Title: Slums pts. 1&2/2
Pairings/Characters: Tom/OC, Doug, OC
Disclaimer: I don't own 21 Jumpstreet, nor it's characters. All belong to Callen and peeps.
Warnings: M/M, rape, violence/disturbing imagery, language, character death
Summary: No one likes being alone in a storm.
A/N: Similar to "Blinded by the Thousand Points of Light." I guess it's AU, then. Tom's a prostitute. Doug's a rank up - detective. I didn't expect it to get so horrible at the end of the first part, but....just not a S.M. fic without a little nasty spin!
Thanks to rose_melody2 for looking over the first part for me!
Turned these both in to my Fiction Writing class teacher. I am sooo nervous....So, any critique from you guys would be wonderful. I'm thinking of putting it in my portfolio for the class.
"Pay attention to the back streets
And the broken homes.
Some call it slums,
Some call it nice.
I wanna take you through a wasteland
I like to call my home.
Welcome to Paradise."
-"Welcome to Paradise" by Green Day
It was always a good night when it rained. Usually, such weather would keep people indoors, and it still did, but no one ever likes being alone in a storm. After a hard day at work and being critiqued and bossed around, people found ways to reverse the roles, to become the superior to another person. One stop on the way home was all that was needed. Some believed it's just another tool to help them relax.
Rain was coming down in heavy sheets, and the wind was blowing hard enough to make visibility almost impossible. Nonetheless, there was just about the same amount of traffic out as usual. Neon lights illuminated the streets downtown; shouting and brawls between rival gang members or simply between drunken men and women were common occurrences. They were the sights and sounds of the more run-down part of town. To Tom, it was his every day work atmosphere and home.
His dark, usually feathery hair was hanging in sopping wet strands, his bangs plastered to his face just like the way his gray t-shirt, ripped up jeans, and ratty jacket clung to his thin frame. He shivered from the cold shower of the storm, which showed no signs of clearing out of the vicinity anytime soon. He didn't own an umbrella; the next best thing he could do was find an awning in front of one of the numerous buildings lining the sides of the street. Tonight, he took his post in front of a video rental shop.
As always, he kept his head lowered like a sulking puppy, but made sure he was able to see any vehicle that parked next to the curb nearby. Most often, it was a sporty, expensive-looking car that would pull up; it wasn't a surprise that whoever was inside typically paid rather well compared to those who arrived in less than appealing vehicles. He knew it was better, safer, if he stood with at least one other person in case somebody drove up to kidnap and murder him elsewhere, but he preferred to work alone. Besides, he didn't really have any trustworthy or well-known acquaintances that he was comfortable to hang around with.
Amber, doe-like eyes kept watch from behind his soaked bangs. He paid no attention to the people who passed by in front of him; his focus was on the glistening black pavement a yard or so away. After approximately fifteen minutes of waiting patiently, headlights came into his line of vision and the quiet sound of an engine reached his ears. Casually, he lifted his head and surveyed the automobile that had parked itself in front of the store.
A silver Pontiac Fiero. It looked to be a promising commission – a healthy payment to begin the night.
Despite the pouring rain, he made no rush to approach the passenger's side. The window lowered, and he bent down a little to peer in.
Clearing his throat, he asked in a well-practiced, smooth voice, "I take it you're wanting more than just directions."
"Hop in," was the husky reply as the door unlocked.
Regardless of him being utterly saturated with rain water, he got in and silently breathed his thanks for the heater being on. Immediately, his chilled skin started to warm up. Now that he was inside the car, he could see what his client looked like. It was an older man, probably in his mid-fifties, with black hair that showed signs of turning gray. He wasn't bad at all as far as appearances were concerned. For Tom, it was yet another thing to be grateful for; there was nothing worse than a tremendously unattractive customer, making it all the more difficult to pretend he enjoyed whatever depraved act the person made him do or did to him.
"How old are you?" the man inquired?
"Perfect. Do you have a certain place where you conduct your business?"
Tom shook his head. "No. Anywhere's fine with me. If you're lookin' to go someplace cheap, there's a motel a couple blocks away. It's not the cleanest of places, but it's alright."
"What's your name?"
"Tom or Tommy. Whichever."
"I'll just take you to a spot I usually visit, Tommy."
No one ever likes being alone in a storm. Loneliness is dark and cold and enhances every feeling of depression and fear. As the Fiero sped off in the opposite direction of the alley in a haze of rain and screeching tires, Tom recovered from the forceful shove out of the car that made him powerfully collide with the cement street. He practically screeched in agony as he slowly rolled onto his back. Giant, dark purple and black bruises adorned what seemed like every visible inch of his skin. He had been left dressed in only his jeans; the garment had clearly been carelessly put on, for they were not buttoned, the fly was not zipped, and they were pulled up enough to just barely cover the area between his thighs.
The upper portion of his body remained exposed. It was grotesquely mutilated by stab wounds, demeaning words carved into his flesh, and initials seared into his skin by a cattle brand in various places. Blood was smeared everywhere, along with streams of semen; both were currently in the process of being washed away by the falling rain. His left eye was entirely swollen shut and, like his right, was surrounded by bruising. A gash went diagonally across his right cheek and was mirrored by one on the opposite side of his countenance. His left leg was broken; his right ankle was sprained. The thumb, index and middle fingers were absent from his left hand. On his right, the pinky and ring fingers were gone.
He coughed harshly and turned his head to vomit. The tears escaping from behind his closed eyelids blended in with the clear droplets already on his face. There was nothing around that could serve as shelter from the rain except for a large metal dumpster, though he knew he wouldn't be able to crawl inside. Nothing around to serve as a blanket either. He shook uncontrollably from his sobs, the freezing temperature, and the indescribable pain. There was nobody near that would find him or hear him call for help; he realized it was undoubtedly impossible, calling for help, for he had completely lost his voice from screaming his throat raw earlier. There was no comfort. No warmth. No company.
The storm maintained its strength for the next four hours. Tom had closed his eyes after one; they did not re-open, and after another hour and a half, he lost the fight to continue breathing.
Blue and red flashing lights danced in the dark of night, begging for attention from anyone who could see them. A group of about fifteen people had gathered around the parked cop cars, trying to catch a glimpse of what was most likely a dead body. Yellow caution tape was strung up and a few officers worked on keeping the curious spectators away from the crime scene. A light drizzle was coming from the bulky clouds that were hiding the glittering stars and the majority of the moon. It was a calm night, for the most part – just a bit depressing from the discovery someone had made and called in to report it.
"Detective Doug Penhall," Doug stated as he shook another policeman's hand. As he passed underneath the caution tape, he asked, "So, what do we got?"
"Male. Early twenties. Found about an hour ago by a woman walking her dog. Ruling it as a homicide, judging by how beat up he is."
The two men strolled farther into the alleyway until they came upon another assembly of people – forensics investigators, more cops, and a crime scene photographer. There was a tattered plaid blanket lying atop the victim's body, and Doug turned, quirking an eyebrow, to the officer who had followed him over.
"What's with this? Was it here when she came?" he inquired.
"No, she said she found it not too far away and thought it'd be a humane thing to do if she covered him. I can understand why. Detective, it, uh….it's pretty gruesome."
Taking a deep breath, Doug knelt down and closed his eyes briefly. This was always something he hated to do – gaze at dead faces and bodies, attempting to make some sort of connection, any sort of indication as to what had happened to them. It never got any easier. A life had been snuffed pre-maturely, and the only consolation he took from his job came from the fact that it was his duty to act as their mortal angel by bringing their murderer to justice, to make the scumbag suffer in some sort of way, shape, or form.
Releasing his held breath, he swiftly pulled back the blanket and immediately had to glance away. Gruesome, indeed. From what he could infer, this young man had been dead out here in the open for a couple of days. It brought a stab of great sympathy to his heart.
"No one even cared," he said quietly, more so to himself. "No one even knew he was here."
Taking out a handkerchief to hold over his nose and mouth, he stared at the victim's bashed and battered countenance for a moment. The young man's face was essentially broken in every area possible. What were once defined cheekbones were now simply discolored, sunken spots. The bridge of his nose was crooked; his jaw was misaligned; his chin had lost its defined form. It was evident the bones that made up the structure of his face were not the only ones to be shattered. A number of his ribs had met the same demise. Both wrists and elbows were damaged, and his left shoulder was dislocated. As Doug's gaze moved down the male's emaciated frame, he became more aware of the blood stains in various places.
Realizing the area Doug was studying, the officer standing beside him commented sullenly, "He, uh….He was castrated."
"Jesus Christ," Doug muttered under his breath. "It wasn't enough to just torture the poor boy; he had to completely strip him of his masculinity."
"The two other blood spots where his knees are came from them being sliced open."
"Sick son of a bitch. Made him suffer right to the end….Any leads on a name?"
"We talked to a couple of people who are often around this area. They said they had seen him a few times, hanging out in front of different stores each night. Think his name is Tom, but it's not for sure."
"Tom," Doug repeated softly.
"He was a prostitute that worked this block and the next one over."
Doug nodded absently, still studying the maimed body. "Car pulls up. Thinking it's a legitimate client, he gets in. Takes him somewhere. Tortures him, most likely rapes him, then dumps him here where no one will see. Sound like a possibility?"
"You don't think he was forced into the car?"
"Could've been. But from what I've seen on similar cases I've worked in the past, it's usually always voluntary. They think a person is just another paying customer, but turns out the person is their killer."
"Mm. It's disgusting and terrible….Seems like he was one of the better looking ones wandering around here. Even looks like he still had a bit of innocence in him….Don't suppose he has any family we could get a hold of." Placing a palm on the cold forehead and brushing it back to stroke the unkempt hair, he whispered sincerely, "Sorry, Tom."
Doug got to his feet and watched as the dead being was placed into a body bag. It was carted off on a gurney toward the ambulance that was waiting to drive the deceased cargo to the autopsy lab.
"You think it was an isolated or serial killing?"
Doug shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know. But I have a feeling it's not an isolated one. I don't think he's going to be our first and last victim to suffer such a horrible death."
As he walked back to his car, he gazed up and down the street, searching for any sort of clue that might pop out at him. The single thing he saw worthy enough to take note of was a silver Fiero parked across the street with someone inside, observing the events unfold from where he sat. Something tugged at Doug's intuition; the knowledge that criminals tended to return to their crime scene filtered into his thoughts. An officer diverted his attention to make an inquiry, causing him to turn away for not even five seconds; when he glanced to the place where the car had been mere moments ago, it was gone.
A silver Pontiac Fiero. He committed it to memory….Just in case it was found to be relevant to the case at some point.