The Lady, the Lake, and the Long Sword

Police Lieutenant Edgar Campbell knew his time was up. Was. Had been. His chest and side punctured in a hail of gunfire by a man on so many drugs he could've started a pharmacy. Even now, Edgar could feel the shard of hot metal lodged within his rib. He could barely breathe. He was sure there was no blood left to even think, with the amount covering the seat of his patrol car, and the hands of his partner Mark, who had patched him up. Mark was in the passenger seat, white as a sheet but unwounded. His eyes had not left Edgar's wounds for the entire ride. Not back to the station, or the hospital- nothing they could do now but dumb him down and maybe give a few more unfeeling minutes. No, no. Work to do. Driving down back roads, coaxing the car to the red "Empty" line and far beyond, going far past the speed limit. Eighty, ninety, one hundred miles per hour. Power lines and houses whip by. Trees. All signs of civilization gone. Edgar swerves, slams on the break. The car skids, grumbles, almost flips- stops. Mark's fingers slowly unwind from the sides of his seat.

"We're here," Edgar says through a mist of blood. He attempts to pull himself out of the car under his own power and manages only to fall onto the grassy field he's stopped the car on with a soft, pained grunt. Mark charges out of the car, jumps the hood, and pulls Edgar to his feet. Edgar points.

A lake. Shining broad and glorious in Mark's eyes. A bright, brilliant blue- the color of the sky during childhood adventures traipsing through a forest long since bulldozed for some mini-mall or another. A tear rolls down Mark's cheek before he gets proper hold of himself. Edgar, one arm looped over Mark's shoulder, stumbles forward. At the very edge of the lake he lets his weight drop, sliding away from Mark to kneel in the wet dirt. On Edgar's belt, the following things fit snug:
Standard issue sidearm. Nine millimeter. Matte black.
Mace, one can, with carry pouch.
Handcuffs, two pairs, plastic. Non-standard, but personal choice is personal choice.
Various electronics- a taser, communications devices. So on.

Car keys. Mark hears them jingle as the driver falls. Mark goes just a shade paler. The sound of their patrol car rumbling behind them fills Mark's ears. Mark reaches down and touches his own copy of the keys. He shivers.

Also on Edgar's belt is a simple and non-descript advice: A telescoping black baton, used more often than Edgar ever would think necessary. Never without explicit and extreme reasons, but used. With numb, fumbling fingers, Edgar pulls this from its pouch and flails his hand in the air weakly- as if he had flicked it with the strength and expertise of his prime, the baton flies out to its full length, light from the lake glinting off of its length. He traces his finger along the handle. A worn strip of duct tape navigates its length. Written on this tape is the word "Caled." Edgar had never bothered finding out what it meant. The tape had been there since he acquired the baton. Here. Decades ago, as a recruit.

With a weak grunt, Edgar manages to fling it towards the lake, spinning and shining, until it is caught by a hand covered in green and grey scales. The hand and baton sink beneath the waves, but the two officers can feel a pair of eyes on them, from under the slowly darkening lake.

The shield next. Edgar's badge, currently with no less than five bullets crumbled against its golden facade. Flipping it like a card, the badge glides beautifully just over the surface of the water before dropping into the water unceremoniously.

Edgar smiles, then, and finds the stretch the lean up enough to clasp a brotherly hand onto Mark's shoulder.

"Get out of here, kid. You'll break your curfew," Edgar smiles with bloody teeth and sinks back into the dirt to stare at the lake's dim light, as the light leaves his eyes.

Intermission: The Suit, pt 1.

Up at the crack of dusk. Hilarious, he thinks. To someone who's never heard the joke, certainly. Graveyard Shift had been another good one for about five minutes. He lets out a dry laugh and laces his shoes. No calls today. No double shifts. No extra hands. (Funny for far longer than it should have been.)

No big accidents. Pity.

Shirt tucked. Belt buckled. Tie.. tied. What is the action for ties? He wonders, not realizing he's spoken aloud. Jacket on. Slick black number. New. Unsullied. Middle button only. As an afterthought, he attaches a pair of tasteless cufflinks from his mother: A tombstone on the left, a skull and crossbones on the right. Pretty funny, eh? She had genuinely looked at them and thought her son would wear it. So he did.

His hair-combing, a stall in any case with unmanageable follicles, took twice as long as it should have, to make up for expediency in deciding which button, to button. He glanced at the clock and smiled. Quarter to eight. Fifteen minutes to drive for half of an hour to work. He would have to speed. As he always did. The car unlocks with a soft, strange noise: The music from the exact moment lightning strikes Frankenstein's monster, from the version the man saw as a child. The music is pitched down and chopped into a manageable almost-beep. Nothing in back to slow the drive, either.

He had carpooled, just once, with a coworker who shared his shift. Just once. Are you trying to get us killed? He remembers that he smiled, at that moment, and said no in a voice that was completely genuine. What, then, was he doing on the highway, cleaving time into manageable chunks through sheer speed, in the company car?

Don't do that! Sixteen. Driving practice with his mother. He zooms right up to the nearest car, switches lanes right behind them, at double their speed. Bumpers nearly kiss before momentum pulls him up onto the median, driving through dirt and grass.

This is how the man drives: One near collision to the next, like a beam of light over mirrors.
Swerve.
Back bumper of a red sports car.
Swerve.
Driver side door of an ugly white pickup.
Swerve.
Left turn, rear view mirror passes a hairs breadth from an incoming car's.
Swerve.
Attach, parasitically, to the backdraft of an eighteen-wheeler barreling erratically down the road, unknowing.

Miraculously, he arrives at the mortuary under his own power. From the glovebox he takes a small pad and paper, and adds a small tick mark. There are over a thousand of these such marks.