First Assignment 1/6 (Starsky and Hutch, temporalmorphs AU)
WARNING: This story deals with dark thematic elements. Specifically, child abuse in all its various forms. Most of it -- the worst of it -- is offscreen and only mentioned. But it is there. If this would disturb or trigger you, do not read this. I can tell you that justice is well served in the end.
The first thing he became aware of was the unnatural position of his head, giving rise to an awful pain in his neck.
The second thing he noticed was the fact that he was lying on the floor.
As he straightened himself out, he heard a high-pitched voice groaning from his own throat and took quick inventory.
"Oh. Right," he chuckled as memory came flooding back. "I'm ten."
Climbing to his feet, he grimaced as he looked around the destroyed bedroom. Feathers were everywhere, even sticking to the remnants of the pizza and floating in the soda. The pillows that had been used for ammunition sagged sadly, their downy load long since spent.
The covers lay in a sorry tangle at the foot of the bed. The pictures that had gotten knocked over - but not broken - lay where they had fallen.
And a pair of neckties were still lazily going round and round, draped over the turning ceiling fan.
Chuckling, the boy picked his way through the mess and moved blankets until, with a slight sound of satisfaction, he'd uncovered a sleeping blond little boy. "Wondered where you'd gotten to."
Stretching after he recovered the child, the dark-haired boy began to age rapidly. When he was a thirty-year-old man, he left the bedroom.
And with perfect timing, the phone rang. He scooped it up before it could ring twice. "Hello?"
"Detective Starsky," a woman's voice on the other end spoke. "It's Marcy Allen."
Starsky's eyes snapped with rage and he slammed the phone down. When it rang less than a moment later, he snarled into it, "What the hell do you want?"
Her voice was calm. "You recall when I told you about the gifts bestowed upon you and Detective Hutchinson? I told you we expected to be assured of your services."
"So what?" Starsky growled.
"It's time."
The first thing he became aware of was the unnatural position of his head, giving rise to an awful pain in his neck.
The second thing he noticed was the fact that he was lying on the floor.
As he straightened himself out, he heard a high-pitched voice groaning from his own throat and took quick inventory.
"Oh. Right," he chuckled as memory came flooding back. "I'm ten."
Climbing to his feet, he grimaced as he looked around the destroyed bedroom. Feathers were everywhere, even sticking to the remnants of the pizza and floating in the soda. The pillows that had been used for ammunition sagged sadly, their downy load long since spent.
The covers lay in a sorry tangle at the foot of the bed. The pictures that had gotten knocked over - but not broken - lay where they had fallen.
And a pair of neckties were still lazily going round and round, draped over the turning ceiling fan.
Chuckling, the boy picked his way through the mess and moved blankets until, with a slight sound of satisfaction, he'd uncovered a sleeping blond little boy. "Wondered where you'd gotten to."
Stretching after he recovered the child, the dark-haired boy began to age rapidly. When he was a thirty-year-old man, he left the bedroom.
And with perfect timing, the phone rang. He scooped it up before it could ring twice. "Hello?"
"Detective Starsky," a woman's voice on the other end spoke. "It's Marcy Allen."
Starsky's eyes snapped with rage and he slammed the phone down. When it rang less than a moment later, he snarled into it, "What the hell do you want?"
Her voice was calm. "You recall when I told you about the gifts bestowed upon you and Detective Hutchinson? I told you we expected to be assured of your services."
"So what?" Starsky growled.
"It's time."