By the time the swanky tune of the saxophone played for the third rotation, it signaled the restart of Cole's playlist, the same playlist that was used on every Monday evening at the local pub. O'Reilly had become all too familiar with its thirty-three tracks.
Tipping their head back, they downed their drink; a light brown liquid swirling around a small mountain of cubed ice. The glass was modest in size, holding just enough alcohol to keep them on the edge of sobriety. The bitter burn as it slid down their throat was reminder enough that they didn't need more than that to satisfy their taste or numb their thoughts.
With a sharp clink, they set the empty glass down, catching their reflection in its surface. Compact and stout, O'Reilly's figure was wrapped in heavy, jagged metallic armor. Spikes lined their back, extending to their tail that swayed lazily beneath the booth they were currently sitting at. The scuffs and lack of sheen on their body showcased their need for a proper polish. They were severely long overdue for a bath and a buff. But that could wait. For now, there were other priorities.
Staring into the empty glass, they noticed that their blue eyes, which had once rivaled the morning sky, were now dulled and lifeless, weighed down by dark circles. A tie of matching color hung loosely around their neck, more an afterthought than an accessory. The slouch in their posture hinted at more than just fatigue; it was the look of someone burdened by a reality they couldn't quite shake.
"Hey, Dick!"
The voice snapped O'Reilly from their thoughts. They turned to the source, their eyes gazing at the Drednaw who owned the bar, Cole.
"Want more cola?" Cole asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm that oozed anything but playful. "Maybe you could even help out like you said you would."
"It's O'Reilly," they corrected, their voice gruff but cracking slightly at the edges.
"I know," Cole replied, exasperated. "I have the same name. We're brothers!"
O'Reilly sighed. Sure, they knew it, but maintaining an image was important, even when no one else seemed to care.
"Can you keep it down?" they grumbled, their voice pitched higher than they intended. "I'm working."
Cole raised a skeptical brow. "Working? You've been nursing the same drink for an hour."
"I'm looking for clients," O'Reilly said as they pulled a small paper box from their wallet and fished out a cigarette.
"You don't smoke."
"Shhh," O'Reilly hissed, placing the unlit cigarette in between their teeth. "It's for my image."
Cole stared, his unimpressed gaze cutting through O'Reilly's facade. "What do you want your imaginary clients to think you're drinking, anyway?"
"Scotch."
"Well, that's the wrong glass for scotch," Cole deadpanned, nodding toward the empty shot glass. "Also, it's too light to be scotch."
O'Reilly glanced at the glass and shrugged. "Oh."
"And, by the way, the bar's empty," Cole added. "The TV's busted, so everyone's gone to some other place to watch the Castelia Krabby's game."
Finally taking the time to look at their surroundings, O'Reilly noticed the bar was indeed quiet. Aside from an elderly couple swaying to the playlist in the corner, there wasn't a soul in sight.
Cole sighed as he slid into the booth across from his sibling. "Look, little brother, I don't doubt you're a talented detective. But maybe you should look for a job with a steady paycheck."
O'Reilly rolled their eyes. "I'd rather flip burgers than work with those corrupt, blue-blooded 'brothers.'"
"You don't have to be a cop," Cole said, leaning forward. "There are agencies—legit ones—that would love your experience."
"I work alone," O'Reilly muttered, rolling the cigarette between their teeth.
"Yet here you are, struggling to make ends meet," Cole countered, sliding out of the booth with a shrug. "If you could at least charge a respectable amount to your clients, then maybe you wouldn't constantly need money."
The Iron Armor Pokémon stared at their brother with an intense, dull expression that showed he nudged a sore spot. They gruffly state, "If someone needs help then I help them."
"Fine, suit yourself," the Bite Pokémon surrendered, turning his back to the steel-type. He had to check on the other customers in the room after all.
O'Reilly sighed as Cole walked away. Sure, they were proud—stubborn even—but their goal had always been clear: to help those in need, even if it meant scraping by. Offices and agencies didn't understand that kind of drive. They never do.
"Hey, Dick! Can you take your playlist off the soundbox?" Cole called from behind the counter. "I want to listen to Sabrina Carpenter!"
Rolling their eyes, O'Reilly plucked the unlit cigarette from their mouth and slipped it back into the box.
Three Months Later
"Thank you, dearie," Mrs. Grandma said softly, her voice was barely louder than a whisper. She gave O'Reilly a polite nod of gratitude. She's just a standard run of the mill elderly Aromatisse with a warm demeanor. She was best known for running a quaint candy shop all by herself. "Thanks to you, a horrid monster is now off the streets!"
The 'monster' in question was no more than a young Dolliv—barely sixteen by the looks of it. Her hands were bound in silver cuffs and she was being escorted out of the small store by an officer. The Olive Pokémon's face showed pure disbelief.
"It was just a few chocolate bars!" Dolliv protested, her voice tight with frustration.
O'Reilly placed an unlit cigarette between their teeth, giving the girl a flat, unimpressed look. "That's how it starts," they muttered, their tone sharp but detached. "A simple candy bar no one thinks twice about. But next thing you know, you're drifting down Cone Street at 150 miles, driving some beat-up '03 Sedan. The back seat? Stuffed with pointless junk you didn't need or even want, but it was there, easy to take."
Their steely gaze drifted to the wooden floor as they continued, ignoring the puzzled expressions around them. "What starts as a slap on the wrist turns into an addiction. Then it's bigger things. Maybe a bank. Maybe pickpocketing. Next thing you know, someone gets hurt, and your 'simple theft' turns into second-degree manslaughter."
"W-What?!" Dolliv stammered, her voice pitching up in disbelief.
O'Reilly leaned in, narrowing their cold, dull eyes. "I just saved you from a life of crime. Be grateful." With a dismissive turn, they plucked the cigarette from their mouth, scoffed, and gestured toward the officer. "Take her away, Copper."
"Okay," the officer replied with a nonchalant shrug, seemingly unfazed by the dramatic speech. He was well acquainted with O'Reilly enough to know this comes with the job. Wordlessly, he escorted the bewildered Dolliv out of the shop.
Once the door jingled shut behind them, Mrs. Grandma shuffled over, her arms wrapped around a box brimming with sweets. "Thank you again, dearie," she said warmly, placing the box in front of O'Reilly. "It's not much, but here's a little something for your troubles."
O'Reilly gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement, their expression as stoic as ever. "Much obliged." They were already halfway to the door when something on a nearby magazine rack caught their eye.
"What's this?" They muttered, stepping closer.
"Oh, that's a teen pop magazine!" Mrs. Grandma chirped, her cheeriness undeterred. "It's very popular with the younger crowd, especially girls."
But O'Reilly had already tuned her out. Their attention was fixed on the glossy cover. A glamorous Lopunny stood front and center beside a rugged-looking Sneasler, both posing against the backdrop of a pristine white cruise ship. The bold text across the bottom caught their eye:
"Travel the world to your heart's desire in this new reality TV series!"
"Cash prize for the winner: 1xxxxx…"
O'Reilly's gaze lingered on the absurd number of zeros trailing after the 1. A slow grin spread across their metallic face as they slid the cigarette back between their teeth.
"Well, now," they murmured, their voice low and amused. "How interesting."
Name: Dick O'Reilly
Species: Lairon
Age: 25
Sexuality: Asexual
Hometown: Castelia City, Unova
Created by: pyroau
Totally Real World Tour Contestants
1. O'Reilly the Lairon