twelve; video/action

[detectiveace]

[ It’s a cold night in May; winter’s icy fingers are clinging to the weather, but melting away like a stick of butter in the frying pan. The old, tiny office is in black and white, read all over. There’s a hardboiled detective in her natural environment, pacing slowly, but with all the confidence of a bear eyeing a salmon in a meandering creek

Comments

video;

[hurricanebomber]

[Guess who has noticed Naoto pacing and decided her hardboiled environment needs more color?

No, you're wrong, it's Gokudera.

It takes a bit of concentration, but he manages to set off some multicolored, miniature fireworks in her office. They're harmless, but colorful and a bit loud.]

[alwaysaboom]

[A dame picks up the videocast on her communicator, a city lit up behind her in neon lights spashed on old buildings. The bright lights seem a desperate and futile attempt to chase away the greyness of a sky still sighing snowflakes onto a cold wind.

Her face is hard and businesslike, but she smells like trouble.]

[detectiveace]

[ They always smell like trouble. It's wrapped into the fabric of what makes a woman a woman. The detective thinks this narration is as phony as a warming pan and a baby. ]

Hello, Ivanova-san.

[alwaysaboom]

Naoto, how have you been?

[She speaks as those irritated at being caught in this one mule ashtray of an olive pit town.]

[detectiveace]

Well. [ She smiles, cold and calculating. On the edge between hardboiled and soft. ]

What.

...

Ah, um, you'll have to excuse the voice. It's been following me around all evening.

[ Stalking, one might say. ]

... [ Ignoring is a practiced art. ]

How've you been?

[pricesandvaules]

[Somewhere, in a darkened room, someone is practicing the saxophone. It's a lonesome, mournful sound, in counterpoint to the distant wail of police sirens, the faint patter of gunfire.
This is the music of a corrupt city. It drifts in through the window, settles into the young detective's office like a pall of smoke.]

[detectiveace]

[ But it's the siren's song. It calls to the detective, and it's the scent of mystery on the line. She follows the notes. ]

Narration, would you please be quiet?

[ No. ]

...

Forgive me. I didn't mean to interrupt your music.

[pricesandvaules]

[The lone musician lowers his instrument and shoots her a baleful look. His mouth twitches as if to ask if this is the detective's fault, but the narration preempts him. His vengeful gaze shifts to the ceiling. It's the gaze of a born killer.]

Guess you know what I'm gonna ask.

[echo_of_utopia]

[ A visit was not her intention. Somewhere her true destination beckons, but the seasoned psychiatrist finds herself near this realm of imagination regardless.

Its pull is slow at first, but it increases, spinning hesitation around her steps until awareness brings her to a stop.

Could it be that such a metanarrative exploit would extend well beyond the mere sphere of its creator, perhaps only grazing those who pass yet thoroughly encompassing those who choose to dwell?

...Yes. Yes, it could. ]

[?]

[aquarium_tipper]

[Imagination means the that someone doesn't actually have to type. So this AMAZING text just kind of appears in that hardboiled room.]

omg lol what the hell diid ii ju2t look at??

[detectiveace]

[ Letters, spelling out a bad attitude and a bad lisp. ]

Excuse me?

[ Words echoing into the dark. Can anyone hear them? (answer: yes). ]