Baltos face was one of one who looked at a noose and wondered if he should have written that letter to his mom after all. "Please. Go ahead and spill the beans. We are coppers. We kinda have to tell each other these things" He said. The fact that they were gonna have to chase a gods damned "terrorist for hire" weighing on his mind. Right now Balto was in a world of trouble, and the creek he was paddling up was feeling muddy and brown indeed. He was going to have to be smart about this.


"Allright. Gather round!" he yelled out. A strategy of sorts was forming inside that brain of his. It would need to be bold, stupidly so. And to pull it off they would have to hold each other backs at least for a while. He would also have to call in every favor he ever been owed. And then some. He waited for them to pay him enough heed that he didn't have to shout.


"We are being involved in some deep shit. I am talking knee deep at the least. This smells of politics and it smells of hired job. Our main suspect is one of the most wanted men on the bloody continent. We do not have the manpower, the resources or even the wits to catch him. Add to that that he likely have some posh knob bankrolling him and whoever his companion is, we are so far up shit creek, we need a really big paddle to get back on to solid, non manure based soil. You get me?" He asked, not waiting for a answer. 


"I am going over to Office 11, to formally put in the 'Call to Arms.'" The call to arms was old regulation thing that officers invoked when they believed their current mess of trouble was gonna spill past their designated zone of interest. Of course, when a posh copper from the upper areas called it it was attention on deck and polished swords for everyone. When Balto called it it would mean hearings and at best a pair of new boots. But he had better then aces up his sleeve. He had a knife or two. Really he had three but who was counting. Balto was also the expert in talking big and never backing it up until he was safely behind a bigger, badder guy. 

Office Eleven was the nickname for the biggest Guardhouse in the city. Called Eleven instead of One becouse it had been raised ten times in the past and yet risen like a phoenix. It was a place of bureaucracy and red tape. And of lazy posh knobs who lived by the paper trail and died by the signature. But they were the type Balto made a living hustling.

”Khaz, Get the troll. I need to to start making ruckus. I won't lie. I am asking you because it will cause people to come down on us. And out of us, you are one of the most likely to survive.” He turned to Min. ”I want you to spread the word that there is a reward for anyone who can prove they saw something from the incident. Also, not a word about who is behind or we won't get a word out of anybody. ” He paused. ”Oh. And go get the nymf, I forget her name. We are gonna need her to get past Big Boffer.” Big Boffer was a mutant hound that guarded the Guard armory. They would not get any equipment by asking, so they would liberate it and claim it retroactively. 

He turned to their Dwarven officer. ”Yarik, Take Boom with you. Go stir shit with the gangs. Beat a few people if you have to. Pull all the strings you know. Who has sold a big cache of explosives or unstable chemicals. ANYTHING you can find that could been used.”


[i][u][b]Somewhere else entirely. [/b][/u][/i]

”That job was sloppy” Said the tall, stiff looking man with grey pale skin. He was reffered to as Mr Gray. He was a man of stout convictions and professional pride. They had been hired to do a job, and they had done it. But the damn halfling had used three times the needed amount of Dragon fire. His obsession with ”making a mark” would cost them their lives one day. He was certein of it. For his part, he was holding a still cooling piece of metal with a round tip. A single pulsing stone of power was fastened in the middle. He called it his Prismatic Focus wand. Some would in the future refer to it as a Laser. Mr Grey was magician of some skill. And a inventor of insane intellect. And a ruthless mercenary who used his terribly flamboyant and attentioncraving partner to remain anonymous trough history.

”Oh who cares? It was a pair of stiffs. Nobody is gonna be concerned.” Blastin' Tom, ever the jovial miscreant, said. He was also a avid believer in ”If it died once, it isn't really murder”. He was setting another wiring together another set of explosives. They were far from over, and as it where.


”The Guard?” Grey Inquired. He had heard nothing but scorn and distaste for the city lawmen. Apparently they were more corrupt and more incompetent then any other force in existence. But Grey did not take hyperbole as truth. One dogged officer with a need to improve his station was all it took to give them a hard time if they didn't do it by the book. And Tom all but used that book for toilet paper allready.
 
”The Guard of Cleaver Street? A demon offspring, a mutant, a troll, a dwarven drunk, a drug peddling half-ling, a damn nymph and a street kid.”

”Don't forget the Goblin!” Their third, very reluctant partner chimed in. Hannibal Lowe was a third rate explosives handler and seller. And he had tried to leave town when the explosion went off. Grey disliked loose ends, so thus the man was tied to a chair, staring at a crossbow that would fire if he tipped to much forward.

”oh. Yeah. And the goblin. See what I mean. They are the most useless in a bunch of useless people.” Tom said with a scoff. Finally finishing with the powder and oil containers. His bombs were work of art to Grey. So stable yet so powerful. 

”I don't know. We will have to be careful.”