The team had the townhouse surrounded. Kovech adjusted his worn herringbone wool suit jacket. Clarence Lovelace, rhythm strings for Pherric Defeat. They had made it on the Bluegrass charts a couple times, so he knew one of their songs from traffic. Weird coincidence.
They had knocked on the shared door of the townhouse, but according to the housemate, who wouldn't let them in, Clarence was out. Now they were waiting for a warrant, or Clarence, whichever showed up first.
Roy was currently searching the trash for anything incriminating. Kovech wished he could be back at the office going through Clarence's digital footprint, but the boss had told him to pass the buck it so he could speak with Lovelace. He sipped the Irish coffee from his travel mug.
He hadn't realized it while doing his searches, but the Iron Triangle Neighborhood was just outside the public housing development. The patrol car he hitched a ride in had passed his dad's old townhouse. He almost missed it. Not too many memories of that part of his life.
He asked himself, not for the first time, if Dad was still alive. Would he be proud of Jeffry? Living a double life as a hero detective and psycho pervert. Dad would probably beat the snot out of him.
Jeffry sighed. Did it matter after what Dad did? Left in the night. Card just said returned to Fatherland. Made Mom cry. Still raw after 15 years. Probably somewhere in West Herzegovina since that's where the families from. Mom lost the house. Moved them out to Martinez. It was hell.
Still he could feel it getting worse. Pathetic. At 34 he was pining to patriarchal authority to set himself straight. How much longer could he hold on alone? The wolf was baying at the door, waiting to be let out.
He was broken out by of this self criticism by Roy wandering over to him holding a trash bag. "Hey Jeff! I found something!" Roy was in his usual black leather trench coat he wore when he wanted to look official. His white polo below was slick with sweat. Never took the fucking thing off when not under cover.
"What'd you find Martin?" Kovech responded, with the measured speech he reserved for the parts of the force he respected.
"Blood! With positive ID on it coming From Lovelace's apartment!" Roy's smile just drew Kovech to focus on the dark rings around his eyes.
"Yeah?" If they DNA checked the blood and it was one of victims it certainly would be a find, but otherwise...
Roy laid the bag on the ground and squatted down, the leather of his coat squeaking with the tightening of his back. With a fluid motion, he drew, cut the bag open, and holstered his Bowie knife. The man liked his knife tricks.
The amount of Bloody paper towels that tumbled out was staggering. Roy held up a piece of junk mail confidently. It said 'Clarence Lovelace' on the address. "Look!"
"Alright." Kovech said as he texted the Larry to pick up the bag. "This certainly makes the job easier. We got another day before we just send everything off to the FBI."
Roy laughed. "Lab's'll take what? Eight hours?"
"We got priority on everything right now, probably four." Larry texted Kovech a thumbs up.
Roy continued to dig through the trash. "Nice." He paused inspecting a smashed Harry's shaver. "It's about time we got some respect around here." Letting the crushed plastic fall back in the trash pile, he sifted through more chip bags and dust. "You and me man, we hold this fucking precinct together. They'd be lost without us!"
Kovech nodded. He was glad Roy was his partner. The shared in their disdain for the beats, brass, and most other detectives. They were the ones cleaning up the departments messes. The Adults in the room.
Roy shouted with delight. He held in thumb and forefinger a red tinted ziplock baggie. There was a suspicious white powder within. Slipping a hand in his trench coat, Roy pulled out a field drug test kit and vial, tapped the powder into the test slot, and hydrated it with the vial's eye dropper.
The two men stared at the hunk of plastic and its indicator tabs labeled with illicit substances. As the chemical worked its way along the blotter paper, dark red line formed at the Cocaine tab. Without waiting for the test to finish, Roy took a pinkie bump off the powder and tossed it to Kovech.
Kovech balked, staring down at the little red baggie. He had always refrained from using hard drugs, not for moral reasons, but because he worried that any upper would let the wolf in. He looked over at Roy, who was starring at him, unimpressed. Kovech shrugged, and, tapping some powder into the divot between his thumb and wrist, he snorted.
Roy let out a howling barking laugh. Smiling he said "You know what I like about you Jeffery?" Kovech shook his head. "You're always unpredictable, man." He turned looking at the townhouse, hungry. He bit his lip. "You know what?" The manic glint in his eye was slightly unsettling. "I think we already got her."
Kovech did his best to smile. "I think so too."
~~+-0-+~~
Insertion was easier this time. The packet of nerves on the tip of Circe's spine had been altered by her... metamorphosis... to be a suitable interface between body and unbody. Jacking back in felt a bit like draining the pasta water with the lid, a tangled mass barely held back by a makeshift shield.
The moment Circe arrived she felt the enormous weight of just how exhausted she was. Apparently untangling a being of that size from lines of enthalpy was hard on your unbody. She stretched letting the various packets of nervous information reconnect her body to her mind. Running a hand through her hair she luxuriated in being able to feel texture again.
Leaning forward, Circe rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, and finally got around to reading the images her optical nerve was sending her.
Blood.
Oh God.
There was blood.
It covered the device and flecked the walls with crimson.
The ceiling dripped.
Circe whipped her head around, searching for Roger. How willing would she be to live with herself if she had just killed a kindly old man to save her benefactor? For that matter, how willing was she to even kill at all?
Depressed and coked out of her mind, Clarence had never had to ask these questions. Who cares about the ethics of murder when you can spend 40 hours straight practicing and inventing new riffs and melodies on guitar and banjo. She had no philosophy beyond "fuck the people who made it hard to make music". Her high school idol was Mike Dirnt, infamous guitarist of local Gutter Hokum band Sweet Children, not Marx.
Circe Realized she had been staring at a figure while thinking these thoughts. A lady covered in blood. She blinked.
The ladies hair was long gray and luscious, in that oily way that curlier side of hair always trends toward. Her features were sharp, but the smile lines held court over her features like a kindly hawk. Most importantly she was wearing the same color flannel Roger had been wearing not seconds ago under his canvas and leather apron. And there said garment was, shucked off in the pool of blood. Wait. ...Was Roger Trans?
No. It had to be a resonance cascade of some sort forcing her newfound power onto the bodies of unsuspecting old cishet men. She was,from this moment on, analogous to mythic Circe. She could shape the flesh of any she came across, and Roger was merely unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire.
Roger, looking up from his newfound breasts, noticed Circe moving around.He looked at her in pure terror. "Who are you? What did you do to me?"
Roger's voice had the timbre and edge of a very disappointed grandma. And yet, his hand shook at her tyranny of her power.
Circe realized for the first time she genuinely had full control over this woman's (man's?) life. She could force anything she wanted out of her. The horror of how few consequences her actions had for her struck with the dissonance of smashing a guitar.
And yet.
Looking deep within, Circe realized- all she wanted from this woman was acceptance, and validation. What would she even do to her. Him. Whatever. Might as well get this over with. "I told you, I'm Circe. Did you want to be a woman?" She said in a slow voice, trying to work in as much kindness and understanding as she could.
Roger stuttered, and stopped. "Wait, you're the Circe?" They took a step back. "Of myth?"
In this moment Circe realized two things. The first, being that picking the name Circe as a child had perhaps been a form of nominative determinism for her whole life. The second, was that I'd be a really good bit to claim to actually be mythological Circe. "Yes." She said, before her common sense caught up with this train of thought.
Roger looked at her with renewed fear.
"Uh, what I mean is I can set you back if you don't like that body." Circe said coolly, hiding the fact that she was internally screaming over such a flub. "It was an accident that happened when my power came online." Another lie, it had taken several year-seconds to learn how to properly reconstruct a body, it wasn't just something the whale had turned on.
Roger looked down at their body again saying nothing.
"I don't mean any ill will to you. You helped me get this power." Circe spoke in the reassuring tones of a person certain that nothing more can hurt them. "Hell, if you want to stay a woman I could probably help pay for your new wardrobe in thanks."
Roger's head snapped up. "You'd do that? You want to go..." They wet their lips, lusting after something clearly denied to them for so long. "Shopping?"
Circe shrugged.Yeah ok, her transdar was just coming online after many years collecting dust in her closet, but come on. "Yeah!" She said encouragingly. "We can get you some dresses, muumuus, skirts, bras the whole nine yards."
Roger's eyes sparkled. She was clearly taken by the idea.
Circe grinned. "This will be my first time buying women's cloths, too." Then realizing she had to support her lie. "...Of this era, at least."
Roger let the statement stand thankfully. She clearly didn't want to risk the Circe's famous wrath. "Huh." She looked at her bloody hands again. "Let me close the store, take a shower, and put on some fresh cloths, first."
Circe smiled. "I'll be waiting in my car."
~~+-0-+~~
Mary had what was too often called 'true crime brain'. She had been out walking her dogs listening to 'The Wichita Massacre' (Which was not about the historical genocidal attacks on the Wichita or Kitikiti'sh people, but instead about the largely unconnected murders of 5 people in Wichita, KS. Had this been about the series of genocidal attacks on the Kitikiti'sh nation by Anglo Texan settlers in the early 19th century, Mary would have simply turned it off).
Mary saw a lady covered in blood splatter calmly walk out of Joe's Transistor Radio Emporium. The woman turned back to face the building, and giggled shaking her head. She then went back inside and flipped the sign to closed.
Clearly she had just witnessed a serial killer! Mary was already dialing 911 before the woman had dissipated around the corner. Bibi, her little Chihuahua mix, began sneeze-yapping about how she was no longer moving.
"Hello this is 911 what's your emergency?"
"Yes, I'd like to report a possible murder."
If what they're snorting had been mentioned, I don't remember it, so I'm currently guessing powdered bone or anti androgens.
Sadly I think the word cocaine was mentioned, but willful ignorance is what I'm going with b/c I like your answer much better. (my willful ignorance to be clear)
It's fine, it's all just condensed milk, no cocaine here
Without waiting for the test to finish, Roy took a pinkie bump off the powder and tossed it to Kovech.
Yup, cops
Jacking back in felt a bit like draining the pasta water with the lid, a tangled mass barely held back by a makeshift shield.
Her features were sharp, but the smile lines held court over her features like a kindly hawk
I adore both these sentences
The first, being that picking the name Circe as a child had perhaps been a form of nominative determinism for her whole life. The second, was that I'd be a really good bit to claim to actually be mythological Circe. "Yes." She said, before her common sense caught up with this train of thought.
Yes good❣️
Had this been about the series of genocidal attacks on the Kitikiti'sh nation by Anglo Texan settlers in the early 19th century, Mary would have simply turned it off).
Yup, true crime Karen
Wait, does Anti-fascist research count as true crime? Do I also have true crime brain??? OH NO
Like do you constantly attempt to relate scenarios you come across in life as a microcosm of wider struggles against fascism/kyriarchy? Oh sh*t I might have this too😱
I hate the Mike Dirnt reference. Thank you for including it
Woah! I'm surprised, anyone got that honestly... Sweet Children is such an East Bay cult band, and since the local flavor of Gutter Hokum is SUUUCH an acquired taste, its always fun to go down to the Gilman and watch the transplant college kids faces when they hear this stuff for the first time. You can even catch a sweet children concert there, occasionally, obviously, since they got jobs and shit. What's your favorite song? Mines "Love Ballad For My Penis".
Oh, this is just getting interesting!