Chapter Text
Your name is Jake English and you’re not entirely for sure what kind of cosmic entity, spiritual force, or even conscious thinking dragged you in a case like this. You’ve always been known to take on what other sane human beings believe to be an impossible challenge. Average case scenario, you return to your humble home late at night with only a few cuts and bruises. Honestly, you can’t believe your own luck. You should have died the moment you took up this profession, but here you are, still standing with a beating heart. However, you always keep the surprise of waking up every morning to yourself. It is such a mundane thing to mull over, and the probability that your colleagues would say some snarky remarks you’d rather not deal with is 10 to 1. Best to keep to yourself.
You grew up on an island in the tropics. Jungle life has always been your forte. The concrete jungle? Well, you’re getting used to it. While it isn’t as fun or colorful as the home in your previous life, it still offers its own unique challenges for you to overcome. By now you are nearly an expert at navigating through dark alleyways in order to meet your clients. Of course, you have a cozy little desk in a cozy little office building that always smelled like a combination of cigarette smoke and ocean breeze air freshener, but some people just liked to be a little EXTRA.
He called you two nights ago, asking for your help. Well, you could only assume he was asking for you help. His exact phrasing was “Trouble is lurking. Meet me in the alley between Simon and Rogers on Thursday at two.” The call was ended, only for it to ring again a moment later. “In the morning.” End. Your clients have the weirdest schedules, you swear.
So here you are, five minutes early for the occasion as well. You always add a little extra time for yourself because descending down stairs using only the faint glimpse of a streetlight as your guide is something you are absolutely terrible with. In the meantime, you press your back up against the cold, brick wall of one of the buildings and observe your environment. You’re in the good part of town. Businesses line the streets, all of them catering to middle class suburbia culture despite the nearest suburb being half an hour away. You hear footsteps descend the stone steps you were previously on. You glance that way. You hand is in the pocket of your trench coat. Not only does such an artificial provide you the warmth you need on a chilly New York night such as this, but its pockets were large enough so you could easily conceal your weapon of choice. The love of your life. Your pistol that had saved you from sudden death more often than not. You grip the handle, just in case your client turns rotten.
He’s a tall man, your client is. You can safely guess that he’s around 6'3". His Carhartt coat looks like it was made for a man two times his scrawny width. His arms are crossed, hands tucked under his pits. Shivering. He must not be a local. Neither are you, but you have lived here long enough to embrace a rather chilly night. He seems like the type of guy whose teeth would chatter if you were to press an ice cube on his skin during a hot summer’s day. “You must be Detective English,” he says. There was a hint of a Southern draw to his voice. You were right. He wasn’t from here.
“That I am,” you confirm.
“Good. I need your help.”