Post by ATTICUS SPADE on Jun 25, 2015 3:56:52 GMT -6
ATTICUS SPADE
179 ♦ MALE ♦ PANSEXUAL ♦ SNAKE ♦ DETECTIVE ♦ FINNÉ
PERSONALITY
POSITIVE. Smooth talker. Tells convincing fabrication. Classy. Suave. British gentleman. Analytical, logical, but can be philosophical at times. Easygoing, laid-back.
NEGATIVE. A big liar. Random. Cunning if he wants to be. Hard to comprehend. Rarely makes a good first impression.
NEGATIVE. A big liar. Random. Cunning if he wants to be. Hard to comprehend. Rarely makes a good first impression.
HISTORY
This place is dead.
Buried, breathless, bloodless;
Chilled, cold, cadaverous;
Erased and extinct.
Still, it is there; existing.
But this place is dead.
It's dead.
Buried, breathless, bloodless;
Chilled, cold, cadaverous;
Erased and extinct.
Still, it is there; existing.
But this place is dead.
It's dead.
The most memorable image Atticus kept seeing in his mind was of the waters; of the ocean gleaming in the sun, dappling the antique brickwork of the city's gorgeous buildings with gold.
Maybe it wasn't even something he recalled. Maybe it was something he made up out of everlasting boredom, having to spend a lot of his time just staring at either his ceiling or the town beyond his window. Well, what can you say; he had lived for more than a hundred years. Enough time for an old man to go senile. Heck, maybe he was already psychologically messed up by then. But he knew he would never find out - his detective instincts told him so - and he was never a fan of analyzing questions and puzzles that had no answer to them. Wasted effort.
In Atticus' study, a log fire burned in the grate. In front of it was a trio of dogs sleeping soundly.
Apart from the occasional doggy snore or the crackle of the shifting log, there were no other sounds but the ticking of the grandfather clock by the door. Small and private noises which only served to define the silence. The only speaking done as of then happened in the self-proclaimed hard-boiled detective's head - about how he didn't know whether to be jealous of time or to feel superior to it; for time moved forward as steadily as the ticking of the clock's second hand, while he stayed forever young, ignoring time's advances on all beings.
He seemed to have forgotten a significant part of his memory. Or, at least, it was a blur to him.
The only things that let him know of his past achievements as a first-class private detective were the meaningless certificates and awards he had earned (perhaps; he couldn't remember), which had been neatly arranged on the wooden shelves put against the surrounding walls. The words on the paper certificates had faded alongside time's stable progress. Stains formed on the framed black and white photographs from time's dripping sweat. At this point he was quite ready to acknowledge that he might very well not be himself anymore. And yet, he still recognised himself.
His thought had brought yet another deafening silence upon the room...
Until someone else cleared his throat. The sound suggested very clearly that the purpose of the exercise was not to erase the presence of a troublesome bit of biscuit stuck in throats occasionally, but merely to indicate in the politest possible way the presence of another throat in the room.
Atticus stopped reminiscing but did not turn around to face this presence.
Then, after what appeared to be some consideration, he said in a monotonous voice, "What can I do for you tonight?"
-----
A detective's work is tough, and the profession's opportunities even more so.
Sometimes one needs to swallow one's pride and resort to doing odd jobs for some coins instead of indulging oneself in the analysis of crime scenes and tracking down of suspects. Like what the self-proclaimed hard-boiled detective Atticus Spade had been doing for years. After all, detectives know the value of money down to every penny, and it's always nice to have more to spare.
"Sir, why don't you just go to the casino to earn some cash? You can easily quadruple your current asset in just a night. Your luck is phenomenal in poker games," said his assistant.
"I'm allergic to irregularities," Detective Spade replied while petting his Doberman Pincher, "And casinos reek of irregularities."
-----
A detective prefers to work alone.
"Meet my lovelies, ladies and gentlemen. These are Bloodhound, Pincher, and Beagle, from left to right. They aid me in my job. I don't like to work all by myself because I get lonely, you know. Besides, these guys are at the very top of their class when it comes to chasing and tracking the guilty. Great companions, too."
-----
A detective's life is always filled with questions, and very rarely with answers.
"This is why I don't answer questions. I question questions."
-----
A detective should always keep his workspace tidy.
It's simple respect for clients and guests alike.
"...Why are there dust and spider webs attached on your desk, sir?"
"Hahahah! Because... I never do my paperwork. I used to do it, but... Just not anymore. Also, I don't clean up. Cleaning is not manly."
-----
Detectives always seek the truth.
"But it gets more difficult when you know there isn't just one truth to every event that occurs," Detective Spade said. "The truest truth is the truth, but you can never know what it is. Your truth, my truth, and his truth don't make up the truth, you know. No one knows it exactly. But I can find it, because it's my job."
-----
Detectives don't lie.
"That's a lie. In fact, this proves that the statement is originally created by a living, breathing person - because all people lie."
-----
A detective smokes tobacco with his pipe.
But not Detective Spade. He just occasionally puts a pipe in his mouth for show. There is no way he will ever let anybody know that he had almost gotten deader (not suicide, since he's dead already) attempting to charismatically smoke tobacco with his pipe.
-----
Detectives are liquor addicts.
"Get me vodka, newbie."
"But, sir, you only drink water, tea, or orange juice. And a cup of warm milk before bed."
-----
Detectives are proper gentlemen.
Atticus Spade is still on his way to earn the title, and he will probably never come close to earning it until he starts to learn how to open doors with his hands for the ladies. And for himself.
"But my arms are my legs and arms, and my legs my arms and legs; so are my hands my feet and hands, and my feet my hands and feet."
"So are your savings your repair expenses when you decide to kick doors open, sir."
-----
To sum it all up, detectives? Are just detectives.
Some are hard-boiled, others are ordinary. Some are geniuses, others are ordinary.
And Atticus Spade is the only highly capable half-boiled detective you'll ever find.
OTHER
PLAYER BACKGROUND. I was ecstatic and stared at my phone's screen as I frantically flailed my arms, eyes widened with disbelief at the fact that Zel and Sam left us messages on the shoutbox. I was so overwhelmed with nostalgia and fond memories of the site that I had failed to realize the anomalies in my immediate surroundings. Though the tiny buildings I did recognize, it took me some time to notice that the writings on the store banners proudly displayed above the uniquely decorated entrances were backwards. The plants had bushes that I normally saw, but their flowers and fruits were nothing like what I knew. The cold winter air quickly crept from the ground I stood on right up to my head in less than what I figured was a second. Was this mirror world of some sort? Had I replaced Alice in her burdensome role in this madness inside of the reverse Wonderland?
"Greetings."
A voice broke the silence I had filled my entire being with, encouraging me to turn towards the source as fast as my knee-jerk reaction would allow. A man (or was it a woman? It was hard to tell!) with a dark top hat that soared to the emptiest of the blackest night sky stood a few feet away from me; a figure so tall and skinny, it rendered the purpose of the unusually heightened top hat redundant.
"My name is Shambala," he said, "And I have trapped you here."
PLAY BY. PERSONA 4 - YOSUKE HANAMURA - ATTICUS SPADE
"Greetings."
A voice broke the silence I had filled my entire being with, encouraging me to turn towards the source as fast as my knee-jerk reaction would allow. A man (or was it a woman? It was hard to tell!) with a dark top hat that soared to the emptiest of the blackest night sky stood a few feet away from me; a figure so tall and skinny, it rendered the purpose of the unusually heightened top hat redundant.
"My name is Shambala," he said, "And I have trapped you here."
PLAY BY. PERSONA 4 - YOSUKE HANAMURA - ATTICUS SPADE