"So... who's dying today?" Renata swiveled in the old leather desk chair she stole from the 3rd floor. "No list yet. Is Frank still off?" Henry looked over at his co-worker and wondered how much longer he'd have to look at her spiked hair and tired black nail polish. "I think so. I guess we make our own list." She started to access the round filing cabinet labeled North America. "Oh c'mon. Not that again. Can't we start somewhere more exciting?" Henry scooted his stool over to Africa. "Sure, but you know the rules. They can be FROM Africa, but they gotta kick it in North America." "I know. I know." He grabbed a random file and shoved it into the scanner. Elijah Ben Gaharidin. A card flipped out of the scanner and landed in the catch tray. 250 additional cards later they had culled at least 120 tourists in the North American continent visiting from places as far away as Friesland. The airlines would have to give discounted tickets to far more people than they expected. "I wish we could pick out HOW they kick it. We have no creative control up here." Renata looked at the blank wall and imagined a window looking out over the Manhattan skyline. She didn't exactly miss Manhattan. But she liked the idea of it. "Bobbie in Rework told me she gets Frank to let her pick all the time." Henry was rubber banding the stack of cards for dispatch. "Is she blowing him? Because that old codger wouldn't let me pick the creamer I wanted for my coffee, let alone how someone was going to shuffle off their moral foil, or whatever."

So, who’s going to die today? Shall it be the fools that listen? The fools that speak? The king that watches silently? The crowds that sing?

Shall it be you? Your heart? Your lavender garden?

Shall it be me? Shall it-

THOMAS

“So, who’s gonna die today?”

I watch patiently behind the woman as she stalks back and forth in front of five tied and gagged hostages. Her heels click! click! click! on the concrete floor of the warehouse. Jack only gave me a post-it note with an address of it; the door to the warehouse was unlocked anyway.

Jack had sent me here for backup if the investigators found something.

Just in case.

I sniff in her direction. Jasmine, orange, and something red fills my nose. She isn’t exactly one of us, but she’s close. Maybe in that middle part of it. But if Jack didn’t need her, she’d be the first eaten out of everyone in here.

One of the hostages finally takes notice of me, and struggles against his bindings. The woman turns around.

She smiles. Red red red.

“So you must be Thomas Meers, yes? A big one you are, handsome too despite the glasses.”

She has a gun in her hand, the edges curled with shapes of roses. Custom made, then. She takes pride in her work.

All the hostages look at me now, eyes dimming back to fear rather than hope.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

She laughs, a dainty giggle behind her dark hand. “Oh no, no. Jack and I go way back, so it’s glad to see that he actually remembers me. How’s that Adon of his?”

I grunt. “Fine. We need your help.”

“Not even going to ask for my name, are you? Nevermind the matter, you may call me Treasure.” She cocks her gun and shoots the bullet through a hostage’s head, never letting go of my gaze. He falls to the ground, what seems to be his brain splattering the floor below him. Blood pools where his head rested on the ground. The other four hostages start to squirm again; they start to scream against their gags.

“When do you want me to start?”

SADIE

There’s nothing here. How is there nothing here?!

Confusion is lined on Young’s face. She’s looking around the bedrooms—under the beds, in the closets.

Nothing.

Holland, Adon eating a granola bar in his lap, is on the couch facing the hallway. Every time we come out empty handed, relief passes across his face. Finally done with the bedrooms, we move towards what Holland called “Jack’s Study”.

“Oh—uhm—you can’t go in there!”Young and I look back to see Holland reaching towards us, stuck to the couch with Adon on him. “Well. You can, but—I—“

Just then, the door opens. A tall Asian man steps out with a confident smile on his face. Jack Holt. “Hello, there. What is this all for?”

“Oh, I’m sure you know what we’re here for.” I don’t like his eyes, they seem…calculative. Always thinking. Always plotting.

“We are from the GPD; Young and I are private investigators from the unit.” We hold out our badges, and Jack nods, taking time to cock his head and examine both fully.

When he’s done, he opens the door wider to his study. “May I ask what this is all for?”

“They think we took a woman named Penny King from an asylum or something,” Adon shoves the rest of his granola bar into his mouth, “I dunno.” He stands up from where he sat on Holland, the angel man was shock still and picking at the end strands of his hair, and went into the kitchen with his plastic.

“May we go inside, sir?” Young asks, returning to the matter at hand.

Jack moves out of our way and goes to the couch where Holland is less fidgety than he was. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Young and I, after a wary glance, go inside the office.

That’s when we hear the screams.

AUBREY

I would have been fine if no one came out of the apartments. It’s a struggle to contain my Itch at times, but if I try really hard, I can.

Of course, it just all had to explode when a woman came out of her apartment. She had her purse with her; she was going shopping, maybe?

That doesn’t matter.

Now, after screaming, she’s on the ground, choking on her own blood as I bite deep into her throat. Tears start to fall down my face and onto hers as she stares at me with wide eyes, pleading.

Caramel eyes.

Why caramel?

She isn’t Talia—she isn’t—it’s obvious. Her hair is curly and blonde, her skin is a peachy color.

But her eyes.

A shot rings out, and I grunt, rolling off the woman as something cold and metal drives deep into my left shoulder. I twist my head to see blood—ladybugs—bloom under my shirt.

“Stop right there! Don’t move!”

I look to see two women, one much older than the other one, dressed in police attire. The older one is holding a gun pointed at me, the other has her hand on hers, face drawn but body shaking.

Behind them are three men. Two men I don’t recognize—and him.

“Young,” says the older woman, “Get the handcuffs.” The younger woman, Young, brings them out, stalking towards me.

The Asian man from before tilts his head, grinning with his phone near his ear. He’s behind the women, so they don’t see when he mouths something to me.

Aubrey Taps?

I nod to it, not even caring as I’m most likely going to die, and try to move. The pain in my arm causes me to grit my teeth. The woman that I bit is still on the ground, caramel eyes staring into the skin blankly.

And as if the situation can’t get any worse, the older woman shoots me again. “I said don’t move!”

My Itch has fully resided from my killing. It would’ve been helpful right now, damn the thing.

Click! Click! Click!

“Oh! You are so right, Thomas!” A rich voice says behind me. “That’s so—oh—what happened here?”

I see from the corner of my eye that the Asian man pushes the other men the way that the voice came. Young stops trying to grab my wrist and stares behind me, as well as the older woman.

Two stocking wrapped legs stop beside my head. The heels on them are large and expensive looking, but I’m bleeding so much that I don’t particularly care. I’ve never felt so weak in my entire life.

The legs crouch before me.

A hand brushes my thin hair out of my face.

Caramel overwhelms my vision.

Caramel?

“Ma’am,” says the older woman, “I need you to step away—“

_Bang! _

“OFFICER SADIE!”

“Alright everyone!” I recognize the voice as the Asian man’s. “It’s time to make our leave—it was a pleasure meeting you ladies.”

Broad hands grab my body and drape me over an even bigger back. A shoulder pokes me against my stomach. But so much blood. So many ladybugs.

I close my eyes, the sounds of click! click! click! and sneakers against concrete lulling me to sleep.

What has my life become?

_(Sorry it’s kinda lazy, just didn’t want to make a part three of this so I had to mush everything together. Why not a part three—well—I want to move on with the series besides this investigation part. I also want to feature Oliver (the spectator) and his lover (who is yet to be named). _

As always, thanks for reading and tell me what you think about Judges of Man so far! This is my…tenth one?…(yes, no?) Have a great day! ❤️)

“So, who’s going to die today?” the gaunt, coarse man asked with a grin. “Don’t everybody jump up at once!” he shouts as he slams his hammer into the iron bars. We all jump at the sound and some whimper in fear. This man glares at all of us, and his eyes meet mine. The grin spreads further, “Youuu” he says slowly, pointing his long, crooked finger in my direction as he unlocks the cell. He steps toward me with determination and reaches a hand to grab my shirt. Suddenly, something blocks my sight of him. The back of a dark blue shirt sits inches from my face. “Please,” a reedy voice asks plaintively, “pick me.” I blink in disbelief. “Sir, you don’t have to do this!” I say. The older gentleman turns back to face me and smiles softly, “You’re young, and you’re smart. You can get out of here. You can repay me by doing so.” At that, the wicked jailer pulled the kindly man out of the cell. That was the last time we saw him. It was the first time I started planning.

"So, who's going to die today?" I eye him, pinning him with a death stare. "You really shouldn't joke about this, Bryan." "Alright, alright!", he holds his hands up, shriveling under my gaze. "You know I like this as much as you do, Cass." Next to me, Lily picks up one of the colored beads. "Well, let's get this over with, shall we?" After a pause in which everyone eyes each other nervously, we all pick up a bead too. I pick up the red one. Red, the lucky color. Red, the color who murdered my best friend. Red, the color of blood and death. Seems fitting. I feel someone patting my back. Behind me, Emilia is holding the grass green one, gazing at me with sympathy, knowlegde in her eyes. Besides Sophia, she was the only one I knew well enough to find comfort in. Now that Sophia is gone, Emilia is the only thing I have. "It'll be okay. Who knows what happens after? Maybe they're not even gone." But in her eyes I see the uncertainty, as if even she doesn't believe it. I sigh. The last bead is the brown one, and the last person not holding a bead is Logan. He gives me a lopsided grin, picks up the bead, and. Everything. Goes. Black. Again. The ritual is familiar now, but still my hands tremble. My breath comes out in a shaky puff of air. Cold sweat breaks down my back. I squeeze my eyes shut, even though it's already dark. A bang. Dread. Relief. I'm alive. Someone else died. Behind my eyelids, I see the lights turning on again. At first, as always, there's that dreaded silence, where everybody's trying to figure out who was the victim this time. Then a sob. Someone falls to the ground. I bury my head between my knees. I don't want to know. I don't want to know. I don't want to know. "Millie.", the broken whisper falls through the air. As realization hits me, I lift my head. Bryan is on the ground on his knees, head on the ground, Lily leaning over him, both trembling, holding each other as if their lives depend on it. Millie. Emilia. Bryan's second half. Lily's big sister. My only steady wall in this chaotic mess of a life. No, no. No, no, no, no. No. Only when someone squeezes me against his chest, I realize I'd been screaming it out loud. My vision goes blurry as tears threaten to spill. I'm trembling, I'm dying. I can't breathe. Millie. Why? It should have been me. Millie was good. God knows the only good thing I've ever done is coming here instead of my sister. Logan hushes me, rubs soothing circles on my back, but the only thing that will ever make me okay again, is Millie coming back.

“So, who’s going to die today?” The officer said. Rye new he was almost the oldest and if his work didn’t pick up…. He didn’t want to think about it any longer.

The year was 5819. They were in space at the moment, it took lots of fuel and food but space was livable, the 4th space station had just opened. Rye was a prisoner, he had worked for the government, a long time ago, to him it felt like a life time to go. At first when he worked there he kept his head low and did what was asked, but then he found out about how they wanted to not only just rule the world, but space too. As he tried to stop it, he was caught. He had been put in prison. About 5 years after that, space was beginning to be ruled, he was put in the first ship and forced to help build space stations. He was never very strong, more on the “nerdy” side, this made it hard for him and he saw his fellow prisoners get spaced daily.

“I said who is going to die today?” The officer said, in a more stern tone than last time. An officer(his friend) was accidentally spaced, so he had no patientince today. Rye couldn’t take it, “I’ll do it….”. The guard laughed, “the president told me to keep you alive”. Rye almost cried, not in happiness but in pain.

Then he heard a rumble and then screams and soon, all the guards and half the prisoners were gone, he reealized there was a breach. He and a few others were in space suits so they could survive for a little.

They decided to take the ship, repaire it, get food, and survive.

‘So, who’s going to die today?’ “That was the final text message sent from your son at 6:53 this morning to three of his classmates.” Detective Malone and George Brown sat facing each other in the interrogation room. Mr. Brown was slumped on his knees, staring at the floor, while Detective Malone continued, Your son opened fire with an assault rifle at around 7:32, and you purchased that rifle three years ago. Mr. Brown adjusted his posture in the chair and exhaled a large sigh. Detective Malone looked to her partner on the other side of the table, who was obnoxiously clicking the end of his pen. His face remained fiery-red and stoic as he clicked a few last times before seizing. Detective Malone and Moore had discussed the interrogation before it began and, as usual, were at odds about how to handle it. Linda Malone was in her second year as district attorney, and Kurt Moore's animosity had never wavered. “That kid’s always been a bad apple. I'm not surprised, and I’m totally, one-hundred-percent ‘back the blue,” whatever punishment you want to give him, I fully support.” Mr. Brown stated firmly, folding his arms across his chest. Moore and Malone gave one final glance to each other before Malone inhaled audibly and answered— “Mr. Brown, I’m from New York; I spent over a decade in the NYPD before transferring; I've arrested numerous juvenile gang members with illegal or stolen weapons. Malone, now audibly exhaling, “I never blamed those 15-year-olds for being ‘bad apples,’ most came from broken homes with parents who were on drugs or in gangs themselves.” Malone continued, “Quite frankly, sir, I’m more likely to blame the orchard before I blame the apple.” Mr. Brown, now more intently listening with a confused look on his face, responded in a rhetorical tone, “So what, you're blaming me. Do you think this is my fault? He lowered his tone and continued, “Look, that kid has given me and his mother hell, always back-talking and getting in trouble at school,” he wiped his face to regain his composure. “I couldn't get through a day's work without his mother calling me about something he did.” Detective Malone pulled her chair closer, almost touching knees with Mr. Brown. “Well, sir, _that kid _is your son—Police records show that you have had a troubled past as well, nothing serious like this, but would you agree you were an impish boy as well?” “A what?” Mr. Brown asked, genuinely confused by Malone’s question. “Sir, to be direct, we have not yet spoken to your wife, but you are facing charges of involuntary manslaughter and negligent homicide.” Malone stood from her seat, grasping her handcuffs from her belt loop. “This is bullshit! I legally owned that gun, and that boy had no permission to use it!” Mr. Brown hollered. Malone replied by reminding Mr. Brown of his Miranda Rights. Detective Moore shrugged at Mr. Brown, a gesture Detective Malone pretended not to notice. Malone escorted George Brown down the corridor to the same holding cell his son was occupying. “You will be hearing from my lawyer. I get one call. Let me call my lawyer now!” Mr. Brown protested loudly. Malone calmly unlocked the cell door and quietly stated, “I’ll get you that call, don't you worry, but for now, you can spend quality time with your son.”

“So, who’s going to die today?” I ask as I carefully clean the blades, my victims staring up at me from the dirt.

Wilting in the face of the shears, I begin to cut them; a brown leaf here, a dead flower there. Sometimes I use my hands and rip them right out at the root.

It’s a fun ritual we share, my plants and I, wondering who is next going to die.

“So, who’s going to die today?” I say out loud. It is early in the morning, the sun is out, the birds chirping, and they are roaming the ground. The roof building that I’m on is one of the few that hasn’t been invaded yet and I like to keep it that way.

“It’s way too early for you to be talking babe, go back to sleep.” My boyfriend half yells, half whispers to me. He’s inside our tent, getting all the sleep possible for the busy day ahead today.

I roll my eyes, looking back down at the view infornt of me. Guessing by how the sun is just now rising it could be five, maybe six in the morning but I have no clue. I gloss over the trashed roads around me trying to find Billy but he’s nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, I do see King walking around as if he owns the wrecked place. The window to stores nearby are shattered, cars are squished and the streets are filled with them. 

“He’s right, you know. You should get some sleep, I have a plan on what we should do next today.” I jump form my spot on the ledge, clutching my heart and my mouth so I don’t attract attention. My eyes darted up to Blair, glaring at her. “You just scared the shit out of me,” I snapped. She snuck up behind me for the first time today, definitely won't be the last. 

“Sorry,” she giggles. She looks down like I was doing earlier and frowns. “It’s getting worse and worse down there… who’s done for now?” We have placed bets on who will survive the week while we look for a new supply of food. My bet was for Billy but I can’t seem to find him. Blair was betting on Romeo while her best friend was rooting for Noa. Mark was betting on King. Everyone had chosen someone and named them so they could cheer for them. 

“I can’t find Billy,” I whine to Blair. She laughs as we both hear a way too enthusiastic ‘YES’ from Mark. I laugh as well not just from Mark but at the pillow that was launched from Riley and Tristen hitting Blair in the back of her Knees making her fall to the ground. 

“Shut up, can’t you see some of us are trying to sleep,” Tristens voice comes from his shared tent. I cover my mouth at the state Blair is in but apologize to the others as well. 

“Hey everyone! Good morning, time to get up,” comes Brooks' voice from way back where the entrance to the roof is. I hear a loud groan from Tristen then some shuffling. You could hear Riley laughing about something. If I could guess it is probably about how Tristen didn’t get enough sleep, he might even get punched if he keeps that up. Brook is now closer and notices me and Blair at the ledge, smiling at what probably is less people to wake up. 

“So who won?” Brook asks, they placed their bet on Viv. Signing about the outcome so far I answer, “King is winning, he’s the only one I see right now.” 

The next words I hear are completely opposite. “FUCK YES!” “HELL NO!” The boys rush out of their tents, Tristen suddenly wide awake. “Why Charlie, Why” Tristen fake sobs as he joins me at the ledge. We all laugh at Tristen, ignoring how we all owe Mark something now. 

“So who’s making breakfast?” Marks asks. We all glance at each other, deciding on who should take the fall. All of us come up with the same answer. 

“Riley” 

“Thanks guys”

“So, who’s going to die today?” Zane says walking around a group of sitting civilizans. Twirling the scythe up-and-down…

“Preferably no one!” Detective Connor says bursting through the door and… sliding? “Wow these floors are quite waxed-”

“Focus!” Aaron say coming from behind.

“R-Right! Hands up!”

Zane just sighs then laughs- almost trips

“Pfft-” Connor snickers and covers his mouth.

Aaron groans.

-the scythe gets thrown between Connors legs-

“AHHH-” Connor steps back multiple times- step- slide- step- slide

“Zane, be reasonable alright.” Aaron says keeping a good stance.

“NO! The better question is why pick a waxed floor! I HATE THESE FLOORS-” Connor argues falling on his ass.

Zane laughs, “You pick stupid co-detectives Brother!”

Aaron scoffs and Connor goes wide eyed.

“WHAAAAATTTTTT-”

“Shut it!” Zane and Aaron yell.

“Just let them go… okay.” Aaron says.

“No”

“Yes”

“No”

“Yes”

“No”

“Yes”

“…No”

“No- god!”

“HA HA, you have been tricked!”

“Please don't-”

“I tricked my brother! I tricked my brother!”

“Zane-”

-the scythe goes for Aarons head as he ducks and falls-

“HA!” Zane grabs a hostage and walks towards the window.

“Zane no!”

“Byeee bro! And- uh- idiot friend of his-” Zane leaps out the window with the hostage and cackles.

…

“I hate waxed floors.”

“Shut it about waxed floors Connor!”