#though i used it for the much more deranged kinda rp and not just... for funny bits like a normal person... >_>

[rotteneldritchhorror]

hearing @benjaminutes talk about MSPARP feels so fucking validating

like i didnt hallucinate that whole MSPARP -> MXRP -> full shutdown bullshit, im not actually going insane, someone SEES ME

[i-got-these-words]

If you’re still taking requests, could you do a flirty phone convo ft. HT and MGS?? You write so good though sooo you can do whatever you like!!! I know I’ll love it!! *hugsss*

I’m sorry, anon. I don’t know what happened…

A/N: This is a work of fiction that I pulled out of my ass. In its entirety. Procedures, regulation and jargon included. There is, however, a glossary of terms at the end of this post that tries to make sense of things.

I love hearing your thoughts, so leave me a comment! ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pit was swathed in layers of slumber, the overhead lights set low as the night approached its darkest hour.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected during the third shift, but this was not it. The silence was unsettling, bordering on sinister.

The soft click of keys. The steady hum of computer fans. The stop-and-start stutter of a colleague snoring in a darkened corner.

Soon after he’d punched in, he’d dealt with two PIs and a neighbourly disturbance. But fuck all since. And the stillness was making his skin crawl.

It was nearing three am, though, and he was due a break. He was about to swivel round in the high-back chair to clear it with his dispatch supervisor when his phone monitor lit up. The emergency line.

Adjusting his headset, he picked up the call and immediately turned his attention to the mapping system on the central screen as it tried to triangulate the caller’s location.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” Guan Shan said into the mouthpiece, frowning slightly when the mapping system sputtered its failure to ping the cellular device.

A rupture of ragged breathing abraded his right ear.

“Nine-one-one,” he repeated, wondering what the statistics were on perverts prank-calling emergency services.

A throaty moan adjourned the breathless rasping, sounding wet and wounded.

“What is the location of your emergency?” Guan Shan tried again, more urgent this time.

What the fuck?

Two weeks post training and initiation, Guan Shan’s most exciting call yet had been a GTA that had lasted all of ten minutes – casualties: nil. Although a desk job was not the endgame, moonlighting as a 911 operator whilst he studied for the EMT license exam would help cushion the blow the paramedic training fees were going to deliver to his malnourished bank account.

Running the ATL on the mapping system again, Guan Shan quickly scanned the screen to his left. The list of incoming calls to the county’s PSAP were sparse, a Code Red notably absent.

Just as he inhaled, readying himself to reiterate his opening line, a clamorous clatter rang in his ear, followed by a series of sibilant curses.

“Hello?” The voice at the other of the line, smooth as silk and husky like cigarette smoke, was distinctly male.

Guan Shan ignored the way the fine hairs at his nape prickled. “Sir, what is your emergency?”

“Well, I’m not sure how much of an emergency a man at death’s door constitutes.” All facts and no filler. “He’s fucked.” The words were enunciated on a knife’s edge. And sent a chill to the hollow of Guan Shan’s spine.

But Guan Shan had shed blood, sweat and snot over the Emergency Management and Communications modules and there was no fucking way this dickhead was going to throw him off.

“What is your location?” Fingers flying over his primary keyboard, Guan Shan pulled up the live rota on unengaged EMT vehicles. Due to recent cutbacks, there were plenty of ambulances but not enough crew. “Sir?”

A withering exhale. “You’ll have to track the phone. Somewhere in the ass crack of fuck-knows-where.”

Guan Shan ground his teeth, suppressing a sour retort – partly irked by the man’s unhelpful response and deliberate disregard, and partly irked by how erotic he sounded with said disregard. In particular, the way he said ‘fuck’ with the faint, fluid hint of a high-bred accent made Guan Shan’s ears heat up.

“What can you see around you? Any landmarks?” Guan Shan asked as he launched the medical emergencies algorithm, the rapid click-click-click of the plastic keys matching the speed of his heart, beat for beat. He’d never managed a critically-unstable casualty outside of a simulation before.

“Desert. Dirt. A beat-up truck.” Pause. “A bleeding man on his last breath.”

“Can you apply pressure to the wound?”

A soft sound in Guan Shan’s ear suggested a smirk. “Depends. Which would you rather: death by exsanguination or asphyxiation?”

The shit? “Ex-excuse me?”

The man lowered his voice to a tortured pitch and Guan Shan tensed in his seat. “There’s a gaping, toothless grin where his neck used to.”

Fucking-A.

Trepidation torched Guan Shan’s nerves as sawdust filled his mouth. “Who did that to him?” Was the perpetrator on the premises? Was the RP in danger? Or did Guan Shan have a homicidal psycho on the line?

A moment passed, the only sound in Guan Shan’s ear the slow, even breaths of a man who wasn’t used to being questioned.

“How green are you, rookie? There’s only me and this shithead for miles in every direction.”

“Tell me.” Guan Shan hissed. Tell me what you did, you arrogant prick. And then tell me where you are so I can unleash a squad on your ass.

“I slit his throat,” the raw edge to the voice was savage.

“Why –” Guan Shan clamped his mouth shut before the rest of that sentence escaped. Fuck almighty. With brisk taps, he alerted EMS and the sheriff’s office of the Code Red: Assault in Progress.

He needed a location.

“What is this, couple’s therapy?” The man sneered. “Why does anyone kill?”

Guan Shan’s gaze flickered back to the central monitor; the mapping system was still struggling to pick up a cell signal.

“Duty,” the man started, tongue rolling tenderly over the ‘t’ like a lover. “Derangement. Or self-defence.”

Derangement. Without a fucking doubt.

“Where the hell are you?” Guan Shan whispered, more to himself, fists clenching briefly over his keyboard before he resumed typing again.

“I thought you were tracking the phone?” The almost-stammer in the man’s voice was so slight Guan Shan nearly missed it.

What was that? Fear? Exhaustion?

“I’m trying.” Guan Shan insisted, sending an SOS message to his dispatch supervisor. “But accuracy relies on a number of factors: the model of the phone, signal strength –”

“Figures,” the man interrupted. “It’s a burner. Production lines probably dried up last century. He doesn’t have anything else on him.”

“What about your own phone?”

“He took all my shit. Dumped it en route.”

Growing more confused, Guan Shan pressed his lips together and back-pedalled to triage. “Are you hurt?”

A throaty chuckle. “I’m not dead or dying. And that’s all that really matters, right?”

Mother of fuck. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this dickhead.

Guan Shan startled as a hand landed on his shoulder – it was his supervisor. Muting the line, Guan Shan indicated the spazzing mapping system. “I can’t get coordinates.”

With a grim look, his supervisor took in the electronic log, the Code Red alert, and said, “I’ll work location from my pod. You stay on intel.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Guan Shan acknowledged the order with a dip of his head and unmuted the call. “Help me out here. I can’t dispatch a unit to fuck-knows-where,” he muttered into his mouthpiece, a cold bead of sweat sliding down the back of his neck. “How’s the other guy doing?”

“Still twitching.” The words were choppy, the inflection flat. “Listen.” The man heaved a deep sigh, sounding tired and battle-torn. “I haven’t had anything to drink in the last twenty or so hours. And nothing to eat for longer than that. I haven’t slept since fuck knows when. I used the last of my reserves to take this shithead out.” An audible swallow. “I’m tired. And dehydrated. And furious as all fuck. But when his buddy realises something’s up, he’s gonna hightail it to this godforsaken dry land and fuck me up.” An amused chortle tickled Guan Shan’s ear. “And all I got is a rusty switchblade and shitty night vision. Plenty of fucks to give, but not enough juice to fuel ’em.”

Guan Shan’s mouth went from dry to arid.

No way.

No fuckin–

“Who are you?” Guan Shan asked, sounding much calmer than he felt, fingers poised over the keys that would spell the RP’s name out.

The man didn’t need to say it; Guan Shan already knew. Should have known the minute the man had spoken. Not because his face had been on every news station in the country for the last three days. Nor because of his high-profile status. ‘Plenty of fucks to give…’ But because of one rainy night with no cab in sight, an exclusive bar that begrudgingly provided shelter, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue that kept on tipping.‘ … but not enough juice to fuel ’em.’

A night that should have been forgettable, but wasn’t. Touches that should have remained anonymous, but hadn’t. Masks of sultry indifference that should have stayed in place, but had slipped, slipped, slipped.

Two years on, and every rainstorm was sweet torment on Guan Shan’s senses; a reminder of a night that shouldn’t have happened, of a risk he shouldn’t have taken.

“He Tian,” came the haggard reply. “My father is the state prosecutor.”

Grabbing his radio gear, Guan Shan hit the transmission button and barked, “This is Oscar Paris Two-Five-Five, Delta Havana, do you copy? Over.”

A sizzle of static burst through the radio’s speaker. “Delta Havana receiving. Over.”

“The twelve-nine on the Code Red is a twelve-one. Over.”

“Repeat dispatch. Over.”

“The Code Red is a twelve-one. I repeat, the Code Red –” Guan Shan dropped the radio-speak “– is the Chief Prosecutor’s son. Immediate threat to life. Over.”

“Ten-four. Do we have a location? Over.”

Fuck. “In progress. Over.”

“Ten-four. Standing by. Over.”

He Tian laughed a little, but the sound was a dry and ragged thing. “That was… kinda hot, rookie.”

“Look, we’re gonna find you.” Sifting through the notes he had taken so far, Guan Shan said, “You mentioned a truck.”

“Yeah,” He Tian replied wryly. “But I can’t drive stick.”

Had the circumstances been different, Guan Shan might have rolled his eyes. “The suspect picked this specific location. It isn’t random. He would have needed to find his way back. Is there a navigation system in the vehicle?”

He Tian hummed in agreement. “Yeah, okay. I’ll check.” There was a rustle of movement, punctuated by a pained grunt.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Shit. He was hurt. Running only on adrenaline, it wouldn’t be long before He Tian crashed.

“Take it easy,” Guan Shan instructed. “And stay on the line. How many accomplices does the suspect have?”

“I only ever saw one other guy. He wanted to give my dad another day to cough up the ransom. But this shithead here said he was done babysitting.” An obnoxious creak of unoiled hinges screeched into Guan Shan’s ear. “Brought me here to put a bullet in my head.”

As Guan Shan fed the information electronically to the police coordinator, he added the relevant codes to indicate armed perps and firearms at the scene.

“Fuck yeah, rookie. Good call.” He Tian chuckled. “There’s a marked map here. And a Gatorade.”

With He Tian relaying the approximate longitude and latitude over the phone, Guan Shan was able to zero in on a location on the mapping system. He picked up his radio phone.

“Delta Havana, this is Oscar Paris Two-Five-Five. Over.”

“Go ahead, Oscar. Over.”

“We need to mobilise a chopper. Over.”

“Ten-four. What are the coordinates? Over.”

Once he’d rattled them off, Guan Shan sent an urgent message to his dispatch supervisor to authorise his request for air support; it was the quickest and safest way to reach that far in the desert this time of the night.

The mapping system refreshed itself and a green dot appeared on the screen, zinging its way to the red dot in the ass crack of fuck-knows-where. ETA seven minutes.

“He Tian,” Guan Shan began, “there’s a helicopter on its way.”

But He Tian appeared distracted. “Uh-huh.”

“I still need you to stay on the line til –” A deafening bang blasted through the headset. “Fuck! What was that? He Tian?” Right ear ringing, Guan Shan checked that the call hadn’t dropped. “He Tian?”

Fuckfuckfuck.

He slammed down the transmitter button on his radio. “Oscar Paris Two-Five-Five to Echo Gold, do you copy? Over.”

“Echo Gold receiving. Over.”

“Shots fired.” Fffuuuckk. “I repeat, shots fired.”

“Ten-four. We’re still in the air. Do you still have comms with the RP? Over.”

Guan Shan worked the muscles in his jaw. “Negative,” he whispered.

Fucking shit.

The helicopter was still three minutes out. And that was assuming they’d find the right location straight away. And a suitable place to land.

Running tremulous hands through his hair, Guan Shan stopped himself from wreaking havoc on the curved desk and the console before him.

So close, he thought. We were so fucking close.

A soft murmur in his ear had Guan Shan stilling. “He Tian?”

Another pained grunt. Oh sweet fuck.

“Sorry,” He Tian said, his voice like smoked honey. “I dropped the phone. I told you I couldn’t fucking drive stick. I think… I think the engine backfired.”

Guan Shan laughed despite himself. Fully aware that the audio was being recorded, and the transcript may be used in evidence, he let out a low growl, laden with chocked emotion. “You owe me another Johnnie Walker, you dickhead.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Glossary ~

PI: Public Intoxication

GTA: Grand-theft auto

EMT: Emergency Medical Technician

RP: Reporting person

ATL: Attempt to locate

PSAP: Public-safety answering point; a call centre dedicated to handling the emergency telephone number(s) for police, firefighting, and ambulance services.

EMS: Emergency Medical Service

12-9: Assault in progress

12-1: Kidnapping

10-4: Understood

ETA: Estimated Time of Arrival

Comms: Communication