Drinks on Friday Night
Stevens sighed, absently tugging at his badge.
“Do we really need to be in uniform, sir? They told me th-”
Helms cut him off with a snort.
“For Christ’s sake, rook, Michael! Call me Michael, or Helms, or Grandma Freaking Jill, just not sir. Not off the beat.”
“Nah, Mike’s no good.” Helms sniffed. He parked the squad car next to a downed parking meter. The glaring neon lit the street red. Stevens gave the nearby alleys a wary glance, hand on his sidearm. He stiffened, cold sweat ready to spring from his brow.
“Sir? This place is for…uh…superv-”
A sparking hunk of steel and man flew out the door, caught by a gravbeam. Pale eyes and a shock of white hair broke into a smile mid-float.
“Helms, hey! Good to see yooooouuAAAAGGHHH!”
Helms chuckled as Electromaster was pulled back inside. Stevens froze, catatonic.
“Come on, rook! They love cops here, they just hate…you know. "
Helms shushed him, gesturing to the sign on the door.
“Yeah. Them. But police drink free!”