The Emo Mafia

•Mr. Federal Agent•

***Six months earlier***

•May•

One cup....two cups....two and a half cups of bitter, flavorless coffee, hot yet cool enough to avoid burning his tongue. It tastes like earwax and smells like some cheap brand that Patrick's never even heard of but it's coffee and he needs it in the mornings if he plans on working through the whole day. If only his job would provide coffee that didn't taste like ass. Maybe he should just buy his own before he comes in, it'll save him a few taste buds.

He reluctantly gulps down the last of his coffee -three cups- and shivers at the overwhelming bitterness, tossing the empty styrofoam cup into the little trashcan in the corner of the room.

Being a federal agent is not supposed to be this boring, Patrick did not sign up for this. He signed up to shoot people and bring down major drug operations, kick down doors and slap cuffs on criminals. But no, he's stuck at a lineup drinking ass-coffee and filling out reports. Most of the time all he does is toss half of it in the shredder and pretend he never got it, it saved him a couple hours of writing and lowered his risk of getting carpal tunnel.

"Okay, miss," Patrick starts, speaking to the woman who claimed to have witnessed a shooting or something. "Did you see who shot first?"

The woman nods rapidly, and points to someone on the other side of the two-way mirror. "Number six."

Patrick leans over and presses a button on the control panel, speaking through the intercom, "Number six step forward, please."

Number six steps into the light, he's about 5'10", his arms covered in colorful tattoos, thick curly hair, stubble. He doesn't have much expression to his face, a dull, blank look overtaking it. Patrick guesses he may have been through this more than once.

"And there was another guy with him," The woman says. "Number eight."

Patrick presses the button again. "Eight, step forward."

The man doesn't immediately move, smirking at the mirrored window in front of him. He crosses his arms and continues to look as though he can see someone through the glass.

"I don't get a 'please'?" Eight says, refusing to move.

Patrick rolls his eyes and groans inwardly, he really doesn't have time for this. "Please." He says, annoyed.

"That's more like it." Number eight finally steps forward into the light. He's not as tall as Six, about four inches shorter. Dark hair, one sleeve tattoo and the other arm with individual ones, eyeliner (?), really tight pants, and he still had that cocky smirk plastered on his face.

"Anyone else, miss?" Patrick asks the woman. She studies the lineup a final time then shakes her head. Patrick presses the intercom button one final time, "All but six and eight may leave." And the others all leave the room, including the woman who leaves with an officer.

Patrick is just about to call in someone else to assist before he hears someone speak.

"Hey, Mr. Fed," Eight smiles, staring at the window.

Patrick glances up and presses the little blue button. "What?"

Eight hums appreciatively. "I like your voice, Mr. Fed. Keep talkin' to me." Then he bites his lip. Six laughs. Patrick isn't amused.

He walks away from the control panel for a moment to get ahold of someone else to get rid of these two, Eight is really working on Patrick's last nerve. He finally calls someone and they say they're on the way down, now Patrick just has to wait. When he returns to the panel, he sees that the two guys are talking to each other.

"Shutup, you're gonna get us in more trouble." Six whispers.

"Hey," Eight defends. "It's not my fault that guy's voice is sexy."

Six shakes his head, his big hair moving with it. "Your dad shoulda put someone else in charge."

"Unless your last name is Wentz, keep your fuckin' mouth shut."

Patrick decides to butt in. "Wentz, huh?" He says over the speaker, startling the two.

Wentz -as Patrick has learned- mutters a 'shit' like he just gave up some vital information, which he kind of did. Wentz was the name of one of the biggest family crime syndicates in the state if Illinois, originating from the city of Chicago. There were many names for the group, ranging from The Black Cards to The Young Bloods. But the most common name was The Emo Mafia. Patrick found that name to be the most ridiculous.

"That name holds quite a bit if weight to it." Patrick continues.

"So I've heard." Wentz picks his words carefully, his face suddenly serious. Patrick can tell it's his pokerface, Wentz can't risk giving up anything else in any kind of way. "Tread carefully, Fed. You can't dance in troubled waters." Then he smirks again.

Patrick tries to decipher the words that came from Wentz' mouth. It almost sounds like a threat, but also drifts towards a warning. If Patrick unscrambles it, it seems that the 'troubled waters' is the Wentz family. So to Patrick it sounds something like:

Watch your back. If you cross us, there's no way out.