Sergeant F. Conti - My boots were covered in mud. The kind of mud that is formed only from the grinding of boots and blood. By the time we arrived, the fight was over. The survivors wandered out of the alley, slowing recognizing that they had survived to live another day. We clapped them in irons before they could grasps at the straws of freedom. We hadn’t seen this kind of violence in the streets since the accord. Did this signal a return to the days before?
I knelt next to one of the dead. No matter how many times you look upon the dead, you never fully distance yourself from the idea that that fate eventually will befall us all. Maybe not this gruesome, but eventually death takes us all. The man was in his mid twenties, close cut hair, a few tattoos that could belong to any sell-sword. Their equipment was in good condition and not cheep. I picked my way through several more. None of the tell-tale signs of the Crift, not independents, not some gang war. This was a hit, plain and simple. The survivors were up to the challenge, but only just. I could see in their eyes that the outcome was not a forgone conclusion. Who are these men and who wants them dead?
Witnesses were plentiful enough. Two men who had been unloading empty crates in the ally had laid out the events with startling clarity. Retracing the scene bore out the truth of it.
Money was behind this hit. Money without a sense for whom they were trying to kill. It was careless and likely hastily concocted. In order to fathom the real hand at play I would need to ferret out the details from those who remained. I will not let the streets turn to red on my watch. Too many good men paid for the peace.