Foiled! [ Jenna]
Jan 24, 2014 6:35:41 GMT -5
Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Jan 24, 2014 6:35:41 GMT -5
Security was short-staffed on the days of the festivals. The police force in Nada Citadel had never been larger; in truth, to most, this series of events might seem like a paradox. It was the result of saved vacation days. Many of the officers had requested these days off. They had families to build lop-sided snowmen with. A majority of the younger officers had never even seen a winter storm. Nikita had none of these things. He had little to during the festival. Even his large pile of cases, ranging from unsolved murders to unravelling drug-rings, were hard to work on. A lot of workers were missing to attend the festival. Crime had fallen during this time. The Special Investigation Taskforce was temporarily between larger cases.
Wrongdoing might take a small holiday. Nikita Harris had chosen not to. Which was why, on a day he could have been sitting at home, he stood in the park. Snow was piled between fences, play areas, and in little hills. Ice Pokemon raced from place to place to tend the white powder. Like tendrils of some spider web, in tiny threads of ice, the substance wove itself into the sidewalk. A puddle had gathered around his expensive boots. The scuffs on the sides correlated perfectly to the kickstand on his black motorcycle.
The choice for the day’s activities had been simple: getting drunk or securing the event. The liquor had been his first-choice. It would have been nice, for just a few hours, to further indulge bad habits. His damned morals, which sometimes reared their heads, prompted him to choose the second. Quite a few of his coworkers had walked by during the day. The wolf-like man, feeling his hackles raise at their unprofessional behavior, resisted the urge to snarl or bark out orders. These men and women had earned their break. Nikita knew he had little right to ask them for further work.
The man was mostly alone on that afternoon. The Houndoom constantly at his side, Detective Winters, had elected to take the evening off. In truth, as his master had closed the door, the old mutt had just sighed. Nikita was not a robot. He could not keep doing this forever. The dark-haired man’s only companion, out of sight and mind, was a rather large grass-type. The Chesnaught knelt beside a group of chuckling children. Gaston, as that was the beast’s name, saw little reason for his master’s continued paranoia.
His dual-colored eyes moved from person to person in the crowd. Everyone, from the tiniest child to the largest Aggron Pokemorph, could be a potential source of trouble. Terrorists had made threats on this event. They disliked the fact that ‘Pravus’ permeated everything from the cotton candy stand to the comedians by the fountain. Dark lenses, which helped keep the glare from the snow away, disguised the constant changes in his gaze.
The badge was clipped firmly to his muscular chest. As it was surprisingly warm, especially with snow around, his top button was undone. The striped shirt, which happened to be a dark navy, flopped openly in the breeze. A thin silver chain allowed a smaller badge, a replica of the larger, to hang above Nikita’s heart. Dark pants dropped over the slightly-heeled boots. He was far from dressed for the weather. He saw no reason to pretend, like some others, that winter itself had descended upon them. Such things were a silly farce. “It seems quiet.” Too quiet.
Then, just as a cigarette was lifted to his mouth, something changed. He heard a shout of alarm. The lighter dropped back into his front pocket. The crowd parted as something pushed its way through. The officer felt his legs tense. His lips spread in a smile far more frigid than the snow.
The young man had a purse. The suspect was about six-foot tall, skinnier than a rail, and covered with old acne scars. The eyes, beady and nestled beneath thick brows, were pink. Moisture on the person’s shoes indicated he had raced through hthe grass. Other people seemed alarmed by his presence. Judging by the length of its straps, the man’s body language, and the purse’s coloration, it was unlikely the property of that man.
Tap tap! The thief ran past Nikita. At the opportune moment, relying on his instincts, Nikita reached out. His hands wrapped around a collar. The thief found himself staggering backward. “Release the purse—thief.” The officer did not need a sense of smell to know fear. Twisting slightly, using his lithe strength to his advantage, the officer forced him into an uncomfortable position. Hot breath washed over his ear. “If this was my country, pickpocket, we might remove a few fingers.” When the old ears heard the young man groan, the hands released him. “I am in a good mood, sir. Leave.” The perpetrator ran off. He left the little bundle behind. Dark-hair fell into his eyes as he turned to watch the thief disappear into the distance.
With little care for privacy, only wishing to complete this menial task as soon as possible, Nikita dove into the crowd. He had found an identification card in the purse. It was simply a matter of matching the face on the piece of plastic to someone in the park.
Too tall. Their eyes are blue. The blonde is the wrong shade. They appear to be too young. Finally, peering forward, he sighted a tiny woman. Walking forward, brandishing the purse like a weapon, Nikita offered it to the female. “I believe, ma’am, that this belongs to you. ” With his good deed of the day completed, he could return to his post. “Be more mindful of your things.”
Nikita hated idiots.