It was another day at the detective agency. Just another ordinary, quiet day. Nothing ever happens in the present, because the police usually take all of the fame, while real, hardworking detectives sit back, stare, and fatten up on their donuts. Llyde Dastyx couldn't handle it anymore. The same coffee and same lunch sickened him greatly and sitting in the office was pointless. He was an eager fellow, always wanting to move, in charge, dominant. Formally dressed in all occasions, clean. His brown hair combed and his equally brown eyes distant. "Come on, let's go."
"W-where are we going?"
"3rd Street and Central Ave."
Llyde had an assistant. He was a cowardly man, one I pity. And he was gullible as well, a terrible excuse for a human. His name was Steven McGowan. Steven was a curly, blonde haired man with very light blue eyes a perfect description of a baby angel. He was thin, pale, scared of almost everything. It was painful to watch him at work. Nonetheless, Steven followed Llyde to 3rd Street and Central Ave, which was not that far from the office.
"A murder." mumbled Llyde. He cocked up an eyebrow as he approached the scene. The yellow police tape didn't stop him, but the thing that was most unsettling to him was a man. He was tall, spidery, extremely pale and emaciated. Wearing a black trench coat, a black Fedora with an owl's feather in it, and spotless, stark white dress gloves. In addition, he wore fancy leather shoes and a white rose in his trench coat. He was leaning back against a brick building with his hands in his pockets. "Hey, you."
The man didn't stir.
"Mysterious stranger, what the hell are you doing here? This is a crime scene." Llyde bit out.
The stranger's hat was over sized, covering his face. He seemed to be looking up; he licked his lips and sharp teeth. "Exactly, this is why I'm investigating," he bluntly stated, holding out a badge. "Private detective." He snapped the badge case closed and shoved it into his coat pocket.
All Llyde read was: Private. But it was of no matter. He just wanted to be on the case. "So what happened here, huh, 'Mr. Private Detective'?"
The man gave a smirk, which was unseen by the hat. "The victim was drugged, gagged, and practically dragged through the streets before his throat was cut with a sharp object, which was similar to a kitchen knife. Both of his eyes were crushed in, his feet were chopped off and stuffed into a barrel nearby, and the drug used was most likely chloroform. Other than that, the murder occurred at 7:58 P.M. on the dot with no fingerprints or hair droppings from the murderer. Not even a fraction of a weapon. The victim looked as if he didn't struggle either, which is rather odd. In addition, the wedding ring was stolen from his left hand or rather the whole hand itself."
Now things grew in tension. "How do you know that the victim had wore a wedding ring?"
The stranger simply popped up the collar of his coat and turned his head toward Llyde. "Photographs of him and his wife, the ring was on the left hand." he replied coolly. He handed out the pictures.
Llyde snatched them away with a flick of his wrists. There were also photographs of the crime scene, of when the body was still fresh. "How do you know that the murder happened at exactly that time?" He sent a glare.
The man cracked his neck. "I was at the bagel shop across the street when it happened and I checked my watch, therefore it happened on the dot." He fixed his gloves. "What's with all of the sudden questions, suspecting me, 'Mr. I-Love-My-Job'?"
Now Llyde was a bit irritated. But he kept himself calm and slowly exhaled. "I just need some answers." he replied lowly. He felt down, the man before him was too good. The brunette felt useless.
There was something peculiar about this man, though. Some odd aura lingered around him. He sniffed the air, wore the strangest clothing, covered his face. He was abnormally tall and too skinny, his skin was white as bone. There was a slight accent in his voice. He wasn't a New Yorker. And his body movements as he walked were all the more strange. Sneaky, spidery movements.
"Your name?" asked Llyde.
And the man turned to him. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your name. What is it?"
The stranger waved a gloved hand. "Terribly sorry, we don't have time for this at the moment, I must leave. Wouldn't want to get my hat wet. Au revoir " And without warning, he disappeared into the darkness of night.
Llyde was irritated by this thing, this superior. He couldn't stand to sit and watch him go about and steal all of the glory. Heavy rain poured down from thick clouds overhead, which drenched his clothing. "That's what hats are for! To keep the rain away!" he yelled, face red with frustration. He couldn't put his finger on it, there was no man in New York as mysterious as this one, or so he thought. Both Steven and he returned to their office, watching television screens that revealed the streets on New York City. There was not one sign of the stranger, not one clue. Nonetheless, Llyde and Steven investigated the murder at hand. The weapon used was indeed a knife and the name of the victim was Ryan Holloway. The strange thing was that he had no reason to be murdered. It was completely random. For three days they worked, trying to get an answer, trying to find a solution. Until another murder occurred on 4th and Central Ave.
Llyde was already up on his feet, dragging Steven by the collar. "Let's go! Hurry, before that bastard is there!" he snarled. And as they arrived, guess who. "Damn it!"
The man had no hat this time though. He was a blonde and his eyes were a deep ocean blue, almost black. They were blank, haunting, hollow. Dark shadows of unnatural black smeared under them, bruises almost. And his teeth were a blinding white as he smiled a crooked, stitched smile. "Didn't have enough?" he asked.
"Who the hell are you!?" yelled Llyde. He was fed up.
It fed the man, the anger. "My name is Cyril McGowan." He turned to Steven. "Don't you remember me, brother?"
Steven's jaw dropped. "Brother? What do you mean?" he squeaked.
And Cyril spoke. "I'm like Courage the Cowardly Dog. I was abandoned as a pup. A tot. Diane didn't want me anymore, I was too skinny, she thought I was going to die in a few days when I was born and didn't eat at three. Plus, she doesn't like straight-haired blondes. She wanted the curly ones, because they were of her pleasure. She was selfish." He didn't make eye contact with Steven. "So, she just threw me out. Where did I go? To the police, they raised me there, fed me donuts. I was a kid, I didn't mind. And remember Dad? James? He died of lung cancer at forty two." He had all of the facts right, he knew they were.
Steven was overjoyed. "You are my brother!" he cheered. Never had he had a brother before and he never knew his mother kept such a secret from him.
From afar, Cyril watched the two, studying them, a stitched smile upon his lips. "Steven," he said, smile gone. "I don't really have a home. Do you have a place for me to stay?"
"Sure we do!"
"No we don't!" Llyde despised the man. Brother or not, he refused to let that creature into his house.
Steven gave a pout. "Oh come on, Llyde! It's just for a day or two!"
"Or a month." mumbled Cyril.
Llyde gawked at the words. "I refuse! No no no! Not even if you buy me my favorite brand of cigars!" Instead, he received three brands and a donut. He regretted it as Cyril sat on his side of the bed. "No! On the floor!"
"Hands and knees, too, Sir?" Cyril teased through closed teeth.
The angrier Llyde got, the louder he yelled. "Just get in the corner!"
"Hands behind my head? Gonna search me, sir?"
"Just shut up and sleep on the couch!"
Pleased, Cyril went, taking off only his shoes. Everything else, even the trench, was left on. And he fell right asleep.
Steven was smiling. "I love my brother! He's so funny."
Llyde balled his fists. "Hilarious." he hissed. Truly, he wanted to strangle the outsider while he dreamed. But he wanted to be a role model for Steven. He had to be. It was part of his job. And so, he let Cyril sleep with them. He would save all of the regret and torture for later. For now, they slept. Dreamed. In the morning Cyril stepped out to the bagel shop, leaving a note behind.
"We have to get on this case, no time to wait for that thing." muttered Llyde. The victim this time was Rita Henchton. She was scalped, arms violently slashed with a blade until the bone was showing, torso slashed as well, gutted. The heart was stolen, along with a hand. Possibly another wedding ring was taken. What was strange, though, was the position of the body. It was laid in a fetal position, covered in blood. Truly, it was disturbing.
Steven tugged at Llyde's sleeve. "I want soda. Can I have soda?" he asked.
"Alright. Pour it yourself." replied the brunette.
But the blonde stared at him. "I can't pour it! The cups are too high and the soda bottle's too heavy, Llyde!" he cried.
Llyde grabbed a glass and poured soda into it. "Don't spill it, sit at the table."
There is a reason why Steven acts so young. He gently sipped at his soda while he swung his legs under the table. Steven was physically abused as a child by his alcoholic father. Constantly, he was hit in the head with something and as it progressed, the more damage it did to his brain. Slowly, his behavior changed. By the time he was fifteen, he was stuck as a six year old. Now, he is twenty and stuck as a ten year old child. This is mainly why I pity him. His actions and voice were childish, as was his short height at five foot one. He was always smiling, always complaining about something small. But to Llyde it wasn't a big deal. Steven could work as a man, since he could still logically think about the advanced education today. Mentally he was able to work, physically he couldn't. Still thinking that he was a child, he, himself, realizes that he wouldn't be able to reach things or carry things, being stuck a ten year old.
This is why he chose to become a detective. Everything, or mostly everything, was logic. He loved it. And to have a partner such as Llyde was amazing to him. Llyde was almost like the father he always wanted.
Another murder was made later that day around two in the afternoon. Honestly, Llyde thought that the act was absolutely stupid and idiotic. I thought that that killer was purely genius, mainly because if no one saw him, he could get away in a heartbeat and hide, unnoticed by the public. "We're going out, Steven."
The blonde jumped to his feet, putting on his cap with a bubbly smile. "Going out, going out." he chanted. To add to his childish acts, he held Llyde's hand and followed him around like a puppy.
Llyde rolled his eyes. "5th Street and Central Ave." And Steven nodded. "That bastard better not be there... I will throw him out." But as they arrived, they had to go into an apartment building. Climbing fourteen flights of steps, they heard crying in one of the rooms. The victims. And they stepped inside to find Cyril, on his knees, hugging a corpse.
"What the hell are you doing!? That's the victim!" Llyde blurted out.
Cyril snapped his head up, tears soaked his face. "That's mom!" he shouted.
Llyde's jaw dropped, then his eyes fixed to Steven. He was paralyzed with pure and utter terror. "M-mom?" he whispered. A few sobs escaped his lips and the tears fled from his eyes. He let go of Llyde's hand and wrapped his arms around the corpse. "M-mom! Mommy! No, mommy!" he shrieked. He cried, he sobbed, he choked on his own tears as he lay on the floor, soaked in blood. "L-Llyde! The cops! C-call them!"
Immediately, Llyde called. He forgot the last time he had blinked. Everything was a blur, a rush. And they watched Diane being taken away.
"I-I need to leave." Cyril abruptly said, and left.
Llyde didn't ask questions, he only comforted Steven, dried his tears.
Cyril stood outside of the door, eyes wide, a sinister and occult smirk upon his face. He jumped from the nearest window onto the roof, drying his tears. "Revenge..." he whispered lowly. "I need revenge."
As they were on their way to return return home, Cyril spoke, "I'm sorry. I must live on my own now. I can't live like this."
"But Steven needs you! In a time like this, you can't abandon him!" Llyde declared.
Cyril shook his head. "I can't. I'm sorry." In the streets, they parted ways. He ran, he was fast, disappearing instantly.
Now Llyde was left with Steven, who was still sobbing, cheeks red. For hours, he comforted him, even in the middle of the night. It would break his heart to see the poor man suffer. He ignored every murder and every cry. He made breakfast for Steven, even fed him. "Revenge," he said. "We'll have revenge."