The walk to the Police Department is short, since you're still in the district. The place looks dim and dingy, worn and poorly care for. From the flickering lights to the scummy floors, this place is more like an abandoned asylum than a functioning. The only people here besides those who are being processed or filing complaints are those clockwork coppers. You're led to a front desk, and after filling out three packets of paperwork and paying the hefty fine (or heavy fine, literally), the lieutenant with the handlebar mustache says drily, "You're free to go, Mr. Marks." Lady Thrinia is still with you, sitting on a bench against a wall, bored but quiet.