#TattleCrime Directory

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

Trust & Conflict (closed to @corxner )

(please note that the victims' names in this post—or future posts in this thread—were all totally made up and used to add some depth to the story. any similarities to a person, or the name of a person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. this applies to any further names made up for the fictional victims in this story. also, please be aware that this thread contains dark themes, which will be tagged for anyone who may need it.)

A librarian by the name of Janice Berr had been brutally murdered going home from work one night. Someone had punctured a hole in her fuel tank, it seemed, and followed her. She was found in the woods, near where her car was left with the front, driver's side door and trunk wide open. Judging by how many times she had been stabbed, and the state the wounds left her in, it was determined to be a crime of passion.

Maybe a former lover? Maybe someone had an axe to grind? However, there were no leads. Everyone seemed to like her, and any potential suspects had airtight alibies.

Freddie had heard about the case, of course, but these sorts of things happen all the time, unfortunately. It didn't quite fall into her purview.

When Faye Riche, a counselor, turned up in much the same way (except in her own home), that was when Freddie looked into it a little deeper. There were similar markings left by the murder weapon in each case. Both victims were women. Both murdered at night, seemingly in a rage. It had seemed a pattern was emerging.

That was until a new body was discovered in an abandoned parking lot. All Freddie knows is the address, where she is driving to now, and that the victim is a man with the same markings left by what seems to be the same knife. She has the heat on. The night is cold and her drive is a silent one.

When she arrives, she can see that the usual lot are there already. Jack Crawford stands a short distance away from the body, speaking to a local detective. Will Graham stands, seemingly in a trance, putting himself in the shoes of the killer. On the ground, she can barely see the body with the CSI team blocking her view as they carry out their work. She recognizes almost all of them—Beverly Katz, Jimmy Price, and, of course, Brian Zeller—but the fourth… She's never seen him before. He seems younger than the others, and she takes note that Will walks directly over to him after speaking with Crawford about whatever he just imagined.

Meanwhile, over at the crime scene…

Crawford walks over to his team at the body. "What do we know?" he asks.

Price is the only one of the four standing. He holds the victim's wallet in his hands, looking through its contents.

"Carl Getty," he answers, looking at the man's driver's license, "forty years old, and judging by the ID card I found, he works at one of the local high schools in the area."

"He's got some scraping on his hands, and there are little pieces of gravel in the cuts," Zeller says, holding Getty's palms up for Crawford to see.

"The gravel seems consistent with the paving in this lot," Katz adds, "and he has a laceration on the back of his head. He was struck from behind."

Will had been taking it all in, but when they finish, it's he that turns to the only one that hasn't spoken yet.

"What did you find, Faust?" he asks softly, encouragingly.

However, before an answer could be given, Zeller interrupts, saying, "Shit… Freddie Lounds is here. How did she find out so fast?"

Will looks up towards the direction of the barricades and sees her. He begins walking over to her and, sensing that there might be an issue, Beverly follows after him.

With someone looking after Will, Crawford turns his attention back to Faust.

"Yes, what did you find?"

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

Holly. The girl that Selina takes care of, that Freddie so frequently forgets about because… Well, it's easy to forget that there is something soft and nurturing about Selina Kyle when she's lashing out at you, and for what? Oh, yes. For offering to help her.

Still, the mention of the girl, Selina's foster daughter of sorts, brings a warmer smile to Freddie's face as she looks at the lovely, wounded creature in front of her. With a gentle "hm" sound, Freddie stands and makes her way towards the kitchen to make that sandwich.

As she looks through the fridge for the cheese and tofurky, she continues to think about the article that she will absolutely still be writing, even if Selina doesn't want to make a statement for her to include. In fact, that's even better! Because who's to say that it really was Catwoman? What if it was a woman who just looked like her? How much worse a scenario that would be! A wicked smirk forms at the corners of her lips as she goes back into her fridge for a few more odds and ends.

It is about ten minutes before Freddie returns to her living room, carrying two plates. One holds the sandwich as-advertised, but the other is an oblong serving plate, which contains a butter knife, some tomato slices, some spinach leaves, and two small containers of avocado and hummus spreads, respectively. She sets each plate down on the coffee table in front of Selina.

"Just in case you wanted to spruce it up a bit, I thought I might give you some options," Freddie says of the items on the second plate. "As for Holly, next time—and I say that with full confidence that there will be a 'next time'—she can come over to stay, as well."

Freddie isn't the nurturing type. Not like Selina. But she sure does seem to love her "special cases."

“i know you and your fucking recording app aren’t itching to make me a victim right now.”

words slice through the air like a blade singing. it whistles and cuts and her words border on drawing blood, always, in a way the cat may or may not lick to soothe after she’s gored. moron, she knows, bloody mouth, how she bites even when it’s undeserved. her flat, black gaze bores into the journalist’s, though dull as it may be.

she cannot muster up the ability to emote. it’s so far from her burnt fingertips it’s lost, useless. she narrows her stare a little tiny bit, enough to make it clear the idea leaves a taste in her mouth that is worse than the immediate sour tang of freshly opened curdled milk.

she won’t be the person who blows any kind of whistle, no fucking sir. that’s not her place. let the fucking bleeding hearts take care of that shit. she absolutely doesn’t believe in the good of anything — and if it’s coming from tabloid-slinging shit sandwich peddler fredricka lounds, yeah, she doesn’t think there’s ’good’ in its intent, not in the way it won’t become more trouble than it’s worth. but she’s stupid, isn’t she?

not this time. maybe she’s too much of a cynic.

“i’ll take that sandwich, if that’s okay. i’m starving, anyway. and i’m… exhausted.”

fingers twitch as though they hear her on cue. she sighs, passing the cigarette between her hands. she aches again, irritatingly brief, like a sharp knock on a door.

“i already texted holly. she knows i’ll be back tomorrow.”

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

La Morte Non Mi Troverà (closed to @sqeeebus )

"I can help you get work. Outside the force, if you want me to. I know people in private security," she had said. "Guarantee you, it pays better. Right now, future you is thanking me."

Then Stammets shot the cop. His blood sprayed on her face. The shock didn't last long. She had her bearings back by the time Jack Crawford had arrived, and she was able to tell him everything…

Her legs had trembled as she walked up the steps of the observatory, after receiving an anonymous tip. The last time she had been there, Freddie was an unwilling participant in an impromptu surgery performed on Dr. Frederick Chilton. With that memory at the forefront, and the ominous nature of how she received the information, she drew her gun from her handbag. Her legs still trembled. She pressed forward…

Freddie Lounds is an old friend, it seems, of fear and danger. At this point, it is difficult to say whether it follows her, or if Freddie is the pursuer. However, in this moment, as Freddie finds herself looking at the corkboard she has set up in her hotel room in San Gimignano, there is no mistake that she is the hunter. Acting on a lead—a longshot, truly—that Will Graham was hiding out in this small town in Siena, Tuscany, she had flown all the way to Italy to try to track him down herself.

Freddie is no fool, of course. Despite the situations she had gotten herself into in the past. The only reason she is here is because of an interesting bit of information she uncovered about Mr. Graham and his little hideaway… He is here alone. No sign of Hannibal Lecter anywhere. As she pins another note to her corkboard, she wonders to herself if Graham has been able to portray himself as some kind foreigner, looking to start fresh. Or, maybe, a bachelor on vacation? Regardless of the story he was selling, it did not matter.

Freddie was going to find him. She was going to expose him. She was going to make sure that everyone knew who and what he was, and that he would finally see justice. One way or another.

During the course of her investigation, she learned that he had a few places he liked to visit in particular. One such place was an art museum. As she makes her way through the rooms of that very museum, looking at the faces of the patrons instead of the art on display, she can't help but think about Will Graham leisurely strolling through these halls, admiring paintings.

It's a thought that makes her seethe.

She is, mercifully, broken from this thought when she catches a glimpse of a man with curly, brown hair. He stands in front of a particular painting. Freddie cautiously steps closer to him. Closer. She comes to a halt behind him.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Graham," she says, hoping that it's him.

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

The Same Damn Coin… (closed to @godblooded)

Sometimes, Freddie prefers driving to flying. She enjoys the time alone with her thoughts, just herself for company. Freddie is her own best travelling companion. And, of late, she's been travelling quite a bit.

Presently, Freddie finds herself making her way to St. Louis, Missouri. The last time she had been in the state was seven months ago, for a story that she ultimately never told. A story that she determined was better left as it was, a bit sterilized in other publications, without the information that she had discovered for herself. As devoted as Freddie is to divulging details, she had firmly decided that this was simply a case where it would do more harm than good to try to get the other side of the story. How rare a choice for Freddie Lounds.

On this particular trip to Missouri, she aims to report on the murder of a girl by the name of Tessa Yolk, who had only just celebrated her eighteenth birthday a few weeks prior. The only information available is that she was found in the trunk of her car, severely beaten. She had bruises from the attack, but the M.E. determined that not all of her injuries were fresh. The car had been abandoned in a ditch in the woods, near a place that the local teens would often go to party. The prime suspect—the only suspect, really—is Tessa's boyfriend, Tyler Delany, who remained missing. The last time Tessa's father saw her alive, she and Tyler had told him they were going to the movies.

Freddie looks over her notes as she is stopped at a light. Attached is the picture of Tessa that appeared on the posters tacked up around town pleading for information about the then-missing girl. She tries not to make comparisons to Abigail Hobbs, but it's difficult. Tessa was a beautiful young woman with dark hair and bright eyes who should have had a long life ahead of her. Judging by the old marks on her body, she had been hiding secrets to protect someone. She died at the same age Abigail did…

A paper thin list of similarities. Lots of dead girls fit that description. Freddie had written about a few over the years since Abigail's death without seeing such correlations. She knows that, even as it nags her at the back of her mind. Freddie believes that it has less to do with Tessa and more to do with the location, but that still doesn't make it better.

Finally, she reaches her destination and parks her car. Grabbing her notepad, camera, and tape recorder, she walks her way over to the entrance of the police department. A podium and numerous microphones are set up for a press conference. There is already a crowd of journalists assembled, hoping to learn something new. As Freddie makes her way through the crowd, she notices someone that she's surprised to see. So much so that she isn't sure it really is the woman, though a few more glances confirms it.

What is Camille Preaker doing here? Freddie thinks.

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

Freddie does notice the very subtle exchange between Faust and Graham, but makes a point not to draw attention to that fact. No. She would keep it in her back pocket for later. Would it be for an interview? A leverage tactic? Only time would tell.

She chortles, looking down to the ground briefly before returning her gaze to that of Faust's. "Considering the company you keep," her eyes flicker to Will for just a moment before looking back once more, "I'm not surprised that you've heard some unflattering things about me. Regardless of what your coworkers say, I'd argue that ambition and the desire to tell the full story aren't negative traits."

"Yes, at the expense of justice," Will responds, his tone even and lacking the rage it held before, even as it retains the same bite.

Freddie ignores him.

"Faust Elias… Certainly a strong name," she says, pausing as though to properly consider it, to consider this new person standing in front of her. She smiles brightly.

"No, Mr. Elias, I don't mind at all. In fact, I was just going. It was lovely to meet a fresh face. I'm sure we'll see more of each other in the future. After all, as Mr. Graham will likely tell you, I do have a tendency to cross paths with this group quite often."

She backs away a few steps, hands still in her pockets and a smile still on her face.

"Have a good night, Mr. Elias," she says before turning to his friends. "Ms. Katz. Mr. Graham…"

With that, she turns and walks away, back to her car.

Once she's gone, Beverly smirks and looks at Faust. "Maybe it's a good thing that we're taking you with us more often? You'll be Will's personal Freddie Lounds buffer."

Will scoffs, then looks at Faust. His tone matches the softness in his eyes.

"I appreciate you trying to calm me down, but you should be more careful around Ms. Lounds. As much as I would hate to give her any credit, she's sharp. She notices even the smallest of details. She might not have reacted to it, but I doubt she missed your brushing your hand against mine. And Freddie will use whatever information she has, however trivial it may seem, as a means to her ends."

The young coroner gave a gentle nod towards Beverly at her question, but he can't help but wondered how one can really be expected to say that everything is okay when they are standing at a crime scene that happened only a few hours ago. His eyes met Freddie's, and they don't particularly hold any disdain to the journalist — at least, not yet. Curiosity seems to be what's let the new recruit here.

It was very subtle (but with how keen eyes ms. Lounds seem to possess, Faust wouldn't be too surprised if she were to notice), as he approached and stood next to Will, he promptly take off one of the examination gloves to gently brush his hand atop of Will's that rests upon his side. It's quick but effective, seemingly calming him down quite a bit when Faust's is in the vicinity.

“I'm sure we'd be meeting outside of crime scenes too, Ms. Lounds. Those would be better circumstances to be shaking hands— wouldn't you agree?” Faust spoke a tinge of British accent- or something european? without addressing anything that could give any more details to Freddie's statement about Jack. Although, she already got it right. Faust does have his own sets of skills to be able to work in this team.

“I've heard a lot about you, Miss. But you probably already know they're not things particularly flattering with your records” Are they exaggerations or are you as bad as they say? Faust isn't picking up a fight, per say, simply stating facts. His breathing is even, wondering what his next words should be. He was cautious of course, he tries his best to be —

“I'm Faust Elias.” he purposefully kept his last name out of his reply, because if she wants to write detailed articles— he's sure she'll be able to easily find details she's looking for. It's admirable how hard she works, really, even if it annoys Will out most times. “you three must be having a lovely conversation which I've sadly interrupted,” sarcasm dripped with every word, as if to tease, “But I do need Beverly and Will back at the forensic labs. We're working overtime you see— I hope you wouldn't mind me borrowing them for today, miss Lounds?”

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

When he turns around, Freddie is all at once relieved and surprised. She is relieved that she has found her man, that she had been correct. The long months and sleepless nights investigating, looking at any small whisper of a clue, had culminated in this moment, where she stood in front of the very person she had been so doggedly tracking.

The surprise, however, is that he is standing in front of her at all. A warm body. Living. Breathing. He had definitely seen better days, but there were still days for him to see. In all that time since she had gotten the first whiff that Will might still be alive, she had been so single-minded in her hunt that she never really stopped to think about the improbability of his survival.

Everyone thought that he and Hannibal were dead. Between the amount of blood found at the scene—quite a bit of it belonging to the two men she was concerned with, though Dolarhyde certainly got the worst of it—and the evidence pointing to a fall off of that awfully high cliff, there was no reality that would suggest any other conclusion.

The people that knew them, however, knew better than to rule survival out completely for those two. However far-fetched. And they would always look over their shoulders unless the bodies of the two were somehow found and recovered from the sea. Freddie was, of course, on that list of acquaintances, but the long-standing and looming feeling that they might have cheated death didn't mean that this was any easier to process.

Though it is merely a few seconds that pass, it feels like minutes to Freddie as she looks him over and takes in the sound of his voice. There are so many thoughts and feelings swirling around in her skull. Chief among those are hate, anger, and something like a buzzing beneath the surface. Whether that feeling is excitement at the opportunity to try to get Graham locked up for good, or a harbinger of worse things on the horizon, she is unsure.

"Is that what this is, Mr. Graham? A vacation?" she responds, her tone and demeanor showing none of the brew of emotions bubbling inside her. She even smiles pleasantly at him. Anyone observing this scene would think that they were two old friends running into each other. Anyone but Will, himself, Freddie knows.

"You certainly look rougher around the edges since I saw you last. But I suppose it could have been far worse. You could have actually been in the empty casket your wife buried at your funeral," she says. She wonders if he thinks about Molly at all, or Walter. She wonders if he would care to know how devastated they were.

"You'll be pleased to know that there was a decent turn out. You should have been there."

With that last comment, her smile grows.

When they’d fallen off that cliff, Will hadn’t expected either of them to survive.

But in some sort of paradoxical twist of fate— or maybe that strange, inexplicable way that Hannibal seemed incapable of such indignities as dying, and the monster would only do so when he saw fit— they both had.

The drop was vast, wind whipping so hard it felt like blades slicing into the cuts already there and opening up old scars. The sting of the salt was worse. The impact felt like a finale.

After having his skin split open, torn and unraveled by the sharp cuts of whistling air, Will had been seared with salt and smashed into the unyielding icy water. He only saw fit in the fact that he would be dead. But, no.

Even through the numbing chill, disintegrated and bones and stripped nerves felt the monster’s claws digging in. At this stimulation, Will’s limbs thrashed in some sort of instinctive fashion. He didn’t even feel the water in his lungs, surrounding and choking him, didn’t even realize until he pushed above the waves with stinging salt in his eyes.

He gasped and intook the water which hadn’t already traveled into his chest, then promptly heaved so hard he thought he’d find his esophagus hanging out of his mouth.

It’s a strange feeling, to throw up from your lungs as well as one would throw up their guts, and the force of it nearly had him submerging beneath the waves again as he hacked up rivers. Somehow, he managed to stay above the waves, and somehow they had both clawed their way out of that blackness and onto sand concealed beneath the cliff.

Will can’t remember how long they waited there, clothes clinging to burning wounds, black leaching directly from their bodies and joining the blackness of the sea. They were both panting, in pain, but nonetheless suffocating each other. Will wasn’t even sure why— the forgiveness wasn’t earned, not for either of them— but there was a comfort and strange feeling of balance.

Even for an experienced creature such as Hannibal… recovery took a while.

They’d both taken that concrete surface, neither conceding the full force. They shared it equally, as they had shared that moment— that becoming. Either Hannibal had trusted Will’s power, or he too had figured they should die; by Will’s will if not his own.

Recovery had taken a while, but now they were warm and relatively safe in a small corner of Tuscany. They were close enough to Florence, but able to hide away in the scenery of an inconspicuous little town. Will still had stitches in his cheek and a brace on his wrist— Hannibal had a certain limp due to extensive damage to his right ankle— but otherwise they were almost whole again. Some bruising remained, but it was light enough to go unnoticed at this point.

They’d go out more often now, though Hannibal would only emerge from their modest house in the dark, and only be seen in secluded places in the light. A precaution. Will could still be written off as a victim, but Hannibal was completely guilty. Murder, cannibal, all of it. In reality, of course, Will was entirely accomplice…

They hadn’t killed much in this little town. Often they’d pick off people on excursions out of Siena, large places where it’s hard to notice someone has gone missing. They go by the same rules— nobody who doesn’t deserve it in some way— though in regard to Hannibal’s standards for such a thing, Will has bent the rules. They’ve got an odd sort of “vigilante” business going on, now, as Hannibal often refers to it, with light distaste. But he doesn’t complain often. Less “average joes who can be— at times— mean people” are on the menu. Will made sure to express his disdain over Hannibal’s previous “bully murders” and direct his attention to those who cause more frequent and disturbing transgressions. Hannibal expressed that they were such people… but conceded. Many bad people are very, very rude.

Today they were going into the city. It was easier to blend in, it was a weekend night, and they’d both come to an agreement that they could slip into the museum together, but Hannibal would have to slink in the shadows and crowds.

Will was able to stand and admire with relative exhibition, and he always kept his eye to the corners where Hannibal shifted elegantly and seamlessly through the locals. Sometimes Will almost couldn’t spot him. He could always tell they were looking at the same pieces, though. He’d grown an odd admiration for art, recently. Though he doesn’t much prefer the ones Hannibal enjoys, he has his own tastes. Sculptures akin to the building of a fly hook, paintings that reminded him of the dirt and the river, artwork made of glass and rough material.

As much as he detested it, he dressed and moved through the halls just like the other patrons here. Not quite snobby, but neat enough to be mostly wearing elegant clothes and polished shoes. The occasional streetwear was seen, or someone averaging around in normal clothes, and Will was envious of their comfort. Nothing like the small museums he’d wandered around once or twice back home, this was a place where people of influence congregated because it was such a respected institution itself.

Needless to say, he certainly didn’t expect to see Freddie Lounds here. Will stands in front of the Primavera because he knows Hannibal likes it, and though he doesn’t much care for it himself he can admit to the connection he feels there. Something very unpleasant and almost forgotten severs this moment.

He feels a presence close, assumes it’s Hannibal. He tenses his shoulders at the risk of the action, if it is indeed. But then he hears a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time. He’d frankly hoped to never hear it again, if all things in the universe were good. They often weren’t.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Graham,” he hears. That familiar voice. Familiar soft perfume, familiar dry tone.

He turns around as smoothly as ever, knowing she can’t start any sort of scene here. Just as well as he knows that he cannot start a scene. They’re at a standstill, both of their hands tied.

“Good,” he repeats. He chuckles lightly, humorless and dry as it is, it seems almost polite to an outsider. “Hm… No.” He’s struck by the stark distinction of this from another meeting with someone different, though this moment contains similar words.

“Obsessed much, Ms. Lounds?” He accuses, sighing gently and shoving his hands in his pockets, careful of the still-sensitive bones in his wrist. “I recommend you vacation. Like me,” he he suggests, keeping it casual yet curt (and admittedly bitter), if not to deter her from this conversation but to deter her from any suspicion— he only hopes she doesn’t know about Hannibal.

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

Crawford nods at Faust's explanation. "OK, then let's see what you all find at the lab."

He almost stops his newest team member from walking over to join what would undoubtedly be a vitriolic encounter, but he decides against it. Beverly is there and, at the least, he knows that Will is more likely to be better behaved with Faust around, if for nothing else than the young coroner's own safety.

Even though none of them at the body can hear what is being said between Graham and Lounds, in particular, it is clear that there is a heated exchange occurring. The visible puffs of condensation in the air as they speak to one another almost seem appropriate, like wisps of smoke punctuating their words.

Meanwhile, back to Freddie…

By the time Freddie notices the new CSI approaching, bitter words have already been shared between she and Graham. More bitterness is leaving the latter's mouth as Maxwell is nearly there.

"The last crime scene you showed up to, you contaminated, Ms. Lounds. Although I'm sure you've conveniently forgotten that fact. Or that Crawford nearly arrested you again. You certainly left that part out of your article," Will says. His tone is even, but it carries with it an unmistakable disdain and just a hint of potential to lose his cool completely.

Freddie smirks. "So, you've read my article then, Mr. Graham? I appreciate that."

Her eyes shift to look at Faust, alerting both Katz and Graham to the conversation's newcomer.

"Is everything OK?" Beverly asks Faust upon seeing him.

Freddie looks him over, unsure what to make of him just yet. She smiles at Faust, putting her gloved hands into her coat pockets.

"A fresh face? That's unexpected. I know that Agent Crawford is particular about who he works with. So, that must mean that you have some talent in your field," Freddie says to him. "I'm Freddie Lounds. Pleased to meet you. I would shake hands, of course, but…" For a brief moment, she looks at the examination gloves he still wears, telling him wordlessly that she doesn't want to cross contaminate.

Will notices the gesture and scoffs. "It's nice to see that you're learning crime scene etiquette, Ms. Lounds."

She only smiles at Will again before expectantly looking back to the young coroner.

The cold didn't seem to bother Faust as much as he expected it to. Not when his mind is working overtime. It felt as if it was a few moments ago that he was preparing dinner for himself and Will back at the cabin, with the strays curling around his legs and begging for attention. Until a call from Jack Crawford brought them both here, at least. Faust is already thinking about if they would even have time to finish cooking when they go back— or if they might have to stay awake till morning with just a few cup of coffee to fill their stomachs.

Not that Faust doesn't care for the victim, no, he simply finds himself to have show more empathy when there's fewer people around. Taking his carmine shades of and putting it in his pocket, he looks closely and noticed a few details. He knelt down, gloved hand covering his mouth ever so slightly. Thinking. The marks around the dead man's neck and his eyes— all too familiar for the young coroner. And what is that rope around the neck doing, leading into the corpse's mouth?

He was quiet, silent as death while the others from the forensic team speak and mentions their observations. They are great people, good at their job, and sometimes he wonders why he tags along— then the very reason reminds him of its existence as soon as Will spoke to him so gently. Faust didn't even get a chance to stand up or open his mouth before Will's attention was caught by something else.

Freddie Lounds.

His haunted verdant eyes trailed and followed his friends' over to the journalist who just arrived at the scene. He was curious, to say the least, as what would transpire at her presence, but was stopped by his boss, Jack. He should probably do his job first before he can walk around, he supposed. “He died by strangulation,” Faust spoke to Jack, his finger traced upon the rope and gently pull onto it, finding something stuck in the throat. He tries his best to avoid directly touching the body as much as possible despite wearing gloves.

“I can see the marks on his neck, and the petechial hemorrhaging in his eyes. Way less stab wounds than the last two victims, too.” something must have went wrong if stabbing wasn't enough, he thought but didn't voice out loud. He didn't want to share more information than what he is sure of.

“Something is also stuck in his throat, by the looks of it,” and he managed to gently open the mouth a bit more to let the whistle slid out of it with another firm pull.

Faust doesn't seem too phased by it and simply accepts an evidence bag from one of the forensic team members. He carefully (one would say, respectfully) takes the rope and whistle off of the man and placed it inside the bag, promptly giving it to Zeller and whisper a polite thank you.

“Anyways. That's my observation notes for now. We'd need to bring him to the forensic labs for more inspections. Now if you'll excuse me,”

Faust stood up and crossed his arms, looking straight at Jack and then at Will, Beverly and Freddie. There was a quiet pause, that felt either too long or too short that it's borderline awkward.

He thought that was enough explanation to the senior and simply walked passed the man, towards the group at the barricade— too curious for his own good.

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

A sandwich… There is blood on her sofa because Selina was trying to buy a sandwich.

Somehow, Freddie isn't shocked. Especially not after the full explanation. Lounds, herself, isn't exactly popular with law enforcement.

She can't help but chuckle at the juvenile response from Selina after a genuine offer to lend her an ear. Rolling her eyes, a smile still on her lips, she says, "I've known my fair share of psychiatrists. I'm not sure that I sound like any of them. Though, perhaps, I can set you up to speak with one of them? As for the sandwich, I can make one for you, if you'd like? I've got some whole wheat bread, swiss cheese, and tofurkey, if that interests you?"

A smirk forms on her lips once more, although it is an actual offer.

Freddie looks Selina over, gauging not only her injuries, but wondering silently to herself why she always lets this woman wander in and out of her life (and her apartment) whenever she damn well pleases. The short answer is that Selina keeps things somewhat interesting when Freddie isn't traveling around, chasing down serial killers. The deeper answer is… Well, she doesn't know.

Perhaps she is simply a sucker for pretty women with dark hair who can't help but fuck themselves over in one way or another?

"Maybe this should be on the record, then, Selina? If you were minding your own business, and there was no reason in that moment for the rookie to fire at you, then he put more people than just yourself in harm's way. What if his actions led to panic amongst bystanders, and someone got hurt, or killed, in the process?" Freddie asks, her tone cool and even. More than an actual question, she is plotting the angle of a potential article.

The suggestion isn't exactly to get some kind of resolution for Selina. It is so that Freddie can write something petty and scathing to put pressure on the police department to fire the rookie in question. Said rookie would be the furthest from the first cop whose life she has destroyed, and for far less… However, maybe in that respect, it would get some kind of satisfaction, if not a resolution, for her friend?

Friend? Friend?! Did Freddie even have those? Was Selina even capable of being one? What a pair they made…

the bag of peas lands against her torso with a snarled snap of a profanity, inevitable, harsh. she recoils with a sonofa— that cuts itself off right before it reaches its height. brown eyes lack all their tenderness, suddenly, as though she simply cannot manage the energy to keep that light there. the cat’s words flatten and calm. she hisses yet still.

“fuck you freddie.” it comes out unbidden and her head drops back, eyes staring upward uselessly for a long moment. fuck her, fuck her, fuck her. the cat’s venom keeps dripping, burns a hole through molars no one can see, serpentine, a snake’s fanged promise.

she presses the bag a little harder to her abdomen — the relief is enormous when the wave of bruises ceases beating, pacified by the chill. nostrils flare in a hard breath out that almost choked her, nearly knocks the breath from her. her eyes feel like they’re searing.

“wOuLd yOu LiKe To tAlK about It.”

she snarls, mocking, mocking in a tone that adopts the journalist’s cadence, exaggerates it in a high-pitched sound — one that’s not even freddie’s voice. granted, it’s only meant to be facetious.

“sorry. you sound like a shrink. —believe it or not, a rookie cop took a shot at me while i was buying a sandwich. now i’ve got no fucking sandwich and a bunch of cops are pissed at me. for a stunt one of their little-boys-blue pulled. and — i just need to stay the night. probably i’m concussed but whatever. when aren’t i?”

flippant. she takes another long drag, that ember glowing vivacious ochre. it burns out, a coil of smoke curling slowly into itself until all that’s left is a disappearing white stream.

“it’s a little dicey to go back out when everybody’s out for my blood. hey, it’s the catwoman! man if i get her they’ll pay me to retire!”

her impression of a gotham officer is spot-on.

“it was— a pretty high fuckin’ fall.”

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

The crowd becomes denser as Freddie studies Camille. Of course she had known what the woman looked like, since her picture was in all the papers after her sister's arrest. However, they had never met face-to-face before. Though they were certainly aware of one another.

Freddie notes that Camille looks worn and tired, like she has stepped directly out of one of those photographs. There is hardly any further color to her from the black and white, either, save for her messy ginger hair that looks like she hasn't washed it for a couple of days. Camille had been far more put together in her byline photo above her editorial about the horrors that she and her sister endured. Even through that same black and white, there had been a spark to her in that particular photo. Not quite a "vibrancy," but something akin to hope.

Though, perhaps, Freddie had only imagined seeing that in the photo whilst she read Camille's words, discussing how she took in her little sister, Amma Crellin? It certainly had been a beautiful story of triumph, filled with opportunity that seemed endless once out of Adora's clutches…

A beautiful lie, as fate would have it.

If Freddie Lounds were anyone but herself, she might have thought better than to make her way over to Camille. Alas, Freddie is Freddie. She is curious, but she also does feel compassion for the woman. Despite the vitriol in the letter she received denying her request to interview Amma seven months ago. Ms. Lounds never took things like that personally. People seldom had a kind word to say to her. If she let that stop her, she would never get anything done!

Freddie coolly walks slowly up to Camille after making her way through the maze of other reporters. Just as she had had no doubt about who she was looking at, she knows that Camille will likely know her from her own picture on her website.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Freddie says to her gently, wearing a smile that matches her tone of voice. She purposely avoids using Camille's name, just in case nobody else in the crowd is aware of who this woman is, nor of the significance of her presence. "Pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless."

After a pause, she adds, "I would introduce myself, but that would be an unnecessary formality. You know who I am just as well as I know who you are, if I'm not mistaken?"

sometimes in the dead of night amma croons to me. she speaks to me with rancid breath as sour and hot as stale communion wine and bland communion wafers and she presses her fingerprints until my tongue until I gag; i wake up with a sickness inside me like i haven’t known.

(WICKED pulses at my hip and adora’s ivory floor is frigid beneath my cheek. i imagine her teeth, dainty and flat, some kind of opportunistic omnivore, closing around the scant bits of thin flesh. i imagine cords of skin that are as peach as georgia on my mind, if that’s the best way to put it, and how it terrifies me to learn in the throes of fatal mortality i wouldn’t scream.

does adora lie in the dark hollow of her cell, stinking of the hog farms she never had the stomach for? does she think of me and her final moments in inhumane ecstasy, vibrantly hued, does she see it like stained glass? marian had been her religion once. would i have been the prodigal daughter, led to the slaughter, brought in the place of my sister?

for whose sins was i dying?)

amma isn’t dead. I gulp down a handful of pale tablets and squeeze my eyes shut until floaters begin to float like bodies in a long-forgotten pond. when i swallow everything tastes as empty as that nightmare. every moment is bashing me to the next second.

frank blares my boss’s name from across my cracked phone screen. my fingers buzz. five missed calls. I feel some days like a lab rat in an experiment set up by the world, a trial i didn’t sign up to be tested under. cubby he’ll say, his breath stinking like big league chew and tobacco alike. he would’ve fit right in back home, a jaw full of black spit hocked on every lawn, dna spread across missouri. where r u he writes. onsite. back in a bit. my fingers dance across the screen with swift thuds. I shove the faceless rectangle back into my pocket, left forgotten to the comforting scratch of my old pen on paper.

i’m praying for anonymity. i’m not an optimist.

[thegreatestjournalistofalltime]

Freddie smirks, looking downward at her shoes, halfway amused and halfway annoyed. It's not the venom that frustrates her—the corrosive stuff that Selina couldn't reign in. Though, did she even try? Unlikely—but the way that, even now, the cat can't help but quip. Even now, as Freddie watches the woman's fucked up fingers struggle to hold the remnants of the cigarette to her lips.

Such a bad habit. Selina was full of those, it seemed.

"Yes, that does seem like a good idea," Freddie retorts, still smirking, as though this were any normal banter.

Lounds leaves the room for a moment, returning with a bag of frozen peas. She tosses it at Selina, satisfied when it lands on the woman's abdomen. Freddie might have real concern, but her irritation and pettiness win out in that moment.

"Two questions, Ms. Kyle," Freddie says, folding her arms and maintaining a smile as though she didn't just do that. Or, perhaps, precisely because she just did that? Her demeanor might be her usual calm, cool, and collected, but Selina has at least known her long enough to pick up on her usage of formality in this situation as a sign of her true feelings. "The first is, how long do you intend to stay here? To be clear, you're welcome here for as long as you need, but I'd like to have an idea of how long so I can plan around you."

She walks up to the sofa and sits next to Selina, as far from her as possible, back resting against the armrest as she faces the thief.

"And the second question is, how is it that you came to be bleeding on my couch tonight? Would you like to talk about it?"

A pause. Another smirk.

"Off the record, of course."

@thegreatestjournalistofalltime asked : [From "HIGH PAIN TOLERANCE STARTERS"] | “I know you can manage it, you just don’t *have* to,” Freddie said. It was times like these that made her question just how far Selina was willing to go to prove that she didn't need anyone, because *clearly* she could survive even this.

cat’s eyes drift upward to search blue with a calm silence. it’s terribly, terribly tempestuous, the tender brown of her gaze dulled to a flint-black in the dark. she finds her mouth opening, an unconscious discomfort sitting in her molars, aching and beating. she can hear her skin around it and thinks endlessly about how it’s just the biggest organ on the whole body, but who categorized an organ? did god give them that name?

(she’s a little delirious. her nostrils flare. she recognizes that she shouldn’t bite, shouldn’t sink nasty little fangs deep into the hand that seeks to pacify. her esophagus burns when she swallows every sour breath)

she lets the silence hang in the air, allows the writer’s words to remain. her eyes close languidly and open. her eyelids thump where they sheath inside her skull.

eyes roll up to lazily meet again, her posture slack as a ragdoll, eyes bruised a deep, sunken midnight like abysmal indigo. her nose barely escapes breaking. her jaw clicks when she tries to open her mouth wider.

“guess i’ll be canceling my photoshoot.”

she doesn’t intend the venom that seeps from every word, but it does. it drips. and even without malice, the barely contained tension in her frame shudders. she reaches for a cigarette still smoking in the ash tray, trying to distract her fractured fingers.