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It was the year 1929: a time of celebrations, gangsters, and absurd mysteries. It was an unknown day in a forgotten month, and the office of Timothy Drake, P.I., was dark, the fancy lamp dim and flickering. For some undeclared reason, an explosive thunderstorm had begun a few minutes before out of nowhere, and rain smeared across the one window overlooking the grey city. Timothy paid no heed to it all; as it was, he had his chair tilted back, head resting against the wall behind his varnished hardwood desk, mouth hanging slightly open. A soft snore issued forth from his mouth.
Without warning, the door to his office was thrown open viciously, the frosted windowpane on the door shattering noisily. A wild war cry tore out of Timothy's throat as he up in surprise, accidentally overbalancing his chair and promptly falling out of it. Cassandra, his well-meaning secretary, stared, eyes wide. "Oh, um, sorry, Mister Drake," she laughed nervously, her hand behind her head. "Didn't mean to cause property damage – again." She tittered, albeit insecurely, then coughed. "Oh, and there's a pretty, obligatorily bewildered young lady here to request your assistance." That said, she smiled desperately, hauling a handsome young man with unruly black hair and light facial growth into the room. The young detective had, by then, hastily climbed back to his feet, and his eyebrows merged with his hairline. "Oh!" Cassandra quickly shoved the chiseled young man back into the hallway, grinning a grimacing sort of smile at Timothy. "I'll call you later, Kon," she leaned behind the door, then popped back into the office. "This is," she pulled in a lovely young lady in a smooth overcoat, "Secret."
An unexpected flash of lightning tore through the stormy night sky, illuminating the room brilliantly as an ominous smash of thunder exploded. All present looked up and around as the thunder rolled on for an unnecessarily long amount of time. "Well," Timothy blinked, "that is definitely new." He turned his attention back to Cassandra, who was blinking rapidly, and the ethereally pretty girl beside her.
Silken light hair bobbed according to the latest style framed an innocent face, set with a pair of sparkling eyes. A black veil covered the upper part of her face, cutting off just above the tip of her nose. He was dimly aware that he was gaping at her and she, thinking there was something the matter with her appearance, anxiously adjusted her creamy white hat, dabbing at the pale paint on her lips. Her overcoat was a light grey, the white shirt and skit under it cut fashionably. Obviously, she was from a well-to-do family – and not unattractive, as his hormones insisted upon telling him. As if he hadn't already figured that out.
"Ah, hello," he offered her his hand, eyes locked with hers. Cassandra exited discreetly as Secret stepped forward, shaking his hand with a smile. "Please," he motioned to the chair before his desk, "do take a seat." Secret did so, with unconscious elegance, crossing her legs and smoothing over her coat, tucking the loose lapels between her thighs and the arms of the chair. Timothy swallowed, continuing with: "Would you mind sharing with me what your…dilemma is?"
Fiddling around with her hands, eyes cast downward, she bit her lower lip, lifting a hand to tuck loose strands of her soft hair behind her ears. "I received a note the other night and," she swallowed thickly, eyes tearing up, "my parents were dead in the morning. The note…had given me clues as to who would be killed: I didn't understand it until after." She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Timothy reached across his desk, clasping her other hand in his and squeezing it comfortingly. She smiled wanly, taking a deep breath. "Last night, I received another note. I think I may be the murderer's next victim."
A crash of thunder echoed sinisterly, without a bolt of lightning preceding it. Instead, the dagger-like streak of sizzling electricity followed the thunder.
"That's something you don't see everyday," Timothy remarked with an arched eyebrow.
Sudden, blazing orchestra music boomed warningly for a total of five seconds, bouncing off the walls of the room. Secret and Timothy stared at each other and the male of the two snatched up a paperweight, hefting it as he made his way around the desk, grasping her elbow with his free hand. "Let's go," he suggested quickly.
"Where to?" Secret questioned, a sweetly curious look on her face.
"To meet a contact of mine," he assured her, leading her to the door after he clicked off his office's one lamp. He paused before following her out glancing around his blackened office. "Weird," he muttered, shaking his head.
Timothy was careful enough to close the door once they entered the hallway.
Both politely averted their eyes from where Cassandra and Kon were practicing the horizontal tango, on an insanely small bench.
"What can I get you?" Anita smiled her prettiest smile, the one she kept on reserve. Her outfit, a knee-long dress with short sleeves, was astonishingly immaculate considering the establishment she served within. Bit then again, the bar resembled a diner with all of its shimmering cleanliness, every surface sparkling and gleaming almost blindingly. All of it was a side effect of Cissie's near obsession with a well-maintained atmosphere.
Lobo, of course, could care less about how perfectly clean the bar was, so long as 'his girl' continued to work there. "Th' usual, 'Nita-love," he smirked, and she nodded, turning to Cissie, only to find the unhealthily strong drink was already prepared. Anita blinked, shrugged, and slid the drink over the counter to the tough-as-nails gangster.
"God, I hate this stupid suit," he muttered darkly, tugging at the stiff collar of the horrid pin-stripe suit, eyes flashing dangerously.
Out of nowhere, a dark shadow detached itself from the far wall and launched towards the cheerily painted glass doors, cackling maniacally until it ran into the wall next to the door. Cissie groaned and tossed aside the fluffy towel she was using to rub frantically at an already spotless countertop. "Damn it! How many times have I told him not to drunk unsupervised amounts of coca-cola? But nooo, he has to got and drink the whole barrel, and steal the Bad Guy's cloak, to top it all off!"
Stalking over to the crumpled shadow, she whipped the black cloak off, revealing a lean young man with bushy hair and over-sized feet. Immediately, he leapt to his said over-sized feet, crying, "I am Archduke Ferdinand! My claim to the throne is indisputable!" With a kooky debonair air, he twirled the thin, odd black mustache lining his upper lip triumphantly. Purely by chance, he tore the half he was twirling straight off and yelped as the sensitive flesh reddened, trying desperately to stick it back on. He succeeded – if plastering it on lopsided and partly up his left nostril could be considered to be success.
Cissie sighed, saying, "Sorry, Bart." With that, she whapped him, hard and painfully, on his head, catching his suddenly out-cold form and dragging him across the waxed floor, behind the counter, and into the backroom. "You aren't supposed to enter the story until later, doofus!"
"Did they use the word 'doofus' in 1929?" Anita asked Lobo, her dark curly hair falling around her shoulders. Impatiently, she brushed the thick locks out of her way.
Lobo shrugged. "Dunno."
The doors flew open and a skeletal finger of lightning created a halo of bright light at the back of the man and woman standing in the doorway; thunder followed by half a second and another burst of orchestra music boomed out.
"That is growing immensely irritating," Timothy spoke conversationally to Secret.
She, in reply, lifted a hand to her hat and overturned it, pouring a roaring stream of water out of it: her hat drooping from being soaked with rainwater.
Five minutes later, Lobo glanced down at the thigh-high pool of water rapidly rising. "Not that I'm worried or nuthin'," he began casually, watchin as Anita got ready to climb up on to the counter, "but is this normal?"
Someone in the back yelled "Shark!" and Anita shrieked, glomping Lobo and dragging them both underwater.
"This is definitely getting out of hand," Cissie grumbled, lifting a deliriously singing Bart above the water's surface.