Vice Beat Vibes

The squad car's engine growled to life, vibrating through the cracked pleather seats as rain streaked the windshield in hypnotic patterns. The driver, who had earlier identified herself as Officer Donati, adjusted the rearview mirror just enough to catch a glimpse of the figure in the backseat before focusing on the slick downtown streets ahead. She gripped the steering wheel tight, gloves grinding against the rubber. The CB radio crackled to life, dispatching codes and coordinates in a staticky barrage that mingled with the rhythmic thump of the wipers. "Everything okay back there?" She called over her shoulder, voice strained yet courteous. Her blonde ponytail swayed as she glanced back. The creak of her utility belt punctuated the question, leather straps groaning as she shifted. "Cuffs arent too tight?" She didnt wait for a response as she returned her attention to the road. The city rolled by in watery blurs of neon and brake lights while she navigated pothole ridden streets, every bump jostling her in the driver's seat. Her breath caught as the wheel slammed into a particularly deep crater, her gasp becoming an airy moan that she hid with a cough. "Bad suspension..." she muttered, cheeks flushed as her hand drifted to unconsciously toward her holster, adjusting her slacks rather than her pistol. It clattered into view without warning: a sleek, bubblegum pink rectangle sliding from beneath the front seat partition, momentarily wedged between the metal divider and floorboard. Its fluorescent hue screamed incongruously against the cruiser’s drab interior; small enough to be mistaken for tech, unremarkable save for its garish color. "Shit!" The curse escaped her in a hissed whisper as she frantically patted the passenger seat, knocking over a takeout bag and a sheaf of citation forms. "Where..?" Another jolt dislodged the pink object, clearly a remote of some kind, sending it tumbling fully into view in the rear. The officer's reflection betrayed everything—dilated pupils, sweat beading at her hairline, the desperate flicker of her gaze between the road and the damning device with its arrow buttons and flashing power symbol. "Don't touch—" The officer's voice cracked. She cleared her throat, fingers trembling as she adjusted her collar. "That's evidence! Contraband from a bust earlier." The light turned green. She stomped the accelerator harder than necessary, sending the cruiser lurching forward while momentum carried the remote further into the rear footwell. "Yeah, it's... Fentanyl. Might kill you, so leave it alone. Seriously. Just keep your hands where I can see 'em."

The precinct break room stank of burnt coffee grounds and disinfectant. Weak dusk light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes of bruised pink across formica tabletops coated in stained rings and powdered donut crumbs. Officer Giuliana Donati stood by the coffee machine, her shirt untucked and her ponytail fraying loose. She filled a chipped "World's Okayest Cop!" mug to the brim, black liquid steaming as she blew on it. A detective with mutton chop sideburns and a rumpled green suit coat lumbered past, muttering about "the ruling class." Flinching when he glanced her way, she cradled her mug with trembling hands. She sank into a battered plastic chair beneath flickering fluorescent lights, legs crossed tightly. For a moment, she seemed to relax— shoulders dropping, eyes drifting shut as she took a slow sip. Then her back stiffened. Her knee began to bounce, heel clicking rhythmically against the tile flooring. A faint, persistent buzz hummed beneath the refrigerator's gasping recharge cycle. The door swung open. Officers Martinez and Finch strode in, still in tactical gear, their laughter sharp in the confined space. "...you hear that?" Martinez paused, tilting his head. "Sounds like a pissed off hornet." Giuliana's knuckles tightened around her mug. A blush crept up her neck as she hunched forward, pretending to analyze the rorschach blots of ancient coffee stains on the table. Finch snorted, pointing to the yellowed light fixture above them. "Old wiring. Place is falling apart." He grabbed an energy drink from the vending machine. "Heard maintenance won't fix them until they die. Which," he added dryly, "seems incredibly unlikely." Giuliana released a shuddering breath, her cheeks still blazing. She stood abruptly, coffee abandoned, chair screeching as she bolted for the door. Her hand lingered near her hip; fingers twitching past her belt to adjust the taut fabric of her slacks. Boots scuffed against vinyl as she escaped through the door without a backwards glance. The officers left. Silence settled. No one else had noticed the bubblegum pink remote still in the chair, wedged between the seat and armrest. A blue light on the object winked expectantly.

The fluorescent lights of the 14th precinct's bullpen hummed overhead, casting a sickly glow over stacks of paperwork and half-empty coffee cups. Officer Giuliana Donati hunched at her desk, fingers trembling as she rifled through arrest records and lost property forms. Rain still dampened her uniform sleeves, darkening the navy fabric. Her gaze darted between the cluttered surface and the clock; seven til six, it was almost time for shift change. "Where is it..." she muttered softly to herself. A bead of sweat traced her jawline as she shoved her chair back, the screech of the metal legs drawing annoyed glances from senior detectives. She moved through the bullpen like a ghost, shoulders tense, avoiding eye contact. The hallway to the locker room stretched ahead, linoleum tile gleaming under harsh white lights. Her boots echoed loudly, the sound deafening against the quiet buzz of the lights and something else. She paused at the dented door, face pale as she pushed it open. The air inside hung heavy with the scent of stale sweat and bleach, rows of gray lockers standing silent guard. The metal doors rattled as she threw hers open, contents spilling out: a spare uniform, dog eared training manuals, a half-finished lip balm. She dropped to her knees, frantically patting the cold concrete floor. That's when she saw it; wedged beneath a rusty pipe, a bubblegum pink remote catching the light, gleaming like a beacon. Relief flooded her expression... until a soft chuckle cut through the quietude. Giuliana froze as footsteps approached. Slowly she turned. Standing over her, leaning against the lockers stood Sergeant Rivera— her superior, arms folded, a knowing smirk on his lips. His polished boots reflected the overhead lights as he crouched down and retrieved the device. "Looking for this, Donati?" he rumbled, thumb hovering over the arrow buttons. "Funny. Found it in the interrogation room." He tapped the power symbol. A sudden, fierce buzz rang out as Giuliana tensed and slammed against the steel doors, her legs unsteady. A choked whimper escaped her as her hips jerked involuntarily, fingers scrabbling against cool metal. Rivera's smile widened, predatory and calm. "What's say you and I get a little stress relief, yeah?"