Introduction to Lunet and the CSPD

Introduction to Lunet and the CSPD

Hi, my name is Lunet.  I am in the CSPD, an’ my frien’ is a full-on metal face’ robo’, apparentleh.  

I’m a proud Scotswoman, born an’ raised. I came here ta join tha force, an’ protect those’t cann’a protect themselves, much tha way I needed someone ta protect me as a wee girl. My dad was Spanish, and my mum was Sco’ish.  My dad left us, an’ my mum drank herself into tha grave. Tha’ lef’ me, a girl o’ ten, ta fen’ fer herself on tha streets o’ Glasgow. My life weren’ too bad, ‘cos I had a great friend ta help me thru tha hardes’ early parts – Cai Gawain Govannon.  Soch a pretenchus name, if ya ask me, bu’ tha’s whatcha ge’, with a bunch o’ artists as paren’s. He’d bring me some food from time to time, an’ I’d show him aroun’ town. Thick as thieves, we were – sometimes literalleh. Fer years, we went from place to place, seein’ all there was.  Bu’ then Cai go’ a teacher, an’ he stop’d adventurin’.

Years wen’ by, an’ I’d see Cai from time ta time, bu’ no’ like in tha ol’ days.  I was old enough ta take care o’ meself fer tha mos’ par’, but one nigh’ I was sleepin’ in my usual Thursdy place, an’ somma tha bigger street boys jump’d me.  If it weren’ fer the constable walkin’ by jus’ then.. I don’ even wanna think abou’ wha’ migh’ve happen’d. That constable’s name was Moira McGee. She could see I dinna have anyone ta take care’a me, so she adopted me righ’ then ’n there.  I went ta school, an’ learn’d wha there was to learn.

Ok, I’ll type properly now.  I do have a pretty strong scottish accent, but it doesn’t translate very much into text, so I wanted to show you where I came from, and what I sound like… though I was exaggerating a bit.  I attended high school in a town in the outskirts of Glasgow. The way I met Moira affected me, and I wanted to become a police officer to protect others the way she protected me.

I studied hard, and got top marks in all of my classes.  I was a top scorer in the Ladies’ Marksmanship Club, and held several school records for firearms and archery.  I ran track and field. I did everything I could to prove I was made to be an officer.

The Century Station Police Department was infamous for its corruption, and the city’s lost potential was almost heartbreaking.  So when I got the chance to attend the CSPD Academy, I leapt at the chance. Not only did I want to help the downtrodden from average thugs, but I wanted to save the city from the Mavericks and dirty cops.

After graduating a couple of years later I was in Traffic, with my own cruiser and partner.  In a cliched turn of events, I caught my partner pocketing some evidence confiscated from a DUI.  I turned him in anonymously – you don’t deal with IA publicly, even in a department trying to turn itself around.  I graduated to Detective eventually and I helped take down a small group of Maverics that set up shop in a crack house in Brisby Flats. IA pegged me out to be someone that could help turn CSPD and Century Station around, and I was on my way toward my current position…

Samuel Whitehead,

That of a Parking Enforcement Officer, though you might know the position better by the name “Meter Maid.”  It is an honorable position, though it is not the whole of my job. I am as Poe’s Purloined Letter, hiding in plain sight.  To start my camoflage, I was publicly ‘demoted’ after an investigation by IA, whose findings were kept secret. I gained a handler, and a hidden compartment in my PEO ‘HoverBuggy’ for SWAT paraphernalia.

My days start off with a light 5k, and my morning energy shake.  I check in with my handler, and hit the streets in my vehicle keeping the streets of Midtown safe.  

Why Midtown, you ask?  Because Brisby Flats is still in the throes of its early demise, due to Daedelus’ downfall.  More supernatural and mundane criminal elements moved in than the precincts there could combat, and department restructuring was done to protect Officers’ lives.  Ergo those for which I hunt aren’t in Brisby, but Midtown – on the shores and shallows, not the deeps as it were. I hunt for dirty cops, and I hunt them by pretending to be one, and creating a network of shady contacts to find those supposedly like me.

My shift generally begins around 9 A.M. and ends around 5:30 P.M.  I mainly patrol in the more central blocks, where parking is limited and strictly regulated, but I also venture near the on-ramps for the bridge to the Flats, and to some of the seedier inner-city suburbs.  I check on my ‘fishing lines and crab cages,’ to see if I caught anything overnight. I then make my rounds like normal, where those that are looking for me can find me. My job allows for a surprising amount of pretense to have conversations with any number of people throughout the day.  You’d be surprised how many people walk up to PEOs to scream at them about their parking ticket, or car-boot, or moving violation ticket, or warrants, or the pothole in front of their house. Any face of the city is good enough for some people, no matter that the city has dozens of departments with dozens of functionaries, and no one has the kind of authority or knowledge and experience to do all of the jobs at once.  I digress…



On the day I met Caedechron I was making my rounds, and was on a deserted street near the river’s edge when I was ambushed by a pasty boy in a hoodie.

“Lunet!  Hey, I need your help.  I’m in trouble.” said a familiar voice.  That’s when I noticed his eyes – robot’s eyes.

“It’s Officer Braga, sir, uh, robot.  How can I help, and could I get your designation code?”

“Lunet, it’s me, Cai.  I’m in an android’s body.” The robot whispered back, looking around nervously.

“Really?  How so?”

“Looney, I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you a cinnamon-chocolate brioche, but I didn’t think about it.  I had plenty of time to stop somewhere, but it’s been a crazy day.” The robot said, equal parts worry and snark tainting his voice.

“Cai!” I breathed.  He’s the only one that has ever called me that name, and the only one I wouldn’t put in a chokehold for doing it.  Also, my least favorite breakfast food would also have to be a Cinnamon-chocolate brioche. That’s what my mom always picked up after her one-night stands, so it always tasted like cigarettes, beer, and disappointment to me.  “When did you get an android? Did you get that promotion you were trying for?”

“No, no.  I didn’t buy it, it’s… on loan from USR.  But anyway, I need you to help me find someone.  I’m in trouble, and you’re one of the only people I can trust.”

Cai knew that I had contacts around the city, and he knew that as an officer I could get a lot of basic information about people, but he didn’t know the full extent of my job or under-cover persona.  “Yeah, I can run an address super quick. What’s the name?” I pulled the 17” Tablet from its pocket on my back, and pulled up CSPD-PDB.

“I need the information quietly.  I’m being chased, and I don’t want anyone to know where I’m going.”

“Cai, what’s going on?  If there’s something illegal going on, I need to know.”

“I don’t want to get you involved like that, I just need to find Ethel Faulkenburg.  She’ll know where her brother is, and I will be able to hide.”

I sighed, and said resignedly, “Ok, so you want this off-the-books, I assume.  I’ll see what I can turn up off the grid. Meet me at MacLain’s around 5, and I’ll give you what I got.”

Gawtti, Italian Job, 2003

He slunk off, trying to be inconspicuous.  Though he might have been less inconspicuous with a giant neon sign.  I spent a few minutes deciding which of my contacts to reach out to first, and came upon the only one that could fit the bill: Lucas “Ax” Machado.  Ax was an economy-sized, economy-priced hitman. He had his own twisted code of honor, and chose his contracts accordingly. He also knew how to find people, and wouldn’t leave marks in the system.  

The way I contact him is by leaving a parking ticket on a black Cadillac 300 on 3rd Avenue South.  An hour later, an elderly man approached me shaking his cane at me, complaining that “No one is returning [his] phone calls to the precinct!” He then handed me a small notepad “Of the latest complaints [he wants] on the record!” and toddled off.  The notepad had Ethel Faulkenburg’s address, and an ‘All Clear’ code, so I know that no one should be aware of the info transaction.

At about a quarter after 5 I got to MacLain’s, and sat in the booth with Mr. Superspy.  Hoodie pulled around his face, hunched in a back booth, and head twitching toward sharp sounds… Something had him rattled, and it was a new situation for him – He didn’t live on the streets the way I did, he was a tourist.  I tried to calm him down with memories about the old country, and the old days. It was nice to escape Century Station for a few minutes, and remember hard times with fondness.

After about fifteen minutes, I left him the information on a plain index card stuffed into a copy of the day’s newspaper grabbed from a trash can on the way to the pub.  I silently wished him luck and looked forward to him eventually explaining to me what this was all about.  

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