Beyond the Hound - One-Eyed Rumor Tango

April 2068. Frida Igarashi is called to give testimony on the events that brought to the complete destruction of the Marranzani Antique Store. Veckert knows her well (unfortunately) and is terrified by the prospect of yet another close encounter with this absolutely terrifying human hurricane. However, the prize is worth the stake – getting closer to the truth behind Lilith.

That office was cramped. Almost more cramped than her own single-room venue in Euterpe. Still, it was clean and neatly ordered, despite the staples of paper crammed here and there, vouchers spread on a corner of the desk and even a taped ashtray with a ‘never again’ sign stuck on top of it. A wired phone and an averagely serviceable computer completed that picture, a picture that Frida’s single eye feasted upon with gusto. Order. Relative stability. That was a far cry from whatever her life brought, but wasn’t it the charm of it? A rollercoaster without beginning or end, with some downturns and exciting upturns too. So, there she was, on the other side of the English Channel, waiting for the owner of that desk to come and tell her why. Yes, why was she spirited away by a burly German hunk with a stellar physical build that screamed ‘pounce on me right now’? And why was that man married with children? Well, she was not one to talk, as the least-expected motherly figure ever that actually got pregnant.

The small, cat-eared, meowing kid in her arms was proof of it.

Li’l Akane. Accidental lovechild of a close encounter with her sworn enemy. The bond that united them and made their rivalry even bitterer. Because now she had one more reason to win: to show her Kanny who the cooler parent was—so, definitely NOT the cat-GILF that spawned her into existence. Frida patted the black hair of that small ray of sunshine that lay in her arms, caressed her pointed, fluffy ears. How could such a cute critter be born from what had essentially been a full-scale battle, a gruesome war to stand at the top, a terrifying struggle between two hurricane-grade disasters? Mysteries of genetics. The Igarashi bloodline wasn’t for the faint of heart, after all. Fortunately, Steinberger was there for her. Even if that guy had the same grace of an elephant in an antique shop, he sure loved little Kanny-kitty. Who wouldn’t love her, thought Frida while pinching her six-month-old toddler’s cheek.

“Yes, I can see it! You’ll become a proud Igarashi woman—slicing everything in your path and bedding guys, lasses and everything in between with absolute abandon! You’ll make your momma proud, Kanny-kitty!”

The noise of an opening door got her to turn around, taking her attention away from the heir to her sword. Only for the newcomer to stare at Frida with a deadpan gaze. One that could have not been more dead inside. Accompanied by a resigned, pain-laden, chainsmoker voiced remark.

“…so, the documents were correct. It was really you.”

And a gloved hand massaging a wrinkled forehead, one traversed by sparks of pain every second more.

“…of all people, it had to be you, huh. Why it had to be you. Why.”

Almost oblivious to the reaction she elicited, Frida beamed, waving her free hand wildly at the short woman who just set foot in the room. Rapunzelian blue hair (natural color, by the way!), emerald green eyes, pale complexion, scars all over her neck and part of her face. And the sudden will to turn back and exit stage left, under the monoeyed gaze of that blond woman in a suit, who was cradling her neko kid in her arms. Except, she couldn’t. She would have loved to, but she couldn’t. Not when official business was on the menu. So, resisting the urge to scream, Veckert Rainer finally sat at her desk, almost tempted to bury her head in her arms. A sigh escaped her mouth, spreading her resignation all over the place.

“…what did I do to deserve this?”

“Come on, Veck! We had some good fun together, right?”

Veckert ground her teeth, her muscles contracted all of a sudden. Fun? FUN? That couldn’t be called fun. Not at all. Nothing that involved Frida friggin’ Igarashi could be fun. An adventure worthy of a horror mockumentary? Yes. One of the weirdest and most uncomfortable one night stands in her life? Yes, again. An absolute catastrophe that almost ended with two dead and one buried? Yes, that too. Nights like that made Veckert miss even her drunken escapade with Dr. Crawford—the absolute bottom of the barrel of the depressive lowest point of her sentimental life. Or was it Werner’s cousin? Or the girl before her? Whatever, none of those close encounters ranked as low as the time she shared a bed with Frida Igarashi.

Veckert shivered, felt a cold chill running down her spin, ping-ponging back to her brain and fester like a spark of static electricity there. Frida’s body ticked eight out of the ten boxes that made Veckert’s hormones burst into fireworks—blond hair, non negligible breast size, badass tattoo, and smug grin included. To her credit, that one-eyed nuisance was also very good in the sheets—no matter if her partner was a man or a woman or none of the above. It was the rest, all what lingered around the main course that turned her from a ‘smash and forget’ into a ‘run away without turning back after setting the whole place on fire’. Before settling with Rika, Veckert had seldom put a woman on her ‘not to bang ever again’ blacklist; she liked to keep her chances open, in case her current relationship sunk faster than the Titanic (which it usually did). However, Frida was not just a honorary citizen of that list—she was the whole reason why it existed in the first place. Which made her presence there, in Veckert’s office, all the more painful. Veckert groaned once again, gritted her teeth, letting a short utterance filter through her half-closed mouth.

“…I’d rather fuck a lamppost with shark teeth.”

Funabaki had been clear that, indeed, such a creature existed. Once. Maybe not anymore. Yet, it existed. No, wait, wait… they weren’t shark teeth, it was more like a lamprey, yes. A lamppost with a lamprey-like mouth and a bioluminescent head, who fed on people. Michio wrote that he saw it, in his notes. He wrote that he saw it feasting on the poor remains of a person, even. Only written, with some pencil sketches too. Not said, no, because you don’t talk about ROPES. Still, that lamppost, provided it existed, was more desirable company than the person sitting in front of her, kid in arms. Said kid, though, was positively adorable. Cat ears. Cat tail. A neko. A cute neko kid. Spawn of the devil herself and a neko guy who was said to be speedrunning his ascent to the throne of England.

As the royal consort of Queen Vivian, no less.

Despite being more than twenty years older than his alleged wife-to-be.

Breathe.

Breathe.

B r e a t h e.

Veckert breathed.

Slowly. Surely. Barely.

“So, why did detective Hunk brought me here with the first plane, yesterday? I thought he wanted to bang, but then I got he’s married with children. And, seeing how you reacted, I don’t think you wanted to bang me either. What’s this about, Veckert? What did I do this time? I swear, I’ve been a law-abiding model citizen, since my little sunshine spark was born… okay, well, almost! But I didn’t cause any huge issues, right? At least, not on this side of the English Channel!”

Veckert nodded. Yeah, alright. It was just her, Frida Igarashi. A person. A single person. No matter how unpleasant or dangerous, there was no need to get worked up. Yes. Definitely. Frida was there as a witness, just as a witness. So, after yet another breath, Veckert pulled a picture from one of her staples, slid it in front of her.

“This man. You’ve met him, right?”

Frida eyed the photo, clicked her tongue. Greasy black hair. Thin, sharp features. A monocle. A black shirt. She gazed at Veckert, while rubbing her finger on the printed nose of that man.

“Yeah, it was last year in Euterpe. Neolightists, right? Dux mea lux and all that jazz, with a side dish of screaming zombies. Wasn’t he called, like, Calendula? Carambola?”

“Caligola. Onorato Caligola, head scientist of la Legione, a far right extremist group that was destroyed the same night you disposed of him.”

Frida shrugged, kissing li’l Akane on her forehead, playing a little with her tail. The kid tried to bite her, only for her almost toothless mouth to fall limp around her mothers hand. Frida turned her attention back to Veckert, smirked at her.

“Duh, I didn’t. I killed his werewolf pal and Steinberger smashed a radiotank to bits—but the hunchback mofo? It wasn’t me.”

“Really, now.”

“Huh-uh. Claro.”

Veckert pushed her finger on the picture, squinted her eyes.

“…are you positively, absolutely, definitely sure of it?”

“Look, I don’t kill people—even if they are fascists. Cutting one arm or two? Sure. Ripping their teeth off and smashing their heads against bricks? Sure. But killing? No, that’s where I draw the line. Sometimes they accidentally die, yes, but it wasn’t my intention—and that’s not what happened with Mr. Ratto Carruba here. Werewolves, on the other hand…”

“There are no real werewolves.”

“Oh, there are—and they are smoking hot, I kid you not. You have no idea of what I’d pay to be sandwiched between two galwof pirates—and be ravaged by both of them at the same time while they are in heat! Before fighting them to the death, that is! The only good werewolf is a dead werewolf, yeah?!”

Suddenly, Akane started cooing, crying, grabbing her mom’s tailor-made suit, rubbing her little cheek on it. Frida patted her head, grinned.

“See? That’s what I’d expect from my daughter! She picked it up too! Werewolf! RAWR!”

A muted roar, a fake claw strike at the small child. Frida bared her teeth, mimicking a monster.

“Yes! I’m a big bad wolf! The sworn enemy of the Igarashi bloodline! RAAAAWR! RAAAAWR!”

A stare with big, curious eyes locked on those hands, on that big open mouth. Akane’s small fingers wrapped around Frida’s pinky, pulled it, brought it to her mouth. Her fangless lips closed around it, sucking it avidly. Her mom hugged her stronger, kissing her forehead once again. All while Veckert couldn’t stop asking herself more questions. Such as why didn’t she take a day off? Why wasn’t EiN in charge of that interrogation? And why didn’t her faithful VORS Blame shoot Frida on sight despite having been specifically instructed to do so? The last bit might have been connected to Blame’s programming being constrained to avoid civilian casualties. Still, if somehow, somewhere, someone managed to reclassify Frida Igarashi as a dangerous ROP to be terminated with extreme prejudice…

Breathe.

Breathe.

B r e a t h e.

Veckert tapped her finger on the picture again. Alright. EXODUS was clear. She had to help them, at least a little more, after her tip to the ambassador. Then, she could take Rika and fly to Australia for a month-long vacation. Rika wanted to visit Wally’s House, that orphanage in the middle of the outback ran by velociraptors, after seeing Myadeline Heargreaves’s viral video on it. Again, talking about adopting children. Again, with Veckert present, and barely six months after their relationship bloomed. With all due respect, that was premature. Veckert’s longest relationship had lasted for a couple of years, before Geri dumped her. Six months were still the probation period. It was already a record time, compared to her more recent stories, but not long enough to grant her emotional stability. What if Rika got tired of her? What if the spell broke? What if…

Too many what ifs.

But Australia it was. Full month. Sydney, Melbourne, Alice Springs. Generously paid by the state and by an ‘anonymous benefactor’ who gifted her Rika a frankly outrageous amount of money. Clean money. Easy to track. Easy to verify. Legitimate. Veckert had a hunch or two of who that donor was—scales, sunglasses and beard included—only the why eluded her. Could that creepy old geezer be sentimental? Care for his old employees? Have a heart, even? That felt so bizarre she had no idea what to think of it.

Nevertheless, that had to wait. Work had priority. Especially with an interspecies, international, diplomatic xenocrisis on the line.

“Focus, Frida. Focus. This guy… his—let’s call him werewolf—subordinate attacked an antique store, right? Have you ever found out why?”

**

The waiting room outside of Veckert’s office was a little too barren for Steinberger’s taste. No gaudy colors, no rich furniture, no small trinkets he could play with. No comfortable sofa either. Just second rate plastic chairs, the kind he’d find in a cheap mass-production store. Which was a problem for his constitution. All in all, with his half-robotic body, his weight overshoot double that of a standard man. So, whenever he sat down, he always felt like he had to play the ‘will it break?’ game. Still, there was a good reason for him to believe that his ass wouldn’t kiss the linoleum—and that reason was sitting across the room, staring at him with a single, glowing red iris. Steinberger couldn’t help but focus on that mountain of metal, that shining piece of military tech that was quietly keeping an eye—and a shotgun arm—pointed at him. VORS. Versatile Operating Robotic System. General purpose law enforcement drones with a personality and a C level autonomy on the Kreen scale. Capable of following orders and deciding how to follow them, but unable to fight against them. VORSes had shackles that humans didn’t have to deal with, despite being almost sentient—emphasis on almost. That, to Steinberger, felt somehow fascinating.

The chassis of the robot was of a dull gray, with the number 05 printed on one of its shoulders. Behind its head stood what looked like a the roll bar of a formula one car—those wedges that protected the driver from injuries if their racing steed capsized. The head of the machine was relatively flat and featureless, sporting a black band sandwiched between the top and the bottom sections, where Blame’s single eye rested.

Blame.

That was the name of that VORS. A peculiar one at it, but somehow fitting. Common VORS names, like Shame, Sin, Regret, Remorse, were kinda tasteless—but SPECTRA wasn’t known for sensible naming conventions. Steinberger looked at his own prosthetic arms, made by SPECTRA too. Forklift, they were called. Forklift. Who in the bloody heck thought that it were a good idea? Even his SPECTRA-branded rocket engines were named Challenger. Really? Calling your boosters like a space shuttle that exploded one minute after launch? One didn’t need to be a marketing genius to call it a bad idea, with a capital B.

Maybe, that was the reason why SPECTRA went under. Maybe.

Bad product placement was a curse.

Steinberger polished his suit, glanced at his wristwatch. Five minutes. Just five minutes. Frida had gotten in just five minutes earlier. He crunched his fist, opened his fingers loose again. Five minutes, sure. In which reference system? Why did it feel like an eternity already? The VORS in front of him, though, didn’t seem to care. He (Steinberger was pretty sure Blame identified as a he) simply kept watching, moving the barrels of his shotgun up and down, but never lowering them enough to keep Steinberger out of its sight.

“How long, still?”

Steinberger couldn’t help but ask. The silence had become unbearable. If the alternative was to converse with a semi-intelligent piece of robot crap, so be it.

“>Depends on Veckert’s mood.”

The artificial, monotone voice of Blame blared through Steinberger’s artificially enhanced ears. His head was, after all, semi-artificial too—a metal and ceramic container for his brain which had some sensory outlets and still parts of his skeleton within. Long story, one he wasn’t ready to tell. At least, his voice was still fully human. Sorta. Kinda. Certainly not that horrific metallic noise VORSes emitted whenever they spoke.

“>If she’s frustrated, it can last hours. Her personal record is two hundred forty-seven minutes and twenty-four seconds.”

Steinberger whistled, nodded weakly. That was a long time for an interrogation, alright. He sincerely hoped this Veckert was in a good mood. True, their plane back to Italy and their accommodation were both paid in full by Yard, that wasn’t a problem. Even if they needed to wait one day longer to go back to their comfortable houses, it wasn’t going to be much more than a slight hindrance. Nevertheless, it was a torture not to know when he’d be able to call it a day.

“>That record caused me to miss a live Nanami concert I was looking forward to. Veckert still owes me one for that.”

His single artificial eye didn’t convey any emotions. His voice was robotic to the point of feeling like a cheap text-to-speech system of old. Yet, there was a hint of personality in those words. A hint of annoyance. Which, if anything, reminded Steinberger that VORSes were technically given limited human rights due to how close their digital selves aligned to human brains. Nothing major and still a speck of dust compared with what scaffolds of flesh and blood enjoyed—however, that was at least a start. Yggdra would have liked to get those too, before being forcefully switched off.

Whatever, thought Steinberger, not the topic for a day like this.

His hand grabbed a printed magazine that peeked out of a staple laid on the table. Many colorful covers, absolutely no content. The joy of waiting room fodder. He lazily started browsing the pages of what looked like movie news, with a young neko in a bikini plastered all over the cover. Not his jam, no, but at least better than reading about politics, eldritch plants, and all that jazz. If all he had to endure to get some distraction was a spicy picture of Myadeline Heargreaves, so be it. Blame’s artificial joints and muscles whirred, his eye focused on Steinberger once again.

“>Page twenty-four has a list of movies that will come out next week. I had to comb it for Veckert to give her advice on which one to watch with her girlfriend. Veckert has a bad taste in fact of movies. You should never let her pick one. By any chance, don’t.”

“She likes depressing stuff?”

“>No. Just boring, according to any sensible human standard. Whenever she suggests a movie, there is a 93% chance that running a full antivirus scan on my system or simulating drying paint will yield more enjoyment.”

Steinberger would have blinked, if he still had biological eyes. He paused for an instant, looked back at the artificial being sitting in front of him.

That was more than annoyance or a hint of personality.

That was sass.

Genuine sass.

Simulated, of course.

Because VORSes, much like K-class drones, were just acting as if they were human.

Yeah.

There was no way they’d have real feelings and real emotions. It was the product of a network of ad-hoc connections reproducing human thought patterns. Or was it? Flesh and blood. Metal and ceramic. Where did the soul reside, if any? Did the material its container make any difference?

“>Since you look like a partly sensible human, there’s a 91% chance that you will be able to tell me which movie Veckert would have chosen.”

Steinberger turned back to the magazine, slowly combed through the crumpled pages. Much like Blame noted, a list of upcoming movies peeked out of the printed sheets. His eyes scanned them one by one, the small screenshots close to the titles too. It didn’t take him long to start to groan. All of them looked like tasteless bargain bin entertainment schlock. ‘Pray’. ‘Blades of Cydonia’. ‘Magical Unicorn Friends: Rebellion’. ‘Schwarz3rblitz: Shocker’s Revengeance (direct to video)’. ‘Ex Lacrima Remnant’. ‘Chronoslasherz 5090 – The End of Eternity (R18)’. ‘Starbreakers doesn’t exist (documentary)’…

Steinberger sighed loudly. To him, they all felt worthless pieces of celluloid trash, all of them without exception. Still, what could be the most boring of the bunch? Oh, of course. That couldn’t be anything else than…

“It’s the documentary, isn’t it?”

Blame’s eye shone for an instant, in what could have been mistaken for resignation.

“>Correct. A two hours documentary on a series that Veckert swears she watched years ago. Not the best ‘movie’ to bring your date to, with a 99.97% confidence level. High chances of a breakup. According to my analysis, Ex Lacrima Remnant is more fitting for both of them. High chances of them copulating right after—or during—the vision. Low chances of bad mood and buyer’s remorse. Veckert doesn’t deserve more bad time.”

Steinberger nodded, closed the magazine, let it fall on the small table.

“You do care a lot about her, huh?”

Blame didn’t answer. The VORS simply lowered the barrels of the shotgun, turned around towards the door. ‘Care’ was a word used for humans, not for robots programmed to serve. He was a slave in anything but name, no matter how many times Veckert called him ‘my big metal brother’. Still, in a corner of his core, Blame wanted to believe it. Yes, in a sense he did care for Veckert. Whether or not that was part of his imprinting, that was something he couldn’t change.

So, he carefully turned his sensors back to the door, monitoring the situation inside, hoping that the interrogation didn’t last as long as her previous record.

Otherwise, he would have missed the 74-Nanashi concert stream too.

His iris closed, opened again with a whir.

No, that would have been unbearable.

No way he’d miss that too.

If he did, Veckert would have owed him way more than a concert ticket, afterwards.

Way, way more.

**

“Why, huh.”

“Yes. Why did they raid that shop, of all places?”

Frida looked at Veckert with, for once, the gaze of someone lost in thought. Alright, good. Why would joke neolightist cosplayers attack an antique store? That was a good question, one she didn’t have a proper answer for. So, rumor mill it was—maybe not what Veckert needed, but all what she could actually provide. Frida beamed her best smile, shook her head slightly.

“Those mofos were looking for a book, from what I got, but that’s only stuff that Steinberger heard of and that cat-DILF verified later. Something like the diary of Ioria Patrizio Talassa, that guy from the failed Talassa coup, yeah? But I don’t know more than that. Never got to see it.”

“Any ideas of what he might have written in there?”

“Huh, nope? No clues, sorry. Maybe those reject fascizombies hoped to find some truth about their hero, maybe what happened behind his coup? Well, sucks to be them.”

Veckert crossed her hands under her chin, stared at her guest deep in her eye.

“Just that?”

Frida looked back, her gaze meeting with Veckert’s in a struggle of sparks.

“Well, duh, I also heard rumors about a final lightist weapon, but that’s it, just a rumor.”

“Which rumor?”

Frida caressed her kid’s hair, deep in thought, for once. The clock ticked in the background, every second marked by its loud hands.

“I dunno, okay? Something cat-DILF heard and told me—never trust a middle-aged neko with abs that sing, alright? But, hey, word on the streets is that the old lightist bozos in the ‘40s had a new weapon that couldn’t be deployed in time to save their baldhead leader, so they just hid it for later. They burned all evidence, except the notes kept in this Talassa’s diary. The weapon’s name’s Lilith, yes? Like that… wait, have you seen that viral SPREAD_THE_TAPES video? That same name!”

She shrugged, lulled her child a little in her arms.

“Sounds much like a Traveller episode, right? Who would write about a secret weapon in a stupid diary? That’s, like, the least safe place where to keep a secret, or?”

“And the shop where it was allegedly stored was destroyed by-”

“Not me. Blame the tank.”

Frida fell silent, patted her kid’s head with a deceivingly innocent smile. A smile that made Veckert wish she could shoot her dead, even if maybe not in front of her daughter. For how much she hated Frida, totaling her in front of a toddler would have been unnecessarily cruel. She groaned, mumbled something under her breath, took out a second picture.

“Okay, I won’t ask more about that. So, what about this woman? Have you ever met her?”

Pink hair. Pink shirt. A pink heart tattooed on her cheek. A winking picture that wouldn’t have felt out of place in a dating app.

“Oh, yes! That’s Claudia! She was my informant before going full almighty for Mr. Foppish Magnifico! A total perv, I tell you, but—gal!—if she kissed well! I wish she went easier on me, but, hey—all that money spared for juuust a little action.”

“…action.”

Frida glanced at Veckert, met her dead gaze.

“Frida.”

“Yes?”

“You bedded her too.”

“Yes.”

“Seriously.”

“Yes.”

Veckert’s gaze became deader. Frida snickered, rolled her eye.

“Look, I did her before it was trendy and before she became an Angel, alright?”

“…of course you did. Of course.”

Veckert tapped her finger on the desk, repeatedly, without ever losing sight of Frida’s single blue eye.

“Is there any alive criminal in this world that you haven’t considered banging, Frida?”

“Wow, now’s the pot calling the kettle black. Is there any woman in this district that didn’t pay the Veckert tax?”

“None of them paid it—well, none except one and I’m not touching that with a ten foot pole ever again. Contrary to you, I’m not a nymphomaniac sociopath running around with a samurai sword.”

Frida whistled in admiration. She would have clapped her hands, if they weren’t occupied by keeping her infant kid in her arms. Veckert surely had a way with words, as sharp as a jackknife, exactly as she remembered. Her monoeyed gaze wandered around the small office, looking at the walls, at the decorations, at the pictures pinned on it. Veckert. With people. Laughing. That surely felt weird. One of the pictures portrayed her with the German ‘do me please’ hunk that gently invited Frida to the meeting just forty-something hours earlier and, of course, his wife and children. One other picture showed an albino man, a blond guy with him, another man with brown hair and a hearing implant. The third had a VORS, a colossal police war machine droid, carrying Veckert on its shoulders. The fourth framed Veckert and a refined woman with auburn hair, in a shining dress that made Frida salivate. That had to be the Rika she heard of, huh. Classy choice, way out Veckert’s league and yet… well, good for them, she surmised. The last picture was an all-girls club, featuring a cute tattooed blondie, a tall tomboy with short hair and prosthetic arms, another woman with long brown hair and a blindfold. Frida thought she recognized some of those gals hugging Veckert all together in front of the camera. That blindfold looked familiar, if anything, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.

Still, Veckert.

Surrounded by people.

Of all sexes, genders and walks of life?

That was unexpected.

The Veckert she slept with not even three years earlier was an emotional wreck, a woman on the brink of crying while being cuddled and on the verge of breaking down at any given moment. This Veckert, though, looked different. The same person, no questions asked, but still different. At peace with herself. More confident. Alive.

A creaking noise broke her trip down memory lane, brought her back to the present, to the office she was sitting in. The door had just opened again, letting a uniform in. A woman with fiery red hair arranged in a long braid peeked through, much to Veckert’s consternation.

“…didn’t I ask to be left alone for a while?”

“Huh, yes, but we have a problem, chief. A… big problem. Can you, huh, step by the infirmary, when you’re finished? It’s… relatively urgent.”

“Did Blame shoot anyone?”

“N-no! He’s still in the waiting room with Mr. Steinberger. It’s… actually about another one of our field agents.”

“Sure, whatever. Give me half an hour. Unless someone is dying right now, that is.”

The agent nodded, sighed.

“Yeah, no. No dying, just… okay, then I’ll tell Werner about it. See you later, chief.”

Frida scanned the newcomer from head to foot, whistled again. Then, she grinned at Veckert while pointing her finger at the woman who was standing close to the door.

“Well, if you ain’t taking a shot at her, what about introducing me to the red-head there? She looks like…”

Frida’s eye opened wide, her mouth almost fell agape.

“Oh, wait, wait, wait! is that you Renne? Renne Schellensomething? Really?! Hi, Renne! Wow! How long has it been? Six years?”

In that moment, the red-head jolted, gasped, and ran away before uttering a single word, disappearing as quickly as she had peeked into the room, slamming the door close behind herself. The muffled sound of running feet that came from the corridor echoed in the small room for around ten seconds longer. Under Veckert’s now even more deadpan gaze, slowly turning back to the walking catastrophe sitting at her desk. Veckert’s voice barely left her mouth, strangled by an absolutely vile feeling of being part of a sitcom, of having somehow been sucked into a parallel universe where everything she did was a joke. Words slithered out at the slowest pace possible, letters sticking to her tongue and teeth while she tried to get a hold of the situation at hand.

“You didn’t…”

“I had an eventful life, okay? And it was my first time with a girl, alright? Before Claudia, even.”

“I guess.”

A sigh. A long sigh, yes. Yeah, eventful. That was a euphemism, alright. Because there was nothing trivial or normal about Frida Igarashi. The file that Yard kept on her even identified her as a possible ROP, at one point—courtesy of the increasing amount of absurd happenings surrounding her routine. Losing an eye as a kid because of an alleged werewolf. Most likely a cover up, kids do be like that. Being involved in a failed robbery at a local bank. Younguns do it from time to time, no biggie. Winning an arm wrestling contest with a robot. Okay, cool. Fighting fascist werewolves. Alright. Fascists tanks. Alright, again. Hunting more werewolves. Sure, I guess. No, wait, pirate werewolves. Why not? Getting knocked up by a neko guy with fifty other children. Par for the course. None of that was exceedingly outrageous, while taken out of context. As a combination of factors, though? Almost too unlikely. Good old Michio, he would have chosen safety and would have just ‘taken care’ of the Frida problem. But Veckert? Nah. Quartering a civilian because she was too obnoxious was something only a police state would do. So, she decided to endure her guest a little longer. After all, there was still some potentially precious intel that she needed to carve out of that grinning mouth of hers.

“Back to Claudia Amarene. What do you know of her?”

Frida shrugged, hugged her Kanny-kitty tighter. She prodded her kid’s cat ears lightly, beaming a smile at her every now and then.

“Not much, really. Even during our happy nights together, she didn’t say a lot about herself. She’s dyed, no natural pink—that’s for sure. I have no idea how she got into the underworld informant business, but I’ve always got the feeling her contacts ran deep. But as deep as Mr. Fruity Fop? Now, that was a shock, I tell you.”

Veckert tapped her finger on the picture again, seemingly lost in thought. Claudia Amarene wasn’t even her real identity. There was nobody registered under that name in any Italian hospital’s centralized birth registry, at least not in an age range that matched hers. A phantom, really. A ghost that spawned into existence at some point in time, whose first appearance went back to the days right after the Black Lightning struck. An information broker, knees deep into the tar that flooded the bottom rungs of society, swimming in a pitch black pool of mistrust. Coincidentally, that’s when the Lilith intel started to filter out. Rumors about the Talassa diary, the secret weapons of the Lightist regime… all went back to that chaotic time after about one third of Euterpe exploded. Lilith. Irakto. That had to be one and the same, if the devsks were to be trusted. So, how come the rumors started out only back then? Irakto had been declared lost for almost thirty years, but all of a sudden it’s all the buzz? And almost all of it traceable to just one woman?

No, that didn’t make sense.

Unless it was a message.

A coded message to a certain someone, maybe even to blackmail him. I know the secret, hire me if you want me to shut up. A bold move, all things considered. If that were the case, Claudia Amarene had to have ovaries of adamantium: poking the proverbial bear, risking a summary execution by means of a literal angel of death. Yeah, no. If that were really the stunt that Claudia pulled, she had been either reckless or exceedingly adept in her estimations. Scarily so, even. Veckert browsed her papers again. Notes upon notes, documents courtesy of her ‘dirt-crawlers’, fishing for information from the dustiest and muddiest corners of the British undergrowth—with or without hand grenades. In comparison to that bonanza of facts and rumors, Frida had brought nothing that Veckert didn’t know of yet. Still, cross-checking was necessary not to miss any trails.

“Say, Frida… do you think that Claudia might have worked for Greschnik even before the werewolf case?”

“Eeeh, that’s the stuff you’re good at. Thinking and Frida in the same sentence? Nah, that ain’t it, chief! I’ll let you churn your neurons on it.”

Yeah, of course. In the same way one couldn’t squeeze blood from a stone, nobody could get a sensible, well-reasoned answer out of Frida Igarashi. That was a constant—a rule of nature, one not even a ROP-defying detective could bend. If anything, Veckert would have been surprised if Frida actually had any clues at all.

Breathe.

Breathe.

B r e a t h e.

“Alright, alright. So, let me summarize: you fought a werewolf, you killed it, his pal grabbed Talassa’s diary and then got killed in turn by an unknown actor, the same who probably directed the police to storm the Legione base. This actor might or might not be connected with Claudia Amarene, who did her best to spread the rumor after Marranzani put his hands on the book. Now, the werewolf is dead, his boss is dead, Marranzani’s store is totaled, the diary is lost, and Claudia is an Angel working under Reiner Greschnik.”

While everything goes back to Irakto… or Lilith, as they call it in the underworld.

Veckert didn’t say that last part out loud. She had to be careful not to spread even more awareness around that affair, or Ambassador Andrakta wouldn’t have been happy at all. That interrogation was not a complete waste, against all the odds: Frida didn’t know anything substantial about the devsk bioweapon, which definitely simplified things. That meant that whoever wanted to put their hands on the book and sold her the intel didn’t want anyone to connect the dots—not that easily, at least. Veckert crumpled a piece of paper, threw it away into the trash bin, missing it by centimeters. She rolled her eyes, groaned.

“We’re done, Frida. Take your kid away and, please, don’t ever come back. Not even for my funeral.”

Frida lifted her daughter up, touched her nose, pointed her finger at Veckert.

“See, Kanny-kitty? This is what you don’t want to become! You’ll be a wonderful, hot-blooded Igarashi samurai, not a stuck up frigid cop working as a wage slave for the state! Got it, Kanny-kitty?”

Akane cooed, grabbed Frida’s finger again, started sucking it. Her big eyes looked like deep lakes, reflecting an azure sky that didn’t exist inside of that dark gray room. Akane was too young to understand, too young to even fully realize what was happening around her. Still, the comfort of her mother’s embrace soothed her, slowly lulling her into a quiet sleep. If Akane had been older, she would have noticed the annoyed gaze of the other woman, she would have picked up on her bloodlust, her absolute hate for that single mother of hers.

But Akane was just a six months old toddler.

The squabbles of those quirky adults didn’t faze her in the slightest.

So, she rested in her mother’s arms, keeping her little fingers curled round her mom’s hands.

Basking in that pocket of warmth, within the cold, dry, emotional wasteland that stood between those two women that had disturbed her nap.