THE BEST PART ABOUT ME PASSING OUT FROM ALCOHOL so that I sleep for the night is that I never dream when I go to sleep drunk. It helps me deal with the trauma.
Loud pounding on my door wakes me up, and it isn't until I'm aware of my surroundings that the pain in my head decides to make its presence known.
Throbbing in my temple that can be traced down to the nerves behind my eyeballs. Pulsing, almost. Or something. It honestly just feels like someone is stabbing my eyes with a knife. The nausea is also there, but not as intense. I once heard that someone with abilities gets less hangovers, or rather, Captain America does. Rumors are weird.
A shame that I'm not a Super Soldier, though.
I need an aspirin. Or whatever the hell I can find to numb this pain because if I have to deal with this for the rest of the day, I'm gonna be pissed. I know I drink a lot, and should be used to the hangovers, but the intensity comes and goes, determinant on how much I drank the night before.
The pounding continues and I grunt, grabbing one of my boots off of the floor and throw it at the door, slightly-enhanced mid-air so it hits loud enough to startle the knocker.
"Inshallah, Allen!" Nimah's accented voice shouts as it makes impact on the door.
Not sure what the hell Nimah wants this early, but I suppose I get to find out.
"Jesus," I mumble to myself and pull myself out of bed.
Groggily walking towards the door while rubbing my eyes because they still hurt like a bitch, I open it to the frowning mechanic with crossed arms. "It's too early for this shit."
"It's the middle of the day, Crystal," she retorts and I wince at the volume of her voice.
Nimah rolls her eyes at me while shaking her head in disapproval. At least, I think it's disapproval. Nimah's sort of an enigma when it comes to her emotions, but I swear that it's in disapproval. "Inshallah, pull yourself together. You look like you just got out of a bar fight, just without the bruising and blood."
Glaring at her, I sigh, "what do you want, Nimah?"
She pushes past me to enter my apartment and I begrudgingly let her do so. We're on nice enough terms for me to let her do this.
"I was wondering if you would like to help me with something," she begins as she takes a seat on my kitchen counter.
Nice, Nimah. Get your ass on my counter. So nice of you.
"If this is about the argument with your boyfriend, I'm not getting involved unless you pay me," I say, shutting down any plan she had in mind. I don't do freebies.
"Oh, come on, Crystal. We're friends enough for you to do that!" She practically shouts in defiance. I wince again. "Sorry," she murmurs.
I roll my eyes, "hey, a girl's gotta make a living out here, and giving away freebies does away with that. I don't have an IOU policy."
"You should have one for friends," she says with a snort. "You know, if you ever make any."
I raise my brows waiting for her to add another dig at me, but she doesn't. So I simply respond with, "I will drag you out of that door by your foot, do not test my patience."
"Hey, it could be good for business!"
I stare at her in disbelief. There is no way she is this stupid. "You know damn well why I won't."
She shrugs, "I just wanted a reaction."
"Yeah, and you got one. Now, if that's all you wanted—"
I'm interrupted by another round of knocking on the door. Great, more people to make my already shitty start of the day more shitty.
"We're not done with this conversation," I say to Nimah as I walk to the door. I open it and there she is, dressed to impress and all.
Dark red hair hangs from below a gray sun hat, and on her face are big, bulky sunglasses. Designer, I think. Not sure what brand, but designer glasses are designer glasses. She has emerald earrings – they're distinct, not in the sense that she's rich and has fancy earrings, but they're emerald. Not many choose these jewels at this point – diamonds are a girls' best friend, and all that. Even then, Wakanda's sort of put itself on the market with selling jewelry made custom in their country. But emeralds? This is different.
Her lips are painted a dark red, almost as if she was trying to be seductive, and the right corner of her mouth is lifted a tiny bit, offering the smallest hint of a smirk.
While I can't see her eyes, I wonder if it's intentional. Maybe to disguise her identity. The sunglasses are tinted quite dark, making my case more solid.
Her outfit is more classy than I expect someone coming to me to wear. It's a summer dress; thin straps that diverge into a seemingly form-fitting dress. It's hard to say just how much it fits her form because the over-compensating fur coat she's wearing does a good job of being a nice addition.
"Hello," she says. Her voice is soft yet accented, but I can't place the accent. It's so familiar I can almost visualize the origin, but nothing comes to mind immediately.
"Can I help you?" I ask, trying to not show visible disdain for the woman.
"Are you Crystal Allen?" She asks.
"Yes."
"Is this your office?"
"Yes."
"I apologize," she begins, "I wasn't sure if it was and I would feel very rude if I was intruding in your home."
Right. Because you're not intruding regardless.
"My office is in the main space of my apartment," I say, tilting my head a bit to show her the desk.
"I'm terribly sorry to stop by without an appointment, but—" I interrupt her sentence.
"Yeah, this is kind of a bad time. I'm sort of in the middle of something," I say, not really wanting to give out more information than I need to.
"Please," she begs, her tone shifting into pleading almost instantly, "I need your help to find someone."
"I'm sure," I say, preparing to tell her to 'fuck off' and shut the door.
"You were highly recommended," she quickly says, which catches my attention.
"By who?" I ask, growing more suspicious by the second.
"From locals. I'm not from around here," she explains.
That would explain the accent, obviously.
"Look, lady, you can schedule an appointment and I'll—"
"I was sent to you by Jessica Drew. She said you're good at your job, and I'm looking for my brother, and I..." She stammers, her tone wavering, "I don't know who else to turn to."
"My sympathies," I say.
"Please," she begs again, "please, help me. I don't know who else to turn to. No one else takes me seriously once I tell them what I know."
Now that intrigues me.
"Alright, I'll hear you out," I say, motioning for her to come into my apartment. From the corner of my eye, I see Nimah hop off of the counter and it seems like she's taken this as her cue to leave. Without a word, she slips out before the door closes.
The woman comes in, fiddling with her hands, and I motion for her to take a seat at an empty chair in front of my desk. She does so.
"So..." I say, taking a seat in the seat behind my desk, "start at the beginning and take your time."
She pauses and takes a breath, "my brother, Elijah..."
After trailing off, seemingly like she is trying to find what words to use, she laughs; it's a dry one.
"I'd be lying if I said we got along," she says, "we fight a lot. But when we need each other, we're there. We used to joke that maybe he wasn't really my brother, and that maybe he was adopted because we're so different from one another, and it's fine, and all, but you know what I mean?"
She takes a breath and I don't speak, wanting her to keep talking. It helps me paint a better picture if I let them ramble all of their thoughts out without me trying to put them in a box.
She continues, "the thing with us – the thing that has always stood out with us is that he is very charismatic, good with people. I am too, but not like he is. He knows how to charm any crowd and can really wow the socks off of anybody he's in a room with. I'm better suited when it comes to men because, well, look at me, I'm pretty and I know how to use it. But him... He's so good with anyone."
"And I'd be lying if this didn't add to the tension between us. Because he's so good at handling people, he's a politician. So this starts many fights with us because I never know when he's not playing politician. He talks and he talks and he talks..." She sighs, and then continues speaking, "and it's all a big game to him. And so while we're like this, we always had an agreement: if something goes wrong in our lives, we are there. No BS."
"He called me, a few weeks ago, and it's really out of character," she practically whispers and now I know we're going into territory that the other private eyes didn't believe, "and he tells me. 'Amanda, I've met this girl with powers, and she's amazing, you have no idea,' and I thought it was odd, not only because he called me, but because... Not to be that person, but my brother is against anyone with powers. He doesn't believe in anything that isn't pro-human, like the Gaian Party. He's a member of it, a high ranking one too. But so he tells me that she's amazing and all of this good stuff. Then he adds that she's a former vigilante and that every time they get together, it's like she compels him or something."
I try not to show it on my face, but this is weirding me out. I'd heard of people that, for lack of better terms, compel people. I've experienced ones that have had issues with psionic linking. But a former vigilante, who has abilities, meeting with someone who affiliates with the Gaian Party? That's not coincidental.
"So anyway, I congratulated him and he was just so excited, and told me that he'd be meeting her here, in New York, for a lavish date because he didn't wanna take her somewhere up in D.C. It was 'too bureaucratic' for a nice date. He wanted something flashy," she explains, "and I asked him how long he had known her, and get this. He only said two weeks. Two weeks and he was doing all of this for her. So not wanting to start a fight, I didn't say anything. But I knew in my gut it was weird."
"He went on the date, and then, he never got back with me. I figured he would since calling me was odd enough. And weeks went by and there was nothing. I called him, multiple times and I didn't get an answer. So I called his assistant, who works in one of the embassies, and she said he hadn't been there in weeks because he had quit. I asked her when he had quit, and it's so weird. He quit the day after he called me." She shakes her head, clearly still in disbelief, and continues, "so I called him one more time, and when I did the last time, it told me the number was disconnected. So, fearing for my brother's life, I booked a plane here, set up rent for an apartment, and started meeting with private eyes to try and find him. And everyone stopped listening to me at the compel part. They told me, 'you're being paranoid; superheroes don't compel people.' And I felt like I was being gaslit. Then I heard from Jessica that you're a private eye who is kind of... Off the record and not so up the corporations around here's ass. And I had to meet you."
I hold up a hand to stop her from talking.
"Alright. Here's the thing – if what you're saying is right, and what you're saying implies a lot, then there is a small chance your brother has been kidnapped. This does happen, especially when you come to New York and don't know the area," I explain as calmly as I can.
"It does?" Her voice cracks and I nod.
"Not as often as it may seem like I'm saying, but yes, it does. And if this is the case, I'll have to get in touch with a lot of my resources to see what I can dig up. But if this isn't the case..." I say, already regretting going down this line of thought for my own mental health.
"What's the worst case scenario?" She asks, without missing a beat.
"He was killed by a rogue telepath," I say and before she can ask, I explain, "they're people with powers who use their psionic abilities to harm men and women; they tend to get off on it like it's a drug. People with powers like to keep it under wraps, but I have experience dealing with some. If one hurt your brother, there's not much I can do."
Amanda takes a moment and a single tear rolls down her left cheek, "I don't... I don't know what to say."
"Well, I'm gonna do what I can to find your brother. Okay?"
She stammers and I keep talking, to give her time to pull herself together.
"I'm going to need some info from you. Your information, so I can contact you about leads or clues, and then his. I need everything you can spare about him. Then lastly, there's the matter of the price," I say as polite as I can manage. It's probably still a little sharp.
"Okay," she whispers, "I can pay whatever you charge."
And just like that, I have my first interesting case in a very long time.