[RinVonStark]

This is a short story I wrote just now. I've been up for almost 40 hours so don't bitch much about the typos please but I'd love to see some constructive criticism. I know I didn't give much descriptions but I'll probably work on that next time I write a short story. Also, if there are any typos that actually make it impossible for you to understand the actual story, please tell me; I'll correct them asap. If anyone actually enjoys it, which I doubt, I might add a few more chapters. If that happens, I'll make sure they are better written.

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It was a day just like any other; this tedious life prospect had already been engraved on his back. Memories of his joyful past came to mind as he looked at the overly excited monitors of Times Square. He was stuck in the middle of a yellow sea, filled with noxious gases and a putrid sense of decency, so it seemed like an interesting setting to reminisce.

Following his father’s footsteps, he joined the NYPD after graduating from high school at the age of 22; issues always found a way into his life, causing him to repeatedly fail in his studies. One of such issues was the gruesome murder of his mother when he was 15, which made his father start his own personal vendetta against organized crime in New York. He was an honourable man who followed the path of justice but the murder of his wife force him out of that path, filling him with vengeful thoughts. Slowly, his sanity started degrading until he ultimately committed suicide in the same place where his wife had been killed.

Thirteen years had passed since the death of his mother and now he was a simple NYPD detective with too much time on his hands. Crime rates had dropped for some unknown reason and cover businesses add all gone bankrupt. This was a boring time to be a law enforcer in NY, which was something without precedents. He looked at the passing clouds of pedestrians as he turned on the car radio; the speakers came to life, broadcasting an 80’s song. He didn’t enjoy it but he was too lazy to make a mix CD of his favourite songs so he had to make do with what he had. Suddenly, the cabs started moving, allowing him to move along the 7th until he reached Penn Station. Two officers showing grave faces approached his car as he parked; they looked like rookies so even a small robbery would leave them on the edge, therefore, the detective didn’t take much notice. The moment he opened the door of the car, a cloud of fumes invaded it, making it hard to breathe. Recent studies showed that the Big Apple had become the most polluted city in the world, and it was advisable to wear masks at all times. Of course, those wealthy could simply buy small neck implants that could purify the air before it reached the lungs but, of course, detective salaries don’t allow luxuries.

-Detective Blazvik, what took you so long, sir? – queried one of the officers.

-Let’s just say yellow isn’t my favourite colour. What’s the situation? Theft? Highjack?

-Murder, sir. – his face paled as he pronounced the word.

-Ha, let me guess: some idiot didn’t like the ticket prices? – the detective wasn’t surprised. Even though organized crime had disappeared, random thefts and murders kept happening.

-No, sir. CSI already searched every nook and corner but there was no evidence.

-You know, total lack of evidence IS evidence. Also, CSI gathers the evidence, but we are the ones who mould it into making sense. No prints or hair would probably mean someone who knows how to clean his steps well. Just interrogate the station’s janitors; it’s probably one of them.

-Sir, when I say no evidence, I mean nothing at all.

-Then it was a hit. Just check the victim’s history and you’ll find the one who ordered it. We have the technology. – he frowned as he attempted to close the door of the car, only to be stopped by the young officer.

-Just take a look at the scene. We wouldn’t call you guys if we could make anything out of this.

-Guys? – Blazvik sounded surprised.

-Detective Watson is already inside. – stated the officer while pointing to the main building of Penn Station.

Ever since the mob’s exodus it wasn’t normal for officers to call the Detective Department. Most crimes were fairly simple and even a child could figure them out. The detective got out of the car and started heading towards the building, with the two officers following him.

-Sir, your car is ope-. – The car lights flashed twice and the door closed itself – Ah, okay.

It had been a while since he last went to Penn Station; after a terrorist attack in 2013, the station was rebuilt from scratch and it became an overwhelming symbol of modern technology: sterile, cold and efficient. The automatic doors opened as he closed in and the urban fumes disappeared; public buildings were equipped with industrial sized purifiers for obvious reasons. The detective stood in the middle of a large lobby; the main building of the new Penn Station holds the command centre, security offices and the sanitation department of the whole station and entrance is forbidden to non-employees.

-Where’s the scene?

-It’s inside the security offices. – answered one of the officers.

-What? Where was the “security” part of the offices then?

-We don’t know, sir.

-Damn, weekend workers. – said Blazvik with a frown.

The place was clean of human life; everyone had been evacuated and the only people inside were the police, but those seemed to be all cooped up in the offices. The detective made his way to the security elevator, which would take him to the scene. As he entered, one of the officers immediately typed a code on elevator’s security pad.

-So you also need codes to get to the offices? Sweet… - a smirk appeared in his face
.
The elevator was fast but no pressure could be felt since the stabilizers were operational.

-So the thing is going underground? What is this, a military facility?

-I was surprised too, sir, but it seems that the station has a connection with a military outpost nearby, just in case someone tries to recreate the bombing incident.

-Fair enough. But the only way to enter the security offices is by using a high-security elevator with scanning devices all over it or thought a military outpost. Either way, someone definitely noticed the murderer enter or leave. Maybe he is still in the building. But so much shit about one murder...

-You tell me, sir. Oh, we’re here.

The doors opened and a long corridor presented itself. The officers got out of the elevator first, just so they could lead the detective to the crime scene. There were many doors, each of them with its respective descriptive sign.

-Why do I get the feeling that gatlings will jump out of the plated walls any second now. – commented Blazvik, with a clear tone of mockery.

-Maybe it’s because they really will if you do anything to provoke the sensors. – the voice came from behind; a door had just opened and a man in a deep-blue suit made his appearance – Detective Josh Blazvik, I presume. Luke Bernard at your disposal.

-“The” Luke Bernard? I heard rumours that the Bernard Industries were the ones financing half of New York’s public facilities but never thought you’d come down here in person.

-What kind of good businessman doesn’t check his investments?

-Most likely the kind that doesn’t want to get involved in a murder investigation. But it seems you aren’t that bright, Mr. Bernard. – stated Blazvik, bashfully.

-No need to jest, detective, I’ll cooperate. By the way, hope you have a strong stomach... Some of your men don’t. – the businessman man started heading towards the elevator while chuckling softly.

Blazvik looked at the officers but both of them avoided eye contact.

-Don’t fucking tell me... Disgusting... – stated as he shook his head in disapproval. – Come on, lead the way...

-Yes, sir...

[RinVonStark]

Less than ten steps after, both of the officers stopped next to a door. “Mess hall” said the sign next to the door; many voices could be heard coming from the room. The detective opened it and stepped inside; the whole mess hall was being used as a control outpost for the police.

-Josh! Took you long. So, latina à la Blazvik yesterday? – a man in a brown trench coat walk towards the detective.

-I’d have dumped her sooner if I knew you had organized a party like this, Carl.

-Glad you like it. The body is in the kitchen. We’ve locked it down to prevent body degradation.

-How thoughtful. What did you make out of it?

-Nothing much, but you better see for yourself. – the man turned to one of the CSI technicians – Unlock the barrier.

-Sure, detective Watson. – the small technicians got up from his post and headed towards an electrical barrier near the kitchen’s double doors located opposite to the mess hall door, behind the food counter.

-I assume I should follow him, right, Carl?

-No, you should stay right here and enjoy your party. Go on, the faster you see it, the faster we all go home. Our CSI’s haven’t touched the body itself yet so don’t contaminate anything.

-But those guys who lead me here said that the body had already been searched.

-They told you what we told them. If you have to blame anyone, blame us.

The technician started typing on the barrier control console, disabling it in less than 10 seconds. The detective swallowed hard and walked towards the double doors; the stench of a putrid corpse invaded his nostrils, forcing him to take a step back. Watson approached and handed a mask to Blazvik, which he quickly accepted. His heart was racing; from what he could tell from the others’ reactions this wasn’t a regular murder. He had longed for this excitement ever since the mob exodus and his prayers had been answered. He walked forward with a wicked smile painted on his lips. The doors opened.

-What the...

His mood suddenly changed; he was no longer excited. Fear and confusion overwhelmed him as he looked at the macabre show. A seemly female body was hanging by the wrists in the middle of the small kitchen; the face was unrecognizable, probably burned with acid; the skin and part of the flesh had been stripped away; no internal organs could be found on the body, but as Blazvik looked at the nearby cooking pots he could see the organs inside them. The room was covered in a red mist, probably because of the boiling blood inside some of the cooking equipment. Something caught his eye: there was something inside the swollen belly of the victim; a dead fetus. The thing’s eyes were missing, replaced by two industrial sized nails stuck to the brain. Blazvik felt his sanity fading away for a moment, but managed to collect himself; he had to look at the crime scene objectively. If not, he would be useless. He inspected the wrists which were tied to the ceiling lamps by chains with small spikes. The hands were missing, but he wasn’t surprised. As he looked down, he noticed that the acid burns on what seemed to be the face were a way of preventing eye and dental recognition. Also, the feet had been chopped off so the detective could assume it was a pro but the sole fact that someone had gone this far as to mutilate the body to this extent lead Blazvik to believe this was a murder of passion. He inspected the surroundings; the room had been thoroughly covered in blood, with great delicacy, like a masterpiece; the victims intestine had been placed around the murder scene, forming what it seemed to be a shape of a heart; shards of glass belonging to the lamps filled the floor, and cracking noise could be heard with every step. He pulled a small flashlight out of his old leather coat and pointed it at the ceiling, noticing that even the ceiling had been partially painted with blood, which made random blood drops fall.

-It’s... too much blood. – said the detective.

-Sir, do you need some fresh air? Feeling noxious? – asked the CSI technician.

-No, not that... This much blood can’t come from a single person. There are more bodies somewhere! This is like a piece of art! To reach such magnificence, the murderer had to collect the materials first.

-So should we be looking for other bodies?

-No. – there was silence for a few seconds – the artist wouldn’t destroy his masterpiece by putting it next to the failures... We won’t find the bodies here.

-Detective Watson said you have a strange way of looking into things. I think I understand what he meant by that.

-There has to be more to it than this... Most artists are narcissists; they want to be recognized, worshiped even. He must have labelled it, somehow. You guys haven’t touched the body, right?

-No. Nothing at all. We were told to wait for you.

-Good...

Blazvik walked towards the body and searched it more careful; judging by the size and bone development, the fetus was 28 weeks old, but the body of the supposed mother was too slim; the fetus could barely fit inside the uterus and the belly had clearly been forced to expand, which ruptured some muscles and flesh. Another detail also caught the detective’s attention; the victim’s hymen was intact.

-The baby isn’t hers. This woman is a virgin. Tell the info department to check for hospital records on pregnant women and see if anyone is missing the weekly checkups.

-Alright. – said the technician as he walked away from the site.

The detective took another look at the fetus; apart from the missing eyes, there was nothing strange to it. He put on a forensic glove and approached the fetus’ skull with his hand and attempted to remove the nails but a jolt of electricity hit his hand the moment he touched it. Blazvik tripped on a piece of flesh as he tried to step back, landing on his lower back. Suddenly, the sound of bones breaking filled the room and two metal wing-shape mechanisms came out of the victim’s back and the fetus’s mouth started moving; a voice, which seemed to belong to a young man, could be heart coming from the mouth.

“And now, behold, my dears, as I create transcendental beauty out of this tainted flesh. You’ve strayed from the true path long enough but I will allow you to be the witnesses of my ascension! Behold the true angel... My own, personal angel”

As the officers and CSI’s approached the scene the voice started repeating itself.

-Josh, what did you do? – queried Watson, with clear fear in his eyes.

-The wings... angel; the heart... motherly love; lack of face... inhuman beauty; a virgin with a child...... angelic impregnation...... No... This guy... He... He created a Virgin Mary.

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Trivia:
-While writing this I was listening to "It's Only the Fairy Tale" by Yuko Miyamura. This song was presented to me by the space cadet since I haven't seen Mai Hime yet. Downloading it now xD
-It took me around 4 hours to write it, whish is good when compared to how long I take to write chapters for the novel I intend to publish, but those are actually full of descriptions and drama.
-I ate 38 chocolate cookies while writing this.
-I was texted 9 times while writing; 1 was spam, 2 were just small talk and the rest were from my mother, asking me why the fuck I was still up at 5.00am (don't ask me how she knows or why she would care <.<)
-I looked around 21 times to a screenshot of "the Staking" from Chaos:Head just to inspire me while describing the murder. Still, the murder doesn't feel gruesome at all. I'm not good at making dramatic scenes like that feel real, just at describing action scenes with lots of details.
-I killed 7 mosquitos while writing this.

Thanks to:
-Me
-Myself
-I
-the space cadet for the song
-You for reading it

[Darkchao45]

Well sir I must say this is rather good. Other than typos you said not too bitch about, I saw nothing wrong with this. Any other stories you plan on writing? Perhaps you plan on adding more chapters to this?

[TTally]

I agree- not bad. One thing i noticed (aside from errors) is you spell words the European way also, with u's. Self taught to spell that way or are you from a descent? Other than that- get some sleep- stop listing to Cadet for music- and lay off the candy and get writing!

[RinVonStark]

I was taught that way. Plus, I'm european, so it figures. And yeah, I need to write something for the SSOTM.

[TTally]

SSOTM? Short Story of the Month? (+1 for guessing) How long have you been writing for?

[RinVonStark]

Yup +1. I've been writing random stories and fanfics for approximately 3 years for various places (forums, school, thesis, etc) but nothing too serious. But, as of this year, I'm writing a serious novel which I intend to publish. What about you? I've read the fanfic you've posted but since it's a bit late, I didn't comment cause I intend to reread it just in case I misread something.

[TTally]

*Sigh* I started out writing around seven. Only child for a few years- single mother raising me... I had alot of free time and imagination to spare. Unimportant side note here but Mental Illness run's rampant though my family so around 12 i began to journal what what going on- then picked up fan fics around 13/14. Through high school was active at it (i read them now and wonder how i wrote all of them) and got a few published... nothing i was proud of though.

been trying to get back into writing by working on my typing and whatnot, reading other stories and seeing if I can't tap back into at least a novice form of writing.

[RinVonStark]

Hmm, I'm actually impressed. If I understood well, at the age of seven, you started a journal about mental illnesses in the family. Impressive. Well, at that age, all I did was read and draw. Most of my imagination was channeled towards drawing. But then, when I got to middle school, I gave up on my drawings since it was clear nobody found them amuzing (most of them were manga style and nobody liked that kind of stuff here). I started writing when I reached high school, but I don't remember why...

Well, I can't write much. I have a problem in scenario descriptions and character relationships... They always feel so forced...

[the space cadet]

Oh look, I'm in the credits.

And this may seem like flaming to you, but if a person has issues with "forced" descriptions, then they just need to experience those descriptions themselves more.