Deadeye Detective

Your name is Deadeye Detective. You are head of the Meddlesome Company, the chief private investigators of Metropolis Central. You're not sure what all these people are doing here, but they had better not leave a mess.

[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

[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?”

[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]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[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.

[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]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[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.

[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]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[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.

[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]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[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.

[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]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[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.

[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]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

[spyingshadows-blog]

"Yeah, yeah, I’ll be back in thirty, boss."

You wave him off and go on your way.

You enter a dive bar called the Rusty Knob, which you have been inside before on multiple occasions for less upstanding reasons. This is the first time you’ve walked in stone sober, though. It’s the first time you’ve noticed the mold in the corners of the ceiling and the tired creak of the bar stools, which now seem ready to collapse into toothpicks and sawdust if moved.

You order a drink immediately. Deadeye doesn’t want you to drink, or do anything else fun, on the job. But sobriety, like the suits you wear, doesn’t suit you.

Even with a rum and coke in your hand, though, this is still the most sober you’ve ever been in this shithole. It’s the most sober you’ve been on any job since the last time Deadeye tagged along. You sit next to potential, unwitting informants and deliver your usual lines, but without the earnest a good drunk would give, as you soon come to regret.

You are not back in thirty minutes. You can’t make it, because you get dragged out back and beaten into the pavement by three men who are bigger and stronger than you.

[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]

==> Fuck Up and Fuck Off

Your name is Snooping Scout, and you like your job, but you hate working.

Particularly, you hate working when Deadeye is with you. You like him much better on poker night, when he’s all liquored up. At work, he gets bossy, probably because he’s the boss. You’ve long since accepted that his bitchiness is generally for your own damn good, but that doesn’t mean that you like putting up with it.

Right now, your issue is that he’s harshing your vibe. You have a very specific job description. Your job is to get in with the underground, to mingle with the criminal underbelly, in order to gather intel from the source. It’s not hard for you. It’s not a foreign world. Coming out of exile was rough on everybody, but you spent more years living this sort of life than you’re comfortable admitting. The Company sort of pulled you out of that, just to put you back into it as a snitch.

But nobody likes a snitch, so you need to keep your new profession under wraps. It’s impossible to do with Deadeye tagging along. Everything about him screams authority. He looks like a cop, he talks like a cop, he smells like a cop. There’s no quicker way to clear out a place full of thieves and beggars than to walk in with Deadeye goddamn Detective on your heels.

"You wanna be my backup, do it from out here," you’re telling him. "You couldn’t be more obvious if you walked in with bells and streamers."

[thedeadeyedetective]

Your name is Deadeye Detective, and you like your job, but you hate working with Scout. He does good work on his own, and he’s invaluable for keeping an finger on the pulse of the underground, but he takes to teamwork like a cat to water. He’s trying to weasel his way out of another team effort, and while you doubt his motives, you can’t argue with his logic. You’re well aware of the aura of severity you project; you’ve spent years perfecting every aspect of your appearance to command respect. And while it works wonders frightening the truth out of petty criminals and crooked businessmen, on his turf it only serves to make you a tall, stern, offensively visible outsider. You sigh, and take a half-step back. “Alright. I’ll be in the alley one block south of here. You have thirty minutes to learn what you need to know. Take any longer and I’m going to clear the place out and get the information by force.” It’s not a threat you’re particularly set on following through on. Information unwillingly given is as trustworthy as a tabloid, and you both know it. That said, you’ve been following nothing but rumors all week, and if the opportunity to crack a few heads together presents itself, you certainly won’t complain.