In one ear and out the other, that's the way you do it. The best way, the most efficient way. Or so they say, at least.

This one's a lawyer, hard faced and probably corrupt. It wouldn't be surprising, his thoughts are less than desirable and his room is drab. You can tell a person by the way they decorate, when you've been in the business for long enough. There's a knack to it. A certain way and method. It takes some learning, but once you know it you're set for life and beyond.

Oh, look...

He's never done this before. This is new. A character walks in, sits on the chair and opens a folder. It's nothing spectacular in appearance but there's something about it that draws you in and makes you want to look closer. You know it's something shady when a visitor stalks in with sunglasses even though it's raining outside.

He walks up to his guest, taking the folder and flicking through it. The figures don't add up and he gets frustrated. He throws the folder across the room and yells, in a loud voice, for the visitor to leave and never return – which he does, with a smug grin set across his jaw.

Switching between is a strange experience, the transition from person to person leaves you feeling dizzy and often in a cold sweat, if you could sweat anyway. The entry way, the ear, isn't the nicest but, of course, it could be so much worse. Sometimes sacrifices are needed for the good of everyone. Hopping is fun, of course, but you wouldn't want to stay in one person for too long. The shell sticks – it's how multiple personality disorders happen, you know. It's not what they tell you. It's not a figment of your imagination due to who knows what. It's an entirely different being and getting stuck just won't do. 

She's sat in a café, it's a few weeks before the lawyer's office, and she's oblivious to anything that may or may not go on in the future. She has a paper and a coffee - black, extra sugar. Her hair is long and her frame thin, a little too thin if you asked the figure behind the counter. But her problems are her own and they wouldn't want to interfere.

She's leaning on her hand, the paper folded beneath her other, just staring out of the window. She's got nothing to do for a few hours at least and she's been nursing her coffee for thirty minutes already. The bell rings on the door, a man in a dapper suit strides in. He's definitely one of those people. Those people who think the world revolves around him and to him it probably does. She watches him out of the corner of her eye as he bumps into a smaller man, a scruffier man. She doesn't miss the brief transaction between them. He had money in his hand when he entered, it's now gone – replaced with a small brown packet.

He moves to the counter and orders a coffee to go, with extra cream. It is made, money is given and he walks back out the way he came. She watches him go.

It makes a strange, guttural 'whoosh' when you thrust yourself out of one and into another. It's almost like being in a wind tunnel. You feel as if you're floating, you are, it's not surprising. But it feels wrong, you have nothing to anchor you and the thought is terrifying – and yet, thrilling at the same time.

Sitting on the chair and waiting, it's a long game but he's willing to do it. He's a mess of a person, scraggly and disproportionate. He looks like he's spent too much time on the street, he probably has. He's been waiting for three days now but he knows that it'll happen soon, he regrets it but some things have to be done. It gets food on the table and that's all that matters. He could have a bit of fun if he wanted to, which he does.

She's walking past, he spots her instantly, strolls up to her and hooks his arm around hers. She looks confused, he speaks to her, nice words filled with candy-sweet propositions. She shakes her head and tries to shrug him off. She's not involved, she tells him. He sighs, he'd hoped it wouldn't come to this. But it did.

He pulls her down a side street, instead of doing exactly what he's told, he has some fun first. He won't forget the weeping, he doesn't want to. It's the most fun he's had in ages. He leaves the alley way, a smug smile on his face.

It's unpleasant sometimes, the things you see and learn from skipping in and out of people. It's necessary in this line of work. Sometimes, you just don't want to know. Sometimes, you have to. Everything happens in detail, a perfect visionary piece played right before your eyes. Many times over, if you're good enough.

The morgue is the last place she wants to be. There's a party later and she just wants to get out and get ready. The girl on the table is thin, pale, cold – more dead than she's ever been. Cause of death is blatant and not accidental. She's riddled with bruises and small cuts. She finishes her examination and cleans her tools, she imagines what stories this girl could tell and what stories she was involved in. She often wonders what it would be like to die, whether there really is anything else to look forward to – then she looks at the table, her next client, and shudders, pulling back the thought quicker than she'd had it.

She shakes her head and mutters a small regret – no one should die this young.

Backtracking is easier than it seems, you'd think that travelling through time would be an impossible feat. Not when you're a skipper, a shell-hopper. This new system is more efficient. They catch more now-a-days.

Back in the dull room he has his head in his hands. It all makes sense to him now, he knew he shouldn't have done it but he couldn't help but enjoy it. He lifts his head and smiles slightly. In the long run, it was worth it. He starts to laugh. The scruffy visitor in the sunglasses has been gone for three minutes precisely. The numbers may not add up but he's not going to let it bother him. He's just going to laugh.

And eject. Case closed. Jury verdict. Sirens and cell doors. Another one solved.




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- Chimes Portfolio 2