Work Text:
Rain falls over the city of Mentopolis.
Brainstorms aren't unusual. Imelda's always been fond of them— they make everything glitter, lights from the synaptic switchboard bouncing off the pavement in a way that's almost beautiful. Imelda loves the things that are beautiful in strange, not-quite ways, the things that make Mentopolis beautiful. Even when it's at it's worst, grimy and crime-filled, Imelda will always find things to love about it. How could she not? It's her home.
Her heels clack on the pavement as she makes her way down the street. Occipital Park isn't exactly the bad part of town, comparatively speaking, but Imelda's not supposed to be there anyways. She's supposed to be… at home, probably. Or whispering ideas into the Big Guy's mind, leaving sweet little bursts of impulse in her wake.
That's how she got into this mess in the first place. Impulse. Acting without thinking. It's the only way to act, Imelda thinks, because impulse is what makes the Big Guy get things done. If she left it up to the bureaucrats and politicians they would all probably be dead by now. Sometimes, she thinks, you really do just have to grab life by the balls and do something about it.
That's why she's here. Both metaphysically and not. She's here to be the impulse, the driving force, to get the Big Guy where he needs to go. She's also here, walking down the streets of Occipital Park, because she needs to get something done that she can't do herself. Imelda is confident, but she's not crazy— she knows when she's in over her head.
Thankfully, she also knows exactly where to go to get the help she needs.
Hunch Curio's office is in a dingy building. Dilapidated, run-down, whatever you want to call it— the type of place Imelda's mother would faint to see her step foot in. Curio has a reputation that's similar; a no-good private eye always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. That's the sort of thing Imelda likes in a man, when she deigns to like men. Troublemakers, ne'er do wells. The type of man to make her heartbeat pick up a little bit.
The receptionist looks surprised to see her— and like she's on her way out, purse in hand. Still, she's cordial enough in her greeting, and sticks her head into what must be the detective's main office to exchange muffled words.
"A real classy-lookin' dame, too," Imelda overhears, and her lipsticked mouth spreads into a smile. She straightens her shoulders, fluffing the bubbles that sit around the collar.
The receptionist turns to her. "Mr. Curio will see you now," she intones, opening the door. "You're, uh, very fancy— do you need different chairs than normal people?"
Imelda shakes her head. "No, I'll stand by the window," she says, "thank you— so much."
She can see the way Curio's eyes track her across the room as she looks out the rain-streaked window onto the street below. "Mr. Hunch," she says, "I think I need your help. My name is Stacy Fakename."
His eyes light up, that famous drive of curiosity flickering to life. She's got him, Imelda thinks, and she lets herself smile.