Disclaimer and author's notes:
See part 1.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Determinato: to play in a resolute, determined manner
It's late, and Goren's still sitting at his desk. He is wandering through pages of paperwork; his large hands sift deftly through folders and stacks of photos. Here and there he picks up a pen and scribbles a note or two; some words he inks out, others he circles. His jacket is tossed over one chair and his tie is loosened, in a tousled, rakish look.
His eyes are grey--iron when he's angry, a veil of smoke when he's not. They are shadowed; it is rare to see a glow or gleam of light within them, and yet their darkness is compelling in its depth. They dart quickly from one place to another, flicking and fluttering as he takes in information.
Knowledge is coursing through his brain like a river, a strong, steady current; he filters it out and absorbs it. His conclusions illuminate the facts like sunlight drifting through deep water. His desk lamp burns brightly, searing against the white papers; it's the only light on in the place--the station is nearly deserted.
There is so much work, and not enough time. He can't even think of stopping to rest now. The coffee on his desk has gone cold; the bag of greasy fast food was tossed out without being touched. His shoulders and neck ache, he's got a throbbing pain in his skull, and Goren just wants to go home, to his apartment and shower and bed.
He looks at the photos in front of him--pictures of the dead man. The bullet hole, the sprayed blood, the pale white face. The withered hands lying limp, clinging to the air, fingers reaching imploringly towards the unseen sky.
Goren's lips tighten, and he bends over his desk once more.
~*~*~*~*~*~
See part 1.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Determinato: to play in a resolute, determined manner
It's late, and Goren's still sitting at his desk. He is wandering through pages of paperwork; his large hands sift deftly through folders and stacks of photos. Here and there he picks up a pen and scribbles a note or two; some words he inks out, others he circles. His jacket is tossed over one chair and his tie is loosened, in a tousled, rakish look.
His eyes are grey--iron when he's angry, a veil of smoke when he's not. They are shadowed; it is rare to see a glow or gleam of light within them, and yet their darkness is compelling in its depth. They dart quickly from one place to another, flicking and fluttering as he takes in information.
Knowledge is coursing through his brain like a river, a strong, steady current; he filters it out and absorbs it. His conclusions illuminate the facts like sunlight drifting through deep water. His desk lamp burns brightly, searing against the white papers; it's the only light on in the place--the station is nearly deserted.
There is so much work, and not enough time. He can't even think of stopping to rest now. The coffee on his desk has gone cold; the bag of greasy fast food was tossed out without being touched. His shoulders and neck ache, he's got a throbbing pain in his skull, and Goren just wants to go home, to his apartment and shower and bed.
He looks at the photos in front of him--pictures of the dead man. The bullet hole, the sprayed blood, the pale white face. The withered hands lying limp, clinging to the air, fingers reaching imploringly towards the unseen sky.
Goren's lips tighten, and he bends over his desk once more.
~*~*~*~*~*~