Art is a lie. Nothing is real.

Here’s a present for @georgeforthewin ! Hope you enjoy and have a good holiday season!

Roxy: those kids better hope a psycho with some kind of fuckin garden tool gets ta ‘em first

Roxy: ima take every stick that hits me now and beat ‘em over the head with like a bat or some shit made outta a thousand sticks

Jake: We dont get paid if the rascals die on our watch, be it via us or hockey masked freak.

Thank you so much! I’ve always loved old school detective noir stories so I thought why not make an au? Someone’s gotta do it lol

"Mr. Strider couldn't find a way to hold his blasted horses yesterday. You would have thought that would have meant he was going to be early to this meeting," you gripe. The clock above your office door read 8:11. It is the only trustworthy clock in the entire building. Your grandmother wouldn't give you pieces of absolute junk like what they sell in the local market. She made only the best for her little Jakey. It was endearing, but at times could be a little overbearing. You are a grown man, dammit. You should not be obligated to wear itchy sweaters your grandmother sends, but you would feel bad if you didn't.

Luckily, you were in your cozy office and didn't need to assistance of a woolly sweater to keep you warm. Your office building has just invested in a new heating system and you don't think you have ever been as comfortable as you are now during the dead of winter. It seems like technology sure has came a long way ever since the second world war only a few years prior.

"Perhaps he's one of these fellows that enjoys to be fashionably late? He does have another four minutes before fashionably late becomes inconsiderate." your trusted partner, Jane Crocker, offered. You can safely say that you would not be as successful as you are without her. Honestly, this should be her business, but they both knew that they would not have a single client if she were in charge. It may be the 50's, but people's mindsets were still in the 30's. However, you couldn't help but admire the fact that Jane was using your name to advance her career. It was a little manipulative, yes, but you were determined to help your childhood friend out as much as you possibly could. Could it be considered manipulation if you consented to it 100%? You're not entirely for sure.

"I wouldn't be bothered too much by his late arrival but he was determined to start the investigation last night."

"Oh hush. You said his baby sister has been missing for a week, correct? He's probably overcome with fatigue by now."

"She's not really a baby anymore, Jane."

"But she's a baby to him."

You stop your conversation for a moment when you hear a knock at the door along with the image of a silhouette of a man in the blinds of the window. "Come in," you call. The knob carefully turns and then man from last night steps in. He looks over at you first, then to Jane. She was seated next to you, but you could tell that he felt like he was interrupting something.

"Dirk Strider, this is Jane Crocker. She's a trusted friend and loyal partner. With her help, there is no doubt that we will find Miss Lalonde in no time."

With that cleared up, Dirk looks a little more at ease with the new face. He reaches out to shake her hand, which she happily accepts. It wasn't everyday that a client recognized she was as much of a professional as Jake.

"Please, call her Roxy," he requests and pulls off his coat, setting it on the back of his chair before he took a seat. It was strange, yes, but you were never one to argue over most trivial things like that. Jane, on the other hand, immediately saw that Dirk wants them to recognize Roxy as a young girl rather than a young lady. A subtle change in her title can pull at the heart strings.

"Right. So you said that Roxy went to school and never came back, correct?" you ask and he nods. "Alright. How were you alerted of her disappearance?"

"My step-mother called me the day after. She said she was giving Roxy the benefit of the doubt. She's well known at school and has plenty of friends. It was likely that she just went to a friend's house and forgot to call. However, it was the following morning when concern truly hit my step-mother. Roxy hadn't called or returned home. The woman took measures into her own hands and started calling the households that Roxy normally goes to. None of the adults had seen her and her friends claimed that she wasn't even present for school."

You nod along and jot down a few notes. Jane, however, seems to be writing everything down word for word. "Why are you here and not your folks?" she asks.

"My step-mother, as smart as she is, currently would be no help. After the coppers told her that Roxy is likely a runaway teen and would not budge from that stance, she broke out a few bottles of hard liquor and I haven't been able to get a coherent sentence out of her ever since. My old man hasn't lived in New York since I moved out. He's over in California trying to make it in the film industry while it's still a hot topic. He's been alerted of the situation, but that prick has, and I quote, "more important business" to take care of. I always knew that are parents were narcissistic socialites, but I never knew they were this bad," he replies with an even tone. You note that there is little emotion on his face. Normally people would be at the point of tears by now.

"Do you have any reason to believe that Roxy would run away?" Jane continues.

"Absolutely not. Roxy is too smart to do something like that. I have offered her multiple times to live with me down in Texas but she always said that she was happy where she was. Every time I called she was so energetic. Even the most mundane things were exciting to her. There is absolutely no way she would leave all of that behind on a whim. Even if she was considering to leave, she would have told me. She tells me fucking everything. I'm like her living, breathing, goddamn journal."

"Language, Mr. Strider," Jane warns. He gives her a quick apology.

"Alright, well Mr. Strider," you pick up, "let's say this is a kidnapping case. Do you have any speculations as to whom would be behind this? Or do you suppose that some random dastardly man picked her up because she was an striking young lady?"

Dirk fell silent for a moment. You weren't entirely for sure why. His tired eyes were amazing at revealing as little emotion as possible.

"Well?"

He sighs. "She doesn't have enemies but I do. Namely two. Hal Strider is the epitome of an evil twin. He was always causing trouble, but not any kind of obvious trouble. He was never one to go out on a Saturday night and break into the local convenience store or vandalize the public park. Instead, he'd rather earn an honest living by conning those less intelligent than him, which is a nice chunk of the population. He always enjoyed being a pain in my side, and I could only take so much of it. When I learned that he was starting to get his hands on government documents and money, I turned him in before he had time to do anything devastating. The last time I checked he should be serving a quarter in the state prison. That sentencing was five years ago, but there's always a possibility that he escaped or he got out on good behavior, which I doubt. I've been trying to get in contact with the prison but so far they've been giving me as little information as possible about Hal."

"And your other enemy?" you add. Hal is a suspect, but an unlikely one. Still, you make a note to have a chat with the people at the state prison. You have a few buddies over there who could help you out.

"Caliborn English, not relation to you, I assume."

"You assume correctly."

"Right. Anyway, this guy is a nasty human being. During high school he had a weird obsession with me. It was annoying, but honestly, I should have rolled with it. He wanted my attention for some reason and did quite literally anything to obtain it. It started with unflattering names toward me, then it escalated to Roxy. The more I ignored him, the more vulgar things became. Dead animals were placed in my locker, threatening notes were put in my mailbox, Roxy even said that he tried to get a little handsy with her years ago, and in turn she gave him a black eye. I've reported him multiple times but no one ever found the evidence needed to convict him of any wrong doing. Since authority figures weren't doing shit, I know, language, I got into a few fights with the guy. He's tougher than he appears, but I always won."

"Do you know his whereabouts?" Jane questions.

"No. I haven't heard the tale of him since I moved to Texas."

"Why didn't you tell the police about these possible suspects?" she adds.

"It wouldn't have done any good. They were convinced that a kidnapping could never take place in such a safe neighborhood. They are trying to compete for safest neighborhood in New York, after all. By dismissing cases they don't deem as important they may end up winning that award."

"You would think that the disappearance of a popular cheerleader would be an important case," you say.

"My thoughts exactly."

You hum as you think over everything he just said. The most shocking detail is the fact that the police are dismissing this like Roxy is nothing more than a missing cat. There is a possibility that there's plenty of information hidden under the dirt of the corrupt, but you just began digging. You click your pen a few times out of an annoying habit you have yet to break. This Caliborn fellow seems to be your prime suspect, but even then you need to find the proper evidence before anything is set in stone.

"Mr. Strider, would you care if we make a home visit?" It was a question, but your tone it made it sound more like a demand. A question there was only one answer to.

"I sure hope you do. I run an investigation service, after all," you snicker. The man standing across from you, however, did not. Understandably so. No one has a sense of humor during the beginning of investigations. You cough slightly into your hand, a cue that you're going to change the topic now. "So Mister..."

"Strider. Dirk Strider."

"Ah yes. Well, Mister Strider, what do you need my assistance with?"

Without a moment of hesitation, Dirk fumbles around, digging something out of his large coat pocket. He pulls out a small, square sheet, spending a moment to smooth it out before he hands it over to you. It was a Polaroid. A young girl was in the center of it. Curly hair, bright eyes, and a young face. Based on looks, you assume she was a teenager, probably sixteen or seventeen. Eighteen would be pushing it, but it was possible.

"Her name is Roxy Lalonde," he explains. "Sixteen. Head cheerleader over at Fitzpatrick's private high. The last time she was seen was a week ago. She left for school and never returned."

You nod at the information. A teen going missing wasn't an entirely shocking topic. Most of the time they simply run away from home, following their hormones rather than common sense. You can't really say too much though considering how you raised hell from the core multiple times throughout your youth. The devil will end up casting you into heaven since he's sick of seeing your face.

"The police have been notified but they have yet to find anything on her. It's been a week so now efforts have dwindled into a stagnant stream. If it has been a kidnapping, they say by now she's either dead or in a place too far underground for them to reach. However, they believe she ran away from home. I find it idiotic to believe that a girl from a wealthy family with a bright future ahead of her would leave everything behind without leaving so much as a note."

"Teenagers do have forms of rebellion in them, Mister Strider, no matter what social class they belong to," you reply. He looks like he was going to defend himself, but you continue to talk. "But this mindset is a death sentence to those who truly are in peril. Even if this is just a case of a runaway teen, knowing where she is would lift a heavy burden off of your shoulders. If it is much grimmer than that, well, a life could very well be saved. Tell me, what is your relation to Miss Lalonde here?"

"Siblings. Well, step-siblings. My dad and her mom married each other for financial benefits. They were both wealthy, so the only reasoning I could gather from that was they could receive some tax benefits. I was fifteen and she was six when we first moved in together. I practically raised her until I moved back down to Texas two years ago to take up a really good job offer. The moment I heard she was missing, I dropped everything and came up here." He shifted his weight onto his other foot.

No trials, no evidence, and a close sibling connection. This is going to be an interesting case.

"I have never been one to back down from a challenge," you say, looking down at the Polaroid again, "and this is no different. However, there's only so much I can do this late at night." You reach into your pocket and pull out a card. You hand it over to him. He looks down at it before finally taking it. It has no name written on it. Just the address to your office building. "Let's resume this meeting in the morning. Office 304 at 8, assuming you have no where else to be at that time." He shakes his head. "Good."

"She could be dead by then. We need to start now."

You sigh softly to yourself. You always hate being the tough cop, but it was late and you didn't feel like gently breaking things down for this man. "She could be dead now. I sure hope she isn't, but it is a possibility. In order to find her I need evidence and a trail, neither of which we have. There's only so much a person can do in the dead of night without drawing suspicion from law enforcement and underground groups in the like. Tomorrow we will both have fresh heads and we can start our hunt, understood."

Frustration was visible on the man's face. He either still wanted to continue the search right here and now or he was angry that your point was solid. Either way, his small nod was enough for you to claim victory.

"Before we depart, Mister Strider, would you mind if I hold onto this picture?"

"By all means."

Snow was beginning to fall. Dirk held out his hand for a shake before going back the way he came. You stayed in your spot for a moment, looking over the photograph again and again. Roxy was such a striking young lass. From the photograph alone you could see all of the life in her eyes.

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.