Description:
DOWNTOWN METRO CITY - 142ND POLICE PRECINCT STATION
12:05 AM
Thomas Miracle is seated in his office, frowning intently at his computer. He's been here for the past several hours, saddled with paperwork, patrol assignments, and various officer reviews. Right now sees him finalizing a subjective analysis of his recent meeting with one "Hooded Assassin" - he pauses at a particularly difficult-to-phrase segment, and leans back in his chair, eyes cast ceilingwards, feet kicked up onto his desktop. Gingerly, he traces a few fingers along the healing injury at his midsection. His other hand vanishes into a hip pocket, finds the cigarette box within to be - empty. Miracle simply scowls.
It's well-known he's in a poor mood; more than a few recruits and younger officers have left his office, asses busted down to nothing in their quarterly reviews. Several of them are considering tendering their resignations as soon as they gather the gall to submit them.
Miracle is pretty scary. If you asked her in her off hours if she would seriously consider crossing the man, it's likely that Miranda Jimenez would give a very flatly-worded 'no.' On the other hand, she is the person *in charge* of the weapons, including a few in the back storeroom that if word got out they had could make certain situations turn very ugly indeed. She thus has to know how to rationally and calmly handle authority figures who are used to exercising their granted authority. Long story short, she respects him, she wouldn't cross him, but she'll stand up and talk to him on the level.
This may be why, when it looks like the sarge is about to make the universe implode out of sheer pissed off-edness alone, she ends up leaning on the doorframe to his office, looking in. She is wearing the same sort of neutral expression she always wears, and the husky, Latin-accented tone of her voice is as relatively flat as ever. "I heard the most interesting story from the on-duty first responders," Miranda says conversationally. "That the other night you came back in from patrol with some... unexpected and creatively-placed cuts and bruises."
Now she walks in and stands before his desk, putting one hand on her hip, watching the man carefully. It's unlikely even the nastiest of thugs could put a permanent dent in Thomas Miracle. This is unsettling news. "Anything in particular you want to talk about?"
By now, Miracle's shoved his thumb fully into that empty cigarette box. Its emptiness is his emptiness. While most might expect a modicum of pretend appreciation from their superiors, just enough to create the illusion that you can, yes, absolutely come in, Miracle presents a particular dearth of that intimation.
Flatly, he regards Miranda, lips twisted into a frown. It's something she might remember from her days training beneath him in the D8 program.
"We ran into the same perp, Jimenez. Downright unconscionable sumbitch, mid thirties, wears a hood? You should know him. If you don't, I'd be worried - he knows you." The Sergeant pulls his feet off of his desk and leans forward, eyes on Jimenez. It's as much an invitation to come in as it is an expectation of intelligence.
That gets a raised eyebrow. She'd expected some sort of new Mad Gear threat, perhaps, or a gang on the rise. Maybe some jacked up street fighter who knew just enough with a knife to put the partial screws to Miracle and who is now marinating down in lockup. She had not expected to hear that he ran into someone she 'knew' and who, apparently, knew her back in a creepy way. Thus the confused expression and the briefly narrowed eyes as she attempts to put description with the actual person in her memory.
SOME TIME AGO
In a briefing room in Southtown, a few SCPD officers flank an Interpol liaison officer. All three of them are sitting at a table, reading from a crime scene report, while Miranda sits opposite them, looking calmly ahead.
The liaison gets to page 9, then slowly sets down the papers, takes off his reading glasses, and stares intently at Miranda.
A few moments later, he slams both hands down on the table. "You fired a WHAT?!"
NOW
"...ah, right. That one," the Latina finally says, remembering him at last. "Sharp dresser. Took an anti-tank rocket salvo and proceeded to walk out of the blast zone. I'd be impressed if he hadn't been trying to cut my face off. What was he doing here?"
"Poking around, by the look of it." Miracle remains unfazed at Jimenez' casual mention of blowing $2,000 taxpayer dollars in a single moment. Her reasons: probably sound. His would've been, too. Nonetheless, the Sergeant fixes Miranda with a dubious look - he *is* questioning her tossaway attitude regarding the gentleman in question. The man slouches in his seat a bit, crosses his arms over his chest, and exhales, favoring his ribs about half-way through.
"Looking for you. Poking around about The Project. Was -very- interested in meeting me. Knew enough of my history to make me nervous. More importantly, Jimenez..." Miracle leans forward in his seat, hands clasped, chin resting above them. He purses his lips, and regards Miranda for a long, frigid moment. This is the sort of look that breaks the recruits; he's famous for it. It never prompts good conversations.
"-Japan-. You know we've got ZERO international jursidication, and now there's an internationally-known assassin in OUR precinct, looking for YOU and US. You care to explain what part of shooting first counts as self defense?"
"He is crazy," she says in response, as if this explains everything. It doesn't, of course, but in her experience *acting* as if your explanation actually resolves everything in question tends to work more often than you might expect. Of course, with a lifetime sergeant, that's probably not the case. Thankfully, she has more in her defense than just the fact that he is plumb loco. Deciding that she'd rather not do this standing up, the woman turns and pulls up a chair next to Miracle's desk. It is likely an uncomfortable, totally wooden affair with at least one leg not the right length. The sort of chair a son of a bitch and an interrogator born would keep in his office, for example.
She tries to ignore it, but even the (more or less) unflappable Miranda can be seen obviously shifting her weight, trying to make the damn thing stop rocking. "Ambassador of some kind, I believe," she says, inclining her head at either a calendar or a computer as she does so. Presumably, Miracle has one or the other, if not both. "Not certain. Goes out for a walk with a bodyguard that looks like an accountant, some sort of mercenary. Both the VIP and the mercenary are jumped by not one, but two assassins, who both get away in the melee. When I ran into the psycho, I realized he was one of the men pictured."
This is not entirely true. She had a good hunch it was him, and it turned out to BE him, but in fact it could have been any decently tall gaijin in a hoodie in a suspicious Southtown location looking for an illicit and covert way out of the country after trying to assassinate someone on Japanese soil.
She does add, completely stonefaced and after a brief pause, "I aimed for the kneecap first." Well, that's alright then.
Calendar: Rocky Mountain Vistas
Computer: Boxy, beaten-up IBM. It does text documentation, slow internet browsing, and the occasional game of Minesweeper. There is a coffeestain on the computer's right side - it is long dried/inflicted.
Miranda's defense: the kneecap, really! happens to draw a slight smile from her superior officer. His eyes warm in the slightest, and he regards the officers milling about in the documentation room, outside.
"Well, here's here, now. Ours. Gotta pat you on the back for that." Those warm jade eyes flick back to Miranda's own - suddenly, cold. The room's temperature seems to dip a few degrees. "That said, though, consider this your write-up. Remedial action is a visit to the Town Hall for an in-depth discussion on what, exactly, jurisdiction is and means - I want you to write a letter of apology to the Southtown PD, while you're at it. Miranda..." Miracle leans back, wincing on account of the ribs.
He holds up two fingers. "Two things. One: You're better than this shit. You're D8. We do a better job than the rest, but we've got our turf, and that's where we're royalty. You're a civilian elsewhere. Understand?"
He waits a moment. "Two: Finish your remediation and get back on the squad ASAP. We're hunting for a hooded motherfucker."
There is a certain degree of parallel processing going on here.
Track 1: Although her understanding of international relations is relatively dim, it is Miranda's understanding that she had some sort of loosely-defined interjurisidictional authority in regards to Interpol-participating countries, which Japan is. This is why, for example, she sat in a meeting room with an untold number of bureaucrats and actual officers to explain a number of things, such as 'why did he get away,' 'why an M202A FLASH anti-tank incendiary weapon,' and 'how DID you turn a ham sandwich into an explosive device?' A few apologies and some paperwork later, the affair was as close to 'settled' as one is going to get. In that sense, some part of her brain would be looking at Miracle sideways if it had any control over her motor functions, which -- after however many years as a SWAT officer AND working anti-narcotics with the FBI -- it does not.
Instead she stands up, and looks Miracle in the eye with an expression that says 'I KNOW you know, and I know you know I know you know, but we can't let THEM know, so I'm going to pretend I don't know anything at all.' Granted, for the deadpan snark laconic that is Miranda's typical mode, said expression could also be interpreted as 'I would like to pursue a career in auto repair' or 'Get your foot off my windpipe.'
She speaks, loud enough for the subordinates outside to hear, in regulation tones: "Of course, sergeant. I'll try to do better next time." This is code for: I'm going to drill a sniper round right through his EYEBALL.
There's a perfunctory salute before she walks out the door. After a 10 second pause, she turns back, pokes her head in, and says: "Feel better soon." Then she's gone to have this 'meeting' about 'jurisdiction.'
She probably will write the letter, though. Nobody passes the ham sandwich test on the first try.
Log created on 00:10:39 02/01/2011 by Miracle, and last modified on 20:46:02 02/24/2011.