[attr="class","nikita"]Nikita was a man of many talents. He studies many subjects in-depth and is often consulted for things outside the crime realm. Things like botany, entomology, and even astronomy have helped in cases. But—though he enjoys learning—he does not do so for its own sake. It is a means to an end. The key for the proverbial lock of a case.

But he despises asking for help. To him, most people are insufferable. They are content to languish in the depths of their own inadequacy for months or years on end. So, it’d taken him a lot to text Morrigan off of the number on her website.

But he had no intention of putting months into the translation and study of fairytales. He could think of a thousand other things he’d like to study. Including how it felt to run his hands across every brand of cheese grater.

When he reaches the fish market, his lips press into a frown. Unfortunately, his years of nicotine reliance haven’t damaged his olfactory nerves. The smell of fish permeates the air. The sky above is filled with the silhouettes of Wingull, Cramorant, and the occasional Mandibuzz.

It’s the woman’s dual-colored hair that catches his eyes first. For a moment, he stands nonchalant at a nearby street corner. He watches her subtly through inscrutable gray eyes. He sends his Houndstone forward to get closer, the ghost type fading out of visibility.

He takes not of her gait, her posture, and her general expression. Nikita watches where her hands touch and the way she touches her phone and body. Most importantly, however, he looks for potential threats—the lump of a hidden gun, the shivering air of a ghost type.

Seeing none of these things, the detective strides forward. “Good afternoon, Miss Cahill.” As always, it sounds the opposite. If there was an antonym next to ‘good afternoon’ in the dictionary, it’d show Nikita. His hound flickers into being beside him. “I am surprised you picked such an…odious place to meet.”

[attr="class","samjerpoke"]

[attr="class","nikitatag"] Morrighan Cahill

[attr="class","morrighancahill"]

[attr="class","nikita"]Skeletal fingers wrap gently around Morrighan’s hand. Those keen eyes continue to take in her figure. He notes the way her collar lays and how it stands out from the crowd. He wonders at the psychology of such a fey choice. A desire for attention, perhaps? A hunger to escape the world around them? Quite likely considering the woman’s profession. “Missus Cahill.” His head dipped slightly in acknowledgment.

Nikita does not return her niceties. It would be a lie, and he’s far too tired for that. Bony fingers spread across the top of the chair opposite the writer. But he does not move to pull it out. There is a finality in sitting down for a conversation.

He is grateful cigarettes have eroded his sense of smell. If he were to ask Winters, he did not doubt the smell would bother him. “There are better ways to introduce novelty, Miss Cahill.” As she outlines the tenets of their deal, the older man sighs. “I remember our deal.” There were numerous cases he had not shared with the public. There was no doubt one of the vapid tales would entertain this woman. “My faculties are quite intact, I assure you.”

At the talk of drinks, the detective is surprised to find himself thirsty. “I shudder to think what these fishmongers call a beverage.” Dipping into his wallet, he offers a few bills to Winters. Empty sockets meet his companion’s eyes. Though illegible to many, Nikita seems quite fluent in void. “Find something palatable, please.” The dog vanishes in a burst of ethereal shadows.

Nikita finally takes a seat.

[attr="class","samjerpoke"]

[attr="class","nikitatag"] Morrighan Cahill

[attr="class","morrighancahill"]

[attr="class","nikita"]“I do not think that likely.” Nikita murmurs detachedly. “In thirty years, this is the first killer who peddles in fairy tales.” There’s a disdainful little sniff at the last two words. As if the idea of children’s stories are beneath him. As if it’d not been six years ago when he mumbled his way through Goldilocks and the Three Bears to his youngest son.

“And no one sees me for pleasure.” People who came to him—in most cases—were having a very bad time.

The woman’s next words earn a nod. “In most cases, yes.”

An uncharacteristic burst of profanity erupts as a Wingull divebombs him. "GUGUGUGUGULLLLLL!" Its beak grabs at his ponytail, jerking his head painfully back. All around the square, similar horrors erupt. His arms bat at the angry bird Pokemon with force. It darts away with a string of black hair in its mouth. Grabbing his laptop bag, he smacks away the Cramorant trying to get at Morrigan’s eyes.

Across the square, Winters is fighting his own battle. The smoothes he grabbed are now coloring his bleached bones orange.

“It seems story time will have to wait.” Then, he’s fighting off the hungry, desperate birds around him. Finally, after a bird tears a hole in his button-up, he manages to get ahold of another Pokeball.

From it, a bright green Kleavor emerges. A swing of its stone axes sends the birds around his trainer crashing to the ground.

[attr="class","samjerpoke"]

[attr="class","nikitatag"] Morrighan Cahill

[attr="class","morrighancahill"]