Beca's PoV

Beca Mitchell had been called many things in her 22 years, but girly was possibly the worst yet. Felon, murderer, sinner, traitor, the list goes on and on, but girly? Like she was just an angsty teenager getting caught with some weed? That was just embarrassing. Eugh.

So, when the large blonde woman at the front desk smiled at her when she walked past and called, "Have a good stay girly!", she was tempted to throw up. Then kill someone. Then re-evaluate all her life decisions up until this point. In that order.

Girly. These police are so unoriginal.

The strong, uniformed man who held her handcuffed hands firmly behind her back in a vice-like grip had nodded towards the woman briefly, but his pace didn't falter, and Beca found herself wondering how it was possible for someone to walk this fast while half carrying her. Maybe – with a little persuasion – Beca could have him doing some of the heavy jobs.

With persuasion though. That was something Beca had become familiar with over the last few years, and she knew by now that she was pretty good at it. Money, dirt, blackmail – sometimes victims would go so far as to have some rival to be put out of business, which Beca always found interesting. He was a cop as well. Cops knew things.

Right?

"Get the date, time 'n number of bullets, then we can 'ave ourselves a good ol' fashioned shoot out. Hey, Kiddo? Watcha' say to dat?"

Annnnddddd there goes another bit of Beca's sanity.

Seriously, hallucinating some dead guy's voice in your head a couple times was concerning. But after two years, the frequent comments had turned out to be… enlightening at times.

"Knew ya luved me Becs, jus' knew it."

But the rest of the time they were really piss-taking. Like seriously.

Without realizing it, Beca had been dragged into an interrogation room, where the super strong dude – that she was totally considering corrupting – shoved her forcefully into an uncomfortable, steel chair and unhandcuffed her hands, leaving her free for a second before re-chaining them to the desk. And then he shoved her further down into her seat, just for good measure.

And suddenly she'd much rather kill him than hire him as a dirty cop.

"Ya could chain him up 'n cut him deep, then hang him up from a li'l hook in the ceiling. That'd be fun. Hurt like a bitch though – trust me, I know. But it'd be fun. Come on Becs – for old times' sake? Pretty please?"

The officer then walked over to the far corner of the room, his hand resting on his belt – suspiciously close to his gun - and kept his face carefully blank. By now though, Beca had begun to see the cracks in his tough guy image.

Like this tiny, almost unnoticeable patch of light stubble on his chin, as if he had rushed shaving that morning, and the slightly crooked left thumb, probably permanently twisted after a bad break, and the healed scars on his ears that were undoubtedly from heavy earrings. Yup, this guy definitely had an emo phase at one point.

What a weird image.

He had most likely stayed to play guard-dog, and she could not see this guy doing any kind of interrogation, so he was probably around to do the tough work and leave the brains to someone else.

That someone being the remarkably hot redheaded detective who had just walked into the room, holding her head as if she owned the place, but with enough cheer in her oceanic blue eyes to come across as a naturally compassionate woman. Who was even worse than 'steely-brooding-I have a gun-guy' in the corner at pretending to look mean. She was pretty much gorgeous. And she seemed super nice. And chill. And really hot.

"Y'always had a thing for 'em redheads didn't ya? But remember, don't you be getting' no crushes on no cops, we talked 'bout this Kiddo. Uniform equals bad, slutty bikinis equals good. Simple."

She probably looked good in a bikini though.

"Not the point. Seriously Kiddo, no cops."

Ugh. Sometimes she hated the fact that some delusion had more common sense than she did.

But seriously… wow. Time to charm up a storm Mitchell, you got this shit.

And so, as the beautiful woman took her seat – and was shortly followed by a bitchy looking blonde, but who cares for her, right? – Beca plastered her laziest, and most attractive, smirk on her face, waiting for a reaction.

Which she got.

The redhead's eyes briefly glanced at her lips slightly too intently, and Beca mentally added a point to her 'Beca vs. Hot Police Lady' chart. The blonde however… eech. She'd never seen someone so… stern.

John would so like her.

"I take it back. You have the redhead if I get the blonde. I got dibs."

Beca tried to arrange herself into a comfortable position, but it was kinda hard when both her hands were pinned down to the table. Sure, she's gotten out of cuffs like these before, but it was painful as all Hell. Seriously, there was a reason all of her fingers were crazy bent.

The blonde seemed to have practiced, as she recited as if by memory a few basic terms that Beca kinda zoned out during. Like, are people born that boring? Or do they have to practice in front of the mirror on a daily basis?

"Mitchell." A sudden snapping of fingers grabbed her attention.

"Yes…?" Good job at trying to look like you were paying attention. Pat on the back. Not obvious at all.

"Pay attention."

"I was. Just not very well." Saved. Very suave. Smooth. I'm such a good liar.

Blondey sighed, as if she had to deal with assholes like Beca on a daily basis. "Just… get better at it, okay? We need to make a proposition."

Um. That was new.

"What? I thought this was an interrogation, you know? Where you, like, grill me on my crimes and question my motives 'n shit, not make a deal with me like we're high schoolers selling weed." Pause. "Also, if that were the case, I'd 100% be the dealer, not gonna lie."

Then the redhead angel spoke, and Beca was pretty sure it was the closest to Heaven she was ever going to get. Or the furthest away from Hell. Anyways – semantics – long story short, she actually gets hotter by the second, not just the minute. "We would like to offer you a compromise, since we are aware of the fact that you will face decades in prison. And we are also aware that Barden's crime rates are exceedingly high, and you are probably the biggest and most knowledgeable lead we have right now."

Okay. Cool. Still don't get it.

"Um… so I get the whole knowledge thing, and while I might disagree with me being the biggest, I definitely grew at some point over the last decade – maybe a while ago though – but… the whole lead bit, yeah… what, exactly, makes you think I'm gonna tell you shit?"

Blondey sighed for like, the tenth time in the last ten minutes, and Beca was beginning to take it personally. "We're offering to drastically decrease your punishments at the cost of you assisting us throughout the remainder of this current investigation."

That was so not what Beca expected, and the cop really seemed to hate having to say it.

"So… I guess the obvious answer is yes then, right?" Confirmation is always important.

"Obviously." Redhead speaks again. Wow. Still kinda in awe, but I'll get over it. "There would be restrictions, as I'm sure you've already guessed, such as constant supervision, limited contact with the outside world and regular searches, but I'm sure you'll adapt. Oh, and for now you'll be sleeping in one of the cells on the lower floor, where at least one guard will be on regular patrol, so no funny business or we'll send you packing of to prison. Is that clear?"

She was sexy when she was bossy. Beca liked that. "Yeah, I can deal with that. So, what case are we talking about again? Cause you, like, never really specified."

"Hopefully it's a goodun, imagine if you were stuck dealin' with a buncha' petty thieves. That'd be dull as all Hell, wouldn't it Kiddo?"

"You'll be assisting us in our search for the leader of the notorious Silver Bullets gang, Bumper Allen, whose whereabouts are currently unknown. Normally we wouldn't be surprised, but murder rates have been severely increasing for a while now, and we believe he plays a major role in a group of criminals who are, for some reason, orchestrating these killings. You are our best – and only – lead."

"I take it back. Thieves would be better any day of the week. Seriously. Don't accept. You know he hates ya, heck, the man'll have killed ya by the time you give these coppers a shred of information."

"I accept."

"Kiddo, you really scare me sometimes. You can't get personal 'n you know it, so jus' walk away Becs, spend ya life in prison but keep the fuck away from that sicko, 'kay?"

Shut the fuck up John.

"Yeah, I accept."

Redhead seemed pleased, which was nice, but Blondey did not. Which was kinda confusing. Aren't they supposed to want me on their side? Cops are just too emotional these days, I mean, seriously woman, make up your mind.

"Okay, so just one quick question before we take you to your cell, do you know any of these men?"

As Red said this, ol' blonde bitch-face had spread out some pictures.

Bumper, Reggie and… aw, shit.

They both looked at Beca, well, one glared and one waited expectantly. So, she spoke.

"Yeah, well… the one on the left is Bumper, Captain douche-bag himself, the next is some guy who got jumped a couple weeks ago. Stabbed in some alleyway, I think. Anyway, he owed Bumper some serious money, and wasn't making any profits with the cheap weed he was selling so… the Silver Bullets got him." Pause for breath. And sanity reasons. "The last guy… his name was Jonathon Thorn. No one really knows who killed him," lies, "but he'd been selling Quick Skull secrets to the highest bidder and I guess someone got him. He was found on the Silver Bullet's front doorstep; clearly having been severely tortured then killed by hanging. Messy business. About two years ago." Try not to let your unending turmoil show in your eyes Mitchell, come on.

"Messy business? It sure was, weren't it, kiddo. Heck, ya still ain't gotten rid of the stains, have ya?"

Blonde and Red both nodded confirmatively, and Beca continued to relax in her stiff chair, keeping her arms stretched in front of her to stop the chains from becoming taut. The two cops seemed pleased, which was good… -ish.

"Okay, good start, and thank you for confirming that. Um… Tom will take you to your cell now, and just be ready by morning." Redhead then proceeded to walk out with Blonde, who shot Beca one last dirty look before she left. Red just strolled out, not even realizing that Beca was able to get a good behind view, and one that she was definitely taking advantage of.

But then Tom – typical tough guy name – corrected her handcuffs until she could stand and led her down a flight of stairs until she saw cell. All the while keeping up the painful grip on her arms. Like, ow.

The cells definitely weren't the worst things she had ever seen, and she didn't really mind sleeping in an iron framed bed, and so Beca figured that she was fine.

Not that she ever slept anyway.

Well, not without at least two bottles of whisky, a pack of cigarettes, and a simple thought train – without any interruptions from some asshole who had chosen to die and come back as an annoying hallucination inside her head.

"Jus' ya friendly neighborhood Spiderman, who robbed ya of a few million bucks, ya sanity and ya favorite coffee mug. Still not sorry by the way."

Ok. She would definitely not be sleeping that night. Welcome to being an insomniac 101 with your proud teacher, Professor Mitchell. Nice to meet you too. Take a seat. Try not to get too jittery, but I won't judge. We've all had at least six cups of coffee since we woke up, and it's okay if you added a few drops of liqueur. I do too most days.

God, I'd be such a bad therapist.

Like Beca predicted, she didn't sleep, which sucked. Of course, she tried, she lay down and closed her eyes and shut her brain down and breathed deeply like everyone else does when they sleep, and for a few minutes she did sleep. Not well, but a bit.

And then she woke up a half hour later covered in sweat, barely able to breath, tensed for a fight and her hand hastily searching her back for any new scars. Yeah. Sleeping was definitely not her thing.

Liqueur was. 100%.

"I know Kiddo, I know. C'mon, let's go do some press-ups or exercise stuff like that. Now use wallowin' in the past."

And so, like she did every night, she followed John's advice and did some 'exercise stuff.'

No amount of push-ups could let her forget the soulful brown eyes that seemed permanently imprinted in her brain though.

Or the noises he made when the rope choked him to death.