Chapter Text
“Emilyyy! Give me back my laptop!”
“Your laptop? Where's your name on it?” Emily teased as she held the thin device above her head, Devon swinging up his arms in attempt to catch it.
“On the bottom in permanent marker!” Devon protested.
Emily looked up, her curly blonde hair falling off her shoulders.
A pause.
“Oh.” She finally spoke, looking back down at the younger boy, still pouting. She shrugs.
“Well consider it theft, then!”
"Theft!! Thefttt!!" Devon cried, flailing faster as he and Emily ran in circles in the small bedroom.
Armelia was sat against the dresser, watching the two younger campers goof off.
She sighed, taking a glance down at all the pieces of pink paper and glitter on the floor. Bits of glue stuck to her fingers as she brushed snips of crafts off her T-shirt.
“Em, come on," She lifts her head "Devon is supposed to help me make Valentine's Day cards for my class".
Emily rolled her eyes, flopping down onto the air mattress across from the older teen. Devon pouted, turning and sitting back beside Armelia.
“I don't see why I can't help.” Emily spoke, sat up, opened the laptop, and quickly turned it on.
“Because Devon has a whimsy neither of us do.”
“You just don't want me to put Fire Poppers in 'em.”
“Well now that you've said that, that's added to the list.”
“Booooo!”
Armelia rolls her eyes and resumes her work, Devon trying his best to come up with small tag lines for all the little heart-shaped cards.
These were stupid, Armelia knew that. She'd rather be doing something fun, like brooding or hanging out with Bloodalpha Dooley and Mr.McQueen.
“I wonder if Bloodalpha has a valentine.” She mused for conversation, Devon not looking up from his pack of markers. Deluxe, not to brag.
“Absolutely! Everyone likes Mr.Dooley, like my mom and my dod and Emily's dad and Miss Doris and- "
Armelia frowned. “Who would he even take?”
“...Billy’s mom?”
“Ew, no Devon.”
Devon shrugs.
Armelia set down her scissors, pressing her hand to her chin.
Billy’s mom was never in the question, Devon’s parents are going to be each other’s, Emily’s dad is off limits, Mr.McQueen wouldn't-
“I think you guys are worrying about the wrong middle-aged man, honestly.” Emily piped up, clacking away at Devon’s nice new keyboard.
Armelia had to agree with that, nodding her head solemnly in unison with Devon.
“No one would ever want Mr.McQueen to be their Valentine” Devon says. Armelia nods again.
“He must be really lonely on holidays like these,” She mused back, closing her eyes. “Too bad Bloodalpha probably already has a Valentine. If only there was a way we could help him.”
“Funny you say that.” Armelia turned her head toward Emily’s voice, her eyes met with the screen of the laptop.
A pause.
ITEM COLLECTED: BLACKLIGHT MARKER.
—
The muffled, droning noise of the night whispered through the small apartment's window. Soft static murmured from the kitchen radio, the crackled sounds mixing with the stale, coolish air.
Blankets shifted uncomfortably on the bed, black sheets gripped by whitened knuckles. Hot sweat stuck to frigid skin, bile boiling as acid stuck to the back of a throat. It burned. The socket of Francis' skull was burning.
He rolled to his side, rolled back.
He groaned, giving up and sitting up, before falling right back down.
“Gotta be kiddin' me…” He breathed, his eyes drifting close in the brief moment it took the pain to reset.
Then, Francis dragged his legs off the edge of the bed, standing halfway up and catching himself on his nightstand.
His knees pulsed with his acidic heartbeat, the roaring pain behind his eyelids surged into his sinuses.
He pressed a palm to his face, stumbling with his hand to the wall, passing by the window. The rays of the moon cast over him, His scowl worsened at the light, slipping a bit on his footing as he stumbled his way into the washroom.
He swallowed thickly, the shiver of burning cold traveling down his spine. His hand juts forward, forearm steading against the door as a sweat-coated hand clings to the brass knob.
It was a small room. The toilet and shower had to be on the same screen, so they’re hastily put next to each other, with the sink at the far end of the wall mirroring the door. Clammy hands grab the sides of the porcelain washbasin, turn the faucet, and cup together to collect the running water.
Francis dipped his head low and splashed the water across it, his hands leaving a gross brush of warmth against his face as the lukewarm water beaded off. That woke him up a bit more, he supposed. Turning the faucet off, he slicked back the wet hair that got caught in the crossfire, pulling his head back and gazing into the small mirror above the porcelain.
Pink. small sparks of white trickle down underneath Francis’ skin, curling and twisting like vines as they trail up to his eyes, once brown and blue, now blue and a glowing, head-throbbing shade of pink. Try as he might, Francis can never avoid his own reflection. His knuckles went white as he tilted his head closer to the mirror.
“Why- hrk!” A sting lurched through Francis' spine, shuddering his wrists and crashing his forehead into the glass.
It felt as if something was crawling underneath his skin, scraping his bones, splitting his nerves into a blinding white numbness.
He groaned, slapping his wet hand over his glowing eyeball as he stumbles back. This isn’t good. Whatever this is, it’s affecting his body.
He needs to move.
He stumbled back from the sink, tossing himself out of the bathroom. He almost lost his footing, gripping onto the coat rack for support as he tossed on his work coat.
YOU RECEIVED ITEM: TRUSTY COAT
“Dool-” He shook his head, looking over to where Pat was on their bed. He was curled up on his side of their snug mattress, having not the space or the money for a second one. Still passed out, it seems.
McQueen sighed, clearing his throat.
“Uh- Pat, I’m heading to work early! Don’t- hh- don't wait up!” He called, hopping on one leg as he slipped on his shoes despite his hitting nausea.
“Okayyy~” He heard Patrick mumble, barely awake to process McQueen shutting the door behind himself.
McQueen speed walked down the hall of his bleak apartment complex, patting his body down for his things.
He had his notebook, good, he can space out anytime he likes, great! He had his wallet, that’s also good. He didn't exactly need it, but it’s better than leaving it in the apartment with P.D.
Never again.
He didn’t have his keys. He cursed under his breath but shook it off. It’s fine, he’ll just walk to work. Speed walk.
Out the door and down the steps of the entrance to his complex, the detective threw himself into a weak sprint as soon as his shoe hit the sidewalk. It was still dark out, street lamps making him nauseous.
He kept his head down, eyes passing over the window of the laundrette he passed.
He quickly diverted his gaze to the ground as someone looked back at him through the glass, his hand instinctively going to shield his face.
The detective fumbled with his pockets, sifting through wrappers and scraps until he pulled out his notepad again. He thumbed through the small leather booklet.
Nothing written suggested anything. Other than mind flayers. He grimaced, shuddering at the thought as the smell of baked goods and coffee passed his senses. The detective looked up, and his recognition of the cafe was shortened by the voice of a sweet, old woman.
“Oh, honey! Look! A nice, handsome young man!” McQueen felt a tug on his coat sleeve, looking down to see the round face of an old woman, with silvery hair and rosy cheeks.
He felt a heat rise to his face, a look of bewilderment in his eyes. The young man beside the older woman smiled at him, leaning his head on a propped-up hand.
“You’re right, Gamma. Where’s a handsome detective like you off to? Care to stay for a chat over coffee?”
Francis could feel his head get dizzy, completely unprepared for any of this.
“I- um- Well, thank you! I um,” He pulled his sleeve back from the old woman, clasping his hands in front of himself “I appreciate the offer! But- I’m- I'm on business.”
“Oh, of course! We shouldn’t keep such a hardworking man as yourself from his job!” The old woman cooed, picking up and pressing a pastry into Francis’ hand.
YOU RECEIVED ITEM: HEART PASTRY
“Here you are, boy! Don’t let us keep you! We're always here if you need to talk!”
Francis looked down at the pastry in his hand, surmising it was some kind of heart-shaped danish. His mouth attempted to think of something to reply with, but instead, he found himself stumbling away without another word.
—
The danish tasted sweet, with raspberry and cream cheese filling. McQueen readjusted himself, as he pushed open the door to the precinct, the smell of morning coffee hitting his still-throbbing sinuses. He couldn’t focus on that, though, not now.
“Mornin'.” McQueen mumbled, waving a hand to two officers he saw in the stairwell. They both smiled at him, waving back.
“Morning, McQueen!” One chirped, McQueen’s eyes fluttering a bit in surprise. Once again, something was pushed into his hands, and the second officer placed a coffee into his hands.
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“Here, you’ll need this to start your day! We care about you, y'know.”
“I- Um.” He looked down, unsure what to do with the gesture. He takes a sip as the two stare at him. Was this…the good almond creamer? He never gets this! He takes another sip, the caffeine buzzing through his tired skin.
“Mm- Uh- Thanks! I think- I-” He took a step up, smiling as best he could to the two officers.
“You- uh- have a good morning!” He rushed the words as he tumbled away, a nervous light blooming in his chest. God, is this what early mornings are like? Sweet old nannies, Nice officers, almond creamer? Maybe he should walk to work more often.
The wallpaper around his office door still peeled from a year prior, and the doorknob was still busted. He rattled the knob, pushing his shoulder against the door, cracking it open.
Papers were everywhere, scattered haphazardly onto the floor. A scowl found itself on Francis' lips as a familiarly unwelcome scent burned his nose.
The cheap, chemical smell of artificial tobacco, mixed with some kind of wood.
Cheap men's cologne.
Francis felt his nose wrinkle, the grip on his coffee cup squeezing ever so slightly as he turns towards his desk. Laying across the cherry-polished mahogany, head propped up on one hand, relaxed McKing. Even mentally McQueen refused to consider his rank.
“Kingsley, why are you on my desk.”
“What? Don’t like all this?” McKing smirked, gesturing to his too-muscular body. McQueen's face scrunched further. What?
The taller man slipped off the desk, fluttering more papers to the floor as he rounded over to the detective.
“Anywayyyy," McQueen felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder, the weight uncomfortably warm as yet another item was forced into his hands, forcing him to scramble to put down his coffee.
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“I got you a little somethin' somethin’.” McKing grinned, his too-white teeth glaring down at McQueen from under his too-groomed stache. The detective could only squint his eyes. Once again, what?
“I don’t-”
“Open it, Mcstink.” He scowls.
Ah.
Okay.
There it is.
He rolled his eyes and took the wrapped item, looking at how hastily the paper looked thrown together. Why even bother wrapping it? Isn't this paper from Mcnugget’s retirement party?
He tore the wrapping off, letting it fall to the ground as he stared. In his hands, was a photograph. Framed.
Staring back at him was a shirtless photo of McKing, with a signature written in poor cursive. It looks to be a duplicate from the ones in the evidence locker.
“...McKing, this is-”
“The best. I know, babe. You don’t have to say it.” McQueen felt his eye twitch.
He took a step back, his shoe squeaking against the floorboards. McKing took a step forward, a smirk Francis could only think of as disgusting spreading across his face.
This wasn’t normal.
Maybe none of this was normal.
Was it-
He felt his ribs burn, his heart rate shrieking inside his chest as if someone was squeezing it physically. Francis hissed as he turned on his heel, shoving McKing’s hand off of his shoulder.
“I- I think I left something in my-” He turned his head and was immediately met with a face full of Dallas. She stared up at him, smiling brightly with a slight pink flicker in her eyes, his forehead pulsating with pain.
“Hey, Queenie! You big, emotionally strong man, you!”
“Don't call me that-”
“You got it!” She held her hands behind her back “Well, detective! I hope you don’t mind our sudden eagerness-”
“Our?”
“- But the rest of the precinct and I thought we could y'know…talk?” Francis’ heart dropped into his stomach. He glimpsed past her, seeing the rest of the force backed up behind her, piled closely to the point he knew there wasn’t an exit.
Not that direction at least.
“I- um-” He clenched his fist, acting fast. He swiveled his body, swinging his body back around and throwing his arm out, pushing straight into McKing’s stomach. The taller man made a noise, falling in a heap. Run.
He darted to his window, shoving it open and practically throwing himself out onto the fire escape, he could hear a choir of sweet voices calling from behind him.
“Where are you going, Detective?”
"He knows we're always here for him, right?"
"We just want to get to know the real you, Queen! Please don't run!!"
He darts down the stairs of the fire escape, running more than he has since he failed to help Raxa. His ribs were screaming, feeling as if bugs were burrowing in his brain, feeding off his fear.
He slides down the ladder at the end of the stairs and takes off at a harsh pace down the street, which almost looks deserted. Forgotten cars, overgrown vines crawling up buildings with blossoming roses, and fireflies swirling around in darkened corners. Everywhere he looked it was like a romance dystopia.
He might vomit.
He darted left and right, looking for anywhere that wasn’t working against him. Finally, he gazed up and almost tripped at the revolting sight in the sky.
The moon.
It glared back at him with malice, its usual circular shape now bent into the shape of a beating heart, the throbbing inside Francis’ skull only getting worse the longer he looked. His eye burned, aflame with the same pinkish hues the streams of moonlight spotlighted down onto his body, mocking him.
Someone grabbed the back of his throat.