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The smell of fresh-baked pastries was overwhelming. Despite the fact that it was barely six in the morning, the bakery was packed. The crowd waiting patiently in line for these delectable treats was surprisingly long; however, to those in the know, the wait was well worth it. This bakery sold the best doughnuts in the entire city.

Tony Kingston marched back to the table where he had left his younger partner. One grubby hand clutched a paper bag filled to the brim with goodies, while the other juggled an extra-large coffee in a Styrofoam cup and a smaller cup. He only drank black coffee. It was far more manly than the sissy skim-double latte he had ordered for the lanky lad who he had commanded to guard the table.

“Miss me?” He barked at his partner, chortling at his own joke. The lad always looked so confused. He would have pitied the kid if he wasn’t so damned annoying.

Tony took a sip from his own coffee as though he needed to fortify himself for their conversation. Slowly, almost tenderly, he began taking doughnuts out of the bag. He placed two gigantic Boston Crème doughnuts onto napkins and then pulled out a Honey Dipped Glazed doughnut. He admired them with reverence.

After a moment, he pulled the final item out of the bag and placed it before Liam. It was the ultimate insult; a plain, uncut, unbuttered bagel that looked pitifully small next to its more fattening kin.

The overweight police officer grinned as though he had just played the most hilarious practical joke in the entire world. He bit ferociously into one of the Boston Crème doughnuts which proceeded to ooze all over his fingers. He licked them clean with disgusting slurping noises, clearly delighted.

“So, kid,” He asked through a mouth full of cream, his words barely perceptible, “did that ugly mutt of yours kick the bucket yet?”

He snorted and nearly choked on his doughnut. Clearly he thought himself to be beyond clever.

William Switzer, known affectionately as Liam by his friends and family, had the 'respect your elders' rule ground deep into his skull by his father as a child. Older people have the wisdom and experience that youngsters lack yet need, Mr. Switzer would tell him sagely. Give them respect, and they'll be sure to return the favor. And Liam, being the good, obedient son that he is, had believed him and still honors that rule today.

And Liam does respect Tony as his senior. Honest. The latter does his job very well and with great conviction. It's just that...sometimes, he doesn't think the respect is all that mutual.

Now would be a perfect example.

He assays a weak smile upon Tony's return to the table they had claimed that early morning, reaching out with a murmured word of gratitude to pull his latte closer to himself once a fleshy palm had set it down. He briefly eyes the colossal doughnuts, stuffed with generous amounts of cream, laid out in hallowedness. There are times like this when the youth would like to advise Mr. Kingston on the health issues of his eating habits...

...But he'd rather save himself from the mental anguish that would surely entail.

"Hm? Oh, Mona's still alive, sir," he answers, trying again to smile along with him in good humor. He takes the uncut, plain bagel into one hand and the plastic knife provided in the other; Tony at least has the entertainment of seeing him struggle to halve the roll with his dull, flimsy 'blade'. "She's only five, after all."

Tony does look genuinely disappointed at this unfortunate news. He stuffs another doughnut into his face, closing his watery eyes in brief ecstasy as he savors the sweet flavors on his tongue. Even his wife cannot bring such a smile to his face.

“Well,” He counters gruffly, managing to finish swallowing this time before speaking, “I’ll just have to do her in myself, then.” He sneers and laughs, spraying a few wet crumbs across the table, slapping one enormous hand down onto the table. It makes a noise so severe that several people in line turn to stare at the pair of cops in uniform. Many smirk – cops eating doughnuts? Isn’t that pathetically cliché?

If such a thing were suggested to Tony, he would be horrified. Cops eat doughnuts, and that is the way it has always been. He likes to do things by the letter of the law, which is why he gets such a kick out of watching his partner attempt to saw at his lackluster plain bagel.

Someone sends a message that crackles over his radio. “10-73.”

Tony rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and hits the button that lets him reply. “Fine,” He growls testily into the radio, “I changed the batteries yesterday, for Chrissake.”

He slaps the radio back onto his belt and rewards Liam with a conspirational look of aggravation. “Honestly, those office bitches don’t know what it’s like for us, out here. Someone needs to teach ‘em a little respect.” He waits for a confirmation.

“Good news, kid,” He barks, remembering the choice bit of information he has yet to divulge to his partner, “we get to have fun today.”

This statement should cause distress, because fun for Tony is not the same as fun for normal people.

"Eheh...right." Better to humor his hopefully joking threat at his dog's life than to become defensive. Discreetly, Liam brushes off the doughnut crumbs from the front of his uniform and, unfortunately, his bagel, all the while casting a rueful smile to the surrounding patrons. Tony can be very...uproarious.

As his partner answers the radio with the surliness he is infamous for, Liam finally bisects the tough wheat with a relieved exhale. He then uses his pathetic cutting tool to smooth a thin layer of cream cheese onto the one half, listening to the beefy man across him grouse about the so-called 'office bitches'. The young cop personally doesn't have any gripes about them, but still he nods as he nibbles at his modest breakfast.

Just smile and nod is his motto. Been working out pretty well for him since he had been teamed up with Tony.

Not even that mantra, however, can keep the subdued smile in place when the elder addresses him with, quote unquote, good news.

"'Fun', sir?" he repeats feebly. Oh, yes. Definitely distressed. "What sort of fun would that be?"

“We get to do some real work today!” Tony responds with a terrifying amount of enthusiasm. Real work, in his mind, is not driving around in a control car and busting up puny drug circles on the bad side of town. Real work is not arresting sexual offenders or pulling over speeding cars. Real work goes deeper than that, far deeper, into depths that most citizens (hell, most of the police force) know nothing about.

He bares his coffee-stained teeth in a doggish grin. “No more of this bitch work that they’ve been giving me since I got saddled with you." He does not seem to realize, per usual, that this might be offensive to his partner.

He continues, scowling, "They figure, one green rookie and my talents’re better used serving as a mentor. Bullshit!” He is unaware that he is ranting at this point, rapping a plastic knife on the table to accentuate his words, the serrated edges dangerously close to Liam’s fingers.

“Get up,” Tony orders unexpectedly. It seems by the empty space before him that he is finished eating. Without waiting for his partner, he shoves his chair backwards and exits the bakery, leaving all of his trash on the table. He shoves the door open on the glass part, disregarding the handle, and stomps over to their patrol car. He gets in, scowling with impatience as he waits for his partner to toddle along.

While waiting, he pulls out one of the small, miscellaneous bags that he lugs around on his belt. Reverently he opens it, peering inside, and smiles viciously.

He also fiddles with the radio of the car and holds the microphone up to his mouth. “11-96. Code 4.” Checking a suspicious vehicle. No further assistance needed.

This is all bullshit, of course, but Tony doesn’t want to be interrupted. It’s time to scare the pants off of his doe-eyed, fresh-faced partner and he can hardly wait to begin.

Sadly enough, Liam has been exposed to his ample partner's belittling derision before and, over some time, become fairly used to it. Yes, it can be, well, exasperating, but the rookie figures it's just Tony's way of toughening him up and making him a mentally stronger cop.

Really.

At the barked demand, he shoots up onto his feet with a hurried "yes, sir!" and automatically gathers up the waste, accustomed to cleaning up after the both of them now. In his rushing state, he nearly barrels through a young, female employee on his way to the garbage can, where he alternates between apologizing profusely to her and flickering his panicky eyes outside to the police car, not wanting to upset Tony further.

The garbage is deposited at last and he's scurrying out of the shop, rounding the automobile in the parking lot to take his place in the passenger's seat. Immediately, an apology gushes out of his mouth.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, sir! Didn't mean to take so long, but I ran into this poor girl and all..." His voice trails off quietly, knowing full well that Tony doesn't give a damn, especially now that he's set on this 'real work', whatever it is.

What is the kid blabbing on about now? “Shut the hell up and close the damned door,” Tony replies shortly, not even listening to this excuse as he fiddles with the police radio. He changes the frequency of his personal radio so that it emits a high-pitched, painful squeal.

He shoots his partner a sneaky side-glance and turns the car on, revving the engine several times. He clicks his seat belt on, glaring until Liam does the same, and sets out of the parking lot at a break-neck speed. As usual, he turns the lights of the car on, as well as the siren.

Cars zig-zag out of his way as he zooms through the streets. He grins as he does so, turning corners sharply just to watch pedestrians gasp, and finally pulls into an empty parking lot by the shadier side of town. He puts the car into park and turns off the engine.

“The Academy is a good start for people like us,” Tony says, beginning his lecture softly. It is perhaps the first time that he has acknowledged a mutual bond between himself and Liam. Clearly, he is feeling sentimental.

His eyes turn distant for a moment and he offers the sack on his lap to Liam. “But the Academy can only take us so far. There are freaks out there, kid, and only a few people can stop them.”

“I know I can, given the chance. You? We’ll see. Today will be your first test.”

He pulls a children’s story book out of the pocket on the back of his seat and tosses it haphazardly at his partner. “Read this. Read the title.” It is called: What Goes Bump in the Night.

“D’you believe in magic, kid?” The parking lot is deserted, with dead, leafless trees lining the cracking pavement. It is an imposing setting for such a question. The wind howls as it whips past the windows of the parked car.

Liam, rubbing his neck lightly for any signs of whiplash, blinks bewilderedly at the children's book that had been flung onto his lap and his suddenly soft-spoken mentor. It almost concerns him to see this change of mannerisms in Tony, especially when he questions him on the existence of magic, of all things.

"...Excuse me, sir?" he speaks softly, as if he isn't certain he had heard him correctly. Magic seems like one of those preposterous subjects that someone like his no-nonsense senior would not bother to acknowledge. Liam bites his lip softly, dropping his gaze back down onto the book's title and idly listening to the winds wail as they lash against his window.

"Well...no, not really, to be honest. I mean, it's all smoke and mirrors, right?" He's thinking in the fake magician sense of the word, where it's all illusions and carefully planned deception. Liam had grown up in a strongly Christian home, as well, so witchcraft had immediately been stamped as pagan from the start.

"What's this all about, sir, if you don't mind me asking?" he questions after a time of quiet had passed, while, curiously, he takes the sack also offered to him and, with much tentativeness, draws it open.

There are a few tightly-wound scrolls in the bag, written in a scrawling hand. Tony does not acknowledge them yet. Instead, he answers the question, delighted and disgusted simultaneously by Liam’s youthful ignorance.

There is a frightening sort of passion behind Tony’s words, even when he is mocking his partner. “I’m not talking about pulling rabbits out of top hats and shit like that. I’m talking about real magic, bad magic. Freakshow magic.” The passion appears to be an extended hatred that drives him into a frenzy.

“What this is about,” He begins snidely, sneering at the look of apprehension on the kid’s face, “is our work. Today, tomorrow, and forever.”

He leans over the armrest so that his flabby face is uncomfortably close. There is nowhere to look but at his small piercing eyes. “You’ll see a lot of weird shit on the beat, but believe me, what you’ll see with me trumps all of that. You think the real people to worry about out there are the thieves? The rapists? The murderers? Think again.”

He rips the story book away and flips it open to a page where there is a vampire graphically attacking a small child. It’s quite a violent picture for a children’s book, but he is holding it as though it is a Bible passage he is using to prove his point.

“I’ve seen people killed by these freaks, honest to God. It sounds crazy, but they are out there, and they are just waiting to rip the veins out of some preschooler’s little throat.” This is discrimination, pure and simple, but Tony trusts nothing that deviates from the definition of human. He hates the things that he cannot explain, hates them all with a vehemence that lights up his face with a sick sort of joy.

“I got a tip from a buddy of mine. We’re gonna go find a monster today, kid, and then you’ll believe me. If you don’t, well, you’ll be dead and I’ll be rid of you.” He is almost twitching with anticipation.

There's a heavy silence that ensues the violently passionate rant where Liam is just gawking without shame at the older man, as if waiting for the punch line to this cruel joke that the other is ragging on him.

Tony's podgy countenance is still unbearably close a few trickling seconds later, however, inflamed with aggressive loathing towards these 'freaks', and he's beginning to think that his partner honestly believes his own tirade.

The young policeman starts considering the other man's mental health in addition to his physical problems. He swallows thickly, nervously.

"...You...You can't be serious, sir." He can't be - not when every fiber in Liam's unnish body is insisting that the elder has lost it psychologically, that perhaps the stress of age and taking on a junior officer is taking its toll on him in the form of these mythological creatures.

He's still hoping for the cruel joke theory.

Tony studiously ignores this nervous protestation, just as he always does. His partner is just a little mosquito buzzing at his ear and he itches to swat some sense into him. Despite this irritation, Tony is somewhat heartened by the disbelief in the kid's voice; he would write off anyone who would immediately accept this shocking tirade as an idiot, though he does feel a flicker of annoyance at the realization that he will not be able to go freak-hunting until he convinces his partner of his truthfullness.

“I didn’t believe it ‘til I saw it, either,” He snorts, rearing back so that he is comfortably leaning in his own seat. He looks incredibly smug, content in the knowledge that Liam will probably soil his pants when he is actually convinced.

“Give me the bag,” The overweight police officer demands, holding out his hand. “I’ll show you.”

His kindly expression is not at all convincing.

Liam drops his uneasy stare down to the sack of scrolls opened in his lap, which he had only gleamed over while listening to Tony. They don't look too menacing in appearance, if considered objectively. It's the suspected notion behind them that concerns him, though. He still can't wrap his mind around the other man thinking he knows something as groundless as sorcery. It's simply too out of character, in his opinion.

With doubt thick in his eyes, he slowly fists the bag and stretches to drop it into his partner's large, demanding palm, eyeing him like he has become some iconoclast.

"Just what are you going to do with that?"

Tony is grinning now. It is an unpleasant grimace that stretches his flabby features into an almost unrecognizable, but familiarly smug mask. He removes a scroll delicately from the bag, grubby hands caressing the parchment, and unfurls it over the steering wheel.

There are many words and instructions written in his own handwriting on this parchment. Why he hasn't been keeping these spells in a notebook is anyone's guess - perhaps some small part of Tony appreciates magic and understands the novelty of this spell, or perhaps he is simply unimaginative and has stolen the scrolls that his mentor made him laboriously copy down, many years ago.

He does not raise his eyes from the words before him, but manages to speak with scathing mockery. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Magic, you oaf.”

He pauses and smirks, continuing cruelly, “I could kill that mutt of yours, but that’d be a waste of our tax payers’ dollars. No. I’m going to use a tracking spell.”

The police officer removes an ordinary, worn map from where it has been nestled between the seats. With some difficulty, he spreads it over his enormous lap. His watery eyes flicker over the scroll before he tosses it, once again, at his partner.

“Follow along,” He orders. It would be foolish to even consider trying to argue with that tone of voice.

He’s had this spell memorized for so long, he hardly remembers the first time he cast it. He lifts his hand over the map and begins intoning, speaking softly and yet with authority. He moves his fingers in an odd gesture so that they skim across the pages of the map, and he pulls his head back, eyes half-closed, one hand hovering.

Untouched, the pages begin to flip themselves.

He waits, patiently. The car is silent but for his heavy, labored breathing and the flipping of the map. Finally, the pages come to a rest, and his finger plummets downward. He opens his eyes fully, examining this intersection of streets and highways. Sneering, he lifts the map so that Liam can see it better.

There is a small red star where his finger has landed. It is moving slowly.

Tony turns the engine of the car on. “Watch the star, and don’t fuck this up. Tell me if it starts changing streets or moving more quickly.”

He turns the lights of his car on, and speeds out of the parking lot at his usual break-neck speed. He looks impossibly happy.

“Let’s go find the freak.”

Liam eyeballs the map with a brow puckered in disbelief, following the slow-moving star across the map's lines and creases. This can't be right continues to stream through his mind, repeat turned on.

But, not one to upset his superior, he watches the red mark - presumed to be the freak Tony has in mind - with concentration in addition to incredulity and amazement, murmuring any prominent changes in position.

"Turning right onto Emerson now...approaching intersection..."

He may not believe it, but if it involves his work, he'll take it seriously.

Tony approaches the intersection from the opposite direction. He flicks off the siren and lights some distance away to be less conspicuous. They're just two cops out on their rounds., having a grand ol' time. He doesn't want the freak to get wind of their approach.

He parks the car, stealthily, in a small lot off of Emerson.

“Take the map, and get out casually, like we’re just getting a cup of coffee.” This scenario would actually be within reason for the pair. Tony is acting nonchalant already, as though he just wants to get some caffeine and head back on the road. “Make sure you’ve got your guns,” He reminds Liam unnecessarily, automatically assuming that the kid is an idiot and has left his weapons in the car.

He leans against the side of the car, waiting, and then leads the way to Emerson Street. Out of the corner of his mouth, and with a shocking amount of subtleness, Tony whispers, “The perp’s wearing glasses. See him?”

He continues to walk forward, his eyes focused on a coffee shop located a good distance past where Cort is.

“When we get to him, I’ll pull my gun. You tell him to freeze, and then shake him down, see what’s in his pockets. Surprise is everything.” He is still talking quietly, and adds his usual remonstrance, “Don’t fuck this up.”

Liam falls into the leisurable stride beside him upon leaving the vehicle, the map still clutched in one hand and his guns ready in their holsters, as Tony had needlessly reminded him. His eyes are also trained on the coffee shop with intent, but every so often they subtly flick over to Cort in curiosity.

He doesn't size up to the rookie's expectations of a freak, much less a criminal, really. Not much younger than him, from the looks of it. The only quirk about him would be his hair, and that's really stretching it. Nothing bares any resemblence to the violent, child-assailing vampire depicted in What Goes Bump in the Night.

Liam passes a mild look of concern over to his partner, as if to say, Are you sure he's the one?, because he doesn't want to voice it aloud now, not when Tony seems to be in his game. He's learned too well in the past not to interrupt or object his authority during an arrest.

So, he trails along, moving in closer on the werewolf, not feeling too certain about this.

Then again, practically everything that Tony orders him to do makes him wary.

Cort sipped on the coffee he'd just bought, holding it close to his face, letting the strong smell invade his nostrils, his sinuses, mostly blocking out the offal of the city. He didn't really have any place to go at the moment and didn't really mind. He felt like walking. Lots of pent up energy, predatory energy, that he didn't get to (or rather, let himself) exercise very often.

His stomach could only take so much of the smell of roasted beans. Also, parts of him, the more feral ones, needed to smell what was going on. The coffee felt like a big rock in his way, obscuring everything. It was annoying. He needed to know. Lowering his cup, Cort let the smells rush in, a mixure of pain and relief. Garbage, cars, sordid affairs, a hint of gunpowder -- all very normal and abusive for this place, this time.

He didn't give any though to the person behind him. It was late at night, there was a coffe shop. What else would they be doing?

Tony deigns to acknowledge his partner's skeptical look with a phlegm-ridden snort. He picks up the pace as though he is excited about the prospect of entering the coffee shop - doughnuts, mm! The pace had been increased so much, so quickly, that they are now directly behind the perp, and gaining.

Now that it's clear that the man in front of them is not turning around, Tony elbows Liam, hard. It's the obvious signal to get their guns out.

"Freeze!" He booms, using his best 'I'm-a-cop-so-listen-up' voice. Anything that is not deaf in the local vicinity may well be after he's through.

He points his gun directly at the perp's back, waiting for him to turn around. The sour, unimpressed jerk of his head indicates that Liam should take it from here.

Liam tries to voice the command sternly with his partner, but it lacks the boom that Tony's always carries. Doesn't help that he isn't feeling right about this arrest.

But, nonetheless, Liam approaches Cort with a list of his rights rolling off his lips, slipping his gun back into his holster in order to do a proper search.

"Turn and place your hands on the wall, sir," he states in what he hopes is a firm, decisive tone, though green eyes are looking a tad rueful right now.

With a flinch, Cort managed to spill coffee all over himself. The top to his cup wasn't as securely fixed in place as he had originally thought. Cort let off a few choice curses and then turned to look at whoever had done the shouting.

Cops. He raised an eyebrow and grimaced. "Great," he muttered, and then louder, "What do you want?" He didn't exactly fit the description of a criminal. Why did they always seem to peg him for a criminal? Having been walking all night, Cort hadn't bothered to wear something to cover the Deathprint on his neck; it stood out boldly, blackly, almost painfully above his tshirt collar. He tried his best to wipe the coffee from his shirt before it could do any kind of permanent damage.

Cort didn't like the smell of either one of them. One smelled like stale cornchips and grease and too much like the city itself. The other was cleaner, but he could smell a dog. Cort wasn't much of a dog person anymore. He kept it to himself.

As the perp turns around, Tony notices the odd black handprint on the back of his neck. He grimaces and gives his partner a meaningul look. To further emphasize his point, he interrupts the pat-down by carressing the Deathprint with the barrel of his gun.

What a freak, he thinks with a sneer, resisting the urge to simply knock the perp over the head and throw him in the back of the patrol car. That, of course, wouldn't be professional.

He gestures for Liam to continue with the pat-down and handcuffing. Tony takes out his police pad and a pen, scribbling away. "I need your name, address, and phone number to start," He says in an almost unrecognizably polite, professional tone. The pen is poised.

He can't help himself. "Oh, and the date that you were first infected," He says smoothly, slyly, though his excitement at being able to reveal his own knowledge of Cort's other life is evident.