Half baked in the AM {OPEN}

[Hunter O'Neil]

Sometimes, it just didn’t pay to get out of bed in the morning.

And it was even worse for a guy, if he was determined to keep a sunny disposition around his head. Yeesh. The world was just a friggin crazy place.

“What do ya have for me, Donny?” The younger officer standing in front of the yellow caution tape jumped a foot, his thin hand flying to the butt of his gun. Blinking as he realized who he was talking to, his face relaxed and stance straightened.
Right out of the academy, this one was.

“Got a murder, Detective O’Neil.” The kid replied, blinking sleepy brown eyes at the crime scene in front of them.

Well…duh. Anyone standing in front of a practically burned out building would think of ‘murder’. But wait for it, the kid just needed a bit of steam…

“I was the first on the scene. There’d been reports of fighting and gunshots, so my partner and I headed over; we were the closest to the apartment.” The officer went on, running a hand through his hair. Said ‘partner’ was nowhere to be seen; probably off playing ‘secure the scene’ with the other greens. “When we got here, the place was smoking, and there was a…body lying facedown in the alley.” Shuffling a few steps, he nodded at the burned out lawn. Tobias Drone, the local medical examiner, was squatting down next to it doing his thing, while a gaggle of onlookers took pictures, straining against the restricting hands.

It always disgusted him; the morbid curiosity that people had. They craved violence, loved the rush of adrenaline and the pounding of blood in their ears…

Until it was their blood pouring out of various wounds, or staining their faces, seeping into their mouths to slide horribly down their parched throats. Then it was an abomination.

Standing a bit to the side with the younger officer, Detective Hunter O’Neil took a sip of his coffee while he gazed absently at the tourists taking pictures, the curious children inching their way forward under the yellow tape, the reporters chomping at their collective bits while they smiled and preened at their cameras. Not even the park next to the crime scene seemed to distract the gawkers too much. But that was tourists for you; never distracted by the ordinary.

Standing at a moderate height and nondescript build, the detective really wasn’t much to see. Evidence of morning shadow brushed across his cheeks and chin, his hair was a messy brown pile on the top of his head, and his clothes were a bit rumpled from being slept in two days in a row- cliché, thy name is Hunter.

“Why don’t you go help Reynolds keep the crowd at bay?” He said to the young officer- ‘young’. Ha. The guy was probably just a year younger than he was- sliding a cigarette into his mouth with one smooth twist. He had a feeling that he’d need it. Without waiting for an answer, he moved forward, those dark eyes looking down at the body of his latest vic; his latest obsession.

Jenny Myers; pretty, hopeful, and covered in blood.

She was only 8 years old.

What a fucking waste.


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_{Word Count Lots!
Inspiration Thousand Foot Krutch/Taio Cruz
Tags OPEN!
Notes Feel free to be a bystander, a witness or someone Hunter might know; I'm thinking this' gonna be a fun thread, not something drama-plot-like. ^^
Template By Arro @ Caution 2.0
Picture By Credit pic here!}
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[Marya Morevna]

Alright. So. She had a day off from work, at the very firm insistence of her boss. She was not to show up to work, at all. She was not, if she wanted to live, even to look in the direction of the museum.

And Marya Morevna had absolutely no idea what to do with herself. “Just my damn luck,” she muttered, pulling out her phone. No calls. From anyone. Not that there were many people who would call her…were there? No. Maybe three or four. Possibly five.

And that was stretching it a bit and counting the people she worked with.
She sighed and turned the corner. Walking was killing a bit of time, at least. Marya stopped short when she saw the huge crowd and the ruined building.
Well. Generally she didn’t go in for schadenfreude, but lately she’d been having this nagging feeling her compassion had gotten a bit chipped when her fear had been stolen. Marya pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She took in the building, the yellow tape—

—the dead little girl.

And then it happened. It had been happening more and more these days, always at the most inopportune times. Koschei had replaced what he took with his own memories, which was sometimes very disturbing because she was remembering the same thing twice, from different perspectives. Various images—an emaciated child, London after a bombing, raging fires, a riot—raced through her head.

“Dammit,” Marya muttered, swaying. She covered her mouth, trying to keep from vomiting. Gods below, her head. “Hell…”