A small flock of Hoothoot scattered as the door to the apartment building in southeast Goldenrod swung open. From it appeared a male who stood at an average height for an adult, his face hidden beneath his dark hood. The man stepped out into the dark early morning, his fingerless gloves holding a messenger bag in one hand, and a paper cup with a plastic lid in the other. After taking a few steps down the street the man came to a sudden halt, before turning and walking over to the tall chain link fence that served as the cities southern border.
On the other side of the fence the man could see a stout figure, peering from behind a dark evergreen. "Drowzee. Drowzee!" he barked. The short figure would finally waddle up to the fence, peering up at the man behind its long yellow snout. The hooded man sighed as he squatted down to be face to face with the short fat lump. "Do you have to make me late every morning? Get out of here, what did I say would happen if you kidnapped another child?" A long moment of silence passed as the man and Pokemon stared at each other. The wings of the Hoothoot returning to their original meeting spot could be heard back towards the apartment.
Finally growing impatient, the man would set down his messenger back. He held up his now freed hand to the fence, his index finger held back by his thump, before giving the long yellow snout a flick. "Get out of here before I let Umbreon have a turn with ya." In response, Drowzee would give his snout a tender rub with a small stubby hand before turning and waddling back into the tall grass. A smile grew across the hooded man's face before he picked up his messenger bag and continued on his way.
After finally making his way uptown, the man would the wide blue doors of the Goldenrod Police Station. With some effort, he managed to open one of the doors despite his full hands, and he hurried inside. As he passed the front desk he thought he heard a greeting, which he returned with a simple nod as he continued to the office. A long hall packed with desks, the office was mostly empty except for a handful of the night crew. As silent as ever, the man continued passed them without a word, slipping away into a room even farther in the back of the building. This room was similar to the previous, but much smaller and with fewer desks, six of them to be exact, arranged so each pair of desks faced each other, separated by black dividers. The lights automatically flickered on as the man stepped through the doorway.
He counted the empty seats as he made his way to the back of the room. "One, two, three, four, five... six." The final desk, in the back of the room, was his own. With much urgency he would sit on the black leather chair and begin unpacking his messenger bag. A few folders, a laptop, and his favorite pen, worn from obsessive clicking, biting, and tapping. He placed the computer on a dock and turned it on, and then took a glance around the empty room as he waited for the machine to boot up. As his eyes scanned the area, he lowered his hood and unzipped his jacket, revealing a white, collared shirt. His tan cheeks were covered in stubbly hair, and dark purple circles rest just below his brown eyes, which were nearly covered by his wavy, dark hair. Those dark eyes would stop, noticing something unusual about the room.
The desk that sat just in front of him, that faced his own desk and was usually covered in random photos of crime scenes, boxes of donuts, or cartons of takeout that the other detectives brought was perfectly cleaned off. It almost looked like a brand new desk. Although hidden underneath his hair, the man's eyes furrowed as he almost immediately made the connection. "Ugh," he sighed, remembering the responsibility the uncovered wood symbolized. His glance would shift back to his computer screen, a line blinking, beckoning him to type his account information. At least he was early enough that some work would be done before the others barged. He raised his still gloved fingers to the keyboard, his fingertips peeking out of the cloth from just past the knuckles. Clive Oiler, the screen read as a string of asterisks filled the empty field, just before the computer unlocked.