The Austin Police Academy was a fortress in miniature. Similar to Precinct Three, where Gregoir and company reside, its structure was that of a modern castle. Thick walls circled the building, with parapets that were more decorative than functional. The entrance was less guarded as well; no wrought iron gate barred Dan's path, and only a single, bored guard watched him enter. The Academy lacked an outer courtyard, and though he was inside, Dan could see no patrols along the high walls. More decoration, then. It was a puzzling difference. Why was the Academy so much less secure, at least at first glance?
Dan glanced around one last ti, before accepting that he wouldn't find his answer in the shrubbery. Maybe his professor would know? He hoped that this wasn't one of those culturally taboo subjects. It had been a while since he'd run into such a thing.
The building entrance was a simple pair of electric sliding doors. The tiny black motion sensor didn't register Dan's existence until he waved at it, and the doors opened with a little more grinding than he was used to.
"Need so oil on that," Dan remarked to the lobby security guard, as he strolled towards the reception desk. The man was slow to process the comnt, rely grunting tiredly and resuming his vacant stare.
The rest of the lobby was alarmingly empty. Though well kept and clean, the building's decor was obviously out of date. The building was old, that much was obvious, and few attempts had been made to update it. The wallpaper, especially, reminded Dan of his room at the Pearson; a hotel thed around sowhere in the late 1800's. The scattered pieces of furniture, the lobby benches and seats, were the newest items in the room. They looked to be a mishmash from the 90's era, wicker chairs and a frilly couch, dulled by age.
The receptionist was a middle aged woman with graying hair, done up in a bun. She wore thick glasses and a frigid stare that would cow the hardiest of n. Dan gulped reflexively as he approached.
"Papers," the woman drawled. Her voice was low and nasal, hitting that uncomfortable register that made one's skin crawl.
Dan attempted a warm smile, managing to defrost not an inch of the woman's expression. He reached into the satchel at his side, digging briefly to produce a thick bundle of papers stapled together. Orientation for the Academy was completed online, in a digitally guided tour that bore close to no resemblance to reality. It had been a novel experience for Dan, though apparently standard for the world. The paperwork he had provided was the online form given at the end of the tour, printed out and signed.
The aging receptionist accepted his bundle without comnt, skimming the first page with surprising alacrity. She licked her thumb, and, faster than Dan could follow, blurred through the remaining paperwork. Her hands moved with the ease of a veteran desk jockey, and soon she was glancing back up at Dan. Her gaze quickly scanned his clothing, and he fought the urge to straighten his posture.
His current ensemble was an Abby-picked production. The Academy guidelines called for casual clothing that a student could conceivably dirty, and she had not failed to answer the call. His shirt was a dark blue polo, with the logo of a tiny horse rider over his heart. He didn't recognize it, but Abby assured him that he wouldn't look out of place. His pants were an old pair of black jeans that Dan had thankfully broken in already. Grey sneakers with thick rubber soles completed the outfit. The ssenger bag across his waist carried his laptop, new and shiny, along with a notebook and pen.
It was the second-most effort he had ever put into his appearance, the first being his visit to Abby's family mansion. First impressions mattered, and Dan desperately needed so more friends. Preferably n; optionally, n that weren't four tis his age. Abby was fantastic, and he would never say otherwise, but his attempts at teaching her how to fish had ended with the third hook in his shoulder. Social drinking was also not her preference, mostly because her alcohol tolerance was infinitesimal. Dan needed an injection of testosterone into his life, preferably by sothing other than Abby's fist.
Sothing of his desperation must have showed in his expression, because the receptionist sighed and motioned him onward. Dan knew the way to his classroom, the online tour had covered that aspect, though the hallways looked nothing like what had been advertised. They had been a gleaming silver, rather than made up of faded Sheetrock and old wallpaper. This was the future, Dan realized; a surreal case of digital existences being prettier than reality.
Still, his mind knew the turns even if the scenery had changed. He was early by almost half an hour, but the classroom was open and quiet voices echoed within it. Dan ca to an abrupt stop outside the door, as he realized, horror-struck, that one of the voices was familiar to him. He cautiously peeked inside the room, cringing at the sight before him.
Long blonde hair. A towering stature. Muscles, toned to perfection.
Legs that went all the way up, and a face that Aphrodite would envy.
Graham's girlfriend Freya sat in the center of the room, affecting a bored expression of dismissive superiority. Her appearance effortlessly matched the goddess that she was nad for, and she clearly knew it. In front of her, sitting backwards in his chair, a younger man argued with her, wearing an expression of frustration on his face. He was likely in his late teens, with auburn hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose.
"Almost a dozen officers graduate from the Academy each year!" the ginger protested, bouncing in his seat. "If you remove this institution, you'll remove—"
"Twenty percent of incoming officers, yes, I understand that," Freya replied evenly. Her elbow was upright on the table, with her chin resting on her palm. Her voice sohow managed to sound both utterly confident, and utterly bored. "I'm not suggesting a total elimination of the Academy. It has its uses, obviously, else none of us would be here. Unfortunately, it is an unwieldy beast, with outdated teaching thods, and a lack of appropriate technology."
Oh. Dan was actually interested in this conversation.
The redhead frowned. "Which is why it needs more funding, not less."
"Less funding would force the Academy to focus its efforts on what it is good at and cut the rest. This place has completely failed to provide a rounded education for its recruits. I've read multiple polls indicating that its graduates have felt markedly less prepared for police life, when compared to private institutions." Freya sniffed, turning her eyes toward the ceiling. "This should be a place for supplentary learning, not primary. The average number of students attending courses like this one is appallingly low. The Academy needs to advertise its smaller, more specialized courses, and leave general studies to the experts."
"Not everyone can afford to attend Saint George's," the man replied heatedly.
"A pointless argunt." Freya waved her hand dismissively. "Saint George's only accepts the elite. Of course not everyone can attend it, that would defeat the point. Besides, most private institutions offer scholarships."
"Not everyone can win a scholarship, either." Dan could hear the man's teeth grinding from the doorway.
"Then they don't deserve to be an officer," Freya stated with all the certainty of a zealot.
The redhead looked lost for words, but fully ready to throttle the girl. Dan took the pause as an opportunity to defuse the conversation. He knocked on the doorfra, and both heads swiveled to face him.
Freya blinked in recognition, then a frown crossed her face. "Oh. It's you."
There was less venom in her voice than Dan had expected, and more resignation. She sounded weary, as though his presence was an unfortunate but inescapable fact of her life.
Dan, caught off-guard, defaulted to polite acknowledgent. "Good morning. Miss... Freya, wasn't it?"
"Freya Valentine," she sighed out. The act of handing out her na seed to physically pain her.
The ginger seed mollified by Freya's distress. He hopped out of his seat and strolled towards Dan, all smiles and hand extended. "Fred Sawyer. Nice to et any man who can get under this one's skin." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, towards the scowling supermodel.
Dan accepted the handshake amicably. "Daniel Newman. And I only t her the one ti, a couple weeks ago."
He really needed to find a mont to inquire about Graham's health, but the girl might literally murder him if he brought such a sensitive subject up in front of Fred.
"Well you must've left an impression," the redhead snickered unashadly. He waved Dan inside. "S&R, right? C'mon in, find a seat. Our teacher hasn't showed up yet, and we've got ti to burn. Tell about yourself."
"Uh." Quick Dan, make a joke! "Well, I like lasagna, movies, and long walks on the beach."
"Hah!" Fred laughed obligingly, while Freya rolled her eyes.
"I actually was interested in the conversation you guys were having," Dan admitted sheepishly. "I hadn't realized how— um," He waved a hand at the surrounding room. The ceiling tiles were stained brown, and there was a small hole in the Sheetrock near the corner of the room.
"Dilapidated?" Freya supplied.
"...Neglected," Dan settled for. "How neglected this place was. I assud it would be like the police station; cramd to the gills with tech and swarming with students."
Fred shook his head sadly. "The vast majority of public funding goes towards the active police force. The last ti the Academy received a funding bump was, oh, so ti in the late 80's I believe."
"Nineteen Eighty-Three," Freya corrected absently, then covered her mouth in astonishnt. She looked just as surprised at her own interruption as Fred did. The girl, now frowning, turned to Dan, overtly weighing whether it was worth her ti to speak to him. He must have passed so sort of invisible test, because she continued to speak. "Private institutions train around eighty percent of new officers each year. The training is higher quality, and the teachers are better paid. They can afford to hire the best."
Dan frowned, confusion rising within him. "This class ca highly recomnded," he pointed out. He had done his research before applying. "Are you saying that the internet lied to ?" Even as he asked the question, he realized how stupid he sounded.
Freya, thankfully, did not cotton on to his mistake. She simply shook her head. "The Academy's supplental courses are widely acclaid. The police force run a rotation for these kinds of classes, though they lack the manpower for the general course. The environnt is entirely sub-par, but our teacher will be an actual officer. One with a strong grounding in this field."
"A private school can't hire active officers." Fred added smugly. His eyes narrowed inquiringly. "Did either of you catch who it'll be?"
"No," Dan said slowly, horror slowly filling his chest. "An active officer, you said?" One strongly grounded in the field of search and rescue. Like a man who had just rescued his student from the grips of a villain, live on television.
"Well, they wouldn't be 'active' while teaching, but this is only a sumr session. Most officers don't mind sacrificing a few months of ti to ntor the next generation, assuming the departnt can afford to lose them. It's like a vacation, I'd imagine," Fred explained patiently. "We won't be in any risk of losing our teacher to a patrol gone wrong, don't worry."
That wasn't his worry.
The door to the classroom clicked, and Dan flinched. It swung open, creaking slightly, and heavy footsteps entered the room. Dan turned to face the entrance with dread.
Standing in the doorway...
A man that he didn't recognize. He had black hair, shorn short, and a gaunt face. His eyebrows were unusually thin, and his eyes were erald green. He seed young, maybe in his early thirties, and had a small soul patch on his chin.
Oh, and dog ears. Dan couldn't miss those. They were pointed rather than floppy, a Corgi as opposed to a Bloodhound, and the sa black as his hair. They replaced his human ears, though were placed slightly higher on his head. They twitched slightly as the man entered the room.
He was dressed in business casual, a white shirt tucked into blue jeans and an elaborate belt buckle. A formal jacket was slung over his shoulder, hooked around a single finger. He wore a watch on his left hand, and a long piece of nylon around his neck, upon which dangled a police badge.
Dan's entire body relaxed. This was their professor.
"Good morning class," the man greeted, confirming Dan's suspicion.
"Good morning officer," they chorused back as one.
He smiled at that. "It's Professor, for the duration of this class. Professor Michael Tawny."
Another series of "Good morning, Professor," followed his statent and he nodded. His eyes road over the near empty room, and the shabby state of it.
He sighed audibly. "This classroom will have to suffice for now. Our curriculum will take us outside more often than not, though I'll wait for the final mber of our class to arrive before going more in-depth."
Dan raised his hand, and received an affirmative gesture.
"There are only four of us?" he asked curiously. The class had been highly rated, and not particularly expensive.
Professor Tawny grimaced at the question, but nodded. "Only three new students, and one redial. You'll find, Mister..." He raised an eyebrow.
"Newman," Daniel quickly supplied. "Daniel Newman."
"Mister Newman." The professor rolled Dan's na around his mouth, before nodding in satisfaction. "You'll find, Mister Newman, that search and rescue is neither a glamorous job nor a glorious one. Few are interested in this field, even among my own peers."
The officer brightened. "Actually, this is a great way to get to know each other. We'll go around the room, each giving a reason why we want to attend this class."
"Sure thing, Proff," Fred replied gaily. Dan shrugged amicably as well, but a scowl passed quickly over Freya's face.
Professor Tawny seed not to notice. He glanced down at his watch. "We're getting close, now. Our last student should be— ah, here he is."
The doorknob clicked, and the door swung open. Dan turned, and felt his stomach drop.
Long blonde hair, perfectly trimd. A towering stature, nearly reaching the ceiling. Biceps larger than a waterlon. A small mountain worth of boisterous viking.
Gregoir Pierre-Louis had entered the building.
"Good morning, fellow students!" he bood cheerfully, strolling into the room.
Dan scread.
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