Pernicious Innovator

Anonymous Asked:

"What are we going to do tomorrow night, Detective?" "The same thing we do every night, Innovator. Try to choke the life out of you." "Narf!"

Pernicious Innovator Answered:

(Get out of my life.)

Anonymous Asked:

NARF

Pernicious Innovator Answered:

You’re bored.

You’ve been keeping close tabs on Deadeye’s movements, more so than usual, but you already know how this is going to play out. That’s what you do. You think of the future. Not one, but all. Your brain runs a million miles a minute, and when it comes to work, you let it. You imagine every conceivable outcome, starting with the worst, before you let anything like murder occur.

You’ve still got a few more days to go before it’ll be safe to go near Deadeye without having your skull caved in against the sidewalk.

You can’t stand not being able to talk to him, though. For all the excitement you both go through when he’s on the hunt and you’re dancing along three steps ahead of him, it’s terribly isolating.

So you call again. It only confirms the time frame for you.

You set the streams to record in his home and office. His investigation is running short. You know that. You know enough that you feel comfortable leaving for a few hours. There’s nothing to miss.

You grab your best bottle of whiskey out of the cabinet, and by the time you’re done turning around, you’re right outside Roy’s door.

You knock once, pause, and then three more times. It’s no established pattern, but it is one of those weird things that Roy expects you to do. You’re all about meeting expectations, even if they do sell you short. Keeps people happy.

• PI: It's been absolutely enthralling watching you work. It always is. There's something beautiful about a livid Detective.
• DD: I spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about how black and purple suit you as colors, in ways that have nothing to do with clothing.
• PI: I expect nothing less. But I think you would get rather bored of me if you didn't think of me in such terms.
• DD: The thoughts have helped keep me going the last few days, because I know you will make the mistake of coming back too soon. Probably on purpose.
• PI: I can rule nothing out, but that's not what I meant, Detective.
• DD: I know what you meant.
• PI: Of course you do. That wonderful brain of yours never misses a thing.
• DD: I also know the roommate who found the girl retracted her statement that the entire apartment was locked when she got home.
• PI: Did she? I hadn't heard.
• DD: Every word reminds me how much I want to get my hands around your throat.
• PI: I wish I could fulfill your desires, Detective, but I can only die once. We'll want the event to be far more memorable.
• DD: I'm sure it's a party that will be well-planned when the time comes.
• PI: I trust you with the arrangements.
• DD: I'm meticulous with details, as you know.
• PI: It's part of the reason I am so very fond of you.
• DD: I hope you haven't been wasting your time on the floor for the last few days. I still have open cases with living suspects.
• PI: Well, not all of my time... I have been watching you, when I am not needed elsewhere.
• DD: They haven't shut the case down yet.
• PI: All thanks to your hard work.
• DD: Call back in a few days. It might be better for your health by then.
• PI: My health isn't what I'm concerned about. You know that. Good luck, Detective.
• DD: You seem to be surprisingly concerned about your life, however, which is more what I was talking about.
• PI: It's just an improper way to end.
• DD: And yet, there are times even I can't resist temptation. As I said. Call back.
• - Call ended.

pickledistraction:

Oh thank god, he’s awake. You were really worried. He still seems concussed, but at least he’s not dying or anything.

Also, you were having a hell of a time trying to carry him. It’ll be a lot easier now that he can carry most of his own weight.

“W-well, um.” Your voice is quiet and weighed down by fatigue. “I ah. I th-think. I think I used, um, sh-shadow magic?”

Okay, you don’t think you used it, you know. But it seems unbelievable to you. In fact, if not for the buzzing in your head and the persistent feeling of cold that won’t go away, you’d probably just assume you imagined that whole thing.

You should probably be unsettled by it. For some reason, you aren’t. Maybe you’re just too tired to comprehend the implications.

“W-we can’t stay here,” you say, glancing about warily. “W-we n-need to keep moving.”

Your concern isn’t just for gang members. You also don’t want any police coming after you. 

You don’t move. You’re too busy gaping at him to even register that you might get caught. 

He thinks he used shadow magic. That’s… well, it’s not impossible, but it’s the first you’ve heard of any of your doubles being capable of it. It makes sense, you suppose. Your experiences with the imagination world have been lax, but your life revolves around shadow magic.

There’s supposed to be a reason for that, though. Pickle Inspector is not from Derse. It could have something to do with the multiverses colliding…

You’ll figure it out later. Your head hurts too much, and if Pickle is telling the truth, then he’s probably going to be ill because of it. It took years before you could start a fire without feeling as if something was trying to claw its way out from inside you.

You hold onto his shoulders, because at any given time one of you is going to need to lean, and you start walking. You two are sort of pathetic.

“Cold?” you ask him, although you already know the answer. His skin is freezing to the touch. “Other side effects?”

You pause. Your head still hurts, but at least your brain is finally cycling through the necessary steps.

“… Are they dead? Witnesses? Evidence?”

inspectionsandtea:

You’re shaken out of your light nap by something moving on top of your back. You whine and flail at Copernicus, only to be met with not a cat but an whole ‘nother man.

‘Oh yeah, that happened.’

Right-o.

You push yourself up on your elbows slightly and twist your head around to squint at him and wiggle uncomfortably, too bleary and sleepy to get out more than one syllable.

“O-off.”

You roll. That’s the best you can think of. Someone is telling you to move and you don’t feel like standing up, so, logic denotes that you should roll. There’s something to your left, so you roll to the right

and then you smack against the floor.

Ow.

“Good… m-morning?”

You have no idea and you don’t care.

(Source: perniciousinnovator)

deadeyedetective:

You have no idea what is happening.

Cash was perfectly fine, you knew that. You could see that nothing bad was doing to happen, if Cash had any input in the matter. He wasn’t going to open his jaws and eat the kitten in one bite. He was docile. He was nice.

Then Chami flipped shit and now Cash is barking his deep, loud, big dog bark, and Chami is on him, on his back, and then gone. The cat just disappears. You have never in your life seen anything move that fast. Cash’s hackles are raised and BARK. BARK. BARK. BARK. It’s amazing how loud dogs are in small spaces.

“Cash! Quiet!” you snap. He turns a very disoriented circle and lowers his head. You go to tend to him, rubbing his neck and behind his ears, trying to calm him down. At least he stops barking. He doesn’t look pleased, and you aren’t either, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Chami will come around. At least when he does, Cash will be behaved. 

“It’s alright,” you inform your new canine companion. “Shhhhhh. Good boy.” You pause, and then set your face to his. His fur is soft against your skin, and he’s warm. You can feel hot breath on your neck, and he licks your jaw. “No licking.” His tongue withdraws, and he noses against you for attention, so you scratch his side. His panting slows. He doesn’t bark or growl. “Good boy.” You stroke his side, and touch your nose against Cash’s cold pinkish-black one very briefly, which is as long as you can stand. He licks your chin and stops before you say anything. You go to wash your face, and already consider how much you’re going to have to invest in lint/fur rollers.

“That… could have gone better.”

You reach over and scratch gently behind Cash’s ears in apology. It makes his tail wag. At least earning his forgiveness is easier than earning Deadeye’s. The dog puts his head on your knee and you rub his neck. You resist the urge to say ‘like taking candy from a baby’.

Instead, you say, “Chami will come around.” You hope he comes around soon. Cash is going to get hungry, and you’re willing to bet he’s going to get hungry very fast.

“I-I know he’s big,” you go on, cautious of every word. Caution is something you’d forgotten about until now, which is likely why the lines of communication between you and Deadeye broke down to begin with. “But there a-are parks, and jogging p-paths. There’s also th-that, uhm. The y-yard behind my h-house.”

You let your stutter run free as a sign of submission and weakness. You leave him options rather than put him on the spot. You sort of hope he’s too drugged to realize you’re back up to your old tricks. This isn’t a case you’re bickering about, this is you asking him to mix a part of your personal lives, one that has nothing to do with work or stalking or torturing each other. This is…

normal? Domestic? Functional? God fucking forbid.

(Source: perniciousinnovator)

pickledistraction:

What is Innovator doing? He’s in no state to fight anyone. His magic is still out of commission and maybe he’s got his gun, but there’s three of them and one of him and why didn’t you bring your key? Why do you keep fucking everything up?

You can’t recount with any level of detail the next sequence of events. Your memories are a jumble, as tends to happen to you in high-adrenaline situations. The thugs advance on the two of you. Innovator fires a shot. There’s a yell as one of them falls over, and you try to plead with them to leave you alone, please, stop fighting please.

There’s movement, and the dull sound of blunt metal meeting skull. Innovator goes down.

You stare. He doesn’t seem to be conscious. You don’t know how bad he’s hurt, but they hit him hard enough to knock him out and that’s never good, and now they’re coming at you and oh god you can’t fight them off and you have to help Innovator and you don’t know what to do—

You’re screaming. You’re telling them to go away, please. 

Please

please

GO AWAY

Something rises up within you. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, one that fills you the way your Imagination fills your gauge, but without the warmth and joy that comes from that sort of raw creative energy. This is cold. It’s cold and it’s overwhelming and you can’t even hope to hold it in.

Purple flame engulfs your aggressors. They flail about and run, abandoning their assault in favor of getting away from you and putting out the fires. They leave behind their comrade whom Innovator shot at the start of the scuffle. 

Your head is swimming and the whole alley is spinning around you. Sleep sounds good. You could stand to just… curl up here and…

No.

Wait.

Innovator’s still hurt.

You crouch down and shake him. He groans, but doesn’t get up. You’re just glad for any sign of life at all, to be honest. You hoist him up on your shoulders—which is no easy feat for you, least of all while you feel so exhausted—and drag him away. You can worry about sleep later. Your apartment isn’t far. Once you safely get him back there you can just go into a coma for all you care.

When you come to, you’re elevated. It’s a strange thought to have. You’ve blacked out a lot of times in your life, but waking up to the sensation of floating (or, rather, sagging) is new. Your feet are dragging on the pavement. The vibrations run straight up to your knees, and you are thankful for thick shoes. Before you even open your eyes, you can smell whiskey and tears. Pickle Inspector.

There’s something else there, too. You can’t identify it. You feel like someone’s cracked your skull open like a particularly brittle walnut, and that is more or less the case. Whatever it is, though, it revives the awkward sensation of knowing that the man before you is also you.

He’s cold. Really, really cold. He’s also extremely weak, like you are, but you are extremely light, like he is. You suppose the two facts are balancing themselves out, but then you also suppose he’d probably die of exhaustion trying to get you indoors if you let him.

You put your feet down flat and take back your own weight, stopping him in the process. You’re not doing so good at the standing up thing at first, but you don’t plan to let go of him yet, anyway. Your movements are sluggish and exaggerated when you prod him for injuries. It’s like you’re drunk. Your depth perception is off, and if you turn your head too quickly a wave of nausea washes over you.

There is no way in hell that innocent little Pickle Inspector fought off those three thugs. So how the hell did you make it out of there?

“The fuck happened?”

pickledistraction:

((Here’s a present for every anon that suggested some hot PI on PI action

I meant it to be more explicit but

oops I don’t know how to draw that

so here’s the best I can do))

(PRESENTED WITHOUT COMMENT)

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