#chicaplier

The Captain rapped their knuckles against the door.

From the other side of the threshold, a semi-muffled voice called, “C’mon in.”

The Captain entered, and the very millisecond they closed the door behind them, air rushed past their face as a small blur soared and landed against the adjacent wall with a loud thwip-thunk!

The Captain didn’t even flinch: it wasn’t like this was the first time they’d been shot at. They peered at the dartboard hanging to their right, which had been adorned by a photograph of a certain wormhole wearing a fedora and toting a tommy gun.

Had the wormhole actually had a mug (which The Captain just knew would’ve been set in a smug little smirk), the recently-thrown dart would’ve landed right between its eyes.

The Captain glanced to their left, simultaneously feeling impressed, amused, exasperated, and concerned. There sat trouble, his feet having been kicked up onto a desk across the room.

Mack’s aim had always been a little too good; he wasn’t even looking at the dartboard. He seemed to have something against boards in general, since he was fixing a cluttered corkboard on the wall with a stare that could temporarily make whiskey become sentient and turn itself into water. 

This didn’t sound like much at first, as one might argue that it was irresponsible for detectives to drink on the job, despite how doing so added to the precious aesthetic. But Mack? Mack was not someone who needed intoxicants, even if he’d just end up nursing said intoxicants.

[I can’t believe how slow business has been lately.] Mack’s slight Midwestern accent was as present in his head as it was in his throat. It wasn’t quite as smooth as the other dialects The Captain heard so often, but they found some charm in that uniqueness. [What, are murderers getting all picky and pretentious about how they kill? Are glocks and shivs not exciting enough for them anymore? If so, then they just lack imagination. Anything can be a weapon so long as it’s aimed at the eyes.]

. . .Case in point. Pun very much intended.

When they’d first laid eyes on Mack, The Captain had almost been fooled by the bowtie and newsboy cap he always wore. But even before they’d gotten to know him better, their gut had told them that something was. . .not wrong with him—not entirely, at least—but just off.

He was still invaluable when it came to cases, even if he did seem like a case himself most of the time.

Mack was clearly lost in his thoughts, and The Captain knew better than to startle him out of the trance. So, they turned their attention elsewhere in the room.

Trouble took on a second form, this one standing before the window, outlined by the light that was peeking in between the blinds. His necktie was loose enough to suggest he used it as some kind of stim toy. At the sound of The Captain’s throat being cleared, Mark peered over his shoulder, a pair of dark eyes glinting from beneath the brim of his porkpie hat.

(I always tell myself that one day, one day I’ll actually be prepared for those baby-grays to drill into my soul.) Mark’s mental voice let out a hopeless chuckle. (Celci’s said that I’m a terrible liar; I hate it when she’s right.)

On the one hand, The Captain couldn’t help but wonder what exactly Mark had lied to Celci about. On the other hand, however, it was nice to hear that someone appreciated their eyes, even if there was no actual color to appreciate.

“Afternoon, Captain,” Mark pronounced, politely raising the rocks glass in his hand. “What brings you by?”

“You say that like it’s not part of my job to keep a constant eye on this crew,” The Captain replied, folding their arms across their chest. “And even if it wasn’t, can’t a guy/gal/person of indistinguishable gender check up on their buddies?”

(And that voice of theirs. . .god damn. Never thought I’d hear something more musical than the sound of greenbacks slapping across my palm.) Mark chuckled. “Nice save; you almost answered a question with another question.” (Then again, I can’t really complain. With the alcohol in my system, my heart could stand to do a few calisthenics.)

“A little birdie told me that things could be better for you guys,” The Captain declared, not unkindly. “Is that true?”

“Well, that depends: what kind of birdie did you hear that from?” Mark asked, raising an eyebrow. “If it was a canary, I’d think twice about listening. Sweet songs but sour words, y’know?”

“Good thing this ship is a strict No Canary Zone, then,” The Captain hummed. “I just overheard some gentleman griping about cases. You might know him: trenchcoat, dark hair, looks that could kill. . .”

Mark tilted his head to the side, realization instantly kicking in as he tried and failed to hide the fact that his heart had leapt at that sentiment.

“Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. The squeaky wheel is the first one to get oiled. Isn’t that right, Macaroni?” He asked, smirking like the sly bastard he was.

Under most circumstances, this would’ve been the verbal equivalent to whacking a hornet’s nest with a stick, as Mack hated nicknames like that and made sure to let everyone within earshot know it. Plus, it was pretty much impossible to know a guy like Mack without also knowing that getting him to shut his mouth would take some work.

Right now, however, Mack wasn’t talking. The grin on Mark’s face faded as both he and The Captain glanced at the other investigator across the room. Sure enough, Mack’s eyes were still glued to the corkboard, casually aiming another dart at the wormhole’s photograph.

Mark pursed his lips, clearly having expected a response.

“Hey, Mackerel? Did you hear me?” He called.

More awkward silence ensued. 

Mack must’ve been even more concentrated than The Captain had previously thought. They immediately scanned the room for something to hide behind. Just in case.

“Maaaaack?” Mark’s tone grew more sarcastic. “Earth to Mack.”

“Last I checked, we’re nowhere near Earth, moron,” Mack finally retorted. [Mark’s a lucky guy, I’ll say that much. I’ve helped people dress up as swiss cheese for less than just setting my trains of thought on fire. Those stupid collection agents around the corner wish they could cause a racket like I can.]

Mark rolled his eyes, then gazed over at the sofa in the opposite corner. Lounging on said sofa was a goddess who had apparently taken on the form of a golden retriever wearing an adorable Panama hat. 

At the sight of one of her owners nodding towards Mack, Chica perked up and got to her paws. She trotted across the room to Mack’s desk, rearing up on her hind legs to give the detective some good ol’ fashioned puppy-dog kisses.

Mack flinched out of his reverie. “Augh—Chica! Hey, get down! Knock it off!”

The Captain couldn’t help but giggle at the fact that, despite Mack’s protests, he’d automatically started petting Chica. She just had that effect on people. 

Soon enough, the best girl let up and paced around The Captain’s legs, her wagging tail a blur.

Mack, germaphobe he was, took a few long seconds to wipe at his face in a very melodramatic manner. But when he finally noticed who was in the room aside from his crewmate, his eyes grew nearly to the size of dinner plates. [Oh, damn it. . ! They’re wearing that pinstripe blazer again.]

If it wasn’t for The Captain’s monochrome point-of-view, they’d hazard a guess that an ever-so-slight blush had crept along Mack’s features. Mack rushed to make his expression neutral again, but it was too late.

[They know how pinstripe drives me crazy.] Mack thought, his mental voice growing more aggravated than surprised.

The Captain simpered as they kneeled to hug Chica, as that was very, very true.

Mack caught their knowing, shit-eating smile and huffed a sigh. [Cheeky son/daughter/child of a—]

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Mark coughed. “Thinking so hard can’t be good for your health.”

“Looks like you’re gonna be immortal, then,” Mack snarked. “Someone’s gotta be the brains of this outfit.”

Mark pouted at this. “Hey, don’t get all catty on me. It’s not my fault you were making that face.”

“What face?”

“The one that suggests you’re close to going out, finding a patsy, and pinning a crime on them just to make something happen.”

Mack clicked his tongue, clearly choosing to ignore just how accurate that statement was. “Oh, don’t preach to me when you’ve got a face that suggests someone upstairs has a weird sense of humor.”

“I didn’t stop by for a few laughs, so that can’t be true,” The Captain interjected. “But if you’d rather rub two sticks together, I can always come back another time.”

Although their warning glare was specifically aimed at Mack, both of the investigators flinched. The Captain may have been understanding (and they couldn’t deny how entertaining Mark and Mack’s little squabbles could be), but their patience still had limits. Besides, sometimes the only way to make a deal was to start walking away from said deal.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Captain,” Mack cringed. “Things have just. . .been on edge.”

Mark nodded assent. “Right, right. It’s a bit hard to keep up the whole well-oiled-machine gig with just two people.”

The Captain felt their heart grow a bit heavier as the detectives glanced around them to stare at the coat rack next to the door. The one that was supporting a very familiar deerstalker cap.

This black n’ white neck of the universe was a world of gangsters, con artists, and thugs-for-hire. And, of course, it was also a world of spies, sleuths, and vigilantes to balance out the former. But when it came to professional snooping, everyone on the Invincible II knew that there was one person who could surpass nearly every expectation.

His name was Abe, and he was the ringleader of the ship’s detective trio.

Neither Mark nor Mack were anywhere close to blind, but Abe was the private eye with some serious 20/20 vision. His skills were excellent, especially in euphemistic scenarios. He wasn’t a bloodhound; he was a fox (in more ways than one. Wink-wink, nod-nod, nudge-nudge, kick-in-the-head).

In the beginning of their escapades, The Captain hadn’t had much faith in Mark and Mack hitting it off (sure, the two occasionally hit each other, but that sadly didn’t count). When Abe came along, however, it was like the roulette wheel of life had miraculously malfunctioned in the better’s favor.

Abe and Mark had become fast friends. Of course they had; Mark was an easy guy to get along with, and most certainly loyal enough for anyone to want in their corner. Mack had been a different story, obviously, but what would’ve been a dead end for most was only a challenge for Abe. Apparently he’d seen something worthwhile in Mack’s unhinged and smug nature. 

Lo and behold, both of the investigative-engineers still couldn’t be described as best-buds, but they tolerated one another for the sake of following Abe around like puppies.

So, yeah. There was no doubt about it: Abe was a special character indeed.

He’d also been absent from his and his coworkers’ office for an uncomfortably long while. He hadn’t gone on an errand for milk (he made sure to check in on things via video-call); Abe wasn’t exactly a saint, but he’d never stoop to that level. No, he was simply chasing a particular lead—one so frustrating that he might as well have been disco-dancing while wearing nothing but a pair of boots that constantly squeaked like a colony of chain-smoking rats.

Like clockwork, Mark and Mack had volunteered to help him. They’d done so multiple times, in fact. Hell, they’d even tried the classic trick of secretly following Abe to figure out how this case managed to be so much more infuriating than all the others he’d tackled. 

(This venture hadn’t gone well. The Captain had never managed to get the full story, but they knew it’d involved a whole bunch of questionable whiskey culled from one of the zodiac clouds swirling around The Milky Way.)

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon enough,” The Captain tried.

“I heard the same thing when he went off to that party with his old college friends,” Mark replied quietly. (It was only supposed to be an overnight shin-dig, but look where that went. Why haven’t I worked up the nerve to ask him about what happened that night. . ?)

The Captain chewed their lip, half-nodding. 

They remembered Abe boarding the ship nearly two days later than his scheduled return date. He’d stumbled through the corridors, disheveled and bruised and saying absolutely nothing to no one, before locking himself in his personal quarters and getting noisily sick there while passersby exchanged concerned looks. The next day he was back to his old self again, to which Mark and Mack, not wanting to pry for once, decided to just pretend that his odd actions had never actually happened.

“He could at least give us a few tidbits of information to go off of,” Mack muttered, rolling his eyes to try and hide his anxiety. “If we could toss ideas back and forth and report it to him, then maybe this would progress a little faster.” [We’re like dogs without horses here! The Captain should know better than anyone how important it is to feel useful!]

The Captain lightly shook their head. “Can’t rush these things without causing trouble. You both know how Abe is; this one case is very important to him.”

Being an investigator came with several occupational hazards, and perhaps the biggest one was sheer tenacity. Abe was determined almost to a fault. Having to give up on a case came in third place on the list of things he hated most, right behind birthday clowns and liars. That itself wouldn’t be bad at all. . .if not for his habit of denying assistance from others.

He wasn’t always like that—if he was, then he would’ve never taken Mark and Mack under his wings—but when certain cases came along? He insisted on handling them by himself, no matter how that obviously wasn’t the best idea.

 It wasn’t that he thought his partners were ignorant or incompetent (well, okay, sometimes it was, but not so far with Mark or Mack). It was that he worried about putting his friends in harm’s way. And The Captain understood feelings like that perfectly. Being a leader was all fun and games until the dependability kicked in.

The Captain cleared their throat, moving across the room to take a seat on the couch. Chica padded after them, hopping up beside them and resting her head on their lap.

“Getting back on track,” they pronounced, scratching Chica’s ears in a way that would make femme fatales and mob bosses everywhere proud. “If you guys are looking for something to keep busy while Abe’s gone. . .I think I might have a few new tasks around the space station. Classified ones.”

Almost instantly, the detectives’ eyes lit up. Mack rushed to grab one of his many notebooks and a pen. Mark went through a cabinet by the desk to produce a small, freshly-purchased bottle of spirits.

(I’ve had to come to terms with not being able to choose clients. But The Captain? If I could, I’d gladly request them as a client,) he thought as he brought a clean spare glass over to The Captain, pouring them a drink as an indication that he was very interested in what they had to say.

Mack’s thoughts were already becoming difficult to hear, what with all the potential theories he’d somehow managed to come up with in under a minute. [Finally! Just when I was about to get back at them for ignoring all the hints I’ve been giving!]

The Captain couldn’t help but smile: the two investigators almost resembled schoolchildren who were excitedly waiting for their teacher to read them a story. A quiet chuckle escaped their throat as they took a sip of the offered alcohol, before they leaned back into the sofa and began to explain. . .