Hey guys. I know I probably shouldnt be starting a new story, but I just cant seem to get into my other two at the minute. I'm feeling amazingly depressed, and it was either this or actually doing my art, and I cant draw when I'm sad. So you guys are getting stuck with my depressing rant, which you can all just feel free to ignore. I know its christmas eve... just about, but thanks to a certain someone I dont feel christmassy at all. No offense to anyone reading this, but guys suck. whether theyre your best friend, or your boyfriend, theyre just crap. Especially the ones who hold your hand and cuddle up to you at the cinema, then the next day spin you some line about needing to 'get to know you first', and dont even worry about completely screwing you up two days before christmas, and then they dont even realize that they are the reason your so down...


Deadly blood.

Chapter one.

She was handcuffed. Strange really. What was the point when she was already locked in a room? How exactly did they expect her to escape?

They'd handcuffed her to that rock hard excuse for a bed she'd been thrown on when she was unconscious. The angle had strained her back. The cuffs were slicing into her wrists. The throbbing pain in her head was so intense that she could barely move, let alone plot an elaborate escape plan into action. Stupid bastards. Did they have to hit her quite so hard?

She slowly opened her eyes. It night. The cell was dark. Dingy. Painted an unflattering shade of grey. It was minimalistic to say the least, containing just the bed, and a battered looking chair. The whole dull little room was locked behind a dented, metal door. The small barred window in it was the only source of light. And sound.

She could just about make out the conversation going on outside. Judging by the shadows dancing through the slots in the window, there were at least two people.

"You don't wanna go in there, Cortez." One was saying.

"Didn't you see the state of Sheridan after the arrest?"

"Hey, loose the smile." Cortez replied.

"Assaulting a police officer is no laughing matter."

"Okay. Okay. I'm just saying, that's one crazy bitch in there. What's the hurry to get her out?"

"Morris and Wyatt are ready to interview. And she may need medical attention. Is she still unconscious?"

"With any luck."

Cortez laughed.

"Come on, you can help me get her up."

"No way man. I'm not going in there."

"'You value your job Jhonson?" Cortez asked pointedly.

"'You value your life Cortez?"

"Come on, you wimp."

She held her breath as the lock clicked, and the door swung open with a metallic clang. Two suit clad men swaggered in. one looked Italian. He had dark hair, and intense brown eyes, buried underneath heavy eyebrows, showing his tendency to frown. She guessed he was Cortez. The other was younger. Taller. With a blatant mouth of chewing gum.

"Go on then Cortez. I'll erm, I'll watch the door." He said sheepishly.

Cortez shook his head impatiently and shone his flashlight across the room. She winced as the beam made direct contact with her unaccustomed eyes. Cortez sensed the movement.

"'You awake?" he called, wandering further into the room.

"Hey. Anyone home?"

Jhonson took the opportunity to adopt a hunched stance, and mutter "Hello, Daniel San." In a very bad Japanese accent.

God these cops really were as stupid as they looked.

Cortez was hovering right over her now. Shining that damned torch in her face. Shaking her arm.

She opened her eyes.

Cortez took an instinctive step back.

"'You gonna come quietly?" he asked.

She glared at him.

"If you turn that thing off."

He did just that. Making his next job of untangling her wrists from the bed, and cuffing her again, incredibly hard. She cooperated, but she could have easily made a run for it. Being led out of the cell, she realised that she probably would have gotten clean away, too.

There was hardly anyone around besides tired looking middle aged officers, who looked as if they had scoffed their fair share of donnuts in their time. Pretty easy to get past. Pathetically easy.

But she'd missed her chance. She was being marched down a monotonous corridor towards a discreet little room; very different from the one she had just been dragged out of. Interview room 3. That's what the door read. Funny how those two little words could hold so much potential fear. Funny how a harmless wooden door could look so threatening.

She glanced through the little wire enforced glass panel. The room was badly lit. There was a professional looking table. A few chairs. A reflective screen, that obviously had people gazing through it on the other side.

Cortez tapped on the glass, and shoved the door open. Interrupting her mental analysis of the room. Aggravating her already unbearable headache.

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the fact that her surroundings now seemed to be spinning. That she seemed to have left her stomach back in the cell. She wasn't about to pass out. Not here. How weak would that make her look?

"Thanks, Cortez." A voice throbbed.

She managed to force her eyes open, before anyone had a chance to question her medical state.

The officer in front of her held out his hand.

"I'm Lutendant Morris. This is detective inspector Wyatt. We'll be interviewing you today."

She just glared at him. Despite his professionally friendly manner, and offer of a handshake, she could tell that he really didn't like her. She had a gift for reading people and this guy was resigned to hating her already.

"I'm cuffed." She said simply. Keeping eye contact until he glanced away. Raised an eyebrow at his colleague.

He gestured towards the table.

"Take a seat."

She shrugged.

"If I must."

The truth was, she was very glad he had offered. Another few minutes of meaningless banter, and she'd have had to make do with the floor.

She eased herself into a surprisingly comfortable chair, with a worn red leather seat, and glossed wooden arms, trying to look as defiantly relaxed and comfortable as she could with the movement limiting cuffs, and a nausea inducing concussion.

"'You okay?" the second officer asked.

She glanced up, getting her first good look at the man sitting opposite her. Detective Inspector Wyatt. Wow. Messy dark blonde hair. Piercing green eyes. Liquid. Warm. Eyebrow raised coyly, mouth unturned in a subtle smile, as he waited for a response. Those past it marshmallow bodied cops outside were definitely a thing of the past.

She sighed.

"No, since your asking. I really didn't think much to the room service, and as for the cuffs? I'm so not into bondage."

His smile grew.

"Good to know."

"We'd like to ask you a few questions." Morris interrupted sitting down at the table. Taking control of the interview.

"Do you want a lawyer present?"

"No, because I'm not intending on answering them."

"Where's the gun?"

She boredly lent back in the chair, and gazed up at the ceiling. Blatantly ignoring him.

"So… 'Bout these handcuffs. 'You guys feel like taking them off? You know, maybe loosening' them a bit? No? 'Cos they really do hurt like hell."

"The cuffs stay on." Morris drawled.

"And I'd appreciate it if you stopped complaining long enough for us to do this. Some of us would really like to get home tonight."

She was definitely right about him not liking her. She was also pretty sure that Morris's hopes of getting home on time were going to stay just that. Hopes. No way was she going to make this easy.

"Oh, we're onto complaints?" She asked.

"Good, 'cos I have loads."

"Answer the question."

"What's your policy on verbal abuse? I was called a 'crazy bitch' by one of your colleagues."

Morris blinked. Shook his head.

"You were unconscious."

"Not for long. And yeah, about me being unconscious, that was very unprofessionally handled. I could have died. What if I'd choked on my own vomit or something? That's manslaughter. I could sue."

Morris's relaxed manner was disintegrating fast. He was sitting rigidly in his chair. Fiddling with his tie. Keeping his expression unreadable.

"But you're not dead." He muttered through gritted teeth, obviously wanting to add an 'unfortunately' on the end.

"No… but you couldn't blame me for getting confused. Honestly, the beds in this place are like mortuary slabs. Its criminal."

"Are you done?" Morris interrupted.

"O-or do you want to moan about the tea next? What, was it too hot, too wet?"

"I don't know. I wasn't offered any." She said slowly.

Wyatt cleared his throat, finally deciding to join in.

"Lets start with an easy one." He suggested, leaning forward.

"Whets your name?"

She looked down, taking a sudden interest in her nails.

He smiled.

"Come on…"

"Nope."

He sighed and made serious eye contact.

"How about I tell you mine? That's fair."

Despite the fact that she had been trying to guess this information for the past few minutes, she tried to refuse again. But his eyes wouldn't let her.

"I'm Leo."

She held his gaze for a few more seconds. Waiting. Playing him.

She exhaled deliberately slowly.

"Piper."


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