On the Case - Scarlett Rogers

I say 'on the case', but actually, we're waiting in a rather swanky hotel at the climax, a stark contrast to that wooden shit hole we found ourselves in early this morning. Winchester ran out of alcohol and - you guessed it - talked my ear off about some fucking political conspiracy I don't care about, for the full duration. We've been put up here while we wait to give a statement to the police. I'd rather just go home, but Winchester insisted upon it. Apparently it would be 'beneficial' and 'helpful' to them if we went along with this. In my opinion it's 'fucking pointless'.

The media will want first dibs on the story, and they're welcome to it. I can't be bothered describing every minute detail of the past few days. While there was, admittedly, a fair smattering of excitement, it was more than balanced, perhaps even outweighed by tedium.

We thought it was safe out there, with only the snow to surround us like cotton wool. I don't know, maybe we thought we'd be protected there, especially considering how dastardly the business had become. 'Get the notebook back from my psychotic girlfriend!' Yeah, should be easy enough. A few novel ideas and angry thoughts scribbled in the pages? Trivial. Succeeded with that on the second day. We're good at what we do. Not surprising.

-But it was never going to be that simple, was it? We'd travelled far enough into the underbelly of the case that we had to see it through. By then we'd already caught the attentions of some unfortunate people. By then we had discovered what the notebook contained, and why said unfortunate people were involved.

Suddenly, oh no we're in Alaska, on the run from a foreign gang of arms dealers.

A day in the life of Rogers and Winchester? No, because it's usually warmer.

- S.R.