Jane |UTA| [ Re-Write ]

pilot ✍︎

Jane walked past the Rc cell detectors calmly, the milk her mum had requested swaying idly in her hands as she exited the corner store. It was on the brink of nine o'clock and the many cups of tea had finally caught up with the fridge.

Even with it being far into the night, summer had left a lingering sheen of sunlight across the cloud swept sky. Honestly, even if she barely managed to find the time, Jane enjoyed the cool evenings which filtered through the suburbs of London.

Only a few blocks to go, she unconsciously mentioned as her calves burned with a familiar sensation of exhaustion. A mile there, a mile back, nothing too strenuous if you regularly exercised.

Still, she drunk down and absorbed the atmosphere surrounding. Car engines roared to her left with a speed of twenty miles-per-hour, the trees swayed with a sun touched wind and the pavement felt rigged under her thin soles; tree roots had fought against the concrete and crested under the cracks with an admirable determination.

For a moment, Jane allowed a quirk of a smile to curl at her lips before she turned into that familiar road. Adolescent trees stood limply every few metres or so, sidewalks suddenly became cleaner as she walked deeper down the street. Soon enough, she would reach the edge of the country field lanes and arrive at her cottage styled house.

Inside, she expected her mum to be sipping her latest cup of tea, curled against the edge of the sofa with a iron hand on the television remote. Her dad, skimming over the news on his phone, monitoring the surrounding area for a rare ghoul crime.

Mark Fraser was one of those CCG investigators: adamant of exterminating the cannibalistic race. He hadn't told anyone the reason behind his blind hatred and Jane was certain he never would yet, sometimes there was a look in his eyes that said more than any amount of words.

"Jane? Is that you?" Nancy Fraser asked from the living room, her posture as expected.

"Who else would it be?" Jane mumbled before replying with an appropriate answer, her legs were aching far too much to be standing around to routinely spout the reparative phrases.

The house was big enough for a quaintly sized family, by quaintly sized, it meant they were just a typical family of four- three now. Three bedrooms lined the upstairs and bordered the sparkling bathroom, white coated the walls and held a stifling air that lacked the usual personal touch seen in Hollywood movies.

Once Jane's flimsy, summer shoes were removed, the cool sensation of polished wood spurred a shiver to erupt under her skin. Maybe it was the heated atmosphere of Mark and Nancy's anxiety that possibly left the temperature low enough to soothe any worries.

Ever since Amber had departed from the Fraser household, the investigator inside Mark gnawed at his gut. Every morning at eight-thirty he would expect he eldest daughter to call, reassuring the man of fifty-two that she was safe, still had her quinque knives and had still remained in self-defence classes.

Much like her sister, Jane kept a quinque knife on her person constantly despite there hardly being any dangerous ghouls to inhabit Britain. Plus, hanging at the CCG allowed her to learn some self-defence from her dad's coworkers. From small, they all said she was an investigator in the making.

Jane could recall walking around the headquarters with an awestruck expression of wonder at the mere age of six.

It was in her blood.

"Mind making me a cuppa?" Mark asked from the top of his phone, nearly quoting an age old rule of the Fraser house.

If you touch the kettle, don't be thinking you're the only one wanting a drink.