The Eternal - Part 1 - Awakening

Work came back too soon.
It's the night shift. Shift work is wild, I don't get why we're getting scheduled so insanely. I feel like someone really has it out for me. Or Hank. Or maybe both of us.
I'm out on patrol with Hank, missing my bed, and Isabella, and videogames.
He's drinking a can of soda, which he launches out of the window when he's done with it.
"Dude, could've recycled that," I say.
"Don't tell me you're a hippy John," he says. He's laughing but I feel like he's waiting for a denial.
"No, I'm not," I say. "It's still littering."
He doesn't seem to hear me. "Recycling is just fake. Did you know that? That shit just gets shipped out to other countries. We never actually recycle it."
"What do the other countries do with it?" I ask.
"Re-use it somehow I dunno," he shrugs. "Recycling doesn't actually do anything you know. I don't buy that it's saving the world or anything. Shit you think people can actually affect the world around them?" He says this while literally pointing out the car to one of the largest products of industrialization. Like where does he think fucking skyscrapers come from? You know I was warned that you had to be stupid to work for the cops, but this is just too much.
I don't think you can get much out of being argumentative with people like this though.
"You know what I don't get," he says, "we can make something so beautiful with oil, but we struggle so much with plastic. We just fooled all the treehuggers that they're saving the world with recycling though."
"I don't think that recycling means I'm saving the world," I say, "just not making the problem worse."
"I guess, I can buy that," he says, mulling it over. "Not making it worse..."
I flip the script. "What do you think we should do with all that plastic?" I ask.
"Break it down and then make new stuff out of it," he says.
Wow. The irony. Or cognitive dissonance. What the fuck? "Isn't that just recycling?" I ask. I can't help myself.
He pauses, thinking. I feel like he's just going to smack me or something. "Yes," he admits, "but...better."
"You know those other countries buying our plastic recycle it too right?"
He just shrugs and something comes in on the radio, saving him from further embarrassment. Not that I think he would ever really be embarrassed for being a moron.
It's an old woman who's calling us because she thinks someone's casing her home.
We don't see anyone outside her address. Hank keeps driving.
"Aren't we going to check it out?" I ask.
"We are checking it out," he says. "Keep your eyes open."
"Ah."
We're driving around the block, keeping an eye out for any suspicious looking people. I've quickly learned that means unkempt, poor and preferably darker skin. It's super ironic because this neighborhood isn't wealthy, and most people living here have darker skin. Shouldn't suspicious be a rich white person?
We continue to drive around, widening our circle further. I wish I could drive. I don't love Hank's driving skills. But, he insists that he will keep driving for at least the first 3 months he's training me. 'You need to get your eyes good'
Nevermind that my eyes are stronger than his could ever hope to be. And, well my eyes don't see anything out of the ordinary tonight.
"Nothing?" Hank asks.
"Nothing," I say.
"Probably just some crazy old bitch, calling us," he says.
I shrug.
We drive back to her front door again.
"Well, we might as well check this out," Hank says while double parking the car. I've also learned you can really just park anywhere as a cop. The sidewalk. The middle of the road. You do you, apparently. This however, I do agree with. Imagine hunting for a spot, circling the block, and parallel parking before getting out to pursue in a footchase. I hope there's an SNL skit of that.
Hank takes lead, and rings the doorbell.
Noone answers.
"Fucking wasting our time," he says. "Double check with dispatch on the address," he orders me.
I do as he says. "It's right," I say.
He rings the bell again, "Police," he says pretty forcefully. I don't know if anyone in this neighborhood would open their door for the police, but on his third ring, someone does open.
It's a middle aged black woman. She's tiny. Maybe 5 feet at best. And that's an exaggeration. She's definitely shorter than that. She's thin. She has a robe on, clearly ready for bed.
I suddenly feel bad for her. She's probably just scared living alone. I wonder if she has any cameras. She should get some.
"Hello officers. Thank you. Did you find him?" She asks.
"There wasn't anyone," Hank says impatiently. "Why did you take so long answering the door?"
"I was just getting myself decent," the woman says. She wraps her robe around her tighter instinctively.
I can see it's time for us to step off and leave.
"Are you sure you didn't see anyone?" She asks. "I was afraid."
"Noone," Hank says.
"Well, thank you sir. Thank you both."
She's kind. But I can sort of tell she's doing this because she has two white male officers outside her door in the middle of the night. It's really time for us to go.
She's making to go back inside, and Hank sticks his foot out into the door.
"Do you have ID?" He asks.
What the flying fuck are we doing.
I make to stop him, a casual arm on his shoulder, and a whispered, "dude."
"Fuck off," he says to me.
"ID?" To the woman.
"In my purse, inside," she says.
Hank takes that as an invitation to go inside.
All I can do is helplessly follow. My minds going a mile a minute, trying to figure out how to get Hank out of here. I'm hoping dispatch radios in to call us elsewhere. Can't there be a robbery or something going on? Why is it so quiet?
We're standing in her home. It's a small living room, with an adjoining kitchen. There's a countertop in the middle, dividing the two 'rooms'.
It's sort of messy. But nothing too insane. My place has looked a lot worse than this.
There's something boiling on the stove. I wonder if she was in the middle of making dinner. Looks like soup or something. There's bread on the counter. I'm suddenly hungry. It smells pretty good.
The woman is seated on her sofa, digging through her purse.
"Hey," Hank says with an order in his voice. I don't know if I know who he means - me or the woman.
"What's your name?" He asks the woman.
"Grace," she says.
"Grace, get the pot off the stove," Hank orders, "don't want the house to burn down."
"Oh, ok, sorry," she says.
The fuck? Does he think that pots just spontaneously combust?
She gets up to do as he asks, leaving her purse forgotten on the sofa.
Hank instinctively backs away from the countertop. We're both in the living room area. He was just closer to the countertop divider.
"Where are you going?" She asks Hank.
"Away from whatever that is," Hank says.
She seems confused. "Away from the soup?"
"Yea," he says.
"It's just soup," she says. And then, adds, "Only soup. Jesus."
Her tones not angry. She didn't even sound annoyed.
She starts praying under her breath.
Now it's not all that weird. I'm not sure if she's afraid, or if she's blessing the stoup.
Either way, NYC is full of weirdos. I think nothing of it.
Hank on the other hand. I'm not sure if this motherfucker is on cocaine or what, but his eyes are wild.
"Fucking bitch!" He yells.
Does he have the devil in him? Is he really afraid of Jesus? It would explain a lot of things but...what?
"Sorry, sorry," the woman says. Afraid. Her hands are up, she's just holding up her oven mitts. No pot in hand.
"I'll shoot you in the fucking face!" he yells.
The woman is confused, she gets down on the ground, "I'm sorry, sorry!"
"Dude, relax," I say to deaf ears. I try to keep my voice calm, but just loud enough so he can hear me. If I yell, it might set him off.
The woman hesitantly tries to get up, but Hank has his gun out, so she falls back down.
"Drop the fucking pot!" He snarls, and lets loose his entire clip.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" I yell. I'm about to drop my cover. I'm going to kill this motherfucker.
"Back up rookie," Hank says. All calm as if nothing just happened. This guy's a psychopath. He's literally the exemplary problem with the police departments all across the country. "I wasn't going to let her throw that shit at me."
I'm just so flabbergasted I can't say anything. He fucking stepped towards her! The counter was in the way. And besides all that, he's the one that fucking told her to go for the soup in the first place!
I can't think about that right now. I get out my first aide kit. I wish I knew how to heal humans. Neither Adão or Amar taught me. And, there's no time to experiment. I have to work with the tools I have.
He says very calmly, "you can't help her."
I don't respond. I'm just glad my body camera was recording.
I get to her, and she's in the last throes of life. I think maybe I can still save her. Can I turn her? I don't know. I don't know what will happen if I try to turn someone that's dying. And that would mean killing Hank, and blowing my cover. I'm okay with doing that. But. I'm just so unsure of what to do.
Hank's right though. She's not living through this. At least not without any supernatural assistance. A few of the bullets went through her skull.
My mind becomes hard. And cold. The fire of anger is gone. There's just this cold realization that I'm going to kill Hank. Going to kill every corrupt cunt in the police force. Fuck this. I'd rather have criminals running free instead of these immune powerhungry cocaine fueled motherfuckers.
"Man, I'm going to get in trouble with Tanner again," Hank says, "my camera wasn't recording."
"Don't worry," I say coldly, "mine was."
"Oh, cool," he says. I wonder if he'll try go get me to delete my footage or something. He won't be able to. I won't roll over on that. But, he doesn't say anything. I think in his audacity he really thinks he was justified.
He calls it in to dispatch.
"Shots fired. Perp down." And then lists the address.
Shots fired...that's ambiguous enough to make it sound like she had a gun, isn't it?
He doesn't even bother planting a gun though.
A few officers show up, and the EMS. There's a lieutenant in there, "Where's the gun?" He asks.
Hank just shrugs at him.
The lieutenant looks to me. "There was no gun," I say.
"What...?"
I hand over my bodycam footage to the lieutenant who watches it, and then he sits down onto the sofa. And he watches it again. And again.
I'm about to just leave him alone. I'm sure he's as horrified as I am.
"Don't worry," the guy says. "We'll take care of you Hank."
Hank just nods at him and leaves.
I can hear him regale the story to the other police officers. Some lies about the woman wanting to attack us.
I look to the lieutenant. "I'll be keeping this," he says to me. "You go on."
I guess I'm killing this guy too. I make note of his badge number and name and leave. For extra safety, I pulse orange and yellow as hard as I can, and...yea he's not even a vampire. Just a plain human covering up for another one. You know what gets me more? He's not even white. The rot goes so deep, it's transcended race.
Don't get me wrong - the cops don't abuse white people - not really. Whether that's a race or money thing, I honestly couldn't care less.
In the end, the abusers can be anyone. They just need a badge.
I go outside and make note of each police officer that reported to the scene. My memory might be shit, but I learn each one's badge number and name. Only then, once I have that down, am I ready to leave.
I don't make Hank wait - he was enjoying talking about his fantasy of what just went down, but he's ready to go around the time I'm done.
When we're in the car, I can't help but asking, "Are you on coke?"
"What the fuck?" He asks laughing. "No, I'd never touch drugs. I'm a cop - no poison for me."