"You think you're funny?" the first cop says.
"Get against the wall," Hassleman says, shoving you against the bricks. He starts to search your coat. He pulls out your wallet, pulls the $49 you have in it out. "What's this? Where did this come from? Who gave you this money?"
"Are you really named Hassleman? Or does everyone just pass around that badge when they need to hassle people?"
"I don't have to answer your questions, officer." Staying as carefully neutral as I can here.
"That's my money from my job. Now give it back." I've had enough.
"That's from your mom's dresser."
"I was going to get some dinner after a double shift, come on, man." I'm trying to de-escalate, if I can.
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Hassleman snarls and punches you in the kidney, dropping to your knees, then rips off your backpack. Your knife isn't in there, but you have your folding knife.
"Do either of you want to tell me what this is about?"
Okay, that's enough. I turn and sock Cop 2 in the jaw.
This is obviously only ending one way. I twist out of Hassleman's grip and hop on my bike.
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You turn quicker than either cop can react and shove the closer one back. You're just turning to run when you're all momentarily dazzled by headlights. A sedan crunches to a halt. It takes you a moment to recognize Daphne Clear from the photos of her you've seen. A small, fit Black woman in late middle age, Daphne Clear is the most unassuming Garou you've ever seen. Her hair is meticulously straightened, her nails lacquered, her eyes cold as she regards the two Northampton police officers with withering contempt.
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