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Poussée D'adrénaline

Chapter Text

File: Murphy

The Murphy family is a self-proclaimed gang that practically owns the streets of New Jersey.

It is run by none other than Larry Murphy (see Murphy, Larry).

Cynthia Murphy appears to be the only family member who does not actively participate in drug and alcohol usage (see Murphy, Cynthia).

Connor and Zoe Murphy handle most of the dirty work, ie: killings, brothels, selling drugs (see Murphy, Connor and Murphy, Zoe).

There is a possibility that the family has a cop on the inside of the NJPD. Information is not absolute.

Always be ale

 

...


File deleted.

Chapter Text

Evan Hansen was by no means a bad person. In fact, throughout his life, he was considered a “goody two-shoes” and similar, uglier names.
He hadn’t touched a drug in his life, even when his best friend, Jared, had gotten an assload of marijuana and was generous enough to offer some.
He had never hit anyone- he’d taken karate classes as a kid and refused to spar with other students. He couldn’t even break a board.

So, with all of these in mind, Evan decided to become a cop.

He endured the endless hell of school, and again had earned the “goody-goody” label, even from other cops. He usually shrugged them off, no matter how annoying they were.

Slurs, however, were an entirely different story.

Evan sat in his dorm one day, and his roommate had a couple friends/colleagues over. He didn’t mind, as long as none of them tried to interact with him. Some drinks were shared- which ticked Evan off a little, but not enough to do anything- and the topic grew more and more touchy to Evan as the night passed.

Evan’s roommate had mentioned Evan’s bisexuality, for some stupid reason, and one stupid asshole decided to blurt, “Oh, so he’s like, a half-fag?”

Evan, for the very first time in his life, completely lost his shit.

He jolted out of bed and slammed said asshole to the wall. “Say that again. I fucking dare you.”

His roommate’s eyes widened, which was understandable, because he’d never seen Evan lay a finger on anyone.

The guy Evan had pinned was sweating, and tried to keep his cool. “Jesus, man! It was just a joke!”

Evan wouldn’t hear it. “Don’t ever say that word again. We’re in this school to serve and protect, which includes every minority. Understand?”

The guy nodded violently and Evan went back to his bed. The room was awkwardly quiet for five solid minutes before the entire group unanimously decided to go somewhere else.

Evan had admittedly regretted what he’d done, and apologized the next day, but nobody could unsee how angry he’d been. The other students had gotten word of the incident and Evan hadn’t heard another slur even after he graduated.

Which leads to now.

Evan’s sitting in an uncomfortable room, and his chair had farted as he sat. He looks up at who he assumes is his captain, and there’s a familiar face next to her that he can’t quite pinpoint yet.

Speaking of which, the familiar face is being very rude.

“Wow, aren’t you the world’s saddest twink? You just come from your boyfriend’s house?”

He had, but that wasn’t the point.

“Jesus, as if you couldn’t be more obvious.”

Evan is twitching, his anger rising, but for some reason, his anxiety is taking over for the first time in weeks. He gulps and looks to the woman in front of him for help.

“That’s enough, Jared.”

It clicks. Evan’s infuriated, but mainly surprised.

“Jared? What the hell?”

Jared squints for a second, then gasps. “Wow, shit, sorry. I’m the resident bad cop, so, I kinda do this to everyone.”

Evan rubs the back of his neck. The woman speaks.

“I’m Alana Beck, your captain. And it seems you already know Mr. Kleinman here.” When Evan nods in response, she continues.

“As I’ve heard, you’ve applied for the position of state cop?” Another nod. “Well, congratulations. You’ve made it.” She offers a tight smile and Evan feels uncomfortable.

“Formalities aside, you’re here for your assignment. This is your first, and very well could be your last.”

Evan gulps. “Um, what do you mean?”

“Have you heard of the Murphy family?” Alana asks, adjusting her glasses. Evan nods.

“Yeah, that old urban legend from middle school,” He recalls, “They would kill whoever crossed them.”

“They’re not a legend, Officer Hansen, I assure you. They are very real, and very dangerous.” She tilts a stack of paper into place as she speaks. “And I want you to spy on them.”

Evan’s head reels for a second, but when he registers what Alana said, he looks at her intently. “Okay.”

“Your alibi is that you used to be a cop, but you were sent to prison and ultimately fired for police brutality and killing someone on the job. Which I’m sure is unlike you, but there’s going to be a lot of acting regardless.

“Ask for Zoe Murphy. She’s the easiest Murphy to approach. But, as I’ve been informed, you need to ask specifically for Poussée D'adrénaline. It’s a code of sorts.”

Evan makes an awful attempt at pronouncing it, to which Alana’s eyes roll.

“A horrible pronunciation, but it’ll get you by. Go to the liquor store down the street and try it again- hopefully with more taste than what you’ve shown me just now.”

Evan flushes slightly in embarrassment, but nods. Alana asks if he has any questions, and when he says no, she stands.

“I will contact you every month on this phone,” She hands him said item, “but otherwise, you do not associate with the NJPD. You’re to use this phone purely for contacting me, and nothing else. Understood?” A nod. “Then that’s all. I’ll see you in a month, Officer Hansen.”

She smiles, this time being more genuine, and Jared salutes Evan lazily as he exits the facility.

He looks at the phone, staring at it as if it just killed his mother.

What the hell did I just get myself into?

Chapter Text

  Okay, Evan thinks, I can do this.

  Except he doesn’t believe it, and he feels like he might break down while he walks to the bar.

  Fuck, he’s a state cop, he should be able to handle this. He’s been shot at, for Pete’s sake, he can hold his own. So why isn’t he calm?

  He sighs and pops an Ativan that he’d kept in his pocket. He can’t afford to freak out.

  As he walks into the bar, Evan feels calmer, which is probably the work of the Ativan. He surveys the place: everyone is drinking, and he notices the smell of marijuana, and… okay, there are three people snorting a line right off the bar.

  He’s about to make a comment about how they’re doing coke in public, in front of a cop, no less, when he realizes, right, he’s in plain clothes and about to join a fucking gang. He seriously needs to loosen up.

  He makes his way to the bar, relaxed now that he knows everyone is too high to notice him, and sits at a stool. He politely orders a Bloody Mary when the bartender gets to him, but doesn’t drink it. He just needs to look like he belongs there.

  When the people get louder and the business gets slower, Evan waves the bartender over. He doesn’t look amused, but Evan doesn’t care. The blond glances around for a moment, making sure nobody is paying attention, and looks back up at the bartender to mumble,

  “I’m looking for poussée d'adrénaline.”

  He knows his pronunciation is off when the bartender winces and mutters, “it had to be French”. The bartender sighs and points to a pool table regardless.

  “Stand over at the table with the eight ball in your hand, and keep the number face-up. She’ll be there in a minute.” His Boston accent is strong in his voice, but the annoyance is more apparent than anything else. Evan, however, is too confused with whoever “she” is, and goes to ask, but the bartender cuts him off by shaking his head and pointing at the table again.

  Evan stands and counts out the money for the drink, and sets it on the bar in terse gratitude. He walks to the table and searches for a minute before he finds the eight ball, and picks it up in his hand to hold it up. He feels ridiculous, and almost puts it down, but reassures himself with the memory that everyone there is high and has attention spans too small to notice him.

  He’s there for nearly fifteen minutes and has a sore arm before a woman approaches him. She’s slender, he notices, and elegant in a very intimidating way. She takes the ball from his hand and sets it on the table, and Evan sighs and rests his arm.

  “You here for poussée d'adrénaline?” She asks lowly, her voice smooth, practiced, and entirely emotionless. Evan nods, not even bothering to try and repeat it because he knows he’ll make a fool of himself. She seems satisfied, however, and snaps her fingers as she motions for Evan to follow her.

  She leads him into a room labeled Employees Only, and points wordlessly at a chair before closing-- and locking-- the door. Evan sits, ignoring the way the chair squeaks under his weight, and looks up at her, feeling like he’s been put in a time-out.

  “Do you know what you’re asking for?” She asks, and Evan shrugs.

  “Mostly.” She hums and pulls a chair up in front of him, settling into it with much more grace than Evan had shown.

  “I’ve got a few questions for you. That okay?” She asks, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on her thighs. She looks relaxed, Evan notes, and if he wasn’t so intimidated he would think she was being friendly.

  He nods, and she pulls out her phone. He can’t tell if it’s to record him, or look at notes, but she’s staring at it like it has something written on it.

  “Name?”

  “Evan Hansen.”

  “Height and weight?”

  “Uh, five nine and one seventy.”

  “Hair color?”

  “Dirty blonde.”

  “Eye color?”

  “Blue-green.”

  “Sexuality?”

  “Um, what?” Evan raises an eyebrow. Since when do gangs need to know his orientation?

  “I said, what’s your sexuality?” She’s unfazed, but looks up at Evan from her phone.

  “Bisexual?” Evan answers. She hums, seemingly pleased.

  “Me, too. And, last but not least, what’s your current occupation?”

  Evan almost tells her he’s a state police officer before he remembers that, right, he has an alibi.

  “Unemployed. I was a cop, but I got sent to prison for a couple years for being a little too rough with a suspect. I got out a while ago, but haven’t gotten a job since.”

  She nods and taps her phone. So she was probably recording him. “If you hadn’t figured it out yet, my name is Zoe Murphy. I run the selection and such for the Murphy family. So far, you’ve done well, but I’m gonna talk to a few more people before I get back to you. That sound fair?”

  Evan nods, because what the hell else can he do? “Good. Be back here tomorrow at ten p.m. sharp. I’ll be at the table you were standing at today.” He nods again, and she stands, which he takes as a cue to leave. He stands as well, and makes for the door. Zoe stops him, though, by grabbing his wrist.

  “You’re cute, Evan Hansen. I don’t know what turned you bad, but nothing you’ve seen before is gonna compare to being one of us. You will see shit that could drive a man to suicide if he’s not prepared. Are you prepared?” Evan gulps down his nausea, quiet for a second, and nods.

  “I’m prepared.”