E.R.A Noir: Part I

“Coffee,” my boss announced as he placed the stained white mug atop my cubicle desk.

I nodded, as if I had an option. “Thanks.” Cold night, cold rain, cold room–at least the brew was still warm. The only one to get a dark roast to taste somewhat different from bitter dirt broth in this entire staff area, and it’s the same man who believes crew cuts and sunglasses at night are still in style. Dated as he was, the boss has never failed to surprise me yet.

I grew fond of our little one-word dialogues. “Case,” he would say if he came to my desk with a sealed manilla folder packed with files and papers. “Update,” he said when he brought one thrice the size. “Cold,” if none came at all. “Work” was my favorite, because that meant I could finally do my job away from my chair. And what I would give for some work right now. 

At this hour, the only people up were the ones enforcing the law, the ones breaking the law, and me. I like to imagine I’m somewhere in the middle, like some sacred bond between the order and chaos of the world, trying to make sense of it all. I know I might be thinking too highly of myself. Then again, I’m still up.

That didn’t make any sense. Forget I said that.

My eyes flickered down for solace in the dark, grainy blend of my semi-drinkable coffee mug. Perhaps it was solace, though I could have been looking for an answer. Or maybe I was just very well on the verge of madness. There had to be something I could do. I wasn’t one to take my work sitting down, much less no work at all. If I didn’t get a lead soon, I would just about break out in some rash. At the very least, I’d start asking for a two-word raise.

And that’s when she walked in.

Not so much a walk as it was a floundering gait, flopping through the double doors like the last catch of the day. She was soaked from head to toe, and her dripping, weathered fisherman’s overcoat looked as though it picked a fight with the storm outside and wound up biting the curb. The only dry thing on her person was her thousand-yard stare, one only caused by something so dead, so cold, it’d put any war veteran to shame: working customer service. I was one of her regulars, but tonight it seemed she was to be my new client. 

Sybil Makri. Bartender and Assistant Student Manager of the only other place in ERA known to keep their lights on past midnight. 

I gave a warm smile. “A bit late to collect my tab, isn’t it?” She didn’t say a word. Well, she never did. Not with that mask on. Just reached into the inside of her coat and pulled out a pen. Right away, I knew something was wrong. I’d suspected as much when she entered the room in such a haste, but if she had something to say, she would have used her phone. She then hastily pointed to something on my desk—at first, I thought it was the coffee mug. I couldn’t blame her, to be honest. “You need something to write on?” Seeing her vigorously nod, pointing again to the mug, I scanned that part of the desk, realized the more likely object in question, and pulled out the ring-stained napkin I was using as a coaster. “This, right?”

Sybil took the napkin, relieved I had won our little game of charades in no less than record time. And by her shaking palms and ferocious scribbling, time was a precious thing here. Dripping coat sleeves and pen staining the napkin with such dampness I could almost see through it, she held out the message for me to see. It was a miracle she hadn’t ripped the napkin. Then again, she’s the school’s best bartender for a reason. I squinted at the inscription, just legible enough through the bleeding ink:

She gave a curt nod, as if to punctuate her own message. I nodded back. How could I turn down a case practically handed to me on the rocks? I downed the rest of the coffee, already cold again. A shame. We’d shared maybe three sentences tonight and they all tasted better than the rest of that drink.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” After another quick shaking of the head, I got up from my seat, unholstering Jury. “Say no more.” 

The unmistakable glint of my boss’s sunglasses looking my way caught my peripherals. I couldn’t help but look back. 

“Work, Bolton?”

Looks like I was getting that raise sooner than I thought. I nodded, lips curling up to a crude grin. “Yeah. Work.”

With not a moment to spare, I grabbed my coat and followed my client out into the pouring dark. 

The Tipsy Mollusk. It was the kind of bar you more than likely didn’t walk into, rather washed up there. Tucked in some limbo between the staff area and the shopping district, it was a perfect spot to pretend you had a social life while knee-deep in overpriced espresso martinis and yesterday’s Top 40 hit singles. Then you’d figure it was about time to leave when you tried to play a game of poker with the stupid tacky mural of the dogs on the wall. 

Unfortunately, those dogs would not be barking tonight; someone had ripped the wallpaper smooth off. That was my first, and most assuredly not my last clue for the night as I stepped through the doors. No storm out there could have ever compared to the state this place was left in.

“Looks like we missed the afterparty,” I said, leaning down to pick up a cracked shot glass from the waxed wooden floors. Stained, with something red inside. Could have been blood. Maybe cherry syrup. Might have been both. “When did you say the fight happened? And what started all this?”

The bartender pointed up to a suspiciously empty portion of the wall on the far end of the establishment; someone had taken the clock down, as well. So much for my first question being answered. As for the latter of my inquiries, Sybil had pointed to the back bar, where rows of shelves had once displayed an almost proud collection of liquors and spirits–now the surviving toppled bottles represented a mere spirit of their former almost-glory.

…That was 0-2 on the puns. I’ve gotta up my game.

“Here,” I said, handing her my notepad. “Just write down what you remember.” After about a few minutes of sifting through broken bottles, splintered chairs and tabletops, torn posters advertising various campus events and upcoming exam dates, and a flatscreen monitor with a giant footprint kicked through the screen, Sybil came back to me with a page hurriedly written out:

“So you couldn’t see what started the fight or what happened after?” I clarified. She shook her head. Her hands were shaking. “What about the cameras? I’m sure if we roll back the security footage–”

She pointed, though I didn’t have to look; someone had destroyed the goddamn security cams.

“Of course,” I deflated, “why would I expect my first case in ages to be easy?”

I turned to Sybil, who clearly looked about as unsettled as when I first saw her. I sighed. “Well, not much more we can do tonight–the damage is done, and we have no solid evidence yet. I’ll stick around to see if I missed anything, you go back to your dorm and get some rest. We’ll meet back here first thing in the morning so we can collect testimonies, keep my notepad with you in case you remember anything else at home. Did you recognize any patrons who came in tonight? We can start with them.” 

Sybil thought for a moment, then flipped the page to scribble something else down. It was short, but to the point. She presented a name, accompanied with an unmistakably rectangular figure.

“Well. That certainly narrows things down.”

Sybil couldn’t stare at our first witness’s head for too long, opting instead to avert her gaze to the giant painted sign titled “RAT RACE” hanging above the classroom, amidst the amateur sound setup and various studio equipment yet to be hooked up. I remembered parents back in the day reporting complaints of epileptic episodes with their kids for things like this airing all the time.

“Aaaaand we are BACK with two lovely guests from my wonderful audience here at the News Department today!” the Rat Therian exclaimed with her microphone in a faux radio voice. “I’m your host, the one and only–”

“Rachel Miller,” I interrupted, head splitting into a migraine. “Yes, you already introduced yourself. Twice.”

“That’s right!” A giant green checkmark filled her TV head, with a loud ding at the end. “For those just tuning in this morning, she’s your up-and-coming Star on the CRT Screen! She’s groovy, and never gravy! You can’t get this from an OLED!”

Sybil shook her head. She was enamored by the elaborate showmanship of our self-proclaimed “fabulous host” for the first ten minutes. Now she was getting sick of the reruns. 

1-2. At least I’m finally on the board.

“Don’t mind her, gals,” said another Rat Therian, just entering the room. He or she was probably the one “tuning in”, as Rachel had put it. “She’s just excited for our upcoming news blog. We’re supposed to be reporting on this incident that happened at the bar in the shopping district last night.”

I started, “That’s actually what we came here—“

“Mama Mia!” Rachel went off again, practically jumping off the walls. “Is that my marvelous martyr-in-crime? Ladies and gentlewomen, please give a warm welcome to our co-host this morning, Marty Python and the Flying Circus!”

A roar of thunderous applause filled Rachel’s TV screen, along with black-and-white stock footage of a theatre audience giving a standing ovation. Marty seemed used to these Saturday morning seizure shows.

“So how can we help you, miss…?” Marty began.

I presented my badge, not letting the brief radio silence go to dead air. “Detective Suzy Bolton from the E.R.A.G.D.. My friend Sybil here was the bartender and our main victim last night. She has some missing items from the Tipsy Mollusk, property of ERA. We were hoping to get them back before Admin noticed, would either of you two know anything about any of this?”

“Well, we weren’t exactly–”

“Picture this… if you will:” Rachel’s voice dropped an octave, her screen flickering to grayscale as a slow-turning spiral overtook the frame. The contrast dialed itself to max. “It’s getting late, so you stumble into the nearest bar for a quick drink to forget it all. 

“At first, you think nothing of it. Today is Friday in Montana, and the night is young, just like your new drinking buddies balancing on their wobbly bar stools beside you. Then, the buzz kicks in. Your vision blurs and your senses overwhelm you, betray you. You lose track of time, and your so-called buddies continue to pile orders on your tab, promising you it’s their last one. A dozen last drinks later, and if you thought your buzz was bad, now you’re standing face to face with a pair of drunken hornets, stingers pointed at everyone in the room. Someone had caught the credit-sucking leeches red-handed, and now the whole hive was about to pay. 

“Little did you know, you had wandered straight into a wax nest of scandal, betrayal, and drink specials that should’ve been illegal. A cursed pocket of ERA nightlife where time bends, morals break, and the only thing colder than the drinks… is the blood on your hands. A place that can only be called…”

Dramatic pause. Haunting guitar arpeggios played on her TV speakers. 

“The Happy Hour Zone.”

Sybil was writing the whole spiel down on her notepad. I flagged her pen down and shook my head– notes on her performance were not testifiable evidence. Better step in, before she changes the channel again.

“So you wound up at the Mollusk last night, and people kept getting you to foot their bill. You were too drunk to notice before someone else did, and they were too drunk to think rationally before instigating a fight. Is that when the prize was stolen?”

A question mark appeared on Rachel’s screen. She dropped the Transatlantic accent. “Prize? If they were giving out prizes for filling your gut with overpriced espresso martinis, where could I sign up?”

“…You don’t recall anything about a trivia game occurring the entire night you arrived?” Dumbfounded, I turned to Sybil. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Listen, I was just there for Happy Hour!” Rachel confessed. “You know how much pressure this biz puts on rags-to-riches rat reporters referred to as Miller?” 

I whispered to Sybil to jot down a minus two points for subverted alliteration. As a last bastion of hope for leads, I turned to Marty, who could only sigh as hard as I was internally.

“I was trying to tell you,” s/he explained, “we weren’t exactly there. Not for the fight, anyway. Rachel drunk texted me last night to come pick her up because she claims she was being forced to pay for someone else’s bill, and she asked me to take photo evidence.”

“Yes, but you were taking too long!” Rachel said, taking out her smartphone from her pocket, showing me the chat logs from Rabbl. “By the time you made it, I was already halfway to the dorms! It’s rude to keep a girl waiting!”

“Oh, now you tell me. That’s probably why I didn’t see you there. B-But I did catch the tail-end of the brawl! So naturally, I had to take some pictures… or, that’s what I tried to do.”

I screenshotted the barely legible texts and sent them to Sybil’s phone, which I found last night underneath the bar with the screen cracked. I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean tried?”

“Well…” Marty rubbed his/her hands together nervously. “When I brought out my camera to snap a photo from the inside, the door swung open, and I must’ve gotten knocked out. Next thing I knew, I woke up on the floor, and my camera was gone. Probably swept away in the hubbub of everyone leaving at once. I would have tracked it with my ability, but I think it’s too big…”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “So your co-host left right before the fight and you arrived right after, and you failed to collect any photo evidence because someone slammed the door on you? Why didn’t you just use your phone? Doesn’t it have a camera app?”

“…I have a flip phone.”

“Right. Not a very trustworthy news story for your blog, if you pardon my opinion.”

“Told you it was a bad scoop,” Marty snided at Rachel.

“Bad scoop or not, it’s coming outta your paycheck!” Rachel shot back. “And don’t ask for next week’s either, because… well, I don’t have the money to pay you anymore.”

“Rach, you don’t pay me at all.”

“Not anymore, I don’t!”

“Unlivable student wages aside,” I interjected, breaking up the squabble, “I think this lead’s reached a dead end. Thank you for the help, you two.”

I got up from a seat I hadn’t realized I sat down on, and motioned Sybil to follow me out. That was, of course, before the more reliable half of the Rat Race tapped my shoulder. Rachel stared intently at us in the corner of the room. 

“I-I’m sorry if we ended up wasting your time, Detective,” Marty apologized, sullenly drooping his/her snout. “The one thing I value most about this club is reporting the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If there’s any way I can still help your investigation…”

I tilted my head, mulling my options with my hand on my hip. I remembered being in this person’s shoes, when I was younger. Struggling, but happier. There was some fire in Marty (and yes, even Rachel) that I couldn’t bear to extinguish today. I sighed— this might come to bite me later. 

“Do you know how my ability works?” I asked. Everyone but Sybil shook their heads. I unclipped my holster, and revealed my ace in the hole. “This .357 six-shooter can extract a photographic memory from anyone I shoot. Her name is Jury, much less a weapon than any investigator’s dream tool. Never left a case unsolved with her by my side. Left a lot of bad headaches, though.”

“Hold the phone, there, folks!” Rachel said, a gelatin brain depicted on her screen exploding. “You’re suggesting you use that garish killing machine to shoot us in the head for our memories? Next I suppose we’ll be kidnapped via tractor beam probed by the rest of the Guard Department to find out what we had for breakfast! I’ve learned your federal agent tricks from nighttime television!”

“You can just say no, if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, I never said that. Sounds like fun, do me first!”

“…Okay. Does that TV come off, or…”

“Trade secret, baby! Aim for a bullseye, ma’am!” Sure enough, a red target flashed on the screen.

I gave up trying to be confused. “If you say so. Here goes.” Taking aim, I pulled the trigger as soon as I had my target, before either of the rats had any second guesses. I suppose in hindsight, I should have second guessed myself. The bullet hit its bullseye, then ricocheted off the screen (why would I have reasoned otherwise?), and flew straight through Marty’s head. Poor thing didn’t have time to react before falling to the floor. Rachel fared no better, tumbling back and shouting at least three of the seven words you shouldn’t say on air before going down in a daze. Sybil dropped her notebook and rushed to Rachel’s aid; I rushed to Marty’s, knowing s/he’d be out cold for at least a few minutes anyway. Seeing both halves of Rat Race safe (relatively speaking), I collected the evidence. What came out the other end was a small roll of film which I unrolled to view the full frame, capturing some event through his/her eyes. 

The POV was blurred and warped, probably through the viewlens of an unfocused camera. What I could make out was the unmistakably tacky interior of the Tipsy Mollusk, in complete disarray. Silhouettes of people were still inside either fighting or fleeing, largely out of focus, save for two young women in the center of the frame, student-aged, possibly related, and the most colorfully dressed in the room, which said a lot. It was like they wanted to stand out. Like it was their job.

“C… cut the cameras…” Rachel mumbled in disarray. “You guys’ll fix that in post, right…?”

She passed out. Needless to say, I was not about to waste a second bullet trying that again. It seemed I already had what I wanted.

I didn’t want this cup of green tea, but here I was, standing in the kitchen of our suspects’ dorm room, taking turns staring at my fine china beside Sybil, my sipper-in-crime. I attempted in all futility to shove down the thought this would pair great with a chicken alfredo. Sybil attempted in all futility to stop staring and fangirling at the suspects. I shook my head.

“I still have no idea who Android Petals are,” I told Sybil.

Sayuri, the more vocal of the pair, pushed her aside [40] and spoke for her [39]. “Uh, duh! Only the hottest idol duo in all of Japan! At least we were, before enrolling here. How come your mute assistant never told you?”

“We’re sort of in the middle of a hiatus,” Nariku, Sayuri’s twin sister, elaborated. I noticed she was still staring us down, judging our intent. “How’s your tea, Detective Suzy?”

Better than last night’s coffee, I thought. I set my cup down on the kitchen counter. “Look, we’re in a bit of a crunch here, and we all know my friend and I aren’t just here for a housewarming party. We’d like to ask you a few questions about last night, at the Tipsy Mollusk.”

Sayuri’s mood soured. “You mean the night we got SCAMMED.”

She pulled Sybil’s ponytail like a stress toy [50 CRIT!] Air bubbles exploded out of the poor fish’s oxygen mask, feeling the full force of some ability I hadn’t understood yet. Her sister yelled at her to cool it. When she let go, she left a little handgrip imprint on Sybil’s hair. Sybil tried to comb it out in vain. There were stars in her eyes. I assumed she was just lightheaded. Anyone would be after that–I wondered if that girl accidentally activated some kind of ability, or if she had a hidden violent streak. 

Sayuri brushed herself off, as if she was the one that got grabbed. “Sorry, a lot happened last night. We just got fat stacks of credits put in our accounts for making a news club, so we obvs had to spend it all somewhere! Then we found out that the bar was doing a game show, and me and Nari HAD to flex our skills, we’re great at trivia!”

“Usually Sayu and I are,” Nari corrected, tapping her chin, “but some rat girl with a TV head kept getting in our faces, and we couldn’t answer the questions in time. Something about her bill being too high and it being our faults. Cost us the game, and the prize.”

“Ugh, yeah, what a buzzkill! She was so drunk someone had to physically pull her from the prize table or she’d’ve smashed that tacky TV helmet on the whole pile! Total vibe killer.” Sayu flipped her hair back [28]. “What’s worse is our opponents kept arguing they won by default, then there was this creepy old guy who hosted the game, and all he kept talking about was the lighting on the ceiling or whatever!”

“There was a big flash at one point,” Nari added. “For a second or two, no one could see a thing. That’s when the punches started flying. I dragged my sister to safety outside, when I noticed our opponents taking the grand prize for themselves anyway. We tried to run after it, but they smashed it and ran away.”

Sybil’s eyes widened, completely distraught. So much for keeping that Vitric tech safe, she must have thought. I couldn’t help but sympathize. I also couldn’t help but doubt. “So neither of you saw who started the fight?

Sayuri threw her hands up [41]. “How would we know? It was chaos! People yelling, chairs scraping, drinks flying—I’m pretty sure the trivia host started beefing with the painted dogs on the wall!”

“And at any point before or during the fight, did either of you touch or at least take a good look at the camera?”

“Uh, not when we were busy dodging barstools and trying to save our outfits! We wear designer!”

“So are you certain that the smashed camera was the same one as the prize camera?” I questioned. “Someone had said they brought another camera to the scene.”

“For what? Who’d be dumb enough to not just use their phone? Like hello!” Sayu whipped out her smartphone [42], struck a pose with a peace sign [5], and snapped three selfies of herself within a second or two, as to demonstrate her point [6][8][43]. In all fairness, she had a point. You can find decent cheap phones at the shopping district.

Her sister nodded. “Rest assured, we’re investigating the matter thoroughly. The club we just made is part of the Journalism department, so in light of our hiatus, we’re temporarily renaming ourselves to Clockwork Roots. As long as we are members of the news club, we intend to get to the root of every issue on campus.”

“Like clockwork. I get it.” I folded my arms, beginning to doubt the credibility of any of ERA’s weekly news reports. Sybil scribbled away in her notebook, though my side glance caught more drawings than listing different apologies to Administration. “What I don’t understand is how the two self-proclaimed clockwork investigators both were at the center of the crime scene, yet failed to catch a glimpse of who even threw the first punch. Plus you mentioned the host annoying you after you lost the game, then some big flash happened where nobody could see. You can get away with a lot of things in less than 2 seconds.”

“Eh? O-Oi, chottomatte! Don’t get the wrong idea!” Sayu stomped defiantly [12]. “What are you trying to say, we instigated that clusterfuck? It’s not our fault we ended up the center of attention last night, we’re still idols, y’know! We can’t help being so blindingly attractive and talented and liking free stuff from shady bars! We were the victims here! Victims!”

“So that’s the reason why the patrons were seen running away from you by the end of the fight?” I pulled out Marty’s memory film. Despite the poor image quality, the two figures in the center frame were assuredly the twins, which gave them pause. 

“Where did you get that?” Nariku asked cautiously. 

I put the film away. “My ability lets me use my gun to extract the raw memories of anyone I shoot. It’s non-lethal, of course, but it gives me a lot of leverage on people who don’t like telling the whole truth.” 

She squinted, stepping forward. “That’s a bold accusation from a detective with faulty evidence. Memories can change all the time, especially when you don’t have the full picture. If you think self-defense was the biggest crime that happened last night, feel free to turn us in right now, and you can forget ever finding the perps who stole the prize camera. We’re the only two who even saw them leave the scene.”

“Yeah, it’s not like you’re the only ones trying to blow this case open too,” Sayu said, perking up again [40]. “Clockwork Roots is all about truth and justice! We live for this stuff.” “And credits,” I deadpanned. “And credits,” she agreed instantly, no shame whatsoever. “We are getting paid for this interview, right?” If I wasn’t desperate for more leads, I probably wouldn’t have considered their ultimatum. I sighed, glancing at Sybil. She shrugged helplessly, still half-fangirling, her pen scratching wildly like she was trying to keep up with both the conversation and her idol crush at once. I was afraid she’d run out of ink. Then again, she’d probably start using her nose blood. “Alright,” I said finally, “you want to help? Start by spilling whether you struck that man when the flash went off, and who took the camera. I’ll let Jury decide whether you have your stories straight. Unless you don’t really care for the truth. Or the credits.” The twins hesitated, each darting a glance at her sister. Sayu, for once, stayed quiet [12]. Finally, Nari looked back at me and said, “We don’t start fights. We only finish them. Neither of us got the name of the person who stole the camera. But they came with friends, and they looked very familiar. And blue.” Sayu’s grin returned, remembering something. “Oh, yeah! They’re like, regulars at your cafe, right?” That got my attention. There were only so many of my regulars that were both old enough to drink, and blue. This was shaping to be a more interesting case than I thought.

Sybil stopped writing. She seemed satisfied with the notes she’d taken. Taking a deep breath, she flipped the notebook over to show the twin idols: