The Station

The automatic sliding doors of the stations entrance have long since ceased functioning and been pried open leading into the reception area, not a soul can be found. Behind the desk is a Brighton Systems GM-450 Automated Receptionist or at least the skeleton of one.

Ordinarily these models resemble a mechanized human from the waist up, where the VI-900 series has built in, blocky armored sections, the GM-450 has smoothed down limbs made to resemble a humans and a metal approximation of a human face that stays unmoving like a mask, however the biggest difference being what rests below the waist.

Nearly every iteration of the GM series is immobile, in place of legs is a platform that keeps them locked in their stations and concealing most of the more important components including an expanded memory bank, a bolstered CPU and direct link to the buildings power supply, meaning it only loses power when the building does.

But now, it’s clear to see that time and scavengers have not been kind to this model, the metal along the limbs and head has been stripped, much of the wiring harvested and quite literally every valuable component in the platform has been ripped out, leaving behind only a rusted metal skeleton. Hardly a welcoming sight.

Violet moves past the reception area down a short hall to the right of reception that leads into the bullpen, where rests almost 2 dozen desks, most of which appear to have not been touched in decades.

Across the bullpen, several individuals can be spotted, in a glass office at the far side of the room is Captain Morris, currently in the midst of pouring over a series of documents, his face a mask of stoicism, as though the papers he reads are a distraction from something bigger.

Seated at one of the desks close to the office is the previously mentioned terminal; the only one in the room that looks functional. Using it currently is Sargent Pembroke, clicking through what appears to be the files of cases long past.

Finally there’s an individual seated at one of the many desks across the room, smoking a cigarette as she disassembles and cleans an old service pistol.

Turning from the bullpen, to the right side of the room rests 2 doors, one leads into a conference room, filled with more empty chairs then there are officers in the building. It appears empty at present and past that is a second doorway that leads into a small mess-hall and break room, the floors a cracked and faded tile and the walls covered in peeling wall paper. Currently seated along one of the tables is a man picking at what appears to be some kind of small bird, plucked and cooked; something he does not appear to be too pleased about.

On the left side of the room is an additional pair of doors, one leads into an interrogation room and the other leads into a connected observation room, both are empty at this time and have little of note.

Finally at the back of the room, resting on either side of that glass office that is currently occupied by Captain Morris are a final two rooms, to the left of the office is a strange mix of both an armory, a firing range and workshop, presumably for the modification of weapons and armor. Seated at the workstation is a man currently tinkering with a small metal box that every so often emits a loud, crackling static.

To the right of the office is a stairwell that leads into a vehicle bay, where rests a single police cruiser, well maintained cleaned and sporting what appears to be a relatively fresh paint job, clearly displaying the vehicle as property of The Constabulary. The cruiser is raised slightly off the ground using a pneumatic lift, a pair of legs sticking out from beneath it, every so often a small fit of curses can be heard from beneath the cruiser.

Returning to the bullpen, Violet is struck by the sheer volume of leads…

There’s the archives filled with criminal files, with those she could finally make use of her internal criminal database and facial recognition systems, though where they are, Violet has no clue, perhaps the captain would know.

She could speak with one of her colleagues, making a good impression on them would go a great ways to improving the ease of future investigations.

There’s the terminal, with those she could begin pursuing one of those cold cases Charles had mentioned on the road to Lambeth.

There’s also this Delicatessen, the cheapest restaurant in town that’s regularly making citizens sick, Sargent Pembroke seems to be familiar with the establishment enough to provide directions.

(AUTHORS NOTE: SORRY FOR THE SHORT CHAPTER, THIS IS MOSTLY MEANT AS A JUMPING OFF POINT FOR VARIOUS DIFFERENT ADVENTURES!)