Note: This story is AU, and all characters are human.
Prologue
The room reeked of body odor and stale sweat: the only fruits of his labour. Papers were strewn across the floor and piled high on the sole table in the office. The frail-looking desk held up a computer, a television, and a pair of wire rimmed glasses with golden lenses. His floppy, red fedora leaned precariously off the edge of a pile of books beside him.
His red coat was draped across the back of his old, grey office chair, his eyes cast downwards on the shadows littering the room. The lights were off, and the only source of brightness came from the slit under the door, leading to the sixth storey of his workplace.
He leaned back into the creaky desk chair, the piece of furniture bending drastically under the pressure of his body.
Useless, cheap, piece of plastic crap, he thought, absently grabbing the small remote from under the stack of paperwork on the table beside him. He powered on the small, out of date television to his right, slightly illuminating the darkened office room.
He kicked off his boots, and propped his feet up on the desk in front of him, leaning further back into the already contorted chair. He sighed, blowing strands of his hair out of his eyes, and turned his attention to the flickering screen of his T.V.
He began flipping through channels, skimming past infomercials and reality shows, but nothing really struck him as interesting. It's been a while since anything worth watching has been on, he thought, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. Eventually, he stopped on a channel airing a live newscast.
"-been found bleeding outside of the two-storey home on 5th Street. The owner of the home, a supposed member of the elusive Iscariot gang, fled the scene after the bodies of the four children were discovered. Now, onto Natalie Parker, live at the scene-"
The newscaster's tale was cut short by the door to his office being slammed open. The room was instantly flooded with the yellow lights of the main hallway outside. He groaned audibly and used his arm to shield his eyes from the sudden illumination.
"Can't you see I'm busy?" he asked, lazily pulling his feet off of his desk. He rubbed his eyes as the office, now fully lit, came into focus.
His boss, with her long, white-blond hair, glasses, and stern gaze, glowered at him from the doorway. "What do you think you're doing?" she asked, clearly unimpressed with his behavior. He didn't care what she thought, he told himself. That thought kept him from going insane from working in a place like this.
"Well, I was watching a newscast about the murders of some unfortunate little children, until I was rudely interrupted," he said, shooting his boss a piercing look between the parted fingers of his hand.
She scowled. "I thought you were more attentive than this," she said, stepping into the office and shutting the door behind her. "I want you head out to the scene of that homicide tonight. I heard that the police were interfering, again."
He dropped his arm. "Which homicide?" he asked.
She furrowed her brow and took two large strides towards where he sat. "You know very well which homicide I'm referring to."
He groaned again, swivelling the chair so that his back was to her. He didn't need this right now. He was tired, a little bored, and just wanted to head home and sleep, and maybe have a glass of his favorite red wine. He was beginning to like the sound of that idea the more he let it roll around in his desensitized mind.
"The police aren't my problem," he said, pulling his boots back on, "Why can't you just send Walter?"
"The police aren't your problem, you're right, but Anderson is," she said, leaning against his desk.
He swivelled the chair back around, his eyes narrowed in question. "Are you sure it's him?" he asked.
"No, I'm not. But, it's not my job to be sure. That's yours, to head out, and fill me in on what's going on out there," his boss said, glancing over the state of his office. She looked thoroughly unimpressed.
He wanted to see Anderson. He needed to. But, something was holding him back.
"But it's Friday," he said. That was the only thing that he could come up with to keep himself from having to go out. He had a very bad feeling about heading out tonight. Something about the job, Anderson, and him, just didn't fit. He didn't want to go, but for the first time in ages, laziness wasn't the reason why.
She rolled her eyes, put her hands on her hips, and refocused her intent gaze on him. "You'll get next week off, including the weekend."
He paused momentarily.
"You've got a deal," he said, slowly rising from his chair. He made a strangled, pained noise as he overdramatically stretched his arms above his head, attempting to loosen the constricted muscles contained within. He reached forward and pulled his coat off the back of his chair.
"That's what I thought you'd say," she said, straightening her position. "Just remember, if you screw up, you'll be working overtime for the rest of the month," she said, turning to leave his office, "Oh, and one last thing?"
He turned to her as he slid on his, long, red coat, and raised an eyebrow in an expression of questioning.
"Don't leave unarmed."
He laughed, "Come on, Integra," he said, slipping on his hat and glasses, "As if I'd leave this hellhole alone."