Thread: This Skin is Stained

So what am I working with tonight? Eh, usual shit. Fantastic, with a mild smirk and a droll voice to him. Hey, hey, could be worse. It's actually pretty light in there tonight, just a whore and a pair of kids whose mommies and daddies aren't bailing 'em out 'til morning. So no one violent tonight? That's a nice change. Yeah. Anyway, I gotta jet. Thanks again for covering for me. Just don't forget those tickets next Saturday. You know it. And like that he was alone, just him and the dregs of society. ...Well, no. That was cruel. It sounded like there were just a few misguided ones in the large, shared cell tonight. Thankfully the real douchebags were somewhere else. Tonight, the rapists and skinheads and pimps and dealers and what have you, they were off doing something else. Officer Daniel Jacobs waved to the other man as he left, a coworker whose second half of the shift he was covering for, something about his little girl had a recital or something real early in the morning. This made his eight hour shift a twelve, and had him spending those extra four watching the lockup. He waved the man off with two fingers of his free hand and a yawn in the other was a steaming coffee and underneath that arm was a clipboard. Turning, Officer Jacobs started down the hallway to the desk, grabbing the clipboard from underneath that arm to look over the basic information of his company for the next few hours. As he came to the desk the hallway opened up into a cold, somewhat filthy room. To the left was a desk with a computer and papers everywhere. To the right were bars that could hold a pretty good number of people, a long wooden bench on the wall and an open area to stand, or pace, if that were your preference. Just above the center of that long, a bit warped bench was a small window cracked open for air, with bars paced vertically along the inside. And on the far wall between the desk and the cell were a bunch of posters, things like D.A.R.E., phone numbers for supports groups, clinics, and so on. Some motivational shit too. At the end of the hallway, this room was technically a dead end though, if you didn't want it to, it didn't have to be. Bethany Thomas and Leonard Brugglia, Daniel read off the clipboard as he circled 'round the desk. His voice was half to himself and half not caring if they heard. Hell, if the two teens weren't curled up asleep on a corner of the bench he might've been louder just to scare some additional sense into 'em. It was three in the morning though, and he didn't want to be here any more than they did. Let the stupid bastards sleep. Seventeen and seventeen. Underage drinking at a party...everyone scattered like roaches when the cops arrived...yadda yadda... Not everyone can be so lucky, huh? His eyes scanned briefly over the report. It was the same old stuff, really. He wasn't even required to read it. If he was going to be stuck here for however many hours though, it was his preference to at least always have an idea of what he was stuck with . These characters had a tendency to be pretty sketchy, so you often needed to know how to handle someone if they were just some punk or a real piece'a shit. The officer leaned back in his chair. He hadn't cast the cell more than a quick glance yet. Rather, he took a long sip from the hot coffee before setting it down, then brought that hand up to flip to the next page in the clipboard. Yawning, covering his mouth with the back of that freed hand, and still speaking mostly to himself, but audible nonetheless, And here we h- A pause. He blinked. Once, twice, then narrowed his eyes hard at the name on the paper. The fatigue sobered in an instant. Daniel sat straight up, then leaned forward, one arm on the desk, eyes peering through the bars. Through the bars and to the woman he knew quite well. Only, not like this.