Robert Cross Glimpses

[Robert Cross]

Cross has been watching them for a while now. Three men, boys really, running a game on the outskirts of McClennan Park. Dean Street, to be exact, between Sacramento Corporation and the railroad. The racket’s largely weed, some smack, maybe rocks every now and again. Nothing big, but it’s a good location and the customers are loyal, mostly people from better neighborhoods, buying larger quantities to cut up and repackage. They make their way to the boys and pay whatever price is asked. For three guys, the money’s good, even if it’s pretty small time.

Anyway, he’s been coming back night after night, to watch, learn the ins and outs, which he has. The tall one is the point man. He meets on the street, talks to customers, has a decent smile and a little bit of talk. The fat one is muscle and product delivery. There’s this piece of shit SUV they park off the street, behind an auto-body shop. That’s where they stage whatever it is they’ve got to serve. And then there’s Little Guy. Can’t be any older than 17, and he’s the moneyman. He’s the most active, moving between the tall one, the fat one, and a train car where they drop the dough until it’s quitting time at the end of the night, when they pack up and ride out to who the fuck knows where. Cross can’t be bothered obviously. He’s only concerned with how they get things done at work.

Little guy’s the one Cross wants, the weak link. He’s the one that leaves the scene most often, who has to self-isolate in order to stash the cash. His job requires him to go out, into the dark, alone, and that’s where Cross plans on finding him. And tonight’s the night. In fact, he’s already in the dark, in the train car, waiting. Little Guy’s already come and gone once, and it was after that initial visit that Cross found his way in. He’s standing in the dark, in the quiet, to the side of the sliding door of the train car that Little Guy will be entering at any moment. His gun is in his hand. His body is completely relaxed. He’s ready.

And then Cross hears him coming through the dark. He can hear him because he’s talking to himself, griping about how he’s hungry, he’s tired, those other motherfuckers better be ready to take off soon. Cross is also hungry, though far from tired and he’s got all night. The door crashes open and the first thing Cross sees is the bag full of cash that Little Guy flings in before him, which slams against the back wall of the train car. Little Guy follows it, scrambling up into the car without a glance around (not that he could see a god damn thing). He walks over to the bag and kneels down next to it, opening a small compartment in the train car’s floor, unzipping the bag, ready to unload the cash. But then he stops, sniffing at the air, no doubt smelling the odor of burnt hair and flesh.

And that’s when Cross steps up behind him. Just as Little Guy’s pivoting, still on one knee, with a “What the fuck?” he’s pistol whipped, hard, at the base of the skull. And Little Guy goes down. Cross stands there for a long time, looking at his prone form, breathing in the scent of fresh blood. And then he kneels down and takes what he needs. It’s good, as always. Too good.

He leaves Little Guy breathing, all cleaned up: no wounds in his neck just a nasty contusion to the back of the head. He’ll feel like shit in the morning, but he’ll live for what it’s worth. When Cross goes, he takes the cash with him. Donations are of course appreciated, and you’ve got to keep up appearances. As he hikes back to his car, he wonders who they’ll blame for this. There’s always someone to blame. Not that Cross gives anything approaching one single shit about it.

[Robert Cross]

Occurs Directly after the Events of Cross Bearers and Cross' subsequent departure from Court

Instead of leaving court and finding someone, anyone, to beat with his fists, some victim to leave a pulsing mass of flesh and blood, bone and gristle, Cross has made his way back to the Necropolis. He hadn’t considered where he was driving until he’d arrived, but knew immediately why he’d come: that feeling of comfort, of belonging, of coming home.

Now, he’s down in the Caldarium, sitting on the concrete bench in quiet and in darkness, the flood-lamps left unlit. All of his other family members are still at court and Cross is alone. He’s used to being alone, but somehow it’s different in Sacramento, where a very real feeling of family has started to grow within him. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, Cross feels a part of something larger than himself, whether he likes it or not.

And that’s why his blunder with Gilroy is so infuriating. If he could, Cross would bludgeon himself into said bloody pulp. Instead, he sits, hunched over, legs splayed, hands clasped between them, staring into the dark. The Necropolis still needs so much work, so much attention.

It is unclear how much time passes with Cross sitting, unthinking, the smell of burnt hair and skin slowly permeating the room. Finally, something turns over inside him, a stone rolls back, and a thought emerges: This is where you belong, Cross. This is what matters. This place and the blood that flows within it. It’s like a revelation, the closest thing Cross has experienced to a conversion experience. He realizes, to his surprise, that he’d actually meant what he’d said to Gilroy back at court about the family. And no matter the doubts he may have about the Doctor, he now also realizes that Gilroy is the head of their clan in the city and that he, Cross, will do everything in his power to support him, as long as he feels his Priscus truly serves their blood. It's almost like he has no choice in the matter and that is strangely comforting to Cross.

No more fucking around. No more games. The Necropolis, the fate of the Family, will be decided by the efforts of its members. And Cross intends to give it his all. He’s always been a soldier, one who does best when following orders. But he’s never believed in a cause, only in what his obedience could gain him. Now he has something to believe in, a reason to serve.

Cross smiles, openly and sincerely. No one is there to see it and, even if they were, the darkness wouldn't let them.

[Robert Cross]

In any given bar on any given night, no matter how much they charge for the drinks, no matter the music they play, no matter the crowd catered to or the tax bracket of the clientele, there’s always that Last Drunk. The one who has managed to out stay the rest, the one who has to be shown the door when it’s closing time.

Maybe she can hold her booze and has no interest in the men who try their hardest to pick her up. Maybe he’s passed out next to his drink and it’s the kind of place where the bartender could give two shits, until the lights come on that is There are any number of reasons, but in any case there’s always one. The Last One.

Cross knows all about it, because that used to be him. His reasons were simple: loneliness, a genetic pre-disposition, a whole pack of demons. Whatever. Take your pick. Back in LA, when he was breathing, his typical night consisted of finding a cop bar after getting off shift and drinking in sullen silence, stacking up empty bottles behind the bar, until they would finally say: “OK Bobby, get the fuck out.” Most times, he’d slump toward the door. Others, there’d be a fight in him. Some of these fights he won, many he lost. Didn’t matter.

Cross is thinking of this as he sits in the back of the bar, watching it empty out around tonight’s Last Man, who's staring into his glass of amber liquid like it’s going to show him his future. He fits right in with his environs, a shit-hole dive right off the I-80 exit for Raley Boulevard: dirty flannel shirt, mud and paint spattered jeans, over-worked work boots. From the set of his shoulders, it’s been a bad day.

When it’s just him and the Last Man, ten minutes 'til close, Cross gets up, leaving a crumpled dollar next to the untouched whiskey on the table where he’s been sitting and walks out the door. It leads to a parking lot in back of the bar, poorly lit and empty of all the patrons who’ve already left, which pleases Cross. After all, it was the situation of the lot that led him to choose this location for tonight’s hunt.

There’s only one vehicle remaining and it’s clearly the Last Man’s work van. Fittingly, it’s in terrible condition. Cross considers forcing the hood, maybe fucking with the poor slob’s engine, but on a hunch he tries the sliding door. Unlocked. Of course. So, in the haunt goes, among the leaking paint cans and the fast-food detritus, some larger piece of equipment, maybe an air-pump, most likely broken. He’s in there, alone, for a few moments, thinking about booze, about how he’d have done most anything for a drink for a large portion of his life. Now that he’s dead not much has changed, save for the beverage of choice.

That’s when he hears the bar’s door slam open and the Last Man deliver his farewell to the bartender inside, a slurred “Well fuck you too!” There’s the stumbling and scuffling of a person who can barely stand, let alone drive. It takes the mark forever to find his keys, though he doesn’t need them to get into the vehicle. If Cross cared, he might feel justified in keeping this idiot off the streets tonight. But he doesn’t. The driver’s side door opens and the Last Man kind of pours himself into the seat. There’s a lot of rustling, swearing, the thick smell of liquor. Cross has positioned himself just behind the seat, his piece pulled, ready to play car-jacker. This goes on for what seems to be a long time, the Last Man can't seem to get his key in the ignition.

But then something happens. The sounds stop, the Last Man falls silent and still. At first, Cross thinks he’s been made, that the drunk is somehow onto his game. Maybe he’s caught a whiff of burnt skin, maybe the hair has stood up on the back of his neck. But no, there’s that deep, heavy breathing, which soon transforms itself into an unrestrained snore. He’s passed out.

Well fuck you too, thinks Cross as he holsters his gun and begins to crawl slowly forward, into position to put the bite on this asshole. He looks at the Last Man for a moment, catching his profile in the dim, orange light of distant street lamps. He's completely out, mouth slack, keys still in his hand. How many times had Cross done this himself? How many nights had he slept it off in his car, or on the ground in the parking lot itself, or in some piss-soaked alley? Too many to count, really.

But now’s not the time for reminiscing. Now's the time for a taste and You have to get your taste wherever you can, Cross. And so he does.

[Robert Cross]

There are three ways a bar becomes a “cop bar.” The first is to target cops as your clientele with things like drink specials and lots of smoke-up-your-ass advertisements. The second is to be owned and operated by former cops. The third, and most common, is proximity to a large population of law enforcement officers.

Cross sits alone in a booth at the back of a bar that falls into the third category. It’s around the corner from North Command and has all the hallmarks of a drinking hole frequented by those sworn to protect and serve: cheap drinks, a woefully limited selection on the juke box, and a line of pictures behind the bar. Each photograph is framed, and each exhibits the smiling face of patrons past and present, dressed in their formal attire.

The place is slow tonight and Cross keeps a low profile, a glass of whiskey sitting in front of him. He’s got the blood flowing in case he needs to make a show of it, but he’d rather not.

1 Vitae: Eat / Drink

He’s examining the amber liquid in front of him when the door opens. In walks a familiar face: older maybe, lined by exhaustion and time, even if he can’t be a day over twenty-nine. Still, he’s got a stiff handsomeness about him. Looks just like his father, Cross thinks. His brown hair is cropped short and his brown eyes are sharp, observant. He’s wearing street clothes. Cross stands and waves him over: “Grant.”

The younger man makes his way to Cross. There’s the usual reaction to the scars: a widening of the eyes, the quick recovery. Of course, Grant knows the story, his dad would have told him: Cross had been badly burned working as private security after he’d retired from the LAPD. Cross can’t blame the kid, Grant had known him before the fire, what he used to look like. Known him for a long time in fact: his dad, Mitch, was Cross’s longest-running partner. One good thing about his disfigurement, though: it hid a lot. No one really notices that you haven’t changed in a decade when they’re focusing on the fact that you look like well-done meat.

They shake hands and Cross gives him a smile: “Hey kid.” Grant smiles back, even if his eyes are still lingering on the scarring: “Hey Bobby. How are you?”

Cross slides back into the booth: “You know, getting by. Want to sit? Need a drink?” Grant turns to the bar, sighing, “Fuck yeah I need a drink. You buying?”

Cross chuckles: “The father’s son, sure as shit. Yeah I’m buying. Tell them to put it on my tab.” Grant leaves and returns, a shot and a beer in his hands, sliding into the other side of the booth. First thing first, the kid raises the shot: “To old friends.” Cross dutifully raises his own drink. Looks like he’s in for it tonight. He sips. At least it still tastes good. Wonder how it’ll be when it comes back up.

Grant gives him a long look: “Well, it’s as bad as Dad said it was, huh?” Cross shakes his head: “It’s been a long time now. You get used to it, even if other people don’t.” A pause as Cross considers the man across from him. “I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.” The kid looks relieved, having brought up the topic of Cross’ disfigurement without incident: “Yeah. Years. I’ve been busy. Family business and all that.” Cross gives him a grim smile, simpatico: “Looks like you’re doing good for yourself holding the old Blue Line. Family?”

Grant shakes his head in the negative: “Some girlfriends. If you can call them that. The job.” Cross nods again. He understands, even if he doesn’t really care. Still, this is what keeping up your connections looks like: “Tell me all about it, kid.”

[Robert Cross]

“Thus the Dark Father spake: that what you once were is not what you now are. As a mortal is a sheep, so are the Damned wolves among them. That role is defined by nature—wolves feed on their prey, but they are not cruel to them. The role of predator is natural, even if the predator himself is not.”

Cross sets his copy of The Testament of Longinus still open, pages down, on his lap. He’d taken it from Gilroy’s last lecture at the Moore House with no real intention of reading the thing. And yet, here he is, making his way through “The Rule of Golgotha.”

He’s sitting in his car, the engine cut, parked down by the river off Marina View Drive, reading it by streetlight. He’d stopped to look at the water, clear his head, but for some reason he’d suddenly thought of the Testament sitting in his glove box.

Curiosity is what spurred him to take it out, open it up, start reading. But as he did so something else, something stronger than mere curiosity, began taking hold. A feeling that Cross can’t deny: so much of the text seems familiar, makes sense. Like the passage he’d just read, the way it acknowledged his unnatural condition and yet set out a clear, and necessary, role demanded by that condition; an acknowledgment of his utter separation from the herd that nonetheless assigned him a duty in the order of things.

More than that, the words promise something that Cross thirsts for, speaking to a drive that—while buried deep down—smolders and burns continually within him: a lust for answers, for meaning, for direction. He’s a pragmatic man, one who has learned how to take care of himself no matter his undead condition. And his sire had been likewise pragmatic, doing what he could before his untimely demise to help Cross prosper in his nightly existence. Still Vic had never seen fit to provide Cross with any sort of explanation as to the how or why of what they are, and Cross had never bothered to ask.

But now that Vic is gone and Cross is on his own, in a new city, struggling to find his place, that desire to know seems to grow night by night. And even if he’s never been a believer, the prospect of a God doesn’t seem so outlandish anymore, given his current condition. Indeed, the idea of a Divine force, one that has a plan for Cross and his kind, provides a strange sort of comfort.

Cross picks up the book and reads the next passage:

“Remember, O childer, that though you yet bear the form of man, you are transformed by holy censure. No longer is it your purpose or your prerogative to live the three score years and ten of the children of Adam. No longer shall you sense your heart beating within your breast, feel the satisfaction of a day’s toil, or enjoy the comfort of the marriage bed.”

“Tell me about it,” he mutters to himself. And yet, despite his defensive sarcasm, somewhere, on some level, something begins to stir. He reads on.

[Robert Cross]

After an exhaustive search, Cross has found a space fit to serve as the office of the Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom. Located centrally, it can be reached in the same amount of time whether one enters via the house or the sewer. Originally some sort of crude storage space, it is relatively clean, and what trash or filth has collected, he quickly clears. A spartan affair, its walls are bare concrete, as are its floors, but Cross likes it.

He's spent the last few nights bringing down a large number of cinder blocks and wooden planks, careful to avoid any unwanted attention. These have been converted, slowly but surely, into shelving along one wall, which stands empty for now. On the opposite wall, he's taped copies of the Priscus' maps of the Necropolis, decorated by different color note tabs, the meaning of which only Cross knows. He's also built himself a desk of the same materials as his shelves, facing the entrance and leaving the wall at Cross' back. It's not pretty, but it will serve. Behind the desk is a simple rolling stool where Cross will conduct his business, and against the back wall is a squat, two drawer filing cabinet.

Fortunately for him, the room still possesses a large metal door, a relic from its days as a storage space. It opens into his space, and to add an extra layer of reinforcement, Cross has acquired a heavy chain and pad lock, which he can run from the doorknob to a series of heavy pipes coming out of the wall to the side of the door. It's not much, but will at least provide some protection if he ever needs to sleep here, or privacy if he ever needs to meet concerning sensitive matters.

A single flood light, powered by an extension cord run to the same source as those used in the Caldarium, is angled into one of the back corners, its harsh light dimmed slightly by this positioning, though it still casts stark shadows throughout the room.

Cross, sitting on the stool behind his desk, looks up for a moment to take it all in, feeling a deep satisfaction. On the rough, unfinished wood surface in front of him papers sit in neat piles, covered with his small, precise handwriting: patrol schedules, lists of potential code words, ideas for catacomb construction and added security measures. He straightens these, unnecessarily, and touches, in turn, the only other items on the desk: his gun and a small book that perhaps only Gilroy would recognize. Then, he takes up his pen and gets back to work.

[Robert Cross]

All is darkness and the drip of fetid water and the shrill cry of the occasional rat, and the Sheriff of the Deep Kingdom likes it that way.

As has been his custom in recent nights, Cross is once again wandering the miles of sewer and access tunnel that are slowly being transformed into the catacombs of the Necropolis. He wears only a pair of sodden black jeans. No shoes, no shirt; there is no need for him to dress as humans do here. No need to hide his undead nature. No need to hide the terrible scars that cover his body, which tingle oddly (though not unpleasantly) in the damp air.

At times he wades through waist deep water, at times he crawls through barely passable lengths of pipe. None of it bothers the haunt. In fact, it is here that Cross feels most at home. Occasionally, he stops to examine a juncture of tunnels, or a specific architectural feature, anything that seems especially useful or pertinent to the plans he and Jack are drawing up, making mental notes. And then he moves on.

These excursions are not simply about his official duties, however. He also uses his time exploring this underground world, alone, to think about other things, more obscure things. Things he would never admit, publicly, to pondering. At least not yet. And tonight, as he moves through the dark, his senses heightened to that excruciating pitch that the Blood permits, Cross’s ruminations are guided by a passage he’s recently read in the Testament:

“We above all were chosen for the great mission because we did not know true happiness, or love, or charity, or faith in our living days, while we yet had hope of salvation. And because we did not know these things already when we came to be Damned, and then, when each of us came to receive the Dark Gift, how much more is our joy to know our purpose and our mission!”

It’s this sentiment that has drawn Cross further and further into the teachings of the Lance as of late. That’s rendered him incapable of dismissing what he’s read in the little book Gilroy had passed out at the Moore House, despite his life long lack of faith. There is truth in these words, at least for Cross, who in life never knew happiness, love, or charity. Who, from his earliest days, neither received nor dispensed any of those things, and therefore never understood them and never valued them.

This is not just a matter of doctrine for Cross though. More powerfully, it is a matter of identification. For the Centurion himself, the Dark Prophet, knew a life devoid of such comfort. As Cross had. And grew to enjoy, and revel in, an existence built on that absence. As Cross had. Grew to detest the presence of happiness, love, and charity in those around him, and lashed out for that reason. As Cross had. And, finally, in death, the Centurion came to understand what all of that meant, what his purpose actually was. As Cross now hopes to. In this sense, it is the figure of Longinus himself that is so attractive to Cross. He understands because, in the Centurion, he sees a truly Kindred spirit, a man who was a monster before his embrace. And who, once undead, saw that there was some point in his being so. In Longinus, Cross can see that there is value in being a monster for a reason, not just because one was made a monster, by circumstance or by blood.

Coated in layers of filth, slithering into benighted and unclean places, his only company rats and roaches and worms, the burned man hisses a mantra to himself: “We who only knew suffering in our lives must bring suffering to the mortals, and we should rejoice as we feed and kill, knowing that because we are Sanctified, the believing may find their way to Heaven, and the unbelieving may find damnation.” And, in his own quiet way, in the darkness, he rejoices.

[Robert Cross]

There are those who will gladly describe the rarified satisfaction that comes from hunting a hunter. They’ll tell you about the challenge, the pride, the feeling of power that attends the reversal of fortunes such a situation allows. Cross can’t deny these things, but for him the benefit of such prey is something else all together. If he chooses to stalk those who stalk the night, it’s because (believe it or not) Cross finds it easier. At least when it comes to the kind of animal Cross tends to hunt. The fact of the matter is, Cross understands the mind of someone who would do harm to their fellow man. And that kind of understanding gives him a distinct leg up when it comes to finding the right place and time, the fateful moment when he can intervene and take what he needs.

Consider his mark for this evening. Cross has been watching him for a while. He’s nothing more than petty thief, a mugger, an opportunist. Not a hardened offender or an addict, more of a thrill seeker. Too lazy and stupid to find another way to support himself, on either side of the law. He’s young, of course, and tends to dress the part he plays: jeans, tennis shoes, a dark hoodie. Nondescript white guy looking for a purse to grab, or a couple to corner in an alley with a knife or an imaginary gun. He’s a jackal. Cross is something larger, something far more terrifying. And his prey has no idea he’s caught the attention of such a predator.

Truth be told, up until now, Cross has only been watching, largely because Mr. Mark tended to operate in the Prince’s Rack, and the burned man has no intention of overstepping his boundaries there. Still, whenever he’s had reason to enter the area, he’s made a point of seeking out the hoodlum, just to watch him for a little while.

But everything changed last week, when the Mark ran into the Law in a very real way. He’d almost been caught by two beat cops after he’d snatched a purse. Since then, he’s shifted his attentions to Miller Park over by the river, well away from the Prince’s personal territory. There he lurks near the water or on the bike path looking to catch nighttime joggers and neckers unawares. With this change of venue, Cross has suddenly found himself in a position to pay Mr. Mark a visit. And tonight is the night.

When Cross makes his approach, the smaller hunter is already busy. He’s working the bike trail tonight and has managed to waylay a young woman out for a jog. He’s got her handing over her expensive looking cell phone at knife point when Cross arrives. “Everything alright here?” he asks from where he stands, behind the mugger’s back. He catches the jogger’s eye over her assailant’s shoulder before the latter spins on him, brandished knife more pathetic than threatening. The jogger is pretty and she’s scared. Cross could care less about her.

“It’s none of your business, man. Get going.” Cross just stares at the Mark, then flicks his eyes toward the jogger. “Run,” he says to her. And she does, cell phone still in her possession. She doesn't look back.

“Man. Fuck. Yo—“ Is all the mark gets out before Cross is on him, the knife batted away easily into the night, one of the burned man’s scarred hands clamped over the young thief’s mouth as he’s dragged off the bike path and into the trees. There is the repeated thud of fists meeting flesh, a low moan followed by silence. Then, the smell of blood as one predator preys on another in the dark.

[Robert Cross]

“Yeah, OK Phil.” A pause. “Yeah you too.” Another pause. “Don’t do anything stupid out there.” A grunt of laughter. “Sure. Thanks again.” Cross hangs up the burner phone. Fucking Phil. What a dick.

Still, the asshole has come through. As several of his other contacts on the force had. Even if they presented the same details. Corroboration never hurts.

Phil, like the others, started out reluctant. “Come on Bobby, you know I can’t talk about that.” But, like the others, he’d quickly given way. Thanks in large part to that age-old passion of cops everywhere: jurisdictional complaining. It seems the incident at Raging Wire is no longer a problem for the SPD—and, as always, there’s a lot of bitterness over this fact.

Cross looks down at the notepad he’s using to keep track of information on the matter, reviewing what he’s just gleaned from Phil. It reads like all the others:

Something ‘weird’ on footage, or so ‘they’ say. No clear idea of WHAT

At first, case opened and worked by SPD

UNTIL outside agency intervened—FEDS? ‘Maybe some sort of international agency or something’ ?????

Rank pulled, case stolen out from under SPD

Footage no longer in SPD possession

The same story told by three or four different individuals. And it makes Cross nervous each time he reviews it. Of course, there’s the silver lining that a masquerade breach has thus far been avoided. On the other hand, the fact of outside jurisdictional forces coming into play does not bode well. And then there’s the most disconcerting detail: no one seems to know who these clowns are. Can’t even say if they're a domestic or international entity.

Cross needs more to work with. He’d hoped to avoid it, but there’s no other choice. He picks up the phone again and dials the one person on the SPD who knew him before.

“Hey, Grant.” A pause. “Yeah I’m good. You?” Another beat. “Good. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask you. Can we meet?”

[Robert Cross]

Unlike Phil, Grant is a good cop. Which can make things difficult when you’re trying to extract information you have no right to. Thus, the bottle of Jameson. They’re half way through it now. Well, Grant is, mostly. It’s hard to tell how much your partner is actually drinking when you’re meeting in the dark. And it’s certainly dark where they are: parked on the downslope of the boat ramp in Miller Park. They’re sitting on the hood of Grant’s unmarked Crown Vic, passing the bottle back and forth. It’s so dark that the Sacramento river is a mere suggestion of movement, more sound than sight.

A classic parlay spot. The kind of location a cop looks for when he wants to talk shop, and have a drink while doing so, but doesn’t want to be observed. Bonus points if you’re a dead man who would rather not waste the blood to look alive. No need to go crazy, Cross thinks, taking a slug off the bottle. They’ve been here a while, covering a whole range of topics: the job, women, Grant’s father’s recent fight with cancer. When Grant stands and walks to the edge of the ramp to piss into the river, he’s swaying. Cross watches him go, figuring now is the time to bring up the real reason for this meeting.

-1BP Imbibe

“Listen,” he says as Grant returns, “about that favor.”

“Yeah,” the young detective says, voice thick with whiskey. “What’s that?”

“Well, I’ve got this lawyer friend. He’s working for the family of a guy that got killed up at Raging Wire not too long ago.”

“Huh, yeah. Security guard right? Tough fucking luck for him.” It’s clear Grant takes his liquor like his father, the wrong way. Sober he would never sound so uncaring. This is what Cross was counting on. Why he’d brought the bottle.

“I know, right? Anyway, they’re trying to figure out exactly what the fuck went on out there. And this lawyer, he asked if I might help. And being the sensitive man I am…”

Grant interrupts with a bought of drunken laughter. Anyone who knows Cross would get the joke. “Yeah Bobby, that’s you, the fucking Saint of Sacramento.”

Cross grins and takes another hit off the bottle before handing it back to Grant. He’s almost too drunk to get the whiskey in his mouth, but he manages. “Yeah that’s me. Anyway. I made some calls, you know. Talked to some folks. Heard some things. Things like: the force is no longer involved. Someone cut you out, stepped on your toes. That right?”

“S’right. Fuckers. Swooped right in. Pulled all kinds of rank. Even the brass’s is angry. Nothing they can do.” Grant’s face darkens, his eyes narrow. He gives Cross a hard look, the bottle hanging from his had at his side. “What’s that to you, Bobby?”

Cross shakes his head in seeming dismay, tsking. “Ain’t it always the way?” He returns Grant’s stare, “It’s like this: I’m trying to figure out who has that footage, see. For the lawyer. For that guy’s family. And I was hoping you might have a name. Nobody else does.”

“Bobby, I…” Grant seems suddenly hesitant, nervous. Somewhere under all the booze, his instincts are telling him to keep his mouth shut.

Now or never. “I know it’s none of my business,” Cross presses. “But I’m trying to do the right thing here. The man’s dead, Grant. And nobody's telling his family anything. Think about that. They’re in the fucking dark right now.” He pauses to let the sentimental bullshit sink in.

  1 success

Date		Action		Roll		Result
2016-06-09 12:15:30		Robert Cross rolls 1 to manip2+per1+alliesrating1 - 3 (1s Subtract)		10		1 success

“Fuck…” Grant breaths it out, like he’s deflating. “Those assholes. Don’t care about nobody.”

“That’s right. They just take your case, hang you out to dry, fuck over an innocent man’s wife and kids.”

Grant sighs and walks back over to sit next to Cross on the hood. The whiskey smell is coming off him in waves now. “I don’t know who they are, exactly. Where they’re out of. Domestic, international. No one does, really.”

Cross nods, “Yeah, I heard that. You got a name, Grant?”

Grant slumps. Cross grabs the bottle before he can drop it. He raises it to his scarred lips, but doesn’t actually drink.

“Never heard of ‘em before. Fucking weird.”

“What’s the name Grant.”

There’s a long pause as the drunk man considers and finally: “Task Force: VALKYRIE.” With that, Grant, the good cop, gets up and stumbles off to puke in the dark.