Chapter Text
If the halls and walls of S-23 Sierpinski were a corn maze, Rotfront Sektor C is a labyrinth, a spaghetti mass of winding streets and bustling intersections that leads to nowhere at first glance. Vehicle horns, chatter, and the footsteps of pedestrians coalesce into lucid singularity, layers of film on a freshly printed photograph, larger-than-life. Somewhere in this kaleidoscope of sound and color, a destination awaits. One way in, one way out, decipherable only to the Daedalus who first laid out the street plans and perhaps, the builders responsible for laying brick to such an urban monstrosity.
Theoretically, navigating the bustling urban landscape shouldn’t be this difficult. After all, this is Rotfront, not the Labyrinth of old, and there is no Minotaur imprisoned in this city. Maps are omnipresent. The majority of the foot traffic, Gestalts and Replikas alike, are clearly seasoned denizens accustomed to navigating the winding streets without a second thought. Each and every one might potentially be a gold mine of information — how difficult would it be to stop one and ask for directions, really?
A Starling pauses at a street corner, yanking out a crumpled sheet of paper tucked into her belt. There it is: handwritten directions to her new duty station, scribbled in mostly-legible cursive. Tuning out the surrounding cacophony, her eyes wander over the paper, skipping chunks of paragraphs until she lands on what she’s looking for.
Get off the Metro at 4th and Kuchiba Central Terminal. Exit through the front lobby. Take a right, walk down three city blocks to the intersection at 7th and East Nord, and the Blockwart offices should be right there. Check in at the lobby. There should be someone there, either a Protektor or a secretary, who can point you to the STAR apartments and your squad officer’s quarters for in-processing.
And one last note at the bottom:
Or, you could simply find a Protektor on the streets and ask them for directions to the Sektor C Protektor Public Office. They’ll send you in the right direction. Best of luck in your new assignment, STAR-S2368.
Try as she might to maintain a professional composure befitting a Protektor, Cessna’s lips curl up into a grin. Truth be told, re-education camp security was a tad on the boring side. The most exciting thing that happened at S-23 Sierpinski during her service there was a shakedown of the Gestalt dorms that ended in the discovery of a single bottle of contraband schnapps. Cessna hadn’t even been involved in that; she had only learned of it through the grapevine, after the fact, when everything had wound down. Au contraire, if the dorm gossip was true, much more exciting things happened on Rotfront: drug and gun smuggling, murder, gang violence, and shootouts with Imperials. Finally, an opportunity for Cessna to put her 60/60 range scores to use; her shooting skills were the reason she had been transferred to Rotfront, after all. Or so she’s been told.
Shouldering her way past a crowd of Gestalts, Cessna approaches the street map enclosed in the transparent glass walls of a nearby bus stop. Credit where credit is due, the city planners designed Sektor C in a grid format easily discernible from a bird’s-eye view. Cessna scans the map; it takes her nought but a few seconds to lock onto the pin marking her current location and trace the most efficient route through the streets to the Protektor Public Office. There.
Sektor C Protektorate, here she comes.
With one final puff of air through her nostrils, Cessna straightens up, adjusts the strap of her duffel bag, and goes on her way. Maybe it’s because of the open air, or the masses of Gestalts moving freely around her for comparison, that Cessna is finally able to appreciate the bird’s-eye view that her height affords her. Pedestrians clear out the sidewalks before her; no one wants to screw around with a Protektor unit on the streets, especially one moving in a very specific direction with purpose.
Cessna makes it halfway down the next street before noticing a gap in the crowd. She pauses, squints. Two Gestalts with snow shovels and cleaning rags in hand: nothing terribly unusual. Then her eyes flicker upwards. Two towering Replikas, clad in black armor with red straps; one wearing a metal mask, the other with her back turned to Cessna, sunlight bouncing off her riot shield. A Starling, and a shield-bearing STAR officer.
Cessna slows her pace, observing. From the looks of it, the pair of STARs are overseeing the work of the two Gestalts. Once again, nothing unusual: this sort of thing happened all the time in S-23. What is unusual, however, is the noticeable lack of jackets or gloves on the Gestalts, and the general demeanor of the two STARs. The Starling with the mask paces back and forth, every so often pausing to glare at passersby who stick around for too long; the officer shifts on her hooves, back still turned to Cessna. There’s something in her right hand; whatever it is, Cessna’s not too interested in finding out. Best to mind her own business.
Taking caution not to drift too closely to the scene, Cessna pointedly keeps her gaze forward. Just as her eyes flicker away from the STARs, her targeting module detects a sudden flash of movement. Cessna’s head snaps to the side just in time to witness the officer lash out at the nearest Gestalt with lightning speed. Metal flashes in the sun; a heavy-duty martin chain cracks across the Gestalt’s scapula with enough force to draw blood on the first lash. The man lets out an agonized yelp of pain, dropping his shovel and collapsing on the ground.
Now that arrests Cessna’s attention. A woman nearby lets out a hushed gasp. Across the street, heads turn. Reactions range from concerned to dispassionate to horrified. By the time Cessna’s gaze returns to the Gestalt, the Starling wearing the mask has dragged the man up to his feet, chuckling as she presses the shovel back into his hands. “Filthy, germy, disease-ridden Gestalt blood? On our streets? No. Such risks to the health of the general public will not be tolerated. Clean that up.”
Cessna steps to the side, allowing the crowd to swarm by as she leisurely strolls up behind the two STARs. She sticks out like a sore thumb, she knows that. What kind of individual wouldn’t desire to push past such a sorry sight at first opportunity? Yet, it’s not the Gestalts that pique Cessna’s attention. It’s the Starlings.
The officer’s back is still turned to Cessna, but Cessna is close enough to make out individual details on the second Protektor’s faceplates. Red-rimmed eyes, crinkled in a smile underneath her mask; choppy bangs; jet-black hair, cut in a straight bob, dusted by snowfall. Identical to Cessna in every way, save for that dark glimmer in the other unit’s eyes.
With a jolt of recognition, Cessna grinds to a halt. She doesn’t know this Starling, but she knows that look on her face. Is she… getting off to this?
The officer’s fingers curl around the Martin chain once again, metal links clinking ominously as they rub against one another. Just as the shield-bearing STAR winds up for another strike, Cessna steps up behind her and clears her throat.
“Excuse me, Officer.”
The other unit straightens her back right away, head whipping to the side as she pivots to face the newcomer. An ugly scar slashes diagonally across her faceplates, splitting her features at a forty-five degree angle. The officer’s red-rimmed eyes narrow in undisguised chagrin at the interruption; displeasure is written all over her faceplates. The vibes emanating off the Starling in waves are not it. Cessna can smell the sleazy. She can taste it in the air.
“What do you need, Aufseher?” A surprisingly exuberant voice; gruff venom, a tenor that hums with ominous subtext. “Could this not have been a radio call?”
The unsaid complaint is plain and simple: I’m busy right now. Ignoring the glare of the second Starling — presumably the officer’s underling — Cessna deliberately roams over the officer’s scar with her eyes, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Sorry, ma’am! I just need directions to the…” Cessna’s nervous giggle isn’t entirely out of character. There’s enough poison in the scarred officer’s glare to off a Storch on the spot. “The Sektor C Protektorate, I believe it’s called?”
The other Starling’s eyes snap to the stylized triangles emblazoned on Cessna’s shoulder pauldrons, then to Cessna’s belt. Sierpinski triangles, no badge; understanding and a hint of contempt immediately dawn on the officer’s faceplates. “Right there.”
The officer points at a mid-rise office complex farther down the street. The chain in her hand jingles and jangles as she indicates the concrete structure; in the background, a wet slap as the other STAR unit delivers a staggering backhand to one of the Gestalts on forced cleanup duty. Maybe it’s the brain damage from spending all those years underground breathing in chemical-infested air, or the uneasy twinge in Cessna’s gut as those cold cerulean orbs rake over her own: the urge to troll this STAR surges through Cessna’s central processor like a douse of warm water from a showerhead. Fine, then. If ever there was a time to indulge, it’s now, she supposes. Nothing like a hot shower to dispel the frigid air and break the ice, after all!
“Right where?” Cessna squints at the officer, pointing at the building next to the Protektor offices. “That building?”
The scar on the other woman’s face ripples as her frown deepens. “No”: and it’s clear from the twitch of her right eye and the shape of her lips that she’s choking down a barked ‘dumbass’. “The one straight ahead.”
How far can Cessna push before she, too, gets a lashing with the chain in the officer’s hand? There’s only one way to find out, she supposes. Tilting her head and assuming the most innocently inquisitive expression she can muster, Cessna points at a high-rise skyscraper to the opposite direction of the Protektor barracks. “So that one, then?”
Now that earns an audible growl from the scarred officer. Cessna almost takes a step back. Clearly, playtime is over. “How about you walk your shiny ass down the street and find out,” the Starling snaps, red eyeliner damn near glowing like a warning sign. Her message has been sent loud and clear, and received in turn with equal clarity: Get lost.
Well, too bad for her. Cessna has one more item of business to cover, and like a good scam businesswoman, she’s sure as hell not going to depart empty-handed.
Extending her hand with an exaggerated smile, Cessna introduces herself cheerfully. “STAR-S2368, callname Cessna. And you are?...”
The corners of the officer’s lips turn upwards, if you could even call it that. Instead of that deep, Storch-like scowl, her lips are now pressed into a thin line: stiff, formal, displeasure that taints the air; yet, lacking in the same vitriol with which she previously addressed Cessna with. “Oberfeldwebel STAR-R16-07. Happy now?”
Good enough. Satisfied, Cessna drops her hand, which STAR-R16-07 simply left hanging. “I suppose I’ll see you around, since we are coworkers now,” she chirps, tilting her head, then throws in an absolute zinger of a compliment that raises nearby eyebrows immediately. “By the way, you have a wonderfully handsome scar!”
07 stops in her tracks. Stares. Time grinds to a halt; freezes. Cessna chokes down a giggle as the scarred officer’s eyes go comically wide; her mouth opens, then closes. Then, a huff of air, a blast of frigid condensation that immediately dissipates in a cloud of vapor along with the shock on her faceplates.
“Uh huh,” 07 grunts before whipping her head back to the Gestalts: “Who the fuck told you that you could stop working?”
Cessna studies her ears. Maybe it’s the frigid air, or a byproduct of the exertion required to bellow at the two Gestalts, but are 07’s ears… flushed? Redder than a mere baseline reaction to the cold, perhaps?
Cessna ruminates as she makes her way down the street, leaving the sorry sight behind in her wake. A STAR with a scar, rough-mannered, gruff, and more than a little sus: Sektor C might have its Minotaur after all.
In the administrative wing of the Protektor Public Office campus, a conflict of quite another sort is brewing.
“And is that all you have to say on the matter?” Storch Eins leans forward, forearms resting on the top of her desk. Two cerulean orbs bore into Dagan’s, two red pinpoints fixated on her like will-o’-the-wisps coming in for a kill. “You are telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
Dagan swallows, hard. Her hands are trembling; why? She’s telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, after all. What else is there to say? “Yes, ma’am,” is all she can manage, hoping the regulation-standard acknowledgment is enough to satisfy the other party in her room. Eins is her boss’s boss, someone who holds Dagan’s career and life in her hands — literally. The same flick of a pen could mean the difference between a pay raise or a decommission order, and right now, Dagan has a vested interest in dodging the latter to the best of her ability.
Eins picks up a pen, twirling it between her fingers. The gesture is anything but absentminded. Dagan knows Eins well; she’s seen what the Storch is capable of. No, this is a threat, a warning. Eins could kill Dagan with a writing utensil just as easily as she could with her holstered sidearm. “Is there any reason that, should I interview the members of your cadre, they would tell me otherwise? That you were out and about?”
“No, ma’am.” Two words, straightforward, respectful in tone. The truth. Dagan resists the urge to roll her eyes. How many times is Eins going to ask that question?
Eins might as well be bioresonant, judging from the oppressive atmosphere that hangs over the cramped office like storm clouds about to break. Dagan suppresses a sigh. She’s already been here for an hour or so, if her internal chronometer is correct, with nothing to show. Of all the things to be called into the day shift commander’s office for, being grilled like a common criminal was not on Dagan’s bingo card. Neither is what happens next.
“Excellent.” Gone is the angry scowl, replaced by something akin to a prison mugshot: the Protektor Controller equivalent of Scrooge assuming the visage of jolly St. Nicholas. “Unterfeldwebel STAR-R16-38, you are receiving a new assignment, effective immediately.”
Dagan sits up ramrod straight in her chair as Eins sets a Manila envelope on the desk in front of her. “As you know, any death of a Protektor on this force must be investigated per regulations. Yes, I am referring to the death of Storch Innocent. This responsibility is now yours, as those same regulations mandate that the investigation be overseen by a Security Technician squad officer at minimum. All the information you need to begin is in that folder in front of you.”
Synthetic sweat; clammy hands; myomeric joints and hinges seize up as every train of thought racing through Dagan’s head collides dramatically in a single flashpoint of clarity. Thank the Revolutionary she’s sitting down; otherwise, she might have clean passed out from the cold shock that douses her nerves, a proverbial bucket of freezing water dumped over her head without warning. Dagan fidgets in her chair, balling her hands in her lap. Eins is looking at her expectantly, waiting for an answer — something, anything.
“Cat got your tongue, officer?” Eins’ deep rumble cleaves through viscuous silence. Dagan clears her throat, gazing up into piercing cobalt irises framed by wispy bangs and synthetic skin pulled taut around the eyelids. The Storch is on the verge of overt agitation, never a good sign. “Have you got something to say? Speak.”
“Permission to ask a few questions, ma’am?” Dagan presses the palms of her hands into her knees, hoping the gesture will afford her more control over the tremor in her arms. As luck would have it, it makes things worse.
If Eins notices it, she doesn’t comment, and neither does she react. “Ask,” she growls, pointing her pen at Dagan.
Shuffling her questions into no particular order at lightning speed, Dagan mentally fixes them in sequence and chooses one at random. “Doesn’t Oberfeldwebel Maryland normally handle these sorts of investigations?” Wincing ever so slightly at her own mention of her scarfaced ex-girlfriend, Dagan presses on. “Why couldn’t she do it this time around?”
“She is not available at the moment,” Eins says flatly. “Next.”
Not available? As much as Dagan would have appreciated more detail or a clarification, there’s a clear warning written plain as day on Eins’ faceplate, so the Starling dutifully moves on. “Does Controller Ben Gu—”
“Yes. Next.”
Alright, then. “There’s no shortage of veteran squad officers to run this investigation. Why me?”
Eins’ gaze shifts, and for one second, her face overlaps with Maryland’s. Eins must be who Maryland learned to scowl from, Dagan realizes with a start, the first time in 3 and a half years of working with both Replikas. Now that she thinks about it, this nugget of speculation makes an abundance of sense. Maryland is in the good graces of much of the upper crest of the Protektorate, Eins included. It checks out that some of Eins’ mannerisms would rub off on Maryland. Nonetheless, Dagan sets that thought aside for the moment. Eins is speaking, and it’s in Dagan’s best interest to shut up and listen, lest she unnecessarily draw the ire of the Protektor Controller.
“You have a unique skill set, and I am confident based on our conversation just now that you will be able to conduct a fair and unbiased investigation into the events leading up to Controller Innocent’s death,” Eins begins, placing one hand on top of the other and setting both on the surface of her desk. “You are our newest officer, and there is no better way than to learn through experience. I will also add that the Controller cadre of Sektor C is well aware that you spend your free time accumulating useful knowledge and skills instead of fooling about like most Security Technicians do.”
It takes Dagan exactly 47 seconds to realize what Eins is speaking of. No fucking way. “Wait a second.” She damn near chokes on a laugh, holding up a hand in disbelief. “Don’t tell me someone nominated me to lead this investigation because I like to read in my spa—”
“Read in my spare time,” is how Dagan means to finish. Yes, regular visits to the library are not exactly standard in terms of baseline Starling behavior. Frankly, that’s the polite way to put it. Odd, fucking weird, deviant: all words used to describe Dagan’s sensibilities in the past. Now, it seems, her proclivity for nerd activities — gasp! — have attracted the attention of her superiors, whether for good or bad. Unfortunately, Dagan is never afforded the opportunity to finish her statement.
BANG! Dagan flinches and jerks away as Eins slams a fist down on her desk — a slapstick from the ninth level of hell, a gunshot heard around the planet. Well, damn. Consider that a lesson learned.
“What’s so funny, Unterfeldwebel?” Eins barks. “Is this a laughing matter to you?”
Silence. Dagan focuses on the bridge of Eins’ nose, a trick she learned from Barnea: the paradox of eye contact without eye contact, a sleight of eye, deceptive appearances with no real deception. “No, Madam Protektor Controller.”
“Excellent.” Eins picks up her pen again, plucking a stapled sheaf of papers off the top of a nearby stack. The Storch’s brow is down, lips pressed into a thin line, gaze severe. Clearly, she loathes paperwork almost as much as she hates Dagan. “Now get out of my sight.”
Dagan doesn’t have to be told twice. She knows a dismissal when she sees one: for once in her life, Thank you, Maryland. Eins hasn’t even finished issuing her final command before Dagan is on her hooves, ballistic shield in hand, right arm snapping into a parade ground-perfect salute.
“Yes, ma’am. Glory to the Nation.”
“Yes, yes, Glory.” Eins points at the door, impatience lacing her tone like venom. “Out.”
Another unreturned salute. Dagan clips her mask on as she gently shuts Eins’ office door behind her, leaving the surly Protektor Controller to her much-desired solitude. She idly wonders how often that happens to the other Starlings of Sektor C. She’ll have to compare notes with her cadre later.
T-minus 60 seconds.
Cessna lingers outside the office door, clutching her folder in one hand and the strap of her duffel bag in the other. Through the hallway window — there are windows here! — snowflakes descend to the ground in curious patterns, some swarming in groups like a flock of birds, others fluttering gently in the breeze. Leng, and anti-Leng: bitter chill without the bitter atmosphere, a breath of fresh air. Exactly what she needs; not at all what she was expecting.
T-minus 45 seconds.
Seasons upon seasons of working and living underground have not dulled Cessna’s senses, it seems. In fact, quite the opposite: Every honk of a car, every rattle of a freighter or bullet train racing over metal tracks, every hushed whisper and every spoken word: no matter the pitch or the volume, it all rattles around in her brain like coins in a tin can. She’s not complaining, however: the change of scenery is a most welcome one.
T-minus 30 seconds.
A transfer to Rotfront? Honestly, the possibility of such a move had never crossed her mind — not until Controller Siebzehn mentioned it in her last performance review. All those secret dreams of perfect range scores recognized and rewarded are no longer dreams. She just didn’t expect the reward to come in the form of a transfer — to a supposedly elite unit on another planet entirely, to clarify.
Once again, however, not complaining.
T-minus 15 seconds.
Cessna hasn’t visited her apartment yet. She’d passed by the door just to save the location in her mapping module, but she didn’t step in. Instead, she took a direct route to her new superior’s office. The anticipation was simply too much to bear, so here she is: a fresh face, another warm body, another disposable asset serving the cause and ideals of her glorious Nation.
T-minus 5 seconds.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. Knuckles rapping on metal: once, twice, thrice. Inhale. Tension; anticipation.
And now, a voice, Eule soft with a pitch and timbre that mirrors her own: “Come on in.”
Cessna depresses the door access button, and the door slides open. She sucks air in through her diaphragm, wind whistling between her teeth as her eyes sweep the office. The cleanliness and general order of the cramped space is striking, even more so than the officer sitting behind the desk.
“Ma’am.” Cessna marches up to the desk until she’s roughly two meters away. Her right hand nearly shoots up in a salute — her old Controller was always nitpicky about that sort of thing, but her hand stops just short of completing the motion. Instead, she allows her arm to snap to her side, hands curled into a fist, spine straightened, head held high at the position of attention.
“I saw that.” Unterfeldwebel Dagan, by all appearances, is fairly standard-looking, save for the decidedly non-standard fatigue in her eyes. “Put your arm down. This isn’t the military.”
The officer’s riot shield is propped up against her desk, as is a shotgun with a worn leather strap, easily within grabbing distance. Cessna takes note of the shotgun immediately; with a start, she realizes that she’s only ever seen such a weapon in the hands of Storches in S-23. Dagan’s garrison cover lays flat on its side, partially covering an engraved metal placard that bears her alphanumeric callsign and callname.
“STAR-S2368, is it?” Despite the officer’s soggy mannerisms and soft tone, her voice hangs about the cramped space in a manner akin to a hovering drone. “Take a seat, and we can get started.”
Steel scrapes on steel as Cessna sets her duffel bag down, pulls the spare chair up to the desk and settles in it, shoulders back, spine planted firmly against the backrest. Cessna’s eyes dart over the desk, landing on the placard. Dagan — an odd name for a Starling, but she’s seen far more eccentric callnames at S-23.
“Hand me your badge, please.”
It takes a hot second for Cessna to realize what Dagan is referring to. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she begins. “I turned it in before I—”
“That’s fine,” Dagan interrupts. Cessna wishes she would speak a little louder, although she’d never say that out loud: the low volume at which Dagan articulates herself makes it difficult to tell when she cuts in. The officer slides a thick binder and a notepad across the desk: resting atop both items is an oval plate of metal roughly the size of a palm, slightly curved inwards, inlaid with nickel and burnished bronze. “Do you also need a badge holder, or did you bring one with you?”
Cessna can’t help but stare at the badge as the light catches on the surface, sparkling like white wine. She’s no stranger to Protektor badges: after all, she wore one herself when she worked at S-23. Even so, the differences between the two are remarkable: the cheaper and hastily manufactured shield issued to her at Sierpinski, as opposed to the precision engraving and craftsmanship evident in the fine details that pop off the surface of the Sektor C Protektorate badge like a Renaissance painting. Things really are different in Rotfront.
Cessna picks up the badge, turns it over in her palm; she’s so engrossed in the details that she nearly forgets to answer the question asked of her. “I would appreciate that a lot, ma’am,” she replies with genuine gratitude.
Dagan promptly yanks open a drawer and places a leather badge holder on the surface of the desk. “Here you are. I suggest you pick up that notepad and start writing. We have a lot to get through.”
True to her word, the rest of the meeting is a whirlwind of information. Sign here, sign there; scan this information into memory banks here. Numbers, statistics, callsigns, schedules, and addresses commingle in an agitated soup of seemingly unrelated data. Mixed into that pot are occasional dribbles of interesting tidbits: Cessna now works for two agencies, AEON and the Rotfront National Transportation Authority; squads are capped at 10 STARs, not 5 or 6; Starlings run the streets, not so much Storches; use of ballistic shields aren’t limited to officers; as a train marshal expected to prevail against armed opponents in the extreme close quarters of train carriage interiors, Cessna will carry a handgun equipped with a silencer and a collapsible baton in lieu of a stunprod, a loadout optimized for tight spaces and passenger and Protektor safety. Cessna can’t help but grin as Dagan rattles off the details. Starling Jäger from S-23 would be so jealous!
“Just to let you know ahead of time,” Dagan states matter-of-factly, “you also have slots for a long rifle and a shotgun reserved in your name at the armory. You won’t get the same one every time, and you should carry those weapons with discretion, but they are available should you need them.”
A bitter quirk of the lip, a shadow flitting over cobalt orbs. “The armory quartermaster is one STAR-R16-07, Oberfeldwebel Maryland. If you have any questions regarding armory stock, gunsmithing, or firearms that I can’t answer, she’s pretty responsive to emails and the like.”
Cessna lowers her eyelids, as if bored out of her mind. Internally, she’s wide awake. All of her systems boot up at once in response to the sudden flood of adrenaline. Is that… resentment on Dagan’s face? Even more importantly, is this 07 the same scarred officer Dagan ran into on the streets earlier this cycle? Maryland is her name; what an odd name. Schooling her expression into one of repressed and brainless excitement, Cessna refrains from commenting on this handy-dandy revelation and double-clicks on the gun part. Indeed, firearms excite her just as much as the next Starling, even if playing with them means she has to interact with that crotchety old prick of a Starling officer — the crotchety prick who apparently runs the armory. All good things come at a price, she supposes, and this is no exception.
“…the most boring job you’ll ever take — that’s the hope, at least.” Dagan is still rambling; Cessna straightens in her chair, for good this time. “Boring is good. Half the time you stand in the train station looking scary; the other half, you stand inside a train looking scary. That’s the ideal day. Unfortunately, things happen in the metro, things that are less than ideal, and it’s our job to prepare for those moments, to respond and contain any and all threats, and to give our all, for the Glory of our great Nation. Any questions?”
“No, ma’am!” Cessna chirps, ever the indefatigable ditz.
Dagan’s lips curl upwards into a smile, and Revolutionary, if it isn’t the best-looking smile in all of Rotfront. (Never mind that Cessna has only been on Rotfront for a short amount of time and seen only a handful of STARs.) “You’re dismissed,” she says. “I look forward to working with you, STAR-R16-62.”
“You as well, ma’am.” Cessna slams her hooves into the floor as she snaps to the position of attention, nearly knocking the chair over. “Glory to the Nation.”
Although Dagan doesn’t seem like the type to demand a salute, Cessna offers one anyways. Dagan offers Cessna a sincere, if not fatigued, half-smile in return. “Glory, comrade.”
As soon as Cessna’s back recedes from sight and the pocket door slams shut with a clang, Dagan slumps in her chair.
Stacks of paperwork and binders loom on either side of her desk, imposing twin skyscrapers primed to topple at any given moment. Groaning inwardly, Dagan reaches for the binder on top and flips it open. Great — an updated emergency communications plan for her to audit, all 35 pages of it. Patrol schedules, training schedules, meetings, press conference briefings, all vying for her attention: the downsides of a workplace where Starlings run the show is that, well, the Starlings have to actually run things. Paperwork included.
Oh, and the investigation into Innocent’s death. And the newbie to train up on top of all of that. Thankfully, it seems Dagan won’t have to train Cessna from scratch. Her range scores are impressive; her service record is beyond reproach. All Dagan hopes is that Cessna’s slightly airheaded demeanor is some kind of carefully constructed facade, that she’ll be as competent on the streets as she is on paper.
Speaking of which, Dagan forgot to inform her that the Sierpinski logo stenciled on her shoulders needs to go at some point. Oops; oh, well. If the newbie is smart, she’ll figure that out sooner than later. Call it a test of initiative.