Simmons has seen many things in his day.
Swearing no longer fazes him, neither does the screaming insults aimed for him and his mother, and on one occasion, his entire generation. He is no longer moved by the deceitful tears and feigned surprise, over dramatic gasps and shakes of the head.
Time has made him unfaltering, unmoving, and steadfast, like a stone in a torrential river.
This case, however, is unlike one he’s ever come across. Maybe it’s just because it’s hard to believe something like this could happen in a place like New York, but then again..
It’s New York.
As many times as he’s read the files, shuffled through the documents and looked at the pictures, it just can’t seem to sink into his skull.
Maybe it’s just because none of this makes sense to him. It just doesn’t.
Leaned back in his office chair, the thirty-five year old African American male runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh of defeat, tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling, silently asking for help. No help arrives, of course.
“Simmons?” calls a voice, making his head snap up. He blinks at Dominguez questioningly. The rookie fidgets uncomfortably and fixes his collar and tie for the umpteenth time that day, swallowing. Green eyes meet brown, and both shine with trepidation for the slightest of moments.
“What?” he asks bluntly, slapping the thick papers into his weathered palm. The newbie looks around, as if telling a never before heard secret, his adam’s apple bobbing as he licks his chapped lips and leans in. Simmons waits rigidly.
He can smell the linguini on Dominguez’s breath, see the anxious bead of sweat on his brow, and the odd pallor his tan complexion holds as he opens his mouth and-
“You’re up for interrogation,” he blurts quietly, looking around again and rushing away like a frightened molerat before Simmons can respond. The senior sighs and throws his hands into the air, staring dazedly at the PacMan eating dots on his screensaver.
“Well damn,” he curses silently, shoulders slumping as his brow furrows.
This will be a long night.
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They have informed him that she is different, fragile.
But he still doesn’t find himself ready, despite their helpful commentary.
Sighing and closing the door behind him, Simmons eyes the one sided glass and fixes his cobalt tie. Folders are clutched in his hand, and his expression is one of grim professionalism. When he turns to the sleek metal interrogation table, he freezes. He has been mentally preparing himself for a screaming and blubbering mess, for someone banging their head against the wall, for a hostile and deadly scowl. A counselor or interpreter, perhaps? She is alone- and he has no idea how to feel about that.
Arthur Simmons looks down at the identification photograph pressed against his thick digits as he approaches and sits down slowly. Hostile and harsh, giving a new twist to the phrase ‘If looks could Kill….’ the blue-gray eyes on the paper flash at him from the pale angry face and the mass of unruly bronze curls.
This looks nothing like the girl sitting before him. Well, not exactly sitting, per se. More like crouching.
She puts most of her weight on her toes, knees curled to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins, fingers digging into the ash-stained and tattered jeans. Her knuckles are white, nails grayed. Thin elbows poke awkwardly out of the sleeves of her used to be green shirt, now splattered with crimson and black-gray clouds. Scrapes and sooty bruises coat her pallid complexion, and little beads of blood speckle her lips. Purple coats the underside of her eyes, and her hair is a floating bird’s nest on her head.
The eyes Simmons is seeing are not looking at him. They are looking through him.
Eerily vacant, swirling with odd blue-gray mist.
For a second, Simmons swears the room gets colder as a chill threatens to run its icy hands down his spine. He clears his throat quietly, jarring himself from his thoughts- and the eyes do not move.
“Hello, Miss Hilton,” he states. She flinches as if his words were obscene slaps to the face, and blinks rapidly, small nose wrinkling. Her shoulders slump forward, and her head tilts as she twitches in disapproval and presses her cheek to her shoulder.
“Not Miss. I’m not Miss. Not like Miss,” she whispers, swaying from side to side. “Emily, not Miss. Emily. Emily. My name. Emily- not Miss.”
He finds himself strangely...relieved. At least they are seemingly getting somewhere.
“Well, excuse me. Hello, Emily-”
“Yes, Emily. I’m Emily. Hello…”
“I understand some...unfortunate events took place tonight,” he begins tentatively. Heck, he is as clueless as Dominguez at the moment. Emily’s breath hitches, and her chest swells as her fingers dig deeper into her pants. She nods vehemently, head bobbing.
“Bad,” she agrees, voice cracking as her eyes dart about the room. “Bad, unfortunate...sad…”
She chokes on her own words and then speaks again, silently.
“I don’t like sad.”
“Emily, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.”
The twin moons flit to the documents being spread out before her, and she inches away with a shiver.
Images, quotes, befores and afters, Ziploc bags.
A sleek office building, rendered a charred mess. Building beams and doors coated with ashen remains, books, magazines, and informational text burnt to a crisp. Fried work shirts and lab coats, melted labcoats, shattered beakers.
An albino, with pale, limp hair that falls about his vermillion eyes. Smiling at the camera. His after picture is not as pretty as the before.
Old man, thick gray mustache, goggles to rival Harry Potter. Missing.
Young Moroccan scientist, not well-known or liked, dead.
“Emily, can you identify some of these things for me?” he asks, eyes fixating themselves on the estranged girl before him. Her lip trembles, and she jerks with stifled, hesitant cries, throat convulsing. Strands of hair fall into her face, which is trying to decide whether to blanch or flush.
“Emily,” he presses firmly, pointing to the old man, the before pictures in front of her, the after pictures in front of him. She lets out a continuous whine and clutches at her skull, rocking and shaking her head.
“No, n-no, can’t...don’t wanna...no, please…” she begs silently. “Bad..Sad...Please..” Her jaw clenches and she lurches forward, slamming her palms onto the table with a thud.
Unfazed, Simmons stretches a finger and points to the man yet again, voice unwavering.
“Who is this?”
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