(Page 1 of 5) Isis Maxis, Investie not for Hire(part 1) by Marc Stott
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SUMMARY: Someting definitely different than frequencies, it's a different type of Investigator tale, which started humorous but then took a life of its own. I have to admit it was a unique sight. The papers flying over my head in an obscure dance pattern. Seeing bits of wall being removed in front of me in small chunks of seemingly their own accord. The floor vibrating with an emotion all of its own. The loud echo of a repeating Mark2 rifle dancing in my ears without pause. Adding to that the screaming of said person who was using repeating Mark2 rifle, and the thudding pounding that echoed through the desk I was hiding behind, like a manager who had just had the most stressful day of his life to take his frustrations out on, and my day
was about complete. I can honestly say it was a sight to behold. Not to like necessarily, but to behold.
"Can we go home now?" the voice shouted beside my ear. I looked at the person who would utter such an insightful comment. A semi-insightful Avery was crouched beside me, holding his holo-camera as though it were a newborn. His brown hair
hung over his head like a lawn that had gone without water for a year. Actually, lawns that had gone a year without water were more pleasant to look it. His narrow face ended almost in a point in his chin, and his hazel eyes were paling with just such a slight(or not so slight)anxiety.
"What a fine, idea Ave. Let's just ask the nice man if he can calmly put down the gun so we can ask him what miraculous event happened that he could hold such a gun, given that he's been collecting injury insurance for oh, about the past year. I think we could have a nice chat about that, don't you?" I smiled my biggest sarcastic grin. I was hoping he would notice my subtle sarcasm. He did of course.
"Geez, Isis, you have to get so--" the rest of his words were cut off by more blaster fire. I covered my hands over my head cursing. My said hands just a few moments ago were holding a small hand blaster given to me by my boss for protection. It was lying down on the job about three feet away from me. Unfortunately, it was also in the direct path of the incoming fire. It was either lose my hands trying to get a weapon, or keep my hands to be manicured another day. I chose the latter. I would have liked to say I just had my hair done that day, (as well as a much needed manicure) but that would be lying, as I canceled that appointment just so I could get shot at. One has to have priorities I suppose. That's me, Isis Maxis. I'm the one here with the red curly hair and the blue eyes. I'm the one wearing the suit and blouse that is currently getting covered in plaster. I'm the one who is trying to get her hands on my handgun so I can at least take part in the current party. Oh yeah, I'm also an investigator. No, not a private investigator, an Insurance Investigator. You know, personal injury claims, "accidental" death or dismemberments or things that appear to be such. You know, anyone trying to make fast money with an easy exit of an extremity, or through a deluge of death. Enough with the alteration, you're probaby asking yourself "so, Isis, how does an Insurance Investigator (or Investie in slang) get herself into wonderful company?" Actually, you probably aren't asking that, unless you happen to be a superior reading this report, seeing as they are the only ones who can usually get access to them.
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