To Protect and To Serve

WARNING: OC. Don't worry, she's a main character of great importance.




-Sasuke-



"Buenas," I greet my partner over angrily jangling telephones, people howling over parking tickets and blue uniforms trying to calm them down. "Que es tan bueno sobre hoy?" she looks me in the eye and says something I don't understand. 'Buenas' is short for 'Buenos dias,' or 'Buenas tardes,' literally, 'Good day,' or 'Good afternoon.' That, and 'Hola, que tal, como estas?'are the extent of my Spanish. "What?"

"What's so good about today?" I raise an eyebrow. "We wrapped up the Mitchell case last week. Today's just the paperwork." She scowls. "I finished about three quarters of it this morning."

"What time did you get here?" our captain grumbles, holding his head. Hangover. He struggles with alcoholism, like so many other police officers. It's an unfortunate stereotype, though, too. "Five thirty."

"We start at nine," he almost moans, trudging toward his office. Kakashi knows that Soledad works too hard, and she knows he drinks too much. They respect each other greatly and get along well. Soledad is senior partner. She's been working sex crimes for three years. We have a lot in common and because of the nature of our work, I suppose the bond we have could be called trust. I pick up a pen and start going through files. Soledad and I are both skeptical, stoic, very good at our jobs and neither of us discuss our personal lives. Neither she nor I are too talkative around anyone anyway.




"Soledad?" She looks at me. Some people might call it an icy glare, but Soledad always has that expression on her face. I have never seen her smile. "How come you took two days off last week?"

"Kakashi's been after me for five months to take a vacation. I hate taking time off, but I went to the funeral of a loved one of mine and grieved at home." To a normal person I would have said the standard 'sorry,' but Soledad is beyond that. "Who?" I don't miss the sadness in her eyes. "My radio partner." Her voice mirrors her body language--cool, collected, in control of herself. The man who was her partner as a patrol cop has died. She hasn't spoken of him since the first day I met her. He was by her side for three solid years. "You must have been close." She has a picture on her desk of him. Angel Gutierrez had brown hair, brown eyes and cocoa skin. Six feet tall and two hundred pounds, almost all muscle, with a smile to comfort and inspire the world. Soledad is in the photo, too. Her milk-white skin, piercing green eyes and dark brown hair, as well as her five-foot-two, hundred-and-fifteen pound frame (most of her weight is obviously in her chest) provides a stark contrast to Angel. She is smiling in the photo, beaming. Her head is on his chest and his arm is around her waist. Ever since I saw the photo, I wondered--"He was my boyfriend for five years. We were very professional at work and acted romantic at home."




"I've been wondering ever since I saw the photo." She nods, a simple downward move of her head, not twice like most people do. "We broke up amicably when I made detective and he made canine. No hard feelings. We still cared for each other." This is the most she's ever shared with me. I remain silent. Her pen scratches the papers before her, and her head is down. She's done talking, done sharing. I don't give a rat's ass about too many people, never have. But Soledad Reyes is different. She's the older sister I never had. I trust her. Nothing romantic, she's straight, I'm gay, she's Latina, I'm Japanese. She dates Latinos and I date Japanese or white guys. My parents were from Japan and died when I was a month old. Soledad's parents are from a town called Manizales. It's in Colombia, and everyone in that town has white skin, brown hair and brown eyes. She's considered tall for a woman, and is the standard of beauty in her country of ancestry--a little over five feet, big breasts and wide hips, a heart-shaped face and rare eyes. In my culture I'm feminine-looking. I have my mother's face, hands, and feet, and I'm slender, just like she was. I have my father's lack of curves, broad chest and stern, unsmiling expression. My parents were from Fukuoka. Unlike Soledad, I have never been to my country of ancestry. Soledad goes to Colombia twice a year, in the summer and winter. The paperwork, as always, is monotonous but necessary. It's been three hours. I think about Soledad a lot when something sad happens to her. So far, this is the second time. It could be called worry.




"Soledad, what does your name mean?"

"Loneliness (or Solitude) Kings. Yours?"

"I think Sasuke is just a name, after a very famous ninja. Uchiha is paper fan."

"From feudal times, I'm guessing." She has not looked up from the paperwork. "Yeah. Does Angel mean 'angel'?"

"Duh." Scribble, scribble. Whuff. She is shaking out a white cloth--a handkerchief. I've never seen her cry before. She didn't even cry when she got shot. She swore and I got a whole new education, but no tears. She cries silently. "Tell Kakashi I went on my lunch break." We have finished the paperwork.