❛ Do I Wanna Know ❜
★ ₊˚. ❪ ❝ pen, i gotta quit ❞❫
denny ┊3.11┊❝ 002 ❞
▅▅▅ ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅ ▅▅▅

THE PURE LOOK of absolute horror is clear on both John Nolan and Denis Russel's faces. It was both hilarious and scary to someone who didn't know what was going on — scratch that, it would be scary to see in general.

Sergeant Wade Grey stands in front of the room, and he can see the way Denis is looking away from anyone who could make eye contact with him. He's seen the awkward ways of people knowing each other, damn he lived through it when his brothers fiancé joined the force when he was a rookie. It was awkward and awful when she accident shot herself in the foot.

Wade Grey just assumes that it's because he knows John Nolan from before, maybe even before the old man had joined the police force.

Four rookies sit in the front of the room, Penelope Nolan and Denis Russel at one table, and Katie Barnes and Larry Macer at the other table across the isle.

"We got some new blood today. You earned the right to be in this room, but you have to prove yourselves to stay. The way we do things matters. Tradition and protocol are the metal from which every cop in this city is forged. That being said, listen to your training officers, and it's my pleasure to welcome you to the FTO program."

"It's time to play the matching game, does anyone wanna take a guess?" Wade Grey gestures towards the rookies all sitting up at the front of the room. When no one makes a joke about who goes with who, or which rookie will be stuck with someone like Smitty, Wade Grey just continues. "Our contestants are: Katie Barnes, stand up and state your badge number."

Katie Barnes, short hair and standing with absolute purpose, turns towards where everyone is sitting. "Katie Barnes, badge number; 44313." She sits shortly after, allowing for Wade to cull up the next person.

"Thank you, you're with officer Harper. Next we have Penelope Nolan, younger sister to disco over there." Wade Grey is smirking as he gestures for her to stand. "Stand up and state your badge number."

"Penelope Nolan, badge number; 15982. Thank you." She sits again, her knee bumping into Denny's.

"Miss Nolan, you'll be with Detective Lopez. Denis Russel, badge number?" Denny stands, and he avoids the jaw dropped stare that John Nolan is looking at him with.

"Denis Russel, badge number; 13134." He sits, dropping like a hundred pound weight. Everything is going wrong. His life, the man he slept with, everting.

Wade is already gesturing to the last rookie, "You'll be with officer Bradford. Lastly, we have Larry Macer. Stand up and state your badge number."

Larry, an older — but not John Nolan old — stands and fiddles from one foot the other. "Uh, hi. I'm Larry Macer. Uh, everybody calls me 'The Badger' —"

Just like that, his career was over before it started.

Denny pulls Pen from her chair beside him, practically throwing his body over hers as a gunshot rings and the glass on one of the windows shatters. Everyone around them is crouched beneath the tables, hands on their own guns, with wide eyes.

Wade Grey is fuming from the ears. "Badger, my office, now!"

🌱

The first part of his shift — the hours leading up to lunch — had been nothing short of brutal. Denis was exhausted, mentally scraped raw. Tim Bradford didn't care who he was, or even who he was trying to be. To Tim, he was a surname. A legacy. A spoiled kid playing dress-up in a uniform. Denis's last name didn't come with respect, it came with baggage. Billionaire daddy baggage. His father's face had been plastered across tech magazines, business news segments, and even recruitment posters in the department's IT division.

None of it mattered to Tim. In his eyes, Denny wasn't a rookie. He was a liability with a trust fund who could do whatever he wanted if this failed.

And honestly? Denny didn't blame him. If the roles were reversed, he might've done the same.

Tim's mission was simple: turn lumps of coal into diamonds. That meant grinding down the ones who couldn't take the heat. Every rookie was a gamble, a potential risk on the streets. It was his job to make sure only the best of the best got the streets.

So far, Denny was losing.

By the time they pulled up to the police departments usual food truck lot, he was still shaken from the so-called "test." Tim had cut the engine in the middle of traffic after making sure it was safe, slapped a hand to his own chest and slumped in his seat with the single most dramatic yet chaotic, "I've been shot," Denny had ever heard. It might've been laughable if it hadn't left his heart pounding like a jackhammer. He'd responded immediately; checked for threats, called in their position, rattled off their coordinates like he had rehearsed them in a mirror the night before. And Tim? He'd just sat up, nodded once, and muttered, "Not bad." Before he spoke something into the radio and the call for help was canceled.

"Denis, how was your shift?" Penelope asked, sliding into the worn picnic bench across from him. She looked impossibly at ease, sipping a soda with the ease of someone who hadn't just nearly had a panic attack in the passenger side of a police car.

Most of the officers didn't even glance at the options anymore — they knew the menu by muscle memory, probably from years of shared carbs and drinks after shift. Penelope had made it look so easy when she ordered without hesitation.

"Oh, Denny," Pen added, with that exasperated affection only she could pull off.

Denny blinked. He realized he'd been staring at the paper plate in front of him like it might attack him. His mind was still racing, tripping over itself as it tried to process the morning. He'd passed the test. He should've felt validated. Instead, all he could think about was how Tim had looked at him afterward. Not impressed. Not reassured. Just... watchful. Like it wouldn't be the first time it would happen.

"Good, good, Pen," he said, picking at the corner of his sandwich. "How about you?"

But the words rang hollow. In one ear out the other.

Because what he really wanted to say — what he couldn't even let himself think out loud — was; Pen, I gotta quit. I slept with your brother last night.