New Game

Getting Ready

Harold awoke with a start.

Sitting bolt-upright in his bed, he discovered that he was covered in a cold sweat. Harold looked around frantically, his heart beating in his ears. He was in his apartment. He was alone. He exhaled slowly, relieved, and wrapped his arms around his quaking body, squeezing tightly.

He pushed himself up and got out of bed. He shakily towards the bathroom. Harold flipped the switch on the wall and light flooded the small room, bouncing off the peach tiles. He walked past the mirror without looking and reached underneath the dark-brown shower curtain, turning the nozzle and adjusting the gauge until the nozzle reached the appropriate temperature.

When steam began filling the small bathroom and he was undressed, Harold pulled up the shower curtain, ducking beneath it, and was greeted with a cascade of steaming hot water striking his aching back and wings. He turned around, allowing the stream to hit him directly in the face and letting out a long, tortured sigh.

What the fuck was that dream?

He growled, reaching for the shampoo and pumping a generous amount into his hand. He lathered up his hair, trying desperately to scrub the image from his brain.

Quinn finished his shower and toweled off. He brushed his teeth and dried his hair, pulling it into a low ponytail to keep it out of his way. Tossing his towel in the sink, he went out into his bedroom to get dressed. After he finished pulling his sweatshirt over his head, Harold tugged his comforter over top of his crumpled sheets. He proceeded to declare his bed made and exited the master bedroom, venturing out into the main part of his flat.

Her apartment was small but spacious. It was located in the heart of LA, on the sixth floor of a large apartment building. He had put down the security deposit with his first paycheck as an agent. His building was about thirty minutes away from the LA Bureau of Investigation by car, but it only took Harold about two minutes to get to work.

Quinn walked into the kitchenette and the sweet scent of coffee filled his nose. Thank God for coffee makers! Harold thought to himself as he retrieved a travel-mug from the cabinet. He placed it on the counter and gripped the handle of the pot in his hand. Harold poured himself a cup of steaming liquid sustenance and replaced the pot on the burner. Clutching the mug in his hands, he seated himself at the teeny kitchen table.

After him Harold had left the penitentiary the previous day, he had returned to the headquarters to find everybody waiting for him with bated breath. Not a single one of them had been able to eat, sleep, or work properly in his absence; too on edge to even use the bathroom. Agent Quinn delivered the message the Countertenor had given him.

The entire team was stumped.

They sat in the conference room for four hours, tossing ideas around with no results until they couldn't stand the sight of one another. Finally, Scott slammed his hand down on the table in exasperation and shouted at them all to go home.

Scott said that the team was burned out and if they were going to be of any use for the remainder of this case, they needed rest. He advised them to return to their respective places of residence and get some sleep in real beds and partake in the actual food, rather than doughnuts and take-out. Scott reminded them, particularly Ida, that the Finger Fetcher rarely disposed of his victims in two days and Aisha would be fine for one night.

Harold sipped at his coffee and stared at the bowl of apples on the table without taking one. He glanced at the clock and noticing the time, pushed himself up from the table mug in hand he walked over to the counter and checked the coffee machine to make sure that it was turned off. He exited the kitchen, grabbing his bag from the spot on the floor where he had discarded it the night before and headed out the door.