Amanda Young

She had never messed with dope. No matter how many times it had crossed her path.

She had always stayed away from the stuff. Even when her older brother brought it home. Even when it seemed everyone in high school had been strung up in class. She never dared to even experiment. No matter what her friends said. She had stayed out of trouble, despite the worst situations she was in. But, now that she was in prison?

She wasn't so sure she could stay strong, now. Prison was so fucking boring.

She was currently reading the same fucking book, a third time that week, while she heard the scuffle and screams of a brawl outside her cell. The fights kept her up at night. She sighed and rolled over in her cot, pulling the sheet over her shoulders and curled into a fetal position as she stared blankly at the yellowing paper. It was the Great Gatsby, and Gatsby was such a little bitch, pining after dumb cock-tease Daisy.

"Yo, Mandy," her cell mate whispered in the bunk above her. "You okay, sweetie?"

She looked up and forced a smile at Ronda, a heavy set intimidating woman that, for some reason, liked her. She was lucky. She had seen Ronda dig another woman's eyeball out with a spoon just last month. Apparently, solitary was the worst punishment they'd dish out to the inmates there. Ronda was a regular in the solitary cell. "Wish there were some new books."

"Never liked them. Reading gives me a headache." Ronda slumped off her bunk and landed on the concrete, squatting to be eye level with Amanda. "You know what will take the edge off, sweetie?"

Amanda swallowed. She knew what Ronda would offer. She shrugged. "I'm trying to keep my nose clean."

"Oh, don't worry, baby, you don't snort it. I just got some painkillers. It'll make the day seem perfectly fine. How about it? I'm feeling charitable." Ronda, pupils already great black pools, took out the silver foil of a pill sheet, shaking gently the drugs in their plastic casing. "Besides, I owe you for always giving me your pudding cups."

Amanda couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, but I don't want anything in return." Besides you not shanking me in my sleep, that is.

"Well," Ronda pushed out a pill and put it on her pillow. "I'ma leave it here before I change my mind. Trust me, it'll help pass the time. The fucking guards said they were planning on skipping afternoon recess."

"Again?" She groaned. She had been looking forward to going outside. To feel the sun on her face.

Lately, the guards have been such fucks. They were almost as bad as cops.

Almost.

She was grinding her teeth, looking at the heavily painted yellow walls again. The bricks burned her eyes and she wanted to just slam her forehead into the concrete until she caved in her own skull.

She wanted to just die.

She had been in for six months. Six long fucking months. And it never got easier. The time never passed any quicker.

And she wasn't even sure what waited for her when she was finally outside. Her parents had disowned her. Her brother was dead. She didn't have anyone she'd expect to wait for her on the outside. Maybe Cecil, if he was sober and not in a bad mood.

But she wouldn't count on the bastard. She was still bitter and blamed him for getting her in this mess in the first place.

The little blue pill looked appealing, all of a sudden.

She always wondered if it was as good as they said.

What else am I going to fucking do here?

Without a second thought, she took the pill and put it in her mouth. The coating stuck to her tongue and she forced-swallowed, clearing her throat.

And then she laid back on her pillow and waited.

Eric Matthews

Detective Bradshaw pistol whipped the suspect in the middle of the interrogation. Red splashed the concrete floor. Matthews looked on, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, smirking as the guy spat out a tooth. Bradshaw was a heavyset man and he had thrown all his weight - beer gut and all - right into that smack.

They were currently in the middle of 'questioning' with his preferred approach. It was two in the morning. Just the bare-bones skeleton crew, preferable when they needed to keep the potential witnesses down.

"You can't fucking do this," the guy growled, surprisingly still with the attitude.

"What are you talking about," Matthews was at his back, taking a step forward while lighting up another cigarette. He was unconcerned. Hoffman was at his right, exchanging a look with him that was full of agreement and pent up rage being held back. Everyone in that room wanted to hurt something. "We can do this all fucking night if you want."

Their latest piece of shit to take down, a man who they knew had beaten his wife and child to death with a baseball bat, had crossed their path with a flip of the middle finger and a grab at his crotch, signing his sentence right then and there. They had been investigating the surrounding area, looking for him. Witnesses all pointed in his direction. When they confronted him, with the terrible news of his family, he had only cared about his own wellbeing.

And then they ran his background. It solidified their decision to deal with him as they were.

He had plenty of priors. And though he hadn't been actively committing a crime when they arrested him, had no solid evidence tying him to the scene of the crime he was supposedly involved in, that quickly changed when they 'discovered' some dope in his pocket.

Now, they were going old school, a stack of yellow pages on the table, more a symbolic gesture than actual instruments to administer compliance. They wanted to use their fists. They could always explain away the bruises later.

Despite the unconventional approach, Matthews was pleased with how quick they had cleaned the streets. While Sing and Tapp were focused exclusively on keeping organized crime in check, they dealt with the miscellaneous chaos that had run about, untethered, long enough. They administered justice swiftly, stomping out any rebellion like tufts of flames on dirt.

Things were finally improving. Wherever they went, people behaved. They feared the police, as they should. Because they weren't going to take any bullshit anymore.

Matthews just had one complaint - Hoffman, his brother in arms and right hand man, seemed to want to pull him back more often than he'd like.

Maddox had made him soft.

Whenever Eric went on a rampage, like last week when he had pummeled some fuck too many times in the face with his flashlight, Hoffman had stepped in, pulling him off the guy and throwing him like a sack of rice.

He didn't like it, but when it came to his partner, he knew he needed to take a walk and cool down. He knew, deep down, that in a fair fight Hoffman would likely win.

The door knocked and everyone straightened up. Bradshaw put his gun away. Matthews continued blowing smoke on the suspect as the prick spat another glob of blood on the floor.

In came Gibson, the little man looking ready to breathe fire. "Stop right there." Behind him were two other cops from Internal Affairs. Matthews resisted the urge to laugh. It was like watching a kid play cops and robbers.

Hoffman remained calm, coolly watching as Gibson walked toward the table, looking down at the seated man. "You all right?"

"No! These fuckers knocked my goddamn tooth out," The guy looked up, lowering his hands to reveal bright red cherry juice leak past his lips. Matthews felt the corner of his mouth curl. They had gone easy on him. If they had really wanted to hurt him, he wouldn't have been able to speak.

Gibson immediately turned with a triumphant smile plastered on his face. "I finally got your ass, Hoffman."

"What're you talking about?" Hoffman looked passively back at the kid. "The suspect attacked Detective Bradshaw first. We tried to be civil, even taking off his handcuffs in good faith. And he made a move to strike him." He said this so easily and Matthews nodded in agreement.

He didn't get why Gibson had it in for his partner. Likely jealousy, but Gibson always ran his mouth and hadn't made too many friends in the precinct because of it. It looked like the kid was about to make some more enemies, though, as evident from Bradshaw twitching his nose and clenching his jaw while eyeballing the IA representatives warily.

Gibson raised a hand, shaking his head. "No. You may have turned off the cameras, but I've gathered enough complaints that I'm about to indict you and all of the members of your little fuckboy club."

"Yeah?" Hoffman pushed off the wall and took a step toward Gibson, looking down at him. "Talk is cheap, what do you have to back it up?"

Matthews observed as Gibson stood his ground, chin up defiantly as Hoffman closed in on him. He thought of David and Goliath, though he doubted Gibson would walk away after slinging a rock at Hoffman's forehead.

"Eye witnesses. Enough of them to at least have Bradshaw here," Gibson turned to glare at the cop, "put on suspension without pay, while IA conducts an investigation."

"You're joking," Bradshaw shook his head before looking alarmed. "No, that's bullshit."

"You're right, it is bullshit that you're not arrested right here," Gibson snapped. He looked at each member in the room. "It's bullshit that Grissom turns a blind eye and everyone in this department refuses to stand for what's right. While Kerry and Maddox are out, you all suddenly behave like a bunch of animals and don't get punished for it."

"What're you gonna do, Gibson, tell mommy?" Matthews snickered. "You're fighting a losing battle, kid. You can't beat us."

Gibson's ears had gone pink and his face contorted to fury. "Mark my words, Matthews. Hoffman. You may have friends in high places here. I may not get you tonight. But one day, I'll get you two. One day, you'll both slip up. And I'll be the one to put you in your place."

Hoffman rolled his eyes, amused. "Get out of here, Gibson, before you embarrass yourself."

"Not until Bradshaw comes with us. I'm serious," Gibson held his hand up and gestured with a curl of the fingers. "Come on. We've got an affidavit you need to review. Now."

Bradshaw cursed and left, casting a nervous look at the two of them before disappearing behind closed doors.

Matthews stared at the door before turning to frown at Hoffman. He knew they had gotten brazen. But Grissom had been thrilled by the arrest rates and the higher convictions. The DA had been practically dancing as of late. And it was always their word against criminals. Who would question them? No one.

Life in the MPD was good, as of late.

So why the hell was Gibson fucking it up for everyone?

Didn't he get it? The city was a monster that would swallow up everyone in its path if they didn't take shortcuts to keep the worst of the riff raff away from the public. They had to assert their dominance on the scum of the city, otherwise innocent people would get caught in the crossfire.

It was the only way that worked.

The lower violent crime rates these past few months was all the proof they needed.

They were fixing things.

"We got a problem," Matthews growled, shaking his head. "Fucking IA."

Hoffman nodded. "We'll handle them." If Gibson kept poking his nose in their business and tried to take down anymore of their guys in Homicide, he would be digging his own grave.

He'd have to teach Gibson a hard lesson, if that was the case.

The door knocked again, this time, the deputy on-call arrived, some rookie with her uniform pressed and starched. "Matthews, phone call for you."

He cursed before turning to his partner. "See you tomorrow."

He followed the girl down the hall, noting her short stature and blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. He could smell the fruity perfume, sharp and sweet, breaking through the smell of his cigarette smoke. He took one final drag before he let it fall to the ground and stomped it on the linoleum, leaving it as they made their way to one of the entryway desks.

He took the phone, already knowing who it would be. "Yeah?"

"I need you to come watch Daniel."

"Why?" Anger, fresh and never ending, poured over his head in heated waves. "You made it clear I'm not fit to have custody."

"Well," Jane's voice came in like a shrill sigh, petty and passive aggressive. "Something came up. I need to go out and I can't find a sitter this time of night."

"If only you didn't kick me out, I just so happen to be getting off work. But I've got plans, too." He put a fresh cigarette between his lips, smiling into the phone. "Looks like you're out of luck, bitch."

"He's your son, Eric-," He heard Daniel screaming in the background all of a sudden, wailing for attention. "Danny, hang on, I'm coming!" The sound of fumbling, followed by Jane, rushed and angry. "You know, If you hadn't been fucking off and actually took time to get to know him, we wouldn't be this way."

He knew she had a point.

He bowed his head, looking down at his feet. Shame was gripping him by the throat and making him feel weak. A part of him wanted to tell her she was right. That he would head over there and help out. That he was sorry, for everything.

But to hell with that.

"Jane, when I get visitation rights, then we'll talk." He slammed the plastic receiver onto its seat, causing the internal bell to clang.

Hanging up never felt so good.

Mark Hoffman

Gibson was starting to piss him off. It was commendable, the kid's eagerness to be the big hero that saved the department from his corrupt ways. He understood why Will liked him so much; her affection for the underdog was endearing, if not misguided.

It was early morning, sunrise many hours away, when his shift came to an end. He hadn't participated as much in the line of questioning that Matthews and Bradshaw had conducted, his focus on watching Matthews carefully to make sure he didn't push his luck.

Despite his philosophical agreement on Matthews' approach in collecting and taking out the metaphorical trash, he also knew there was a way to go about it. Going around and punching everything that had a face and a running mouth, was not it. Hoffman knew Matthews was unhinged as of late, his stress linked to the growing bills from his divorce attorney as well as the general pent up frustration with Kerry being away.

He was waiting for the storm to pass, choosing to take on the role Will had held in their previous partnership. It was hard, not joining in the fun. He missed unleashing his strength and teaching a good lesson to someone in dire need of it, but after Gibson crashed their recent party, he knew it was not wise to cross the line.

Now that Bradshaw was taken out, it was likely that the others in association with him would follow. He'd need to cover his tracks and keep an eye over his shoulder. Gibson wanted blood, and Hoffman sure as hell wouldn't be giving it to him.

Things sure have changed. If he had asked himself ten years ago whether or not he would be the one keeping Matthews in line while being seen as the golden boy of the department, he would have likely given himself a black eye out of frustrated rage.

Things had been so different then, back when he was still relatively young and chained to Toni Rosello. He had fallen so far from grace, back when he made the wrong move at the wrong time, in poor control of his emotions.

Knox had tried to warn him. To teach him the game. He had been too idealistic and naive, and when he tried to stand up to Rosello that fateful day, it ended with Knox in a wheelchair and Hoffman ruined.

Back then, Matthews had been the hero, decorated and exalted, getting the promotion and the accolades while he had been thrown down in the Pit with the one desk that had an uneven leg and dumped with the throwaway cases that would do nothing to help his career. IA had been on him then too, and he had to learn quickly on how to avoid getting spiked.

And then he had been left forgotten in the precinct, never to promote and never to be trusted again. He had been left to rot, until the day Grissom had plopped a plucky little redhead in front of him as his new partner.

And despite how annoying she had been, with her constantly keeping him to follow the rules, she had saved him from making terrible mistakes. She had been a good partner, on the level of Vernon Knox.

Thoughts of Knox made him feel nostalgic and thirsty for a drink.

He drove off the parking lot, his tires bouncing from the uneven pavement, when he decided to take a detour. He hadn't seen his old partner in a long time.

The night was quieter than most, the air humid and full of the typical stink of urine and rubbish. He stopped to pick up the usual items: a bottle of middle shelf scotch and some pistachios, pretzels, and a case of cigars. He told the cashier to keep the change and carried the brown paper bag up the flights of stairs with a throwback tune under his breath.

Vernon Knox had not responded with the usual growl and the cock of the shotgun when he knocked at the apartment door.

This, disturbed him. He immediately moved away from the door and lowered the groceries against the wall, taking out his gun. "Knox?" He called out, loud but keeping his voice steady. He immediately assumed some old Rosello-loyalists had come for revenge. Or maybe it was just a random burglary. Hell, Knox had a long and colorful career that had given him a long list of enemies.

He wasn't worried, though. He was just being overly cautious. He knocked harder, wondering if the man had a little too much to drink; that he was just passed out.

Hell, the old goat needed to catch up on sleep. Maybe he shouldn't disturb him.

But he had a gut feeling that something was wrong.

He knocked again. Hard enough to notice dust had wafted off the frame in plumes of plaster. He counted to three in his head.

And then he kicked the door down. An eruption of gray mist exploded into his face but he walked through the bent frame, stepping onto the crumpled door as he entered.

When the smell hit him, his heart dropped to his feet. He sprinted deeper into the dark apartment, turning corners, not seeing but knowing from the hundreds of times he had visited, where to go. That stench grew stronger. He had hoped it was just the garbage, that Vernon just lacked a visitor to come by for so long that it accumulated to an ungodly level.

But he knew that smell.

It was unmistakable.

No. Fucking NO.

The stench of rust and rot, a cologne that haunted his daily life as a homicide detective was as familiar to him as the smell of coffee.

The lights weren't on, but the city lights provided enough illumination through the window for him to take in the scene.

Blood was splattered on the windows like brown stained glass. Blood coated the walls. He stepped forward to find the fucking floor was sticky with the evaporated crust of brown congealed fluid.

He saw the wheelchair, first, silhouetted by the faint light streaming through the windows. He couldn't see Vernon.

He knew he would regret it but he flipped the light switch.

And then he realized he had been looking at the rotting husk of his old partner the entire time.

Vernon Knox's head was detached and in pieces. Bits of skull were tacked to the wallpaper. His lower jaw was still attached to his neck. His tongue was blackened, still nestled in between his lower teeth. The rest of him was all over the place, having been sprayed outward from his neck.

The sawed off shotgun rested on his lap, his fingers still wrapped around the handle, thumb in the trigger.

He had done it by the kitchen table, where a piece of paper and pen rested.

Sorry.

That was all he wrote.

Hoffman felt his legs tremble but he locked his knees and leaned against the wall, forcing himself to remain standing. He turned, his throat tight. His nose felt stuffed. He coughed into his fist before slamming it against the wall, indenting the sheetrock, barely recognizing that the low guttural moan sounding in his ears was his own.

Angelina Hoffman

Mark hadn't been answering the phone for the past few days.

This worried her.

Even though she was trying not to be so needy lately, she still called him every other day. Hearing his voice was a comfort she needed and going a week without it left her like an addict in desperate need of her fix. After the most recent missed call, she decided to drive straight to his apartment.

She knocked and waited, her pulse thudding in her ears as she impatiently stood by the door. He never failed to open the door when she visited. This made her expect the worst. She let herself in with the spare key he had entrusted with her. The door creaked as she slowly pushed it open.

When she saw the mess the apartment was in, her first thought was that he had been robbed. Mark was neat. Organized, and proud of it.

She had never seen him leave his home in such a state. Dishes stacked in the sink, trash bags piled around the overflowing bin, and mountains of clutter of newspapers, magazines, and unopened mail ranged the counter.

What was more telling were the sticky whiskey glasses collecting on the coffee table and the various empty bottles strewn around the floor.

She felt a crunch under her boot. She had stepped in broken glass.

"Mark?" She knew he was off duty and should be home.

A click of metal made her flinch.

"Damn it, Angie," his voice made her whirl around, her heart frozen in her chest. With only the dim light from the kitchen, he stood in the hallway like a shadow of death, only the glint of his eyes defined. She reached for the nearest lightswitch to flip up. The overhead yellow illuminant revealed his state. He was in sweat pants and an undershirt, eyes bloodshot. His hair was messy and over his forehead. She saw the gun just as he pointed the barrel downward, and she widened her eyes.

"Mark. Why haven't you answered my calls?" He didn't answer, flicking the safety on and turning to put his gun away. She followed him. "Mark?"

"Just needed some time alone," he growled. "What do you need?"

She balked. "I just wanted to see my brother. Something's wrong. Tell me."

He stiffened still holding the gun that was pointed at the ground. She felt nervous with it out in the open. "Give me that," she reached for it but he pulled it away before she could touch it. "Mark!"

He looked at her, expressionless. "Knox is dead."

She blinked. "Oh…" she raised a hand to her mouth before throwing her arms around him. "I'm so sorry, Mark." She felt her eyes water and her heart sink. Vernon Knox had been like a second father to Mark. "Was it his injury?"

"No. He shot himself."

She pulled away, alarmed. "Oh my God." She looked up at Mark, taking in the grit in his eyes, the crust on his mouth. He looked sallow and greasy and he didn't smell any better. She had never seen him so completely messed up. Not even when…

Something in her rose up, scraping up her throat, filling her with scalding energy. "Mark, when was the last time you ate?"

He blinked, narrowing his eyes. "I don't know."

"Okay. You're going to take a shower." She took his arm and pulled him to steer him towards the bathroom. He let her, for which she was grateful for. "And I'm going to make you something to eat. Okay?" She pushed him into the bathroom before closing the door, turning to face the mess.

Okay, Ange, one thing at a time. She needed to clean up. She entered the kitchen, separating and shoving shot glasses and debris, looking into the fridge to find only assorted condiments, some eggs, and a random carrot. She pulled her lips to a grimace, turning the cabinets to analyze the spices and dry foods she hoped Mark had kept on hand.

She found a random box of spaghetti, some parmesan cheese, and a generic bottle of olive oil, followed by a lone salt shaker. She suppressed a smile at how limited Mark's cooking options were. She had gotten him accustomed to never needing to cook much at home and it showed. She wouldn't be able to whip up a gourmet feast with this limited selection.

But she knew she could work with this.

Like lightning, she moved quickly and precisely to clear the countertops and began cleaning the dishes in the sink. She hoped Mark would take his time cleaning himself up while she sped through getting the kitchen in workable order.

Since she could remember, Mark had always taken care of her in situations of loss. She was aware that when their parents died, he had stepped up and taken on the parental role. He had sacrificed so much of himself and his own feelings for her sake.

Now, it was her turn to help him.

Vernon Knox's face was in the back of her mind. Her eyes began to sting again. Why did he do this? She hadn't been close to the man but Mark certainly was. Every time she had met him, he had always had a joke and a compliment to share with her.

"Your parents named ya right, after the angels. You sure look like one. Now be an angel and tell your brother to visit ol' Knox more often, won't ya? And tell him to bring some good beer, none of that cheap canned shit he's been drinking."

She filled the pot with water, realizing that her vision was swimming again. She wiped at her cheeks quickly. She knew Mark didn't handle her crying very well. She had to force the tears down and push the sorrow out of her. This wasn't about her. This was about Mark.

"I'll clean up while the water's warming up." She was talking to herself softly, to keep herself grounded. The pot was on the stove and she was now reaching for the trash bags under the sink, to begin scooping up every piece of debris and trash and have it all ready to be taken out by the front door in minutes.

The pot was a chaotic cauldron of bubbles, now. She took the pasta and let it sink into the water, setting a timer, and then ran to clean enough dishes to serve the meal on. She pulled at one free-looking dish and the sink exploded in a cacophony of crashes as the dish pile caved into itself slightly.

She bit her lip and looked over in the direction to Mark's bathroom, hoping this didn't stress him out any further. As she scrubbed at the heavily caked and grimy plate, she thought of when Mark had always made sure she had eaten.

He had taken her out, often to the very same diner she had met Peter, when she was still in high school. Knox used to join them there, too, the man tall and proud, walking with a swagger in his shoulders and a cocky grin. Mark would brighten up whenever Knox would take a seat at their table, often ordering corned beef hash and sunny side up eggs, drinking at least four cups of coffee black before picking up the bill for all three of them.

He used to scare Peter so much, back when Peter was still trying to pick me up with his magic routine, she mused to herself. One time, Peter had arrived with the bill to leave for Mark while the waiter had planned to make a bouquet of flowers appear from out of nowhere.

Knox had proceeded to grip Peter's wrist when he had made his sudden movement, the older detective's reflexes quick and had broken the illusion as Peter's one hand had been left frozen and holding the stems of some flowers that had come out of his sleeve.

"Go back to school, son, if you can't move fast enough for a man twice your age to stop ya, magic just ain't for you."

The timer went off and she ran to retrieve a freshly cleaned colander, having to improvise with dish rags as oven mitts to pour out the excess water.

The rest was a quick saucing and heating, followed with pouring a generous amount of parmesan onto the noodles. Mark always went overboard with the cheese.

She heard him open the door and leave his bedroom.

"Mark, food's ready," she tried to sound normal. Happy, even. She gave him a wide smile as she poured the steaming food onto the plate and handed it to him. "I'm not leaving until you eat at least half of what's on this plate."

Mark took the plate glumly, avoiding her eyes, before going to take a seat at his couch. He turned on the TV, the channel already set to the sports channel. She joined him on the couch, pretending to find some newscaster who ranted on some various names and football moves as fascinating.

She knew he wouldn't bounce back right away. And that was perfectly fine. She would stay with him until then. She wouldn't let him out of her sight.

She wondered how she could take his gun away. If that was even possible.

"Thanks, Ange. You don't have to worry about me, I'll be all right." Mark got up to put the plate on the counter.

Angelina turned to her brother. "Hey, I'm going to stay over tonight."

"You don't have to do that."

"Uh, yeah, I do." She stood up and walked up to him, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. He looked fresh but still exhausted. His full face looked as if it was beginning to narrow. She waited until he finally looked at her and she smiled sadly. "Mark, it's my turn to take care of you, okay? Don't worry about the mess here. Just go to sleep, okay? But I need you to promise me something."

Mark didn't answer, only waited for her to continue.

"Promise me, Mark, that you're not going to do anything stupid. Like hurt yourself."

He shook his head. "No, Ange, I don't plan to."

She nodded, not able to completely believe him, but she'd at least take his word on it. "And if I ask for your gun -?"

"Out of the question." His voice had a sudden edge to it, stubborn and angry.

She backpedaled quickly. "Okay. Well. Good night, then. You got work tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Then all the more reason for you to go to bed now." She waited until he turned to go to his bathroom before her eyes fell to the phone by the front door.

She needed to call Will.