[ it's something you learn after enough years as a private investigator: sometimes people just go missing.
of course, jessica's usually the one finding those missing people, no matter how gone they seem to be, but there's the occasional case that just leads to a dead-end — the wrong kind. it always comes up feeling awkward or somehow off, like a painting hung askew or a word with all the letters in the a different order: you look at it, at all the evidence, and something isn't the way it's supposed to be.
frustrating, is what it goddamn is, and those rare and inevitably futile cases keep her up sometimes.
but she's also come (grudgingly) to accept it.
when someone seems to just vanish into thin air, when she reaches the end of the metaphorical line, she has no choice. it's how inexplicable it all is that really unsettles her, but what the hell can she even do about it, other than write it off, let her client know that there's no trail to follow (none), and try to move on? she's seen the pattern in more than just her own cases, but—
eventually you just explain it away. try to come up with something logical, like the body just hasn't been found or maybe they've somehow managed to buy their way to antartica — whatever the fuck it is.
it's too weird, otherwise. almost unnatural.
but maybe that's just the way the universe works, right? things that can't always be explained or understood, because it comes and goes with the sort of convoluted complexities that will leave any normal person grasping at straws, scrabbling for comprehension when all they'll come away with is empty air.
jessica's reached that place with a few of the disappearances.
she just never expected to be one of them.
when she wakes, it's with the most killer headache of her life.
did i really drink that much? is about the first coherent thought she manages. because what the fuck?
also why is the floor so hard?
passed out in an alley? nope, doesn't smell like shit. passed out at the bar? nope, would have gotten kicked out. passed out in her apartment? still no, because she doesn't have steel goddamn floors.
she takes a second to process that, finally cracking open an eye as she comes to terms with the fact that her cheek is resting on something cold and metal, rather than wood or carpet (or, preferably, her bed). she slowly lifts her head, squinting at her surroundings.
crates. boxes. her first impulse is to think "warehouse," but no, too small for that. everything is enclosed, a little cramped, and definitely metal, with a low hum that fills the space (and does absolutely zero favors for her throbbing head). ]
Where in the fuck...?
[ grimacing, she presses a hand to her forehead, sitting up and looking around. she can hear voices overhead, and she's automatically on high alert.
...or she would be, if her head didn't feel like it was going to shatter into a million pieces if she didn't stay still.
shit.
with a royal fuckload of effort, she drags herself to her feet, biting back the groan of accompanying discomfort. a step forward, and she stumbles, catching herself on a nearby crate — only to knock it right the floor.
...double shit.
the voices above her cut off immediately, and all she can think is, "so much for the element of surprise, dumbass." ]
idefk with this mess lmk if i need to edit??
of course, jessica's usually the one finding those missing people, no matter how gone they seem to be, but there's the occasional case that just leads to a dead-end — the wrong kind. it always comes up feeling awkward or somehow off, like a painting hung askew or a word with all the letters in the a different order: you look at it, at all the evidence, and something isn't the way it's supposed to be.
frustrating, is what it goddamn is, and those rare and inevitably futile cases keep her up sometimes.
but she's also come (grudgingly) to accept it.
when someone seems to just vanish into thin air, when she reaches the end of the metaphorical line, she has no choice. it's how inexplicable it all is that really unsettles her, but what the hell can she even do about it, other than write it off, let her client know that there's no trail to follow (none), and try to move on? she's seen the pattern in more than just her own cases, but—
eventually you just explain it away. try to come up with something logical, like the body just hasn't been found or maybe they've somehow managed to buy their way to antartica — whatever the fuck it is.
it's too weird, otherwise. almost unnatural.
but maybe that's just the way the universe works, right? things that can't always be explained or understood, because it comes and goes with the sort of convoluted complexities that will leave any normal person grasping at straws, scrabbling for comprehension when all they'll come away with is empty air.
jessica's reached that place with a few of the disappearances.
she just never expected to be one of them.
when she wakes, it's with the most killer headache of her life.
did i really drink that much? is about the first coherent thought she manages. because what the fuck?
also why is the floor so hard?
passed out in an alley? nope, doesn't smell like shit. passed out at the bar? nope, would have gotten kicked out. passed out in her apartment? still no, because she doesn't have steel goddamn floors.
she takes a second to process that, finally cracking open an eye as she comes to terms with the fact that her cheek is resting on something cold and metal, rather than wood or carpet (or, preferably, her bed). she slowly lifts her head, squinting at her surroundings.
crates. boxes. her first impulse is to think "warehouse," but no, too small for that. everything is enclosed, a little cramped, and definitely metal, with a low hum that fills the space (and does absolutely zero favors for her throbbing head). ]
Where in the fuck...?
[ grimacing, she presses a hand to her forehead, sitting up and looking around. she can hear voices overhead, and she's automatically on high alert.
...or she would be, if her head didn't feel like it was going to shatter into a million pieces if she didn't stay still.
shit.
with a royal fuckload of effort, she drags herself to her feet, biting back the groan of accompanying discomfort. a step forward, and she stumbles, catching herself on a nearby crate — only to knock it right the floor.
...double shit.
the voices above her cut off immediately, and all she can think is, "so much for the element of surprise, dumbass." ]