Chapter Eighteen: The Team

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Alina hunched over her desk, the yellow light of the single lamp outcompeted by the bright white glare of her computer screen. Lines of code filled the screen from top to bottom, and she cursed to herself as she triple-checked her script.

She leaned back in her desk chair, absentmindedly rubbing her arms and feeling the stiff hairs that stood at attention all down her skin. She shivered despite the comfortable temperature of the room.

She often worked like this, stuck to her computer late at night in an otherwise dark room, the glow of her computer directing her attention from the soft comfort of the dim lighting. She'd enjoyed it, even, after being subjected to the harsh artificial fluorescent lights of the office all day.

Recently, however, the darkness of her home had changed. Where once it was unobtrusive, both calm and calming, now it was...weighty. The air felt heavy with something she couldn't quite trace, but that left her skin crawling whenever she noticed it.

She arched her back over the arm of the chair in an exaggerated stretch, trying to loosen muscles that had long since petrified from her consistently terrible posture. Her head fell back and she saw the strip of light creeping under her bedroom door and was reminded of the new boarder who had joined them just recently.

Alina wondered if the new girl felt it too, the weight to the air. Her new neighbor was the quiet, spacey type that just seemed like she'd be into the occult or something similar. Alina's only impression of her so far was from the time she had walked in on Gerta teaching her how to fry an egg, when the girl was wearing a flowery apron and a serious expression that didn't match the utter ineptitude as she broke the forth egg in a row against the sizzling pan.

Alina smiled wryly at the image, remembering her own long history in the kitchen. She'd been cooking since she could stand, it felt like, and watching an ostensibly adult human fumble so spectacularly was endearing in a pathetic way.

On her desk, her phone flashed with a message and she caught sight of the time. 3 am. Shit. She had promised Gerta she'd take the new girl around town tomorrow, and she'd been planning to get some sleep beforehand. She ran a hand down her face, felt the slickness of day-old make-up and grease, and decided to call it a night.

She tiptoed to the door (to avoid waking up Hank, whose bedroom was stacked a floor below hers) and crept out to the hall to the shared bathroom. In minutes she was ready for bed, when she noticed that the door across the hall was slightly ajar, with light spilling out.

Was the new girl still awake too? Alina wondered, turning on her heels in her thick socks to look at the far door. The light was still on. Should she check?

What was her name again? Alina bit her lip as she struggled to remember, wanting to warn the girl that she was approaching but drawing an it's-three-a.m.-and-I've-been-scripting-all-night kind of blank.

She took a few cautious steps forward on the hardwood, suppressing another shiver despite the bright overhead light of the hallway. Shadows danced in the corners of her eyes—simple optical illusions, another fun perk to late-night, long-term computer use.

She knew that, but all the same was having a harder and harder time picking her feet up as she drew near the end of the short hall. She wasn't usually the superstitious type, but considered that maybe it was time to take Gerta up on her offer to get the house "aired out" with some sage.

Something was in the air, for sure.

Alina reached the door, her left hand tentatively moving to knock before she caught herself. What if the girl had just fallen asleep with the light on? After what she'd seen so far, Alina wouldn't put it past her. She deliberated for a second, before dropping her arm and cocking her head slightly to the side to peer into the slim opening left between the door and the frame.

A pair of eyes met hers from inches away, and Alina jerked back, hand instinctively flying up to protect her throat as she wheeled backwards.

She slid a bit in her slippery socks, trying to right herself as she finally remembered – "Ah, Lyly! You scared me," she said in a loud whisper, followed by a short laugh.

Lyly pushed the door open slightly further, watching Alina with those curious eyes.

"Were—uh, were you on your way to the bathroom?" Alina asked in the same hushed tone, the hand at her throat buzzing with the rhythm of her surging heart rate. She dropped her hand to squeeze her opposite shoulder, lips twisting in a sour smile as she realized that she was making herself small like her therapist had challenged her to stop doing.

Lyly gave a slow nod, but didn't make any move to leave the room or head the direction of the bathroom. She just continued standing there and watching, barely blinking.

"Oh, well ok. I just wanted to see if you were still awake. I'll...see you tomorrow, I guess?" Alina said, backing away toward the safety of her own room, Lyly silently watching her every step of the way. She gave an awkward little wave at the threshold before reaching back to grab the edge of the door to quickly shut it. 

It wasn't until she lost her sightline to Lyly that Alina let out an explosive breath.

What the hell was that? she wondered, trying to laugh it off but no longer feeling like she could sleep. She returned to her desk chair, bringing her feet up like she did whenever she was watching a scary movie, as if she needed to see every part of herself to know that she was ok.

-Part II-

The agent listened with an unreadable expression as Officer Takeda explained the circumstances of the case from across the narrow table. He caught and held the officer's eyes, maintaining his gaze the entire time the other man spoke. 

He was a tall African-American man who had arrived at the Brighton police station barely two weeks after the accident, and who had quickly established his jurisdiction over the proceedings. 

The agent leaned forward on his forearms, and the sheer amount of eye contact was enough to force even the practiced Takeda to shift his gaze away to break the tension.

The agent glanced over to the matched pair of suits who had come along with him, and who were now posted on either side of the door of the informal meeting room. Compared to them, he was in less formal wear, casual in a deep blue button down with folded cuffs and pressed slacks. 

But there was no mistaking who was in charge.

The officer finished his report with the escapade at the overpass, feeling more and more that he was telling a tall tale as he heard himself speak, but knowing that every detail was fact. The agent never betrayed any hint of disbelief, listening passively even as Takeda explained the unexpected aid he had received from a pair of individuals who—although he couldn't confirm it--nagged at his memory, in shape and dynamic simply too similar to the pair he had met that night almost five months ago to ignore. 

A taut silence fell as Takeda ended his report and took a drink of the stale, cold coffee from the styrofoam cup he'd been given. 

"So where is the..." the agent checked his notes, "Thompson family now?" he asked, his tone completely neutral. Neutral enough to make Takeda's head ache from trying to figure out where he stood with this man. 

"The mother is still in the hospital down at Brighton Municipal, and the family is being kept nearby at the precinct office since we've got good cause to believe they are being actively sought out by...whomever we're dealing with," Takeda explained with a sigh.

"And the paramedics? Have they made contact since the crash?"

"No sir, they haven't. I wouldn't be much surprised if they were laying low right now, but..." Takeda trailed off, grimacing both at his thoughts and the aftertaste of the old coffee.

"But?" the agent prompted, handing a note to one of the suits--a tall Caucasian woman who read it and left the room--before turning his full attention back to Takeda.

The officer could feel the intensity of the interest behind that gaze and his stomach sank. "Well, it's just a hunch. Nothing worth bothering you about."

"Officer Takeda," the agent began, this time without having to refer to his notes, "it seems to me that your hunches have more to them than..." this time he did look down to the pages before him, "chronic gastritis, was it?"

The hardened skin of Takeda's face chilled as the blood drained down. By reflex he clenched the hand that had been absentmindedly rubbing the now-familiar ache in his midsection. 

"Now, wait just a minute. How did you get a hold of—"

"We have access to many things, Officer. It was just a comment about your health. Please, continue with your hunch," the agent cut in smoothly, folding his hands on the table between them.

Takeda's lips thinned into a tight line. "It seems to me that the paramedics are in a bit of a tight spot right now. The one seemed to think that the group who attacked us was after me, and he talked to the attackers familiarly. It may be some internal dispute that they're on the bad end of," he said gruffly.

The agent leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He nodded once to himself. "Officer Takeda, I'd like for you to join my team while we're here in town. You've got a good head on your shoulders, and you're the only one who's actually seen the perpetrators. What do you say about being my local liaison for this case?"

Takeda raised both eyebrows, hands still clenched on his lap. "Does that mean you'll be taking it over from afar?"

"Here, there, this case is much bigger than just this one incident. But this is the first decent lead we've had in years, and I'm willing to trust it to you when I can't be here personally."

Takeda, too, sat back in his chair, looking over at the suited man still posted by the door before turning his attention back to the man across the table. 

"Why do you want me? Captain Ortez is much more qualified--"

"I made my position clear. You don't seem the type to mishear. So what is your real concern?"

Takeda took a quick breath, recalculating his approach. "Would I get to stay involved in the protection of the family?" he asked finally.

"Rather, I would require it," the agent replied in equal measure.

Takeda pressed his lips together and looked down at those old hands of his, crossed across his lap. He could still feel the cool metal edge of the ambulance door he'd let close. 

"Ok. You can count on me. But if I'm in, I'm in. I want to see this thing through," he said, voice low but unwavering. 

"Excellent." A hand appeared in Takeda's vision, extended out for a shake. "I do hope you will forgive the opening power play. It's part of the job. The name's Randal. Randal O'Lane."

"O'Lane?" Takeda said as he took the hand and shook it. "I half expected it to be Smith. You know, as 'part of the job.'" 

He looked up into the bright white teeth of Randal's smile.

"That'd be the suits," O'Lane said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to the man by the door. The agent by the door shot Randal a sour look as the two men shared a dry laugh.

"Well, Officer Takeda. Welcome to the team." 

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