In text, it’s always capitalized.

They wonder over the power, the control, the serene grace of being able to disregard space and time with the flick of a hand. Power unimaginable by the likes of them, they say. And yet they often try.

They measure him by human standards, because he is human. There’s no real doubt about it. Pickle Inspector, for all his excelling abilities and small quirks, is one hundred percent genuine human being. Except the fact that he is also, technically, a god.

The question haunts him like the taste of sour milk, or the smell of fish fried with the windows all shut.

What’s it like to be God?

Every time he thinks he’s rid of the question, it crops up behind the menu the waiter’s attempting to half hide behind, or the greenhorn officer handing him case files from behind a counter. And every time, he never has a proper answer.

Weeks pass until he finally works up the courage to bring his clockwork livelihood to a grinding half. He locks every door and window he can properly lock, every portal to another world unplugged and left to gather dust on the floor. He spends days turning a single question over in his mind, praying (to Himself) that the answer might come with a stroke of luck, or at least in bright, astounding pieces, like sunlight stretching through the leaves of fresh green trees and onto the expansive forest floor. Every aspect of his life is brought under question, scrutinized under a lamp left on so long it starts to singe the edges of his thin fingers and knock the temperature of the room up a good solid five degrees.

What’s it like to be God?

Is it the way his wrists ache when he’s stuck somewhere he’s not sure he ought to be, making his fingers curl around each other in an act of nervous twitching? Is it the way people subtly glance at him when he walks, hunched over shelves, through a shop filled from floor to shelf with colorful, beautifully labeled tins? Is it sitting, watching, waiting for water to seep by like old molasses from the riverside bench, is it realizing in vivid shock that every person will lead a spectacularly different path in life, never to be properly recorded anywhere other than in themselves, is it scrutinizing one’s mistakes with pickaxes and pitchforks until there’s nothing left to make of it, is it wondering over the unique nature of every individual you pass on the street until your head spins with a ripping violence that makes a gunshot seem like the pop and hiss of a brand new can of soda—

There’s a knock at the door. He opens his eyes in hazy surprise. Funny, everyone know’s he’s on personal leave.

Inspector gets up off the floor where he’s been lying for the past few hours, marveling at how such a simple movement could parallel the way he once peeled an especially stubborn sticker from a sheet of laminated paper. His nervous fingers finally grasp the scratched golden knob of his front door, and when he throws it open into the burning sunlight, He sees a familiar face.

Broad clutches a basket to her abdomen, fingers twitching over themselves in nervous habit. She gives Him a nervous smile and shuffles her feet a bit.

“I was worried,” she finally says, when he does nothing but blink owlishly for the first few moments. “You turned off your phone, and no one’s seen you out in… well, a long while, i suppose”. She shifts her grip on the basket, nearly dropping it. Inspector reaches out on instinct and helps her catch it, supporting her hands under his own, his knees half bent for the awkward save.

Warmth spreads from his fingertips and races through his neural system. She smiles again, more genuine and with a bit of humor turning up the edges of her mouth. He notices he’s smiling just the same.

“Would you like to come in?” The question is out before he has time to scrutinize it, to wonder what it means in context of his nature.

The bullet he fired only moments ago had sliced neatly through the upper right base of the campaigner's chin, cutting through bone before ejecting blood out the other side. It left an unpleasant mess on the tent wall, red staining the bleached white cloth tarp. The silencer did it's job nicely, the only audible sound a muted pop the moment he pulled the trigger. He automatically drew a cloth from his pocket and wiped it over the muzzle of the gun, removing any excess oils and blood that happened to be left behind post-execution. He tossed the handkerchief to the floor of the tent and slid the firearm away within his deck.

Droog allowed himself a moment to stand still, pointedly ignoring the fresh corpse gaping silently towards the sky and glancing about the area. The fold-up chair was tilted slightly and would need to be fixed, should he use it ever again. Blood on the far wall of the tent dripped slowly down as if it were paint thrown on a canvas, the thinner layers of it drying slowly against the cold air. A single line managed to fall far enough to leave a single dot of red on the dirt floor below, no bigger than a fingernail. He turned and raised his wrist to his line of sight; he had less than half an hour to make himself scarce, and the body too, of course.

He began methodically sorting everything away; sorting away cards into his inner pockets and placing the politician's corpse in a sealed bag. Placing larger items in the mausoleum for later sorting, and taking down the rest one by one. The small table, the broken chair, the tarp held taut by rope and nails. The tent would have to burn, unfortunately, but the rest was salvageable. Droog abhorred the idea of reusing anything incriminating, broken or otherwise a hassle, but Slick always insisted. It's efficient, it's simple, it doesn't require buying new equipment every damn time Droog decided it would be smart to off another guy who got too big for his britches.

Droog efficiently stripped the tarp with a borrowed knife, throwing the pieces into a kindling fire. the stench of burning cloth coiled up in curves of dark smoke. Droog fetched out his own cigarette and lit it calmly, watching evidence crumble black, unidentifiable and useless.

His bags were packed, fire cleared and cards shuffled away when he remembered the single spot of blood on the ground, no larger than a nickel. Imperceptible, yet evidence all the same. He gambled with himself, weighing process with entertainment. They'd find it, scrutinize it. Namely, Inspector would be grasping at intangible straws with only a single piece of evidence, a placeholder, a wispy red flag, trying to somehow connect his gut intuition with reasonable items to present to the court. Procedure was plenty fine, but being able to bend the Inspector to his every prediction and presumption was better. It was so much better.

The tin is cylindrical. His last package of tea leaves. He had forgotten he was nearly out since the month had been extremely busy. New street gangs, new politicians, new officers to pocket. And Deadeye. Deadeye was there too, among other things.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.

Innovator's brain is going too fast. It's working twenty different issues at once, branching off into possible outcomes and future complications in the blink of an eye. He can't slow it down, can't take his mind off of it. Stress screws his jaw tight, presses down on his chest like a weight as invisible as a ghost.

He specifically managed everything so he would have these few hours to himself. Desk, puzzles, tea. He felt as if five years were shaved off his lifespan when he popped open the metal container to be greeted with less than half a teaspoon's worth of his only black tea.

His only tea, he realized after making a mess of his kitchen, pots pans and measuring cups left in dangerous stacks on counters and the stove. Cabinets left strewn open and empty.

The apartment is cold. Colder than any form of living space has any right being. A crawling sensation makes its way up his skin, rocketing upwards through his veins before coming to a sudden halt halfway up his back. His hand lets go of the tin. It clatters to the floor and unceremoniously rolls until it bumps into the wall.

Every nerve is on edge, the feeling making his shoulders hunch in discomfort. His thoughts stall for a short moment, but just that; in an instant, they burst back into uncontrollable speeds, picking up the feeling and slotting it among the other sources of anxiety for him to contemplate later.

It's times like these that Innovator can barely comprehend himself. He doesn't want to move a single inch. He could go out, buy what he needs and be back within half an hour if he tried, but he can't shake that awful feeling moving in his skin and up through his veins. It keeps him from moving a single inch, leaving him to the savage mouths of his own living train of thought. His attention is fully devoured, not a single lick of it left to seek salvation.

If only he had something to keep his hands and eyes busy. Boiling water, measuring spoons, the tea pot's lid with the small blue patterns on creme white ceramic. Measuring teaspoons of leaves and trying to recall exactly how much water was right, and at what temperature. Keeping track of time while color infected the insides of the teapot like a heart pumping blood.

The warmth. Steam like hands furling under his chin and past his fingers, wetting his nose and warming his skin. A placebo. The cold made him want contact more than ever, but not the complications that came with it. Complications like Deadeye.

Innovator lets his mind take him where it wants to go, any sort of willpower already lost in the past hour of wallowing in his own distress.

He imagines Deadeye.

Coming through the door like he owns the place, confident enough to weave his way between objects strewn on the floor despite the lack of proper lighting. The slow, rhythmic footsteps. Soles on wood flooring. He hadn't taken of his shoes before coming in, leaving imperceptible footprints of city dust behind him.

He would watch him quietly before putting a hand on Innovator's shoulder. It would feel heavy against his weak frame, the grip strong enough to turn his desk chair to the side. Maybe a hand on his forehead, lifting up the stray mess of hair covering his eyes passively, forcing Innovator to look him in the eyes.

Innovator can almost feel the faint touches, the cold indifference of Deadeye's stare. The way his breath would warm the air around his neck as he placed shallow kisses there. Heavy hands pressing a burning heat straight through his off-colored skin. He would bring him away from the unstable chair, place him somewhere nicer for awful things. Innovator's fingers curled in sheets, twitching every time Deadeye's steady hands would brush his skin, unbuttoning his shirt and cutting wet strains of searing cuts into the nape of his neck with sharp bites, hot blood peaking out and sliding patterns against his warming skin. Deadeye over him, containing him, breathing heavy, empty words into his ear like short bursts of pale smoke. Innovator would relish every moment of contact, the unending number of ways Deadeye could pull the cold from his bones and the uncomfortable feeling of blood halting in his veins with a single touch--.

A strong, short knock breaks his reverie, imagination scattering like mice. Innovator's neck aches where he had it bent down to lower his head onto his knees. He briefly wondered if he had drifted off to sleep.

Another knock. A short rap against the wood of his apartment door. Innovator tries to stifle the little bits of excitement, bits of hope that bubble up his throat.

He breathes, undoing the lock on his door before pulling it wide open with some trouble, his joints still stiff from sitting in the same position for hours on end.

It's Doxy.

She asks him where he's been. There's been an issue with the territory agreement. Their whole reconnaissance team turned up dead. Cement shoes, down in the river. Koppel's handiwork. Scofflaw's too tied up entertaining the political candidates, Delinquent's in the middle of a shootout down by the exchange, and Bawd's doing what she can to fix this mess. They can't win this without scaring them back into their place, she says.

Innovator blinks owlishly at her, processing the information. Doxy taps her foot. He manages to process it as impatience. He opens his mouth to say something but she quickly steps forward, inside his apartment, making him step back instinctually. She grabs his coat and hat and hurls them at him, telling him to quit flapping his gums at get going, Delly ain't got nine lives like you seem to.

It's only been a week since you were knocked out cold by an "accident" while out on the field. A flowerpot had just happened to come falling down on you from five stories above. Luckily, only the edge clipped you straight on, but nonetheless the piece of pottery falling at mach speed was enough to send you down and out for a bit. When you woke up, there was blood running down the front of your face and both Pickle and Ace were kneeling next to you, the tall guy checking your injury and whatnot while Ace just squinted up above like he might spot the jackass who was responsible for the accident. 

"Accident my ass," he had said after the both of them got you off the sidewalk and back to the office. But even after the three of you had done some outside searching, none of you came up with who had gone and tried to off you in such a cliché way. Really, it's like they weren't even trying to be creative.

Regardless, after the whole incident was over (hospital trip and all), you were fine. Fit as a fiddle. Or, so you thought. 

You didn't really expect the head injury to jar up your mind at all, considering how the pot hadn't even hit you straight on. Though if it did, you'd be dead, you remind yourself. You assumed that after the cut healed up and the headaches stopped, that would be the end of it. 

"Guess not," you muse out loud, letting the disappointment carry out in the tone of voice. Your fingers are sitting stiff on top of the keys of your old standup piano. They're poised as if about to play yet you can't seem to conjure up the memories of how exactly to go about it. Your mouth screws up in a frown as you decisively attempt to strike a chord (in your memory and on the instrument). But you just end up producing an uncomfortable cacophony of sound. You try again. Nope. And again. That's definitely not it. You sigh and throw your head back, lamenting the loss of your piano abilities. So much for unwinding with a little bit of Moonlight Sonata.

You bring down the heavy wooden cover gently over the keys, letting your hands rest on top of it as you stare out and let your mind wander. You can still remember the ways you played the songs you knew, and even some of the keys that were in them, sure. But the muscle memory, the ability to transfer all that into motion, it's gone. Poof. No where to be found. You don't own any sheet music anymore either, so relearning them isn't an option. Not that you've really got the energy to anyways.

The melancholy feeling of realizing you've lost years of hard work and musical skill starts to weigh down on you, so you haul yourself out of your apartment and decide to go for a midnight walk. You've never been one to mull over lost things all that much. A little voice in your head pipes up and reminds you that a developed skill is a little more than just another lost trinket, but you smother it out with other thoughts. Maybe this is your window of opportunity to learn something new. Clarinet? Ehh. Guitar might be interesting. Not nearly as hardboiled. Saxophone, now there's a hardboiled instrument. You grimace at the thought of intruding into that territory, though. That's Droog's thing. You don't how nicely he'd take to you klutzing up that instrument, and you definitely don't want to find out.

A loud series of sounds interrupts that train of thought, sawing its way through your focus and hammering straight into your eardrums. Slick, you think right away. You'd recognize that violent orchestration anywhere. The sound of him ravaging the poor instrument somehow makes you forget your loss in talent, so you let yourself lean up against the wall right beside the club's open door and shift out a cigarette from your trenchcoat pocket. As you light it, the flurry of notes leads up into a crescendo and you let the back of your head rest against the brick wall behind you. Smoke trails up in soft little swirls as Slick continues to maul the keys with his unending rage, notes disappearing quickly into the night air along with the remnants of your shortening cigarette. 

Anti Bravoman was never a huge fan of candy. It always got stuck between his teeth and it was a real pain to get out, considering how his teeth aren't actually teeth, but rather some chitonous copycat made of dark anti particles. Or something. His dad never really explained it that well, but thankfully, Anti had the means to figure out enough about himself to get by on a daily basis.

He had never tried chocolate though; not the fancy, good kinds anyways. Sure, he had eaten the few tiny, tiny hershey bars that were thrown into his bag on halloween night, but otherwise, his money went towards more lifelong investments. Like the brand-new multi-color changing action Fighter Bravo figure with additional weapons, each sold separately accessories not included. He always just figured all chocolate tasted like that and never bothered to go out of his way to get more; grainy, bland, and packed full of extra sugar. So it was a little surprising when a little box, wrapped in red ribbons and deep brown paper, hit him in the head before ricocheting off his helmet and landing in his hands. He winced at the sudden assault, looking up. But nothing was there.

"Well that was… weird." He muttered, turning his attention back to the little box in his hands. It was about an inch or two high, and was fairly light. And it smelled like chocolate. He made his way back into DOCTOR BOMB'S LAIR (his home, actually) and beelined for his room, still puzzling over the origins of the sudden package. It wasn't his birthday, and it wasn't christmas nor halloween. So why did he get this box of grainy gross sweets anyway? 

Negapigeon squacked in warning, but it was too late. He ran straight into Waya who was hurrying down the hall in her excitement. 

"Aw, nurts," muttered anti, looking up from where he fell. She would probably lecture him or something, or maybe start another fight. They were always squabbling like siblings, though when they weren't they got along fairly well. Anti peered up, expecting a lecture or maybe some other sign of Waya's impending punishment for him. But instead, he was taken by surprise. 

"Helloooooo anti!!" she nearly sang, sticking her hands under his arms and hoisting the younger guy up onto his feet. Anti stumbled to keep his balance, still infinitely surprised at Waya's strength. 

"I would stay and chat, but I've got a whole lot of important stuff to dooooooo!" She really sang it this time, her hands folding up and pressing against her cheek as she put all her weight on one foot and let the other one flick up behind her. Yeah, definitely cheerful. Still confused, Anti finally cleared his throat and spoke up.

"Like what? I thought ninjas took the weekends off," He offered, beating around the bush. He didn't want to straight-out point out her jubilant mood this morning, lest it ruin it somehow. But Waya just laughed her cute little laugh and pulled Anti's cheek as if he were a child misunderstanding something very, very obvious. 

"Oh, silly Anti," she chided, "Don't you know? Today's Valentines day, and me and Stretchy Cuteness are going to go on a date today for sure!!" She let him go and stared off into the distance, hearts nearly floating out of her eyes. 

"It'll be so romantic! We'll get all dressed up, go out to eat, dance, talk about our future, and maybe ill finally get to see his insides all over the floor!!" she finished, her fingers suddenly curling towards the sky as her mouth formed into a gleeful snarl. Anti's eyebrows shot up. That never, ever got un-weird. Ever. 

"Uh, have fun-- no, good luck," he answered awkwardly, unsure what to say. Waya gave a huff, dismissing his obvious lack of enthusiasm. Anti was about to creep away when suddenly, Waya's eyes drifted to the small brown-wrapped box in his hands. 

"Hey! What's that?" She asked, pointing with one of her knives. When did she take those out??? 

"This? Oh, it's probably nothing. It just fell out of the sky and hit me on the head. I think its chocolate??" Anti shook the box a little, listening to a heavy, paperlike shifting sound. Meanwhile Waya's eyebrows shot skyward, her jaw dropping. 

"You? Got a Valentine?? From someone other than Camo!?!?" Waya exclaimed, her voice raising a bit with every passing word. Anti shrugged earnestly, hoping to calm her down a bit. "I guess! I don't know, it just, like, came out of no where! Maybe it was an accident!"

Problem Sleuth ducked under a fallen lamppost, bracing one arm against a low box to launch himself up and over the obstacle. A carapace dressed in caution tape grabbed the back of his loose jacket, yanking him out of the way of an outstretched arm before clobbering the zombie right between the eye sockets. The decomposing brute fell with a moan, his rotting innards splatting against the floor of the park. Sleuth thanked GPI that at least Renegade's melee aim wasn't as terrible as his long range. 

He cast the thought aside as another wave started coming towards their makeshift barricade. Dozens of heavy metal crates were arranged around the large fountain in the middle of Midnight City's largest (and only) communal park, the previously small and scattered bushes and landscaping now ruined past even the town gardener’s ability. Not like flowers and plants were his top priority; not since the apocalypse had dropped by for a long stay. 

Sleuth fumbled for his ring of keys, digging his hands in his abnormally large pockets before procuring them with satisfaction. He instantly let off a round of bullets, leaving aside his usual hardboiled one-handed shooting gimmick in favor of shooting the goddamn (un)living hell out of the flesh hungry mongrels. Sleuth smirked triumphantly as smoke crawled out of the barrel of the tommy gun. He turned to locate more ammunition when he noticed Renegade feeding bullets into his own assault rifle. 

"Uh," Sleuth managed to get out before the carapacian let off a round of poorly aimed bullets. The detective hit the deck as multiple rounds ricocheted off the metal crates, while others hit everything from trees and broken sidewalks to, thankfully, a few unlucky zombies. 

Sleuth did a discreet patdown to see if he was bleeding anywhere. It wasn't that he didn't trust his friend, it was just. Well.

Renegade had shit aim. 

"Sleuth, I have taken down part of the wave, but we do not have nearly enough firepower to clear them all out before they reach us," Renegade announced, already slipping rounds of ammunition into the folds of his wraps and on belts circling his chest. 

"Renegade, maybe next time we should leave the shooting to me?" Sleuth suggested hesitantly. "My tommy gun maybe be old but it holds more ammunition than your assault rifle, and, uh, is in better condition--" 

Renegade cut him off with a curt wave of his hand. 

"Sleuth, please," he interjected, not looking up from his hurried supply gathering as Sleuth brained another one of the faster flesh eaters and shot down another row with his revolver. "I do not mean to be rude, but I think the little ammunition we have is better in the hands of a trained law official," he took a moment to gesture to the downed zombies, even though most of them were Sleuth's doing.

Problem Sleuth looked down at the MCPD official exasperated, with his hands outstretched in front of him like he was five seconds away from strangling the smaller guy. Sleuth loved his buddy to bits, but GPI he could be so infuriating sometimes. 

He let it drop, stashing bottles of water and other miscellaneous supplies: Wrench? Definitely essential. Broken pieces of industrial strength rope, too small and fragmented for fundamental use? Proooobably important. Some zombies castaway, fashionable hat? Well don't mind if I-- 

Renegade smacked Sleuth's hand that was beelining for the bloodied and flesh-covered hat. If he had eyebrows, they'd be set right above his eyes in a hard line that said, "Really Sleuth? Really?" The detective just smiled sheepishly before withdrawing his hand, standing with his inventory full of junk and not-junk. Renegade stood as well, drawing a makeshift spear he had made on a previous supply gathering. Sleuth followed his cue and drew a long piece of metal pipe. 

"Right, so," Sleuth said in a nonchalant tone that betrayed the oncoming frenzy from the outskirts of the park. "We trigger the last of our grenades, we shoot down what few are still standing, run through the gap in the crowd and hightail it the hell out and towards the next point," -- he gestured to a far off building, about five stories high with smoke billowing from a chimney. 

Renegade nodded, watching the trees for any signs of movement before hoisting his bag over his shoulder. "The building was labeled as one of the crew's hideouts. It is likely that there is plenty of ammunition in there if we can get in--" 

The plan rundown was cut short when the oncoming horde finally broke through the cluster of trees, letting off terrible moans and groans as they lumbered across the stone walkways. Sleuth pulled the last of their explosives and pulled the pin, turning to grin at AR. 

"Ready when you are, officer."

"Do not trip this time Sleuth"

Sleuth launched the grenade in the thick of the horde, frowning indignantly. "Oh come on, it was the middle of the night! An' foggier than the goddamn bottom of the Chicago river!!" 

The explosion shook the floor and the duo took off running. 

"For you maybe," Renegade said while slicing one surviving corpse. "But the debris was fairly clear to me--" Sleuth dodged a puddle of gore while groaning. 

"Oh here we go again," he managed to complain in between breaths. 

"-- Which is a clear reason again why carapacians are better at survival than fleshy humans--"

"Renegade, we've been over this; humans are just as good--" 

AR turned to look at Sleuth with exhaustion. "Humans are much more vulnerable--" 

He blinked in confusion when he turned to see Sleuth's revolver aimed in his direction. The gun fired, bullet hitting another infected in the chest as it leapt towards the carapacian from behind.

AR winced as his ears rang, but he took the lesson for its worth and decided the conversation would be better brought up when they weren't in the middle of an apocalyptic escape. 

Finally they made it though the park gate, grabbing either iron door and slamming them shut. Sleuth glitched the paperclip in his pocket into a chain lock, quickly doing up the door and hopping back immediately before a flurry of violent and rotting hands sprung out from between the bars, grasping at air. 

The two took a minute to step back and check themselves for any injuries, hoping to catch their breaths before the next stretch. 

"We should get going," AR announced after a few minutes of heavy breathing, eyeing a few of the more intelligent corpses grasping curiously at handholds and scrambling for footholds to climb on. Sleuth nodded and brushed his ratty trenchcoat off, lifting a hand to readjust his hat before remembering it was long gone. He sheepishly brought his hand back down. 

"Lurin' them all into the park seemed to work well," Sleuth pointed out, noting how the streets weren't anywhere near as thick with zombies as they were before. A few weak stragglers staggered to and fro, but otherwise the cracked asphalt lines were clear. 

"For now," AR reminded Sleuth sternly. He began walking off to the right confidently until Sleuth called out to him and pointed in the opposite direction.

"Hey, Renegade. The crew's building is thataway," he said with a small smile, trying not to make his pal feel bad about his bad sense of direction. 

AR cleared his throat and pivoted around.