"The usual, Al?"

He lifted his hand from the countertop, the sticky residue of cooking grease and strawberry jam on the tip of his fingers. Barb hadn't cleaned the counter this morning. Big surprise. Tony dropped freshly cut onions on the grill, the sizzling deceptively satisfying to hear. If you could see past the smudged windows and the quaint sign at the front, you might think this was a nice diner. One need only eat the eggs to realize the enormity of the mistake. But the coffee was good, the people left you alone, and the food was deservedly cheap. 

Alcander raised his other hand and pushed a wave of his tangled hair out of his face. He hadn't found the time for a haircut in months. One crackhead had creatively said he was LARPING as an apostle, which he guessed was not too outlandish. But it did get him to shave, at least. Before he opened his mouth, his phone vibrated audibly on the counter. He lifted it up and gave it a cursory glance. He took a moment and nodded. 

"Yeah Barb, put it in a cup." 

The weather had cleared, the sun peaking intermittently through the fleeing clouds, leaving the decrepit stink of the city wafting as clear to the senses as the food at the diner. He had grown used to it, passing the offices and apartments that littered the business sector of the city. He sipped his order, letting the coffee heat his belly as he walked the three blocks from the diner to the crime scene. He finished just before he found the alley, tossing the cup in a corner bin and clearing his throat. 

"El," He said by say of greeting. Alcander was an unassuming figure, his lean greyhound frame hidden by the large overcoat he wore day by endless day. Passed his hair, his face was finely formed, but the bags under his eyes and the weathered look to his face betrayed the fact he hadn't slept six hours in two days. His eyes glanced down at the corpse, then flew upwards. 

"Well, he didn't fall. At least..." He wrinkled his nose as the smell of refuse and piss finally hit him. The detective looked straight up at the sky, as if the clouds had answers. -not off the roof." 

Alcander wasn't shaken easily. Not anymore, at least. He felt at home when looking at mangled corpses, which was a bit of therapy he would have looked into, in another life.

"His arms aren't aligned in the way one might try and shield themselves from a fall." He explained, taking a pen out of his jacket and dipping it into the black sludge that had accumulated along the uneven pavement the government so generously kept up to standard, as far as they told the taxpayers. Even a man committing suicide would instinctually try to block his head from striking the hard ground. He scooped up a bit of the alien liquid, fishing in his jacket with his free hand and producing a lighter. The small metallic click accompanied the flame, and he raised the coated pen, gingerly placing the flame beneath it. 

The black sludge erupted in flame, which swiftly turned a sickly green, illuminating Alcander's face, his dark irises glowing with a muted forest color. "Could be wyvern bile, or maybe even cockatrice blood. I'll know better once Jo runs some tests." 

He dropped the pen even as it dematerialized, the flame somehow spreading the ichor across its length, as if it made the flame [i]hungry[/i].