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Description
Question Posed
by JamesE82

“Should we, uh, take a break?” the photographer asked, looking from the AFPD badge he was being shown, to the man in the black suit displaying it, then over to the towering redhead.

“What the Sam Hill for?” the Crimson Conservative answered, though it was not at all certain she was the one being asked. “I can talk and pose at the same time, and ol’ Officer Sicky here’ll probably enjoy the show.”

The man in the black suit slid his identification back into an inner pocket of his coat and nodded. “No need to stop, Miss Conservative, and now that you mention it, I think this informal interview will be more pleasant for me than the average bit of questioning. It’s Detective, however: Detective Sickert.”

“Ain’t that what I said?” the redhead asked, placing her hands behind her head and flexing her abdominal muscles. The photographer hesitated, though, which earned him a glare from his model. “What kinda name is Sickert, anyway? English?”

The detective did have familial roots that stretched to England--more than one root, in fact--but did not say so. “As for your name,” he said, “do you prefer Crimson, or Conservative?”

“Aw, call me Connie,” she told him, then gave the camera a pouty look. “What can I do for you, Dick, other than display my incredible body? Is this about the drug runners’ boat I sunk last night? Or the gang members I threw through all those windows? Or that explosion in Midtown? And lemme tell ya, if you’re here to accuse me of having anything to do with that American Hero dame’s escape, I’ll-”

“No, no,” Sickert told her. “Actually, you were right the first time. Those drug runners you spotted and took care of; where did you sink their boat, exactly?”

Connie thought for a moment, but continued to pose as the photographer snapped away. “I was done buyin’ things at that Pier Two Shopping Center, and was walkin’ along the Boardwalk. I’d passed Paudraic’s, headin’ south, but I hadn’t gotten to that pervert club yet, ya know? Where all those leather-wearin’ lesbos hang out? I could see the place from where I ran into the drug runners, though.”

Sickert nodded. “Thank you, that’s some helpful information. The runners, as you know, were in no condition to talk when you brought them to the police station.”

“Ain’t my fault that one of ‘em pulled a Roscoe, or that the other one couldn’t swim. What kinda idiot who’s runnin’ drugs on the ocean don’t take the time to learn how to swim, anyway? At least I pulled his worthless butt out of the drink.” As she spoke, the supersoldier got on her knees, making sure her own hard-as-steel rear end was pointed at the camera. “You gettin’ this?”

“Oh, y-yes,” the photographer said. It was a thrilling, though a bit unnerving, experience to have the Crimson Conservative in his studio, and as long as she was happy with him, he was not truly afraid of her. Or not too afraid, anyway. That detective, though, was getting to him, and it wasn’t just because of the sack of coke he kept in his office safe.

The man, Sickert, was tall and thin, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made the photographer sure he had quite a bit of muscle beneath his black suit. The guy was pale, and had one of those faces that made it impossible to guess his age to within closer than a decade. His high forehead and dark eyes made him look like a thinker, like a college professor or something, but the wavy black hair swept back over his head gave him a somehow wild aspect, too. When he offered a slight bow to the Crimson Conservative and said he was leaving, the man with the camera almost sighed out loud with relief.

“Talk to ya later, Dick,” Connie called. “Next time I see you, how ‘bout a signed picture or two? These ones‘re gonna be killer, I can tell!”

* * *

With his car parked facing the sacrifice’s apartment building, the detective sat with his eyes closed, feeling the sun slide beyond the horizon and the darkness deepen. At times like this, his blood seemed to speak to him, which was strange enough, but there was a problem.

Detective Sickert’s blood had multiple personalities.

The calm, rational half of the mixture always spoke convincingly when it was necessary, always winning the arguments and bickering that flashed into existence now and then within his veins. The other half, the excitable, hungry half of the red liquid, never fully surrendered, however, and would grumble and murmur.

It was the excitable half that was at that very moment calling for his hand to be filled with a knife’s blade, telling his eyes to gaze upon a steel weapon, because nothing picked up starlight like a sharp, cared-for blade. That’s what starlight was made for, to be brilliantly absorbed by sharp things, and to guide people like him through the darkened land when others clung to the illumination they made for themselves, or stumbled out into the blackness… into the blackness that was home to people like him.

But the voice of the calm blood spoke convincingly, as it usually did, and Sickert would not be showing his blade to the starlight that night. Well, he wasn’t planning on it; sometimes things just happened in the darkness, and the calm blood would decide to allow the wild blood to help Sickert do what was required.

His black eyes opened, because it was time. He heard the woman’s heels clacking on the concrete, in the same cadence he had heard before and instantly memorized. The detective drove up next to the woman, politely told her to get in the back seat, and listened to his hungry blood as she did so. The blood would be disappointed, though, because his knife would remain hidden from the woman that night.

After all, there were many ways to offer up a sacrifice…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here’s one of a batch of pictures the always incredible Supro Awesome did for me a long time ago; I couldn’t come up with a story to go with it, so I finally settled on having it accompany the scene where I introduce Detective Sickert, a character who I plan on hanging around the Falls for a while. A nine-foot-tall supersoldier with a Gatling gun in each hand comes in very handy in many circumstances, but there are times when more subtle techniques are necessary, you know?

created this wonderful picture, and these events take place in the city of , where you can always find bikini-clad Amazonians walking around, and now, at least one unusual member of law enforcement lurking in the shadows…

is the owner of Paudraic’s Getaway, is in charge of Club Sin, and American Hero is one of ’s creations. If anyone has laid claim to the Pier Two Shopping Center, I was unable to find out who it was.

The Crimson Conservative and Detective Sickert are my creations.

Comments welcome, even if it’s to ponder aloud what a sunken smuggler’s boat and an upcoming sacrifice have to do with each other…

Description
Question Posed
by JamesE82

“Should we, uh, take a break?” the photographer asked, looking from the AFPD badge he was being shown, to the man in the black suit displaying it, then over to the towering redhead.

“What the Sam Hill for?” the Crimson Conservative answered, though it was not at all certain she was the one being asked. “I can talk and pose at the same time, and ol’ Officer Sicky here’ll probably enjoy the show.”

The man in the black suit slid his identification back into an inner pocket of his coat and nodded. “No need to stop, Miss Conservative, and now that you mention it, I think this informal interview will be more pleasant for me than the average bit of questioning. It’s Detective, however: Detective Sickert.”

“Ain’t that what I said?” the redhead asked, placing her hands behind her head and flexing her abdominal muscles. The photographer hesitated, though, which earned him a glare from his model. “What kinda name is Sickert, anyway? English?”

The detective did have familial roots that stretched to England--more than one root, in fact--but did not say so. “As for your name,” he said, “do you prefer Crimson, or Conservative?”

“Aw, call me Connie,” she told him, then gave the camera a pouty look. “What can I do for you, Dick, other than display my incredible body? Is this about the drug runners’ boat I sunk last night? Or the gang members I threw through all those windows? Or that explosion in Midtown? And lemme tell ya, if you’re here to accuse me of having anything to do with that American Hero dame’s escape, I’ll-”

“No, no,” Sickert told her. “Actually, you were right the first time. Those drug runners you spotted and took care of; where did you sink their boat, exactly?”

Connie thought for a moment, but continued to pose as the photographer snapped away. “I was done buyin’ things at that Pier Two Shopping Center, and was walkin’ along the Boardwalk. I’d passed Paudraic’s, headin’ south, but I hadn’t gotten to that pervert club yet, ya know? Where all those leather-wearin’ lesbos hang out? I could see the place from where I ran into the drug runners, though.”

Sickert nodded. “Thank you, that’s some helpful information. The runners, as you know, were in no condition to talk when you brought them to the police station.”

“Ain’t my fault that one of ‘em pulled a Roscoe, or that the other one couldn’t swim. What kinda idiot who’s runnin’ drugs on the ocean don’t take the time to learn how to swim, anyway? At least I pulled his worthless butt out of the drink.” As she spoke, the supersoldier got on her knees, making sure her own hard-as-steel rear end was pointed at the camera. “You gettin’ this?”

“Oh, y-yes,” the photographer said. It was a thrilling, though a bit unnerving, experience to have the Crimson Conservative in his studio, and as long as she was happy with him, he was not truly afraid of her. Or not too afraid, anyway. That detective, though, was getting to him, and it wasn’t just because of the sack of coke he kept in his office safe.

The man, Sickert, was tall and thin, but there was something about the way he carried himself that made the photographer sure he had quite a bit of muscle beneath his black suit. The guy was pale, and had one of those faces that made it impossible to guess his age to within closer than a decade. His high forehead and dark eyes made him look like a thinker, like a college professor or something, but the wavy black hair swept back over his head gave him a somehow wild aspect, too. When he offered a slight bow to the Crimson Conservative and said he was leaving, the man with the camera almost sighed out loud with relief.

“Talk to ya later, Dick,” Connie called. “Next time I see you, how ‘bout a signed picture or two? These ones‘re gonna be killer, I can tell!”

* * *

With his car parked facing the sacrifice’s apartment building, the detective sat with his eyes closed, feeling the sun slide beyond the horizon and the darkness deepen. At times like this, his blood seemed to speak to him, which was strange enough, but there was a problem.

Detective Sickert’s blood had multiple personalities.

The calm, rational half of the mixture always spoke convincingly when it was necessary, always winning the arguments and bickering that flashed into existence now and then within his veins. The other half, the excitable, hungry half of the red liquid, never fully surrendered, however, and would grumble and murmur.

It was the excitable half that was at that very moment calling for his hand to be filled with a knife’s blade, telling his eyes to gaze upon a steel weapon, because nothing picked up starlight like a sharp, cared-for blade. That’s what starlight was made for, to be brilliantly absorbed by sharp things, and to guide people like him through the darkened land when others clung to the illumination they made for themselves, or stumbled out into the blackness… into the blackness that was home to people like him.

But the voice of the calm blood spoke convincingly, as it usually did, and Sickert would not be showing his blade to the starlight that night. Well, he wasn’t planning on it; sometimes things just happened in the darkness, and the calm blood would decide to allow the wild blood to help Sickert do what was required.

His black eyes opened, because it was time. He heard the woman’s heels clacking on the concrete, in the same cadence he had heard before and instantly memorized. The detective drove up next to the woman, politely told her to get in the back seat, and listened to his hungry blood as she did so. The blood would be disappointed, though, because his knife would remain hidden from the woman that night.

After all, there were many ways to offer up a sacrifice…

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here’s one of a batch of pictures the always incredible Supro Awesome did for me a long time ago; I couldn’t come up with a story to go with it, so I finally settled on having it accompany the scene where I introduce Detective Sickert, a character who I plan on hanging around the Falls for a while. A nine-foot-tall supersoldier with a Gatling gun in each hand comes in very handy in many circumstances, but there are times when more subtle techniques are necessary, you know?

created this wonderful picture, and these events take place in the city of , where you can always find bikini-clad Amazonians walking around, and now, at least one unusual member of law enforcement lurking in the shadows…

is the owner of Paudraic’s Getaway, is in charge of Club Sin, and American Hero is one of ’s creations. If anyone has laid claim to the Pier Two Shopping Center, I was unable to find out who it was.

The Crimson Conservative and Detective Sickert are my creations.

Comments welcome, even if it’s to ponder aloud what a sunken smuggler’s boat and an upcoming sacrifice have to do with each other…