[break]Things turned to shit the moment the police were the ones who got involved first instead of Sector Three. Maybe it would be fine, but classified tends to mean that even the lower branches of justice don’t know they exist. The Eastwood is easily in one of his fouler moods as a result. He’s all riled up; shoulders drawn tense, arms crossed over his broad chest, one thick eyebrow quirked up into his beanie and a permanent scowl on his lips. Buried in paperwork for awhile and arguing with the higher ups does that to a person, but David can’t sit around moping all day.

[break][break]Instead, he stretches his legs. S’mores ends up on his heels, he clicks the leash on the dog’s collar. He shifts the cigar in his lips, shoving his hands into the pocket of his over-sized dark grey hoodie for now. He chews absentmindedly on the end of his cigar, only lighting it once he and the rottie are outside and the door is firmly locked. (He checks it once, twice, three times til he’s satisfied. The sharp pull and the slam of the door against the wood isn’t a pleasant sound, but it’s one Ren is likely used to by now.)

[break][break]S’mores waits patiently; staring off at Miss Greene from two doors down walking with her poodle with the wag of her tail. She wants to bark, he knows, watching her with downcast eyes and a bite on his cigar. The rottie gives a lil boof, but doesn’t take the bait of lunging at the duo. ‘Good girl, mija.’ He swirls the smoke in his mouth, shoves his other hand with his keys in his pocket and exhales; savoring the spice and sweet taste. He heads right in the direction of the woods.

[break][break]The good thing about having a dog is that you don’t look quite so awkward walking the distance David has with his hoodie hiked. It isn’t cold. Probably could associate the current temperature with the fiery pits of Hell if anything. David’s used to it, sorta. The dry heat is different from the humidity in the eastern coast. He just keeps trudging on, chewing on his cigar as the forest looms in the distance. S’mores gotta learn early not to steal any bones. The type they’re going to ain’t a chew toy.

[break][break]Leaves and twigs crunch underfoot of his worn, dirty hiking boots. He doesn’t bother being quiet—especially with a rambunctious pup attached to his arm. Despite the long walk over here, S’mores still looks around with wander in her eye at the glimpse of freedom. (Little does she know, her ancestors wouldn’t take kind to her wandering their territory.) By the time he smells the blood in the air—strong even with the spice of his smoke lingering skyward—S’mores has turned all alert.

[break][break]The girl slinks behind his legs, tail tucking between her legs with floppy ears pointed forward. She’s scared of somethin’. David knows to trust a dog’s instincts just as he knows to trust his own. He quiets his steps. He doesn’t expect to peer from behind his cover and spot the blonde Frenchwoman attending to the crime scene. He takes a long drag, rolls his eyes, steps from his cover with his fingers ghosting the cigar perched on the left side of his mouth.

[break][break]“What are you doing out here alone, chiquita?” Hadn’t David told you not to wonder off on your lonesome? He knows Amelia. She’s savage enough to scorch someone’s ego and leave nothing left. She’s got a kick that could break a bone and the reactions of a soldier, but it doesn’t mean David doesn’t worry about her going to a murder scene on her own. They haven’t found the killer yet. David halts, juts his chin out and to the side, a good twenty feet away from the mess that still lingers the forest floor. S’mores stays hidden behind him. So much for a guard dog.

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