Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 3 - The Witness [SWAN]

AUTHOR GAMES: EMPTY NIGHT - TASK THREE: THE WITNESS - GENE SWAN

Dear Miss Swan,

Where has your humanity gone?

Yours truly, The Mirror

Gene sits at the window seat of a Chicago city bus, staring out at the empty night ahead of them but seeing mostly her own reflection in the glass, illuminated by the pale fluorescents lit up at the roof of the vehicle. Her cheeks are sharper in the glass, the hollows of her eyes deeper. A dark hair has fallen out of her bun. It annoys her every time it tickles her eyebrow. She swipes it back behind her ear and huffs. The reflection annoys her, too. A pit swells inside and nausea begins to tickle like the hair. I want the lights off, damn it.

But, this time, she's decided not to play God, so she simply turns the other cheek, surveys the much less interesting interior. The other members of the investigative team are there, too, each faction just as silent as the last, save for the occasional whisper between two of the same. Gene doesn't the gift of such company; Liam, the other wraith, chose to sit at the back of the bus, and now she's sat next to some other Other irrelevant to their cause, simply along for the ride. She watches him through her peripheral, and it's hard not to, what with the constant shaking of his leg. Intermittently, he whips out his wallet and takes his finger to it, counting out the bills inside like the dollar amount might change the next time he looks. It's incessant and she wonders what sort of crime he's committed to be so nervous about all the investigators around him and she even considers tapping him on the shoulder and asking but before she can the bus yanks itself to a stop and that's that.

Before the doors've even opened, the man beside her is up and at 'em, shooting down the aisle and bumping a hand impatiently against the exit until he's able to squeeze through and into the street. Gene turns to the window again, watching his route, and he dashes into a bland brick building, identified only by letters in neon pink spelling out "Imariel's" in curled font. A man checks him at the door. Then he's in and Gene sees of him no more.

Definitely some illegal shit going on.

And there's no better time than now to get a slice of all that. Gene stands, smoothes her skirt out, and steps in front of someone else attempting to get out of their seat. On the way to the front, she catches sight of Brandy and her foot in the aisle. Without looking, Gene jams the heel of her shoe against Brandy's toes, and then she flinches back, a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I am so sorry about that, Miss Alva! I didn't see your foot there! Are you okay?"

Brandy must say something but it goes in one ear and out the other as Gene struts away and delicately hops off the bus into the downtown chill of Chicago's only-somewhat polluted air.

She takes the lead and feels the pink glow on her face as she nears the entrance. Her shoulders are broad, strong, chin high, and when she comes to the man at the door, she displays a little badge of authorization that they'd been given before entering the crime scene earlier that night. "We need to speak to some witnesses we believe might be inside this club."

The man spits to the side. "We aren't too fond of cops rolling up in here."

Gene reddens, but then,

"Relax," a sly voice says, and there Brandy is, arms crossed to mimic the man before them. Gene narrows her eyes at the woman. "This team is with me. We won't be here but a few minutes. Won't even notice we're here." Brandy then winks at the man and begins to walk into the building without consent, and Gene follows, nose held sharply in the air for him to see. Once they're out of his sight and in the threshold, a deep pressure settles on her foot and she yelps out.