A Private Investigation (Or: The Unforunate Demise of Leland Grubb)

cshank

A/N: Wow, this is like, my first time actually trying to sit down and write in a long while. So, uh, go easy on the grammar and spelling errors... No, actually, slam them in my face and then rub it in it. So, graphic violence, murder, story about a bluepill. Can't take the heat, get outta the fire. Thanks. So, yeah, as something I just thought of. If people like this, I might continue it. If not, well, may it rest with the fishies.

Prologue: The Mega City... Man, what a time we live in. I can't help but wonder what the city's name is everytime I look out at it. I know it used to have one, but, everyone just calls it 'The City' anymore. I think it's name used to be Cicado, or maybe it was Chibaro. Who knows? I certainly don't. Nor do I care. All I care about is the next dollar and the next job.

I'm an Investigator. A Private Eye, as some would call me. My name is Astar Gierglovo and I find things, locate missing people, help a husband or wife find out who's cheating on who. The usual for my beat. I have a small office in the Richland area, Mara, as it's called by the local turf-herders; funny thing, the office is also my appartment now. Business is slow anymore, no one needs people like me. Not with all these thugs running around with weapons that make most of hte local precincts scared pissless. Bunch of vigilantes.

It was that thought process that lead me to this situation, I suppose.

=========Chapter 1: All Things That Have a Beginning...=========

A balmy day in the city. The Uriah Docks were smelling particullarly ripe today, and, as lady luck would wish it, she decided to seduce me with her new perfume. Turned the key inside my door which took a little forcing to open. My office is a wreck, but at least it's tidier then where I just came from. I pull the white-foam breather off from around my mouth and nose and hang it up on a peg next to my fedora.

"That hat's seen better days, Mister Gierglovo." I spin on instinct only, groping for a holster that I forgot to carry. A lady, dressed completely in black leather, is behind my desk, a boxy looking pistol aimed at my face. "Easy," she says, "Want you to close that door and lock it, real smart like. Don't try anything." I nod and do as she instructed. She's standing now, black hair falling to about mid-back, a diamond necklace around her throat. She has a round face, reminds me of a drop of water, for some reason, and her seafoam eyes seem to have a tinge of madness to them.

"So, what'dya' want, darling?" My voice doesn't sound half as brave as I wish it did. Sure, it wasn't the first time I've had a pistol waved in my face, but this time, she had the drop on me. "I ain't got any money for ya'."

She smiles, cheshire cat white on pale skin. "I hope I can remedy that, then." She lowers the weapon and kicks her creamy legs up on the desk after returning to my chair. "Sit down, Astar." I do. She jabs a pack of Yehuyen unfiltered at me. "Smoke?"

Grasping the cigarette between my fingers and puffing it lightly, I sit back to listen. Her hands fumble with the buttons and zippers of her motor-cycle jacket. Click-clack, go her burgundy fingernails over the too-bright chrome. She's chewing some obnoxiously scented gum, almost worse than the docks, and, to make it worse, she pops it on every other bite.

"I have a job for you, Mister Gierglovo." Her voice has taken an edge to it. Wounded, hurt. Longing. Needing.
"I figured, genre and payment, sister." I ask and pull a small notebook from the back of my pants, flip to a fresh page and grab a pen off my desk.
"I need you to find someone for me. Someone... important."
"Payment?"
She sighs, doesn't realise this is business. Pop. Pop. Clack. Click. "Ten thousand. Three now, the rest later."
I whistle and snuff the cigarette out on the sole of my dingy loafers. I could guess what I'd be buying first with that money. "That's a lot for finding someone. Who is he?"

She gulps and looks around, "Is the room safe?"
"Sister, the walls and windows are sound-proof. I have some of the best electronic counter-measures you can illegally afford. This place is safe, probably, from God himself."

Pop. Click. Clack. Pop. "Leland Grubb."

I pause and look at her, she's stopped chewing and fidgeting. Staring off into space like some highschooler. "And?"

"'And' what?" She asks bitterly. "He disappeared last month and no one knows what happened to him."

"That's usually what happens when they, you know, disappear."

Her hands in the air now, middle finger extended.

"Yeah, you're right. That wasn't funny, was it?" I cough and scribble the name down. "How old is... he?"
She nods, "Sixteen."
**bleep**, young enough to be a kidnapping. "Was your son involved in any gangs?"
She shifts in her seat, those legs finally coming down from the desk. Guess she doesn't look too much like a mom to most people. "He was." Another pause, she opens the right zipper on her coat and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Tosses it to me. "Not physical; Online. Some people calling themselves the Midi-Farmers."

I open the piece of paper, there's a music note on it, circled in bits of, what looks like, Japanese and numbers. Just looking at it makes me sick to my stomach for some reason. "What's this?"

"It was on his desk the morning he left..." A silver tear runs down her cheek. "I-I have a print-off of his chat-room records. They were talking in riddles, I couldn't figure it out. I just want him back!" She hands me the print-out from the same pocket. I don't bother opening this one.

I stand and help her up. Warm hands slip a wad of bills into mine. "Don't worry, Ms. Grubb. I'll keep you informed." She nods and leaves the office, crying as she hurries down the hallway.

Looks like I have another job.