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MidReal Story
The Rookie
Scenario:this story is based on the police tv show the rookie about love and murders and police and corruption and life choices and everyday life and friendships and drug addiction and alcohol addiction and parties and bars and promotions and tattoos and justice and my name is mohamed abdi and i am 24 years old i am muscular and i have tattoos on my legs and arms and abdomen and neck and back and feet and i am from new york and i moved from my parents and siblings to los angeles to start a new life and find a career i would enjoy and love and i completed the police academy and now i am a rookie police officer with a trainings officer with 2 other police rookie officers with their 2 training officers and i have my own dark blue police uniform with belt and gun and name tag and i found a cheap house i bought in los angeles with a pool and 4 bedrooms and a safe and hidden rooms i built for protection filled with guns and cameras outside the house and the other 2 rookies are a asian tattooed woman named lucy chen she is 29 years old and a white man with brown hair and brown eyes named john nolan he is 45 years old and our trainings officers are angela lopez a latina woman she is 34 years old and nyla harper a black woman she is 33 years old and tim bradford a white guy he is 35 years old and our sargeant is wade grey a black man and his boss is captain emma rose
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Mohamed Abdi
first_person_protagonist, male. He is a 24yearold police officer in Los Angeles. He is ambitious, determined, and cautious. Mohamed moved from New York to Los Angeles to pursue a career in law enforcement, completing the police academy with honors. He lives with two fellow rookies, Lucy Chen and John Nolan. Mohamed struggles with the loss of his parents and siblings, finding solace in his friends and colleagues. He is protective of his friends and eager to prove himself as an officer.
Angela Lopez
side_character, female. She is a 34yearold training officer at the LAPD. She is assertive, thorough, and dedicated. Angela oversees the training of rookies like Mohamed, Lucy, and John, guiding them through the complexities of law enforcement. Her demanding standards ensure that her students are wellprepared for the challenges they will face on the job. Despite her tough demeanor, Angela shows empathy towards her students' struggles and seeks to foster their growth and development.
Captain Emma Rose
side_character, female. She is a 32yearold captain at the LAPD. She is progressive, approachable, and driven. Emma leads a diverse team of officers including Mohamed's unit under Sergeant Wade Grey. Her openmindedness and focus on community engagement create a supportive work environment where officers feel valued and motivated to serve beyond their duties. Emma's leadership inspires trust among her colleagues.
I was born in New York, but my parents were from Somalia.
They fled to the U.S. to escape the civil war that was raging in the country, but they never forgot their roots and raised me to be proud of my heritage and culture.
Growing up, I was fascinated by the police officers who patrolled my neighborhood.
They were so confident and authoritative, and I loved watching them handle different situations.
My parents encouraged me to pursue my dream of becoming a police officer, and I did just that.
After completing high school, I moved to Los Angeles with the rest of my family, including my parents and siblings.
I completed the police academy there with honors, and now I was finally a police officer.
I had two colleagues with me who were also rookies, just like me.
One of them was Lucy Chen, a 29-year-old Asian woman with tattoos all over her body.
She was tough and outspoken but also fiercely independent.
The other rookie officer was John Nolan, a 45-year-old white guy from Southern California.
He was wise, humorous, and friendly and became a father figure to Lucy and me.
We had two training officers with us: Angela Lopez, a 34-year-old Latina woman, and Nyla Harper, a 33-year-old black woman.
Angela was assertive, thorough, and dedicated, while Nyla was organized, approachable, and supportive.
Our sergeant was Wade Grey, a 35-year-old black man who was authoritative, strategic, and compassionate.
I adjust my new badge, making sure it sits perfectly straight on my crisp uniform.
Angela Lopez stands by her patrol car, checking her watch while I triple-check my duty belt - gun secure, handcuffs in place, radio charged.
Through the station window, I spot Lucy getting into Bradford's car, her face tense.
John waves at us as Harper leads him to their vehicle.
Angela clears her throat, drawing my attention.
"Ready to roll, rookie?" she asks, jangling the keys.
I nod, reaching for the passenger door handle.
My hand trembles slightly, but I steady it.
"First things first," Angela says, stepping closer to inspect my duty belt.
She tugs on the handcuffs, checking their security.
"Show me how you draw these."
I fumble with the metal restraints, trying to mimic the quick-draw motion I practiced in the academy.
My fingers struggle to find the right grip.
Angela corrects my stance, demonstrating how a slight shift in posture can mean the difference between control and vulnerability on the streets.
I repeat the motion several times, my movements growing smoother with each attempt.
The radio crackles with dispatch updates in the background as Angela quizzes me on department protocols.
I holster my handcuffs with more confidence now, though my hands still tremble slightly from the practice session.
Angela watches me gather my remaining gear - notepad, pen, flashlight - methodically checking each item against the department-issued list.
The morning sun glints off the hood of our patrol car as I approach the passenger side.
I'm acutely aware of Angela's evaluating gaze.
I reach for the door handle but hesitate, remembering the vehicle inspection protocol we covered in the academy.
Dropping to one knee, I begin checking under the car for any signs of tampering.
Angela crouches beside me, her voice low and serious.
"You're thorough, I'll give you that," she says, glancing around the parking lot.
"But remember, sometimes it's not what's under the car but who's watching you check it."
I rise slowly from my crouched position, keeping my movements deliberate as Angela taught me.
My eyes sweep methodically across the police station parking lot, taking in each parked vehicle, the chain-link fence perimeter, and the shadows between light poles.
Two mechanics work on a patrol car near the garage, their tools clanging against metal.
A delivery truck idles by the back entrance, its driver chatting with an officer.
My gaze lingers on a figure in a dark hoodie leaning against the wall near the dumpsters, their phone held up as if taking a picture.
I shift my position slightly to get a better angle without drawing attention to myself.
I keep my movements casual, pulling out my own phone as if to check messages, but angle myself toward the dumpster area.
The hooded figure hasn't noticed us yet, still focused on their device.
Angela follows my lead without a word, her eyes also locked on the potential suspect.
I take a few steps toward the dumpsters, the gravel crunching softly under my boots.
The figure is on a call; I can hear the faint sound of a whispered conversation carried by the breeze.
At fifteen feet away, I catch a glimpse of their phone screen reflecting off the metal dumpster - they're recording video of the police lot.
I keep my movements slow and deliberate, maintaining my fake phone-checking posture while subtly gesturing to Angela with my left hand.
She nods almost imperceptibly and begins walking away from me, as if heading back to the station.
I continue my approach toward the dumpster, counting my steps, staying aware of my cover positions behind parked vehicles.
The hooded figure remains focused on their phone, still whispering.
Angela disappears around the corner of the building.
I time my steps with the distant sound of a helicopter passing overhead, using the noise cover to close the gap.
After finishing our dumpster surveillance, Angela and I climb into the patrol car, ready to start our first route.
I grip the steering wheel tightly, following her directions as we navigate through a residential area.
Rows of modest homes line the street, some with children's toys scattered on front lawns.
Through the windshield, I spot a local playground where kids usually gather after school.
Today, something seems off.
Behind the rusty swing set, a tall figure in a leather jacket leans against the fence, staring at the empty playground equipment.
The person's hand keeps moving to their waistband.
I tap my fingers twice on the dashboard - our signal for suspicious activity.
Angela glances at me, her eyes narrowing.
"Do you think it's connected to the guy at the station?" she asks, her voice low but urgent.
I nod, keeping my eyes on the figure. "Could be," I reply. "We need to find out what they're up to."
I ease the patrol car to a stop behind a row of parked vehicles, positioning us out of direct view from the playground.
Angela gives me a hand signal, and I silently exit the car, closing the door with minimal noise.
We move in a tactical formation between houses, using hedges and fences as cover.
The leather-jacketed figure remains fixated on something near the swings, still fidgeting with their waistband.
Twenty yards out, I step on a twig.
The crack seems deafening in the quiet morning air.
The suspect's head snaps up, scanning.
I freeze, meeting their gaze with unwavering resolve.
I unbutton my uniform shirt, the fabric sliding away to reveal my bare chest and arms decorated with tattoos.
The tension from the day still clings to me as I change in the locker room, preparing for a night off-duty.
I slip out of my uniform pants, exchanging them for dark jeans.
My gaze drifts to the mirror on the wall, reflecting my inked skin - a collection of symbols and patterns that tell stories of their own.
I reach for my civilian clothes: a black t-shirt that hugs my frame, accentuating the definition of my arms.
Through the mirror's reflection, I catch glimpses of movement as Angela, Lucy, Emma, and Nyla gather their belongings.
Their eyes occasionally drift in my direction, drawn by the sight of my exposed chest and arms adorned with tattoos.
Angela's gaze lingers a fraction longer than the others before she quickly looks away when our eyes meet through the mirror's reflection.
She busies herself with her locker, maintaining a professional distance. The awkwardness of the moment settles over us like a heavy blanket.
I hurry to finish dressing, pulling the black t-shirt over my decorated skin.
The locker room door swings shut behind me, leaving the day's tension and unspoken words in its wake.
I pull into the parking lot of Murphy's Bar & Grill, the neon sign flickering against the evening sky.
In the corner, John's weathered pickup truck stands out among the newer vehicles.
Inside, the dim lighting and wood paneling create a cozy atmosphere that feels worlds away from the sterile environment of our police station.
The scent of burgers and fries wafts through the air, mingling with the hum of conversations.
I spot John in a corner booth, already nursing a glass of water.
He waves me over with a friendly smile.
I slide into the cracked leather seat across from him, feeling the slight tremor in my hands - a lingering effect from today's encounters.
The waitress brings us menus, her eyes briefly flickering to my inked arms before she retreats to take our order.
John leans forward, his voice low and curious.
"So, what happened with that photographer?"
I scan the dinner options, my stomach growling as the adrenaline finally wears off.
"Angela and I caught him snooping around by the dumpster," I explain, my eyes skimming over the descriptions of burgers and sandwiches. "He was trying to get a shot of something through the fence."
John nods knowingly, his own experiences as a rookie officer evident in his expression.