Comedy and Tragedy II: Broken Angels

Finally!

(Not mine. Art's super sick, though!)

Harrison Quinn.

I slammed my head onto my desk. Groaning, I started shoving piles of papers aside, making room for my shoulders. Everyone else was focusing on their stuff, so I didn't care if I looked like a homework-anxiety teenager.

It had been at least 5 weeks since the incident with the Black Raven. I left before I could get to the actual court case, but I at least gave my statement. Personally, I think it's bull. But hey, you try arguing with Justice. You can't win, and if you do you feel guilty.

I heard a buzzing on my desk. Sitting up, I shoved a few stacks of papers aside to pick up my walkie talkie, which was buzzing like euphoria.

"Detective Quinn," A voice said, their voice staticky. "Meet me in my office. This is Delilah."

Nodding, I shoved it into my pocket. To be honest, I felt like doing hand springs, anything as an excuse to get out of paperwork. Leaping up from my desk, I ran (okay, scampered.) past my peers, and to Sergeant Delilah's office.

If you ever come to the New Orleans' Local Police Department, it's pretty easy to spot the office of Sergeant Delilah. Everyone's desks are cluttered with markers, coffee mugs, and little gew-gaws, including mine (Northstar action figure and Guardians of the Galaxies mousepad. Can't help it, I'm a geek. No shame.).

Sergeant Delilah's office is completely scary, even as you walk up to it. It's not that he's the kind of boss that is all stiff and stern and professional. No, it's not like that at all! It's just... she shows a lot of... ok, she's a bit yikes.

I knocked on the door, and from inside I could hear a voice sing out, "Come in!"

Pushing open the door, I drank the room in. It hadn't changed, which surprised me. She changed something about her office all the time, cause that's Deliliah's thing. Ok, I better explain myself.

Delilah's office looked like Simple Plan, MCR and The Rasmus agreed to decorate one room. The shaggy carpet was dark blue, her desk was made of black wood, and her walls were plastered with band posters. Fountains of Wayne, FOB, Of Mice and Men, so many bands that I can't name off the top of my head, were covering the wall.

Delilah was sitting at her desk, leaning back in her desk. She was wearing a black on black suit, and pointed toe oxfords. Her curly black hair was tied up into a side ponytail, exposing skull earrings the size of a silver dollar.

"Hello, Detective Quinn." She said, sitting up.

I sat down in the chair in front of the desk. Black wood, Victorian gothica design, and red leather. Only makes sense.

"S'up, boss?" I asked. I crossed my legs, and gave her my best smile. She smiled back.

Delilah snickered. "I still can't get over the fact," She said. "That you call me boss. So professional."

"Anywho," She said, sitting up. The humor left her face, as well as her posture. "This isn't a pleasure call."

Reaching into a drawer, she plucked a thick file from the desk and put it in front of me.

"Augh, not more files!" I groaned, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. "Please, have mercy!"

Delilah laughed harder, and shoved it closer to me. "Don't worry, duder." She said. "This is a fun case file."

I gave her an odd look as I opened the file. The first thing that was there was a guy laying on the ground, soaked with blood and decorated with bruises, his eyes dead.