Alcatraz
Decent Imagination
Before I copy the body of text onto this site to be critiqued, I want to make you aware that there is some 'baby-swearing' included.
There is a possibility that this sites filters may kick in. If they do, fine.
If not, may I make you awere that there are two uses of F.
If you do not wish to read further, I respect that, however as an adult who writes I need my characters to be as 'real' as possible, and I feel that I have been responsible enough to self-edit.
So without further ado.
PART 1.
Death always seems to find a way of sneaking up and biting you on the arse at the most inopportune moments, and when she does bite it’s not usually the most pleasant or pain free of experiences.
Looking at the body propped against the hedgerow, my belief in Death being one of the most twisted, sickest entities in existence was firmly reinforced.
“That doesn’t look very pretty, Inspector Hatton.” I said nodding towards the dead body, its head twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees, and throat ripped wide open.
Leonard ‘Lenny’ Hatton, an enigma of a police officer. Scruffy and sarcastic in equal measures, but probably, and don’t dare tell him I said this, the best detective I have ever met. That’s not to say that I like the guy. As a matter of fact I can’t stand the sight of the fat, bald piece of ****e, and I’m pretty sure that I’m never going to be on his Christmas card list either, but, hey, let’s give credit where it’s due.
I’m equally positive, that given half the chance, he would love have me locked up in the most secure nut house in the land if he had is way.
You see, Detective Inspector Hatton doesn’t approve of my area of expertise. My investigations have a knack of crossing over into his cases, and given the nature of my line of work, this pisses him off no end. On top of that D.I Hatton is a sceptic and doesn’t believe in my ‘talents’ as I like to call them, despite the evidence of his own eyes over the years.
“Oh joy. To what do I owe this pleasure, Quinn?” he asked sardonically.
“Him.” I replied pointing towards the dead body. “Do you mind if I have a peek?” I asked rhetorically as I moved to have a better look.
“Yes I flippin’ well do mind.” Hatton said as he did his best to run (or was that wobble?) after me, “You’ve no bloody right to be shifting around my crime scene, so piss off, and let me do my job.”
Technically, Hatton was correct. I didn’t have any official authorisation to be at this crime scene, but considering the fact that I knew that the victim had his neck broken and throat ripped out by a feral vampire, I felt that it may well be within my remit to at least have a wee nosey around.
How did I know it was a feral vampire who ripped and gorged on the victim?
Well, that’s the talent that D.I Hatton doesn’t approve of.
My name is Tobias Quinn and I’m a Grigori. A Watcher. It’s my job to make sure that the Hidden World of Twilight and the Real World don’t cross over, and if they do, it’s as limited exposure as possible.
It’s a difficult job considering that there are only a handful of Grigori the world over, but we’re lucky here in Old Blighty because we have me, and I’m an agent of the British Security Service. An operative of the rather officially titled Special Operations Taskforce. Our remit is to investigate and contain supernatural and paranormal phenomenon within the UK, and if necessary, overseas. We are, if you excuse the rather deliberate pun, Spooks. It’s a nice, symbiotic relationship. I get to do the job I was born into, and the government pays the bills. Sorted!
Anyway, I sensed that a feral had entered the city a couple of nights earlier, although I had no way of tracking its erratic progress through the estates and suburbs.
Then I caught a glimpse…literally.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Images of violence flooded my dream, which in itself wasn’t anything unusual given the nature of my talents, yet I felt compelled to awaken, climb out of bed, and open my curtains. Looking out onto the street I saw the feral; his features were almost canine as he sniffed the air. I don’t know if he sensed some kind of preternatural link, because I’m positive he turned to look directly towards my apartment window before merging into the darkness.
I quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, trainers, a tee-shirt, and ran down stairs. If I could maintain the link with the feral, perhaps I could stop it embarking on a rampage of carnage.
Now for your average SOT operative, this wouldn’t be the wisest course of action, however, and at the risk of sounding egotistical, I’m not your average SOT operative. I am a Grigori, the human embodiment of Angelic power on Earth, and more than a match for your average feral vampire.
As I raced down the stairs and onto the street, I realised something was wrong. I had lost the feral into the night. This wasn’t right. A feral vampire only retains the smallest element of the person it was before it was ‘Turned’, and therefore shouldn’t be able to build a block against an elementary psychic, let alone a Grigori. Even the oldest and most powerful Nascosto and Stirgoi vampires would have difficulty in blocking one of my psychic traces.
All was not lost, as I had picked up a trail, back from where the feral had last fed. It was close, only a matter of streets away. I needed official sanction on this case, so my charging around to the ‘crime scene’ wouldn’t be the most appropriate action to take.
I returned to my apartment, and made the call into the office. Dawn would be breaking soon, and because all vampires, regardless of breed or clan, become catatonic during daylight hours, I felt it more prudent to investigate the killing, rather than continue hunting the feral.
I grabbed my leather biker jacket and headed out to follow back on the trail of the feral.
The uniforms were already there when I arrived, and Hatton was rolling out his car with his CID flunky, Detective Constable Nick Morton in tow.
They were quick.
“I said, piss off, Quinn and let me do my job,” growled Hatton, becoming more aggressive, “I don’t want you buggering anything up.”
“Listen to me, you fat twat. You haven’t a clue what you’re dealing with here. In two minutes you’re going to get a call from your DCI ordering you to hand this case over to us, and lend us your every support,” I snapped back at Hatton, “So tell Sherlock over there to go and fetch me a cup of tea so I can get on with my investigation.” I said pointing at Morton, bluffing my authority.
As I said, I had no official sanction to be at this ‘crime scene’ but hopefully the call that I had made to the office would give me the authority I required to be there.
Looking at the body, something caught my attention. The clothing the victim was wearing.
“You’re full of ****e, Quinn. There’s nothing here that warrants Security Service involvement, let alone the ‘Spook Squad’.” Hatton said.
If this hadn’t been a possible SOT investigation I would have agreed, and let our CID colleagues in the Met handle the case.
Even if a feral vampire had not been the killer, the clothing of the victim took this out of the hands of the local CID.
“Inspector Hatton. I think that you’ll find that given the attire of the victim, this investigation falls firmly in the remit of the Security Service.” I said softening my voice.
“What are you doing?” Hatton asked as I placed my hand into the inside pocket of the victim.
“This, Inspector Hatton, is the body of US Naval Captain, Nathan Morrow. Attached to the American Embassy.” I replied, reading from the identification card in the wallet.
I could see the colour drain from Hatton’s face as he replied the only way he knew how.
“Oh, bollocks.”
There is a possibility that this sites filters may kick in. If they do, fine.
If not, may I make you awere that there are two uses of F.
If you do not wish to read further, I respect that, however as an adult who writes I need my characters to be as 'real' as possible, and I feel that I have been responsible enough to self-edit.
So without further ado.
PART 1.
Death always seems to find a way of sneaking up and biting you on the arse at the most inopportune moments, and when she does bite it’s not usually the most pleasant or pain free of experiences.
Looking at the body propped against the hedgerow, my belief in Death being one of the most twisted, sickest entities in existence was firmly reinforced.
“That doesn’t look very pretty, Inspector Hatton.” I said nodding towards the dead body, its head twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees, and throat ripped wide open.
Leonard ‘Lenny’ Hatton, an enigma of a police officer. Scruffy and sarcastic in equal measures, but probably, and don’t dare tell him I said this, the best detective I have ever met. That’s not to say that I like the guy. As a matter of fact I can’t stand the sight of the fat, bald piece of ****e, and I’m pretty sure that I’m never going to be on his Christmas card list either, but, hey, let’s give credit where it’s due.
I’m equally positive, that given half the chance, he would love have me locked up in the most secure nut house in the land if he had is way.
You see, Detective Inspector Hatton doesn’t approve of my area of expertise. My investigations have a knack of crossing over into his cases, and given the nature of my line of work, this pisses him off no end. On top of that D.I Hatton is a sceptic and doesn’t believe in my ‘talents’ as I like to call them, despite the evidence of his own eyes over the years.
“Oh joy. To what do I owe this pleasure, Quinn?” he asked sardonically.
“Him.” I replied pointing towards the dead body. “Do you mind if I have a peek?” I asked rhetorically as I moved to have a better look.
“Yes I flippin’ well do mind.” Hatton said as he did his best to run (or was that wobble?) after me, “You’ve no bloody right to be shifting around my crime scene, so piss off, and let me do my job.”
Technically, Hatton was correct. I didn’t have any official authorisation to be at this crime scene, but considering the fact that I knew that the victim had his neck broken and throat ripped out by a feral vampire, I felt that it may well be within my remit to at least have a wee nosey around.
How did I know it was a feral vampire who ripped and gorged on the victim?
Well, that’s the talent that D.I Hatton doesn’t approve of.
My name is Tobias Quinn and I’m a Grigori. A Watcher. It’s my job to make sure that the Hidden World of Twilight and the Real World don’t cross over, and if they do, it’s as limited exposure as possible.
It’s a difficult job considering that there are only a handful of Grigori the world over, but we’re lucky here in Old Blighty because we have me, and I’m an agent of the British Security Service. An operative of the rather officially titled Special Operations Taskforce. Our remit is to investigate and contain supernatural and paranormal phenomenon within the UK, and if necessary, overseas. We are, if you excuse the rather deliberate pun, Spooks. It’s a nice, symbiotic relationship. I get to do the job I was born into, and the government pays the bills. Sorted!
Anyway, I sensed that a feral had entered the city a couple of nights earlier, although I had no way of tracking its erratic progress through the estates and suburbs.
Then I caught a glimpse…literally.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Images of violence flooded my dream, which in itself wasn’t anything unusual given the nature of my talents, yet I felt compelled to awaken, climb out of bed, and open my curtains. Looking out onto the street I saw the feral; his features were almost canine as he sniffed the air. I don’t know if he sensed some kind of preternatural link, because I’m positive he turned to look directly towards my apartment window before merging into the darkness.
I quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, trainers, a tee-shirt, and ran down stairs. If I could maintain the link with the feral, perhaps I could stop it embarking on a rampage of carnage.
Now for your average SOT operative, this wouldn’t be the wisest course of action, however, and at the risk of sounding egotistical, I’m not your average SOT operative. I am a Grigori, the human embodiment of Angelic power on Earth, and more than a match for your average feral vampire.
As I raced down the stairs and onto the street, I realised something was wrong. I had lost the feral into the night. This wasn’t right. A feral vampire only retains the smallest element of the person it was before it was ‘Turned’, and therefore shouldn’t be able to build a block against an elementary psychic, let alone a Grigori. Even the oldest and most powerful Nascosto and Stirgoi vampires would have difficulty in blocking one of my psychic traces.
All was not lost, as I had picked up a trail, back from where the feral had last fed. It was close, only a matter of streets away. I needed official sanction on this case, so my charging around to the ‘crime scene’ wouldn’t be the most appropriate action to take.
I returned to my apartment, and made the call into the office. Dawn would be breaking soon, and because all vampires, regardless of breed or clan, become catatonic during daylight hours, I felt it more prudent to investigate the killing, rather than continue hunting the feral.
I grabbed my leather biker jacket and headed out to follow back on the trail of the feral.
The uniforms were already there when I arrived, and Hatton was rolling out his car with his CID flunky, Detective Constable Nick Morton in tow.
They were quick.
“I said, piss off, Quinn and let me do my job,” growled Hatton, becoming more aggressive, “I don’t want you buggering anything up.”
“Listen to me, you fat twat. You haven’t a clue what you’re dealing with here. In two minutes you’re going to get a call from your DCI ordering you to hand this case over to us, and lend us your every support,” I snapped back at Hatton, “So tell Sherlock over there to go and fetch me a cup of tea so I can get on with my investigation.” I said pointing at Morton, bluffing my authority.
As I said, I had no official sanction to be at this ‘crime scene’ but hopefully the call that I had made to the office would give me the authority I required to be there.
Looking at the body, something caught my attention. The clothing the victim was wearing.
“You’re full of ****e, Quinn. There’s nothing here that warrants Security Service involvement, let alone the ‘Spook Squad’.” Hatton said.
If this hadn’t been a possible SOT investigation I would have agreed, and let our CID colleagues in the Met handle the case.
Even if a feral vampire had not been the killer, the clothing of the victim took this out of the hands of the local CID.
“Inspector Hatton. I think that you’ll find that given the attire of the victim, this investigation falls firmly in the remit of the Security Service.” I said softening my voice.
“What are you doing?” Hatton asked as I placed my hand into the inside pocket of the victim.
“This, Inspector Hatton, is the body of US Naval Captain, Nathan Morrow. Attached to the American Embassy.” I replied, reading from the identification card in the wallet.
I could see the colour drain from Hatton’s face as he replied the only way he knew how.
“Oh, bollocks.”
