Chapter Text
Pearl does not know why she is outside of her office and on the streets of Planarcadia.
Perhaps it is on a whim, but as an Intellitron, things like whimsies are quite hard to experience for something mechanical and devoid of feeling. She should do more research on this topic…
She is wearing a dark, thin cloak that is serving its purpose of hiding her very recognisable features — white and pink-tinted dress several shades of blue at the ends, reflecting the ocean’s numerous tides; aqueous gold headband shaped like delicate glass wings sticking out uncomfortably; long blonde hair up in a too-familiar style and peeking out from crevices in her outerwear.
So far, she has received only a few stares from passerby whom had had their eye caught by her — is her appearance that strange? Perhaps she looks like a criminal with the way she has been actively shying away from people…
I have no time for insignificant things like opinions. She shakes her head. The bright neon sign above the building she is standing in front of copiously illuminates the empty street in front of it, raccoons and furballs smiling cutely in graphic form. This is where the Ashen Detective Agency is based in…?
It certainly did not look like a place a notorious detective would be based in, but some part of Pearl’s cold body warmed up slightly as she let out a little smile. You are a very interesting person, Mister Ashveil.
She climbs up the stairs to the entrance of the agency, cautious of her surroundings. Boxes, emoticons, wrappers — it was wanting to scratch a bug that had occurred in the system with the way they were all strewn about…and at the mere front door of the establishment, too.
Pearl let the hood covering her head fall down as she raised a hand to knock.
CRASH!
She rears back at the sudden sound, startled. What…?
It takes only a few seconds after the initial shock wore off to realise that there were smaller sounds that followed — snarls, squeaks and shrieks. She heard tables being shoved, chairs being thrown, and the incessant scratching noise of something like claws on wood…
The door is unlocked, she realises. That was why she could hear all these sounds with such clarity.
She steps in.
The office was, to put it simply, a mess; papers were strewn about all over, some small cupboards were toppled over and chairs were flipped onto their sides. As she walked further in, the remnants of coffee table or two had made their way towards glassware and ceramic, and there were even furballs with cameras huddles underneath one of the larger tables by the window…
“Simply put, the woman was too stunned to speak. To walk into an office building and be met with the sight of such disarray and a heavy atmosphere of dread and curiosity mingling together…she must be wondering, ‘What in the cosmos has happened to a humble establishment such as this…?’”
Pearl whirls around, eyes scouring the surroundings and landing on a sight most curious — a monkey who was still mumbling under its breath, with an amusing expression on its face. “Ah. You must be Mr N.”
“I take it that Ashveil has spoken about me, Miss Pearl?” the monkey — Mr N or Narrator — asks. Pearl nods minutely. “At length or in passing, yes.”
Another BANG! comes from somewhere in the office, and Pearl startles again, eyes slightly widened. Narrator sighs as the furballs cower even further and shake more vigorously. “Don’t worry about the mess or the noise, Miss Pearl. This happens more often than you think it does.” Another noise — a howl, Pearl recognises — pierces the air as a guttural scream follows. Pearl is most certainly concerned despite Narrator’s insistence.
“Is Ashveil in the building at the moment?”
Narrator perks up slightly. “Ah, I see he has not told you.”
Pearl tilts her head as the banging resumes, this time with a shing as she hears metal. “Told me what?”
Narrator hobbles over to a metal door secluded from the office. This is the source of the noise, she realises. Her system correlates and collects all the data she has accumulated so far, using old information stored as well, to arrive at a most interesting but also somewhat concerning conclusion…
“Mister Ashveil is the source of all this commotion?”
Narrator nods. “The shadow in his arm occasionally flares up. We tend to leave him alone until the whole incident passes, but we do not truly talk to him until approximately a few days after the fiasco. I have seen blood, sweat and tears from when he emerges from handling the most troublesome entity…”
Pearl’s brow furrows. She knew about the shadow, but she did not realise how bad it must’ve been for something so wicked and wily to be sealed with one already so tired from cosmic drama and had no wish to again partake in such cruel agony.
“The noises have died out…” Pearl mumbles as she is warped back to reality. The building is quiet, too quiet — it signals either more dread or the end of an event most tiresome. She reaches out to open the door, Mister N starting to make sounds of protest as she does so—
The door opens before she has the chance to even knock, and an old and tired wolf is illuminated by the feeble light flickering from the main work room.
“Madam Pearl…?”
“…Good evening, Mister Ashveil.”
As the animated moon in the sky ceases to move and night descends, Ashveil feels the shadow in his arm wriggle and tangle his nerves.
The hustle and bustle of the daytime was now doused and vulnerable as the nightlife emerged, quiet chatter and the clinking of whiskey and beer a welcome sight after tiresome hours. And yet, the day was not over for Ashveil.
“Stop moving about, you little prick,” the ravenette hisses at the imagined snake coiling around his right arm, which snarls back with spite and cut itself deeper into the appendage it resided within. The detective grits his teeth as a migraine bursts to life, gripping the head of his cane.
He hates it when the flare-ups happen far away from the office — too many questions from concerned passerby (if there were any that bothered in the first place); countless stops in between his hurried steps as pomegranate blotches splatter further into his vision; sweat trickling down his face as he leaps into the night, muscles aching and back on fire, just wanting to go back home, home, home…
A whirl of white, black, midnight blue, bruised purple and blood red crashes through the front door of the building his agency is based in, too focused on how reality is warping into bruised swirls to reply to Narrator and the Furbos, trying to work his mouth into opening and warning them but not being able to, the venom inching further along both mind and body…
He vaguely registers an animalistic sound as the muffled sound of chairs squeaking and papers flying about mingles together with the ringing in his ears, and he stumbles into his ‘room’ — no, home, his brain helpfully supplies — as the ringing turns to buzzing, then laughter, then screams—
Ashveil can’t tell if it’s him or his subconscious who’s doing that.
The ravenette climbs into the fridge, body shaking with pain and exertion as he all but sinks into the cold, watching through half-lidded eyes as his breath forms clouds in the dark, illuminated by the copiously bright lights of the fridge’s interior. He hears the whispers grow louder by the second, muscles locked tightly as he attempts to shift his position and groaning loudly as his leg screams for help, sore in the shadow’s vice grip—
Grabbing around for the fridge door, he grunts with effort as he drags it over the furniture and hears it close with a satisfying clack. Now it’s just him and the little shit…
The shadow flares again as if offended, and Ashveil is quite literally panting from the effort of stamping down the pain embedded into his soul — he feels sweat trickling down his face and back, eyes becoming blurry as something wet fills them, the nails in his right arm begging to be removed as they cut and ache with bone-deep weariness.
This is nothing compared to the flare-up from…when was it again? Whatever. At least this time, it doesn’t end in bloodshed, towards both himself and others…
Well, he hopes that doesn't happen.
Knife slick and glinting with blood in the low light as he breathes shallowly, fridge door opened but his body still cold, sweat and tears frozen into flakes—
Sounds muffled as someone lays their hands on him, checking, moving—
The long, thin gash on their arm contrasting several small, deep ones in his thigh—
Another wave of agony washes over him as he closes his eyes, grits his teeth and braces for the worst.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Has it been long enough?
The tsunami has passed, even though there were still rough waves, but the pain has dulled into an ache that has been there long before the shadow came into play, body stiff with age and old wounds and hallucinations—
Wet things sticking to his face and back and leg and arm—
The inviting, alluring prescence of the cold—
Voices.
Outside the door. One even and high-pitched, one in a low baritone or tenor that was far too familiar…
Walking, walking, walking…
Snakes hissing as the ocean of the mind is cleared of mud and vigorous waves and the screams from people of times long past…
The clack of the door handle as his hand rests heavily on it before pulling it open, and…
The sight of two familiar faces.
“Madam Pearl…?”
“Good evening, Mister Ashveil.”
To Pearl, Ashveil looks like he had been through hell and back.
His face was pale, caked with frost flakes and — is that a splatter of blood — as he opens the door and steps out. His right hand rests limply against his side as small red-ringed gashes slowly close themselves up, but not without the whisper of a promise of a more malicious return. Pearl can see that he is shaking, minute as it may be, with exertion; his eyes are unfocused and dull as he lifts his head up to look at her.
“I don’t suppose you’re here to dump another case on me, are you?”
Pearl senses the bit of sarcasm and humour in his otherwise flat tone. “You certainly do not look as if you are up for the job.”
The ravenette smiles, a thin, close-lipped thing. “Then what’s the CEO of Planarcadia doing at a mere detective’s respite?”
Pearl hums. “Frankly, I myself have no idea. I simply wished to indulge in a…whimsy, if you will.” She looks back at Ashveil’s disheveled appearance, noticing the absence of his cane.
“Someone with a Cornerstone wished to indulge in their whimsy and wander about the streets?” The detective barks out a small, genuine laugh, a few coughs leaving his mouth. “You certainly seem as if you have all the time in the world right now.”
Pearl grants herself a small smile, but it had no trace of humour in it. “I quite literally do, I suppose. If I didn’t come over at this time, I wonder what would have happened after this…flare-up of yours?”
Ashveil freezes for a second before he gets the message. “Ah, I hadn’t told you…” he bashfully replies.
“Your companion certainly had no qualms with telling me about it.”
The ravenette took a step forward, sealed shadow stirring. “Look— It’s not like you’d care if I told you. You’re literally the chief executive officer of a whole planet—”
He was cut off by a fresh starburst of pain from, well, everywhere. His knees buckle as his muscles lock up; standing suddenly felt like balancing on needles, and his nerves were frayed and sparking. He sees sunspots blot his vision as it focuses it and out, sounds muffled as if he were underwater—
Pearl knows something is wrong with how Ashveil’s eyes are dull again, the small fire of fervour doused as he leans slightly against the door as if in pain. He’s shaking even more now, knees visibly buckling from holding his weight, as if they were going to give out at any moment—
“Ashveil!” She shouts, an uncharacteristic wave of fear spreading across her body as the detective collapses forward and into her. She’s far shorter compared to the other man, but still tall enough to be able to hold someone of his stature. His head droops against the crook of her neck, and as her hands are wrapped around his back she can feel his muscles stiffen up and relax in an uncomfortable, irregular cycle. “Tell me what’s happening, Ashveil. You’ve never acted like this whenever we conversed—”
“‘S jus’ th’ side ‘ffects.” He interrupts hoarsely. He can feel Pearl’s hands on his aching back, supporting him. His muscle tighten, contract; each movement repetitive in painful cycles, and his hands unconsciously twitch in time to them. “‘m fine, ‘ve had worse ones—”
Suddenly his full weight is leaning against Pearl, and she tightens her grip on his back in a desperate attempt to keep him up. “Has your condition deteriorated?” She asks in a feeble attempt to keep him awake. It doesn’t seem to work though, because the man in question remains unresponsive if not for the slight change of his breathing hitching. She’s too fresh out of the revelation of the old wolf’s chronic pain that she can’t seem to compute how to handle the situation. “Mr N?”
The monkey is silent throughout Ashveil and Pearl’s exchange, so he’s pleasantly surprised when Pearl calls his name. “Madam?”
“How does he handle himself after such incidents occur?” She’s running through her systems; through files and search engine history and articles, trying to find a way to take care of Ashveil in his current condition.
Mr N gives her the notion of him furrowing his brow. “Mister Ashveil tends to keep to himself after any flare-up. The Furbos and I usually don’t see him until three days after the event—”
Ashveil groans suddenly, fresh waves of pain unfortunately keeping him awake. He can hear his exhalations becoming thready as the pain starts to stretch up to his chest; the migraine developing at the back of his head is a full-on attack on his cognition as he struggles to speak. “TMI, Mr N…”
“I do believe that that’s necessary information for Madam Pearl’s sake. Ah, on that topic, he’s also been quite the insomniac these few weeks—”
“Please, Mr N. I pay you to narrate, not to give away personal information…”
“Not even to me?” Pearl’s voice is melodious, soft, calming…all the things Ashveil wishes for alongside comfort and rest. The flare-up is lasting longer than usual, even by past standards, and for a moment he wonders if that has to do with Pearl being here. He laughs breathlessly in lieu of an answer to Pearl’s question, inhaling sharply as his head throbs again. “‘S not like you’d know how t’ take care of an ol’ wounded wolf…”
Pearl makes a sound akin to a scoff. “I am not an Intellitron for nothing, Mister Ashveil,” she replies, and with the slight concerned undertone of her voice Ashveil can imagine a hint of a pout on her face. “In fact, I am quite certain of your condition now, where I previously did not.”
“What are you now, my caretaker?” He makes a move to retreat away from her, ignoring the way his legs are shaking and his chest hurting so much, “I can stand just fine—”
His knees immediately give out and he lets out a hiss as he falls back harshly into Pearl’s vice grip. The Intellitron hums. “You were saying?”
Ashveil sighs, a small smile caressing his lips. “After you then, Madam Pearl.”