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Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Olympe Viola Reese turned smoothly into the car park of the Police Department, found a slot next to a Tesla, and plugged her Vespa Elettrica into the power point to charge.

It was her first day on the new job. She had arrived early, to be sure of making her time despite the fact that it was day 4 of Shark Week, and she wanted to check the powder room facilities before any crisis could arise. She was dressed very carefully, light make-up, simple gold studs in her ears, and her favourite French blue trouser suit over a plain white blouse and flat heel boots, a handle bag with shoulder strap for her girl stuff. Her S&W Shield 2.0 in 0.40 caliber was clipped into her waistband under her jacket skirt.

Having cleared security Olympe strode confidently to the onboarding interview with her new boss.

“Tell me about yourself, Ms Reese. There is no doubt you have experience. How much undercover work have you done?” Henderson asked, and offered her a glass of water. She took a sip to gain time to compose her response.

“Thanks for your compliment on my CV, Mr Henderson. To flesh out what the paperwork says, I worked for a private agency in London for two years after graduating. We did a lot of financial fraud cases, which depended on gathering inside information and doing analysis of the accounts.

“In one of them I had to be a secretary. That was easy, because it was a rather old-fashioned kind of firm. All the directors were men, and they liked the junior female staff to show a pretty leg. I got the job for my high heels as much as my office skills. That was okay, I can play at being a girly-girl, in fact it's fun sometimes, and useful."

She gave a sunny smile.

"Their security was lax, passwords on Post-it notes, that kind of thing. It wasn’t hard to get into their secret files. One day I took in a spare micro-SD in a dual-sim smartphone, swiped all the important data onto it and swallowed it before going home, just in case they wanted to check my handbag on the way out. I got the chip back the next day, with the help of a colander.”

Judging by the moue of distaste which crossed Olympe’s face, that had not been a pleasant task.

"Anyway, we got them. I did a few more like that. I was good at playing the ditzy blonde. You let men think you’re an airhead, and it’s surprising what you can get away with."

This message was edited 2 times. Last update was at 2021/02/01 07:26:11


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

“What other kind of undercover work have you done apart from office jobs?” Henderson asked.

“There was a case where we investigated a head patting cafe.”

“Head patting cafe!?”

“I know, right? It was run by some Japanese people, of course. They catered to tourists during the day, and expense account businessmen in the evening. The concept was you got a meal or maybe just coffee, and for an extra fee, someone would pat your head. I know it sounds odd, that’s why we were sent in to take a look. The landlord had a idea that maybe it was a front for something in the vice line, either prostitution or drugs, or both. Like happens sometimes with Karaoke boxes."

She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way.

“We rented an office opposite to do surveillance, traced their contacts, checked all the public paperwork and so on, but we got nothing. We decided we had to put someone inside. I managed to get hired, partly because a lot of Japanese men really go for a tall blonde. I hadn’t learnt Japanese yet, but they were fine with English and French. I did their training course, and became a star head patter. When I was trusted I was able to snap pics of their accounts and so on, which I just uploaded to the cloud and erased from my phone immediately. In the end the whole thing was completely innocent. They were just a bunch of oddballs who believed they could make the world a better place by patting people’s heads. They took it very seriously. I think there’s something in it, actually."

She smiled at the memory of the odd but satisfying job of being a professional head patter. That strange case had triggered her interest in Japan, which eventually led her to spend a year there learning the language.

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/02/01 07:27:06


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

“For another different example, my last big case involved a casino. I had to get a job as a bunny girl, would you believe? I mean, I’ve got the legs but not the bust, really. The costume has a padded bodice, so it worked out okay with the right bra. You would be surprised what a girl can do with the right bra, well, maybe not I guess, you look like you've been around. I’ve got a pic if you want to see it.”

She flips through her smartphone album and shows off a photo of three bunny girls.

“I’m the one in the dark blue outfit.”

It hardly looks like the same girl as the pixie haircut blonde being interviewed. The bunny girl’s hair is radically darker and longer, her heavy make-up changes the face, and her bust seems… completely adequate.

“I did the bunny gig because the other girl detectives flatly refused. I had to shave my armpits and legs. That was a nuisance because I don’t normally bother. I was a cocktail waitress, so I could go all over the place, taking and delivering orders. There are plenty of leg men in the world, though, and I got attention despite not being impressive up top. I wore a lightweight digital recorder under the wig, and that's how we got a lot of the basic evidence, clues that lead us to more detailed stuff. We nailed them good. When it was over I kept the bunny outfit as a souvenir."

It was impossible to see if Olympe’s legs were currently shaved or not, owing to her trousers and boots which covered them totally.

“That was my last case with the agency, because I made enough from the fees and reward money to take a year off. I went to Tokyo to live with my brother and his wife, to learn Japanese. I did some head patting on the side, to keep my hand in, and it was good for language practice too. That was in a hostess club in Kabukicho, which sounds kind of sleazy, but I stayed out of that side of things. It was mostly pouring drinks and listening to drunk businessmen talk about their crappy day. I got a lot of invitations but I didn’t take them up. I had a Japanese boyfriend and stayed faithful, until I went home and left him."

She paused, took another sip of water and regarded Jason evenly.

“What kind of undercover work do you mostly do, Mr Henderson?”

I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Olympe Viola Reese was working undercover again. Her new temporary boss, the target in other words, was a rather sleazy Japanese businessman called Suzuki who had possible yakuza links and an eye for tall blondes in miniskirt suits, which was how she got the job as much as for her language skills.

At the end of her first week, Suzuki wanted to take Olympe to late night Karaoke, “to help form a good working relationship with his new colleague,” he smarmed but she knew those tricks from her time in Kabukicho, where she hostessed for money and language practice, and to keep her head patting skills sharp. You never go to a Karaoke box with a horny boss unless you actually want to be groped at the very least. The individual sound-proofed rooms are very handy for assignations, and cheaper than Love Hotels, which is why so many Japanese high school students lose their virginity on a sofa to the unvoiced track of a recent pop hit.

*There’s a fething limit to this job* she thought, and suggested instead they visit a pole-dancing club, an idea he was very pleased with. She managed to spend a lot of Suzuki-san’s expense account enjoying the athletic gyrations of the dancing girls, while quietly pouring most of her drinks into a convenient pot-plant. Sometimes it was quite handy being bisexual. She wondered if she should take up pole-dancing, it was supposed to be good exercise, especially for the core muscles.

Still, she had to keep sweet-talking and flattering Suzuki in a mixture of his bad English and her good Japanese, until she got the necessary info recorded on the minute digital audio unit hidden in her wig. To ensure he would not remember spilling those clues, she mixed whisky highballs and matched him drink for drink. Luckily he already had a good start on her.

By 4 a.m. the target was only semi-conscious and she didn’t have to keep knocking his paws away, which was good because he had this joke move where he whipped his hand off her thigh just as she slapped, so she ended up hitting herself. She took $50 from his wallet and poured him into a taxi with instructions to deliver him to his long-suffering wife in the suburbs. She composed a brief, secure report to her controller, attached the audio file, and headed for a place where she could get a non-alcoholic drink and something to eat.

Sadie’s Diner beckoned, the kind of joint where Olympe had spent a surprising amount of time since she became a detective, because you could get refuelled at any hour of day or night, and sometimes you met some interesting people. It was a sort of waystation. Travellers bound on all types of errands, devious, weird, horrific or mundane, met and mixed for a spell, and perhaps sparked some change in each others’ lives. Plus, there was a professional angle to it. If you kept your ears open, you could learn all sorts of stuff about what was going on.

I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Bonfire Night / Fireworks


The disaster at the vampire ball was all over the local Twitterverse, thanks to reports from numerous bystanders. Some anonymous rich bitch had reserved the entire heritage fairground on the edge of town for a big, invitation only Halloween party. The well-heeled guests wore elaborate costumes, drank blood-themed cocktails, and cavorted among the carousels and side-show kiosks.

Something went badly wrong, or maybe it was deliberate. At any rate the fair caught fire. The flames jumped quickly from one dry wooden ride to the next. Panicked revellers fled in their fancy dress; vampires, werewolves, James Bond, a stage magician in top hat and tailcoat, a monochrome film noir detective towing a sexy red devil girl. The images were blurry, badly exposed due to the hellish, flickering infra-red.

The cosplay refugees dashed past the onlookers, refusing all offers of help, and dispersed swiftly and guiltily into the night. Fire and Rescue Service crews were on site now, searching the ashes for human remains and traces of accelerant.

Pia strongly suspected a scam. The carnival company was known to be financially deep underwater. The management's plan to turn the site into a novelty wedding venue had been an expensive failure. Business premises with desperate owners have an odd tendency to 'go on fire' of their own accord. She decided to reach out to the insurers and offer her professional services. She checked their contact details, and sent an introductory email.

It was sad news despite the opportunity for more work. She had visited the place on a lazy summer afternoon. It reminded her of the Hanayashiki funfair in Asakusa, where she and Hisashi went for a late spring date. They larked like children on the old-fashioned rides, calling out their delight in Japanese and French. After a marvellous dinner and wine at Les Deux Magots in Shibuya, they walked hand in hand up Dogenzaka Hill to Hotel Peach Pie, where a two hour ‘rest’ was 6,500 yen.

After joyful sex, Hisashi suddenly and seriously asked Olympe to marry him. She wept -- with joy he thought, and he hugged her tenderly -- but then she refused. Shocked, he asked why. She said she had decided a month ago to return home. He burst into a hot flood of tears. Sobbing, he tried his best to convince her to stay, reminding her of the wonderful times they had spent together, predicting the future they could have, a house, a baby, but she would not be persuaded. She was young and foolish. She wanted to go back to the detective life.

Next he blamed her for stringing him along. Olympe defended herself, though she knew she was in the wrong because it was her choice to prolong the affair in bad faith. There is no anger like unjustifiable anger. She flew into a rage. They left the hotel shouting furiously at each other in a mixture of English, French and Japanese, to stalk off in opposite directions.

She never saw him again. There was no chance for a change of mind, a reconciliation. Angry and hopeless, Hisashi threw himself in front of an express train that same lonely night, a bitter reproach to Olympe’s thoughtlessness.

*It was my fault. All my fault. Hikaru warned me not to break a boy's heart just for some holiday fun. It's the worst thing I've ever done.*

Pia looked at her tired face in the mirror. A tear drew a dark furrow of eyeliner down her cheek, like a dead rocket, spent of joy, trailing smoke out of the festive sky.

I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Mizu Shobai


The meeting room door opened. A civilian lady clerk came in, followed by an east asian looking young man in a smart suit and tie.

“Chief Detective Davis, this is Mr Komai from Tokyo.” The clerk went out, leaving the Japanese man standing at attention. His face seemed cool and impassive, but it was just the result of massive jetlag combining with a natural Japanese reticence to cover up his nervousness. Tokyo is 15 hours ahead of Chicago. His body thought it was around four in the morning.

Olympe did a double-take at the name and stared at the newcomer with wide eyes. Before Ms Davis could introduce the man she broke out in rapid Japanese.

“Komai-san! Doshite koko kitan desu ka?”
Spoiler:
`Mr Komai, how/why did you come here?`


“Hikoki de,” he returned with a light smile.
Spoiler:
`By plane.`


“Nande sonna joudan to itte kai! Doshite ‘tte, doshite?” Her tone of voice sharpened and the words rattled like hailstones.
Spoiler:
`Why do you make a joke like that? Why, I said, why?`


“Chicago de shigoto ga aru yo ni. Boku ga keikan da yo na.”
Spoiler:
`There is work for me in Chicago. I am a policeman, after all.`


“Mou wakatta… Da kedo… Nan da yo! Atashi no koto no wa?” Pia almost stamped her foot in annoyance at Komai’s flippant responses.
Spoiler:
`I knew that already… Even so… Why!? Is it about me?`


“Gomen, hontou ni gomen. Reese-san ni bikkuri o suru no yotei ga nakatta jan. Sumimasen.” He bowed to her. “Chicago ni wariaterareta. Koukan no purogramu da na.”
Spoiler:
`Sorry, I’m really sorry. I didn’t plan to surprise you. I apologise. I have been transferred to Chicago. It’s an exchange program.`


Pia pouted and sniffed a sharp, audible breath. Her face told of a girl on the brink of a bad snit. Then she recovered her composure, but her eyes were twinkling with water. She turned to Ms Davis, blinked twice and bowed her head.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for my outburst. I knew Mr Komai in Tokyo. It was a shock to see him here suddenly.”

Olympe waited silently to be dismissed. Her exchange with Takayuki had been out of line in all respects. Her mind was in turmoil.

*Did Taka-kun follow me to Chicago? What does it mean? I don’t know what I want to say to him. He’s going to be a detective here? We’ll be colleagues. He might even sit at the empty desk next to mine…*

Jason spoke to Takayuki in rudimentary Japanese, greeting him.

*Jason’s trying his best to welcome the new guy,* she thought. *I must support him however I can.*

Her mind began to calm. She anticipated rebukes from Jason and Ms Davis but she figured she could plead the excuse of her shoulder wound, and they would make allowances. As a precaution she pinged a quick text message of apology to Jason, then wished she hadn’t because it seemed impersonal and evasive not to face him. Her mind wandered somewhat as she waited for orders.

*My shoulder hurts! Can’t we have a coffee break? I need a wee. Is Shark Week really over?*

* * * * *

Davis dismissed everyone without telling Pia off. Jason took Taka-kun to start getting him on-boarded. Pia quickly returned to her desk via the ladies’ lavatory and the coffee room. She arrived minus a panty liner, because it turned out Shark Week was not quite over, which was bad, but she was up a black coffee and a free cinnamon roll, which was good. The first thing she did was to take a paracetamol for her shoulder, then she booked an unmarked police town car for the afternoon, and began to search flights and hotels for Paris and Beirut. It didn’t take long to put together some useful information. She copied it into a file for later use.

Finally Pia updated her notes on the De La Croix case, then she was at a loose end, waiting for Jason to come back with Taka-kun. She stood looking out of the window at the distant lake shore, wondering where Jason and Taka-kun had gone, if they were talking about her.

* * * * *

Jason left Pia to take care of the administrative duties of the case because he didn’t like paperwork and he knew that she would cut through it like a machete. He took Komai along with him in his car to Stan's Donuts for a morning coffee and some donuts. Asking one of the staff for a tough guy cappucino and six assorted donuts to share, he grabbed a quiet corner table and brought out a sheaf of official forms, firearms license, concealed carry permit and so on, already filled in and needing to be reviewed and signed by the Japanese detective. Komai asked for ‘hot coffee’ and was given a medium size cup of black filter, which satisfied him.

"So Komai-san, what brings you to the Chicago police department? What makes you ideal for this job? You and Olympe, or Pia as I like to call her, have known each other for a while, so it seems. Are you here on your own, or with family? Did you have a relationship with Pia before, or know her from college?” he asked. “I know some of these questions may seem personal in nature, but I hope you understand that it is my duty to ask them. It’s part of the process of getting to know new recruits.”

Komai drank half his cup quickly before replying. He was feeling very sleepy and needed the caffeine.

“Yes, Sergeant Henderson, I understand. I am here because the Tokyo Metropolitan Police wants to improve its criminal investigations. For a long time there have been various difficulties in areas such as gathering of evidence and sharing of information locally and nationally. Therefore a number of detectives have been sent to various police forces in the USA and Europe, to learn new methods. I have to work in Chicago for a while, understand the way things are done here, and write a report for my superiors. I was selected for this duty partly because I can speak English fairly well, also I have a good record of investigations, and I have no family to bring with me. Eventually I will go home.”

He paused to eat a bite of donut.

“I met Reese-san… I will call her Olympe as that is the style in Chicago. I met Olympe in a hostess bar in Kabukicho. That is an adult entertainment district where there are many businesses such as massage parlours and 'pink salons' where men can have their urges relieved in certain ways in exchange for cash. This is the Japanese style of sex industry. We think it is better to have it legally controlled than operate in the shadows. The police are involved in checking and licensing that kind of adult business. I have done such visits as part of my duty. However it is not always successful.”

Komai looked directly at Jason for a moment, trying to judge the American’s reaction, then sipped more coffee and continued his story.

“Kabukicho is not only about the sex industry. There are also many cocktail bars, restaurants, music venues, and hostess clubs. At a hostess club you pay to sit and talk with pretty women. They are dressed in gorgeous party dresses. They wear full make-up, jewelry, and elaborate hairdos. They pour your drinks, listen to your troubles, and flirt with you. There are also “host” clubs, where handsome young men in smart suits perform the same services for ladies. Everyone understands that it is a game, not real, just playacting. After an hour or two the client leaves, and another one arrives, and the girl is just as pleasant and flirty with her new guest as with the first one.”

He finished his coffee.

“I went to the hostess bar for two reasons. One was to check that everything was being done correctly. That all the girls were over 20, for instance. The other was to fish for information that might be useful in certain criminal investigations. Hostesses often hear secrets from their clients. Sometimes they may pass these details on to the police, depending on their relationships in the network of legal and sub-legal authorities which exists in the… We call it the mizu shobai, the ‘water trade’. That is the name for the late night world of adult pleasures of many kinds, from a simple cocktail bar to a swingers’ sex club. The governing network of the mizu shobai involves the police, the yakuza, local government officials, loose groupings of mama-sans, an association of Korean owners, and others. There are allies and enemies, with family and social obligations in all directions. It is very complicated, and very Japanese. It may surprise you, but it is not usually very violent. Japan is a peaceful country. However, people who step on the wrong toes too hard have been known to disappear.”

The waitress came and refilled Komai’s cup. He thanked her with a smile and nod of his head, and sipped the hot black coffee.

“I had heard about a new hostess, a foreigner, a tall blonde, whose Japanese was not good but she could speak French and English. It was Olympe, of course. I interviewed her. She had taken the job for fun, to practice her Japanese. She was popular despite her low language skill because she was very charming, and many Japanese men like to talk with a tall blonde foreign girl. It is quite a popular fantasy. I found that Olympe understood the work well. She was sly, manipulative, very good at flirting. She knew how to read a man and take advantage of him. These may sound like character defects, but they are very good skills for a hostess. As I said before, it is a game. The client knows the hostess is only pretending to be concerned about him, but if she does it convincingly and sincerely for the time he is with her, then he will go away happy, and probably he will come back to see the same girl. I do not mean to say that Olympe is a bad person because she is like that. She is also kind, loyal, hard-working, generous, brave, and she believes in standing up for justice. That is why she became a detective in the first place, when she was in London.”

Komai ate the rest of his donut. Jason offered another, which he accepted with a smile.

“I visited Olympe a number of times to get to know her. In the end I recruited her as an informer. She did not accept any money for the work. She did it to help the fight against sex trafficking, which is a problem in Tokyo involving girls from many countries such as China and Romania. Olympe gave me some clues which were important in a trafficking case. This got her into some danger, I don’t think she realised how bad. I could not have a pretty blonde foreigner vanish and turn up dead in an oil drum six months later, so I had to get her out. She had to leave the country and let things cool down. This caused a sudden break-up with her Japanese boyfriend. He took it very badly and unfortunately he committed suicide. I felt very sorry, though really Hisashi-san overreacted to the situation. If he had waited, things would have come back to normal. Olympe blamed herself, though. We have rounded up the gangsters involved, and Olympe is now able to return to Japan safely.”

He looked quite sombre at the memory of that dreadful time.

“So, Sergeant Henderson, now you know the story of Olympe in Tokyo. I am sorry to have spoken for so long. Perhaps we should look at these documents now. I am sorry but I think I may fall asleep if I do not have some more coffee. The jetlag is very bad.”


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Snowed In at the Beach

*I’m too good at this undercover stuff,* Olympe told herself, *That’s why they keep choosing me. Another anime convention, at some place called the Silverquill Beach Resort Hotel, and the target is [REDACTED FOR LEGAL REASONS]. Thank feck it’s not some ski resort or whatever, I hate the bloody mountains! At least I don’t have to be a bunny girl again and shave my legs. My Miraculous Ladybug costume still fits perfectly! With luck I will find another hunky Cat Noir to hook up with...*

She fell asleep in the taxi, and eventually was decanted, yawning in a snowstorm, in front of a wide two-storey hotel. It looked pretty hokey, inspired by log cabin design. Olympe paid the massive bill, pocketed the receipt for expenses, and trudged to the entrance towing her luggage.

*It’s a bit fecking parky! What’s all this snow for anyway, where’s the sun? I’ve never seen such a useless beach resort!”

The storm lifted for a minute and the view cleared briefly, revealing a broad expanse of steep, pine-clad white slopes and the edge of a mighty precipice, beyond which only the void and the howling wind could be sensed.

OH CRAPPP!1!

The acrophobic detective closed her eyes, put her head down and ran into the hotel’s lobby; she believed her life depended on it! Fortunately the doors opened automatically, though her thick, blue-black wig would have cushioned her head from an impact. Once inside, the feeling of warmth and enclosure began to sooth her spirits. She squared her shoulders and approached the reception counter with a cheerful smile.

“Hello… Samantha. Please would you check me in? Here’s my voucher.”

“I’m sorry, Ms, um, Ladybug but you’re in the wrong hotel. This is the Silverquill Ridge Resort, not the Silverquill Beach.”

“Great. Okay. Have you got any rooms?”

“Yes, Ms Ladybug, but only the cheaper ones at the back, with no mountain view.”

“Perfect! Please check me in. Here’s my driver’s licence for ID, and bill everything to this card.”

Olympe dispensed $10 notes liberally, because it was all on expenses, and a few minutes later she was safely installed in a nice suite with a minibar and no view. She connected her mil-spec smartphone to the hotel’s WiFi network and opened a VPN channel. No connection. The storm had severed the hotel’s links to the outside world.

“Brilliant! Brilliant! Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant!!!”










This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/01/06 11:25:36


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Olympe stood at her window with a glass of Glenfiddich 15yo Solera Reserve, watching the storm whip snow through the evergreens.

*It’s like that scene in Aliens, or er, IDK, Fargo or something... Ice Station Zebra,* She shivered and put her glass down. *What’s that one in the mountain hotel? Kubrick. Jack Nicholson. -- ‘Here’s Johnny!’ -- Anyway, no use getting pissed, I need to figure out what to do.*

She posted messages on different social media apps and email, hoping something might get through to her controller, then revised her costume. She doffed her Ladybug suit and put on her Marinette outfit of pastel pink Capri jeans, white tee-shirt and unbuttoned dark grey blazer. Apart from the wig and coloured contact lenses it was a lot more ordinary than the scarlet and black Ladybug suit.

*The storm might last a couple of days. Room service is always rubbish. I’ll go and get something decent to eat and drink.* She went down to the bar, to see what other refugees from the storm there might be.

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/01/07 22:53:27


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Pia had the odd talent of speaking English with a French accent when she wanted to. She got it from her mother, who had never lost her native Parisian diction. She could also speak French with a British accent. These foreign cadences were sometimes useful for disguises, and could be used for flirting with native speakers, who often found them charming.

Now she got herself into character as Marinette, the French teenager who changes into Ladybug to fight evil. She practised wide-eyed expressions, enhanced by anime contact lenses, and tried out some stock phrases in accent: “I shall say zhis only once!” She slotted her Miraculous earrings into place, and slung her natty bag, which contained some useful equipment, over her shoulder.

Once Pia felt fully in role she went down to seek food and drink. The large restaurant/bar area was practically deserted. There were only two other guests there, an older white guy in rather smart clothes, and a younger, tall black woman with straight long hair and piercing eyes. They were sitting apart from each other, which made it difficult to approach either one of them without it seeming a slight to the other.

Pia went to the bar to ask for a small glass of house red wine. The bartender carded her, which pleased her greatly. She wrote a large tip onto the bill and charged it to her room. The wine was average, certainly not bad but Pia decided to order something better if she wanted to drink another glass.

She went to the log fire. It was the type that’s open on all sides with a hood above. Pia leant forwards to warm her hands, which gave her companions a view of taut butt wrapped in pink denim, then turned around to warm her backside and see if they made any reaction.

“How lovely a fire! It is so, so cold outside. I call myself Marinette, I think I am here by an erreur, and now I am attrapped by storm. My phone has no bars.”

I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

A waiter arrived, bringing the black woman a plateful of chili on grilled cheese sandwich. It seemed an odd combination, but Pia reflected on Japanese dishes such as Omurice Curry and Curry Udon.

*It’s so wrong, yet it seems so right! she thought, Perhaps I should have the same… Indians eat lots of curry, so I believe. Is it a dish for hot climates? What is good for snow like this? Her upbringing in temperate regions had not fitted the girl detective for the heat and cold which had to be endured in other countries. In Britain we have an awful lot of weather but it isn’t extreme…*

The storm howled outside the picture windows, thankfully obscuring the view with scurrying snowflakes. Marinette approached the elegant girl.

“Pardonnez moi, Mademoiselle, I am fascinate by your choice of meal. I have to order my own dinner. May I sit and talk with you? Good conversation is the spark of appetite.”

*I just made that up but it sounds pretty cool. Maybe I’m the next Oscar Wilde. Maybe I drank too much Glenfiddich wtf.*

Pia assumed permission and took a seat next to the black girl. She looked for the waiter and ordered a Croque Madame with Chili, a side salad, and a bottle of a hearty Cotes du Rhones. The waiter brought the wine quickly and uncorked it. He poured for Pia and she indicated him to serve her companion too.

“Please allow me to be so bold as to offer you this wine. It is French, very good of course, you will be warmed, we need it, in this climate.”

Marinette’s presentation was wobbling a little. The teenage girl was socially awkward, but Pia was such a flirt she could not help but try and engage with other people.

*Fuccit, I’m out of character. Gud thing we’re not at the anime convention. No-one will notice though, because they aren’t nerds like me.* She smiled and sipped her wine, waiting for her food to arrive. *Goddess, I’m so hungry!* When it came, she tore into the Curry Croque like a starving bear.

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Somewhere in south-central England.

“Oui, asseyez-vous, what’s your name? Or should I call you Mademoiselle étrange? I’m iishe. Food is a topic I’m always willing to talk about.” The black girl sipped the rich wine and commented, “Cherries, pear, plum, delicious! ”

Pia nommed the Chili Croque 一 it was surprisingly good 一 and sipped her chonky red wine. iishe had some French, it seemed, though clearly not up to Pia’s native level, so she returned the girl’s sally in her French accented English.

“Ah well, I am supposed to be Marinette Dupard-Cheng, oo is zhe Miraculous Ladybug. I thought zhis will be an anime convention but some’ow I ’ave come to the wrong ‘otel. I wanted to be at the warm beach, I ‘ate zhe cold, cold montagne. Zhere is no point in doing a cosplay now because no-one will understand. My real name is Viola.”

Pia ate slower as the edge came off her appetite. She thought of other unlikely combos: Sushi omelette, spaghetti and Marmite sauce, Steak Tartare with grated chocolate, Brussels sprouts and Roquefort cheese.

“iishe, if you are interest in food, I ‘ave some ideas for other meals.” She explained a few of them. “What do you think? Would the kitchen be complaisant?

There was a discreet commotion among the staff. Service had been slow; now more waiters and maids appeared. They were going around in twos at that pace, just between a fast walk and a jog, you use when you’re investigating a possible emergency and don’t want to alarm the guests. Each pair had a torch and a walky-talky. Obviously a methodical search was in effect. The buddy system and scared faces showed it wasn’t a lost kitten situation.

“Iishe, what’s ‘appening? Is zhere some kind of problème do you sink?

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Somewhere in south-central England.

Iishe advised against looking into the trouble but whatever she said, she was only a civilian. Pia felt she had to investigate. *It’s time I did some pro bono work.* It was an important principle of Kuudere detecting.

“I am sorree, iishe, but I must go to put on zhe powder to my nose. I will come back bientot.”

Leaving the rest of the wine she wedged $20 under her plate, and surreptitiously followed a footman and girl receptionist who were just passing. They led her through a Staff Only door, to a service corridor with various cryptically labelled doors. The man opened the first one and went in. Turning to look back down the passage, the girl noticed Pia.

“Who are you? No guests allowed in this area!”

“I came in by erreur, Mademoiselle. Please do not send me back en seul, I am scary of zhis place! May I remain with you, I implore you? You look so kind a personne.”

There was a sudden horrified shout from inside the storeroom.

“fething Hell Amy! You gotta see this. No, you don’t gotta see this, actually. Stay outside.” The guy came out, white as the cliche sheet. “Who’s that kid?”

Pia beamed at the unwitting compliment and tried to maximise her winsomeness with a cute, girlish smile, twisting one toecap on the floor.

“I am zjoost some keed, Monsieur…”

“She’s just some kid, Malcolm. Let her stay with us to be safe. What did you find in there?”

“A body.”

“Jesus!” the receptionist said, “Who is it? Why are they in there? What the feth is going on?”

“I dunno, Amy!!! The face...” Suddenly Malcolm doubled over and retched rancid bile onto the cement floor. Acrid fumes filled the air.

Pia threw open the door. The corpse was only recognisable as a woman because of her skirt. The head looked half ripped off, and the torso savaged as if by a bear. Pia had seen some pretty badly mutilated cadavers during her time with the Chicago department of detectives; this was up there with them. Bears didn’t stash their kills inside locked storerooms, though.

“Feccing great! We’ve got a maniac on the loose.”

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/01/13 04:59:33


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Somewhere in south-central England.

Things are getting like that time at the island seaside resort. She’s alone, cut off from the net, with weirdos all around. But this place is worse. A mutilated body, no sunshine, cliffs and yawning voids on every side. No Plan B; her sailor friend with his yacht is over 2,000 miles away, having fun in the Florida Keys with a rich, beautiful heiress. You can't get a yacht up a mountain anyway.

On the other side of the scales, the catering is a lot better here, and someone else is doing the actual grunt work of running the place. And I thanked them, so… IDK, positive karma?

Pia considers whether she should flex her dubious credentials. Her Chicago PD star is genuine, though Colorado is well out of jurisdiction. Her private licenses from Illinois and the London Met might be good for Colorado, she can’t check due to No Internet. *I’ll try using the voice of authority, and keep the badges in reserve.* She turns off her Marinette shyness, faces the staff, and puts steel into her speech.

“Who’s in charge here? Who sent you on this search?”

“Mr Mendoza’s the boss,” says Malcolm, “But he’s just a figurehead. The real work is done by his manageress. She sent us.”

“Where did you get the keys?”

“The key safe.”

“How many keys are there. How many people have a key to this room?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Who would know?”

“Kieran, the janitor. He’s in charge of the keys.”

“Where’s Kieran gonna be?”

“Er, probably cleaning up somewhere, he goes all over the place.”

“You don’t know, then.” Pia turns to the receptionist.

“Amy, can you call Kieran up on your walk-talky?”

“Yes, what shall I say to him?”

“Just tell him to meet you in the lobby in 5 minutes.”

NOT TO BE CONTINUED.

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/01/28 07:05:13


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Somewhere in south-central England.

NEW SCENE

As Lucas wobbles drunkenly away from The Outpost he is passed by a kid on her eager way in. He might not recognise her as the girl detective from the Milton-Arcadian hotel bar. That was months ago and she looks very different tonight. Instead of an elegant three-piece trouser suit she’s wearing skin-tight leggings and sports bralette with a snow leopard print, and an oversize varsity jacket on top. It’s white with sky-blue sleeves, collar and hem. The slogans are written in some language which must have come out of Star Wars because it certainly isn’t from Earth.

Pia’s regular go-bag kit of girl and detective necessities is accommodated in a black nylon waistpack slung trendily around her body, inside her top. Her long blonde hair -- actually a wig -- is drawn back into a full, high ponytail which she plans to flail like a weapon. She is topped off with a set of Japanese cat-ear Bluetooth headphones already flashing their LEDs to a beat only she can hear. The soles of her white, high-top sneakers are pulsing in the same rhythm of changing colours, driven by her smartphone. With heavy make-up including a cat nose, and three symbolic whiskers painted on each cheek, she looks like a 16 year old who’s raided her mother’s dressing table.

The catgirl dances up to the bar and slaps down an 11-Coin in exchange for an overpriced 470ml tin of Collective Arts Fest Pineapple Vanilla IPA. To her delight, the bartender cards her. She smiles wide at the compliment, shows her State of Illinois driver’s license for ID, and leaves the change for a good tip. The beer is cold and appealingly fruity. Pia switches off her music and light display to go and listen to the band. She came to get down. She wants to Shuffle, or an appealing partner with whom to throw some shapes.

Milling around the dance floor are a few people Pia recognises. The delectable Felice, owner of long red hair which cries out for styling. She’s looking wan, a bit worried but happy at the same time. She’s with some guy who’s got lush black Celtic curls and they’re dancing pretty close. *She won’t remember me, it was months ago. Good luck to her!*

Nearby is Mae, the vampire hunter from Sadie’s Diner whom Olympe kind of fancied at the time but she’s fixated on Maryellen now, or else the right boi… *Where to find him though? So many bois are so inept, I’m never going to sleep with anyone who can’t dance well, that’s how it all went wrong with Rachel...*

Mae’s throwing mad shapes with another east asian looking girl. They’re having a ton of fun, giggling at their ‘so bad they’re good’ old school moves, until some prick barges through the crowd like a bowling ball not quite making a strike. The floor is littered with fallen bodies and wobbling ex-dancers.

*Fecc! Outrageous. That arsehole needs to get telt. Shall I be the agent of karma?* But she’s not feeling it. She’s here to get jiggy, not get even, and Pia doesn’t believe in getting even anyway, she prefers to get ahead. She plops her half-empty tin next to Mr Feccwit's elbow and heads back to the floor.

The band’s good. They’ve got a kind of laid-back retro vibe which kind of reminds her a bit of Pizzicato 5, if that makes any sense? As long as you don’t want to rave it’s danceable at about 105 bpm. She moves onto the floor and begins to Shuffle at relaxed speed, her sneakers and ears flashing in time.

Pia notices Mae leave the floor abruptly, green around the gills. *I know that feeling, fresher’s week, tequila slammers, what a nightmare...* The band finishes their number and begins preparations for the next one, so she goes over to the smol east-asian looking girl who was Mae’s partner in terpsichorean crime.

“Hi, my name’s Reese,” -- her accent is English -- “Smooth moves by the way, you were burning up the dance floor. I’m not hitting on you, just, look, your friend you were dancing with, she seemed pretty ill just now. Shouldn’t you go and find her, help her? I mean, she’s probably just pissed and talking to Goddess on the big white telephone but… You’ve heard of Rohypnol and stuff like that? You can’t be too careful. I’m going for a beer. If you need my help just ask. If I’m not at the bar I’ll be dancing.”

She goes back to the bar and orders another tin of the rather tasty though expensive IPA, again leaving a good tip. Pia takes a couple of swigs at her beer and turns to Mr America.

"Hey dude, you're kind of a disco traffic hazard. Didn't you notice the members you knocked over, when you crossed the dance floor?"

The big dude slides a cold eye over her face, refusing to answer, and sneers away to pick up his Old Fashioned. If Pia was a boi, high on testosterone and six pints of lager, it would be time to get out in the car park, but she's a girl, high on dance. She mentally shrugs off the snub and necks the rest of her beer in a long, animal gulp.

*Fecc I need a wee!*

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Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

The tribute band at The Outpost finished their set. It had been good, danceable music and Olympe was tired. She wanted to stop drinking and get something to eat. Sadie’s Diner beckoned, the only place in town where you could get a well-priced meal at this time of the night, plus there were power sockets. Her headphones and sneakers were low on charge.

*Ms Moon Potato would approve me using someone else’s power,* she thought. The competent accountancy of that severe colleague was the only thing which kept the MPY Agency out of the bankruptcy courts, so Olympe always followed the advice she imagined her old partner would give her about money.

10 minutes later the scantily clad dancing girl bopped through the twin front doors on the last of her headphone battery. The place was surprisingly deserted; there no customers, no waitstaff, no hash slingers behind the counter, only a gently creaking service swing door, which might have been someone just gone out to the rear of the place where she had never been -- *it’s just storerooms and the staff lavatory and things* -- or the wind, if the back door was open for some reason.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

No answer.

She changed into the emergency water shoes she carried in her go bag, put her sneakers and headphones on to charge, and went through the Staff Only door to try and find something to eat.

“Feccing Helleshin!”

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/01/28 23:07:35


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Somewhere in south-central England.

The scene which greeted her shocked Olympe to the very core of her soul. A soggy bag of defrosted pre-cut chips --(Translator’s note: French Fries)-- relaxed half-on, half-off the stainless steel counter like one of Dali’s clocks.

*OMG I know these places cut corners but not having a chipping machine? I mean, it’s actually cheaper and easier to buy potatoes in bulk and chip them yourself than rely on frozen stuff which needs a walk-in freezer.*

Like many university students, she had worked part-time in a pub restaurant to eke out her student maintenance loan. Olympe had been front of house staff -- those legs were made for tip trapping, not kitchen portering -- she talked to the bois in the back because she was naturally flirty. Accountancy wasn’t her strongest skill but when something intersected with food, different areas of her brain were activated, French areas, which prized quality as well as value for money. And knife skills. And guys who were good with their hands. Olympe had learnt important life lessons from those canny chefs.

*Such a mess! Hygiene hazard. Can I ever view this place in the same light again?* She began to bustle around, setting the area to rights.

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Somewhere in south-central England.

Olympe finished cleaning up and went to haul the rubbish out the back to the dumpster. On the way she found a tall young man reclining against one of the big fridges. He looked a bit peaky. On closer examination she noted serious gunshot wounds to the shoulder and abdomen.

*Okaynotgood!* She plucked a mil-spec smartphone from her bumbag and dialled emergency services, summoning ambulance and police to the diner.

"Hey, man? Hang in there, yeah? Help's on its way. You're gonna be alright." There was no response. She held the man's hand between both of hers. He felt cold, not a good sign.

Just then a nearby toilet flushed, followed by the noise of hand-washing, and some guy came out of the staff bathrooms. Obviously the cook, judging by his kitchen uniform.

"Who the feth're you?" the man blurted, seeing a Snow Leopard Catgirl and a half-dead black guy blocking the passage to the rear door.

"I'm Reese. Who're you?" Her accent was cut-glass English.

"Deano?! I'm the cook on the night shift. You shouldn't be back here. It’s staff only."

"Story of my life, Deano but it's okay, I got permission. You need to stay with this casualty while I check the front of house. Paramedics and police are on their way, so just be chill and stick with this guy. Just... hold his hand, yeah?"

The shocked chef knelt next to the bleeder. Leopard Girl relinquished the casualty to him and sashayed back to the front of the diner. A waitress and another apparent casualty were sharing quality hugs in front of the best leatherette booths.

*WTF!? Where did they come from?*

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Somewhere in south-central England.

*I can’t be dealing with this!*

Still half drunk and with zero prospect of the egg banjos she desperately needs, Olympe decides to cut and run before the authorities can arrive and probably tie her up for the rest of the night with annoying questions for a witness statement. She grabs her headphones and sneakers off the charging socket, shoes herself properly and exits stage left.

*Good luck to Deano and the shot guy but I can’t save all the world, I can’t even save myself half the time…*

The night is not yet young. For a semi-sozzled Brit, a kebab or some chips are essential to complete the evening out. Her flashing footsteps take the blondette back towards The Warehouse, a notorious rave venue which usually has a dodgy fast food van parked outside, catering for the sugar-crashed comedown crowd streaming out of the all-night party in the small hours. But there’s nothing, only a line of predatory minicabs.

Olympe doesn’t need a crazy taxi. Even in her current, depleted state she’s still got the wherewithal to haul her own ass back to her little flat. She switches on her headphones, starts a motivational playlist on her smartphone, and pounds pavement with flashing feet and ears until she gains the sanctuary of home.

THE END

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Somewhere in south-central England.

PERFUME

They crossed the Champs Elysées and continued down the broad Avenue George V, until they turned into Avenue Pierre 1ere de Serbie, where Creed, the luxurious temple of the perfumier’s art since 1760, welcomed them.

Olympe had done her research online. She already had a good idea of the scents she required. Yet with something so personal as the interaction of the maker’s choice of ingredients with the wearer’s skin chemistry, it was essential to confirm her selections in person. Thinking Jason would be bored, she gave him his newspaper.

First she ordered a huge 500ml bottle of Erolfa, her go-to fragrance, citrus and marine, evocative of sunny Mediterranean coasts of pine and warm stone. It had become her favourite scent, which she wore almost every day.

She began to check other perfumes for different seasons and occasions. Olympe tested carefully with a scent strip, then on her wrist, asking Jason to give his opinion too. After each decision she wiped her wrist clean and cleared her nose by going outside to breathe the winter air. Her final selection comprised three 250ml bottles.

Silver Mountain Water was a light, mentholated fragrance suitable for warmer days. Fresh, boyish even, it promised relaxation and renewal with citrus top notes, and a mid-range of blackcurrant and neroli, layered over a base of sandalwood and musk.

Sublime Vanille combined Bourbon vanilla and tonka beans with Tonkin musk. It was oriental, sensual, provocative, calculated to enhance the wearer’s seductive powers. She anticipated that erotic encounters would proceed from wearing this perfume.

Royal Oud completed the trio. Its complex base of Oud, Sandalwood and Tonkin musk granted authority. Higher layers of lemon, pink pepper and bergamot conveyed elegance. It was equally appropriate for women and men.

All Olympe’s picks were unisex. She felt that only strong floral scents were essentially feminine, and only the most woody, musky combinations, without the relief of citrus, were thoroughly masculine. Between those extremes there was a vast range of sensual experience. The spectrum of desire was so wide and complex that it was silly to try and define it precisely. She refused to be limited in her choices.

There were no prices on display. Her quiet French consultations with the staff, and the discreet presentation of the bill, hid the total cost of her purchases from Jason. He would have been shocked that anyone could spend a month’s pay on perfume.

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/01/30 06:57:08


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Somewhere in south-central England.

SADIE'S DINER


Olympe took off her wig and recorder in the cab and stowed them carefully in a tight-packed reusable shopping bag she kept in her purse for exactly this kind of situation.

The taxi dropped her right in the diner’s car park. She gave the driver a good tip from Suzuki-san’s cash, paused to smooth down her pale grey miniskirt suit, because she believed it was important always to be elegant, and went in. She scanned the whole interior, swaying slightly because she was drunker than she had realised. Before she even took a booth she had to go to the powder room for a quick vomit and a big wee. It reminded her of Fresher’s Week, not that great of a memory.

Olympe came out after five minutes, having tidied herself up and neatened her hair. Her physiology demanded caffeine and food. She sat at the counter and ordered a croque madame. Coffee came immediately, washing the nasty dregs of bile from her throat. There was a tired girl looking back at her from the mirror that lined the rear of the service area. Somebody had had a hard night. *I wish I had someone to pat my head.* She had tried patting her own head but it didn’t work. There were no benefits.

The sandwich came and Olympe ate slowly. Her stamina was drained. She had been up for 23 hours and used a lot of nervous energy during the long night, fleecing Suzuki of his secrets. But her youthful resilience began to rally with the help of the croque, one of her favourite meals, and plenty of caffeine. Olympe’s shoulders perked up, her back straightened and she smiled, remembering that the job was done, she had the info and wouldn’t ever have to see that lecherous wolf again, except perhaps in court. She drank more coffee and began to people watch in the mirror.

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Somewhere in south-central England.

It was quiet. The radio was off and there was little talk because the few patrons were lost in their thoughts, as Olympe had been for some minutes, concentrating on cleaning her plate.

“Hey, are you okay?”

The whisper came through softly but clearly. Olympe turned to see if it had been directed at her, but obviously not. There was an East Asian looking girl slumped in a booth, nursing herself with a no limits refill mug of coffee which she had spilt over the tabletop. The skin of her arms and face was peppered with little cuts as if she had been dragged through a bramble patch. Even if her torn clothes were the result of modern fashion choices, she most definitely was not okay.

The woman who had whispered sat at the opposite end of the sartorial spectrum, very neatly turned out in a getup which Olympe’s well-tuned eye for style found admirable.

*Though a peplum wouldn’t work with my narrow hips…*

The smart girl’s face was somehow familiar, it tickled at Olympe’s memory… No… No… Yes! A byline somewhere. The redhead was a reporter or journalist of some kind.

“Are you okay?” The scratched up girl returned.

*Goddess, are any of us okay, really?* Olympe asked herself. She wondered what she was observing here, whether it might be a kind of hallucination induced by alcohol, fatigue, and stress. Her gaze flipped between the two other women.

“Um, yeah, no. I think I’m good. Is there anything I can do to help? I don’t mean to pester… You just look a little shaken up,” Ms Smart said quietly, in response to Ms Ragged Goth’s question.

Olympe was a fierce doer, once she got the bit between her teeth, but she needed first to understand what had to be done. She wanted to help, and she did not know how to intervene. She drank coffee and quietly ordered a plate of hot waffles with butter and maple syrup for the East Asian looking girl. She turned back to the counter to observe in the mirror.

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Somewhere in south-central England.

Olympe loved a mystery, that was part of why she became a detective rather than taking some mundane office job. She continued to observe the shaken girl, to see what information could be got from her appearance.

*Early to mid-20s. Clothes shabby and torn but that’s a fashion now. No make-up. Bad nails. She doesn’t look like she works in a white collar job. She could be an electrician or something, but if she had a good job she would have a better phone because freelancers rely on them. Maybe she’s a post-grad student, or in a band.

*An odd pattern of fresh, undressed wounds. She hasn’t been to hospital or the police, so she’s probably been involved in a criminal enterprise, or a weird event like an alien abduction. She doesn’t think she’s being chased, though or she wouldn’t be sitting here, but she doesn’t have anyone to call for help.

*Who did she text? Boyfriend. Her bandmates. Maybe it’s someone else involved in this crime. She hopes they got away too. Why didn’t they run together?*


At this point Ms Smart reached a decision. She abandoned her seat and zipped over to join Ms Ragged Goth.

“Joelle,” she declared, “Or Jo, if you prefer. If I had a time machine, I would be the first to offer it. I know what it’s like to want to undo… something.”

By odd coincidence Olympe did have a time machine, at least she could get hold of one but it was a balky, unreliable model. The last time it was used, disaster resulted, sparking an epic rescue quest across space and time which, though it ended happily, convinced everyone involved that meddling with the fundamental rules of the universe was a bad idea. Anyway the battery was flat.

Leaving that aside, Ms Smart now had a name. Olympe Googled it, and quickly filtered the results to find a Ms Joelle [REDACTED], freelance journalist who had written a number of well-researched pieces for various papers and websites but whose career had never taken off.

Jo didn’t like waffles any more than Ms Ragged Goth, it seemed.

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Somewhere in south-central England.

Olympe eavesdropped on Mae’s ragged stream of explanation, watching the girl in the mirror. What she said didn’t seem to make sense, but clearly something had really shaken her up so it must make sense to her. She was a witness to something which had really frightened her. She just hadn’t told the whole story the right way for someone else to understand.

It might be nonsense in the end, but a good detective kept an open mind until the evidence was clear. There was a clue to latch onto in the girl’s spiel. Olympe spun on her stool to face the booth with Jo and Mae in it.

“What was the bet?”

That was kind of abrupt, she felt, suddenly. She was tired and losing her edge.

“Sorry to butt in like that but I, er... My name’s Olympe. You can call me Pia if it’s easier. Can I have some of your waffles?”

"Er, yeah? Take 'em if you want 'em."

“Thanks,” she smiled at Mae, and brought the plate back to her seat at the counter. She switched on the digital recorder hidden in her shopping bag, aiming the tiny mic at the booth.

*Pia,* she told herself, *You can let the journalist get the info out of the girl, then you’ll have it too. It just might take a bit longer.*

She started to eat a waffle with her fingers, because it was quieter than cutlery. Her phone app showed the recorder was operating and picking up the conversation. The waveform looked pretty good. The waffles were lukewarm and sticky with maple syrup. It was good there were plenty of serviettes.

*The things I do to get clues.*

I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

*New Challenger Appears!* Pia thought, *He’s HOTTT!*

The tall guy looked like a commando or a secret agent in his completely black outfit. He clearly had all his gak in one sock, unlike Pia herself, who was busy fending off the effect of 24 hours of accumulated fatigue with caffeine and her determination to solve the current mystery. She pushed the half empty plate of waffles away. She had to count her calories because she was drinking too much and not getting enough exercise.

*Don’t worry, liver, you’re going on holiday for at least a week.*

Buffy was another vampire reference, wasn’t it? That old programme which had been popular before Pia was born. Her father loved it, got her to watch it with him on Roku. It was hokey nonsense and a lot of fun. Anthony Head had been her first older guy crush, safe to lust after because he was just a fantasy. He looked like he would be good with his hands. Teenage boys don’t know what to do.

Pia wanted to find out why there was so much vampire stuff going on all of a sudden. Something in Joelle’s newspaper, Mae’s rambling fear, and now this Buffy Cassidy bloke. She started to do some research on her smartphone.

*Anyway, it's not long until dawn.*

Pia’s blue mood began to lift. She was fundamentally an optimist. She had learnt a very important life lesson from her mistakes in her affair with Hisashi, and she was a better person because of it.

*Now I have to deliver. I have to find a good end to the affair with Rachel.*

Some new guy came into the diner and sat down at the counter two spaces away from her. She subtly observed him in the mirror, and drew the quick conclusion from his jagged fumblings with coffee and sugar that he was coming down from something, a pretty common affliction at this time of the morning.

Pia didn’t do drugs herself, unless you count alcohol, adrenaline and the endorphins the body produces naturally in response to exercise, but she knew the signs. It was part of her training. She didn’t like working drug cases because she was ambivalent about the ethics of the whole thing. She actually thought most drugs should probably be legalised within a suitable framework, but as a detective often you have to go where you are sent. The law is the law, though it has soft edges a kuudere detective can navigate on a somewhat meandering course at times.

She checked her own appearance again, noted the tear track in her make-up, and began to do a quick emergency repair, using the kit from her handbag. She was beyond caring who saw it. At this time of the night, or morning, or whatever gakky witching hour it might be, even Pia’s usually high standards of elegance were beginning to slip.

She had missed some of the byplay between the vampire obsessed trio behind her during her emotional crisis, but it was all recorded on the micro-SD card in her wig. The hot black guy’s robust order was delivered, and he laid into it, sharing with the two girls. Pia watched, listened, and waited for more clues.

I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

“But vampires aren’t real!” blurted Joelle.

Pia wasn’t so sure about that. She knew that wolf girls were real, part wolf and rather bitey, which was the same thing as werewolves basically, and they were only one step from vampires. Remembering the time she had got bitten, she reflexively touched her left ear, but fortunately the magic was dormant, due to the relative dark of the moon, and no mana sparkled as far as she knew. It would be embarrassing if the new guy to her left had noticed anything. When anyone mentioned the bite she explained it away as failed piercings but the blue glow was clearly unnatural.

“It was said that actors came to the city. Act-ors,” the journalist insisted.

*Maybe it’s just one of those real-life role-playing games* -- Pia thought -- *Like that zombie apocalypse one where a bunch of people dress up and wander about a deserted edge of town retail park groaning, and other people try to get away from them.*

The events of the vampire ball had looked just like that kind of scenario, except for the bonfire finale, which was pretty clearly insurance fraud.

Having got interested in ears again, Pia began to wonder if she should change the pattern of her earrings. At the moment she had a very conventional setup, an elegant gold stud in the standard place on each side. She took out her powder compact again, and started to turn her head left and right to look in the mirror. She was trying to figure out if a second hole could be fitted in, whether it would be necessary to let the current piercings heal up and have new holes punched. In the end it seemed like it would be a lot of trouble and probably inelegant, so she dropped the notion.

*I can just get climbers, or maybe some magnetic clip-ons.*

Pia took note of the final exchange between the two not vampire hunters and the journalist. She didn’t believe the black guy, it was too obvious that he was spinning a line when he said that the ‘vampires’ were just actors. That didn’t mean the vampires were real, of course. Cassidy might be just a LARP fantasist who believed in the stories he acted out. Mae could have been taken in by the realistic fakery of the scene. A scared girl running alone in the dark, her mind might have embroidered events with specious details.

But…

The odd couple left the diner. Pia should have let it drop there. All kuudere detectives do a certain amount of Pro Bono work, only you generally have to be approached by a deserving client. This was just a random overheard scene. Pia’s nerves were humming, though, she wanted to find out Joelle’s impression of the encounter. It never hurt to form good relationships with journalists. Also, she wanted to get Mae’s phone number.

As soon as the swing door closed, Pia quit her counter seat and slid into the booth.

“Miss [REDACTED], please forgive my abrupt self-introduction,” she said in a discreet voice, to fox eavesdroppers. “My name is Olympe Reese, I’m a detective.” She laid her card on the table. It was expensively printed in navy blue ink on cream coloured heavyweight board, but it carried no information except the letters PIA and a QR code. The private eye held out her hand for a shake.

“Journalists and detectives have the same basic job, don’t we? We investigate mysteries and try to find out the truth. The difference is that you want to publish it, while I might not, if it’s a private matter. Also, you want to make a name, while my undercover work depends on preserving my anonymity.”

She paused, to allow Joelle to consider these points, and glanced down at the serviette on which Mae had written her number, trying to memorise it.

I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

The morning oozed into Olympe. She wobbled awake, wondering where the fucc she was. Sadie’s Diner, she realised in a series of slow blinks, sitting in the booth where, in the pre-dawn, there had been a discussion on the odd topic of vampires. She checked her watch -- 07:57. It was the bustling breakfast crowd of civilians which had roused her.

Joelle was long gone, with Mae’s scribbled phone number and Olympe’s business card. Pia yawned behind her hand, and a waiter brought fresh coffee. The staff looked after her well, because she looked after them, a long-standing principle in the hard-boiled detective business.

“How are you doing, Ms? Do ya want something to eat?”

“Egg banjo, please.” The boi looked blankly at her, not understanding her British slang. “That’s a bread sandwich with a fried egg in it. Easy over, cause I don’t like them too runny.”

While she waited for her sandwich, Olympe tried to remember what she and Joelle had discussed, but her mind was blank, wiped by 25 hours of uptime, stress, the lingering effects of whisky highballs, and the general weirdness of the pre-dawn hours.

*Bollocks! Well, I can always ring her up, if she doesn’t ring me.* It wouldn’t be hard to track down the journalist, who was a public figure, with bylines in various places. Mae’s number would be more difficult to get, if she couldn’t remember it, but not impossible. It would take some flirting or favours -- different types of social engineering -- *is it worth it?*

The egg banjo arrived. Olympe scarfed it down and decided to go home. She had earned a good, hard relax for the rest of the day. She summoned a cab, asked for the bill -- no, the check -- and paid with more than her usual generosity, to compensate Sadie’s crew for having blocked a booth during the morning rush. Soon Olympe was showering the city and the night off her, looking forward to a real nap in a proper bed.

END SCENE

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/01/31 21:19:19


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

R&R


Olympe woke in the mid-afternoon feeling a bit grody, the way you do when your sleep pattern gets disrupted and you take too long a nap at the wrong time.

*Exercise!* she told herself, *But first, better check in with the agency.* She wanted to take some time off if she wasn’t needed for the Suzuki case.

Pia contacted her controller, who had already reviewed the recordings from the night before. The evidence was good. They agreed that Pia could have 10 days off for R&R.

The tall girl dressed in her running kit of grey leggings and a pink hoody, strapped on her bumbag with some emergency girl and detective stuff in it, and went out for a 5K, carrying a water bottle. As she pounded the city streets, she planned a campaign of fun and personal improvement:

1. Less booze, more exercise.
2. A play date with Graham, so I can go sea swimming and eat fresh fish.
3. Learn to shuffle dance! She wanted to strafe the dance floor in LED equipped sneakers, like the sexy girls in those videos on YouTube.
4. Trace Mae Shui. Because there might be something in the vampire story after all.

She was rounding a corner on the return to her flat when she spotted a glum looking blonde girl ahead. The heel of her smart pump was snapped off, and she was on her phone, presumably calling for a taxi. Except for her worried face and awkward stance, caused by the broken shoe, she was quite stunning, hair and make-up artfully done, wearing a wonderful cream midi dress. Pia slowed down and stopped.

“Huff, huh, er…” The athlete was breathless from exercise. “I’m sorry to, huff, er… Hurrr. You look like you need a hand. Is there anything I can do?” Pia was sweating behind the ears, and felt very inelegant. She hadn’t done her hair or put on any make-up or perfume because what is the point when you’re just going for a run?

*That will be a lesson to me: Always be elegant!*


"Oh, I am so sorry!!! I just - yeah.. Yeah I do need a hand. I can't believe this happened, really, what are the chances. I've worn these only a few times, and here we go, walking like normal before this damn heel decides poof! We are closed for business!" Her brain caught up to her rambling mouth and she stopped suddenly in her dialogue. This stranger had no interest in knowing her 'how I got here' tragedy... A rosy blush warmed her cheeks from the despicable feeling of embarrassment. "But, you ... don't need to hear my life story..."

"Do you happen to know a shoe store near by? I walk past this section of the city so often, I should know..." She let herself stop speaking before she once more rambled on, the bees in her chest still furiously flying within because she had been found out. She was a country bumpkin fraud and she would ultimately fail. Or not.


“Don’t be sorry, honey. Don’t worry. Sh1t happens. You aren’t a real adult until you’ve navigated a shoe crisis, and sometimes a girl needs some help to do that. It’s no shame.”

Pia smiled and reached into her bumbag. “Here, borrow these.” She brought out a pair of yoga socks. “They’ll let you walk safely for a while.”

She helped the blonde to change from her broken heels into the grippy soled, heavy duty socks.

“I’m Olympe. I know a shoe shop near here, or we can go to Isetan, where we’ll find everything, or you can come to mine -- it’s just around the corner -- and borrow a pair if they’ll fit you.”

Pia focussed on practicalities.

“Where do you need to go? When do you need to get there? I’ve got a ton of shoes you can have, if they suit your needs. I’m guessing you’re on the way to an important interview or meeting, because you’re so carefully set up. Could I pretend to be your secretary and make an excuse?”


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

The tall girl replied, exasperated, "Oh, thank you! These are great for now I can look less like a hobbling old witch!"

Putting on the yoga socks, she flexed her feet on the ground, hiding a grimace on how socks outdoor felt. It was unnatural - but she was thankful for this, else she would have to hobble...

"Olympe, it's my pleasure. I'm Maryellen! Oh a shoe shop will do just fine, thank you so much! Lead the way." Her response came with a thankful smile, Olympe was a woman who was always prepared... It was something Maryellen felt that she lacked more recently this month.

"Oh! I am just running errands today, so I suppose I'm in no rush." This reply came taken aback slightly, shocked at how far this stranger was willing to go for a woman with a broken shoe on the street. "You are so kind, but it isn't that important! You won't be late to any class or anything?" She asked, making the assumption that Olympe was going to jog to some sort of athletic class and then jog back home, as many other women in the city did.


*She could never look like a hobbling witch. A hobbling angel, more like!*

“How do you do, Maryellen.” Olympe’s throwaway tone of voice indicated it was just a British stock phrase of introduction, not a real question. She wore a broad smile, though.

“You’re running errands, and I’m just running, ha ha!” she chirped. “I do a 5K for cardio twice a week. I’ve just finished, and I’m starting a 10 day holiday, so there’s no problem at all with time. Now, let’s get you to the shoe shop.”

She led the way down the street, around a corner, and a few hundred yards further along there was a large independent shoe outlet which carried a wide range of stock.

“You won’t find Louboutin or Jimmy Choos here, but they have plenty of good quality stuff for everyday wear. I buy a lot of my shoes here. In fact, there’s something I want to look for now, so I’ll hang around for a bit. Don’t you dare to leave without saying goodbye!” she grinned.

Olympe left Maryellen to engage with an assistant and start finding a replacement pair of heels. In the meantime, she searched in the youth fashion section, however she kept throwing a covert eye over the beautiful blonde. To be honest it was a sheep’s eye. Pia’s run provoked bloom had faded, only to be replaced by a clear crush blush on her un-made-up face. She fiddled around in the sneaker section until she found what she needed, bought it, and went back to wait for Maryellen to finish her shopping.

She sat down nearby, fiddling absently with her smartphone and glancing at the blonde’s ankles.

*She’s so beautiful it’s scary!*

Pia thought herself handsome rather than pretty. She tried to project her sex appeal with athleticism, fashion and make-up, it didn’t come naturally. In her eyes, Maryellen was glowing with a bright nimbus.

“How’s, er, how’s the shoe search going, Maryellen? Have you found a nice pair?”

I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

After a considerable amount of back and forth and explaining, the shop assistant rushed off to the back to find a few styles that would be best matching. At one point, Maryellen found herself glancing at her sporty savior - *What an interesting person. Is she from here?* Olympe had glanced back and Maryellen tore her gaze quickly away, her light eyes returning to the shoe saleswoman as she shuffled back with 3 boxes.

Cashing out, she heard Olympe speak to her. "Oh! It's good, I found one. Looks like you found something!" She looked at the other woman cheerily, "What are you doing after this?" She needed to repay her for her kindness! The relief for her shoe drama being over, crushed any inkling of anxiety she'd normally feel.

Pia wasn’t much of a runner. Serious distance runners do a 5K or 10K four to six days a week. She ran a bit for cardio because it was useful for chasing or running away from crooks. If you run too much, you start to lose upper body strength, because that muscle is dead weight. That’s why all great long distance runners are string beans. Pia needed her muscles for rowing, and sometimes for fighting, though she tried to avoid it.

At any rate, both girls seemed to have bought something they liked. It was great to see Maryellen’s cheerful face now she was properly shod again. Pia admired the blonde’s elegant legs and ankles in the new shoes.

“Gosh, you look super in those, Maryellen. What a good choice!”

*Stop gushing, Pia!* She told herself, her face was reddening again.

“What am I doing next? Well, I need to go home and have a shower. Then I was going to watch shuffle dance tutorials on YouTube. That’s my next project, to learn to shuffle.”

She opened her shoe box to show a pair of white high-top sneakers with LEDs in the soles.

“These babies flash on the beat, and change colour. It’s controlled by an app. I’ve got some cat ear headphones with LEDs in them too. I got them from Japan. I’ve planned a snow leopard outfit.” Pia’s enthusiasm for her project momentarily distracted her from Maryellen’s hinted offer of coffee or something.

“Oh! I’m so silly!” She flushed again. “If you um, I mean, er, if you want to get a coffee or, er, that would be great, I mean, I would love to! If you’re not busy now, I just want to shower and change first... Maybe if you come to my flat and... wait, does that sound a bit weird? Maybe we should exchange numbers to meet up another time.”

*Quick, get her number!* Pia grabbed out a chunky looking mil-spec smartphone and held it forward nervously, hoping Maryellen would touch it with hers, to enable the two phones to ping their contact files to each other via NFC.

Maryellen smiled. "Anything works for me! I didn't have much on the to-do list that was so important that it can't be put off!" She took the phone and programmed her name and number into it quickly, returning it to its rightful owner with a few digital presses of a button. Was it right to go into a stranger's house? She hadn't given it much thought, the airhead, but in her mind, the reality of going to another strange woman's house was much less dangerous than if it were a man.

*Contact details GET!!* Pia exulted.

She led the way to her nearby flat before Maryellen could have second thoughts.

This message was edited 1 time. Last update was at 2021/02/02 16:32:30


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
Made in jp
[MOD]
Anti-piracy Officer






Somewhere in south-central England.

Pia brought Maryellen to a long gated community built on a former industrial site. A few gates and corridors later and they came to a communal stairway.

“My place is on the first floor, well, you would say the second. I don’t like heights. I keep it Japanese style, no shoes inside. Let me go first, so I can get you slippers.” She opened the door and went in, stepping directly into slippers waiting for her, and took some out of a cupboard for her guest.

“That’s the bathroom. The next one is the bedroom.” She pointed to the doors on the right of the corridor. They walked into a huge, open plan Living-Dining-Kitchen room and Pia stood in the middle, spinning like an ice-skater on valium.

“This place is far too big for me,” she laughed. “I’m rattling around like a pea in a whistle.”

The walls were a clean, inoffensive pale cream, the colour estate agents use because it makes any space look larger and pretends to some kind of personality. They were bare of pictures. Three tall windows brought in the late afternoon sun. There was an oval dining table with six chairs, a sofa facing a large wall-mounted TV, a couple of easy chairs. The other side of the room was a writing desk with some computer equipment on it, and an Ikea bookcase filled with manga books. Incongruously, two hefty fire-proof safes were bolted to the external, structural wall of the room.

“There’s no personality. I haven’t made enough time to shop.” She seemed a bit blue, suddenly, but then rallied to look after her guest, offering tea, coffee, soft drinks or wine.

“Please help yourself, Maryellen. Listen to music or watch TV, read a book, whatever you like. I’ll take a very quick shower.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

As far as Maryellen could understand, Olympe had a bubbly, cool exterior that was an inexplicable attraction to anyone who crossed her path! How could anyone not be so interested in such a textbook extrovert? When the women entered the apartment, Maryellen was not surprised to recognize how extroverted even her home was. It was almost devoid of decor, something that made her almost tip her soft smile into a frown. She hid her expression before it could fall away, laughing as Olympe twirled and twirled like a top.

"It's really lovely...!" Maryellen replied, noting the tone of her voice when even Olympe noted its lack of personality... In her mind, bare walls in a home was the sign of instability, of not enough time to become fully at one with her home. *Did Olympe move a lot? She must have recently moved in... Did she have nobody to decorate with? Nobody to decorate for?* Her mind buzzed with questions and before she knew it, the other woman had scattered off to go prepare herself, leaving Maryellen alone in the oppressively under-decorated, very sterile home.

She took her phone out of her purse, flicking through social media mindlessly as she thought about how she herself would decorate this house. It was a silly thing to think about when she was in a stranger’s home one hour after meeting the person... But she couldn't help it.

Minutes later Pia came out of the bathroom and walked naked to her bedroom. If Maryellen glanced at her, she might notice faded long scars on Pia’s right buttock and upper left arm.

Maryellen looked away quickly, her heart jumping at the sudden nudity. *What was that!?* She thought, flabbergasted as the rouge of blush crept onto her warmed cheeks.

Pia was delighted by Maryellen’s blush at her nudity. *Hee hee!* Her eyes and mouth crinkled, but she said nothing. The minx reappeared in a cream silk slip and dangly gold earrings. She held a pink midi dress up against herself. It was elegant, short-sleeved, plain, with a flowing skirt.

“What do you think, Maryellen, won’t we match pretty well? I’ve got to put my face on before we go. I’ll be quick.”

She spent 15 minutes to do a light make-up; the basics plus eye-liner, mascara and defined brows, some eyeshadow, blusher, and dark pink lipstick. Back into the bedroom, and out again in the pink dress, thin gold bangles on each wrist, and her long hair done up. It was a wig, since Pia’s natural hair was pixie cut to help with disguises. She felt the dress needed something more formal and structured.

She was feeling bold. *If I’m going to set my cap at Maryellen, I’ll do it right.* She approached the tall blonde preceded by a provocative waft of Creed Sublime Vanille, her most luxuriously sensual perfume, designed to release the wearer's seductive prowess.


I'm writing a load of fiction. My latest story starts here... This is the index of all the stories...

We're not very big on official rules. Rules lead to people looking for loopholes. What's here is about it. 
   
 
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