Beggars Can't be Choosers (BATIM Mob AU) [13+]

⌦ One: 'Never Speak of The Devil'

Hard lights flashing bright shades of red and blue sprouted around an unpopular pier in Manhattan. In the distance, blaring sirens echoed each other as officers rushed to the freshest crime scene; eager to poke their noses in anything that so much as budged. The Willowsburg Pier, one could say, was in the quietest part of town.  Always peacefully standing as waves crashed into the shore down below while a few stray younger folk tossed some loose stones into the wading water, challenging one another to see who can make their rock skip the longest.

Other than the pier, there was generally no activity to be found in that particular part of town. At least, that was the case until there was a shoot-out consisting of several men on January 18th, 1967. It was a Wednesday, beginning as any other throughout the afternoon, until a call stirred the police department. As soon as authorities had arrived to the scene, officers, unsurprisingly, were swift to scavenge the area in search for anything. They identified the deceased criminals, picked up loose scraps of matted clothing, as well as finding broken shards of glass scattered all around the dock. What followed, was forged ink clumped in messy, watery puddles; which was the biggest red flag of the scene. A few cracked, but still intact bottles were lying innocently in the ink, while the rest of them were shattered to pieces.

Through the light-flaring police vehicles, a low-grounded car pulled up by the sidewalk and parked neatly behind all the authority cars. Shortly afterwards a long-coated canine stepped out of the car, gnawing aggressively at a bundle of sunflower seeds in his maw as he began to walk down the sidewalk. Weaseling his way under the police tape, he slipped past the crowd of fumbling, baffled cops as they searched the deceased bodies. The labrador's eyes darted left and right as he strode, keeping a calm pace as he sunk in the area.

"Hey Doug, good to see ya." One of the officers called from afar, said labrador twisting his head towards the holler in acknowledgement, giving a gentle wave in reply. As the detective neared the middle section of the pier, his peripheral vision spotted even more officers searching on the other end, obviously far too busy to even notice the detective as he passed. The labrador began to feel a little underwhelmed by the scene, there wasn't much out of the ordinary, it seemed as though it were just another shoot-out. Although just as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a hollow clank resonate from below him, indicating that one of his shoes had nudged something at ground-level. The labrador's gaze snapped to the noise, blinking as his eyes met with a minuscule, glass container by his jet black shoes.

Doug hesitated for a few moments before slowly lowering himself to the ground, wrapping his fingers around the small jar. Though he was welcomed with a sticky, messy cloud of black beginning to sink into his gloves, the labrador disregarded it, narrowing his eyes on the container as he twisted it in his grasp. There were a few cracks here and there, leaking the dark substance of ink onto the edges and staining into the paper of the label that slung itself all around the glass. The first thing that popped in the labrador's mind was that another amateur ink manufacturer somehow managed to lose a few cases of their ink. But as Doug's glare hardened on the barely visible symbol positioned in the center of the jar- smeared from the rain and splattered by the inky liquid- the labrador felt his heart stop. The curve of it, the wave of its horns, how they swung from the sides of the head and left a hollow circle at the center.

Doug took in shaky breaths, feeling himself stumble back a bit as he recalled how many horrific memories tied with that marking. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't tear his gaze away, it almost seemed as if it was taunting him. The detective swallowed dryly before tightening his grip and curling his fingers around the container. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, waving it around gently to shake whatever lint clung to it. Laying it as flatly as he could in his palm, he neatly placed the messy container in the handkerchief, wrapping the folds around it tidily. After gently sticking both items in his side pocket, Doug took a gander at his gloves, his nose wrinkling in distaste as the markings of ink still clung to the fabric. The labrador huffed through his nostrils at the sight before clenching his fists and shoving them into his pockets, nonchalantly twisting in his steps and slipping out of the crime scene. As swiftly as he could manage without seeming to be in too much of a rush, the detective made his way to his vehicle so that once again, for the fifth time, he could head back to his post and open up the Devil case.