Chapter Text
The Ashen Detective Agency was located in a room devoid of light, the lack of windows creating a suffocating atmosphere. The single door was not kept open enough for the room to be ventilated. The walls are covered with several investigation boards, journals and images scattered across the place. On the bottles of different brands stacked against each other, medication bottles were left discarded, spilling open onto the ground.
The detective stirred in his bed, the fridge was just big enough for him to fit his entire body, but he couldn't stretch properly, wondering if waking up with a stiff, aching body was worth it was a everyday thought. There's some things you can't just get used used to.
He yawned, his eyes were still heavy. Maybe he could get five or twenty minutes more? It's not like he didn't need it after all. His thoughts wandered to his assistant, waking Ashveil up was not Narrator's favorite task, and he often asked for a extra banana as compensation. Ashveil decided to just get up before it happened. His hands found the fridge's door, the cold not reaching his covered hands. He pushed it and took a deep breath before letting go.
Ashveil let his body emerge from inside the cold box, when his upper body was fully free, he had a very needed stretch. His joints popped loudly, but then a satisfying sensation followed. The moment was interrupted when the detective felt something cold and wet on his face. He blinked and looked around, not seeing anything out of ordinary. His neutral mood rapidly shifted into annoyance when he remembered the main reason his stress level was so high the past week. The agency's roof was leaking, and it was getting worse. Droplets fell every second, there was a small puddle forming in the middle of the agency.
He sighed and wondered if he should just ask Narrator to clean it, not like it would change anything. The puddle would return later, getting it fixed would not fit their current budget. They could do it, sure. But would Ashveil have enough to feed himself and his companion at the same time? Probably not. The crime scene in Planarcadia was decreased since the supposed execution of the Herald of Death years ago. Ashveil does not wish for someone like that to ever return, of course. He just wants to be able to afford basic needs.
Hs could have a leak as a friend for a few more weeks.
The temperature difference of his legs — still inside the fridge, and his torso was not doing him any wonders. The stuffy, hot room was not a place one should stay a lot of time in. It was a working place and his bedroom, but it was not home.
It was time to leave. He did his best to avoid the furbos on his way out, it was bad enough they claimed his "mysterious nature" was journalistic material worthy. When the detective finally reached the street he could feel life return to his body, it was like he was getting some fresh air for the first time in days. The Dovebrook District was alive as ever, the late hours making the street lights stand out nicely.
Ashveil's peace was cut short, the absence of his characteristic hat only being noticed when a particularly harsh wind made his hair go several different ways at once. He put his hands on his head, trying to save himself some dignity in case someone happened to pass by. He debated if going back up the stairs of Furbobo Weekly Editorial Headquarters just to retrieve his headpiece was worth it or not. He looked and the sky, looking deep in thought. Getting out of your comfort zone starts with small steps, right?
He adjusted his posture and started to walk. He had no particular destiny, anywhere was better than that damned room. The rhythmic sound of his heels hitting the ground echoed louder than normal on the Ashveil's ears. He felt more self aware than normal, truly feeling like he doesn't belong. Minutes passed until he reached a store. But what catch his attention was not the expensive, social clothes being exposed on the display. What looked back at him was his own reflection. He looked around — left, right and even up to make sure no one would catch him in what could be considered an embarrassing act.
It's not that he hated or just couldn't accept his appearance. It's just — is that really what he looked like in someone's vision? He ignored his hair. It's was not unkempt, just a little disheveled and messy, but his (absent) hat covered most of it. There were some knots here and there, but that was normal, right? He looked down to his face, his deep eyebags didn't do him justice. His eyes... The window of soul. Could people tell what type of person he was just looking at them? He hopes not. Overall, his face looked fine.
His clothes, though. That was a very different story. His vest were rumpled, stains quite apparent on the white color. What would be the first thing someone would notice looking at him? His eyes and the tiredness behind them, or his hair? Maybe the way his clothes hugged his chest tight, should he remove the strap to make it less noticeable? No, that earned him some extra credits from old ladies who needed help to find their lost overweight cats.
On a good note, he looked fine from legs and down. A point to him.
A long, deep yawn left his body before he could feel it coming. The sky was darker, there was less people roaming the streets, but not less light. Suddenly, the lack of chit chat from his usually present companion was too much for Ashveil to bear. Ashveil's world was silent, so he had to kept himself occupied in different ways. Working, drinking, listening to Mr. N. Not having anything to keep his thoughts in check would make him spiral. He looked around for something, anything.
At the end of the other side of the street there was a bar, one Ashveil couldn't recognize. He didn't consider himself a alcoholic, but he has visited quite a good amount of establishments in Planarcadia, just to know which ones he would keep coming back to. The bar was like any other, colorful neon lettering made to catch attention, but in a place where nothing lacks life and anything could happen it didn't have much effect.
Still, he was a simple man. He went to the entrance of the bar and tried to look inside, but the dark tinted glasses revealed little to the eyes. There was no point in losing time, he entered and went straight to the bartender, a man who looked to be in his late thirties, he hoped the blinking lights of the bar were enough to hide his rough appearance.
"Bad day?" Well, there goes his hope. The man offered him a kind, understanding smile of someone who was been in the same predicament before. But how could Ashveil tell him his day has just barely started? The detective smile sheepishly and wasted no time in asking for a strong drink. It would be just one, no more. When his drink arrived he took a long sip and just barely managed to contain a hiss, feeling the strong taste going down his throat.
Ashveil finally looked around, seeing several people — mostly youngsters dancing, drinking and doing aeons know what. He felt even more out of place, he couldn't relate to the youth like this. For him a bar is a place where he drowns himself, forgetting the monotonous pace his life started to take long ago. He didn't came here to bust a move — do people even talk like that still? And he most definitely doesn't make out with strangers who only wanted a fun time.
He decided that the best thing to do was finish his drink and leave, no point in sticking around at a place like this