Post by bluesp34r on Jun 24, 2014 20:09:01 GMT
A tall man took a seat in a grey chair. He gave it a little whirl as he looked around his office, so nice and clean. George scanned his desk. Past the security camera monitors lay a clean, unused ashtray, a packet of luxury cigarettes, a pair of shades and a flash. He picked up the sunglasses, covering his hazel eyes with the dark lens of the glasses. The flash was placed in his right pocket, just in case. George kicked off his desk, propelling the roller chair down his room, towards the center. He stood up, letting the spurs on his boots jingle as he walked over to a brown, leather briefcase, which lay upon a rack. George grabbed the handle with one hand and carried it over to the table, where unlatched it as it automatically sprung open. Inside were many tools a detective needs in their career; A forensic scanner, courtesy of Central Command, a little cheap but still gets those prints and fibers out. An old, 20th century style camera accompanied with a roll of film extra. A thick red book, with a yellow imprint of a weight scale, the word "Law" in bold above it, for showing your suspects how they needed to see you as. And lastly, a simple voice recorder, capable of picking up any sound in high definition, playing it back, and even printing out transcripts of what the machine heard. George descended his gloved hand into the briefcase and retrieved this last tool out, before slumping back down in his roller seat. In one hand, he had a voice recorder. In the other, a flask of alcohol, roughly half full, more or less. He flicked the cork off of the flask with his thumb and took a quick swig before hitting the record button on the device.
"M' name's George Brownstone..." he spoke, as the machine picked up. "'m currently 'ssigned as a detective fer' the NSS Au'ra...somewhere out 'n space." his voice trailed. He rotated the chair 180 degrees as he faced the airlock and window, looking into the security lobby, as abandoned as it was. "...'n fr'm time ta' time...I gets the pleasures 'f workin' 's an officer...walkin' 'round till I gets blisters 'n the soles 'f ma' feet. All comes w'th the job..." George took a short sigh, lowering the recorder before gulping down the flask again. He raised the recorder again to speak. "They says this 's where Hector used ta' work 't...but next ta' no one r'members 's name, much less where 'e is." George tucked the cork tightly into the mouth of the flask before putting it back into his duster. He sighed, reaching for a small framed photograph. It depicted two men; One stood with long hair, a duster coat, a stetson, blonde, hazel eyed. George. The other stood just a couple inches taller than him, with hair short and kept, in a nice little baseball cap. Both men were smiling, however it seemed like the taller one was the only genuine smile. He had his arm around his little brother. George peered down at the picture with a weak, sentimental smile, as memories of shooting in an open field, climbing up a treehouse, with Hector ran through his head.
"Hector was a nice fella." He spoke. "'s a bit too nice. Always thought we was goin' ta' heaven 'cause 'f 'm. Don't think there 's 'nybody sweeter th'n Hector...." George trailed off when he heard a soft noise, like metal rattling to his right. Out of the tiny vent, a brown rat had emerged, it's long tail swishing side to side, scanning the room and scampering out in search of some food or something. George squinted slightly at the animal, before tucking the photograph away and drawing out his Colt 1911 pistol from his holster. He trained the iron sights on the creature, and let out a trigger squeeze. His hand shook from the recoil, a loud noise echoed in the small office, and the creature instantly seized up on it's side and rolled over in a pool of it's own blood, motionless. "...Hector 's nice. I ain't so much." George scuffed to the recorder, holstering his weapon. He kicked his feet up, reclining in the chair, staring at the ceiling fan spin around and around. "...ain't nobody know what happened ta' 'm...but I know 'n thing's fer' certain; Hector ain't gonna go down with't a fight. Whoever whacked 'm, whacked 'm good." George grasped the gun again for just a moment. "...'n when I find that sorry li'l son ova'bitch...I ain't gonna show'm no mercy like 'e did ta' ma' brother." George hit the pause button on the recorder, tossing it back into the briefcase carelessly. He reached into his duster again for the flask. Just then, his radio headset buzzed. A strong voice told him. "Detective Brownstone. You are needed in the library. That book club turned out rather messy. Bring your equipment." George stopped himself from opening the flask. He tapped on his headset. "Yes'r. 'm on ma' way." He beeped before getting up and stretching. He slammed the briefcase shut, latching it up, and carrying it out the airlock. Briefcase in one hand, quarter of a flask in the other.
"M' name's George Brownstone..." he spoke, as the machine picked up. "'m currently 'ssigned as a detective fer' the NSS Au'ra...somewhere out 'n space." his voice trailed. He rotated the chair 180 degrees as he faced the airlock and window, looking into the security lobby, as abandoned as it was. "...'n fr'm time ta' time...I gets the pleasures 'f workin' 's an officer...walkin' 'round till I gets blisters 'n the soles 'f ma' feet. All comes w'th the job..." George took a short sigh, lowering the recorder before gulping down the flask again. He raised the recorder again to speak. "They says this 's where Hector used ta' work 't...but next ta' no one r'members 's name, much less where 'e is." George tucked the cork tightly into the mouth of the flask before putting it back into his duster. He sighed, reaching for a small framed photograph. It depicted two men; One stood with long hair, a duster coat, a stetson, blonde, hazel eyed. George. The other stood just a couple inches taller than him, with hair short and kept, in a nice little baseball cap. Both men were smiling, however it seemed like the taller one was the only genuine smile. He had his arm around his little brother. George peered down at the picture with a weak, sentimental smile, as memories of shooting in an open field, climbing up a treehouse, with Hector ran through his head.
"Hector was a nice fella." He spoke. "'s a bit too nice. Always thought we was goin' ta' heaven 'cause 'f 'm. Don't think there 's 'nybody sweeter th'n Hector...." George trailed off when he heard a soft noise, like metal rattling to his right. Out of the tiny vent, a brown rat had emerged, it's long tail swishing side to side, scanning the room and scampering out in search of some food or something. George squinted slightly at the animal, before tucking the photograph away and drawing out his Colt 1911 pistol from his holster. He trained the iron sights on the creature, and let out a trigger squeeze. His hand shook from the recoil, a loud noise echoed in the small office, and the creature instantly seized up on it's side and rolled over in a pool of it's own blood, motionless. "...Hector 's nice. I ain't so much." George scuffed to the recorder, holstering his weapon. He kicked his feet up, reclining in the chair, staring at the ceiling fan spin around and around. "...ain't nobody know what happened ta' 'm...but I know 'n thing's fer' certain; Hector ain't gonna go down with't a fight. Whoever whacked 'm, whacked 'm good." George grasped the gun again for just a moment. "...'n when I find that sorry li'l son ova'bitch...I ain't gonna show'm no mercy like 'e did ta' ma' brother." George hit the pause button on the recorder, tossing it back into the briefcase carelessly. He reached into his duster again for the flask. Just then, his radio headset buzzed. A strong voice told him. "Detective Brownstone. You are needed in the library. That book club turned out rather messy. Bring your equipment." George stopped himself from opening the flask. He tapped on his headset. "Yes'r. 'm on ma' way." He beeped before getting up and stretching. He slammed the briefcase shut, latching it up, and carrying it out the airlock. Briefcase in one hand, quarter of a flask in the other.