Realistic or Modern 𝚃𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

[.V1LLAINISM._]

miyabi OuO​

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

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The Officer

A. Sharma

Mood

miserable & shook

outfit

outfit

location

THE Hollywood

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They say that all pain can become poetry. That all misery can, with the right brushstrokes, transcend the likes of beauty itself. But he is not art. He is made of sharp edges and rigid layers; twisted from bullets and shrapnel. He is the clay before the mold, standing on the debris of a man that once was.

~<O>~


There’d been better days than this. Days where the sun shone blindingly, where the children played in the grass. When all was at as it should be. Don’t get him wrong, those days were far and few, but he’d be a fool to take even one for granted. And though today was not unlike any other, not a rotten egg in the basket of life, it felt- dare he say, off. Quiet per usual, bleak as always but still, there remained a fragment of sinistry in the air, inexplicable no matter how hard he pondered and pondered.
Something was abrew…
-BEEP BEEP-
The radio rattled, jarring him in surprise. The suddenness itself nearly yanked the coffee right out of his hand, droplets of Colombian brew raining onto his shabby jacket, hardly giving him enough time to blot them away before the dark liquid stained.

“Shit. Fuck. Shit-fu-“

“Officer Sharma? Do you copy?

Now, If there was one thing he’d learned from all his years honouring the badge, it was that people, civilians like you and I were incredibly, painfully, atrociously, stupid.

“Officer Sharma, the kid got stuck again”

Including children.

“Y’sure we can’t just leave him up there?”

His response was gruff, curt, only half-joking as it rasped through the tiny gadget. Crackling through every syllable. The damn thing was nearly as worn as he was, exhausted from the many years of use. Sure his attachments were sparse, but when Officer Sharma loved, he loved hard. Hell, even the car he sat in was outdated, the oldest model known to man, croaking against the road and engine sputtering, close to drawing its last breaths. It hardly even made it through his dayly patrols, and in many ways, they were the same.
The seats were sunken in, like the flesh of his cheeks, turned hollow with age. The paint on the bumpers was chipping, like the tan of his skin, greying under greedy fluorescent lights. But still, he refused to replace them, refused to change. He’d work the poor thing until he could no more, just as he would himself.

The voice on the other end of the line snorted, though he couldn’t tell whether in support or reprimand. He hoped for the former.
“Just get him home will you? Oh and boss wants to see you in his office when you get back.”

Well that was never a good sign.
Officer Sharma hummed a reply, mind elsewhere as he wove through the streets of this miserable, sleepy town. If you’d told him about a place like this ten years ago he would’ve scoffed, called you insane (or something much worse) for even mentioning it. But things change, dreams die, and off he was to go yank a kid out of a tree… For the tenth time this week.
Gotta love law enforcement.

~<O>~

“Sharma you’re the best we have-“

“No.”

“You met the president for Pete’s sake!-“

“I said I’m not going to do it.” His tone was forceful, lethal.

“Ali c’mon…” The older man begged, expression so soft that it was almost reminiscent of a puppy. Only, more ancient and slightly disconcerting. Regardless, In many ways Chief McClinton was a friend to him, shocking as it was. The very first to welcome him into this foggy old town, to take him under his wing after such traumatic happenings, to not ask him too many questions. He liked that about him y’know, liked how he minded his own business until he was needed, wanted. The people around here could learn a thing or two.
“I’ll even give you a bonus!”

“It’s not about the money Jeff,” he sighed, splayed like a bag of flour against the chair, hands, calloused and rough, resting against his temple.
“What if I can’t do it? It’s been years since.. since.”
They both fell quiet.

“Listen,” Jeff began with a sigh, glasses dangling in one hand as he rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes with the other. It seemed that Sharma wasn’t the only tired bastard here.
“I’m not asking you to go in alone, you’ll have everything you need, you’ll even have backup.”
He sat forward in his chair, a sympathetic look across his face.
“You don’t belong here Ali, we both know it. You deserve to go out there again, just give it a chance.”

~<O>~

Sometimes, grown-ups do things for no particular reason, and that’s all there is to it. Like buying a new car or leaving home to go protect a bunch of stupid A-listers. Point is, Officer Sharma himself didn’t understand why he agreed to it. It wasn’t any of the incentives, no, he was quite comfortable in his sad shack living off of frozen dinners and beer thank you very much. But a part of him- and it was a very large part- couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe Chief McClinton was right. He didn’t belong here. In fact he hadn’t been belonged for what? Four? Five years? Ever since he’d stepped foot in this place it was like a bargain: you give some and you take some. But every year the price increased, became more and more expensive, a bit more personal. And soon enough he was left a rotting corpse pawning away fragments of his soul, in hopes of finding peace once and for all.

But when he first heard about the case, when he first glossed over its files, it was as if something just.. clicked. The dying flame was suddenly ablaze, burning brighter than ever, his disposition a little less glum because of it. Hell, he even smiled (well if you could even call it a smile) at some kids on his way back and he never did that!
And now he was packing, messily, hungrily chasing after the next chapter of his life. It was about time, he’d decided, to be himself again, to do what he loved. It’s what she would’ve wanted. All his clothes, all his belongings were thrown into a suitcase, except for one. The telephone. He looked at it for a long time, reflecting beyond the simple, innocent object. For it was what it contained that really mattered.

“-Hey Ali, mere bhai, I’m just calling to check in since uh, you haven’t been responding to any of my messages. I uh, well the kids miss you. Shreya’s been dying to tell you about her tooth and Hassan is, well, you know how he is, ever since he learned to walk he’s been all over the place, little rascal. And Umma.. Well Umma’s been stable and all but she’s been.. Asking for you. Just call back soon okay? We’re worried about you-”

And scene.
Ali exhaled a sigh, hands woven into the back of his scalp as he paced, fairing internal wars. He reached for the phone and then backed away, and then reached again.
The line was dead silent, ringing in painfully slow intervals, stirring a certain dread in his belly. He loved his brother yes, of course he did. But they were all grown up now. Well, at least one of them was.
“Hello…?”
No answer. The officer cursed at the damn receiver before clicking it shut, like a child threatening to throw a tantrum in a grocery store. It was better to fix one thing at a time anyways so off he went, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving not a trace of human life behind.
The telephone rang.

~<O>~

Officer Sharma never quite understood the appeal to glamour, to stardom. Always too modest, too humble, even when he wasn’t. For his youth was more or less a practiced tasteful, as wild as it could get considering his immigrant parents (which, now that he looked back, was very little). And as he got older, his disdain and complaints only grew louder and louder, voiced solely to himself: whatever happened to good television?
You could only imagine his thoughts on Hollywood, the sin cities and the limelight, he sounded about twice his age whenever some starry-eyed dimwit tried to convert him on such matters. “Bunch of obnoxious bastards” he’d remark, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, waving a hand of dismissal. And to think, he used to dream of becoming one them.
But now, as he sets foot in the alleged crime scene, he’s thankful that he was never quite good enough.

A suite befit for a king, one he could only dream of affording, had since become a backsplash of a Shakespearean tragedy. A lampshade strung over here, a shattered vase over there and a team of bustling forensic agents scurrying around like ants, swabbing the place clean of DNA. Like muscle memory each of them were transfixed in their own state, rarely straying from their tasks and consequently walking into him a few times, as if he didn’t even exist. The officer scowled. What were they? Blind? But despite everything being such a hot pile of garbage, there was a bright side after all. The victim(s) were still alive, the only two within this series of gruesome attacks. Back in the office they’d called it the Hollywood Massacre™ due to the misfortune of some of the most beloved stars dying in an array, a sort of timeline almost. Left breathless and bloodied shortly after the promise of a leading role. The worst part of this? They had no leads. Sure, a few suspects, witnesses and possible unsubs but nothing checked out, nothing was concrete. Nope. Nada.
He sighed. There was a lot of work to be done here, work he hadn’t done in years and it felt like he’d just thrown himself straight into the deep end. Though he did remember McClinton saying something about backup…

A flash of a badge and Officer Sharma stood up straight, ready to make a professional, friendly appro- what the fuck?
“Tazel? The hell are you doing here?”
Was it too late to turn back now?​

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[miyabi]

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ruby tazel

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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♡