==> Escape Chaos

perniciousinnovator:

The noise disturbs you instantly. Things slamming in Deadeye Detective’s home goes off like a gunshot. Usually the only thing getting knocked around in this place is you.

Your first waking thought is that you’re about to die. Your second quickly follows to dissipate the panic, and simply states, well shit, he’s pissed.

You got less than two hours sleep. It was the first time in four days. Before that, who knows? You’d be amazed if you could tally up twelve hours for the entire month. You’ve been perpetually awake since Roy was shot, and, naturally, a few days before that. It’s starting to cause you actual pain.

But, Deadeye is upset, and you cannot simply go back to sleep. You want to cry for that fact alone. Instead, you force yourself to get up and follow him out into the living room. You stand there, completely at a loss, rubbing your eyes to get them to focus.

“I’m… I’m sorry?”

You had honestly hoped he would just stay in there. That was why you closed the door. Unfortunately, doors don’t seem to keep him in any better than they keep him out.

“You really aren’t,” you droll. “I’m the expert.” You are a master of lacking apology. You loosen your tie and leave it around your neck, put on fresh coffee, and go about tending to the small tasks of your apartment. Turning on lights, turning on the radio.

“You’re a spree killer now, you know. There are three classifications: Mass killer, spree killer, and serial. The waiting periods are the difference. I wouldn’t call less than twenty-four hours a cooling-off period.”

You tap your fingers on the counter and watch black trickle into your coffee pot.

“Twelve. Maybe thirteen. Unlucky thirteen, hmm, considering the police caught a break?”

==> Escape Chaos

perniciousinnovator:

You’re ready to join your victims in the river by the time you’re finished.

It’s been harder than it should have been. Somebody tipped off the police. You know exactly who, but you’re in no mood to be angry with him right now. You already managed to mess things up with mild-mannered Pickle Inspector of all people. Not to mention Roy’s still pissed at you.

A less exhausted you might do something passive-aggressive upon arriving at Deadeye’s apartment and finding it empty. Steal something. Set a trap for him. A less exhausted you might have him strapped to a chair by nightfall. But you, right now, are incredibly exhausted, and incredibly upset.

It doesn’t even cross your mind that he might be pissed at you. That he might not want you in his home after the events that have taken place. You don’t do well with tunnel vision. It’s the equivalent of having your mind restrained. You can only focus on one thing: bed. Warm, safe, cozy bed. Deadeye will be home in an hour or so to join you, and you’ll resume that happy note you left on.

You kick your shoes off at the door (window), march towards the bed until your knees bump into it, and then fall face-forward onto the mattress. You stay exactly as you land, and are out in an instant.

When you come home, you remove your shoes, your hat, your coat. Immediately you begin the necessary steps of decompression. You are not a naturally noisy man. You do not stomp about your apartment, you do not slam doors or cupboards. You aren’t aware anyone else is in the apartment with you, and to do those things would be to disturb your own peace. Not that you’re at peace. Quite the opposite. You’ve been in a perpetual brood since Innovator rolled unhappily out of bed, got dressed, and went to work four days ago.

You’ve felt silly for trying to get him to stay ever since.

You knew something like this would happen, though. You saw, as soon as he warped the two of you home and started griping to you about work, that a pattern was establishing itself. Companionship, a good time together, fondness, followed directly by a parting of ways that involved business, and a violent confrontation after that. You knew you would feel like an accomplice, like a conspirator, if you let Innovator run off and cause mayhem.

You lifted the list of names off of him while he was sleeping. He’s always so careful, he always burns any scrap, but he needed that list and you took it. You copied it, memorized it, and handed it to the police the day after Pernicious Innovator started gunning for his enemies. You put the police on his trail, you know they started getting at him, and that is the only reason you’ve been brooding instead of furious.

You go into your bedroom to set your briefcase on your desk, and full stop at the sleeping figure slumped pitifully on your bed. You all at once want to cover him up, kick him in the ribs, toss him out and comb his hair.

You loudly set your briefcase down, loudly open and close a drawer, and loudly close your bedroom door on your way out.

On va chez toi ou chez moi?

switchbladesandstockings:

At this point praise is natural to you as sarcasm is. Between running from one club to the next you’re constantly complimenting someone on their dress or their recent work promotion or something. So it just slipped into everyday conversation to get them in a better mood for you to avoid some future scathing. 

“For shame. We haven’t had a sax player in weeks. You should still come and play for us one night, D.” You adjust the shawl that hung at your elbows and rolled your eyes some before waving your hand at him. “What kind of girl do you take me for? Of course you know I have an ashtray. Everyone except their children smokes in this city.” 

You lead him past a curtain and to the main office, shutting the door behind the two of you. The room didn’t display anything much like the gaudily coloured club just a few feet away, actually more well thought out in its colour schemes and general design. You lay your shawl on a coat rack and make your way you your desk.

“Sit down, put your feet up, have a fag. Whose the Johhny that ended up off the map? Anybody I know or is that ‘private’ information and I’m not allowed to know?” 

One out of three ain’t bad. You don’t sit, but you do set your drink down on a coaster, and take a moment to light a cigarette. You inhale and draw smoke into your lungs, processing the nicotine. You produce the photo for her of the young man.

“Jared Darrel. The last reports of him were here, at your club, Sunday night. I doubt you spoke with him personally, but someone might know something. Is there any surveillance?” 

You do finally take a seat, to be polite. In front of her desk, you sit back into a comfortable chair, and fold your legs. You leave the picture for Bawd to look at, head tilted slightly at her, looking for any recognition.

“He’s the son of someone important. Councilman Darrel. He hired me to investigate the matter parallel to the police. Your office is, may I say, quite tasteful.” 

On va chez toi ou chez moi?

switchbladesandstockings:

deadeyedetective:

You don’t always make a point of sticking your nose in Scoundrel business. Some would be surprised to hear that, some would call bullshit on the spot, but there are some operations you aren’t inclined to come down on. There are some Scoundrels, by reputation, you don’t spend time heckling. The ladies, mostly. 

Nefarious Bawd, specifically.

Before you even leave, you make sure to leave a note about where you went and who you intended to speak with in case your body shows up down one life. Just a precaution. There’s just no telling with dames sometimes.

Tonight, you only intend to meddle at a tangent. You doubt it will endear you, but you aren’t looking to make enemies when you step into one of Bawd’s clubs dressed for the occasion. There’s something that pisses people off when coppers show up looking like coppers, no reason to exacerbate that kind of trouble. You’re a professional. This isn’t a dive you walk into and break a table under some guy. Class. You can appreciate class.

You stand by the bar and get an open look-over from the lady behind it. It isn’t exactly admiration. 

“What can I get you, sweetheart?”

“I’d like to speak to the management, but I don’t expect that call to be picked up immediately.” You sit politely. ”Goldschläger, and maybe tell me if you saw this man in here sometime over the weekend?” You show her a picture of a lanky, burnt-out but cleanly dressed college kid. 

“…you wanted to talk to Miss Bawd?”

“Please. Is she in?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She pours you your drink, and sends someone to fetch the boss. 

You’re somewhere hiding in the back of the well dressed club, slinking between booths now and then to smooth talk various customers or gab with their wives. It wasn’t that much minded after all, it was good to keep up with your customers lest you lose them to competition. Wait, what competition? You had to chuckle at the thought. 

But when Angelique comes to you as you’re talking to one of the mayoral candidates  something tells you its not exactly about to be an easy road out.

You excuse yourself, wish him and his mistress a good night and good time, and walk to the bar with the girl. 

Your mood sort of flips when you notice Detective, blending in but he still has his stiff posture of his work and it radiates. But you approach him anyway. 

“Good evening to you, Deadeye. And what can I do for you this lovely evening? Interest you in our headliner, perhaps have you scheduled yourself? I heard your sax playing is absolutely to die for, you know. Come, why have you blessed me with your presence tonight?” 

You feel, as you always feel when having apparently civil discussion with a Scoundrel, slightly mocked. Also flattered. She has a natural talent for praise.

 ”Not for pleasure,” you inform her, “though your piano is perfectly tuned, and your main act impeccably warmed up.” 

You tip your hat to the tall, thin woman, and give her your best smile. You take a sip of your cinnamon-and-gold-flecked drink. A paying customer, peace offering. 

“I’m here to ask a few questions about a missing person. My business, not yours. Is there someplace we could speak in private? Preferably someplace with an available ashtray.” 

On va chez toi ou chez moi?

You don’t always make a point of sticking your nose in Scoundrel business. Some would be surprised to hear that, some would call bullshit on the spot, but there are some operations you aren’t inclined to come down on. There are some Scoundrels, by reputation, you don’t spend time heckling. The ladies, mostly. 

Nefarious Bawd, specifically.

Before you even leave, you make sure to leave a note about where you went and who you intended to speak with in case your body shows up down one life. Just a precaution. There’s just no telling with dames sometimes.

Tonight, you only intend to meddle at a tangent. You doubt it will endear you, but you aren’t looking to make enemies when you step into one of Bawd’s clubs dressed for the occasion. There’s something that pisses people off when coppers show up looking like coppers, no reason to exacerbate that kind of trouble. You’re a professional. This isn’t a dive you walk into and break a table under some guy. Class. You can appreciate class.

You stand by the bar and get an open look-over from the lady behind it. It isn’t exactly admiration. 

“What can I get you, sweetheart?”

“I’d like to speak to the management, but I don’t expect that call to be picked up immediately.” You sit politely. ”Goldschläger, and maybe tell me if you saw this man in here sometime over the weekend?” You show her a picture of a lanky, burnt-out but cleanly dressed college kid. 

“…you wanted to talk to Miss Bawd?”

“Please. Is she in?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She pours you your drink, and sends someone to fetch the boss. 

((Multishipping is hard. It’s hard and nobody understands.))

angrydelinquent:

deadeyedetective:

angrydelinquent:

Just pray there’s already enough room in your ass to host my foot for next time we meet.

Now where the fuck did you dump Innovator at. He won’t answer the phone.

I didn’t “dump” Innovator anywhere. 

Let me just light a few candles in front of a mirror, say his name three times, and tell him you’re looking for him.

Don’t forget to stick them in a bunch where the sun don’t shine after lightin’ them. I reckon that’s the matin’ call for faggots, right?

Nevermind, I’ll just fuckin’ go look for myself.

Don’t look too hard, you might happen across your wife in some positions you’d forgotten about. At least the milkman can touch his toes.

angrydelinquent:

deadeyedetective:

angrydelinquent:

deadeyedetective:

Well, since you’re here, may as well ask: Do I look like his secretary to you? 

You do look like someone who takes it up the butt, so you probably don’t need to know how to shorthand. 

Leave the observations to me, you’re off the mark. You, however, look like someone that’s second-hand fucking a milkman. 

Just pray there’s already enough room in your ass to host my foot for next time we meet.

Now where the fuck did you dump Innovator at. He won’t answer the phone.

I didn’t “dump” Innovator anywhere. 

Let me just light a few candles in front of a mirror, say his name three times, and tell him you’re looking for him.

angrydelinquent:

deadeyedetective:

angrydelinquent:

deadeyedetective:

angrydelinquent:

deadeyedetective:

And Delinquent makes three.

Isn’t that peachy.

Hello to you too, flatfoot. Miss me?

The way someone with a chronic infection misses an outbreak.

Aww, my feelings are requited then.

Well, since you’re here, may as well ask. Where’s Innovator?

Well, since you’re here, may as well ask: Do I look like his secretary to you? 

You do look like someone who takes it up the butt, so you probably don’t need to know how to shorthand. 

Leave the observations to me, you’re off the mark. You, however, look like someone that’s second-hand fucking a milkman.