Other 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐞 ; a writing vault

[miyabi]

DIVE ; a writing vault

Hello hello! In this thread is a bunch of my favorite posts, as well as a few random written works. Most will be character posts near and dear to my heart! (This may also be used as a writing sample thread).

DIRECTORY

> So Peaceful in the Country​

> In Dynastia ; Vic Ramirez​

>​

>​

 

[miyabi]

So Peaceful in the Country

Mama always said that the worst sinners were the ones that gossiped, went around talking about other people’s lives; not a care in the world for whether or not it would affect them. She said they’d get what was coming to them, be it big or small, but they’d get their comeuppance either way—it was only a matter of time. It started with the neighbor Harriet, a redhead in her forties with crows feet deep enough to mimic the ravine right up the street; she was a hag. The keyword: “was.” They’d found her deep in the trees, looked like she was praying, but her wrists were bound with twine, there was dried blood up on the bark, nobody knew how it got there: the old sheriff’s explanation was that she must have been running, slid her hands against it, but they looked too high up.

Then it was Old Man Gus, a poor thing—he wasn’t a gossip like Harriet, but he was a drunk. Said too many things, did too many things, hurt a lot of people in the process. He was found in the cemetery over his wife’s grave, he looked like he was praying too. Some said it was because he killed her and that he got it coming; there was no real evidence that he killed her, but whoever got him thought it was true. Micah couldn’t deny it, Micah thought it, but Mama said he shouldn’t think that way.

She was always a hypocrite.

Sheriff Wilson made the same announcement. It sounded a lot like Harriet’s: maybe he was trying to lessen the panic, but it didn’t help much. Soon enough people started locking their doors, shutting their windows, kids weren’t allowed to play after dark. That’s when people in town thought it was the end of it, less people going out after dark meant less people died. In fact, nobody did—it was foolish to let their guards down. People seemed more relaxed, started letting their kids play outside for longer, some forgot to lock their doors; there was peace, but it was only temporary.

Eunice was found in the river. She always read by it, on shore, against a few rocks and under a tree; Micah would join her sometimes. But the one time he didn’t, she went missing for days until she showed up again. And it was Micah that found the body while on the town’s search. She didn’t look human anymore, flesh slid off the bone, her eyes—there weren’t any anymore, only hollow sockets filled with sand. This was the worst one of them all—at least, he thought it was.

***

He first met Pastor Johnson when he stuck his finger in Aggie’s apple pie; this was the first interaction. Pastor Johnson was new, but people wanted to impress him—dressed their best for the first meeting; so when he stuck his finger into the pie, swished the syrup around in his mouth, there was a look of enlightenment in both Aggie and himself. Genuinely, he looked grateful—fooled everyone into thinking that it was for the meal, when it was something else.

Pastor Johnson showered himself in his own glorification, basked in the praise of the town as they mindlessly followed his word. Micah saw right through it, he ought to if he didn’t trust Johnson, but the others thought him crazy. The flame in his eyes, glistening, burning into the flesh of his followers, Pastor Johnson was no good man even behind the dazzling, toothy white smile. He often talked about resurrection, the sacrifice of man, believed himself to be above humanity; Pastor Johnson’s ramblings inched their way into the mind of the local church, an earwig that ate through logic and flesh. Commonality is what set him apart from the prior pastor who, coincidentally, died only a week before Pastor Johnson’s arrival.

The rest of the town convinced themselves it was a coincidence, but the inkling in Micah’s chest led otherwise—there was no prior knowledge of Pastor Johnson’s arrival, he’d only shown up but the people took him with open arm. It may have been the handsome charm, blinding townswomen at their request, protecting them from the cold hard truth; someway, somehow, these people were wrapped around his finger.

He hadn’t been in Carlisle long, only a months' time, but the month felt like an eternity—time seemed to have moved slower and the fog: it wrapped its fingers in between the alleyways of town, nails dug into the gravel and grass, covered the faces of town sinners. It was the 4th of July when the body showed up, fresh out of church and the body was by the outhouse; the people of the town huddled it, some there to take it in for their afternoon gossip, others because they couldn’t help but stick their nose in the business, some knew who he was. Bill—he was a drug addict, shot up more times than Micah could count, hell—Micah arrested him far too many times, and every time the guy still wouldn’t clean his act up. It was always lies, then the aggression, an occasional ball of spit that was (luckily) struck by the acrylic barrier between them in the cop car.

“Go on, get! Ain’t nothin’ to see here,” if one wasn’t aware of what happened, they ought to think it was a party—a social gathering of the congregation.

***

WOMAN FOUND UNDER CATSBOROUGH BRIDGE. The headline was there in bold print, staring back at him; this was the third time in four months.

“To be honest, Sheriff, I ain’t seen nothin’ ‘round here,” Micah met Pastor Johnson face to face, his own request; they sat across from each other, separated by cherry wood and a gun, an extra precaution. “Now, I know you ain’t like me since day one, but I think that gun ain’t necessary. Ain’t that right?” There was an air about him, something that struck as arrogance more than anything. He was right, Micah didn’t like him much, maybe had his biases—the gun made it evident, but he hid it under the veil of this being a part of the investigation.

Micah rose a brow, leaned back in his seat as a hand reached for the desk; fingers rose and fell, a motion reminiscent of playing a piano, hitting the invisible keys as he speaks, “Pastor Johnson, all I’m askin’ is if you’ve seen anythin’. I mean, you were the one that found Fallon’s body. What the—and pardon my French, Pastor—Hell were you doin’ down under Catsborough bridge so early in the mornin’.”

There was little hesitation, as if Johnson had been sitting on this excuse—-or it was a legitimate response, “gotta keep myself in good shape ‘round here, what with the food y’all bring to the congregation, Sheriff. I like to run.” A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, one that faltered the moment the door opened, beckoning for Micah and the arrival of a journalist. Pastor Johnson, now, looked distraught, as if to paint the image of a man scorned.

“Sedaris, big journalist here from outta town,” the deputy, slim figured and all, places a business card on the desk, “make sure you ain’t give too many details.”

 

[miyabi]

• .
• .
• .
• .

• 
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  how he's feeling...

  
  
  
  

  embarrassed? apologetic?
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  what he's wearing...

  
  
  
  

  clean, but ashy.

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  where he's at...

  
  
  
  

  private hall
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
• 
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  in the conversation...

  
  
  
  

  @robbie (bora) @malks (mentioned em) @StaidFoal (mentioned gloria); tl;dr vic went to group therapy, ran into someone and accidentally broke an urn--ran away in embarrassment, ran into bora (big body bitch)
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

vic

the chariot

On the second Friday of the month, Anaya brings her father’s ashes to group therapy; a curious thing she always did but Vic never mentioned it. Always early, Vic fills his paper cup with bad coffee, staring off into the faces of his peers with attempts to study their expressions: a skill he’d picked up, but was never quite good at developing. The atmosphere was often unnervingly quiet, another checkmark on the list of things he could never quite get used to; for a group therapy session, they weren’t quite open—even if they’d all been particularly familiar with each other. Anaya often reminisced in good memories of her father, a luxury Vic didn’t have, but he listened intently: either to live vicariously through her passionate praise or to fill the void of what should’ve been his familial relationships.

And she droned. On and on, she droned with little complaints or interruption.

Anaya must’ve thought it was more therapeutic than sharing with the whole group; all whose faces were painted in sorrow, grief, or the sullen thought of nothingness. He knew better than to put a boundary on someone else’s grief; a thought to live by and one he’d garnered after years of attendance.

“Dad, meet Vic. Vic, dad,” Anaya introduced her father, whose ashes were carefully tucked into an urn, for the hundredth time. Maybe it was how she coped, but one wouldn’t catch Vic passing on harsh judgment. People had their coping mechanisms; Anaya’s was just another in the pool.

In the mostly quiet room rang the equally as quiet droplets of water coming from a nearby faucet. One, two, three, four—shit. How many was that already?

He snapped back from wandering thoughts, subtly shaking himself awake and returning the grin Anaya had plastered on her cheeks, “oh, uh. Hi, Dad. Nice to meet you again.” And for a moment, he stood frozen. Upon further reflection, maybe it wasn’t great to play along—Anaya deserved better than to hang on (and maybe he should have also taken this piece of advice that had been peacefully tucked away behind pursed lips)—however, it pained him to see someone at such a stage. One that he, despite not experiencing much, understood completely.

Vic still had no idea how to interact; should he have taken it and shook its handle? Or would that have been insulting? The man pondered again, ducking his head sheepishly, chin tucked into his chest and neck craning forward; regular interaction always made him wary, especially this one. He made sure to tread cautiously—mindful of his actions, the words he used, how he carried himself.

Most would’ve found it unsettling to talk to a dead guy like that, especially one whose ashes came in a fragile marble vessel; he knew he’d get no response, but to see Anaya feel better about grief would’ve been enough. If only he’d apply that to himself. “I’m glad you’re here again. Gladys told me bringing dad’s ashes was fucking weird,” right. Gladys. A decrepit, bitter old woman who knew better than to get in someone else’s business, yet still chose to for the sake of knowing. Dark eyes shot to Gladys, her frail body leaned against the plastic table covered in linen, treats lining its surface as if to celebrate surviving another day of wanting to wallow in self-pity. Congratulations, you somehow managed to overcome your sadness for a few minutes: have a cookie, it’ll make things less painful. If only that were the truth, maybe then he’d be able to cope with the indescribable pain that had weighed down on him since birth.

“It’s disgusting! Young lady, you shouldn’t be carrying around dead things,” Gladys spoke between sips of stale coffee, eyes trembling yet harboring a strength he thought would’ve fleeted from her mind. Anaya looked down at the urn, Vic doing what he thought was the only thing to do: place a firm hand on her shoulder in reassurance. It worked, even when doubtful of his comforting ability, it worked. If only Gladys could’ve seen the product of her actions—as if that had even mattered.

***

This meeting was much like the last; Imogen, another young woman whose red hair cast like fire in the distance, held a tv remote in her hand, flipping mindlessly through channels with no goal in mind. Her intention was clear: that she wanted to fill the silence as much as any other person there.

Bodies formed in a circle: cold, metal chairs screeched with every little movement, showing resistance against the linoleum flooring. And in the middle was a space cleared especially for those willing to share. It was routine: someone stood there, vomited out the words at lightning speed, shared their sob stories, and everyone would clap to celebrate the bravery it took to even say anything. Vic, however, still wasn’t one of those people—wary of sharing his experiences. The last therapist he saw ran out, sobbing with their head in their hands, shouting about how he’d given them issues. Granted, he couldn’t blame them; his story was another tragedy yet to be unleashed, and he wasn’t ready to face it.

“You all were asked to bring something to share. Why don’t we go around in a circle, so everyone gets a turn?” Roger, a man in his late 40s whose blonde hair thinned at the top of his head, scanned the faces that surrounded him.

That’s when it settled in: that Vic had to share. Sure, he signed up for it, but he only did it out of courtesy.

Anaya shared her childhood stuffed animal whose memories were tethered with her late father; Imogen brought a lighter, saying something about it being her lover’s—the one who landed himself in jail; Gladys, as smug as ever, brought her favorite Chanel bag—the detail on it pristine as if she hadn’t used it in years. And that might have been the case, a widow like her didn’t leave the house much and Gladys always made it a point: that she had people to do things for her. But that must have led to her loneliness.

Down the list of people, there was a screeching halt. There was silence, eager eyes landing on him, awaiting his portion of show and tell. You got this, you can do it. Just stand up and share.

“Uh. Sorry, can I use the bathroom? I’m feeling sick,” he blew it. Out of the many chances, even with his self-directed pep talk, Vic couldn’t bring himself to reveal much. The man stood from the seat, pushing it back with his legs before he stammered another sentence. And without hesitation, he flees. He learned many things from these sessions: that he was much more of a coward than he’d initially thought; that loss could’ve been more than just losing a loved one—or multiple: you could lose your keys, your glasses, your favorite pair of shoes, anything with sentimental value and it would be just as devastating. Some people came to cope with parting with a childhood toy, others came to mourn, some came because they were forced to—something often suggested (though, it was heavily encouraged and forcibly run by) by other therapists that thought maybe it was a good idea to sit in a room with other people going through it.

He is, in essence, sadness shrouded in cluelessness; the feeling of loss with the pull of never being found; the weight of nothing and everything on concave chests.

***

Rushed footsteps followed behind him, a soft voice calling out from the empty corridor; Anaya’s familiar voice flickered in the air. He froze for only a moment, feeling her body collide with his—and the sound of something breaking. And dust—no, ashes.

Oh no. Oh god, no.

There was a silence, a deafening one, followed by the sound of crying. “Oh shit,” Vic managed to murmur under his breath, awkwardly patting at the ashes scattered on his jacket. How was he going to explain this to Em or Gloria? Oh yeah, some girl just ran into me and spilled her dad’s ashes everywhere—I even got some in my hair. Nice one. “Anaya, I am so sorry. Here lemme help clean that up—” his gesture was cut off by a swatting hand as he reached, tears falling from her eyes like a waterfall. She was a mess, he was a mess.

How do you recover from that?

You really can’t.

To make things worse, it looked like he was solely responsible for the events that had taken place in a matter of seconds. It was like a car crash, one you couldn’t take your eyes off of: and that’s exactly what people had done. Heads peeked into the hallway, watching the mess unfold as Anaya sobbed uncontrollably—an awkward Vic standing over her as the scenario set in. She refused his help, but leaving her alone to try to pick up the rest of the ashes that hadn’t landed on him seemed wrong. There was scrambling at his feet, small hands scooping up ashes and bits of the urn; the crunching of debris under his feet filled the air as he stepped back, inevitably making it worse with every move he’d made. There was no way she’d be able to forgive him after that and, additionally, no way he’d be able to show his face after this. But he had to and the thought made him almost tremble. Almost.

“Suddenly I have to—” In a flash, Vic hurriedly fled the scene, sure to cover his face painted red in embarrassment.

Heavy, metal doors flew open—the sound of his body slamming against it as he ran out in his chagrined rut—and rushed footsteps slammed against the damp pavement. The sun, much like earlier, was hidden behind thick clouds of fog; his suit, dampened by rain, further intertwined the threads with ash. A tug in the back of his mind urged him to turn around, and for a moment he considered it. Coming to an abrupt stop with the soles of his shoes slid on wet concrete; another part of him refused—he’d done enough damage as it was, maybe going back would be another punch in the gut. What made it worse? The tiny inkling that he’d done worse than what had actually ensued; yes, it was an accident, but in his mind the damage was irreversible; from carrying the ashes, literally, on his shoulders to running out and solidifying that case, he didn’t know how he’d look Anaya in the eyes again—nor did he know how he’d even show up to group therapy.

What was left of him, and the thoughts that countlessly bombarded his mind, was how late he’d be to the anniversary. Respectfully, while he hadn’t been particularly close or had any idea of how he felt—with the constant doubt of his own feelings—Vic still wanted to show up. Not only for himself and the reassurance that maybe he was, in fact, a functioning human being capable of emotion, but for the sake of others: they needed a shoulder to cry on if there was the case and he was willing to outreach it, if they get past the fact that he, in all of his 6’4” and expressionless stature, was covered in a questionable substance.

Scrambling. A lot of it, mixed with feelings unfamiliar—or was it the fact that he had no idea what it was? The most identifiable trait, if any, was the fact that his chest felt tight: he knew no meaning to this, even after countless hours of group therapy (most of which was him evaluating rather than participating).


***

Convenience came in different forms: from having a washer and dryer at home to having where you needed to be only a short few steps away. It was eerie, how group therapy had been snuggly tucked next to a private hall—one specifically holding the death anniversary of familiar faces. And as much as he shooed the thought away, it continued to seep in through the darkest of corners: the death of a beloved mother, his, a grandfather, and a father that—although he despised for the majority of his childhood—held memories that he wished to keep. To sift through the bad and hang onto the good, no matter how little, lent comfort or, at least, what he thought comfort was.

His continued swatting at the ashes hadn’t wavered, not once. Was it disrespectful to try to get them off? Now that he thought about it, it very well could have been: Anaya’s father, or what was left of him, met pavement, droplets of rain, and cool air—something that could’ve been avoided had he been a bit more careful. It was his fault or so that’s what the tug in his gut had told him.

Maybe he should keep the blazer as is, covered in burnt shards of human remains. And maybe he should return it to Anaya, she could salvage the pieces that were left behind. Or was that weird, too? Vic shook his head, running long, spidery fingers through his dampened hair with an exasperated exhale. Upon exploring his thoughts and the way they ran rampant despite his silent protest, he hadn’t been paying the most attention; he should have been. Dark, expressionless eyes met a tear-filled mess, one whose soft features bore similarities to a child; he'd almost mistaken her for one, had it not been for the subtle lines crunched between furrowed brows and ones placed on each side of her cheeks. And for a moment, he processed the quietly brewing emotions that, although he was unsure of what they were, were present with every passing of an excruciating second.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[miyabi]

scroll

ruby tazel

location

interactions

tags

She took her evening walk, ate something, pondered amongst the things that must be pondered; napped—dreamt something, too. But recovery is never quite that easy. In a world that bares its teeth, rips deep into your flesh, burns and breaks, to find asylum in herself is a form of disaster waiting to happen. No, Ruby wasn’t particularly broken—steadfast demeanor didn’t allow for that limit—but she was battered; the scars of yesterday not only decorated her skin, but the open wounds of the past’s horrors left a lasting impression. When bodies line floors surrounded by things that will eventually mean nothing, the memory is everlasting.

Come Hell or High Water, she has gone through the motions of it all: tedious paperwork, sleepless nights, the anxiety of a possible unfulfilled case—this woman is seasoned and bruised. It has taken some sort of toll, throwing her into a life that lacks unpredictability where time and time again, humanity is lost and the faults of others are to blame for the unrelenting and persevering danger of unthinkable hands.

And when she closes her eyes, what has replaced the girl that once was, is the figure of a woman tortured by the ruthlessness of man.

Horror should have buried her.

As painful as her job was, there was a sense of fulfillment that hit harder than her hobbies, loves, and interests—to say that she was proud was an understatement. Cases closed and solved, perpetrators in their rightful places as they rot away from the public formerly terrorized. There were bragging rights to this, and while it had given her body the insatiable urge to work and never sleep, she wouldn’t have traded it for the world even if it had seemed to betray her and the good people that walked it. Success fed her, cleaned the wounds but never stitched them; and while her walls were lined with rewards that leave a family proud, it does not fill the deep void that the universe has torn into her.

It was bittersweet. Life was bittersweet. Her youth had made its rounds trying to fill the void, but the woman now learned to live in it.

Coffee stained the outside of her cardboard cup, what was once stark and plain, had a personality of its own—lipstick marks at its rim alongside bitter liquid. Her hair, while it bore an expensive cut, was messily strewn about (no longer the neat, pinned style it was the night prior). And papers, ones perfectly perfect, others scrunched and balled up, found a home not only on her desk, but the carpet lining the ground with imprints of chairs and footsteps. The details of reports never wrote themselves, the hands behind them calloused and covered in papercuts, scrapes, and bruises—she was never careful enough, somehow slamming her hand in the file cabinet as her mind wandered.

Knock knock.

This was a series of noises all too familiar: an all-too-eager intern with too much time on their hands, Ruby’s admirer with no chance. Of course, she didn’t have the heart to tell the kid, as if she hadn’t already (they were stubborn, persistent). “Agent Tazel? Uh, they wanted me to give you this,” an encased envelope, one adorned with the word CONFIDENTIAL was outreached to her with shaky hands. The mundanity had come to a temporary halt, it was paperwork—yes—but paperwork for something new; a refreshing take on what should’ve been this whole time.

Hollywood was never kind; a city of dreams with little success rates for most. If you were lucky enough, maybe you’d find your big break, but that hope should never be held onto. Expecting disappointment is an everyday concept, Ruby lives by that, breathes it, chews it and spits it out—never take her advice when it comes to life. Some come to reflect light, others deflect and dim it, but Ruby isn’t good enough to do either; she cannot collect it, as light seems to seep between the spaces between her fingers, just beyond her reach. Some call it bad luck, she calls it life.

“Kid, you got grease stains on it,” almond shaped eyes paired with dark circles stare down at the brown envelope, a magnet to her hands as she reaches. And for a moment, eyes locked with the intern’s; no, it wasn’t a gaze of admiration from her, it was judgment as much as she’d hate to admit it. They hadn’t even done anything wrong, only handed her a thick parcel covered in what seemed to be the remnants of the lunch she never touched, leaving it to the devices of another.

Their brows furrowed, hand pulling to the nape of their neck as they itched—a nervous gesture they often did and a dead giveaway to Tazel. But she does not bask in it, only shoos them away as she tore into the document, only taking in the few words in the very beginning. There was no agreement, already having accepted the document without question, only acceptance in the task at hand.

Death lined Hollywood’s famous and she wouldn’t be able to solve it alone.

***​

Her car had come to a screeching halt, crooked parking with wheels over the lines, taking up two spaces rather than one. A dick move, one most would be vilified for, but there was no reason to think of it. Ruby had one thing on her mind, and that was getting her hands on a pack of cigarettes and an oversized Slushee from 7/11. Blue Raspberry, the only correct option. “Rubes! Welcome back!” A familiar voice, one deep and overly enthusiastic—a breath of fresh air—called out to her the moment the heavy doors pushed open.

Paolo was always like that; a man that seemed to be content with the world, his life had fallen into his own palms and he made his own choices, molding his fate—owning a 7/11 and thriving. She admired him for it, to live a life as happily as he without much trouble, was a life she wanted but knew she wouldn’t be able to get. Not with her line of work.

She smiled back, a genuine one—toothy and bright. “Pao! You already know what’s going on, baby,” her playful tone was one that often didn’t come out, but for him, she’d allow it. But god she’d rather drop dead than to speak to someone else in that manner, nobody else deserved it as much as him.

“Pack o’ Marlboro Reds?”

“You know me too damn well.”

“You know you’re ma’ favorite, Rubes,” he shuffled, placing the pack of cigarettes onto the counter as she sauntered to the Slushee machine, looking over the plethora of snacks that lined the aisles alongside off-brand household items. Amongst the aisles, however, was a man who didn’t look all the way there. Or rather, maybe completely there, lying in wait.

The machine clicked, filling the biggest cup she coup find with liquid blue gold; a sugar rush waiting to happen, but one worthwhile. And footsteps seemed to fill in the gaps between each splatter of slush; one, two, three—she shouldn't have been counting, but she did, a hunch that often lead to her being right. Something wasn't right: from the figure clad in baggy clothing, their head slightly tilted downward, as if to avoid cameras. And it wasn't because they were camera shy.

Running, that's what it was, followed by a series of shouts. And a gunshot. "Open the fucking register. Now!" The voice was deep with somewhat of a cower, but they tried their best to hide it, leaving Pao shaking in his spot—but the other seemed to forget, there was another person in the store. Or maybe, the fact that Ruby looked so darling, they figured she wouldn't hurt a fly. The thought was endearing and comical, but a laughing matter is what it wasn't supposed to be. With Pao staring down the barrel of a gun, the other specter shooting behind him, demanding money in the till that was barely full; all she wanted was a smoke and a slush, was that too much to ask for?

"And you! Get on the fucking floor. Now!" Fuck. Maybe they did notice her. Her hands were held up accompanied by a fake tremble; these situations were never ideal, but it wasn't like you can avoid the unpredictable.

Coins jangled with the opening of the register, only a few cents, loose bills, there wasn't as much as he'd anticipated—granted, this small shop wasn't very popular, basically held up by the individual regulars. "What the fuck is this? You got a safe?"

Pao's eyes locked with Ruby's, her body stuck to the floor and the realization that her gun was in her car hit her like a train; another less than ideal situation. No, Ruby wouldn't let this get in the way of her morning—the only thing she often looked forward to, and she'd be damned before she let another individual ruin it for her. Call it selfishness, but it was true—tired of having others tread on the days she planned to have gone better than it should’ve; the molder of her own chances.

Silent. She needed to be or else this person would siphon every last bit of money and life out of Pao.

An arm wrapping around the perpetrator’s neck, a series of gurgles and struggles: Ruby looked feral and rightfully so as Pao ducked behind the counter, pressing the silent alarm. “Get the fuck off me, you crazy bitch!” These words often never stung, and in this case they didn’t, but she pretended like they did; an excuse to hold on even longer, fight, do whatever she could in the meantime as backup was on their way.

***​

An echo of footsteps; usually, only empty spaces can create echoes, an implication of space—large, uninhabited, quiet. The halls weren’t barren, however, with bodies in and out—the constant sound of footsteps, arguments, the occasional sobbing in a space that was supposed to warrant safety—if that was still a thing. Crime scenes were never pretty, not even the ones with the prettiest people; there was often the smell of death that lingered, even in a space where there was so much clean up the scent of bleach would remain on your clothing for weeks, and this one was pungent. Sure, nobody died, but dammit they were close to it; they were lucky enough to make it out, but not lucky enough to escape.

A warning? No, the killer didn't seem like the type. Or were they? There was a whirlwind of thoughts, ones that were going too fast to comprehend; there was, however, one thing for certain, the risk of ruining even more of the crime scene with the amount of bodies intertwined.

There was a familiar voice, one she hadn't heard in years and didn't think she'd ever hear again; it was unwelcoming to say the least. "Tazel? What the Hell are you doing here?"

She flashed her badge right back at him, head tilted to the side with a grin, eyes sizing him up. "Sharma! God damn, you look like shit. I could ask you the same thing," the badge found its place back in her pocket, but the grin on her lips never faded. An interesting turn of events, the universe was solely responsible for it, as if toying with her knowing the foundation of their relationship had crumbled a long while ago. God, that made her sound ancient.

"You get a chance to take a look around? Maybe they missed something," perfectly manicured fingers gestured towards the general vicinity, a slight crouch in her stance as she went to inspect—dried up blood, some fresh on the side, remnants of ceramic vase in the mix. Whoever had done this certainly didn't care for being clean about it. Was it in anger? These attacks seemed to be fueled by some sort of hatred, maybe even jealousy, but further investigation should later reveal it. That is, if they were even able to get farther in the case; it was known that this case had many hands on it, passing it down left and right until the correct people got it. And she would make sure that they'd be the right people, even if Ruby detested working with this man.

♡coded by uxie♡