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- Joined
- Apr 13, 2014
Character: Charlie Liddle
Time/Location: Dawn Chorus Police Department / Basement 11:45 - 12:00
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: @pixel.
cont. from here
Wasn't my cat. Was my wife's.
"Oh," was all she could manage in response.
She knew the story. Not well, of course. She'd never taken the time to pull the reports from back then. Had never spent hours or days or weeks wondering, fretting and worrying for an answer, even if it'd be one she'd hate. She'd never lost sleep, skipped meals or taken to the bottle over the baseless anguish that comes with having your world ripped away. Her mind went to Morris, to his poor, grief-stricken wife, to the dozens upon dozens of faces that'd all stood and watched, helpless, while a man – one of their own, a husband and business owner, a friend – had died in the street. Charlie couldn't bring herself to return his stare as it burned into her.
On instinct -- or ...what Charlie told herself was instinct -- she gripped at the steering wheel more firmly at Rand's mention of "whatever" had fatally wounded Morris. Not who ever.
What.
What do you mean? The words very nearly left her lips before she caught herself on a vision of Frank – shirtless, piss drunk and frantic as a Catholic in a whorehouse – invading her thoughts. She could hear it already. Aliens, from Proxima Centauri, here to suck the blood from every virgin in the tri-county area. Or, perhaps in this case, it'd be monsters of some variety. Werewolves, or Brownies or ...Teardrinkers that predate time. Slumbering beneath the town, waiting for their once-every-few-generations opportunity to feed. Evil. Evil towns. Evil things out there in the deep, dark woods, hatching evil plans against the poor, hopeless townsfolk. What do you mean? Asking that was asking for trouble. Asking to worsen a headache she'd been working to abate since dawn. So, instead of asking – instead of saying anything at all – Charlie sighed out her resignation and settled instead for silence. A decision that seemed to sit well enough with Rand, as the pair of them didn't speak another word until they'd arrived in the officer's lot, behind the police station.
She led him in, through the rear-entrance and around to the front desk where an occupied Maggie eyed Rand suspiciously. Nosy, even by police dispatcher standards, she covered the microphone of her headset to whisper to Charlie as they passed, "What happened?"
"Nothin'. I'll tell ya later. Anyone down in two?"
She shook her head while big, glassy, accusing eyes skittered up and down Mr. Mcdougall. "No. 'Course not. But Sheriff Ryan's bee-"
"Is he here? Now?" Charlie asked a bit too eagerly.
She pointed with the tip of her nose to the conference room. "Still!" She said in disbelief. "Been on the phone all mornin'. Finally sent McCann out, who knows where. Raffert-"
"Great, thanks – oh!" she added, "order an extra of ...whatever Rafferty got. Please."
To get to the basement, and thereby Dawn Chorus PD's three holding cells, Charlie and Rand needed to take a stairwell. She'd always hated them. They were too narrow, too steep and arranged in such a way the first, few, awkward steps were spent both holding the door open while waiting for an automated light to kick on. It usually resulted in a blind fumble for a step down, only for the struggling florescent to sputter on once you were more than halfway through the second set. There were bundles of cable, painted over and wall-mounted (a slapdash fix from when the town had adopted high-speed internet, and the police department was forced to find a cheap contractor, quick) running the narrow length of brick wall to ceiling. The entire space was no more than the width of Rand with just enough to spare for someone the size of Charlie to his side and behind.
"Sorry -- the service elevator is out. Vermin we think; chewed the wires," she said, "supposed to have a guy out lookin' at it. Anyway, it's quiet, you can mind yourself a bit while I take care of a few things."
The basement itself left as much to the imagination as the top floor: plain walls; brick, painted a sort of grey that might've been as close to no-colour as anything ever was. A single desk and task-chair; unmanned but equipped with what looked to be a copy of Mad Magazine and an old soft drink cup. Windows; the tiny, basement sort that only allow a slit of light, grimed over from having maybe never been scrubbed. And, finally, three cells; two side-by-side and a third, around a corner in the concrete foundation. It faced against the taped-over elevator entrance and was by far the dimmest of the three, only receiving a portion of the natural and overhead lighting that seemed ever insufficient against so much dark. Each was equipped, for lack of better term, with a cot, a rimless and dented aluminum toilet, and one pillow about as thick, and perhaps about as soft as, a pizza box. Bleak. Spartan even, but nonetheless clean and quiet as she'd promised. She showed him to the third cell, gestured at the bed, and turned to leave. When she returned, briefly, it was only to place a triplet of items just beyond the bars of an unlocked door. Rand had taken for the bed and was facing away from her when she approached.
"Here," she said, placing a bottle of water and an oatmeal-raisin granola bar. "Gonna be a bit on lunch. I was gonna eat that, so ...you better enjoy it. 'N take these, it'll help." She placed a packet of Tylenol beside the water and stood. "You don't gotta stay, but I hope you do." She couldn't tell if he was sleeping, or simply glazing over the way he had in the prowler. Either was fine. She was going to talk anyway. "I still wanna talk about what it is you think's happenin'. I wanna hear what you think, okay?" There might've been more to say, or to hear, but she was gone. Up the stairs and away, leaving him in cool silence broken only by the occasional hum of machinery in the walls.
Wasn't my cat. Was my wife's.
"Oh," was all she could manage in response.
She knew the story. Not well, of course. She'd never taken the time to pull the reports from back then. Had never spent hours or days or weeks wondering, fretting and worrying for an answer, even if it'd be one she'd hate. She'd never lost sleep, skipped meals or taken to the bottle over the baseless anguish that comes with having your world ripped away. Her mind went to Morris, to his poor, grief-stricken wife, to the dozens upon dozens of faces that'd all stood and watched, helpless, while a man – one of their own, a husband and business owner, a friend – had died in the street. Charlie couldn't bring herself to return his stare as it burned into her.
On instinct -- or ...what Charlie told herself was instinct -- she gripped at the steering wheel more firmly at Rand's mention of "whatever" had fatally wounded Morris. Not who ever.
What.
What do you mean? The words very nearly left her lips before she caught herself on a vision of Frank – shirtless, piss drunk and frantic as a Catholic in a whorehouse – invading her thoughts. She could hear it already. Aliens, from Proxima Centauri, here to suck the blood from every virgin in the tri-county area. Or, perhaps in this case, it'd be monsters of some variety. Werewolves, or Brownies or ...Teardrinkers that predate time. Slumbering beneath the town, waiting for their once-every-few-generations opportunity to feed. Evil. Evil towns. Evil things out there in the deep, dark woods, hatching evil plans against the poor, hopeless townsfolk. What do you mean? Asking that was asking for trouble. Asking to worsen a headache she'd been working to abate since dawn. So, instead of asking – instead of saying anything at all – Charlie sighed out her resignation and settled instead for silence. A decision that seemed to sit well enough with Rand, as the pair of them didn't speak another word until they'd arrived in the officer's lot, behind the police station.
She led him in, through the rear-entrance and around to the front desk where an occupied Maggie eyed Rand suspiciously. Nosy, even by police dispatcher standards, she covered the microphone of her headset to whisper to Charlie as they passed, "What happened?"
"Nothin'. I'll tell ya later. Anyone down in two?"
She shook her head while big, glassy, accusing eyes skittered up and down Mr. Mcdougall. "No. 'Course not. But Sheriff Ryan's bee-"
"Is he here? Now?" Charlie asked a bit too eagerly.
She pointed with the tip of her nose to the conference room. "Still!" She said in disbelief. "Been on the phone all mornin'. Finally sent McCann out, who knows where. Raffert-"
"Great, thanks – oh!" she added, "order an extra of ...whatever Rafferty got. Please."
To get to the basement, and thereby Dawn Chorus PD's three holding cells, Charlie and Rand needed to take a stairwell. She'd always hated them. They were too narrow, too steep and arranged in such a way the first, few, awkward steps were spent both holding the door open while waiting for an automated light to kick on. It usually resulted in a blind fumble for a step down, only for the struggling florescent to sputter on once you were more than halfway through the second set. There were bundles of cable, painted over and wall-mounted (a slapdash fix from when the town had adopted high-speed internet, and the police department was forced to find a cheap contractor, quick) running the narrow length of brick wall to ceiling. The entire space was no more than the width of Rand with just enough to spare for someone the size of Charlie to his side and behind.
"Sorry -- the service elevator is out. Vermin we think; chewed the wires," she said, "supposed to have a guy out lookin' at it. Anyway, it's quiet, you can mind yourself a bit while I take care of a few things."
The basement itself left as much to the imagination as the top floor: plain walls; brick, painted a sort of grey that might've been as close to no-colour as anything ever was. A single desk and task-chair; unmanned but equipped with what looked to be a copy of Mad Magazine and an old soft drink cup. Windows; the tiny, basement sort that only allow a slit of light, grimed over from having maybe never been scrubbed. And, finally, three cells; two side-by-side and a third, around a corner in the concrete foundation. It faced against the taped-over elevator entrance and was by far the dimmest of the three, only receiving a portion of the natural and overhead lighting that seemed ever insufficient against so much dark. Each was equipped, for lack of better term, with a cot, a rimless and dented aluminum toilet, and one pillow about as thick, and perhaps about as soft as, a pizza box. Bleak. Spartan even, but nonetheless clean and quiet as she'd promised. She showed him to the third cell, gestured at the bed, and turned to leave. When she returned, briefly, it was only to place a triplet of items just beyond the bars of an unlocked door. Rand had taken for the bed and was facing away from her when she approached.
"Here," she said, placing a bottle of water and an oatmeal-raisin granola bar. "Gonna be a bit on lunch. I was gonna eat that, so ...you better enjoy it. 'N take these, it'll help." She placed a packet of Tylenol beside the water and stood. "You don't gotta stay, but I hope you do." She couldn't tell if he was sleeping, or simply glazing over the way he had in the prowler. Either was fine. She was going to talk anyway. "I still wanna talk about what it is you think's happenin'. I wanna hear what you think, okay?" There might've been more to say, or to hear, but she was gone. Up the stairs and away, leaving him in cool silence broken only by the occasional hum of machinery in the walls.
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