Logs Test

Method Of Entry ACRU Logs - 22 Apr 2014 03:44

"Team One, you have Captain Shea and SWAT waiting for you in the bullpen. Charlie has a location."

ACRU Bullpen

April 28th, 11:30 PM

cole race shea val


The Haunting of Cedar-Sinai ACRU Logs - 15 Oct 2013 22:27

"Paging Officer Carter to the Cedar-Sinai East Tower."

"Detective Sloan, could you meet with Officer Carter at Cedar-Sinai? We're getting reports of possible illegal activity in the wards. Tread lightly."

Cedar-Sinai East Tower

April 28th, 10:30 PM

jack liza


This Oath and This Covenant ACRU Logs - 04 Oct 2013 17:24

"Paging Officer Carter to the Cedar-Sinai East Tower."

"Detective Sloan, could you meet with Officer Carter at Cedar-Sinai? We're getting reports of possible illegal activity in the wards. Tread lightly."

Cedar-Sinai East Tower

April 28th, 10:30 PM

jack liza


Interview Room B ACRU Logs - 02 Oct 2013 16:40

"Goji Okinawa, we're going to have to ask you to come with us to the police station to answer a few questions."

Beverly Hills Police Department, Interview Room B

April 27th, 3:30 PM

eric liza


Domestic Disturbance ACRU Logs - 30 Aug 2013 13:42

"Danger, danger. 6025 break-in and possible 207 at 610 N. Crescent Drive. Any car in the area please code 2, identify."

610 N. Crescent Drive, Beverly Hills, CA

April 28th, 10:00 PM

andrew archibald gm jack kev


Small Detour ACRU Logs - 28 Aug 2013 18:19

Andrew makes a pit stop to change his shirt at his apartment.

Andrew's Apartment

April 28, 9:40 pm



Cat Sitter ACRU Logs - 27 Aug 2013 21:21

Detective Webber has ordered surveillance on suspect Britney Pagan at 6221 Drexel in the Callie Higgins homicide.

6221 Drexel Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90048

April 28th, 9:00 PM

gm jack kev


Just Desserts ACRU Logs - 26 Aug 2013 19:36

"Webber, party of two. Webber, party of two. Your table is ready, sir. Please, right this way."

Cecconi's in West Hollywood

April 28th, 9:00 PM



Beverly Hills Rabbithole ACRU Logs - 17 Aug 2013 16:38

"If you come I'll let you in on Sloan's bonus prize: a round on me… I'll even drive to the house…"

610 N. Crescent Drive, Beverly Hills, CA

April 28th, 3:45 PM

andrew gm kev


Tipline ACRU Logs - 03 Aug 2013 23:47

Dispatch has been quiet during their car rides, but the same can't be said for the ACRU landline.

Beverly Hills Police Station, 464 N Rexford Dr, Beverly Hills, CA 90210

April 28th, 3:34 PM

andrew gm


Possession of Balloons Without a Party ACRU Logs - 28 Jun 2013 18:23

"Neighbors requesting a check on a Reno Street address in the northern Los Angeles area. Questionable smell emanating from an apartment 2. Car to respond, please code 2 identify."

247 South Reno Street, Los Angeles, CA 90057 ‎

April 27th, 12:17 PM

gm jack liza


This morning, the radio sits quietly. Standing orders to make sure all reports are up-to-date.

Beverly Hills Police Station, 464 N Rexford Dr, Beverly Hills, CA 90210

April 27th, 10:16 AM



A lone floor fan nobly attempts to spread a thin measure of relief to the overheated ACRU branch of the department. It's April; it shouldn't be this warm. Take it up with requisitions: you'll get shot down, but at least it'll be in a fully air-conditioned office. The dual police station clocks tic in unfeeling slowness to a matching 10:16 and 10:16 in the morning hours with nothing breaking the obligatory paperwork. An hour ago, Officer Arrow led her SWAT team out for 'warm-ups' and the betting pool as to if they return alive or not has finally dried up. Even with Liza's yet in-acclimated partner absent, around the corner testifying, the room's cramped like — with the weather — an unwisely open can of sardines.

In the open binder labeled Homicide | Higgins, Callie, the usual reports gunk up the works: fingerprints from every suspect surface, the foot-imprints of every officer that stepped on-scene, a list of evidence confiscated, and an initial on-site report from the coroner — yet to be confirmed by the overworked ME who hung up on Andrew yesterday. A spare couple of non-ACRU registered patrol officers gawk by and then scamper off; young, it must be guppy-prank time of the year.

Exactly what a bunch of dull, sweaty, detectives need to complete their morning.

White suit jacket draped on the chair behind him, Andrew peruses the file while humming the theme to Breakfast Club: "Don't You Forget About Me" performed by Simple Minds. Instead of dress pants, he's wearing blue jeans, and no one has commented yet on his manner of dress. On the plus side, he looks professional when he's wearing the jacket. Especially because no one can see the rainbow sneakers hidden beneath the expanse of his desk.

Liza's stripped to survive the heat, too: her black suit jacket (more tailored to cinch her waist than Andrew's, but maybe not by much), hangs on her own chair. She sprawls heavily back against it, her freer in the airy, thin pollen-yellow tank-top splattered with purple zigzags. Like her nearby colleague in the cross-arrangement of desks, the ACRU detective looks considerably less like a most people's mental image of detective without the too-hot article; she looks more prepared for sun outside than a day at the office inside. The unavoidable layer of humidity on her skin shapes her toned arms in their highly productive stretch high above her head.

She pauses her eyeing of the door where the non-ACRU officers disappeared (full of a wily consideration, those eyes) to, suddenly and with decisive action, dig in her purse under the desk. A moment later, "Don't You Forget About Me" actually performed by Simple Minds starts to drift off the floor. Her distinctive voice speaks through the recording to complain. "It's gonna be stuck in my head all damn day now, you realize that."

The heat as made Archibald restless. The snail's pace this case and the road blocks put up by the ME are doing nothing to help the mood. "Yes, Andrew, stop that cheery humming. It's driving me out of my mind." With a snatch, he scoops up the binder and starts flipping through the files without much care to be delicate. His long legs pace him across the desk in the cubicle opposite of his partner. Snapping the binder closed, he drops it onto the desk with a loud thud and waves in Liza's direction. "And you, you too. The original song is not much better." With a loud sigh, he collapses into his chair in a melodramatic fashion. "Call the ME again. We can't just sit here twiddling our thumbs. It's oppressive." The binder is opened again - it's as if he's a hyperactive child unable to decide on what he would actually like to do.

"I really like that tank," Webber comments towards Liza while staring downwards at his file. "Fashion really is in the details." He points towards Archibald, still without looking up from the file, "You could learn a lot from her." Andrew actually smirks at the comments about his humming. He may or may not be messing with his officemates in some strange protest about his shoes. Or he might just like humming. The smirk extends as he slides the file away from him and tilts his head at Archibald. "Aw Archie," he responds literally beaming, "You need to learn to say please and thank you still. It's a life skill. I swear." He holds up two fingers. And then suggests, "I think you should call them," a suggestion that may be to punish the ME for hanging up on him yesterday. Scratching the back of his neck though, his eyes turn up to the ceiling in contemplation. He is just as bored as his partner. "Fine. I'll call the ME. But I get to drive later, and you have to say thank you, or I won't share what they say," he wags a finger at his partner before leaning back in his seat again and drawing out his cell phone. The number is punched into the keypad and he waits for someone to pick up.

"Thanks," Liza croons, chill despite the heat — and despite her prior complaint, and even despite the most restless detective's further complaining. There's a smile dancing on her lightly glossed lips, amused — she's gonna find amusement wherever she can on this muggy claustrophobic morning, damnit. The same expression is matched in her eyes, but they stop tracking Archibald and Andrew as she leans down, reaching for the source of the song — to dutifully turn it off … one might expect.

She turns it up instead and casually spins her chair to the side as if she hadn't. "I bet she'd talk to me," she asides as Andrew tries to reach Callie. Never mind that it's the other detectives' case.

The phone rings dutifully in Andrew's ear exactly twice — before the ringing ceases, and there's a breath of things crackling as the connection's made seconds before it slams down. He's been hung up on. Again.

Archibald merely rolls his eyes and glares at his partner - or what the Captains have saddled him with as a partner. He would do much better on his own and envies Liza's position of not needing a chaperone wherever she goes. "Yes yes, you have remarkable shoes or whatever it is you crave to make yourself feel better in the morning." Fashion is not something that ever crosses Archibald's radar and it's not about to start making blips now. "Please and thank you are no comfort to our murder victim, nor will it make much a difference to anyone if we don't find who killed Callie Higgins. What should it matter to us?" The P's and Q's are not exactly Archibald's strong points, which is most likely why he needs a partner and is not allowed out of the precinct without one.

He leans on the open binder in front of him and gives a humorless and altogether unfeeling smile. "Please, call the ME and make sure that we can progress in the case that is our jobs. Thank you for wasting precious time on lecturing me about manners when we could be hunting down a killer. And my name is Archibald." Archie is off limits. As to Liza, he gives a glare. "So you enjoy allowing killers to roam free when a simple call would help us in our case? Fine, then. Bravo. Continue your superior attitude. That is quite helpful in our search." The irony of his own superior attitude is lost on him.

Archibald is given a great big smile in return. "Our murder victim is dead. I think she's beyond comfort— " her family is another story, but Andrew doesn't say that. "And I don't really want you to comment on my shoes," he shrugs before pointing at Liza, "You can." There's a dig in there somewhere. But then he's interrupted by being hung up on.

His eyebrows tick up at Archibald and his attitude towards the third detective in the room, and as he turns away Liza might catch the slight roll of Andrew's eyes. He returns the phone to the desk and leans back to face her. "Sloane, can you do me a solid and try to call? I'll repay the favour." And then, with the slightest squint of his eyes he tacks on, "Name your price."

Of all the personality types and individuals who have criticized her for one reason or another in the past, Liza has never encountered anyone quite like Archie— Archibald— and she's in the midst of openly staring at him when Andrew asks for the favour. Raising her hands in a bastion of no-harm-meant defense, blinking, her eyebrows raised (and the skirting amusement not entirely absent from her lips — and Simple Minds still plays on), she drags wide eyes back to the detective with the phone, bugging them out even more for an instant to express her sentiment, matching his rolling ones: is that guy for real.

As for the favour… "Weeelll…" Liza flops her arms on those of her chair, the back of it rocking. She spins her chair slightly to the right, then the left. "You can just owe me." The twinkle in her dark eyes suggests she will definitely remember and call on him for a a favour back, no doubt about it. She reaches for her own desk phone, skimming a black-painted fingernail down the list of phone numbers taped on the side; various departments and sections of the law, Shea's office line, and, with fresh Scotch-tape on the bottom, ME Callie Holt. She makes the call.

Don't you— forget about me
Don't, don't, don't, don't~

Ring ring, ring ring…

A clip-clop of shoes might reason that the gawkers have returned— here's Liza's chance— but the form rounding into the ACRU squad room lacks the uniform of a rookie and owns the ID tag of a tech professional slapping against his collared shirt pocket. "Detective— Webber?" A shot in the dark around the room lands him on Archibald, as the sole one holding what looks like work. In his hand, a Microsoft tablet that he glides a finger across as he takes a few steps closer, "I've got preliminary digital results back from Callie Higgins' hard-drive and thought you'd want to see this…"

Archibald's black mood is completely erased when tech professional is there to give them more information. Finally, the wheels in his head can stop twirling in a useless manner and now have grease to crank forward. Not even thinking twice about assuming his partner's identity, he quickly reaches forward to take the information from him. The binder of useless information is slammed shut with finality and a bit of joy. "Yes, of course. Do hurry, as you can see, I'm surrounded by a morass of ennui. What did you find?"

Andrew shoots Liza an equally skeptical look as his own eyes widen: I know, right? And to top it off, he's Archie's partner. "Deal," Andrew smirks. "A favour at a later date. I'll even throw in a round at the bar as a bonus prize. Like a video game power-up. If this were a real game your character would get like bonus points and an increase in its maximum health."

But then a tech is entering their little office and looking for him. Two fingers are raised as Archibald greedily takes the file, prompting an odd smirk on the real Detective Webber. "Hello," he waves again to the tech, "I'm Detective Webber." His eyes narrow as he points at Archibald, "I don't believe we've met. That is my partner Detective Ross, but he prefers to be called Archie." Once more he pauses, and then points towards Liza because it's just rude not to introduce all of the people in the room, "And that's Detective Sloane. She's not on the case, but is generally interested in solving crime and ensuring killers don't roam free," he very purposefully borrows Archibald's words. And then, in a way that may actually irritate Archibald further, he asks, "What's your name?"

The smirk gains more ground as he turns to Liza again, "Did you hear that? Evidently we're boring." Or, perhaps, more accurately, the world is boring…

Although she's partly distracted by listening to the phone ring listlessly in her ear, Liza looks up to give the tech a lazy two-finger salute (Andrew gets a funny look, too, an amused one for his introduction; it doesn't linger).

She shakes her head while she shifts the phone from one side of her head to the other. "All I heard was 'more ass'," she replies, daring to flash a wily smile Archibald's way, entertained by her own self before she goes back to narrowing her eyes, preoccupied. She doesn't like that no one seems to be able to reach the ME — yet. Maybe just one more little ring…

With a gentle— short of impatience— snort, the tech steers the information back into his own hands. "We traced an email— what?" Jerking to look at Andrew with widened, caught eyes, "Ummm. Matt Levine— " then twists the tablet to show both detectives; the indicated email sits on one side:

The Future
to moc.liamg|6311ydalyggih#moc.liamg|6311ydalyggih

You better watch your back.

"— to a website," two fingers shift the second half of the screen into full-view. "There's no instructions on the page, but according to some teenage-aimed forums out there, you just enter your name and an unstated amount of time later, you get an email from 'the future' with your 'fortune'."

"Archibald." Archibald is quick to respond. He completely ignores anything else coming out of either Liza or Andrew's mouth as it has nothing to do with the case and therefore is irrelevant. "Interesting." Without another word, he swivels in his chair to the computer on the desk in front of him. It's not the officially mandated old and clunky computer - but his own sleeker laptop model. A few searches and he has pulled the website up on his own. Dutifully, he clicks on the cookie and when prompted to put in his name, he types out quickly, 'Andrew Webber' and then presses enter. "Let's see what fortune has to say about us, then, shall we?"

Detective Webber pushes away from his own desk, exposing his prized rainbow Adidas (WITH WINGS), as he does so. He takes a few steps towards the computer and perks his eyebrows. "Classy," Andrew responds sarcastically in turn. His eyebrows arch expectantly as his eyes scan the website over Archibald's shoulder. "The creepy death website," he murmurs more to himself than anyone else. "That's not a surprise. The roommate talked about it briefly— but then proceeded to say the entire internet is responsible." His lips press together thoughtfully, "Now, I guess the question is whether the emailer just knew something was going to happen to the vic, or whether— " he doesn't finish the thought. His eyes squint as he turns around to face the tech again, "Did you check the source material of the email? Anything to go on at all or was it untraceable?" He blinks a few times as his hand strokes his chin, "And what about the website— "

"Do I still get a bonus prize?" Liza interjects, because she's hanging up: no luck, favour or no favour. "You're on a creepy death website?" she tunes in, "how come you guys get the creepy death website?" While she gets to sit around making useless phone calls. She waves her hands. Pausing with her palms outward and decidedly empty, she changes her mind. "Actually, you can have it." Creepy death website intrinsically doesn't appeal — at the least, it doesn't inspire this particular detective.

"We're still working on that," intones Matt Levine towards Webber, a soft tic by one eye suggesting he's about done with everything in this room. "I just thought you'd want to see right away. From the chatter, there's a lot of young adult activity on this website, and it seemed prudent to get it on your radar in-case there were any preventative action you felt right. Maybe some kind of… warning could be issued? While we try to get it down…" Question trails him off; it's their case.

Skeptical though his glance to Liza seems, there's a correlation even he can't quite ignore.

Creepy death website feels more potent when Watch your back sits next to an official document stating the victim's single stab wound in the back.

With a roll of his eyes, Archibald points to the site. "They are asking for your name and then they email you. Does that not strike anyone else as strange? Where are they getting your email address? Are they hackers, is this an ability? This was sent from my computer. So, therefore, if they email my account, then they are using my IP address and tracing backward. If they are not, then they are searching your email through your name. It's a test, Webber, try to keep up." With a roll of his eyes, he returns to the search for said 'teenage' boards. "Nothing about this website should denote 'creepy death' site - look at it it's pink. So, why are multiple teens calling it that? See if we can put a trace on that email address. We should pull all their emails and see who asked for a fortune and what happened to them." He points backward at Matt Levine. "See why people are calling it a creepy death site."

Matt Levine shakes his head once, "The forums don't really call it a creepy death website. That seems unique to your uh, witness. They are certainly saying that it's 'eerily accurate,' but from what we can tell, there's nothing related to death." He glances at each of the detectives in turn and grants them a small wave. "I should, get back to it though. Lots more searches to do to learn what I can— " and with that Matt Levine traipses back to his hovel.

"Or they're not searching at all," Andrew counters as his hands tuck into his pockets. "If someone could tell the future, then I think they could probably figure out email addresses without a search. Just saying." He pauses, "Of course this is all conjecture. I don't think I've ever met anyone who could tell the future." He hmmms further, "The second possibility is calculated murder. Creepy death website seems to suggest people are going to die, but I'm not convinced… The roommate mentioned something about the future on the website, but I also think the roommate is biased against the internet in general— "

Liza receives a smirk and a nod, "It would be silly if you didn't get the bonus prize as it is, by definition, a bonus, and not contingent on anything. The favour though," he shrugs. "You'll have to con me into washing your car another way."

Matt Levine is treated with a small wave and a, "Thanks for your help," before he's completely out of earshot. Once more Andrew hmms to himself, "So. Creepy death website is what the roommate called it. I guess that makes sense. I suppose if it insinuated my roommate" his hypothetical roommate "was going to die, and then she did die, I might call it that too— "

Liza's grin over her bonus is short-lived as she listens to the chatter of the other detectives. If someone could tell the future. She works for the Ability Crimes Response Unit in a world that's been revealed stranger than most people thought possible, but theorizing psychic powers as a viable option is not something she's adjusted to: she narrows her eyes skeptically at her colleagues.

And at Archibald's computer. "Just a," she lifts a hand and crinkles her chin, pursing her lips, "… thought— but you know, uh… if that website somehow led to someone's death, shouldn't you guys like… not be hangin' out on it?"

"Watch your back hardly denotes murder. It could mean a multitude of different things: 'a friend is attempting to steal your boyfriend or girlfriend', 'a friend is talking about you behind your back.' Forget the fact that we are seeing both the prediction and the outcome together. Everything takes on a 'eerily accurate' meaning after the fact." Archibald rolls his eyes at what he assumes is the gullibility of many young people. "If no one else is actually calling it a creepy death site, then either this was a very elaborate set up where someone with a lot of time on their hands decided to answer hundreds of teenagers in order to manage one spooky slumber party trick on the intended victim before killing them, or this is completely coincidental." He waves a hand at both Liza and Andrew is if they have missed the entire point - which is exactly what he is thinking at the moment. Matt Levine has already been forgotten as an incidental. For a moment, he looks at Liza in particular with furrowed brows as if he simply can't comprehend what she's saying. "This is the biggest breakthrough of this case that we have yet to have and you are going to let a single vague warning scare you? How ever did you manage to make it this far?"

Then, he steeples his fingers and sinks back into this thoughts as if that was a lone epiphany in a long stream of consciousness. "If this is a person who can, in fact, see the future…some sort of precognition or remote viewing, then we must find this higgylady1136 and see what she saw. The other possibility is that she is able to make things happen one way or another and every person who emails her is affected. She could create the fortunes to happen. Oh, that would be good, wouldn't it? The ability to make what you wanted come true. Would that even be possible?"

Andrew turns to Liza, and all out grins— one of those toothy, nearly mischievous smiles that only becomes cheekier by the second, "Just remember it's easy to be brave when using your partner's name." The grin almost breaks out into a chuckle, but it's stifled by a ding on Andrew's phone indicating he's just received an email. He does however, note more seriously, "I think we probably should consider putting up a public warning. Work with the public relations people and see if they can warn people just to steer clear. No reason to make the public too anxious though. Whatever we release shouldn't incite mass panic. Maybe something about it being a scam related to identity theft." He hmmms quietly.

He doesn't check the email right away though, instead he addresses Archibald's comments towards Liza and teasingly reprimands, "Hey, hey, hey. We already established that Liza," yeah, he's decided to use her first name, "is against murderers running free. Annnnd she did just try to contact the ME for us and our case. Might be worth not burning that bridge." He shrugs, "Just sayin'." There's a pause before he notes, "Also, I think HiggyLady was our vic…"

And only then does Webber pick up his phone and read his email. His eyebrows draw together as his lips tighten into a thin line. "Seems that they aren't using some sort of computer tracer… I just got a fortune." His lips purse thoughtfully. "I think our fortune teller likes my shoes."

Having since abandoned her long, incredulous stare at Archibald (still amused around the edges, like someone watching a comedic but unfortunate accident unfold) to pluck an empty file-folder from her desk drawer, she looks to Andrew while fanning herself. She pauses the fanning much-needed, fleetingly luxurious moving air, casually tipping her head up as if she could peek at his phone from here — she can't — and asks, "What's it say?" Before even hearing the answer, she moves on to his partner, buoyant as can be, "I think you should put your name in next, Detective Ross."

Sucking on the inside of his cheek, Andrew cants his head to the side as he stares at his phone. "It says, 'Icarus could also fly.'" His lips edge upwards once more as he tacks on, "Maybe they saw me drink my Red Bull this morning?" And then, as if to allay any comments from his partner, he tacks on, "Like you said, it could be interpreted a number of ways. I'd prefer it if our fortune teller likes my shoes."

"Yes, because identity theft won't start a panic." Archibald eyes Andrew. "Yes, or whoever it was called. Who has time for incidental names at a time like this. What did our mystery teller call him or herself? The Future? Not tacky at all." After the message, he stands and - for perhaps the first time ever - takes a vested interest in Andrew's shoes. "Icarus who flew too close to the sun? Oh, this is interesting. Perhaps remote viewing isn't too far off." Quickly, he types in his own name onto the site without even questioning. Like a child waiting for Christmas, he watches his inbox with interest. An email pings only moments after sending his name. "Mind that mind over matter is what matters."

Liza only has a raised brow for the fortunes. She gives a mild shake of her head, dismissive, and keeps fanning herself with the folder. "I've gotten better fortunes out of a cookie."

"Well it's better than murder," counters Andrew. "And it needs to be serious enough that people heed the warning. If it's not 'scary' enough it'll just inspire morbid curiosity. People aren't exactly cautious about these kinds of things. Unless we're looking for some much deeper meaning— " his lips stitch to the side. Evidently he can see some other truth if he tries. "But it's cryptic enough that it might mean nothing." Frankly, he's not even sure they should be. "And I don't exactly think I'm in danger of getting too close to the sun. I don't actually fly. Aside from Red Bull." Pause. "It gives you wings."

An eyebrow ticks upwards at Archibald's fortune. "That's more of a riddle than a fortune— " But Liza's response warrants another smirk.

"Hmm." Archibald would just put in Liza's name, but he doesn't actually know it. He gives her a neutral look. "What's your name again?" It's not the smartest ploy, but he's curious what other fortunes await. "What we need is someone to trace the 'Future' email back to its source." With a roll of his eyes, he dismisses the Red Bull comment immediately. "It's figurative. It's saying if you get to close, you'll fall. It's a threat, Webber."

"Seriously dude?" Whether that retort is over the fact that he doesn't know her name, or his ploy, is up for interpretation … really, it's both. Liza reaches over her desk, behind a few mostly empty wire mesh pen holders, to nudge the placard with her name on it — in shoddily fitted temporary post-it notes, Det. Liza Sloan written in marker — even further away from his possible sights. "Yeeeahhh…" she decides, casual in tone, "I'm alright. You can have the creepy threatening riddle game all to yourselves."

"Is it?" Andrew replies cheekily. "Or is that just how you read it, Archie?" he actually beams at throwing Archibald's logic back at him. "There's too much to interpret there. 'Watch Your Back' sounds like a threat to me, but it could be just a warning. Or something vague enough to throw someone off balance. Hopefully IT has some success tracing it back." He shrugs. "Yours doesn't sound like a threat to me. It sounds like," his eyes narrow, "it sounds like… wisdom maybe?" His nose wrinkles. "Mind that mind over matter is what matters. Mind over matter— idea that things can be mentally conquered…" His lips press together as he considers this further.

Liza is cast yet another smirk. Good choice, his eyes seem to say before trailing back towards his desk.

As for the 'seriously', Archibald doesn't even shrug. He hasn't really been made to deal with Liza and so she hasn't needed to penetrate further than his short term memory. Back on the fortune cookie site, he quickly puts in 'Liza Sloan' and hits enter while he talks. "It's Archibald. My fortune seems to be telling me exactly what I already know - thinking solves all problems. And, take yours as a warning, a threat; see it as you may. This person is comparing you to Icarus, who is famous for having a goal and then failing at it by ignoring every warning and falling to his death in the sea. I tend to see parables that end in death as a threat."

Not paying particular attention anymore — warning, Icarus, something about parables — Liza's reach for her phone when it gives a little chime and vibrate for e-mail is idle; unthinking. As she reads the message, however, her shoulders rise and fall dramatically. "Really?" She rolls her eyes, although it's all not as annoyed as it could be; she's smiling through the warm gravel of her voice. "If I die now," she points a finger at Archibald around the device, her tone joking, "it's half your fault." She leans back further in her chair, lifting a knee to brace it against the edge of her desk. "'A higher limit doesn't mean it should be tested.'" After reciting her so-called fortune, she tosses the phone onto some stationary, deciding here and now not to take it seriously. She points again at Archibald, a smirk egging on the corners of her smile. "Don't test my limits, Archie."

"I still don't think it's a threat. We all know I came to California for the sun, for better or worse, and I think that's about where Icarus and my similarities begin and end, we longed to be closer to the sun," Andrew states smoothly before walking back to his desk. His lips press together tightly, however, as he sits in his chair, considering something else. Icarus was escaping Greece. He escaped New York… to the sun. But then, he'd never admit it was an escape. "Besides, I don't feel threatened," this time the smirk is more forced.

Could the fortune teller have known?

He swallows hard and then manages a chuckle at Liza's response as he eases in his desk chair. "Well yours also just sounds like words of wisdom. I'd take her advice, Archie."

"No, it is a murderer's full fault," Archibald responds to Liza. He mulls over her fortune for a moment. "Interesting. Mind over matter, higher limits and Icarus. They all seem to be related. Possibly because we are connected." He doesn't even seem to care if he's testing Liza's limits - higher or lower. Instead, he glares at Andrew. "Don't be pointedly obtuse, Webber. It's a metaphor. And don't lie to make Detective Sloan think you're brave. It makes you seem more defeated."

"I don't think you're brave," Liza interjects with a playful grin, happy to clarify in her joking manner: she has no idea of any deeper meaning. Her eyes to sparkle with a hint of curiosity on Andrew, however, and then hop off, gravitating toward her phone without thought. She gives the message she left behind a belated tilt of her head before reminding herself she's leaving it alone. Rocking her chair back, she restlessly looks to the exit, complaining through a sighing, "Come oon, where did those rookie pranksters go, I want to mess with them." While Andrew and Archibald theoretically continue to theorize productive detective work.

Andrew chuckles at his apparently feigned bravery. "I wasn't trying to act brave," his eyes squint and he manages an easier smile. Evidently Archibald completely misread his body language. "I'm not afraid of some random coming after me. If I were I'd have picked the wrong line of work." Icarus followed his father's footsteps. So did Andrew. He pushes the thought aside. "And anyways, these things could all be for naught. Until IT can backwards trace the email, Our Fortune Teller is in the ether," pause "like the rest of our case."

He sucks on the inside of his cheek, "Do we know anything else about our vic? Family?" he leafs through the papers on his desk to look through the reports once more. Despite the creepy death website most people are still killed by people they know. "And what about the cat? Any word on that?"

Archibald raises an eyebrow. "Ah, well, you were certainly hiding something there. I merely assumed it was a false sense of bravery in the face of her clear dislike of the inner workings of this fortune teller." Now, with something for his mind to revel and theorize in, he isn't as on the edge or snappish any more. Not that it's easy to tell that this is his better mood. He flips idly through the binder again. Liza has all but vanished in his headspace as she's filled her purpose for the time being. That is, until the ME possibly calls. "She has family in the Valley. They didn't seem to know anything. She's Registered as a Negative, so that isn't the factor here. The cat is nowhere to be found - but she is a veterinarian. Perhaps you should use those famous 'people skills' to talk to the people at her work to get a better picture of our victim and why she would be on a fortune telling site."

With a harsh buzz, the phone next to Liza's futilely hidden name-plate goes off, a constant reminder that their unit has no dedicated front-desk to field their calls. Hopefully, this one is actually meant for Det. Sloan and not another bid for charity donations — Shea signs them all up for a benefit race once and it's like it never ends.

Liza practically jumps at the opportunity to do something in the midst of this slow spell. She drops her file-fan and swipes the phone off the hook; it meets her ear as she leans in toward it in one fluid motion. The urge to answer with a happy-go-lucky, casual greeting passes visibly right over her face in the form of a smile and roll of her eyes to quell it — even after years of service on the force. "Deetective Sloan!" She waits with an expression of exaggerated bated breath.

"Sloan, it's Young," the coroner, "There's a standing request to inform you of any suspected drug related deaths that fit a previous profile and, well… I think I've got one."

Her head tips to the other side, taking this in. "A standing request! I feel so thought of. Hit me." She's already up, eager for a potential field trip away from the odd fortune teller chatter of Andrew and Archibald.

Andrew issues Sloan a salute at her exit. And the notion of something to do, has him standing up from his desk once more, "Alright then! I will get in touch with her colleagues and see if there's anything we can learn. And maybe whether the vic's kitty was microchipped. From there we can establish whether she was superstition or something of the like." His eyes narrow at Archibald momentarily before he reaches into his pocket and extracts a pair of sunglasses which are pushed onto his nose. "Let's get 'er done."

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Red Fish, Blue Fish ACRU Logs - 28 Jun 2013 18:10

andrew archibald gm liza


"Detective Sloan, you have a call from the M.E. requesting your presence downtown."

County Department of Coroner, 1104 N Mission Rd, Los Angeles, CA

April 25th, 12:53 PM

"Since this is a favor, I won't bite you for touching. Probably."

It'd be a twenty-five minute drive in a perfect world, but Los Angeles, and the late lunch returnees, make for a lengthy trip in to the Dept. of Coroner's where Liza Sloan is greeted by a tech and taken out of the sharp sunshine of California and into the cold, sterile lighting of death investigation. Directed to one of several labs, she's greeted with the general stank of death, of the solutions used to cover it; fluids, both nameable and unidentified, coat the sitting air. If it doesn't smell of the dead, then it smells of cleaner, and that's worse at times; overwhelming constantly. Given gloves, apron— she's decked out around the same time that M.E. Callie Holt backs in from an opposite door, pulling a metal cart piled with a covered corpse along with her. The squeak's of her tennis shoes; comfortable footwear suggestive of a job spent mostly on one's feet. With a shake of her wrist loosening her protective coat, she checks the watch there, clucking her tongue at herself as she rolls the body into place beneath a light she grabs and directs to shine across the clinically white sheet.

"Detective Sloan," she greets smoothly, peeling back a piece of the cover to reveal a Caucasian male's long-deceased face, frozen in fake slumber, his hair nearly shaven off; he never would've been handsome; there's evidence of a few old scars or scabs along his cheeks. "Meet Ryan," she pauses to lean down towards a chart attached to the bed's side, "Hansen."

"How's it goin'?" A friendly voice, tumbling out over a few bumps 'n' bruises — Detective Sloan's voice, feminine but physically naturally rough around the edges. The casual greeting's for the livelier face of the M.E. rather than the newly revealed mug of Ryan Hansen. Mid-step on her way to the body, Liza tightens the protective apron, which covers the grey of her fitted and ribbed suit jacket; the boldly coral-coloured beads of her modern necklace disappear safely beneath the less stylish gear as well, a matched set to her earrings. She makes herself as tall as possible to look straight down on the deceased. He's the reason she's here, and she's with the ACRU — this guy can't be any stray corpse. She sways in and sways back once she's made his general acquaintance. "Charmer."

"Isn't he just." A wrinkle of Callie's dainty nose as she lays the sheet along the deceased's collarbone, leaving the face exposed to the horrid lighting. "Much like his friend, still in the other room. While I set everything out," she ducks a hand under the bed to secure its position, locking wheels. "Why don't you describe to me your typical tweaker den."

Good thing it locks, as the second it has, the visiting detective is leaning her knuckles against its edge like it's no more than a random counter and not the clinical, temporary resting place of Mr. Ryan Hansen. "Uhh. Okay!" Familiar territory for the former Vice detective. Or is that once a Vice detective, always a Vice detective at heart — or in the eyes of others? "Well, you've got two types," Liza replies, shrugging casually. "One's any old hellhole where tweakers hang out and get high, which means the place is usually fucking trashed, sorry for my language." She sways back off from the metal edge, strolling around to curiously watch Callie and her work from a distance. "Then you've got like, you know, a lab, where the stuff's actually being manufactured, so you've got a bunch of equipment and dangerous ingredients, chemicals, waiting to blow any minute 'cause the cooks are usually idiots." Dark eyebrows raise: more? less?

Fiddling with the instruments of her trade, Callie keeps up a repetition of generous nods— absent, to anyone else, but it'd be dangerous not to assume the medical examiner were absorbing every word. "So, you've seen a few," she jests softly against Liza's raised eyebrows. Bending, she slips the chart up from its hook on the bed, sliding it across the deceased's chest towards the former Vice detective. "There's a few crime scene photos in there," she explains lightly before launching in, tone heavier with exposition, "Our Mr. Hansen's been in deep-freeze for, what's it say on there, a month or two? Anyway, I guess there were a few oddities: obvious tweaker territory," the photos confirm: all that Liza described, plus the obligatory dart board and porn stash. "No sign of drugs. Not anywhere on the premises, or in the bodies." Pulling her arms back from the corpse, she settles both hands behind her waist, relaxing back on her heels. "I'm to take a second look. Know you guys are, excuse my language— " a tic of her mouth up, "fucking busy over there, but I felt bouncing a little drug knowledge off each other couldn't hurt. If you're up for it, Detective."

The M.E.'s prompted Liza to smile, all white teeth and muted brown lipstick, easily amused. She looks up from examining the crime scene photos to rasp a chuckle. "Yeah, hey, I'm always up for it." While, by her voice, Liza isn't taking it more seriously than a friendly joke-challenge, she's looking at the file again with more trained eyes. "Hm! A mystery." Not all cases that more obviously involve drugs are a mystery. Most are pretty far from it. "Did you give an original C.O.D. back then?" she asks before flipping to the page that might actually say; she likes it better from the mouth than from paper.

"Not me," corrects Callie amiably, folding more of the sheet back off of Hansen's nude, unnaturally white, corpse. "They sent this over for second opinion. Original C.O.D. as you'll see listed there from Dr. Berg is cardiac arrest. The M.E.'s cop-out C.O.D. of choice." Not Holt's style; her history's clothed in a particular thoroughness, up to and including doing everything by her hand despite a registered ability for telekinesis. "He goes on to mention blood clotting and that both decedents tested positive for abilities and negative for drugs." Skepticism layers her voice, less for her professional opinion of a colleague, as that she's just unwrapped Hansen's arm and, turning it over within her gloved palms, there along his inner elbow are the lump and red streaks known as 'track marks'. "Hansen disagrees," she muses.

"Uh huuuuh." Skepticism is also lent to Liza, along with a dose of criticism — for the track marks she eyes, obvious as any red flag. "So, either Dr. Beeerg missed something, oooor…" Or, or, or — she tosses her dark-haired head slowly to either side as options leisurely ping-pong about in her mind. "New drug? Weird drug? Didn't show in the tests?" She crinkles her face up, not fond of the theory, particularly in contrast to the average mess of a drug den she glances at in the crime scene photos again. "Tested positive for abilities." Scan of the chart. "But unregistered. That is really unhelpful, Hansen," she swipes the chart just short of the body's foot, "shoulda done your civic duty."

"That sounds like something we need," chirps Callie gamely as she sets the arm back down, "Drugs that don't show up in tests." As Liza addresses the chart, she slides a second cart over laden with instruments. "I already had photos and samples taken. I don't expect a huge rush. A couple of— what's that you people call them? Anyway, drug addicts, dead in the home. If it were just the one, I'd probably never have heard of this. But two? Heart-attacks in the twenties without a presenting drug?" Fingers close around a scalpel, twirling it into a readied poise. "That's why we get paid the big bucks." The glorious life of an overworked, under-appreciated, constantly haggled and prejudiced against ACRU staffer. But there's a gleam— an honest love for work what takes over the M.E.'s as she begins to scrape for an, according to her words, second skin sample. Slightly bent, her eyes pass up against the extravagant veil of her naturally long, dark, lashes, "Sure you don't want perfume, Detective?"

Liza recognizes the gleam — she smiles at it, although she, herself, puts the chart away for now and takes a step back. Love of cutting into dead bodies: a passion Callie has all to herself. She sighs somewhat elaborately at the question, considering and reconsidering. "Naah," she dismisses with a wide wave of her gloved hand, but doesn't dismiss the helpfulness of the stuff— just, "It gives me a headache. Lose-lose, right? I'll survive." She takes to wandering around the lab in the M.E.'s general vicinity, stretching and swinging her arms. "Track-marks could be a cover-up for something else," she hypothesizes idly; with no other cop in the room with her to brainstorm with, the M.E.'s her stand-in. "Mmmm, I'm gettin' ahead of myself," she grins good-naturedly, "I'll let you do your thing."

"No, no," comes the M.E.'s murmur from inches off of Hansen's frozen corpse, "It's what you're here for. These punctures show distinct aging between each, as well as that he's," lifting one shoulder, she reaches across, turning the opposite arm across the body, "Migrated between sources of veins. An elaborate cover-up, if." Not that she's dismissing the point, merely introducing facts. With the other shoulder still raised, as she's pulling it in, she detours to gesture behind her at the back exit, "If you don't want to watch me pump a dead guy for what he's got left, his buddy's around the corner." Fingers wiggle in indication; the back door shifts wider open. "You can tell me if he looks more like a heart-attack waiting to happen. Since this is a favor, I won't bite you for touching." A beat. "Probably."

Pausing her wander and squinting in thought (elaborate cover-up, if, after all), Liza's expression turns around at the little shift of the door — her eyes widen along with the back exit. She quickly eases back to casual and smiles, looking almost wolfishly amused — that, for the lattermost of the M.E.'s indications. She's already leaning one shoulder away — the rest of her slower to follow suit as she raises a hand to wiggle less telekinetic fingers. "Don't tempt me," she jokes. Probably … not. The detective glides into a spin and does meander for the other room to check out dead guy number two.

Through the door sits a strange little waiting room; a lobby for the dead. Several gurneys in ordered rows hold tell-tale sheets over vague figures prepped for procedures later in the day. One's been pulled out from the rest, and it's here that Liza finds her dead tweaker: Carlson Hue. An exemplary model of drug-addicts everywhere, with scrawny limbs covered in old scabs distinguishable against corpse-white skin, signs of multiple piercings, and possible evidence suggesting that he'd tapped his four forearm veins to sludge and scar tissue and had gone straight to the jugular for the last two plunges. That there are even that many marks to track mean he's never been much skilled at the art of intravenous consumption; likely, just desperate.

"Hellloooo…" An idle, almost bored greeting-that-isn't drifts over the pale body as Liza looks it over, leaning in and tilting her head here and there, track-mark to track-mark, but all in all keeping her distance. She doesn't touch, as it turns out, uninspired to poke or prod what's left of Carlson Hue when he paints an un-pretty picture just laying there. She narrows her eyes at his emaciated neck, pops herself up straight, and walks herself back around the corner.

"I wouldn't'a been surprised if that guy dropped dead any day of his sad life," she announces plainly as she strolls back toward Callie and dead guy number one. "There's no doubt he used recently. Well— recently for him." Before he, you know, died and was refrigerated. "Or he tried to, at least. Looks like he jugged himself. If it wasn't his usual, I mean, if there really aren't any super recent drugs in his system— ? What's the point of stabbing yourself in the throat if you don't get a payoff. Like, he musta thought he was getting something out of it."

"Huh." The interim's carried Callie from the body to a nearby counter-top to properly store the fragile samples off the end of her tool, as well as the strain of blood. "A hallucinogenic that's actually hallucinated?" Posed somewhat as a joke, her low voice sing-song, with an after-effect dragging her eyebrows. Her mouth pinches. "Sounds like a real money-saver." And potentially fatal? Conceptualizing a method of dying that's purely in her own imagination raises goose-bumps on the medical examiner and she clucks a discomfited noise as she scoops up the samples and strides with purpose towards the connecting corridor beyond the waiting room. "We'll see."

A low "Hmmmmmm…" follows Callie. Thinking less deeply for the time being, Liza sounds less like she's contemplating someone's awful manner of death and more like she's debating an answer in a crossword puzzle — but her strides are purposeful behind the medical examiner. If slower. She tucks her gloved thumbs around her apron as she goes. "So how soon'll you know what's going on inside Hansen and his pal?" she queries, remembering something something skin samples.

"Depends on if you arrest me as soon as I start it." It— the M.E.'s led Liza into… a kitchen. Surreal already, the sleek appliances melding into the building's higher purpose except for some choice pea-green coloring; someone's idea of how to avoid uncomfortable mix-ups, perhaps, between the fridge here labeled: WRITE YOUR NAME ON YOUR FOOD and the one they passed in the hall marked: CHECK PAPERWORK TWICE BEFORE FORWARDING TO FBI. Now, Callie introduces two canisters of human extract into the employee eatery, striding up to a back counter cluttered with power cords and other safety regulations gone wrong to a two-stack of microwaves: the top one cleaner, whiter, and blinking the actual time while the bottom rung is a 70s-red with a shred of paper calling it: OUT OF ORDER.

Brusquely ignoring the sign, Callie yanks the microwave door open and gets as a result no simple caved out rectangle with a little spinning plate. It looks more like lab equipment, with partially scratched out maker's mark covered by Callie's hand and then the door as she slides the blood sample inside and shuts the contraption.

Her eyelids ride low as she glances at Liza, but the eyes beneath them reflect no partnership of shame. "Like I said… a couple of drug addicts, a dead-end case…" No one's going to rush for these two.

Liza, who's breathing a little deeper now that they're not quite in corpse central, tips her head just in time to peer into the contraption before it shuts, intrigued right from the word 'arrest'. "Uhhh…" Her expression's one of amusement paired with bewilderment that quirks one side of her mouth up and shows teeth. "Looks like you've got a little meth lab chic goin' on yourself here," she comments; there's a pause long enough to give the M.E. an encouraging bob of her chin, "Awesome."

"It doesn't make anything…" her joke angles off of humor, turning brisker, rising with purpose, "Maybe you did or didn't know that medical examiners aren't considered qualified to perform ability blood tests. Apparently, it's a violation of civil rights. So we send our samples to a federally approved center along with our pleases and thank yous and a letter defining why we believe knowing the decedent's ability-status is relevant to our case. Never-mind that we're the Abilities Crime unit. Or that the sheer hypocrisy is— " a cheap plastic chair in the room bolts upward; Callie's hand jumps to its back to still it despite that the force which caused the disturbance has already calmed. Her lips are thin but controlled. "Frustrating enough to run a technically illegal blood-checking system in my second microwave."

Liza jolts at the chair's uprising, a sudden twitch that's all the more noticeable because it leaps out of her previously loose, laid-back stance. She's new at this, and the sight of an ability in use is still weird to her eyes even in a world that's now rife with the knowledge and constant proof of their existence. Existence in her own body, no less. Hers is a hell of a lot less obvious. "Man, I feel ya," she replies, commiserating, "I'm still getting used to the unit — more like, how it works with the rest of the world. I've already ran into walls I didn't even know were there." In this case, not invisible ability-induced ones. She leans against the counter edge shared by the microwave and undercover blood-checking system. "It's bullshit. Hey — " Brow crinkling, smiling at Callie, she offers, "Power to you. We gotta do what we can, right?"

A crisp nod's more professional than the thin, grateful, smile sneaking in behind it. "Way it plays out right now," explaining lowers Callie's tone to slow, casual; she turns idly aside as the 'microwave' hums gently. "The fuss comes from families of money, or influence, in neighborhoods like the Hills worried about the scandal it would be if their bloodline was found to be dirtied. There's your Hollywood priorities at play." Lifting both hands, she weighs them side by side, "Dead relative, shunned at the next debutante ball." Rolling her eyes leads Callie's gaze unintentionally to the counter, and she pinpoints a couple of aluminum jars labeled with different coffee brands. Glancing over at Liza, "Can I make you anything?" Leaning back, she raps the legitimate microwave sitting on top of the illegal machine with the knuckle of her thumb.

Nodding and leaning heavier into the counter, Liza rolls her eyes; don't get her started on the Hills, the look says all over. She eyeballs the less illegal microwave and the jars and smiles, but waves off the offer. "Naahh," her husky voice dissuades, "even my appetite for coffee's a little sketchy after that last room. Anyway, caffeine barely works on me anymore. I think what jolt I do get is all in my head."

Callie's tongue clucks. "That's terrible." Not overly pitying, but there is a carnal desire inside the medical examiner that lurches with pain at the very thought. "But it makes me think of our bodies again," not that they were likely ever fully cast from her mind; it's too ingrained by now. "Druggies with no drugs. Placebo effect? Or something new." Lifting, her arms then cross over her apron. "If even one had already migrated to the jugular, they could've been desperate enough to try almost anything off the streets."

It takes the grinning detective a second to connect Callie's 'our bodies' to 'dead bodies' and then, with an instinctive glance and sway of her dark-haired head back the way they came, she's on board the train of thought. "Wouldn't surprise me, the shit people inject. Still though, even though new stuff's hitting the streets all the time, it's always just some more screwed up variation of what's already out there." And this isn't that, unless Holt screwed up the tests times two. "Maybe they both have a bullshit ability like mine that just messes with their systems, messes with the tests," she offers out, more casually deprecating of her own system than serious about the theory. Still; Liza shrugs and waves a lackadaisical hand. "Never know."

"Every once in a while, though it's become more and more rare, something unique will spring up. Grown in another country. Took a while to cultivate over here. But you're right about similarities. The human race is both infinitely creative and infinitely repetitive in its imaginings." And then there's abilities. Something Callie pursues her lips and draws into quiet for. 'Never know' is a flicker in her eyebrows she indulges not in words, but the brewing of a cup of coffee. It occupies her for the next ten or so minutes until both microwaves chime within a few seconds of each other. Coffee instantly forgotten, the examiner hauls open the false front, plucking the blood up and squinting into both machines. "Dratted bootlegged thing." Slapping the lower microwave with her palm harshly, she straightens. "This blood just came out negative for abilities."

Taken to wandering in the interim, Liza appears beside Callie, swinging her arms. "Well," huh, "how about that." She tilts her head back, and it falls to the side almost lazily — from that sideways gaze, she squints at the machine; squinted, accepted. Next! "What now?" She straightens, gliding a hand slowly through the air. "That is, in your medical realm of expertise."

A heavy sigh captures Callie's shoulders before she releases, flicking the blood supply idly back and forth in her hand as she thinks. "I wait on official results after all, I suppose." Annoyance darkens the rings under her eyes before she shakes it off, closing the illegal microwave and strutting up closer to the doorway, and Liza. "There's a few things I could also try…" a hand waves, stopping her from falling too far into the 'medical expertise' hole, "Nothing you need be present for, detective. I'll let you know if anything else comes up. Maybe we'll even brainstorm again." Spoken as if baiting the detective with a potential second date, as she slips out of the makeshift kitchen and back towards patiently waiting corpses.

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Snake Eyes ACRU Logs - 13 May 2013 17:58

callie liza


[C.H.A.R.L.I.E.] Dispatch, request for an ACRU pair of eyes on 927-B in west Central LA.

"Team One, they're asking for assistance at 6221 Drexel Ave. Reported homicide. You're up."

6221 Drexel Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90048

April 25th, 11:08 AM

—! "Don't cops ever go online?"

The Crime Scene
11:29 AM

A white bodied, red panel roofed, Spanish inspired abode like nearly every other dotted down the street. It's already been cordoned off, a couple of patrol officers keep neighbors and two bored reporters at bay.

At the entryway, detectives handing things over barely suppress their own idle sniggers. "Yeah, it's, ah— it's definitely one of yours, fellas," murmurs the LA investigator, his pot-bellied partner looking distinctly over his shoulder at a young blonde woman: a consummate California cheerleader, no less than plucking irritably at her eyelashes as she waits, sequestered at the garage end of the apartment's driveway while the house remains untouched and waiting on forensic support. "Dead lady's in there," he juts a thumb vaguely inside, a side window, and then the Homicide detectives are kicking up dust — waiting only long enough to have their shoes photographed for exemption: a small courtesy mostly to spare them a visit later.

It doesn't look like anyone's even bothered to call for CSIs yet, and it's luck of the draw whether the officer keeping the blonde woman from making her next hair appointment was the first on scene or not.

The passenger door of the dark coloured Ford something-rather flings open and a single silver-hued shoe touches the pavement. The step is silent, the shoe’s owner, however, is not, “Why do you always have to drive? I can drive, you know. Took a driver’s test and everything at sixteen. And I may or may not have driven a tank in the military. Okay, I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of driving. I just can’t drive a tank. And I may have lived in New York City, but plenty of people drive in the big apple. Like cab drivers. And detectives.” He gives a solid nod to drive his point home while casting a quick glance over his shoulder towards his partner, the driver. After the point has sufficiently been made, a tug is given on his suit jacket, appearance is half the battle.

Dark aviator style sunglasses hide Detective Andrew Webber’s blue peepers as he approaches. His steel-coloured suit, perfectly tailored to his form, matches the pinstripes in his black tie which stands out against his eggshell (not white!) collared shirt. The shoes, of course, make the ensemble. The tailored suit pants hide the beautiful detailing of Andrew’s silver Adidas, making them appear like ultra shiny dress shoes rather than the silver-hued sneakers they are. The wings printed on the top are completely hidden, but Andrew knows they're there. They give him the ability to fly. Or something. That or else he could always fly and, well, he would argue to the death that they have some deeply symbolic meaning. Not that he would believe it.

Only when his colleagues offer their snickers in greeting does he remove the sunglasses and clip them to his shirt collar. And then they're retreating. His lips curve into a cheeky grin while he begins stalking after the pair of detectives. “Fellas,” he begins in an almost-too-nice tone, “how you feeling? Good?” His nose wrinkles slightly. “I’m glad to see that you can be so incredibly pleased with yourselves after screwing the pooch on this one. First, where are the CSIs? Did you even bother to call?” He pauses while his smile turns from cheeky to grim, “Second, a modicum of sensitivity seems to be called for. I have no idea what you find so funny, but someone died and someone was around to see it. And she’s not far away. I ain’t a head shrinker, but you don’t have to be evolved to be empathetic. You only have to be human.” He shrugs and then narrows his eyes at the other pair of detectives once more, “Can I assume you talked to the witness? And by talked I mean that you made a real audible connection…”

Holding up his foot obligingly to allow the officer holding the outer line to take a photo of its sole, the skinnier of the pair glances over his shoulder to flap his fingers of one hand open and closed as Andrew speaks, mimicking his yapping. Swiveling his head forward again, he shrugs casually, "Of course we spoke to the witness. How do you think we knew it was a case for the wacko squad?" Squinting pointedly at the driveway, as Archibald explores, the man mentions, "Your crime scene now. The CSIs are on you. Maybe ya shoulda been calling them instead of practicing your fancy Law and Order speech, fella."

Done, he drops his shoe and slaps his partner encouragingly on the shoulder. The larger man's eyes flash, just briefly, with a considered apology, but then he scuffles on, gamely joining in on the continued maligning of Andrew as they get to their car and slide in. The officer having taken the photos stands, proudly and sensibly neutral in expression as he saves the shots.

With a deft motion, Archibald Ross stuffs the aforementioned car keys into his pocket. As Andrew talks at him, all he can hear - basically - is the 'wah wah wah' of Charlie Brown cartoons. He catches key phrases, but his mind is entirely on the crime scene. Both ignoring the witness and the previous officers on the scene, the man puts up one hand in a very precise gesture. That gesture means 'shush'. Archibald knows why he's been stuck with this man that talks about his shoes and is so interested in other people, so he will play nice. However, he considers the witness questioning Andrew's job and the observing of the crime scene his. That is certainly why Shea put the two of them together and to keep his job he will play by the rules. And, as such, he has said nothing about the deplorable conditions he has to work under.

Though he and Andrew have not been partners for long, he has already assumed that Andrew will take care of the other detectives and the witness. Eyes wide open, he steps into the Spanish style adobe house waiting for comment. He'd prefer to see it without the prejudice of lesser minds.

There's a heavy pleasant scent to the whole house as Archibald steps in, like there's one too many air fresheners on the small premises. The pint-sized entryway leads straight into a living room, its island kitchen and bedroom doorway facing each other from opposite sides of the modestly decorated room. A couple of women have been doing their best on limited combined funds, and it's cozy, and vaguely clashing. A crooked line cuts between the belongings, distinctively pointing to one personality then the other, and neither the two shall mix.

Though it's warm — eighty-eight degrees out in the relentless sunshine — there's no smell of death. Just a standing, waiting, sensation from the bedroom; the master bathroom on its left the owner of the window the detective had pointed to, but even from here, a glimpse of the body on the bed is visible.

A smirk and a quip rest on the tip of Andrew Webber's tongue, but he chokes the quip back. Not the smirk. His bemusement is open. Instead, his smile brightens a little while he turns on his heel. As Andrew tromps back towards the house, his ear plants itself against his ridiculously large cell phone. Yes, it's old and heavy. It's a large black flip phone. Yes, he insists on using it. "Hey. It's Andrew calling… Detective Webber… yeah…." he nods once. "Sorry you're only just getting the call, but there's been a death at 6221 Drexel Ave, and I would really appreciate it if you could send some people ASAP." Finally reaching the house again, his teeth toy at his bottom lip while his head shakes. "You might want to come quickly. I don't think my partner could help himself from going in the house… he's kind of a clue junkie… and I'm not about to follow him to tackle him to the ground… for one, I really don't think that would do well for the team morale, and really, in tackling him I'd only make… yeah… I can stop talking…" a single eyebrow quirks. "So, in short, you really might want to make it a fast trip. Thanks. Bye." He slaps the phone shut and returns it to his pocket.

He leans forward on the balls of his feet to take a quick peek at the witness before tugging at the bottom of his suit jacket again. With a deep breath, he finally steps forward and strides towards the garage. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. I'm Detective Webber. My partner, Detective Ross, is also around here. Somewhere," he can't help but furrow his eyebrows at the comment about his partner, but he manages to relax his expression moments later. "I'm not really up to speed, and I apologize if you've already filled in my colleagues. I recognize that sharing the same story time and again is super frustrating. And I realize you probably gave my colleagues your name, but I'd really appreciate it if you could share that with me as well as exactly what happened here?"

Just in time— the round-faced blonde witness' in the middle of harassing the officer standing with her, "— who did it, so are you gonna go fix this or what?" when Andrew approaches, diverting her impatient energy to the detective. "My name's Britney and, uhhh… how about the super frustrating part of how my roommate is dead and everybody just wants to stand around and talk about it?" One of those cliche Valley girl impressions helps drive home her fervent emphasis, a distracting tactic from the quieter speaking of her eyes: the stunned glaze holding off a wisp of fear. Though standing in her own driveway, she shifts, uncomfortable, as if under bright lights less warm than the California sun. It's suddenly a foreign, violated place— her home. After a couple of harsh blinks, she shrugs, "It's easy. I know who did it." Imparted on Andrew with a hard stare, leaving her unaware of the grimace the responding officer pulls, instantly sympathetic to the detective's duties: "That website killed her."

Archibald makes sure to enter the house perpendicularly, using his long legs so that he steps to the side. Almost everyone else moves through the center of doors. Behind him, he can hear Andrew calling the CSI and then head toward the witness. With each deliberate step, the voices grow just that much fainter. His eyes brush over the living room, the kitchen and the separate bedroom doors. While he only glances at it, he remembers the details and logs them away somewhere in the database of his mind. Relationship between roommates: possibly strained, certainly lifestyle differences. Wrinkling his nose at the scent, he decides to update the mental note: attempting to keep up appearances, or possibly hiding the scent of a dead body to not arouse suspicion.

With careful steps, the detective makes his way toward the bedroom, glancing at the floor to make sure he's not trampling any sort of evidence on his way. He also takes in the walls, the paintings, looking for anything that seems out of place in a house that was obviously well taken care of. Once he's reached one edge of the doorway, he stops and then leans forward to look at the scene without actually entering the room. There is a reason they were called to this scene and he has yet to find why that is. Perhaps the victim or the murderer exuded perfume from their pores. What an odious evolution.

A few things on the way: picture frames of the decedent, the witness from the driveway, and a couple of males around the same age. The brown carpet beneath his feet is shag. There's probably evidence dating back to the seventies trapped inside, making it no picnic for any arriving techs.

Nothing appears to be instantly out of place. Except the dead body on the bed. Unlike in the stories, no one looks as if they could be 'peacefully sleeping' when, in fact, dead; the former resident of 6221 Drexel is like any other corpse: bleached white, while the onset of rigor has twisted her jaw and curled her toes and fingers till the limbs nearly lift off the bed in an unnatural set. What the comfortably plump brunette, dressed in a dingy t-shirt and non-matching pajama shorts, doesn't have is a visible wound from here.

The floor in front of the bed tells a better story, and the ceiling the best. Shag shows very little coloring, but a heavily distinct pattern, especially where it's been summarily flattened and tromped. It's the complete lack of cast-off on the short abode ceiling that narrows down events.

The witness' response actually stands to gentle Andrew's expression. Just a stitch. His eyes soften while he allows his chin to drop to try to catch the blonde's gaze. "Listen to me, we are going to figure out what happened. The talking, while it sucks, is important for all of us to know. This is how we find who hurt your roommate and keep them from hurting anyone else." His lips press together momentarily as he studies her face further. "Can I get you to take a deep breath?" He takes a deep breath himself, almost trying to decompress along with the witness. "Alright. Can you tell me about this website? What is it?"

Eyes ricocheting around the different objects of the room, Archibald records positions of where everything is - and what seems to be missing. No splatter on the ceiling or on the walls - this, plus the absence of visible blood or wounds rules out a brutal beating or stabbing. The large indent in the carpet suggests that something heavy in front of the bed was removed. That's something to file away for when Andrew finally catches up to him. Considering the cordoned off living room, it's possible the roommate never saw inside the bedroom in question, but it's worth the annoyance if an answer can be found.

Again, he uses the side stepping in order to not step on the well trod path through the center of the doorway. He's intent on getting a closer look at the body. Hopefully there will more explanation there as so far all he can ascertain is what may very likely be a missing trunk.

The lights are off here— in the bathroom to his right— everywhere; not a one, so it's lucky that pure sunlight streams in the large, California-sized window on the left wall looking out into a partial yard and the wall of the next house over. As Archibald moves in, that sunlight finds a few specks of blood not quite visible from the doorway, easily hidden and buried in carpet, and a smear or two on the sheets before her elbow. The young woman's arms are folded demurely over her stomach, except where rigor's stiffness has ruined the sentiment, giving her a grasping, clawing look. Covers bunch near her knees with a look of hurry contrary to the faux-restful pose.

Up close, tell-tale colors show: extensive red splotches show where blood has pooled and set at the joints, on the right side of her face, and most likely on her stomach if he were to lift her carefully set t-shirt. Lividity, interrupted at her cheek, knuckles, and knees— and again, probably that stomach— by blanching.

Outside, the witness' deep breath sounds a lot like she's sucking in air to prepare to unleash hell on Andrew. But, instead, she whips her head impatiently, blonde hair flipping, and rubs her hands into the crooks of her elbows as her arms cross tighter. "Uhh… a creepy death website, clearly. You can check Callie's computer. It's right there, in her email." One arm unfolds to gesture inside.

Andrew nods in agreement. Obviously. His hands are stuffed into his pockets while he takes few leisurely steps forward. His right hand drifts from his pocket to the back of his head which he rubs idly, a motion that ironically has little effect on his hair and its stylings themselves. He'll take it at face value. "Okay. So how long had she been visiting this creepy death website? Or is this something that was hacked on her computer?"

Careful steps lead Archibald to the edge of the bed. While he doesn't touch anything, he leans over to inspect the body. Curious and determined to not miss anything, he puts his face close enough so that his nose is mere inches above her elbow and then her neck, he is careful not to actually make contact. He may be an arrogant ass, but he knows better than to touch the body before the CSIs get on the scene. Luckily, he doesn't need the CSIs to make a few observations. It doesn't take long to draw conclusions based on the lividity and blanching. The body was moved. With deft fingers, he taps out a message to Andrew.

ask witness what was at foot of victim's bed

also, when found, where was body

Satisfied, he slips the phone back into his pocket and makes a slow turn in place to observe the rest of the room.

The buzz against Andrew's pocket warrants his attention and has Webber reaching for his phone. A single eyebrow arches at the text that flashes across the screen. He punches a few buttons in response.

will do

look at the vic's computer if on

interest in 'creepy death website'

After hitting the send button, he redirects his attention to the witness once more. "Sorry about that. Also, can you tell me what was at the foot of your roommate's bed?" His tongue runs over his lips carefully.

He catches the end arc of the witness dramatically rolling her eyes over the detective's apparent distraction. Her foot tap-tap-taps on the ground, then she shifts her weight as he addresses her a second time, "I don't know," arms uncross to throw up then down, smacking her legs, "Once? Twice? Everybody's been doing it— you know," she points a perfectly manicured nail at him, "This creep's probably killed before. Fucker outright told her he was gonna kill her!" Then she pauses, glancing crossly to the side and shrugging with a scoffing drift of attention, "Nothing. She always sat at the end of her bed when changing."

The phrase that everybody's been doing it earns a quirk of Andrew's eyebrow. "Everybody's doing what exactly, Miss—? Threatening people?" He shrugs and then allows his chin to drop. "I think what you're suggesting is that she met someone online who outright threatened her." His lips straighten into a thin line. As far as nothing at the end of the bed, he nods a little while he draws his phone from his pocket and, without looking, manages to text.

vic had note ing at foot of bead

Well, maybe Archie will fill in the blanks.

Luckily, Archibald is well versed in text language. At the vibrating in his pocket, he plucks out his smartphone and reads the hastily assembled message from his partner. Looking again at the pattern on the floor and the pattern on body, he nods. The victim was moved after an hour or two of lying on the ground. If the roommate didn't do it, someone else had to have. Within moments, he fires off a reply.

did she move body

Then, he casts his gaze about for the laptop Andrew mentioned.

It's in plain view, atop a desk situated with questionable choice against the wall owning the bathroom door just feet away. Though a glimpse of the bedroom offers little other opportunity except the expansive window, tightly closed. Nothing appears to have been rifled with or nudged out of place in a struggle or search. Nothing but a dead woman, ready for bed.

"Going to this website," corrects the witness without any grace. "Don't cops ever go online?" For her, the conversation's becoming intolerable; her natural attitude melding not well with the stress of tragedy. "The creepy fortune telling website. I told her it was weird, but she wouldn't listen, and now he's killed her." Jerking her hand into her hair, she glances off to the right, staring bleakly at the abode's entryway.

Wheels hitting the end of the street mark a new car approaching the cordoned house. By the make and model, it's more than likely the CSIs ordered, pulling up beyhind the detectives' vehicle, inside the responding black-and-white's barricade.

"Right. A website." The witness's question causes Andrew's lips to hitch up on the right side. "Some cops spend ample time online. I just am not one of them. Not much of techie myself." He nods briefly at the mention of the creepy fortune telling website. And then things begin to become clearer. "So your roommate was on some fortune telling website, the fortune teller said she'd die? Is that — what happened? Have you ever been on the website?" And then as a quick afterthought he asks, "And you were the one that found her right? Did you move the body at all when you found her in the room?" He follows her gaze as he motions for one of the officers on scene to come closer. "Do you want a coffee or something? We'll get you set up with something." To the colleague he asks, "Can you run to the corner store and get her something — "

Behind Britney's shoulder, the officer shoots Andrew a look: what does he look like, a rookie? But, under the double glare of sun and the witness, he treks off, shoulders high. "Eww," rounds Britney on the detective, eyes beady, "She was dead. These perfect nails," splayed in showing to him, "have and will never be touching anything like that." So much for the compassion for fellow men— even those sharing the same square footage as you. "And didn't I say that I'm the one who told her it was weird? She found internet culture fascinating or something. When it's really just a bunch of homicidal nerds." Lower lip pulling up, she lifts her eyebrows mercilessly, "Guess we found out who was right."

A racket of car doors are a few CSIs entering the territory— the shock of unique blonde hair definitely Stephens— and an additional car arriving brings the coroner on scene.

Plucking a rubber glove from his back pocket, Archibald takes long-strided steps toward the laptop in question. Snapping the gloves on, he places a finger on the trackpad to see if the computer is off or merely sleeping. Once Stephens and the coroner arrive, he'll point to the floor, attention still on the screen. He's already seen much of what he needs to see there already - they can take their samples and as soon as the coroner has cleared the body, he will be able to look more closely at the wounds.

"The body was lying on the carpet for at least two hours before being moved to the bed. Apparently there is something about a death website on this computer. I entered the scene caddy corner, to preserve any footprints and I didn't touch anything other than to see if this computer was still on." He speaks rather rapidly, as if he just wants to get that part done with so he can get back to more important matters - namely, what is this death site Andrew mentioned?

A two-man team squares off with the house— fortunately not splattered with a heavy amount of blood— and as her companion dictates himself to the left-hand portion, Stephens snaps on her second pair of gloves as Archibald speaks, feet coddled in protective booties. "It's physically im-possible not to leave or take material with you," she scolds, gesturing a double-gloved finger about the brown-carpeted housing, "You better get a confession, cause I won't be the one explaining this to the DA come the fun game of 'let's name the inadmissible evidence'." A soft clucking of her tongue as the bright-haired intern hefts a hardy camera, resting it briefly on her shoulder to roll her lower lip out at him, "Detective, I know you know better." Playfulness tempers scathing remarks, concluded with her little shooing noises, hissed out around her tongue, as she bends to begin the extensive and time-consuming process of capturing every angle of the scene.

Andrew manages to keep his expression even while Britney. "Right. My mistake, nails are very important." He manages to text again, once more without looking at the screen:

note ing was at foot of bed; didn't move body

"So is all internet culture full of homicidal nerds, or just this particular website?" the question is punctuated by a raise of Andrew's eyebrow. It's not humour, exactly. But it's not ridiculously serious either. "Was there anything else out of the ordinary with your roommate? Obviously this creepy death website had its effect, but was there anything else going on that might be useful to us in our investigation?"

The CSIs receive a nod in greeting. But Andrew won't talk to them quite yet. Not until he's done chatting with the witness.

Leveling lowered eyebrows seriously at him, Britney responds, "All of it." Duh. "But Callie couldn't stay off that stuff. She'd freak out about fortune cookies and forward Facebook sob stories." Passing her hand through her hair, fluffing an already substantial wave of side-parted hair, she asks with morbid curiosity, "Is it harsh to say somebody brought something on themselves the same day it happened?"

Archibald listens to Stephens blather on, his own gloves clicking on the laptop very briefly. As his phone buzzes again, he barely seems to acknowledge what he's read. Not even looking at Stephens, he replies without the warmth and humor that she attempted to use to disguise his scathing remarks. "Yes, I'm sure my shoes took the very important evidence that the shag carpet was well cared for, but fighting a losing battle. Much like the previous homicide detectives' did, I'm sure. They were the ones that refused to call for you when they had already trampled the scene. Much like they did, I'll make sure to send a print of my shoes and a sample of my hair so I can be omitted from the suspect's list. Everything is exactly where I left it and I used gloves." He holds up a light blue hand for her to see. "Now, let me think."

Without waiting for her response, his mind is already moving on to more important things. The body was moved and the roommate did not do it. She'd been lying there for an hour or two before being moved, so there had to be someone else who did it. He'll, at least, wait till someone else goes through that since it doesn't seem to be responding.

With a practiced obliviousness to both her and the detectives' blather, Stephens shrugs his arguments off like drops of water hitting her streamlined tech's coat. "Did you hear that just last month a judge allowed the 'well how could we know it wasn't a shapeshifter?' defense? The world's going batshit about evidence these days, and who could blame 'em. You know, I work in this other office, where a scientist is trying to send through his proposal about this drug that'll supposedly bridge the gap between us and y'alls… Steroids have bad enough side-effects. Can you imagine superpowered ones? Well, of course you can…" All the while, expertly photographing every step of the way; she barely flinches walking past the body, leaning over it to catch the woman's last, inglorious, moments.

When Stephens doesn't notice Archibald's pointed lack of interest in her blather, he rolls his eyes and starts backing away from her.

There's no grimace, and an easy neutrality about Andrew's expression as Britney asks her question. "Considering what you've seen in the last little while, I think you feel however you feel about it." He manages to avoid the question. "Thank you for all of your help, Britney." He reaches into his jacket pocket and extracts a business card. "If you think of anything else that might help us, please don't hesitate to call me. And likewise I'll be in touch if we have any other questions. Have you filled out a formal statement yet? If not, I'm going to get you to talk to Officer Wilson over there —"

"Yuh huh…" it's more general acknowledgment, as her fingernails clench to the card, than affirmation, and Britney allows an officer to step her aside for formal documentation.

It's another few minutes before Stephens' partner announces, "Found the reason for all the air freshener…" as he eyeballs a half-full litterbox in the bathroom, cuing Stephens to glance all around her feet. Fifteen minutes later, it's determined that there's no animal on the premises.

With pictures taken, the CSIs move onto evidence collection, allowing a few more feet to pass through now that comparisons can be made. This brings the coroner onto the scene; despite the easy assumption of homicide, the M.E.'s full-up, so there'll be no on-sight specifications. Callie Higgins can look forward to cold storage in the morgue while she's queued in line for autopsy. Before removing the body, Josh Young, the elected civilian coroner, turns the corpse to point out the entry wound in her back: a single stab wound, he surmises, from a smooth blade such as could easily be found on the street. The look suggests she died almost instantly, leaving little blood to pump, especially once it had settled after the two hours. He confirms that she'd been lying on the floor through patterning.

No windows or doors are found open in the small residence, and no cat-door neither, points out Stephens, while her colleague collects the laptop. From outside, Officer Wilson knocks his fist on the outside of the door, glancing in without stepping. "Detectives…" he's left Britney with his partner, who's issued her a coffee and a distraction. "She says the cat was the decedent's. Not an out-door animal."

"So…" Andrew strolls up towards the officer at the door. "The cat is missing, the vic was on a creepy fortune-telling death website reflective of the rest of the internet which is full of murderous individuals, nothing was at the foot of her bed, and the body was never moved." His lips press together as he cants his head to get a better look inside the room without actually entering. "Find anything else of note?"

"Wrong." Archibald, not able to handle any more of Stephens' pointless chatter, has wandered toward the front door. "The body was moved. Just not by the roommate. If she's telling the truth." He thinks for a moment and looks toward the doors and windows. "The computer was off…" he trails off. It's easy to tell he wishes he was able to turn it on himself and start rooting about, but he was scolded before and he's not setting himself up for another. "If she was on a website when she was killed, someone else shut it down. She was also moved after two hours. A door or a window could have been left open for the cat to escape through and whoever moved her shut it on their way out. Was the cat microchipped?"

Andrew's lips twitch to the side as he nods and considers something briefly. "Riiiight," he answers slowly allowing his gaze to turn downwards for a moment. "I think we should head back to the station and document everything." Plus it'll give the CSIs time to check out the scene without Archibald's ever watching eye. "Besides, I don't think we'll be getting anything else out of the roommate. Not sure whether she's trying to make herself believe she's safe or she genuinely didn't like her roommate — " he shrugs. "And I'm almost positive she wouldn't know anything about the cat." His slow steps begin to backtrack carefully. "Let's head out, Archie — " and then, he adds rather dramatically, "I'll drive." Sunglasses are returned to his nose.

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Another 927-B ACRU Logs - 25 Apr 2013 18:31

andrew archibald gm ronny


When the planned training session turns out to be a bad idea, Kev and Harry go out to unwind, but the outside world isn't the most friendly place either.


January 18th, 2013

"People who can fly are still people. I'm a scientist, I should know."

The little ACRU gym area was recently flush with bodies; field specialists of all kinds getting in their exercise fix and training regimen for the day. It's still warm in their absence — almost too cloistering, given less-than-top-end air-conditioning in the part of the building the still slightly shiny law enforcement branch has been allotted. The only flush now exists in the single person who's stayed behind, waiting for a much less rigorous training session to ensue. Kev's thoroughly worked-out state places him more ready to hit the shower than the gym again, but he's here as he said he would be; a cheerful reminder hours past, his lackadaisical usual. And ya better be here!

Even if Harry emerged from her realm of science, though, he isn't prepared to notice. His back is turned, numerous muscles flexed into tension behind the droop of his sleeveless almost pink shirt and down his arms: one crooked, his hand pressed solidly to his side, the other flung out opposite to keep his cell phone pressed to his ear. A towel of highly questionable sanitation is slung over one shoulder, grasped a second later to shove against his exercise-taxed forehead, which is hunkered down. If he's having a conversation at all it's in tight, short mumbles that barely seem to break the sound barrier let alone form words in the English language.

A woman of her word, Harriet Parker exits the lab section of ACRU only a little later than she intended to leave. She got carried away with identifying a chemical compound found on one of their newest victim's shoes and lost track of time. However, she quickly threw on a pair of sweat pants and an old t-shirt and briskly walked toward the gym. As she pushes through the door, she's just finished braiding her hair and is wrapping the twist-tie around the ends. All ready for her training session.

As Kev is the last person in the gym, he's easy to spot. However, he seems to be on the phone and she doesn't want to interrupt. It's not hard to tell that he doesn't seem to be happy about whatever the topic is. She allows the door to shut behind her, then politely stays put to wait for him to finish.

A twitch of Kev's shoulder might indicate the closing door filtered into his brain, or it could just be a reaction to the phone — he twists the little thing in his grip, clenching and unclenching. Pushing the towel to his head, he paces — half turned toward Harry, but his sights are drilled into the floor ahead of him, every expressive line of his face down-turned into bull-doggish expression, angry at the mouth, sad between the eyes, rapidly hidden by the flagging towel. " — tellin' me — " his mumbling takes form, inching louder, distraught. " — that I'm not good enough, is that it? Hey. Hey!" The man thrusts the disconnected phone away from his ear — it only stays contained in his fist out of luck. His eyes flick in Harry's direction but don't land on her. He paces hard one way, then the other.

Perhaps too late, Harry realizes that such an unhappy conversation may be, uh, private. Never exactly one with good inter-personal skills, the wheels of her brain turn and she thinks it may be a good idea to step back into the hallway and give Kev some space to finish talking. She starts to do just that when he gets louder and talks about not being good enough. A hand slips behind her and grabs the door handle to pull the door open just as he angrily pulls the phone away from his ear. He's no longer on the phone, but it looks like he still may want to be alone. Is it ruder to slip out unnoticed or is it ruder to announce that she is here? Frozen in indecision she manages a soft, "Oh, uh, sorry…I'll…" she trails off, unsure of what she will actually do.

His head whips toward the sound and Kev harshly looks at Harry with all the force of a punch. After the initial, uncharacteristically aggressive glare — a split second, at most — he's left looking like the deer in the headlights. His shoulders heave once, twice, hard-working breath and internal struggle, and he grabs a handful of his hair with the towel and runs through it. "…Nah," he manages, more gruff than he means. "Nah…" he repeats, patting himself into some kind of calm — mostly looking bashful for even needing to try. He sniffs. "…s'my— fault. I wasn't payin' no attention to the time. Come on, uh— " He scratches the back of his messy head.

That would make two deers in two separate pairs of headlights as Harry returns Kev's strangely aggressive glare with a wide eyed look of her own. Immediately she realizes she must have made a grievous error in remaining inside the gym and listening in on part of his conversation for him to look at her like that. Kev's such a friendly guy, that she can't imagine why he's so angry. "N-no, it's…I'm so sorry. I was running late and then I saw you on the phone and was starting to leave…." she trails off for a second, tugging the end of her braid anxiously. It's a nervous habit. "Are you okay?" It's not just a question about his anger, but also stretching back into the phone conversation. She likes Kev and doesn't like to see him anything other than his laid back self. Plus, the fact that something's shaken him to this state means it must be rather upsetting to the man. "I'm not really good at talkin', but I'm good at listenin'. If you want to, of course. You don't have to! You can tell me to keep my nose out of your business and we can do trainin' another day."

Kev's eyes narrow and narrow into slits — solely out of effort to focus on Harry, one second brightly alert and the next trying to piece together her words. He scrapes his towel over his head a few more times, sending his hair into several new and angles. It can't look any messier than it did before. "For someone who's not good at talkin'," he says, "that was a lot of talkin'." Not an insult, from Kev, simply a lazy explanation, sounding more like himself. "It's uh," he tosses the towel down onto a bench. "Nothin'." His eyes shift about like a scolded puppy and his jaw clenches; he works at letting it free.

"Some people, you know," he offers vaguely before pawing through the air in gesture that Harry come forward. "It's trainin' time. I try to make a habit'a keepin' my word!" He smiles, in a flash — his mouth is quick to trouble and pull thin, eyes shading. He realizes he's still clutching the phone like he's keeping a grenade pin in place and tosses it on the bench too, mumbling, "When someone wants it."

"Well, I mean, I talk a lot, but I don't make a lot of sense, I guess." That's what Harry's been told a lot, at least. When he looks like a scolded puppy, Harry's deer in headlights look turns into more of a protective and sympathetic one. "Sure!" she says, though she doesn't exactly know what he means by some people. Some people anger you enough to yell on phones? Some people listen in on conversations accidentally? "Though, honestly, Kev, if you want to skip the training, that's fine. We can go grab a beer across the street. That's what people do when they're upset, right?" The woman who goes home and makes models of the 5th Dimension doesn't really know what normal people do after work. "It's not breaking your word if we both wanna do something else," she gives a nervous half smile.

His head's tipped down; Harry's nervous smile might go unnoticed. Her entire well-meaning response might have gone unnoticed, if Kev's silent distraction is any indication. He worries darkly at the floor and kicks it with a few shuffles of his sneakers; just when his silence starts to verge into sulky territory, the man whirls around and—


— his fist into the cherry red punching bag hanging from the ceiling. The weighty object sways on its chain like a child's swing-set. It thumps against him on its swing back — seeming light only for the way that he doesn't move, just keeps looking at the floor, breathing heavily. Fists clench; release. His shoulders fall. Now that he's gotten that out of his system: "… 'kay," Kev answers in nervous, mumbling agreement, pushing his expression into a kind of accidental pout, shooting wary split second peeks up at Harry.

Harry is quite startled by the sudden punch toward the punching bag. While the punching bag was made for such assaults, the CSI isn't quite sure what to make of Kev's sudden deterioration. She jumps at the sudden sound and then stands very straight. Whatever that phone conversation was must have thrown Kev for quite a large loop. Tugging again at the end of her braid, Harry walks over to her coworker and friend and reaches a hand out to gently place on his shoulder. While she's nervous about his recent burst of anger, this is a friend in emotional need and she can't overlook that. "I'm sorry." She's not apologizing, just attempting to sympathize. "Let's go get a drink." Because that's what friends do! She thinks!

* * *

It's not the favoured ACRU bar that Kev and Harry wind up sitting in for the friend thing; it's another little spot twists and turns away from the headquarters, a dark and over-air-conditioned establishment that's considerably lower-key than the prior neighbourhood. Still charged under the surface, the combat specialist — wordlessly — thought it best to be away from his other colleagues' usual carousing. Whether this joint is actually a better choice is up for debate; a few loud patrons in the back corner continually raise his hackles. He does a fine enough job, though, so far, at hunkering over the bar and focusing mostly on Harry or the bowl of peanuts beside his beer.

A scruffy red sweatshirt hanging off him — so glamorously covering his sweaty post-exercise style with a similar style called too lazy to shower — Kev shuffles his hands and part of his sleeves around on the bar, chasing a stray peanut. His face is pinched; he alternately appears to be engaged in a thought too deep for him to figure out, or not paying attention at all. "Mmyeah," he replies to something Harry said — or it could have been the radio. He's not sure.

Harry doesn't really know what the favored ACRU bar is or not. She's not the type to 'carouse' with members after work. This bar is as good as any other that's available near their work place. The beer that Harry ordered - seemingly at random - sits at her elbow and is barely touched. It's easy for her to see that Kev is at some odd ends and she's not quite sure how to help him. He seems to be nodding and agreeing to the music that's playing as she has been unable to work up the nerve to say anything. Finally, she decides to do something. Taking her pint glass, she tips it and clinks it next to Kev's.

"Cheers!" She pauses. "Not, really, in a happy way, since you don't seem to be very happy right now. Just, you know, in the acknowledging that we both have drinks and are drinking them sort of way. So, what happened?" This is Harry's A-Game for trying to talk her friends through bad times.

Kev blinks as if out of a daze, looking dumb-foundedly up. Despite the pulled-down expression he's been afflicted by, he's quick to crack a grin at Harry now. "Cheers," he returns, lifting his glass to give it a little tip in turn. He takes a drink before running his hand through his hair and grumbling, "Aaahhh…" in gravel, evasive. "Nothin' new." His head-scratching pauses at the back of his head and he squints at Harry with a pointlessly raised elbow. "I don't wanna get angry 'bout it again. Hey, you've barely taken a sip'a that stuff. Lightweight?"

"Oh, yeah, sort of. I don't drink that much. Or often. Or, really, at all." Though, in the spirit of friendship, Harry takes a small swig of her pint glass. Her nose wrinkles a bit at the taste - it's not something she's used to. She also looks like she weighs about 100 pounds soaking wet, so her tolerance is probably not exactly that high. "I don't even know what I ordered, to be honest." Some sort of brew involving a Anchor. It had a nice looking tap. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry again. This is the relaxing over a beer time! Not that I really know how that works." She thinks to the books she reads. Once, a friend made her watch Sex and the City. They talked all the time over drinks! What did they talk about a lot! Oh, right! Putting her elbows on the bar, she gives Kev a serious look. "If it's a sex thing, I'm here to listen."

Sex thing. Kev's eyebrows lurch so high against his forehead that they may crawl all the way up and over his head. He leans back out of his hunch, gradually straightening in slow increments as if waking up — into an incredibly bewildered state. "Uhhhh." His eyes are tiny slits of confusion, and — eventually — amusement. And some shock. He wets his lips and tries for an extended moment to answer. It clearly takes some consideration. "No, uh. It's not like that," he says frankly, managing a flicker of a smile for Harry's efforts. He plants an elbow on the bar, leaning in toward her while he gestures once, twice at her with a palm down. "Now, why— why— " he impresses with slightly worried curiosity. " — would you think it's a sex thing?"

Realizing that perhaps talking to people outside of work is not exactly how they present it in TV and movies, Harry blushes and takes another quick drink of her beer. "O-oh. Uh." Now she's nervous and realizing how bad she is at talking with people. "I just, well. See, I saw something. And all the friends talk about sex over drinks. I kinda thought that's what we were supposed to do? Maybe that's just a girl thing. They were all girls. Maybe you don't want to talk about how someone's member is too small. Or was it too big? It was one of the two." She can't remember the basics of the episode. "Sorry. If it was a serious thing you didn't want to talk about, I thought maybe it had to do with a girlfriend. Or sex. Or a boyfriend. Or a boyfriend and a girlfriend." With a start, she sees she's rambling again. Luckily, she can stop it with another drink.

A trainwreck. This is a trainwreck. This is what it feels like to experience the phrase like a trainwreck in real time. Kev's gaze shrinks and widens on and off until he's squinting so hard he might be trying to block Harry out of his vision in secondhand embarrassment (and a dose of firsthand). Ultimately, however, he busts out with a big ol' laugh and slaps the bar, turning away to briefly hang his head and get himself together, scraping a hand over his eyes. "It's not only a girl thing, but I uh, I don't wanna talk about anybody's parts if it's all the same t'you," he says. "I was worried there for a second that you thought I looked like I had sex problems, or that you wanted to hear me talk about— … " He thins his mouth. It disappears into his mustache, then— smack. "It's uh. It's not any'a that." In other words— new topic? He has none.

Unfair! Harry started the talking! That is what got them into this mess in the first place. She takes another long drink, in direct defiance of her earlier notion that she was a lightweight. She is, in fact, and this will get her into trouble later should she continue on this pace. However, she can't help herself when she's involved in such a trainwreck, as Kev so appropriately thought of her talking techniques. "No, that's no problem. I just, uh, wanted to say that it was okay if you wanted to." Harry puts her face in her hands. "I don't know how to do this talking thing! I thought I did, but mostly I just like to talk about chemical bonds and alloys with people. I don't know the other things." She quickly picks up her head. "How is work, that's a normal question, right?"

"Don't worry about it," Kev says with a much warmer smile, appreciating Harry for her good intentions. All is easily forgiven. He drinks his beer and rubs a few knuckles under his chin. "Work's as normal as it gets for us, I guess. Probably means someone's gonna burn the city down by Friday. How's uh, the lab. Did you do any interesting chemical bonding today?"

The blush on Harry's face doesn't recede quickly. She made a bit too much of a verbal blunder to not be blushing for the next few minutes. Instead, she takes another drink. In the short time before she started speaking and now she's almost a third of her way through the pint. "That's good. I mean, not good. It's hard in our job to say how things are going well or not. Catching a criminal is great, but the fact that the crime was committed isn't." Harry dips her hand into the peanuts and starts arranging them into the chemical bonds found in gun powder on the bar in front of her. "The lab is doing fine. We found a link between the dirt on the shoes of the suspect in that robbery and the footprints left at the bank. That'll be helpful when it finally goes to court. Other than that, same old labeling and identifying and assembling broken things."

Kev briefly eyeballs the progress of Harry's drink and the pattern she's making with the peanuts. He steals one, oblivious that it may represent part of a chemical bond, and flicks it into his mouth. "Good stuff. People with these abilities," as if he doesn't have one himself, "sometimes they get it in their head they're so high 'n' mighty 'n' powerful they can get away with anything." While true, the statement is somewhat vague in purpose; Kev lifts his beer and waves it slightly. "It's good what you do. Reminds 'em they're still human. They might be able to shoot flames from their fingernails or whatever but they still wear fuckin' shoes."

Harry doesn't mind that a crucial bond between potassium and nitrate has just been popped into Kev's mouth. Instead, she starts to rearrange the bonds and circles to account for the sudden unstable chemical. She pauses for a moment to take a sip of her beer. "Well, they are just human, that's true. I mean, I don't see what we do is any different than what my old job used to be. What's really interesting about it is the implication of the new science involved. I haven't gotten a chance to study the remains of someone who shoots fire, but I have to wonder where the spark comes from, you know? Is there a chemical combustion or is that person actually causing that combustion somehow? How is it different from when an accelerant is used, you know? Is it faster or slower burning?"

She looks up from her peanuts and her beer and she stops herself. Get her started on science and it's hard to make her stop. "Sorry, I'm rambling again. I'm not sure what I do is good, really. I just use science to either rule out or confirm your suspicions. I wouldn't even have the evidence to do that if it weren't for you detectives. You're the people who really catch the criminals."

"Eh," Kev paws a hand through the air above his glass, good-naturedly dismissive. "I just bully 'em around." He cracks a mild grin, self-deprecating but holding no grudge about it; his expression warms, focused more on Harry's and her job than his. "I bet there's whole wings of the government figurin' all that shit out now. Evolved research. I bet," he pauses to sip, looking at Harry over the top of his beer, "you could get in on all that, if ya really wanted to."

Harry gives Kev another skeptical look. "It's way more than that. You have to hunt people down and think about things. I assemble broken glasses and check chemical compounds for the proper materials. I'm kind of a step in a long line." This isn't just modesty. She loves what she does and won't hear Kev say that he's not good at his job - she thinks he is! "Oh, no, I don't think so. The science of that interests me for its implications, but I like my job now. I feel like I'm helping people and what I want to know is more based on criminal science." She frowns and tilts her head slightly. "Evolved research by the government. It's not something I really thought about. It gives me a little weird feeling in the pit of my stomach."

Kev pulls a face around 'thinking about things', but it doesn't last; it turns into a mild smile, instead, and drifts away. "You an' me both," he admits then. "Makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up if I think about it too long. At least that's not somethin' that happens much."

Two men bumbling toward the bar next to Harry to order their next round for them and their friends — in the back corner — have caught bits and pieces of the conversation. It's sparked a more drunken version between them; between orders to the bartender, mumbled gems such as — stronger testing if you ask me (no one did) and give 'em all a lobotomy drift over. Drinking establishments: well-known to be tinderboxes over A-Positive issues since the news came out.

Harry thinks about things a lot, so she's a little surprised at herself for not thinking that the government wouldn't start studying the Evolved and their implications on the world. She just thought of them as a regulating body that would make sure that the scientists would do their job properly. Just reading about MK-ULTRA is enough to allow her to think the government or the military doing it behind the scenes is a bad idea. There needs to be oversight.

In fact, the idea of testing filters through her ears and she realizes that she's actually listening to someone else say that there should be stronger tests. Blinking, she glances about in order to find out who the people making such statements can be found. Narrowing in on the drunken individuals, she gives them a once over and then turns away. They're not worth an actual discussion on the issues with. "Ignore them," she tells Kev softly with a dismissive wave at her drink.

Kev looks from Harry to his beer and grips it too tightly to be practical, but the strength seems to work at taking his focus away from the other conversation. Slightly. Barely. He grunts. "Screw 'em," he rephrases. The buddies stumble into a drunken argument with the bartender, meanwhile, degrading him for the bar's open policy to A-Ps. Kev keeps his sights determinedly on the bar in front of him, but — twitching muscle by twitching muscle — it's obvious that he's listening in, keeping tabs on the escalation. One man pounds the bar with a fist; Harry's peanuts all rattle.

Picking fights with drunkards isn't exactly Harry's cup of tea. Seeing Kev's face keep it's tightly concealed anger and listening to the more idiotic conversations happening next to her is making her more and more on edge. Plus, she is sober and her chemical peanut connections are now messed up. Something has to be done about this. Turning slightly, she gives the men a small smile. "I'm sorry gentleman. I was hoping you could settle a bet I had with my friend here. Is there really a big difference between an Irishman and an American?"

The shift, from Harry talking to him to Harry talking to the drunkards, jolts Kev into attention; he doesn't turn, but eyes the group darkly out of the corner of his eye, on high alert and, frankly, curious. Not to mention confused.

For every ounce of confusion Kev has, the pair has triple. "Whuh?" The closest man barely registers her question, distracted instead by Harry herself; the other glowers past, targeting Kev before blinking bloodshot eyes at the woman. "Uh, sure. One's Irish."

"Oh, yes, they're that. But, did you know the history of the Irish? In Boston, no less!" Harry glances over at Kev to attempt to let him know that she thinks she has this covered. Of course, she wasn't very good at talking with Kev, so what would be the basis of her ability to talk to two drunk belligerent men? Her argument is a little strange at best, but she delivers it in a friendly and jovial manner. It's as if she really is still attempting to win a bet. "The Irish weren't allowed to work just about anywhere only because they were Irish? Do you think that was okay?"

Now Kev's beginning to catch on to Harry's point. A tiny smirk wriggles its way onto his mouth, but it's squashed before it's given its due, his eye too sharp on the two men and the ways this could go south. He plants his head in his hand, knuckles digging a bit too hard into his chin and looks a bit like he's holding his breath.

The man who answered most coherently grows suspicious, a sentiment that's bitter on him, his alcohol-numbed features growing cantankerous. "Nah, I'm not a racist," he states. "I see what you're doin', lady. It's not the same thing."

"Harry," Kev mumbles into his palm.

"Why is it different?" Harry puts her hand in her chin and smiles at the other suspicious man. Her point was made to be simplistic, hence why she trotted it out in the first place. When Kev starts to mumble into his palm, she waves a hand backwards at him, as if to say, 'don't worry! I can handle this!' That may or may not be a fabrication. But, she is attempting to handle things in her own way.

"'Cause these people," the flick of the talker's eye to Kev isn't just accusatory; it's nervous, and thus short-lived; he stands much stronger staring down the young woman. Even then, the man's shoulders puff up; for all he knows, Harry could be different and capable of killing him within a few seconds. "They got somethin' in them that's not human."

Kev's hand drags its way up to his forehead, pressing knuckles into deepening creases. He doesn't let the taxed gesture block his view of the interaction for more than a jiffy. "These numbskulls aren't gonna get it," he murmurs in a low voice meant for just Harry.

The quieter drunkard looms closer. "A bet?" He's catching up. "You winnin' or losin' this bet?"

With a bright smile, Harry meets the talker with open friendliness. That's the way she wins arguments. "How are they not human? You know, for the longest time people though that anyone with dark skin was actually closer to apes and therefore not human and able to be enslaved." Harry's smile fades slightly. "People who can fly are still people. I'm a scientist, I should know."

Harry emphatically turns back to Kev. "It's not about that. It's that they think that humans aren't humans. That's ridiculous. It's like civil and women's rights just went out the window as soon as there was a blood test. The blood test is supposed to be there to make sure that people know they have an ability and can properly prepare themselves." She turns back to the quieter drunkard. "I think we're all losing the bet if you think people can be turned out of bar just because of their blood."

Kev knows — boy, does he know — but all he has to offer Harry in agreement is a high raise of his eyebrows, worry trapped in all the lines. What can ya do paired with distinct frustration that's settled on those same lines too many times.

"Test's a good start," the farther man says, "but even you scientists don't know everything. They're all too dangerous if you ask me. I bet, five years from now, society's gonna friggin' fall apart. Prob'ly sooner. Look at all the crime already."

"That's why we're here," Kev speaks up, standing with a tense sigh he'd been jamming in; he barely means to rise, it just occurs, as natural as a hand gesture when his mouth opens. There's no sign of a badge on him — only the faint A.C.R.U. insignia on his sweater, unfolding out of its lazy crumple as he shifts.

"Yeah, half-filled with possies— "

"The hell," his friend complains, "did we come here to argue politics or have a drink?"

"That's the same thing people have said about millions of people," Harry sighs and then just swivels back in her seat toward Kev. These people are not worth her discussion after all. The friend is right. They are there to drink. She'll let them get back to it. Almost immediately they are out of her thoughts and out of her periphery. She goes back to her chemistry peanuts. "Sorry," she tells Kev with a sheepish smile, almost glad he flashed his badge. "Bigotry makes me annoyed."

She's not alone. Kev's face gains a faint flush, a tinge of anger easily riling blood vessels into action as he watches the two men, his stance guarding even under the loose hang of his sweater. He's shorter than both of them. He's not so ready to ignore them.

The closest man is ready to ignore them; he moseys on, pint in hand, passed on by the wary bartender. The other… "You know, I'm sick'a all these scientists and experts on TV— " A wave of his hand includes Harry, as far away from a television screen as she is. "Talkin' like they know everything. How can there be experts on somethin' we just found out about? Tell me that!" He swigs his new drink. "You don't know anything."

Kev steps nearer, behind Harry's seat. "Why don't you head over to one of the bars that refuse A-positives," he says — and though it's through grit teeth, he manages to retain some level of politeness, even caution over speaking up at all — until, "If you're gonna be an asshole."

The flare in the man's eyes sparks similar in Kev's; he recognizes it. Interpreted: threat. He shuffles a hand onto Harry's arm. "C'mon, let's just get outta here."

Harry isn't one exactly to flare with anger. She sits straight up, however, when someone attempts to imply that she doesn't know anything. She is, in fact, quite knowledgeable. She stands up, but at the hand on her arm, she looks at Kev with an unreadable expression on her face. "Okay. Though, really, we shouldn't have to leave anywhere because there are ignorant drunkards here." She doesn't go out drinking much, so she's not sure about drinking etiquette. However, she knows about how to treat people decently and these fellows are failing miserably.

With an exasperated sigh, the scientist leaves her drink a third filled and makes for the outside. "I don't understand people." And she really doesn't.

A few half-mumbled, half-shouted words follow them; Kev takes Harry's arm, firm in urgency but not in force, an indication to hurry along as if the words don't matter even if they should. The evening air greets them pleasantly, the pedestrians outside drifting by obliviously, normal as can be. It's not until Kev veers left and bumps his back against the building to lean and take a breather that he says another word. "You know," he starts, quieter than usual but just as ambling… as if it's casual; looking down, scruffing his hand under his nose before it drops, "half — maybe more'n half — of the calls we get, it's 'cause someone with an ability's been threatened or turned into some kinda victim."

Harry follows, using long strides to keep up with him. Her expression is a tense and serious one, ignoring the words tossed carelessly at them. It makes her angry to hear people talk like that and just as angry that they have to leave because of them. "Really?" Harry doesn't take calls. She just logs evidence and attempts to link it with suspects. She frowns and leans against the building right next to Kev. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I watched those X-Men cartoons when I was younger."

He grins suddenly, and it warms around the edges that get lost under a few whiskers that need a trim. He gives a little laugh, a little snort of simple amusement. Can't count on Kev to linger in depth or mournful thought on humanity for long. He pushes off the wall in an easy slink. "Yeah? Me too. Never thought we'd be comparin' the world to 'em though." He starts moseying down the sidewalk, rolling his shoudlers a few times, expelling extra energy. "I'm not wearing any've those costumes though, don't get ahead've yourself, there."

For a few moments, Harry remains leaning against the building, but then she stands up straighter and follows Kev down the sidewalk at their slow pace. "Me neither." Who would have thought that cartoons and comic books would be anything like their real life. She laughs at the costumes comment, face relaxing. "Oh, I don't know, some of the Detectives would look pretty fetching in spandex, don't you think?"

"Uhhhhhh…" Kev scratches the back of his head as he strolls, his neck leaning down. If he's picturing this vision of spandex, the only indication is an awkward glance aside, slightly wary, as if afeared that a couple of his fetching colleagues might jump out of an alley and hit him. "I'm pleading the fifth on that one."

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People Will Be People ACRU Logs - 20 Mar 2013 20:01

harry kev


Kev tries to teach Harry to become aware of her senses.

A.C.R.U. Headquarters

October 7th, 2012

"I'ma say you've graduated from balls today."

The buzz of one shift changing over — late evening switching to late late on every clock in the building — fills the air, the familiar chatter of the teams laughing and rousting each other, the low drone of the captains talking as they walk by, the convivial hollers of new teammates coming to replace the tired after a long day. It's been a busy day for ACRU, a particularly rowdy crowd of powered criminals cropping up to annoy more than terrorize Beverly Hills, keeping the team running every which way until each and every situation was contained. The mood is almost festive but, as usual, the job will start all over again tomorrow.

While the lab and CSI team runs on a different schedule than the teams, it's still possible that one can memorize the general likely whereabouts of one Harriet Parker at any given time. It seems also possibly that given the noise one's security ID card makes when it's used on the lab door that it might benefit one to lurk outside in the hallway until one diminutive Ms. Parker eventually leaves, if one has patience, which one is determined to have despite nearly giving up exactly four times while getting restless standing around like an idiot. But when Ms. Parker does eventually appear, it's seems easy to jump the (hopefully) unsuspecting woman with a fast assault of—

Ain't no use to run, you rascal, you! Ain't no use to run, you rascal, you!

The bitter, yet somehow upbeat, song lyrics chirp from big, DJ-style headphones hovered near Harry's ears, filling them with the cool twang of a song by Hanni El Khatib — ain't no use to run, I done bought a Gatling gun, and you still having your fun, you rascal, you! — as Kev's goofy self-satisfied grin lights up at arm's length.

It has been just as long of a day for the CSI team as it has been for the officers who had to track the culprits on foot. Loads of evidence that needed to be logged in, organized and evaluate just kept coming in and coming it. Some days Harry can sit down and listen to a physics book on tape while she catalogues, but none of that has been possible today.

Finally, the brunette has punched her card and filed her last piece of evidence into the proper place. She fiddles with her little iPod that houses her collection of audio books and the entire Dixie Chick library with her keycard held in her teeth. Her playlist is cued up, so finally she takes the keycard out of her teeth just in time to make the loud beeping sound that allows her to leave the lab. Completely unaware of Kev's planned assault against her - or even that this is his fifth attempt - she slips her card back into her pocket just in time to hear the beginning lyrics and as something is placed over her ears.

To Harry's credit, though she is startled, she does not shriek. Instead, she stands straight up and then jumps a little, pawing at the headphones until she realizes what they are and that they seem to be attached to someone. She swings around, attempting to dislodge whoever is attached to them and to see who the culprit is. Then, however, she listens to a few of the words and tilts her head slightly. "I…I think I like this song.." she says confusedly.

After a second longer, the lyrics are swept away as Kev whisks the headphones away and slings them around his neck, the tune faraway and muffled. "It's fun shit, that." More importantly — with his usual casualness, he asks, "Did I surprise ya, huh?" A lively hopeful glint exists in his eyes, right alongside the knowledge of Harry's startle — which he seems a little bit proud of, from the upward twitching corners of his mouth. "That means," he sets off matter-of-factly, a tone which he rarely gets to use due to rarely knowing (or being asked) the matters of facts, "it's time to get your senses in order. You got plans? Gym's free."

With a playful swat of her hand at Kev when he takes the headphones away from her ears, Harry rolls her eyes - in a good natured way. "You very well know you almost startled the pants off of me. Figuratively speaking, of course. My pants can handle more startlement than a gravely voiced singer telling me I'm a rascal." Did Kev really need to know that? Who knows, but Harry will at least let him know.

"I was going to listen to a Stephen Hawking book in the car and then work on my model on fifth dimensional space to blow off some steam. Easy enough to change that those plans." Hoisting her bag on her shoulder, she frowns and looks around. "I'm not sure I have any work out clothes on me, though." Looking down, she's wearing slacks and a button down shirt. Normally, she wears a skirt, so it may be lucky that today she decided to wear pants for one reason or another.

Kev loses Harry somewhere around the suggestion of how much her pants can take, mostly due to the words Stephen Hawking and model of fifth dimensional space turning into a blur of language in his head. However, he picks up some key parts, and tunes back in at the end with a carefree shrug of shoulders made heavy by muscle. "You have a funny way of blowin' off steam, girl," he can say with confidence — a confused, confused confidence, squinting his perplexed eyes at Harry until they're small. "And no sweat," he replies, recovering from his bewilderment. "I mean, literally, you're good, we ain't gonna be pumpin' any iron. C'mon," he commands — barely that, so casual, just a smile and a lazy bob of his head away from the lab area.

It's not like Harry has never been told that she sees or does things in a strange way before. And, as such, she takes Kev's statement in what she's sure he meant it as - just a comment. "I've been told. Sometimes I just have a lot of thoughts up in my head and the only way I can get to sleep is to just distract them with something else. I tend to dream in equations and models." She, of course, just assumes that Kev understands what she's talking about and that he, too, has to do similar things in order to sleep at night. One of Harry's best and infuriating qualities is thinking that everyone is as smart as she is. She never talks down to anyone because of it, but she also has a tendency to skip over the simpler things because she assumes they're already known.

Smoothing some of her curly fly-aways on her head, she follows after Kev and continues talking - as per usual. "Well, I didn't assume so. But, I figure this would involve some sort of tucking and rolling or something. Possibly breaking boards with heads or something. Granted, I don't normally go to the gym or anything. I took a fencing class when I was in middle school, but then I messed with the point meter so that any time you would swish it it would give you a point and I got kicked out. I was only attempting to make it more accurate! It was an early experiment."

As Kev's slow lumber takes them toward the training area, a perpetual smile hangs out on his face, quirky at the at the corners nearly under his mustache — confused again, but at least he's amused by it. By Harry, and her equations and fencing experiments. The mere mention of fencing, strange and sophisticated sport that it is, prompts his eyebrows up. "See, I don't get fencing. I mean I get the, you know, the coordination and stabbin' at people and shit, but it just seems weird unless you're a knight." He winces a little, reaching up to scratch the side of his head, realizing to some extent that his opinion of the sport might be dumb next to someone who rigged whatever a point meter is. He spins himself around somewhat hurriedly at the entrance of the "gym", gesturing in. "No heads and boards," he assures, smiling. "Nah, see, I have a big thick skull," and bouts of super-strength, "We wouldn't wanna break yours, it's too important."

The gym is barely that; an area set aside with a ragtag — but growing, and well-kept! — collection of equipment, it's all the police department allotted them. Kev strolls backwards. "Uhh," he glances this way and that, trying to organize his plans. "Alright, I want you to come stand in the middle here."

"Honestly, I didn't either. But, they had advanced equipment that I wanted to get my hands on. I basically used the whole year to fiddle with the meters. Then, I got kicked out and didn't get involved with any other sort of sports." Harry continues to rattle on as they wander down the hallways to the gym. "From what I understand, the knight version of using swords is very different. It was all hack and bash. Fencing is modeled after if you weren't wearing a suit of armor to protect you. As if the point of a sword would go right through your clothing to kill you. Civilized, I guess." If killing people with swords could be considered civilized. "I have a pretty thick head, I think. It could survive a board or two." However, at the prompting, Harry drops her bags by the corner near the door and then moves to the middle where indicated. Alert, now, she waits for more instructions from Kev.

Backing away to give Harry space, making her the focal point of the area, Kev swipes one palm over the other and vice-versa several times, preparatory. While his easygoing nature doesn't fade, his face does harden a smidge, becoming more serious and looking more the part: partly in charge of training the troops, physical aptitude is the combat specialist's zone. "'Kay." He roams to Harry's left, rummaging in a mesh bag of sporting equipment. "First things first." With a light underhand toss, he sends a typical, neon tennis ball her way.

Not exactly the most coordinated, Harry attempts to catch the tennis ball, but it sort of popcorns from one hand to the other until to drops with an echo-ey sound on the floor. With a sheepish grin, she bends over and scoops it up on one of it's high bounces. She realizes that Kev's normally easy going face has now turned into something more serious and thoughtful. Respectful of that, she schools her expression into a serious one as well. "Sorry. I'm not really good at catching things." Case in point, she's holding the tennis ball tentatively in two hands as if it were an egg about to break. "What should I do with it?"

Although he's flicked a serious switch on, he's easy to smile at Harry's fumble — though none of the expression is mocking, or even amused at her lack of coordination, just at her. It's warm and unbothered. "I want you to hang on to that," he says, pointing at the ball. "Get a feel for it. It won't bite. You gotta know the weight of it. In a minute, you're gonna throw it." His shoulders idly roll — stiff under his easy posture — as he wanders in front of Harry, but at a distance of several feet. "So, we gotta get you usin' all your senses, right? That's what this is about. Being aware of your surroundings at all times. So uh, when you're ready, close your eyes. I could use a blindfold, but uh, we don't need to go there."

Though she knows that Kev's smile isn't mocking, Harry can't help but blush at it. She's not exactly used to being slow on the uptake. She was always first in her class and a quick study. This, unfortunately, isn't something she can go home and read about all night - though she most likely will be taking what Kev is teaching her and practicing it as often as possible in order to make sure she has it completely memorized for the next time they practice together. Taking Kev's advice, she stops holding it like and egg and just clutches it in one hand. Then, as instructed, she closes her eyes, ready to throw it when she wants to. With a quirk of a smile, she nods. "Ready. I quite agree about the blind folds. No need to go there just yet."

"Just don't peek. Try focus on the stuff you hear. Think about where it's comin' from. How close, how far." The training area isn't exactly cut off from the rest of the building; muffled chatter still drifts in from elsewhere, interspersed with the shuffle of distant footsteps and a ringing phone at someone's desk. Music still emanates quietly from Kev's headphones, now amped up to something faster, with a succinct rhythm; rap, maybe. After several long moments — in which the man, himself, is quiet — he turns it down, increment by increment, until one noise is removed from Harry's hearing and the others become clearer. Stepping purposefully with his regulation boots, he makes a wide half-circle closer to Harry's left, still at a distance. Once he's settled in spot, he says, "Toss it at me."

This is quite a good exercise in attempting to get Harry to be more aware of her surroundings. As her mind tends to get overcrowded and her desire to listen in on every conversation and music cue, she forgets about where that places everything. With her eyes closed, that desire gets stronger. She's straining her ears to hear the gossip behind the door to the gym as well as the lyrics to the rap song that Kev is playing when it slowly shuts itself down. From there, she hears the clomp of his boots on the floor and his instructions. Once he's stopped running, she frowns and tosses the ball in what she thinks is his general direction. It's not actually too far away, but it's not completely on target by any means. Turning her head that way without opening her eyes, she asks, "How'd I do?"

"Uh, not bad," he answers with a chuckle to his voice as he bends down to catch the ball as it rolls slightly further off Harry's intended track. "You were close." He ambles toward Harry and brushes the ball's greenish fuzz against her hand so she can grab it. "Try again, yeah?" As he moves back to his spot, his voice gets progressively further away along with his footsteps. "Listen to where I am." And he stops.

Without opening her eyes, Harry grabs onto the tennis ball with a bit of a blind woman's grasp. However, she is getting the hang of it. "Close involves something about horse shoes and hand grenades." This time, she takes a deep breath and then breathes out - something she's read about snipers doing to make a perfect shot. As he moves away from her, she waits until he stops and then tosses the tennis ball again. It's certainly more on target this time.

It's certainly on target enough for him to reach out and snatch it out of the air with a satisfactory thwack of his palm, even with the throw being low velocity. "Yeah! Good!" He doesn't give it back this time — he strolls around slowly, circling Harry widely, then branching off into a corner of the room behind her, where he instructs her to do it again, until she gets it closer than horseshoes and hand grenades. He keeps moving about the room, pausing in different locations, at different distances, and getting Harry to toss the ball at him in every one. Sometimes his footsteps are stealthier.

"Bein' aware of your surroundings is a good thing in any dangerous situation but you know, all things considered, you could come up against an invisible dude some day," he says with the results of the most recent throw in his hand. He holds the ball up, twirling it around in his fingers even though he's the only one who can currently see it. "Or an invisi-chick, I guess, too. Anyway, I'ma say you've graduated from balls today. But keep those eyes closed." His feet approach. He's standing in front of Harry. "Next step is movin' on to movin' targets. Keeping your wits about you when you can't see and exercising your senses. It's a whole mind-body senses integration jigga-thing that I'm sure you know about more than me because of neutrinos in the brain or whatever." With a shuffle of feet, his stance solidifies. "Now, hit me."

Harry is attempting to just focus and listen to where Kev is as opposed to everything else that is going on around them and for the most part, she succeeds. In fact, she starts to get better at it as she goes along. While she's not exactly a sniper just yet, she certainly has more awareness of where she is throwing things and where Kev is approximately in the room at any given point. She smiles proudly when Kev says she's done well.

But, then she's told that she should hit Kev and she's not sure if she's really up for that. "Oh, I know I won't hurt you or anything since you're Kev and all, but I don't exactly want to hit you or anything. I could miss and take out your eye or something." However, she does realize that this is an exercise and that she did say she wanted this help. And, so, she half-heartedly reaches out a hand in Kev's general direction to more touch him as opposed to hit him. In any event, she most likely misses.

"Even horseshoes need some force behind 'em," he says as her harmless hand drifts just beyond him. "Hey," he starts to say with an easygoing, helpful tone, "wait one sec." His presence becomes noisier with rustling about, digging around; he finds his sunglasses and shoves them on. "There. I'm wearing safety goggles. Have at it. Like this," Kev says, swinging an arm toward Harry. His arm is heavy, but made inert; he just bumps her shoulder, "except," he instructs, preparing to repeat the move, "try to block me."

"But not grenades?" Harry grins. Once Kev has properly applied his safety gear, she feels more confident in swinging wildly about in an attempt to hit him. Of course she wouldn't attempt to put as much force to hurt him as just to actually grab or touch him in his circuits around her. Instead, she focuses on defense now - much more her strong suit. "Okay. Blocking." Her eyes squeeze tighter shut as she attempts to concentrate on where Kev is and where she might be able to block him. His movements around her are not incredibly hard to track, however, how is she supposed to block an arm when she can't hear that coming? In the meantime, she attempts to just windmill her arms in Kev's direction to stop whatever her may have coming at her. It's not exactly the most practical of solutions.

It's successful enough in that Kev's arms are repeatedly smacked by the haphazard flail. He lets it go on for awhile — she's trying! — but soon starts to break into a slow laugh. "Okay, chill, chill." Two of the hands she's supposed to be blocking come down firmly on Harry's shoulders and stay there as a calm countermeasure to her windmilling. "This part, it's not about combat. I mean, it is, but the point is to focus it up, you know, really feel it out, yeah? Like, I'm not makin' much noise, but the air is, you know? When I cut through it." He may not be the most articulate teacher, but he cuts to the point as he sees it. "So you listen to that, and you feel where I am, and you think, how is this dude gonna come at me in a way that makes sense, then you come back at me. Try this." He moves just one hand off and stretches his arm far; far to Harry's left, he snaps his fingers, then brings his 'attacking' arm back toward hers.

It's not, of course, the most dignified of defenses, but it is a defense! At least she's doing something. And that's the main point to her. She has, though, let out of sight the reason for this entire exercise, which is to hear and pay attention to things she normally wouldn't. And, so, when Kev puts his hands on her shoulders, she lets her arms drop and takes a deep breath. "It just! I panicked a bit. I don't really liked he dark so much any more." Not since the asylum. Not since the attack. She somehow made it out with a properly applied tray and a help of a strange Scottish woman, but she can't keep relying on that any more. So, she really focuses this time and attempts to take everything Kev has been attempting to teach her to heart. When he snaps and brings his arm back, she slowly reaches out to grab it. She can do this! She can!

"Yeahhh!" A laugh rumbles Kev's shout of victory — for Harry, as her hand clasps his arm. Of course, he could have avoided it, but that's not the point of this exercise. She tried and she did it and his proud smile for even this one basic task beams in his voice. "Good job. Now, keep paying attention. 'N just, uh, lemme know when you wanna break." From the dark. He drops that arm and lifts the other, pressure disappearing from Harry's shoulder. This time, when he snaps his fingers, it's to her right and much higher up before he starts to bring his arm down, as if he's going for her head.

Harry isn't exactly trained for martial arts or for much defensive movement, but she is quite proud of herself when she at least grasps at Kev's hand when he does the useful thing of snapping before he makes his attempt. She'll get this without him doing that one day, but for now she's grateful that he's not making her feel silly for doing that. "I will, don't worry. Soon, but not yet." When he snaps and reaches for her head, she also makes the adjustment. When he makes his presence known, she doesn't flail about wildly and is able to at least make an attempt at the proper place at the proper time.

Again, he uses the same method coming from several different places, until it's time to change tracks again. "You're doin' good . Now uh, time to change it up. Get your feet movin'. I'ma be over here— " He's on the move: disappearing from in front of Harry, he strolls around behind her, a few feet away. "Work on some of that, uh— coordination." Or sometimes lack of. "Come at me." He waits, ready to block her.

C-come at him? Is he serious? That is not exactly something the Harry would be good at. In fact, this is exactly something she is going to stupendously fail at. She knows where his voice was last and using that as a quite, she flails somewhat in that direction. It's not exactly he most coordinated of gestures.

"It's alright," Kev says, his voice giving away his position. "You just gotta find me." His coaxing is a bit like encouraging a child to walk for the first time, but he means nothing but well. "Pretend you're a ninja." Sound advice here from the combat specialist. "And remember to breathe." He side-steps with a rustle, changing location slightly.

A ninja. Harry is very much not like a ninja. In fact, where she actually to somehow be transported into the boy of a ninja, she would immediately implode with the desire to talk about everything she found around her. It's quite exactly why she can have problems with figuring out where everyone is and how they are in relation to her - her mind is preoccupied with other things." She takes a deep breath when instructed and keeps moving, attempting to follow Kev's voice, but of course, she's always a little bit behind him because he keeps moving after he speaks.

Though she can't see it, Kev's expression twitches a few times, his mouth twisting, as if he wants to give Harry advice, but doing so would give his position away. He lends her some assistance anyway, after a few moments; he snaps his fingers. He's on the move when he does, and he keeps shifting position after the fact, trailing away from Harry's attempts — but again, snap, a quick but resounding call to attention, and another, little auditory breadcrumbs for her to follow. The last is closer than the others — he's closer, attempting to skirt around her. The only sounds left in the wake of the snap is a faint rustle of clothes; under that, contained breathing.

The breadcrumbs are infuriating, but helpful. Finally, Harry remembers that she is a smart woman and that she can use her brain to make her body move in the way she desires. Putting everything together with the snaps, she starts to discern a pattern and from that, where he might actually start to snap next. Then, she halves it and finally, with a desperate grabs makes for Kev's position. It helps that he's closer to her than before, but she does also use her own thoughts in order to make sure she grabs him.

He keeps moving when he sees her incoming grab, but he's keeping it slow as molasses, giving her a chance; sure enough, he watches her narrow in on him. His arm springs under her grab with a lively flex. "Y'caught me!" he declares, as if caught red-handed and off-guard (but not particularly concerned about it). His other arm lifts and he gives Harry a congenial pat or three on the shoulder. "How 'bout you open your eyes. Feels like breaktime to me — you've got a good, uh," his caught arm frees as he scratches into his dark mess of hair, bobbing his black-lensed sunglasses, "primer."

Opening her eyes, Harry feels slightly triumphant at having caught Kev after so many tries. She, of course, knows that he was slowing himself down for her benefit, at least she managed to do something with that advantage. Grinning, she reaches forward to give Kev a hug. "Thanks so much for helping me out with this. I know it's only been a short while, but I'm learning things! And while I know I'm still terrible, the learning is what I know is important. So, thank you."

Kev breaks into a smile that flashes teeth under his whiskery swathe of facial hair and squints his eyes behind his shades. In it's sincerity, it's goofy. He's legitimately caught slightly off-guard by the hug, though, and just spreads his arms out at his sides for a second as if they've become leaden objects he doesn't know how to control. "Anytime," he says, coming to life to give Harry a quick squeeze and a solid, friendly pat on the back as he'd give any of his teammates, though less spine-crushing, as the investigator isn't wearing a bulletproof vest or extra pounds of muscle.

Training Day ACRU Logs - 31 Dec 2012 17:30

harry kev


A.C.R.U. Headquarters

October 4th, 2012

"Meanwhile I'm fine, thank you."

ACRU has been in and out of the spotlight, what with the case at Patton State Hospital and the Lonely Hearts Case and many more that have bounced around and slipped through the doors of the hotly contested division of the LAPD. Catching up on the latest paperwork, Harriet Parker pushes through the doors of the lab and into the detective pen with a large stack of folders. The joys of paperwork are about to be passed on to others.

Each folder has been meticulously arranged and organized in order to make it easier for the next people. It should be just a sign each page and move on. However, as she pushes through the door and the stack teeters, Harry tries to correct for gravity. Unfortunately, she overcorrects. And with a squeak of dismay, her stack of papers and folders becomes a pile of disarray on the floor. With a sigh, she stoops down to pick everything up and start again.

"Whoa there now, lady," drifts down from above, lady easygoing without a hint of strict manners; lady like chica, lady like hey, girl. The male voice that almost sounds accented, it's so slow; it's just Kev's lax, lazy tone. He's been been around, a usual fixture no matter what's going on — not working with enough focus to miss Harry's battle with gravity, he stands awaiting the woman in (sort of) need. "Let me help you," he offers, crouching on one knee to her right to paw at the papers, trying his best not to crumple the important documents. "Here I thought you knew all there was to know about gravity, huh."

Someone doesn't get papers. Someone gets coffee. Still. That someone is Elliot who, expertly balancing two trays in each hand and carrying a big paper bag between his teeth, has just pushed open the door to the wonderful world of detectives-at-desks. Earbuds make it a little difficult to hear what's going on, and the bag makes it a bit difficult to see what's going on — which is all the more unfortunate because there are papers right in his path. And he's not expecting to step on them. What ensues is an astounding effort in balance as man, coffee, and bagels go skidding a few inches to the left, then twist and initiate some graceless footwork that sends Elliot's back into the wall. Good news: Everyone will still get their coffee! Elliot is a hero.

… if he can scrape his ego up off the floor, that is.

With a thankful smile, Harry continues to scoop up papers and also acknowledge Kev. "Thanks, Kev." She gives an amused laugh and shakes her head. "I certainly know a lot of about gravity theoretically." On the practical matter, however, things can get tricky.

When Elliot saunters through, she winces and shifts backwards, hoping that coffee won't spill all over her precious documents and, also that no one will fall on her. After a few moments and neither of those things happen, the CSI sighs in relief and looks up. "Are you alright?" she asks the probie with a tilt of her head. It's not his ego she's worried about, so much, as his person. AFter all, she just dropped an entire stack of papers on the floor and she's not embarrassed!

Kev whips his head toward Elliot's fumble with a hand thrown out as if to keep the guy off the mess of important papers if he falls (and off of him, more importantly). The faint squint of Kev's eyes then wonders: is everyone here a little drunk today? "Can't see when you got your headphones in your ears, buddy?" he challenges Elliot's senses, but that lazy voice doesn't have much jab behind it. His little quirk of a smile is mostly good-natured. He sniffs and goes back to helping sweep the files up.

Once he's rescued a big ol' stack of these — probably — precious papers, Kev realizes he doesn't actually know where any of them go. He doesn't even try to touch the organization. They fan out in his mitt. "Uhh…" He holds them out to Harry, trying to be helpful. They flop over themselves.

The only thing worse than almost slipping and spilling coffee everywhere is the inevitable conversation that follows. It's like awkward sex that way. Giving his most tight-lipped of smiles around the bag in his mouth, Elliot carefully — oh so carefully — slides the two trays of coffee onto the most convenient nearby flat surface and reaches up to both remove the bag and one of his earbuds in time to catch the remarks from the two peanuts in the gallery. "Usually there isn't an explosion of papers on the floor," he grunts at Kev's light jab. "Meanwhile I'm fine, thank you." He eyes the Mess Formerly Known As Organized Files and arches an eyebrow. "Maybe I missed something; this is ACRU, right? Not Keystone?"

At Kev's good-natured file pass (flopping papers and all) Harry grins and takes them. They're all mish-mashed now and she'll just have to redo them. It's not Kev's fault, it's her own. "Thanks," she says again. Piling them all up again, she scoops and then deposits them on a table almost right next to where Elliot rests his coffee. Spreading them out she already starts to quickly sort them into a multitude of different stacks. One for each case. "Keystone?" Harry asks absently, not getting Elliot's jab. "As in the Keystone State? Pennsylvania? I don't think so. Not last I checked. Unless there's someone with an ability to move entire states. Or maybe entire cities. Or, even just this building. That would be quite the power, wouldn't it? It could rearrange maps! Next you know, Madrid is in Mongolia and no one knows where anything is any more."

<C.H.A.R.L.I.E.> Code 11. Possible 207 in progress on Sunset. Eagle Team on standby.

Kev completely misses Elliot's meaning. He stands up, brushing his hands on his tenuously professional-looking dark jeans (they go with his pink shirt). He then goes onto completely miss all of Harry's meaning, too. Since when is Madrid in Mongolia? He squints, waits, and taps the side of his head as he looks to Elliot. "Eyes and ears," he offers along. "Ramsay's got this whole thing with bein' in sync, man, ready for anything in this biz. You better get on that before he gets on you," he says and, under the humorous tone of teasing the probie a little, is some advice. Maybe even well-meaning. Instincively, he glances down at the little buzzing radio at his belt, glances toward the sound of activity deeper within ACRU where Eagle Team is no doubt bustling to be at the ready.

Elliot can only stare at the other two as his joke goes sailing right on by. "Keystone. As in Keystone Kops. The old— " But then he decides against trying to explain, instead shaking his head and muttering something under his breath. Kev's advice is met with another tight smile. "Yeah. Thanks. I got it." Removing the other earbud, he turns to pick up his coffees and the bag again, pauses at the sound of the radio as though calculating just how many of those coffees are supposed to go to some of the guys in Eagle Team.

Eagle Team? What? Harry's ears perk and her head tilts only slightly as she listens, but her attention remains focused on the papers in front of her. She's not Eagle team and unless they need a clean up, she most likely won't even need to be involved in whatever is happening. One paper, two paper, red paper, blue paper. That's what she's thinking as she places one paper on top of another to make a proper stack.

"Oh?" The brunette is listening ot Elliot and in fact reaches over absently and plucks a coffee off of the tray on the desk next to her. "Thanks, Elliot. I was dying for some caffeine. Probably why I'm all off balance. Have you been trying to keep in sync, Kev? I'm not even quite sure what that means."

"Yeah, it's part of the training regimen," Kev replies easily, "It's all about bein' focused — gotta keep in … full capacity of all senses," he's clearly quoting from memory, "you know, like. So you don't get overwhelmed out in the field. Ramsay says it's especially important for some've us so we don't go nut-bar with our powers," he's clearly stopped quoting from memory. He reaches up and scratches the back of his head, skewing the already mussed dark hair, furrowing his brow a little — not enough to mar his casual attitude, but he is regretting nut-bar a little, given Ramsay runs him particularly hard about keeping in sync.

<C.H.A.R.L.I.E.> Code 11. 207A. Hostage still… onsite. Dispatch Eagle Team. Sunset and Rexford. Ability confirmed.

<C.H.A.R.L.I.E.> Someone who sounds like Valerie says, "Eagle 1, copy. Cole, Eagle 2. Race is 3, with King 4. Stick to our lovely talking points. Let's make our captains proud."

When that coffee cup is snatched, Elliot opens his mouth as though to protest — that's his — but then, oddly, he decides to just let it be. It's not like he needed caffeine today anyway, right? Right. "Sure thing." There's even a genuine smile! The mention of Ramsay causes the probie to glance subtly about the place, as though the captain has the ability to appear at the mention of his name. Nope, it's all good. Elliot smirks a bit. "I don't think 'nut-bar' was his exact phrasing— " and he trails off when the radio chatter starts heating up.

"You know, nut bars are quite filled with proteins and are quite good for you. I've run the tests." Harry glances up and gives Kev a warm smile to show that she has his back should Ramsay magically appear behind them in order to give them the Disappointed Stare of Worse Than Death. Even when she knows full well should that happen she would leave her papers exactly where they are and walk as fast away as she could from the situation as fast as possible. She could make new papers! All day if she had to! "Though, I do agree, it's a good thing to practice and be fully aware of yourself."

Taking a long drink from the coffe, she gasps and pulls it back nearly spilling some of it. Hot! With a sheepish smile, she just places it down on the desk again. "Some of us might need more practice at it than others." That someone being her, of course.

Kev takes a moment to let the radio transmissions pass, turning sober throughout, giving Valerie and the Eagle Team the respect they deserve before he keeps on keeping up. "Nah," he agrees with Elliot, "it was more like— " He cracks a smile which hangs open for a few seconds as he eagerly summons up the right words, so amused that it delays him actually getting it out. Despite Harry's helpfully watchful eye, he suddenly swings a look over his shoulder anyway. No Captain. Maybe he needs more of that training, too. "I swore he was gonna be there." And yet … as he turns back— "Aw, shit, man, now I forget what I was gonna say."

He runs his hand all the way through his hair from the back. "Anyway, hey uh," he gives Harry an acknowledging lift of his scruffed chin, sincerely — if a bit uncertainly — telling her, "I can give you some training in the gym, if you want."

<C.H.A.R.L.I.E.> Subject tall… middle-aged. European. Extreme anger.


Only half-listening, most of his focus being on the radio, it takes Elliot a moment to even realize what's been said. Then his eyebrow goes uuuuuup, gaze shifting between the other two people in his vicinity, and then he smiiiiles. Oh. He sees what is going on here. He busies himself checking his phone to hide his smirk.

What is going on here? Harry actually has no idea what Elliot is implying. Or, well, thought implying. Which might be the same thing. The eyebrows he raises are missed completely. "Oh?" Harry glances up from the files, most of them filed safely away. They, luckily, did not do a lot of reshuffling when they took their tumble. "That might be helpful. I'm not normally out with any team. Normally my works done after everything else has been dealt with. But, it would be good! Just in case, you know?"

Kev eyes his radio with a briefly, easily missable, flicker of fret. Extreme anger, huh. With Elliot's assumption going past him, he nods leisurely along with Harry. At her interest in the concept, his smile perks up at one corner. "Yeah," he agrees without elaborating. What she said. "Got plenty've free time after shifts, or whatever, you could step outta the lab while we're in training. Happy ta help."

"That's Kev: He's a really helpful kinda guy," Elliot chips in with a beaming smile. He may be an asshole, but he at least isn't enough of an asshole to mock a man in the presence of a lady he fancies. Pocketing his phone again, he leans back against the wall and folds his arms across his chest. Everyone else can wait on their coffee, he is Entertained.

Theoretical Gravity ACRU Logs - 31 Dec 2012 00:21

elliot harry kev

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