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[oom] Fighting The Rot
After pouring through the files Gene had brought home with him, Alex found she couldn't sleep. She was still operating on a sleep deficit from the previous week's case, so she did pass out in front on the couch with the files stacked around her, but only for a few hours. When she woke up, it was early Sunday morning.
And she thought, what better time to go diving for dirt in the Fenchurch East records room than now?
She wore old jeans, a grey knit blouse (mouse colours for mouse work), boots, and swept her hair up off the back of her neck. She made herself a thermos of tea and stuff a packet of biscuits in her handbag. The walk to the office took her five minutes, and when she got there, she had to let herself in. It was eerily quiet without the hum of the fluorescents, and her footsteps rung in the hallways.
She did have to turn on one light in the records room.
"Please, let today be a good day," she prayed quietly to herself, squeezing down the narrow aisle. "No roses. No white clown. No defibrillator. Just good -- honest police work."
For some reason, this kind of research felt the absolute opposite of boring. She knew there was something here they could use to bring SuperMac down. And before he managed to transfer Gene to Plymouth. That was really the key, wasn't it?
"Her name is Molly," she murmurs, pulling down a box of files and settling on the floor. "Today is her twelfth birthday."
The mantra doesn't even hold much anger anymore. Just a quiet resolve.
And she thought, what better time to go diving for dirt in the Fenchurch East records room than now?
She wore old jeans, a grey knit blouse (mouse colours for mouse work), boots, and swept her hair up off the back of her neck. She made herself a thermos of tea and stuff a packet of biscuits in her handbag. The walk to the office took her five minutes, and when she got there, she had to let herself in. It was eerily quiet without the hum of the fluorescents, and her footsteps rung in the hallways.
She did have to turn on one light in the records room.
"Please, let today be a good day," she prayed quietly to herself, squeezing down the narrow aisle. "No roses. No white clown. No defibrillator. Just good -- honest police work."
For some reason, this kind of research felt the absolute opposite of boring. She knew there was something here they could use to bring SuperMac down. And before he managed to transfer Gene to Plymouth. That was really the key, wasn't it?
"Her name is Molly," she murmurs, pulling down a box of files and settling on the floor. "Today is her twelfth birthday."
The mantra doesn't even hold much anger anymore. Just a quiet resolve.