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You close your eyes and focus. You take measured breaths, the sound of flowing air raising in volume until it's the only thing you can hear. The chaos of the bullpen falls away and you run a thumb gently over the corroded and rough metal. You smell seawater and funnel cake between the earthy smoke of a cigarette. You open your eyes and find yourself staring ahead at a big top tent.
"Should you be smoking that now?" A voice beside you crows.
You shift your eyes over and raise a brow.
"Why? They gonna report me for being unprofessional?" You reply in a voice not your own. You flick ash in the direction of the coroner's van as they load up two bodies delicately hidden under white sheets.
"Fucked up." You remark, taking another bitter drag. "Heard their kid saw the whole thing."
"Really? Jesus.." The other officer remarks. His nametag reading: Young.
"Get used to it, rookie. Bad shit's gonna happen in Gotham, it's like the tide."
"Bu-"
"Zip it, when your TO speaks. Listen."
"Yes, sir." he answer dejectedly.
"Good boy." You reply, taking the cigarette from your mouth to shout. "You wrapped up over there, fellas?"
The coroner's van honks twice and you laugh giving them a wave off. You flick your cigarette to the ground and snuff it with the tow of your shoe, as you look down you notice something.
"Well well." You lean down and pull a small token from the wet sludge of mud and grime. "Lucky coin, Whaddya say Young. Let's hit some skee-ball."
"We should probably get back to start on the report.."
"Ah, you'll have plenty of time for that once we're off the clock." As you speak you lean over and wipe the filth from it off on Young's shirt, his face contorts in disgust but he doesn't say anything. You suppress a chuckle, he's gonna be a good one. "Right now I have an errand I wanna run."
"Yes, sir." He replies again.
"They always told me you were a quick learner. Glad they were right."
You watch as his eyes cast downward, you're losing him. You toss out a hook.
"Young, hey. I'm sorry about the schmutz on your shirt, that was a lame joke. Who don't we start over, huh? Tabula Rasta." You put a hand on his shoulder and fish out a set of keys. "How about YOU drive the shop? Get a feel for it, for when you're driving your own some day?"
He eyes the keys and then looks back to you. You nod and present them.
"Tabula Rasta." You repeat. You see him suppress a smile, the corners of his mouth only giving off the smallest clue. He must be over the moon.
Young grabs the keys and he nods.
"Where to, sir?"
"The Yacht Club, I've got a friend coming in today and I promised I'd come check out his ship. Shouldn't take more than 15, then it's back to the station for that paperwork. How's that sound?"
You blink.
