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TWO WEEKS
ROUGH JUSTICE vol. I
Issue #3

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DAYS 1 - 4
DENON,
WHERE ELSE?


Two weeks on the couch.

That was Yula's verdict.

He was getting off lightly. He could see it in her eyes. Somehow, surprisingly, she had managed to cool her temper over the shockboxing fiasco he had caused...well, a fiasco according to her. To him it was a pyrrhic victory. He'd busted the rigging ops, but no handcuffs to go with it; not that anyone in that shiny convention of top gangers and suit-and-ties was ever going to leave the establishment with their hands behind their back and a long trip to the PD.

But that was a whole different problem; one he had his eyes on tackling. On 'non the cops were more crooked than the criminals, that was no secret.

Speaking of secrets, Dagon had one. Been keepin' it as dear as his life from Yula or else she'd change the verdicts going forward. Couch sleeping was not something that really bothered him. He'd spent most of his life crashing on a Coruscanti safehouse's couch after a 36hr crimefighting ordeal. Pretty used to it.

Two weeks straight, though, was a challenge on its own. And their couch was not all that glitters is gold. Looked new, felt more worn out than a cab's backseat. Or a brothel's mattress. You decide.

Was the second day of his sentence when he'd found out a cop had been killed; second for the week. Early mornin', about seven thirty, eight. Pink was up, magically, and so were the shutters. That was deliberate. She wasn't usually up that early and she sure as hell didn't like rolling the shutters up, not unless she had a petty reason to do so. Which she did. Let it simmer, wait it out - that was the go-to method when dealing with a fuming Perl. For all the prevalent toxicity in the air, she'd left him a fresh brewed cup of caf before she left the house. It's the little things, you know, that put a smile on your face.

Downtown, two blocks from Dalcroft Bridge, in a reeky alley the smile was gone. Officer Eman won't be coming home to his family - a wife and a kid. Eman, just like most cops on Denon, was a crook by heart. More than just a see no evil type-a-cop, too. He was a part-time blue, full-time muscle on call, or as they liked to call it - business analyst. Razorbacks used to employ him to 'smoothen out' a few corner dealers when revenue dropped below the tolerable threshold. He was as good at that job as he was at cheating on his wife. Four mistresses on four different corners of town. Not a saint, but didn't really deserve to die.

Especially this way.

"Looks like every bone in his body has been rearranged. Time of death - two weeks ago. Victim was not killed here." remarked the coroner on the scene. He wouldn't say more about it - just a gesture for the body bag fellas to snag the vic. That's how much he was paid for. And that's how it is - if you aren't in a scheme, like Eman and lots of them other boys in blue, you're lacking any motivation to do your responsibilities the proper way. This substrata of cops were characterized by their melancholic apathy, you could spot 'em from a mile away. Issue is they weren't the majority. Corruption on Denon's on a whole new level.

It's like the whole world is one scheme everyone's in.

"Hold it, I wanna check him myself." Dagon gestured a halt with his hand.

"This is my crime scene, kid. I'm calling the shots here." a sturdy figure materialized before him. Detective Kerensky's stench of tobacco was so intense it made the man look like a cloud of smoke and got Dagon worrying if lung cancer was contagious.

"Just five minutes. No more." the Jedi investigator frowned and moved past Kerensky. He couldn't really pull rank, he was no Alliance Marshall like Bernard, but he could pull bureaucracy. It was the only tool that eased by a very little bit the twisting of hands he'd go through to get even a glimpse at a dossier. Denon coming under the jurisdiction of the Alliance did indeed help Dagon. So little, though. Barely, even. If he hadn't been dealing with this vigilante slash cop biz for months now, then he probably wouldn't have noticed it. Nothing had really changed.

Nothing at all.

Might really have to think more over the of...becoming a cop here.

Yula's gonn' love that idea, I'm sure.


The thought had been in his mind for the last few weeks. He believed being in the force would make it easier to fix the system. He really didn't want to find out what Yula had to say about that. Some things don’t need changin’, she'd growled when she had his head in a lock during the shockboxing fiasco. The memory felt sour in his mouth - two weeks this time, but what about the next time? Cause there was bound to be a next time. He couldn't change his outlook, nay, he didn't want to change his outlook on things. It was his duty.

Dagon needed a distraction from the plague gnawing at his mind.

"He's been...realigned with bare hands." cause what better distraction than a corpse of a cop sculpted in a repugnant, unnatural shape.

"Any cybernetic stall sells hands powered enough to do this, kid." Kerensky muttered, "We're talkin' about a borg gone psycho...ain't enough pills for everyone, y'know. Recession and all." there wasn't anything Kerensky wanted more than just slapping this case on psycho murder, call it a day and hit the brothels. A simple man. Plenty of cops were like that on Coruscant, especially the lower level precincts. Cold cases were a bigger nightmare than underpayment for most detectives Dagon had met.

"Tsk, there's bits of skin left on the body." Dagon shook his head, pulling a piece of leftover flesh with a pair of tweezers.

"So? Borg stocks come with flesh, too." the reluctant detective shrugged. He was pulling arguments from his ass.

Dagon gave him the glare.

"Low end flesh-coated cybernetics don't leave flesh bits behind. They just gloss like real skin." explained the Jedi, "High end, on the other hand - the really expensive ones - do. Those who can afford them got the pills. Perp's not a crazed, big money guy. Besides - two blocks from Dalcroft?" he waved his hands around to prove his point. It's a tap water and stale bread only neighborhood.

"So you're telling me our guy is a some nutjob with the strength of a walking carpet?" Kerensky scoffed.

"Don't know if they're a nutjob or not, but yeah - definitely strong as a wookie. And precise, too. The joints dislocated? Work of someone who knows what they're doing."

Kerensky sighed, shifted something in his pocket and his holo began to ring.

"Gotta take this call. Five minutes are up, kid. Bag 'em, boys." the detective jerked his head towards before departing the scene. Dagon was certain that was a clock alarm ringing - now that was one crafty way of dodging a situation.

The Jedi moved away from Emen's corpse. Time was up. He knew he couldn't twist them for more. It was the max leeway he could get with bureaucracy.

And they knew that, too.

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DAYS 5 - 9
DENON,
WHERE ELSE?


The first four days of the sentence are the toughest. It's a heavy silence, worse than a cemetery. Cause there isn't a cemetery in the galaxy where the dead want to rise. But a lot could be said for demons left unspoken for the greater good. The worst things tended to occur when the greater good was the excuse, Dagon had come to know but never learn. Burying their differences in a solemn silence, in evading each other while tempers cooled off, was for the greater good. And neither one of them was brave enough to change that modus operandi. Dagon couldn't bring himself to.

He loved her too much.

They had made it work. Stubborn in their views, but more stubborn in their love.

There were no shutters going up early in the next few days. Hi, how's it goin', whatchu wanna eat tonight. Manners were back, it's an office setting. The steps to the door were slower, slightly more reluctant. Maybe a joke or two in the mix, which were more driven through their mutual coping gig rather than pure humor. Nothing's ever forgotten, it still sours the mouth and wrenches the guts. Keep a distance, keep the storm at bay. It was usually in this phase of days that Dagon opened his mouth prematurely and a fight ensued. All signature moves of his.

Not this time.

Maybe he was more tired than before. Bones ached like a schutta, that's true.

Maybe he knew there would be a next time.

Or maybe it was the case. Something about it struck him off. Like an itch at the back of his head he couldn't scratch.

It was day six when surprise struck his face. Kerensky had called him. Apparently the captain wasn't letting it go. Second cop homicide in a week, we're talking about a possible cop serial killer. That's never a great image. Not even for the most crooked police establishment in the galaxy. Kerensky's ass is burning and Dagon's the only fire extinguisher in sight. They work the case and even the Jedi is surprised at the cigarette man's diligence. That's not too surprising, really. Sure, top spots in 'non's police are reserved for the uncles, the cousins, the brothers and even that distant aunt that you can't stand berating you over the weight you've gained. But the common cop, the detective, the M.E - they actually needed the skill to be in the force.

Meritocracy was reserved only for those below. Nepotism was the rule of law for those above.

Thing is, though, it's not like these cops couldn't work a case or do the simplest of jobs they had to - like even issuing a parking ticket. Nah, it was beyond them. Denon worked in a way where you get punished if you do good. Kerensky had said that himself - do good, eat chit. Simple as. Yeah, even to the point where issuing a parking ticket to the wrong guy's speeder could get you in really, really bad trouble.

Day nine was the day of revelation or reckoning, as you'll see. After clocking in hours of sleep into hours of work, they'd hit a standstill. Leftover skin DNA matched no one, looking for docs with superstrength led them nowhere - match, set, game. Colder than cold.

Until Jace showed up at the precinct. Eye witness. A kid from the streets. Dirty, ragged but eyes still glimmering with innocence. Don't worry, kid, Denon's still gonna get ya. Made Dagon's heart drop, reminded him of the days before the war with the Sith when guilt was reserved only for the bad guys. Those days were long gone. Although through a different way, Jace would, unfortunately, still be baptized in fire just like Dagon was. Only this fire was personified by the rough nature of Denon's slums rather than the tainted soil of Sith Worlds.

"Jace who?" asked Kerensky, scribbling on his datapad.

"Just Jace."

"We really gotta do this here?" Dagon muttered, faintly throwing hands at the interrogation room that surrounded them.

"Protocols, kid."

Oh, now you're following protocols.

"So...Jace, you're saying you saw Officer Eman murdered by a large guy."

"Very large!" exclaimed Jace.

"Can you describe him to us?"

"No, he's too scary." the kid shook his head, horror drawn upon his dirt stained face, "I can tell you where he went instead."

"You followed him? Where?" Dagon blinked in surprise. Brave.

"Yes. The old Tronstad brewery. Pops used to work there." a painful smile tugged at the boy's lips, then his head dropped, "I thought he'd picked the policeman's pockets, so maybe I could pick his when he's asleep." Jace explained his scheme.

Kerensky frowned, "So why... why come down here?"

Good question. Why?

Jace shrugged, "Mamma always used to tell me to be a good person."

That's a helluva loose definition, Dagon could hear Kerensky's thoughts. The detective reckoned there was something more to it, but the Jedi couldn't find deception through the Force.

The door to the interrogation room opened and a bald man peeked in, a datapad in his hand.

"You gents finished?"

Both investigators looked at each other, then nodded.

"Yeah, why?"

"Juvie officers are waiting on him." he jerked his head at Jace.

"He's going to juvie? Why?" Dagon frowned, something was telling him he wouldn't like the answer.

"New corporate social responsibility program. Foster homes are full, so street kids go to juvie instead." the bald man replied, almost yawning. He couldn't care less.

"For how long?"

"Two weeks, at least."

Two weeks.

Like Kerensky said.

Do good, eat chit.

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DAYS 10 - 14
DENON,
WHERE ELSE?


Days ten to thirteen of the couch verdict were alien territory to both of them. Two weeks was a new record. Usually, they were a couple of days, only once had they hit ten days before return to normalcy. And because it was so foreign, they both acted weird. Somehow both talked more but said less. Had dinner together, but coffee wasn't ready in the morning and sleeping on the couch was starting to ache every bone in his body. It was perhaps best for Dagon and Yula that he had to spent most of the time staking out the old Tronstad brewery with Kerensky for their perp.

Some hours before midnight on the fourteenth day was when they caught movement inside. They moved in. Fast and silent. Kerensky's cig stench betrayed him. Perp jumped him and nearly broke him into two. Perp was a human. Was. Twice Dagon's size and almost matching his speed. The spiked harness the perp donned was creepier than his everlasting, sadistic grin. He'd seen these harnesses before, seen the tattoos, seen these inhumanely altered faces before. The Maw. The so-called Moon Children of the Brotherhood that served as shock troopers in the legions of cult. Hans Steiger was the perp's name, or well - since Hans Steiger was dead - this was his clone, of course. The creation of a maniac, a lunatic serving the Dark Side.

Steiger put all his bets in a jab that could crack a concrete wall and lost. An elusive dodge and a series of Force enhanced punches were his endgame. A reluctant thanks from Kerensky later and the clone woke up in a straight jacket with cops brooding around him, his crazed eyes fixated on Dagon.

"Hey, cop, whatcha say we make a deal. See, your posture ain't right. All these nights you spend hunched over a case don't do ya no back no good. Get me outta here and I'll give you a discount treatment. Two weeks and you'll be walking straight as an arrow. Then we can both be fixin' the system."

Hans Steiger was indeed a chiropractor. One who excelled in his business before the Maw agents got to him.

For a millisecond, Dagon felt his couch-sleeping body consider the deal.

That's one way to fix things, I guess, the Jedi thought all the way back home. He wished all the problems in the galaxy could be solved in two weeks, especially those waiting at home.

It was just past midnight when he crossed the threshold into their house.

Yula was cooking. She was a great cook. Always tasty, never burnt. The secret only he and her family knew.

It smelt like day fourteen.

Unlike the last four days, this was the day that was always the same across every couch sleeping sentence. The final day. When the volcanoes inside erupted not in fury, but in passion. They were back in the bed seeking to make up for lost time.

They had take out for dinner.

THE END