'' Repeating History ''

'' Intro ''

Walking through the house, which still smelled strongly of decomposition due to the bodies having yet to be moved, pending the go ahead from the teams investigating and CSI teams completion of their jobs, the detective's boss would inform them about the basic details of the case.

Single mother of two. Both young boys. One eight, the other twelve. Brought them out to the cabin, just twenty-four miles north of where they lived. There were no bags brought to the house containing clothing or other items belonging to the family. But a shotgun had been brought, used, and then put back in the car, which was still parked in the driveway.

The details between arrival and murder are a little skewed. All their team knows is there was struggle. Starting in the foyer, moving into the kitchen–where the older one of the two boys was struck in the head and killed–before the younger boy ran outside, and was shot down. After that the mother took the gun back to the car, before walking off into the woods, barefoot, and disappearing.

Search teams were unable to find her or a body within five miles of the cabin. Which, given that she was last seen leaving her home in clothes ill fitting for the winter season, and the fact that she left the cabin without her shoes, shouldn't be possible. Unless an animal found her, and dragged her off.
But given that her trail goes cold at a frozen over river not all that far from the cabin, and no animal tracks were found near there, even that seems somehow unlikely. However, it's the best they have for any kind of theory. Unless she's walking down the river somewhere. Maybe she fell through and drowned somewhere along the way.

With all of that in mind, the young detective stops outside where they and their superior watch the younger boy's body being covered up by the finishing up CSI. They turn to look at him, frowning deeply and then looking him over. And a wave of nausea washes over them suddenly.

They knew why he brought them here. He wanted their so-called 'gift'. Something they'd only heard of in one other person, who had gone missing only three months prior, and he, along with the man who's suspected of taking him, are both presumed dead. An FBI agent. Very similar to themselves. They had only read about this case recently, which is why it had never bothered them before, but now it felt. Gross. Even if their superior didn't seem to be aware of the case.

"Sir." They say quietly, not looking at the man, even as he looks down at them.

"What is it, Bowie?" The man asks, his deep voice reverberating in the head of the other standing at his side, looking distant.

"Promise me something." They say, slowly turning to look up at him, briefly locking eyes before flicking their gaze away like they regretted the action.

"You're scaring me." Their superior would say in a low, steady tone, cocking his head a little as his brow furrows with concern.

"If I keep doing this for you. Can you promise that you'll help fund my sister's college?" They ask, looking at him out of the side of their eye, looking a bit ill.

"I suppose. I don't really pay you for this, do I?" He laughs, though trailing off as he notices the look his supposed friend is giving him. He frowns and clears his throat awkwardly, before nodding.

The detective would pull their gaze away from their superior at last. Turning slowly to begin walking back into the cabin, all while he calls out for everyone to clear the area, which most do, although begrudgingly, while others have to be pulled off the scene so the detective can focus.

Standing in the driveway up to the cabin, they close their eyes, taking a deep, slow breath, and focusing their intentions and mind on the task at hand.

One. .

Two. .

' I slowly open my eyes, then with a floaty feeling filling my body, I approach the door, dragging two masses along with me. Two squirming masses. I don't hear them, nor can I see their faces as I drag them inside, tossing the youngest aside and wrestling with the older of the two.

He gets free and shoves me back into the doorframe. Stumbling, I grab the shotgun from around my shoulder and hit him in the face with it. Blood splatters from his nose and teeth breaking. I beat him in the head with it a few more times as he tries to escape into the kitchen, his brother following in fear.

As my oldest son collapses to the floor, I continue beating in his skull with the butt of the shotgun, only pulling my attention away as my youngest runs for the back door. I follow, never leaving the threshold. One shot directly to the spine and he's down. I don't bother checking if he's still alive.

Walking back inside, I clean off the gun, but take the cloth with me as I leave again. I take the gun back to the car and set it down on the passenger seat. Leaving the door open, I walk toward the woods and- '

"Bowie!"

They snap out of their focus, staggering a little due to the sudden lightheadedness, turning slowly to look down the driveway, watching their superior jog up to them.

"They found her." He says, patting their shoulder as they look up at him like a confused puppy.

"Who? The mother?" They ask, sniffling and blinking a bit to adjust their vision. The man nods, gesturing for them to follow as he goes back to the car.

Having been in the middle, or rather, the end of something, they were rightfully annoyed about being interrupted. But regardless, they'd follow their superior back to the car, cupping their hands over their mouth and blowing into them, as they'd grown quite chilled with this negative degree weather and increasing wind nipping at any exposed flesh it can.

They slip into the passenger seat and shut the door, putting their hands up to the vents to warm them further.

"Bowie." Their boss says, annoying them slightly because of his tone, which came off as a bit snippish, as though they'd done something to annoy him.

Turning to look at him with a furrowed brow, they realize he looks more concerned than annoyed, and their expression relaxes slightly as they give him a questioning look, not quite making eye contact however.

The man touches under his own nose while saying, "you're bleeding."

A bit startled, they touch their own upper lip with their bare fingertips, finding warm blood trickling down. They swiftly began rummaging around for a tissue or a napkin. Anything to wipe up the blood with as their superior began driving them to wherever this woman had been found. Though he had never specified if she was deceased or not.

Bowie found the car ride to be concerningly silent. Which they supposed wasn't too odd, as they typically slept through them. However, their mind was a bit too frazzled for them to sleep at the moment. Images flashing in their mind of a faceless child being beaten to death, keeping them from rest.

Their superior seemed to take notice of this, as the man would slowly glance over toward the scruffy looking detective sitting beside him as they stopped at a traffic light. His stern gaze having melted into something more along the lines of concern, as he studies their face.

He'd seen them distressed in the past. But that always felt a lot more outward. With the sweating and the shaking and the crying. Bowie was known for not reading their own boundaries correctly and winding up deeply upset afterwards. Though only once had they ever had a nearly violent outburst directed at another person because of it. And while that person had been the man now staring them down, he still felt care for the unstable individual in his passenger seat.

That distant, almost glossy look in their eyes, which were weighed down by heavy purpling bags. The light glisten of sweat on the sides of their face and neck despite the blistering cold, which was only getting worse, as they could now hear the howling of the wind outside, and it had begun to snow heavily in the last twenty minutes. The leg bouncing, and hand fidgeting.

His eyes trace the scars on their palms which travel up to their wrist before disappearing beneath their sleeve. He'd never gotten a straight answer when asking about them before. But that wasn't what he wanted to ask about right now.

"Do you need a break?" He'd finally question, returning his eyes to the road as the light turns green.

"Is that really what you stared at me for thirty solid seconds to ask?" The tired sounding detective would ask, now turning their gaze to him as he wouldn't be looking back.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Bowie. But you've got a weird aura about you right now. I'm worried I'm pushing you too much." He sighs, a pang of guilt stinging in his chest.

The younger individual stares at him for a few moments more before sighing and looking away from their superior. "Yes sir. I do need a break." They whisper, almost sounding ashamed of themselves for admitting as much.

"Hey. That's okay. Don't worry about it alright? You look tired, and you did what I needed you to do. Just stay in the car and relax." He says, reaching over to pat Bowie's shoulder before hesitating and retracting his hand as he sees Bowie move away slightly.

"You know better." Bowie grumbles, leaning on the door and turning their gaze out the car window to watch as the world passes them by.

"I know. I'm sorry." He replies in a soft whisper, feeling the tension in the air thickening to an almost suffocating degree.