1950s Noir AU based extremely loosely around an OC of mine from a different series. Think vintage, throw on some smooth jazz, put a black and white filter on your screen and enjoy.
Disclaimer: The antique style of the genre lends itself to certain outdated tropes and views, I've done my best in updating these with a more modern spin while still staying true to the themes and stylings. Want to make it clear that the story isn't representative of my values, I'm simply trying to emmulate the writing style and the feel of the 1950s.
They say this town is a place where you can make something of yourself, where you're one lucky break away from being the next big deal. Whoever these people are aren't wrong, they don't know that most of the time someone walks from away from a big deal worse off. I walk down my same old grimy street toward my office. The dregs of these big deals lurking in the gutters to beg for what I got spare, like every day I ignore them. These aren't my people, I just go where I need to go. Sure I could help, but being the giving type is a fast way to lose the shirt on your back or the shoes on your feet. Personally, I prefer to keep mine. This town can carve you up and leave nothing left, it's a lot more literal if you have nothing to shield you as you crunch through the sea of broken bottles and cigarette butts this part of town is built off of. The guys at the top don't care for the parts they don't need to see, so why should anyone else?
I get to my office easily enough each day, fumble for my keys and adjust my hat as even the crooked front feels the need for fight. Some days there'll be someone waiting in a dark corner to jump whoever they see, they know to leave me alone. Life here is risk-reward, they see a cheap suit in a run-down office and know the fight isn't worth the prize. It's just the way I like it. I slammed the door behind me, naturally it bounces back. Even when its already lost it still kicks, same mistake a lot of people make here. A second whack always does the trick, putting it in its place until the inevitable rematch when I leave. I walk through the wooden corridor and its flickering lights, never had the mind to replace the bulbs. Wouldn't make a difference if I did. I greet the desk outside my office, there for the assistant I've never had.
"Monarch, Private Detective," was etched into the glass of the door. The letters were brazen and bold once, now they're faded and a little washed up. A parallel for most who come here, I at least like to pretend I'm not one of them. This door has that same old whining creak as it swings open, I don't pay it much mind. I take a peek out on to the street through my blinds, I blow out the last drag of my cigarette as the sun makes it journey ever downward. Light itself shying away as broken streetlamps tried and failed to illuminate what's left. I feel my front pocket, I know there's nothing in it except an empty hip flask. A smart man would keep some essentials spare in his desk. As I rummage through it I'm reminded that I am not a smart man, the drawers having nothing to show except an empty bottle of whiskey and next month's rent. Emptiness seemed to be quite the theme for this office of mine, empty desk, empty open case file and empty man, how cliché. At least the ash tray had its fill, one of these days I'll empty that thing. Though without that burnt smell I don't know if my office would truly fit in with this side of town. Shouting was coming from outside, some big to do about someone owing someone else money. Big words flew around and if the night was in the mood, so would bullets. For some people that would be something to be concerned about, but for the likes of me. That was National City.
With not a whole lot else to do apart from wait for someone to knock on that door and throw a job my way, I took in the view of my office. Same stained ceiling, same empty desk and the same old dust gathering in the corners. Something new jumped out at me, an envelope was on the floor. I shuffled over, throwing my hat to the coat stand. I missed, it quietly plummeted to the floor into one the pools of dust. I could always pick it up later. My coat landed true, though it was precarious and would likely take a dive in a few minutes. I was satisfied enough, I always had a better aim with that thing anyway.
I bent down to pick up this intrusion to my office, whoever left it had slid it under the door. Apparently my front door only puts up a fight if you have a key for it, I always knew that thing had it in for me. The envelop itself was thick and blank. No smell to it, that was usually a sign that whoever left it wasn't after attention. No stray cigarette or aftershave making its way over suggested a level of care people don't usually think about. I tore it open, I rarely managed to open an envelope without wrecking the whole thing. Not the best trait for a man in my line of work. The thickness explained itself quickly enough, cash, and a lot of it. That could wait, there was more to be seen. Specifically, a photo and a short note. The note was in blue ink and had the type of handwriting you never saw in these parts, a lot of loops and flourishes. Sure it was fancy, but also a hell of a lot harder to read.
"Kara Danvers is missing. There's a photo and $500 dollars. An extra $2000 is waiting for you when she's found and safe."
No signature or letterhead were to be seen, a blank envelope and anonymous cash. For most, a job like this would send them running. Big money and no names screams set-up from a mile away, even a rookie with the dimmest bulb could tell you that one. Nevertheless, I had a look at the photo. At first it just looked like even more of set-up. Fair-haired, pretty young thing, glasses and an innocent dress sense. The type of girl who moves in from a backwater country town, National City would chew her up and spit her out before she could even order her first drink. If I had any way to write back to this benefactor, I'd simply tell them that this girl ran off with the first guy claiming to be a big shot or she was lying somewhere at the bottom of the ocean. I chuckled to myself, thinking whether to ditch the cash or play my luck and keep it somewhere out of sight. These thoughts faded away fast, something about the picture stuck in my head. I took a second look at it. Common sense told me to ditch this case in the first public trashcan I could find and spend some of my rent money on a new bottle of whiskey. Instead, this niggling instinct kept me holding that note. There was more to this dame and I wanted to know what it was. Not to mention an extra two grand wouldn't hurt, it would keep whatever the hell I was doing afloat for a long time yet.
I laid down the cash, letter and photo on my desk. I liked to pretend that glancing over them more would strike me with inspiration, or some common sense would kick in to sweep it all away. I leaned back in my chair and swung my feet up. I felt around my waistcoat pocket, the rough feel of it would be one of defeat for another man. For me the cheap suit was a victory, more of a reminder to stay on my toes over the expensive one that I hidden away somewhere in this wretched haven of mine. After some lazy pawing I found what I was looking for. The weight of the packet and the light patter of it bouncing around told me there was a solitary cigarette left in the damn thing. I flipped the lid and shrugged to myself. I was already out of whiskey, it seemed poetic to be out of cigarettes too. The match I struck up did a lot more to light the room than the sad bulb hanging from the ceiling. Whatever brand this was had rubbed off the packet a while ago, I dragged in the earthy taste of apathy and watched the smoke dance up to make its mark on the already patchy ceiling.
My eyes flitted between my empty open case file and the items on my desk. The dissenting voice of reason ran through my head. The overabundance of anonymity and information when it came to a missing person screamed one thing alone. This Danvers girl was dead and a putz was needed to start poking around. Said putz would follow a trail of breadcrumbs to the body, having asked too much and conveniently found in the wrong place at the wrong time. National City police department would swoop in, plant some evidence, lean on the putz 'til he confesses and then pat themselves on the back for a big solve and bigger headline. Whoever was funding this little endeavour would get to see that pretty little thing's photo on the front page. Reading about the creep behind bars and that the case was closed, absolved of sin for a mere $500. I took another drag and looked at the faded letters on my door, a place like mine certainly aired the desperation of a man who would fall for this play hook, line and sinker. No-one would care to fight for my innocence and National City would merrily claim another into its void. I slammed my hand onto the note, ready to scrunch it up for target practice with the bin in the corner of the room. I stopped myself, it was good quality paper. Sturdy and smooth, the kind any rich idiot with deep pockets would chuck around at degenerates like me without a second thought. I left the note be, gratifying it with another few moments of life as that ridiculous instinct dragged my gaze kicking and screaming to the photo again. It was those damn glasses.
Most men would look at this wide-eyed country girl, conclude naivety and think nothing more of it. The Sunday best dress-sense, tight ponytail and wide frames portraying the innocence of someone who had never known the stylings and cruelty of National City. These men were fools, never looking past the surface. A smart woman would know exactly this and play up to it, a perfect veil to fly under the radar. It was common folly of man to underestimate the fairer sex, they never picture the girl without the glasses outside of primitive fantasies. I looked at the photo at it seemed to be looking back, a look behind the glasses that said she knew the score. Whoever this girl was wouldn't fall for the average trappings of this hellhole, she was alive, no doubt about it.
I sucked in the last drag of my last cigarette, thinking on the one question that remained. If this little mystery was worth the hassle. The ash meandered down into the overflowing ashtray as I thought of all the reasons to leave this case alone. I put out my cigarette with intent, blowing up a puff of ash that tickled my nose. I swiped most of the cash into a desk drawer, the rest went into my wallet. I took one last glance at Kara Danvers before pocketing that photo too. The chair rolled back when I stood up, bouncing harshly against the back wall. I groaned as I bent down to pick up my hat and caught my coat just as it had made the decision to slide off the peg. I was once again merrily ignoring the path of the smart man. I took one last glance back at my sad, little office before my inevitable battle with the door would begin. That anonymous note now sat merrily in my open cases file. It was time to begin, it was back into the cold embrace of National City.