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blazingopus · 4 years

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Green Haze - Golden Wind

This story ended up much darker than I had intended. It was very difficult for me to write in some places. Drawing from detective noir can do that sometimes. For the squeamish of you (and this is in no way a judgement), I will list the parts where there is body horror in bold. Please enjoy.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LZDJ6gWi5HP2P2YCMTcn1?si=A4Kncm8JR_mkOdszS7TCww

You're a private investigator taking photos of someone who spots what you are doing. What happens next?

Napoli, and all of Italia for that matter, is ruled by The Famiglia. A complex web of businessmen, smugglers, politicians, assassins, drug peddlers, hustlers, bookkeepers, and every other role a mafioso could fill. Money acquired legally and illegally is funneled throughout the web, funding the various operations and front businesses. And pulling all the strings from the shadows is the illusive Boss, hiding his identity to preserve his life and keep control over all of Italia. He hears all, sees all. Little happens in the Famiglia without the Boss knowing at least in passing. This is the Empire called Passione. At least, this is what I hear when dealing in the underground.

I am a private investigator. I am paid large sums of money to investigate things that the police cannot, or will not, touch with their pristine hands. I say this, knowing that most of the police are in bed with corrupt politicians. The same politicians working closely, or at the very least taking bribes from Passione.

I only know this because I was in the police force for a few years myself. I saw first hand what went on behind closed doors. They say they want law and order. They say that they want to protect people. They say that they serve the citizens of Napoli. Lies. Nothing but lies. Most who join the force are corrupted by the system and the people. The few who do not leave of their own accord or are forced out.

Morality is a funny thing. Philosophers, authors, religious figures, and other thinkers have debated and formed their own frameworks to understand it. All of which are very different. But there are some basic ideas that most people tend to agree on. Killing innocents is bad. Stealing is bad. Lying is bad. Usually. There are more shades of grey to it all than an overcast sky. And many are willing to throw it all away for their own gain.

I walked away from all of it. The corruption, the lies, the posturing, the cutthroat environment. I was done with it all. I took the skills I had learned as a police officer and went into business for myself. You see, when the world is stripped of morals and decency, there are few things of value: Money. Information. Sex. Sometimes drugs, depending on how you felt that day. And the occasional organ. Of these, information became my currency. I procure information you want, for a price. Unlike the information brokers of Passione, I work on the street, I take the photos, and I steal the evidence. I can provide some of the most incriminating, career ending, reputation ruining information that the brokers would spend millions of Liras for. That is, if I were to sell it to them.

I don't work for Passione, and I have only worked with a few members. Poor souls. They had such ambitions of righting the wrongs, undoing the injustices from the inside. All of them ended up dead soon after their last visit to my office. Seems that the Boss doesn't much like members of his Famiglia trying to undo everything he had worked for.

It was a few days ago when another poor soul asked for my services. An up and coming politician with bright eyes and a noble heart. After being elected to a local office, he had found the government was as corrupted as any other. He was on a valiant quest to rid all he could of the "evil" out of Napoli. I told him that most do not survive that silly quest of his. He replied saying that, 'He would be one of the few who did, and bring some decency to his fair city.' He owed it to the people who elected him into office. I could tell he was a stubborn man, hellbent on his sacred duty. All I could do was shake my head and accept the upfront fee from him. How naïve he was.

Among some other things, he wanted me to look into a young man named Bruno Buccellati. The valiant knight had concerns about where Buccellati stood, since he liked to keep a low profile. While he was a mafioso, he was in good standing with the people of his territory and was a trusted right hand man to Polpo, the capo of Napoli. He suspected that Buccellati was either a noble individual like himself, or was playing nice to everyone to get an advantage. I told him it didn't matter either way.

I spent a couple of days getting a feel for his regular haunts. The people who lived and worked in his territory had a favorable view of him, but were somewhat protective of him. I was able to get more information out of them when I told them that he had helped me not too long ago, and was wanting to repay his kindness. Many said he would not accept any gifts or rewards, but wished me good luck. I didn't need it, but it was appreciated.

Buccellati moved around a lot, completing assignments from Polpo and maintaining the businesses under his jurisdiction. He did however, favor a particular restaurant. He tended to have small meetings there once a week or so with the team he was building. Such things were not uncommon in Passione. Many higher ranking mafiosi had a team of trusted few to help with whatever they were up to. It was a crucial part of the structure of the Familgia, and most teams were extremely independent. It was important that teams did not know of each other, so that separate operations could be conducted without interference or information leaking. At least, that was the intention. For some, it didn't matter how independent or how secretive a team was. Once they gained a certain level of status and notoriety, no matter how careful and secretive they were, word got around about their exploits. The only exception, of course, was the Boss.

The strange thing was, of the two people Buccellati had on his team, both were under the age of 18 and both had criminal records. Pannacota Fugo had allegedly murdered a teacher of his, and had a genius level IQ. If Buccellati played his cards right, he might make Fugo a crucial member of Passione. Narancia Ghirga was a different story. He had ran with gangs most of his younger years and only committed petty theft. From all I could gather, I could not understand why Buccellati had put him on his team. He had no outstanding qualities that I could find. The boy hadn't had an education in years, and had no particular skills.

There wasn't much else I could do now. I had been watching the restaurant for the past few days. I did a little snooping around the restaurant itself, and I found that Buccellati had made a reservation for tomorrow at noon. Four top. If I had to make a guess, he might be recruiting a new member or making some sort of deal. I would have to wait and see.

I made sure I look the part. The goal is to get a good look at Buccellati and his team. Take a few pictures. Start collecting some information about them. In order to accomplish this, I decided to dress a little casual chic. I was playing the role of a photographer for a travel magazine, getting some pictures of the local shops and the people in their natural state. It was important that the magazine had some candid photos along with the glamorized landscapes and reused building shots. At least, that was what I would use as an alibi.

I set up across from the restaurant at a quaint cafe with outdoor seating in the front. I had previously asked the owner if it was alright if I took a few pictures, and he let me eat free for the publicity. He didn't ask many questions. It was ten till noon, and the lunch rush was ramping up.

From what people told me, Buccellati had a few defining features. Piercing blue eyes. Dark hair cut in a severe bob. Pair of gold clips to adorn said bob. Suit with strange poke-a-dot pattern. Exposed chest with a tattoo or lace undershirt, no one could tell for sure. For someone who was so skilled at keeping a low profile, he was damn good at standing out from the crowd.

My eye caught someone entering the restaurant. Blue, hair, gold, pattern, chest thing. That must be him. I watched him talk to the host, who led him to a table right in front of a nearby window. My lucky day. At the table, I could see two other individuals, both looked to be young. These were most likely Fugo and Naranchia. They matched the descriptions I had come across earlier.

I was still watching the customers coming and going. Buccellati would not have reserved a four top if he was not expecting another person. Who that person was, I had no idea. A male walked in that made me pause for a minute. It was not his attire, which was also very distinct. Pale hair and skin deeply contrasted by his dark and broody clothing. It was the fact that it gave me a strong feeling of deja-vu. I didn't think it was a past client, or a past target. It went farther back than that, into the past I wanted to forget.

I took a sip of my water and made myself focus again. Fortunately for me, the mysterious man joined Buccellati at his table. He was lucky number four. It took about an hour and a half for them to order, eat, and discuss their business. The entire time, I was taking notes for one of the articles I was writing. At least, that is what I told the cafe owner. I was making note of particular ticks or quirks they had in their movements and speech patterns. I was also able to get a few pictures of them, but the main photos I was wanting would have to be taken as they left the restaurant.

I put my stuff in my bag when I saw they were beginning to wrap up. I left my camera hanging around my neck. I watched Buccellati pay the bill. The four of them stood up. They moved to the front of the building. I moved the camera to my face. I snapped a few photos as they came out the front door.

My heart stopped.

The last one out was the mysterious man. I finally remembered him. Abbacchio. He was one of the victims of the cruel justice system. I was coming to the end of my time in the police when I heard the news of his departure. He had made a hard decision, and it didn't pay off for him. I had worked close with him on some assignments, but I had not seen him since...

His deep purple eyes met mine through the lens. Deep. Accusing. Damn it. Why did I hesitate? I lowered the camera, keeping eye contact with him. His eyes bore into me. They were full of distrust and suspicion. Did he recognize me? Had he caught on to what I was doing?

Abbacchio finally broke eye contact with me, slowly walking away. I let our the breath I didn't know I was holding. I didn't know what his next action was going to be, but I needed to get the hell out of there. Damn it! How could I have been so reckless? So stupid? I could have just compromised everything. I put my camera in my bag and told the waiter my thanks.

I walked briskly toward the nearest train station. While it would be much more convenient to own a car, such a thing was dangerous. Cars can be tracked via licence plate, or could identify my apartment if someone should see me on assignment. That means my options for transportation are limited. Taxis would be faster, but I can blend into the crowds and loose people easier that way. If it all plays out properly.

When I reached the station, I bought a ticket and waited to board. I stood in the crowd, watching around me for anyone from Buccellati's team, or anyone else suspicious. I stepped on the train and found a seat. No one of note came on board. I spent the train ride anxious, my mind racing. Would Abbacchio do anything? Would they hunt me down? I could handle myself well enough, but the members of Passione were dangerous individuals. If they did, I probably wouldn't live through it. But this is what I signed up for when I took up this line of work. This is all my own doing.

The train came to a slow stop. I stood up and stepped onto the street. Heading straight home would be stupid. It would be better to head to the office first, where there would be people to witness anything that might happen. I walked over a block or two to the building where my office was located. I entered and unlocked the door. Inside was the same as I had left it. The heavy wooden desk sat in the back of the room with a chair to match. In front were two large chairs. I picked them out especially because they were very, very uncomfortable. I didn't want people staying longer than they had to, and having comfortable chairs just encouraged people to linger. It was important with the kinds of people I deal with.

I picked up the few documents I had sitting on my desk and stuffed them in my bag. They weren't of great importance, but I could not afford to leave any sort of evidence out. After most of my assignments, if I didn't think they would be useful I burned most of the information I had collected. I didn't want any evidence pointing to me if something got out. I usually didn't need it anyway. There were a few exceptions, though. I had a few safes in my apartment containing very valuable information that might come in handy one day. Don't know when, but you never know when you need to expose someone, or blackmail them, or call in a favor.

I straightened up the place before I left again. Speaking of calling in favors, if shit hits the fan, I might have to do that. Working in the professions I have, you get to know the right people, or the wrong people that need a favor. I didn't want to cash my chips in just yet, but I didn't know how all this would play out. I might not even have time to call in the first place. I have to be damn careful.

I locked the door and headed out onto the street, looking for a cab. My apartment was a bit away from my office. While I would have liked to be able to walk home every day, I didn't want anyone following me home that easily. I hailed a cab down and gave the driver directions.

As soon as I got home, I set the several locks on my reinforced door. Some may say I am paranoid, but that paranoia has kept me alive through some pretty bad scrapes. I quickly changed out of my clothes, throwing on a tank top and sweatpants. If they come for me tonight, I at least want to be comfortable. I then went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. It wasn't the first time I was going to miss out on a lot of sleep. I will have to keep up throughout the night.

I reached into a kitchen drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I needed something to calm my nerves. I hate smoking and would have much preferred alcohol. Alcohol makes me sleepy, and being able to aim is important if hell breaks loose. Nicotine would have to do instead. I took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling the sickening smoke. Stale, this pack was getting old. I would have to pick up a new one soon.

I went back into my bedroom, opening up the top drawer of my bedside table. I took the two pistols I kept in there and checked the clips inside. I turned off the safety and stuck one in the waistband of my pants, feeling it settle against my spine. I picked up the extra clips I kept as well, putting two in my bra and sticking the rest in my pockets.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed one of my kitchen chairs, dragging it in front of my door. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I walked over to my chair and sat in it backwards. Pistol in my right hand, coffee in my left, cigarette in my mouth. I waited throughout the night with my eyes trained on the door, waiting for anything to go wrong.

The night passed to morning, and the time passed in silence. The sun rose on a new day. I was still alive and unharmed, for now at least. I rose from my seat and quickly showered. I hit myself with the cold water to wake myself up again. I tiredly put on clothes, keeping the pistol in its spot next to my spine. I put the other in the holster I keep in my jacket. I grabbed my bag and walked out my door, undoing all the locks from the night before.

I made my way back to my office without incident. The door was still locked and intact. Everything was in place inside. I sat down behind my desk and pulled out my notes, going over what I had collected over the past few days.

Buccellati seemed decent, at least. Many people went to him for counsel and help. He was Polpo's most trusted mafioso and went above and beyond to complete his missions. He ran his territory well and kept businesses alive. Giving his team a second thought, he probably picked them up off the street and took them in. The younger ones looked a little rough around the edges, and the one that was probably Narancia did not know what comb was. Still, I have run into a lot of people that looked like good people who ended up being rotten to the core.

I sighed and rubbed my face. I needed more coffee, but I didn't want to get up to actually make it. I was pretty much done with Bruno Buccellati, and I needed to move on the other targets my client had hired me to dig up dirt on. That is, if Buccellati didn't come after me and cut my life very short.

I sighed again and stood up, starting up the coffee maker. I watched blankly as the pot filled with caffeinated hot bean water. I needed to stay alert. I needed to stay awake. My life might depend on it.

I poured myself some coffee and walked back to my desk. I didn't need this information much anymore. I put everything in a manila folder and put it into a small safe under my desk. Damn thing was heavy, so it wasn't like anyone was carrying it out anytime soon. I took out my small spiral notebook from my bag, and looked at the list I had written a few days before. It was the list of targets I had been hired to investigate. I took out a pencil and crossed out Buccellati's name. Who would be the best target to go after next?

My head snapped up. There was a knock at my door. I quickly shoved the notebook back in my bag. There were a few possibilities going through my head. My client; he seemed to be a little impatient when I took the job from him. It could be a potential client, they liked to drop in sometimes. Or, it was Buccellati. That last one had my heart thumping against my chest and adrenaline filling my veins. I checked the guns on my person. Everything could go bad very quickly.

I stood up and crossed the room. I hesitated for just a moment before grasping the doorknob and pulling it open.

My heart stopped for just a moment. Before me stood Bruno Buccellati and Abbacchio, their eyes bearing down on me with serious expressions on their faces. I did my best to maintain a stony expression despite the terror filling me.

"Can I help you, Gentlemen?" I asked professionally. I might be able to talk my way out of this.

Buccellati nods his head slightly. "Yes. Do you have time to talk, miss?"

"I do." I moved aside and gestured for them to enter. They slid past me and moved to the chairs situated across from my desk. I swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Of all the things that could have happened, this was probably the worst. I would have to be smart about this.

I moved over to my office chair to sit down. A part of me was quite pleased to see Abbacchio becoming visibly uncomfortable trying to settle himself in his chair. Buccellati also looked very uncomfortable, but he was trying his best to not let it show.

"Allow us to introduce ourselves," Buccellati said as I pulled myself up to my desk. "My name is Bruno Buccellati," he gestured to Abbacchio, who had a stern glare on his face, "And my companion is Leone Abbacchio."

"A pleasure," I replied politely.

"It's not," Abbacchio shot back in a low voice. The glare on his face intensified.

Buccellati looked back to me with suspicious eyes. "Though, I am sure that you already know who we are."

"It is my business to know things, Mr. Buccellati." I had to be careful. "Word of you has spread throughout Napoli. It is not uncommon to hear tales of you in the crowds." I looked over at Abbacchio. "And Abbacchio and I served on the same police force together. We had some assignments together from time to time. Now, you said that you would like to speak with me. Are you interested in my services?"

"Not quite." Buccellati shifted his weight a little. "Your reputation precedes you, Miss (Y/N). You are known as a very talented private investigator, perhaps one of the best in Napoli."

I chuckled a bit. "Those words are not mine, Mr. Buccellati. I let my clients decide for themselves if my work is up to par." I tilted my head a little. "It also seems you know who I am. You know your way among the town gossip."

Buccellati cracked a small smile. "It has helped me before in the past, I must admit." His eyes bore into mine again. "What exactly do you do in this profession of yours, Miss (Y/N)?"

I had to play it cool, use a bit of misdirection. "I am a private investigator. I investigate whatever my clients hire me to. Cheating spouses, missing family members, the occasional long lost flame. Many people think that we like working with reporters, but they almost never tell the full story. Police are not much better. Too wrapped up in internal politics to investigate properly and arrest the right people."

"Many people also think that you investigate corruption." Buccellati interjected, his eyes still trained on me. "There are many politicians that do whatever it takes to achieve their goals, no matter how illegal."

I took a breath in. "I don't do that kind of investigating, Mr. Buccellati. If I were to investigate one bad politician, it would take me years to unravel the web of misdeeds and lies. Bad people tend to work with other bad people, who would also be exposed. All for what?" I shrugged. "There will always be corrupt politicians. Removing one would lead to another taking his place, if you could remove him at all. Best to stay out of it entirely. There are many people out there who need help that the police and politicians cannot provide. In doing my work, I hope to provide some solace to them."

"Do you really believe that garbage?" Abbacchio growled at me. Anger was washing over him. "Talking about helping people by going through their private lives. Sounds like a load of shit to me."

"Abbacchio, calm down," Buccellati ordered. His voice was stern and commanding. Abbacchio turned away, becoming more broody by the minute.

Buccellati looked back at me. "Passione is a powerful organization in Napoli, and all of Italia for that matter. It controls one of the largest drug trades in the world, and engages in many illegal activities. Surely, there would be people interested in finding out all they can about it, and the people who comprise its members?"

Buccellati was proding around, trying to find a way to pin me down. I would have to be careful how I answered "Yes, there are many people who would like to uncover the secrets of Passione. I have had my fair share of people try to enlist my services, but I have made it policy to turn them down. The mafiosi don't much like it when people go sniffing around where they shouldn't, and they tend to respond rather violently when they do. I also do not take any assignments from members of Passione. One job leads to another, and you either end up a member of Passione yourself or very much dead. Neither sound very appealing to me."

Buccellati nodded intently. "What kind of people do you take these "assignments" from, Miss (Y/N)?"

I looked at him suspiciously. "A variety of individuals. If you are wanting specifics, I am afraid I have a strict confidentiality policy. I do not share any information about any previous or current clients, or anyone I have or am investigating. Any information I find stays between me and the respective client. What they do with said information is their business."

Buccellati narrowed his eyes at me. " I want to change subjects, if you don't mind."

I nodded. "Go ahead." I had the sense that this conversation was taking a turn for the worse. I could feel my pulse speed up.

"Yesterday, Abbacchio saw you taking photos of me and my team as we were leaving a restaurant." Abbacchio turned back to me and stared at me like he was reading my soul " Not only were you taking photos of us, you were in the perfect location to take them. You were either very lucky that day, or you had been investigating me and tracking my movements." He leans forward, his voice becoming more direct and commanding. "So I ask you, what were you doing there that day, and why were you taking photos of us?"

I had to keep reminding myself to stay calm. I could not let anything important slip. I could not show weakness. And I could not answer that question. "I am not at liberty to say. I told you I keep my work confidential."

"That's fucking bullshit," Abbacchio yelled at me. "You know damn well that someone is trying to get dirt on us!"

"I told you, whether or not that is true, I cannot and will not release any information to anyone but my client."

Abbacchio stood up suddenly, violently knocking over the chair in the process. Anger seethed across his body. "I am not taking any more of this. You tell us everything, or I will beat the living shit out of you!"

I stood up, pulled the pistol out of my jacket and aimed it at him. I knew that if I pulled the trigger, the first bullet would lodge right between his eyes.

"You can try, but you would have to reach me first."

Before anything else could happen, there was a small flash of blue light in the corner of my eye, before something hit me square in the chest. I fell back a few feet, my body feeling like it was tearing apart. I landed on my side, my muscles not functioning and my joints not moving. I didn't know what kind of weapon Buccellati had used on me, but it was very effective. I moved my head a little, just enough for Buccallati and Abbacchio to come into view.

Buccallati looked deep into my eyes, murderous intent in his cool blue pools. "I'm tired of playing games, Miss (Y/N). Tell us what we want to know, or I will have to resort to more extreme measures. And know that I am very good at telling when people are lying."

I gave him a defiant glare. "You think you are the first person to threaten me? I have put up with a lot of shit in my life, I doubt you can do anything to me to make me talk."

His gaze lingered on me for a few seconds. Then he looked to Abbacchio. "Move her onto her back and support her head. I want her to see this."

Abbacchio nodded and knelt down next to me, sliding his hands under my arms and easing me onto my back. He pulled me up to his chest, and I could see my body splayed out in front of me. My arms and legs were in strange and unnatural angles, but they didn't look broken or damaged. Still, they were doing some very unnatural things.

I looked up at Buccellati. He was rolling the sleeves of this suit jacket to expose his forearms. "There have been many sorts of punishments used over the course of human existence," he said as he kneeled beside me. "Disembowelment is particularly brutal and painful. Most people don't tend to live through it. It just so happens that I have an ability that allows such an act to be easier on the both of us."

He outstretched an empty hand, and touched me just above my collar bone. If I could move, I would have flinched away. Abbacchio and Buccellati's strange power kept me from doing much of anything. Buccellati clenched his hand like he was grasping something. He then moved his hand down my sternum, over my abdomen, and stopped just below my navel. A thin line was left on my clothing. He then took both hands and pulled on both sides of the line he drew. Slowly, my clothes and my skin separated together to reveal what lay underneath.

I could see inside myself. I saw my heart as it drummed and sent blood shooting through my arteries and veins. I could see my lungs rise and fall with my breathing. I watched my stomach churn and move. My intestines pulsed as they did their digestive dance. I could see all the red and soft organs that were keeping me alive and well. Everything was wet and held together by long, thin membranes you could see though. I couldn't move, but that didn't stop me from shaking in fear.

"How easy it would be to kill you," Buccelatti said as he looked into my eyes. "All I would have to do is squeeze your aorta until your cells die of oxygen deficiency, if your heart doesn't explode first. Or I could cut off the air to your lungs and let you suffocate. But if I wanted to make this really painful," He moved his hands over to where my intestines pulsated, "I could simply disembowel you. That would be much longer and more painful, giving me more time to get some answers out of you."

My shaking was becoming worse, my breathing becoming ragged. I kept my eyes locked on Buccellati, avoiding the horror he had unleashed. "Even if I do tell you, you would just end up killing me anyway."

He gave me a small, terrifying smile. "I may be a mafioso, Miss (Y/N), but I can assure you that I am a man of my word. You tell me what I want to know, and all this will end."

"Either way, I'll be spilling my guts."

"That's the idea."

He reached into my body and grabbed hold of my small intestine. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a small pocket knife, flipping it open. He brought the blade to my abdominal cavity, preparing to cut the thin membrane that held my organs in place. He was going to pull my intestines out right in front of me.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to thrash around, do something to stop it, but nothing was working. I could feel hot tears running down my face. I began to scream, to beg, to plead with Buccellati to stop. This was not worth getting my intestines ripped out for. This was not worth dying over.

"What were you doing yesterday?" he demanded an answer. "Why were you watching us? Why were you photographing us?"

The tears kept coming. "I was hired to."

"Obviously. Who hired you?" Buccellati nearly yelled.

I choked out the client's name.

He thought for a moment. "You said that you didn't work for politicians. You also said that you don't investigate members of Passione. You are either lying or you are very confused, and I doubt you are the latter."

I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling. "It doesn't matter if I take the job or not. Either way, he ends up dead. They all do."

"They end up dead?" Abbacchio questioned from behind me.

"Fools who think they can fix everything. Undo all the terrible things that Passione has done. Rid Napoli of corrupt people. They don't understand what they get themselves into." I swallowed and let more tears fall. "I try to warn them. Try to tell them they are playing with fire, but they never listen. They are so hellbent on being the hero that they don't have time to listen. It doesn't matter if I get them the information or not. They never have enough time to do anything with it. Passione always finds out. Passione always comes for them. And the fools always end up dead."

My words hung in the air for a moment, the mafiosi taking in what I had said. "That still doesn't explain why you took the job." Abbacchio said softly. "You could have refused him."

"I know, " I whispered. "But if I did, he would turn to other places to get what they want, and most of them are being funded by the government officials or are members of Passione. He would be found out and dealt with much quicker than if he came to me. The problem is, idiots like him tend to have family and friends that care about them. If I take the job, instead of someone else, he might live just a day longer."

I lowered my eyes to look at Buccellati again. He looked intently at me, but I couldn't read his expression. What was he thinking? Did he hate me? Did he think I was a fool for even thinking like this? Did he feel sorry for me for lying to myself, justifying working for these poor souls?

Buccellati put the knife back in his pocket, taking out a handkerchief to clean his wet hand. He stood up and walked over to my chest. "Help her up, Abbacchio." The two of them lifted me to my feet, careful not to hurt me.

I looked down at my body again. My limbs were normal and straight. There was no gaping whole in my torso. I was magically whole again. I wiped some of the tears off my face. What kind of superpowers did these people have?

I took control over my body again, trying to regain my balance. I smoothed out my clothing and adjusted myself. I took a deep breath in. "If you gentlemen would excuse me," I said without looking at the mafiosi, " I will return shortly." I promptly walked out the door and turned down the hall. I opened the lady's room door and headed to the sink.

I took a few haggard breaths. My body had stopped shaking but I was still trying to recover. I wasn't dead yet. I was still intact. I just needed to let my body calm down.

As far as interrogations go, that was very effective for how little he actually hurt me. How the hell did Buccellati open me up like that without actually cutting into me? Was this all some sort of fever dream? Or a nightmare?

I turned on the faucet and ran the water over my hands. I needed to gather myself. I splashed the cool water over my face. I glanced at the mirror as my face dripped. I looked like death. All the color had drained from my face, there were dark bags under my eyes. Even the muscles under my face didn't have enough energy to move properly. I grabbed a few paper towels and dried my face.

I was so tired. I didn't want to be here anymore, to deal with Buccellati anymore. I just wanted to sleep forever and let the world pass me by. Damn it all.

I gripped the edge of the sink. I had to go back in there. I had to face them one more time. I didn't have a choice. They had gotten what they wanted from me. I didn't know what other information they would attempt to get from me. I didn't know if I would want to give it to them. Besides, my bag was still in there.

I gave myself a few more adjustments in the mirror before walking out into the hall. I told myself to breathe, to stay calm. I forced myself to walk to my office door. I gripped the doorknob. I turned it and opened the door.

Abbacchio was sitting on top of my desk, one leg tucked under him while the other dangled off the side. Buccellati stood off to the side, involved intensy with the conversation with his companion. The chair that Abbacchio flipped over was still laying on its side. They did, however, pick up my office chair. The both of them looked at me as I opened the door.

"Are you alright, Miss (Y/N)?" Buccellati asked me, a concerned look on his face.

I closed the door behind me. "Well enough, at least." I looked up at him. "I am surprised you would even ask that."

He gave me a strange look. "I may be a mafioso, but I am not heartless."

"You could have fooled me."

Buccellati looked at me intensely. "You would do whatever necessary to protect what is important to you, am I right Miss (Y/N)?"

I thought for a moment. "I suppose so."

"So would I. In my business, people important to you end up dead if not protected."

I sighed. "I see your point, Mr. Buccellati." I walked over to my office chair. "My question is, who is important to you? Who is so close to you that you would torture and kill to protect?"

"Haven't you done enough digging as it is?" Abbacchio growled at me. He was always a little prone to bad moods, but I don't remember him being this bad.

I glared at him. "I answered you damn questions, you might as well answer mine."

Buccellati raised his hand. "She's right, Abbacchio. We owe her an explanation for what happened that day." He looked back to me. "Miss (Y/N), would you join us for lunch? I would be happy to answer any questions you have."

I gave him a confused look. "Why would you trust me? How do you know I won't just sell all the information you give me?"

"I agree," Abbacchio spoke up. "This is stupid, Buccellati. We have more pressing matters to attend to."

Buccellati looked back to me, a small smile on his face. "Something tells me that you can be trusted. But I will only answer you questions if you come with us."

I thought for a few moments. This could be a trap, certainly. But I didn't think so. Buccellati didn't seem like he had something up his sleeve. Free food also didn't sound so bad either. I leaned down and grabbed my bag.

"Lead the way."

Half an hour later, I was sitting in a restaurant. The very same restaurant I watched the day before. Sitting across from me was a very calm Buccellati and a not as calm Abbacchio. I scanned over the menu, trying to narrow down what I wanted to eat. It all sounded so good. After the waiter took our orders, he whisked away our menus, leaving the three of us to talk.

Buccellati folded his hands over his face. "So, what do you want to know?"

I thought for a moment. "Narancia Ghirga. Why is he on your team? I can understand Abbacchio. He has a lot of skills from his career as a police officer. He also has a lot of knowledge on how both criminals and police operate. Pannacotta Fugo is extremely intelligent, and can probably think his way around problems. Narancia has no particular skills or qualities that set him apart."

He took a breath in. "It is not a simple story. Fugo found him alone and broken on the street. He brought Narancia to me in the hopes that I could help feed him. He was also in bad shape and needed extensive medical treatment. I made sure he had a full recovery. I could tell as time went on he began to idolize me." He looked away for a minute. "This life I lead is not for most people. It can destroy you if you are not careful. I didn't want to drag Narancia into it. I sent him home to his father to continue his education."

I leaned forward, intrigued by the story he was crafting. "Then how did he become a mafioso?"

Buccellatti gave a momentary smirk. "He went behind my back. Went directly to Polpo for initiation. He requested to be under my command. I accepted." He took a sip of his water. "He might not look like much, but Narancia fights to the bitter end. He is deadly when he wants to be, and is extremely loyal. I could not ask for a better charge."

During the course of the meal, I asked many questions. I learned more about what had happened to Abbacchio, the hard choices he had to make. I learned about Fugo, the difficult life he led of study and high expectations. And I learned of Buccellati, his life of fending for himself and his father. Now, he fights for Napoli, doing what he can for the people.

While the stories were being told, I told mine. I had always wanted to make a difference here. There was this righteousness that always burned within me. But whenever I tried, someone or something always stopped me. The only correct way to get anything done in Napoli is the illegal way. So I stopped trying. I used my skills to support myself, maybe help where I could. But the more you dig up, the more you realize how evil people can be. The more it beats you down and takes hold of your soul.

By the time everything was said, we had finished eating and Buccellati was paying the bill. Once he had finished, he looked to me. "Would you wait for us outside, Miss (Y/N)? There is something I would like to discuss with Abbacchio."

I nodded. "Of course."

I wandered out the front door and leaned against the building. I watched the people pass by. One person in particular caught my eye. A teenage boy wearing an altered pink private school uniform. His blond hair braided down his back and his bangs intricately set. A strange sight indeed. But not the most extravagant person you would see in Napoli.

I saw Buccellati and Abbacchio walk out of the restaurant. I stood up and walked to them. "Before we part ways," Buccellati said to me, "I have one more question to ask you."

"Another one?" I joked.

He smiled for a moment. "Just one. What do you think of joining my team? With your skills, you would make a valuable asset. You already know Abbacchio, and the two of you would work well together."

"I am the last person who would want to join Passione," I said promptly.

He shook his head. "You would be a member of Passione, but you would be working for me." He looked intently at me. "You of all people would know how I run things. I am trying to make Napoli better for everyone. Would you join me in doing that?"

I avoided eye contact, trying to make sense of everything. Just earlier that day, we thought of each other as enemies. Now, he had seen something in me that compelled him to ask me to join his cause. And Abbacchio had agreed to this? He had been so antagonistic towards me.

I looked Buccellati directly in the eyes. "I would need to wrap up my assignments, or try to get out of them somehow. But, yes. I will join you, Mr. Buccellati."

He nodded. "Good. I was hoping that would be your answer. By the way, you don't have to call me 'Mr.' anymore. Bruno will do just fine"

I smiled up at him. "You don't have to call me 'Miss.' either. (Y/N) works just as well."

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure golden wind #golden wind #vento aureo #bruno buccellati #leone abbacchio #narancia ghirga #pannacotta fugo #jjba #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader #jjba fanfiction

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vicunaburger · 4 years

Text

Admittedly, I’m Hard to See

Fandom: Beetlejuice the Musical Chapters: 9/? Pairing: Beetlejuice x OC (Holidae) The Players: Beetlejuice, Lydia Deetz, Holidae Bell Word Count: 1,604 Warnings: M for Language and Suggestive Content

Notes: ...you all knew going into this it was slow burn, yeah? ....right??

Chapter 9 - In Which Closeness is a Matter of Perspective

“Lyddy, when I said I would help you with the art show, I meant things like… carrying equipment. Or getting props. Maybe picking up extra film.” Holidae subtly tried to adjust the position of her foot, pins and needles already crawling along her skin. “Being a model is not on that list.”

Lydia walked over, kicking Holidae’s foot back into place, “You are helping. Hold still, you keep twitching and get all blurry.”

Infinitely thankful that they were quite alone in the cemetery that afternoon, Holidae muttered under breath, trying her best to hold the poses as Lydia commanded them. She was wrapped in several layers of sheer black organza, designed to mimic a sort of mourning gown with a bit of wedding charm thrown in for flavor. The result was surprisingly effective, but did nothing to stave off the cold autumn weather, and Holidae could already feel her extremities freezing over. She did promise Lydia she would help her a photo shoot, and she learned a valuable lesson about not trusting the small photographer as far as she could throw her.

“I think my fingers are frozen. They’re blue,” Holidae leaned against the nearby headstone for support.

“So are your lips, now hush.” Lydia maneuvered herself around the other girl, the camera shutter firing rapidly. “Lean back like you’re just overwhelmed with grief.”

“I’m overwhelmed with something,” Holidae tried to do as she was told, dipping her body backwards as far as she could. “This good?”

“More.” Another series of clicks.

Holidae wobbled, catching herself on the headstone, “I don’t bend that much.”

“Try,” Lydia came over and tried to balance her friend, who promptly caught her funny bone on the granite grave marker.

“Fuck you, you try!” Holidae hissed in pain, rubbing her elbow furiously. “Or you best pay a chiropractor.”

Lydia went back to her equipment, fiddling around with some different lenses, and giving Holidae a much needed break before they tried again. This wasn’t the first time she had roped her friend into posing for her photos, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last despite protests from the model. No matter what Lydia would try and get her to do, or how she would dress her up, Holidae would just go along with it. It was like having a doll to dress-up and torture in creative ways.

The only request Holidae ever made was that her face never be in full view, and Lydia always respected her wish. Whether it be a large hat brim, or in today’s case a veil, Holidae was kept away from curious eyes. The truth of the matter was Holidae was embarrassed of her looks, and always had been. Self-esteem was a rough, bumpy road to traverse; and there were good and bad days.

It was a touchy subject, and Lydia never pushed it.

Lydia tapped her fingernails on her camera bag, trying to think of a solution to the posing problem. After a few minutes, she let out an ah-ha, getting up and brushing some leaves off of her skirt. In one quick breath, she spoke her ghostly best friend’s name three times in a row, summoning him outside of the house for a change.

Beetlejuice looked happier than he’d been in a while, smiling ear to ear, and picking up the small girl with a twirl, “Lyds! We’re in a graveyard! What’s the special occasion? Someone die? Someone needing to die? Picking out a good plot? Don’t get one by a tree or the roots will get all gnarly and stick into your casket.”

Laughing as he set her down, she shook her head, “No, I need a favor, but nothing that major.”

He stuck his hands in his overcoat pockets, looking like a noir film detective, “Anything for you, babes.”

“I need you to bend Holidae over,” Lydia said pointing over to the woman desperately trying to warm herself up.

BJ did a double take so hard there was an audible crack of his neck, “…do what now?”

“Balance issues. If you go over there and help, I can get the pose I want and you won’t show up in the picture. It’ll look super cool, trust me. Just go over and she’ll explain what I want.” Lydia waved him away, unconcerned with her phrasing.

There was a moment of hesitation on Beetlejuice’s part; not really sure if this whole thing was a setup in some way that would get him banished forever, or something worse. Well, if Lydia wanted him to be a helpful little demon, who was he to argue with such an opportunity.

Humming to himself, he flourished his stroll over to Holidae with a spin, “Oh, what have we here? Getting all dressed up just for me, Holly-hock? I just adore the shade of blue on your skin.”

Holidae tried to straighten herself up, covering the more see-through parts of the draping with her arms, “W-what are you doing o-out h-here? Fuck it’s cold.”

Beej pulled her tight against him, “Body heat is the best solution of hypothermia, right?”

“Not when you’re an ice cube!” She shivered, torn between accepting his offer and freezing to death right then and there.

“Hey! Less flirting, more posing!” Lydia barked at the two of them. “Save that stuff for indoors, it’s gross. He’s there to hold you up so you don’t bash your head open on the rock.”

“Lydia, you say one more word and I’m throwing your camera off the bridge.” Holidae pried herself out of his arms, readjusting him so that he would support her back. “If you drop me, you’re dead.”

Beej snickered, giving her flesh a hard pinch, “Already dead, baby.”

“Smartass.” Holidae grit her teeth, but bent back with her arms splayed our behind her, “And I am fully aware that you’re getting a good view of my cleavage, so don’t even start with me.”

“I am getting Lyds the best birthday gift this year,” Beetlejuice made a very obvious show of studying Holidae’s chest.

Over the next hour, Lydia would move her two companions in different ways, getting the most out of the fact BJ wouldn’t show up in the film. It saved a lot of money on expensive photo editing programs; but it was also just a fun way to spend the afternoon together in a new environment. When things would get too serious, Beetlejuice would make some face at Holidae to get her laughing, ruining the next few shots Lydia took until they could compose themselves. Or, at least Lydia was claiming they were ruined.

She wasn’t about to tell them the truth: those candid shots were not being deleted off her camera.

During one of their breaks, Holidae sat herself down on a blanket Lydia had spread out her camera equipment on to keep it from getting dirty, holding her knees to her chest in efforts to keep warm. Without warning, something was dropped onto her head, mussing her hair as she pulled it down. It was a dirty, ratty grey coat. Stained and stitched together in odd places, carrying the heavy scent of tobacco and musty earth.

Strangely enough, it was warmer than she thought it would be, and she wrapped it around her body as best she could, “You might want to wash this once in a while. Maybe just spot clean.”

Beetlejuice flopped down next to her, digging a pack of smokes from the coat pocket, “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back. Ungrateful.”

She shook her head, burying herself deeper into the oversized clothing, “No no, I want it. I was just offering a suggestion. Thank you for not letting me freeze, I mean it. Honest.”

He took a long drag, the smoke hanging in the air due to the weather, “Eh, dying is what it is. Done it twice, not that exciting.”

Holidae looked around at the tombstones surrounding them, “Do you think these people would have the same opinion? What if they died doing something exciting?”

“I really don’t feel like digging them up and asking,” He shrugged, holding the cigarette between his teeth. “So what’s Lydia gonna do with all these photos anyway? Seems weird.”

“She keeps telling me she has a theme, but doesn’t want to jinx it with discussion and negative thoughts. I swear, she takes after her stepmother more than she wants to admit.” She picked at the blades of grass by her feet, “I just put up the pictures when they’re done.”

“Well, since she can’t have me as a model, at least she has something decent to work with.” He flipped the edge of the coat up, peeking at her sheer dress. “You’re not as beautiful and sexy as I am, but then again, nobody is.”

Holidae scooted backwards, tucking the coat back tight around her, “Hey, you’ll let the heat out! And good on you for self-confidence, but calling yourself sexy all the time is weird.”

Beetlejuice grabbed her by the ankles, dragging her back toward him, “Are you saying I’m not sexy?”

She was getting tangled in the coat, looking like an unhappy caterpillar, “No, I said that calling yourself sexy is weird. I would really appreciate you listening when I talk to you, Juice. I don’t just say things to hear myself prattle on.”

With a truly maniacal laugh, Beetlejuice jumped up, picking up Holidae in a bridal-style carry, and spun her around with a flourish. “Youuuuu think I’m sexy. You think I’m seeeexy~”

He set her back on her feet, leaving her to balance herself after all the spinning, and ran over to find Lydia.

“Lyds! Lyds, listen listen listen~ you’re friend said I’m sexy. Now you have to take back all those times you said I was only referring to myself as a sexual being to hide the fact that I have a lack of positive self esteem from a childhood borne of neglect. HA! Wait. Why are you running from me? Lydia!”

Writing Tags: @mr-geuse @paxenera @leiasolo77 @go-commander-kim @ashemspirit

#beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice x self insert #writing time #beetlejuice x oc

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secretsocietyxmen · 5 years

Text

Flamebug AU - Her Beauty, Her Grace

{Takes place around the same time as Gifts From Herself}

Tsuna was taking the kids to the park when he saw Marinette having an argument with her classmates. Remembering she said earlier that the Alya girl canceled the picnic because their friend Juleka wasn’t feeling well - which was CLEARLY a lie, seeing as she’s RIGHT THERE and there is picnic stuff scattered on the ground - he began to feel concerned. Since he was unable to make out what was being said over the crowd, he took the kids in a bit closer.

From what he could understand, the Liar had told Alya to lie to both sides. Apparently, Marinette had opted out of the picnic because she was spending time with her relatives - which she couldn’t have because she was prepping to go to the meet up, all the food she was going to bring was given to us to enjoy a day in the park while she works on her designs by the fountain. ‘This can only go poorly,’ Tsuna thought to himself, steeling up to help her out.

Unfortunately, as he was beginning to do so, the large boy with the blond tufts (Kim?) had ran into Lambo as he was getting the food out of his seemingly endless backpack. Doing so caused his bag to hit the ground triggering a misfire from the Ten Year Bazooka! Tsuna and Lambo watched in horror as the pink projectile went barreling ahead...

...Right at the back of Marinette’s head!!!

---Line Break---

As the pink smoke cleared, a young woman could be seen trying to fan it away.

She had short blue hair, halfway between a close crop and a pixie cut. She was wearing black slacks, a white dress shirt, black flats, and a custom red vest with pink sakura splashed across both sides. She also was wearing light make up, black studs, and a pair of rings on her right hand: a decorative orange ring and a plain silver band on her middle and ring fingers, respectively. And there was one thing everyone present can agree on:

She was gorgeous. Chloe couldn’t take her eyes off her, and Juleka looked like she was drooling. Than says nothing about the men that were watching.

“Well, this is a blast from the past,” she says before laying her eyes on the sausage-haired menace. “Oh, hello you,” she barley squeezes out of clenched teeth.

“Who are you supposed to be? And what happened to Marinette.” The syllables sounded like just thinking about them brought pain to the Liars tongue.

“I hoped this would be obvious for you lot. But I guess even ten years later you still want me to back up my claims with far too much supporting evidence.”

“...Marinette!?!”

---Line Break---

Even after ten years, this event still leaves a bad taste in Marinette’s mouth. How they lied to her. How they were angry that she didn’t show. How Adrien never bothered trying to stop them.

(Calm yourself. No need to get akumatized in the past. Who knows what could happen if you return to the future as an Akuma.

Except maybe Irie. Or Byakuran.

Man I can’t wait to have taken that blond creep down, Akumas were the worst.)

Need to get back on track.

“Yes, I am Marinette from the future. No Kim, I can’t give you future lottery numbers, don’t bother asking.”

He at least had the common decency to look ashamed.

“How is that even possible? Time travel is..”

“Scientifically impossible, I know Max,” she finished. “So the answer you are looking for is ... magic.”

After leaving Max a sputtering mess, she decided to move on. “Okay, I only have about 5 minutes, and two of them have been spent already. Do you guys have any questions that cannot spoil your future? And no Alya, you can’t record this.”

Sheepishly putting her phone away, she asks “What are Ladybug and Chat Noir doing in the future? Is the fight against Hawkmoth still going on?”

“Oh gods no. I definitely can’t give you any details, but Hawky was taken down long ago. Ladybug is peacefully retired.”

Adrien seemed to finch when I didn’t mention the status of Chat Noir. Good, but if I did, everything would end up a whole lot worse.

“Well, we can all be glad that I was there to take down the evil Hawkmoth. My great uncle was a detective, so I definitely will be able to step up to the plate.”

Lila’s declaration had an interesting effect on Mari, she broke down laughing!

“Whoo, haven’t had a laugh like that since last week.”

“What’s so funny about that!” Ahh, Alya. Always the loyal fox.

“Lila Rossi was nowhere near the Hawkmoth investigation!”

This got Alya fuming. “You’re still jealous of Lila? ow, I guess some things never change.”

Marinette’s expression grew stone cold. “Let me set the record straight. I WAS NEVER JEALOUS OF LILA! Why would I even still be, I’m engaged?”

Nino, taking a second to notice Mari’s ring said “Wow, Adrien must be a lucky man.”

Chuckling, Mari responded, “No way! Adrien is totally not the man I plan on marrying! And on that note, goodbye everybody!”

She then exploded in a puff of pink smoke, and was replaced by a confused 14 year old Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

---Line Break---

This took longer than i wanted. Oh well, I hope you enjoyed!

@fantasyfandommaiden @copitix @seraphichana @royalchaoticfangirl

#flamebug au #marinette dupain cheng #sawada tsunayoshi #lambo bovino #TYL Marinette #miracuclass #lila rossi #khr #miraculous

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jaegertango · 7 years

Text

WoW: Noire

I had this idea that I wanted to experiment with, because it sounded kinda neat. I wanted to write a story that was done in a narrative-style similar to how those noire comics were done in. The problem with it is that those comics at least offer pictures to set a cool atmosphere in, and the narrative sets the overall mood. Still, I wanted to give it a try, and I think it came out kinda cool, even if it’s dialogue-heavy and not much of a story.

So here’s this thing, it’s a lot different from my usual stuff so it might not be as good.

There ain't no room in this city for heroes. Not anymore.

Underyork's been a shithole for years. It's probably always been like this; I can't remember the time anyone's said anything 'bout “the good 'ol days of Underyork.” If they're there, the people around for it are all dead. All that's left are the murderers, the swindlers, the murder-swindlers, and the lawyers. Only way to survive in this place is to be one of those four, or learn that the last is no different from the rest. There ain't no room in this city for heroes, and the ones calling themselves that are lying to themselves.

My name is Rasputen Tarsalai. And my job's to find the liars.

I don't make an easy living. Sure, I could just blast my way into fortune with my friends Smith and Wesson, but I didn't want to be like every two-bit bastard calling themselves a detective. They're like roaches in this city – detectives for killings, detectives for love, detectives for metal; you can't walk two feet in Underyork without tripping on some stiff's card. Me, I keep my class. I don't draw attention unless I need it, and I ask the questions that matter, not that ones people wanna hear. All it's gotten me so far is this shitty office space on the corner of Rogue and Quarter, and a constant fucking headache.

Until that dame came in.

That's what she was. Sensual, graceful, like brandy gliding on ice. Only a dame moves like that – no broad or whore could smile like that at me. She had blonde hair like platinum gold, and wore a black dress darker than gunpowder. Even the blood on her face, splattered across her cheeks like ruby red lipstick, was more intimate than a lover's kiss. It was all I needed to pay attention to her.

“I hear you can find people, Mister Tarsalai” she spoke as breathlessly as I was. She was dangerous – and I liked that.

“I can. Is there a reason I should?” I spoke back, offering her a glass. She refused – I knew she would. Nobody with half a brain in their skull would ever take a drink from a stranger.

“I've got two thousand right now – and eight thousand for later,” the dame charmed, and I could see a flash in those bright blue eyes. Those were a killer's eyes, no mistaking them. This wasn't personal enough for her to do the job herself.

“Looking for a hubby or somethin'?”

“Oh no no, let's call it a... misunderstanding between friends,” she replied like silk, and I was following along like the needle. “Maudy was a man I've had my eyes on for some time. Truly a man befitting of many gazes. A shame that he died.”

“I'm... sorry?”

“Don't be darling, I was the one who wanted him dead – and that was taken from me,” her voice returned, and I shot back my whiskey. I needed the edge to keep back the shivers. This dame was getting more and more poisonous by the second – and I was getting drawn in like a mosquito to fire.

“You got any clues?” I growl back, knowing better than to try and shut down a job that already had payment on the table. The only thing worse than picking up a dead-end job is refusing one that's already confirmed.

“I know Maudy used to always spend all day at the Crow and Cross, maybe that helps you?”

The Crow and Cross. Typical – he was a fuckin' lowlife. No wonder she wanted him dead.

“All I need, sweetheart. So what do I call you when I come back for the rest?” I spoke, snatching at my first fee before the dame could get her fingers back.

“Well Mister Tarsalai, you can call me... Kitten.”

Kitten. Whew. I needed to get out of there before the lamp or I blew a fuse.

If Underyork's good for anything, it's a decent walk – so long as you knew how to. A lot of people have forgotten how – you'd think they wouldn't, but then they end up in the wrong alley, and then later in twenty difference pieces on the market. It's all about reading the environment, and blending in. Keep your coat closed, your hands in your pockets, and your eyes straight ahead – if you know how to walk, you don't need anything else to look around. Not like Underyork itself is much to look at. There's rubbish thrown everywhere, roaches are always in the street, and you're having a lucky day if you pass by someone in this hazy daylight. Funny, how in a city of thousands, it's rare to see another soul not slinking in the shadows. Either you live well enough to enjoy the smog of Underyork, or you struggle to live in the alleys like all the other dogs.

And the Crow and Cross is a haven for those mongrels.

It didn't take long to find that tavern. It's a sleazy little pile of brick and broken glass that should've gotten bulldozed years ago, but even the tractors don't wanna dirty up their tracks with that toilet of a bar. Trash attracts trash, and this place prides itself on being the biggest magnet there is. 'Course, it's because of that reputation that it's also the most lawful place in Underyork – for what that's worth anyway. Thief's honor is about as trustworthy as a rubber bullet, but that's still more trustworthy than anything else.

When I opened the door, it looked exactly the same as I last saw it – a fucking mess. Cretins and bastards on all sides, playing their cards or nursing their drinks. I can feel their eyes on me the instant I walk in – they know who I am, and they know I don't belong here. I'm not stupid enough to come in alone though, I always bring my friends with me wherever I go. They know that too, or else I'd be gutted for my liver by now. There's only one person who's not looking at me when I walk in, but I only need to see the back of his stupid goddamn head to know exactly who it is.

And I know that he'll be my best shot at figuring this dame's rival out.

“Shouldn't a bleedin’ shitbird like you be outside crapping off the roof?” I call to that goofy red undercut, and he responded immediately. That thin little face, so enraged until he sees it's me – then he relaxes and smiles, like nothing's wrong. Otis “B.” Fucking Aderry – full name. Nobody knows what that “B” stands for, besides me. Pah, bastard – a cowardly little goblin like him suits the name of this bar.

“Shouldn't a dogfucker like you be kissing up to the hair of it again, you sad drunk?” he scoffs, expecting me to react. I don't. I'm not here to repaint the Crow and Cross with his intestines – I'm here for information, and I know he has it.

“You hang around here a lot, Aderry. It suits a bastard like you. Happen to know a guy named Maudy?”

“Hmf, I know a lotta guys, dogfucker. Maybe you can refresh my memory, huh?” he spits back, and he grins those yellow, jagged teeth at me as he rubs his fingers together. Otis is nothing more than a rat among wolves, not enough meat to even consider eating. But just like the rat he is, he's got his paws in everyone's shit, and nobody wants to bite a shit-covered rat. There's only one way to deal with them.

“Try not to spend it on that crappy wine of yours,” I say as I toss a roll of the bills at him. Now the bar knows he's got cash – he'll have to fight to keep it on him, and he knows the only thing standing between him and a junkie starving for his next fix is me. I can see it in his posture – he's excited, but now he's in the spotlight. He needs to give me just enough of what I want and scuttle out, or he won't have that cash for long.

“O~h yeah, I think I remember a guy like that. Tall, big, fancy-clothes, Aquarius?” He snickered after he took a long whiff of the cash. “He your type?”

“He's dead, so now he's your type,” I growl back, keeping my eyes on his hands. I don't need him trying to make a quick getaway. “I want to know who killed him.”

“If I'm telling you, you didn't hear it from me, dogfucker,” Otis murmured seriously, stuffing the roll into his vest and smoothing that stupid undercut of his back. “I got enough people wanting me dead.”

“You don't tell me who it is, they won't have to wait much longer.”

“Fine! His name is Haarithur Yedelryn – he freelights as one of those shitty bluebloods, but he's as filthy as the rest of us,” Otis grinned widely, picking at his teeth. He thinks I can't see the way his weaselly little face scrunches up when he lies “You got your name, now leave me alone.”

“You can't lie for shit, Aderry,” I chuckle, and I can't help but smile at his horrified reaction. I take another step closer to him, and when he backs up a bit closer to the bar, the other patrons look over curiously as well. They know I can't just kill him so easily – but there wasn't anything against bloodying him up a bit. Which only made getting the money from him that much nicer...

“Alright fine! So it wasn't some damn blueblood – that was too good for 'ol Maudy! No, you think one guy got him? Pfeh!” Otis spat in the bar, looking disgusted, which had to say a lot for how he already looked. “Only way any of us recognized him was one of his arms – still had his signet ring on. Betcha whoever's got the matching one knows what happened to him~!”

“You happen to have the other ring still?” I ask, but I already know the answer. I had to ask though – it was the only way I could get that slimy cretin to confess.

“You think I would? First-come, first-sell babe! The Legion’s signet always gets good cash!” Otis snickered, waving me off knowing I didn’t have anything else to ask him. It would have been worth the stab wounds to beat that sick grin off of his face, but I still had a job to do. Knowing this case, it wouldn’t be the last time I see his shitty mug again.

“Try not to drown in that bottle, shitbird,” was the last thing I spoke to him before I finally got to get out of that mess of a bar.

It was a dead-end, but it was just enough to go on. That dame, that Kitten, never decided to mention that Maudy was part of the Legion family. Everyone’s got a family in Underyork, but they’d sell their own mothers out to be a part of the Legion. There’s money, there’s power, and there’s security in being part of the Legion – but it wasn’t easy to get into, or get out of. Once you were in, you were in – and a bodybag wasn’t enough to get you back out. The Legion protected their own, but they also used them ‘til there wasn’t anything else they could bring back to life. No detective would be stupid enough to sneak around Legion territory, especially on a hit like this. Suddenly I knew why this dame didn’t want to risk her neck so broadly – one wrong move, and the whole family would be after me too.

Turns out I’d already made one.

I knew I was being followed. Knowing how to walk in Underyork means knowing you’re not truly ever alone – and also knowing when something’s about to go down. I could practically smell it amongst the smog and rain; bloodthirst. Somebody wanted me dead, and I had a good idea why that was. There was no need to go back to my office just to bloody it up – not when the streets are filthy enough I could make some extra mess there.

“Let’s just cut the bullshit lads,” I stop and call out, turning around. Sure enough, even though the streets behind me are empty, I could choke on the tension heavy in the air. They’re worried – they expected me to find an eventual alleyway on my way back. But now that I’m calling them out, they have to either kill me now on the streets, or risk their pride getting stepped on. Ruining someone’s professionalism is what I live for.

I wait an entire four seconds. I know it’s only a matter of time. No Legion hitmen could stomach someone taunting their jobs. My hands hover by my coat. I know I’ll move faster; they’d have to get behind me to-

I whip around myself, backhanding the sneaky fuck about to ambush me. His mask warbles, and his cloaking device shimmers in defeat. I can see the outstretched cloth in his hands: chloroform. They wanted me alive, and that was their biggest mistake. Obviously they had questions for me, but I couldn’t care less about talking to them. It was time to introduce them to my two friends.

Both of my friends have been hungering for some warmup time. Of course, when you feed them nine-millimeter slugs all day, of course they’d love nothing more than to vomit them out at full force. I rocket three shots at my closest assailant, but only one of them nails him in the leg. The blood spray is all I need to know he’s wounded – and the steady barrage of shots firing my way signaled there was more than just him. I duck behind a truck, but the bullets don’t stop. Whatever firepower they brought beat out my Smith and Wesson. I’d have to guess a P90 – that staccato tapdance of gunpowder was both violent and long-lived. But I also knew I had an opening when the bullets suddenly halted, and I took my chance.

I round the truck to get a proper shot – but there was someone in my way.

People don’t help others in Underyork, that’s a rule of knowing how to walk. Those in trouble have to get out of their problems themselves, or else they’ll drag everything down with ‘em. But there that other guy was, that brute of a man closing the distance with those loud, thundering gunshots. Shotgun blasts; judging by how fast he’s pumping those bad boys out, I’d say a Spas-12. Whoever he is, he was distracting those bastards from gunning me down. So I went to find the first of my would-be killers.

I can see the blood trail leaking on the ground. The fact he didn’t try to jump me after getting shot is proof of how amateur my ambusher is. Pain had him conflicted, and now I was the hunter. Even with his cloaking device, I can practically smell his fear. He’s close – and soon about to be dead. I look over to the side of the street, where I could see the blood abruptly veer off to the left in a smear. I grin – and then fire a round to the right. The sidewalk erupts suddenly with blood and brain, a black-tressed figure appearing from nothingness with a giant hole in the middle of his breathing mask. Trying to fool me with a fake bloody trail – a nice try, but not good enough. As he struggles lamely for life that won’t come, I don’t hurry his death for him; there are more important things than his mercy. I look back to the man who helped me, and I need only to see his face to groan.

“You know you’re being ratted out for killing Maudy?” I snort, glaring at the man with his smoking shotgun.

“Ironic – I’m looking for the ones that actually DID kill him,” Haarithur Yedelryn growls at me. He may be the only blueblood in this city worth a damn, but he’s still a blueblood. Being connected to any of the police force is as dangerous as having bonds with any of the families in Underyork, but Haarithur’s come through for me several times.

“You know he’s Legion, right?” I question him, setting aside my friends so that I could better talk.

“It’s why I’m here Tarsalai. The whole family is up in arms,” the blueblood grumbled, setting aside his shotgun as well.

“Over one of their brothers dying? They kill their own bloody lot all the time,” I ask curiously, now more interested.

“Not quite. Maudy was ripped apart by someone outside the family by the looks of it – and even they don’t know who did it.”

The image of Kitten’s bloody face ran through my mind. I knew the dame was dangerous, but suddenly she seemed even more threatening. Inter-family betrayal getting out to the commonfolk was bad – there was going to be far more blood in the future, and that might be too good for business. I look towards the corpses that Haarithur had blown up in the streets, and I know they’ll only send more.

“I’m looking for the right half of one of their signet rings – happen to find anything?”

“How about this Tarsalai – share what you got with me, and I’ll share what I know. Like old times, egh?” Haarithur grinned, and even with that handsome look of his, I still leer at him. Bastard – there’s always an angle he’s working. I don’t know why he insists on breaking the rules of Underyork as a blueblood, but working together was sacrilege. Still, he had information I wanted, and I only had just a bit to offer – it was a win for me in the end.

“Fine – like old bloody times. Let’s head back to my office,” I grumble, knowing this was only the beginning to yet another headache of a case.

There ain’t no room in this city for heroes. What it needs is less-evil villains like us.

#jaegerwrites #boy I could write the story I WAS trying to get finished or I could just do small shit like this lel

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