Alfa1561

I managed to happen across an ancient screenshot of it. I had the wording wrong, but here's the extent of what I received before the ban.

A bit of both. I was never told why the ban was put in place, but I've an idea of where it came from, and yes, it was at worst fabricated, at best very selectively reported. I was never once questioned or even spoken to about the ban.

Just as the other side of this says, it's been six years, I don't have logs of this anymore. I don't even recall the banning moderator. I can provide my own witnesses to the events, and if you'd care to message me in private I can show my Drivers License to prove I was a minor, as well as proof of recently passed police background checks involving my employment and volunteering history.

I'd like to clarify that I was not originally banned from Bay over this matter, and instead have only been banned as of this month. Back when this situation happened, to my knowledge, the ban reason was reported to Bay staff but the staff at the time didn't ban me, presumably due to the lack of evidence beyond testimony. Given that the person who hosts/runs Polaris now hosts/runs Bay, its a bit of an unfair comparison to look at how I'm now banned from Bay as a reason to enforce the ban. I had no issues on Bay and continued to play there without issue after the Polaris ban. In Polaris, I had moved there to see if I'd play it as a new server as I wasn't happy with the SEV Torch. I played on Polaris for a while, but came at odds with the community for my political views (expressed in their politics channel on discord) and as a result was eventually banned from the discord with the banning moderator messaging me to say "get bent, nazi shibboleth." At the time, I was on holiday in Italy and so wasn't even aware of the server ban and its reason, and I'm not sure they were applied on the same day as the discord ban. It wasn't until I got home that I found out about it, and as best I recall, I was informed by someone that it was forwarded to Bay but Bay didn't take action. As I stated in my initial message, I was a minor at the time this allegation was made against me, something I don't believe the accusers or banning staff were aware of. @Faris

BYOND Key: Alfa1561 Total Ban Length: Permanent Banning staff member's Key: Alberyk Reason of Ban: Banned from another SS13 server for allegedly trying to coerce a minor, which resulted in a ban from here. Reason for Appeal: I have never attempted to coerce a minor. The ban which this refers to is from Polaris, where I was disliked mostly due to my personal views, and then banned from the discord with the DM from the banning moderator "Get bent, Nazi shibboleth." This ban was placed in 2017, when I MYSELF was a minor, which I can prove, so I don't know where this allegation has come from. I am perfectly willing to show staff in a private setting proof of my ID to prove this. The ban from Polaris I never appealed because it was clear I was not welcome there from the actions of that banning moderator. I do not know why suddenly that ban has been applied to me here.

Originally, the thread was made for reporting quick bugs to the PR author iirc, it just sort of evolved into feedback.

I agree entirely on the Idris labcoat. I loved being able to see the full logo on the back of it. As for scrubs, I actually love the new selection of scrubs and have no issue with them personally. The new black to gray change however is jarringly different and I'm not a fan.

warrant /ˈwɒr(ə)nt/ noun - a document issued by a legal or government official authorizing the police or another body to make an arrest, search premises, or carry out some other action relating to the administration of justice. June 10th, 2460 It was a muggy, warm Thursday night - the engine of Grayson's cruiser still hot despite the motor shutting off a while ago, the heat failing to dissipate quickly in the damp warmth of South Central's streets. The overhead buzzing of streetlights long overdue maintenance created a constant drone that had come to be expected of the city's downtrodden districts at night, like part of the background ambiance to the economic and societal despair contained within the withering residential blocks. Homes once built to proudly house new families. Apartment buildings standing tall to accommodate the growing population of the conurbation. Affordable housing projects constructed to alleviate the homelessness and housing crises. All stood now in various states of disrepair, maintenance abandoned by their owners, and often by the city, too. It was only a matter of time before the entire area would be razed to the ground - forced purchases made on the cheap so gentrification could take place, property developers making a tidy profit on demolishing a failure and building anew. Despite whatever may happen in the future, it was likely decades down the line. It didn't matter. What mattered was then and there - the current residents of the crumbling city blocks trying to get by day to day. It was a sorry state of affairs, enough to make anyone appreciate their own living conditions, assuming they were better than those observed. Grayson always did. It had only been a year since his divorce, and despite the hardship he'd gone through, the moving to a small apartment from his once family home, the lack of frequent access to his own children - he could at least always be thankful he wasn't living like the countless residents near the poverty line, struggling to survive another day. He'd been in the homes of so many and responded to more calls than he could ever hope to count. Homicides, suicides, domestic violence, breaking and entering, overdoses, drug dealing, assault and battery - just to name the most frequent. It was depressing, but that was what Grayson was there for. To deal with the bad, in the hopes that he could make just a little difference. Make an improvement in someone's life. If he could remove one abusive spouse from a home, catch a murderer, anything - then it was worth the trouble. It was no surprise, then, that many of Grayson's cases had crime scenes located deep in South Central. If they didn't, it wasn't uncommon for there to be a connection to the area at minimum. As to be expected, gang crime was rife in the districts, the usual for areas of economic downturn and a lack of hope for recovery. It was for that exact reason that Michael was in the area with his partner, Detective Henry Moore. They had a myriad of cases they could work on by just being there - witness statements to follow up on, locations to scout out and investigate, suspects to locate and plenty more. Right this moment, however, Grayson was leaning on the engine block of his unmarked sedan cruiser - outfitted to LAPD standards with ballistic panels, lights, sirens, a radio suite, computer, weapon racks and more. In his hands were a small cardboard box, red designs adoring the outside on a white backing, with a pair of chopsticks in his other hand. He stood there idly, eating away at the rice and noodles contained inside, only occasionally looking up and around to watch a car drive along, or a train pass in the distance. Parked nearby was a food truck the two detectives loved to frequent - Chinese food, primarily. Moore was still at the van, collecting his own order. Peaceful moments like this were few and far between on the job, but even the cops had to stop and eat sometime. It was good to have food establishments to trust and frequent, too - those you'd know didn't mind your custom, and would often hand out discounts for your purchases. According to the book, accepting such gratuities was against policy, but in reality, it was an insult to turn them down. After all, the presence of badges deterred trouble, and the less trouble there was, the better it was for business. "So, what are we hitting after this? We've got two alibis to go verify near here, but one of 'em is that dopehead that Mateo gave, no fixed abode type deal. Think I'd prefer t' leave that for daylight hours, not lookin' to step on any used needles." Moore had returned from getting his own food, holding a cardboard container like Grayson's. The detective takes up a position nearby Michael, leaning on the door of the vehicle while he eats. Grayson meanwhile pauses, taking a PDA off his belt to open up a case list, flicking through them as he consider the question. "Take your pick. We've also got to follow up with the witness from the Chang homicide, Melissa? She's meant to be home from work about now, we needed to ask her about the cars she saw leaving the bar parking lot." Michael offers the PDA over to Henry, nodding as he points out the case he was referring to. He quickly returns to his food as Moore studies the current case summary, slowly nodding and handing the device back. "That's probably a good one to square away first, then. Haven't filed an update on that one in a bit now. We can hit that in the next half hour, then maybe see about the alibis." Grayson wordlessly agrees, nodding his head as he eats, stopping for a moment to take the PDA back and place it on his belt again. The device was standard to the LAPD, as well as pretty much every emergency service in the country. The variant Grayson carried was law enforcement specific, bearing LAPD markings and a hardened case. A scanner on the device allowed him to load up the details on any scanned form of ID or a vehicle plate, useful for checking database records or filling out a ticket. The miniprinter on the PDA allowed him to run off a ticket or summons in a matter of moments, though it had seen more use back in his uniformed days. Still, the PDA was a powerful tool for keeping track of case files on the go, taking notes, communicating with other cops via text or photographing and logging evidence. The two detectives stood in silence, eating their food to the backdrop of buzzing lights and muffled music from a car radio down the street. It was only a short while later that the radio in the car blared to life with a message for them. "Detective Five-Nine Adam, come in." Grayson had just finished his food, crumpling up the box and tossing it in a nearby bin. He leaned into the car, grabbing the radio mic off the hook and speaking in response, confirming his presence. "Detective Five-Nine Adam, Detective Six-Four Adam requests you switch frequencies to TAC-6 for a message." Again, Grayson responded in the affirmative, following the directions from dispatch. It was often hard to tell whether any given dispatcher he was speaking to was a human or an AI - they were used so interchangeably and with such convincing accents and mannerisms that it near impossible to say. Nevertheless, both did their jobs, and that was all that really mattered. "Hey, Grayson - good to speak with you. We're on that surveillance detail out here, watching for that guy you've got a warrant on for a triple homicide, one 'Lucas Reyes'. We just clocked him entering his house over here on Hill Street, no sign o' anyone else. Haven't seen him in weeks till now. Might be best you move on this guy now 'fore he slips again." The Lucas Reyes homicide case wasn't far from Grayson's mind - a shooting at a home about twenty minutes from their current position. Gang related, too. Reyes had shot up the home of a drug dealer he'd been fighting with, killing him and two others in the house while wounding a fourth. The survivor had given a statement, but the arrest warrant was secured when the vehicle used in the shooting was found burnt out in an abandoned lot, with prints recovered from part of the door panel matching Lucas. He himself was no stranger to attention from the law, having already done two stints in prison for other felonies. "Copy that, Six-Four Adam. We'll see what we can put together, hold there and PDA if there's updates." All in all, the case was pretty standard. After Reyes' girlfriend was caught lying when giving an alibi, a search warrant executed on her apartment located the firearm used in the murder. Reyes was on the run, though, and the warrant for him was still pending execution. It was as good a chance as any to grab him and close out the case. Turning to Moore, who had been listening to the conversation the whole way through, Michael nodded and motioned to the car. Both entered, starting the vehicle up and pulling off the sidewalk they'd parked on to head towards Hill Street. "Detective Five-Nine Adam to Dispatch, we got any SWAT available for warrant service? In the area of Hill Street, South Central." The best course of action would be to get a SWAT team to take the entire job from them - heavily armed, armored and trained for exactly this sort of job. Unfortunately, there were never enough teams to go round, and trying to grab one on short notice was often a lost cause. Most if not all would already be out on pre-planned raids. "Negative, Five-Nine Adam. Trucks One through Five are on-call, Trucks Six and Seven are on emergency reserve and Truck Eight is pending another assignment. If you can wait an hour, Truck Three should be clear." As expected, every tactical team was already dealing with a backlog. Not that anyone could be mad about it - every other unit in the city was usually dealing with a backlog of cases and calls either way. There was no such thing as an empty to-do list. It was just one individual though, and as dangerous as one man could be, they'd just have to handle it with the regulars. "Copy that Dispatch, roll us two black n' whites to the parking lot just off of Hill Street, 7687, by the Huang Convenience Store, code two." They needed to make it quick. There was no telling when Lucas might leave the premises, so there wasn't a lot of time to plan and prepare. Ideally, they'd go in with a floor plan of the house, a tactical entry team, a hard perimeter around the block, possibly even an air unit to keep watch. Life was far from ideal, however. Parking up at the convenience store parking lot, Grayson shut the vehicle lights and engine off, sitting there in silence for a few moments. Taking out his HoloWarrant projector from the glovebox, Michael began scrolling through the massive amount of open warrants, typing in the name to narrow it to the warrant for Lucas Reyes. Meanwhile Moore had exited the car, heading to the trunk to sort through their equipment. Reyes' house was just up the block - they'd use the parking lot to prepare the raid, then roll up outside the house and execute it before their target would have any time to prepare a retaliation or escape. "Vest up, Michael. The Uniforms are here." Henry remarked, tossing a plate carrier on to Grayson's lap. Michael nodded, exiting the vehicle and taking his waist holster off, switching his gun and magazines into a hip holster setup, more suitable for the vest. The plate carrier was plain - black in color, with large white letting saying POLICE on its front and back. Taking his badge off his hip, Grayson pulled out the chain from its holder, looping it around his neck to hang over the vest. Lastly, he grabbed his windbreaker from the back of his seat, putting it on over his vest. The windbreaker was a dark blue, bearing the words LOS ANGELES POLICE on the back, as well as the department's seldom used patch on the shoulders. The front of the jacket bore the same wording again on the right breast, with the left breast adorned by a white depiction of an LAPD detective's badge - printed with Grayson's own badge number on it: 11645. Now ready to go, two sedans similar to the detective's own rolled into the desolate parking lot. Only these ones were painted in the traditional, age old black and white color scheme, the seal of the city on their doors accompanied by POLICE in gold letting, a series of numbers and the famous motto of the department itself. "To protect and to serve." The rooves of the cars sported clearly visible lightbars, currently not active so as to avoid drawing eyes to the vehicles. Parking up near the detectives, neither driver was too bothered to follow the faded markings of the parking lot, their vehicles idling as two officers in uniform stepped out of each car, walking over to greet Michael and Henry. The briefing was straightforward - Officers Valencia and Howard would follow with Grayson and Moore, while Officers Diaz and Chen would cover the rear of the house to prevent an escape. Before leaving, the four officers adorned their own plate carriers and helmets, Officers Chen and Howard equipped with shotguns while Officers Valencia and Diaz took the patrol rifles. Knock the door, announce themselves, breach the house and clear. Arrest all individuals inside, neutralize any hostiles, and make it out alive. That was what mattered. The status of the three units was relayed to dispatch and all the lawmen were back in their vehicles, awaiting the signal. "Detective Fine-Nine Adam for Seventeen Adam Thirty-Two and Seventeen Adam Sixty-One, moving out now. Dispatch, show us code six at 7694 Hill Street, warrant service." With that, the three vehicles rolled out of the parking lot and a block down the street, only steady burning, forward facing red and blue lights on the vehicles activated to show discrete presence, amber lights on the backs of the cars warding off nearby traffic. Grayson's car and one of the patrol cars quickly came to a halt out front of the house, while the second patrol car quickly swung into the driveway of the building, boxing in an older model car. Officers Diaz and Chen quickly got to work, exiting their car and rushing past the wagon to the rear of the house, while the rest swiftly exited and shut their doors, proceeding up the steps and across the front garden to the porch of the house. The building was like thousands of others in the city - timber frame with wood paneling, the panels slowly rotting from a lack of care, the paint applied just after construction long since flaked away. Holding a hand out to his side, Grayson motions for his comrades to stack up to the left side of the door, he himself standing by its frame. He waves forward the officer with the shotgun, Howard. Leaning forward, Michael banged on the door, shouting out. "POLICE DEPARTMENT, WE'VE GOT AN ARREST WARRANT. WE'RE COMING IN!" Nodding to Howard, the signal was given, the officer raising a booted foot and planting it right beneath the lock on the door. The impact ripped the handle through the door and pulled screws out of the rotting doorframe, giving the lawmen access to the house. First through the door was Grayson himself, his service handgun un-holstered and its safety off. Moving through the doorway revealed what might be expected of the interior of such a dilapidated house; a worn, ripped couch and armchairs, a coffee table covered in trash, stained walls with crumbling plaster and wallpaper surrounding the depressing sights. The living room they'd entered into had more doors into other parts of the house - parts unknown to the officers inside. With the first room visibly clear, Grayson moved up to the next, waiting for the others to have his back before swinging the door open and making entry. The door opened into a smaller living room with a set of stairs at the back heading up to the second floor. There were similar amounts of trash scattered around, but no time to analyze the contents. No sooner than he'd stepped through the door, Michael found it suddenly slammed back against him, pinning him between the splintered wood and chipped frame, the left half of his body visibly exposed to the room ahead. Moore gripped Grayson's shoulder right as the door swung back, trying to pull him back too, but it was no use, the detective stumbling backward with the officers as they recollected themselves. Michael had shouted some combination of words to warn his fellow officers and ask for help at the same time, but in a matter of seconds he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun, the previously unseen aggressor from behind the door showing himself. He was a large man, standing at around six foot two, shaved bald and with a dark complexion. His features were hard to make out in the dim light of the house, not that they were the focus of Grayson as a firearm was point blank aimed at his face. With his right arm behind the door and unable to draw and shoot his attacker, Michael's instinct instead had him reach for the shotgun aimed right at him with his left hand, while kicking the door forward as best he could with his right foot. It all happened in a matter of seconds, the door swinging back towards the man and hitting his left arm. It wasn't much, but the bang knocked his aim off to his right, his finger squeezing the trigger and letting off a single blast of the twelve gauge shotgun. It was a good effort, perhaps one that may have saved his life, but it wasn't good enough to escape the blast. The pellets tore out from the barrel of the gun, travelling only a short distance before embedding in Grayson's outstretch left arm, shredding the flesh with ease. Some errant pellets embedded themselves in Michael's armor, dealing a powerful blow but failing to penetrate. The sheer force of the impact, coupled with the shock, knocked the detective into the doorframe once more, sliding slowly down against it, pain coursing through his body. By now the door had opened, the shooter stumbling back from both the recoil and the knock from the door, pumping the shotgun. "I'm hit! Fuck!" Called Michael, relaying his obvious state to the men behind. Reflexively, Grayson's right hand went directly for his holster, slipping his handgun out with relative ease in one, swift, practiced motion. In no time at all he had the gun levelled at his aggressor, squeezing the trigger once, twice, three times... In total, he fired six shots, each one landing square in the shotgun wielding criminal's torso. The large male unceremoniously collapsed, his shotgun clattering against the creaky wooden floor milliseconds after the casings from Michael's gun found their resting place on the floor. With the agonizing pain emanating from his left arm, it felt like the entire ordeal was going on for minutes, when in reality it had been just a matter of seconds. Still slowly collapsing against the wall, Grayson tried to reach back with his free hand to grip the wall and steady himself, but on his arm hitting the wall, he only received even more horrific pain. It was at this point he realized that through the pain, he couldn't feel his hand. He couldn't feel his hand. Looking down and to his left as his rear hit the floor, a second wave of shock was sent through him by the sight. His hand wasn't there. His lower arm wasn't there. In their place was a messy stump of blood and bone, skin hanging from the edges like the decrepit wallpaper of the house they were in. Fresh blood continued to pour from the wound into a quickly growing puddle below. Grayson's own gun fell into his lap as he frantically grasped at his wound. His fruitless attempts at stemming the bleed only increased the pain, eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the detective. "Fuck - FUCK! My arm, FUCK!" Came the screams from Grayson, in disbelief at the circumstances. Right next to him laid the remains of his left arm, far from a clean slice off as pieces of flesh were splattered across the lower wall nearby. It was a ghastly sight, yet one that wasn't as surreal as it could have been. It wasn't the first limb he'd seen in a bloody mess. His father had told him stories before - about walking down closed highways at night, flashlight in hand, looking for pieces of bodies that the coroner had noticed missing following horrific vehicle fatalities. He'd experienced similar himself over the years, at traffic incidents as well as other situations. The rare but tragic fights involving use of a sword or machete, or an explosion leaving body parts strewn across a street. It was part of the job, just like the rest. Only this was his. Before, it was always that of the already deceased, or the very soon to be. It was never him. Never his colleagues. But right then and there? It might just be. Fear shot through Grayson just as the shotgun pellets had - fear of death. With it came the adrenaline, ten times stronger than when they'd made entry through the first door. A drive like no other to survive. He had children to be a father to, even if he was hardly in their lives nowadays. He had colleagues and friends who were depending on him to be there for them, just as they were there for him over the years. Just as they were there for him right then. He was going to live. "Shots fired, shots fired! Officer down, get us backup, supervisor, airship and an R-A!" Screamed Valencia into his radio, scrambling to take cover and relay the situation as quick as possible to the cavalry. "All available units, respond code three to shots fired at 7694 Hill Street, officer down. Repeat, shots fired, officer down, 7694 Hill Street. Rescue Ambulance dispatching from Central Memorial. SWAT dispatching from Southwest Area Station, airship en-route." The reply from dispatch was hurried and to a certain degree filled with fear, too - despite the crackling of the radio itself. Perhaps the dispatcher tonight was human after all. Quickly rolling over on to his right side, Michael grabbed his gun off the floor, crawling into view of his colleagues who were scrambling close to drag him out of the danger. Such sudden salvation was not to be, interrupted by a stream of automatic gunfire overhead. The shots rang out from a rifle wielding man stood on the stairs at the back of the room, his lower body obscured from sight by plywood making up missing sections of the stairway railing. The bullets from the firearm ripped through the walls and door, sending dust and splinters into the air around them as Moore, Valencia and Howard quickly scrambled for cover, forced back to the front door by the hail of lead. There was further gunfire from elsewhere in the house, accompanied by shouting and roaring. The concoction of sounds left a ringing in Michael's ears, obscuring any clear instructions from his comrades. He continued to crawl, a trail of blood left in his wake - Michael purposefully catching his foot on the side of the door to swing it closed, blocking the rifleman's line of sight on him. Another individual fired from a dark doorway at the back of the first room, a smaller but no less deadly gun in his hands. The shots forced the three standing lawmen back outside to the porch, the law and the criminals trading shots across the living room. Valencia turned the corner, pinning the new shooter down with his own barrage of shots, the patrol rifle's rounds pounding through the thin walls. It gave Grayson enough time to crawl his way over between the coffee table and couch, laying on his back down out of direct from from any of the doorways. In the distance, sirens roared to life as officers across the south end of the city rushed to respond to their fallen colleague. They'd arrive any moment, but as the saying always went - when seconds count, help is only minutes away. Shots continued to fly overhead from either side of the room, the differing sounds of each weapon dissipating into one pounding noise that was contributing to a growing agony in Grayson's head. The blood-loss was severe, and with each passing moment he was getting more and more lightheaded. The adrenaline coursing through his veins kept him conscious and alert, the body's in built survival mechanism allowing him to persevere beyond the norm - his right arm still clutching at his pistol. He couldn't crawl out now, he'd be shot in moments. He had to trust his colleagues would succeed and get him out. Moments continued to pass, the barrage of shots flying over and back pausing every few seconds as gunmen reconsidered their options and adjusted their aim. Through the smoke and dust to his left, Michael could see a figure advancing towards the front door, his weapon trained on the opening. Flashes of light from the muzzle of the firearm he carried accompanied the loud bangs, further outlining himself in the darker surroundings. It was enough for Grayson to raise his gun again, squeezing the trigger off three times. The man stumbled from the shots, his gun briefly shooting into the ground before being dropped, accompanied by the criminal himself a few moments later. If he wasn't dead, he was dying, but either way, he was no longer a threat. The sound of shooting stopped, replaced instead by the quick, heavy footsteps of shoes and boots on a wooden floor. Around himself, Grayson could see Valencia and Howard, scrambling to grab him by the shoulders and legs. They shuffled out from between the couch and table as quick as they could, their long guns slung over their backs as they dragged Michael across the floor. As they neared the exit, the door to the room where it all went wrong opened once more, the man from the stairwell taking aim at the trio of lawmen from beyond Grayson's view. Shots rang out once more, two bullets clipping Howard in the back, sending him tumbling forward from his already hunched over position. A third shot struck Valencia right in the chest, sending him falling backwards, but he didn't let go of Michael's shoulder. On his back he scrambled out with the detective in tow, Moore leaning over from the doorway to assist in pulling both out of the line of fire. Howard quickly crawled forward, throwing himself down the broken and snapped porch steps and into the grass, away from the shooting. Outside, sirens continued to approach, as did the whirring sound of helicopter blades high up in the sky. A blinding spotlight approached, shining around the neighborhood before focusing on the house behind, dimming to the benefit of the officers on scene. A patrol car's tires screeched to a halt outside the house, haphazardly parked alongside the three original vehicles, its red and blue lights lighting up the street as its occupants quickly rushed up to the house, their own weapons drawn. Two, three more cars like it rounded the corner blocks down the street, rushing their way up to the scene. Valencia, who had composed himself following the shot he took, quickly ran to grab a medical kit from his own cruiser, ferrying it back up to where Michael lay. He wasted no time at all in applying a tourniquet to the mangled remaining arm, while Howard fished through the bag for an autoinjector, soon after pumping inaprovaline into Grayson. The damage was already severe, however, and with the adrenaline wearing off, consciousness was not easily being kept by the downed detective. An executive decision was made by two of the recent arrivals on the scene to use their patrol car to get him closer to hospital - to meet with the ambulance already on its way and transfer there. With the help of multiple officers, Grayson was carried down and laid out in the back of a cruiser, one officer sitting with him to keep pressure on the wound and look after him. As the car raced away from the shootout, the gunshots turning into distant pops as the sirens blared overhead, they passed by countless more police vehicles of all varieties - sedans, SUVs, motorcycles, unmarked vehicles, even units from other agencies, the Sheriffs and Highway Patrol, as well as the SWAT truck that had been dispatched. Before long, however, Grayson could no longer keep himself awake. The next period of time to him was of unknown length, his memories littered only with sporadic moments of lucidness. He could remember being buckled to a stretcher, being in the back of the ambulance as paramedics leaned over him, working away with a mask attached to his face. He could remember being rushed down the halls of a hospital, the rattling noise of the stretcher wheels against the ridges of doorframes in the halls adding to the headache he was suffering, as if that was chief among his problems. He could remember the bright light of a surgical theater, multiple people in scrubs and masks hurriedly working, right up until it all went black.

The ling reviving during autopsy has become the bane of my investigator existence. It is the greatest level of pain because its the same shit every single time, over and over, with no change to the formula. Something, anything, to encourage the ling not to act the same way over and over and take more care about how it does its business. One idea proposed on discord was that people be able to resist out of morgue trays, the ling included. That way the ling would actually have an incentive to not wake during autopsy. If everyone thinks its dead and stored off in the morgue, it can try slip out and begin its grim work again with nobody the wiser until they're caught.

I like this idea. I think it could add some interesting gameplay changes to merc at the very least. It certainly is annoying that mercs know exactly what security and command are planning at all times and can constantly move to avoid any well laid plan. I disagree that it forces people to talk in person - in most merc rounds, security is unaware of the comms compromise until after the main bulk of fighting is over. They have to pretend they don't already know that comms are breached. I feel like this idea is worth a test at least. It would make intruding on the ship a risky endeavour for the mercs and encourage clear teamwork and cohesion, possibly even some stealth to operate as well as possible in what should be hostile and risky territory. It'll also allow security to try actually lay a creative plan with a chance that it'll work rather than be avoided or overcome every single time. Things like baiting the mercs into a certain area of the ship, making a tradeoff of phoron canisters filled with CO2 in a hostage situation, etc.

04/02/2463 "I thought you loved your job right here, dad. Why do you have to go?" The sun sat high above Los Angeles on another hot day, smog hanging low over the skyscrapers of the city creating a blurry view of the conurbation' looming structures. It wasn't a bad day by all accounts - the weather was nice, the heat was manageable if a little sticky, and nothing of note had happened. A typically average Friday, with the usual weekend trouble getting ready to kick off a few hours later, when the sun would go down. For Grayson, it was an unremarkable day at work sorting through cases, but a day he'd been dreading for weeks now in his personal life. His transport papers and tickets had come through - organized passage to Tau Ceti to begin at the end of the month. It wasn't a choice he'd made lightly given everything he had to leave behind, but it was necessary, for reasons he could never bring himself to admit in front of family. "I do love my job here, Ryan, but your dad doesn't have much of a choice. Remember years ago, when times were hard and your mom and me, we couldn't afford nice things for us all? It's like that. I've got a new job that'll pay better and help me through the hard times." Grayson had taken his two children, Ryan and Elizabeth, out to the park to get ice-cream and enjoy the sun. It was as good a day as ever for it, and the best opportunity he had to break the news to them alone. Quality time spent between the three was few and far between, with most custody rights having been given to their mother Emily in the divorce a few years earlier. It had been a rough one, and like most divorces, it was the kids who likely suffered most from it. Arguments, slammed doors and muttered cursing weren't unusual in the home over the course of the proceedings, driving a wedge between both parents even more than before papers had even been filed. Sitting under the sun, the sound of traffic seemingly so distant from the picnic bench the three were at, it was so peaceful that it almost betrayed the seriousness of the topic Grayson had to explain. If it weren't for the news he had to break, it would have been a perfect day. "Can't you just get another job here then? Why so far away?" It was a fair question to be asked. Why so far away? Why so far away? Tau Ceti was a fairly extreme option terms of distance for a job that should be temporary. Should. The truth was, he'd tried to get another job at home - national agencies like the FBI, DEA, global agencies like Interpol and even at SIP-CPA and SISA. None of it worked out. Though he had twenty years on the job - twelve in uniform and on the beat, eight in civvies solving homicides - he lacked the qualifications on paper to even be considered for a position in prestigious agencies that offered better pay. The best he had was the pay the city budget would give him, and with the constant cuts in the face of austerity, it was pay he couldn't afford to stay at any more. There was work that would pay more for the skills and experience he already had, but not at home. Not anywhere near it. He couldn't work without the protection of a badge on Earth, there was too much at stake - too much that the badge shielded him from. Without it, he created a greater risk for himself - no backup to call on anymore, no colleagues who understood the line of work he was in, or all he'd dealt with over the years. "Ryan, just listen to me, alright? I wish I could stay right here and not change a thing, okay? You know that. You two mean everything to me, and I wouldn't leave if I didn't really, really have to. But it isn't forever, okay? Just for a few months, maybe a year at most. I'll come back to visit, and before you even know it, things will be back to normal, like nothing changed." Reaching out, Michael took a free hand of both Ryan and Elizabeth, placing them on top of each other, with his own over the two. Gently gripping, he smiled, his thumb rubbing over the backs of their hands before letting go, sitting up. Though it pained him to lie, to be dishonest to his own children, he saw no other option. No other way to ease their fears, to make them feel better. It wasn't new - he'd lied to many before to make them feel better, made promises he could never be sure he'd keep. He'd done so to grieving widows and distraught parents, promising he'd find whoever took their loved one from them. He'd held the hands of the dying, promising they'd be okay, that everything would be alright - because what else could he say or do in the face of the inevitable, when someone looks to a man with a badge and a gun to make everything right, even when he cannot. It was different with family, with those he knew. Those who grieve were often swarmed by bureaucracy and family, the promises he'd made lost in a sea of support. The lies told to the dead went with them. Neither came back to face him in life, but the lies he was telling now? He could only imagine how they might react, in the future, however long it would take for him to return, after he'd broken the promises he'd made to his own children. "Now, Ryan, I want you to take this." Reaching into his pocket, Grayson withdrew his wallet with his prosthetic hand, flipping it open past the oval badge of the LAPD, and to a star shaped one instead, that of the California Highway Patrol. The numbers on the badge weren't his, but that of his father, the badge worn throughout his entire career. Michael pulled the badge out, detaching it from the wallet, and gave it to Ryan, placing it in his hand firmly with his own organic hand. "That's your grandfather's badge, from when he was a cop. When he retired, he gave that to me. He said it always kept him safe at work, and that if I carried it, it'd keep me safe too. It did. So while I'm gone, I want you to look after it. Okay? It'll keep you safe while I'm not around to, and you can give it back when I get home." Turning to his daughter, Grayson took her hand and held it gently, fishing something out of his breast pocket. A rosary, the wood worn with time and slightly chipped. The cross was engraved neatly, depicting Jesus Christ's crucifixion. On the back of the cross, the name "Laura" was engraved. Michael gently laid the beads across Elizabeth's hand, placing the cross softly on her palm. "And Lizzy, this is for you. Your grandmother gave me this years ago when I started working. She taught me how important faith is to have, and I hope the two of you will learn that as well. She gave it to me because she knew God was always with me, and I could use this to always be with God. God is always with you, too, and if you ever need strength, if school is getting tough, or you're unhappy, or whatever it might be, God will give you strength, just like he's done for me." Withdrawing his hand, Grayson sat looking at the two silently for a moment, his prosthetic arm resting beneath his organic one on the table. In truth, he had hoped that his faith would have given him greater strength and comfort. That knowing God was watching over his children would grant him some peace, yet it didn't. Only a week ago, Michael had stood at a curb, looking over at the corpse of a boy his son's age, the victim of a drive-by. He wasn't the first, and knowing he wasn't the last either was what gave the detective pause. No matter what, he could never be sure that such a thing would never happen to his own family, his own children. No matter how hard he tried, no protection or precaution was ever perfect. Now, he'd be lightyears away, even less able to look after the two than he was before. It kept him awake at night, the paranoia that some other cop would be standing over the bodies of those he cared about, scribbling notes and making various remarks, acting like he'd seen it all before. Just like he had done. Looking up from the two, Grayson saw a woman walking towards them. Looking to his right wrist, his watch revealed that his time was already up. Michael had arranged to pick the kids up from school and take them out for a few hours before Emily got off work. He'd lost track of time, but he'd at least done what he set out to do - what he'd been putting off for so long. Standing up, he nodded to the two children to get up too, stepping over to them on the path and crouching. With both arms, he wrapped himself around Ryan and Elizabeth, giving them a tight, loving hug. Unbeknownst to him, it was the last hug he'd give them in a long time. He was careful not to hurt either of them, conscious of the badge on his hip and the holstered gun at his waist, and so pulled back to give both a kiss on the forehead before standing up. The transfer of custody went as smoothly and as wordlessly as it usually did, Emily and Michael offering each other only a base respectful nod before they parted ways, she with Ryan and Elizabeth in tow. That was how it had been for the last while - no words spoken, times and dates arranged via text and rigidly stuck to. She had the majority of the custody rights, as was to be expected, and there was nothing to be done for it. Grayson was far too busy with work to be able to give Ryan and Elizabeth the parenting they deserved, as painful as it was to admit to himself. Standing there, Grayson watch the trio leave down the park path, eventually turning out of sight behind a row of trees. With a sigh, the detective took out a packet of cigarettes, expertly sliding one of its contents into his organic hand, tapping it against his palm and then placing it between his lips. No sooner than he'd done so, he already had his zippo out, flicking it open, on, lighting the cigarette and putting away the lighter in a flash. He could already feel himself calming as he took a drag from the cigarette, his nerves settling despite the unease and worry he felt. A natural byproduct of the news he'd just delivered, of the reality he was facing. Looking back at his watch, Grayson sighed, adjusting his waist holster and walking the opposite direction down the path to his cruiser. He needed to be back at work within the hour. - 04/14/2463 The Robbery-Homicide Division of the LAPD was perhaps the most glamorous of divisions in the department, given fame over the centuries thanks to countless television shows, movies, news stories and more. Naturally, the reality was that the division was far from being as streamlined, efficient and pristine as the public image of it made it out to be. The truth was that homicides were the primary authority of each regional division's detective squad - and in a city with four homicides a day, those squads were quickly overloaded with cases. The overflow next went to the city-wide RHD, creating a mess of stacking cases on the backlog to be solved that only got bigger and bigger. The physical offices themselves were far from being the neat and organized cubicles depicted in police procedurals, with fancy consoles for most of the paperwork and curated messes to create the illusion of a busy work environment. The reality was floors of office desks, inboxes stacked with case files and papers many times higher than the outboxes, aging consoles in use accompanied by newer personal laptops to make life that bit easier, trashcans filled with takeout boxes, coffee cups and crumpled papers. Detectives in varied forms of semi-formal attire, their collars tugged out in the hot environment, jackets and windbreakers tossed over the backs of office chairs. Personnel in uniform and out rushing about, dropping off papers, heading off to make arrests, responding to calls, organizing raids and stake-outs, the list went on. A typical look into the overworked investigative agents of a conurbation' police department, lacking in funding and manpower to meet the demands of a constantly growing city, always playing catch-up rather than being ahead of the curve. Desks were arranged side-by-side and back-to-back, typical partners and groups who would work together seated nearby in order to collaborate more efficiently on cases. Grayson, along with his partner Detective Moore were no different - Moore seated to his right, and one of their common compatriots, Detective Garcia, across from him. The same desk had belonged to Grayson for six years, ever since he'd moved from being a regional homicide detective to RHD. It felt strange to know it would be his last month working at it. Sitting there, with a coffee in hand, it was hard not to think about the myriad of cases he'd been involved in over the years, cases which he'd solved at that same desk, alongside many of the same detectives. A slap to his back quickly knocked him back to the present, Henry Moore having returned and now collapsed into his office chair, dropping a bundle of papers on to his desk. Across the way, Garcia had already been sitting at his desk, typing away at his laptop for one reason or another. Clearing his throat to get their attention, Grayson sat up, looking between them. "I got some news to tell you both, if you're not busy." Michael began with, taking a quick sip from his coffee before setting it aside, swiveling around to face the two on his chair. "Oh, you finally going out with that chick from patrol you've been hanging out with? Lisa? About time." Moore immediately quipped, turning his attention straight to his partner. "No, I'm not going out with Lisa. I'm going to be resigning, temporarily at least. I'm moving to Biesel for a bit, for work, but I'm not sure how long. Wanted to tell you guys first, before I go making it all official." In reply, Michael kept a relatively hushed voice, his left arm resting on the desk. Neither detective offered an immediate reply, both looking to each other first before Daniel Garcia spoke up. "I appreciate you tellin' us 'fore the others, but... why? Why th' fuck would you move all the way to Tau Ceti?" Garcia had since moved his laptop aside, leaning forward on his desk as if to keep the conversation as close-knit as possible. "Work. Look, there's shit I don't want to get into about this, but ever since me and Emily divorced, its been rough. I'm up to my ears in fuckin' alimony and loan repayments. There's a well paying job I'm due to get out there with Idris, so I just need to... work out there a while, pay off some of my expenses, then I'll be back. Hopefully won't take long." Reaching up to his neck, Grayson rubbed his neck, then his left shoulder harshly, looking between the two again as Moore began to reply. "Well fuck, Grayson... thanks for telling us, but God damn. Gonna miss you, partner. Least you're coming back, though - ain't letting you leave us with all this work on our lonesome! When are you leaving, though?" Forcing a smile, Henry lightly punched Michael's right shoulder - a wiser option than his playful punches to the tough prosthetic left arm that he'd made the mistake of making before. Michael forced a smile in return, nodding as he leaned back and took a gulp of coffee. "Course I'm comin' back, can't leave this city forever. You know that. I'm set to leave at the end of the month, handed in my notice yesterday. Do me a favor though, keep this between yourselves for now. I'll let the rest know when I'm ready." Both detectives nodded in agreement before sitting back into their own chairs, contemplating the news for a bit before turning to their own desks and papers, idly working with the developments in mind. Turning to his own desk, Grayson opened a drawer, taking out an orange tinted plastic bottle with a label, popping the cap off and withdrawing a pill that he quickly downs, the medication soon chased by another gulp of coffee. Looking around, he was yet again reminded of all the other colleagues he had yet to inform - the other detectives he worked so often with, the uniformed officers he knew so well and would hang out with, the forensics teams and coroners who he had come to know over the course of his work. Then there were the cases, too - every active case assigned would need to be wrapped up by months end, or ready to hand over to another lead detective. Opening up his console and bringing up his case list, Grayson quickly began to sort through them and prepare them for handing off early. It was a lot of work to leave behind - a fact that sickened Michael - but he had little other choice. - 04/30/2463 The Los Angeles Interstellar Spaceport had been a major hub of public transportation nationally, globally and throughout the Alliance. Connecting America's largest city to the rest of the globe and the spur at large was no easy task, with what was once the Los Angeles International Airport having long since been expanded upon to fulfill the needs of the modern world. Despite the prominence of the spaceport in the city, it remained a location Grayson had rarely been to throughout his life. The Spaceport had its own police department, meaning he never had cause to be there for work, and most travel he partook in was relatively local, with the same or neighboring states by car. At a first glance, navigation of such a massive facility seemed daunting, but with a short amount of time, the signage and directions usually made sense, especially so when accompanied by detailed maps and travel assistance applications. For Grayson, it was less a daunting task and more a frightening one. The Spaceport wasn't just a means of travel, but stood as the physical harsh reality of leaving Earth for the first time in his life, for an amount of time he couldn't truly predict. His ticket was one way. Check-in had been a relatively painless, automated process, his ticket printed and bags tagged, sent off on a conveyor for loading. All the preparation for the journey had been completed. He had his passcard, work visa, employment papers. He'd ended his rental of his apartment and sold his car. He'd finished at work and assigned his cases to other detectives before leaving. He'd been by to see his kids and parents once more before leaving. All that was left to do was go. Walking through the Spaceport offered some time to reflect on the journey ahead. Not just the journey to Tau Ceti, which would be littered with transfer flights, but the journey to return to Earth. What needed to be done to come back home, what Michael had to overcome. It wouldn't be easy, either. Travel blogs he'd read often advised against moving to Biesel without friends or family, citing how hard it was to assimilate. Grayson didn't have that luxury though. He had to leave his friends and family behind, in the hope of at least making some new friends for the time being in order for the ordeal to be less painful. He could probably do that, at least. Passing through security was of little issue either, none of Michael's belongings triggering a search, nor himself selected for a random pat-down. The final stretch of the walk was to the departure gate assigned for his flight, the spaceport app on his phone keeping him constantly abreast of the departure time and any spaceport notices. Along the way Grayson stopped at the food court to grab a quick coffee, wasting some of the idle time left before boarding with a pastime he often enjoyed - simply people watching. He had to wonder where everyone else was going, too. Those heading to Silversun or other warm tourist destinations were obvious, dressed in their floral shirts and beach-suitable shorts. Then there were the business people, dressed in various suits and formal dress, probably heading for other places on Earth if not for one of the Inner Colonies. Then there were those like him, dressed in the casual best, no clear indication of where or why they were going. Was there anyone like him, travelling off alone? Perhaps temporarily, or perhaps to start a whole new life? Surely there must have been some among the thousands of humans bustling about the port. Surely he wasn't alone in being forced to make a difficult choice, a major change to his life. Naturally he wasn't, but the knowledge of it made him feel no less alone. With his coffee finished, Michael sat for a few minutes more, holding his rosary in his organic hand, praying silently. Whether he hoped prayer would give him safety or companionship more, he wasn't sure, but it felt as if it were the right thing to do - if not out of obligation to faith, then out of tradition carried for nearly his whole life. Time was moving on, however, and eventually he had to get up and go. Walking down the various tunnels of the spaceport offered views of the large craft that would carry humans to places across the spur, dwarfing the ground crews nearby who worked to fuel up and maintain the ships for use. With the use of conveyors across the long tunnels, it didn't take long for Grayson to arrive at his gate, sitting only a few minutes before boarding started. The process was as streamlined as the rest of the port had been, his ticket checked at a small kiosk before he walked down a docking arm and on to the ship that would take him into space for the first time in his life. Now seated, his bag packed overhead, belt fastened and earphones in, there was nothing more to do than wait, music from a downloaded playlist streamed into his ears to drown out all the worry and negative thoughts that the current situation presented. It wasn't long before the rest of the ship had been filled, and soon enough they were departing, moving from the gate and preparing for take-off. He'd seen it happen many times before, from afar, or in TV shows or movies - but never before had he experienced it. To lift off Earth, knowing he wouldn't simply be landing again there in an hour or two. Lift-off was a lot more comfortable than he had expected, though he didn't witness it himself. Despite having a window seat, Michael kept his eyes closed, hands gripping the arms of his chair, opting instead to focus on the music. Before he knew it, they were airborne - rapidly approaching the clouds and flying beyond, approaching space. Looking out the window and down below, Grayson laid eyes on what had been his home for nearly forty years, with no idea when he'd see it again. He'd left Earth.

I've never had an issue with Arbs' warden play and I've been able to observe their HoS gameplay recently. I wanted to post about a recent changeling round, one in which quite the situation unfolded with the Chief Engineer over turning the gravity off. Despite that incident and the assault leading to an IR, that is purely IC of course. I wanted to post here to state that while my character (and many others) were very dissatisfied with the outcome of the situation, I can say firmly in my case at least, that the situation from an OOC perspective was handled extremely well. I felt very bad that it was a trial round for Arbs because it was an impossible situation to make everyone happy in, with no relation at all to the antags of the round. Bisenti utilised his authority in a measured but firm way to force both parties in the conflict into his office after de-escalating what was milliseconds away from becoming a full blown fight. He then forced a tentative agreement between both parties, with the Captain present, not to fight any further in the shift. He handled it as best anyone could and avoided having to brig anyone unnecessarily, creating more roleplay than just resorting to tossing people in cells by the letter of the law. Ultimately, I wanted to praise his handling of the situation because from an outside perspective it might seem as if I wasn't happy with the resolution, but that is all purely IC reasoning and instead the whole matter has opened up new avenues of roleplay and character relationships.

Reporting Personnel: Michael Grayson Job Title of Reporting Personnel: Investigator (Off-Duty) Game ID: chO-dnCg Personnel Involved: Aez Goldhorn - Chief Engineer - Offender Azhara Shas'kui - Security Officer - Witness Ahari Zerikanh - Security Officer - Witness Secondary Witnesses: Mike Bisenti - Head of Security - Witnessed assault on myself by CE Goldhorn. Was present for issues with gravity. Zofia Valentova - Investigator - Witnessed assault on myself by CE Goldhorn. Was present for issues with gravity. Anastasia Kotova - First Responder - Was present for issues with gravity, stated that misconduct with gravity forced a rushed surgery in medical. Time of Incident: Real Time: 2240 GMT April 7th 2022 Location of Incident: Engineering & Deck 2 Central Ring. Nature of Incident: [X] - Workplace Hazard [ ] - Accident/Injury [ ] - Destruction of Property [ ] - Neglect of Duty [ ] - Harassment [X] - Assault [ ] - Misconduct [ ] - Other _____ Overview of the Incident: Towards the beginning of the shift, Chief Engineer Goldhorn asked over the common radio frequency whether people would mind if the gravity generator was turned off for the purposes of zero gravity training. Multiple crew voiced their objections to the idea, including a medical professional who stated that surgery was being conducted and that gravity should not be turned off. Despite the objections and no crew voicing support for the idea, Goldhorn proceeded with turning gravity off. Gravity remained off for a significant amount of time until someone turned it back on, without the Chief Engineer's permission according to his own statements over the radio. Chief Goldhorn still proceeded to turn gravity back off, the gravity generator once again remaining off for a period of time. It was at this point I sent a PDA message to the Executive Officer, the name of whom I cannot recall, to complain, who then assured me that they were working on having gravity returned. It still took a significant time period before gravity was returned, and statements from crew seemed to indicate that the gravity being turned off was not approved by command as a whole. During the time gravity was off, Operations reported that they were unable to send crates from the warehouse as the lack of gravity meant the crates were not being carried by the conveyors, as well as Mining reporting that they could not process ore with the gravity off - to which Goldhorn made a remark about using a shovel like the old days. Following the return of the gravity, Chief Goldhorn proceeded to challenge anyone who had allegedly threatened him to meet him by the tree on Deck two. While passing on deck two to get to the Chapel, I asked whether the Chief Engineer had been suspended yet. At this point in time, Officers Shas'kui and Zerikanh were present alongside Commander Bisenti and Investigator Valentova, as well as others who I cannot recall. After I posed my question about the suspension, Chief Goldhorn charged towards me and assaulted me, grabbing me and making threats. Commander Bisenti and Officer Shas'kui quickly stepped in, breaking up the physical confrontation. Commander Bisenti neglected to have Chief Goldhorn arrested and instead asked Officers Shas'kui and Zerikanh to leave, however they did not in order to bare witness to the rest of the confrontation. Words of an unfriendly nature were exchanged between myself and Chief Goldhorn during this period. I was then ordered by Commander Bisenti to go with him to his office, with the vague but present threat of arrest for slander if I did not comply. I complied and proceeded to Bisenti's office, where Chief Goldhorn and Commander Bisenti sat down while I stood to the side, as did the Captain, the name of whom I do not recall. In explaining that I did not insult Chief Goldhorn and merely asked whether he'd been suspended, Chief Goldhorn got out of his seat and once again charged towards me aggressively, stopped only by Commander Bisenti getting up and standing in between myself and Chief Goldhorn. Words were exchanged to the effect of a verbal warning for an assault on myself and for alleged slander by myself towards Chief Goldhorn. Chief Goldhorn was then dismissed and I was kept for further words, the Captain no longer present at this time. Submitted Evidence: Would you like to be personally interviewed?: [X] - Yes [ ] - No Did you report it to a Head of Staff or a superior? If so, who? If not, why?: The matter was observed by Head of Security Mike Bisenti, and the Captain was aware of it as described. The matter of the gravity was not to my knowledge handled in this regard, only the assault. Actions taken: A verbal warning was issued. Additional Notes: Only the altercation in the Deck 2 central ring was dealt with by Command in any manner to my knowledge, and in my opinion to an unsatisfactory degree, as it resulted in my own unwilling detainment for longer than the aggressor involved. The matter of the unsanctioned gravity shutdown was not dealt with in the meeting I was privy to.

The following has been republished from the Los Angeles Observer. Dated April 11th, 2460. The U.S. Justice Department, alongside representatives from the Solarian Interstellar Policing & Crime Prevention Agency, Solarian Interstellar Security Agency, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Drug Enforcement Administration and local agencies like the Los Angeles Police Department and Sheriff's Department have announced over two-hundred arrests of alleged members of the "Morozov Organization", a cartel operating out of hubs in Los Angeles, Mexico City, Paris and even New Valletta on Callisto. In the joint-agency press briefing, the seizure of multiple vessels, properties, large quantities of drugs, firearms & more were announced as part of the crackdown on the criminal organization which for years has had its hand in drug production, smuggling, money laundering, arms trafficking and more. The majority of the announced arrests and seizures took place on Earth, where the organization holds the vast majority of its influence and conducts most of its affairs. Special Prosecutor Emanuel Brooks, who was brought in to oversee the investigation and lead prosecutions of the arrested members across the varied jurisdictions, had this to say: "The Morozov Organization has for over a decade been involved in the manufacture and sale of illicit narcotics, the trafficking of stolen and illegal weapons, the laundering of money and smuggling of goods past Customs Officials on various planets as well as Earth nations. These are not the only crimes members of the organization are guilty of - they are guilty of the murders, kidnappings, violence and destruction naturally associated with such an enterprise. Today's announcement is one we hope will give people faith that we treat organized crime seriously, to exemplify the work done by a myriad of agencies across Earth and the Alliance to deal a significant blow to criminals who try to get wealthy off of the violence and misery they inflict on others." The news comes after six months of investigation by a host of different law enforcement and intelligence agencies across both Earth and the wider Alliance culminated in a batch of arrest and search warrants being issued, which were executed over the last two weeks. The organization has been known to law enforcement since its inception, but the announcement marks the first time a targeted pushback against the cartel has been made on such a scale. Prosecutor Brooks promised that more arrests were on the way, as the search warrants uncovered evidence tying many more people to the organization, and vowed not to let up on chasing every single last member of the cartel down. Locally, the investigation by the LAPD and LASD alongside the FBI and DEA did not begin until a recent homicide was investigated by members of the LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division. The murder of Markus Evans, a Bureau of Gambling Control employee, was tied to the Cartel and solved by local homicide detectives. Read More. Dated September 2nd, 2459. The Los Angeles Police Department today announced the arrest of three murder suspects in the investigation into the homicide of Markus Evans, an employee at the State Department of Justice's Bureau of Gambling Control. Initially thought to be a fatal street mugging, Detectives at the LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division instead found evidence of a pre-meditated murder, chasing down leads over the course of a month long homicide inquiry. The work of Detectives Moore, Grayson and Garcia of the LAPD's RHD found that instead of a random street mugging, Evans had been planning to meet someone near the alleyway he was killed in. Investigators located his phone at his home and were able to obtain a warrant to compel the phone manufacturer to unlock the device, granting police access to the data on it. Texts uncovered by detectives showed that Evans had arranged to meet with an informant of his shortly before his murder. An LAPD Spokesman indicated that investigations were still ongoing into the disappearance of said informant, but stated that the man who Evans had been speaking to was actually Morozov Organization enforcer Gerald Angelov, one of the three arrested suspects. A complex investigation into Markus Evans' work history and home computer found that Evans had uncovered suspicious reporting of earnings by GoldStar Betting, an L.A. area gambling agency. According to files found on Evans' computer, the earnings reported by the agency were considerably inflated when compared to the number of games and races available to bet on during the listed period, as well as compared to the bet receipts turned in for the same period. The documents found on Evans' home computer did not match the corresponding documents on his work computer, prompting an investigation into the Bureau of Gambling Control itself. Forensic analysis of work computers and servers determined that the file had been altered after Evans' death in an effort to cover up what he had found, implicating the second suspect, Martin Rogers, Evans' supervisor at the Bureau in the murder. Evans' had turned to his supervisor to report the discrepancies in the earnings, but unbeknownst to him, his superior was on the payroll of GoldStar Betting, now realized to be a front for the Morozov Organization. The LAPD have also arrested Andrei Wood, another member of the Morozov Organization, after phone data evidence was uncovered of a conspiracy between Angelov and Wood to lure Evans to a secluded area and stage a mugging gone wrong. L.A. County District Attorney Lauren Eisenhower revealed a list of charges against the three suspects, with Angelov and Wood most notably charged with first degree murder while Rogers has been charged with conspiracy to commit murder and a host of obstruction of justice and corruption charges. The LAPD have indicated that investigation into the murder is ongoing and that more suspects may be arrested in the near future as the case progresses.

I have no issue with this suggestion. I played chemist a little to learn the role, but I haven't since because as described, its a lot of busywork for 30 minutes and then not much else. While I appreciate that some would fear the role being made redundant and it is a valid concern, giving the chemist/pharmacist the authority over the pharmacy when they're in-round is a perfectly suitable way of settling that issue, and making sure physicians don't just make all the meds needed out the gate also helps with this. I've seen multiple rounds where people go entirely untreated for certain issues because it can only be solved via medicine the pharmacist makes, a pharmacist that isn't in round. This would help keep the gameplay flowing and hopefully ease the pressure on a department that is easily one of the most crucial and often overworked departments in the game.