Chapter 1
Nine years ago, my mother and father sensibly decided that their eldest daughter would be absolutely enthralled to get her lazy ass off the couch, wear an oh–my–god–this–makes–my–butt–look–fat suit for the rest of her nonexistent life, and, conclusively, throw herself into the intensely invigorating and not-at-all dangerous world of crime and murder. It was a swelteringly hot Saturday evening, where everything seemed to move sluggishly in disorientated heat waves, and it was ultimately the day my life got screwed up.
After arriving at what would irrefutably alter the course of my life, my parents had ventured out of the house – a pretty impressive feat, considering all the financial, safety and environmental gambles they made when they left my brother and I alone in the household – and headed over to the Sina Police Complex. They then took the liberty of discussing my overall potential and future prospects with the Chief Inspector, decided which area in the field I was most suited for, filled out a few forms, signed a contract and hey presto – my inspiring future as a member of the Sina Police Commission had been guaranteed.
'Course, that's all fine, I suppose. It's just that, well, I guess it would have been sort of nice, if they'd just taken a moment to inform a certain somebody of their decision beforehand. I don't hold them to it, but I suppose they might have forgotten something kind of important while they had that meeting with the Chief Inspector. Someone's permission they forgot while they filled out those forms.
Yeah, mine.
Forward nine years into the future and you find me, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, sweating my ass off, trembling uncontrollably, limbs seemingly paralysed, heart racing, unable to think properly, and feeling as if my lunch – a nutritious bowl of soggy, leftover pasta – has conveniently decided to make an unscheduled reappearance.
Slap!
Sending sheets of paper fluttering in all different directions, bundles of documents are thrown violently against a mahogany table, and I resist the urge to squeak. Heavy breathing, uneven exhales and deep inhales perpetrate a quietness that is otherwise tense and strained. A dense, chilly stillness sullies the atmosphere, staining it with the filth of awkwardness and grime of stiffness. There's an awful sort of feel in the air: a burdensome mixture of anger, disappointment and dark foreboding.
And, like any mature adult, I think, Well. Aren't I in some pretty deep shit.
Yet, honestly, despite being in such obvious misfortune, there's this lazier part of me that's cruising down whofreakingcaresville, thinking, well, this is my destiny. A truth, a simple inevitability that's been glaring at me since Day 1. Now that the time has come, and I'm about to get skewered anyway, I should just embrace it and go with the flow. There's nothing I can do to change my superior's mind. Might as well do it in style.
The breathing stops short.
Screw getting skewered in style. I abandon all pretence of even trying to act natural, and immediately revert back to my panic-stricken self. An intense, heavy silence reigns, punctured only by the regular, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. My superior's going to explode, hit the roof, start yelling, screaming any moment now; the fact that I don't know when, only adds to the sheer suspense of the situation. The intense silence, the downright agonizing wait – yeah, that's all pretty traumatising, too.
For a while, I'm just standing there, waiting for what will probably never come. My face scrunched up, heart hammering, fingers twisting behind my back.
Come on... Say something...
"This is unbelievable."
I shit in my pants.
Hallelujah.
It speaks.
It finally speaks.
"Your seventh case. This is your seventh case."
The hush that ensues is supremely awkward, and is interrupted by an odd, out–of–place, silvery tweet of a bird.
"When someone speaks to you, you look at them, detective," comes a harsh snarl.
Like the proud, I–don't–give–a–damn–about–what–you–think–about–me kind of girl, I take a moment to calm my farm and resist the urge to bite my nails. I raise my head, tearing my eyes away from my battered shoes, and for the first time since entering the office, allow my eyes to drink in everything in sight.
The office glows with a homey, reddish feel; the aura quite contrary to that of the situation I've been dredged up in. The floor is carpeted with thick, scarlet velvet, the walls trimmed with a vintage–style patterned wallpaper. To my right is a huge bookcase I've been longing to steal since forever, evenly lined with volume after volume, book after book. Sitting snugly beside the bookcase is a glass cabinet, displaying all sorts of trophies, medallions, certificates, antiques, and trinkets. Ticking away to an invisible beat sits an old grandfather clock, to the far left wall. And, standing behind a dark mahogany desk, seemingly emitting puffs of black smoke, is the object of my fear: Senior Detective Chief Inspector Flores.
A rigid, tall man with slightly greying hair, Chief Inspector Flores is a senior detective well–known for his impossible posture, fundamentally strict demeanour, overbearing authority and impressive eyebrows. The guy has a reputation as the Commission's discipline–enforcer. From what I know, he joined the Sina Police Commission back in the time of the dinosaurs, has a sense of humour that nears naught and everyone is secretly scared of him. His job as the Chief Inspector is to keep everyone in line, make sure we detectives are working properly and administrate the dismissal and employment of constables in the Criminal Investigation Division; all while maintaining his pride and sanity.
The Chief Inspector towers above the table, hands pressed against the edge of the mahogany. He glares heatedly at the letter before him, sizzling the thing, before looking up to freeze me with an icy look, his stiffness of his face closely resembling that of a rock's.
"What is this?" he demands, gesturing towards the parchment.
At these words, I stop. I don't know how the hell I'm supposed to answer a question like that; but because he'd fry me to bits otherwise, I say, "A letter, sir."
He slams his hand onto the mahogany desk, sending sheets of paper fluttering off the table and me nearly into comatose. "This is your death certificate, private", he snarls.
I mentally cringe and don't say anything. With a frustrated sigh, Flores massages his temples. He takes a seat in his chair, and, with eyes closed and fingers still rubbing his forehead, asks in a low, menacing voice, "Would you like to know what it says, detective?"
"If it's about my death, sir, no."
"Another smart answer and you'll be getting more than a death certificate, detective. It states: Approximately three months ago, on Monday 17January, Detective Constable Kimberly Eston was discharged from the Criminal Investigation Division to investigate a case in which $300,000 was stolen from a citizen of Sina. By the end of six months, the case still hadn't been solved. This would have been perfectly acceptable, if not for the fact that a junior detective was sent to investigate the case for mere training purposes and within three months, without Eston's Statements (the written records detailing Eston's understanding and information gathered about the case) was able to solve and close the case. A re-evaluation of Eston is highly recommended."
We both sink into another silence. My mind is working at a frenzied rate, frantically trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together as quickly as it can while being in a sluggish state; and I suddenly understand why I've been summoned, why I'm in so much trouble.
Because I wasn't able to solve a case that a trainee could solve.
For a split second, I'm just standing there, my thoughts completely blown out of my mind. The most dampening sensations of disbelief, shock and surprise fill me, and I'm left to process the information, to take it all in and mull over the news.
Crap, am I that bad? That terrible at detective – work? That I couldn't solve a case – and some kid could?!
"M – maybe," I say, stalling, scraping at the smallest of excuses to cling onto, "that kid was lucky…? Or was especially talented at investigating cases…?"
"Yes," comes a sardonic reply, "the kid was an especially talented Probationary Detective and that's why he managed to solve a case that a detective who has failed six other cases couldn't. Sit down."
I rigidly sit down in a plush, black chair.
Chief Inspector Flores goes back to massaging his temples and glaring menacingly at the document. Deadly quiet, he says, "Eston. How many cases have you investigated, altogether?"
"Eleven, sir."
"How many have you succeeded?"
"Four, sir." I'm confused, at first, about why he's asking me questions we both know the answers to; when I realize he's trying to make a point.
"How many have you failed?"
"Including this one, sir, seven."
"Listen carefully, private. I'm trying to make a point."
"Yes, sir."
He smacks his hand on the mahogany table, with another piercing slap. "You have been unable to complete," he hisses, "seven out of the elevencases you were assigned whilst working for the Criminal Investigation Division. Do your sums and you'll realize you've failed more than half of the cases allocated to you. Explain yourself."
My mouth suddenly becomes very dry. I'm trying to figure out exactly how to explain to him why one just naturally sucks at something – when it suddenly hits me.
Detectives are supposed to solve cases, but they're not necessarily expected to finish every single case given to them. There are some cases that are open – there are cases that have been worked on for decades by the best of detectives, but haven't been closed, simply because they're unsolvable. Some cases that have been worked on for years – and are still being worked on. When we have to appeal to the public for help. Open Cases and Cold Cases. When the criminal is just too smart for the police and is able to erase his tracks. Or where the case gets cold; where the case is too old, the evidence has been worn away by the hands of Time, or the clues lead to a dead end. I may have failed the last case, but the six others; there's the smallest possibility, but still a possibility, that they were either cold or open.
I'm about to defend myself, when Flores snaps, "For your information, detective, all seven cases you failed were resolved by other detectives in the same amount of time you spent on them. The cases weren't open, cold or even that difficult, plainclothes. I had a look at them myself."
Ah. I love the relationship sir and I have. I just have to think my thoughts and he magically mind – reads them. I don't even have to open my mouth. Not borderline creepy or anything.
"Which means only one thing, detective. If the cases weren't open or closed. You know what I'm thinking?" Flores growls.
No, I can't read minds, sir.
"No, sir."
"There's been too many failed cases coming from you for it to be a coincidence. Too many successive fails. Know what I suspect? Malpractice. All of them were failed owing to Malpractice on your part. And in case you've forgotten, private, Malpractice is the act of neglect, misconduct or lack of professional skill towards a case. Detective, why did this happen?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Dig deeply around in that brain of yours."
More black stuff is floating out of him, so I quickly say, "I found the cases difficult, sir."
"Nice try, SOFTIE, but no detective of mine runs away from a job that's too 'hard'. You're not going to get downgraded to preliminary case work. You have the… potential, plainclothes, but you're not trying hard enough. Either that or the cases really have become too difficult for you, which I refuse to accept."
I have to give him a hand for his choice of words; I never even knew he was capable of pun. Detectives are cheerfully referred to by members of the wider community as SOFTIEs – Standard Operational Forensic Transgression Investigator and Examiner. There are a bunch of other names detectives are known as, such as gumshoes, plainclothes, undercover – constables and constables–in–normal–clothes. It doesn't stop SOFTIE from being everyone's favourite, though.
Flores' fists are clenched, and it looks like he's raging on the inside but trying to keep calm on the outside. "You'll be penalized for this, naturally, private. You've been making abnormally poor progress for the past several years, and you don't seem like you'll improve. Such low standards are a disgrace to the Commission. The higher–ups have considered the possibility of the cases being too difficult for you, and have – too kindly, in my opinion – decided that perhaps a bit more training, a review of the basics and a completion of easier tasks would straighten you up a bit. Originally, you were to be sent back to Probationary."
I freeze. Probationary - ? No -
"Originally, sir?"
"Well," he snaps, "just this morning, I got this." And from the messy skew of paperwork on his desk, Flores draws out an envelope sealed with a red, wax crest, and flings it to me as if it's some disgusting thing he can't stand touching. I catch it and sit there holding the envelope, not really knowing why he threw it at me. After a while, he gives me the evil eye, and as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, barks, "Open it, smartass."
I carefully slit open the envelope and pull out the letter.
"Now read it."
I fold open the letter, and cast my eyes upon it.
To Senior Detective Chief Inspector John Flores,
It has recently come to the attention of the Sina Police Commission that while returning home from work at 6:30pm on Friday 17th May, along Ligendon Street, Stohess, Detective Constable Kimberly Eston happened to encounter two members of the Military Police. According to eye – witness accounts, she proceeded to affront the two men, for no apparent or legitimate reason.
Whilst causing a public disturbance, and offending two members of the Military Police, Eston's actions were unreasonable and impulsive, and are seen as serious breaches of the Police Code of Conduct.
The Military Police has courteously decided to forgive Eston for her actions; however, Eston behaved in appalling manner that caused such degradation and disgrace to the Sina Police name, that we feel cannot be ignored. It is highly recommended that Eston be suspended from work, her privileges and any tokens of honour stripped away, and Eston's progress and contribution to the Criminal Investigation Department be re – evaluated.
Regards,
Deputy Commissioner Logan Winsel
It takes a few moments for me to process it all, for the content of the letter to settle in my head. And when it does, it's all I can do to stop myself from screaming that it's all wrong, the entire account's wrong, that wasn't what happened, the report is unfair, prejudiced, wrong, I've been wrongly accused, and screw you Military Policemen.
There are two main groups existing within our walls, that are dedicated to serving and protecting humanity: the Military and the Police Commission. The Military's overall job is to protect humanity from the monstrosities known as the Titans, and is comprised of the main three groups: the Garrison, the Scouting Legion and the Military Police. The Garrison is in charge of maintaining the walls, and is, as far as I'm concerned, the most useful, negotiable and productive of the three. The Scouting Legion basically ventures outside the walls to recover more land for humanity, and to try and gain more knowledge about the Titans. I suppose it's really brave of them to represent something as dead and barren as humanity's hope, but they've kind of achieved nothing, so far, which makes everyone question the authenticity and true worth of their morals and goals. The Military Police, long story short, don't do anything at all.
The second group, the Police Commission, is also split into three groups: the Maria Police Commission, the Rose Police Commission and the Sina Police Commission. We basically do everything that the Military don't, which is stuff like regulating law and order within our respective walls, and dealing with human–caused crimes. We mostly only ever have to handle the minor cases, such as vandalism, theft and drug–trafficking.
Because the Sina Police Commission and the Military Police are two independent forces crammed into one tiny wall – namely, Sina – there's this sense of friction and heated competition between them. They've been legendary rivals for who knows how long and hate each other. The Sina Police Commission and the Military Police are supposed to work together to protect Sina, but – well, it's ambitious, I'll give it that.
"Done reading?" comes a retort, slicing through the silence.
"Sir," I say, finding my voice again, "please, it's not what happened. The account's false –"
"Oh? Which part?"
"The 'no apparent or legitimate' reason part, sir –"
"So, you did affront them?" The Chief Inspector's voice is rising by the minute.
"With a legitimate reason, sir –"
"Answer my question, private. Did you or did you not affront them?"
"Well – yes, I did, sir, but only because –"
"Eston, this is a disgrace!" Flores roars and stands up, banging his fist on the table, shoulders heaving. "You chose to offend members of the Military Police whilst representing the commission – you've dishonoured all of us, you should be ashamed, your parents –"
"I only did it because they insulted the name of the Sina Police first!"
My sudden outburst shocks him, and Flores stares at me disbelievingly. I blink and hastily try to retrace my steps, rectify my words, before it's too late. "I – with all due respect, sir, they started it first, I would have never – they provoked me into it, sir, they were abusing the Sina Police name, I saw them attacking a woman, I –"
Flores still continues to stare at me. I don't know why I do what I do next; maybe it's because of the intensity of the situation, the sudden, climatic atmosphere, but I stand up, and bow my head. There's this gnawing sensation in my gut telling me that my future depends on my next words. With my fingers crossed behind my back, my face scrunched up, heart pounding because I am going to die and I have not written my will yet, I shout, "Please, sir! Allow me to fully explain what happened!"
Chief Inspector Flores stares at me for a full three seconds, before sitting back down again with a long sigh. He closes his eyes, rests his elbow on the table and runs a hand through his greying hair. For a moment, he looks exhausted, like a man much older than he appears to be. It suddenly occurs to me how much trouble I'm putting him through. Not even looking at me, he asks, quietly, "What happened, then, private?"
I don't know why, but I freeze; my tongue's suddenly in knots, my thoughts are clumped together and I can't seem to separate my ideas into anything coherent. The events of what happened three days ago, on that fateful Friday, lay cluttered across my Thoughts Desk in unorganized piles, and I can't seem to put them back into chronological order.
I tell myself to snap out of it, and half-heartedly open my mouth. "That Friday, I was returning home from work, sir, at around six. I remember… being in a rush. That was when I saw them. Two members of the Military Police, in an alleyway along Ligendon Street."
And, slowly, steadily, everything comes into a clearer focus. The darkness, the three shadows – two large, well-built figures and one smaller, skinnier outline – the surprise and confusion at finding them there, and the rage that accompanied it after a few minutes –
As I continue, my voice regains its strength and I receive a little boost of self-confidence. "Behind them was a woman. They were cornering a woman, demanding her for money. They threatened her, said a bunch of stuff about how they deserved it, seeing as they protected people like her."
"And you intercepted them, private?" Flores still has his eyes shut, like he's warding himself from a bright light.
"Yes, sir. I asked what was going on. The two men told me to mind my own business, and I showed them my badge, demanded them to tell me what they were doing there. That's when they realized I was from the Commission. They then dismissed me, sir, completely ignored me, and lunged for the woman. I blocked the blow, and I told the woman to run away. She escaped, and I started to scold the two men."
"You protected the woman?"
"Yes, sir."
"With your body?"
What else with?
"Yes, sir."
Flores says nothing for a while and scrutinizes me. "Did you get injured, private?"
I actually have a few bruises on my arm, but I don't really feel like telling him about those. "No, sir."
"Pity. We could've used them as proof against the Military Police. Continue."
I press on, "I started to tell them off, and asked for their names, sir." Not really, I gave them a full – on lecture. "That's when… that's when they started to insult me, sir. Offended the name of the Sina Police, made awful remarks about us."
"And that's when you lost your temper and started yelling at them?"
He's making it sound like it's the worst thing anyone could ever do; but, in all my defence, it didn't sound like such a bad thing back then. I had been feeling miserable, I was running late, I'd just witnessed two idiots who claimed to be protectors of Sina pick on an old woman who needed a walking stick to walk around with, the same two idiots were refusing to tell me their name, it was raining, I'd tripped down the stairs that day at lunch, and I was very aware how disadvantageous the situation was for me – a pissed off but nonetheless scrawny chick versing two equally pissed off, very tall, very strong and very intimidating men.
My emotions had been running especially high that day; I was exhausted, pissed, stressed, frustrated, confused, troubled, annoyed, worn out, torn between what was right and wrong, and there's only so much a girl can handle. So, when the Military Policemen started insulting the commission, I just snapped and thought, Right, I'm a goddamned woman, I've been through hell and back today and you shall respect me or I shall put you in line, assholes, and started yelling shit at them. It felt insanely good afterwards, even when I turned around to see a crowd of citizens ogling at me like I was some sort of freak show.
"Yes, sir." I say shamelessly, but then I realize I'm talking to the guy who has the strings to make my life hell. "But only because they were behaving… awfully." And they were absolute bastards -
The Chief Inspector just stares at me for a long time, judiciously analysing me, contemplating my actions, weighing whether or not I'm good or bad. He sighs and shakes his head.
Oh, come one. I look at him, incredulous, and almost open my mouth to start protesting. It's well known throughout the entire commission that Flores loathes the Military Police like they're the scum between his toes; he should be on my side, if anything.
"Private," the Chief Inspector says levelly, "I understand why you affronted them. But at the same time, I don't."
I patiently wait for him to explain this amazing new phenomenon.
Flores stands up and turns to face the window, his back to me. "Eston, just because those two men were acting…" Flores pauses for a second, as if trying to find the right word, "… unprofessionally, it doesn't necessarily mean you can just up and yell at them like that in public."
Yes it does.
"But, sir, they were threatening an innocent citizen - !" I protest.
"Eston, what they did was wrong, but there were –" the man seems pained when he says this, "- better ways to handle the matter. It doesn't matter why you did it, Eston, all that matters is that you did do it. You affronted the two men and caused a public disturbance."
I'm momentarily astounded at the injustice of it all, before I'm filled with a certain, furious heat. I mean, come on, wasn't this why I joined the Police Commission? Apart from the fact that my parents forced me into it? To correct the incorrect, right the wrong, circulate fairness, protect citizens, and represent righteousness and justice? I feel like yelling I object right now, but his proud stature forcefully reminds me that he's my boss. I resort to glaring daggers at the back of his head.
"You've given me no choice, Eston. Your appallingly terrible performance at case – work, compounded by the shameful events that occurred last Friday, are serious breaches of the Code of Conduct. Frankly, you've only caused us trouble, Detective. Your position within the Police Commission will be put into consideration. Until you hear from us, Eston, consider yourself temporarily suspended."
My jaws drop.
Shit, no –
"I'm… fired…?" I say hoarsely, the words tasting bittersweet in my mouth.
Flores' expression is grim. "Not yet. But you're as good as sacked. Because your family has had such long ties with us, you're a bit more difficult to dismiss; the Detective Chief Superintendent's consent will be required. Naturally, you'll be reported to him, and he'll be updated of what truly happened last Friday. Your… motives and reasons for lashing out at the two men will too be put into consideration, but unless he's feeling especially compassionate today…"
My eyes widen. No – I can't get fired, I can't, there's just no way I can lose my job. Not now, not after all I've gone through to get here, not after all the training, not after how hard my parents worked to keep up the family reputation – I can't just knock it all down by getting the sack. I can't disappoint my parents any further; or else I'll be a disgrace, a dishonour to the Eston named. If I'm fired, I'll be disowned, for sure. The subject of gossip and rumours for the next century or so. The tarnish to the finely–woven rug that is the Eston family's reputation and history. Stripped of my honours. An outcast, forced into hiding, to live on the streets. Pushed back to live in Rose, if I'm lucky.
No – there's no way I'm going to get fired. Not if I can help it, damnit.
"Please, sir, wait," I say, wishing, begging, praying against the odds, because my future depends on this, "just… give me one more chance. Please. One more case, sir, and I'll solve it, I'll prove myself, I swear it in the name of Sina. If I fail this one, sir, you have every right to fire me, do whatever you want with me, sir. But until then, sir, at least give me this one last chance."
Please… please… please…
The Chief Inspector just looks at me taciturnly and shakes his head firmly. "It's not like we have a stack of cases for our detectives to solve, private, to give to them whenever we want to. They come when they come. Currently, there are no cases, and you blew the last one six months ago. If we gave you a cold or open case, you wouldn't be able to solve it, anyway."
"Wait, sir!" I say hastily. "Please, just – I won't disappoint you, sir, I'll do the case properly, sir, any case, I won't mind, if you'd just give –"
"Detective, my choice is final. You will be notified soon of our decision, and a letter will be sent to your parents."
His words take a while to register in my numb – shocked brain. A letter will be sent home to my parents. A letter, saying, The Sina Police Commission is very sorry to inform you that your daughter sucks at being a detective. And then, really, because, I've got nothing to lose now, I whisper, "You… you don't trust in my abilities anymore, do you. Sir."
There's a pause, before, "I lost hope in them long ago, detective. You are dismissed."
I stand, stunned into speechlessness, overcome with a mixture of disbelief and shock; and then comes a strange, inexplicable anger. It's my fault for being such a hopeless detective, I know, I know, but the whole Military Police incident – well, the two men deserved it, didn't they? They attacked a woman, for goodness' sake! And yet, I was the one who got penalized. In what society is it right to do that? To just fire someone like this, without even giving them a chance – I'm seething. I consider refusing to get out of his office until he's decided not to fire me, not until I've been given a chance, at least, but the firm look on his face tells me that nothing will change his mind. I rigidly turn around to leave, when his words stop me.
"Private… Are you sure you are William Eston's sister?"
My jaws clench. Once again, the referral to my oh–so–brilliant and handsome and intelligent and prodigal and why–don't–you–just–fire–the–entire–Criminal–Invest igation–Department brother. The comparison I've been subjected to since I've entered the field. The surprised looks people get when they find out we're related – me, hopeless Kim, and wonderful Will. The inferred difference between us.
"Biologically, sir." I say sourly.
There's another stretched silence.
"Very well, private. You may leave."
I leave him sitting at his table, and shut the door dismally.
A/N: Thank you all SO MUCH for bothering to read that thing above, especially considering it must have involved a lot of blood, sweat and tears :) I'd love it if you could let me know what you think of it so far, and I'm always open to suggestions, ideas, etc. Comments, feedback and reviews will forever be loved.
(I don't own Shingeki no Kyojin.)