34th of Yaris, 2718
WORK WORK WORK| EARLIER than PREFERRED
Dawn had barely broken and Rhys had reluctantly slipped away from his bed and snuck into the Seventen Headquarters like some prowling feline. He knew his Constable was the early sort, and sure enough, the older, rounder man was already at his desk, sorting the unbelievable stack of post-riot paperwork that came across their desks. Nothing about their police work was truly glorious, not the blood and gore and not the clocking filing that took place when the action was over.
The Sergeant was technically on medical leave, and so of course his bespectacled friend and long-time partner had objected to his presence so early and so soon. He'd objected even more when the young Valentin set on his desk a folded, bloodied collection of women's clothing and his handwritten notes from two nights prior,
"What the clock is this, Val?"
"Listen, Pots, I need to know I can trust you with these things until later. These are Charity's—"
"Good Lady, what—"
"—I'll explain. Just listen." Rhys sat heavily on the galdor's desk, a wave of vertigo crawling through his mind and he curled fingers around the edge to keep his balance.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I know. I'm going to Elmonton for at least two weeks, but this is important. I'm going to need you to start some warrant paperwork for me and I need you to keep it quiet." They were both so early that their small section of the Investigative Department was still empty, and as the tall blond began to explain everything to his partner, everything about Charity and Captain D'Arthe, the portly man became more and more agitated and concerned. Rhys conveniently left out anything about his personal discoveries toward the end of the riot, but, honestly, he'd probably choose death than truth about that until he saw his decision through.
"...On that paper is a signed physician's assessment. On that paper there is the Captain's schedule. You're going to take Constable Hours and serve the warrant for taking the passive described in there into protective custody. You're going to do it when he's not home. Charity is afraid the young servant is dead. I can't go myself. I'm already involved as it is, obviously—"
"There's going to be accusations. You know how Damen is. You're in for a shitshow, but you have all of us. And you know you have Haines."
"Thank Alioe for that." The Sergeant groaned, patting Pots' desk before sliding to a stand, "I'm going to finish my formal report and then it'll be like I was never here. Keep me posted through scrystone how things go, but today or tomorrow is a good day to make your move with the warrant. I know that she's a passive and it won't hold well in court, but every little word will matter at this point."
"Gods, where am I going to put her if we find her, Val?"
"Clock it all. I don't know. Somewhere in the Dives. Allen will take her in—that old wick won't say no for a few extra coin thrown in."
"True. Fine. This ... this is insane, you know."
"I know."
"You'll end your career if you're wrong."
"I don't clocking care. I really don't. I'll deal with that if the case meets opposition. I think I've got some pretty clocking compelling evidence and living witnesses. This is wrong. All of it. And, fuck, I'm seeing it through, even if it costs me my snaps, Pots." The tall blond waved a weary hand, exasperated growl fading as he made his way to his office, leaving the door open while Potiphar tucked away the evidence and the note before any of their other Seventen trickled in.
He settled into his chair, reading glasses fumbled for out of his uniform coat pocket, attempting to ignore the tinnitus that sang in his ears and the fading dizziness that still haunted him. It had been a torturous walk here from home, and the young Valentin was determined to make the best use of a single house before going home again. He'd just begun the process of filing his formal request for an investigation when murmur rose in the Investigative Office and Rhys knew all to well the familiar footsteps of Co-Captain Damen D'Arthe.
It was too soon, and Rhys frowned, bolstering his field when his name rang out in the main room outside his small office.
Looking up and setting his quill down, the tall blond folded his hands together on top of his decision on paper and waited to firmly meet the bright blue eyes of the ersehat who came storming and blustering into his personal space as if he belonged in it.
Damen snarled accusations as Rhys summoned all he had to stand without wavering, his rise to attention crisp and as perfect as any expected of a Numbrey graduate. That was, however, where all of his ability to maintain the facade ended. As the words kidnapping and indecency left the older man's lips, the Special Enforcement Sergeant barely held in a smile, the edges of his own sharp, blue eyes wrinkling in sardonic humor, and when the Captain had quite finished, the young Valentin held his gaze and laughed.
It was a chuckle at first, just a little hint of the kind of irony that bubbled up in his narrow chest and escaped in a too loud, too inappropriate, too ridiculous noise,
"I'm sorry, Captain—you what now?"
Rhys wheezed, composing himself and resisting the need to put a hand on his desk, dizzy but enduring out of stubborn refusal to show the man any weakness, the sudden weight of Damen's field a reminder of what the tall blond really was.
He glanced beyond the furious man and realized Potiphar was already on his feet, tense and ready just in case things got out of hand. Tilting his head back toward the angry ersehole, the Sergeant cleared his throat, speaking far too loudly for any private conversation. In fact, Rhys had the balls to speak so loudly all of the Investigative Division probably could hear him from his windowless excuse for an office,
"Charity D'Arthe is in protective custody after arriving on my doorstep beaten and bloodied. I'm sorry, I can't tell you her location at this time because she's being protected from you. I have signed statements that it was by your hand, Captain Sir, that she received her injuries. No one has kidnapped the victim—she barely escaped with her life and we both know it."
Unwavering, he continued,
"I'd like to see your warrant for that search as well as my arrest, Captain. Signed and on Haines' desk. I'd also, just for my entertainment, love to hear where this charge of indecent activity comes from, if you don't mind, Sir. The only indecent activity I know of is how shamefully you've treated your only daughter for the past ... oh, gods, what, decade or more?"