Shout Outs: I'd really like to thank everyone who favourited this story, as well as those who subscribed for alerts! But I would really love it more if you guys gave me insight by writing a review so I can improve and whatnot... please? c: Even just a sentence would be fine; criticism is an author's best friend!

But in regards to reviews, thank you to Readers-Section for still following along and giving me another review (thanks so much!). And for your awesome guess, you get cookies. /gives cookies As for the humour thing, I am sad to have the humour of a doorknob, so that is definitely a compliment for me. Glad to know it isn't so dried up like a prune! Also to XxCapturetheLightxX, thanks! And feel free to translate if you wish, I don't want to add trouble, haha.

I decided to "reply" to reviews here. This way, if any questions arise that others may want to know answers to, I don't have to PM everyone. And now, without further adieu...

Flash.

The bright glint of the sleek, black camera blinded him temporarily, and he grumbled internally, not daring to say anything. Considering his position, it wasn't exactly in his best interest to complain… not to mention, he was in a rather uncompromising situation, one of which everyone had either dutifully ignored or remained blissfully aware of. Instead then, he took the time to survey the contents of the room, all the while rubbing his eyes gingerly as white spots flashed in front of his vision.

It was a spacious house – no, mansion would have been a better word to suit it – and it was keenly kempt just as much as his own was. The living room, which extended straight into the kitchen and dining room, was immaculately spotless, something of which brought a shy smile on to his lips. The plates and various china were placed in their routine places, and the dishwasher was still humming its boring tone while the television blasted on about the news of a killing in the neighbourhood area (as if he didn't already know, he huffed to himself).

All in all, there was just the air and sense of normalcy, save for a few key factors.

One, there was yellow tape marked all over the entrance to the upstairs bedrooms and veranda, clearly marked with "Police Line: Do Not Cross" repetitively. With that, he rolled his eyes; what sort of incompetent moron would even so much as dare as peek up the stairs when there were guards situated in every corner? It was redundant and highly unnecessary, something that was too much of a hassle for him to even complain about, so he let that go.

Two, there were yellow cones with respective numbers in different parts of the house. They were situated in various places that were highly suspect in having been "involved with the criminal". 'Oh yes, because the countertop is an accomplice in the murder', he thought bitterly. Sometimes these cones were placed in more suitable areas, such as on the stairs where they could possibly search for footprints, or by doors where they could search the doorknobs for fingerprints. However, the majority of them had been sited ridiculously atop a myriad of objects of which he could tell had absolutely no relevance to the crime. He felt as though a toddler could have done a better job.

And three, if one happened to glance by the front porch, there were throngs of people – namely the media – attempting to shove their way in, attempts which would have been successful had it not been for the two burly security guards at the door, both somewhat albino in hair colour with startling purple eyes. Their figures were massive, bulky, and they emanated auras of maliciousness and… well, death. Even he knew it was a smart enough move not to even talk to them, let alone attempt to shove their way through. The only consolation to him in the hectic scene was the fact that he hadn't been the one assigned for "entrance duty". He would have already surely been mobbed by the crazed news people… not that he would ever admit that to anyone but himself.

He was… relatively well-built, right?

"Hey, are you listening to me?"

A gruff voice interrupted his reverie, and Arthur blinked rapidly for a few seconds before turning his attention to the frowning, heavily moustached gentleman in front of him. He was crouched down, the camera shining sleekly in his hands. He hadn't even noticed that he had gone off into la-la land (where he usually was, it was the only way to escape this crude and boring reality) until someone forcefully popped his metaphorical bubble.

"Ah, ah, yes sir."

The cameraman sighed, shaking his head as though this was a daily occurrence, which of course, it was. Arthur waited mutely, daring him to say anymore, and it looked like the other was about to, until he shook his head once more as though thinking better of it. The blonde smiled to himself; at least someone knew when was and wasn't the right time to get involved into an argument.

"Right, whatever. Go get me some more of these cones, will you? They're upstairs by the veranda."

"At once, sir", he replied bitterly, before turning on his heel and trekking up the stairs in a huff. Since when had he, Arthur Kirkland, been so degraded to a point that he was nothing more than a mere errand boy? Where had the times gone when he was one of the leading detectives in homicidal investigations, always being on the scene of the crime just mere minutes or hours after it had happened? Where had the times gone when he was the one barking orders to some lack-wit who was so utterly incompetent that he often ended up performing all the tasks himself? Where had the times gone when he could sit comfortably at his own office (yes, oh how he longed for those days) and take his sweet time doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted?

Where in the blazes had his dignity gone?

To all those questions that he shot at towards himself, he had no answer. It could have been attributed to a great many things, theories which he ransacked in his head as he ducked below the police tape and made his way up the stairs, emerald eyes surveying the scene before him. All he could do was face the metaphorical blank wall that stood in front of him and his answers, as well as the more literal wall that kept him from a more exciting life. He bit his tongue; was there really a point in harbouring grudging feelings for the good old days? He couldn't even so much as analyze what he had done wrong. All he knew was that one day, he had just successfully wrapped up a case and slammed a serial rapist, and the next, he was being booted out of his office and being told to "get his arse off his proverbial high horse and look for another damn job."

Right, positive thoughts.

He had finally reached his desired destination, or so, that was the only logical explanation. By the open expanse of the veranda, he was able to spot the neon yellow colour of the cones. With a sigh, he walked forward, running his hands through his hair. He crouched down, picking up a hefty few, just in case his beloved supervisor decided that ten wasn't enough and sent him once more on a pointless errand to a place that was only fifteen steps away from where they were investigating. Because, as everyone knew, it was impossibly difficult to go up the stairs and grab the cones for themselves. No, that required the help of a self-deprecating British man who had just fallen down on his luck.

Way down, on his luck, he could recount.

It was in the process of returning down the stairs (rather grudgingly) that he spotted a black lump in the middle of the veranda floor. It was easily discernible due to the nature of its contrasting colour with the light beige around it, but also due to the fact that there was an absurd lack of items to conceal it with. The veranda was just much too spacious (what could anyone possibly do with this? He would have categorized it to be nothing more than a waste of space), and it was no wonder that the killer (they had all assumed that by the bullet plucked from… the "body" – if it could be called that – had been from a sniper) could have possibly chosen this spot. Not only was it superbly advantageous due to its clear sight of everything, but the people who lived in the mansion were complete dolts and asses, and so no one would have ever thought to give the place a second thought. But apparently, the killer had.

Arthur approached the lump, frowning until he was close enough to be able to distinguish its properties. Hesitantly, he poked it with a barbecue stick, and upon finding that it was, in fact, not a bomb or some sort of mutated sewer rat, he picked it up.

It was a black leather glove.

Had the killer accidentally left it? That was highly probable, and any sort of clue towards the investigation was worth keeping around. After all, he had been the top analytical mind back home (until of course, some unfortunate mishap), and he was thankful that he possessed some background to the whole matters of investigations and crime scenes that he wasn't entirely thrown for a loop. Gingerly, he held it in one of his gloved fingers, cradling the cones in the other.

He descended, handing the cones to his supervisor who at that point, was half-hidden the table, taking pictures of its underneath in the possible case that the culprit might have left some clue. He snorted to himself; right, because it was highly likely that the culprit had taken his precious time in cooking himself a homemade meal before killing someone. Oh yes, that was sure to be appetizing indeed.

The barely audible sound alarmed the gentleman enough to extricate himself from the table, looking for the source of the noise. His eyes first landed on the cones that were now set aside, nodding. Arthur patiently waited for the gratitude that never came, but it was just as well. He was nothing more than the lowest police grunt around here, having just been hired a few months back. But still, was decency not a word in the American language? Was it really such a task to say "thank you" and be on one's merry way? He would have thought not, but apparently, Americans thought otherwise.

Just as he was about to hand the man the other piece of evidence he had obtained (in hopes again, of getting at least one hint of praise), his supervisor gasped. His deep brown eyes widened in fright as he stared square on his chest, causing the blonde to jump backwards, looking at his own torso for whatever hint of abomination the man had so suddenly seen so as to warrant such a reaction. When he found none, he looked up at the man, questioning, but the supervisor was still too frozen in his spot to do anything more than open and close his mouth stupidly like a fish out of water.

"S-sir?" He snapped his fingers in front of the other, which apparently was enough for the still statue to resume movement. Unfortunately enough, said movement was his finger pointer raised straight to the man's torso, which once again, completely confused the Brit.

"Wh-what… wh-why are you…?" The supervisor stuttered, and the way he did so unnerved even him. Arthur had never seen the man so shaken in all the years of his life working under him (which would have made it, really, approximately a year), and all the times that it had happened usually led to some sort of unfortunate death or gruesome killing. He hoped to high heaven it wasn't some omen of his own impending doom.

"Sir, please speak up."

"Whyareyoucoveredinblood?"

Arthur strained to hear, his expression muddled with confusion and irritation. That could not have been a word in the dictionary.

"WHY. ARE. YOU. COVERED. IN. BLOOD?"

The blonde merely blinked, staring at his supervisor as though a tree had started sprouting out of his head. His expression, having been jumbled, was now contorted into one of sarcasm, a "are-you-kidding-me?" look. Folding his arms and looking down at his supervisor that was still somewhat hidden under the table top, he replied smoothly, "Sir, I have looked like this since I entered the building." '… But thanks for noticing', he remarked internally, scathingly.

Of all the thirty minutes they had spent at the crime scene, now the man noticed? For some reason, the blonde had an almost uncontrollable urge to kick the man in the face and leave the scene. The only thing that stopped him was the possibility of being fired, and being possibly forced to move his family… again. He couldn't do that to them a second time, and so with the utmost restraint that was almost saint-like, he corrected his expression into one of innocent bewilderment, a composure that had apparently left his supervisor.

"Wh-what? No, impossible! I would have seen it! Wh-wha-?" he spluttered, unable to keep his eyes off the large crimson stain that littered the blonde's blue uniform. "What… happened?"

Arthur merely sighed, rubbing his temples. It was a story he would rather not recall.

Having been assigned neighbourhood watch wasn't exactly the most thrilling of jobs. But when it came right down to it, he supposed he should have been thankful. Some other grunts were often made to do heinous chores, such as cleaning the bathrooms because the station was far too cheap to hire actual janitors and custodial staff. In the long run, he hadn't received the worst end of the stick, which was more than he could say for Lovino, his loud-mouthed and temperamental co-worker.

That day, nothing was supposed to happen, as nothing ever did. Despite having one of the highest crime rates in America, it was disturbingly peaceful. Vandalism was often too commonplace and much too uncontrolled in this area, so the police had taken to neglecting the youngsters who they often caught in action. It was far too much work for them, and by now, if anything, they would already have had half the town in jail. In terms of actual mugging and killing, the criminals were at least "empathizing" enough (he scoffed) not to commit such atrocities in daylight. That being said, and given the fact that it was still quite early, he hadn't expected anything of significance to come running into the monumental garbage heap that was his life.

In the end, he hadn't been wrong. But it was more like it had come bulldozing into his life. Plus the bulldozer.

He had been glancing at his watch occasionally, wondering when on earth he would be put out of his misery (or at the very least, have his shift end), when he happened along a dark alleyway. At this point, he wasn't even quite sure how he had ended up in a rather dingy part of town, but if he had to admit to himself, everything about the town was dingy. Even the droll weather of England was less disheartening than this.

As he pondered on backtracking, he was met with the audible sounds of someone chuckling. Immediately, his trained reflexes sprung into action, and Arthur found himself pressed against the brick walls. Cautiously, he peered over the corner from where he had heard the sound emanating. Sure enough, there was indeed another occupant, and he could immediately conclude that what anyone could be doing here – and laughing, nonetheless – was certainly up to no good. Not only was the stranger's presence and location suspicious enough, but there was a glint by his belt indicating a half-concealed weapon.

Definitely up to no good.

Arthur inched closer, eyes narrowed in suspicion, his own gun cradled in his fingers in preparation. He examined his course of actions. He could call for back-up now, but there were far too many possible repercussions, two of which instantly came to mind. One was that, if he was mistaken and it was nothing more than a drunkard enjoying his sweet time and soaking in the scenery, his credibility in the force would decrease (he snorted; as if he even had any to begin with). Two was that, due to the sheer silence in the alleys, even him whispering might be heard, and that would just not bode well. The only conclusion he reached then, was to apprehend the criminal himself, then do a quick interrogation.

He had to soak in whatever pride he had left, after all.

Half-walking and half-crouching, he darted around the corner, concealing himself perfectly behind a large dumpster. The man was on a phone, chattering away with his back to him. Frowning and taking advantage of the situation, the blonde tentatively crept up behind him, his gun pointed at the man with his arms extended. He had been just about a foot away from the man when something caused him to jump out of his skin… almost literally.

There was the sound of a gun. Momentarily dazed, he looked back at his gun; no, he had not shot. But there was no time for interrogation, before he was splattered with a warm, sticky liquid, which immediately caused him to blanch instinctively. However, upon closer inspection of the random fluid, it required almost all of his willpower not to hurl.

It had taken him a second or two, his brain unbelieving to what his eyes were seeing. Painted all over him was crimson, crimson… and more crimson. Emerald eyes grew wider each second, uncomprehending. They thrashed wildly, before finding a crumpled mass of something just before his feet.

It was a body… or at least, a half-decapitated one.

Bile rose up in his stomach, and Arthur backed up a few steps, before turning around and retching. His body shivered, despite the cool winds that delicately tickled his exposed skin. Sick, he felt sick. A shudder passed through him, before an arm shot out towards the wall – the only thing that kept his balance. He breathed heavily, in gasps, head bowed down as he stared at his own vomit, eyes uncomprehending. From his shirt dripped the deep red liquid rhythmically, splashed all over his uniform. Free arm shakily rising, he wiped his mouth, his teeth chattering. He felt as though a fever was coming. He felt nauseous. He felt dizzy. He felt confused.

He felt anything but fine.

Arthur dared not look back at… the "remains", his mind reeling at the image that had been plastered in it, and he lurched forward to retch some more. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and his breathing became more erratic, more irregular.

What had he just seen?

"I-… I'd rather not discuss that matter, sir," Arthur murmured, his eyes glazing over slightly.

After he had sufficiently recovered from the incident, he had then been called on to assist with the investigation regarding the murder, of which they suspected had been done by a sniper. This was the supposed crime scene, and in his rush and prior absence of mind, he had arrived without so much as cleaning his shirt; he had only had the presence of mind to wipe it off his face and flesh, but he feared that the clammy feeling that had been incited would always be there. It had been a traumatic incident – that much being an understatement – but he had recovered. Or, at least, he had recovered sufficiently enough to keep his mind on the current task; there was no doubt he would have nightmares tonight.

And that was how he had arrived at the scene, with no one so much as noticing… until apparently, now. He wasn't sure if he should have been pissed or thankful (that way, no one would bug him with silly questions).

The supervisor remained frozen, but accepted his words. "R-right, then. We'll carry on with the investigation, but for the love of God, change your shirt, man."

Arthur smirked, before nodding and making his way out the door. There was the good old (useless) supervisor he knew and loved (and hated).

A/N: Erm... LOL, I don't... I don't even know, guys. It took me a while because... I couldn't quite get a hang of Arthur's personality, especially because he still does have a vain side to him, but not the level Francis has. I had to brainstorm and... stuff, yeah. So please, please kindly review on his personality and on what you think I should do to improve it?

And yeah! If you haven't figured it out, this was the guy getting sniped... and Arthur just so luckily happens to be there, poor guy. He's going to be through a lot more trauma though, specially when Francis comes in, heehee.

That was all for now!~ Please read and review, and I hope you enjoy!