Samara, Inconceivable Arbiter
“I’m sorry, it’s just… There is no precedent for a living Arbiter in modern times. It’s just been used as a posthumous award, not meant for anyone to actually use any of the real power that is still tied to the position. So, I can’t possibly support that.” The man laughed nervously, gesturing to those around to illustrate that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. “Hah, ha-ha. Amusing, but complete foolishness.” None of them signaled that he was incorrect in his dismissive assessment.
As the current group of dignitaries surrounding her dissolved, Samara was left alone to flounder in the harsh, open waters of the city hall’s expansive ballroom while her motivation to approach another group quickly drained away. Besides, what was the point anyway? It had rapidly become fairly clear cut to her. There wasn’t a single one of these pompous well-to-doers who would back her on this vote and somewhere in her mind, she had known that from the very beginning. Instead of mingling, Samara made a b-line for a nearby waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Plucking off a pair of sparkly goblets, she downed one immediately and returned it before the server moved; a desperate attempt to calm her nerves. Besides the occasional glance her way, the collective of the wealthy and powerful in the city gathered tonight carried on in a cacophony of opulence.
If it had been anyone else besides Braxton that had tried to sell her on this farfetched plan, she would have laughed in their face. Actually… now that she thought about it, she had laughed in Braxton's face at first. Though, eventually she agreed. He had been so fixated on the idea since the day that it had come to him. The new mayor could be persuasive and technically… theoretically, if she somehow had been able to convince these people and was appointed as Arbiter, then they could access the resources that they needed. Then and only then, maybe a day would go by without another one of her fellow officers quitting or ending up in a ditch. As the thought lingered, a series of faces flashed through her mind. Silently, she swore under her breath. This city was cursed. Unpolicable. Just as they had finally wrest the reins of the city away from mob, another terror had sprung up to take it’s place as the city’s new assailant. It was as if this city had a thing for abusive relationships. Only this time, these clowns were run by someone with brains enough to remain anonymous. No matter how many they busted, there always seemed to be more. How do you crack down on a group without a distinguishable head? That was the question that right now she didn’t yet have an answer for. A question that had led her diving headfirst into the depths of the privileged few in the hopes of obtaining some mystical life raft that now seemed unobtainable.
A hand lightly brushed against her lower back, rousing Samara from her momentary contemplation. Spinning around instinctively with a fist clenched, ready to obliterate the individual that felt the need to touch what didn’t belong to them, she found Braxton mockingly cowering with his hands up in defeat. She rolled her eyes and downed the remaining goblet.
“No luck for you either, huh?”
A warm smile sat just beneath his mustache. It appeared to her that even though the night certainly wasn’t going the way that they had hoped, the new mayor and his new custom tailored suit still hadn’t lost their conviction and sunny disposition. His positive outlook and odd sense of humor wouldn’t last by the time this year’s elections rolled around, she thought to herself.
“None. Not a single one actually gave it a thought. I still can’t believe you conned me into this as we’ve accomplished nothing besides making a fool of ourselves. I mean… just look at what you have me wearing.”
“Well, it would have looked better, if you’d have left the belt and badge at the station.”
“Technically, I’m still on the clock. Hey, you’re lucky my captains forced me not to bring my service weapon. If not, I would have.” Samara spun, presenting her empty holster. “Kept telling me that they didn’t trust me not to resort to intimidation tactics.”
“Well I thank them for that and appreciate the effort, but it’s not my fault that you don’t own anything that has some class to it. Besides, that dress is a one of a kind showpiece, a genius blend of commentary and fabric by a very talented designer. Oh and I will need it back since he-”
“Commentary?” Samara interrupted, her mind still caught up on this point.
Braxton looked wounded. It was likely that he had already explained it to her at a time in which she clearly hadn’t been listening. Conceding her obvious, genuine naivety, he drew in close so that only she could hear him.
“Look, I knew that no matter what you wore in this type of crowd, their eyes would be drawn to your ink. No way to get around the obvious distance between the world in which we live and theirs. So instead of fighting it, we use their eyes to draw attention to the cause. Uplift the working class through new construction and safer streets.”
The sentiment didn’t land on her in the way that he obviously expected. He tried again.
“Coiled into the fabric are old, handmade nails that embody?” Braxton paused for a moment, waiting for her to answer before reluctantly continuing. “The working class of this city, the people that are truly hurting in this climate. And now, you see… this is where I think he truly is a genius. He specifically selected steel nails to also tie in the connection to your father who-”
Samara coughed, eyes colder than the metal that adorned her.
“Was… was a well-known steel worker.” Braxton finished smartly. “And both of those facets don't even compare to how your eyes are drawn to the silhouette which is inspired-”
Samara’s attention faded away as he continued his misguided lecture on classy fashion that she had unfortunately brought upon herself. Their eyes were the last thing that she wanted to think about. From the very moment that she had entered into the ballroom, it was as if she had been put up on a stage for scrutiny. An object rather than a person. A new, shiny item up for auction. Her stomach always did somersaults before department meetings, let alone something as massive and uptight as this. At times like this, Samara felt nostalgic for the time when she was nothing more than a street cop. Now she had a whole city’s worth of problems to deal with. But back then, all she had to worry about was what was directly in front of her; usually just some part-time thug who had gotten themselves into more trouble than they could handle. It was a time when she could solve problems by relying on her grit, determination, and the occasional busted kneecap. If only things could have remained that simple.
As if the boredom with her current predicament had willed a distraction into existence through sheer power of mind, a shout rang out from across the hall. A familiar shape rounded the corner leading toward the front entrance of the city hall. It was one of her captains who had been assigned to run security for this event. Out of breath and face flushed, their eyes scanned the ballroom. Samara motioned for Braxton to stay put and quickly circled the hall along the far side, littered with expansive windows, to reach her second in command.
“Darby, what’s wrong?”
“There… there is a riot… amassing outside. Fast like, m’am. A lot of the usual suspects… the types that live for any sort of opportunity for chaos, but it’s clearly organized.”
“Alright, we planned for this. Just follow protocol, call the station for any available units to circle this way and keep an eye on it. If it gets worse, we change plans.”
“I already called the station and no one is available.”
Samara furrowed her brow. “What do you mean no one’s available? How could-”
“I mean just that. Every officer on duty is already busy dealing with another call. There seems to be an endless number of them flooding into the station, more than they can handle. We’re on our own tonight.”
She let the situation settle into her mind for a moment, but could feel an ever increasing number of eyes drifting their way. Even these people in their far removed world could tell that something was amiss and as the commotion outside of the city hall grew to noticeable levels, Samara raced to think of what to do.
“Now I get why you’re so worked up. You’re not just worried about a riot, but starting to think that this is all could be a distraction? A ploy for the city’s new terror to stage something, right?”
“Ur, yeah… kinda. But, I dunno, maybe I’m wrong and overthinking…”
All of Samara’s captains at this point were people that she herself had selected and promoted. They had good heads on their shoulders and sharp instincts. Darby was no exception. So if one of them had a feeling, it was probably worth pursuing. But how would they strike? This new organization didn’t employ the same tactics as the mob. They weren’t likely to want a full on bloodbath. More than likely, they would only be after a single target. But, who would be the target? The new mayor was an easy guess, but honestly they didn’t have a clue to what the goals of this organization were exactly and that made it hard to know for sure. Without a target or motive that she could decipher, the only question she could try to answer was where they would likely try to strike. Cut them off before they even had a chance. This ballroom was on the second floor of the city hall building. And so if it was her, the stairs would be too obvious of an entrance and so… the roof? Just now remembering the row of windows that she had passed to cross the ballroom, it all clicked into place.
“Is there something that I could do to assist?”
Samara spun around to find the mayor.
“Yes, try to actually listen to me for change, would you?” Samara replied, flustered by his sudden presence. “Stay here! Darby, watch the mayor. Don’t let him out of your sight!”
Time seemed to speed up, racing out of control as she proceeded to make for the row of windows. Samara found two of them uncovered and open, likely the product of someone needing fresh air after one too many drinks. She closed, locked, and replaced the curtains of the first before making toward the second. A group of dignitaries hung around nearby the second.
“Back away from the windows,” she barked. None of them paid her much mind.
Slowly approaching the second one, Samara briefly gazed out into the dark of the night. Reaching over to close the window panels, a slight glint caught her eye. A wild flurry of slashes emerged from within the darkness, one narrowly missing the side of her face while another shattered the window panes as she tumbled backward to avoid the reckless offensive. Quickly regaining her footing as she assessed her condition, a single darkly cloaked individual leaped inside from the now broken window. Besides a small laceration on her right shoulder, the flashy barrage had left her mostly unharmed. Her dress didn’t even have a scratch. Just as the thought crossed her mind, a slow drip of blood ran its way down her arm and onto the fabric. That designer was going to be devastated.
Her attention returned to the party crasher that now stood atop the shattered glass of the broken window. Luckily, she was the closest one to this cloaked individual and if they made for a guest, Samara wagered that she could close the gap before they could. Gasps and shouts rang from the nearby group that noticed the bombastic new arrival. The din of the party slowly died out until Samara could hear the crunch of the glass below her attackers feet as turned away from the window and moved toward her. The individual's knife swayed ever so slightly in their hand, knuckles visibly white at the sheer tightness of their grasp around the hilt of the blade. An assumption sprouted in her mind. That wasn’t the grip of a seasoned thug. That was the grip of a cornered animal forced into a situation in which they now wished they weren’t.
“We don’t have to play this out, just drop the blade,” she spoke calmly.
There was no indication that her words had any affect on the individual in any meaningful way. But as they cautiously inched toward her, arms outstretched, Samara felt increasingly confident in her assessment. She prodded them again.
“Nothing is going to change just because you killed the mayor or one of these other well-to-doers, you do know that right? They will just move on. The city will move on and you… you won’t see the light of day again.”
Still no reaction. Enough talk. Instinct took over, her body moved to close the gap between them. But just as she got within arms reach, she back stepped. Just as she had predicted, the individual slashed wildly at the empty air in which she had just exited. Amatuer. No skill or practice with a blade. Further emboldened by this confirmation, Samara moved again. But this time, she lunged and pivoted to the side instead of backstepping, anticipating a furious lunging stab forward that happened just as she had envisioned it in her mind. The individual again connected with nothing but air. Before they had time enough to turn or even stop their forward momentum, she grabbed hold of their wrist holding the blade and brought the pair of shackles that she had silently retrieved from her belt down onto the back of the individual's legs. Adding significant additional force to their current momentum caused the cloaked individual to tumble forward. Harshly digging her nails into the wrist of the amatuer would-be assassin, the blade slowly came free, clanging harshly against the ground. In a final action as part of her planned counterattack, Samara brought a heavy heel down on the square of their back, pinning them on the well-polished tile flooring.
As she wrestled with the cloaked individual’s arms, a pair of hands clapped somewhere in the crowd that had gathered behind her. Turning her head to look, she found the hands belonged to one member of the group of unconvinced dignitaries that she had met earlier today, whose names she couldn’t place.
“Screw precedent, you have my vote.”
