Snippet #2827868

Lewis steps in through the doors silently, entering into the foyer of the library. He didn't usually ever go here to compile notes, but he was on this side of town today, so he figured it couldn't hurt.

Generally, the analyzing was a mixed process of reasoning and guesswork, mostly predictions based off of what had worked in raids before and what had nearly gotten him killed, a process he had picked up in RUST's Combat-Crisis unit. Planning never hurt, even when it was just guessing on interior layouts and writing down notes from the previous days of in-field surveillance.
It didn't feel as secure, maybe, sitting out in public where anybody could be watching, but he figures at worst he'd look like some older college student studying for... something.

I guess this is why the superheroes in the stories usually have a buddy to do these things for them, he thinks to himself. Sure, it would be nice to have somebody to do all the observation work, dig up maps and names, and so on, but there wasn't anyone he could trust enough. Anyways, even in the stories that "reliable sidekick" ends up overestimating their ability and getting captured, usually then used to push a plot where they end up rescued and so on, and on, and on. That would be perhaps the single worst use of his time, having to go after some hotshot techie or amateur P.I., or any other of the hundreds of hundreds of tropes. Better to just put in the work himself.

He freezes in place for a split second, his eyes, normally fixed forward and emotionless, suddenly flickering back and forth around his surroundings. Something is off. It was quiet, and not the sort of quiet you get in a library. A post-trauma kind of quiet, one that settles after a bomb goes off or a building collapses, unnatural stillness.
There was a mask of some kind, resting on the front counter, and he realizes in a moment that there's not a computer-jockey or attendant behind it. Bad.
Think. The gut-feeling was reliable enough, but it didn't tell him anything beyond what he could subconsciously recognize. So, what were those things?

Stockton takes a half-step back, moving his head from left to right to look around.
Ornate mask on table, first. No title, not an art piece. Probably... weird somehow. Deeper in, past fourth line of shelves... What looks like books or papers scattered along the floor, hard to tell. Nobody around at all.
There. Some... kind of- hazard. Abnormal dancing of light, heat waves or something, don't know. Avoid it.
Something else, too. What?
... Watch has stopped ticking at regular tempo. Something's really off.

If it wasn't a government building, he might be armed, to some extent. The best he had was a pen, right now. Better fix that.
He slowly steps over to behind the counter, then kicks over the wooden chair behind it, slowly crouching down to rest both of his hands on a single leg, eyes still pointed inwards toward the shimmering as he pulls it free with little effort.
He stands up again, adjusting his grip on the makeshift club, and steps carefully into the large opening room of the library. With his arms half-raised in a ready position, club held in one hand, he moves warily to the shelves, looking carefully around.
See if anyone's injured or incapacitated before the WCPD gets here, get some answers, leave. Be aware of combatants, adjust as necessary.

Aftermaths really sucked, but he was used to it. There was always a risk, he just happened to be the guy to take it.