#suddenly i was already just using one cape and applying color theory

[layraket]

pfp for my friend @amyred

[zorasublime]

So, here it is. My (I like to think) long-awaited submission to @enigmainvestigations‘s Detective Riddler Prompt 1: The Fire. Hope you enjoy, story’s under the cut. It’s called: Not Quite Cinematic

     The alley still smelled like fire, even after a week. And yet, there I was, nose to the ground — figuratively, I assure you — trying to figure what exactly had caused it. I glanced down to my notebook, opened just this morning for the first time ever, frowned, and pulled on my cigarette as I remembered how I even came to be there in the first place.

     You see, there’s a formula to the classic detective story. They all start the same. A beautiful woman enters the detective’s office with an urgent case. She gives him a large amount of money, usually in cash. And he offers her his services, knowing full well that, by the end of the case, he’ll have won her heart and her hand, even if she tries to kill him.

     But, as the cliché goes, real life isn’t a movie.

     For starters, did you know that most private detectives work in agencies? Fiction would have you believe they’re all self-starters and lone wolves, but, in truth, many are mere peons — or, if their names’re on the door, they have peons to do all their dirty work for them. Think about it this way: do you think Bruce Wayne invents all those nifty little Wayne Enterprises gadgets, the same ones we all use daily, on his own? No. He has an entire staff to do that. The only screwdriver that dolt’s familiar with is the drink.

     Now apply that to being a private eye, and you’ll start to understand just how similar this business is to any and all others. It’s all about who trusts you and how much money you’ve already got. Even that famous Dibny snob has only gotten where he’s gotten because his wife’s loaded. Well, that and probably the fact that working to uphold the law in his tights-time helps the general public in thinking that he’s swell.

     So, when I tell you that my name, my very well-know-for-all-the-wrong-reasons name — one E. Nygma, Private Detective — was posted on my own office door, when I tell you that I had no underlings, no peons to speak of — none on this side of the law, anyway, and none still taking my calls — you can start to imagine just how deep of a hole I was in. And with that in mind, when my first official client came through the door, you can understand how it wasn’t a beautiful, elegant, rich lady draped in furs. There was no cash, not even any payment up front. The case wasn’t even all that important, and it certainly wouldn’t have struck anyone as a dangerous one.

     But in blustered the portly old landlord all the same, with a request for help, a promise of a check, and no respect for the elegance of the genre.

     No matter. I write my own stories.

     “I just need someone to take another look at it for me,” he had said.

     I’d laughed and sat back down so I could put my feet up on the desk. “I’ll be sure to bring my giant magnifying glass.”

     He hadn’t liked that, but still offered me the job. And me, looking for anything to pay off that last bottle of hooch, I’d taken it. Wouldn’t mind a bit of a reputation boost if it did turn out to be worth my time, too.

     And so, there I stood at dusk, staring at a pile of cold ruins right smack-dab in the middle of the slums. I let my cigarette butt drop to the ground and stomped it out with my foot, thinking about what the landlord had told me. His building had burnt down the week before, and the fire inspector’s reasoning didn’t sit right with him.

     “No wonder, that,” I muttered to myself as I crouched down in the ashes. I could see just enough of what was left to tell that the wiring was, surprisingly, brand new. I pushed a few charred shingles away from a small, warped wire panel. Metal conduit. “Must’ve been one of those Wayne charity cases from when Brucie-boy tried to fix up the city last year.”

     “And so what if it is?” I spun around, but the child who had spoken was sticking to the shadows very well. My eyes narrowed. One of them. “What’s that to ya? You comin’ here to set a trap or something?”

     I could tell he was trying to deepen his voice and roughen his accent, and I sighed. He was clearly too green to be a threat and, realizing that his keeper wasn’t with him, I relaxed, rolled my eyes, and pulled out another cigarette. His novelty had worn off quickly. “And here I thought the last Robin was the dim-witted one.”

     He made a noise as though I’d hit him, but I ignored him in favor of crouching back down and sifting through the rest of the debris. I knew in a few moments he’d try and establish his Bat-given sense of superiority, and I was determined to figure out as much as I could from the site before having to go through too many of the familiar “heroic” lectures.

     Sure enough, I had barely moved a brick before the boy was standing in front of me.

     I slowly drew on the cig.

     “You know, I thought your kind preferred much brighter colors.”

     He stopped in the middle of flourishing his cape, an obvious attempt to replicate his mentor. “My kind? What’s that supposed to mean?” I’d caught him off-guard, enough for his voice to break. This one was young, but, then again, not as young as the first.

     “Children? Robins? Bat-groupies? You’re the new one, correct?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, I shoved the panel into his hands. “Do you know what this is?”

     He paused for a moment. I kept searching the ground. “... Metal conduit wiring?”

     “Bingo. You get a cookie.” I pushed him away and took a step forward, squinting at what remained of the upper floors. I took the cigarette out of my mouth and held it to the side of my head. “I take it you know how new that must be, then?”

     “They only came out with this a few years ago. But that’s not suspicious. Wayne Enterprises--” I waved for him to shut up and picked my way through the rubble and toward the stairs.

     “Yeah, yeah. Exactly. Point is, it’s new. Keep up, won’t you?” I heard him start, then the noises of him trudging through the ashes behind me. I smirked. So much for silent creeping.

     “Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at here, but--” He was trying to regain his assumed authority, but I didn’t care. I had a hunch.

     “I’m on a case. The landlord hired me to figure out what really went on here.”

     “The… landlord? But this building--”

     “Burned down a week ago. I said the same thing to him. I guess he figured he could find the cause on his own. Or maybe he realized the insurance wouldn’t pay for this. To be honest, I don’t really care. This is my job, and I’m doing it.” I stopped suddenly and turned around to stare at him. His eyes widened. He suddenly looked much younger than I’d thought. “Do you question your Batman when he tells you to investigate?”

     While the other two would have fought me on that, this new child had the self-awareness to lower his gaze. Shame is an odd thing to see in a bird, but, while once that may have intrigued me, I had bigger fish to fry.

     And on reaching the second floor, I noticed exactly who had fried this fish for me.

     “Got it.”

     “Really? That quick?” The Robin was at my side in an instant, but this time his wide eyes seemed more excited than shocked. “What are we even investigating?”

     “‘We’?” I pushed him aside in disgust. This time there was a bit more force behind it, my way of telling him: Save the gaga looks for the Bat, kid. I’m not your idol here. “I am investigating the burning of this building. You are investigating how best to get in my way.”

     I knelt down by the remnants of a portable heater and examined the wiring. Just as I thought.

     “Actually, I’m investigating a serial stalker for Batman. A few people said they saw him come around here a few weeks ago, but no one fitting his description was living in these apartments. Since the building had burnt down, Batman thought it’d be safe enough for my first solo mission.” While the other birds’ chests would have puffed up with pride at that, this one looked as though he was carrying the responsibility directly on his shoulders.

     “Okay, then, little Atlas. Riddle me this: if you need a base of operations for your unsavory activities, would you do it out of your apartment?”

     “I don’t think so, no. But, then again, you’d know more about that than me, wouldn’t you?” He tried to smile, but my glare forced his nerves back. He coughed. “Well, I mean, it wouldn’t be smart, but it’s a fact that most criminals aren’t the brightest, right?”

     “Only the ones who get caught,” I agreed through gritted teeth, fully aware that both of us knew just how many times I myself had been caught. I cleared my throat, straightened, took one final, long drag on my cigarette’s stub, then continued.

     “But, let’s just suppose for a minute that this man has basic intelligence, as difficult as that may be to believe. He’d not use his apartment, and likely not one with his own name. In fact, if he was smart enough, he’d find a seedy place where he could easily slip in and out without any attention. And to minimize that attention…” I trailed off, waiting for him to finish.

     The child stared at me blankly. I sighed and pushed my fingers against my forehead, letting the butt of my cigarette fall to the floor.

     “Squatting, kid. The guy you’re looking for was squatting here. Look at the heater--” I indicated it with my foot, my eyes still closed against the oncoming migraine. “It’s small and new, yet the scuffs on the side indicate it’s been moved a lot recently. While that in itself isn’t damning, I happen to know that there was one apartment currently uninhabited. 204.” I pointed to the door, just barely hanging off its hinges. “You can check if you like. This shouldn’t have been here. The wiring leading to it was poorly done, clearly not professional, and, judging by the winter chill and the looks of all this twisted metal lying around here, this wasn’t the only heater in the apartment. My theory is that the squatter -- your stalker, if you will -- got cold and brought in a few extra heaters, tried to hook them up himself, and the combination of extra appliances and screwy wiring overloaded the system and caused the fire.”

     I kicked the heater again for good measure, then turned back around. Robin was staring at me with those awed, doe-eyes again. I felt my mouth begin to twitch into a sneer.

     “What are you, a duckling? Go follow someone else around. Your man isn’t here.”

     I made my way down the steps, and Robin was right on my heels.

     “Didn’t you hear me? I said, fly away, little birdie. I’m sure you’ve got a wonderfully comfy cage to return to.”

     He ignored me.

     “But don’t you need to find the guy who did it? We could work to--”

     I spun around and held my hand just close enough to his face to make him lean backwards. “No. Nope. Not happening. This isn’t the movies, kid. My job was to look at the scene of the crime and find out what happened. I just did that. Justice is your job. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a paycheck to collect and a bottle of whiskey to finish. Ta-ta!”

     I walked out of the ruins and back down the avenue to the nearest busy street, and didn’t look back until I’d hailed a taxi and given him the address of my office building. When I did turn around, I saw the boy standing there on the sidewalk, watching me. He looked oddly disappointed. I pointedly looked back through the front windshield.

     Later, my therapist would tell me that I’d just missed an opportunity to make what might have been my first genuine friend. I’d tell him to piss off.

     But I am curious to see if that Robin might be interested in doing a few side jobs for Gotham’s newest up-and-coming private eye. I could use a shadower, and who knows? Maybe with a hero on the team, I’ll have the respectability I need to get some serious clients. And then, I can finally find out if crime-fighting, instead of crime itself, really does pay.