You wander through darkness. It's all you can see, because somehow, the power companies screwed up and it's the middle of the night, and the power's out. So you're walking around with a freaking flashlight because you can't see, otherwise. Your glasses are slipping, so you push them up with one hand, while continuing to walk.
"We've been had," says your partner, from wherever he is. "There isn't anyone here."
But you have the feeling that someone is, so you ignore him, partly because you can, and partly because you know it'll piss him off.
"There's someone here," you say after a while. "There's gotta be someone here. They couldn't have…"
But they could have, and you know it. The interrogation's continuing in the precinct; your fellow detectives are there, and you and your partner have been sent out to find the little one that you know is somewhere in this place.
"This is disgusting," you say, a note of anger obvious in your voice. "I can't believe…"
At the same time, you can, because you have seen things like this before, and it disgusts you and makes you want to shoot something, but you won't, because you can't lose control. Can't make it look like you're losing it, because then you'll lose the only job that's ever really meant anything to you.
"I'll check the basement," says your partner, once you've checked the main level of the house, and you nod, before going upstairs. It's darker there than it was before. You kick a door open, gun drawn, and look inside. Nothing.
Another door produces the same result, and you scowl, in frustration, because it's all you can do. It's starting to look like your partner's right, and you've both been had. You've all been had, all four of you, because in your desperation to find this missing child, you'll take whatever lead you can get.
The third door produces the same result as the first two, and there's nothing else upstairs. You swear under your breath, but keep your gun out in case you missed something. Your partner's voice comes faintly as you walk back downstairs, and so you head into the basement.
"What the hell…" You don't bother to hide your shock. This place is clean, unlike the rest of the house, but…there's nothing there. Nothing but a bed, and ropes, and a girl tied to a bed so she can't get away. Her eyes are wide, and frightened; a pocketknife comes from your partner's pocket and she panics, trying to get away.
You come to sit on the bed beside her, and take her hands. "It's all right, sweetheart, we're not here to hurt you," you say, and can't help but notice that your voice isn't at all like it normally is. The gold shield you have on your waistband reflects the faint light coming from a flickering lamp on the floor. Once the first rope is cut, she reaches for it, and you give it to her.
"You're cops?" she asks, sounding weaker than she should, and you think in that brief moment that if you could get away with it, the people who've done this to her would end up floating in a river. But you know you can't, so the thought vanishes, but at the same time, it's still there.
"Yeah, honey, we're cops," you say. The last of the ropes is cut through. The girl takes the opportunity to climb into your lap, as your partner rises to his feet and watches.
"I kept praying for someone to come," the girl confides, as you rise to your feet, holding her, so that you could leave. "I didn't think anyone would."
Hearing this startles you. You wonder how many times she was told that no one cared, that no one gave a damn, that no one would bother to come looking.
"Well, we came," you say, quietly. "You don't have to worry anymore."
It seems almost lame for you to say this, but you can't think of anything else, and when the girl looks at you again, she's smiling faintly.
"I wanted someone to come and save me," she says, quietly. "An angel. But…I got two of them."
Later on, you sit in your apartment, in the kitchen, an empty glass in front of you, because you couldn't sleep, decided you needed something to drink, and now you're wide awake because the liquid you downed was coffee.
She'd wanted an angel. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at this, and you do, hard enough that blood comes, and you can taste the bitter, metallic flavor on your tongue, but it doesn't bother you. You're no angel. Neither is your partner, and both of you know it, but…to her, it hadn't mattered. To this child, it hadn't mattered. All that had mattered was that you had come along to rescue her, the two of you together.
But that's the thing about this job, you think, pushing your glasses back up onto your nose again. No matter how bad you think you are, there's always someone worse. No matter what happens to you, there's always something worse going on.
And no matter how much you think that you're no angel, to someone else, you are.