Kyran leans on his chair lazily in the police office, scribbling stray thoughts on his notebook. He isn't slacking off, obviously, because slacking off is bad, but he's tired and he's dozing. Detectives doze, is what he plans to use as an excuse.
He's immediately thrown out of his trance when his manager screams at him to continue working, and his excuse shrivels on his tongue and is thrown out the window. Ever since this temporary manager somehow acquired the authority over him, things have gotten a lot worse in his job reports. He can't wait for the old manager to come back.
Blinking about half a dozen times before he realises he's getting screamed at, Kyran continues working on his report and pretends to look like he's working hard. Being a detective fresh out of high school obviously won't cut it, so he's sitting around doing paperwork that other people should obviously be doing.
Then, maybe it's because everyone in this world is a hater, his manager leans his head back and sips his coffee, like a hypocrite, and looks down at him. "Kyran," he calls, moving his cup this way and the other. "You're getting the night shift."
And with that fun little tidbit of information, Kyran very narrowly avoids the urge to plant his face into his desk.
That night is quiet, as all nights should be, but Kyran is still struggling to keep his eyes open.
Cursing out the new manager about three dozen times, Kyran exhales a breath that echoes throughout the station. It would be kind of creepy, he thinks, to sit in this empty station for hours until some sorry soul comes in. It would be creepy, if Kyran wasn't used to it.
He's dozing off again, thinks, but this time he isn't woken up by a loud manager's voice, but instead by the phone ringing. The ringing seems much louder, echoed by the silence. He doesn't want to answer the phone, wants to sit in blissful serenity until the morning, but his job is apparent and it is important and it is significant. So. He answers the phone.
"Firay Police Department here, how can I help you?"
The voice that answers on the other side of the line is so small and so young that it couldn't not be a child. "H-hello?" the voice says, and Kyrn immediately sits up and starts moving towards his desk. It might be nothing, just a bored and tired child seeking entertainment, but it could always be something more. Something dangerous.
"Hello," he says softly. "What's your name?"
"M-my name's Tom," the kid says, his voice shaking. "I.. uh. I don't know where I am.."
Alright, Kyran thinks quickly. Kidnapping, most likely, but there's a device nearby. So it's careless kidnappers, obviously.
"Mkay Tom." Kyran says, without the slightest hint as to how he should handle kids. He's already hovering over his computer, though. Pulling up recent kidnapping reports and opening a tracking program in the background. The kid might be calling through a phone, but it could also be a laptop. Low chance it's any kind of a computer, though. "Can you tell me how you're calling?"
There's a pause at the end of the line. Did that question come too early? Kyran remembers reading somewhere that to calm a child down you should ask meaningless questions he'll definitely know the answer to. Was the topic change not as subtle?
"I'm.. calling through an old phone," comes the answer, and Kyran internally breathes a sigh of relief. So it wasn't too early. "I remembered my mum telling me to call this number when I didn't know what was going on, so…"
"Your mom was right in teaching you that." Kyran says as he quickly clicks in tracking programs to locate the child and the phone. Within almost seconds, the computer dings with a successful scan, and the spot is there and open.
"Alright Tom, hang in there. We're coming."
Kyran saves three other children that day.
He doesn't understand it now, as Kyran racks his brain later on, cursing himself for not realising it sooner, but this does come back to haunt him later.
- Years Later -
Great Detectives do not come from strokes of pure genius, they do not come from holding bloodied knives, they do not come from police tapes and magnifying glasses and fingerprint collecting. These factors are certainly important, naturally, as these qualities certainly help, but these are not what makes a Great Detective.
Great Detectives come from empty coffee canisters, designer bags under their eyes, and blinking cursors and empty documents and the quiet whir of a printer producing a report. They come from reckless decisions and near-death experiences and the flitting danger of not getting a bonus that month.
These sugar-coated caramel words are exactly what Kyran Nakaharo coaxes himself with, late at night, as he's clicking in somewhat comprehensible words at two a.m. and writing a report with the frantic desperation that comes from reaching a deadline faster than he'd expected it to come.
He knew he'd have to cough up a report eventually, but he hadn't thought it would be this fast. Running out of time, Kyran knows he could check the computer hour, but instead, because he is addicted and stubborn, he cranes his neck to the clock and reluctantly discovers that it's still ticking.
With the startled panic that comes from one hour passing by in five minutes, the only thing Kyran hears is the clicking of the keyboard and his heart beating out of his chest. The report is long, because of course it is, why wouldn't it be? A case as large as this one surely deserves more than a simple essay, doesn't it? A report as large as this one should have more working members than one, shouldn't it?
Unfortunately, only the former was fulfilled, and the latter was not, and Kyran racks his brain for fancy vocabulary words to use to make it seem as professional as possible.
As professional as a seven-thousand word report written at 3 a.m. can look like, really.
Despite all his complaints, though, a long report is unfortunately necessary.
A team of officers had located some illegal activity and had gone to look into it. They had recently found out about a criminal base hiding in a shadowed street and had gone for a raid. They hadn't prepared for a full-on counter-attack, and came back with severe injuries.
Two of them died.
Three of them came back with gunshot wounds.
One of them was Kyran.
Obviously, you'd think they'd give Kyran some kind of compensation, perhaps for his work, for his effort, for his position. Or perhaps about the fact that he got shot, but he got nothing more than an extended weekend, a friendly suggestion for therapy, and a consolation that these things happen more than you might think, as if Kyran doesn't know that.
And also, because the universe simply hates him, Kyran is also in charge of writing up the crime report, with his hands. Including the very arm that was impaled by a bullet. Simply wonderful.
It is times like these where he wishes more than anything in the world, not for the first time, that he doesn't have a snobby, snot-nosed manager who actually cares about the well-being of the other officers. He wants the old manager back, Sir Kieran, who was actually respected and not gossiped about behind his back.
Kyran sighs, and continues writing, and wonders how it would feel like to rest for once.
His other, more recent cases weren't quite so bad, actually. Not many raids, or not many that were actually life-threatening. Maybe some wounds here and there, but nothing that couldn't be treated. His arm aches as he writes, but he bites through the pain and continues.
Six-thousand and five hundred words done, Kyran taps his foot repeatedly and quickly thinks of a reasonable conclusion to the fiasco, and rests his hands beside the keyboard.
His mind is spinning and spinning, but then he drags his hands back up again and rereads the entire essay, fixing errors and adding necessary details that were left out. He doesn't see anything wrong with this report, not now, not yet, but the future does.
The future has a plan for him, and it is long and grueling and infantilising.
He doesn't know this yet, however. And that is for the best.
Signed,
Police-Detective Kyran Nakaharo.
Newry Police Department.
August 19th.
Kyran, with slightly shaking fingers, finishes the report and presses print. He breathes a large sigh of relief as the tiredness he'd been feeling all day suddenly seeps through his skin. Leaning back on his chair, he flexes his fingers and vaguely debates in his head whether he should get physical therapy tomorrow.
He shakes his head. He absolutely can't afford it.
Looking back, he really, really wishes he could've gotten a bonus, at least. His salary is laughably small, at least for a detective. He isn't brilliant, he knows. Is narcissistic enough to know he's smarter than everyone in the police department, but humble enough to know he's dumber than anyone outside his town.
Kyran should've guilt-tripped a little. It's cruel, and he knows it, but getting shot is cruel too. He's been feeling sorry for himself and still works and works and works. Solved five unsolved cases within the past week. Located three kidnapped children, locked up multiple criminals for good. Next week he has to visit the rehabilitation center. Has to go and welcome some new arrivals with a prison cell. He's busy, and he knows this. Knows this well.
He has things to do, and he has to keep moving. Has to keep moving until everything's done.
He isn't moving, however, when his eyes flutter shut and he's leaning against the chair in blissful serenity.