Phonetic

Romeo, Romeo, Where Foreart Thou Romeo? The Goddamn Police Station.

Romeo.

I shove my way through the glass doors and am knocked into by several officers who seem to be tripping over their own feet.

I hook onto one of them in an attempt not to tumble completely, and he yells at me to "get the hell off me, dumbass!"

So, obviously one of us, I assume, is causing trouble somewhere, and all the police are in a right fuss about it. When I say trouble, I mean there's an absolute slaughter going on.

Probably Alpha, or Beta, or Charlie... could be any of the top five, to be honest, and few more beyond. They could easily, without breaking a sweat, defeat any of the lower half of the alphabet in hand-to-hand combat or gunfights. The top four can dodge bullets - can you really compete with that in a gunfight?

And, rumour has it, that the fifth and sixth, Echo and Foxtrot, in an attempt to try to keep up, strategised a way to avoid shots, despite not even being quick enough to react to a close-range shot. Thing is, you could put a gun against Alpha's forehead - actually, you couldn't, but let's talk theoretically here - and once you've pulled the trigger, you'll still miss. By the time that pellet is down the barrel, he'll be gone.

How am I meant to live with people like that around?

I dive into the reception, where a man and a woman are tangling around each other, trying to answer two of the phones and grab onto papers dishevelled across the desk behind a thin layer of glass that, in reality, wouldn't have much of an effect.

Despite my horror at knowing any moment could be my last, watching all these police officers and staff colliding into each other like they're purposely playing bumper cars and people in the waiting area competing in a tense game of music chairs, kind of soothes my burning nerves.

"Excuse me?" I assert.

Neither of the receptionists respond, and my voice is swallowed by the raging sirens leaving the station outside.

The police in this city are a mess.

"Hello?"

"Not now, kid, come back later or go to the waiting area," the man demands, pointing his finger authoritatively to the musical chairs.

"Alright, whatever you say, sir, I'll just say the police told me to withhold my information on the shooter. Or should I say, shooters?"

The phone drops from the man's hand, and his face replicates someone having a stroke.

"Come around to the back," he mutters, face still paralysed as he manoeuvres his way through around the woman, and opens the door from behind it, holding it open for me.

With a hint of over-confidence, and a bowl full of fear, I waddle through the door as all the participants outside goggle in shock at someone actually being seen to.

As soon as I'm through, an officer crashes into me, not even apologising, but I hardly stir. It's strange, that someone even at 'R' is so much stronger than your average given human, or even one that's supposedly had training.

"What's your name?" The receptionist asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Uh, Romeo."

"Romeo what? What's your last name?" He's vocalising so quickly he's shoving all the words into one, like they're falling over each other.

"I don't really, actually, kind of, have one," I stutter with a shrug.

He stops, one eye twitching, the irritation rippling outwards. "Do you think it's funny to come in here, at a time like this, and playing games with me, kid?"