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everyone blease welcome Theophania Bailey
 or, as my friend typoed- 'The panic'

which will actually be her reaction to Many things

>TWC Book 1, Chapter 3

The red light on the kettle blinks at me like a heartbeat—a weak one. I lean down towards it, peering at the white plastic shell of the machine.

pannie, winding up for another hit
rebecca: do Not

[A rewrite of Ava's introduction description. Masc height butch Ava reigns supreme in this playthru.]

Second-tallest of the group, at six foot one, du Mortain has broad shoulders and a heavy, athletic build, not even a little disguised by a fitting grey t-shirt and dark combat pants. Her pale, creamy skin barely has a tan or flush to it at all, and her dark blonde hair is only just visible, cropped close to her head. Everything about her screams soldier, including her stiff, upright posture, and emotionless face. And with a striking, Roman nose and square, distinct features, she is heartstoppingly attractive. And as her icy green gaze flicks back to mine, I flinch- thinking my heart has stopped. I'm stuck staring like a slackjawed idiot, until we both look away.

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Smokin' though she may be, there's only so much openly lecherous staring I can keep up when it's this bloody cold. I'm in the middle of weighing up getting a nip from the flask in my back pocket, and if I can do so without her noticing, when she asks-

"Tell me- ...Detective." Oh boy. "How did someone so... young... become a detective so quickly?"

I snort. Pretty obvious she means 'inexperienced', or maybe 'unprofessional'. "Reele was retiring." I don't particularly like that my voice has grown sullen, but the whole allure of being a detective and not having to wear a uniform anymore has thoroughly worn off, around-about the time of the first murder. "Captain and Mayor needed someone to warm the seat." I could bitch on about the rush of that decision- of the circumstances of Katie's sudden need for retirement after her conduct at the last Christmas lighting. About the lack of training to even try to avoid. Most I learnt in 'shadowing' Reele was her extra secret booze stash, and that she doesn't notice if you reheat her coffee in the microwave instead of making it fresh. ...still kinda regret doing that. Some things feel too sad to get away with.

"You are-"

"And Tina didn't want it. Don't blame her now- she's always been smarter'n me." I heave a sigh, watching the billowing breath frosting in the air. Morgan smokes, so maybe du Mortain won't mind if I light up. Might keep the cold at bay.

"...you are far more competent than many detectives I've met."

"Then either you're sucking up to Rebecca, or I feel very sorry for you." I don't think my smile is a particularly pleasant one, from the expression on du Mortain's face. Weirdly, though, it seems to draw more serious than I think I've seen her direct towards me before. "What."

"Nat was correct. For how out of your depth you must feel-" Ooh, bite that tongue, try for once not to shove your foot in alongside it- "You have at the very least tried. Many in your position fail to do even that."

If only that were enough.

I don't like that thought, so I try something new.

"Hey, I love the verbal ass-pats, don't get me wrong," I reply, with a wide grin. "If we move to a more physical kind, I can say I'm a lot more competent in that department-"

I only stop because her expression shifts. And not in a way that I'd expected. I'd seen the arched eyebrow. The 'you're really doing this', undermined by that interesting flicker, quickly hidden back under the emotionless mask. But in the middle of the flushed thought of if she'd keep that same emotionless mask on while plowing me over the desk she's already half ruined-

[Then, after Farah interrupts...]

Fuck absolutely everything and everyone. I'm trying not to scowl at Farah, more because it seems as though du Mortain is doing the same- is she seriously actually interested? This would be a terrible idea. An awful idea. I'd be down, obviously, there's no issue for me, but someone like her surely would- god, Jesus fuck her scarf smells good- I realise they're both turning their attention back to me, and I stop basically huffing the rich, heady scent of the terrifyingly attractive brick shithouse who almost certainly doesn't wear perfume or cologne, that's just actually what she smells like-

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gooood morning pannie

[Off to the hospital...]

It's almost when I've managed to tune out most of the irritating chorus when Dr Creep finds the right file, somewhere in a mountain of others. "Ah, here we are."

"Thanks," I mutter, taking it quickly, keen to get out of this place. A quick glance over them as I turn- last time I had to retrieve files, I'd come back with the wrong ones, and I do not want a repeat visit- and I head for the door.

"Oh- look out-" I don't even see what it is he's trying to warn me about. As I'm trying to figure it out, his effort to 'help' apparently involves tripping into me- and he's a lot heavier than I'd have expected. I'm sent sprawling against the counter by the door, and ow fuck-

Turns out slamming your hands down to catch yourself isn't as effective when there's a tray of beakers in the way. Turns out beakers are a lot more fragile than they look, especially when you have your bodyweight being slammed through your palms, and the moron's weight against my back makes it hard to use my knees to shove myself in the other direction.

"Gh-k-" At least I don't shriek. Surprise is one thing, pain is easier to handle. Even if fuck it hurts. "Ah-hh- ff-fuck." I see a hand plant on the table either side of me, as the fucking deadweight manages to get some control of himself. For a second, I can feel his breath, hot on my ear- exhaling a gasp before suddenly inhaling.

It may have been a while since I last got laid. Maybe it's been, like, nearly a year. But some things are incredibly fucking obvious. I know what it feels like, when someone is smelling you- when they could very well move away, but don't want to- not quite yet-

"Oh my- I'm so sorry, Detective," he apologises, and he's almost got the contriteness believable. It'd work better if he wasn't pinning me to the fucking table, pretending to still need to gasp his surprise.

"Get off me." Oh good. We didn't squeak. We sounded angry. Maybe du Mortain's rubbing off, those snarls she keeps trying to hide finally giving me an example to aspire to.

"Of course." And now there's air at my back. Cold hospital air-conditioning, cooling my neck, not quite managing to erase the feeling of his words in my ear.

Fuck, that's a lot of blood. Anger is good. We're going to use anger. Don't want to be getting woozy, passing out around this motherfucker. The hard part is going to be not dropping Verda's files in the process of stemming the flood.

"Here, let me-"

"Back the fuck up," I growl. I lift my arm so I can grab the sleeve of my hoodie with my teeth, yanking it up so I can grab a thick roll of fabric in my injured hand. My stomach makes a queasy flip with the jolt of agony as the pressure is applied. By the time my nausea settles-

...a hanky. He's standing close again- I can feel him behind me, not touching, but almost- and he's holding out a crisp little handkerchief, with two little criss-crossed lines of red embroidery.

I don't look at him. Fucker's probably got a stiffy by now, and I am out. I'm glad the door handle is one I can shove down with my balled-up fist. I don't slow down. Not even when my lungs are burning. Not until I'm in the car, and the doors are locked.

I hate this fucking job.

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[Bobby bugs Pannie...]

"Get the fuck out."

"Oh, come now, angel-"

My elbow clips the computer monitor as I shove myself off the desk to my feet- the whiskey sloshes in my glass, and my palm burns as enough slips under the bandage with the movement. "Fuck-" I barely don't drop the glass. I turn, drop it on the desk, where it narrowly avoids spilling there- something I'm only faintly aware of, as most of my attention is on pressing my hand against my chest. Like pressure would help. Just hurts different, on top of the sting.

"Pannie-?" Oh, don't sound concerned. I can't trust a word out of her fucking mouth.

"Get out," I repeat. I want to keep her back to her, but I hear her stepping forwards and if I feel her too close to my back I'm probably going to break her nose.

Bobby looks startled, when I see her face. Her eyes are on my hand. Only just realising I'm hurt, I guess. Wish I had my hoodie on still, but Verda had insisted I take it off. Only clean shirt I'd had in my locker was technically a thermal I'd stolen from Tina last winter, and the sleeves are too short to pull down over the bandage. I drop my arm, shove my hand in my pocket.

"...I-" Bobby's about to say something that's bait towards her next trap, when we both hear the clatter.

"Nope." I scoop up the glass, grimace at the spill, and down the rest of it. I can basically hear the disapproval, and I meet du Mortain's frown with a blank stare. "I'm off shift."

"You are at work."

"I was leaving- when I heard you all breaking in." But I put the whiskey back in the cupboard. I leave Bobby's glass alone. I'll break it in the alleyway tomorrow or something.

[And the reveal... it was the killer at the hospital...]

"Home," I snarl. I'm getting good at snarls today. It helps when it hurts your throat, makes your voice rough to start with for the next one.

Ava looks- well, like a brick wall. But I figure she's probably disapproving. About to call me out on my dereliction of duty or something. Nevermind her whole 'withholding information'.

"Don't worry- you can all go arrest him yourselves!" I offer, turning to flash a grin at the rest of them. None of them look like they know what the fuck to even do. Farah is eyeing me warily from her chair- gaze flicking over my shoulder at her leader. Nat looks like she's trying to work out how to fix this, smooth over everyone's sharp edges and make us all play nice. Morgan is lighting a cigarette, and I'm not taking the time to figure out what her closed off expression means.

"Detective-" Nat steps forwards-

"No, seriously. You guys can take the collar. I do not fucking care." Morgan snorts. "That's what you're here for, yeah?"

Nat is coming closer, and I don't like it, and I step back as she joins Ava. They're both in the doorway. In my way. "Good thing, too, considering how fucking incompetent I am."

"This is not a slight on your abilities-"

"We can't arrest him-"

Both blockades speak at the same time, and then look at each other.

"It's not that we don't want to," Farah offers, standing from her slouched position in the chair. "It's just-"

"We have orders."

"...what?" No way this is just from one glass of whiskey. They really aren't making any damn sense at all. Is this what having a stroke is like? Whatever. "Fucking- forget it."

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