Work Text:
Sharon Bellarussa was many things - ex-cop, felon, wanted criminal, bodyguard to the Princess. Lover, friend, compatriot, confidante, enemy, villain, rival. And, on a good day, handsome, suave, intelligent, and charming, or at least she liked to think so. But right now, what she was was being hunted. She barreled down the hallway, rebounding off the far wall to take a hard left into an empty room. The voices grew behind her, shouts of anger chasing her even as the footsteps grew louder. She pressed against the wall, cursing quietly as she reached into the pockets of the loose police coat she wore as one of the few souveneirs of her past life, looking for anything that could get her out of the situation, even just buy her a little time...
Her hand clasped around a glass vial, pulling it out as her mind tried to remembered what was in it. A vial of gunpowder mixed with a powdery substance she didn't recognize, and a label with a large X over an eye. Seemed promising enough. She tossed it into the hallway and slammed the door shut behind her.
From behind the thick oak door, she shouldn't have been able to hear much. The fact she could hear the loud bang and the screams of pain anyways just proved that she managed to make a lucky guess this time. No time to rest on her laurels, though - she ran over to a nearby set of dressers and, summoning all the strength she had at hand, shoved it in front of the door. There. A moment to figure out what was going on. She took a deep breath, only finding out now that her whole body was shaking, adrenaline pounding through it at a mile a minute. She couldn't make an escape plan like this. No doors out of the room, no trapdoors, no ladders... No. Not like this. Hands trembling, she reached in her pockets, pulling out a cigarette and lighter. The familiar routine helped calm her, her hands settling as they flicked open the lighter in a familiar motion. The cigarette lit in her mouth, she took a deep drag. Relax. Savor the taste, feel the sting of the smoke, focus...
Sharon threw her spent cigarette into a nearby puddle, the dreary rain doing her job for her as she exhaled the last puff of smoke. "That's the entire job? Just trailing a guy?"
If Sharon saw a vision of herself now even three years ago, she'd be startled at the transformation. Long black hair framing a pallid face, weary blue eyes that'd seen too much. Her police jacket, once the pride of her uniform, was dirty and worn, and the flat cap she wore to protect herself from the weather was definitely not regulation. But her life had changed, and she had changed with it, even if no part of her would be recognizable to the woman she once was. And despite everything - despite the absolute pits she had reached, the hells she had gone through, she'd still say it was all worth it.
The man - assuming it was a man - next to her nodded. Dirty face, cap, and long trenchcoat obscured all their features, but only one person she knew looked this filthy and was willing to approach her in this back alleyway. This was Crusty, her informant of choice and classic odd job source. They had helped Sharon when she was considering pawning the few possessions she had for food, and to this day was a good source of income for her personal needs. Can't exactly bother the boss to help cover a rose bouquet every week, can she? "Look, I don't make the jobs," they grumbled, pulling the hat down over their brow. "You can always just not take it if you don't like it."
"Who the fuck said anything about not taking it?" Sharon replied, spitting into the puddle to follow up the littering. "Easy money is easy money. Anything I'm looking for - mistress, side job, criminal contact?"
"Mistress, probably," Crusty replied with a shrug. "Wife says he keeps disappearing on the weekends, returns with weird smell on him, you know all the signs. One caveat is she wants proof."
"What, the word of a cop isn't good enough?" The two of them broke out laughing, the sound echoing through the lonely alley as the rain kept pouring down. "I'll probably just find the place and then take her with me to catch him next time."
"I'll be sure to let you know. Cut's seventy-thirty."
"Ah, c'mon, Crusty-"
Crusty raised a gloved finger to point in Sharon's face. "No buts. I got faces to feed too, y'know."
The way they phrased it, Sharon wondered if those faces were all on the same person. "Fine, fine," she replied, dismissing with a wave. "Got a description of the guy?"
Crusty reached into a hidden pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper. They unfolded it, squinting to read their own miserable handwriting Sharon had never once been able to parse. "Six foot two, brown hair, short cut. Works at the pottery on 6th and Highstreet on the index, Bill Hannichuck. He's wearing a blue and white striped shirt today."
"Right to work, huh?" She stood up from the wall they leaned against, brushing herself off. "Pleasure working with you as always, Crusty."
Crusty nodded, pulling a bottle of booze out from another hidden pocket and taking a long swig. Sharon walked off, adjusting her hat and collar as she braved the rain once more. Off to work - the kind of work she did best.
The man was trivial to track down - if only she always had a name and place of work to work with. She took position across the road, leaning against the wall and letting the pedestrians pass her by as she watched the front entrance. Common mistake the undercover cops she worked with kept making - doing something inconspicuous for hours on end suddenly made it very much not inconspicuous. You wanted to be a little weird, a little standoffish, a lot boring, and then you fade into the background. Make it look like you're completely zoned out, when you're entirely there. And so she sat there, hours on end, a piece of brickwork on the wall as she waited for closing hours. No thoughts passed her mind - none save one. A woman walked by, a slim dress resting pleasingly on her light frame, bobbed hair bouncing with each step. For a second, she caught Sharon's eye, old memories of checking women out on stakeouts coming to her through the mist. But she shook off the urge - that was the old her. Laura was the only woman she had eyes for now.
Finally, late in the evening, the man left the building. Sharon easily spotted him - even if he didn't exactly match the description, he was the only one heading out on his own, walking like he had a mission past his coworkers amiably closing up shop. Sharon followed suit once she was certain he wasn't looking behind him - the man didn't seem like he was at all concerned about being followed, which worked out well in her favor. She followed him through city streets, turning off towards the rougher part of town - prostitute? criminal activity? Theories started forming in her head as she followed him to a series of run-down flats, worn down walls and cracked bricks showing their age. Fumbling in his pocket, the man pulled out a key and let himself in. Definitely not his residence, that much was obvious - but not enough that she wanted to move in yet. This was just initial surveillance, after all - just getting used to his patterns of movement. Could be a guild meeting for all she knew. So she pulled out her cigarettes and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It was well past three o' clock in the morning now, judging by the tolling of the bells, and still no sign of the man. This was really approaching ridiculous - no late night rendezvous could possibly be going this long, and a normal man not returning to his home all night would put him in dire straits with his wife no matter what the reason. An impulse triggered in the back of her mind, and long-forgotten instincts honed on patrol screamed 'time for a wellness check.' Can take the cop out of the force, but... Sharon found herself at the door now, unable to resist herself despite everything telling her this was a bad idea. Opening it, she was assaulted by two overpowering smells. One, she couldn't quite place, but it smelled like some of the incenses they burned as she passed the motley churches in the temple district. The other she knew all too well. Blood.
She reached inside her pocket, feeling the curve of her pistol's handle to reassure herself. She absolutely didn't want to use it if she could get away with it - it was loud and messy and guaranteed to attract unwanted attention. But it was at hand, and that was reassuring. She stepped inside, sweeping the corners of the room, searching for any sign of what had happened. All she found at first was what seemed like an ordinary abandoned home - dusty furniture, old ragged carpets, dilapidated wood. However, there were signs as well: sigils carved in the walls, candles placed in unusual formations (some still lit, she noticed), books with titles like "The Advent of the New Day" which she pocketed for future reference. Soon, however, she found the man she was looking for, and the source of all the blood. Bill Hannichuck, nude, nailed to the wall, blood pouring out his hands and feet and staining the wood he was nailed to. And still breathing.
Remember the job, Sharon said to herself. Several impulses fought her at once - the cop instinct to take him down, the survival instinct to run as fast as she could, the criminal instinct to kill him and prevent him calling his friends (because someone had to have nailed him to the wall). She slowly crept up, making sure that he wasn't making any sudden motions or about to look up our react. She took his hand, slipping off the wedding band as proof she found him, figuring that and the fucked-up book would be proof enough for his soon-to-be widow. And it was there, evidence acquired, in the middle of some bizarre ritual, that Bill opened his eyes, turned to Sharon, and screamed at the top of his lungs. "DEATH TO THE UNBELIEVER!"
Sharon caught her breath. The nicotine helped her center, relax, bring everything in focus. The cultists were banging on the door, screaming for an axe to break it down, shouting things like "there's no escape from that room" and "surrender yourself to the Unmaker", the usual nonsense she could safely ignore. She took stock of the room - a bedroom before the cultists turned this place into a hideout, with sparse decorations if any. A dresser she used to block the door, a broken and messed up bed that had been used by passing homeless for ages it seemed like, windows- Of course. Windows. She slipped on some gloves she had stored, pulling out a blackjack to go with them, and lined up for a quick, decisive smash. The glass sprinkled to the sidewalk outside, and she heard the confusion of the cultists as they tried to figure out her plans. No time for that, though - she jumped through the broken frame, jacket taking the brunt of the scratches from the glass as she curled up, rolling as she hit the hard brick road. She gave them no chance to catch her, though, as she quickly sprung to her feet, sprinting away from the scene at top speed.
The next day, running on a mere three hours of sleep, spending most of the morning making sure no one was able to track her on the way back to the piers, she stumbled her way back to the alleyway she had gotten the job. Crusty was there, as they always were, still heavily clad despite the much warmer day. "Done already?" they asked, voice scratchy.
Sharon held up the book and the wedding band. "Cult leader, turns out."
"Huh! That's a new one to me." Crusty took a long drink. "Still alive?"
Sharon shrugged. "I didn't kill him, at any rate."
"Good enough'll have to be." Sharon handed the goods over to Crusty, who slipped her a handful of coins as they secreted them away into some hidden personal stash. "Bang up job as always, Trish."
"Sharon," she curtly interrupted.
"Sharon, Sharon, right," Crusty continued, laughing off the mistake. "Forgive me, an ol' informant like me loses track of names sometimes, right? Be unfortunate if I make a mistake like that in front of the cops sometime..."
Sharon only glared.
"Oh, Sharon, don't you worry. Long as we're on good terms, everything's good, and I like you a lot. I'll always have more jobs for you." Crusty pulled out a cigar, chuckling as they lit a match.
Sharon didn't stick around to hear any more. She marched off, money in hand, focusing on why she did all this in the first place. Do it for Laura. Do it for Laura. Laura kept her going.