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“Oh, Ronnie!” Morgan croons from the floor. They’ve sprawled out on the carpet, half drunk and begging for attention. Roan has half a mind to step on xem. “I think I’ve fallen for you.”
Never mind, she thinks, and kicks them in the ribs as hard as she can. The resulting wail is the most satisfying thing she’s heard all day.
“Get up, arsehole. We’ve got a job to do.” Morgan whines in protest and cradles their oh-so-precious ribs. Xe roll over, looking up at Roan with their best attempt at puppy dog eyes. The effect is ruined by the swirling blue pools of nothingness that meet her gaze, though.
“But Roooan,” they cry, “wh’ if I don’t wanna? Can’t you do it?” She scowls. Of course, Morgan has to pull this today of all days. Lord fuckin’ knows she can’t catch a break when they’re like this. Never mind that she spent all of last week pain-fucking-stakingly piecing her body back together after a harrowing explosion. But no! Now she has to take responsibility for this stupid cunt!
“Does it look like I care, mate?” she hisses, “You’re either gonna sober up and work with me, or I’m dragging you out of here and making ya Jackass’s responsibility tonight.”
“That’s okay, Jackie loves m—” Roans cuts xem off, leaning down and grabbing them by the collar. She drags xem up to eye level to give them a once-over. They look marginally more sober. She guesses it’s from her forcibly taking the bottle from them earlier. Morgan stares at her, eyes wide and hungry.
“Up. Now.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. Morgan groans but listens regardless. Roan lets go of xer collar as xe stand. She watches as they dust off their leggings with a disappointed frown. Her eyes dart away once they start adjusting their dress. She firmly ignores the way the slit had hiked up on their hips and roughly buries any arising feelings.
“Well, someone’s fiesty today, huh?” Morgan snarks. Roan only grumbles obscenities under her breath in response.
“Right then,” Roan starts, attaching her knife to her hip, “Easy case today. Murder-suicide, caught on camera, grieving family, criminal background. The works.”
Morgan tilts their head from where they’re sipping water. They swallow softly, Adam’s apple bobbing, before speaking. “If it’s on camera, why’d they call us?”
It’s a good question; As good as one from Morgan can be, anyway. Cases like these are way below their pay grade. No one calls them for straightforward cases nowadays. Their niche is criminal empires or seemingly “unsolvable mysteries”, not domestic disputes, crimes of passion, or dumbarses who can’t bury a trail to save their life. Yet the head office had been weirdly insistent on investigating this one.
“Beats me, mate,” Roan replies, already halfway out the door, “the fuckheads upstairs didn't tell me much. Could be another one of those end of a murder spree cases. I wouldn’t mind one of them.”
“Ooh! Dude!” Morgan exclaims from behind her. They toss the water bottle into the trash and speed up, hurriedly locking the door behind them. There’s a distinct bounce in their step that only appears when they’re just a wink past tipsy. “Maybe it’s another cult! That last guy was a trip. I would know, heh.”
Roan rolls her eyes at them, now walking side by side. “Ha. Didn’t his mum try to stab you?”
“Sure did,” Morgan agrees. They pause, pulling out a distinctly southern accent they’d discarded years ago, “I’d let ‘er do it again. Mighty fine lady if you ask me, yes sir.”
At this, Roan laughs, voice deep and booming. She’s always found it damn ironic how much of her mimicked her abilities. Even her personality was on brand. It’s a mystery to her where the gunpowder ends, and she starts. Roan shakes off the thought and unlocks her car. She gestures for Morgan to get in.
“Ain’t gonna hold the door for me, Firecracker?” They ask, brow raised.
“Fuck off.” She replies simply.
Look, Roan can admit that, even high off their arse, Morgan is a miracle worker at a crime scene. They’ve solved more cases, three screwdrivers and a couple lines deep, than half the police force combined. It’s a skill she could never pick up, as impressive as it is. She would almost admire them for it if it weren’t so fuckin’ stupid. Right now, though, she’s rethinking not abandoning them the moment she saw those whisps of white in place of pupils.
“You’re fucking with me. Are you off ya fuckin’ rocker?” She’s dragged them into an empty hallway of the flat, pressed against the wall, and out of sight. Her whispers come out harsh and scathing. “A fuckin’ shapeshifter? You take something else today, or is the drink hitting ya’ harder than usual?”
“No- I mean I don’t think so,” Morgan puts their hands up in mock surrender. They look down at her, searching. For what, she doesn’t want to know. “‘M serious though. How else could a dead body check out of a hotel while it was already cooling on the ground?
Roan only stares. “Babes, you saw the footage. The ID scanned properly, and the gait and footsteps match. Hell, it even has the same damn scars,” Morgan continues, stopping her in her tracks. “Charlie, back in IT, doesn’t make mistakes, and you know it, so don't start with the camera manipulation rant.”
Roan promptly bites back her retort. She sighs. Morgan might be right, but it’s not like she can turn off the logical part of her brain that insists there must be some other answer. Fuck, a shapeshifter? That’s what they're dealing with today? That’s what has HQ so damn riled up? It’s not even the first report, either, but half this city can’t be arsed to consider supernatural shit real for more than half a second. As if one look at her or Adams wouldn’t prove them wrong.
“Detective Clarke?” Someone calls from around the corner. Reluctantly, Roan backs away from Morgan. They let out a sigh of relief and fan themselves. She’s always run hot, but Morgan always seemed to enjoy it when they— Roan shuts down that train of thought immediately, and shoots them a look that hopefully conveys her lack of conviction. They only send her a smirk in response. The little cunt.
“The voices said so!” The person, creature, whatever the fuck, intones from across the interrogation table.
“Fuckin’ excuse me?” Roan demands, arms crossed and tired of whatever this is already.
“You’re excused!” They reply, their voice all hum and singsong tones, oblivious to Roan’s rising anger. “Well, Mr. Voice Person told me not to do that, but when do I listen to him anyway?”
Yellow pin pricks bore holes into her face. This creature might be one of the weirdest fuckin’ things Roan’s seen in a while. They rock happily back and forth in their seat. Someone, probably McMillian or some other dumb fuck, neglected to put them in restraints. Luckily, it seems like they have no intention of leaving just yet.
“Detective Ronnie. Can I call you Ronnie? They called you that!” From her right, Morgan snickers when they're pointed at. Roan only growls. “Anyway, Detective Ronnie! It’s not like I killed him or anything. He did that himself. I just copied his body and took his wallet. ‘S not like he needed it right?”
Unsettlingly, the creature, as Roan has taken to calling them, begins to stare off into the distance. They smile at some question only they can hear, letting out a small “No, silly!” in response. Usually, that would be enough to bring them in for a psych eval, but at this point, Roan can’t help but believe they are talking to some other being.
“That’s still theft, dude,” Morgan points out from their seat, “And Identity fraud while we’re at it.”
The creature frowns, “Sure, but it’s not that bad…right?”
They stare at Morgan with wide, faux-innocent eyes. If even Roan can tell this thing is a fuckin’ liar, then so can Morgan. And yet, Morgan sits up from where they were leaning in their seat. Xe lean forward, pulling the chair in, and placing their elbows on the table. Xe rest xer cheek in xer hand.
“Wray, was it?” The creature nods, “Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna let you go, and you’re gonna avoid cameras from now on, m’kay, kiddo? We can write people off as hallucinating or card usage as petty theft, but we can’t ignore the cameras.”
Roan snaps her head towards them. What the hell do they think they’re doing? Morgan catches her gaze.
“It’s the easiest option. Less work for us, too. I don’t really care what they do, but they gotta stop making cases more complicated, man,” they explain.
“Fuckin— You know what? Fine.” Roan throws her hands up in defeat, “This case has been fucked from the start. Who cares anymore!”
“Attagirl,” Morgan smiles.
Soon enough, security comes to escort “Wray” out. After Morgan had a talk with some of the higher-ups, they agreed to let them go with only a few weeks of surveillance. Knowing their company, that’ll go out the window within a day. Whatever Mx. Adams and Detective Clark say usually goes, anyway. Roan runs a hand across her face before leaning into Morgan. Her head hits their shoulder, and she sighs.
“We’re gonna have to tell the girls about this, aren’t we?” She asks into the silent room.
Morgan giggles, “Already got the group chat pulled up. Sunshine’s gonna love this.”
Roan groans at that, and Morgan musses up her hair in response.
“Don’t you worry, Ronnie. We won’t have another gremlin on our hands this time,” Xe assure. It’s almost calming, and Roan imagines that this case will be just another weird story in their repertoire. That is, until Morgan opens their mouth again.
“…Probably. I kinda like ‘em.”
Of course. Freak.