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A Brief Detention
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Prison was not a place August often envisioned he’d meet his career’s end. Usually he imagined it would be sometime after he’d gone gray. In an alley, most likely suffering from a fatal shot to the lung or some other vital organ after a shootout with a criminal, whispering dramatic last words to whichever young, hopeful protege he’d have under his wing. He and Saine would salute the world of their birth and ascend in relative peace, quitting life and work in the same instance. She’d have by then rightly earned her passage to paradise, and he’d obviously have already been slated for such, so it’d be peaceful departure of good riddance to the world.
A simple retirement would do as well, but that didn’t easily lend itself to wistful daydreaming.
August sat along the wooden bench of the sizable cell with his head bent and arms resting on his knees, one knee thumping with the nerves that streaked through him like fireworks. Sairne, habitually uninterested in situations portending what she assumed was an inevitable outcome, remained leaning against the wall at his side, picking at her nails.
The occupants of the cell beside theirs were squashed together, dangling limp limbs through the bars and sighing and groaning about their pitiful treatment while Sairne and August enjoyed a spacious cell all their own. It wasn’t until Sairne snapped at them to shut up, her yellow eyes flashing to slits beneath her cap, that they assumed a tentative silence. August still sensed their eyes, the searing judgement and rage focused on he and Sairne with such force that he feared it might set them both aflame.
“Stop doing that.” Sairne said suddenly.
August glanced at her. “Doing what?”
“That thing with your leg.”
“Moving it?”
When she didn’t respond he frowned but stopped his fidgeting. It was a habit that had become a more frustrating manifestation of shot nerves. He closed his eyes. It had been nearly two hours since they’d been carted into the cell. Who could come to bail them out? Would anyone? He imagined a white-robed member of the Ecclesiastical emerging red-faced from the hall, shaking a finger at them in warning as an exhausted guard slowly unlatched the gate. Ruckus certainly wouldn’t bother coming to fetch them—he’d like as not forget about them until they rotted in prison, if not on purpose than because he was so relieved to not have to deal with them he’d never bothered to check what he’d done with them.
A few moments later his knee was bouncing again. He stared out at the dusty floor of the cell, wondering if they ever cleaned it, before having this attention jerked up by the turning of the cell’s lock. A dispassionate guard quickly stepped aside, revealing behind him a scarred, red-haired man with a cigarette sticking idly from the corner of his mouth. The man drew it out to blow smoke into the air and slowly shook his head. “I tell you…”
“Hook?”
“Who else?” Hook gestured with a flourish for them to leave and when neither made the move to do so he stamped a foot in defiant disbelief. “What, do you need an invitation?”
Hook, as August called him, cut a tall, bulky figure in the cramped space of the prison. He was a man prone to hunching over the shoulders of others and looming darkly in corners, earning him the reputation of being a bit of a wet blanket. His given name was Allen Lin Bonheur, but if he was half as debonair as his name suggested it was an affect that was lost on everyone he knew. He eyed them dourly, his watery eyes evidence of a night of drinking, and jerked his head for them to follow.
“Listen--” August started but Hook had replaced his cigarette and held a finger up to stop the next words from leaving his mouth. August nodded instead, jogging to Hook’s side. Sairne stepped out with a small tip of her cap to the guard.
They were lead to the main floor and its spread of administrative desks, most of them unoccupied at the late hour, and were brought before the lamp-lit desk of the officer who had previously confiscated their personal items. She eyed their approach disdainfully. “Hatch?” She offered as way of greeting.
August tried for a smile he didn’t feel like giving. “Yes—and Sairne, hers is—“
The guard rose before he could finish and vanished into a room behind her. When she emerged and handed him their badges, wallets, gun, and dagger, August took care to slot them back in their correct places on his person and handed Sairne’s items to her. “We can keep our badges still?” He asked the woman. He could feel Sairne’s glare aimed at his back.
Hook’s hand slid onto his shoulder to steer August out before he got an answers. They walked out to city streets slick with rain, the charged, humid aftermath of a summer storm lingering still in the air. Sairne held a hand out as if to feel for drops of it that were long past falling.
“Thanks, Hook. For, well…” August looked up to where Hook had stopped to deposit his cigarette in a tray near the entrance. The older man shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders to shrink into the bulk of his overcoat. He took the steps slowly.
“Talk.”
“About what?” The look Hook gave him over his shoulder was one of pronounced irritability. He imagined the man might one day reach out, grip his arms, and forcefully shake the cheek from him. “Ah.” He moved to follow Hook but Sairne tapped lightly at his shoulder and he held his hand out behind for her. Sairne’s transformation was a light whoosh of wind and the delicate sliding of scales over skin. He felt her settle into her familiar position on his shoulders. “We almost caught the Mad.”
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“Almost.” Hook snorted. “Congratulations.”
“There’s something wrong with her guardian, though.”
“Enlighten us.” He spread his arms up, mocking.
“She has a Creed.”
He hadn’t expected this to have much of an effect, but the disregard was alarming. Hook placed his hands on his hip and shook his head. “What are we, August?”
“Sorry?”
“What are we?”
“Uh...partners?”
Hook pointed at him, smiling coldly. “Right you are. I want you to think about that word a moment, what it means.”
He thought about it. “Two people working towards the same goal?”
“And what goal is that, exactly?”
“The same one.” Hook’s smile fell in a dangerous indication of lost patience. “To…protect Rosefall and defend its citizens, truths, and properties?”
“You aren’t a goddamn manual, August, and I’m not asking you to recite a motto. What does being my partner mean to you?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I trusted you both.” It was a low growl and the subtle sound of betrayal in it left August reeling, although he really shouldn’t be surprised. Sairne peeked her head up. “And yet I’ve been told in the middle of the night that my partner’s been arrested by our division captain for breaking his curfew and for tackling a case that isn’t his, and I’m left to explain to him that you didn’t even let me know you was thinking about any of it? Barney had to tell me you’d been snooping around records.”
“Barney?” Sairne questioned. “You mean Barnabas, from the archives? I think he’d consider it an infraction to be called ‘Barney.’”
“Shut it.”
“I’m sorry, Hook, really.” August said. “I would have told you, I just—“
“Don’t you dare say it was to protect me.”
August was going to respond by saying just that. But it wasn’t essentially the core of why he hadn’t told Hook. The man was his beat partner, assigned and trained at his side, and while their first year functioning as such had gone relatively smoothly, the hiccups regarding Bell’s disappearance only exacerbated the differences in their approach. It widened the gap between them. August entertained Hook’s often unsolicited tirades of advice, most of which might have been helpful a decade ago but wasn’t so palpable now, he didn’t always feel like explaining to him the inherent problems in the system they both took part in upholding. They had their job, and Hook’s firm belief was that they perform it dutifully. The problem was August disagreed. After what happened with Bell, he sought to change it.
He also trusted the man—often with his life.
The scar on Hook’s left cheek was vivid in the sharp lamplight overhead. “What the hell were you two thinking? Going off to do this by yourselves?”
“If anyone would bother to lend us an ear—“
“They did. Just because you believe in delusion doesn’t mean we all have to.”
“This isn’t just about Bell.”
“Tell it to Sweeney, kid! What did you get out of all that sneaking around? She’s gone, you’re in holding, and Mayweather’s still dead.”
The last words froze the air around them. August was suddenly too aware of the chill of sweat under his suit, the sticky sensation of the summer humidity. “Missing. He’s still missing.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
“You know, we did them a favor. Cracked that place open like a big old egg.”
“Made the captain’s life harder, that’s what you did.”
“This is some circus, Hook. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Not my circus.”
“Can’t you see what’s wrong with all of this?”
Hook shook his head and lowered his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you were trying this? Rope me in a little?”
August was taken aback. “I thought you’d stop us, Hook, honest.”
“I thought you trusted me.”
“I’m sorry.” August’s voice was a lone offer into the man’s hurt. Hook could be proud, so August rarely heard him cut so quickly to the root of his worries. He imagined a combination of exhaustion, drunkenness, and hurt was making the man more forthright. “I do trust you.”
It took a moment for the apology to take hold. Hook sighed and brushed at his stubbled cheek. “Yeah, yeah.”
Hook gave them a nod that was as good as a reconciliation as they would get tonight. They spoke of nothing more as he lead them to a car idling farther down the street. It was being driven by another officer they were only vaguely familiar with who went by the name of Shen and who looked anything but happy to be there. His lit cigarette was an eerie floating shape in the car dark canvas, its smoke streaming softly out the driver’s side window. Hook opened the back door. “In you go.”
August ducked in, trying to offer Shen a half-hearted smile that was ignored. Hook shut the door and leaned down to speak with them through the open window. “Only reason you two are re-instated as of,” he glanced down at his watch, “two-thirty in the morning is because you’re off the hook. For now. And not pun intended! You have friends in high places. Heard it was a personal call from the Office of the High Bishop that wiped your slate clean of this little incident.”
The High Bishop? August stalled trying to rifle through the list of who they knew at the Ecclesiastical who might vouch for them. He felt a light tap that let him know Sairne was slipping her head out to grab his attention from where she sat across his shoulders. Her tongue flickered out as she whispered to him: “Jonas.”
August gripped at the window, directing his surprise towards Hook. “You’re kidding, Jonas called in for us?”
Hook shrugged. “I don’t know who did, but they made a convincing argument to your jury, apparently.”
“Our jury?”
“Ruckus.” Hook clarified, “among others. Your defender is very, very well-liked. Their word seemed to carry weight."
August sat back. He hadn’t spoken to Jonas or his renowned guardian in some years now. One or two, easy. Jonas had been one of the only children at the Steeple close to his age, and Sairne had taken an instant liking the boy’s magnetic if quiet personality. August didn’t envy being raised by priests, but Jonas had shown them nothing but kindness. He felt a small warmth in his heart for his old friend and then guilt at the fact that he’d had to stick his neck out for them. Not that Jonas’s reputation would ever really be at stake.
Hook sighed. “Look, kid, I know what it’s like to lose someone important, but you have to let it go. I doubt another bout like this will blow over so easy.”
August was growing tired of being told by people that they understood—it wasn’t about understanding what he was going through, it was about a system that failed to help those most desperately in need of it. And, more than anything, it was about Bell. It was about proving he was still worth the effort to find regardless of what anyone else thought.
Hook tapped at the roof of the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Back to the starting line.”
August gave him a sullen smile. “Back to the starting line.”