Crimson Ties

Sunday, October 13, 2024

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

BBPD

The BBPD was alive with its usual controlled chaos. Phones rang incessantly, their sharp tones slicing through the steady hum of conversation. Detectives leaned over desks piled high with case files, arguing over evidence or laughing darkly at some grim joke. Uniformed officers moved in and out, some escorting handcuffed suspects who either shuffled quietly or shouted obscenities that echoed down the hall.

The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and the lingering scent of stale paper, a combination that clung to the walls and floors of the precinct. Somewhere near the holding cells, a scuffle broke out—a suspect resisting, the clatter of boots on the tiled floor followed by a sharp bark of an officer's voice: "Knock it off!"

The bullpen was a mosaic of activity, every piece moving in its own rhythm but somehow fitting together. The whiteboards along the walls were filled with scribbled timelines and mugshots pinned in place with magnets. A faint crackle of static came from a nearby radio, dispatch updating units on a robbery a few blocks away.

Through it all, there was a kind of grim efficiency, the day unfolding just as it always did. Reports were typed up, arrests were processed, and the slow grind of justice trudged forward, one case at a time.

Vince sit back in his chair, the dull hum of the overhead lights filling the room. His desk was cluttered with scattered papers, old case files, and a cold cup of coffee that hadn't been touched in hours. His gaze fixed on the corner office where Captain Simon Burke worked, the blinds drawn just enough to obscure any clear view inside.

A heavy weight settled in his chest as he mulled over the possibility of investigating his own captain. The man had always been an enigma—stern, precise, a pillar of authority—but now, cracks were forming in the image. Simon's reaction to the kidnap case, the kleycard to the evidence room—it all nagged at him like a splinter he couldn't pull out.

But could he really do it? Investigate his superior? The idea felt like trying to tear down a fortress with bare hands. It wasn't just about the risk; it was the betrayal. If Simon was innocent, Vince would have destroyed whatever respect remained between them. And if he wasn't? That would mean the captain—the man meant to uphold the law—was tangled in the very filth Vince fought against every day.

His fingers drummed on the desk as his mind churned. Doubt clawed at him, whispering that he was stepping into dangerous waters, but the other part—the one that thrived on digging into the truth, no matter the cost—urged him forward.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, making his decision. He would do it. He'd watch. He'd wait. If there was something to find, he'd find it.

The next few hours became a blur of quiet observation. Vince made a mental log of Simon's habits, every move cataloged with precision:

7:15 a.m.: Arrived at the precinct, coffee in hand, always black, no sugar.

8:30 a.m.: Morning briefings with the upper brass—closed door, no interruptions.

10:00 a.m.: Regular meetings with detectives, mostly routine, but occasionally interrupted by phone calls that Simon always took in private.

12:15 p.m.: Lunch in his office. Never the breakroom. Door closed.

2:00 p.m.: A visit to the evidence room—once every couple of days. Seemed casual, but Vince noted the subtle tension in Simon's movements.

5:00 p.m.: Left the precinct, always punctual.

Days turned into nights, and Vince's notepad filled with scribbled details, cross-references, and theories that never quite fit together.

Then, finally, the break came. Late in the evening, well past the usual end of shift, Simon emerged from his office with his coat slung over one arm. Vince, watching from the corner of the bullpen, felt his pulse quicken.

The captain moved with purpose, his expression neutral but his pace brisk, as though he didn't want to linger. Vince's instincts flared—this wasn't a casual trip home. Something was up.

He stood, his hand brushing against the edge of his desk as he prepared to follow, every nerve in his body on edge. This was it—the moment he'd been waiting for.

The city of Bog Bay stretched and shifted like a living organism, pulsing with its own fragmented rhythms as Simon strode through its veins. Vince followed at a measured distance, hands tucked in his coat pockets, his eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hat.

The chase began innocently enough. Simon left BBPD on foot, his broad shoulders cutting through the bustling afternoon. He greeted nearly every officer or clerk he passed with a firm handshake, a warm smile, or a quick, steady pat on the back. To anyone watching, he looked like the epitome of a good leader, a captain in touch with his people.

Simon's steps led through the government district first—tidy streets lined with sterile buildings of gray stone and glass. Businesspeople in crisp suits rushed between meetings, their footsteps clicking on the clean sidewalks. A street vendor parked at a corner sold coffee and donuts, the air rich with the scent of roasted beans. Simon paused here briefly, exchanging pleasantries with the vendor as though they were old friends. The vendor chuckled at a joke Vince couldn't hear, clapping Simon on the arm as he handed over a steaming cup of coffee. Vince lingered far enough away not to be noticed, observing the effortless way Simon won people over.

From there, Simon veered toward the market district, the transition abrupt and vivid. The clean symmetry of the government sector gave way to a cacophony of colors and sounds. Stalls lined the cobblestone streets, their awnings a patchwork of bright reds, yellows, and blues. Vendors hawked their goods—fresh produce, handmade trinkets, and knockoff electronics—calling out to potential customers in voices that carried over the crowd. Simon slowed here, weaving through the throngs of shoppers.

He stopped to speak with an elderly woman selling apples from a wooden cart, her weathered face lighting up as Simon leaned in to listen attentively. He bought two apples, handed her a generous tip, and even took a moment to toss one to a nearby kid who was eyeing the fruit hungrily. Vince watched from the shadow of an alleyway, his stomach knotting with unease. Was this all an act, or was Simon genuinely this...human?

Simon continued, his pace casual, his path winding. Vince's patience stretched thin as they entered the industrial zone, the air here heavy with the smell of oil and burnt rubber. Factories loomed on either side, their windows fogged with grime, their exteriors rusting from decades of wear. Workers on their smoke breaks leaned against chain-link fences, chatting in low tones or staring into the distance. Simon exchanged nods with a few of them, even stopping to shake hands with a man whose face was streaked with soot.

The transition from the industrial zone to the poorer sections of Bog Bay was seamless, like stepping from one shade of gray into another, darker one. The streets narrowed, the buildings pressing in on either side as though the city itself were suffocating here. Broken streetlights flickered halfheartedly, casting uneven pools of light on cracked sidewalks. Kids played in the street, their laughter incongruous against the backdrop of peeling paint and boarded-up windows.

Simon didn't flinch as he entered this part of town. Instead, he seemed to move with purpose, his interactions even more frequent. He handed a few bills to a homeless man huddled near a trash bin, patted the head of a stray dog that trailed after him briefly, and shared a quiet word with a woman hanging laundry on a line stretched between two crumbling buildings.

Vince followed, his footsteps nearly silent despite the broken glass and debris that littered the ground. He couldn't shake the feeling that Simon knew he was being followed, that this entire journey through the city was deliberate. Vince had expected Simon to act cautiously, maybe even sneakily, but this? This wasn't what he'd anticipated.

As Simon wandered deeper into the poor zone, the air seemed heavier, a mix of mildew, faint smoke, and the persistent grit of neglect. Vince hung back, his footsteps quiet, eyes darting to the dim corners of the narrow streets. Ahead, Simon's tall figure paused at the sight of a small group of kids.

Three older boys loomed over a scrawny kid backed into the wall of a graffiti-stained alleyway, the laughter of the bullies sharp and cruel. Simon approached with steady, unhurried steps. His voice, low but firm, carried easily over the taunts.

"Alright, that's enough," he said, folding his arms.

The older boys froze, their bravado evaporating under Simon's gaze. He didn't raise his voice, didn't threaten them, but there was something in his presence that demanded compliance. The scrawny kid took the opportunity to slip away, casting Simon a grateful look before disappearing down the street. The bullies mumbled weak apologies before scattering, and Simon stood there for a moment, watching them retreat.

Then, he continued on, his pace calm but purposeful. Vince trailed him through the winding alleys until Simon stopped in front of a small, decrepit house. Its windows were fogged with grime, and the paint had long since peeled away, leaving the wood beneath exposed to the elements. Simon knocked twice and entered, the door creaking on rusted hinges.

Vince moved closer, taking cover behind an abandoned car parked nearby. He couldn't see inside; the curtains were drawn tight. All he could do was wait. Fifteen long minutes passed, each second stretching like an eternity. The occasional sound of muffled voices reached his ears, but he couldn't make out any words.

When Simon finally emerged, his expression was unreadable. He adjusted his coat, glanced briefly around the street, and then resumed walking, his steps leading him toward a skeletal construction site just a few blocks away. Vince clenched his fists, frustrated by the mystery of what had just transpired in that house, and resolved to come back later to investigate. For now, he continued to shadow the man.

The construction site was a mess of scaffolding, half-finished concrete walls, and tools abandoned for the night. Simon navigated the clutter with ease, weaving through beams and piles of rubble. Vince followed at a careful distance, sticking to the shadows.

Simon stopped abruptly in the middle of the site and looked around. His head tilted slightly as if listening for something. Satisfied that he was alone, he pulled out a battered old flip phone from his coat pocket. The sight of the outdated device struck Vince as odd—it seemed out of place for someone like Simon.

Simon dialed a number and held the phone to his ear. His voice was low but tense, the words carried clearly in the stillness of the night.

"I told you to be careful," Simon said, his tone sharper than Vince had heard before. "You're getting reckless. We can't afford mistakes right now."

There was a pause as the person on the other end responded. Simon's jaw tightened.

"No, I'm handling it. But I've been made. Someone's watching me. Don't do anything stupid. I'll—"

A sudden noise—metal clattering against concrete—cut through the conversation. Simon froze, his head snapping toward the source of the sound: Vince's hiding spot.

"Hold on," Simon muttered into the phone before snapping it shut with a sharp click.

He moved toward the noise, his steps careful but quick, his eyes scanning the darkened site. Vince pressed himself against the shadows, his breath steady but his pulse pounding.

Simon's footsteps drew closer. His hand hovered near his coat pocket, as if reaching for something—a weapon, maybe. Vince tensed, ready for whatever might come next.