2019-11-13 - Even Flow
Ruiz is yanked into a Dream, and is given a lead on a potential cold case -- though the lead comes from an unexpected source.
IC Date: 2019-11-13
OOC Date: 2019-08-03
Location: Park/Police & Fire Department
Related Scenes: None
Plot: None
Scene Number: 2677
The precinct is a-bustle with steady, low-key industry tonight. The airwaves have been unseasonably quiet, given that they're headed into Holiday territory, and the smattering of officers pulling the night shift have mostly converged on the break room, where a discussion has broken out around what a shitty season the Mariners are having. Or whatever shitty sports team they're griping about today.
De la Vega's slouched in his chair in his office, and on the phone with the DA, trying to stay awake while the guy talks and talks and talks. He's thinking about grabbing a donut from the break room, if the prick would just shut up for five minutes.
"I just need your men to be more careful with the chain of evidence," that prick DA is saying, the chiding in his tone just too on-point. "Shit, de la Vega... Next time something like this happens -- kzzhhht." Then silence.
Everything suddenly goes dull, muffled.
Ruiz frowns slightly as the line goes dead. He pauses in his mindless clicking of his pen, a way to occupy his hands while on that boring ass call with Mr. Likes To Hear Himself Speak. His dark eyes flick to the door, then after a hello? hello? that returns nothing, he quietly hangs up and sets his phone down on his desk with a soft thump. And sits there for a long moment, thinking. He's attired in an off-the-rack suit today, as he is most days when on office duty. The jacket's slung across the back of his chair; his gun is holstered at his hip, and slid out briefly so he can check the clip. Then slotted back into place again.
He climbs to his feet slowly and goes to peer out the window that looks onto the street.
Outside, the night has settled in. Was it night before? There's no one on the streets and the lights are dull, but steady. The skies are dark and abyssal without a single sign of starlight, and the moon is nowhere to be found.
A shadow passes across the closed door to Ruiz's office, passing from left to right as if someone is walking past. There's a faint sound of music beyond that door, but like everything else it is muffled and hard to identify.
Was it? He can't quite recall. A glance at his watch is no more illuminating, and he pulls away from the window when that shadow eclipses his peripheral vision. Brows furrowing slightly, he steps toward the door, hand on his gun's grip, heart kicking up a notch. He tugs it open and sends a glance down the corridor.
The corridor is empty.
Or is it? That peripheral vision catches sight of someone turning the corner out toward the bullpen. The figure is tall, dressed in his own suit, and all Ruiz can detail in that brief glance is tanned skin and thinning blond hair.
The captain squints slightly after that glimpse of someone not particularly familiar that passes him by. Certainly no-one that works around here, or ought to have access to secured areas. He draws his weapon, nudges the door open a little wider, and leads with his shoulder as he steps into the hall and moves to follow.
Despite the fact that Ruiz was just a few strides behind the unknown man, when he takes the corner and into the bullpen, he is already across the room and walking through a door clearly marked EVIDENCE. There should be a security system that stops him from just casually walking through, but there he goes. The door stays ajar -- almost invitingly.
That can't be right. Ruiz's confusion shifts to a slight frown, and he bustles through the bullpen at a quick clip to try to catch up with the guy. Around the corner, safety flicked off on his gun, open door nudged a little wider before he prowls on in with the muzzle of his weapon hoisted.
If this wasn't strange before, it escalates to that point now. Ruiz advances into the evidence room, but that's not where he finds himself. Instead, he finds himself in a dark room filled with wire shelves and dozens upon dozens of filing boxes. It may take him a few minutes to realize where he is -- longterm storage in the basement where all materials related to closed and cold cases are kept. He should have gone down two flights of stairs to get here, but instead, he's in the darkened room with its minimal ceiling lights.
Standing at the end of the hall is a man just an inch shorter than the Captain. He's dressed in a middle class suit of black slacks and matching jacket; the jacket is open to reveal a white button-up and the collar of the button-up is loose. He's got on cheap, but well-worn shoes and his shield is hooked on his belt. He looks to be in his mid to late thirties with weathered tan skin and thinning blond hair; his eyes are sharp, almost luminous blue.
"Captain," he greetings easily as he slips his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
Oh, it was plenty strange. Now it's just seriously fucked right up. Ruiz's heart is starting to hammer threateningly in his chest as the room shifts, and he finds himself not at all where he ought to be. And this is probably the moment where he knows he's in a Dream.
His eyes scan the rows of shelves to the left, and then the right, stance still squared. Gun up, gripped in his right hand and braced in his left. It's like an extension of his body, that gun; his shoulders are relaxed, which belies the animal tension stitched through his entire frame. The warning bells going off loudly in his head.
A few seconds pass. And then, "Who the fuck are you?"
The man does not seem terribly perturbed, but he does hold up his hands with a little flourish of his fingers. "I'm not armed. It took me a while to get you here, Captain de la Vega. It takes time, you know... to figure this all out." He tucks his hands back into his pockets now, rocking slightly back on the heels of his old shoes.
"I'm Detective Nathaniel Jones." He rapidly spins his first two fingers in a quick little gesture. "I'd normally engage in pleasantries, but there's not much time. So, now would be a good time to trust me." He sidesteps, preparing to step down an aisle of shelves.
The captain doesn't immediately comply with the request. He's a paranoid sort of man, and one would argue he's only alive today because of that paranoia, and his well-developed survival instinct. But he does, eventually, shunt the safety off and holster his weapon once he's convinced the man... ghost? is unarmed. Then the steady report of his boots on the floor as he makes to follow the so-called detective. "Nathaniel Jones. I recognise your name." But he has to think on it a minute, wheels turning in his head. How does he know this man?
The Detective trails down the aisle, starting to look over the boxes he passes. He appears to be looking for something, fingertip trailing over the alphanumeric coding of the boxes. When Ruiz tries to recall who the man is, he chuckles to himself. "Good. They didn't put up a plaque. I always hated that. It just becomes one more thing ignored." He glances over toward Ruiz, and perhaps takes a little pity on the man before he offers, "In this room is my own box. Missing, presumed dead... October 23, 2003. I disappeared with my partner, Alice Morgan. Her daughter is now a cop -- Charlotte Morgan."
He offers this quick bio as he comes to the end of the aisle, and then takes the corner to head down the next. "It should be here," he says under his breath.
"Magnolia Jones," is the name he finally supplies, and after dithering a little while the man searches, eventually opts to prowl on over and give him a hand. "Is she your daughter?" He squints slightly as he scans the rows of boxes. "Charlie, I know. She's one of my detectives, and a good cop."
<FS3> Ruiz rolls Alertness (8 7 6 4 4 1) vs Shadows (a NPC)'s 3 (6 5 3 2 1)
<FS3> Victory for Ruiz. (Rolled by: Magnolia)
For a heartbeat, Nathaniel's expression changes -- the corners of his eyes tighten and there's a shadow under his eyes that passes just as quickly as it darkens his skin. "Magnolia. Yes." He still sounds uncertain. "She's my daughter." Then he's looking over the boxes, but it isn't there. He's looking to the left and to the right.
"Alice would expect nothing less from her kid. Charlie was always a good kid." The words sound genuine, but his words are distracted. He's almost to the end of this aisle. Nathaniel is trying to find something, but there's shadows that are starting to stretch inward from the edges of the room. The corners and walls start to fade out into blackness.
Frowning, Ruiz double-checks the box to the left again. Tugs a few more out beside it, as if he half thinks someone may have mis-filed it. It should be right here. "I don't know her personally. Magnolia. But I do know she's got her own little girl." Here he is, talking to a guy who isn't actually there like it's the most ordinary thing in the world. Gray Harbour has a way of fucking with one's normal meter. As the edges of the room start to darken, he pauses, then resumes his task without looking away. Without trying to keep Nathaniel in his field of view. It's got to be here..
"Lark." The name is said almost automatically, instinctively, and then passively. It isn't the tone of a grandfather. It's flat. His mind is elsewhere. It's got to be here. Nathaniel is starting to take boxes off the shelves, tossing open the lids. It isn't here. A scent is suddenly sharp in Ruiz's nose -- old and stale. Nathaniel's dirty hands -- they hadn't been dirty before -- grab for another box. His suit is tattered, shirt stained.
The shadows continue to contract around them, and Nathaniel's movements become more frantic. Boxes are being torn off the shelves, spilling folders and papers across the floor. The Detective has started to mutter repetitively, "C-H-0-0-3-4. C-H-0-0-3-4." It's a box number.
<FS3> Ruiz rolls Composure: Success (6 6 5 4 3 1 1) (Rolled by: Portal)
Calmly, Ruiz pats himself down for - and pulls out - a pen. Then a notepad. And writes down the number as it's rattled off by the detective. He drops his gaze from the shelf, and tucks the slip of paper into his pants pocket before turning back to the man. Ghost? In his eyes, and the line of his bulky shoulders, a fine filament of tension as he watches the change take place. "I'll find it," he promises, and tries to smile. But on him, those always look a little like he's baring his teeth. "You can go now. I'll find it for you."
First there's a flare of anger voiced as a frustrated scream, and Nathaniel kicks the shelving unit with a shiver. He's turning around quickly in place, taking in each encroaching shadow. In those shadows, the silhouettes of trees start to take shape. The filing room is starting to become a forest.
"No. No. Nononono. Shitshitshit." He's turning back to Ruiz. He's thinner, paler; the shadows beneath his eyes are dark. He takes a step back, then two. "It's all starting again, de la Vega. All again. All again." Those words are repeated like a comforting mantra.
Abruptly, and from out of nowhere, Nathaniel has a gun. He's turning abruptly toward Ruiz, his blue eyes wide and wild. He has the gun leveled right at Ruiz's chest. He stares at Ruiz for a single heartbeat. "Wake up," he says evenly to Ruiz. And then pulls the trigger.
Ruiz abruptly wakes, and the DA's voice is asking, "De la Vega? De la Vega? Are you even listening?"
The anger is taken in stride. The frustration is taken in stride. Then the fear, and the panic. All taken in stride. The captain's insufferably calm, hands pushed into his pants pockets, heart doing a two-step in his chest, but he barely lets on. There's a twitch of muscle in his jaw as the shadows start to slide in, wending long fingers through the room, sketching the shadows of trees and the sunlight can't break through the canopy and there's a gun leveled at his chest and he starts to say no-
"..No. Por favor, no lo hagas." It's panted into his phone, breath coming quick and uneven. "I'm sorry. I've got to go." He hangs up, shoves his phone onto his desk and checks the time on his watch. Then spends about a minute and a half with his hand scrubbed over his eyes, trying to settle his breathing, before he thinks to check his pocket for that slip of paper.
"What the shi -- " But he's already hung up the phone.
Outside, everything has come back to life. There's the sound of a truck driving outside, and the faint muffle of voices down in the bullpen.
The Captain finds the slip of paper in his pocket. CH-0034. On the back of the paper, in handwriting that is not his, someone has written 'Photographs.'
The slip of paper is stared at for a long, long while. His tonguetip is run over his lower lip slowly as he peruses it, then the back, and the writing that isn't his. "Fuck," he mutters, shoves it back into his pocket and sags back in his chair. This fucking town.
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