"Another privileged white guy".

That's what Nick had said the first time we'd seen each other, at the station, right after he had led that lost young officer, me, to the meeting room where everyone else waited for one of the new chief to show up : me again.

Nick had been looking down on me from his 6'1 height before looking again at the meeting room's wall where had been pinned my whole profile : my identification photos from the army, the known records of my missions, my ID number, my certificates, my weapon of choice, past and current residing address.

Everything.

I'd have preferred to present myself rather than have my life exposed to my new colleagues like I was a fugitive but that was to be expected considering both my situation and the fact that I had managed to be late, due to one small identity check problem a few streets before.

I guess that's another way to put what they think I am : a kind of fugitive from the army.

At least, unlike many of those who had been in that meeting room, Nick had said his thoughts to my face.

On day one.

Nicolas Achebe, closer to his forties than to his thirties, always neat at any time of the day, silent until his voice boomed, wasn't one to mutter and mumble in people's back. He had proudly fought his way out of the needy streets as a poor black skinned and black eyed boy only armed with sheer work and determination to get two degrees, one in psychology and one in civilization studies, both in a good college and he'd made it a point to not give in to statistics while buying himself an apartment with actual windows, something most of us don't even have, and staying away from what were apparently considered black skinned people's only possible fields of expertise : food and sports.

Instead, he'd made a living being a professional photograph, even though his body spoke volume about his time spent running and kicking sandbags.

That he'd decided to give a shot as a police officer must have surprised a lot of people at the time. Especially since he'd challenged them to do better and very few did.

That he'd made it as a honored ranked officer probably bothered a great many more people.

I can tell by the looks I see sometimes directed at him.

And it somehow makes me feel ill at ease.

Abroad, where I had spent those last years, biological colors such as skin, hair and eyes didn't really matter. Or rather not like that. Biological color was more or less pointing at your culture and origins, but it did nothing to determine your ranks, skills and worth.

There, that was what 'clans' and 'families' were for.

I had been a nameless one there and I had fought through hell to make a small place for myself. I had earned respect for that.

Here, no matter what Nick does, his skin somehow keeps being an obstacle that I can't really understand. I get that a boy from a needy street might be considered less educated for those streets are called "needy" because of the massive lack of teachers, doctors, commercials and such. The boy would most likely be starting lower than a mate from the supplied streets and even lower than a mate from the overfed. But that wouldn't say a thing about his learning capacities at all. He could be better in the long run. Or same. And yeah maybe worse too. I get that part.

But what would his skin or eye or hair color change ?

I don't get it.

And I have no idea how not to angry Nick about it.

I had recommended him too when he had brilliantly resolved a case on his own while keeping me blind about it. I had praised him, recommended him, and somehow he had resented me for reasons I definitely didn't understand then. Ranks, in my opinion, worked like that : you showed skill, your superior rewarded you until you ranked up to his level and out of his depth so then you had your own rookies to guide and another superior to follow.

The pyramidal thing where each level grew to the next.

Well except this scheme doesn't exactly works that way here.

It's a pyramid alright, except the only one who gets to give ranks is the one at the top. Everyone else is just bull. Nick had seen my praises and recommendation as flattery and a bribery of sort. And a twisted way to show that I 'pitied' his position.

He'd told me he wanted to make it at the top on his own and not through what he believed to be my privileged network.

He had firmly believed my sudden appearance as a chief to be network related.

Like I knew the one on the top of the scales or something.

I didn't, and I still don't.

My military file is sealed, and so are my lips when it comes to it, but parts of it had been shown when I had applied for police school, that was the closest I had to a CV, to show what my skillset was. That, and the simulator's record. But I think what I did on the islands spoke volumes.

There, I had been a sergeant, I had led whole units and full actions on the battlefield. I had earned medals. And I had survived.

Here, they had put me to the test like anybody else, which was fair, and I had freaking killed the police exam.

I haven't paid in any kind of currency for my actual rank, I have earned it twice already.

Yet, everyone thinks I cheated for being the chief of - allegedly - three guys.

Our team is still missing a person I am yet to be assigned since I seemingly can't choose them for myself.

I am not bitter about it. About my position. I love the job. I am just frustrated I can't really explain why my position was more natural than what it seemed at first glance.

I hate that I have no idea how to tell Nick I have been the only white guy in a whole company for months, a nameless one at that, and I do know what it feels like to be the minority. To see the despise in their eyes even if they've known you for less than three seconds.

And, coming from the sewers, I do know what it feels like to start with close to nothing. I never was privileged. I have the scars to show for it.

But I have made it out, haven't I ?

I don't want to make this about me, even if it sounds like I am.

Nick's struggle is now. I truly respects the man for his skills, ranging from human comprehension to field understanding and impressive analytical thinking, for his hard and dedicated work, spending almost ten years now as an officer doing loads and loads of hours despite everything, and I know he'd make a better detective than myself, given the chance.

That's why I had deflected his blames when he'd crossed the lines. Why I had kept praising him on paper if not aloud and why I'll keep doing it, no matter what he says, in the hopes to be heard somewhere above us in the food chain.

« You daydreaming again. » Nick says, looking straight in my eyes. Somehow, I can feel he has a nickname on the tip of his tongue and that certainly isn't one I want to hear.

« Rough night. » I retort, irritated that he caught me drifting again. « So Don, tell me about that plate's code please, because yeah, we got a plate Nick. »

Nick's eyes widen.

« Spit it! What kind ? After yesterday's failure, I'm hungry as a sea shark. »

I ignore his spike. Donal avoids looking at us.

« I told you. Never seen before. » he grunts.

Nick and I exchange looks. If Nick's our detective and I am the man of action, Donal's our hard worker. The man who dives headfirst into the files. First of the class. Disciplined almost to an extreme. He isn't the kind to drink or joke on the job and he is not the type to stall when a plate is on the grill.

Something about the case really has spooked him if he wouldn't even give us the code. My mind starts racing with possibilities. Nick gets faster.

« A 69? » he asks.

I snort, trying to hide a smile. Donal, as much as I love him, is also old fashioned and there is two things he can't, or won't, hear about : blasphemies against the Faith and anything sex related. So yeah, a 69 being an unusually ritualistic sexual murder, it would have made sense for him to even not speak the damn code.

Still, I know my friend and he would have told me right after warning me not to laugh at him. We had covered sexual assaults and sexual deviances already together. He didn't like any of it, and neither had any of us. The victims of a sadistic game involving leather and torture toys had unsettled every one. We probably all had puked at one point or another. No shame there. It's been as disgusting as cruel.

I shudder again and try to wipe the pictures away from my mind, gulping my coffee as fast as possible, slacking the cup on my desk.

« Donal, tell me, what is it? » I ask, as seriously and steadily as I can, trying to impersonate the most reliable chief anyone would want to confide in. Or so I hope.

« I told you. It's never seen before. So no code. »

He flashes us a small smile, slowly making circles with his own cup still full.

« Can we move now? They're waiting for us. »

Nick whistles.

« Either we got lucky either we got doomed. » he whispers. His eyes come back to mine. « What you think, BOSS ? »

I almost cringe at the way he calls me but shakes it off.

« We make it our lucky plate ? » I suggest. « I bring the salt. »

Donal sighs again and Nick rolls his eyes.

Of course I am bringing the salt. It means I am going there and that much was obvious since we've been summoned. It's just the habit. I could have said "Let's go" they'd have reacted the same.

I pick the keys on top of my desk as I stand, nerves starting to wake and muscles warming up in anticipation when Donal snatches the keys from me.

« What are you-... ! » I start.

« No driving for you! » Donal snaps. « I intend to get there whole!»

I feel a ping in my chest where my ego swells in anger, oblivious to the fact that I had indeed crashed our last police car during a chase but perfectly aware of the set of eyes around us as my quality of leader has just been stamped upon.

I snatch the key's back and throw them in Nick's hands.

« Fine! You get the fucking frying pan. »

I just hate how slow and overly righteous Donal always is when driving. The law was the law even when someone had been killed it seemed and I'd pay quite a sum to see Donal speeding over the speed limit just once in his life. Really.

Nick looks at us both, the tall brown haired and large wood breaker versus the small light haired lean soldier boy and I can't help but realize it's a fight everyone here would love to bet upon.

« You guys are nuts. » Nick finally states as he shakes his head. « See you at the car. »

I keep looking at Donal and I know for sure we now are thinking the same thing : of the three of us, Nick is probably the worse driver we could have picked.

" Well done, Boss... "

" You shut up! " I say, snatching my coat from the chair, sixteen again and pissed, everything about ranks forgotten. "You shouldn't have started, Don."