The Society of the Eleventh Hour

Blindly Scrabbling for Something (Anything...)

To say that the station is in a hellish state when we arrive is to make a vast understatement. Few officers remain at their desks at all— I assume Petra's keeping them out to investigate or having them patrol the city in hopes of protecting lone travelers or identifying suspicious figures prowling the streets at night.

The officers that are at the station are all nervous wrecks, hovering around in awkward tension or pawing uselessly through paperwork in a frenetic manner I guiltily recognize and dread seeing in professionals. I make eye contact with Morgan in a moment of shared judgment and nerves.

"... may the Four help us," I mutter under my breath before stalking over to Petra's office and rapping impatiently on the door.

I shove the door open immediately afterward, not waiting for a response, in recognition of Petra's abhorrence of appeals to authority and niceties and whatnot. You've heard it all before, and she's not a woman prone to change.

There's a vaguely familiar woman (office clerk, perhaps?) sitting in a chair haphazardly pulled up to Petra's own. The lead detective is sitting in her desk chair as if she had previously been working— but is now face-down on a pile of paperwork, seemingly asleep. The other woman appears to be petting (???) Petra's hair, which I know better than to ask about.

"Unless someone is dead, you should leave." The unfamiliar woman tells me, curtly.

"Lots of people are dead, ma'am." I point out, dryly. "That's what we're here for— I need clearance for the morgue."

"Detective Petra—" The woman begins to argue back to me, glowering, but the detective in question suddenly rises and waves her off.

"Please stop talking about me while I'm sitting right next to all of you, for the Gods' sakes. I'm not an animal." Petra rolls her eyes. "I'm not letting you drag the bodies out of cold storage on a whim, Lucy. This isn't your battle to fight, so just... stay out of it."

I bristle, at that. How many times are we going to have this argument? How many times is she going to run away when she can't use her logic to win?

"When my mother asks you to do something for her, do you insult her intelligence and refuse blatantly? I'm sure you don't. I'm going to be the Marchioness in a matter of months... do you think it wise to disrespect your future boss up until the very second she is crowned, only to change your tune then?" I summon up every ounce of false nobility I can muster. "Or perhaps you intend to side with my mother in this dreaded power struggle. I am merely too stupid to rule, too young... so you'd rather have my mother stay in power for another thirty years. She wants you arrested at best, though recently it seems she's determined on having your head on a silver fucking platter— but I can't make your decisions for you, choose your allegiances. You're the Detective."

Petra flinches, and the other woman excuses herself from the room. I take a step into the room, shortly followed by Morgan.

"I've never maliciously withheld a THING from you, and I've got about a thousand problems already— could you stop being one of them? At first, I tried to keep you out of the path of the killer. Clearly, I failed. Now, I'm worried that you're going to put innocent people in jail because you've somehow entangled your personal life with the case. How are you supposed to make objective decisions about the case at this point?" Petra demands, impatient and looking as if she's got a migraine.

I'm taken aback, for a moment. Morgan steps in (literally, putting her body between mine and Petra's.)

"You're afraid, aren't you? Terrified that you were wrong all this time, walking in mindless circles. The real reason you're discrediting our LITERAL confession and the theory of two killers is that it makes you look bad!" She snarls, suddenly incensed on my behalf. I blush, a bit, flattered at her faith in what is mostly my theory-crafting.