[b]York and Zhang[/b]:

“We can detain Ms Ho for another three hours without having to press charges.” Cheadle looks at a clock high on the wall, making no motion to open the door. “Two hours and thirty minutes, now.” 

“You didn’t say that.” Zhang falls with her back to the chainlink. It’s rattled, she isn’t. “I can chill another two hours, easy, if you just tell me.” 

“Eight hours is the limit. Zhang was arrested 12 hours ago, now, 2am.” York holds up his phone with a disgusted squint at it. No signal. The buildings inside a faraday cage and the walls are lined with metamaterial retroreflective paint, invisible to the eye but fucks up attempts to record around it. He pretends he’s just checking the time as he hits the audio recorder. “Twelve hours and thirty minutes.” 

“Says who?” Cheadle checks the papers. “She was detained at 9am, that’s what the booking says.” He shrugs. “Second detainment, anyway. First pickup was just a transfer, we don’t count that.” That would be 7 missing hours. 

“That’s bullshit, right?” Zhang looks to Brown hopefully. “Yo, tea lady. That’s bullshit, right?” 


[b]Pope:[/b]

“I like that. It’s a good angle. I’m going to use that imagery in the piece. There’s a vividness to it. Thing is - I know I’m preaching to the choir, but stay with me a moment. Lady justice isn’t real. She’s an ideal, but she isn’t your audience.” He thinks about what he means, drumming his fingers on the table hard. “It helps. Tells me that the angle can’t be tearing this one woman down, it’s got to focus on tearing down everything that allowed this to happen without being noticed. Should have been a long time ago, and it shouldn’t have needed you. Who do you want to get riled up, though? Think of this like billiards, where Justice is the pocket you’re aiming at, and this piece is the cue ball. You got to sink a different ball into the pocket, or else you’re just sinking the cue ball. Everyone’s going to hear about this eventually, but who do you want to make sure [i]listens[/i] to this one?”

“As for surveillance? Themis.” He says. One of Aevum’s equivalents of an FBI, the name being the Greek goddess of justice that carried the sword in one hand and the scales in the other. They’d be the ones investigating the blown up pump right now, actually, that’s the kind of crime they’re supposed to exist for.  “Couldn’t tell you why, and the not knowing kills me as much as anything else. But what can I do about it? Call them up and ask?” 

He’s done this, actually, but he doesn’t remember. He was baked - that is, intentionally operating above 75*c to mimic the effects of being stoned into the stratosphere - and just called a Themis internal line and asked. There’s a recording of him high as a kite, laughing his ass off, asking what the point was: 

“C’moon. Tell a brother. Is it because I’m an android?” — “We cannot confirm or deny any ongoing operations or interest in any persons or people at this time.” —“You got two fuckin’ jabroneys out that window snappin’ pictures of me from the place across the road. ‘Cause if that ain’t your guys I got problems, right?” — “If you would like to report-” — “Is it because of who I fuck?” — “Mr Pope?” — “Is it ‘cause I’m an android, or ‘cause I fucked a catboy?” — “Mr-” — “Because you know I love me some of that boy pussy?” — “Pope!” — “Boy [i]pusssaaaayyyy.” —[/i] “Are you okay, sir? Do you need help? Would you like me to send someone?” — “Sure! Just tell me how I’m supposed to recognize ‘em. Am I allowed to ask the two you already sent? Hello? Hello? Jabroney hung up on me.” 

Definitely a good thing he doesn’t remember.