Snooping Scout

Your name is Snooping Scout, and you are a private eye specializing in reconnaissance. You work for the Meddlesome Company, and your best friend is Deadeye Detective. Without him, you would be rotting in prison.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

[peccantdiplomacy]

To be fair, you aren’t precise enough in your teleporting skills to just teleport out of cuffs. Scout does not need to know that.

“‘s fine,” you say, shrugging. “I’d be th’ one doing th’ fuckin’, anyway.”

That isn’t very convincing. Damn, he’s really not going to let you near him at this rate. You decide to switch tactics. You can be damn convincing, you just have to find the right angle of attack.

"I jus’ want ya’ t’ imagine somethin’ for me," you say. You adjust your posture, leaning forward while you talk to him. "Imagine gettin’ your dick sucked by th’ most powerful man in th’ city."

You grin, and wait a moment so that thought has time to sink in. “Think about me mouthin’ at ya’ through your pants. Imagine me unzippin’ your fly with my teeth. ‘ll kiss ‘n nuzzle atcha ‘ntil you’re nice ‘n hard, then take all ‘f ya’ into my mouth.” You lick your lips. You’re speaking slowly now, carefully. “Your hands pull at my hair as I bob my head on your cock, takin’ way more ‘f ya’ int’ my mouth than you ever thought I could. I keep goin’ until you’re just about done, right at th’ edge, ‘n then I pull back in time for ya’ t’ blow your load all over my face. Imagine th’ pearls ‘f hot, white jizz coverin’ my smooth grey skin.”

This probably isn’t going to work. Not right now, at least. You’ll plant this seed in his head, and then you’ll just stand back and give it time to grow.

“‘r somethin’ like that,” you say, leaning back, shrugging again like you don’t actually give a shit.

[spyingshadows-blog]

He’s planting something in your head alright. You lean back and listen to him talk, chewing on your bottom lip, absorbing every word. You give him a sort of desperate look, but also kind of curious.

When he finally shuts up, you sit up as much as you can, and swallow before you speak. “Uncuff me?” you ask, quiet as you can be, and with none of the usual bite. Let him think you’re into it, just for a minute.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

[peccantdiplomacy]

What Scooter here doesn’t realize is that you’ve been keeping an eye on him. Obviously you keep tabs on all the lawmen in town—or, rather, Inny does, and you look in now and then because you like to pick out poor saps to torture. Scoot’s your latest subject. You haven’t been watching him too long, certainly not long enough to know a lot about him, just that you enjoy watching him try to fit in with the city’s lowlives.

He almost acts like he belongs. You wonder what he used to get up to, before he was a lawman. He had to have been a lowlife himself, you’re sure of it.

"I like your face," you tell him, chipper as all hell.

You’re infatuated.

If he suggested to you that you two had met previously, say, several years ago before you took this city, before you even took your current name, you’d laugh it off. Certainly you’d remember a face like that.

You know. Probably. If you weren’t too drunk or something.

"I toldja what I want." You shrug. "Quality time. Conversation, maybe. ‘r a quick fuck, if you’re int’rested."

[spyingshadows-blog]

You’re currently unaware of any surveillance going on, but if you weren’t, you would probably be skeeved out enough to just leave the fucking city and go live in one of the riverside colonies. You’ll just get a job farming some goddamn pain in the ass mushrooms all day. Someone’s gotta do it.

“Are you fucking kidding?” You’re appalled, or at least you pretend to be. It’s not like you haven’t let him in your pants before. “I wouldn’t fuck you with a stolen dick!”

The last thing you want is to bang Peccant Fucking Scofflaw, again. You don’t want anything from him except that crown. You wanna be able to walk into the office with the stupid thing and be told for once that you did a good fucking job. Scofflaw in cuffs would be better, except you suspect he would just teleport out of them.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

[peccantdiplomacy]

You put a hand to your chest, pretending to be hurt. “That’s cruel, Scoot. So cruel. I think ‘m gonna cry.”

You pretend to sob, but at some point it just turns to laughter again. Man, when’s he ever gonna stop struggling? You finish off your flask, then tighten your shadowy grip on the detective. His wriggling around is really distracting.

"Y’ ain’t gotta keep pretendin’ y’ don’t want nothin’ t’ do with me," you say, waving the empty flask at him. "I mean, your boss ain’t here. Ain’t nobody’s here but us."

It occurs to you that that isn’t quite as appealing as you meant it to sound. You are sort of holding him captive in a dark alley. You screw the cap onto your flask and tuck it away in your coat.

"I jus’ wanna spend some quality time with ya’," you say.

[spyingshadows-blog]

“Why?”

You haven’t been face to face with him like this in fucking years, and you damn sure weren’t a detective back then. Far from it. You never fucking saw him again after that night, and the fact that he’s not boasting about all the quality time you’ve already spent together makes you suspicious that he doesn’t remember it.

It wouldn’t be a big shocker. You got up to more than one type of debauchery back then.

“The fuck do you want from me?” you snap. “Either let me goddamn arrest you or go fuck yourself!”

Maybe he knows. Maybe he does remember and he knows you’re bitter and he’s just trying to piss him off. You’re gonna carve the skin off his fucking ballsack and then dip his skinless balls in salt. Son of a bitch.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

[peccantdiplomacy]

The poor darling. He probably ran afoul of some of your underlings, and your underlings are paid to make sure lawmen like him don’t follow your trail. You consider telling them to make an exception for little Scooter here, but nah.

He may be cute, but he could still be a threat if you let him run wild.

You let him struggle until he’s tuckered out, and laugh a little at his demand. “You’re runnin’ outta good insults,” you say. You hold out the flask. “Y’ wanna drink?”

[spyingshadows-blog]

“No!” you bark, starting to struggle all over again. “I don’t want anything from you!”

It’s hopeless. Even if you could escape his hold right now, what then? He’d probably burn you if you actually landed a punch, and in the grand scheme of things where Deadeye ‘Stick Up The Ass’ Detective likes to dwell, there’s not a fucking thing anybody can do to stop the Scoundrels. Unless someone’s ballsy enough to just shoot them all in their sleep.

Hmm. You’ll put a pin in that one, actually.

“Let me the fuck up!” It’d be worth you getting tortured to death, honestly, if you could just rip Peccant Scofflaw’s skeezy throat out.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

[peccantdiplomacy]

You look around, then pull up a crate to sit on, just outside of Scout’s thrashing range. You know damn well he’ll try to kick you if you get too close. You sit there and take another swig from your flask. You might offer him some when he calms down.

"Now, now, Scoot," you say, putting the flask down next to you. "Y’ had a gun trained on me. What was I s’posed t’ do? Magic ‘r no, I can’t stop a bullet."

Not that he would’ve shot you anyway. No way in hell.

He’s still thrashing. He’s gonna hurt himself like that. You pull his shadow, bringing up little tentacles to hold him down.

"Calm down, already. No point in hurtin’ yourself, yeah?" You look him over. "More’n y’ already have, anyhow. Christ, you get hit by a bus’r somethin’?"

[spyingshadows-blog]

“No, asshole. I been trying to track down that fucking crown!” You leave out the details. The details are embarrassing.

Shadows or not, you’re not done struggling. You don’t get much wiggle room with them, but you take advantage of what you can get and continue thrashing. You make sure to spit every curse word in the book while you’re doing it, and while you may never run short of curses, you do get tired eventually.

“Let me the fuck up, you piece of shitting fuck,” you snap, when you can’t wiggle anymore.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

[peccantdiplomacy]

God you love the face he makes, that slight twitch under his eye when he really wants to gut you.

He keeps the gun trained on you, no big surprise there, and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. Ohh, the things you would do with those handcuffs, given the chance. You try not to grin wider, but it happens nonetheless. You blame the drink.

You put your hands up. It’s an empty gesture, since you don’t need to draw a weapon to completely obliterate him, but it might put him at ease. Maybe. You turn around, just as he asks, and you hold back a snicker.

"Tryin’a check out my backside, eh?" You wiggle your butt. "This whatcha wanna see?"

There’s no way he’s not watching the shadows around you, but Scout can’t see what’s behind him. Or to the side of him, really, provided we’re talking about the side that’s missing an eye. So it’s easy enough to pull a shadow to strike him from behind. You go for his gun first, plucking it from his hand and tossing it to the ground. Then you have a shadow grab and hold the arm with the handcuffs. You turn back around and wrest the cuffs out of his hand. You shove him, his back slamming against a metal gutter, and you finish your assault by getting the cuffs around his wrists, and around the gutter.

He’s trapped. You figure this deserves a celebratory drink, so you pull out your flask and take a good sip.

[spyingshadows-blog]

You don’t even get to tell him how little you want to see his ass. Before you know it, you’re down, and despite all your thrashing, you end up handcuffed to a fucking gutter. You immediately start trying to dislocate your thumb to slip the cuffs. You’ve seen people do it in movies, it can’t be too hard, right?

“You lousy piece of shit! You gotta take advantage of my blind spot, like you don’t already got enough of an advantage!?” You swear on everything sacred in this blazing hell hole of a city, the moment he steps close enough, you’re going to kick him square in the balls.

Dislocating your thumb doesn’t work so well, so you start screaming and yanking on the cuffs, hoping the rusted old grate will snap under the pressure before your wrist does.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

[peccantdiplomacy]

What’s he so surprised about? He had to have been looking for you, right? No way he’d be slinking around back if he wasn’t. Not like there’s anyone else worth investigating in this place.

(Truth be told, there are probably several people worth investigating in the building, various drug dealers and the like. But who would bother with small fry like that when you’re around?)

He goes straight for his gun. You snicker, because he’s so adorable when he thinks he stands a chance against you.

"Oh, this old thing?" you jab a thumb at the crown, which is sitting around your hat. You shrug. "Just a trinket, found it lying ‘round somewhere. Y’ like it?"

[spyingshadows-blog]

You’re going to fucking stab him. You’re going to stab him so much that he dies, and then you’re going to stab him some more. But before you can gut him, you need to make sure that he can’t burn you, so you stick with the gun for now. You also pull out a pair of handcuffs.

“Scofflaw, I am arresting the absolute fuck out of you for stealing from the god damn historical society. I mean, come on, who the fuck even does that?”

You point the gun in his face. One shadow moves, you’ll put one right between the bastard’s eyes. “Now turn the fuck around and show me your backside for a goddamn change.”

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

[peccantdiplomacy]

You’ve had a good night. You did your rounds, dropping by several of your bars and clubs, before you settled in this one for a few hours. You like this club. It’s not one of your nicer ones—no, those are on the other side of town, and are staffed well enough that they rarely need your input. This one you have to check up on regularly, because you just can’t get good staff, but the clientele are tops.

They’re the best riffraff the city has to offer, and they sure as hell know how to party.

It’s about an hour to closing time, which means it’s time for you to skedaddle. As much as you love this riffraff, it won’t do for you to stick around while the bouncers have to throw out all the drunk assholes with nowhere else to go. It’s unbecoming someone of your stature.

You’re a king, after all. You’ve got the crown to prove it.

You go around and bid everyone worth talking to good night, then head to the back. You step out into the alley with a grin on your face and a mildly inebriated flush on your cheeks. You’re greeted with the sight of Snooping Scout, doing what he does best right on your doorstep.

Did you say you were having a good night? Scratch that. You’re having a great night.

[spyingshadows-blog]

“Shit.”

You’re having a horrible time at work lately. You didn’t even make it in the damn door before you got caught, and you got caught by Scofflaw himself on the fucking spot. No bouncers, no suspence, no ‘we’re taking you to see the bossman’ shtick. He just walks right in--or out--on you trying to pick a lock.

Maybe you need to pursue a new career.

You stumble back and find your bearings, as well as your gun. Forget the horse hitcher, it won’t do you good against a mage. You’ll be lucky if a firearm helps. You raise it and aim between his eyes, and then falter.

“Stay the fuck back, you- are… are you seriously wearing the mother fucking crown?!”

You’re so mad that a vein might literally burst in your forehead.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Succeed At Everything

The tip Brawler took was far more helpful than the whole god damn night out with Deadeye. You’re still sore and limping the following evening. The boys even called and told you to take the night, but fuck that, you’re Snooping Fucking Scout and you ain’t a goddamn pussy.

  You hope that Deadeye didn’t tell the others you had to be helped home yesterday.

  The girl who ratted out the infamous Peccant Scofflaw pointed you to a club, of course. Scofflaw’s homeland, the Land of Coke and Strippers. This place is slummy as hell, but not one you haven’t been in before. It was a long time ago, but some memories don’t fade. Like the locations of all the shitters in every goddamn bar in a two mile radius.

  After last night’s fiasco, you’ve accepted that your friends and this job have rubbed off on you far too much. You’re like a fucking upstanding citizen now. You don’t bother trying to get in the front door and mingle. Instead, you try to sneak in through the back, and as you’re circling the building you start to wish for the first time that you’d told your partners that you’re trying to track down Peccant Scofflaw. You had your reasons, but your reasons don’t compare to rotting in an unmarked grave, or maybe a vat of acid.

You’re an idiot.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[spyingshadows-blog]

"A return visit," you repeat, laughing bitterly. You hate working with Deadeye Detective, but you hate the idea of letting him finish up your work even more. It feels like slipping up, like control is getting away from you again, and when control gets away from you, it reminds you of some things that are great for helping you forget that you are not in control.

You are suddenly glad that you aren’t getting around so well. It means you won’t be able to limp off after you leave work and make a quick score, which means your job and life won’t be in jeopardy for at least another day. As it is, you’re tempted to gripe him into lending his arm, but even you know that picking a fight with Deadeye Detective is the same as picking one with an inanimate object.

So instead of asking, you call him a snide piece of rat shit.

—-

Back at the office, you’re surprised to see Brawler is just now heading out. You almost never see him or the little guy around at night. They like to rise at dawn like Deadeye the Dick here, and you’re convinced the lot of them are fucking nuts for it. “Is it morning already, shithead?” you ask as you limp through the door behind Deadeye.

Brawler starts to explain that he’d stayed late to talk to a witness who’d showed up. You now have a solid lead on the stupid fucking crown case, and you got your ass kicked, twice, for nothing. You slam your fist on the desk when you hear, but that’s no kind of alarming for you. You punch and kick the furniture in this place all the time.

Except Deadeye’s desk, of course.

"The lady claimed t’be one a’Scofflaw’s lady-callers," Brawler was explaining, shooting you a wink like you’re supposed to be his laugh-on-cue studio audience. You sneer at him. There’s nothing funny about Scofflaw, especially not when it comes to him bedding everyone who ever walked out of exile. "Musta got scorned bad though," Brawler continues, ignoring you. "She was real eager ta roll on ‘im."

You’re rifling through your shit, grabbing your car keys and some things you weren’t allowed to have in your pockets while on the job. You also fill your flask, tapping into the contents of your bottom drawer. You even take some notes home with you, by way of cramming scraps of paper you’d jotted shit down on into your coat pockets. Only stuffy old bitches like Deadeye need briefcases and shit.

[thedeadeyedetective]

You settle into your desk to take notes while Scout storms around the office like a short, angry thundercloud. Getting down all the information you’d gathered with him doesn’t take long. You’re irritated but unsurprised to see that it’s not much, especially when compared to the sheaf of papers Brawler offers you. He informs you that she’ll be back to meet you tomorrow with more to tell, and you thank him as he leaves. Scout follows him out the door and you wish him a good night, as well. He stops to tell you exactly where you can shove your good night, and you relax. If he has the energy left to be this creative with his obscenities, he’ll have plenty to make it home. You, on the other hand, will not be leaving any time soon. If you’re to meet this woman tomorrow, you want to know what you’re in for. You help yourself to some coffee- black, of course- and return into your desk, leafing through the pages once before settling into your work.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[thedeadeyedetective]

“Nothing as substantial as I’d like,” you answer as you help him up. “But that’s a problem I can rectify with a return visit. For now, we can go back to the office.” You dust your hands off once he manages to find his feet, heading for the door. You don’t walk behind him, or walk slow enough for him to stay at your side. You won’t deal him the implied insult that you don’t expect him to make it on his own. That said, you listen closely, keeping careful note of his footfalls as he follows you. If he misses a step, you’ll know as soon as he does. Possibly before, given his current mixture of exhaustion and intoxication.

[spyingshadows-blog]

"A return visit," you repeat, laughing bitterly. You hate working with Deadeye Detective, but you hate the idea of letting him finish up your work even more. It feels like slipping up, like control is getting away from you again, and when control gets away from you, it reminds you of some things that are great for helping you forget that you are not in control.

You are suddenly glad that you aren't getting around so well. It means you won't be able to limp off after you leave work and make a quick score, which means your job and life won’t be in jeopardy for at least another day. As it is, you're tempted to gripe him into lending his arm, but even you know that picking a fight with Deadeye Detective is the same as picking one with an inanimate object.

So instead of asking, you call him a snide piece of rat shit.

---

Back at the office, you're surprised to see Brawler is just now heading out. You almost never see him or the little guy around at night. They like to rise at dawn like Deadeye the Dick here, and you're convinced the lot of them are fucking nuts for it. "Is it morning already, shithead?" you ask as you limp through the door behind Deadeye.

Brawler starts to explain that he'd stayed late to talk to a witness who'd showed up. You now have a solid lead on the stupid fucking crown case, and you got your ass kicked, twice, for nothing. You slam your fist on the desk when you hear, but that's no kind of alarming for you. You punch and kick the furniture in this place all the time.

Except Deadeye's desk, of course.

"The lady claimed t'be one a'Scofflaw's lady-callers," Brawler was explaining, shooting you a wink like you're supposed to be his laugh-on-cue studio audience. You sneer at him. There's nothing funny about Scofflaw, especially not when it comes to him bedding everyone who ever walked out of exile. "Musta got scorned bad though," Brawler continues, ignoring you. "She was real eager ta roll on 'im."

You're rifling through your shit, grabbing your car keys and some things you weren't allowed to have in your pockets while on the job. You also fill your flask, tapping into the contents of your bottom drawer. You even take some notes home with you, by way of cramming scraps of paper you'd jotted shit down on into your coat pockets. Only stuffy old bitches like Deadeye need briefcases and shit.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[thedeadeyedetective]

You keep the fence talking for several minutes, and he remains anything but helpful. He has an impressive knack for talking in circles, and you find your mind wandering while he does. You are still listening, of course, taking note of anything that might help you. But you also begin to profile him, noting of his height and build, the color of his clothes. His smell, you pay special note to. It’s nauseating, even amid the dank musk of the surroundings. You’re sure you know it, but for now you file it away, excusing yourself with a curt word of thanks.

Walking back to where you’d left Scout, you think over what you observed. His height was just an inch or two below your own, build stocky, hair cropped short. Routine stuff really, you’ll remember it without trouble. A tinny voice with an edge that grated on your nerves, hands that moved constantly, wringing like it was an act of great strength not to free you of your possessions the moment he saw them. And that smell… You recall it with a start, and are about to turn back when you see Scout, hunched on the floor like a beaten dog. The fight finally caught up to him, you suppose. There’s only so far pure stubbornness can take you. But first, priorities. You tuck away your revelation, stopping at his side and offering him your hand. “That’s an interesting place to rest.”

[spyingshadows-blog]

"Ffffuck you." You try to spit at him, but jerking your head hurts, so you don't. Plus he'd probably beat the shit out of you all over again for it. Instead, you reach for his hand, because you're too dizzy and tipsy to get on your own two useless feet. God damn it, you miss being high all the time.

"Can we go back to the fucking office now?" Your car's still there, of course, along with a few goodies in the bottom drawer of your desk that you'd like to grab before you limp home and lick your wounds. Mister prim-and-proper over here can handle the paperwork; he always redoes yours, anyway, and then bitches at you for not doing it right or whatever. Dick.

You only think to ask if he's made any actual progress in the case as an afterthought. "We got fuckin' nothing tonight. Absolute shit. Did you at least get anything off the guy?"

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[thedeadeyedetective]

You ignore his griping, walking into the shop first and holding the door, scanning the place while Scout hobbles in after you. It’s relatively quiet, with only a few people lingering. Good. Scanning the shelves near the door while a lady talks to the fence, you idly take note of some of the items while you listen in. Trying to sell some old ring, by the sounds of it. You bide your time until she’s told to wait, then split away from Slick, cutting off the fence’s path once he’s out of her sight. He ducks away with a mumbled ‘Excuse me,’ but you place a hand on his shoulder and loom over him, narrowing your eyes. “I have a few questions for you.”

[spyingshadows-blog]

You don't follow Deadeye after the fence. You're not interested in seeing any more of his interrogation tactics, and you'd rather watch the door, besides. It wouldn't be the first time a bunch of thugs followed one of you in and cornered you. Not that you could fight them off in your condition. The world's starting to swim; you're pretty sure someone knocked your head too hard, and now your brain's stuck to the side of your skull.

You ignore a sinking sensation, and pretend to browse the wares, disguising your limp by stepping slowly and taking your time with each pilfered item. There ain't a damn thing in here that's been legally gained, and a lot of it looks like the kinda shit people will be wanting back, but your crown just isn't there. Your work would be too simple if it were.

"Y'know," you say aloud. "I just wanna feel like a king for a day." The female patron looks at you for a moment too long, and you get the feeling she picked up on your hint. Or maybe she just thinks you look like you just stumbled out of a bar, piss drunk and roughed up. She'd only be half wrong.

"You know how I could look into that kinda thing, lady?" you ask her. Instantly, she looks offended. "You're in the wrong neighborhood for hookers, asshole," she says, and before you can begin to deny her bullshit assumption, she cold cocks you. You sink to the floor, clutching your head, and she storms out of the shop.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[thedeadeyedetective]

“No. You were meant to be gathering intel, not picking fights with the local wildlife. You’ll stay until we find what we’re looking for.”

In all honesty, you don’t want to bring him along. Staying on his feet could aggravate his injuries, and more importantly, once the adrenaline wears thin and he feels the brunt of his screw-up, you suspect he’ll be more than happy to inform you of every singular injustice you’re inflicting on him. All the same, you need him to stop picking fights, and you’re hoping an afternoon spent hobbling behind you may help to drive the idea home. “We’ll lay off bars for the remainder of the night,” you concede. “But there’s a pawn shop west of here I want to look at first.” You turn on your heel and head off, keeping your pace down to one he can match.

[spyingshadows-blog]

"You bitch!"

You catch up to Deadeye, smacking him in the arm. Not hard, because even when you're at your best, you know you can't win a fight with Deadeye Detective. You don't think anybody can, and anyone who would try is fucking stupid or fucking suicidal. Even Brawler avoids a tussle with the boss, and Brawler's twice as big. But you hit him just hard enough to let him know that you won't tolerate his shitty insults.

"I didn't pick the fucking fight, you asshole, I was just trying to start a conversation so I could ask about the goddamn crown!" It's difficult not to sound like a griping child, but then again, you aren't trying. "I told you, they made me. Like you never been made before. You look like a politician fucked a cop and then put their unholy uptight hellspawn through boot camp right outta the goddamn womb."

You're still complaining when you reach the pawn shop. It helps distract all the soreness that's starting to crop up now that your adrenaline isn't pumping anymore.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[thedeadeyedetective]

“I’ll try to contain my enthusiasm,” you sneer. You pull a handkerchief from your pocket, carefully wiping the gore from your weapon before slipping it back into your deck. The ruined cloth is carefully folded up and tucked into your deck as well, and you walk over to Scout, looking him over in a casual damage assessment. He’s functioning pretty well for someone who could have been rather aptly described as a bloody heap a few minutes ago. You’d be impressed if you didn’t know him better.

“Should I go ahead and assume this was your fault?”

[spyingshadows-blog]

"They made me," you say, sneering back at Deadeye. "Must'a still smelled like cop from hanging around your ass."

You don't take care to wipe all the blood and dirt off of you with a bitch ass handkerchief. It's everywhere, ruddy mud smeared all over your face and clothes, so you just wipe it away from your eyes with your sleeves. Most of it is yours, unfortunately. You really will be too sore to move tomorrow, but that just means you get to call in.

"I never even got to ask about the fucking crown," you gripe. "Can I go home before my goddamn bruises start to swell?" You doubt Deadeye will let you bail without at least one clue, but you try.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[thedeadeyedetective]

You ignore the screaming as your vision tunnels. You wait, holding yourself back as the alley fades away. You aren’t picking this fight, you assure yourself, not if they move first. By the time they lunge at you, there is nothing left but you and them. You step to the side, neatly dodging the bigger one’s swing and bringing the cue stick down on the back of his neck, dropping him to the floor. You turn in the same motion, throwing your elbow back. It connects with the nose of the other, giving off a satisfying crack as he squeals, pawing at his face. The guy on the floor shifts, hauling himself up, and your eyes narrow. You dart back, giving yourself space while closing on the second man and driving the thick end of your cue into his chest, the crack of his sternum is tangible, running up your arm and settling in your chest. You shiver involuntarily. A step back, and you slam the cue stick against the side of his head, sending him tumbling to the ground in a heap, unconscious. Probably.

As the first brute lumbers your way, you glance over to check your partner. Scout is holding his own against his assailant, and you resolve to let him have his own victory. You give your weapon a self-congratulatory twirl, holding your opponent’s glare unflinchingly. “One down,” you taunt. His eyes bulge and he rushes you with a roar, knife held in front of him. You held back the first time, and you won’t make that mistake again. You twist away, bringing your cue down on his outstretched arm with both hands. It connects with a resounding crack, the knife in his hand clattering to the ground as he turns on you, howling like an enraged animal. You lunge, the point of the cue sinking into the back of his throat as you jerk the handle down, snapping his jaw out of socket. He wails, dropping to his knees as you yank your cue stick back. You give yourself a brief moment to enjoy the sight before sending him sprawling across the pavement as well.

[spyingshadows-blog]

The horse hitcher isn't exactly a traditional weapon. At least you've seen people in movies get hit with pool cues, but never a horse hitcher. It's a good weapon. The end is bulky, and one good hit to a delicate area, such as the face or perhaps someone's goddamn spine, usually wins you a fight. But you're not looking to just stun this motherfucker, not after the beating you took. Your adrenaline is still pumping, but beneath that you can already feel the ache of all the shoeprints on your body. You won't be the only one who can't move tomorrow. So you hit him with the hitcher again, and again, and again.

You stop when you hear bones snapping like particle board. It's so loud that you're convinced you did it, and the bastard at your mercy is now sporting a shattered rib cage, but then Deadeye's opponent starts making ungodly noises the likes of which you haven't heard since your combat days.

"Fucking shit, D," you say, slipping the Ace of Spades into your hat band. You start to snicker. It may or may not be a little nervous. Mostly not. Mostly, you just mock Deadeye, and hope he doesn't punch you, or worse. "Try not to get a boner 'til we get you home, yeah?"

Your previous opponent proves that you didn't paralyze him by starting to crawl away, not afraid of you, but of your boss and what he just did. You can't blame the guy.

[spyingshadows-blog]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[thedeadeyedetective]

Twenty-nine minutes and fifty seconds later, Scout is nowhere to be seen. Still, you wait, counting the final seconds in your head as they tick by on your watch. At thirty on the dot, you set off, anxious anticipation roiling in your gut. You gave him more time than he needed, and you know there are only two outcomes to this. Your nerves settle into their usual icy cold as you near the bar, slow your pace, and drop your shoulders, affecting a tired, meandering stride. It’s by no means a disguise, but you’re hoping it will buy you a few minutes before the roaches inside decide to scatter. You slip in quietly, hanging around the edges of the place as you scan the group.

Option one: Scout got carried away, and he’s off harrassing some dubiously innocent bird instead of working. He’s not at the counter, and a quick circle confirms that he’s not mingling, either. You feel eyes starting to settle on you, quiet glares that linger longer than they should. You don’t reciprocate them, not yet. Instead, you head for the back door, dropping your pretenses and forcing it open to exactly the scene you’re anticipating. Option two: Scout is getting his ass handed to him in the nearest alley. You sigh, pulling the Ace of Diamonds from your deck. The scuffle died down  as you entered, and as you approach they grow dangerously still, all attention on you. You can practically hear the gears in their dense heads turning. “You’re causing a disturbance,” you say as they come within range of your cuestick. “And as enjoyable as it is to watch strays tear each other apart, I’m going to have to ask you to break it up before I break it up for you.”

[spyingshadows-blog]

You're pretty well fucked up. You're certain that something is broken, but you're not sure if it's in your arm or your chest or your legs. Everything hurts. That's what happens when you get stomped on by tall people. Fucking tall people.

But you didn't fail to put up a fight entirely. Your horse hitcher is lying a few feet away. You didn't get in many shots with it, but you tried, and you aren't done trying. Your attackers assume by all the blood and the wheezing and writhing that you're finished, and they advance on Deadeye instead. Deadeye will kill them. You have no doubt that Deadeye will gleefully murder all three of them with nothing but the cue stick. Your theory is that he masturbates to that kind of shit, even.

Point is, Deadeye doesn't need your help, but that doesn't mean you don't want to crack skulls yourself.

"Look at this fucking guy," one of the thugs is saying to Deadeye. "This ain't a good place for you, copper." Someone draws a knife.

You roll onto your feet, grab the horse hitcher, and strike someone in the dead center of their back with it. They scream, you scream, and the fight erupts.