It was just after ten o’clock when Captain Orrie heard the sound of the transmitter of his car. It was a dark night, black as pitch and it was raining cats and dogs. “A nice night to be on patrol duty!” he thought to himself. He finished his coffee and quickly got into the patrol car, but by then, he was already soaked to the bone.
The notice was a 931. There was a fight and he was only two blocks away from where it had happened. He could play the fool or answer to the distress call. “What the hell?” he thought. “I do not have anything better to do right now.” He answered the call and requested reinforcements.
When he reached the alley, it was pure chaos. Around thirty people were stealing bottles from a liquor store and punching each other in a maelstrom of violence. But it was worse than that. What had started as a simple robbery had degenerated into two confronted bands that had opened fire and were shooting down anyone who approached.
He took his shotgun and ended the situation in a couple of minutes. Now, the bodies were piled up everywhere and the city could breathe again in full calm.
The damages to the synthetic skin of his face would be easily repaired at the precinct. But the thing is that Orrie was sick that his police station called him for those trifles. He was an Executor model, he was better than that!