CHAPTER ONE: INVESTIGATOR
I felt bones crack and splinter under the force of my punches as I downed the last of the thugs, and I couldn’t help but smile like a shark hiding under a school of overweight carp. Certainly one of the perks of being, in a manner of speaking, on this side of the law: breaking a few backs won’t usually land you in solitary. The blacksuits arrived a little too late to get anything but more computer work, unfortunately for them. I decided not to stick around and socialise, ducking into a narrow alley and over a steel wall, etcetera, etcetera. The town was little more than a maze of shadows and reflected light, a cold geometric wilderness of architecture and dim, private lighting, and it’s difficult to wax poetry when you can barely see past your feet. There’s only so many synonyms for “black”. Goes without saying that I know my way around Old Anashire regardless. If the place were a person, a woman, I wouldn’t just tell you she was pretty, or ugly: I could tell you the colour of her eyes, the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the texture of the tentacular appendages bursting from her sides. I knew her intimately, and I could tell when something was off, like a hair slightly out of place. Someone had been following me for the last three or four minutes.
I slipped my hand into my coat pocket and felt the warmth of my shooting glove. Concentrating, I imagined myself on fire, reinforcing it with memories of burnt tongues, scorched hands and inhospitable summers. Cruel, but effective, and I wasn’t particularly in the mood for subtlety, having just finished . Ducking behind a large pipe jutting out and down from the side of a building, I pulled out my glove, aiming my index finger at the huddled shape before it had a time to react, activating the pressure pad on my palm with my middle finger. The bullet hit on the side of the creature’s jaw, and it fell backwards, eyes glazed over with panic.
“Aaaagh! I’m dying! By the blood of Lars I’m burning! WATER!” I pinned the spy to the wall. He was humanoid, with tattered, patchwork clothing, maybe human, noxious smelling. A smell that could make a corpse’s eyes water. “You’re not on fire. Psychic bullet. Who are you and why are you on my tail? Short-hand answers.” “I – but – what – I-I’m thirsty?” his eyes began to refocus. “Ugh. Is that how ya greet people? Hard-working, paying customers? I have half a mind to sue, pal. Well, if I could get a lawyer who’d stay in the same room as me.” I slapped him, for good measure. “Alright, okay! See the teeth? Dead eater. Mutant. I was just in the neighbourhood when I saw what you did to those lumps for your client. And after what you just did to me, I’ve decided you’re just the guy who can help me. And you might not believe me, but I can pay ya more than enough.” I put the man down. I’ve had much stranger clients, and if this guy was lying, it would be better to find out what he was hiding than let him off. For the moment, he seemed harmless, and it isn’t my policy to kill the harmless, without considering my other options first.
“Pal? You still there?” I smiled. “Just considering my options. Better head to my office. Too many blacksuits out to be loitering in the streets tonight.” The man sighed. He seemed relieved, or perhaps just tired. “I’m Sidden. Call me Sid. And I know who you are. Damien R. Drake, Private Investigator, Bodyguard, Procurer of Lost or Stolen Goods of Value, Seeker of Truth and Justice and Protector of the Innocents (Who Can Afford It).” “So you have my bio. By sheer coincidence, no doubt. I suppose it is especially lucky you recognised me, as well.” “Yeah, yeah. Just listen to my story, you’ll understand why I gotta be, how d’you say it, discreet. It all starts, pretty normal really, with a dead guy…”
(to be continued)
