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Lucy's first ever call is to a crappy downtown apartment building with her training officer, a no-nonsense balding guy in his forties who so far appears to be a just teacher.
The scene had chaotic from the moment they walked in the door. There was a teenaged girl on the floor, a woman kneeling over her whom Officer Shaw had seemed to be familiar with, and a very recent recipient of a gunshot lying in a vintage wingback chair.
It quickly became clear the girl on the floor had overdosed. Thankfully, Lucy had been able to successfully perform chest compressions, and now she now stands across the room from her training officer with Traci—her fellow rookie—and her training officer, Officer Williams.
"According to our friend Sadie here," Officer Shaw sighs, "our suspect is a white male, greasy blonde hair, black t-shirt, and he is probably long gone."
He pats the shoulder of the prostitute kneeling next to the girl who overdosed, looks first to his notepad and then makes eye contact with the other three officers in the room, noddng to his fellow training officer.
"Chen, Nash," Williams orders, taking up the reins. "We need you guys to clear the rest of the house. No one leaves; contain the premises."
A rush of adrenaline enters Lucy's veins as she and her fellow rookie are sent out on their own to search for the suspect.
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Lucy Chen has been a police officer for approximately three seconds and she is already six steps and a million miles deep into a big fat pile of shit.
Her first had been splitting from Traci.
Her second mistake?
She's about to make it.
Lucy is creeping down a hallway with her gun drawn. At the end is a window, to her immediate right is a wall, and to her left is a door.
Behind that door, there are two voices engaged in conversation— a man and a woman.
Does she kick down the door?
No. Better to try the civil route, first.
"Police!" She calls out, knocking on the door. "Open up!"
The dialogue continues with no sign of anyone coming to the door.
Fuck. Shit. Okay, she can do this.
Lucy throws her weight at the door, forcing it open with her shoulder. She scans the room with her gun pointed straight outwards and happens across two people: a greasy-looking man counting money, sitting in a large open windowsill on the outer wall, and a small, wiry man standing to his left who immediately throws his hands up.
The wiry man is wearing a fedora, a long-sleeved shirt-jacket left open to reveal a light blue tee and jeans.
The greasy man is dressed in a black tee with some design on the front, a white undershirt extending to his wrists, worn blue bootcut jeans, and obnoxious-looking boots. Yes! He has greasy blonde hair. Shit, he meets the suspect description.
There is a tense pause as the three people in the situation survey each other, broken as the greasy guy remarks, "That is a crappy lock."
Fuck him.
"Don't move," Lucy orders, forcing authority into her voice. "Put your hands up."
The wiry guy lifts his arms up even higher, lower lip wobbling. The greasy guy gathers the money he's holding, stuffs it in his right pocket, and rises to his feet.
"I said, don't move!" Lucy yells as she waves her gun around, but it sounds more like a question than a command. "Stay where you are!"
Greasy Guy only rolls his eyes and turns around, throwing out a sleazy, "See ya," as he hops out onto a fire escape beyond the window.
"No!" She cries. "I… stop!"
Wiry Dude remains, looking at Lucy like a deer caught in headlights.
"Here we go," Greasy Guy mutters as he makes a brief reappearance to grab Wiry Dude, tugging the frightened man out of the room behind him.
Lucy lets out a string of expletives, cursing her own trepidation as she follows; panting as she spits the suspect description and direction of escape as she runs down the fire escape.
She runs after where she had last seen the suspect disappear, leading her into the middle of a road at full speed where she is almost hit by a car.
This is a crime scene! That car should not be there.
She throws her arms out as if to stop the vehicle, which comes to a screeching halt, and jogs around to the open driver's side window to speak to the suit-wearing man driving the car, who looks as though he has just seen the light.
"Sir," Lucy hurries, "This is a crime scene, I'm gonna have to ask you to turn this thing around."
Quicker than she can blink, the driver flashes a badge… a police badge. Shit. The man's irritated, too, a murderous, yet exhausted look on his face.
"Detective?" She says in a small, embarassed voice.
"Homicide." The man confirms wearily.
Fuck, Lucy thinks, relief flooding her body. "Help yourself," she waves the detective onward as she resumes the chase for her suspect.
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A couple minutes later, after she has mostly forgotten her encounter with the detective, Lucy hears two male voices engaged in conversation around the corner of a building… and the one man sounds an awful lot like Greasy Guy. She approaches the corner cautiously, taking deep breaths to steel herself.
"I-I wasn't thinking, okay?" The first male voice insists urgently, "Look, I'm sorry."
The second male voice grumbles something Lucy can't hear, and her heart races as she presses the button on the top of her radio.
"Backup, three-fifty-two Dunn." She says, out of breath as she draws her gun.
The first male voice continues: "What was I supposed to do?" asks the guy, desperate.
"Okay, okay." The second man sighs. "Calm down."
"Police, don't move!" Lucy screams, turning the corner with her gun pointed out straight in front of her in a manner that hurts her shoulders.
She was right! It is Wiry Dude and Greasy Guy. Wiry Dude throws his hands up in the exact same way he had in the apartment.
"Put your hands up right now, hurry up!" She trips over the words. Lucy waits for less than a second before she yells, "Now!" shaking her head to get rid of the adrenaline as both people comply. "Put 'em up against the fence, both of you!"
"Aw, come on," Wiry Dude moans even as he and Greasy Guy both do what Lucy says, "I-I don't believe this!"
It doesn't matter. Lucy can practically see the commendation in her mind.
"Sir, be quiet." She spits, pride replacing the fear in her limbs.
Wiry Dude is looking straight through the fence, but Greasy Guy is holding the metal links almost like he's posing, watching Lucy with amusement over his right bicep. Once she has satisfied herself with a thrice-over of each of their frames, she holsters her gun and walks toward Wiry Dude to cuff him.
And of course, because Lucy is terrible at her new job, Greasy Guy takes advantage of her momentary distraction and breaks, running for freedom.
NO! Lucy screams internally, whirling around to chase after him.
The chase does not last long, because within ten seconds, Greasy Guy's obnoxious boots cause him to trip over one of the many potholes in the street, Lucy falling after moreso than actually tackling her suspect as they both fall to the uneven pavement, but thankfully she retains the top position.
"Oof," Greasy Guy grunts as his back hits the ground, crying out, "Ah!" as Lucy's wrist digs into his stomach.
She looks behind him to check on Wiry Dude, who has left the fence and appears to be approaching. Upon seeing Lucy look his way, though, he immediately throws his hands back up. So predictable.
"Don't move!" She cries, "Get back to the fence right now!"
"You don't wanna do this," Greasy Guy warns, catching his breath.
"Shut up. Turn over." Lucy orders as she reaches for his arms to pull him onto his stomach.
She moves both of his wrists into position and is reaching for her cuffs when the man has the audacity to plead his case.
"I'm serious," He insists with his left cheek against the asphalt. "You gotta trust me, okay?"
"No, I'm serious." She hisses as her knees press against his back. "Just shut up. Resisting arrest," Lucy lists the charges floating around in her minds as she works to attach the cuffs to his wrists, "Fleeing the scene…"
Greasy Guy groans as the cuffs click into place and Lucy feels along his legs for the gun.
There isn't a gun, but there is a little clear baggie containing some white powder inside one of his back pockets.
Checkmate.
She cheers inside, but externally she huffs in satisfaction.
"Possession." Lucy snides as she holds up the baggie for no one to see, glaring at the back of her suspect's head. After realizing her bounty, she stuffs the baggie into her right pocket as she turns Greasy Guy onto his side by gripping under his arms and ignoring his repeated, "Ow, ow, ow!" as she maneuvers him, meeting with his glare.
"Where's the gun, huh?" She mutters as she pats down his front.
"I don't have a gun," He tells her conspiratorially, clancing over at Wiry Dude before he whispers, "I'm on the job."
As if she's supposed to know what that means. The dude's probably high.
"Not anymore, get up." She orders, pulling him to his feet. "Come on, get up."
He yelps as his knees extend. "Argh, that hurts."
Lucy does not pay his probably-fake injuries any mind as she forces him to walk, shoving him against the fence as she grabs and cuffs Wiry Dude before she starts walking them back to the congregation of cops whilst trying not to grin.
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After several long minutes of grumbling on the parts of Wiry Dude and Greasy Guy, Lucy finally makes it back to where the other cops have set up a kind of command centre, putting her arrestees in the back of her and Oliver's shop before leaning against the vehicle with a self-satisifed smirk.
Oliver walks out of the building some time later, looking at something intently on a notepad as he walks. Somehow, he manages not to trip over any of the potholes in the dirt.
"Sir!" Lucy calls out as Officer Shaw approaches and meets him halfway, forcing a serious expression onto her face. "I've been trying to radio you."
"Yeah?" Shaw gives his rookie an dubious look as he lifts his head from the notepad in his hands, eyes flitting to the radio clipped to Lucy's vest. "Here, turn around."
She obeys, confused.
Lucy feels her training officer's hands on the battery pack attached to her duty belt and hears a 'click' and a beep as the radio comes back to life, chatter flowing steadily from its speaker.
Oops.
"Ah, see?" The older man grunts, exasperation clear in his voice. "Try turning it on."
She receives two hard thumps against her back as her training officer walks up to the shop and leans against the backseat passenger's side door—his hip inches away from Greasy Guy's head with only the glass in between—motioning for Lucy to tell him whatever it is she had unsuccessfully attempted to communicate over the radio.
"Listen," Lucy scratches her head, trying to wane off the embarassment, and nods to the backseat. "I've made a couple of arrests. They're in the back of the car."
Shaw follows her gesturing and glances briefly at the two figures beyond the glass.
The man raises an eyebrow and holds his palms out to the sky, as if he is not quite convinced of Lucy's calibre. "Arrests."
"Yeah," Lucy smirks.
Shaw's brow furrows, "For what?"
Lucy shakes her head slightly and purses her lips.
"Fleeing the scene, possession" she counts on her fingers, "one guy matches the subject description."
Her training officer sighs, "Really?" and chuckles when Lucy nods, looking down at the dirt for a moment while he contemplates. "Okay."
She watches with rising nerves as he pushes off the door and walks around the front of the vehicle.
"Yeah," Officer Shaw mutters as he throws up a hand, "let's get 'em back to the barn." He waves at another cop in the distance. "I'm starving."
Lucy panics, wondering if she is experiencing some kind of hazing, and quicly attempts to redeem herself.
"Uh," she rambles, willing the man to understand, " you know, y- because you said— 'don't let anybody leave the scene—'"
"I know what I said," Shaw cuts her off, giving her a bored expression. "Whaddya want, a cookie?"
He laughs at his own joke as he opens the driver's door and motions for her to copy his actions as he gets in the car.
Lucy hesitates, but ultimately follows.
They both buckle themselves in, and Officer Shaw looks through the mirror at the men in the backseat, stifling an expression she struggles to decipher as he pauses briefly to make eye contact with Greasy Guy and looks into the backseat himself as if to double down on something.
"A-mazing," Shaw says neutrally as he starts the car.
His rookie gives him a curious look. "What?"
"Nothing!" Officer Shaw exclaims incredulously. "Nuh, that's, uh, that's- that's good work."
He pats her on the shoulder, less forcefully than the near-deathblows to her back he had delivered not five minutes earlier.
Lucy sighs, flooded with relief. "Thanks."
"Yeah." Shaw returns noncommittally. "Let's book these… bad boys."
She grins, thinking only of the celebration and cheer sure to come.
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"Let's get these guys processed!" Officer Shaw shouts over the sound of the rickety garage door closing behind them in the sally-port, once he and Lucy have both stepped out of the car. His tone is deceitfully ambiguous, and it makes her feel diffident.
She goes automatically for the door closest to her—the passenger's side door—to grab Greasy Guy, but Shaw stops her.
"No, Chen," he is already speed-walking around the vehicle's back end, "you've got that guy."
Her training officer points to Wiry Dude and being that Lucy is a mere rookie, she acquiesces.
Greasy Guy and Officer Shaw exchange looks as he pulls Lucy's first arrest out of the backseat and she does the same with Wiry Dude, muttering, "Let's go, move it," as she helps him stand.
Once she has gotten him out she espouses Shaw's path to the door leading into the holding section, where he waits for her with Greasy Guy and a fatigued face.
"Good stuff," he tells her, voice monotone, "good stuff."
A loud buzz echoes through the space as the door opens and she follows him through.
"Okay," he grunts once they are in the hallway, "I am gonna get this guy into a holding cell."
"Don't we have to book him first?" Lucy asks, perplexed.
Shaw shrugs, "Yeah, usually."
One of Lucy's other fellow rookies—a nice-enough-if-not-slightly-weird-but-not-in-a-neurodivergent-way kind of guy by the name of Dov who looks like he just started puberty—approaches her and her training officer to take the arrestees and Officer Shaw reprimands him, insisting that he will take care of Greasy Guy himself. Dov is followed by Detective Barber, a black-haired guy with a neatly-trimmed disconnected goatee who appears to be in the midst of complaining to Dov about something.
Just as Dov and Shaw begin to argue, Detective Barber interrupts them.
"Hey, Tim!" Barber exclaims, looking directly at Greasy Guy. When there is no response, he says, "Buddy!" and chuckles as he pushes past Dov to embrace Greasy Guy. "Can't believe the drug squad's giving you back, welcome home!" He laughs.
The laughter stops when Greasy Guy doesn't hug Detective Barber pack—because his hands are cuffed, obviously—and the latter pulls back, looking quizically at the former. The quizzical look quickly turns into an oh-shit look when he takes note of Officer Shaw, Lucy, and Wiry Dude.
Wiry Dude and Lucy exchange confused glances, the two of them shrugging as they meet eyes.
"I mean, 'cause I haven't," Barber schools his face, looking at each person in turn before turning his attention back to Greasy Guy and pointing at him exaggeratedly, "I haven't seen you here since I put you away…"
Detective Barber turns around and retreats, puts his hands on his hips as he works his jaw.
Wiry Dude solves the puzzle before Lucy and whips his head around to focus on Greasy Guy.
"You're a cop?" He accuses, more disappointed than anything.
Greasy Guy presses his lips together, and that's it.
Wiry Dude gasps, "Are you serious?"
Lucy's jaw drops, "A cop?"
Officer Shaw yells, "No, shut up!"
"What the hell is he doing here?" Detective Barber spins on his heel and walks toward Shaw with his arms out beside him, somehow simultaneously relieved, frustrated, and apologetic.
Dov has his hands out, saying a million words that no one hears as he tries to placate everybody.
"I was trying to get him into a holding cell!" Shaw sighs, defeatedly pointing down the hall to the cells.
Barber scoffs, "Maybe a little heads-up would be in order?"
Lucy's training officer scoffs, "Yeah, a little heads-up," just as Wiry Dude cries, "How could you?"
"Shut up!" Officer Shaw finally shouts. "Everybody, shut up."
He takes out his handcuff keys and undoes the lock on the pair securing the alleged cop, who rubs his wrists once they are free.
"Sorry, buddy," Greasy Guy— or Tim, apparently—mumbles to Wiry Dude, "sorry."
Tim death-glares at Lucy with thin lips, nodding sharply as another buzzer sounds and the door leading into the rest of the station opens for him.
As she watches him walk away, her brain is filled with images of her peers jeering, of angry superior officers, of turning in her badge and of being thrown out onto the street by her ear.
Lucy is so fired.
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