To Protect and To Serve

I'm alive and still very passionate about writing the story. I know I suck right now but I'll make it up by biting in the future. Thank you, my audience, for the eleven hundred thirty-two hits and seven reviews! They mean so much to me. This chapter is finally complete! and I have a beta. Eventually, my AFF name will be changed.

WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of child prostitution, specifically differently-abled children who are forced into it. No details, just the phrase.
-Sasuke-

-Earlier that night-
I'm tagging. I've been catching more spots than usual, doing more meth and fucking myself over more as a consequence because of the misery at my work. Hatake said Soledad would be gone for three months at most. It's been two weeks. I work better with her. After pausing for a moment, I shake the can. The main colors I use are dark blue, black, gray, and more recently, white. White creates a richer color combination, a more stark contrast in my designs. If I tag on a dark-color building, I spray a white silhouette first, so the tag will show more clearly. My stomach clenches. Damn it, crystal methamphetamines are supposed to decrease appetite! I don't have very much money for food! The beginning of a headache fondles me. I have no time for a headache. The meth was supposed to help that, too! I have a shitty dealer for the next few days. The other one, my original one, decided to stare at stars for a few nights instead of the clouds he gazes at in the daytime. Lazy ass. I could arrest him if I wanted, and the shitty dealer too. Why does he wear sunglasses in Seattle? At night? I want my stomach to feel normal. I want the headache to go away. I'll stop whining.
Life is hard when there's no good meth to be found.
I squat down close to the ground, rummaging for the black paint. The white base of the design is larger than usual. It will show up. The apartment building walls hide tenants. The wall I am painting hides the tenant who decides to blast her (his?) music. I startle slightly, then quickly locate the can of black paint and start spraying. The music is called reggaeton, I think. Spanish rap with a...I'm unfamiliar with it. I won't slander it with an attempted description. Hiss. Footsteps. Hiss. No, there is no one around. It's late at night. The song continues, something about kings and dogs. I dance to it a little. My tag is almost done. I carefully tag 'Wolf-grrl' onto the woman's black fingernails. Done for the night. "Hey." Several curses in two different languages spring from my mind to my tonsils, but never out of my mouth. He could turn me in. I could lose my job. I haven't thought about my job yet tonight--I muse over it and my experiences when I am walking home. When I walk home from my activities, I try to justify my addiction and lifestyle. I never can. Night after night, I go to my dealer, then to a bare stretch of wall to try and forget myself. The miniumum sentence for meth use here in Seattle is eight years. He looks nervous. Few inches shorter than me. Skinny Latino male, black spiky hair, dark brown eyes. Three deep scars on either sie of his face. He gropes his left hip, eyes growing wide.
I silently curse my addiction and tagging lifestyle as I realize he's an off-duty cop. Who else would carry a gun on their hip and be scared of druggies who were up-and-coming street artists? He touches his ankle and I realize oh FUCK he's an undercover government agent. Why else would a person have two guns?! I have to get out of here before I am arrested for drug use and vandalism. Maybe I can kill him. I could spray his eyes with the paint...but that wouldn't cause death...I could run away. That'd look nice. "Hey." And the next words out of his mouth are going to be, 'You are under arrest for being a dirty cop. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you. Do you understand your rights as I have presented them to you?' and I'll scream, 'Yes, you idiot, I'm a police officer! I've performed a hundred and thirty-two arrests in my years on the force!' and then--
"Wanna fuck?" Holy shit, are you serious. Now he's a B-grade prostitute. I arrest them all the time. He was probably reaching for knives or pepper spray on a keychain, or throwing stars or something. Do I wanna fuck?

-Now-
"Absolutely." And a charge of engaging in prostitution will be presented to the judge along with the others. But it's been so long. My hand can only do so much. I need this. He grins. "Let's go to your place--my girlfriend can't know." Oh, good. He won't tell anyone and won't want a relationship. That's a rare treat. But it's also enough to know that. He keeps looking at me like he wants to talk to me. Probably can't shut up in real life. Prostitution is seen as another life, a secret life. It's hard to explain. I'll do it later. Whores often only do vanilla sex. It's not what I need. If he doesn't cooperate I'll arrest him. I could just rape him. I smirk internally. Maybe he's a pro-sub, a professional submissive. If he is, I'll have lots of fun and get exactly what I need.

My first arrest as a police officer was of a prostitute. He put up a hell of a fight and I remember thinking, 'if all arrests are going to resemble this, I'm handing in my badge and service weapon when we get to the station.' Some did. Some didn't. Prostitutes, at least ones who began in adulthood and of their own free will, tend to fight back. Children or minors forced into sex work just cry when they are arrested. They go to juvenile detention facilities, do some time, get probation and are usually placed in foster care afterward. The adults get harder sentences, rot, get heavy probation and then they are left to their own devices. My toughest case was the one where Soledad was shot. I was shot at. It was awhile ago, and we had gotten comfortable with each other.

-Six months earlier-
She was scowling at her hands before the stoplight turned green. I glanced over at her, and she at me. "This nail polish is shitty. If you ever decide to paint your nails for anything, don't use N.Y.C brand. It's clumpy, the color is washed out, and once both coats are on they start chipping. Use Wet n' Wild--it's a rich, smooth coat." I nod, keeping my eyes on the road. "Take a right." I put on the sirens as well as the lights.

Blue and cherry flashed and sirens howled as I ran over the details yet again in my mind. White male, psychologically unstable, problems with women. This man abused drugs and alcohol and kidnapped and prostituted little girls. Little differently-abled girls between the ages of five and ten. Five years old to ten years old! He'll deserve every second of prison time he gets, I thought to myself, turning off the sirens as we approached the location. The lights continued to flash and there was no traffic. Good. I hate Seattle traffic, even now. It was demeaning as a patrol cop to pull people over for tickets--speeding, drunk driving or close to it, embracing while driving (yes, people do fuck while driving), and driving without wearing a seatbelt. Those were the most frequent reasons people recieved tickets from me. "Sasuke!" Shit. I'd nearly hit a drunk pedestrian. She made a rude hand signal and wobbled onto the sidewalk. We'd arrest her for drunk and disorderly later. Right then we had a child prostitution ring to break up. Seattle's traffic is terrible, and people don't always get out of the way for cops. Now, they were. I drove calmly, silently into the cul-de-sac to the place where the man kept the children. Other black-and-whites followed, six police cars total. Soledad and I shut our doors as we exited the car. Soledad rapped impatiently on the door, repeating the action twice before glaring at the oak slab.

"Police!" she thundered, kicking the door open and clear off its hinges. The bang echoed throughout the room and we streamed inside, pouring into multiple rooms. "Clear." "Clear," others echoed. Some searched for the suspect. Others searched for the children. I crept into the doorway of the master bedroom and motioned to Soledad. The man smiled and raised his--"Gun!" I yelled as Soledad collapsed, grimacing. Rookies and veteran police alike barged into the room as a hot chunk of metal whizzed by my temple. Shots are fired at the suspect, into his hands. Soledad cursed alternately in Spanish and English as she pulled her gun's trigger again and again. I kicked the gun out of her hand. The suspect was down on the ground, facedown and hands gushing blood over the handcuffs. Two officers heaved him up, retrieved his gun and dragged him out. One called for an ambulance on Soledad's behalf. I rode with her. "Not all pedophiles are tackled to the floor if they have a gun," Soledad groaned from the stretcher. I wondered if the thick black straps securing her to it were worsening the blood flow. "I didn't think so," I watched the EMTs fuss over her. Five months later, we testified in trial. The suspect was found guilty on charges related to pedophilia, child kidnapping, soliciting prostituion, assaulting a police officer and attempted murder of a police officer. The children were placed in foster care and recieved counseling. Soledad was shot and the bullet punctured her appendix. It was removed and she's been fine ever since.

-Current time-
I look at him and we ascend the stairs. He follows closely behind me, a docile puppy.