@losthacketteer asked: 🃏 !
tarot starters || accepting
the moon: in many ways the moon card encompasses the idea of the wild unknown. it is the shadow realm, the place where dreams, fears, and mysteries are born. much darkness can linger here, and if you aren’t careful, this can lead to periods of anxiety and self-doubt... almost as though you’ve lost your way in a house of mirrors. many great artists have roamed this inner landscape. it’s where imagination and creativity drift freely upon the midnight air.
Miles didn’t know what he appreciated less: the bump-in-the-night shit he had to track down and attempt to domesticate for a so-called living, or cops. Campfire ghost stories and a couple of missing hikers -- that he could handle, usually with more compassion and understanding than he’d afford to anyone with a badge.
The Sherriff of Northkill wasn’t exactly the friendly type. In his past life as a reporter, Miles gained plenty of experience interviewing prickly people, stuffed shirts and crooked corporate sharks who lied through their teeth. He knew which way to poke and prod, to squeeze out whatever drop of a story he could glean even if it meant pissing off his interview subjects in the process. Which it usually did. Sherriff Hackett -- nepotism much? -- offered little more than a half-sneer of dismissal to all of Miles’ questions, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was better off hitting the road.
Naturally, that only provided motivation for him to stick around.
Circling back to the station at nightfall seemed like the best way to do a little digging undisturbed. The Sherriff’s cold dismissal didn’t sit well with Miles -- creepy fucker knew something. So he waited until the lights were out and the moon was cresting before making his way inside, locks and outdated security cameras a meaningless deterrent to the nanites settled under his skin. He’d only just started picking through an old filing cabinet and eyeing an equally ancient looking computer terminal when he heard it -- an inhuman snarl and a short, sharp scream.
“Sherriff Asshole didn’t mention he had guests,” Miles muttered to himself, pushing away from the desk and trying to gauge from the noise if that problem was about to become his problem. Even though nothing came immediately charging out of the darkness at him, his shoulders remained tensed as he set out to do what came naturally -- investigate. “Fuck, the small towns are always full of so much bullshit.”
