Hello! The following was my entry into the August 2018 Fiction Contest. The prompt for the...
A Beat Worth Protecting [Aug. 2018 Fiction Contest Entry]
- Created
- Status
- Ongoing
- Watchers
- 2
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 1
-
Statistics (1 threadmarks, 1.9k words)
User Total LordCirce 1 Threadmarks Reader mode
Hello! The following was my entry into the August 2018 Fiction Contest. The prompt for the contest was: Sirens.
I've been reliably informed that I did not win. However, I was pretty pleased with what I came up with, so here it is.
===
A BEAT WORTH PROTECTING
===
"Attention all units. Potential NZ-7 reported at Dullahan Apartment, on Bellnut Street between 14th and 15th Avenue. Over."
The flat, bland voice issued from the radio on the dashboard, and Officer Reede Consertina shared a glance with her partner as he maneuvered their patrol car through the mid-day traffic. After a moment's thought, Officer Don Gamboul gave her a nod, even as he signaled a lane change and reached up towards the switch that would turn on their car's lights and sirens.
Officer Consertina nodded back, then picked up the radio's receiver. "This is Car Number 6, responding to the NZ-7 on Bellnut. Over."
"Dispatch copies, Car 6. Over."
She let the radio drop back onto the dashboard, even as the wailing sirens began to clear the streets to allow them to pass. She had to smile a bit at the irony, even as she forced down the instinctive urge to raise her voice and join with the howling noise. Even besides all the paperwork she'd face if she used her voice without prior authorization, it'd rather defeat the point of the siren if she started drawing cars towards them when they needed them to move out of the way.
As the way cleared up, Officer Gamboul gave a grunt, before pressing a hoof down on the accelerator and speeding up down the street. As slow and careful as he usually drove, a potential NZ-7 was a good reason for some haste.
After all, no-one wanted to see the damage an eldritch summoning could cause in the middle of the city.
===
Their car slid up to an open bit of sidewalk with a careful turn that didn't even brush their tires against the curb. More of Gamboul's signature caution. Even as the car was settling to a stop, Consertina popped open the door and slid out, shifting her gaze up to quickly assess the face of the apartment building in front of them.
The potential NZ-7 was obvious. A window on the fourth floor that was utterly pitch-black, with crackling green and purple bolts of lightning occasionally flashing within the interior. It was a bit odd that it hadn't spread in the time it took them to arrive, but that made her hopeful that the situation could still be contained somewhat peacefully. She was still nervous though. Anyone would be, facing a potential warlock, and she had to swallow her desire to start humming to calm her nerves.
Behind her, the car creaked, and she turned to watch as Gamboul got out, delicately tilting his head to keep his horns from catching on the edge of the doorframe as he stepped out. The patrol cars really weren't built with 'taurs in mind, the result of relying on the lowest bidder, but Gamboul and those like him made do. It's all they could do, with bigots like Commissioner Wellby just looking for a chance to come down on them like a sack of bricks.
A literal 'big-ot', in Wellby's case. Consertina didn't know what it was that made the perpetually annoyed gnome look at anyone more than four times his weight like they were about to start throwing desks at the slightest provocation, but it forced many of the bigger officers to walk around like they were walking on eggshells. Good for reducing collateral damage, but horrible for morale.
She shook her head, feeling her gills flaring slightly, while Gamboul hiked around the car. Now wasn't the time for woolgathering like that.
"…Rods out." Gamboul's voice was a soft baritone, echoing with undertones of his naturally gentle nature. He suited action to word, pulling out a long length of black metal from where it had been hanging on his belt. Given it was sized to him, it ended up looking more like a metal club, though hitting someone with one would only be a last resort. Consertina followed suit, pulling out her own rod from the side of her belt. She refrained from thumbing the tapper on the handle that would actually charge the rod, as having free-floating mana, even that partially contained in stun rods like these, would be a bad idea when entering a potentially eldritch-infused area.
They entered the building, Gamboul taking the lead, and passed through the entrance area uncontested. There was no-one in sight, which could either be a good thing or a very bad one, depending on the cause of their absence. The two officers forwent the elevators, instead heading up the staircase. Gamboul's hooves were muted by the carpet on the staircase, making almost no sound as they rounded around the three flights up to the fourth floor.
The door that Gamboul approached read 4-0-7. He'd taken the lead partially given his ability to take more damage if they faced resistance, but mainly because of his natural sense of direction, which allowed him to easily calculate which door would lead to the area where the NZ-7 was occuring. Now, however, he pulled back, allowing Consertina to approach and rap lightly on the door.
"This is the LAPD, open up!" Even without a melody, her voice still carried a certain compelling quality, which is why she would take point when trying to convince perps to do something. Even better, it was perfectly legal for her to speak, just as long as she didn't do so with the sort of rhythm that would ensorcell someone.
There was a bit of shuffling behind the door, before it opened, revealing a dumpy-looking woman in a bathrobe and curlers. Human, if Consertina had to guess, though given how humans got around, she could have traces of all kinds of blood in her. What was more concerning was the utter lack of any sort of charged atmosphere, like one would expect from an eldritch event. Something wasn't adding up.
Consertina glanced at Gamboul, who gave a tiny nod. This was the right apartment. Before Consertina could speak again, the woman took a few steps back, allowing the door to swing open as she did. She tilted her head, calling back into the apartment. "Donny! You messed with something again? The cops are here!" Her voice was flat, with an apathetic base to it that made it obvious that 'Donny' was a frequent source of trouble, frequent enough for problems from him to become familiar rather than alarming. However, it lacked the sort of underlying unconscious tension that should come from even casual contact with eldritch forces.
There was some muffled sounds from deeper in the apartment, but no actual response.
Gamboul gave her a small nudge, and Consertina stepped forward into the apartment. The woman backed up further, but didn't make any move to stop them or protest. Consertina headed towards the door the woman had looked at, which had signs like 'Keep Out' and 'Donny's Space' plastered on it. After a moment, Consertina reached out and rapped on the door with her rod. "Donny! This is the LAPD. We have reports of a potentially dangerous mystic event occurring here. Open up!"
After a few more second, the door creaked open just a crack, exposing a mop of brown hair, a wide blue eye, and a few crackling lightning bolts that sparked against the wall behind his head. His voice was low and quiet, both fearful and ultimately non-threatening, which accentuated the utter lack of mana filling the air, despite the visible lightshow going on behind him.
"…oh…shit…"
===
"...the malfunctioning device...was safely...deactivated." Consertina muttered to herself as she finished writing up her report for the Dullahan Apartments incident. Honestly, all that fuss, about an amateur enchantment project gone wrong. According to Donny, his friend had given him a small "storm-in-a-bottle" kit, and he'd had the brilliant idea to jury-rig it to plug directly into the local energy grid, rather than using the batteries that it came with. This had, surprisingly, not burned out the kit immediately, instead causing it to run wild, while melting some of the components enough to keep him from actually unplugging it. So, a bunch of semi-illusionary black clouds and multi-colored lightning, which just happened to resemble the most common warning signs of an eldritch-magic event.
Still, she thought, as she leaned back in her chair and considered some of the other reports she'd filled out from patrol, she much preferred this kind of accident to something the opposite direction. Something deadly proving to be harmless was honestly a relief, as was the fact that they hadn't broken down the doors like some cops might have done, so they hadn't had to deal with any extra paperwork on that account.
Not like with the incident this afternoon, with two elf "gangs", full of punk elves out to defy their ancestors by adopting the trappings of mortal life. Rebellious attitudes, combined with the typical elvish superiority complex, added up to a nasty combination of aggressiveness and a belief that they were untouchable. This proved untrue when Gamboul had to tackle one of them before he could light off an improvised firework rocket, leading to all the elves from both sides complaining about "excessive force". So, Wellby would be on the warpath about that tomorrow, though hopefully the handful of eyewitness statements praising Gamboul for keeping them from getting blown to Hades would help somewhat.
Consertina pushed her chair into a light spin, and, safe in the solitude of her currently-private office and the mostly-empty late-night station, she gave in to her suppressed urges and began to hum softly, allowing the melody to spill out and calm her nerves. The last jitters from their final call of the day, a domestic dispute between a pair of lycans, drained out of her, even as she made a mental note to procure a replacement for her torn vest.
She shifted, stretching her arms above her head briefly, before standing up. She maneuvered around the end of the desk she normally shared with Officer Pilt, who was currently on leave to visit his sire, and walked over to the narrow window, wedged in beside the filing cabinet in the corner. She leaned down, pressing her forehead against the glass, savoring the coolness as well as the faint sounds she could pick up, echoing in from the street outside. She loosened her hold on her gift some more, allowing her humming to meld with the sounds of the city.
Her parents might not understand why she'd chosen to come live in this drylander city, subject to all their rules and regulations, but as she listened to the faint echo of the heartbeat of Los Arcanos filtering in through the glass, she knew that she had made the right choice. This faint melody, and the people and lives that it represented, was truly a beat worth protecting.
I've been reliably informed that I did not win. However, I was pretty pleased with what I came up with, so here it is.
===
A BEAT WORTH PROTECTING
===
"Attention all units. Potential NZ-7 reported at Dullahan Apartment, on Bellnut Street between 14th and 15th Avenue. Over."
The flat, bland voice issued from the radio on the dashboard, and Officer Reede Consertina shared a glance with her partner as he maneuvered their patrol car through the mid-day traffic. After a moment's thought, Officer Don Gamboul gave her a nod, even as he signaled a lane change and reached up towards the switch that would turn on their car's lights and sirens.
Officer Consertina nodded back, then picked up the radio's receiver. "This is Car Number 6, responding to the NZ-7 on Bellnut. Over."
"Dispatch copies, Car 6. Over."
She let the radio drop back onto the dashboard, even as the wailing sirens began to clear the streets to allow them to pass. She had to smile a bit at the irony, even as she forced down the instinctive urge to raise her voice and join with the howling noise. Even besides all the paperwork she'd face if she used her voice without prior authorization, it'd rather defeat the point of the siren if she started drawing cars towards them when they needed them to move out of the way.
As the way cleared up, Officer Gamboul gave a grunt, before pressing a hoof down on the accelerator and speeding up down the street. As slow and careful as he usually drove, a potential NZ-7 was a good reason for some haste.
After all, no-one wanted to see the damage an eldritch summoning could cause in the middle of the city.
===
Their car slid up to an open bit of sidewalk with a careful turn that didn't even brush their tires against the curb. More of Gamboul's signature caution. Even as the car was settling to a stop, Consertina popped open the door and slid out, shifting her gaze up to quickly assess the face of the apartment building in front of them.
The potential NZ-7 was obvious. A window on the fourth floor that was utterly pitch-black, with crackling green and purple bolts of lightning occasionally flashing within the interior. It was a bit odd that it hadn't spread in the time it took them to arrive, but that made her hopeful that the situation could still be contained somewhat peacefully. She was still nervous though. Anyone would be, facing a potential warlock, and she had to swallow her desire to start humming to calm her nerves.
Behind her, the car creaked, and she turned to watch as Gamboul got out, delicately tilting his head to keep his horns from catching on the edge of the doorframe as he stepped out. The patrol cars really weren't built with 'taurs in mind, the result of relying on the lowest bidder, but Gamboul and those like him made do. It's all they could do, with bigots like Commissioner Wellby just looking for a chance to come down on them like a sack of bricks.
A literal 'big-ot', in Wellby's case. Consertina didn't know what it was that made the perpetually annoyed gnome look at anyone more than four times his weight like they were about to start throwing desks at the slightest provocation, but it forced many of the bigger officers to walk around like they were walking on eggshells. Good for reducing collateral damage, but horrible for morale.
She shook her head, feeling her gills flaring slightly, while Gamboul hiked around the car. Now wasn't the time for woolgathering like that.
"…Rods out." Gamboul's voice was a soft baritone, echoing with undertones of his naturally gentle nature. He suited action to word, pulling out a long length of black metal from where it had been hanging on his belt. Given it was sized to him, it ended up looking more like a metal club, though hitting someone with one would only be a last resort. Consertina followed suit, pulling out her own rod from the side of her belt. She refrained from thumbing the tapper on the handle that would actually charge the rod, as having free-floating mana, even that partially contained in stun rods like these, would be a bad idea when entering a potentially eldritch-infused area.
They entered the building, Gamboul taking the lead, and passed through the entrance area uncontested. There was no-one in sight, which could either be a good thing or a very bad one, depending on the cause of their absence. The two officers forwent the elevators, instead heading up the staircase. Gamboul's hooves were muted by the carpet on the staircase, making almost no sound as they rounded around the three flights up to the fourth floor.
The door that Gamboul approached read 4-0-7. He'd taken the lead partially given his ability to take more damage if they faced resistance, but mainly because of his natural sense of direction, which allowed him to easily calculate which door would lead to the area where the NZ-7 was occuring. Now, however, he pulled back, allowing Consertina to approach and rap lightly on the door.
"This is the LAPD, open up!" Even without a melody, her voice still carried a certain compelling quality, which is why she would take point when trying to convince perps to do something. Even better, it was perfectly legal for her to speak, just as long as she didn't do so with the sort of rhythm that would ensorcell someone.
There was a bit of shuffling behind the door, before it opened, revealing a dumpy-looking woman in a bathrobe and curlers. Human, if Consertina had to guess, though given how humans got around, she could have traces of all kinds of blood in her. What was more concerning was the utter lack of any sort of charged atmosphere, like one would expect from an eldritch event. Something wasn't adding up.
Consertina glanced at Gamboul, who gave a tiny nod. This was the right apartment. Before Consertina could speak again, the woman took a few steps back, allowing the door to swing open as she did. She tilted her head, calling back into the apartment. "Donny! You messed with something again? The cops are here!" Her voice was flat, with an apathetic base to it that made it obvious that 'Donny' was a frequent source of trouble, frequent enough for problems from him to become familiar rather than alarming. However, it lacked the sort of underlying unconscious tension that should come from even casual contact with eldritch forces.
There was some muffled sounds from deeper in the apartment, but no actual response.
Gamboul gave her a small nudge, and Consertina stepped forward into the apartment. The woman backed up further, but didn't make any move to stop them or protest. Consertina headed towards the door the woman had looked at, which had signs like 'Keep Out' and 'Donny's Space' plastered on it. After a moment, Consertina reached out and rapped on the door with her rod. "Donny! This is the LAPD. We have reports of a potentially dangerous mystic event occurring here. Open up!"
After a few more second, the door creaked open just a crack, exposing a mop of brown hair, a wide blue eye, and a few crackling lightning bolts that sparked against the wall behind his head. His voice was low and quiet, both fearful and ultimately non-threatening, which accentuated the utter lack of mana filling the air, despite the visible lightshow going on behind him.
"…oh…shit…"
===
"...the malfunctioning device...was safely...deactivated." Consertina muttered to herself as she finished writing up her report for the Dullahan Apartments incident. Honestly, all that fuss, about an amateur enchantment project gone wrong. According to Donny, his friend had given him a small "storm-in-a-bottle" kit, and he'd had the brilliant idea to jury-rig it to plug directly into the local energy grid, rather than using the batteries that it came with. This had, surprisingly, not burned out the kit immediately, instead causing it to run wild, while melting some of the components enough to keep him from actually unplugging it. So, a bunch of semi-illusionary black clouds and multi-colored lightning, which just happened to resemble the most common warning signs of an eldritch-magic event.
Still, she thought, as she leaned back in her chair and considered some of the other reports she'd filled out from patrol, she much preferred this kind of accident to something the opposite direction. Something deadly proving to be harmless was honestly a relief, as was the fact that they hadn't broken down the doors like some cops might have done, so they hadn't had to deal with any extra paperwork on that account.
Not like with the incident this afternoon, with two elf "gangs", full of punk elves out to defy their ancestors by adopting the trappings of mortal life. Rebellious attitudes, combined with the typical elvish superiority complex, added up to a nasty combination of aggressiveness and a belief that they were untouchable. This proved untrue when Gamboul had to tackle one of them before he could light off an improvised firework rocket, leading to all the elves from both sides complaining about "excessive force". So, Wellby would be on the warpath about that tomorrow, though hopefully the handful of eyewitness statements praising Gamboul for keeping them from getting blown to Hades would help somewhat.
Consertina pushed her chair into a light spin, and, safe in the solitude of her currently-private office and the mostly-empty late-night station, she gave in to her suppressed urges and began to hum softly, allowing the melody to spill out and calm her nerves. The last jitters from their final call of the day, a domestic dispute between a pair of lycans, drained out of her, even as she made a mental note to procure a replacement for her torn vest.
She shifted, stretching her arms above her head briefly, before standing up. She maneuvered around the end of the desk she normally shared with Officer Pilt, who was currently on leave to visit his sire, and walked over to the narrow window, wedged in beside the filing cabinet in the corner. She leaned down, pressing her forehead against the glass, savoring the coolness as well as the faint sounds she could pick up, echoing in from the street outside. She loosened her hold on her gift some more, allowing her humming to meld with the sounds of the city.
Her parents might not understand why she'd chosen to come live in this drylander city, subject to all their rules and regulations, but as she listened to the faint echo of the heartbeat of Los Arcanos filtering in through the glass, she knew that she had made the right choice. This faint melody, and the people and lives that it represented, was truly a beat worth protecting.