You enter a department, and a woman at the front desk of the first floor gives you a card with the number 214 printed on it and directs you to the third floor of the building where your personal detective is waiting. You ascend to the floor by elevator, and you walk across a hall lined with doors to other detective offices, which are occupied with clients. You eventually find Office 214, and you enter it through its automatic door. A caucasian man, about 32 years of age, sits in a chrome chair padded with leather, his feet resting on his glass desk smugly, his arms crossed on his chest. He wears glasses, and his hair is brown and slicked over with gel. He gazes at you with blue eyes. Beside him is a large computer terminal, festering with screens and wires and nodules. He must do his search work on that. On his desk is his nameplate, which reads [i]Det. Emery Olson[/i]. "Hey," he greets you, beckoning to a plastic chair on your side of his desk, "why'd you come here today?" ((If you weren't looking for a detective I can edit it))

"There was an incident....Greenholm Trynt, an assassination attempt yesterday. Do you have records on it?"

Olson furrows his brow. He then turns to the terminal to start typing furiously down on its keyboard. After a moment, he leans away from the computer, confused. He glances at you. "No, actually... We haven't heard of that. Can you give us any more information about it to me?"

The door is opened quietly behind you. A man sidles into the office, adjusting his hat and coat. [i]Don't bother looking, Emory. The files were scrubbed.[/i] Stephenson leans against the wall, then takes a swig from a flask hidden in his pocket.

((WAAAAT))