The Badge on the Carpet

FAY

"F

ay, you're gonna have to tell him." Tyke pulls up his black Cadillac in a small alley near the Nahmahatran Police Department, 20th precinct, not too far from the police parking lot.

I mean, do two blocks away count as far?

"There's nothing to tell."

Unbuckling my seatbelt and grasping the door latch, I'm about to step out when he grumbles, "Nothing..."

This is the last time I will accept a ride from Tyke.

"I'll pick you up at six."

"More like in a month, Tyke!"

My heart sinks as I slam the door behind me. I want to take my words back, but in a matter of seconds, the engine roars to life.

The car is screaming with fumes, tires screeching on the spot as they burnout on the tarmac.

Tyke is pissed.

And to hell with it.

Inhaling a deep breath of guilt and relief, I...

"Cough! Cough!"

Cadillacs and their tailpipes!

As soon as the car disappears around the corner, I drop everything, arms and bag. I look up at the sky-crowded streets above me, flooded with fairies, gargoyles, and other winged creatures flying to work.

I narrow my eyes.

An object falls from the floating stream of people.

It is aiming straight at... me!?

What is this...? A plastic cup?

No, it's not!

I jolt and crash against a rusting dumpster.

This object hits the pavement with a splat, a smoothie coating my pants and shoes in a beautiful orange hue.

At least it wasn't hot tea.

While rolls of carrot pulp slide down my cheeks, I blast, "Hey!" my fist up high, because fuck!

I pinch my nose bridge. Between Tyke wanting to take our relationship to the next level, and now my smoothie-covered self, it's going to be a long day.

"Officer Jinksovan, you're late."

I stall and briefly close my eyes. Am I ever going to reach the end of this Monday fuckery?

"Chief Jinksovan," I hiss from the corridor.

He's there, sitting behind his big fat desk, his door always wide open, enjoying the open-space view like a creep...

I so hoped he'd be at the cafeteria or bullying some other rookie at this hour.

This dick flicks his finger in a come-here motion.

I search for my fakest smile, struggle to stretch it, and bravely step into his office when I finally tense it into a smarl. Yeah, it's not a smile and not quite a snarl...

"Chief?"

"Close the door."

As I do, Shelly, my closest friend around here, peeks her nymphic floral head out of her acoustic desk divider. Two thorn-covered mantis blades hook over the edge; one swings to and fro in a waving gesture. "Good luck, honey," she mouths, with this sort of frosted grin that means, 'Aiiish, girl. You're in for a spank.'

I find myself mirroring her expression, my silent lips tapping together, "Thanks..." before being locked in with my most unfavorite being in the whole world.

"Dad, I'm only five minutes late." With my back against the door, I face him from a very reasonable distance, my hands behind me, wrapped tight around the knob.

Scan the area, Fay. Just scan.

Aside from a massive portrait of President Fidr hung perfectly straight on the wall, the rest is close to what a battlefield would look like.

Right next to the phone are three coffee cups. Two of them are tipped over, empty. Great. Dad's in hyper mode.

My eyes wheel over the edge of the desk. The phone, undocked, is dangling from its wire. I suspect a call didn't go as well as expected.

On my left, four piles of documents tower up his head. The desk is cluttered with scrunched-up papers. Seems the struggle is real...

Behind this mess, I finally dare to set my eyes on my father, a whiskey glass cradled between his hands.

Fuck.

The whiskey...

I'm in for the wrong treatment.

But not as wrong as the fashion treatment he inflicts on himself, my nose crinkling at the awful purple tie adorning his shirt.

"How did you get through the security gates?" His voice is stickier than usual.

"W-with a-a temporary badge I borrowed from security," my feeble self stammers.

"Where is your badge, Fayra?"

"I forgot it at home."

On that note, one is tossed over, its collar keyring scraping the desk as it slides toward me. "Is this the one you left at home?"

Is that my badge?

Where did I last see it?

The carpet...

Tyke's fucking carpet!

"Yes, that's... that's my badge."

My father uncrosses his mansplaining legs and leans over his desk. "Tell me something. Why is a Special Ops agent personally bringing your badge to me?"

Right now, a substantial air intake is trapped between my fourth and fifth rib. "Must be a kind soul."

"Most certainly," he says, elbowing the table, hands knitted. What a condescending asshole.

"Yeah," I nervously simper.

With a hand still on the knob, I'm ready to leave this interrogation, but this ChiefDick'ovanisn't entirely done yet.

"Kind enough to also drop this?"

Why are my hands sweating so much?

Once more, I am left to suffer in silence when my ears recognize a familiar sound. One of metal sliding on a smooth surface...

My eyes glisten in horror.

This...

Tyke!

Five seconds of hesitation later, I finally quiz, "What's that?"

"A key, Fayra."

I come closer and fake a squint. "It's a stunning key!"

Glancing up slowly, a chill goes through me. My father's jaws cannot be more over-strung.

It's probably best if I go. "Are we done?"

"We're not done, girl." A little whiskey spills over a file as he hammers his glass down. "Do you mind explaining?"

His dark translucent wings begin to wire. The chief is not happy.

"It's a key. What would I know about it?"

"Well enough to know it's yours."

"It's not."

"Let me quote, 'Your daughter forgot her key and badge.' At first, I thought like you. How kind... you know?" This specist then lowers his voice. "An orc with a conscience."

He pulls a tissue out of its box and, as he wipes the whiskey off the binder, pursues his glorious eloquence. "But then the daughter part caught me off guard," he sneers, crushing the tissues into a ball of nothingness.

"Dad, it's?—"

"Which person on the force brings me forgotten objects and says, 'daughter'? You would expect 'Officer Jinksovan,' right?"

"My name is on the tag!"

His arm slips under the desk, probably throwing his whiskey-soaked tissue into the bin. "There's five other Jinksovan in this commissariat, and none are affiliated with me."

He has a point.

"But that's not all."

My smile is flatlining as his voice grows. I lower my palms, knowing fair well it's of no use.

"I know the color of your key, Fayra."

Ah...

That part stinks.

"Because you know what?"

Don't answer that, Fay.

"It's a white swipe card!"

My father hunches over his seat and, with a far searching arm under his desk, pulls out an amber-colored bottle.

"Do you realize what you're doing? I mean, Fayra! Are you out of your right mind?!" Half the content spills onto the desk as he fills his glass. It looks like he needs more than just a box of tissues...

With crossed arms and spread-out feet, I clap back, "First of all, it can be anyone's key!"

My father swivels his hideous, brown paper-bag-colored chair to the side, gets up with a grunt, and walks up to me.

That look means nothing good.

"Second of all, my private life doesn't..."

Stopping inches from me, he leans forth and brings his mouth almost to my ear. "Doesn't what?" he growls through his teeth.

"C-concern..."

Big yikes... Somebody's about to go off.

"... you?" I squeak.

Definitely need to work on my power stance—my mistake for skipping the corporate 'Building Assertiveness' training last month.

I watch him swirl his glass with aristocratic dignity. Sure, he does. He's a royal bastard. My number one reason for hating being a fairy is because of him. Each and every one of them has a specist streak! "An orc. Gods damn it, Fayra."

Right, that's it!

"This is my private life!" I roar, golden dust shooting around me, littering his floor amongst the dirt and grime.

Shit. My pixie dust runs amok whenever I lose it.

He glances backward, taking a pinch of dust off his lower lip. And a sip of his harsh anxiolytic later, he grits, "Is it that private?"

Seems people have been having tea behind my back.

Shelly?

No, she's full proofed...

I smile slyly at him, piercing him with my eyes. I hope it makes him want to stab the sarcasm out of them.

Coyly, I move toward his desk and grab my badge.

Daddy, you need closure.

I'll give it to you.

With my badge in one hand, the other begins to skate on the lacquered wood. And as it does, I focus on my procreator.

I watch his reaction when my hand covers the key. He's as still as a petrified tree.

But I don't stop there. Oh, no.

While sliding my palm and the key under it, I use the bitchiest voice I have and say, "Sorry, Dad. I'm sus."

And then, I just kill the Boomer with a wink.

"You're what?!"

Look at that face. Priceless.

"You get it."

The rictus of disgust ruining his cheeks as the key scratches his perfect furniture means only one thing—Hexmas is canceled this year.

"Out!" whirls through the slimming crack as I shut the door.

I stall before it.

Every staff member is staring at me.

Smile, Fay.

Not only do I force dimples on my cheeks but also fix my stare at the far end of the room, finding refuge in the only neutral and safe zone in this judging place––a black and yellow, circular wall-mounted clock.

It's okay.

It's only eight-fifteen in the morning.