I Promise, I'll Name this one Later!

Inspector Alden Clements Clarke was the kind of man that you could easily lose in a snowstorm. His body temperature, which was notable on it's own for being far below anything that any doctor could explain, partially explained this assertion. But moreover, his demeanor, which was as frigid in every sense of the word; his voice, which hovered between a windy whisper and a weathered clarity; and his eyes, which were as dark and grey as the most perilous winter storm, all helped matters considerably. He was, in a word, cold.

He was younger than most people probably would have thought he was by his rank. He was, truly, the youngest man to have ever reached the position of Taigish Detective Inspector, though he usually dropped the "Detective" part in introductions. He took the challenge at the feeble age of twenty-six, and though he had aged since then, his face showed little indication of it at all. He thin, purple-tinged lips, feminine eyes, and a nose that turned neither up nor down- it was the face, Ives had said, that could have belonged to an angel, if it were not for the withering scar that splattered across it.

He wasn't tall, but he managed to be lanky anyway, even while wearing his thick Inspector's Coat. His coarse, black hair was perpetually a little bit too long, but not long enough to warrant cutting it. And finally, there were his gloves, which he never took off, even when it would have been polite to do so.

His job suited him well- he did not have to be personable, he did not have to be athletic, and he did not have to put up with people that he did not want to put up with. All he had to do was solve cases, and do it quickly. And that was what he was good at.

Usually, he would travel around, from division to division, solving a few puzzles here, analyzing a couple of motives there. He was good at psychology, swift in logic, and his vocabulary was unmatched by any other officer in the Taigen, though it did have the tendency to be a little bit archaic at times. Still, Clarke was everything an Inspector had to be.

He came across the Fifth Division not expecting to stay. In fact, the case came to him almost by accident, in the form of a handgun, lying on his desk.

"Sergeant Lycen left it for you," his secretary explained, as Clarke toyed with it, turning it over in his hands. "He asked if you could look into it." Clarke was silent, but that was to be expected. He noted the safety that had been locked over the barrel, and looked down inside it. "There's no serial number," she continued, "so he thought you could track it somehow. I don't think he understands how detective work-"

"Don't worry, I know exactly who made it," he said, "can you give me a few minutes?"

He nodded, muttering something about it actually being time for him to go home, and stepped out of the room. Clarke didn't usually have a secretary, but he was doing his intern work before he would get a promotion to actual Detective. To be honest, Clarke didn't really bother learning their names anymore- they usually cycled through in a week or two. They were, in a word, inconsequential.

He took the phone from his intern's desk, spinning the dial around quickly. Just as the line was about to ring out, Clarke heard footsteps behind him. He quickly returned the receiver to it's place and turned on his heels, spinning the dialer into reset. "Yes?"

There was a man behind him, who was several years younger than he was, and more than several inches taller. That being said, Clarke still managed to stare him down. "I was just wondering if you were heading out any time soon- I was planning on locking up tonight."

"I'll do it, then," Clarke said, as the phone rang again. He glanced at it, and bit his lip. "Bye."

The man nodded, looking at Clarke nervously. "Alright, goodnight."

Clarke picked the phone back up quickly, and was not surprised when it was exactly who he wanted to talk to. "Yes, hello. I have a question about one of the guns you made... yes, MK VII, I believe. Can you give me a record of everyone that has one?"

The man who had addressed Clarke turned off most of the lights as he was leaving, in the back hallways where he knew that Clarke would not usually go. It was late, but still light outside- that was the funny thing about the sun in the Taigen. Because it's up so far north, the sun doesn't really go up and down, it's either there or it isn't; and in the summer, it always was.

But thought it was summer, the man still found himself wearing a coat. Just because it wasn't winter didn't mean it wasn't cold.

He fumbled around in his pocket for his punch card, which he was always losing in one way or another. Just as he found it, Clarke emerged from his office, walking up behind him.

"Important phone call?"

"More or less," Clarke said passively, his punch card already in his hand.

"Oh well," the man said, pocketing his card. "Goodnight again."

"Goodnight, Ives," Clarke said. "Wait, before you go. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you part of the Fifth Division?"

"Yes," the man said, "Officer Ives, Division Five. Working under Lycen."

Clarke smiled, but it looked more like a smirk. "I'll be joining you tomorrow morning. Goodnight."

And with that, they turned and went their separate ways.

---

Officer Ives was, in his own words, a pretty decent person. He went to work in the morning, went home at night, liked small children enough, didn't have too many serious problems, and usually managed to get enough sleep. And most people that he met liked him enough; he was cheerful, but not bothersome, and could genuinely tell if you wanted to be left alone. He was also one of the only young men around the Police headquarters that actually knew how to talk to women- this was chiefly because A), he grew up with five sisters and knew how to hold a solid conversation with one, and B), he let them play with his hair.

To Be Continued.