Oh dear god Thank You, she thought quietly. So, this was the woman that had left Cass at a desk and sent Xyne back out to the shifter district. She was getting a clearer impression now. She would have liked to quote Captain Tristis, and snarkily tell her, "It's not my job to keep him in line." The words didn't even make it far enough to get caught in her throat. They simply stayed in her stomach. Stayed there, weighing her down and keeping her planted in the circle wordlessly as the Commander continued to dish out, from officer to officer, angry orders and frustrated insults.
This wasn't the SPPA. This wasn't the peace and the order she'd signed up for. Not under her.
When the rounds of interrogations had finished, she turned and left without a word. Her home wasn't too far, but when she passed an idle driver, she climbed in and cut out the twenty minute stroll for a quick drive.
"No need to go to the front," she murmured to the driver, "Just stop by the road.
She always entered her apartment building from a side door, just because it was closer to the stairwell. Living on the second floor, in the corner room, she didn't need to bother with elevators. When she swung open open the black, metal, door, she froze.
The smell of shifters, not unpleasant but very distinct, came from their blood. Usually it was faint. Most shifters had at least a few scabs on them at any given moment. The transformations could be painful, and often pulled bits of skin apart. This time, it wasn't faint. A fat trail of it was matted on the linoleum floors. God damn it. If anyone else saw this --
Moving in a sort of a panic, she rifled through her pockets until she found a handful of crumpled napkins. She dropped them on the floor and used a foot to kick them around. It simply smeared it.
Wait, there was the outdoor hose. She flew back out, found it, and unhooked it in the dim, yellow-lit building lawn. The gardener used it water the shrubs. Now, she took it and gave the stairwell a good hosing. Hopefully the worst of the water would evaporate by tomorow. Better it was slippery with water, not blood.
At first, she was relieved that the blood stopped on the second floor - because the hose wouldn't go any further than that - and then she felt a sense of dread. There was only one place the blood trail could lead. Carefully, she returned the hose, then propping the door open with a rock to let the shifter-infused air out before making her way upstairs, gun in hand.
She pulled her phone out, dialed the SPPA number, but didn't call. The office had enough to deal with. For now, she'd cling to the vague hope that maybe she didn't need it. If the shifter was still bleeding by the time it had gotten here, it would be dizzy and weak.
She took a deep breath before touching her doorknob gently. It was unlocked. She twisted it, then pushed with her fingers, letting the door swing open. She stayed put in the hall, one hand on a gun, aiming forward, and the other on her phone, in case she needed to push that final "send."
At first, she thought she was looking at a transformed werewolf in a suit. The "man," if he could be called that, was covered in grey fur, and dressed simply; a pair of trousers and a buttoned shirt. It must have been custom designed. Tailors flourished wherever there were shifters.
What was clear was that his legs were longer, his face was animal-like, and he had ears pointing backwards. The rabbit ears Xyne had mentioned....
"It's a mix of rabbit and wolf influence, Officer," he said, when he caught her staring, his voice thick with some sort of accent - not a regional one, but a biological one.
"Oh..." Eleanor said.
"I know it's rude to root around other people's cupboards," he rasped, "but I figured it would be worse to keep spilling blood all over everything. I mopped up most of it, I think. I hate the sight of blood."
She looked around on her floors. It was hard to see blood amongst wood, but she could catch bits of it about.
"You forgot the hallways," she said.
"Shit. Ughh.. Shit," he mumbled. He tried to get up, but Eleanor motioned him to sit down. "I took care of it on my way," she told him.
"Oh, thank you," he sighed. "I'm so sorry. Getting injured was not part of the plan."
"Will you be alright?" she said. It was hard not to carry on a conversation with someone that seemed to be acting so amiable.
"More or less. I got the bullets out. I just need to," he winced, "Wait, now." He took a moment, with his eyes squeezed shut, then took a deep breath. "Forget me, I'll be fine. There are more important things." He hobbled out of his seat, towards the box he had discreetly shoved under her table. Watching him walk was painful. "Don't make any sudden movements, Officer," he said, "You'll scare her."
Shit.
The cloth was pulled back. There was a whimper of terror.
Shit.
She stared, then looked away, both out of disgust and out of courtesy.
"I didn't put her in there, if that's what you're wondering," the shifter said. "Nor did I harm her. All that is the work of your interrogation department." He looked down at Yela's wide eyes, then at Eleanor. "She recognises you. Perhaps this time you will help her. I'm supposed to stop you from sending her back if I can; we were going to save her. But I am injured and you have a gun, so I can't. If that's what you decide to do, I'm powerless to stop you."
