Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][ROUND ONE: TELEVISION LAND]
12-03-2011, 06:59 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by BlastYoBoots.
"Eagles, come in." *beepbeepbeep* Yep, nothing. What did three beeps mean again?
"Any contact points, come in." *beepbeepbeep* Stop showing off, nobody's there. You don't even know what a contact-point is.
Freefall heaved a sigh and folded her arms, glancing around at her boring, grayscale surroundings. The windows clearly read 'night', some old city streetlights casting deep shadows through a slight, audible drizzle- wait, where's that music coming from?
It was a typical night alone. Kind that drives a man to drink, 'cause it's the same as every other night. A man gets used to these nights, here in the city... looks forward to 'em.
Oh, brother.
A change in routine means you've lost. It means you're either drowning yourself in the expensive city nightlife, sharing cheap booze with an expensive woman... or you're doing what someone else's forced you to. Someone's screwed you over. Often the Mafia, their stranglehold as tight as a politician's tie. More often, it's the cops. Fat gangsters, only twice as arrogant. A gangster lets you mind your own business; a cop makes his yours, then scolds you for not minding your own.
I'm not all that sure what the difference is between a cold night at home and one in the slammer. Probably the booze.
*knock knock*
All of a sudden there's a knock at my door. Strange jobs, I get at these hours. The jobs I regret. The jobs that get me paid. Jobs that- "Just open the door! I'm sick of hearing your internal monologue."
Ah, a broad. A wisecracker, at that. I let her in.
She pushes past me, doesn't give me the time of day; I knew she was trouble the moment I saw the way she walked. As alluring as a frigid morning, and an expression like a dive into icy water. She turns around, and there's one whopper of a black eye. "Fell down some stairs?", I quip. She isn't impressed. I get the idea that this ain't her first shiner.
I take my usual chair, reaching for the whiskey under my desk. She kicks herself into the other like she owns the place. A thick brown jacket, and some blue menswear as dingy as the look she's giving me. All too loose, like she's bundling herself away from more than just the cold. Maybe she isn't as tough as she wants to be. "Hey, how can you tell it's brown, anyway? Everything's black and white."
"If everything were black and white, miss, I wouldn't have a job."
I reconsider the booze, reach for my cigs and matches. She eyeballs the place like she's casing it as I light one up, settling her gaze on my cheap excuse for a television set. Wonder if she'll do me a favor and steal it before the night it sets the whole office on fire.
"Give me your office."
"Pardon?"
"I need to use your office, maybe for a half hour."
"First of all, you're too young. Second, I don't have the money."
"Ha ha. How about you get lost before I throw you out the window, you corny excuse for a TV character."
"Listen here, toots." I bolt up and slam my hands on the table, make sure she sees the revolver hanging out of my jacket pocket. "I'm not all talk. I do a damn good job around this city. I make people's miserable lives just the slightest bit less miserable, and I deserve a little bit of goddamn respect for that. I don't take orders, least of all from some scrawny broad with a nasty boyfriend. Now tell me what your problem is, or get out of my office."
We trade glares for a moment. I see a lot of things I don't understand, in my line of work. A bratty girl standing up to a detective with a gun, in his own office? Something doesn't add up. Maybe she just doesn't know how big the wohurk*-
The ball of Freefall's palm crashed into his temple, sending Joe McMiller, P.I., sprawling unconscious over his desk and onto the floor. Gray blood dripped from his nose where it'd hit the bookshelf, while clear whiskey pooled around his half-shined shoes from where they'd knocked down and cracked his personal stash.
Freefall stomped out Joe's cigarette, scooped up the injured bottle before it drained completely, and kicked back in Joe's plush chair, his office's only real luxury. She leaned it back against the wall, crossing her legs on top of the desk. Her eyes settled on the gray alcohol swirling around in her prize.
"If you can say 'goddamn', I can at least have a taste. No way my team's tuning in, yet."
She took a small, burning swig from the intact side of the bottle, then set it down and clicked the hidden communicator on her suit's collar again.
"Eagles, come in." *beepbeepbeep*
She smirked, immersing herself in the slow jazz. It's been a slow week of hero-ing... I think this is gonna be fun.
"Eagles, come in." *beepbeepbeep* Yep, nothing. What did three beeps mean again?
"Any contact points, come in." *beepbeepbeep* Stop showing off, nobody's there. You don't even know what a contact-point is.
Freefall heaved a sigh and folded her arms, glancing around at her boring, grayscale surroundings. The windows clearly read 'night', some old city streetlights casting deep shadows through a slight, audible drizzle- wait, where's that music coming from?
It was a typical night alone. Kind that drives a man to drink, 'cause it's the same as every other night. A man gets used to these nights, here in the city... looks forward to 'em.
Oh, brother.
A change in routine means you've lost. It means you're either drowning yourself in the expensive city nightlife, sharing cheap booze with an expensive woman... or you're doing what someone else's forced you to. Someone's screwed you over. Often the Mafia, their stranglehold as tight as a politician's tie. More often, it's the cops. Fat gangsters, only twice as arrogant. A gangster lets you mind your own business; a cop makes his yours, then scolds you for not minding your own.
I'm not all that sure what the difference is between a cold night at home and one in the slammer. Probably the booze.
*knock knock*
All of a sudden there's a knock at my door. Strange jobs, I get at these hours. The jobs I regret. The jobs that get me paid. Jobs that- "Just open the door! I'm sick of hearing your internal monologue."
Ah, a broad. A wisecracker, at that. I let her in.
She pushes past me, doesn't give me the time of day; I knew she was trouble the moment I saw the way she walked. As alluring as a frigid morning, and an expression like a dive into icy water. She turns around, and there's one whopper of a black eye. "Fell down some stairs?", I quip. She isn't impressed. I get the idea that this ain't her first shiner.
I take my usual chair, reaching for the whiskey under my desk. She kicks herself into the other like she owns the place. A thick brown jacket, and some blue menswear as dingy as the look she's giving me. All too loose, like she's bundling herself away from more than just the cold. Maybe she isn't as tough as she wants to be. "Hey, how can you tell it's brown, anyway? Everything's black and white."
"If everything were black and white, miss, I wouldn't have a job."
I reconsider the booze, reach for my cigs and matches. She eyeballs the place like she's casing it as I light one up, settling her gaze on my cheap excuse for a television set. Wonder if she'll do me a favor and steal it before the night it sets the whole office on fire.
"Give me your office."
"Pardon?"
"I need to use your office, maybe for a half hour."
"First of all, you're too young. Second, I don't have the money."
"Ha ha. How about you get lost before I throw you out the window, you corny excuse for a TV character."
"Listen here, toots." I bolt up and slam my hands on the table, make sure she sees the revolver hanging out of my jacket pocket. "I'm not all talk. I do a damn good job around this city. I make people's miserable lives just the slightest bit less miserable, and I deserve a little bit of goddamn respect for that. I don't take orders, least of all from some scrawny broad with a nasty boyfriend. Now tell me what your problem is, or get out of my office."
We trade glares for a moment. I see a lot of things I don't understand, in my line of work. A bratty girl standing up to a detective with a gun, in his own office? Something doesn't add up. Maybe she just doesn't know how big the wohurk*-
The ball of Freefall's palm crashed into his temple, sending Joe McMiller, P.I., sprawling unconscious over his desk and onto the floor. Gray blood dripped from his nose where it'd hit the bookshelf, while clear whiskey pooled around his half-shined shoes from where they'd knocked down and cracked his personal stash.
Freefall stomped out Joe's cigarette, scooped up the injured bottle before it drained completely, and kicked back in Joe's plush chair, his office's only real luxury. She leaned it back against the wall, crossing her legs on top of the desk. Her eyes settled on the gray alcohol swirling around in her prize.
"If you can say 'goddamn', I can at least have a taste. No way my team's tuning in, yet."
She took a small, burning swig from the intact side of the bottle, then set it down and clicked the hidden communicator on her suit's collar again.
"Eagles, come in." *beepbeepbeep*
She smirked, immersing herself in the slow jazz. It's been a slow week of hero-ing... I think this is gonna be fun.