Heinous Acts

Zeck worked down at the loca station. Zeck also watched many espionage movies. Zeck even slept with a gun under his pillow in the same fashion as one of his idols. He had two.

He was a lowly officer with great talent and even greater dreams. The others down at the station cast him strange looks and made fun of the way he dressed. They played practical jokes on him and quoted loudly in posh British voices lines fom movies that had detectives that fell to their lowest point in their careers. Some of them put on Sean Connery accents and made 'obvious' his features and his rather ugly face.

He worked alone and dealt with all of the pettty thefts of the town and all of the minor glitches that occured. There were many usual victims. For example, Mrs. Waterhouse: Age: 89 Marital status: widowed Personality: Think old, think old with denches and gold teeth. Think old and humble. Truly a terrific person to be around. Stature: Fit, unnaturally fit. But uses a walking stick. No one knows why. Possibly to keep her emotional and mental status from stooping any lower.

Well, today, Mrs. Waterhouse has lost her cat, yesterday it was that someone had sabotaged her toaster. But not once had she complained about the murder of her husband. Everyone always treated her as a bit looney, but she was, after all, rather old and her life expectancy was coming to a close. What was left of her hair was silvery white and extremely thin and possibly her grey matter was detriorating quite fast as well.

She lived in an old cottage near the station. Inherited from her dad some say, nobody really knows. Only Zeck really talked to her. He treated her as a friend seeing as he was the best god damn officer there was around and well, his deductive skills were really good. And he deduced that she needed a friend. And so he was there for her and handled all her cases with an acute sense of trust and determination. He never once left her cases unsolved.

As for Zeck himself. He lived on the corner of Elm and Maine. It was about 10 minutes walk away from his work. Not that he did alot of work in the office. All he needed was a computer and a phone. He did most of his work hands on. He had the whole detective kit and was really the Sherlock Holmes of the new millenium minus the Watson. He smoked the pipe, despite the cigarrettes he could buy, he still wrote by hand on those devious little notebooks you used to see in the movies, really, he was everything Agatha Christie wrote of in real life. Not to say that he didn't own every version of every one of her books. A big fan a REALLY big fan.

However, her cat was black. Good thing he wasn't superstitious. And she was thirteen years old. Ditto. He started by getting details; all the obvious; time of last appearance, distinguishing marks etc etc.

desolé mais je dois supprimer 'behind grey eyes' donc vous pouvez le voir ici si vous voulez, malgré c'est pas bien.



Two orbs of grey. Who... no. What do they belong to? Two hundred and thirty seven years. Hair so blonde it is almost white. Teeth so white they sparkle. Lips so full and pink. Fine bone structure, high cheek bones, honeyed skin. Pointed ears.

Stormy, unfathomable. Dark clouds swirling constantly.

Two spheres of midnight blue. They belong to a... a man. Long hair for a bulk of muscle and sexy hunk of a man. Cut just below his ears, never untidy, well actually it is, but it doesn't look that way. Hard abs, set jawline, hair as black as his world without light. Rounded ears, or is it an illusion? 6 foot 10 inches of masculinity. Good looking masculinity too. But his looks belie his age. One thousand and twenty four.

Blue. Swelling with the ides of the moon, like the ocean... deceptive like the depths of the ocean. There is no core. Only flecks of purple. Little plantes in an immense universe.

Dani. Tirion. Elf and... man?