espionagecore (tm).

ind. ace attorney original character acc.

[2colde]

they are poisoning us today with a thursday poison little do they know we’ve been through a few thursday poisonings so it won’t kill us just yet

[sinsolucion]

      ❝ much. ❞   he needn't say more, his confident whisper a wisp warming fellow ear in turn. by this time, soren fancied himself an expert, having plenty of practice with snakes such as beckett. to endure a constrictor's coil brought him no further strife. now was time to focus, to bring promised aid at the cost of venomous bites and acidic sarcasm ( likely worsened by fact that beck would suffer the smirk donned at a breathy moan, soren granting himself a moment of regularity, where, had they been entangled in a more familiar couch, soren simply wouldn't have let beck live it down ).

be grateful that, when mending the wound became priority, he no longer teased nor taunted, just allowed digits to dance along tender skin, asking occasionally if more ointment was needed, more stitches, more cold packs, or more heat   ( if, somehow, soren's body did not suffice for warmth, considering their newfound... proximity ). no matter the desire to retort, he withholds comment until satisfied with beck's care.   ❝ if you'd just tell me when you're going on these dangerous escapes, i could secure it sooner, nikolai. was my bodyguard work not up to snuff for you to just let me assist? ❞  

[kataskopeia]

"'up to' ... ? what are you saying?" he can't help but squirm under well-meaning fingertips when they come coupled with earnest inquiry. there's nothing he needs. nothing he wants to need. before he knows it, he's biting down on his tongue to halt any concession in-the-making and steadies himself by anchoring rugged nails to a sturdy back that very narrowly evades red marks by virtue of thick fabric soaking up the damage.

"just because a little change of pace served you well doesn't mean you're built for this line of work. i'm not——telling you shit." loathe he is to admit, the man had outperformed his expectations back then; had proven well and beyond that blue-eyed idealism and violent ferocity are far from mutually exclusive. but could he truly embrace the underhanded ways of a parallel world where immoral sacrifice and lack of remorse are par for the course? whatever the case, the image of a blood-clad metal edge and traces of crimson on cold, bathroom tiles remains fresh in his mind. on the odd-chance that his decisions lead up to casualties, he'd prefer to monopolize the count. "the perimeter ... 'secure'?" a low huff escapes him as he presses his sweltering face against the other's neck.

"i'm still here, aren't i. you're already making ... such a simple mistake. don't get ... cocky."

[sinsolucion]

      his capability of defending himself, let alone law, dwindled like soap suds down shower drain. nevertheless, his valiant attempts see no cessation, half - lidded baby blues relaxed in their casual glance skyward, peering into grey clouds without fear of an impending storm.   ❝ afford what? ❞   he queries in earnest, lax smile mellowing out his mien despite pain, white tresses of flyaway strands tinged red from prior damage.

was that a threat? he could hardly tell.   ❝ then don't tell anybody, ❞   he muses, brushing beneath beck's chin with a drowsy graze of index and thumb.   ❝ since when did'ja fraternize with tabloids anyway. an' who said it'd be just my clothes comin' off... you're the one makin' moves. ❞   he declares with such honesty, such belief — for he did take beckett's advances and shoves along the two - ton vehicle for a romantic pursuit, no matter how brief. had liquor not tainted his tongue, sanity would refuse such an overture, but alas...

❝ dunno 'bout helpless, ❞   his scoff and flared nose resounds a newfound confidence undeserved by a drunk.   ❝ an' i'm not that shitfaced, either. i can still talk, ❞   brave is the boast that, without apt awareness, comes off as more of a joker's jest than candid claim. let lone the absurdity of mere speech being the threshold of supposed abstinence when in truth, should he take field sobriety tests he'd once given frequently in his time as a simple officer, he would fail them before they even truly began.

amidst his complaints and denials, his body arcs with tender touches, a contented sigh marking his lean into traveling hands... until their teasing retreat earns a soured pout, and eyes closed in bliss slam open in betrayal.   ❝ you're the one who wanted me, ❞   he insists without shame, raising lower lip atop its twin. was he reading the room incorrectly? could he even read in this state?   ❝ what schedule... you were just drinkin', weren't you? sounds like a free night t'me. ❞   with wavering arms, he pushes his weight up, body quaking with waning strength. he pays no mind to the throbbing his lower half torments, an accomplishment granted only by his focus on treachery.

[kataskopeia]

grey eyes darken in light of sluggish naivety. perhaps he could meet the other's elevated moral standards in another life. "... you give me too much credit. we do that all the time." tampering, forging, betraying, blackmailing. whatever power media carries, he's made full use of it before. it's an intelligence staple, much like rum in a cocktail. a set of knuckles rises to his jaw; dissipates the lingering tingle with an absent motion.

"what i want is irrelevant." the word itself feels foreign on his tongue. nothing good ever comes from wanting. it's redundant in his efficiency-driven life and knowing he can do without it is a freedom on its own ( especially when the alternative heralds sleepless nights and burdened consciences ). "—though i realize someone like you might find that hard to understand." he slams the door shut ( with a little more force than intended ), circles 'round the vehicle, and slides onto the driver's seat with a certainty that would make anyone believe it's actually his. "now ... you seem to have some sort of misconception. the only alcohol i've 'consumed' is the one you've breathed at my face ... which is why i'm here, in the front—and you're back there." a quick tap on the car's front panel lets the child safety locks jolt into place with a pointed click. best make sure it stays that way before his esteemed colleague does succumb to the call of casinos while on the road.

"consider inviting me in advance if you're looking to waste away an entire night," he mutters, more to himself than to the stray he'd scraped off bar tiles, then peers over his shoulder for the sole purpose of subjecting the other to not-so-subtle full-body assessment. "the seat belt. if you really aren't that 'shitfaced,' i'm sure you can manage putting it on ... ?"

[kamipyre]

mister beck! ➜ THE FRIDGE HAS SEEN BETTER DAYS FOR SURE. Though since the incident, she has yet to see any improvement- a lack of mold is bare minimum. She's glad to see have an ally for this test trial, however elusive he is within the office. She peers inside- no specks of black or blue spores but... "Isn't there a box of Chinese takeout listed as evidence for one of the cases? We haven't seen it come in for analysis..."

Upon second look too, there's at least six take out boxes sitting in the fridge.

[kataskopeia]

not only is he the person with the quickest trigger finger in the force—apparently he's also fastest at pulling trash bags from nearby drawers. "ah? whoever was idiotic enough to store evidence in the break room deserves the inevitable pay cut for losing track of it. that's not our problem. throw them all in here." cue the sound of a rustling trash bag. a threat to all aspiring police officers. "they'll learn nothing if we play mailman for that poisoned one." aaaand he's gesturing at one of the boxes in particular. still expecting it to be scrapped.

[sinsolucion]

      ❝ i have to. ❞  lungs ebb and flow despite grave pressure. and, like breathing to mortals, soren's insistence is involuntary, albeit to which dilemma   ( both, mind you — inadvertence be damned )   he does not elaborate. eyes needn't scour, though their proficiency is missed. instead, he relies upon familiarity: intimately accustomed with being straddled in this very way, his hands seek abnormality, pausing when ravenous fever explodes from beneath his seeking palm.

fighting weight with weight, his free arm shoves, pushing into the cushions to heave his wide torso up and away in spite of an immovable object's persistence. let the gun's barrel bore into his forehead, a frosty ring of steel biting into skin while stale gunpowder stains white tresses grey. so be it, should results be favorable.   ❝ yell at me later. after i ensure there is a later. ❞   he is not without equipment for 'round that waist is a pack that dons first aid. if he could not corral a cat into its kennel, there was little else to do than perform aid where it stubbornly sat.   ❝ the perimeter is secure. i made sure of it. just stand down, would you? ❞  

[kataskopeia]

he vaguely remembers being told about this. that instinct is innate. pre-coded. ... but even so, not necessarily set in stone. a surge of goosebumps flees across heated skin as he tries to urge his body into withdrawing instead of wallowing in the pleasantly refreshing trail left behind by searching fingertips. "i'm not—" abrupt silence seizes his throat when sudden motion threatens to elicit a gasp. he diverts his weapon's maw in an instance; makes up for shaky fingers by wrapping his legs 'round the other man's torso and interlocking ankles at his back. pulls himself close until retaining balance amidst blurry vision and distant instructions is no longer his problem, but theirs. "... fine."

lone gun muzzle digs into pillows below; becomes a make-shift crutch in spite of its owners thankless, strangulating hold around it. it's not quite enough to keep him from following gravity's call, though. his collarbone collides with a steadfast shoulder either way and his head bobs along, up until his breath brushes against pierced ear lobe. he allows himself to indulge in a long-drawn sigh, just this once.

"ʸᵒᵘ ᵖᶦˢˢ ᵐᵉ ᵒᶠᶠ· ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳˀ" ( call that malicious compliance in shape of a sharp-edged whisper ). "secure it earlier, if this bothers you so much. ᶦᵈᶦᵒᵗ·"

[kataskopeia]

Struggling to sign into your computer today? [the look on this man's face. it's horrendous. his grin.]

it had made an eerily authentic first impression. identical model, same bland lock screen, same user name. the circumstance that a little notice underneath the password box had informed him of potential spelling mistakes during his login attempt for the second time in a row alone lets him pause. ( ... as does the palpable sneer in his cohabitant's voice ).

"—this is ... ?" he capsizes the laptop in his hands without further ado; lit screen framing his thighs while he inspects its bottom with increasing incredulity. as a matter of fact, the serial number is off by two digits. he looks up. eyes narrow. crime computed. "... this isn't mine." a single belated realization—a miles-long string of consequences. he'd like to believe that his device is just absent and not outright compromised ( read: in need of immediate liquidation before any harm could be caused should anyone actually find their way into convoluted file clusters ). hidden, then. he'd scour the other's various drawers at a later point in time. for now, he knows of a simpler solution to this workflow-ravaging prank.

"or i guess it is now." possessory claims are accompanied by the smooth motion of long fingers drawing forth an inconspicuous flash drive from tight-fitted pockets. it connects to the sacrificial lamb laptop with a menacing click. "let me just wipe it clean real quick to make sure ... the only virus in this room remains whatever is currently disintegrating its ex-owner's brain."

[sinsolucion]

      ❝ no? ❞   genuinely earnest is his response   ( or question, given his inquisitive inflection ),   a hand idly fishing about his head for the supposed barrel. whilst their search results lay as barren as the kegs he drained, his legs stumble, body heaved without opposition.   ❝ m'pretty sure they'd let me in. imma payin' customer, after all. that's all y'need. ❞   never you mind multiple calls in his career's youth, with disorderly drunks needing swift removal from gambling grounds. he wasn't disruptive by any means, so surely he would be excused his intoxication.

murmured confusion is all the sudden swap of topic earns. hardly can he follow finished thoughts, let 'lone incomplete ones. already he's forgotten his proffered carte blanche, opting against inquiring what said bill was for again, though feeling himself ram the side of the vehicle brings another thought bubbling to the surface.   ❝ beckkk, ❞   he whines, face flushed a purer scarlet than mere alcoholic heat alone could produce.   ❝ we can't do that here, someone's gonna see us— ❞  

oh, but if they're getting in...   ❝ you gotta come in too, then, ❞   he hiccups, falling backwards into the rear   ( and loudly banging the top of his head against the very edge of the roof )   while pulling beck's arm down with him. multiple cars breeze by, parking themselves at the bar they absconded from, though soren's interest in them equate to that of a horse's ear flicking away a meddlesome fly.

[kataskopeia]

he foregoes the eye roll in lieu of a quiet stare that lacks just about anything aside from judgment and a meager amount of indecision called forth by his inability to determine whether he should categorize the other man's capricious perspective as a cop's entitlement or a drunk guy's dream of being spoiled. "... some defender of law you are." little does he know that this is far from the end of line; an inkling spurring his thoughts only when his body is yanked once more and he very narrowly manages to avoid becoming the car door's low frame's victim number two.

nails dig into the seat row's cushions; prop his frame up just far enough to prevent their faces from colliding post-fall and adding a traces of red to the vehicles interior. you've got to be kidding him. maybe it is a matter of getting spoiled. "i'm not so sure you can afford this," he says shortly after catching his breath; voice low and controlled while grey gaze seems to ingest every speckle of red to be found in the other man's features. fine. so he is wasted.

"'lapd sergeant stripped naked on the backseat of his own car'. like the sound of that?" his balance shifts onto one palm alone without much effort spared, leaving his other hand unruled by constraints of circumstance. he clasps it firmly 'round his colleague's hip that exceeds the seat's ledge to dangerously inviting degree, slips fingertips underneath disorderly shirt and lets them roam until they just barely cross the border between textile and bare skin.

"—while intoxicated and helpless."

a single digit moves even further; digs underneath dispensable waistband and strains it agape with single-minded intent. ... ... then, he pulls back. "ah ... but as it turns out," smoothly. completely. there are many things he's habitually unbothered by—whatever people might think of two pairs of legs dangling from a high-end car's sides included. even so, common sense doesn't escape him completely. "i'm supposed to be driving you home and am on a schedule. deal with this by yourself."

[kataskopeia]

hello? i'm talking to you. pay attention.

pay attention, she says. whatever the hell does she think he's been doing ( approximately for the past eight minutes or so ). as if the incessant squeaking from down below hadn't added another layer of difficulty to his task at hand: surveilling the motion of everyone's oh-so-beloved chief's lips from a safe distance while some visiting 'official' ( who reeks suspiciously of intelligence agency to his familiarized nose ) was ... doing what exactly? cozying up to him? ( he sure would like the guy to know that this 'safe distance' only applied to himself and not to everyone else bordering its vicinity ). he could accept the fact that attentive blue eyes would occasionally become immersed in the faces of others—not so much when those 'recipients' clearly had not a single sincere intent to spare. look at that wrench smirk as if he's got it all in the bag ( some people really ought to get shot as a warning ).

"—ah? take a hint and recognize when you're irrelevant to a moment."

[kataskopeia]

....................................... are

are you seeing anyone. like. you know...

... What are we to you--

he opens his mouth; closes it. scans the man’s face for signs of mischief but unearths little more than lingering anticipation and traces of anxiety seated deep between brows that are usually nested above eyes laden with unbridled confidence. “... what?” ‘what do you mean,’ he almost says, before thinking better of inviting too many details at once ( some of which may only lead to a bout of introspection he’s unwilling to indulge in just yet ). ‘why are you asking’ seems like a landmine all the same; what with the comfortable ambiguity that surrounds their current arrangement. why let go of it? ( … or did they already let go? ) he offers up a slow blink in midst prolonged silence, feels his arms cross before his chest and his eyes narrow in retaliation to an accusation that hadn’t even been voiced.

“a day only got so many hours, serrano.” a majority of which he spends either on the chief’s couch ( or bed ) or in either of their offices. it’s a convenience. a perk. … or so he likes to think, even on those frigid nights when his body gravitates toward the other’s like moth to a flame; fully intent on nesting in between needlessly protective arms until his skin regains a measure of human warmth. a simple benefit—a lasting dilemma. loath he is to admit, while there are decidedly few things he needs, there are still some things he wants. “use your brain.”

[kataskopeia]

firm but careful is the hand that presses into his torso and forces beck's back against their blanketed mattress. "no. absolutely not. you're staying home. you've got a fever, nikolai."

he's no stranger to biting the hand that feeds him and the hand that pushes him is not any safer. flushed fingertips clutch the other man's wrist ( as soon as his clouded mind has caught up with the intent behind his words ) in a last effort to resist the call of gravity that threatens to merge his shoulder blades with soft pillows.

"—i don't ..." he pushes back. and then some more. "—get fevers—" a dim sense of dread seizes his spine when the palm to his ribs budges precious little—though frustration soon follows; outweighs, overwhelms. furrowed brows tower above a set of misty, grey eyes that carry the displeasure of a thousand lifetimes. "cut it out—!" he changes his strategy. PULLS. who's to say that he should stay home when he might just as well throttle his adversary with the next best sheet and leave without him instead? "... even if i had one ..." it wouldn't stop him ( ... from what exactly, again? ). he stares into endless blues in search of an answer—gets lost at a moment's notice.

"... ... ... ?!"

faint confusion unfolds on his face; a blank mind ill-matched with the feverish conviction he feels—but what does it matter when his toes are grazing against the contour of a knee just then, amidst labored breaths and restless rustling? he's never been one to miss his chances.

he kicks it.

HARD.

[kamipyre]

tea?? ➜ "Did he break the coffee machine again?" But more importantly for her- "...Can I have his paperwork?"

[kataskopeia]

"nakamura." he doesn't turn; it's easy enough to discern her voice among LAPDs surplus of baritone. instead, he opens the fridge door a little wider. demonstratively. "are you seeing this?" there's no moldy food for once—but still plenty of reason for dissatisfaction. "over half of these are tagged with neither name nor department. i've had it. i'm throwing all of this out."

[kataskopeia]

"——typical." ( derogatory ).

[kataskopeia]

@sinsolucion continued from here.

"... ?!" 'hurt' ... yes. the sharp sting that pulsates from abdomen to rib cage with every muscle clenched reminds him of the fact. it's no big deal. it shouldn't be. the heat his body radiates underneath salient sweat beads is only proof that he is perfectly alive. functional. his grip on the weapon tightens; unwilling he may be to pull the trigger, he still must make it known what a mistake it would be to believe him compliant.

"don't ..." features freeze on contact with prudent fingertips. hesitation, once again—a debilitating drug the other should be indulging in instead. one of them may be 'hurt,' but the other one could've been dead. ... so long as the latter hadn't understood at least that much, tight-drawn thighs would have to continue holding his torso in place. "... make me repeat myself." he doubles down, even if such insistence comes at a price and robs him of a more eloquent threat as a withheld groan momentarily clogs his throat when ebbing adrenaline gives way to a delayed spasm at the core of his spine. "——if i ... ," he pauses to draw a breath. blinks. ( realizes, for perhaps a split-second, that it is the afterimage of ocean eyes which had long taken root in his memory that keeps saving them both ). "—ah, you piss me off."

[kataskopeia]

dr. derosa is offering to take us out to lunch, you interested? he mentioned wanting to get to know you better. figured id be a good mediator if need be.

"... ... 'me'?" his voice is laced with a special kind of skepticism—one that's normally reserved for terrorists who attempt to strike deals regardless of their credibility and for newspaper reporters who believe themselves immune to stray bullets during escalating police operations. frankly, he'd rather not humor the suggestion with a reaction of any sort ... but expectant blue eyes very rarely consider silence a sufficient answer. "well, since you're asking ..." there's no way that underhanded old man is even capable of harboring such innocent intentions. neither with him, nor with serrano, who is the true target of this ambush without a doubt. the person of 'interest'. the prey. utterly clueless. exposed to the italian's whims. who's to say what predicament he'd wind up in given his excessively trusting nature? no. this ends here and now.

"... going for lunch at a place chosen by some no-name quack with dubious aims sounds like a great opportunity to get fed some ketamine or atropine. you can tell him to go to hell."

[fooledjustice]

The detective hums. Saying he's prone to calling for help isn't entirely accurate, but it's not as though he's going to bother with correcting that statement. There have been plenty of issues he's had to handle on his own. Even at present, there are… struggles (albeit the more internal sort, which he's pretty sure Beck isn't talking about) that he's dealing with! Struggles that Fulbright wouldn't wish to drag anyone else into.

So Fulbright simply nods, apparently in appreciation of the other's offer. No comment is made in regards to the smoking, but his eyes do linger on the lighter briefly… before he swiftly tears his gaze away. Best he not allow his mind to drift.

"I'll keep that mind — and believe me, I'm trying my hardest! Wouldn't be a good example of justice if don't whip myself into shape, would I?"

…He pauses. Did something just occur to him?

"Wait, did I ever give you my name? ...Don't think I did! Got ahead of myself there, didn't I?"

…Ugh. Even if it's polite, there's this part of him recently that… worries, especially around other investigative types. If his name is at all recognizable, it's probably for all of the wrong reasons. Nothing that can be done about it. Just put on a brave face and spit it out!

"Name's Bobby Fulbright. Been a fun talk, haha!"

[kataskopeia]

a breathful of cigarette smoke saturates his surroundings with a single exhale. he's always found it easiest to focus with nicotine cradling his neurons—though in this case, it's not so much that he has a need to think rather than a need to quietly reassess the situation at hand. it's not his place to judge their shared employer's choice in personnel given that they've also chosen to hire him but ... at the very least, an agent is a transparently calculated risk and no living target on law enforcement premises. he's not keen on housing a man with such a flimsy attitude toward his own fate—if he's even aware of it at all.

"it's fine. i know who you are." light grey eyes put daggers to shame as they puncture the other's face with a pointed stare. some display of self-awareness would be a start, he supposes. an ounce of fear? reasonable. not of the enemy lurking out there, but of the over-diligent agent with a strong dislike for security fallacies. "you intend to establish yourself around here, yes? frankly, i don't care much for the ambitions and rivalries of our local detectives so feel free to do as you please." more competition would do them good. ( unfortunately, it doesn't seem like LAPD's latest acquisition is of the competitive sort ). "however ... i won't allow an ex-comatose air-head to cause trouble for our over-trustful sergeant. let me make sure we're on the same page."

[kataskopeia]

beck will grant ur chrs 1 (One) pun a year . after that it's on sight

[kataskopeia]

high speed chase.................................... into casual forehead kiss and leave-

hit and runs. so convenient, aren't they? rather, someone is getting a a little too caught up in a routine with questionable purpose and unequal benefit. enough is enough. he refuses to be swayed by confounding whims this time around. agile fingers seize cloth-clad wrist; choke it with enough force to let underlying bloodstream hiccup momentarily. who's to say that he should let its owner escape back into the confines of his office scot-free every damn time? he pulls; intent on twisting the other man's course back around.

meet cute: bright blue eyes and frosty, grey glare. silent judgment does not stop him from making his point abundantly clear: you are NOT absolved. your crimes are NOT forgiven. and, most importantly ...

"... your aim is horrible. try again."