WHAT DO YOU SEE?

–

surprise .     in the midst of fumbling with notes ,     mess of scribbled sheets ,     words of the unknown     he has yet to acquaint himself with ,     he stalls ,     incredulously ,     at the word ,     like she just acquired an audacity     to worsen disenchanting news ,     like his ankles are only standing     in the beginnings of the shallow shore     and he won’t have truly tested these waters     until he’s doused himself     up to the neck .     strange ,     since he already feels like he’s on his way     –     to drowning ,     upon enduring child’s play ,     with this mere feeling of first days ,     awkwardness prickling up his spine ,     the unclipped fingernails     of troublesome dread     tracing their way towards the nape of his neck ,     making first days more cumbersome than they have to be     –     for so little as a dry joke ,     he realizes  …     he realizes this and ,     when he does ,     he decides it’s best to just continue on ,     to not dwell on trivial matters     ( as much they pollute the bigger picture ) ,     especially not that of a passing quip ,     a thoughtless remark ,     now becoming only apart of the past tense . 

for once ,     finds relief in the fact that his head hangs low ,     knowing he can carry on ,     play it off like it was nothing ,     pretend he was fixed by something     so little as a meddling stain     or questionable item found astray     –     mimicking a mental iteration of ,     what are you doing here ?     for all these sorts of elements provoke the same question ,     don’t they ?     what is this doing here ?     what is she doing here ?

somehow ,     he gets so lost in thought     about it ,     he nearly forgets to hold the fort closed     against his stream of consciousness ,     against all his qualms ,     as they beg to bleed through the cracks .     and they find one ,     unconsciously allowing a     silent     shake of his head     as he goes about mindless tasks ,     like hauling out a binder ,    unaware to his own behavior     –     he’s more so focused     on refusing to look back at her     again .     instead ,     his back ,    gradually becoming bonded by cement ,     faces her ,     as if shoulders have eyes of their own ,     and they stare ,     knowing she’s sitting there     to not work ,     but watch .

characteristically ,     he hates the small talk     –     just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse ,     she lets herself continue on ,     perhaps out of courtesy ,     or genuine curiosity     –     does she truthfully care ?     for this ,     he stalls again ,     slowly ,     like a railroad train ,     interrupted by hindrance ,     not exactly mulling on the weight     of what can only be considered formalities ,     for she now stoops to the level of nothing significant     except a stranger ,     one he already knows all too well ,     one that perhaps knows just exactly how he’s been ,     or how he is ,     currently ,     as of right now .     

glancing up ,     he takes in the sun rays     that remain shining down ,     miserably sprucing up the flaws of this ill - willed sketch ,     seeping through the blinds     –     surely ,     not enough help to make light     of this situation  …     he acts     on the opportunity of a fruitless distraction ,     ignoring her question ,     stepping around the articles of clutter     and putting all of it between them ,     distancing himself away from her altogether ,     muttering ,     “ need some damn light in here  …  ”     under his breath ,    like words are only prompted by rhetoric     and these lifeless conversations ,      impending ,     will only be full of idle comments ,     musings spoken aloud     and directed and acknowledged by no one     but themselves .     “ i know they had you living out here for a while ,     but i didn’t know     they had you holed up in here     like a bat . ”

—

she’s seen him unravel a hundred times before. perhaps it should be welcomed as a privilege: while the rest of the world sees the personas he projects (not always controlled or skillfully crafted but contained still within the confines of a role — be it a cop, be it a defender of justice, be it the penitent sinner), she gets to see the cracks beneath it. maybe it’s a curse instead — watching spiders crawl out of the spaces in between his good will and his haunted mind, knowing some of them carry her name (and yet maybe that is too egoistical of her — to think she had a helping hand in what looks like his undoing in slow-motion, while she was, most likely, a temporary parenthesis of dull motion sickness for him). but the discomfort is unavoidable: she sees the ways he tries to rearrange the space around them as if that could somehow magically make room for the proverbial elephant in the middle of the office. the nervous tapping of her pen against the table stops: once again, she is enraptured by him.

but her gaze then drifts off, deciding that giving him the benefit of a form of privacy might be better than hovering around him, not happy with just being present in his space. eyes focused on an empty corner of the report on her desk: fixating on the 90 degree angle of white, a single portion of pristine cleanliness to convince herself things can still be salvaged. but his muttering is white noise that doesn’t quite induce any form of relaxation: broken static from an untuned radio, but the words sound familiar, the music is known — just forgotten, or distorted.

“listen, kaz —” the name rolls off her tongue in an unwanted mellow, gentle wave: it is not just a name, but a prayer, a call reminiscent of older times when three single letters could hold the weight of half a million questions their conscious languages couldn’t utter. she recognizes it still, her own tone: it belongs to another her, aimed at another him, uncalled for. caught red-handed in her own concern, cam retreats, holds her mouth open for a split second in recollection of what she was supposed to say, half-frozen: then concedes victory to her own remorse, lets out a sigh, pulls back.

“i can ask for another office, if you think it’s gonna be better”. tapping resumes but slower, weak-willed — her eyes are skilled in their avoidance, never truly lingering over any detail, or motion of his hands that might convince her he does not, in fact, detest her. it’s much better if he does: it’ll draw a neat, uncrossable line in between spaces that are now supposed to stay separate, if only for the sake of the case. 

letting out a sigh, camille leans back and smiles. it’s a just-for-show kind of smile, but it holds a certain sweetness to it: or an apology, perhaps. as if wanting him to know that it’s okay — she never expected him to stay more than a minute, anyway. “the captain doesn’t much like us, but he seems like a reasonable man. i saw a spare office by the evidence room, so —”

–

Noel could see clearly through Camille’s falsity. Maybe it was their eye in journalism, the one you needed to have when 90% of your job was people blatantly lying to you and then trying to write an article, piecing the pieces of the story – the puzzle – together, through everyone’s bullshit. Raising the glass of Yuengling to their lips, they sipped, placing the glass back down after several gulps – long, very necessary gulps, almost cautiously, not wanting to make any sudden noises in order to startle Camille’s fragility. 

“Yeah, definitely in the same boat. But I’d have it no other way, gotta be honest,” they smirked, a glance in her direction, eyes then settling against the counter. “I have no idea how I’d spend my days if it weren’t for work.” A pause. “Anyway, yeah, things are okay at the paper. People are going mental with this serial killer though, so no, definitely not calmer.” They took another few gulps of beer, hoping it would loosen them up. Noel could feel it, their energy, too…tight, constricting. They were quiet for a moment before curiosity (as usual) got the better of them. “How did this killer get their name? Do you know? I thought it was The Incandescent – reporters thinking it was some 1950s film noir gig. Did the name come from you guys over at the precinct?”

—

camille felt herself fraying, as if her own image was slipping out of its contours, dismantling against the mismatch between her mind and the appearance she so desperately wanted to give off. she wanted noel to look at her and think red ridge is in safe hands. she wanted to pretend she had it all together, her thoughts neatly organized in cardboard boxes in her mind, each carrying an unmistakable label: ‘evidence’, ‘speculations’, ‘theories’, ‘risks’. it was chaos instead, and finding the thread between her own thoughts was proving to be ninety percent of her entire work of deduction. camille sighed, letting herself find a strange comfort in silence; sipping slowly, she was half ready to excuse herself and head home, when noel’s question spark her up again.

a curious look resting over the other’s appearance for a long second. she wondered how much they knew about her father, the investigation that had come before these new murders. was this question a trap? was it a way to get her to talk about the life and death of jeff thomas, the heavy load of regret she’d inherited from him, when his own investigation had gone sideways? camille observed noel and found only genuine interest in their features. sighing, she took another gulp of her beer. “not the incandescent, no”, shaking her head lightly, she let her gaze drift down to the back of the counter, the far off liquor shelf, fixing her eyes over the half-stained label of a bottle of whiskey for lack of a better target. speaking, her voice colored itself with more life than before: hands moving to underline her words, talking with more confidence now. how peculiar, the comfort she found in speaking of this killer. “it was another newspaper, back in the day, with the other murders — the older ones. i think it was a psychologist that first used it, sent a tip to the newspaper saying the blood, the stains looked a lot like rorschach cards. they liked it, i guess, got the papers sold. it just sort of stuck around from that”.

“Well, not exactly bad for everyone,” Morgan said. “I don’t want to be that morbid but I work at the funeral house and let’s just say that there has been a lot of work there lately so I call that a blessing, even if it is as the cost or other’s.” It was true, since this killed showed up, they had to put up with more people coming to the funeral home. Death was a business and even when some people could find it too rude to speak about it, she had bills to pay. It was an unusual job, but if she could do it, she was not going to give up now and her services were one of the bests. There was always a family who needed them and she was there to provide whatever comfort they could find after a loss. She knew the pain very well so there was no need to fake that sympathy. 

“It’s alright,” Morgan said. “Yes, you can feel in the air that there’s something going on and not just because of the killings. Maybe it’s the stars or the planets, affecting us, you know?” she paused to take a sip of her drink. “I don’t believe in the zodiac or Cosmo magazines to tell me about my future but there is something or someone who moves the strings of fate and some of the shit that happens is beyong our control”. She remembered her aunts and couldn’t help but smile. One of them knew how to read tarot cards and some people who knew her would ask for a reading but she did not believe in that to go an ask for one herself. 

—

wary eyes followed morgan’s features as she let out a truth that was certainly objectively acceptable, but camille resented. muscles clenching, she felt a heating unpleasantness gather in her bones, in her face, right beneath her skin. it flared up, this cynical outlook on their dire situation suddenly offending her far more than the situation itself. perhaps because it responded to a part of her that was just as cynical: seeing not the victims but the body count. seeing not the killings but a chance to further her knowledge, eventually bridging the gap between her and the murderer so thoroughly that she’d be able to foresee their moves. but it was a part of her she couldn’t give a voice to, a part of her that, on good days, she wished could be suffocated. she turned away from morgan, realizing that letting out her sudden anger at her words would bring nothing if not unpleasantness. she’d much rather move along and pretend nothing had been said, no harsh reality had been revealed. “yeah”, she muttered, sipping at her glass. “that’s one way to look at it”.

and yet the notion of fate was somehow a comforting one. not one she believed in, but she could see the appeal of it. if it was fate pulling the strings around them all like pawns in a twisted game of chess, then all of this would have a purpose, and the only problem would be that all her studies still wouldn’t let her in on the secret meaning of all of it. the corners of her mouth pulled up in the vaguest hint of a childish smile. “that’d be a nice thought. that all of this is happening for a reason, and not just ‘cause —” her hand moved to suggest a concept, a reason she couldn’t grasp, as her voice trailed off. shit, she wanted to say, though her mother’s voice still warned her every time she got close to a curse word. camille sighed again, then downed the rest of her drink. “i don’t think there’s any meaning in this, honestly. we like to pretend we’re safe, that we’re... morally solid, uncorruptable characters. but the human nature is inherently corrupt, we just... we’re just caught off guard when it comes out, and wrack our brains trying to figure out why. but there’s no reason. it’s just the way it is.”

It seemed they both had enough running in the background, he just nodded at her question. Her ex-whatever they wanted to call it, he had remembered something between the two and it seemed it ended as poorly as he feared. “How are you handling that?” He enjoyed Kaz, they could be friends and he hoped they may be. But, he had only seen on side, not the same as her.

“It isn’t. But, I feel between the three of us we have a chance at something. Catching his guy or at least save this town from anymore horrors,” it sounded poetic and he hated himself for it. At her words he sighed, “Closer to the diner- it’s a cute little house.” Picking up his coffee again, “I have a few bottles that must be drank so I may replenish, it’d be an honor to have you join me. Door will always be open,” he touched her shoulder before looking toward the door, “As a word to the wise it seems that we may have some dirty cops in the ranks. Just be mindful of who we are speaking to.”

“yeah, i’m... not handling that”. her chuckle was nervous, a simple decoy to hide the weight she felt dragging her down, always deeper than the last time. at times it felt like drowning in slow motion, and yet fast enough that she couldn’t get her hands out to ask for help. at times it felt, instead, that it was just the consequence of getting to the bottom of things. gaze drifting off to the coffee (somewhere low, as if even her eyes couldn’t bear the weight anymore), camille excused herself with a smile as she reached for the pot and poured herself a cup (the second, already). 

his words were registered, processed and met without surprise. she’d suspected that (she’d suspect it of every single precinct she stepped in, and the bureau too, far too used to blurring the lines between right and wrong in favor of a treat). it felt like they were all trying to fight mountains. camille didn’t share eli’s quiet optimism, although she felt her outlook was too bleak, too desperate to be any objective. she did her best to keep herself quiet, sipping slowly instead, while thoughts swarmed around her brain and she struggled to make sense of them. then, in the end, as if she’d needed time to mull over her own words, her gaze met him again. “i’m just here for the profiling. i’m barely speaking to anyone, and they’re barely speaking to me. either way it seems this town’s got more going on than just a killer, so —” it was ironic, for how bright and warm red ridge was, how bleak it could get, how ominous and dark. she’d barely been able to see this as a kid, but it was blatant now: it felt like filth was crawling beneath her fingernails every day. camille sighed. “i don’t know, eli. i wish i had your optimism”.

he’s merely a backing ,     sent to hold support     to the epicenter of affairs ,     outside of the menace     that conjures this weighty storm     among them .     a wall ,     built with the skews of vague trust ,     but nevertheless ,     a sense of determination ,     for front lines ought to be barricaded     against the eyeline of petty omens ,     kept far and away ,     distinct from the depths     of very hurricane     that’ll either keep their feet above the ground     or help them flourish  …     despite being as complicated as can be ,     he still went in blindfolded ,     with eagerness resembling of a kid sent out into freedom     for what feels like the very first time ,     not aware to misconceptions ,     overlookings ,     alluring tantalizations that are only worth provoking disappointment     for him     in ultimatum . 

among a formal welcome ,     he thinks he misheard her name ,     until he realizes     ears aren’t the ones at the disadvantage here ,     for sights ,     as they are soon set in singularity ,     make him blink ,     blink until he’s ready to accept that she is     in fact     there ,     not meant to be whisked away ,     not there to disappear ,     like a dream ,      or a figment of a high .     naturally ,     he is awe - ridden ,     but the likes of such     an expression     are guided with leeway ,     in the shadows of east ,     and how the sun still has yet to shine west . 

when he treads ,  gravitates ,   closer ,     his mouth goes slack ,     and suddenly ,     he thinks ,     maybe this wall will need more mold ,     for without it ,     perhaps the bricks will topple over ,     faster than he anticipated ,     for blonde hair frames a face he used to know ,     but doesn’t seem to take the time to change .

perhaps there is something in her eyes ,     something much sadder than he remembers ,     yearning to wear her down ,     but alas ,     youth ,     visible in the day     shining from the windows ,     beams like brush strokes ,     painting her out with some kind of halo ,     filling in the cracks .    “ hey  …  ”     he stops     when he comes across clear surface     ( whatever appears to be a desk ) ,     nearly forgetting the weight     of ball and chain ,     the only thing keeping him from turning on his heel     and ,  quite frankly ,      walking out .     

he drops the bag from his shoulder     with the intent to unpack     feeding reason to do anything besides gawk .     except ,     while he remains only feet away ,     he still can’t help     looking up ,     again and again ,     meeting her eyes ,     confirming she’ll be the distraction     she’s now destined to be .     “ what’re the odds ,  huh ? ”     it’s difficult to know what he truly thinks .     when tensions run high ,     he simply doesn’t speak ,     but sticks foot in his mouth .     thus ,     small ,  mindless mumbles  …      “ i wish they would’ve mentioned it to me . ”     somewhere ,     a god must be smirking ,     already knowing the answer when they ask ,     what exactly ?

—

ah. there he is. his resentment is as gentle as he looks — not the hailstorm she imagined, in some biblical fashion of a punishment, her the discarded sinner begging for forgiveness in the midst of a plague. it is as quiet as vapor instead, a fume just softly radiating off of him, undetected, unscented, yet it carries the disease she herself has instilled: she imagines it like tendrils, soft ink-like arms reaching out to fill the empty spaces. funny, how everyone she loves ends up looking like ink after a while.

i wish they would’ve mentioned it to me. the sentence isn’t met with the kind of question a part of her (a childish, demanding part of her — an illogical, damning part of her) would want to oppose. there is the seed of a protest blooming at his words: why would they have mentioned it? she’d been caught just as unaware, but she was the one cornered at the end of the office, imagining escape routes that she still wouldn’t find the courage to run.

but his face holds shades she believed she could’ve forgotten (how stupid), and though he looks older (and it looks like the color has been bleached out of him, like the very face before her could not match even the dullest smile offered for the sake of a friendly get-together, back then, a hundred years ago) — he looks the same, somehow. a land once flourishing now barren, but the signs are still there — a hint of moss signals life, a shade of red says he recognizes her still.

“yeah. who would’ve thought. well — surprise.” small talk is a grinding, tiresome curse, and it comes with the weight of all the things she should be saying but can’t remember, her script forgotten, her roles mixed up. is she the villain now? is this shapeless downpour of a feeling (something resembling light, the scent of coffee mixed with cinnamon: she thinks of the word home, but it quickly falls down and crumbles, the memory itself succumbing to the wearing of three years that have, somehow, defeated time and turned themselves in centuries) — is it supposed to be replaced by hatred, off-handed cruelty, a casual anger that might taint a dynamic still expected to be somewhat professional?

she’d look at him when things fell out of place. when the meaning was lost, when her vision got frayed and the fragments didn’t match one another — she’d look for him for a thread, a way through the labyrinth, and if getting out was too far out an option, they’d still somehow manage to find a place in the middle. now she looks and he is not looking back: she’s made a home of this labyrinth she’s exiled herself in.

her gaze drops then, finds an excuse for distraction in the tip of her pen, fingertip tapping it lightly, wishing for something sharp instead. silence is a loud, thundering noise: it beats against her ears, pulsing in her veins, and sometimes it echoes the words he never said, still somehow she longs for. conversation was easy once, raw matter to be shaped by kindred, albeit shadowy, minds: now she’s forgotten their language, the codes they’d encrypted for one another, and small talk, it seems, is the only way to get a message through. her eyes return upon him, wary now before she utters her question: “so, uh. how’ve you been?”

–

Camille’s behavior was odd. It had always been odd, since they’d met but particularly around cases, murders, the most. Noel had never been curious enough – curious, of course – they’d always been generally curious, hence their chosen career, but not enough to pry into Camille’s life, the way her mind existed. Noel couldn’t quite grasp her. It’s like they’d read into her, almost figure her out, all her quirks and thoughts rising to the forefront in her expressions and then – nothing, gone, as if what Noel had just witnessed Camille going through internally (an unraveling, maybe) had never happened.

Noel’s furrowed brow and stern gaze watched as Camille struggled with her words, like fighting to pull on a sweater that was ten times smaller. They were quiet a few seconds after Cam’s latter question before speaking, “don’t you live here? Aren’t you a fed?” Noel breathed a quiet laugh before taking a few gulps of their beer. “I mean the mood is, I don’t know, unsettled? Everyone thinks this little girl went missing cause of Rorschach but there’s nothing to indicate that it was – yet. I don’t really know anything, just started on my report. I just figured you’d know something, considering if it’s Rorschach, it’s what you’re working on, right?” Noel paused, slight concern painting their features, “Anyway, how’ve you…been?”

—

     camille could feel noel’s gaze over her, and wondered if this is how animals felt at the zoo. having to justify themselves for their illogical behaviors, for the way they needed to howl and toss and bite. losing herself was second nature to her — she’d slip in and out of monstrous minds, in and out of existence, in and out of her own conscience. she suddenly felt naked, exposed: did she have to justify her own mind? would dissecting it serve any purpose here, if not to make noel run away in utter fear? deep down, somehow, camille enjoyed their company. found a strange kind of comfort in knowing there was a kindred spirit of sorts she could discuss these matters with: someone who wouldn’t run. yet — sure it would’ve been much harder to keep them around, if she didn’t learn how to stop for a second.

“i’m okay”. her lie was blatant, performed with a poster kind of smile, albeit fleeting and quickly eclipsed by the sorrowful, apologetic look she cast on the counter. her fingernail tracing the mark of an old scratch, she kept her gaze returning to noel in discreet, quick glances. “working a lot. clearly. but you’re probably in the same boat”. a quick smirk, then camille turned to took yet another long, thirsty sip of her beer. “how are things at the paper? calmer than the precinct, i hope ——”

“If you need a break, then go for it,” Morgan said. “We’re only humans, there’s only so much we can take.” In her free days she could sleep until middday, even more, skipping breakfast and lunch until one of her aunts or even her twin would show up with some food. They told her that she worked too much, but Morgan did not trust anyone else to run the funeral home the way she did. “Even I sometimes want to give up, but I remind myself that there are others who are worse than me, in every way.”

The topic of death had been present since she was born and would probably be like that until she ended six feet under. Her dad, god rest his soul, always thought that her brother would take over the funeral home, but he showed no interest, specially after they passed, so Morgan took the reins and made sure families had a proper place to say goodbye to their loved one the same way they did. Maybe that’s what inspired her to look for a good team and make sure all had the oportunites, but it was a huge contrast with what she did for the Valencia. “Maybe you just need to actually take a break, let your brain discard thoughts that are no good and you’ll see things in another light.” 

human. the word lingered, half-drowned in the murky water of her thoughts, barely afloat, barely even a word. she felt the human in her slip out of her every day — a constant downpour, in spite of all her efforts to reel it back in. camille raised her gaze to rest on morgan for a second too long, and her brain inevitably began drawing comparisons: there’s that red shade on her cheekbones, that is the sign of a healthy human being. there’s a gleam in her eyes, that is the sign of a passion. there is an upright line along her back, that is the sign of strength. camille projected her gaze inward, and found no match for the fundamental qualities she suspected a human being had to possess. perhaps that was the point. perhaps all that was left of human of her was the memory of who she could’ve been (never was).

she felt a sigh, the mournful kind, echo through her own vocal cords, and suppressed it quickly, leaning over the counter, no trace of amusement about her as she turned to the glass the way a sinner would to holy communion. “yeah, maybe you’re right”, a half mutter once the glass was set down again. a glance shot towards morgan, apologetic smile glimmering rapidly and just as quickly disappearing. “it just feels kind of mythological right now, you know? a break. might as well call it neverland, or narnia. think i’d have a better chance of having a cartoon piano fall over my head and just —”. a sharp line drawn with her hand in front of her neck, a ‘tsk noise’ to accompany the comical gesture. then, quickly, as if to make up for the sudden morbid nature of their conversation, camille chuckled. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to get so depressing. i do appreciate your advice, it’s just — not a good time for anyone around town, i guess”.

    perhaps this had to be expected. funny, how she hadn’t been able to spot the clues ‘til now; a life deducing patterns, but this one had eluded her ‘til the very end. seemed red ridge had the taste of a reckoning, now: each step was tripping over the tense thread of a memory, each breath carrying revelations somehow she couldn’t translate. she’d woken up that morning feeling the pressure of gloomy, pregnant clouds against her head — not an indistinct feeling, more the echo of an awareness, a word stuck on the tip of her tongue. it all made sense, eventually, at the front desk. they sent another one, and no name was required to be attached to the news. somehow, she knew. it just made sense that it would be him. 

    not for anything like fate, a twisted game by an unruly god. it was simply the haunted house-like mechanism she’d found herself walking through. she’d first experienced horror in the shape of a blood splatter on a newspaper headline. then it had been loss, coming back home to find a ghost on the chair where her mother used to be. the logical next chapter would be guilt — and as she sat at her desk, camille pictured the second kaz would enter the very same office, wondering what words would flash over his features, unsaid, yet as sharp as they ever were. perhaps he’d run away in disgust. perhaps he’d have the courage she currently lacked, to turn around and kindly refuse this losing hand they’d both been dealt.

    he still caught her off guard. minutes had passed, long enough for her to slide back in her files, eyebrows furrowed and the look of someone who’s drowning gently, no interest in lifelines of any sort. her head snapped back up once a silhouette could be spotted, darkening the only door — her mind rushing to draw a summary of his sight (he looked older, that was a given. he looked more tired than she’d ever seen him. he looked spent, like parts of him had been scattered somewhere. he looked the way she remembered him), but the words, those were stuck in her throat. she tried to smile. tried to do anything that could hint at life still flowing through her veins. a useless, weak attempt: camille swallowed, and all that came after was the middle ground between a grimace and a sorrowful smile. and all the greetings she should’ve been pouring, the words that would’ve surely met anyone else’s arrival, all of those fell apart. all that remained was a half breath — a sucking noise, and what tried to sound like a single word: “ —— hey. ”

Her smile was greatly welcomed, most of the cops in the building barely gave him the time of day now. He felt like some of them disagreed with the feds stepping in to track the monster terrorizing the town, a battle they’d all fight til the guy or whoever was in cuffs. But for now he’d take the small win, a familiar face that he could simply enjoy being around while surrounded by chaos. “I just got in, been moving things in and slowly reading some files- must have just been around weird hours.” He was perpetually a night owl and it brought him to work often at unconventional hours, “They liked that I knew some people in town I guess, it’s been a strange reunion,” he admitted bluntly with a shrug, Amara was quite the wrench in his emotions. 

Her shift and refusal to hold eye-contact made him frown, “Something happen?” Eli felt like he was out of the loop of all the towns happenings still and his head titled in concern, “I’ve been alright, started to ask around town for what people know, seemed no one really wants to talk about it or don’t like the badge. So, feels like an uphill battle.” Crime was rampant in the town so everyone was good at keep their mouths shut, didn’t help when people were disappearing at an alarming rate. “but- I would like to have you over for wine, I ended up just leasing a place out here,” months in a shit hotel didn’t sound good and he wanted a kitchen. 

—

camille heard the uneasy note in his words, something signaling the transition in town hadn’t been as easy as he made it out to be. she knew one or two things about it, if anything: but wouldn’t dare comment out loud, wouldn’t dare give the ghosts in her mind even more strength — more power over the apparent placid calm of her demeanor. she let her smile linger on her lips instead, even though it faltered just enough for a good profiler to notice. “weird, yeah — that’s one way to put it. you know kaz is here too, right?” the sigh that followed, well — that was inevitable. the same way her crossed arms were, as if something had been let out and it suddenly needed to be protected: her chest, the (still) beating life in her heart. 

his concerns were not news to her. being back in red ridge had felt less like coming home and more like going through a test — the pressure piled up, white hot against her temples, and at times it felt like every single glance from a passer by or a patron in a bar might have ripped holes in her armor. “yeah. i know. it’s — not a vacation, that’s for sure”. the smile, clouded by the weight of just about everything that was going on, returned to his next words. still timid, perhaps too polite, but appreciative, genuine. “yeah, i’d like that. i do need a break. you could —” come over. the sudden image of her mother, vacant-eyed and staring out at ghosts dawned back to her. cam sighed. “— forget it, i’m still renting out a room at the motel. where’s this new place of yours?”.

–

They could sense it. They could sense Camille’s struggle – though they couldn’t pin point exactly what it was she was struggling with. To be honest, Noel didn’t necessarily try hard in relationships, if they did, it was because they cared but those they cared for could be counted on one hand. Not only that, but their inability to actually carry on a proper conversation without it ending up awkward made it so relationships were hard to come by, let alone be developed.

“It was nothing serious but The Incandescent wants a report on it if they want me to keep working on this Rorschach case. I only just rode passed it on my bike.” They reached for the Yuengling, taking several quick gulps before continuing. “Something about this kid that had gone missing. A 14-yr old girl. Hear of it?”

—

yeah, she’d heard of it. her involvement with the case, it seemed, was either too much or not enough. the thought of the victims (or suspected ones) had the power to destroy her, to rip apart the delicate texture of her mind, tear her at the seams: so she’d learned to block them out, focus herself on the chase for the wolf rather than red riding hood. but at times it became one more layer screening her from the reality of things — detaching her. and she could sense her deficiency, her unforgivable lack. noel wasn’t one to judge, or at least she didn’t suspect them as such — yet camille felt as if she had to justify herself somehow, if only for the sake of apologizing. i’m sorry, she almost wanted to say, there is a fault in my code.

but she didn’t. instead she sipped her beer silently, cautious glances peering over her present company, and once noel spole, camille let her glass down, placing both palms against the bar top as if that could somehow ground her thoughts and help her gain a trail of thought she’d lost long before. “yeah. we — uh, they’ve been looking for her”. such a pathetic excuse of a line. camille let out a sigh, then turned once again towards noel, on her face a look of cautious hesitation, perhaps even fear. “what’s the mood around town? i haven’t... really been around. i mean, i can imagine —”. a pause. camille laughed nervously, drank again. “i don’t know, noel. i know it’s a nightmare. it just feels like we’re grasping at straws here, constantly. and i know people are pissed, i just —” a single, exhausted sigh. camille rubbed a hand over her face, letting her head then rest against the palm of her hand. tiredly, she gazed over to noel, as if somehow they could provide an answer to the million questions raging through her mind. “please, tell me you have some magical insight that will spark an epiphany and suddenly make me solve this case. please”.

starter for: @empiricst​ (cam)

It was almost bitter sweet coming back to Red Ridge, he had missed how familiar it was and friends he had left behind when he departed. but, things had changed he was seeing his city in a different light, murders and gangs- not the bright and beautiful city he use to admire. He couldn’t really afford to weigh himself down with those thoughts, he had a job to do and it seemed he wasn’t the only agent assigned to the case. Names of the other agents hadn’t been passed along yet, he wondered if he would know them or if they were new graduates. Running a casual hand through his hair he was starting to refill his coffee, steps behind him caught his attention. 

“Kinda cold,’ he commented assuming it was the assistant or something, the footsteps were more delicate than a man’s. Adding some sugar he turned to see who he had address, “Cam?” his eyebrows knitted in confusion but he set the coffee aside, “They said they were sending another agent-” closing the space between them he pulled her into a hug. Hugging her firmly before he stepped back he grinned, “How have you been?” his hands remained on her shoulders a moment while he smiled at her. A fellow agent was an understatement, but he was happy with the turn of events. 

—

 for once, at least, there was some decently good news. things had been tense at best since her arrival in red ridge (put together an unsettled town, a maniac on the loose, a disgruntled captain, that good dose of mistrusting the feds and, if that wasn’t enough, kaz’s presence — mix them all together, enjoy your molotov cocktail). news of a new profiler joining the investigation had been welcome with a surprised ‘oh’ on her part, as she stepped into the precinct; she had her coffee in hand already, but had still imagined whoever the newcomer was, they’d stop by the break room — the tiny, claustrophobic office that had been assigned to the profilers was hardly any place to get acquainted with the rest of the force.

    yet the second she recognized eli’s figure she realized she should’ve known from the start. a smile of genuine appreciation lit up her face (a rare occurrence, that such bright pleasantness should clear the clouds of her usually focused, yet somehow detached demeanor). “hey!”, camille returned the hug with sincere affection, hands staying over the sides of his shoulders as she then pulled away. “i didn’t know you were here. i knew there was someone else from the bureau on the case, i should’ve known it was you”. a twist of luck, wasn’t it? that all three of them would meet again in a place like this. the question then clouded her smile, her gaze drifting down to the floor for a second, before returning to him loaded with nervous embarrassment. “yeah, i’ve been good. just — working, and stuff. what about you? how long have you been in town?”

Death was something Jenny Mann knew well. Decay was natural, natural in the way predators hunt prey or the simple circle of life. Most days, she’s a ghost. A deadly thing roaming the streets that have now turned an uneasy shade of crimson red. Red, blood, the copper smell blanketing the air that reminds Jenny of when she used to aggressively peel and bite the skin of her lips, causing blood to ooze from them. Her mouth was always coppery.

A heathen. That’s what her father used to say. You’re a heathen, Jenny. Those were his last words to her before she took her siblings and fled. It used to bother her. She’d often lie awake and picture his face while staring blankly at the ceiling. Then his voice would ring through her mind louder than the ambulance sirens just outside her little bedroom window. You’re a heathen, Jenny. Now she didn’t care as much.

So fucking what? Is what she wanted to say then. She didn’t. Now she only says it to the mirror, makeshift reenactment to fuel lackluster closure.

Blonde hair comes into view as Jenny steps into the bar. An all too familiar blonde, one Jenny loves to tease. A heathen. The woman plops down onto the stool beside her, a cheeky smile gracing her expression, “Tough day in the field?” She questions, obviously being sarcastic. Though a part of her was truly curious. Jenny leans a little closer, brown eyes peering downwards towards the napkin before Camille. For a moment, Jenny reminisces about the day they met. Or, the day Camille attempted to bust her. Nobody’s had the chops before, Jenny will give her that. Other than that, Jenny Mann was a phantom. “I believe in artistic expression but that looks like shit, Camille.”

ah, yes — the proverbial other shoe. if t there was any way her day could’ve gotten less bearable, surely jenny mann had to do with that. there was something in her camille couldn’t pinpoint and that unnerved her. the way you can sense some sort of danger crawling along your skin, but no way to trace its source. there is something in jenny, that much she’s sure of. something she maybe recognizes: a sort of liquid pool of dark ink, a stain perhaps — a cut along the fabric right where the stuffing of a human is supposed to stay put. maybe something un-human instead. either way, it is something she can recognize: like a smell between animals, it echoes back in the parts of her that both own her, and she wishes she could cut out of her own flesh. perhaps the reason why jenny mann so unnerves her it’s just that. part of her senses they are one and the same.

but it is a feeling easily concealed, although the same can’t be said for her annoyance. camille places a hand over the scribble, suddenly needing to protect those vision from jenny’s prying eyes, and keeps her own gaze focused on the back of the bar, refusing the acknowledgment of the other on her side. “hi, jenny”, each sillable spelled out with caustic annoyance, while she holds her glass up and refuels whatever stock of alcohol will make this encounter shorter. when she finally turns to look at the other, her lips curl in amusement, an eyebrow perked up: a hint of mischievous curiosity painting her features, but it’s mostly for show. “you’re an art critic, too?”, camille muses, a sing-song tone of voice as she tilts her head. “which one of your fake ids does that identity go with?”

Morgan snorted. “Yes, my job is to put them in the ground, and I do that beautifuly, but I know that some of them want to speak for the last time before the go to whatever it is that they have to go, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, who knows?” Her aunts claimed that the funeral home was haunted and they had some strange activity like pencils falling or things that were in a place suddenly appeared in other, but she had learned to live it it and sometimes her team liked to prank each other. 

Looking at the table where the laughs were coming out, she rolled her eyes. “We need some laughter after so many days and so many funerals. I mean, we do provide a good service and people think we are gloomy so I decided to give them a few hours for them to share as a team. It won’t be long before we recieve a call, Lady Death never rests,” Morgan took a sip of her drink and stared at her. “What about you? You said you had a hell of a day so maybe sharing about it can change your perspective?” 

—

a strange look of curiosity engaged camille, peering over the brunette in half amazement, wondering if there was seriousness to her words. definitely something she would’ve liked to explore, though the notion of the dead unresting somehow managed to irk her, too — the one comfort, in her line of work, is that the bodies they discovered could find solace in never remembering what had befallen them. still, she chose to let it slide, not engage the conversation further down a path that could’ve turned the night, if not gloomy, at least unsettling for both of them.

not that it had any other path to run along. if life had a color, the kind one would find themselves living in red ridge was becoming inky black — it seemed death was just everyone’s favorite talking piece, lately. camille offered a smirk at morgan’s words, but it was faint, quickly replaced by hesitation at the next question. she teetered around an answer, twirling the glass in her hands, head tilted as if it could somehow rattle words out of her. “i guess both our professions are being tested, these days”, another smirk, then she generously downed half of her drink, letting out a sigh as the glass thudded back against the counter. “don’t know. it’s just been a long couple of weeks. i could use a break, but —”. arms raised, her lie was badly concealed: she could’ve gotten a break. she simply didn’t want it.

“Oh,” Noel laughed – small, quiet, barely a sound – for a moment, they were confused at what it was Camille found rude, then realized (thanks to their horrible social ineptness) that it had been about her appearance. “Oops,” smirking, a bit of discomfort in their lowered gaze, they reached for the beer the bartender had placed in front of them. Thanking him, they took a couple of sips before finding Cam’s attention again.

“Yeah, I never stop. I mean, I should, probably, but…life’s work is called life’s work for a reason, right?” They took another few gulps, hoping the alcohol would wash down the…awkwardness that was Noel Acero. “It’s just a few questions I plan on asking a couple of people. Did you hear about the protest that went on last week? It took place right outside of here, actually.”

—

ah. there came that feeling — maybe not quite guilt, but close to it. the awareness that there is a thread she isn’t holding on to. the awareness that she is slipping. she has no idea what they’re talking about. she has no idea what happened. she keeps her mind soaked in the case, and barely ever remembers about the world outside of it. at times she needs to remind herself a murder implies a killer and a victim: seems it’s far too easier for her to wrap her mind around the former, rather than tend to the latter.

“no, i —” a sudden shift in her mood, a sigh leaves her lips and she looks apologetic, perhaps even ashamed. an inquisitive look thrown in noel’s direction, wanting badly to peek at their notes but sensing there was a lesson, at least, she had missed. camille grabbed her beer and took a gulp of it, letting the rim linger over her lower lip as she tried to find an excuse (she had none). “i haven’t. i’ve been too focused on work, i have — no idea what’s going on. what happened?”

Hearing a familiar voice, Noel, who had already been jotting down a few questions to ask patrons that night, turned to find a familiar blonde heading towards them. Noel couldn’t quite place Camille. She wasn’t a friend per se (those were hard to come by – Noel had the unfortunate habit of giving people single, very thin chances and their sensitivity made it so that if it was butchered in any way, they wanted nothing more to do with said person) – but she wasn’t just another fed either.

“I guess,” Noel smirked at her question, brown hues trailing over to watch the bartender pour another Yuengling. “So,” they glanced at Camille again before continuing to write down their questions. “did you just get out of work or?” – 3. what was going through your mind when you witnessed the protest last week? – Noel looked up at her, the scribbling of their pen coming to a pause, “judging by your appearance, I’d say you had a hell of a day.”

—

a certain kind of tension, it seemed, would always accompany their meetings. perhaps there was an unspoken law of nature that required journalists and law enforcement to be natural born enemies — like coyotes and roadrunners. camille was aware of noel’s occupation and the risks it entailed, especially when she had to measure her words each time conversation veered too close to the edge of her case. and yet: it was exactly the case that mostly represented the core of the excitement that came from conversation with noel. as if perhaps she’d found a likeminded spirit to bounce ideas off; it was just her luck that it should also be the one person she couldn’t disclose everything to.

“wow. uncalled for”, camille joked, a vague trace of a playful smile crossing her lips as she sighed, letting her arms crossed against the bar top. “though not untruthful, i guess”. a shrug. “long day at work, you know how it goes”. she could see the notepad before the other, sudden interest painting camille’s features, though she wouldn’t try to peek into it unless invited to. “you haven’t gotten off work yet, it seems”, she merely commented, an index pointing at the pages as she accepted the drink from the bartender’s hands and thanked him silently. “what’ve you got there?”