The rapid clicking, tapping, and coughing of the workers at their numerous keypads and electronic devices, the whoosh-beep of the fax machine, and the tense chatter gave the room a 'charged' atmosphere. The whirring of computer vents, the hot hum of machines that had been worked all day, and possibly all night filled his ears. The slightests metal tinny of a television somewhere made his grayish blue eyes stare around for the source. He found it, and caught the last words of the newscaster before they moved to commercial break through the hasty pounding of a secretary keyboard. "...It appears there are little to no leads on this situation. And witnesses are still being interrogated. We'll be right back after commerical break!" The jovial, heavily 'sound-systemed' voice faded, and Simon listened to the choppy brogue of Lucky the leprechaun and the usual cereal jingle before moving. His steps were silent on the stiff, hard rug; dress shoes moving softly, elegant trousers making a soft rasping noise as they rubbed up against each other. Simon had a silent presence. He did not make people stop and look, he did not give people the impression they were being watched. It was as if he did not exist. Scanning the room as quietly as ever, he noticed the fray. People kept moving back and forth from their desks and the fax machine, frantically working on whatever story they had to get finished. The cramped, smelly cubicles made him feel slightly nauseated. A coffee-room stretched before him, and the accumulated reek of old food reached his thin, well-tuned nostrils. His sharply trimmed hair glinted a little with good-health in the sputtering, neon-like blast of light that came from the flourescent lamps above.

He stood shorter than some, but taller than most. The continued movement of his long legs turned the corner, and the merciful blast of clean air on his back, made him turn a little. Head moving ever so slightly, thin face roving over the milling crowd, Simon caught the eye of a rather small, but very pretty young woman, younger than him by the looks of it, but not by much. He looked away slowly, as if disinterested. The image of those high heels, stressed expression and rather harassed, but focused look she gave him had stuck. She had been looking for something. Or someone. Slowly, but with great agility, he slid away from her. She was not who he was looking for, and he was not who she was waiting to see. His practiced eyes chanced another glance behind him, and rewarded him with another glance of her rifling through some scarlet folders. Well, at least she was mildly organized. A silent, inward laugh shook his shoulders for but a moment, as he thought of his glass fronted refrigerator, his carefully labeled, sterilized glass containers of food, and the way his newspaper clippings never seemed to move or gather dust, despite the fact he looked through them every night back at his apartment. His pre-occupied self-preening had not kept him from walking forward, in his cat-like manner, but it had averted his eyes from ahead of him, where they should have been. A man, seemed to be the head of this place, popped up in front of him. Simon did all he could to stop gracefully, and without a single emotion on his face, but a slightly irritated curl enhanced his lip. It vanished soon enough, but an observant person would have noticed it was because the man had made Simon step unevenly, and he had been counting carpet squares.

Perhaps it was because he was extra cautious, but he thought he felt something flutter behind him, and almost a pressure on his personal security bubble. The petite lady had followed him, had she? Well, he only hoped she restricted her 'dogging' to the office, because he didn't appreciate vultures. The man plastered a sickly grin on his face, and Simon felt a twinge of something in his gut. ' Move, now! ' He slid to the side a little, feeling it would be rude to keep his back to the girl. Not looking at her for more than a moment's confirmation of her identity, he stared evenly at the boss, and waited. Ah yes...He recognized this man. So silly of him to deliberately put him out of his finely organized mind. It was the 'Phil' man. Boss here, and the one who had spoken to him of a new partner. He hoped that whoever this new partner was, he had least had enough of a brain to keep up. Phil said something that sounded like 'well', and then continued. "I’m glad that you two have met up," What, was this some kind of date he had hoped to set them on? It seemed silly the way he said it. But he went on quickly. "I called you both in early for a reason today. I have spoke with both of you individually and I would like to introduce you to each other. Tyler, this is Simon Mackintosh… and Simon this is Tyler Melae." Simon gave an ironic little nodding bow, and they shook hands. Her grip was pleasantly firm, and his shake was strong, but not vigorous. Naturally, the man didn't believe in the silly 'dismemberment' of one's arm during a first meeting. He didn't miss the slightly odd, convulsive clutching of her hands over her chest. It was as if she was afraid he would 'grope' her during their introduction. He allowed himself an easy, slightly careless smile.

Vague, and slightly cold. It would not put her at ease, but it would banish her girlish fantasy that he might jump her in the loos. The Phill type seemed to enjoy holding them over the edge. As if he wanted them to say 'what?' as he stared at them. The inevitable 'well' sentence never came, instead, he shocked them with a 'You' beginning, HA. HA. HA. "You will be each other’s partners until this whole homicide mess is over." His ears had not been working properly, perhaps. He had forgotten to clean them this morning, after his usual cup of coffee, and round of talking to his parrot about quadraic equations, and the likelihood that his new partner would be gay. Alfred had said he rather thought it he wouldn't be, Simon disagreed. They had had a laugh about it, until Simon got the call, and had to abandon his routine for a speedy drive to this place. Which had greeted him with the tantalizing smell of bad coffee and man-sweat. His thin lips curled into a smile, and his soft little laugh crept out of his straight-white-toothed mouth. It sent visible shiver down Phil's back, and he attempted to return it. Melae dashed back to her cubicle, and Simon watched her interestedly. Apparently her fax machine had belched out another piece of paper. The man said something about 'leaving them to get to know each other', Mackintosh nodded slowly, and padded over to her workspace. He stood rather rigidly there, waiting for her to say something. He was not going to 'well' or 'so...wut' her into a laugh. Humor was not something he felt particularly inclined to burst with at the moment. Settling for leaning against the cubicle entrance, those piercing gray-blue eyes watched her movement. Sure, she was pretty enough, but he thought it was something of a joke to assign her to him. She was fresh out of university, probably. A bare intern. Whereas he...Was nearly 25 years old, Harvard graduate with honors, and experience on the road. What where they playing at?!

One thin, dexterous finger followed the line of his jaw slowly, the man whom was responsible for the movement, lost in thought. His eyes did not achieve the glazed, soft look of some when they ae day-dreaming. His profile was as sharp as ever, and he felt the blood running away from his shoulder acutely. The smell of new paper, hot out of the fax or copier reached his sinus'. It made his mouth feel dry, but it would seem like retreating if he went to get a glass of it. His lip nearly curled as he thought of the state this place's undistilled water must be in though, and instantly felt more strongly that he should stay put. He watched her straighten her desk, and felt a little packet of pleasure settle in his gut. Good. At least she knew how to organize things properly. Although, he frowned a little in thought, he could've done a better job with those folders. She should have more file cabinets, and a box of cleaning matterial. Freeing his arm unconcernedly from the leaning position, he examining his finely bitten fingernails, chewed nastily short. Most nail-chewers fingers are clammy, warm and slightly curled in appearance. His were not. They were smooth, unwrinkled and warm. The panels on the ceiling were distracting him. The pulled at his eyes, and he found the need to count them. 'Waste of time...' Hissed one voice. 'Just do it...Just count them! Look at all the cracks! Ugh..They should plaster it all smooth!' His eyes counted the cracks obsessively, darted from one side of the ceiling to the next. There was dust on the cubicle wall, and he had to restrain himself from grabbing his pocket duster and wiping it off. His eyes watered a little from the counting, and he stopped. 284 cracks, so far, his mind told him, still in a state of over-drive. The voices in his head had started their fighting again. He couldn't turn them off. Simon craved solitude. This cramped office was making him feel sick, but he didn't move. 'Make light conversation!' Screamed one voice, but his throat seemed to have closed. Even a skeptical cough would not emerge from his suddenly dry lips. Who would have thought that the composed young man, now standing tall in the cubicle entrance, was thinking fast of what to do next. A high-pitched laugh shattered his frenzied thinking, and for the first time since he arrived, he welcomed the crack of his reverie. A blonde wearing a hankertop under her white blouse, and large backside with breasts to match was the source of the noise. Phil was laughing along with her, and Simon turned a little to watch the scene. She was laughing sicophantically at something he had said, and the stiffly standing man actually managed a real grin at the antics. He had forgotten all the times that laugh had come his way. The blond batted her eyelashes at Phil, Phil--the great ugly, weak-chinned bald-ass he was--gave a hearty chuckle and reviewed some memos, looking very pleased with himself. Turning his head back to Tyler, the last trace's of Simon's smile evaporated as she said something. Acid dripped from the single word she uttered, and he hitched a different smile, one to match her tart tone, onto his face. "Partner..." She said, as if they were in some wild-west office saloon scene. 'Partner...what, lady?' He thought, nastily, but did not let it sully his complexion. He gave an ironic little half bow, a mocking expression on his face. "I suppose we are, then..." He replied. It was the first time he had spoken to her. His voice was pleasant, deep, but there was something about it that might have made her hairs stand up. Something cold, icy, unwelcoming. It was a stiff, strong and prickly as his muscles, without the warm blood and softness. She spoke again, and all her surprising dislike came through it. Simon wasn't quite sure what he'd done to offend her, but he thought speculatively, that the fun had only just begun. "Homicide, ever dealt with it?" She taunted. For a girl so innocent, so pretty, she did seem surprisingly fierce. Well, it was a cause for respect, he supposed. Just as long as she didn't try and lead him around by the balls. "Oh, a few times, I think. Shan't bore you with the stories though." He replied, his voice growing more pleasant, as hers grew slightly more snappish, but they matched each other in briskness. He ignored her first comment. That was an obvious statement, and to it, he raised a thick eyebrow and simpered disdainfully. Oh, he didn't think so wonderfully of himself as one might think. In fact, he didn't think very much of himself at all. He just didn't think very much of anybody else, either. And that seemed to be the trouble. But, as they had to work together, he would wait until they hit the streets for the mockery and nastiness to begin. He got the feeling that this was just the beginning of everything, and he wasn't going to spoil the fun this early on. "What evidence has been picked up so far? Are there any good leads we have?" He was careful to use the word 'we', as he thought it was nicer than 'you got, to give to me, because I'm the detective, I get to solve the problem, you just have to write it down and be good to nasty Simon'. "Are we going to check it out, or are we crowd control?" The man's tones were lazy now, as if this was routine, and he knew he would never be on the frontline. His eyes, however, told otherwise. The thrill of the chase made his nostrils flare, his eyebrows had contracted slightly in concentration, and the light of ambition had flared in the back of his mind. This was how it was supposed to be. Going after the wrong-doers and showing them what happened to those who preyed on the weak. They would be in fear now. All of them. Every single one. They would feel how it felt to be helpless, tied up by his own uniform, gagged and kicked. Beaten, and there was nobody there to hear him scream...Was it malice that crossed his face, suddenly? Why yes...I think it was. One of the voices hissed in his ear 'See...? I told you you would get revenge. You'll show them, oh yes...You'll show them how to scream real loud...' Of course, it wasn't personal. But it was. It was him, Simon, as justice, and the homicide as evil. And we always know who wins...always.

|ooc| : Sorry for the shortness, I don't know what to do with him in a good mood yet xD. ||

Already she seemed to dislike him. 'Smooth, man, realll slick. Maybe if you were a little bit nicer, she'd be a more bearable partner.' The other side of his mind battled back fiercely. 'Don't want. Don't want a bearable partner. I want to get the job done, and I want to not have to worry about her messing it up for me.' But it was not to be the end... 'Oh yeah, ever thought of this though: Maybe she's better than you. Eh? Whatcha make of that?' And yet, the second volley is always weaker...'Don't be an idiot. I'm not a sexist, and I know that women are certainly as clever, if not more than men, but they're not capable of the amount of respect males show.' So the battle goes on...'Oh..Excuse me! Why don't you go crawl off and get laid by a guy, then? You miserable asswipe. Pfft...' It was a line they quoted at him from his old school days. It was when he came alone to the Prom, and they asked him why. Instead of the 'Didn't have the guts to ask Patricia Stinson out' which would have been the truth, he lied and said that girls made him feel dirty, and that he'd sooner chew his leg off than dance with one. They had laughed at him, and thrown the school homosexual at him. It hurt, to be reminded of the humiliation he had been forced to endure. The neglect his parents had shown him. He had begged to be let out of the school, but all his letters had gotten 'lost in the mail, I expect, dearie'. 'I can't believe you mentioned that, now, of all times...' Said the weaker of the two voices in his head. Simon was Simon, he had never been anybody else. But...If he had been, he would have remarked at how very 'real' the voices in his head had been, as opposed to the vague, partially-imagined whisperings of other people. He heard them as clearly as if they were people, talking loudly in his ear. Oh, he had control over them, and he could shut them off if he wanted, but it was tiresome to have to barge in on the debate room and shout at them to 'let the topic rest'. It must've looked odd, although he didn't realize it, how he reached his right hand up to his ear and pressed it against his skull. He absently grimaced, as Tyler wiggled her legs on the chair, and shook his head a little, barely noticeable. A headache had begun to throb in the back of his brain, and he let muffled a groan that escaped between his pale lips. It might inspire pity, as his face crinkled a little in pain, but then again, Ty might mirror the disgust he felt at showing weakness. Smoothing his facial expression out, he coughed a little, and felt some color creep up his neck, making him sweat a little under his thick, black suit and starched collar.

The man didn't think of the blood and oozing entrails as 'gore', really. It was just what had once been a human, and there was nothing disgusting about it. He had served in a morgue for a while, between cases, and they had been surprised as how emotionless he seemed to be about redressing the corpses and putting them in their own boxes. The cold, clammy feeling of their skin had little to no effect on him. Blind, staring eyes of endless hues did not move him. There wasn't anything 'gross' to be said of dead bodies. They were but shells of some of the most interesting creatures Simon had studied, and reluctance to lay them to rest only meant allowing the stink of them to permeate your nostrils a little longer. The smell did get to him, and his shaved nostrils [he despises excess hair in his handkerchief, and shaves his nose hairs regularly], but he learned to deal with it. He would read something the day before, and think over it as he examined the body for any evidence that would help him with his next case. Even if he wasn't assigned to the job, he made it his business to help with it. Anonymous tip-offs were his 'thing', actually. A small smudge of Peruvian clay-dirt was made with latex gloves on the card with was sterilized and contained an ornate 'S' on it. Even his previous employers had remarked that he would make a very dangerous serial killer, because of his untraceable nature. But, fortunately, his obsessive compulsive nature did not let this go to his head. If he was proud and arrogant as most thought, he would break his own rules. He would rebel against his instinctive voices to count tiles, clean, pluck his nose hairs, feed the parrot only fruits and vegetables, not allow cats or dogs near him, cough in rhythm to his hand drumming, sniff his thumbnail as he drove, and get irritated at the fact that not effing person seemed to be able to keep their sunglasses as clean as he could. He got angry at the fact that he had a good car. He hated it. And yet he feared getting rid of it, in case the person who bought it from his ripped him off. Simon hated being different from others, like the teenager-ish man [at times, not always]he was, but he was afraid to change. He could get fired, he could get depressed. He was, very much so mentally, paralyzed. Paralyzed with doubt, fear, and the convulsive need to impress people. He was no more than a child who had not earned his fathers approving gaze. No more, in short, than a plant that has been kept in the basement, with not water and in a pot that is too small. The sun is there, streaming from the window, but there also are the plants, like him, that leap for it, and smashed their protective planters. If he jumped, he could break. But who is to say he could not find a crack in the stone floor to shove his roots in. He could have a new life, if only...if only.

He jumped a little as she answered his words, and for a moment, Simon had that vague look on his face. The tall man looked, for all the world, like a boy caught staring out the window during class. Or not listening to his mother's words. But he knew that it would not endear him to this lady. Blinking rapidly, and shifting his gaze away from the panes of glass he had been counting, while thinking all that comes before this, he thought of what she said. He was a witty man, but he liked to look over his options before blurting out something stupid. If he was going to insult the fact that he had taken a bluff seriously, he wanted a damn good word to do it. But then...We go back to his original thought. She didn't seem to like him much. He would be nice. It was just like him. He smiled apologetically, it as genuine. Rubbing the back of his velvety head, he returned her toothless smile with a faint flash of white from his own mouth and gave a little shrug that said 'I got carried away'. Goodness me, what have we here? The lips stretched on his even teeth, and a tiny hole was revealed under the bottom one. He usually kept them pursed in displeasure or superiority, but as his action ended, there could be no mistake--as long as you were looking properly. And as the lady seemed keen on making eye-contact, she must've. Truth be told, his friends had dared him to get a lip ring two years ago, and he could not stand down. His condition prevented it. They were cruel, maybe, but he had been asking for it, with his white-collar look and waspish attitude. Of course, he never wore anything in it, but it might chip away a little at his professional atmosphere. A very, very little. 'It's a scar I've had since childhood. Friendly prank from a cousin, involving a fish hook and Lake Sunapee.' Then he gave his little corporate America laugh and warned them not to mention it again with his icy eyes. In fact, they were quite different from Tyler's, now he came to look at them. His piercing gave met her stern one, and he swore he saw her soften a little. Although his previous words might have had something to do with it. He was losing track of the conversation, and willed himself to pay attention. Expensive, well-oiled back shoes twisting a little, Simon shifted his position, and cleared his throat. Now he was listening. "Excellent!" He said, a note of satisfaction in his slightly more business like tone. "I hate it when the brutes leave easy signs behind. Takes all the fun out of it, wouldn't you say?"

He fully expected her to scowl, and give a big fat 'No', but he had to wait and see. His smile returned, and he added "Just kidding with you, Ms. Melae." There was a touch of mockery in his voice, but not in an offensive way. He was behaving himself, and just thought he'd loosen things up a little by being more familiar. Although he had been careful to use her surname, rather than he first name. Normally, he didn't approve of women having mens names, but he had not Tyler's to confuse her with, and he thought it suited her. As he thought the name, his well-filed mind brought out an image of the said lady, with those curious eyes, small frame and easy waltz of a walk. But, try as he might, he couldn't take the coldness out of those eyes. Couldn't remove the look of asperity from her jaw. Eventually she would give him a nice smile, and he would return it, playing for time as he stole it from her and put it away for safe keeping. He always did that. He was a detective, and had a very good memory of facial features and names. He could guess at names and nicknames, too. And he could read expression very well. But she didn't seem to want to hide her expressions from him. It was obvious that she had softened only slightly from her flighty little show of hot-headedness. "Let me guess...You are one of the lucky few who gets to go through?" 'Do I sense a pride in this lady...? Hah, as if she thinks you don't have the status to get through the police and crowds. Trusted government agent for 4 years, and with six generations of detectives and officials behind you? I daresay she hasn't that much to speak of.' The voice in his head was scathing, but Simon was not inclined to believe that being a good detective had anything to do with bloodlines Although, it helped boost up his importance with the locals, and he had every authority to barge into the scene. "So...If there's no evidence, and we have the right to investigate this..'Mess', as he calls it, when are we setting off?" He didn't see the point in beating about the bush. Simon wanted to have the tar under his Italian shoes, wanted the winds of investigation to sweep through his hair, and wanted to be able to push the crowd aside and do what he did best. "Let's rock this shit." He said softly to himself, with a strange sort of smile. Stretching his tired arms, and grinning normally again, he closed his eyes a little as his arms and back cracked simultaneously. Finally, something worth digging for.