Rugby is a big deal in U.S. Colleges. You can get your entire scholarship paid for, just by being as dumb as a brick, but good at Rugby. I've never agreed with this. As previously noted, I am also never consulted on policy creation on any subject, in any realm.
I stayed up all night with this meathead. I asked him about things he should know. World history. Chemistry. Not quadratic equations. That kind of Euclidean mathematics is frankly evil, and I want no part in it.
This kid knew none of those things. The only thing he understood was rugby, and hurting people. It's truly rare to come across people whom you could quiz on the vastness of all that is, was, might be, and could never be, and conclusively prove he knew about exactly two subjects, but this idiot was among them. Worse, he seemed to be more of an expert at the latter than the former, so even what good might arise from some other kid, ten years from now, watching him play rugby and dreaming about being as good as he was largely mitigated by the certainty that a spousal abuse scandal would likely arise that would devastate all said hypothetical fans.
Even worse than that, though? He only knew that last one, because people hurt him. His divorced parents were both abusive. His relatives "didn't want to pick a side", and distanced themselves, rather than call out either offending party, and choose this boy's side. That's the kind of magic that might have saved him, 5 years ago.
Now, though?
Violence was all he really knew.
Violence, and a violent game that Americans insisted upon dumbing down with more body armor than a knight of the round table.
His wish was a simple one. He wanted his father to stop hurting him. He wanted his mother to stop hurting him. He wanted to stop hurting.
Now, there are plenty of heartfelt stories about how some guardian angel decides to take it upon himself to help this kid find a family. I'm afraid that in the present economy of belief, at the time, I was limited in what I could, and couldn't do, magically. I'm also neither a guardian force, nor an angelic one.
There was a time when so many people believed in magic that it was possible to nudge their parents back together, and he would have gotten his family back. Happily ever after. He'd grow up to be a soldier in a war to liberate people, believing in true love to guide him, or perhaps just an honest miller or smith.
Now, we have hate, bigotry, and cruelty. I had precisely enough influence to suggest to this particular student's teacher to call in an anonymous Child Protective Services complaint. What can I say? When you've got half a black bean burrito's worth of fart force as magic in your wand, moving mountains on such an epic scale is simply not something fate thinks highly enough about you to allow.
I thought that wish was done. It was all I could do. Influence a single act that would have happened from occurring in the future, anyway, and making it happen now.
It was three days after that evening that I awoke in my submerged algae covered log(While most fae sleep in cliche flowers appropriate to their nature, it was universally expected that Black Fae have subpar accommodations) and flipped through the morning news.
The other fae were quiet today. That was bizarre. With but few exceptions, not even including me, we are all a chattering bunch.
They avoided me. That was less bizarre.
The boss fairy approached, and she was livid. She always seemed livid with me.
"HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?" She shouted, holding up a copy of this week's miraculous times.
The miraculous times, it's thought, are not written by elves, but instead by fate, herself, as a diary of what supernatural creatures messed with her system, this week, and how. This is backed up by it's nuanced and exacting recitation of any included events, even those that the most powerful magicians could not hope to spy upon by scrying or divination.
I flipped to the page, and read it, aghast.
Noir grants wish; Boy shoots up school.
My life was filled with gloom. With sadness. With dread.
But this? This was beyond everything I'd ever felt.
"I-" I began, shocked.
"This is ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE! NO FAIRY IN THE HISTORY OF FAE HAS EVER BEEN SO FLAGRANTLY CONNECTED TO A MASS MURDER!" She shouted."THIS WAS OUTRIGHT DEMONIC!"
It was in this moment that I began to understand why black fae tended to go rogue, and attack other fae.
"I DID THE BEST I COULD!" I shouted. "IT MUST BE SO EASY FOR YOU, MISS "I DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT PREVENTING MURDERS BECAUSE I ONLY HAVE TO DEAL WITH UNREQUITED LOVE WISHES "!''
In fairness, as far as I was concerned, she was spoiled rotten. Her department had most of the belief. The hierarchy of Fae was so decided, and it was entirely bullshit. Love was the most powerful of magic, so she was in charge. In spite of hatred clearly being a primary source of power in the human realm known as Earth, however, I was always the top of the totem pole. The first, whom the birds would defecate upon, and the easiest force to see, but hardly the most important in any other sense.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" She demanded, putting her hands on her hips. It wasn't as impressive as it might sound. The pink Fae stood barely 2 and a half inches tall, and her muscle tone was minimal. "That was disrespectful, and this is incredibly irresponsible!"
"I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR OTHER PEOPLE'S ACTIONS!" I shouted.
My wand was out. She looked at me, terrified. She withdrew something. A strange coin. I knew precisely what it was. It had been expressly explained to me that this was insurance against Black Fae attacking here.
Fortunately, however, there was a slight thing. A tiny little detail. The difference between me, and him.
I lowered my wand.
In that split second, I nearly fulfilled the Black Fae prophecy about turning evil, and taking over the world. As dramatic, and enjoyable as it might have been to eviscerate, incinerate, or some other -erate suffix, however, that would also be me lowering myself to the scum and degeneracy of the people I was charged with helping, and proving in every Fae's eyes that it was what black Fae deserved.
I did not deserve this.
This realization woke me up to the realization that not only was this woman mortified of me killing her, but that she, the one who ostensibly had the power to force me to do this job against my will, had no power to stop me from killing her.
Thus, the only person forcing me to be the fairy godmother to these pathetic bullies was me.
"I'm only responsible for mine." I said, after taking a moment to recollect my thoughts. "And you know what?"
"What?" She asked, visibly shaken.
"You're right. This is irresponsible. These people? The ones I get shafted with? They don't deserve a fairy godmother. They deserve consequences for their actions." I closed my eyes.
There was a series of gasps. Fae didn't admit to such heresy, as a rule.
We were fairy godmothers. It was our job to grant wishes. That was literally why there were fairy godmothers.
But, the people I was assigned? The everyday puke buckets that made high school miserable for those clever people who would go on to change the world?
The system was already rigged in their favor. They had magic on their side. Fear. Intimidation. Systemic advantages that punished people for fighting back, rather than instigating the incident.
They didn't need a fairy godmother.
I was superfluous. An unnecessary advantage in their otherwise advantageous lives.
And the only person who forced me to do this was me.
"I quit." I said, holstering my wand.
It wasn't like anyone could stop me from doing it. That was the shockingly world changing realization.
The fae woods were instantly silent.
"You WHAT?" The head fairy godmother demanded.
I turned my back, and walked towards the exit.
She tried to prevent me from leaving, by forcing the door shut.
Forcing the door shut was just growing vines over the portal plants who were grown specifically to travel between realms,
but for whom were not even entirely necessary given that many Fae could do so freely.
I was not such a fairy. My wand was relatively strictly limited to wish granting and the directing of my own personal color of magic, destruction. My portals always ended up back here, which was actually quite terrible, because as you might guess, the universe is fascinating.
Most fae never considered what you could do with destructive magic because the majority of them didn't have access to it. It wasn't something Fae were generally permitted to meddle with, though as it was now apparent to me, there wasn't really any stopping anyone who had it from using it.
Even if you were to use my wand, however, you wouldn't so much as light a candle. Destruction magic comes from your heart.
My heart was blackened by the pain I was helpless to prevent, and as vines and branches grew over the door to the fae woods, I simply twirled my wand, and burnt them to ashes.
Didn't even slow me down. Emotional magic doesn't require charging time or forethought.
I vanished into the thicket, and behind me, the ashes reiterated my point.
I quit. Was elegantly burnt into the ground.
I do have the most terrible tendency to be dramatic.
I was not particularly sorry for nearly setting the entire glade on fire, if we're being honest. This place may have been my home. All of our home. Everything about this place was, in my opinion, everything that was wrong with the world. Trying to hold both of those opinions was like trying to contain a cat from going wild in a fish market.
These people had the ability to make the world believe. To bring actual good to the world.
Today, they were taking out one shitty act on a person who had just been trying to help. Just Like they did, every day.
If that was what being a fairy godmother meant, I wanted no part of it.
Day 1
August 31st, 2019
The world beyond the veil
Everyday people lead everyday lives. It took me some time to adjust to them. You wake up. You shower. You have your morning routines. You go to work. You start it all over again tomorrow. Non-sugar exclusive diets also meant bowel movements. That was a very exciting and disgusting lesson to discover.
It took me some time to have enough of this mystical money stuff set aside to do what I really wanted to do.
I wanted to punish those I had been forced to help.
Fast forward to today, and we're three years out of the police academy.
I don't hear from the other fae anymore. I'm not sure they even believe I survived out here. I did more than survive, though.
I found my own wish and made it happen. Didn't once lift my wand.
Today is the first day I get to be a REAL police officer. Major crimes division, they call it. Not some person in a uniform, forced to harass everyday people with such petty things as "traffic violations", or the like.
I get to investigate really bad people. I get to ruin their lives, instead of making them easier. I get to be the vindicator for their victims.
It's also the first day I get to dress 'business casual'. For some of the officers, they take the casual a bit seriously.
I'm not most officers. I'm fairly certain you'd all be quite disappointed if I was, at this point. Where is the drama in that, after all?
High heels click against the ground, and a pitch black pant suit distinguishes me from the generic uniforms today. I've been told the black fedora is "over the top" seven times. Please hold your comments about how cliche this looks. I'm well aware, by now. That is the entire point of wearing it.
Most of you would presume that heels would be an issue in my everyday navigation, and consider such attire impractical. My co-workers did. Most of you, and all of them, don't understand the exacting levels of finesse and balance that flight requires. If anything, having pokey little stabby bits on my heels were more of a combat assistance device, than a navigational hazard. The sooner you adjust to this line of thinking, the easier my narrative and manners of thinking will be to understand.
"Business lady Barbie, the toy store is up the road." Some smarmy detective said, in an amused tone.
I crossed my arms, and leaned against a wall, waiting patiently. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to engage. I live for sarcasm. That being said, it was my first day, and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing to the right person. That's how you end up doing noise complaints for a month. I did have a career to mind. This one, I even cared about.
The department captain was a fine fellow, whose name was Derek Channing. He had the great fortune of being injured, learning to play rugby, at age 12, and was instead sent down the line of brain work. Why, precisely, someone with a psychiatric degree would choose this line of work was a little beyond me, but I considered him a fine fellow, nonetheless. He had a discerning ego and a highly developed narcissistic personality disorder, but he also genuinely and truly wished to make the world a better place.
He strolled into the squad room, sipping his Sharkbucks coffee, in silence. He had a series of files, but was apparently waiting for the wisecracking to tone down, before breaching serious matters.
Most movies or television shows tend to display places like this as full of terrible puns, questionable humor, and even dark, bordering on morbid jokes being the common place. This is true. This is not the fault of such very astute literary narratives.
They rarely explain why they exist. Most of the people here have been shot at, at some point in their career. Long hours strains personal relationships. There's a lot of pressure to solve these crimes, given that the only ones that make our desks are the major ones. The ones the department needs solved three days ago, for public relations purposes. These people are routinely driven to the edge of sanity with deadlines, politically motivated demands, poor salary, worse benefits, laughable mental health support, very little testing for bigotry or underlying personality disorders, and worst of all, the shittiest sparkling coffee in the known existing 7,999,498,695.7 realms.
In short, the majority of the people in this, or several other departments, which cover the absolute worst parts of humanity needs this gallows or juvenile grade humor because without it, the situations we deal with on an everyday level are too horrific for all but the sturdiest to endure.
I had witnessed a few captains try and curtail it. Try and prevent it, thinking it sent the wrong message, should outsiders to the caste of the demented heroes and antiheroes and even outright villains witness it.
It spoke a lot about Captain Channing, that he gave it a fair amount of reverence, and considered it a required part of the morning routine. It was. It was the closest thing to mental health care coverage that we were given.
"Your tie is crooked, Captain Major Captain sir." Okay. So my gallows humor needed work. I had juvenile humor down pat, though. You'd think someone named Azura the Noir, Blackest of Fae, watcher of the undesirable, and purveyor of the darkest desires(™) would have dark humor down pat, but the truth of it was, I had a hard time finding morbid humor humorous. It was much more difficult, when morbidity was your history and reason for existing.
Captain Channing, however, did not find it out of place. Instead, he gave a slight smirk towards me, before turning to a mirror. He blew his reflection a kiss, and winked at my reflection. "I'll have you know, sergeant, I'm the absolute perfect picture of handsome manliness."
"I wouldn't know." I retorted. "I prefer blondes." It was such a true statement, that I said it effortlessly, and without hesitation or forethought, though I didn't quite go so far as to elaborate on which representation of gender that hair preference laid, or even if one existed.
He tried to make his face stay straight. It didn't work. That was the fun nature of such simple humor; it had an irresistibly simplistic response.
"Alright, alright, knuckleheads-" The Captain paused. "FRANK! ARE YOU WEARING CROCS?"
"I'm on administration only duty until I get assigned a new partner." The offending officer retorted. "Thought
I'd dress comfortable."
"Well, lace up your gumboots, flat foot." I said, dryly. "Do crocodiles have flat feet?"
"Who is the cheek?" Frank asked the Captain.
“I prefer to be called Azura.” I retorted.
"Sergeant Frank Gillard, may I introduce our newest transfer, Sergeant Azura Noir." Captain Channing said, bemused.
"Noir, huh? Is that why she's dressed like a terrible anime character?" Frank asked.
"You're beaking off about my dress style?" I shot back. "From the man wearing crocs at work?"
"He's also wearing track pants." One of the other detectives pointed out.
Indeed, on top of the frankly hideous shade of green crocs, his attire strayed from business casual to casual game day clothes, with other adornments like a hockey jersey, and jacket, both of which prominently featured the local Vancouver hockey team(Who isn't named for copyright reasons, and the likelyhood that they would sue given how poorly this book portrays them, which is unforunately, accurate), which, all things considered, was a bold choice, even IN Vancouver, given the team's record.
"What unlucky bastard has to deal with Where in the closet is Judgemental San Diego, over there?" Frank asked.
"I'm so terribly glad you asked, Frank. The chief has decided to run you in gently, after your brush with death last year, and you'll be the unlucky bastard." Captain Channing did air quotes around the last two words. This elicited a fair amount of amused responses. Not from Frank. I was absolutely delighted. I had known the man for less than ten minutes and had sufficient ammunition to dazzle him with witticisms for at least a decade.
Captain Channing handed him a file. "Disappearance. Local barista."
"Oh, COME ON, MAN!" Frank exclaimed. "This is major crimes, and you're giving us the shitiest file?"
"Matches your attitude this morning, and your respect for your coworkers." I shot back, taking the file from Frank, and reading it, while leaning against his desk. It was a strange case. The missing person was not reported by a friend, or family member. According to the report, she was called in by her co-worker, when she failed to show up for her second consecutive shift. Not the manager of the store, either. A co-worker. Perhaps a friend, after all.
Fae Noir- the Murderer in Blue Page 2
