03-22-2018, 09:17 AM
By precinct standards, this morning was pretty normal.
They’d only lost a few small appliances, scarred a brand new corkboard, and dented a few pieces of cookware. Scrubsey would have her work cut out for her handling the replacement requisition forms, but Sarge knew that the strange little woman enjoy the work.
The noncom glanced over to their civilian administrator and furrowed his brow. She had some kind of strange… gleeful look on her face. Perhaps enjoys it too much? Sarge shuddered at the thought of Scrubsey lugging home paperwork to fill out in her bed once the precinct closed down for the day.
Bee-boop!
At the sound of the notification, everyone in the office stopped their tomfoolery and glanced over to Sarge.
The bald noncom scowled as he picked up his reading glasses. Clicking the button, he skimmed the contents and mumbled along, despite the fact that he had all eyes and ears on him. When he finished, he nodded his head, removed his spectacles, and reached under his desk for his helmet.
“Go time: 0900 hours. Homebrew terrorists down on T3 are supposed to hit a bank. You know the drill.”
The reaction was always a blend of joy, annoyance, and grief. Some people loved this part of their job, while others saw it as a nuisance that paid their bills.
For his part, Sarge didn’t like risking his life in the field. Not that he was bad at it—his history of military commendations was just the tip of the iceberg in a career of justice and order—he just had different priorities now than he did in his twenties. Glancing to the picture of his wife and three daughters, he reached out to touch their hearts with his fingertips, as he did before every live mission.
“Let’s bring the Empire Justice, boys and girls!” He roared, eliciting a chorus of whoops and hollers.
Everyone loved a firefight.
They’d only lost a few small appliances, scarred a brand new corkboard, and dented a few pieces of cookware. Scrubsey would have her work cut out for her handling the replacement requisition forms, but Sarge knew that the strange little woman enjoy the work.
The noncom glanced over to their civilian administrator and furrowed his brow. She had some kind of strange… gleeful look on her face. Perhaps enjoys it too much? Sarge shuddered at the thought of Scrubsey lugging home paperwork to fill out in her bed once the precinct closed down for the day.
Bee-boop!
At the sound of the notification, everyone in the office stopped their tomfoolery and glanced over to Sarge.
The bald noncom scowled as he picked up his reading glasses. Clicking the button, he skimmed the contents and mumbled along, despite the fact that he had all eyes and ears on him. When he finished, he nodded his head, removed his spectacles, and reached under his desk for his helmet.
“Go time: 0900 hours. Homebrew terrorists down on T3 are supposed to hit a bank. You know the drill.”
The reaction was always a blend of joy, annoyance, and grief. Some people loved this part of their job, while others saw it as a nuisance that paid their bills.
For his part, Sarge didn’t like risking his life in the field. Not that he was bad at it—his history of military commendations was just the tip of the iceberg in a career of justice and order—he just had different priorities now than he did in his twenties. Glancing to the picture of his wife and three daughters, he reached out to touch their hearts with his fingertips, as he did before every live mission.
“Let’s bring the Empire Justice, boys and girls!” He roared, eliciting a chorus of whoops and hollers.
Everyone loved a firefight.