and the door. The intensity of the fire tapered down to just a couple of gunmen. The others were either reloading or moving, Clark tuned his thankfully undamaged ears, the sounds of sneakers squeaking across the concrete floors. He moved cover again, this time he was met with gunfire from two separate angles.

Fire-dust rounds were strange things. They burned through the air like fat tracers, igniting anything that came close to them. The amount of litter and stationary kicked up by the other rounds made it easy for Clark's adrenaline-doped eyes to catch every path they cut. Warmth passed over his back, like an afternoon sun soaking through his coat.

And then it all disappeared behind yet another mass-produced desk. There were still two in the space between the bays, the other two had broken off to the right. It was a non-tenable position, which made the fact that they were the ones screaming and cursing all the more confusing.

"FUCK! IT'S SPREADING! EXTINGUISHER! EXTINGUISHER!"

Clark finally took a glance behind him, where the rampant use of Fire-Dust had led to more than a pretty light show. Flames were crawling from debris over to the piles of Dust crates in the corner. He knew how that song-and-dance went. If Clark went for the door he might make it, but this wasn't the time to test his bullet-resistance. He was going to have to get creative.

He looked left, then right. His eyes scanned the brickwork for a sign, a distraction. It found a series of moving-blankets attached to the wall in a perfect line, tracing the top of the bays. Not perfect, but it would have to do.

Luckily Clark's legs were already coiled under him, he only had to turn to face the wall and hope that his Aura would see him through. He kicked off, fire seemed to leap up from his right, there was a dull sting in his side and then he was crashing through. The glass gave out like a thick egg-shell through the blanket, the wrought iron window frames were harder, but only a little less brittle. The smell of the city returned as his body began its plummet onto the asphalt.

Clark struck the pavement with a jolt, vision still covered by the fabric. He threw it off and hopped back up to his feet.

BANG!

Whooooosh!

The Firehouse turned into a blowtorch behind him. The remaining row of windows exploded, scattering glass into the air. He covered his eyes as the fragments rained down on him. His Aura had protected him from gunshots, but the blast left his ears ringing. The tinkling of glass faded, leaving only the hellish roar of the flame and blinding light. Clark averted his eyes.

Dust touches-off like ammunition. It's what I expected, but good to know for sure.

Clark felt more than heard the cars roll up behind him, he shot a glance over his shoulder. Two old-fashioned police cars, the lights fighting for attention against the brilliance of the flame, the shriek of their sirens barely audible. A pair of immaculately dressed policemen leapt out of each car and trained their weapons on him. The brims of their caps cast dark shadows over their eyes. This time Clark's instinctive impulse was the desired one.

Did Clark really have to deal with this? The cops were lightly armed, scared, and almost certainly without Aura. He could probably make a run for it and lose them in the sprawl. Even if it came to a fight he could deal with them easily. He eyed the muzzle of the closest officer, a young, clean shaven man.

The muzzle was shaking like a broken washing-machine. Clark made up his mind.

The Schwar hit the pavement.

Interrogation Room #3

"You have no idea." Clark said. Truth be told, the part of his plan labeled "Contact Ozpin" had always been vague, aspirational even. Ozpin's eyes narrowed, his apathetic front cracking just a hair. He examined Clark through his spectacles, casually pacing to the now empty chair across from him. Ozpin dragged out the stainless steel seat and set himself down on it, rotating to face him with a precise motion.

"I must admit I am curious what you mean."

"Can you kill the cameras? We don't want this recorded."

"We?"

"I got a message from a friend of yours."

Ozpin cocked his head and gave him a slight smile, "I'm afraid that I keep in touch with most of my friends rather directly."

"The big, glowing one."

Ozpin stilled, the smile draining from his face.

He released a breath and put his hand into his jacket, removing first a scroll, and then what looked like a jewelry box. He set them out before him, flicking the box open and letting a white crystal float upwards. It floated up roughly four inches and hung there. Ozpin tapped his scroll and the crystal took on a slight green glow, then it started to hum. The gray eyes returned their gaze to him.

"Which of them sent you? Light or Darkness`?"

Hmm.

"I only knew about the glowing one, that'd be Light, right?"

Ozpin's eyebrows raised slightly, almost imperceptibly. "You're familiar with the stories aren't you?"

This part could be awkward, Clark forced himself to relax. "Afraid not, I'm not from around here, not from Remnant at all really." Weird, Ozpin flinched- but recovered quickly. Did this happen often? Was Clark not the first?

"And where precisely, Mr. Clark, are you from?"

"Planet called Earth. Seven billion people, not much in the way of the supernatural, at least as far as I saw before I keeled over."

"Keeled over? Well, I suppose I should have expected that of him."

Huh...

"He… have a habit of resurrection?"

"Quite the opposite, actually. In fact that's the reason I should've expected it."

Clark had clearly trod on a toe there, this was a chance to learn more about the mission. Maybe a little feeding the headmaster more info could get him something useful.

"He told me you weren't being fast enough, said you were dragging your heels."

Ozpin gave a short chuckle. "That seems unlikely."

"Why?"

"My 'failure' was expected, in fact desired. Tell me John, how old were you when you 'keeled-over', as you put it?"

"Just turned ninety, pushing ninety-one. Why?"

"I have been at this task for thousands of years, Mr. Clark. I don't know how long precisely, because I began before men bothered counting such things. I kept up the fight, even in the darkest of days. Eras when the works of man were laid to ruin-" Ozpin shook his head and sighed, bringing a steaming mug up to his lips. The long sip echoed in the confined space.

"-all things considered, I'd say I've done quite well. I haven't even been overt enough to end up as more than a mere footnote in a textbook for three quarters of a century."

Wait a second...

"Ozwaldo County? Really?"

Ozpin paused, then sighed and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose " As I mentioned, I try very hard to avoid… that sort of thing, but I'm usually… indisposed whilst they are making those sorts of arrangements."

"Sounds awkward, how haven't people figured it out yet."

"One gets used to it- in any case, I assume the threat you were sent to deal with was the White Fang?"

Right to business then, wonderful. No answer for the second question though.

"I spent a good chunk of my career in Counter-Terrorism, seems likely it's what I was picked-up for. It is odd a god cares about that so much though. Is there anything else?"

Ozpin sighed, taking another long draw from his mug before setting it down. "Everything else has been contained or stalemated...Vale's crime families haven't even had a war in at least twenty years. As for the Fang? My best guess is that they are a priority because they raise the stress and panic of the public at large, or are planning a large attack."

Clark ran a hand down his stubble "Hmph… Not certain that narrows it down, that pretty much defines terrorism in a nutshell, they'd have to be up to something weird. Are you sure that's it? You don't go interplanetary for talent unless something dramatic is going on."

Ozpin put on his best dull-student grin.

"I would caution against placing too much trust in the wisdom of the Brother Gods. They are prone to… misjudgments. Just because they are supernatural does not mean they are infallible, they tend to be impulsive and dramatic."

So Clark was dealing with more of a Greek-style god then. Another little-g acting it was a big one, only a god couldn't be dragged into a dark alley and disappeared. While this was unpleasent, something else was still bothering him.

He scanned Ozpin's features. The eyes, easy grin, the tilt of the head all seemed somewhat forthright.

Why was this rubbing him the wrong way then?

"You took me being from another planet pretty well, this happen often?"

"I had presumed you would be a new creation, a servant made from whole cloth. Their… agents had implied, in passing, the existence of other worlds. In hindsight my test had some serious shortcomings."

"Test? I don't remember anybody taking samples, only the fingerprints."

Ozpin's smile returned. He flicked the crystal, which began to spin wildly over its elevated platform in the case. "An old-fashioned office-toy. Not common nowadays, but well known."

"So the cameras are still on then?"

"No, my Deputy switched them off and escorted the police from the observation room. Our secrets are safe, for now."

Fair enough. The scroll vibrated against the tabletop.

"You going to get that?"

Ozpin examined the screen "I'm afraid my battery is almost dead, we will have to change locations soon."

"VPD might have an issue with that."

"I think we both know they were leaning on you so hard because they had nothing. The fire turned everything in the building to charcoal. They had some information based off of a terrorist who fled the scene, but didn't escape the blast."

"Was he in good enough condition to ID me?"

"Not before he succumbed to his burns, no. If I had to guess... his mask, and the Dust-fire led the detectives down their paths of inquiry."

It was Clark's turn to grin "No Habeus Corpus in Vale?"

Ozpin shot him a glance. "What?"

No Romans on Remnant either. "Never mind, Earth thing."

Ozpin stared for a second longer, before hitting a button on his now red-tinged scroll and calling for Button-down, who stomped in almost as soon as the button next to the door was pressed. The front left of his shirt was untucked and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Clearly he'd come in a hurry.

"You okay Sir?"

"Quite. Now, under the terms of the Official Secrets Act, Subsection… B if I recall correctly, Mr. Clark is to be released immediately. You are to return to him everything found on his person, including his weapon." The detective scoffed.

"Which one?"

Ozpin turned slightly and shot Clark a look out of the corner of his eye. He faced the detective again. "Everything, no matter how trivial or dangerous. Purge the prints from your system and remove his name from any and all files of this incident."

The detective shook as if struck "Sir, that's-" Ozpin cut him off with a wave of his finger.

"Subsections E, H, and I, to answer the objections I'm sure you were about to raise. Now see to it." Button-Down's eyebrows seemed to dance in frustration, but he soon sighed, pulled out a box of cigarettes, and walked away. Ozpin didn't even turn to address Clark.

"My deputy and I will be waiting in our car out front. Please don't keep us waiting."

Clark's handcuffs deactivated themselves with a beep and a whirr, he eased himself to his feet. "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll be real cooperative seeing how hard you just stepped on their toes. They might even spring for an expedited body-cavity search."

"Yes, well, the Council is a lot like our mutual friend. If you don't make a splash now and then, they start to stick their noses in things." The door slammed shut behind him.

Clark let the detective lead him to the out-processing room. The chubby man behind the desk did his best not to roll his eyes as he handed Clark a large zip-lock bag filled with the contents of his various pockets. Sadly, the weapons had to to handed back at the front lobby by Button-Down himself. Clark forced himself to stop smiling. Ozpin had already undermined the man, no need to widen the personal chip on his shoulder as well. Men with badges made for unpleasant enemies at the best of times, and these were certainly not the best of times.

Button-Down cringed as he finally handed Clark the knife "I don't want to know what you're going to do with this."

Then don't try and find out.

He stepped past the glass doors off the Precinct and onto the sidewalk, a glossy black car was parked by the curb. The door opened from the inside, Clark slid himself in. The back seats had been set up like a limousine, with the seats facing one-another.

A tall, blonde woman sat at the far seat, thumbing through a large transparent tablet. Her neatly creased white blouse making for a sharp contrast with the ragged remains of a purple cape that pressed against her seat. A focused look told Clark that it was not, in fact worn, but had been sewn that way by design. This was a huntress then. Flamboyantly dressed savior of humanity. Her demeanor didn't seem all that eccentric, but they hadn't even spoken yet.

Ozpin's voice echoed back from the driver's seat.

"Mr. Clark, my Deputy Headmistress, Glynda Goodwitch. Glynda?"

Ozpin, Goodwitch, the connections between his world and Remnant were sometimes a little vague, but no child of the 1950s could have possibly missed these. Clark shelved that line of thought. Not because it wasn't worth exploring, but because it was a distraction. He was meeting with important people, and it would be rude to have his thoughts elsewhere.

Glynda's face remained passive, bored almost. She extended her hand "I take it you're John Clark?"

Her grip was knuckle-popping, definitely a huntress. "That's right, glad to meet you- Ozpin, can we-"

The Headmaster spoke "Anything you could say to me, you can say to her."

"Very well, I guess the first order of business is asking if you have any insight on what the Fang are up to?"

Glynda quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise remained unmoved. Clark was reminded of the British teachers he'd met on occasion in England, stern and unbending as a point of pride.

"We have a… new source that has some insight as to the mindset of their leadership, but knowledge of actual operations is limited. We know they are stealing Dust, not what they are doing with it."

"Could they be refining it somehow?"

"We've already thought of that, but there have been no reported thefts of the necessary equipment, and only a handful of people have the necessary expertise to run the process."

"Any of them live here?"

"Not even on this continent. They almost all live in Atlas, and have all been spoken to, or spoken for, as the case may be."

They also probably worked for the SDC, which made them working with the White Fang unlikely. The Schnee Dust Company's… questionable worker's rights stances had spawned the White Fang in the first place. The company didn't officially abuse their Faunus miners, but it clearly tolerated the practice. Isolated mines made it very difficult to enforce even the most basic labor laws.

The White Fang had sprung up and fought them tooth and nail, first as a civil-rights group, and then a terrorist organization, then a supremacist terrorist organization. Thatwas always a fun twist, nothing spruced-up the countryside like a mass grave or two.

"Are they selling it then?"

Goodwitch- Clark couldn't bring himself to call her Glynda, shook her head "The Dust hasn't been showing up on the black market. At this rate it won't be long until others are stealing it and selling it though."

"They're creating a shortage then?"

Goodwitch raised an eyebrow at him "Have you not noticed?"

Ozpin clearly hadn't told her everything then, it was hard to know if he just hadn't had time or if there was a reason for his reluctance. 'Tell her anything you could tell me' wasn't a particularly useful phrase devoid of body-language, it could mean a lot of different things.

The Headmaster shot in from the front "Gate-records show he just arrived in Vale, Glynda. I think that wherever he came from doesn't have Dust either."

Goodwitch took another look down at her tablet, no telling what this world called it, and brought up a spreadsheet. A row flashed green "Ah, that he did. Yet he ended up turning a White Fang complex into a glorified brick chimney in less than three days-" she looked up from her tablet.

"- causing millions of lien in property damage and spreading mayhem in a crowded housing unit."

Clark raised an eyebrow "Was anybody hurt?"

"That's beside the point. It was reckless all the same, you'd think the gods would have sent somebody more competent."

"You went sent somebody who acts, who would collect intelligence-" Clark withdrew the hard drive from the plastic bag "-and then use it. Sitting in a tower all day might be safe, but it doesn't get anything done."

"I am not averse to risk, Mr. Clark. I understand things can get… hectic, during battle. You can't deny that things got out of control."

"Fair point, but I don't expect to set off Dust magazines every time I go out."

"Reassuring."

Ozpin cleared his throat… waiting for the silence to set in before he said his piece "We are almost at the landing-pad, our bullhead will be along shortly. Is there anything you need before we head up to the campus?"

Goodwitch turned from her employer to Clark, glaring. He scratched his stubble again.

"Actually- now you mention it, I could use a razor."

Greene

Alfred Greene had always wanted to be a cop.

Some people spent the summer nights between middle and high-school celebrating with friends. Alfred had spent them in the bathtub, being lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of machine-gun fire. He could remember macaroni and hot-dogs for dinner, re-routing at least three times on the walk to school to get around the blood-spattered crime scenes, and empty desks in the classroom. They had almost always been the boys, but the Great Family War had claimed its fair share of innocents.

Then one night the shooting had reached a bloody crescendo, then began to taper-off. The desks certainly kept emptying, but once a month, not a week. The war had come to an end, the losers had disappeared. Nobody knew what had happened to them, but all of the rumors were ugly. Alfred started drawing himself with a badge and a gun that morning.

The drawings had stopped, but the sentiment behind them hadn't. It had outlasted the Academy, outlasted the sleepless nights and outlasted every mother's child or hopeless drifter he'd had to see hosed-off of the sidewalk. That somehow, someway he could make things better.

It was stupid. Alfred knew it was stupid, his Sergeant knew it was stupid, and the rookie sitting next to him in the squad car would soon learn it was stupid too. That was part of the program. Alfred suspected he was the guy they sent the newbies to, an example of what could happen to you if you took the job too religiously.

Alfred had worked the Industrial District his whole career, even after his seniority had ticked over to the point where he'd never have to so much as write a ticket for littering ever again. It was his home, these were his people.

Speaking of, something had them spooked. It was in the air, in the way people looked over their shoulders, or in the way that the spray painted tags were beginning to fade. Even the gang-bangers were scared to go out at night. That did raise the question of who was doing the shooting at night nowadays, but unless they put him on graveyard shift again that wasn't his area. Eventually the local toughs would lose patience and would start operating during the daylight hours.

Alfred would be waiting for them.

The rookie snored from against his window, breath from his nostrils fogging up the glass of the passenger-side. Alfred slammed his fist onto the center divider, O'Neil shot up straight.

"I'm awake! I'm awake! Something happening?"

"Yeah, you went to sleep on the job. This ain't the Commercial District kid. Around here things only get quiet when something bad's about to happen."

"You've been saying that for three days straight, but things have only been getting calmer. You're just paranoid."

"I'm experienced."

"Same difference."

"You're right, which is exactly why you need to keep your eyes open. I'm not going to-" a woman's voiced squawked over the radio.

"This is Central to Unit Two-Oh-Six, Central to Unit Two-Oh-Six, Over?" Alfred put his finger over his mouth then pointed it at O'Neil. The rookie for his part nodded, which was probably the best decision he could have made for his health.

"This is Unit Two-Oh-Six to Central, we're reading you, Over?"

"Rodger Two-Oh-Six, we have you at the corner of Arc and Third, Over?"

"Correct Central, Over."

"Understood, Two-Oh-Six, Precinct Three has not checked in for at least an hour and a half, its call center is showing as offline, Over?"

"What do you want me to do Central… Over?"

"Head over there and check in, if there's an issue just let us know, Over."

"Understood Central, on out way. Unit Two-Oh-Six Out." Alfred released the button on the hand-piece and slammed his head back into the headrest.

On a positive note O'Neil was definitely awake now, which was a step in the right direction. Alfred's excitement for that lasted until the rookie opened his mouth.

"Is there a procedure for this?"

Lucky for O'Neil, Greene had a wide selection of breathing exercises to choose from on the way over to the Precinct.

The Vanille Memorial Precinct was the kind of legendary boondoggle that would have gone in the history books, at least if the people who had paid for it hadn't also written them. It was a building full of windows in a part of town where bullets were the most common form of air pollution, named after a City Councilor who had been involved in organized crime, built in a part of town that by and large trust police as far as they could throw a squad car.

Alfred scanned the sidewalks for pedestrians, but came up empty street after street. The sinking feeling he'd had all week deepened.

Sure the glass was bulletproof, but you could still see into and out of it. Allegedly it was supposed to symbolize "transparency", all while costing the taxpayer hundreds of thousands of lien on annual repairs to the panels. Part of Alfred wished Vanille could be here himself to admire the results of his legacy.

Considering the fact that, much like the Councilor himself, it was engulfed in flames, Alfred doubted it would be appreciated.

Thick black smoke poured out of the upper floors. The plaza, which the Precinct was the centerpiece of, was just as deserted as the streets proceeding it; unless you counted the corpses that is.

There were at least three uniformed bodies lying in pools of scarlet. The doors to the Precinct had been smashed wide open. The tire-marks on the sidewalk gave Alfred a pretty good idea as to how that had happened, the fact that the car wasn't here meant that the people who had done this could have been all the way on the other side of the city by now.

He suddenly realized somebody was talking to him, O'Neil tapped his shoulder.

"-you listening to me man? How do we call this in? I can't reach Central."

"You try your scroll?"

"Yeah, no signal! How does that even happen in the middle of Vale?"

Alfred shook his head "Jammers. Torchwick and his crew use them during robberies to delay the alarms and keep bystanders from ratting them out."

Alfred took a glance at the three diagonal slashes painted onto the front of the Precinct, O'Neil sputtered "Nobody farther away heard the shots? Nobody who called it in?"

"Not so much could as wouldn't. Apathy's a killer, and besides; the people they would have been calling were inside this building. Frankly I'm surprised they- the jammers are still up."

O'Neil tried valiantly to tear his eyes away from the corpses, but Alfred knew he wasn't going to manage it without a distraction.

"You take the car out of jamming range and get the word out, I'll head in and see if there's anybody who can still be helped."

"What, alone? What about backup?"

Alfred slid his thumb onto the fingerprint lock in the center-divider. The latch securing his pump-action fell away "Wasn't a request, rookie. As soon as I'm in that door I want you in this seat and high-tailing it out of here."

"What do I tell them? We even have a code for this?"

Alfred stepped out onto the quiet street, taking one more glance to either side before turning towards the Precinct.

"I'm sure you'll think of something."