Old World Blues

Danse couldn't believe what he was hearing. A string of slurried excuses and explanations were leaving Quinn's lips, but it all amounted to the same thing: she was trying to force him to talk to the detective. She had approached that thing without bothering to ask him about it first.

Wrenching himself free of her grip, Danse stormed across the room, so furious he could barely think straight. He didn't care that he was being a hypocrite. After all, he was a thing too. But just because they were both machines didn't mean he wanted to talk to it. If anything, talking to it would only make him feel worse. That synth looked so...inhuman.

"I never thought you'd do something like this to me," he snarled, rounding on her so suddenly she shied away from him. Danse felt a twinge of guilt at alarming her, but it was quickly replaced by disgust. She had made this happen. She had caused this. "Was this your plan all along? Drag me all the way to Diamond City so you could shut me in a room with that synth?"

"No, Danse," Quinn said, hurrying after him, but stopping short as his glare deepened. She looked on the verge of tears. "It's not like that. I've asked Nick to speak with you, but if you can't do it, I'm not going to make you. I just think you should."

"Why the hell would I want to talk to it?"

"Don't call him an 'it,'" Quinn said sharply, wearing a scowl of her own. "But that's precisely why you need to speak to Nick. Because you keep calling synths 'it.' Because you keep acting like synths aren't people. Because you keep acting like you aren't a person."

"Quinn, we've been over this—"

"Yes, we have. And it's accomplished fuck all."

She folded her arms tight, but there was no anger in her. Instead, she looked worried and alone, holding herself for comfort. All at once, Danse wanted embrace her and take away her concern, but the fury still burned within him, and so he kept his distance.

An uncomfortable silence lingered between them for a while, until Quinn said, "Nick is the only man I know who could even begin to understand what you've been through. You need help, and I can't provide it for you. So please talk to him. For me."

"Don't," Danse snapped, his anger flaring up again. "Don't do that. Don't try to guilt me into getting what you want."

"I'm not—" Quinn began, but she stopped, biting her lip. Then she nodded. "Alright. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I'm sorry. I'll go tell Nick that I made a mistake. I'm sure he's busy with cases today anyway."

"You do that." He picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder as he stalked past his power armour. "I'm going for a walk. Have fun with Piper."

Quinn didn't reply to this, but he could feel her eyes on him as he yanked open the front door and went outside. Piper jumped so hard she nearly dropped her cigarette.

"Is everything—?"

"She's all yours," Danse interrupted, and then strode off down the street, seething. Piper didn't try to stop him, which was probably for the best. He might have bitten her head off if she tried to argue with him. Let Quinn explain why he was in such a bad mood.

Bitter thoughts raced around his head as he marched through the town centre, ignoring every smartass comment from the guards and braver citizens about him needing to 'lighten up.' Danse trudged up the old stands, far out of the way of the marketplace, and sat down, glaring at the city below.

He'd come here once before, when Quinn had done something else to anger him. A crass comment about Cutler. But then she'd apologised, and their stupid bottle throwing competition had followed, ending in chaos. His lips twitched at the memory, but then Danse shook his head and glared. No. Fond recollections couldn't overwrite this slight. She had overstepped the mark. Gone behind his back. Tried to...tried to help him.

Danse sighed and put his head in his hands, clutching at his hair. Just like his previous visit to this secluded spot, he wanted a drink. God, he wanted a drink.

But no. Maxson had seen to it that he wouldn't drink another drop. Maxson, who had made sure Danse understood his limits.

Maxson, who he would never see again.

Danse directed his attention to the centre of town, eyeing up the various stalls. He had caps on him. All he would have to do is stroll down there, order a beer, and that would be that. It wasn't like vodka or other spirits. One beer wouldn't hurt. One beer wouldn't make him drunk. He could handle that. He could control his drinking. And Quinn didn't really know about his old problems. Maybe she suspected, but she likely didn't care. She was borderline alcoholic herself. Although…

Danse frowned, lying on his back so he wouldn't have to look at the source of his temptation. When was the last time Quinn had been drunk? She'd had a beer when they'd been in Goodneighbor, but that was it. Normally she hit the whiskey instead. Come to think of it, the last time he had seen her drink something hard was the day before the funeral, and it had only been one shot of Bowmore.

He considered this for a moment and then glanced back down towards the town centre. Danse had seen plenty of soldiers trying to rationalise their bad drinking with 'just one beer.' Proctor Teagan was well known for it. 'Only' beer. 'Only' wine. And it always led down the same slippery slope. A visit to Cade's office. The old disciplinary programme. Danse had escaped it by the skin of his teeth, thanks to Maxson, but now he was out here, away from the ship. One slip and he might never come back.

Danse rolled over onto his side, staring at the cement that made the stands. Quinn had only been trying to help. Maybe not in the best way, but she had meant well. She had been doing it for him. And when he said no, she had let it go.

Talking to the synth, though?

That felt like a step too far. The synth—the detective—it just looked so...mechanical. Seeing it before Danse learned the truth had made him feel uncomfortable at the best of times. Now the very thought of the detective made Danse's skin crawl. Was that what he looked like underneath, too? Quinn said no, that he, Danse, was purely organic, with a few extra bits and pieces in his head...but what if she was wrong?

Danse rolled over again and stared out to the city below, though he was too deep in thought to see. At least Quinn gave him an option with facing his troubles. Back on the Prydwen, he had all but forced her to go to Cade. Taken her off duty. Reported her. Left her alone in the aftermath.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, groaning. The reasons had been good, but…

Half an hour passed, Danse's thoughts running in circles, until eventually he sat up, shaking his head. None of this mattered. He wasn't going. He wasn't.

Standing up, Danse shouldered his rifle and headed down the stands and back towards town. He still didn't want to run into Quinn, but wallowing in the same old worries made him want a drink even more. Better to keep moving. Better not to think.

But as he trailed through the town, his feet kept bringing him to one particular spot. At first Danse thought he was simply getting lost in this ratrun of a city and ignored it. But when the tacky red lights reflected off his weapon for the sixth time that morning, Danse realised he was returning of his own accord. He glared at the awful sign for the Valentine Detective Agency, his heart hammering in his chest.

She was only trying to help.

Danse sighed. Whether he liked it or not, Quinn's idea was a good one. He was a machine. The detective was a machine. It might understand where Quinn could not. The very thought of this meeting made him feel sick, but that didn't detract from its worth, only his own character.

How long he stood outside the agency, Danse didn't know. He needed to get this over with, but something held him back.

Fear, he realised. I'm afraid.

Pathetic.

Wearing a deep scowl, Danse strode forward and shoved the door open.

"Did I do the right thing, Piper?"

Piper glanced up from an old Boston Bugle she had been reading, her scrawled notes and circles all over the page, and took her pen out of her mouth. "What?"

"Trying to get Danse to talk to Nick." Quinn played with the fabric of her pants. "Was that the right thing to do?"

"Well…" Piper folded up her newspaper and tucked her pen into her hat. "You probably could have handled it better."

"I knew it," Quinn sighed, sinking into her seat.

"Keep still or you'll end up with half your hair missing," her hairdresser, John, said, holding his scissors aloft.

"Sorry," said Quinn. Piper had convinced Quinn to get the unruly mop that was her hair trimmed, and she'd dragged Quinn to Diamond City's Super Salon to do it.

"I just think you should have asked him first," said Piper, reopening her paper and shrugging. "But he'll cool off eventually and you can talk about it then."

"Maybe…" Quinn sighed again and John grumbled, moving her head back into position before continuing cutting. "Sorry."

She let her thoughts drift away as John snipped and tugged at her hair. The man had nearly had an aneurysm when Piper had presented her to him, and Quinn had been too disheartened to argue.

Upsetting Danse had been the last thing she wanted to do, but in all her haste to help him, Quinn realised she hadn't taken his feelings into consideration at all. Sure, she had expected him to grumble, maybe be a little bit annoyed, but nothing like this. Clearly Quinn didn't know him as well as she thought she did, and that in itself stung.

Somehow, she had to make it up to him. Exactly how she would do this, Quinn had no idea.

I'll figure something out.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling thoroughly trimmed and already missing the blonde explosion that had been her hair, Quinn got out of the seat, running her hand through her new bob cut.

"This feels weird," she grumbled, while Piper rolled her eyes.

"You look less like a chem-crazed raider and more like a human being. I think that's a plus." Piper gave John a handful of caps and a shy smile. "Now come on. Let's get some noodles."

"You're not getting your hair done?" Quinn asked, and at once Piper went as red as her coat.

"Nah. Haircuts aren't really my thing."

"But—"

"Come on." Piper grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away.

Quinn frowned and glanced over her shoulder at John, who was watching Piper with a small smile, his cheeks slightly pink. Something clunked into place.

"Oh," said Quinn, turning back to Piper, who was determinedly not looking at her. A sly grin spread across Quinn's face. "Oh."

"Shut up, Blue," Piper muttered, pulling Quinn around the other side of the noodle bar, so the Super Salon was blocked from view.

"You should ask him out on a date."

"Shh!" Piper hissed, throwing a look around the noodle bar to the salon. "He'll hear you!"

"Piper, he's on the other side of the market place."

"If someone else overhears you...this is the kind of gossip that could end up in The Publick!"

"But you write The Publick."

Piper didn't respond to this, instead waving down Takahashi and avoiding Quinn's mischievous eye as the robot stomped over.

"Nan-ni shimasho-ka?" Takahashi asked.

"The usual, please," Piper said, as if Takahashi had anything other than noodles to offer. The robot delivered their food within minutes, and both of them quickly tucked in, Piper hiding her face behind her hand. Quinn smirked for a little while, but her thoughts quickly returned to Danse. She wanted to go after him when he stormed off, but Piper stopped her.

"He needs some space, Blue. He'll come back when he's ready to talk again."

Maybe. But Quinn still didn't like leaving him on his own. Not at the moment, with everything so hectic. Overprotective, Piper called it. And perhaps it was. So Quinn had let him be.

However, just as Quinn reached the end of her meal, a voice behind her said something that made her stomach drop.

"Good morning, ma'am!"

Quinn froze.

No. No, no, no. They couldn't be here. Why were they here? What possible reason could they have for…?

Slowly, Quinn turned around, and thought she might faint.

Standing at attention behind her was Initiate Núñez, along with a group of other Brotherhood soldiers. Núñez was smiling, and Bantios lingered next to him, eyeing Quinn with his usual nervous awe.

"Why are you here?" she whispered.

"Supply run, ma'am!" Bantios squeaked, his gaze darting between her and the ground. "And for the experience. See if we can manage in the wasteland on our own!"

Initiate Núñez frowned at her. "Are you alright, ma'am? You look pale."

"Yeah," Quinn mumbled, feeling panic welling up inside her. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just...noodles disagree with me." She glanced from one soldier to the next, doing everything she could to keep her breathing steady. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Almost, ma'am" Núñez replied. "We have a few more things to collect."

"I see." She nodded. "Well done on getting here unharmed. But time is precious and you need to locate those supplies and make it back as soon as possible." Quinn leapt to her feet, grabbing Piper by her coat sleeve. "If you'll excuse me, I really don't think the food here has settled well for me. See you."

Quinn half ran, half walked away as she dragged Piper along with her to a distant chorus of, "Ad Victoriam, ma'am!" Initiate Núñez watched her leave carefully, a shrewd look on his face. But when Quinn stared him out, he dropped his gaze and moved on with the others.

"Piper," Quinn hissed once they were out of sight and earshot, far down the alley outside of Nick's agency. "Danse could be anywhere in the city! What if they see him?"

"Blue, calm down. We'll—"

"Piper, they will kill him!" Quinn clutched at her friend's arms, her breath coming out in wheezes. "We need to find him now!"

Nick Valentine looked up from his desk. "Are you trying to break down my door or open it?"

Danse said nothing, staring at the synth and wondering if he had made a mistake. He was just thinking about backing out and leaving, maybe going to get something to eat from the centre of town instead, when Nick spoke again.

"Pull up a seat, kid. Though I don't know what she expects me to say to you. I'm a detective, not a psychiatrist."

The fact the detective seemed to find this whole idea as ridiculous as he did settled Danse somewhat, and he grabbed the nearest chair, dragging it in front of the desk and dropping into it.

"So, what can I do for you?" Nick leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette. "Quinn told me you refused point blank to see me—that the whole thing was off. Yet here you are."

"I don't know," muttered Danse, glaring at his feet. "This is a waste of time as far as I'm concerned. Machines shouldn't even be—"

"Oh, zip it. I'm here to help you, not listen to you spout the same tired crap about synths."

Danse glanced up at Nick, his stomach contracting with revulsion at the sight of the synth's metallic face, and then sighed, bowing his head again.

There was a pause.

"Ah, I'm sorry kid." Nick leaned forward in his seat, but Danse deliberately avoided looking up again. "Everything you could say to me, I've heard a thousand times over. At this point, backchat comes naturally to me."

"Why do you call me 'kid'?" Danse asked, staring fixedly at his knees. His nausea relaxed somewhat so long as he couldn't see the detective. "I'm not a child."

Nick laughed. "I'm over a century old. Everyone's a kid to me...kid."

Danse glanced up, frowning, and then immediately regretted it as he met the detective's strange yellow eyes. He hurriedly looked away again. "I didn't realise synths with your capacity for independence went so far back. I thought…"

"Well, you're half right." He heard Nick drag on his cigarette and wondered how the synth could manage it without proper lungs. "I seem to be one of the earliest models. The in-between for synths without thought, and synths like yourself."

He stopped as Danse flinched.

"Danse," he said after a few seconds. "Look at me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because…" Danse twisted his hands in his lap. "You're…" He leaned forward onto the desk, putting his head into his hands. "I've been put in a room with a skeleton version of myself and told to play nice with it. Why can't anyone see what that feels like?"

If the detective was offended by this declaration, he didn't say it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, the back creaking loudly, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Do you smoke?"

"Sometimes."

Nick slid a packet of cigarettes and a lighter across the desk with his whole hand. "If you need one at any point, help yourself. And I think I have some whiskey around—"

"No alcohol," Danse said quickly.

"No alcohol?"

"No. I...don't drink."

A few more beats of silence.

"Alright then." Nick considered him. Then his voice grew brighter as he said, "As I was saying, I'm over a hundred years old. But my mind is pre-war."

Now that caught Danse's attention. His hand crept towards the packet of cigarettes as he said, "Pre-war? But...how?"

"Well," said Nick, dragging on his smoke, "before the war, there was a detective called Nick Valentine…"

And it all came out. A life that Danse could never have imagined...and never thought to ask about. The tale of Jenny and Eddie Winter, the nasty conclusion of the whole sordid affair, and the capture of the original Nick's memories...and where they had ended up, two hundred years later.

"Winter was always a scumbag," Nick said, glaring out distantly. "Inherited his gang from ol' Bossanova after she called it quits, and made for the top. But he did things differently. Bossanova kept her boys in check. Winter on the other hand...Winter was just a mad dog and his hounds had the taste for blood."

Nick stubbed his cigarette out on the desk. "Protection…" He pulled a disgusted face. "They offered him protection."

"But that doesn't make sense," Danse said, hanging on Nick's every word. The old detective looked weary. "I thought justice was done before the war. I thought the police kept everything under control."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, kid," Nick said, lighting up another cigarette, "but people were just as stupid and flawed back then as they are now. And the law were no exception. I saw corruption and laziness every day, and not all of it from the criminals. All we good cops could do was keep it in check." He sighed, staring around his makeshift office. "And in the end, what difference did it make? The world still ended."

"I think it mattered," said Danse, frowning. "Principles matter. If you hadn't done your job, the lives of the civilians under your care would have suffered."

Something flickered through Nick's face.

"Maybe," he said. He paused and then offered the cigarette packet to Danse.

Danse took one.

"Winter got what he deserved in the end," Nick said as Danse lit up. "He survived the bombs, became a ghoul...and Quinn helped me track him down."

"You got him?" Danse said, nearly dropping his cigarette in surprise. "Quinn never mentioned…"

"Would you have listened?" Nick replied.

Danse suddenly realised he had been looking at the detective for the last half an hour. The nausea returned, and he dropped his gaze back to his knees, dragging on his cigarette and then coughing.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"Quinn said you like pre-war things," Nick said after a while. "That you're a walking history book."

"Did she?" Danse coughed again. "She never seemed that interested when I tried to ask her about the old world."

"Probably a painful topic for her."

Danse had never thought of it that way, and a strong feeling of guilt hit him. When he had first met her, he had pestered her continually for information about the time before the bombs fell, and she had continually brushed him off. Why had it never occurred to him that Quinn might not want to talk about it?

"But she knows you like history," Nick continued, "and thankfully, she's not the only person who could tell you about pre-war life."

Slowly, Danse dragged his eyes up to meet Nick's yellow ones, and immediately felt his heart race. He took a few deep breaths through his nose and then said, "I've always wondered...what are the purpose of those chained bracelets that are in the police stations? Salvaged texts calls them handcuffs, but I've never fully understood their purpose."

"In short, they were designed to keep a prisoner's hands together to make them easier to control and to stop them hurting people. But that didn't always work. Some of the nastier crooks used to try and strangle us with them when they got free."

That did it. At once, Danse launched into a barrage of questions, while a slightly surprised—but also pleased—Nick answered each and every one of them. Danse learned about interview rooms and patrol cars, the proceedings in a court and the reason for giving witness statements.

"Was there anything that annoyed you about your job?" Danse asked, reeling from the information he was receiving, and yet desperate to know more.

"The coffee," Nick said without hesitation, his expression turning dark. "The stereotype of cops eating donuts is long dead, but back then, it existed for a reason." He leaned back in his chair. "The coffee in the station was always goddamn awful, and it was convenient just to go into the donut shops to grab a coffee to go...and a few donuts along the way."

Danse didn't know what a donut was, but it sounded like something that should go in the coffee. Maybe like sugar? He was about to ask Nick that very question when the detective suddenly began ranting.

"And don't even get me started on the mess people left in their patrol cars! I swear to God, grown men and they couldn't even pick up their own trash at the end of shift. The amount of time I had to throw out old coffee cups and donut bags before I took out a car was unbelievable. And then there were always one or two guys who couldn't help but hit on dames every day. Used to annoy the hell out of me, especially since some of those cops were married."

He tidied up the papers on his desk. "And then there were the times that were just...plain nasty. Times where I wondered whether I wanted to stay at all."

There was a pause, and then Nick sighed.

"This wasn't a job I went to...not until the clean up afterwards. But there was a cop...older guy. Good guy. Him and his partner...they went to a call in a house—a guy beating on his little girl. They get there, and he has her at knifepoint. Says he's gonna cut her throat if they don't leave. And Joey freezes. Wants to shoot the guy, but doesn't want to hit the girl. His partner, Frank, ain't so hesitant. Tries to grab the girl, and gets stabbed in the throat for his troubles."

Nick stared at his cigarette, watching the smoke slowly trail from its burning end.

"Joey said it all happened too fast. Frank went down...and the girl followed. Next thing Joey knows, the bastard is twitching on the floor full of holes, and Joey's gun is in his hands. But he said he never remembered taking it out."

Nick dragged on his cigarette, his hand shaking slightly. "I saw the scene afterwards. It was a goddamn mess."

"But…" Danse wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer, but he asked it anyway. "Did they survive?"

"No," replied Nick. "Joey tried to save Frank and the girl, but they died pretty quick. As for the guy…if someone had slowed the bleeding until backup arrived, he might have lived. But as Joey told me and the other detectives afterwards…"

Nick's face went hard.

"Joey forgot how to slow the bleeding. Which is too bad. He had to watch the scumbag die instead. Joey said he told the guy he could have asked his partner or the girl to help, if they weren't dead."

Nick stubbed his cigarette out and tossed it carelessly into the ashtray. "Really is too bad."

Danse stared at Nick for some time, speechless.

The detective glanced up at him. "I know you're thinking the guy should have been saved, or we should have arrested Joey for letting him die. I wondered that myself a few times, especially when Joey took early retirement. But I always came to the same conclusion, and I still come to it now. Some people don't deserve a second chance. And I don't regret letting Joey walk."

Nick lit another smoke and jammed it in his mouth, his arms folded against his chest as he puffed away, scowling.

"What was her name?" Danse asked.

"What?"

"Her name," Danse said again. "What was the girl's name?"

Nick looked at him and then gave a heavy sigh. "Poppy. Her name was Poppy."

He played with the lighter in his metallic hand, watching the sparks.

"You did the right thing," Danse said quietly.

Nick's cigarette fell straight out of his mouth.

The two synths looked at each other for a moment, and a small smile appeared on Nick's face. He reached out and picked up his cigarette, relighting and dragging on it again.

Danse watched him, and then said, "There must have been something you liked? Otherwise why stay?"

Nick's face softened. "Yeah. There were bad days, but...sometimes you'd just get a job that made it worth all the crap."

Danse waited.

Nick tapped his cigarette into an ashtray and then smiled. "I saw a lot of terrible things. Or the real Nick did. A lot of folk treatin' each other bad. But...hell, I dunno. Sometimes the bad brought out the best in people, too."

"Like what?"

"Well...back when I was new to the job, I went to my first death. Old guy. But his gal wasn't quite right in the head, and she ran to the neighbours for help. Dangerous at that time of night, in such a rough part of town. By the time we got there…" Nick tapped his fingers on the desk. "Those people looked after her like she was their own mother. Helped her contact her daughter, and kept her together while we filled out the paperwork. Sad business, but it showed me hard times bring out the good in people. I've never forgotten it."

"Was that your best case?"

Nick shook his head, and his smile broadened. "The best job I ever did wasn't a big thing or even a crime. A little boy went missing from just outside his home. Parents were near crazy with worry, the rest of the street losing their minds trying to find him, and us...chasing our tails, certain we have a kidnapping on our hands."

Danse's stomach went tight. Hadn't he just said it wasn't a crime?

But Nick carried on smiling. "After ten hours of frantic searching, terrified it was gonna be another Poppy...we found him. I found him."

"Where was he?" Danse asked.

"Nearby patch of woodland. Kid had wandered off where he wasn't supposed to and gotten lost. He was asleep in an old shack surrounded by toys and a suitcase full of colouring books. When I showed him my badge he asked if I was going to arrest him for leaving his street and started to cry."

Nick laughed, and after a couple of seconds, Danse joined in. He tried to drag from his cigarette and realised it had gone out. Nick leaned forward, lighter in hand.

"Thanks," said Danse, and Nick lit it for him.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, enjoying their cigarettes. Then Nick tapped his against the ashtray and said, "This job, though...before and after the war. The things the old Nick dealt with, and the things I've dealt with since...they stay with you for the rest of your life. You can either let it consume you, or let it shape you into a better man. I don't know if the real Nick Valentine ever found peace before he died. But I like to think that whatever happened to him, I did right by him." Nick paused. "And Jenny."

Danse studied him and then smiled. "I think you did."

Nick blinked in surprise, but before he could reply, his front door burst open.

"Doesn't anyone know how to open a door norma—"

"Danse!"

Quinn's shriek cut across Nick's grumbling, and she launched herself across the room, throwing herself into Danse's arms so hard she nearly knocked him out of his chair.

"What the hell is going on?" he heard Nick say while Danse tried to calm Quinn down.

"Brotherhood," said Piper, closing the door carefully behind her. "They're in town, Nick. And if they see him…" She nodded towards Danse.

"We've been looking everywhere for you!" Quinn babbled, clinging to Danse like she would never let go.

"I've been here for a while," Danse said softly, prying her away from him and touching her cheek. The way she got so worked up over his safety always shocked him. "I...changed my mind over talking to…" He stopped as tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Shall we leave you two alone for a bit?" Nick asked, standing up and dusting down his coat.

"No, Nick," Quinn said quickly, looking scared again. "They might hurt you too—"

"I've had a few years to get around the Brotherhood's tricks," Nick replied calmly, lighting up another cigarette. "But if those schmucks know I'm here, then this is the first place they'll look. You might be better off relocating to Piper's."

Danse felt a spike of anger at the way they were talking about his friends—his comrades—but before he could defend them, Quinn spoke.

"I don't want to risk taking him through the city."

Nick bent down and pulled out a small box from his desk, tossing it to Danse. Danse caught it and turned it over in his hands. It was a stealth boy.

"Either use that to leave, or use it to get to Piper's. Your choice." Nick sat back down behind his desk and shrugged. "I'm gonna stay here and weather the storm."

A/N: Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work!

Thanks to all the lovely reviews and supportive messages I got during my break. It was very much appreciated, thank you. And for those of you that missed it, I did a little update for 'Spuds.' ;)

And one final thank you to my friend, hokuto-ju-no-ken, for putting me in touch with a retired American police officer.

All the police stories included in this chapter are all based off real stories that I collected from this officer. For the story with the little girl and the officer who were stabbed to death, their real names were Butch and Daisy. The officer who gave me these stories was happy for their deaths and names to be shared. He said he was glad they weren't being forgotten.