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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Nov 27, 2013 4:52:45 GMT -5
The time was easy to find.
One pair of eyes, both red and blue, checked it on occasion. It was a few hours past midnight on a Tuesday evening. It was, by Nikita’s calculations, time for a lunch break. The office had dwindled down into a lazy end to the night; most cases were logged, documented, and handled. The resulting bodies were dealth with.
Flickering downward again, to where an old wrinkly hand met its arm, pale lips pursed in slightly disapproving silence. The boy, while not late, did not seem fashionably early either. Nikita doubted he would understand young adults these days anytime soon.
The wrist watch was a beast of silver, gears, and roman numerals. Its face was cracked its center; the name brand below the ticking hands had been rubbed away by years. Engraved on the back, in spidery cursive, was a family name stretching back centuries; it had once been heralded with trumpets and calling cards. Just like the old time-piece, fallen from glory and broken, the noble lines of the Harris family had been severed.
The little café did not seem the place for royalty to dine. The décor was outdated. Wood paneling covered everything but the stove. The waitresses had mostly seen better days. The area smelled of cigars, dust, and harsh disinfectant. Various papers, many advertisements, lay beneath the glass-tops of the table. The outside was made of plates of rusted steel ; the exterior looked as if an old Aggron had bred with a 1960s mobile home. Bullet holes dotted the glass. The door’s bell even sounded tired.
The food in front of Nikita had long since gone cold. The sunny-side up eggs had congealed into a solid mass of sulfur. The toast now sagged into the plate like an unsupported corpse. Minus a single corner of white egg, taken with a careful meeting of knife and fork, the meal had went untouched. The man had spent most of his time fiddling with the pile of cases upon his table. Steady moments circled, underlined, and seemed to randomly mark the paper. Sharp eyes easily picked out the little inconsistencies within testimonies. Various execution orders had to be signed. Crammed within the booth, surrounded by dark wood on three sides, Nikita knew he was safe from any prying eyes.
His suit seemed far too large; most of his meals, like this one, ended up intimately involved with a trash bin . His eyes looked feverish. The man could not recall if it had been two or three days since his last battle with sleep. Regardless, as he had found himself a new box of unsolved cases to work on, Nikita doubted nightmares would come beckoning at his door anytime soon.
The bell of this establishment did ring. Cold eyes turned toward the entrance. Nikita made no move to stand or wave; it helped little with someone who could not see. The man’s ears worked just fine from what his boss could surmise. The dark-haired man may have been overconfident in his greeting; he made no effort to properly identify the entrant. His hand, beneath the table, slipped to a familiar silver grip. “You may sit down, Officer Matsumoto. Please, as the department is in no mood to pay for a replacement, turn your Arceus damned cell-phone off. I will do so in a less civilized manner if you choose not to.“ Dark pen flying like a raven, in a quick circle, another line found itself singled out within a rape case. Some people did crossword puzzles over lunch, Nikita attempted to solve murders. The only other patrons at this time of night, besides a tired and pregnant waitress, was an old man nodding off over coffee. While tending to his “break”, Nikita Harris was simultaneously completing three tasks: avoiding lunch, paperwork, and reprimanding a fellow officer. Taking care of himself, judging by the cigarettes smoldering in the ash tray, was something outside of his multi-tasking expertise. A fly had settled onto the edge of the investigator’s plate with idle wings.
He would not mind adding a fourth to his list: destroying that damnable phone. The department could cover a replacement. The tiny bit of violence, like taking some steam from a cooker, would help relieve the boiling temper beneath the surface. The dark-haired officer had embarrassed Nikita Harris on two separate appointments. With nothing left but his career, and his beloved vodka, the elder officer took his reputation seriously.
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Post by Devin Matsumoto on Jan 14, 2014 13:07:37 GMT -5
A wizard always arrived exactly when he meant to, and, while Devin did not hold much stock in things like card tricks or sleight of hands, he could certainly see himself as a sorcerer, closeted away in a tower, away from civilization while he read grimnoires and prepared spectacular spells, dragons circling his tower and his lands and dealing with intruders… it was a pleasant image, though Devin knew he would grow bored with such solitude after creating a doomsday device or three. And, as tempting as it was, he needed people for amusement. There might even be a few Devin admitted he liked.
One such man was probably nicely simmering after stewing over the normally early agent’s lateness. Devin swept his thumb over the open face of his watch, feeling the numbers and allowing himself a slight grimace. He was almost late, which was inexcuseable, even if it did annoy the fuck out of Nikita. He hurried through the final block towards the large silver structure, following the pink shape of Marcus the Persian through the gloom. The cat’s pink color was the only break in the dark, grimy shades of the slums, where the shadows and dirt blended together into one uniform and entirely unhelpful blur to Devin’s eyes. He couldn’t tell alley from boarded up shop face with his eyes, though he could feel and hear the change in air as he passed one, two, three, and slowed slightly to dodge around something that stunk of piss and trash. He felt Marcus’ curled tail twitch in disgust against his hand, Devin’s own lips curling into an identical look of distaste at the affront to his senses.
But then, they were inside the diner, the tired bell heralding Devin’s arrival and forming an unwelcome counterpoint to the quiet screech of neglected hinges. He paused, just long enough to slip fashionable shades over his scarred eyes. The slums were poorly lit if ever, and the shades blocked out the little bit Devin could see in the night outside, but as soon as he was inside in the harsh florescent lighting, his weakness was hidden away once again. Replacing his shades also gave Devin an excuse to take in his surroundings. Tables and chairs scattered erratically around the space, each one bringing the clashing smell of stale body odor, greasy food, and not nearly enough lemon-scented cleaner to Devin’s nose. He pushed the unwelcome smell away, along with the hum of the lights and the nearly inaudible sound of the radio coming from the kitchen. There, a rustle of paper, too heavy to be newspaper, the light scratch of a pen or pencil; Devin’s superior even managed to make writing sound of repressed rage.
“He’s in a wonderful mood,” Devin muttered under his breath, his lips moving only slightly and keeping too quiet for anyone to hear besides the Persian nearby, even if he had an audience. The diner sounded as empty and desolate as the blank silver exterior had felt.
Not waiting for the greeting or guidance he knew would not come, Devin swiftly and easily threaded through the maze of chairs and tables, his fingers just barely ghosting over the backs and surfaces for guidance, even that necessary touch making him grimace internally at what he could imagine covered those surfaces. He slipped into the booth opposite Nikita without a word of greeting. Marcus the Persian stayed behind at the door, gingerly sitting on the floor in hopes that nearest the door held more chance of being clean than near a table, where anything could have spilled or fallen and gone uncleaned.
“I was delayed,” Devin spoke simply, without a hint of apology, so far ignoring his superior’s mix of greeting and orders, “Someone mistook me as a prostitute. Again.” There were few professions that suited a small, effeminate man in the slums, and few drunks looked close enough to realize that Devin’s clothes were of an unaffordable quality to those working the streets. “They cannot afford me,” the affront in his tone only appeared now; his mostly theoretical prices were much too high for your average citizen of Nada, criminal or otherwise.
He did take out his cell phone, though made no move to turn it off. “I am waiting for a message from a source,” Devin explained in a deceptively innocent tone, “Is there a problem, sir? I promise it will not interfere with your meal.” The slight inflection to his tone at the last word added a bit of doubt that what he could smell could ever actually be called a meal; edible was probably as far as Devin would go to stretch the definition. Furthermore, Devin could hear something else in addition to the buzz of cheap lighting.
“I did not realize you were having a dinner date; I can go until you are through,” Devin smirked and even half rose from his seat, head cocked not to look, but to better hear the faint buzz of the fly searching out the tastiest bits of grease on Nikita’s plate.
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Jan 16, 2014 4:31:50 GMT -5
Lifting his gaze to the dirty windows, which were covered in yellow tape, Nikita occasionally looked into the night. One bony finger remained perched upon the current line; it looked a bit like a bird sat upon a text-filled power-line. Outside, in the dark, a variety of figures ran by; many of them, due to cool weather, were dressed in hooded-sweatshirts. The glass between him and the outside world was far from bullet-proof; caution rarely, especially in this ‘friendly’ area of the slums, went unwarranted.
The pen pushed harder into the paper as Devin approached. While he could not find suspects, to jab the instrument into, the paper served as a means to vent his anger. He even had a stress ball or two upon his desk for squeezing. Both happened to be dark-blue in color; heavy use of it in the days prior managed to stop the younger officer from receiving a write-up. The muttering went unheard; Nikita could neither force his years to behave younger or lip read through solid wood. His mood, which was constantly sour, did not spike with the signature rage.
Nikita was not a fan of things such as Marcus existing upon the belts of officers; he truly did not like when they accompanied them to work. While the feline was a good companion, such as Gaston, he had some appearance issues. The Persian must strike fear into the hearts of its enemies with his coloration. No doubt perpetrators fled from the beast in terror on a daily basis. The chair across from him squeaked with the verbalized ache of tired springs. Unfolding his legs, allowing them to drop to the sticky and dingy tiles, Nikita briefly lifted his eyes. Certifying that it was indeed his intended associate, instead of some stranger looking for company, his gaze dropped down again. The page was quickly turned over. “ I can easily read a clock, Officer Matsumoto.” Nikita was well aware that the young man was delayed.
Another useless quip emerged; it appeared that Officer Matsumoto lacked the maturity to separate work from play. Then again, coming from the man who had once helped define fun, that was rather ironic. “How unfortunate.” He didn't sound overly interested in Devin’s struggles. No doubt Devin was battling men away from him with a bat; that truly had little to do with the job at hand. “I care little for your hobbies or alternate career paths.” Neatly organizing the second folder, nudging his plate aside with a careless elbow, Nikita leaned across the table. The next one in the stack, apparently older than the rest judging by coloration, was tugged to the man’s side of the table. Nikita had his officers carefully observed; he had hired others to watch the watchmen. The affronted tone, prattling about prices, was merely met with the rising of a grey eyebrow. The pen skittered off the edge of the paper to leave a streak across the table. The superior muttered something under his breath to do with punctuality and prostitution.
The cellphone had appeared after a moment of rustling pockets. Dual-colored eyes lifted to watch the phone. Staring at the damnable thing, eyes following its movements, he listened to more excuses. “I trust, at the very least, that it is on vibrate.” His jaw tightened. A cigarette now rested between his lips. Its tip flared orange with the flick of a lighter. He needed assistance to deal with things like Devin. “ I trust it will not.” The graying man took a deep breath; nicotine and strong smoke rushed into his lungs. “There will be consequences if it is not--even if it's the President on the other end.” It was tempting to make the younger officer eat the annoying little machine. What had ever happened to pagers and radios—at least those oculd not have ringtones.
“I am finished eating, Matsumoto." The fork was shifted to the edge of the plate. His voice turned jovial; it was often a dangerous turn for Nikita. His smile was a bit wolf-like. " I would suggest you remain sitting, if you do not want a write-up to decorate a wall.” The pen, which had been dropped in momentary anger, was again listed to its point. Shaking spare ash into the tray, returning to the devilish cigarette, the special-investigations officer spoke again. “Your behavior, or that of your cellphone as you insist upon silly behavior was unacceptable. It was damaging to our professional image.” Pausing, imagining the incident from the day prior, Nikita continued. “We are not high-school children Devin. It’s not right to fiddle with your phone like it’s a toy.” The inspector from the higher-ups, who had latched onto that annoying ringtone like a Krookodile’s jaw, had been quite unhappy. “Quite like the C.I.A., Matsumoto, we’re meant to remain classified.” The worst part of all? That tune had nearly been catchy enough to hum.
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