Two roughnecks were sitting on a bench by the street, smoking like chimneys and glaring at people and cars as they moved by. Nobody really seemed bothered by their attitude, though. They were in the rough part of Last Flag, a neighborhood called Blacktown. The area was home to all of the city’s factories, and derived its name from the heavy smog that billowed out of them and covered everything in a thin layer of soot and dust. As one might expect, this drove the land value of the surrounding property into the ground, turning Blacktown into a slum. Its old run-down buildings were primarily populated by impoverished citizens that struggled to put food on the table. Violence occurred quite regularly over completely trivial matters, but it very rarely resulted in fatalities. Street fights in Blacktown were basically recreational activities and little more, and most of the youth was ready to throw down at a moment’s notice.

All things considered, the two hooligans giving everyone and everything the stink-eye was just par for the course in this neighborhood. However, though they certainly fit in, they weren’t locals. They hadn’t even stepped foot into Last Flag until earlier today, yet had found their way to Blacktown in less than an hour. It was inevitable, in a way. The pair were looking to take up residence within the city, but their wallets weren’t nearly heavy enough to afford the nicer neighborhoods. This was extremely unfortunate, as they weren’t actually here to cause or seek out trouble. Just the opposite - they were trying to hide from it. Blacktown was good for that sort of thing, but the living conditions were a bit too harsh for a couple of bumpkins.

“I dunno about this, Mickey,” the younger one on the left grumbled. “Place is a total dump, and the air stinks something awful.”

“Oh! Excuse me, your highness!” the older brother rolled his eyes. “Perhaps I shall arrange for butlers, maids, and cabbage drivers for you!”

“… Cabbage drivers? Really, Eddie?”

“Brain fart. Whatever, look - I don’t like it either, but it’s the best we can get right now.”

“No way. Didn’t we get, like,” Mickey paused and looked around for any eavesdroppers, “three thousand off that last game?”

“Well, yeah, but prices here are pretty nuts. Big city needs big money, y’know?”

“Also means the paychecks are pretty fat, right?”

“You know it.”

“Nice. We’ll be moving on up soon, then.”

The man’s slow nod and wry smile betrayed that it wasn’t honest work on his mind. The same went for his brother. Eddie and Mickey McMason were scam artists, hence the cheap suits they were wearing. They were also proficient gamblers that liked to ‘tweak the odds,’ as they called it. Unfortunately they bit off more than they could chew and ripped off the wrong people without realizing it until it was far too late. They had to flee halfway across the country lest they find themselves without kneecaps, or worse. They needed a place to lay low while they got their rackets back up and running. Blacktown would work for that, though it was far from ideal, and not just because of the squalor and filth.

“Not so fast, lil’ bro,” Eddie cautioned him. “From what I hear the local coppers are really bad news. Especially the orc that patrols this ‘hood. I hear he’s worse than the people he catches.”

“An orc cop? What’s he look like?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Probably exactly what it sounds like.”

“So, some brick-faced bastard that’s as wide and tall as a dump truck?”

Eddie’s eyes widened as he realized Mickey wasn’t looking at him, but at something over his shoulder. He turned around in his seat and, sure, enough, the copper in question was walking in their general direction. Actually, ‘walking’ wasn’t the right word. This guy was so freaking huge and heavy that it was a wonder the sidewalk didn’t crack under his steel-plated boots. It was as if an orc had eaten another, slightly smaller orc. All of his considerable mass was pure muscle, too, judging by his daunting frame. His height and girth were indeed comparable to a truck, and his arms alone were almost as thick as a regular person’s torso. Especially the biceps. His face sported an enormous cleft chin that was nearly twice as wide as his skull, with two short yet thick tusks poking out of his lower jaw. He also had a wide nose with a vertical scar across it and relatively tiny eyes that seemed to burn with the fury of a slumbering tornado.

The most intimidating part about this greenskin’s appearance, however, was his equipment. He wore the usual dark blue uniform one would expect from a police officer, topped off with a bell-shaped helmet sporting a copper star on the front. However, the aforementioned armored boots clearly weren’t standard issue. Neither were the thick steel plates strapped to his left arm and shoulder, or the miniature police light bolted on the top. All of this metal was covered in dents and scratches, making it clear that the armor wasn’t just for show. His helmet in particular looked as if it had smashed through several brick walls in a row. Last but not least, the wooden nightstick dangling from the orc’s belt looked to have been snapped in half and then haphazardly bolted back together, presumably by its owner.

On the whole, aside from his spotless uniform, this guy looked like he’d just stepped out of a war zone. He was also rapidly approaching the brothers. Indeed, he wasn’t just going to pass by like some natural disaster that walked on two legs. He was staring right at them the same way a wolf would look at invaders in its territory. Mickey and Eddie could do little but watch in terrified awe as he walked right up to the bench they were sitting on. The orc leaned over them, his enormous bulk eclipsing the afternoon sun. His lips then parted slightly to reveal an array of clenched pearly-whites that momentarily filled the two con men with the sensation that they were about to be eaten.

“Oi,” the orc growled, his voice deep and rumbling. “I’z ain’t seen you’z around before. What you’z doin’ ‘ere, ‘umies?”

“N-nothing, officer,” the elder sibling eeked out. “Just, y’know, relaxing. Not bothering anyone.”

“You’z think I’z stupid or sumfin’?!” the greenskin leaned closer. “I’z know what you’z ‘umies are like. I’z can smell it!”

And then, the officer moved his arm. A gloved hand large enough to crush a man’s skull as if it were a grape approached Eddie’s face from just outside his field of view. Were he a hardened career criminal with nerves of steel, he might’ve kept his cool. Unfortunately, he was little more than a two-bit crook from a three-bit town that had no idea how Blacktown worked. So, he reacted in a way one would expect of him. He panicked, and in the process did something incredibly stupid. He pulled a five-shot revolver from his coat and emptied it into the greenskin in front while screaming like a madman.

The orc looked further down, his beady eyes staring at the smoking firearm in the man’s hand that kept pulling the trigger even though it was empty. His glare then moved to his own person, which now sported five fresh bullet holes - four in the torso and one in the thigh. When the orc looked back to the perp’s face, it turned white as a sheet, and for good reason. Not only had Eddie just assaulted an officer of the law in broad daylight, but he had also failed to so much as make him flinch. In fact, the only thing he accomplished was to give the orc a reason to use force, which was exactly what he did.

The officer grabbed both the weapon and the limb holding it with his right hand. There was an ungodly crunching noise as metal and bone alike were mangled within the confines of his gloved palm. This was, of course, accompanied by a scream of pure agony from Eddie and a shout of utter terror from his flabbergasted brother. The apprehended suspect was then hoisted up by what was left of his arm until he was at the orc’s eye level, leaving the man’s feet to dangle pathetically underneath.

“You’z unda arrest!” the greenskin bellowed. “Anyfin you’z sez and doez can and will be used against you’z!”

The poor bastard in his grip didn’t seem to register those words as he made another crucial mistake and wildly kicked at the slab of muscle. The officer then raised his other hand, which was firmly clenched around his abused nightstick.

“STOP RESISTING!”

*THWACK*

He then struck the mere human with enough force to stagger an elephant. It was a small miracle the blow didn’t take Eddie’s head clean off and merely knocked him out. Mickey didn’t know that, though. He took one look at his big brother’s limp body dangling from the monstrous cop’s grip like a wet turd and instantly ran for his life. The orc’s neckless head snapped towards the suspect and possible accomplice. He dropped the already pacified culprit and flicked a switch on the battery pack affixed to his belt. The tiny police light on his armored left shoulder came to life, flashing the traditional red and blue colors of law enforcement. The orc then dashed after the cowardly brother. His enormous stride afforded him enough speed to rival most modern land vehicles, so it was only a matter of seconds before he caught up to Mickey. He grabbed the guy and put him in a headlock, then started beating his face while alternatively screaming ‘YOU’Z UNDA ARREST’ and ‘STOP RESISTING.’

Having handedly apprehended both suspects, the police officer hoisted them over a shoulder each and carried them off back to the station. More specifically, the Last Flag Police Department’s Third Precinct. The building was still within Blacktown and as such wasn’t exactly pristine, but it still looked cleaner and newer than its run-down surroundings. The orc had to go in via the garage. This was partly because he was technically his own patrol vehicle, but primarily due to his inability to fit through the main door without breaking it. His size wasn’t really the issue. Most buildings in Last Flag were built with orcish proportions in mind. This particular greenskin could fit through them just fine, so long as he did so sideways while hunching over. The issue was that the precinct’s front doors were primarily made of glass, and the fragile material didn’t exactly agree with this particular officer’s rough-handed habits.

Regardless, the orc squeezed himself and his prisoners through the back of the building until he made it to the front desk. Sitting behind it was a plump moustached officer that had been enjoying an afternoon snack when he saw ‘the situation’ approach. The man sighed, put down his half-eaten donut, and reached for the usual paperwork while the orc stomped over.

“G’day, Rick,” the greenskin greeted him.

“Good day, Sergeant,” he replied, then nodded at the unconscious pair. “Those boys alive?”

“Uh-huh,” the orc confirmed. “I’z tried extra hard to hold back.”

Rick pushed a button on his desk, notifying the station’s resident surgeon that his skills were needed.

“And what charge are you bringing them in for?”

“Assaultin’ a police officer.”

“That being you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Five shots with a firearm?”

“You’z could tell?”

Rick pointed to the sergeant’s chest, and the slightly bleeding bullet holes therein.

“Oh. Right.”

Having been reminded of his wounds, the Sergeant flexed his ridiculous muscle mass in just the right way to push the projectiles out of his body and into his open palm. He then dropped the bullets into a small tin tray Rick had pulled out moments before.

“And the weapon?”

“Right ‘ere.”

The greenskin pinched Eddie’s mangled right arm between his enormous thumb and index fingers. He then shook it several times until the piece of scrap that was once a firearm fell out of the gruesome remains of the man’s hand and into the tray with a clatter. Several drops of blood splattered against the desk, but the man behind them was quick to wipe them off with a napkin.

“Any other evidence you would like to submit?”

“Uh-huh. This.”

Two half-smoked cigarettes were then added to the pile. Rick had spent the last five years working with Sergeant Stompa, so he had a pretty good idea about what had gone down. Still, protocol demanded that he took an official statement from the arresting officer describing the circumstances, so that was precisely what he did.

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Right then. I’z just walkin’ along, doin’ me patrol. Then I spot these two ‘avin’ a smoke in a non-smokin’ area. I see’z they’z outta-town, so I’z walk ova’ and try and explain dey’z can’t do that there.”

“I see,” Rick commented while writing this all down. “And in what manner did you approach the suspects?”

“I’z try and be frenly, just like the cap’n said. Eye contact, big smile, that kinda stuff. And then, right as I’z tellin’ this guy to put out ‘is smoke, he just start shootin’ like some crazy git. I’z tell’z ‘em they’z unda arrest. They resist, so I’z have to subdue them with force.”

It was just as the man behind the desk suspected. Sergeant Stompa had that kind of effect on people whenever he was on duty. The orc took his policing duties extremely seriously. A commendable attitude to be sure, but combined with his immense physical presence, it gave him an air of absolute primal terror. No sane man could stand before Stompa and not feel that fight-or-flight instinct kick in. Even his fellow officers - Rick included - felt their hearts beat like mad whenever that orc was in the room. Thankfully Stompa was out on patrol the majority of the time, otherwise everyone in the station would constantly be on pins and needles. Police work was stressful enough as it was without having that barely contained ball of violence around.

And yet despite all that, Sergeant Stompa was still a respected member of the LFPD. Feared, but definitely respected. His idea of ‘appropriate force’ was skewed as all hell and his rampant disregard for property damage was legendary. However, as mentioned, he took his duties very seriously. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of criminal law and did not hesitate to uphold it and protect the innocent no matter the risk involved. Granted, not much could actually endanger the super-orc. It wasn’t the first time he had taken several gunshots point-blank like they were bug bites, nor would it be last. Yet even he was no more than flesh and blood, so the way he unhesitantly leapt into danger to shield others from it was without a doubt commendable.

Now if only he could work on his catastrophic interpersonal skills. His mere presence provoking a violent reaction was a frighteningly regular occurrence. Yet at the same time, only thieves and crooks seemed to succumb to this aura of passive intimidation. In fact, Rick was fully expecting these two to have warrants for their arrest, or to be affiliated with someone who did. Whether appropriate of a policeman or not, Stompa’s conduct was certainly keeping the streets clean of scum. It was no accident or surprise that he was assigned to the dirtiest beat in town.

“STOMPAAAA!”

The surgeon had just shown up to collect Stompa’s latest victims when an angry woman’s voice echoed throughout the station’s main hall. It was a tone everyone present was familiar with, and it belonged to the only person the orc feared - Police Captain Blackberry. Nobody on the force could fathom why he felt that way. By all accounts, it didn’t make any sense. Traditionally, orcs only respected size and strength, and Stompa was without a doubt the biggest and meanest in town, possibly even the country. And yet he cowered before a female gnome, of all things. A cute one, at that. Captain Jane Blackberry was a total doll even though she was only as tall as an eight-year-old human. Long lashes, dazzling blue eyes, full lips, a button nose, nice figure - the works. Her raven hair that she kept in a waist-long ponytail was the most recognizable part of her, mostly because it was the first thing people saw whenever they looked down to talk to her. The mere suggestion that such a creature could tame an absolute unit of an orc like Stompa was ridiculous, and yet the way the greenskin meekly trudged off to her office left no doubt that this was the case.

Incidentally, said office was absolutely immaculate. The dull red carpet was spotless despite its obvious age. A symmetrical array of shelves and filing cabinets lined the left, right, and back walls, each housing countless case files, reports, and other documents. Several diplomas, awards, and newspaper clippings lined the spaces between these records, displaying the captain’s many achievements and qualifications. Blackberry had to work twice or even three times as hard as her human colleagues to make it to where she was, and she did not stand for anyone questioning her authority or competence. The woman herself was seated behind a desk of polished oak that was far, far too big for her. She had to use a high chair normally reserved for toddlers just to get her elbows on top of it. The two empty seats in front of her desk were more normal-sized, of course, if a bit on the low side.

“Uh, hey Cap’n,” the officer greeted her.

“Shut the door, shut your mouth, and sit down,” she ordered.

The orc did as he was told and parked his considerable behind on the floor since those footstools would snap instantly if he tried to use them. Meanwhile Captain Blackberry climbed atop her desk, revealing she was wearing her uniform as usual. It was similar to the sergeant’s, only much smaller, more dress-like, and bearing rank-appropriate flair on her cuffs and shoulders. Her high-heeled boots clacked sharply as she paced up and down the wooden surface with her hands behind her back and looking down at Stompa all the while. Figuratively, of course. Their size difference was so immense that even with the gnome up on the desk and the orc sitting hunched over on the floor, their eye levels were more or less equal.

“Again, Stompa?” she sighed. “Do we really need to do this again?”

“But Cap’n!”

“I said shut!” she interrupted, forcing the sergeant to clam up. “Do you have any idea, any idea, how difficult it is for me to constantly keep HQ off your back? They’d have had your badge a hundred times over by now, and yet I refuse to let them. Do you know why?”

The orc did not dare speak up again, and merely sat there waiting for her to continue.

“It’s because this city is sick. Organized crime is on the rise, the mutant situation is getting worse, and those idiots at the League keep luring all our recruits away. Last Flag is rotting from the inside out, and it falls to us - me, you, and every other member of the LFPD - to try and save it from itself. And to be honest, I don’t trust any of those slackers,” she pointed at the door behind Stompa. “Half of them could be on Don Trapani’s payroll, for all I know.”

A furious scowl bubbled up beneath the sergeant’s submissive attitude.

“But you?” Blackberry continued. “You I can trust. You’re both the best and worst cop I’ve ever seen, and just the shot in the arm this city needs. But before I can really cut you loose, you need to learn to behave. You promised me you’d do that. I even had a brand new uniform made for you, to symbolize your fresh start. And the next day - the very next day,” she raised her voice, “you come back to the station looking like a murder victim! Well?! What do you have to say for yourself?!”

The orc remained silent.

“… You have permission to speak.”

“It’s not my fault, Cap’n!” Stompa immediately flew into it. “Like I’z was tellin’ Rick, I was just tryin’ to tell some ‘umies not to smoke in that there no-smokin’ zone, and they pulled a gun on me!”

“Did you smile at them like we talked?”

“Yes!”

“Show me.”

The orc then flashed the same toothy grin he had shown the brothers earlier, prompting the captain to pinch her nose in frustration.

“Okay, in retrospect, that was a bad idea,” she admitted.

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything. A smile needs to be pleasing and reassuring, like this, see?”

Blackberry then showed the polite smile she had acquired after having to attend countless meetings and hearings. It was such a pleasant smirk that it made the orc reflexively want to give her some candy. He even reached for the jawbreakers in his shirt pocket without realizing it, but managed to catch himself before he did something to offend his superior officer. Thankfully the woman didn’t seem to notice his intent and returned to her usual stern expression.

“The face you just pulled made it seem like you were about to kill and eat my dog.”

“But, Cap’n, you’z-”

“I know I don’t have a dog. And yet I still fear for its wellbeing.”

“Oh…”

“Hm, that’s an idea, actually.”

The orc pulled back a bit at those words. He wasn’t sure why or what, but he sensed something sinister in them.

“We could issue you with a gas mask to hide that ugly mug of yours. Like putting a muzzle on an unruly mutt.”

As per usual, his intuition was spot on. That look in the gnome’s eye made it clear she’d enjoy seeing him like that.

“Or not,” she stopped half-joking. “For now just keep working on the whole facial situation. Get Doctor Phlannagan to help you out if you have to.”

The man in question was one of the station’s resident surgeons, the same one that was currently tending to Eddie and Mickey McMason’s many compound fractures. Emergency medical services were only to be expected of a doctor on the LFPD’s payroll, as were autopsies and forensic tests. What set this guy aside from his peers was that he had taken a minor course in orc psychology during medical school. His presence at the third precinct was no coincidence, of course. Captain Blackberry had hired him specifically because his limited expertise might be of use when it came to handling Stompa. It hadn’t been so far, but there was always a first time.

“Yes, Cap’n.”

The orc had no idea as to any of that, nor did he see a reason to question his superior’s orders, so he just accepted them at face value.

“That aside, what about the other task I gave you?”

“Oh! Right, that. I was on my way to show you’z ‘fore I’z got shot, actually.”

The orc reached behind his back and pulled two things he had tucked into his belt, under his uniform. They were a pair of axes that looked like they belonged in a museum. These were no mere tools or overpriced sporting goods, but instruments of war from an age long past. Despite that, the primitive weapons looked relatively new and well-used. Both the blades and the handles had numerous nicks and chips, and there were splotches of dried blood and flesh stuck to them. Yet there was not even a single spot of anything resembling rust.

“Curious,” Blackberry was intrigued. “Where did you find these, exactly?”

“Funny story, that. Went lookin’ ‘round the place you’z said. Didn’t find no weird projectile or anything like that, though. Buildings weren’t damaged or anything, either. So I’z tried sniffin’ around, picked up this weird smelly-smell.”

“What sort of smell?”

“I dunno. I’z never smelt it before. It was weird. Both spicy and earthy, like burnin’ dirt, or meltin’ stone.”

“Hm. Do you think you can recognize this scent if you encounter it again?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure. I’z even found the source.”

He reached into another pocket and revealed what appeared to be a one half of a snapped wooden coin.

“And these axes?”

“I’z found the choppaz by followin’ the smelly-smell the other way. They’z were tucked away in this storm drain. Smelly-smell disappeared into the main street after that.”

“Which street was it?”

“Uh, Cotton Boulevard. Right near that fancy suit shop.”

“Huh. Hold on.”

Blackberry ran to the end of her desk and hopped off. She rummaged through one of the filing cabinets until she found a map of the city. She then climbed back onto her improvised podium and unfolded it across its wide surface. She grabbed a pen from the closest drawer and had Stompa explain exactly what path he used to follow this ‘smelly-smell.’ The orc struggled quite a bit since that part of Last Flag was very far from his usual beat, but it was once Blackberry’s, so she knew it well. Within a few minutes she managed to derive enough details from Stompa’s clumsy explanations to draw a rough path between the rooftop where he found that wooden token and the storm drain containing those axes.

“That’s it,” she smiled triumphantly. “Those are our suspect’s movements.”

“Wait, weren’t we’z lookin’ for a somethin’ and not a someone?”

“A ‘something’ doesn’t skulk around alleyways with minimal foot traffic.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Shame we don’t see where they go after that. I’m guessing all the people and cars passing through distorted whatever scent they left behind to the point where even you can’t track it. Then again, we should be thankful we got even this much, considering how much time has passed since the crash.”

Stompa had a few hidden skills that were immensely useful to police work that one wouldn’t expect from a bumbling brute. His exceptionally sharp nose was the first one. His sense of smell was so acute that he could put bloodhounds to shame. It was also why he disliked smokers, which was one of the underlying reasons behind the McMason brothers’ ‘unfortunate accident.’ Another of his secret talents was his primal intuition. The orc had an uncanny ability to find trouble and sense danger, much like a wild animal. However, rather than run from it like a herbivore, he challenged it head-first as if he were an apex predator. His final and most important gift, at least in Blackberry’s opinion, was his unfaltering loyalty. The captain knew all of these traits quite well, and had benefited from them immensely during her detective days. It was by borrowing Stompa’s strengths and compounding them with her own that she was able to crack a number of career-defining cases. She had, naturally, claimed basically all of the credit for those, which was how she became Last Flag’s first gnome police captain. It was unfair to the sergeant, of course, but he didn’t care about that fluff so long as the law was enforced.

And now the two of them were at it yet again. Just like the old days, Stompa would dig up the puzzle pieces while Blackberry used her keen brain to put it all together. However, unlike before, the captain would do everything in her power to ensure the orc received all the accolades for busting this airship case wide open. Not to make him rise through the ranks, though. Heavens, no. Stompa belonged on the street, not behind a desk. What Blackberry intended was to lean on her contacts in the press to make the sergeant into a public icon, of sorts. Not one of hope or progress or stability or anything like that. Lofty ideals like that didn’t fit him, nor did criminals respect such things. They understood fear, however, and Sergeant Stompa practically radiated it. Indeed, what Captain Jane Blackberry intended was a ruthless campaign of terror upon Last Flag’s seedy underbelly. A controversial move to be sure, but one she felt was necessary if the LFPD was to ever make a meaningful impact on organized crime.

She was getting ahead of herself, though. Before any of that could happen, she and Stompa had to track down the one responsible for bringing down the airship on the outskirts of the city three days ago. The person who left this smelly-smell was the only lead they had, and they weren’t going to get any more. Officially, the crash was a tragic accident caused by a faulty boiler. Unofficially, eyewitnesses reported that something punched a hole clean through the flying vessel just before it went down in flames. Blackberry wasn’t supposed to know about those, but she did, and she wasn’t about to question why the LFPD weren’t investigating this clear act of terrorism. Even if her superiors dared to answer her, she’d just receive a bunch of bogus reasons like ‘preventing panic’ and ‘accidentally leaking information.’ She knew the real cause. It was because the people at the top were all a bunch of chicken shits that were too afraid of admitting fault lest they lose their office.

That didn’t sit right with Blackberry. The people deserved to know the truth, and those truly responsible behind the act had to be brought to justice. And if her political and personal goals were fulfilled in the process, then so be it. It was for those reasons that she was flexing the folds of her brain as hard as she could in an attempt to make sense of this. Incidentally, her scrunched up thinking face made Stompa shrink back even more than before. He had long ago learned to respect and fear the captain’s cranial capabilities the same way everyone else felt towards the sergeant’s physical prowess. The way her mind made sense of seemingly unconnected facts was absolutely terrifying in the orc’s humble opinion.

After several minutes of silent glowering, Blackberry reached some kind of conclusion and relaxed her face once more.

“I don’t have enough to work with,” she declared. “Stompa, get these axes to Doc Phlannagan and tell him to run every test he can on them, see if he can figure out where the blood came from. If he asks why, tell him you’re tracking a murder suspect.”

That statement wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t completely false either. Whoever those weapons belonged to was directly or indirectly involved with a lot of people dying in a fiery blaze. Also, what she and Stompa were doing was arguably illegal since, officially, there was no skyship crash case, so they had to keep their investigation under wraps. Blackberry would deal with those technicalities once they had a more solid lead than a pair of ‘choppaz’ and a ‘smelly-smell.’

“Yes, Cap’n,” the orc nodded. “What about after?”

“Just go back to doing your patrols. Dismissed.”

The sergeant nodded and immediately left her office. Blackberry then pushed a small switch on her desk, prompting a recording of her yelling Stompa’s name to reverberate through the station. It was an unorthodox method of summoning the orc, but it certainly did the job given his reappearance not two seconds later.

“Yes, Cap’n?” he meekly asked.

“Axes,” she pointed at the things on her desk.

“Right. Sorry, Cap’n.”

The gnome shook her head as the easily distracted oaf disappeared once more, this time without forgetting the filthy weapons he himself had brought in. As for Blackberry, she’d do her own part and visit ‘that fancy suit shop’ the orc had mentioned. It was just a hunch, but she felt it was worth investigating. After all, Stompa wouldn’t have even noticed that Huxley & Smith outlet unless that uncanny intuition of his was whispering in his ear.