TopHatGirl: holy crap, I didn't mean for this to be this freakin' long. I just started typing and ended up at over 4000. Oh well, enjoy anyways.
Sweat dripping down my forehead, my eyes open to the moonlight streaming in through the tiny window in the corner. I squirmed around, loosely feeling around to remember where I was.
Where the hell am I?
Then I felt the sleeping body clutching parts of my arm, eyebrows furrowed in a look of distress. San Francisco. My new home. That's where I am. In other words, free. But that's not important right now. There's sound coming from above my head, like the bass from a stereo. Judging by the fact that it sounds like heavy metal, not hippie shit, it's not from the old folks owning this apartment. I collapsed back on my pillow, on top of the mattress. Ike stirs gently next to me, mumbling something incoherent. If I concentrated, there's also the sound of a leaky faucet dripping from the tiny bathroom, and light breathing. Outside of the building, there's the sound of police sirens blaring in the distance, and shouts in another language. Chinese, or something.
Colorado was so quiet.
This new place will take some getting used to.
I stretched out my arm to grasp my suitcase, and yanked it towards me, careful not to wake Ike. Unzipping the front pocket, I pulled out my pocket-watch, and squinted to read the time in the darkness. 4:05 am.
What jackass has heavy metal on at 4 in the morning?
I raised my hand to wipe the sweat off of my forehead, another thing I'm not used to in San Francisco. The heat. The actual absence of snow. I lean my head back on the pillow, trying to block out the noise. Getting back to sleep sounds really good right now...
"Shift..." a voice whines, shaking my shoulders. "Shift?" I ignored the voice, wanting to sleep some more. "Charlie!" it finally snapped, and I stirred from my two second rest, meeting the blue orbs of Ike's eyes.
"I see her, Charlie." He's trembling, and I don't dare break eye contact.
"Her ghost, Ike?" I asked softly. He nodded silently, tears brimming his eyes. He clutched my hand, breathing heavily. "Close your eyes, okay?" Again, only a nod. He squeezed his eyes shit, and I slowly laid him back on the sleeping bag, his hand still grabbing mine.
Yells and shouts echoed through the walls, and the police sirens were even louder. Then a scream.
Okay, he has to check this out.
JEFF POV
"Shit," Jeff gruffed, and his hand hovered above his gun, tucked into his belt. "We have a suspected homicide, near Haight," he said into his walkie talkie. "Send investigators."
"Roger that," came the muffled reply. Jeff nodded at his partners, and kicked at the deteriorating door, and it collapsed in on itself. Steadily moving in, the whiff of blood and burnt fabric caught at his nostrils. The white house behind the one of the old cafes was rapidly becoming a very interesting case. Kicking at a broken lamp, Jeff stared up at the one light bulb on the ceiling, flickering on and off. A cat jumped off a nearby end table, stroking his right leg with his head. He jerked his foot away, pulling the gun out of his case. The cat literally smirked at him.
"Don't point your gun at a damn cat, Jeff," the detective to the other side of him snarled. Jeff nodded, and blindly grabbed at one of the doorknobs in the conjoined hallway, shoving his way in/
Bathroom.
Shaving cream was smeared across the black and white tiles, and the mirror had a large crack in it. Fear lingered in the back of Jeff's throat; he was only a rookie, after all. People like Tared and Motter had years of experience in homicide victims. This was one hella've a crime scene.
He gingerly pulled back at the lime green shower curtains, and chocked on his own spit at the splatter of blood drenched across the back wall. The body was thrown in the tub, pale and lifeless. In scrawled sharpie handwriting, the word 'CONFROMIST' read across his forehead.
Jeff breathed heavily, bending down and reaching for his walkie talkie.
"Body location confirmed. Send 'em in."
Clicking off the mic, Jeff swore, staring in the eyes of the victim. Female. Aged around twenty. Abecrombie & Fitch shirt, with some brand name jeans. All makeup is smudged across her face, as well as lipstick wiped off. Multiple wounds in stomach, forehead still hemorrhaging.
"Is this her?" Motter asked, appearing behind him, pen clicked and ready to write a full report.
Jeff turned to him, color lost from his face. "I never expected this."
"You never expect this in the cop world, Jeff. It just hits you right in this face, and all you can do is hope you can still fucking sleep at night."
"Grim," Jeff remarked, standing up.
"What's the situation?" An inspector barked, rushing into the scene of the crime. Two other medics and one assistant crammed in as well, making for a claustrophobic area.
As Motter swoops in to asses the scene and act like a douche, Jeff rubs his temples and steps back outside, greeted with flashing lights and reporters chattering away.
"Detective!" one calls, shoving a microphone in his face. "Can you give us an assessment of the situation we have here?"
Jeff sighed. "I am not allowed to divulge any information regarding this case at this time, thank you."
"What about the accusations about this being a raid performed by a cult?" another reporter asks.
"Thank you!" Jeff repeated, and shoved the crowd away, making it to the sidewalk. The sun was peaking up, and it was too damn early to think about what he just saw.
Someone tapped on his shoulder, and Jeff glanced in the direction. An older teenager, maybe around 18 or 19, rubbed his chin and looked Jeff up and down. He was wearing a rumpled trench coat, torn black jeans from many uses, and washed out fingerless gloves.
"Officer, what just happened?" he asked, poker faced.
"Kid, I really can't tell you-"
"I live next door," he cut Jeff off. "If my partner or I-" he paused, muttering to himself something imperceptible, "are in danger, I want to know."
Partner? This kid looks a little young to be having committed relationships.
Or maybe he means business.
"What's your name?" Jeff asked, straightening up and pulling out a pen from his front pocket.
"Shif-" he shook his head, again muttering. "Charlie." he bit his lip. "Uh, Charlie Broflovski."
He didn't have a pen, so he resolved on writing on his forearm. "And your...partner?"
"Ike Broflovski."
"Okay. I might have to ask you to be interviewed."
"Why the fuck do I have to? I just asked," Charlie demanded.
"You live near here, you might know some odd things about your neighbor."
"I've been living there all of eight hours or so."
Jeff tilted his head. "Okay, now I definitely have to question you. Where will you be between the time of 12pm and 5pm tomorrow?"
"In class. First day of school tomorrow."
"University of San Fran? Senior?"
"Freshman."
"I'll see you at six, then."
"Negative first floor, Officer," Charlie said cheerily, and sauntered off.
Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose, and clicked the pen off. This world.
SHIFT'S POV
I collapsed back onto my sleeping bag, Ike still snoozing peacefully, not aware that I had gone. Maybe I could finally close my eyes and rest...
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"Goddamnit Ike, turn off your damn phone!" I screeched, kicking him in the shin with my bare foot. He grumbled, turning over onto his side and picking up his phone, squinting at the screen.
"It's my phone alarm, fucker," he grunts, pressing a button on the side. The incessant beeping ceases. "Time for your first day of school, Shift," he announced, sitting up and running a hand through bedraggled hair.
I sighed. "Fuck. Do I have time to shower?"
"Nope."
"Fuck!"
I pulled out a cigarette, and eagerly lit up. Blowing smoke in Ike's general direction, I stood up, stretching.
"Why are you already dressed?" Ike asked, pulling on some jeans.
"I had an early morning stroll."
"You WHAT?" Ike whipped around, which reminded me eerily of his mother.
"Don't stress, babe," I cooed, watching Ike's face turning a bright red. "There was a murder scene a couple of doors down, went to check it out."
"Oh." His shoulders relaxed a bit. "You' could have been hurt."
I snorted. "You're so ridiculous, babe." He huffed, and loaded up a huge backpack for both him and me. He tossed the black one at me, and slung one on his own shoulder. I realized with horror that I would not be able to have coffee this morning, then Ike reassures me that we would stop at a convenience store and buy some cheap coffee.
Ike insists that we say goodbye to the hippie folk before we leave, and they manage to reel us in to eat some vegan breakfast shit. After a while, we're finally out the door.
"Gah!" Ike stutters, stumbling back into me as we step out the door.
"Hello," a sultry voice greets. The figure stood from their gardening,grins close lipped. "I'm Sapphire," she greeted.
She.
Yeah.
There's a drag queen transvestite gardening on the apartment lawn. At ten in the morning. In broad daylight.
So California is more accepting.
"Oh honey, can I have a drag of that?" she asked, talking to me. She didn't wait for an answer, high heels clicking as she made her way toward me. She snatched the cancer stick from my nimble fingers, in her meaty ones. She places the cigarette in-between her red lipsticked lips, taking a deep drag, then handing it back to me, eyeshadow lids blinking flirtatiously. Ike is still shocked from the sight. "Thanks, hon. I needed that." she goes back to her gardening. "Oh, by the way, I'm your new neighbor, living on the third floor."
"Nice to meet you," I lied. Lesbian, gay, transgender, bi, I don't give a fuck. But smoking my cigarettes is a no no.
I dragged Ike along to our car, and he climbed in through the window. "So, in my head, do I refer to Sapphire as a he or a she?"
"She," I clarified. "You call them by what they want to be*."
"How do you know?"
"Writing classes," I grumbled.
It's only a couple of blocks to the school, and eventually we're pulling into the parking lot of our new high education.
University of San Francisco.
People were gathered in groups, chattering incessantly. There was a game of Frisbee going on, and an African drums session. I took a long inhale of my cigarette.
"This is it," I said. Ike momentarily grabs my hand, squeezes it, and lets go. I appreciate the guesture.
Our new life.
CHRISTOPHE POV
"FUCKING ASS'OLES!" I shouted, running like mad, shovel propped on my shoulder.
"STOP!" One of those damn cops yelled. Yeah, like that ever fucking worked. The pavement slapped against my boots, wind rushing past my face, swishing through my dirty hair. Looking behind me, the police were quickly catching up to me. I really wish I had a cigarette in my mouth. I searched the deserted streets for an escape. It came to me in the means of a fire escape ladder attached to a tall apartment building. It was up too high to reach from ground level, so I had to leap onto one of those garbage holder things, hoisting up with a free arm. Losing no time to get an accurate aim, I jumped from the green metal to the ladder, grasped on the bottom rung, and scrambled up. The cops paused, taking their guns out to aim at me.
"Sheeeeet!" I cursed, and pushed up on to the roof. I looked around, surveying the rooftop.
"You're surrounded, you French asshole!" a cop yelled from the roof. Rolling my eyes, I did not take the announcement to heart. I have had tons of American cops saying that to me, like we were in a fucking action movie. San Francisco was no different.
I looked down below, and the cops were just fucking standing there. I took the opportunity to pull out my last cigarette from my shirt pocket, and light up. I blow smoke into the wind, watching it drift in the ocean's direction. I inhale a deep breath, and shout, "LICK MY ASS, YOU COCKSUCKERS!"
Then I was running again, leaping to the next building. I miscalculated the distance, and I missed the ledge. Wildly flailing, I managed to grasp the very edge of the roof, and hoist my weight again. I kept running and jumping, not used to the vastly different heights of buildings in this city.
Eventually, I got caught.
The next building I leaped to already had an occupant there. The man was in a blue cop shirt, and held a gun up.
"Freeze," he demanded.
"Sheet," I cursed again, but put my hands above my head.
"You've been caught, you have the right to remain silent..." the list goes on and on as the faggot cuffs my wrists up.
"Yeah. I 'ave 'eard zis all before, ass'ole." I spat on the ground, and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. "Just let me keep ze damn shovel, and I will go witzh you."
The cop raised an eyebrow, dubious, but shrugged. "Whatever."
The police car smelled like sweat and donkey shit. The shovel banged against my back, making it uncomfortable to lean back. The two cops in the front seat were discussing my list of crimes.
"This kid is down for armed robberies, kidnapping, trespassing private property-"
"I am not a damned kid, you ass'oles!" I protested, kicking the back of their seats. They let me also keep my cigarette, though it's hard to keep in my mouth with my hands tied. Ash fell to the bottom of the car, and I make sure to smash it into the carpet. Serves them right. A twenty two year old is not a fucking kid.
"and maybe possible murder of several drug lords, not that I'm complaining-"
"Oui, I am proud of zhat too, cocksucker," I added in.
"-and he gets caught stealing some fucking cigarettes."
"Which you fuckers made me drop!" I kicked their seats some more.
"Can we tape his mouth?" the driver asked, glancing back at me.
"No, the boss wants him in pristine condition, has a proposition for this one."
"What makes you zeenk I would do anyzeeng for zhis boss of yours?"
They both just smile, and keep driving.
SHIFT POV
"Creative Writing 201," I read off of my schedule.
"Sociology 1," Ike read off of his.
"Good luck in your class," I said monotonously, gulping. Ike smiled, and gave me a brief kiss on the cheek before fluttering off. I growled. What a teenage girl. I rubbed the spot where his lips touched my skin, wanting to get rid of the ghost feeling of it. I grunted, and turned back to the vast campus. Where the hell do I start?
"Freshman?" a tall looking boy asked, smiling wide. He has wild brown hair, and eager blue eyes.
"Is that a question?" I asked scathingly.
He ignored my bitter comment, going on, "I'm a Junior here. What's your major?"
"Creative Writing."
"Ah, they call that the 'wanderer's major.'."
"What the hell does that mean?"
The boy held his hands up. "Sorry, didn't mean for you to take offense. It's just because freshman in the CW major usually change their major about five times, then go back to creative writing."
"That's probably me. I thought I wanted to be a mathematical engineer."
"Whoa, big leap! I'm a Humanities major."
"And you judge my major," I grumbled to myself.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Look, do you still need my help to find your class?" he asked. "Your boyfriend was going in the wrong direction, by the way."
"My boyf-"
"It's cool dude, I'm open minded," he said, bumping my shoulder. I flinched at the contact.
"How did you know he was in the wrong direction?"
"Because he was going in the Arts department area. He didn't look like an arty, they usually have the ignorant 'holier-than-thou-because-I-shop-at-thrift-stores' look."
I'm starting to like this kid better.
"He looks more eager and innocent, looking to please. If I had to take a guess, I would say he's in one of the social sciences."
"Very observant," I complimented.
"Am I right?"
"Yes," I admit regretfully. The guy fist pumped.
"Awesome. I'm Mitch, by the way."
"Shift," I introduced, and shook his hand dutifully. "Can you still show me where I'm going?"
There were about 30 other students in the classroom, and I slammed my books down next to guy who was picking the underneath of his nails with a safety pin. I swore I saw droplets of blood.
"They're after me," he whispered as I pulled out my notebook.
"Okay," I said. The teacher introduced himself as Mr. Pseudonymous, which earned a few chuckles from the class. I didn't chuckle. I hate witty people. While he was discussing the nature of creative writing, I opened my notebook. On the inside cover there was a sticky note.
Shift-
Good luck in class. You'll do awesome.
Don't call the teacher an asshole.
Please.
-Ike.
I smiled to myself, and began to scribble out a poem in one of the pages.
I am without feelings, at times.
The words cut out from me,
leaving throats closed,
feelings lost,
eyes shut.
At times,
there are ways for me to speak,
and when I do speak, it is in hatred.
I am bitter, not have tasted sweet in years.
Thoughts are black, and I wear them,
proud and willing,
not flinching to enforce it on the word.
I do not get pleasure from insults,
I get it from results,
the rehabilitation.
It gets hard, at times.
To keep stable, to keep from
sinking.
There's never been someone
to hold up the world
for me. Open the door,
for me.
I found that someone,
when I spoke,
not in hatred,
but in revelations.
At times,
I have found solace
in the rhythms of an
emotion,
and the fragility of a
feeling.
To that comfort,
I plead it to
never leave,
and I continue to
beg, even
when it left.
At times, I am alone.
At those times,
I can no longer keep my eyes
open.
"Excuse me, Mr-" the teacher said, clearing his throat at me.
"Mr. Broflovski, sir." I liked the fake name, and I think I'll keep it up. It has a nice ring to it.
"Mr. Broflovski, what are you writing? I don't think I've said anything note worthy in this lecture."
"Poetry," I clarified, and go back to my writing.
"Is my lecture not interesting?"
I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Not really. I don't see how the history of creative writing will actually help us with our writing."
"Is that why you're here? To get writing tips?"
I shrugged. "Guess so."
"Well, let's see if you even need help," Mr. P said, taking the notebook from under my nose.
Damn private colleges and their damn smaller classes. Damn me for taking a small class in a small class college.
He read over the current poem I wrote, grunting along the way. He set it back down on the table. "Interesting use of repetition. What do you call it?"
"Condolences To the Empty Shell Without a Mate," I said, just making it up.
"Interesting..." he repeats. He straightened himself, turning back to the rest of the class. "Now can anyone explain the different ways poetry has contributed to society..."
CHRISTOPHE POV
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Christophe duBois-" I snorted at the fake surname I had come up with years ago- "pages long of all criminal offenses. Pretty young to be a mercenary for hire."
"Fuck you," I grumbled, having lost my energy, but not my bite, a long time ago.
"Hey, you better not get on my bad side, because I have a proposition for you." The police commissioner , or whatever they call it here in America, is a very bulky man. Which isn't saying much, do to my small stature and skinny bones.
"What kind of propoziztion, commissioner?" I asked, arms crossed over my chest.
They took my fucking shovel.
I feel empty.
"You work for us, help us catch some killers, and we clear your criminal record."
"Clear eet? Will you make eet, 'ow you American cocksuckers say, 'squeaky clean'?"
"Yes."
"Fucking dirty proposition, no?" I snorted. "Fine, whatever. What ees eet you want me to do?"
"There's been some killing going around, and we suspect it's some sort of organization doing this." He fanned out pictures from the crime scenes. I pick up a random one, seeing the body of a young man with ''conformist' written on his chest, tongue cut out. I am unphased by this, and tossed it back to the pile.
"And what do you want me to do about eet?"
"You will be partnered with Jeff in this case," he said, gesturing to a bumbling officer in the corner, nervously wringing his hands.
" 'ey! You expect me to work with zee ass'ole who arrested me?"
"Either this, or you go to jail."
I scoffed. "Fine. 'ave your damn way. But I expect some rezspect around 'ere."
"Like we bow to you?"
"I want an apartment, and to be paid."
"We're already giving you a lot."
"Oui." I took another drag of my cigarette, and blew it in his face. "But I do not zink you realize that I do not care if I go to jail. Fuck jail, eet was invented by the faggot in the sky, designed to make me feel guilty. I am not guilty. But you need me, because I 'ave skills. I can catch zis, or zese, killers. So you give me place and money, no?"
"Fine. One thousand now, three thousand when you solve it," he agreed. "But shittiest apartment available. Fair?"
I chuckled. "I sleep on rooftops and alleyways when I cannot find a nice park bench to sleep on, monsieur. I will be fine. Zis is fair."
"Then we have a deal."
JEFF'S PERSPECTIVE!
I have to work with a damn kid on one of the most important cases of my career. Granted, it's the only crime I've been assigned to that isn't a simple domestic violence or graffiti fine, but nonetheless, it's important and I want to solve it on my own.
"Can I 'ave my shovel back?" Christophe asked, lighting up a cigarette that the Chief gave him back in the station. We're riding in the cop car, with him up front this time.
"Maybe, if you prove to me that you won't hit me over the head with it."
Christophe chuckled. "I cannot promise anything, Offizzer." He gazed out the window, watching the people stare as we whizzed by. "So, what ees on ze agenda for today?"
"We're interviewing suspects." I paused. "Well, I am. You're going to wait in here like a good boy."
"Fuck you, cocksucker." he glowered. "Do you at least 'ave zome papers on zem?"
"I have information on one of them, Ike Broflovski. He's not exactly a suspect."
"Zen what ees 'e?"
"I don't know. He just might have information, or be linked. I only heard about him through someone else."
Christophe hummed, understanding. "And ze ozzer one?"
"He claims his name is Charlie Broflovski, but our records have no information on him."
"Ah, false name then. Clever, but stupid, you do know?" Christophe flipped through the file of Ike I gave him. "Zis one does not look like ze type to kill, no? I do not zink 'e ees related to our case."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Eet says 'ere 'e only moved 'ere a few dayz ago. Zat does zeem suspicious, sure, but I zink you are maybe looking at it wrong way. He probably does not know anyone 'ere, yet. 'e does not even 'ave any family members 'ere, right?"
"It says that he only has one sibling, Kyle Broflovski. Lives in New York City."
"Kyle Broflovski..." Christophe mumbled, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "Sounds familiar, but not een a criminal familiar way. Een a personal way. But never mind zat. Ze fact that his only relationship ees his mozzer, fazzer, and brozzer, eet makes zis 'Charlie' character eveen more suspicious."
"I can barely understand you with that accent," I noted.
"Too bad, you cock-"
"Okay!" I interrupted, not wanting more insults. "Here's what's going to happen today. You are going to go undercover."
"I like what I am 'earing..."
"As a college student."
"Fuck!" he shouted, tapping more ashes on the car bottom. "I fucking 'ate college kids!"
"You are going to be in Charlie's French class tomorrow, and observe what he does for a few days. It's not the only thing you're going to be doing; you'll observe more people, but for now, you're following this kid."
"Ees zis just anozzer way of admitting we 'ave no other leads?"
"Maybe," I grumbled, grip tightening on my wheel.
"I just 'ope you know what you are doing."
BACK TO SHIFT'S POV
Ike literally pounces me when I arrived home with boxes of Chinese takeout. "You're home!" he shouted.
"Yes, bearing gifts of food," I mumbled, setting down the boxes. "But, really, are you going to do this every time I come home later than you because of our class schedule? You need to like, join some club or something."
Ike rolled his eyes, taking out a pair of chopsticks and stuffing his face full of sweet and sour pork.
"Isn't that against your religion?" I asked, taking out my assignments from various classes.
"Isn't stating the obvious against your nonconformity?" Ike replied, swallowing a bite. "You act like I've committed a crime."
I gulped, suddenly remembering my appointment with the cop. "What time is it?"
"Time for you to get a watch," Ike quipped, then, upon seeing my expression, said, "6:13. Why, is something going-"
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZT.
"That's the door buzzer, I'll get it," Ike said, moving towards our apartment door.
"Wait!" I blurted. Ike raised an eyebrow at me, but opened the door.
Ike's parents stood in the doorway, smiling. "Hello there Ikey-poo!" his mom shouted, embracing him in a tight hug. "We came to visit!"
Oh.
Shit.