Hey guys! Been totally fritzing mentally, and I think I'm cutting myself off on my latest fic for lack of inspiration...Anyways, been into Haven since the first episode and I've finally got a cohesive-ish prompt for myself. Dwight and Jordan just seem like a swell partnership, not necessarily romantically but I feel something there, so. I need to wrap this up quickly, as school starts this week, but it keeps extending itself as I write...enjoy.
Jeffrey Forrester was enjoying the easiest getaway of any daytime robber in the history of the state of Maine. The SUV he'd commandeered from a bewildered old lady outside that jewelry store had a full tank of gas, he knew these streets really well, and the police were having a difficult time in following him, on account of their vehicles suddenly malfunctioning.
It wasn't that Jeffrey was a spectacularly skilled criminal, or had any intricate knowledge of police regulations that would enable him to escape more efficiently; he just couldn't be stopped, and ironically enough, it was a crime that had begun his stroke of fortune, as he had begun to view it, rather than a curse.
Pressing down harder on the gas pedal, though no pursuit vehicles had appeared in the rearview mirror yet, Jeff grinned, noting a mileage sign on the side of the highway, indicating a town named Haven, some two hundred miles away. The birthplace of him and his ability. Maybe now there were some worthy pickings in his old alma mater.
When Jeff was a young boy of eight years old, his mother had been murdered by his stepfather, Joe. Right in front of him, brutally. No gun nor knife had ended her life fairly painlessly, or even quickly. No, his stepfather had taken a golf club to her, first her limbs, then her torso, and finally her skull. Her agonizing screams and moans deafened Jeff, who had been thrown into a corner and told to sit still and watch what happened when people pissed Joe off. The boy sat frozen, curled up with his knees to his chest, and could only watch as a widening pool of blood spread towards him across the hardwood floor.
When his stepfather was done, he advanced towards Jeff. "You're gonna join your damn mommy now, boy," he'd snarled, brandishing the club as he grew closer and closer. But when he stood before Jeff and raised the golf club, there was a hissing noise, and steam rose from the club. Joe dropped it with an outraged howl, and raised his hands, which smelled of charred flesh and looked like they'd been laid across a barbecue grill.
"What'd you do to me, boy?!" The older man screamed, grabbing the child by the collar of his shirt and flinging him across the room; Jeff skittered across the floor that blood had pooled upon, the crimson substance coating him and his clothing. He let out a frantic squeal as Joe left the room, returning shortly with a pistol he'd grabbed from a closet. Cocking it with difficulty and grunting in pain, he raised the weapon and aimed it at Jeff. Just as he pulled the trigger, the weapon exploded, or so it appeared to Jeff. There was a shattering noise accompanied by a small burst of flame, and his stepfather dropped to the ground, a gnarled scrap of the gun's muzzle now embedded in his throat.
The house fell completely silent, the quiet only disturbed by young Jeff's choking sobs. Fifteen minutes later, Chief Garland Wuornos and his officers entered the house, having been called by the neighbors, to find the gruesome scene before them. Wuornos awkwardly attempted to comfort the boy as he wiped his face with a towel from the kitchen and wrapped him in a blanket, before driving him to the station, but Jeff seemed justifiably incapable of speech for the moment.
His little gift had been very helpful in dealing with the bullies at his new school, after he had been placed into foster care; he had quickly realized that anything he perceived as a weapon to be used against him would malfunction and even harm the user, whatever the means, and it was a powerful tool even his young self knew he could cultivate. It often helped him in various nefarious deeds, as he could harm and manipulate others, and they were otherwise disabled, unless he was close enough for physical combat.
Young Jeff sunk deeper and deeper into immorality, until the time came when the gift left him abruptly and without explanation, much as it had arrived. He was forced to fend for himself, and pay the consequences for what he had already done, which included a few stints in juvie.
Once he was out, he got along dealing drugs in secret, running weapons across the Canadian border, and other small jobs. And then one day, a gun was pulled on him during a job gone bad, and it had exploded, incapacitating the entire crew he'd been dealing with. He'd left the carnage behind, smiling, because he knew It was back.
And here he was, robbing the East Coast up and down and getting completely away with it. To him, everything from service revolvers to police cars was a weapon, and therein lay his power. There was a warrant out for him, he knew, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.
He soon passed another marker sign, showing Haven another fifty miles closer, and he sighed contentedly, admiring the fall foliage he passed. Idly, he wondered if a drive-in would accept a diamond necklace as payment for a milkshake order to go.
Dwight was having a halfway decent day, as Haven standards went. The only trouble today, and he used the word very sparingly these days, had been a delivery van parked with its back end jutting into main street for twenty minutes, and that had been quickly remedied.
Now he sat in the Haven PD Chief's chair, in the Haven PD Chief's office, and wondered how the hell he got here. Leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers behind his head, he stared blankly at the ceiling. It had been three months since the barn had disappeared, along with with Audrey and Duke, and Nathan shortly thereafter, to places unknown. He definitely missed the guy, as a day later he'd been literally thrust into his old chair, by Dave and Vince, and ordered to head the recovery and cleanup team that would deal with the fallout of the meteor storm.
It had been a rough several months, with outbreaks of new and old troubles alike disturbing the peace every week, but they'd made it, Dwight thought he could now say. No one knew if the barn cycle was permanently disrupted, or what would happen, but the situation was under control for now, until they knew more.
A knock on his door jarred Dwight from his thoughts, and he swung back forward, planting his booted feet squarely on the carpet and gesturing for Stan to enter.
"Wanted warrant for you to see, chief," the man explained, handing a flyer across the desk to Dwight's weary grasp, who eyed the black-and-white sketch with disinterest. "Why do they bother? Who's going to come here, especially after what happened to the last wanted fugitive who arrived here…"
He trailed off as a flicker of sorrow crossed Stan's usually chipper expression, his own memory serving up the fact that Audrey's first case had coincided with that event. Sighing, he waved the flyer. "Got copies posted around the department?" At Stan's nod, Dwight waved him out, analyzing the flyer more thoroughly. The man in question, a Jeff Forrester, was actually from Haven. That implied…Oh, no.
As Dwight skimmed further, he could feel the need for several more cups of coffee coming on.
Jordan McKee was also having a great day. She'd already given out four parking tickets, the distribution of which gave her great satisfaction, and she almost wished Duke Crocker were still around, so she could give out a few dozen more to finish her afternoon with.
The most recent recruit of the Haven Police Department, at the desperate request of the chief who was nearly as new as herself, sashayed back to her patrol bike, which she'd insisted upon over a sedan, and swung onto it. She scribbled on a notepad before shoving it in the pocket of her leather jacket and revving the engine, darting into midday traffic with hardly a glance to see if it was safe.
Navigating the streets lined with cookie-cutter houses and picket fences, Jordan picked up speed as she approached a steep hill, eyes nearly closing in joy as she descended it at a speed far above the limit. Her black locks, free from a helmet under self-proclaimed rules, whipped around her face as she hit level road again, resignedly slowly her speed as she neared the police station. Everyone had a quote of office time and paperwork they had to put in, and that did not exclude her, though she bent as many rules as she could. She needed to put these tickets in the system, anyways.
Pulling her jacket off as she strode casually into the station, Jordan adjusted the new opera gloves she now wore, glad of the additional length she'd adopted. Actual sleeves were just…cumbersome, sometimes.
Flinging the shedded leather garment over the back of the chair at her desk – the one that had belonged to Parker – she flopped down herself, opening the notepad she'd pulled from the jacket's pocket and beginning to sort through the various ticket stubs.
Glancing over, she noticed Dwight's desk was unoccupied, which was thankfully occurring less and less, as the Troubles' momentum had slowed somewhat at last. Returning her attention to the papers in front of her, Jordan pulled her keyboard closer and started typing in license plate numbers, with much less enthusiasm than she had handed out the violation notices.
The smell of coffee preceded Dwight, who entered his office with a nod to Jordan, as she raised her eyes from the screen to regard him with amusement as he gingerly cradled a nearly-overflowing mug of the strong brew, trying not to spill it as he made his way to his desk. Just as he set the mug down, their shared office door banged open, startling Dwight into spilling hot coffee on each hand, and his desk. With a muttered curse, he fumbled around for something to soak it up with, catching the box of tissue Jordan tossed him gratefully.
Finally, he turned to address their visitors, none other than Vince and Dave, who were both looking disgruntled and holding hefty boxes. Dave spoke first, shifting the load in his arms. "Any place in particular you'd like these? I'm a little old to be weightlifting, Dwight…"
"Floor's fine, Dave," Dwight offered, gesturing distractedly as he grabbed a loose flyer from his desk and moved over to Jordan. "Tickets'll have to wait, McKee, we've got a big fish headed our way, and hooks can't land him." He shoved the paper in her face, and as she grabbed it and began to read, he headed back around his desk to poke at his coffee mug cautiously, trying to gauge if it was safe enough to sip yet.
The two Teagues brothers promptly dropped their boxes, eliciting a massive dust cloud that rose from the floor, prompting a coughing fit from both. Jordan glanced at Dwight with one sculpted brow raised in question, flapping the paper at him. "What are we supposed to do about this?"
"He's from Haven, and this last robbery was pretty close, and his trail had led north before that," Dwight began, "And…well, we're probably the only ones equipped to deal with his sort of rapport. Weapons malfunctioning appears to be the manifestation of his trouble, and it's not just guns. Cars, sticks, anything that he perceives as a handled threat to himself will just screw up, become hot to the touch so one can't hold it, weird stuff like that. Anything nonaccidental just kinda can't hurt him, if he sees it coming. Vince and Dave here brought by some back issues of the Herald from the last Troubles period, and some outside articles from his recent crimes."
"Still not seeing why this is really our problem," Jordan muttered, eyeing the man on the flyer, who looked scrawny even in the rough sketch, and was barely five and a half feet tall, by the description.
"Well, he's left a wake of exploding guns and purged jewelry store cases, and he can't just skate by because of his Trouble," Dwight began, finally taking a sip of the still-steaming coffee and wincing. "We've just gotta figure out a plan before he gets here. Think of some…unconventional means." He eyed her arms, resting motionless across her computer's keyboard, as he said this, and Jordan quickly pulled them to her chest, crossing them.
"A weapon he won't see coming, so we can arrest him." She voiced the idea without questioning in her tone, and Dwight nodded. "Gentlemen, if you'd like to sort through the Herald issues while McKee and I take the outsider sources, we'll get started on this background stuff."
"Last chief never needed us to do this much gruntwork," Dave muttered, pulling up a spare chair to Jordan's desk splaying newspapers across its surface.
"Hey, I'm used to running around in the background cleaning up too, remember? We've all gotta adjust." Dwight's tone was gently chastising, but he really did miss Parker and Wuornos, at times feeling fairly bothered that he and Jordan were mirroring their partnership, in this very office.
Thanks for reading, as always. ~Bon
