They call me Pete Ingalls. They should - it's my name, and it's the one tastefully set on the frosted glass on my office door, right over the words "Privte Investgatr." (I keep meaning to get those letters replaced.) What I lack in funds and polygons I make up for in grit. I'm the one you come to when the cops aren't interested. When people walk through that door, it's because they've knocked on every other one in town.
There are a million stories in the naked city, and in every one of them someone ends up dead and someone else wants me to find out why. Every case is different. Every case is the same. It's almost like I'm trapped in some kind of horrible nightmare, with my new gigs being spit out of an automaton - a few different seedy dives and old apartments for me to crawl around in, a few names changed to protect the guilty. When I get my three bones a day, it generally means I'll be hunting clues, dodging slugs, and using my own special skills to make someone talk. Those skills including walking around a lot and talking to people.
I'm pretty dapper as gumshoes go. Other detectives might be two-bit, but I've managed to get all the way to eight. On occasion I'll bring my best friends in on a case, Mister Smith and Mister Wesson. But usually it's better to run away - gunslinging in two dimensions is tougher than it looks. Sometimes it's hard to remember that my decisions are real and permanent, and that when I shoot some poor sap he stays dead.
I don't always get my man before my client runs out of patience. And if I don't get the goods, I don't bring home the bacon. Justice is a hard thing to work for, but putting bread on your table will motivate a man to be downright hard-boiled. Tomorrow there'll be another story and another case. As long as that story lands on my desk next to two-point-nine-nine greenbacks and an Android 2.0 or better device, I'll take it. And if you're coming to me, that's all you'll need - there's no line marked "IAP" on my bill.