Work Text:
Your work as a criminal investigations analyst tends to follow you home, both literally and figuratively. While you’re technically only required to work during business hours, there’s a strong implicit expectation that every worker in your department finishes all their reports by the end of the night. To combat this, most of you leave the station at 5 p.m. and complete the remainder of your work at home. It’s definitely not ideal, but it’s what you all signed up for.
Today is one of those days, where you know you’ll have a mountain of reports to file back at home. When you leave work around 5:30 p.m., you’re only about halfway through the paperwork. It could very well take you the entire night.
So, you grit your teeth, rub your hands over your face, set your laptop down on your desk… and get to work.
You check your security cameras every ten minutes or so, just to ensure no strange characters are trespassing. You live in a decent area, but crime rates have been increasing lately. It never hurts to be extra cautious. You check the front, back, and side cameras before resuming your work.
The night is relatively peaceful, as you read through files and fact-check information. Unsurprisingly, a lot of the reports are either unfounded suspicions or too ambiguous for you to do much with. Still, you’re required to do your due diligence and ensure each one is acknowledged, at the very least. Even if it just ends up shredded.
There’s a slight tapping sound at the windows on your right, breaking you out of your research. You want to ignore it, but after a few seconds, it sounds again. Tap, tap, tap. You frown and get to your feet, peeking through the curtains. There’s nothing there. You must be more tired than you thought.
Still, to preserve your sanity, you check the camera feeds to make sure no one is wandering around your property. The backyard is clear, the side of the house is clear. The front of the house is—
A man pops right in front of the camera, springing up and waving before disappearing. You nearly throw yourself out of your desk chair, the breath ripped out of your lungs. There’s someone in your front yard. He must’ve been tapping on the window earlier. You take a slow breath in and out, moving back to the curtains of the window at your right. You peek through them. There’s still nothing.
Jesus. Either you’re losing it, or there’s someone skulking around your house. Honestly, you’re not sure which one is preferable. Either way, it’s clear that you need to finish up your work for the day. You can just eat a quick lunch at your desk tomorrow, to make up for the few reports you have remaining. You run a hand over your face and sigh, your back aching in protest at your slouched posture. You groan and stretch your arms over your head, twisting to the left and right before returning your attention to your screen. One more report, and then you’re calling it quits.
There’s no name, just a few physical descriptors. It’s citing concerns about a man stalking his ex-wife. You plug in some of the physical traits, coming up with a list of a few people. Only one of them has any record of being married: Alexander Richards. You decide to check his phone first, going to his recent Google searches. Before you can process ‘what is considered violating a restraining order?’, your Internet falls to shit.
You hold back a frustrated growl, getting to your feet and heading for the router in the closet in the guest bedroom. It takes a few moments to reboot, but once it does, you’re sure it’ll be back to normal. Your Internet isn’t the best, so this is a pretty standard occurrence. It’s just frustrating when it lags or glitches in the middle of work. Sometimes it interrupts your train of thought.
You head back down the hall and toward your desk, until the sound of a floorboard creaking has you glancing over your shoulder. Your next breath stalls in your chest. There’s a man in your house. He’s wearing some kind of white lab coat.
“Well, this is awkward,” he says with a friendly smile, as if he isn’t trespassing.
You have absolutely no time to react before the man is lunging at you with inhuman speed, tackling you to the ground. You manage to recover your wits and try to shove the guy off, blocking his attempt to deposit a syringe in your neck. But he’s deceptively strong, and when your grip falters he jams the needle into your neck.
He has your right wrist pinned, but your left hand is free enough for you to sneak up and grab the syringe. It’s an awkward angle, but you manage to flip your hand and close your trembling fingers around the barrel of the syringe. Your fingertips glide down, catching on the metal lip, and you try to yank it from his hand as he uses the plunger to push a foreign substance into your body.
You’re desperate now, squirming beneath him and pulling at the syringe desperately. For a moment, it almost looks like you’ll be able to pull it out. But he has much more leverage in this position, and you’re suddenly so tired…
Your hand falls back to the floor, your eyes flutter, and you promptly lose consciousness.
Your eyes don’t really want to open. You try a few times, but it’s like wading through quicksand. A voice reaches your ears first.
“Ah, hello!” a man says somewhat brightly. Immediately, you feel like something is wrong. You’re not sure where that conviction comes from, but you know it must be true. He continues speaking. “I have to say, I was getting a little worried that you wouldn’t wake up. I can admit, I’m more on the pharmaceutical side of things. Anesthesia is kind of a new one.”
Anesthesia. You take a rattling breath, finally succeeding in getting your eyes fully open. The voice is coming from a man standing to your left. His face looks blurry still.
“Oh, yes, I suppose you’re wondering what happened,” he remarks. “Well… A little this, a little that. I give you a quick jab, you fall unconscious, I take you out of your home and put you here…” He makes a nonchalant hand gesture.
Your head is spinning. You feel… heavy, disoriented. You attempt to speak, but your voice dies halfway up your throat.
“Are you thirsty?” the stranger asks.
Your tongue feels ironed to the roof of your mouth. The world around you is still hazy and blurry, but your throat is dry enough for you to agree to his offer. You tip your head in a slight nod. The man smiles, stepping away and returning with a glass of water. You habitually move to take it from his hand, but he pulls back.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides you. “You’re still under the effects of the anesthesia. Allow me.”
What follows is easily the most uncomfortable and humiliating experience you’ve had in a while. You can’t even hold the glass of water he’s offered you, the man bringing it to your lips and tipping it back so you can drink. You feel unbearably vulnerable. His eyes track the movement, watching your throat bob as you swallow.
When he finally pulls away, you clear your throat and clumsily wipe at your mouth with a shaking hand. Your head hurts like hell, and your ears are ringing insistently. It looks like you’re in some sort of cellar, judging by the poor lighting, shoddy walls, and stale air. There’s a metal table in front of you, and you’re seated on a metal chair.
“Why am I here?” you manage to ask, your voice a bit hoarse.
“I couldn’t help but notice your work on the Blueblood Killer case,” he answers. Your heart thunders in your chest. Has he been watching you? How much does he know? “Rather impressive, I have to say. Are you always pulling such late hours?”
…What? You stare at him with a mix of helplessness and fear. What is this? What the fuck does he want? And, most importantly, how does he have this much information on you?
“Oh, right, I haven’t introduced myself,” the man says. “It’s funny. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you so well, but you don’t even know my name!”
“I’m Tanner,” he introduces himself. “It is just wonderful to meet you.”
“...Nice to meet you too,” you say somewhat flatly. Wow, you feel like complete and utter shit. Nausea is climbing up your throat. You don’t bother giving him your name in response, because it’s clear he already knows it. From what he’s been saying, it seems like he knows a lot about you. Far more than you’re comfortable with, honestly.
“So polite,” Tanner remarks, rounding the table as he steps closer to you. “As I expected, really.”
As the light above falls on his form, your vision clarifies to reveal a well-sculpted face and short brown hair. Tanner is wearing a white lab coat over a dress shirt and tie, black slacks, and black dress shoes. He folds his hands behind his back, dragging your eyes back to the crimson tie he’s wearing. For some reason, that’s what jogs your memory.
“Wait,” you realize. You know why the man is so familiar now. It should’ve been easy to place the resemblance, but your mind is weighed down by the drugs in your system. Your fingers twitch. You sag back in the chair a bit. “You’re… from the cameras…” you manage to say. This is the man who kept popping up on your security camera feeds to scare you. He ran off when you flickered the lights enough, but he never truly went away, did he? Evidently not. When you think about it longer, you can remember seeing him at the end of your hallway—just before he knocked you out. How had he even gotten there?
“There you go,” Tanner smiles, pleased by the recognition. “See, we’re such good friends already. And I have to say, it’s fun to spook you.”
That’s… concerning. You’ll have to speak to the department when you get back, increase security measures around your house and report this guy. That is, assuming you live that long.
“What,” you continue, voice somewhat raspy, “do you want?”
His eyes darken and he moistens his lips. “Me?” Tanner asks. “Nothing, really.”
You choke on a dazed scoff. Even with the world spinning around you, you can sense the dishonesty in that statement. Obviously this guy wants something, or he wouldn’t have gone through all this effort.
“All right,” he sighs somewhat theatrically, sensing your skepticism. Tanner leans forward a bit, placing a hand on the table and making insistent eye contact. “I just wanted to give you a helping hand.”
You frown. “...How?”
“I know some important people, who know some other important people…” Tanner responds vaguely. “Stay there, won’t you?”
You don’t think you could move if you tried. Your limbs aren’t really cooperating. No matter how much you internally scream at yourself to get moving, to run, you’re bolted to the spot. Forced to wait in dreadful anticipation as your captor departs to fetch something.
He could walk away and never come back. Leave you rotting in this nondescript cellar. Would anyone even find you in time? The last thing you can remember doing before being knocked unconscious is working. Always working. Always searching for criminals, when one was right under your nose this whole time. How ironic.
“Did you miss me?” Tanner asks, accompanied by the sound of a door clicking shut behind him. He gives you a friendly smile—one that feels misplaced, considering you just met—and places a folder down on the table. You glance at it skeptically.
If Tanner is bothered by your lack of response, he doesn’t show it. “This,” he says, punctuating the remark with a hand flat on the file, “is what you need to track down the Blueblood Killer.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
Then a helpless, hysterical laugh crawls from your lips.
And you’re still a bit too out of it to comprehend just how much of a mistake that was. Not until he’s surging forward, yanking a fist in your shirt so tightly that he nearly pulls you from the chair. A slight gasp rips its way out of your throat at the swift movement.
“Is my generosity really so amusing to you?” Tanner hums. There’s an unhinged gleam in his eyes, a slight quirk to his lips. His other hand rests at his side, and his fingers twitch impatiently. Waiting for you to make another mistake.
“No,” you respond, vision flooding with graininess as your head threatens to loll back a bit. You’re exhausted. You don’t want to be here. You want to go home.
…But is home even safe anymore? That’s how Tanner found you. He knows where you live now. Who’s to say he can’t just do this again? Sneak up on you, render you unconscious, drug you, throw you in an abandoned basement somewhere?
You knew being a criminal analyst would be tough work: emotionally draining, harrowing, fatiguing. But you never thought you’d become one of the victims. Was that just hubris? Were you always destined to be another police report? You can almost read it now: My neighbor works as a criminal analyst, and he keeps late hours from what I can tell. He usually leaves the lights on while he’s home, only turning them off when he’s finished with work. I’ve seen him work until the dead of morning, 2 or 3 a.m. But a few days ago, when I woke up to get a glass of water around 4:30 a.m., I noticed his lights were still on. I thought nothing of it at the time, thinking he was just burning the midnight oil. But since then, his lights have remained on. Days have passed, and I haven’t seen him coming or going. His car is still in the driveway. I’m worried something happened to him.
You blink once, twice, flinching as fingertips drag across your collarbones. That detour in thought took you out of reality for a few moments there. Coming back to it is difficult. Tanner relinquishes his grip on your shirt, though he’s still standing far too close for comfort.
“You’re out of it, aren’t you?” he seems to realize. “I must’ve given you too much.” He doesn’t sound that torn up about it.
Your eyes catch on the file on the table. “How do you have that?” you ask, tipping your head toward it.
“Like I said, I know some very important people,” Tanner answers. A thin smile, appearing both sympathetic and patronizing. “Besides. I don’t think you’re in any position to reject the help.”
You scowl at him. “And you think I’m going to trust the guy who snuck into my house and drugged me,” you state dryly. Not exactly the most reliable of sources.
“I know, such an unfortunate first encounter,” he says, clicking his tongue in faux-sympathy, “but, look on the bright side. You have what you need now. And I got to see your handsome face up close. Win-win.” He reaches out and pats your cheek somewhat condescendingly. Your head jerks a bit and he laughs.
You’re not at all certain that whatever information Tanner has is going to be useful. But you can’t really say that to his face, or he’ll just bash your head in and call it a day. So you just swallow your misgivings, hold back the endless objections you have, and try to keep calm. He can’t keep you down here. Someone will find you eventually. And if not, well. It’s looking like you won’t be conscious for very long anyway. Whatever he dosed you with must be pretty strong, because you swear your eyes burn each time you blink.
“We’re running out of time, aren’t we?” Tanner intuits, briefly leaning back against the table in front of you. He sighs. “Time really does fly when you’re having fun.”
Your throat is locked up. There’s nothing for you to say, nothing you could do to rectify the situation.
“It’s so strange seeing you up close,” he continues, proceeding to lean so close that his nose nearly bumps yours. You sink back, a shiver running down your spine and goosebumps prickling along your skin. His eyes flit about your face, searching for something you’re not privy to. Tanner’s head tilts as he pulls back a bit. “I meant it, you know. You are handsome.”
A whimper rattles against your teeth. What does he want from you? He looks almost hungry.
“A conversation for another time,” Tanner murmurs. You don’t know who he’s talking to.
You really want nothing more than to push yourself to your feet and run. He didn’t even bother restraining you. You’re free, you could just… run off. But there’s this awful pulsing beneath your skin, and each time you contemplate moving, your fingers twitch and fall short as if you’re in someone else’s body.
Is there even anything in that file? The one he plans to give you. Is it empty? It very well could be. It’s hard to tell from this angle. Gritting your teeth, you lean forward and try to make a grab for it, momentum only carrying you about halfway there before weight falls to your knees and you’re crumpling to the ground. Your forehead grazes your arm as you try to steady yourself on the table, making one last-ditch effort to grab the file before you’re meeting the ground and falling into darkness.
You wake up tangled in your bedsheets, chest heaving. The back of your neck is damp with sweat. You take a deep breath and push yourself up to a proper sitting position, frowning at the dizziness the movement provokes. Sunlight peeks in through the gaps of the curtains.
That was a weird dream. A nightmare, pretty much. You can’t even remember the last time you had one. Though, given the nature of your work, you suppose you should be grateful it doesn’t happen more often.
You fumble for your phone on your nightstand, your hand coming back empty. You must’ve left it by your computer last night. After a few seconds of silence, you sigh and tug your covers off, getting to your feet and heading for the door of your bedroom. There’s that fuzziness at the edges of your vision again. You must’ve stayed up later than you remember.
You rub your eyes roughly as you head down the hall, your palm dragging across the wall and doors as you go. You feel a bit off-kilter, as if you just woke up from an unsatisfying nap. A yawn escapes your lips, and you cover your mouth fleetingly as you head past the living room and into the kitchen. Everything looks just as you left it. There are a few dirty dishes in the sink. Feeling a little parched, you head to grab the glass of water sitting on your table and falter.
There’s a file next to it. It’s not one of the standard department-issued ones, either; it has a looping black monogram in the top right corner. Frowning, you head over and open it. Inside are personal missives, text and email exchanges…
And a news clipping at the top: Blueblood Killer Strikes Again!
Everything comes flooding back to you. Tanner’s appearance in your house; your brief fight and him drugging you; waking up in that strange cellar and speaking with him; and then… You’re drawing a blank. You assumed that was when you woke up in your bed. You thought it was all fiction conjured by your sleeping mind.
But now that you’re confronted with the evidence, you’re forced to face the facts:
It wasn’t a dream.
A shock of yellow tears your eyes away from the file. There’s a Post-It Note resting next to it on the table, with unfamiliar sloping handwriting.
Until next time
– T