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madgirlwithalaptop-blog1 · 6 years ago

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Chapter 1: And Then There Were Ten

This is the 1st chapter of a short story I’m working on called We Are The Family

#1.

In the beginning, there is one. Her name is Emily.

#2.

Then there are two. He hits himself and hates himself. His name is Stephen, not Jeong Yeon, and he can never go home.

One of his suitcases is still packed. It sits in the closet, next to Family photo albums and the junk that Emily can’t bear to get rid of, because monsters belong in the closet. He’ll unpack it, someday. Not soon, though.

Sometimes, in the early days, he thinks the suitcase whispers to him. Like it understand what he’s done, what he is. Stephen, Stephen, Stephen, it whispers. It starts out quiet. It reaches a crescendo at night. STEPHEN, STEPHEN, STEPHEN.

It takes number four to make it stop whispering.

#3.

Three is just a number. She has a name. It’s Scarlet. She comes at midnight.

She’s twelve. She’s still covered in blood, because she wouldn’t let anybody touch her. Emily and Stephen expect her to be scared. She’s not. She’s angry.

She screams. She throws things. When they try to talk to her, she unleashes a string of curse words. When they make her meals, she doesn’t eat. On her first night, she strips her bed of blankets and throws her mattress across the room. The clothes they buy her land in a heap on a floor. They’ve learned to lock up matches and knives. Stephen can’t decide whose screaming is worse — the suitcase’s or Scarlet’s.

They’re not prepared for this. How could they be? Emily’s never had kids, and the only time Stephen has ever dealt with episodes like this from kids like Scarlet was when their case files crossed his desk.

Emily and Stephen buy parenting guides by the dozens, almost frantically. In an act of pure desperation, Stephen comes home one day with a Great Dane puppy. Scarlet names him Trundle. She’s still angry, but with Trundle by her side she’ll eat and sleep, at least.

Number four saves all of them.

#4.

His name is Oliver, and he comes at 1:58 p.m. on a Tuesday.

He’s six. He clutches a stuffed koala and a baby blanket.

Trundle says hello by bounding outside and proceeding to lick and sniff every inch of the boy. A harmless gesture, perhaps, but the intimidating Trundle stands a good foot over Oliver’s head. Oliver starts screaming. Emily scoops him up and holds him up high so Trundle can’t reach. The screaming stops immediately, replaced by giggling.

Oliver’s laughter is such a change from Scarlet’s screaming that Emily almost drops the boy. Stephen laughs because he can't remember the last time any child laughed in his presence. He doesn’t ever want to stop laughing, stop smiling. He has to sit down, he’s laughing so hard. He laughs until he cries, until he’s actually crying, sobbing with grief and rage on the front lawn.

Emily pats him on the shoulder and carries Oliver inside. Scarlet stops to stare at Stephen for a second, fascinated by the sight of a grown man weeping without abandon, then she and Trundle trot back inside. Stephen sits for hours. Long after he’s stopped crying, he sits there, cross-legged on the grass. People go by walking dogs and pushing strollers. They look at him strangely, then continue on their way. (Sonder [noun]: the realization that each passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.)

Sometime after sundown, Emily comes outside and sits down next to Stephen. “Kids are asleep,” she says.

He nods.

After a while, she says, “He seems to calm Scarlet. She hasn’t thrown anything all afternoon.”

He nods.

After a while, she asks, “Are you okay?”

He nods.

After a while, she stands up. “Come in when you’re ready.”

The screen door closes gently behind her.

Stephen is ready at 3:12 a.m. The suitcase never reaches a crescendo.

#5.

Lilly comes at 3:46 in the afternoon. It’s September.

She’s a blue-eyed creature with blond pigtails. She is nine.

She doesn’t cry. Just wanders around the house with wide eyes.

Their voices are sweet as honey when they talk to her. They make her pancakes and spaghetti and cookies. When they learn she likes to draw, they give her a huge box of crayons and an unlimited supply of paper.

After the second week, she starts to talk. At first, it’s just to Trundle. Then to Oliver, then to the now somewhat pacified Scarlet, and finally to Emily and Stephen.

By the third week, it’s hard to get her to stop talking. She talks to everyone about everything.

By the fourth week, Emily and Stephen are half-wondering whether she may have ADHD.

By the fifth week, she’s been tested. She doesn’t.

The suitcase has stopped talking to Stephen. Instead, Lilly does.

#6 & #7.

Leila and Marjan come at 4:23 during the second week of May. (Emily writes the date and time on a sticky note that she puts in a folder she’s reserved for possible scrapbook material.)

They’re twins. They’re eight.

They never separate. They’re always holding hands or touching each other. They clutch each other like all they have is each other, like each is the other’s whole world. The only person in the Family that doesn’t seem to scare them those first few weeks is Oliver, and Oliver does not mind the company. He’s thrilled that he gets to show off his toys to a new audience. And the twins, for their part, manage to look interested when he shows them his precious stuffed koala. (Her name is Jenny and she goes with him everywhere because she’s a good koala.)

#8.

Vikram comes at noon on a Thursday.

He’s thirteen. Of all of them, he seems to adjust the quickest. Within an hour he’s cracking jokes.

The horrid puns quickly become annoying, but nobody says anything. They let him laugh during the day, because they can all hear him crying at night.

#9.

Max comes at 7:32 on the fifth of November. (It’s a Sunday. Emily checked.)

He’s fifteen. He’s tall and quiet.

Oliver is convinced that Max is second only to God, and follows Max around everywhere. He imitates him and repeats words he says, even the bad ones. Emily and Stephen learn that there is nothing quite as shocking as a seven year old boy dropping the F-bomb at dinner and then asking to be passed the butter like nothing happened. They have a talk with both boys about language, and after a few weeks Oliver’s vocabulary returns to normal.

#10.

Victoria comes at 2:16 on Saturday, February 2nd.

She’s six weeks from sixteen, just a few days older than Max.

She wears a mask like it’s habit. She sits with her back straight and hands folded on her lap. A polite expression and smile are always plastered to her face.

The mask is Victoria. The girl beneath is called Rory.

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madgirlwithalaptop-blog1 · 9 years ago

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Working on a short story called We Are The Family...does anybody else get super pumped to write then suddenly have zero motivation? Or am I just weird?

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madgirlwithalaptop-blog1 · 9 years ago

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A Different Kind of Vampire Story

A short story based off this Tumblr post.

“Do you know how hard it is to keep up with medicine, Kevin?” snapped Cian.

Kevin sighed. “Yes, as a matter of fact, because THIS IS THE SIXTH TIME YOU’VE TOLD ME THIS WEEK!”

“When I got my doctorate we thought leeches were good, and then they were bad, and now they’re good again! How is anybody supposed to keep up?” demanded Cian.

“Would you stop going on about leeches?” hissed Kevin

“I was published in issue one of The Lancet, Kevin!” continued Cian. “Issue one! Do you know how many more issues there have been? Hundreds, Kevin! Hundreds! How am I supposed to keep up?”

“Um, excuse me,” an impatient voice interjected, “But can we get on with this, please?” It came from the man lying on the stretcher.

Cian growled, but helped Kevin get the man to the surgery prep room.

“Kevin, will this man die?” asked Cian as they went.

Kevin checked his clipboard. “Ah, no. Probably not. Just appendicitis,” he explained.

Cian frowned. “His appendix is inflamed?”

Kevin grunted in confirmation.

“We can treat that?”

Kevin stared at the vampire. “Yes. Simply.”

“That’s so cool,” breathed Cian, sounding awed. “How?”

“Surgery and antibiotics,” Kevin explained, trying not to laugh.

“Sorry to interrupt!” the man on the stretcher shrieked. “But I’m basically dying!”

Cian rolled his eyes. “Oh, please,” he scoffed. “You’re just getting your appendix removed. You’ll be fine.”

“Well I don’t feel fine!” cried the man on the stretcher.

“Did you seriously not know how to treat appendicitis?” asked Kevin, smiling, after they’d dropped off the sobbing man in the surgery prep room.

Cian scowled. “Three hundred eighty seven Lancets, Kevin!” he snapped. “Three hundred and eighty seven!”

Kevin laughed. “I love you, you undead weirdo,” he said, grabbing the taller man’s hand.

Cian smiled and ran his fingers through his husband’s hair. “I love you, too,” he said.

“...Kevin, why are people saying cannabis kills pain like it’s news?”

“Cian, I swear to God, if you don't shut up, you're not getting laid for the next week.”

“Marco?”

Marco noticed for the first time that the whole class was staring at him. He took out an earbud and shut his sketchbook. “Huh?”

Mr Gallagher sighed. “I was wondering, Marco, if you could tell us what Caravaggio was famous for,” he said, gesturing to the whiteboard, where the name Michelangelo Caravaggio was written next to Peter Paul Rubens, Rembrandt, and Gian Lorenzo Bernini.

Marco squinted at the name, confused. “Cara who? OH YOU MEAN MICHAEL!” he practically shouted, grinning. “Oh yeah, he was cool.”

The class burst into laughter and Mr Gallagher sighed. “Marco, besides ‘he was cool’, what else can you tell me about Carava—,” he sighed again, “— Michael.”

Marco shrugged. “I dunno, Mister Gallagher,” he admitted. “But he’s great at dueling.”

There was even more laughter, and Mr Gallagher fought to avoid screaming.

“Oh my God, you dueled Caravaggio?!” shrieked Billy, almost falling out of his seat with laughter.

“Yeah, like three times,” Marco replied nonchalantly. “And I slept with him like ten.”

Mr Gallagher put his head down on his desk as the class went ballistic. Sometimes he hated his job.

“I SPENT OVER A CENTURY IN THAT PLACE, BETTY! OVER A CENTURY!”

Mark sipped his coffee. “Is Janet going on about her time in a convent again?” he asked.

“Yep,” Nancy confirmed, nodding.

“Poor Betty,” Sue remarked.

“Well, she did marry her,” Dave pointed out. “She had to have known what she was getting into.”

“I SPENT A CENTURY AT THAT WRETCHED CONVENT, AND IN ALL THAT TIME THEY NEVER MADE ME MOTHER SUPERIOR! GODDAMMIT, I HAD SENIORITY! I HAD SENIORITY!”

“OKAY, FIRST OFF, JANET, THAT WAS SIX HUNDRED YEARS AGO, BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, MAYBE IF YOU DIDN’T ALWAYS START OFF THOSE COMPLAINTS WITH BLASPHEMY...”

Alan sighed. “It’s going to be a long day.”

Emrick Darlington looked out over the large crowd of soldiers and military men assembled before him.

He glanced over at his aid, Anthony, who nodded, signaling that he could begin.

He stepped forward. “Hello, ladies and gentleman, citizens of the great United Kingdom.” He smiled charmingly at the throngs of journalists and reporters who’d pushed their way to the front. “And as special hello to you as well, members of the fourth estate, because you and I are more alike than you know.” He waited for the murmurs of confusion to die down slightly before adding, “for I’ve never met another group so apt at draining the life out of a man than the press,” to much laughter from the military and a few frowns from the assembled media personnel. “I jest, of course,” he assured them, flashing another megawatt smile.

He cleared his throat and waited for the laughter to dissipate before launching into his speech. “My loving people, we have been persuaded by some, that are careful of our safety, to take heed how we commit ourselves to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery; but I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people.

“Let tyrants fear; I have always so behaved myself that, under God, I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and good will of my subjects. And therefore I am come amongst you at this time, not as for my recreation or sport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live or die amongst you all; to lay down, for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honor and my blood, even the dust.

“I know I have but the body of a weak and feeble man; but I have the heart of a king, and of a king of England, too; and think foul scorn that ISIS or Boko Haram, or any terrorist group, should dare to invade the borders of my realms: to which, rather than any dishonor should grow by me, I myself will take up arms; I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already, by your forwardness, that you have deserved rewards and crowns; and we do assure you, on the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you.

“In the mean my lieutenant general shall be in my stead, than whom never prince commanded a more noble and worthy subject; not doubting by your obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, and by your valor in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over the enemies of my kingdom, and of my people.”

He smiled again and stepped away from the microphone. As he walked away, he could hear the crowd burst into uproarious applause.

As he was being escorted to his car by his security team, his phone beeped. He pulled it out and glanced at it. It was a text from Peregrine.

saw ur speech on the telly nice job A few seconds later, another message came through. who did u steal it from this time?

He smiled. Why, Peregrine, dear, are you implying that I copied my speech? That it is not my own?

uv been using old speeches since u started running dont play w me

Queen Elizabeth I - The Speech to the Troops at Tilbury, 1588. I tweaked it slightly, of course. It wouldn’t do to declare war on Spain, especially when we’re already fighting a War on Terror.

ur just waiting 4 sum1 2 catch u out arent u?

Yes. Nobody has, and I have to say I’m a bit disappointed in the human race, but my ratings are through the roof so it’s not all bad, I suppose.

u txt like my nan

I text properly, Peregrine.

whatevs come home and we can have sum fun ;)

Emrick smirked. “My house, please, Mister Jones,” he said to his driver. He couldn’t wait to see his boyfriend again.

“Are you actually going to lecture today, Professor Callaghan?” called Evan as he spotted the old man shuffling down the hall.

“Perhaps,” Beattie replied vaguely. He’d showed up when Oxford was founded and had been there ever since. Since he still never actually showed up to his lectures, nobody ever really noticed his presence. From century to century he’d enroll as a student again and do another four years, just to refresh his degree. “How is your friend Alexander doing?”

Evan’s face lit up. “Good. He’s good.”

“Has he changed his major, as I suggested?” asked Beattie.

“No, he hasn’t, Professor,” his TA told him, laughing.

“Shame,” Beattie stated. “All that talent, wasted in philosophy.”

“I’ll tell him you’re thinking of him,” Evan said, waving good-bye to the old professor as he started off towards his next class.

Beattie was about to slip into the library when a loud shout of “freakling!” caught his attention. He glanced down the hallway. A group of students had formed a barrier in the corridor, blocking Evan’s path forward. When Evan turned to walk away, one of them grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him to the floor.

“Get to class!” shouted Beattie. “Do you want be to get the dean?”

The group of students glanced at him, worried for a moment, but relaxed when they saw how old and frail the vampire looked. “Come on, Professor, just having some fun,” one of them said, smirking.

Beattie hissed in response, baring his fangs. “Get to class, or I won’t wait for the dean.”

That got a stronger reaction. With an attempted air of nonchalance, the group backed away and dispersed.

“There really was no need for that, Professor,” Evan said, readjusting his glasses and starting back towards his class.

“Yes, there was!” snapped Beattie, hurrying to catch up with Evan.

“Uh, Professor?” queried Evan. “Why are you following me?”

“I’m walking you to class,” Beattie replied shortly.

Evan started to protest, but shut up when Beattie hissed at him. They walked in silence, until they reached Evan’s next class. A concerned-looking young man with floppy hair was loitering just outside the door. He looked relieved when he saw Evan. “Hey, man, what happened?” he asked. “I got worried.”

“Nothing,” Evan said, at the same time Beattie said, “He was accosted in the hallway.”

“You call that nothing, Evan?” the young man asked.

“It was, to me,” protested Evan. “Look, you don’t get freakling thrown at you on a daily basis. You don’t get it.”

“Yeah, sure, Evan, I don’t get it!” snapped the young man. “It’s not like I get called slurs on a daily basis!”

Evan looked down. “Not what I meant, Alex,” he protested.

Ah, so this is Alexander, Beattie thought. Out loud, he said, “I think you two are adorable together.”

Both Evan and Alexander stared at him. He patted Evan on the back, then smiled at Alexander and said, “You remind me of a young man called Charles.”

Evan and Alexander watched as he shuffled off. “Dude, I think you’re grandfather is hella gay.”

Evan smiled and kissed his boyfriend. “Must be genetic.”

“Hats off at the table,” Leonard said, glaring at Tabitha.

Tabitha glared right back. “Screw you, Leonard, only peasants eat bareheaded!” she snapped.

“Leonard, Tabitha, hats aside, it’s bad manners to fight at the table,” Bethany said, trying for a placating tone.

“Why don’t people drink chocolate anymore?” moaned Carden, staring at his glass of milk.

“Tabitha, wearing hats at the table hasn’t been good manners since the 1500s! Nobody has lice anymore!” argued Leonard.

“That’s not good manners,” Melaina said, pointing to Kali.

“What’s wrong with me?” demanded Kali.

“You can’t show up to dinner in that!” cried Melaina.

Kali bristled. “Jeans and t-shirts are normal, Melaina!” she snarled. “Maybe you shouldn’t show up looking like Marie Antoinette!”

“Normal!” Melaina snorted derisively. “Normal for a whore, I suppose!”

“Are you calling me a whore?” shouted Kali furiously, standing up.

“It’s not about lice, Leonard, it’s about manners!” retorted Tabitha. “You need to have good manners if you have people over for dinner!”

Bethany sighed. Why she ever agreed to work at the Rosebrook Reintegration Facility for Vampires was beyond her. She was starting to think that passing her vampire psych class was overrated.

“We didn’t make the proper sacrifices,” Ingrum observed sadly. “That is why this dinner is bad.”

Umo nodded in agreement. “If you want to have a good feast, you must sacrifice three roosters,” he explained.

“Hestia, please make them stop fighting,” Athan begged.

“Would you stop praying to your fake gods at the dinner table?” shrieked Delia.

“You’re going to make the gods mad!” Orpheus shrieked back.

“There’s only one God!” roared Rana.

“Only to you!” argued Eyota.

“And your God is insignificant to ours!” sneered Lefu.

“Tabitha, I swear to God I will shove that hat down your throat if you don’t shut up!”

Then Kali screamed, “मैं एक वेश्या नहीं हूँ!” and threw her plate at Melaina, and all hell basically broke loose. Athan, Delia, Orpheus, Rana, Eyota, and Lefu all attacked each other, screaming at each other to denounce their respective false gods, Ingrum and Umo tried to sacrifice each other, and Leonard was trying to pry open Tabitha’s jaw in what Bethany could only assume was an attempt to actually stuff her hat down her throat.

Bethany sighed and called for the guards. They would try dinner again next week.

“And then you add the quicklime...” Myron did a little happy and clapped his hands as the Greek Fire started to burn, hot and bright. “GREEK FIRE!” he whooped. “HOW’S THAT FOR CHEMISTRY, NERDS?”

There were noises of awe and excitement from the assembled students.

“Yeah, go Mister Argyris!” a boy in the back yelled.

“Thank you, Paul!” Myron shouted back, doing another happy dance routine that ended with excited jazz hands. Unfortunately, the jazz hands knocked over the basin of fire, which immediately began to consume all the papers on his desk. Uh-oh. Myron froze. One of his students screamed. And then things really started going downhill.

A dozen kids sprinted for their backpacks and other belongings, while an equal number raced for the door. At least six kids whipped out their cellphones, and Myron was about to praise them for their quick thinking when he realized that they were just taking videos of the fire. One girl had the good sense to grab the fire extinguisher from the wall and start spraying. Unfortunately, the fire had now touched the ceiling and had consumed a fifth of the classroom, and Myron doubted that anything but a fire hose could put it out.

“I got this, Mister Argyris!” shouted Paul, and pulled down the fire alarm.

Down the hall, Franklin paused in his math calculations as the fire alarms started blaring.

“Twenty bucks says it’s Mister Argyris’s Greek Fire again,” one boy said, and there was a small commotion as money exchanged hands several times.

“Mister Argyris isn’t that neglectful, Austin,” Franklin said hopefully. “This would make it the third time this month.”

“Nah, Austin’s right,” Kelly said, eyes glued to her phone as usual. “Look.” She showed the class her screen, and there were groans from losers and cheers from winners and money once again flew around the room.

“Show me that,” demanded Franklin. Kelly showed him the phone. Someone called Becca😍😘😚 had texted her an image of what he recognized as the chem lab being consumed by flames, with the caption:

babe ur algebra teachers bf just lit the chem lab on fire again

Franklin sighed. “Alright, all of you—” And then the sprinklers came on. There was lots of shrieking and mad scrambling as his students tried simultaneously to find cover and protect their belongings from the frigid water.

From down the hall, there came a faint, “Thank you, Paul!”

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madgirlwithalaptop-blog1 · 9 years ago

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Business as Usual

A short story

“Business as usual” in the 26th precinct of the New York City Police Department varied from day to day. Really, depending on the day, it could be anything from quietly filling out paperwork to frantically trying to process dozens of criminals at once. On Halloween, “business as usual” was processing costumed people by the dozens for drunk and disorderly and possession of drugs. On a quieter day, “business as usual” was the soft clacking of keyboards and the faint scribble of pens, the Sarge munching on pretzel sticks, and classical music playing softly from Phoebe’s phone.

Three years ago, “business as usual” was introducing the first deaf NYPD cop ever to the precinct. Captain Savant had called for the precinct’s attention, trailed by a unreadable Latina beauty and a beanpole with floppy, mint-green hair. “Everyone, these are Detectives Zoe Martinez and Jack Finn,” Savant announced. Jack smiled and waggled his fingers. Zoe simply cast her eyes coolly about the precinct, which left a bunch of officers suddenly wishing they’d tidied up their desks.

Phoebe, of course, was the first to introduce herself. “Hi, Zoe. Hey, Jack. I’m Phoebe. Detective, second grade.”

Jack smiled. “Hey, Phoebe,” he said amiably. Zoe gave no sign she’d heard (which really was to no fault of her own, though they didn’t know that at the time), and continued to glance about the precinct in a stone-faced manner that most of the precinct would later come recognize as masked nervousness. Jack tapped Zoe on the shoulder to get her attention, his hands signing rapidly in the air, slowly mouthing the words as he did so.

“Oh, is she deaf?” asked Phoebe, once again proving herself completely incapable of thinking before she spoke (for what was probably the eighth time that week). Most of the precinct groaned internally, and Phoebe, quickly realizing from their expressions that she’d said something wrong, clapped her hand over her mouth.

Luckily, neither Jack nor Zoe seemed to take much offense (Phoebe would later count her very lucky stars that Zoe hadn’t, as they would learn that Zoe could take down a man three times her size and very likely could have snapped poor Phoebe in half if she’d taken offense). “Yes, she’s deaf,” Jack confirmed. Zoe signed something, looking rather proud. “First deaf cop in New York, second deaf cop in the country,” Jack added.

The Sarge gave a low whistle to show he was impressed, then realized rather belatedly that Zoe would not be able to hear it, and said aloud to Jack, “Ah, tell her that’s impressive.” Jack relayed the message to Zoe, who smirked proudly.

Then there were introductions and handshakes all around, until Savant ordered everybody to resume their duties. And so the deaf cop had become part of “business as usual”.

Six months later, “business as usual” was tiptoeing around the PR workers milling about the precinct (Zoe had been caught on camera kissing another woman, and once word got out she was a cop, anti-LGBT rights groups had put the NYPD under fire). After some time and a series of carefully neutral public addresses by the Police Commissioner, most of the hubbub had died down, but a few devoted, sign-carrying Christians still picketed outside the precinct’s doors (apparently, God hated fags).

One of the higher-ups in PR had come into the precinct, pulled Zoe off to the side, and calmly told her (well, technically, he told Jack, who translated for Zoe) she had to be much more careful in the future.

Zoe bared her teeth and signed something that most of the precinct didn’t need Jack to translate for that one. The gesture was simple (and even it hadn’t been, the anger fairly radiating off of her would have been enough to clue anybody in on the gist).

Clearly, the PR man understood, as well, and visibly fought to keep his temper in check. “Detective Martinez, you cannot display such behavior in public,” he said through gritted teeth.

Zoe signed something else, the motions short, choppy, angry. “She says she just kissed her, it’s not like she did it with her in Times Square,” Jack translated.

“Unlike Hazel and Jameel,” Beckett muttered, which earned her a punch in the arm from Hazel.

“Jameel and I didn’t do it in Times Square!” hissed Hazel.

“Oh, right, my bad. You only did it in the record room,” Beckett whispered back.

There was a loud thud, and their attention was drawn from Hazel and Beckett to Zoe, where she had quite literally dropped the PR man to the ground, and he lay groaning at her feet.

Jack looked horrified. Phoebe and Matthews laughed. And Sarge put Zoe in a holding cell while Savant tried to convince the PR man not to file charges (and after six hours, numerous apologies from Savant, and the assurance that Zoe would attend mandatory anger-management therapy sessions, he agreed).

And for the rest of the month “business as usual” was watching Jack tease Zoe about her psych sessions and watching Zoe throw stress balls given to her by her therapist at Jack in response. If anybody saw the irony, they didn’t dare say.

Flash forward four months, and “business as usual” was watching Zoe behind the two-way mirror of the interrogation rooms as she did her paperwork across from handcuffed criminals whom no one else could get to confess. For some reason, the complete silence and apathy seemed to get to the perps. When their lies of innocence fell on deaf ears (quite literally), they (not knowing Zoe was deaf) took her silence and nonchalant filling out of paperwork as a sign that she knew they were guilty, and often would confess within the hour.

During one of these “paperwork interrogations” (as most of the precinct had taken to calling them), one of the perps, starting to sweat in the perpetuity of Zoe’s silence, joked nervously, “Hey, you playin’ at bein’ Rosa Diaz?” Everyone behind the glass smirked internally, because Zoe didn’t have to play at that.

Months passed, and then one Saturday, Ben E. apprehended a Latino named Jaime Martinez who’d attempted to steal cellphones from a mall kiosk. And that day’s “business as usual” entailed Zoe flipping things over in a violent rage and signing furiously at her kid brother in a mixture of American and Spanish sign language, and the occasional string of garbled speech.

Matthews winced as Jaime’s plea of “¡No era mi intención hacerlo!” was met with a wordless cry of rage and a barrage of signs.

“Poor kid’s getting a hard time of it,” he observed from a safe distance behind the Sarge’s desk (most of the precinct was observing the scene from a safe distance behind Sarge’s desk, as it was close enough to Zoe and Jaime that they could hear their argument, but far enough away that any objects upturned or thrown by Zoe would not reach them).

“What’s she saying?” Cam asked Jack. Most of the precinct had managed to pick up a little sign language after spending over a year with Zoe, but they were completely lost at the rapid and furious pace that Zoe was currently signing at.

“She’s asking him how come he stole the phones if he didn’t mean to steal them,” Jack replied. Zoe signed something else, and Jaime looked like he was trying not to cry. Jack winced.

“What did she say?” asked Hazel from her safe position behind the Sarge’s desk chair.

“She told him their mother should disown him,” Jack answered.

Ben E. shrugged. “Kid’s a thief, sister’s a cop. What did you expect?”

“He’s just a kid, Ben E.,” Hazel chided. “He made a mistake.”

The argument between Zoe and Jaime continued, and it got so heated that Zoe raised her hand to cuff Jaime, but then Savant was there before she could, and she picked her up and shoving her away from Jaime, roaring about how she is a cop and she is most certainly not allowed to get physical with any fucking perp she feels like and she’d better damn well keep her relationships professional at work or she’ll throw her ass out. Without Jack to translate, they doubted Zoe understood any of her words, but she certainly understood her expression, and an angry Savant was definitely not someone you wanted to mess with. Still, an angry Zoe was not also someone you want to mess with, and for a second the precinct held their breath, waiting to see if Zoe would duel it out with Savant.

Then Jack darted out from behind Sarge’s desk and put a hand on Zoe’s shoulder, and some of the blind rage evaporated from Zoe’s eyes. She shrugged Jack’s hand off of her and stalked off.

She came back an hour later and strode right toward Jaime, who was in heading towards the door, having been processed and then released with a warning to never do such a thing again. The entire precinct went quiet, and Savvy (Savant’s new nickname, created after Beckett made some awed remark about Savant’s “Zoe- savvy”) visibly tensed, waiting to see what would happen. Jaime flinched as Zoe approached, then went still with shock when she put her arms around him and signed “Los siento hermanito,” on his back. The whole precinct probably would’ve awwwwed, but she drew back quickly and signed something else, this time in ASL and slow enough that they could mostly understand (it was something along the lines of “do that again and I’ll kill you and sink your body in a river”).

But Phoebe would always be Phoebe, and she cocked her head and let out an “Awwwww.” Apparently, the cuteness of the sibling hug was completely untempered by the death threat immediately following.

The entire precinct groaned (not internally, this time), and Hazel and Matthews moaned, “Pheeee-beeee!”

Phoebe frowned. “What?” she said, clearly at a loss for what she had done wrong (as per usual). Despite their annoyance at the oblivious detective, more than a few cops hid smiles. Because Phoebe being Phoebe was really the epitome of “business as usual” at the 26th precinct.

That December, “business as usual” at the 26th was Zoe parading an endless stream of one night stands through the precinct. A few weeks ago, Joanie had made some offhanded remark about how there was no way Zoe would ever get laid with her dark/silent/fucking-terrifying personality, and Zoe had taken the comment as a personal challenge. Almost every morning there’d be an attractive young man or woman perched on the edge of Zoe’s desk. Said young man or woman would remain until Zoe was satisfied they had pissed Joanie off enough, then would be “kicked to the curb” as Beckett so eloquently put it.

“Business as usual” was also learning how to spot hidden mistletoe, as Phoebe and Jack had teamed up to tape mistletoe in the place you would least suspect it, which lead to them popping up from nowhere and yelling “KISS!” whenever two unsuspecting cops happened to be under the hidden sprigs. Their mistletoe mayhem had forced together all sorts of unlikely pairs, including Matthews and Hazel, Phoebe and Zoe, and Sarge and Savvy. Even IT Ted got caught up in the mix when he came up to troubleshoot Violet Parker’s computer. It was extremely amusing to watch, but decidedly not as amusing when you were one of the two poor, unsuspecting cops.

It was suffice to say, however, that Savvy was not amused by either the mistletoe nor Zoe’s display of one night stands. So when Joanie caught Hazel and Jameel going at it again in the filing room, Savvy practically had an aneurysm. “YOU ARE NEW YORK’S FINEST!” she shouted. “BE PROFESSIONAL OR I’LL HAUL YOUR ASS OUTTA HERE!” And so Zoe’s stream of one night stands trickled to a stop, and the sprigs of mistletoe were plucked down, and Joanie no longer felt that she was living in an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine.

That spring’s “business as usual” was the attempted ignorance of Zoe’s empty desk, an FBI agent, and a photograph of Interpol's fifth most wanted person: a beautiful, unreadable Latina drug boss named Raina Castillo. It was Jack occasionally turning to Zoe’s desk with a joke or a funny story, and his grin fading when he saw the vacant area. It was Phoebe’s odd coping mechanism of playing classical songs (Phoebe’s quiet day classical playlist now consisted of Bach’s “Come, Sweet Death”, Henryk Gorecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, and Shostakovich’s Fourth Symphony).

Up until that spring, the conference room had been a pretty boring place. Annual meetings with HR, debriefings, and a private place to take a nap were really all the significance it held for the members of the 26th. Until two FBI agents met with Savvy in the room with the blinds drawn and the door locked. Until Zoe was ushered into the room (no need for Jack, even; one of the agents knew sign language). Until they were all debriefed by Savvy about Zoe’s mysterious disappearance a week later.

Three months later, “business as usual” was Zoe ID-ing a string of drug ring bosses while receiving congratulations from Savvy, the entire 26th precinct, the Police Commissioner, and no less than fifteen different FBI agents. Jack was at her side the moment she walked through the precinct door, and he hadn’t left since. Zoe’s mother and brother had been alerted that Zoe was no longer undercover, and had rushed to the precinct as well. Her mother couldn’t stop crying with joy, and Jaime clutched Zoe’s hand like he was afraid she would disappear if he let go.

Three hours later, “business as usual” was everybody trying to ignore Zoe’s once-again empty desk, and the stains on the floor where Beckett failed to stop the blood from flowing out of Zoe’s chest and shoulder, and the holes in the wall where Jack unloaded eight rounds into a disgruntled drug boss. It was the numb silence of the precinct. The ambulance had long since sped off, lights flashing and sirens wailing, and Sarge, with more gentleness than they’d ever seen him display at one time, had left to escort a hysterical Miss Martinez and a sobbing Jaime home.

Then Jack started screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming. Screaming what they were all thinking. How does a goddamn drug boss get a gun past an entire fucking precinct and fifteen FBI agents? Why Zoe fucking Martinez? For the love of God, somebody clean up the fucking blood! He screamed until Matthews put his arm around him, and then he broke down and sobbed on the floor like a child.

After a while, Savvy told them all to go home and get some sleep. “Be ready for tomorrow,” she told them. “I won’t except any sort of sick days or excuses. You all need to be here. Treat it like business as usual, because it is. This is the police force. Shit happens.” And they do. Or at least, they try to. Because they’re the police. Because this is New York City, and crime happens. Because shit happens. Because tonight, this is business as usual.

Almost two months later, “business as usual” was pretending Zoe was never gone (because Matthews learned the hard way that even with one arm in a sling, she was still fully capable of taking anyone down). It was also pretending they didn’t know that Zoe cried in the filing room after freezing with fear when a perp pulled a gun on her. It was pretending not to watch when Jack hugged Zoe longer than was probably necessary, and pretending not to notice that Zoe let him.

A few months later, “business as usual” was everybody betting on when Zoe and Jack would realize they loved each other. Matthews bet a hundred dollars that Jack already knew but was too afraid to tell Zoe, Hazel bet the same amount that Zoe already knew but was to afraid to tell Jack, Joanie bet eighty that neither of them would realize it until the day they died, Cam bet seventy that it would take Jack two years to realize it and another three to tell Zoe, Ben E. bet sixty that they would realize it and confess to each other by Christmas, Phoebe bet a hundred that they’d realized it and confessed a long time ago and had been secretly dating for almost a year, Beckett bet eighty that they weren’t actually in love with each other, and the Sarge (after much pleading and bribing from the rest of the precinct) reluctantly bet fifty that they’d realized it after the shooting were just laughing from the sidelines. Even Savvy discreetly joined the betting by slipping seventy dollars and a note that read “five years for them to realize they’re in love, and another five years for them to confess to each other” into one of Matthews’s case files.

One week, a photograph, and a written confession later, “business as usual” was watching Zoe make out with Jack in the middle of the precinct just to make the rest of them as uncomfortable as possible. It was also everybody feeling mildly outraged, except for Phoebe, who was seven hundred and ten dollars richer.

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