[fic] [cw rps] you are so magnetic (you pick up all the pins) - 1/2
a/n: ok, I feel that I should sufficiently warn for this one. Adaptation of Get a Clue (which I later found out can only really be done properly by bb!LiLo) mixed in with a vague cyberpunk setting (idk, idk, it's like the premise was so cracky already that I had to make it crackier so that it might somehow full circle into acceptable. not the best plan), mostly borrowed/adapted from various games and lit, notably Neal Stephenson. So much randomness, I'm embarrassed. I've been having LIFE difficulties, so this is a few hours late, but hopefully no one will really notice...now that I've pointed it out. Anyway! challenges are stressful. :T
[you are so magnetic (you pick up all the pins)]
cw rps au
for j2_everafter
11,760 words
Greater San Angeles, Local Express 59
Thursday 20:14
J.P.'s accelerating on the 'crete, smoothly picking up speed in his latest Mach X Smartwheels (sure sign of the professional road surfer), shifting his hips to reorient his plank. He's just finished his last tag, still idling on stand-by and waiting on dispatch, but it's looking like a ghosttown tonight. He's in the pipe, though, his tunnel vision sharp, and it's early yet. Never know what you'll see on the Street; there are payoffs around every corner, so long as you keep your eyes open.
The personal phone strapped to his thigh begins to ring, the vibration racing through his coveralls, and he snatches it up with his left hand. The display reads Your Mother!!.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hey, Honey! Where are you? It's a bit noisy."
The tone is pretty unmistakable. "About to head home?" he guesses.
"Oh, good," Sharon says immediately, pleased. "Thought we could have a nice family dinner tonight."
"You'll be home?" He can count on one hand the number of times his mom's managed to make it home early enough on a weeknight to join them this year. Maybe ever.
"Got news for you, I'm already home, so we're all waiting on you now."
His mind locks up for one panicked moment. "Everything--" He clears his throat before continuing, "--okay?" As much as he might resent McSoco for stealing his mom's time away from him growing up, as much as he hates the darkening bruises blood pressure cuffs leave on her arms, the rarer sight of tracks -- how much the sight of them twists his stomach into knots -- the alternative is unthinkable.
"Sweetie, no, nothing like that," she soothes him. "I was just given early leave today. Wasn't that nice? I think the higher-ups are starting to realize the toll all the paranoia's been taking on morale lately. And I heard I'm not the only one who's had a good day, hm?"
"What do you mean? Who else?"
"Your dad told me about the photo. You should've seen him -- he was so proud. Now dinner's almost ready. How soon can you get here?"
He shades his eyes against the oncoming headlights, swerves to the side as the car passes close enough he doesn't need to throw his 'poon, just thunk it down on the trunk and grins as they both pick up speed exiting the enclave. He already knows it'll be a smooth ride. The sound of rushing air roars into his microphone and he yells, "On my way!" He thumbs the end button and hooks the phone back on his thigh, heart racing as he flies down the alleys.
The car takes him almost all the way there. He unpoons as he sights the FF Emporium across the street from his parents' 'clave and glides into their men's room, stopping at the last stall and flipping his plank against the stall door as he hops up onto the toilet and pushes the ceiling tile directly overhead up and over, hand fumbling for the tie, slacks, button-down cotton shirt, leather shoes, and blazer stashed away up there. He peels out of his courier coverall, balls it up and tosses it into the ceiling along with his gloves and goggles, slotting the tile back into place. He jams his normies on, feeling strangled and ridiculous. He wedges his plank under his arm, smoothes his windblown hair with his free hand and walks out.
Fortescue Heights #2007234, V10
"Congratulations," his father says as J.P. pulls up a seat and joins them at the table. "So were you going to tell us about this yourself?" He sounds both proud and chagrined at once.
"Oh right. I never cleared it up with mom. What's this new amazing thing I did now? I can't keep track."
"Bill from Visuals said you scored a stand-alone. It'll be with the themed anniversary set. You know how The Examiner gears up for it with their looking back and forward series."
"Wait, you mean the photo of Mr. Butler and Mr. Morgan? I didn't know they were running it! Someone called to say they were interested, but I didn't think it'd actually go anywhere."
Gerald beams. "You've been selected, kiddo. Bill says you've got a good eye on you. Liked the blurb, too. The whole dead arts dead love thing, had a nice touch to it, he said."
He tries not to look too obviously pleased, reaching over to pile his plate high. "I can't take all the credit. I used Megan's latest digital spycam. It shoots pictures from, like, twenty angles at once." No one ever thinks of the B.E.V., everyone's blind spot.
"What?" Megan screeches. "You could've asked. I thought I lost that camera, you asshole."
"Language," Gerald reproaches mildly. "And I assume you've already thanked your sister?"
"There's a singing telegram in play that should fully convey my appreciation."
"Your lame friends are not allowed at my school, don't even think about it," she hisses. He dances away from her vicious pinching fingers, laughing.
"But that's real good, son. Lining up work like this. Staying alert. There are stories all around you -- a million bits of intel just lying around waiting for you to pick them up and take them to the people who want it. What made you take this picture anyway? What's the LED?"
J.P. groans. "I think you mean DL, dad."
Gerald hmms thoughtfully. "Oh, I thought it was LED like crystal clear resolution, but go on. They're both professors at Middleton, right?"
"Yeah. They look so weird together, and it shouldn't work. I don't know. People don't look at each other that way anymore. Not since all the population control, prohibition, and backlash stuff went down. But they're starting to, I think." It was weird that breeders had been targeted for once, and prohibiting anyone from anything was always a bad idea, but especially if the targeted group was the one in unquestionable power. The Feds had quickly repealed the prohibition, but it left everyone feeling slightly embarrassed about the whole thing, both haves and have-nots turned on their heads. Anyway, it was obvious. Once something was permitted, it lost excitement, the momentum of revolutionaries in constant need of revolt, and people quickly turned back to the slow suction of VR, psyspace, the Matrix, whatever they called it. It had endless possibilities, lower costs, higher hygiene. Reality romances had for some time seemed far too troublesome in comparison, almost antiquated. But they're finally starting to swing back to the old ways as kids are now growing up outside that context.
His dad ahhs knowingly. "Sounds like a human interest piece."
J.P. likes the sound of that. "Yeah, definitely human interest."
Megan coughs gossip under her breath, and he glares at her.
Definitely human interest.
Middleton U for Dead Arts
Friday, 8:20
J.P.'s pretty popular at school, he knows, which is quite a feat since some of the pretentious assholes still look down on the New School of Journalism kids as being part of a program that's too newly dead to the world to know true injustice yet. Something like that. But today everyone's being extra-congratulatory and loose with the back-slapping and fist-bumping.
"The motherfucking Examiner, man. Nice." Mayhem rolls up beside him.
"I can't believe it. Mr. Morgan and Mr. Butler? No way!" Sandy says excitedly.
"Who knew? It's so old school scandal. Who even fucks in Reality anymore?" Danneel is unimpressed, as usual. J.P.'s of the opinion that all redheads think way too highly of themselves, like their rare pigmentation is some sort of free pass on having to have a personality. He keeps her around because she's Jensen Ackles's go-to-cam, and Jensen Ackles definitely knows things. Mayhem's hilarious, megawattage crush is just a bonus.
Sandy elbows her. "It's kind of romantic, I think. Oh hey," she lowers her voice to a whisper. "There's Mr. Morgan now."
J.P. frowns. "I don't know what Mr. Butler sees in him, honestly. And that hideous brown coat."
Danneel laughs. "Just because you want in Butler's pants, no need to slam the lucky bastard who actually gets to stick it to him." Ugh, see what he means?
"I don't know what you're talking about," he sniffs. "I just think Mr. Butler can do better. Like, way better. He's so interesting, and he makes his classes fun, and Mr. Morgan is just, he's a total random."
"This has nothing to do with the whole e for effort debacle does it?" Mayhem asks shrewdly.
"What's that?" Danneel flips her hair and Mayhem pretty much floods the hall with drool, it's disgusting.
E for effort, J.P. thinks to himself, fuming, ignoring the rudely unhushed conversation taking place right in front of him. Like that even fucking makes any sense. It sure didn't weigh in on his alphabetical-numerical point average assignation any and definitely didn't help dry his mother's tears when he tried to convince her that no, he wasn't actually wasting his entire life away.
"Mr. Butler deserves a man who won't cheat on him," he says almost too loudly, but they're still just out of earshot. "It's so obvious he wants to suck Jensen Ackles's dick." J.P. jerks his thumb over to where the two of them are huddled in a class doorway, practically humping.
He catches the soft I'll send that to you later, Jensen, when he approaches the gruesome twosome. "Hey, Mr. Morgan," and grins widely in the face of his obvious discomfort. "Hope I'm not interrupting."
Before Mr. Morgan can work up a reply, Ms. "I will scare the pants off you and then wear them" Ferris, the school's admissions officer stalks up in dangerous stilettos. "Mr. Morgan. A word?" Her words are as clipped short as the staccato clicks of her heels.
"Uh, yes of course. I'll see you two in class." He follows Ms. Ferris down the hall, a definite slump to the set of his shoulders.
"That was some photo," Jensen says.
J.P.'s been hearing that all morning and absentmindedly grins, forgetting just exactly who's talking. "Oh, you saw it?"
Jensen rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I saw it. Hedda Hopper had nothing on you."
"What? Hedda who?"
"Man, you serious? You should know your roots. She was the most famous gossip columnist."
"I'm not a gossip columnist! It's an advice column, not that you'd know anything about that, since I can't fucking imagine anyone ever asking you for yours. And the article in The Examiner is a human interest piece, for your information."
"Right. Whatever you have to tell yourself, man." Jensen salutes him before turning smartly on his heels and stalking off.
If he was eight and not eighteen, he'd be stomping his foot right about now. He lets out a sound of disgust instead, looking upwards in supplication. Fucking Jensen Ackles. When he looks back down, Danneel's finder is zoomed up close.
"Seriously, what's your secret?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret anymore, would it?"
She lets out a huff of annoyance and walks backwards, cam still steady on his face. "How'd you get that shot of Mr. Morgan anyway? He's notoriously camera-shy. He refuses to even be in the yearbook."
"You know what they say. 'A good reporter is always on the job.' I'm always looking, that's all."
Danneel sighs as Mayhem pops up in her finder and shuts off her cam, strapping it back to her upper arm.
"Seriously, dude. How stoked are you about getting your article in The Examiner? That's hardcore. Everyone's talking about it."
"Yeah, well, Jensen Ackles just trashed it."
"Of course he did. He's obviously jealous."
"You think?" He grins at the thought, shaking his head. "Really?"
"Come on. You kidding me? You snapped a legit photo that streamed to all of S.A., and you know the wire's already picking it up to show everywhere else. That's major. Just think about it. The editor of the school paper gets upstaged by a member of his own staff. Fucker must be dying."
He looks at Mayhem fondly. "When you put it that way... He really must be, yeah?"
--
The Middleton Press Staff Room is crawling with New School kids. It's the only place to be if you harbor any illusions about becoming a journalist at all. The waiting list for a spot is endless, as practically speaking the staff room is pretty damn small and holds far less students than the entirety of their program does. J.P. doesn't really know what happens to those poor wait-list bastards actually, since no one besides staff members are in his classes, either. Out frantically switching majors mostly, he imagines.
Mayhem's straddling his chair backwards, chin resting on his crossed arms. He suddenly groans, raising his arms up and stretching widely. "My brain is fucking melting, dude. I am powering down so fast. Can we please get the fuck out of here?" He's not even on the staff, or in the program for that matter. Mayhem's a sculptor and he actually gets access through one of the bar codes on one of the little rectangles on his chest. (Unlike J.P., Mayhem is always in his courier coverall. As a little kid, he always wanted to have a uniform. He explains this to J.P. as in, like, the Staples guy's red t-shirt or Jughead's crown and S sweater. He's a fanatic for anachronistic socioecopop cultural references, the more obscure the better.) Surprisingly, no one really seems to mind, but then again, if Mayhem is safely behind classroom doors, there is less chance he is out there "sculpting" (i.e. setting things on fire for his art).
"You can go ahead if you want, but you know I can't leave just yet. God, what would people in this school do without me? Listen to this one." He reads out loud:
Dear J.P.,
My friend and I had a fight. We made up, but the awful things she said then still hurt. What should I do?
Signed, Bummed Out
Mayhem looks at his nails. "Oh yeah, that's a bummer. What's your prescription, Dr. P.?"
"See, this is a classic case of a problem looking overwhelming, but in which there really can only be one solution. Bummed Out has to be honest and tell this friend how she feels. I mean, look at us. If you're a tool, I tell you you're a tool. No point in hiding it."
"Makes sense to me."
"And, as both incentive and reward, she should do something for herself after speaking out. She'll feel better in no time."
"Excellent advice."
Mr. Marsters clears his throat and claps his hands to get everyone's attention. "Time for our weekly meeting. First, I believe some congratulations are in order. As most of you are already well aware, Middleton's very own J.P. was honored today by The Examiner, which streamed an article and accompanying photo that he submitted for their anniversary series. Let's all give him a big round of applause, shall we?" After the catcalls die down, he continues, "and now your editor would like to say a few words."
Jensen blinks. "I would?" At Mr. Marsters's emphatic gesture, he continues, "uh, I mean, yeah, I would." He pushes himself up from the table. "Um, I guess I'd just like to say, on behalf of the staff, that we're all proud when one of our own launches onto a more visible platform. I think it's especially impressive considering it's someone from one of our, well, softer news areas."
J.P. gapes in outrage, before composing himself and saying sweetly. "I should actually thank you."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh definitely. It was because you wouldn't run my story in the first place that I sent it in to The Examiner at all."
"Sick burn," Mayhem says under his breath, and J.P. beams in triumph.
--
It's late when he finally leaves the staff room -- he feels very strong fealty to his readership -- and the sound of loud voices startle him. He ducks under the staircase as furious words echo down to his ears.
"You've been avoiding me." He's never heard Mr. Butler sound so, well, the exact opposite of himself. Upset, voice strangely broken.
"I've said everything already. What else is left?"
"Just, talk to me. Make me understand. What the hell happened between yesterday and today?"
"Gerry, please. Keep it down. Look," his voice is low and J.P. strains to hear. "I never meant to hurt you. This isn't about you."
"What the fuck did you mean to do then! What about those plans we made? What the hell's changed. You, fuck-- You know I love you."
"Well, I don't love you. Not anymore. That's what's changed. Do you think you get it now?" Jeff hisses, shaking his arm loose from Gerard's desperate grasp.
"I guess I'm going to have to try, is what you're telling me. God, I can't believe I ever-- If you think we can keep working together here, pass each other in these halls like nothing happened, you must be out of your goddamn mind. One of us has to leave Millington, and it sure as hell isn't going to be me."
He hears Mr. Butler stomping down the stairs, and he whirls around trying to make a quick escape. He crashes into Jensen fucking Ackles, who clamps a hand over his startled yell, effectively muffling it. He jerks a thumb in the direction of a side exit, and J.P. follows him out silently. Mr. Butler's words are heavy clumsy weights in his mind, but as the door bangs open and the air rushes to greet him, the fact that it's Friday is inescapable. Time to thrash.
Borderlands Overpass
Mexicali
Saturday 03:37
He can't feel his face anymore; he's awash in pure noise. The crowd is full of thrashers and carbon grungers on all sides, brought together by their shared need for reinforced concrete-thick environments. It started out as crashing distortion, high-pitched sounds that hook into your skin and bleed you open, but it softens now, though it never stops. The music stops; the set is done. All the transients -- third world unemployables and first world burnouts -- move as one, straining to latch on to Leverage's reverberations, their anti-technological rumblings told through clashing echoes, lingering fuzz, and it's like being back in your mother's womb and you're blind, you don't hear, but you're surrounded and you feel the organic sounds of her body, the beating of her heart, you're almost safe again. Border zones are exciting places where anything can happen, and not in the controlled, magical ways of VR. It feels all too gritty real; makes you feel alive.
--
His phone blares at 0900. It is a criminal time to be awake on a Sunday and he tries to make out the display through bleary eyes. Your Father :) winks back up at him. His parents are such hackers, god. He fumbles for his ear piece. "Dad?"
"Hey Champ," his dad's voice is weirdly subdued. "Just heard from some guys in the office. That Mr. Morgan you ran a piece on? Turns out, they just found his car in the Santa Ana River this morning. It'll run in tomorrow's edition."
That gets his attention, fast. "What?! What about Mr. Morgan?"
"Officially missing. They sent divers to investigate where they found the car, but they couldn't turn up anything. That area's got such a strong current, so things aren't looking too hopeful."
"Are there any leads at all?"
"This isn't a human interest piece, J.P. It's a possible homicide. This case is serious, and I don't want you anywhere near it, ok?"
"Come on, Dad. I'm just worried. But it's not like I have anything to do with it." Except that it happened not 48 hours after his article ran in The Examiner, he doesn't say, only 48 hours and suddenly sleepy, standby Mr. Morgan up and disappears.
Middleton U
Monday, 08:35
"As you all know by now, we've had a crisis at this school. Mr. Mor-- Mr. Morgan--" Mr. Butler visibly collects himself. Everyone in the room politely looks away. "Nevertheless, classes will continue as usual."
A man in a black suit, blue shirt, black tie strides in. The official uniform of men on Very Urgent Business. "Excuse me, is there a J.P. in this class?"
He stands up in surprise. "Come along," the man says, not looking back, and J.P. hurries to follow him. The suit leads him to the newsroom and steps aside, gesturing for J.P. to enter, before joining the bored-looking cop waiting outside and firmly shutting the door behind them. There's a lone man in the newsroom, a detective by the look of his trench and the lines of his face.
"J.P.?"
"Yeah, that's me. Am I in trouble for anything?"
"Not at all, I just wanted to ask a couple routine questions. I'm Detective Beaver. Take a seat." He flicks the record unit on his ear piece on and follows suit so they're facing each other. "What's J.P. stand for anyway?"
"Just playin'."
"You're lying."
"Nope."
"You're serious?" The detective's eyebrows do a mean, slow climb.
"As a heart attack."
"Come on. What's it stand for really?"
J.P. sighs, bored already. "Nothing." Jared Padalecki, actually, not like this pod or anyone else will ever find out. Information is everything in this game, and that one piece is his alone to keep. Uncle Krip made sure of that, and Uncle Krip's word is motherfucking law. Perk of the trade. Couriers are machinery, interchangeable parts, and they get every kind of access, so they have to be nameless, faceless. Nobody. The job's dangerous, and it pays dick, perfect for those that don't get code. You give Uncle Krip your life, and he gives you two names: his and your own. Not a bad trade, all in all.
"So I'm told you write a gossip column for the school?"
"Advice column," he corrects.
"Right, right. It seems that you might have some special insight on the relationship between Mr. Morgan and Mr. Butler, is what I'm hearing. Does that sound about right?" He notices J.P.'s fidgeting, and softens his gruff tone. "Oh, before we go any farther, I wanted to congratulate you on your article in The Examiner the other day. It was real impressive."
"Oh you saw it?" J.P. automatically preens.
"Oh, yeah. It was a great photo, really stood out. You take that, too?"
"Yep, that was me. You know, up until my article came out, I was the only know who knew how in love Mr. Morgan and Mr. Butler were. I mean, I didn't understand it, but it was pretty obvious to anyone who actually looked. Well, until Friday anyway."
"What happened Friday?"
"They broke up," J.P. says, offhand. "Actually, to be accurate, Mr. Morgan did the breaking up. Mr. Butler was pretty upset. Pissed, actually," he adds thoughtfully. "Not that I blame him. What was Mr. Morgan thinking? It is not conceivably possible that he could ever do better."
"Wait, wait. Back up. They broke up, huh? You saw all this?"
"Yeah, they broke up on the stairs out there actually, or maybe before then, but Mr. Morgan drilled the point home on the stairs. Pretty brutal. And then Mr. Butler said one of them would have to leave Millington, and it sure as hell wouldn't be him," he quotes back in memory. "Actually, Mr. Butler might be a big help."
Detective Beaver looks grim. "I'll be in touch. Thanks for your time."
When J.P. leaves, he sees Mr. Butler being brought in next. The suit leaves to presumably line up his next victim and the security detail's nowhere in sight. J.P. closes the door behind him, leaving it the slightest bit ajar. He leans against the wall nonchalantly.
Of course that's when Jensen Ackles strolls by. The guy is everywhere. He does that awful one eyebrow lift thing he loves to do. It's like his fucking trademark, seriously lame.
"Who're you eavesdropping on this time?"
He puts his middle finger to his lips and gestures Jensen over impatiently. "Quiet, bithead. Mr. Butler's in there with a detective."
Jensen crowds in close, too close, and J.P.'s heart starts doing funny things in his chest. "Jesus, mouthbreather. Save some O2 for the rest of us."
"Now who's too loud, shush." His arms are bracketing the wall around J.P.'s shoulders, which is causing his entire back to do this feline arch thing so he's looking up into J.P.'s eyes, way too close as previously noted. The side of his neck's sort of tilted, all submissive-like and stupidly close to J.P.'s lips, and--
"Holy shit, your body is one giant upper, what the hell. Is there any way for you to keep this all down?"
Distantly he remembers what he was in the middle of doing, and turns his head towards the door, thankfully breaking eye contact. He strains to filter the conversation on the other side of the door back in.
I have it from multiple sources that you and Jeffrey Morgan--
Yes?
That you were together. Romantically. Reality speaking. Is that true?
Yes.
And when did you last see him?
Friday evening.
How was he? Did he seem upset about anything?
I don't know, he was. Himself. He seemed fine.
Really? Because I heard from one of your students that the two of you had what sounded like a significant altercation Friday evening, that you threatened him about wanting him to leave this school. Does that sound about right? Mr. Butler? Would you mind coming with me for further questioning?
I think. I think I'd better call my lawyer.
J.P. slips out from under Jensen, hastily throws his plank down and glides off. Jensen runs after him in a daze.
"God," he groans, after they're finally far enough away. "That detective thinks Mr. Butler's got something to do with Mr. Morgan's disappearance now, and I think it's all my fault."
"Don't flatter yourself. He'd be the lead suspect, with or without your big mouth."
"Well I didn't help things any! And Mr. Butler is totally innocent, come on. The only thing he's guilty of is loving Mr. Morgan, which ugh, is the real crime here."
"He did threaten him, though. We both heard it."
"It wasn't a real threat. He was just heartbroken! I don't think Mr. Butler could've killed Mr. Morgan. He loved him."
"If it wasn't him, then who?"
"I don't know. I mean, who said he was even murdered? There's just a car, no body. Anything could've happened to him. He could have amnesia and is recovering somewhere, or maybe he was taken hostage, or shit, what if he pissed off Uncle Krip?"
"Okay, Hardy Boy, I think you've been sleuthing around a little too long."
"Huh?"
Joe and Frank Hardy, fictional amateur brother detectives. First appearance, 1927; major revamp, 1958; end of serial 2005. Rebooted in-- Mayhem's scratchy voice chirrups helpfully in his ear. "Goddamnit Chad!" Use of first name, significant. "I thought I told you to quit that--"
It's attuned to anachronistic pop cultural references only. Oh, and sexy times. I almost tuned in for a second there a few clicks back, but I couldn't tell if you were about to round first base or crap yourself, and I couldn't take the chance, you understand.
"Get the fuck out," he says through clenched teeth.
Jensen's looking at him funny. "You're being frequencied?"
"Just a bug. It's taken care of. Anyway, I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and it's going to be front page news."
"You don't know the first thing about Jeff. You wouldn't know where to start."
"Oh, it's Jeff now, is it?"
Jensen ignores him. "I'm the only student here who knows the guy, much less cares about him."
He tries to push past the disgust, clamps his mouth shut on the but he's so old! that wants to claw its way out of his throat. He focuses instead on the story. Jensen's hardon for Jeff will definitely come in handy. Making up his mind, he nods decisively. "As much as it kills me to say this, I think we should team up. Look into this together."
"You can't be serious."
"Oh come on. Get over yourself. If you help me, I know we can crack this case wide open."
Jensen's still hesitating and J.P. clucks his tongue impatiently. "I thought you said you cared about Mr. Morgan. What a funny way of showing it, all sitting back and doing nothing."
"No, I'm in, it's just." Jensen sighs. "Discretion, J.P., ok? Let's keep this between ourselves."
"Relax. Who am I gonna tell?" Mayhem hms speculatively in his ear while J.P. waves Jensen off, probably looking demented. We can bring along Red, can't we? Red makes things fun.
"Don't even think about it. Want to meet at the Mach Supply Shop for lunch?"
"Already there, bitch. Hurry before I buy it all."
They're browsing for upgrades. J.P.'s set on getting the new Mach Elevens. Those sprockets are supposed to be fucking magical.
"I knew it, by the way."
"Knew what?"
"That you liked him, that Jensen Ackles is an asshole kneejerk thing you did was a dead giveaway."
"What, no. No. This is strictly a professional thing. That reminds me, I just remembered we should check out Megan's spy shop. I should call him, tell him to meet me there first."
"Oho," Mayhem says cheerfully. "So you've got his number? Mmhm," he says over J.P.'s protests.
"What do you know about him anyway?"
"He's not a courier or a chick, so not much. Why the hell would I care? But you should."
"Wait, what do you mean I should? What're you talking about?"
"Jesus, J.P., get a clue. He likes you. I mean, hello, that's why he treats you like some Clint knockoff reject."
"That's real nice, thanks."
"Oh, come on, whatever. He's got girly lips anyway. That's kind of hot. Like, for a dude. If I could, if things were, well, you know what I mean."
"I think I'm really glad I don't."
Monday, 14:11
"How'd you find this place?"
"My kid sister's a budding spy. Fedhead in training. She got all the technogenes in the family."
"It's pretty cool, should have everything we need. Maybe start with a lockpick."
J.P.'s smiling and nodding happily when he hears the smooth roll of too greased wheels and looks up to see Mayhem and his familiar orange and blue coverall glide through the door, Danneel on his heels. He points Jensen to a far-off corner, and guides him in that direction. Jensen takes off agreeably, still taking all the displays in. J.P. stalks to the other side of the room. "What are you doing here?" he hisses.
"What do you mean man? I love this place! I was just in the neighborhood and couldn't leave without stopping by."
"What's she doing here?"
"Hm? Who?" Mayhem looks around before making a show of surprise as he turns around. "Oh, her?"
"Yeah, that would be the 'she' I'm referring to. I thought I told you not to tell anyone!"
"Ok, I admit this looks awkward on the surface if you were not privy to the very inside information that makes all this perfectly acceptable. There's actually a really good reason I had to tell Danneel--"
"Besides your neverending quest to get in her pants, go on. I'm dying to hear this."
She glances up and smirks. "Sorry loser. I've got the exclusive on this one."
J.P. scoffs. "Bitch, please. It's my story."
Jensen wanders back into range. "Hey," he blinks in surprise. "What's going on here?" He turns to J.P., frowning. "What are they doing here?"
"Our story," he amends quickly. "And yeah, what are you guys doing here?"
"No seriously, you're going to love it." Mayhem cracks his knuckles and beckons them to come closer. "Are you ready for this? Apparently Danneel lives across the street from Mr. Butler. Already got the perfect spot to stake out. Plus, people won't be too suspicious if they see us, since Danneel's a neighbor and all. It's perfect."
J.P. widens his eyes. "For once, you deliver as advertised courier. This is perfect. So we watch him for a few days, and if nothing sus turns up, maybe we can help clear his name."
"Or else prove he had something to do with Jeff's disappearance," Jensen adds.
Fortescue Heights #2007234, V10
"Make yourselves at home, guys." J.P. unlocks the door. "I'll get today's menu, so we can order some lunch."
Jensen stops at the entrance, eyes wide. He whistles. "Wow. So this is how the other half lives. I didn't even know people could still have houses like this."
J.P. shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. "My mom works for McSoco. It's all standard issue for their employees. Every single one of the lots are the same."
"No kidding."
He busies himself with ushering Jensen in and making a show of locking the door behind him carefully, hating that he can feel his stupid cheeks heat for no reason whatsoever. He can't help who his mother works for. He could've fried himself three times over with the access he's had, that he never once wanted.
In the end, they decide to divide and conquer. It only makes sense for him and Mayhem to team up, couriers fly together, and Jensen can take Danneel along in his clunky box. Ugh, they're as bad as peds. Mayhem, however, has other plans and smoothly rejects his proposal to search Mr. Morgan's house together for clues.
"Isn't Ackles the one that's all butt-buddies with Mr. Morgan?"
"Hey!"
"And it's Danneel's house, so she obviously has to be there. I'll help her keep watch, and you and Jensen can check Morgan's place out instead." Mayhem says, all too reasonably, before he peaces out, gleefully falling into step behind Danneel.
Silence descends uncomfortably, before J.P. manages, "How about I meet you there?"
"Do you even know where there is?"
"Ok, no offense, but I can't go with you. I've seen what you drive, man. Cages make me claustrophobic."
"Um, I don't own a car, are you kidding me? I used Mr. Marsters's econobox back when I was helping him deliver old copy. And jesus, what, were you spying on me or some shit?"
"No!" He says, too loudly. I skitched a ride once, saw your ugly mug -- like that thing actually took me anywhere -- that's all."
"Okay," Jensen drawls out. "If you're done creeping people out, I've already recalled my bike. Let's go."
He's impressed. He knew Jensen was a hacker, but he figured it was all morgue stuff. Outfitting a bike with recall that can pass the enclave scanner codes? Not fucking bad. He revises his opinion when he steps out on the lawn. It's not exactly beautiful, but it's not like that's the point. It's a chopper, actually, lightweight and streamlined, a perfect inky black. It looks like a refigured Kawasaki Vulcan model, not that J.P. is an expert on bikes. What he does know are wheels, though, and those don't look like any he's seen on the Street before, not attached to choppers at least. They look like giant versions of his own smartwheels, actually, which is. Pretty fucking badass. So much so, he doesn't have spit in his mouth to complain about the bitch pad Jensen's patting pointedly behind him.
It's okay until Jensen twists the throttle and releases the clutch, springboarding out of the driveway. The engine's deadly silent, but the vibrations rocket up and down his body, curled in close to Jensen's, in a shocky imitation of rutting. Because then? It gets even better.
--
Mayhem's surprisingly graceful as he swings his way up onto Butler's fire escape, plank hiked securely under his arm. She'll never get couriers. It's like some goddamn fraternity. The endless adrenaline of rushing with the alum's sense of responsibility and all wrapped up in fealty. And don't get her started on The Code. Another delivery made, another satisfied customer and leave no brother or sister behind. She's surprised military hasn't tapped into them and then can't get the thought out of her head that they already have. She thinks of Mayhem again, and shudders.
"Head's up," he calls down, as he drops down the ladder slowly. She hauls herself up and starts rigging up the cam equipment.
"Gotta move," Mayhem's saying, all jittery.
"Just a second," she mutters. "Need to make some technical adjustments first."
Afterwards, they set up shop in her studio, and she's hooking up her laptop, so the camera's feed projects directly onto the screen.
Mayhem runs his fingers over the shelves of tapes. "Damn, woman. This is some library you've got here."
"Hm? Oh, yeah, it's my lifetime collection."
He looks closer at the very first title from the upper left corner. "Danneel's Birth?" He reads out. "Uh. You're not seriously telling me you have that recorded too, do you?"
"Oh, yeah. My dad got me started really young. Don't worry, it's tasteful. Very circle of life."
Mayhem's already dropped the tape back into place as if it'd burned his fingers.
She grins. "Anyway, I was practically born with a vidcam in my hand. My dad strapped one on my back while I was still crawling. Been recording ever since."
"Tape's cheap." Mayhem nods wisely.
"And information's priceless," she agrees, eyes on the screen.
Greater San Angeles, Southside
His body's still humming as they walk away from the bike, and he distracts himself, pulling up his GPS. "What're the coordinates again?"
"Relax. Put that thing away before you hurt yourself. I've been to Je-- Mr. Morgan's before. I know how to get there."
"Yeah?" He asks casually. "When would that have been?"
"Beginning of term. Came by to pick up his old laptop. He was giving it to me. Wait, there's the place right there."
"Dude, watch out!" He clutches Jensen's sleeve and tugs him down quickly so that they're both safely hidden behind a parked car. "It's Ms. Ferris!"
Jensen frowns. "That's strange. What's she doing at Mr. Morgan's? Wouldn't have thought she'd be down this south."
J.P. snaps his fingers. "Wait, I just thought of something! I remember them having a weird conversation the Friday before he disappeared."
"Weird how?"
"I don't know, I just got the feeling of weirdness. This whole thing has been weird, don't you think? Up till last Thursday, the most remarkable thing Mr. Morgan had ever done was somehow miraculously get Mr. Butler to actually look at him twice. Other than that, the guy's beige, total wallpaper. Then suddenly Friday hits, my article runs, and he's getting pulled into Ms. Ferris's office, breaks up with his perfect boyfriend, crashes his car into the fucking Santa Ana River and then disappears off the face of the planet! What the hell kind of chain of events are these?" He watches Ms. Ferris quickly disappear from view. "I looked him up, too. Jeffrey Dean Morgan. Well, Megan did."
"Yeah, so?"
"So not a single hit turns up. Danneel was right -- forget just yearbook photos, I can't find an imprint of him at all. He's a teacher, man. What does he possibly have to hide? It's not normal."
"I don't know. But the coast looks clear and we should check out his place already, start trying to find out. And he's not beige," Jensen mutters.
The door's unlocked and swings forward easily. Inside things are disheveled in a very controlled, dislodged to uncover something extremely specific manner. There's a laptop still plugged in, monitor flipped open. "It's as if he was just here," J.P. says wonderingly.
"Hey, look at this." Jensen snaps the briefcase he was shuffling through closed and taps the golden nameplate between the handle. "N.P."
"Wonder what that stands for..."
They split up, Jensen stays in the den while J.P. scrambles through the rooms, stopping at the bedroom. He rummages through the night tables on either end of the bed before he makes his way over to the impressive-sized armoire. He flings open the double door, pulling out shelves on the right side first to peruse before noticing the figure suddenly materialize in the mirror panel hanging on the opposite side.
"Son of a--!" he yells.
--
"Danneel, hey, wake up, look!" He shakes her awake. "Someone just came inside Mr. Butler's apartment. Can you get a better view?"
She fiddles with the remote control, moving the lens to the side and closer. "Who are you?" She mutters under her breath, then swears when a visibly distressed Mr. Marsters comes into view.
"This just keeps getting better and better," Mayhem says, whistling appreciatively. "Who knew there was so much professor-on-professor action at Millington going on, shit. Small wonder some injured party took out a hit on poor Mr. M."
--
"Detective Meany," the man introduces himself. "B and E," he nods to the two of them in turn.
"No!" He rushes to reassure. "I'm J.P., and this is Jensen Ackles. We're students of Mr. Morgan's. Just very concerned students."
"Very concerned students," Detective Meany echoes, disbelief clear in his voice.
Jensen does this thing with his eyes that make them look unusually large and overbright. "Is he alive, sir?" Sir, J.P. mouthes to himself, gaping.
Detective Meany looks momentarily thrown, before he clears his throat and snaps, "That's police business. But you two, on the other hand, if you know anything about this disappearance at all, I'd strongly suggest you to tell me right now."
"We don't. We don't know anything, sir." All the sir's seem like overkill to J.P., but it rolls off Jensen's tongue (too) smoothly and Meany seems to be falling for it hook, line, and sinker, so he's not one to judge.
"And you are absolutely sure about that?" Each word drips slow off his tongue like oil.
J.P. pulls a face. "Of course we're absolutely sure about that. This isn't something anyone's likely to forget."
"Hmm," the detective drawls out and crosses his legs. His newly raised right boot gleams in the mid-afternoon sunlight dappling through the open window.
What is with this guy? "Oh hey, do you have the time?"
Meany removes a stray piece of lint on the shoulder of his suit, eyeing J.P. meaningfully all the while. The metaphor is not lost on him. But Meany gamely raises his arm, sleeve slipping down from his wrist. "It's just after 16:00."
"How long have you been doing this anyway? You know, this, police work?"
"Did you say 16:00?" Jensen cuts in. "Because that would mean we're late for dinner."
Meany smiles, revealing smoothly capped teeth. J.P. thinks they should be pointy, it's a very Jaws-like effect he sees superimposed on. "It's a little early for dinner, wouldn't you say Jensen?"
"It's pretty far from here, and you know what traffic's like this close to the overpass. Bumper-to-bumper. Thrashers everywhere. Better to eat big meals earlier, too," he adds in thoughtfully. He ignores J.P.'s pointy elbow digging into his side and stands up.
J.P. follows, looking dismayed. "I guess we'll be seeing you, detective." He spits out the last word meaningfully.
Jensen turns on him as soon as they're both safely out of the house and already at the end of the street. "Just out of curiosity -- have you completely lost your fucking mind?"
"What? No, have you? You're acting all--" He flaps his hands. "What, you scared or something?"
"Because I didn't want to rock the boat? I didn't want to upset the detective! Get him on our tail. I don't know, he seemed strange. Intense."
"That's because he's not a detective, genius." J.P. scoffs.
"What? What makes you say that?"
"Come on. A detective working this district could never afford a vintage Pumoni suit, platinum watch and genuine leather boots, are you kidding me? Only suits have that kind of money."
"What if he's PD. He could have wealthy, megacorps clients."
"Maybe," J.P. says noncommittally.
"Besides, how can you tell a Pumoni suit from across the room? And all that other stuff."
"Trust me, I can spot a knockoff from a mile away, and that wasn't it, my friend. Same with the watch. The best. Platinum band, 18-carat accents, and mother-of-pearl dials that's the ultimate in time zone referentials. That's Before money, Jensen. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I would definitely know. Just call it my old world sensibility kicking in."
"Wow, I thought your not-so-secret WASP-iness would be a major detractor if anything. Who would've thought it'd actually come in handy like this?"
"I'll take that as a compliment, asshole. Hey," he says suddenly, thinking. "Do you think Ms. Ferris and this Meany guy are in on something together?"
"I don't know. We should run a bio-scan on him. Come on, my place isn't too far from here."
part ii
[you are so magnetic (you pick up all the pins)]
cw rps au
for j2_everafter
11,760 words
Greater San Angeles, Local Express 59
Thursday 20:14
J.P.'s accelerating on the 'crete, smoothly picking up speed in his latest Mach X Smartwheels (sure sign of the professional road surfer), shifting his hips to reorient his plank. He's just finished his last tag, still idling on stand-by and waiting on dispatch, but it's looking like a ghosttown tonight. He's in the pipe, though, his tunnel vision sharp, and it's early yet. Never know what you'll see on the Street; there are payoffs around every corner, so long as you keep your eyes open.
The personal phone strapped to his thigh begins to ring, the vibration racing through his coveralls, and he snatches it up with his left hand. The display reads Your Mother!!.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hey, Honey! Where are you? It's a bit noisy."
The tone is pretty unmistakable. "About to head home?" he guesses.
"Oh, good," Sharon says immediately, pleased. "Thought we could have a nice family dinner tonight."
"You'll be home?" He can count on one hand the number of times his mom's managed to make it home early enough on a weeknight to join them this year. Maybe ever.
"Got news for you, I'm already home, so we're all waiting on you now."
His mind locks up for one panicked moment. "Everything--" He clears his throat before continuing, "--okay?" As much as he might resent McSoco for stealing his mom's time away from him growing up, as much as he hates the darkening bruises blood pressure cuffs leave on her arms, the rarer sight of tracks -- how much the sight of them twists his stomach into knots -- the alternative is unthinkable.
"Sweetie, no, nothing like that," she soothes him. "I was just given early leave today. Wasn't that nice? I think the higher-ups are starting to realize the toll all the paranoia's been taking on morale lately. And I heard I'm not the only one who's had a good day, hm?"
"What do you mean? Who else?"
"Your dad told me about the photo. You should've seen him -- he was so proud. Now dinner's almost ready. How soon can you get here?"
He shades his eyes against the oncoming headlights, swerves to the side as the car passes close enough he doesn't need to throw his 'poon, just thunk it down on the trunk and grins as they both pick up speed exiting the enclave. He already knows it'll be a smooth ride. The sound of rushing air roars into his microphone and he yells, "On my way!" He thumbs the end button and hooks the phone back on his thigh, heart racing as he flies down the alleys.
The car takes him almost all the way there. He unpoons as he sights the FF Emporium across the street from his parents' 'clave and glides into their men's room, stopping at the last stall and flipping his plank against the stall door as he hops up onto the toilet and pushes the ceiling tile directly overhead up and over, hand fumbling for the tie, slacks, button-down cotton shirt, leather shoes, and blazer stashed away up there. He peels out of his courier coverall, balls it up and tosses it into the ceiling along with his gloves and goggles, slotting the tile back into place. He jams his normies on, feeling strangled and ridiculous. He wedges his plank under his arm, smoothes his windblown hair with his free hand and walks out.
Fortescue Heights #2007234, V10
"Congratulations," his father says as J.P. pulls up a seat and joins them at the table. "So were you going to tell us about this yourself?" He sounds both proud and chagrined at once.
"Oh right. I never cleared it up with mom. What's this new amazing thing I did now? I can't keep track."
"Bill from Visuals said you scored a stand-alone. It'll be with the themed anniversary set. You know how The Examiner gears up for it with their looking back and forward series."
"Wait, you mean the photo of Mr. Butler and Mr. Morgan? I didn't know they were running it! Someone called to say they were interested, but I didn't think it'd actually go anywhere."
Gerald beams. "You've been selected, kiddo. Bill says you've got a good eye on you. Liked the blurb, too. The whole dead arts dead love thing, had a nice touch to it, he said."
He tries not to look too obviously pleased, reaching over to pile his plate high. "I can't take all the credit. I used Megan's latest digital spycam. It shoots pictures from, like, twenty angles at once." No one ever thinks of the B.E.V., everyone's blind spot.
"What?" Megan screeches. "You could've asked. I thought I lost that camera, you asshole."
"Language," Gerald reproaches mildly. "And I assume you've already thanked your sister?"
"There's a singing telegram in play that should fully convey my appreciation."
"Your lame friends are not allowed at my school, don't even think about it," she hisses. He dances away from her vicious pinching fingers, laughing.
"But that's real good, son. Lining up work like this. Staying alert. There are stories all around you -- a million bits of intel just lying around waiting for you to pick them up and take them to the people who want it. What made you take this picture anyway? What's the LED?"
J.P. groans. "I think you mean DL, dad."
Gerald hmms thoughtfully. "Oh, I thought it was LED like crystal clear resolution, but go on. They're both professors at Middleton, right?"
"Yeah. They look so weird together, and it shouldn't work. I don't know. People don't look at each other that way anymore. Not since all the population control, prohibition, and backlash stuff went down. But they're starting to, I think." It was weird that breeders had been targeted for once, and prohibiting anyone from anything was always a bad idea, but especially if the targeted group was the one in unquestionable power. The Feds had quickly repealed the prohibition, but it left everyone feeling slightly embarrassed about the whole thing, both haves and have-nots turned on their heads. Anyway, it was obvious. Once something was permitted, it lost excitement, the momentum of revolutionaries in constant need of revolt, and people quickly turned back to the slow suction of VR, psyspace, the Matrix, whatever they called it. It had endless possibilities, lower costs, higher hygiene. Reality romances had for some time seemed far too troublesome in comparison, almost antiquated. But they're finally starting to swing back to the old ways as kids are now growing up outside that context.
His dad ahhs knowingly. "Sounds like a human interest piece."
J.P. likes the sound of that. "Yeah, definitely human interest."
Megan coughs gossip under her breath, and he glares at her.
Definitely human interest.
Middleton U for Dead Arts
Friday, 8:20
J.P.'s pretty popular at school, he knows, which is quite a feat since some of the pretentious assholes still look down on the New School of Journalism kids as being part of a program that's too newly dead to the world to know true injustice yet. Something like that. But today everyone's being extra-congratulatory and loose with the back-slapping and fist-bumping.
"The motherfucking Examiner, man. Nice." Mayhem rolls up beside him.
"I can't believe it. Mr. Morgan and Mr. Butler? No way!" Sandy says excitedly.
"Who knew? It's so old school scandal. Who even fucks in Reality anymore?" Danneel is unimpressed, as usual. J.P.'s of the opinion that all redheads think way too highly of themselves, like their rare pigmentation is some sort of free pass on having to have a personality. He keeps her around because she's Jensen Ackles's go-to-cam, and Jensen Ackles definitely knows things. Mayhem's hilarious, megawattage crush is just a bonus.
Sandy elbows her. "It's kind of romantic, I think. Oh hey," she lowers her voice to a whisper. "There's Mr. Morgan now."
J.P. frowns. "I don't know what Mr. Butler sees in him, honestly. And that hideous brown coat."
Danneel laughs. "Just because you want in Butler's pants, no need to slam the lucky bastard who actually gets to stick it to him." Ugh, see what he means?
"I don't know what you're talking about," he sniffs. "I just think Mr. Butler can do better. Like, way better. He's so interesting, and he makes his classes fun, and Mr. Morgan is just, he's a total random."
"This has nothing to do with the whole e for effort debacle does it?" Mayhem asks shrewdly.
"What's that?" Danneel flips her hair and Mayhem pretty much floods the hall with drool, it's disgusting.
E for effort, J.P. thinks to himself, fuming, ignoring the rudely unhushed conversation taking place right in front of him. Like that even fucking makes any sense. It sure didn't weigh in on his alphabetical-numerical point average assignation any and definitely didn't help dry his mother's tears when he tried to convince her that no, he wasn't actually wasting his entire life away.
"Mr. Butler deserves a man who won't cheat on him," he says almost too loudly, but they're still just out of earshot. "It's so obvious he wants to suck Jensen Ackles's dick." J.P. jerks his thumb over to where the two of them are huddled in a class doorway, practically humping.
He catches the soft I'll send that to you later, Jensen, when he approaches the gruesome twosome. "Hey, Mr. Morgan," and grins widely in the face of his obvious discomfort. "Hope I'm not interrupting."
Before Mr. Morgan can work up a reply, Ms. "I will scare the pants off you and then wear them" Ferris, the school's admissions officer stalks up in dangerous stilettos. "Mr. Morgan. A word?" Her words are as clipped short as the staccato clicks of her heels.
"Uh, yes of course. I'll see you two in class." He follows Ms. Ferris down the hall, a definite slump to the set of his shoulders.
"That was some photo," Jensen says.
J.P.'s been hearing that all morning and absentmindedly grins, forgetting just exactly who's talking. "Oh, you saw it?"
Jensen rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I saw it. Hedda Hopper had nothing on you."
"What? Hedda who?"
"Man, you serious? You should know your roots. She was the most famous gossip columnist."
"I'm not a gossip columnist! It's an advice column, not that you'd know anything about that, since I can't fucking imagine anyone ever asking you for yours. And the article in The Examiner is a human interest piece, for your information."
"Right. Whatever you have to tell yourself, man." Jensen salutes him before turning smartly on his heels and stalking off.
If he was eight and not eighteen, he'd be stomping his foot right about now. He lets out a sound of disgust instead, looking upwards in supplication. Fucking Jensen Ackles. When he looks back down, Danneel's finder is zoomed up close.
"Seriously, what's your secret?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret anymore, would it?"
She lets out a huff of annoyance and walks backwards, cam still steady on his face. "How'd you get that shot of Mr. Morgan anyway? He's notoriously camera-shy. He refuses to even be in the yearbook."
"You know what they say. 'A good reporter is always on the job.' I'm always looking, that's all."
Danneel sighs as Mayhem pops up in her finder and shuts off her cam, strapping it back to her upper arm.
"Seriously, dude. How stoked are you about getting your article in The Examiner? That's hardcore. Everyone's talking about it."
"Yeah, well, Jensen Ackles just trashed it."
"Of course he did. He's obviously jealous."
"You think?" He grins at the thought, shaking his head. "Really?"
"Come on. You kidding me? You snapped a legit photo that streamed to all of S.A., and you know the wire's already picking it up to show everywhere else. That's major. Just think about it. The editor of the school paper gets upstaged by a member of his own staff. Fucker must be dying."
He looks at Mayhem fondly. "When you put it that way... He really must be, yeah?"
--
The Middleton Press Staff Room is crawling with New School kids. It's the only place to be if you harbor any illusions about becoming a journalist at all. The waiting list for a spot is endless, as practically speaking the staff room is pretty damn small and holds far less students than the entirety of their program does. J.P. doesn't really know what happens to those poor wait-list bastards actually, since no one besides staff members are in his classes, either. Out frantically switching majors mostly, he imagines.
Mayhem's straddling his chair backwards, chin resting on his crossed arms. He suddenly groans, raising his arms up and stretching widely. "My brain is fucking melting, dude. I am powering down so fast. Can we please get the fuck out of here?" He's not even on the staff, or in the program for that matter. Mayhem's a sculptor and he actually gets access through one of the bar codes on one of the little rectangles on his chest. (Unlike J.P., Mayhem is always in his courier coverall. As a little kid, he always wanted to have a uniform. He explains this to J.P. as in, like, the Staples guy's red t-shirt or Jughead's crown and S sweater. He's a fanatic for anachronistic socioecopop cultural references, the more obscure the better.) Surprisingly, no one really seems to mind, but then again, if Mayhem is safely behind classroom doors, there is less chance he is out there "sculpting" (i.e. setting things on fire for his art).
"You can go ahead if you want, but you know I can't leave just yet. God, what would people in this school do without me? Listen to this one." He reads out loud:
Dear J.P.,
My friend and I had a fight. We made up, but the awful things she said then still hurt. What should I do?
Signed, Bummed Out
Mayhem looks at his nails. "Oh yeah, that's a bummer. What's your prescription, Dr. P.?"
"See, this is a classic case of a problem looking overwhelming, but in which there really can only be one solution. Bummed Out has to be honest and tell this friend how she feels. I mean, look at us. If you're a tool, I tell you you're a tool. No point in hiding it."
"Makes sense to me."
"And, as both incentive and reward, she should do something for herself after speaking out. She'll feel better in no time."
"Excellent advice."
Mr. Marsters clears his throat and claps his hands to get everyone's attention. "Time for our weekly meeting. First, I believe some congratulations are in order. As most of you are already well aware, Middleton's very own J.P. was honored today by The Examiner, which streamed an article and accompanying photo that he submitted for their anniversary series. Let's all give him a big round of applause, shall we?" After the catcalls die down, he continues, "and now your editor would like to say a few words."
Jensen blinks. "I would?" At Mr. Marsters's emphatic gesture, he continues, "uh, I mean, yeah, I would." He pushes himself up from the table. "Um, I guess I'd just like to say, on behalf of the staff, that we're all proud when one of our own launches onto a more visible platform. I think it's especially impressive considering it's someone from one of our, well, softer news areas."
J.P. gapes in outrage, before composing himself and saying sweetly. "I should actually thank you."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh definitely. It was because you wouldn't run my story in the first place that I sent it in to The Examiner at all."
"Sick burn," Mayhem says under his breath, and J.P. beams in triumph.
--
It's late when he finally leaves the staff room -- he feels very strong fealty to his readership -- and the sound of loud voices startle him. He ducks under the staircase as furious words echo down to his ears.
"You've been avoiding me." He's never heard Mr. Butler sound so, well, the exact opposite of himself. Upset, voice strangely broken.
"I've said everything already. What else is left?"
"Just, talk to me. Make me understand. What the hell happened between yesterday and today?"
"Gerry, please. Keep it down. Look," his voice is low and J.P. strains to hear. "I never meant to hurt you. This isn't about you."
"What the fuck did you mean to do then! What about those plans we made? What the hell's changed. You, fuck-- You know I love you."
"Well, I don't love you. Not anymore. That's what's changed. Do you think you get it now?" Jeff hisses, shaking his arm loose from Gerard's desperate grasp.
"I guess I'm going to have to try, is what you're telling me. God, I can't believe I ever-- If you think we can keep working together here, pass each other in these halls like nothing happened, you must be out of your goddamn mind. One of us has to leave Millington, and it sure as hell isn't going to be me."
He hears Mr. Butler stomping down the stairs, and he whirls around trying to make a quick escape. He crashes into Jensen fucking Ackles, who clamps a hand over his startled yell, effectively muffling it. He jerks a thumb in the direction of a side exit, and J.P. follows him out silently. Mr. Butler's words are heavy clumsy weights in his mind, but as the door bangs open and the air rushes to greet him, the fact that it's Friday is inescapable. Time to thrash.
Borderlands Overpass
Mexicali
Saturday 03:37
He can't feel his face anymore; he's awash in pure noise. The crowd is full of thrashers and carbon grungers on all sides, brought together by their shared need for reinforced concrete-thick environments. It started out as crashing distortion, high-pitched sounds that hook into your skin and bleed you open, but it softens now, though it never stops. The music stops; the set is done. All the transients -- third world unemployables and first world burnouts -- move as one, straining to latch on to Leverage's reverberations, their anti-technological rumblings told through clashing echoes, lingering fuzz, and it's like being back in your mother's womb and you're blind, you don't hear, but you're surrounded and you feel the organic sounds of her body, the beating of her heart, you're almost safe again. Border zones are exciting places where anything can happen, and not in the controlled, magical ways of VR. It feels all too gritty real; makes you feel alive.
--
His phone blares at 0900. It is a criminal time to be awake on a Sunday and he tries to make out the display through bleary eyes. Your Father :) winks back up at him. His parents are such hackers, god. He fumbles for his ear piece. "Dad?"
"Hey Champ," his dad's voice is weirdly subdued. "Just heard from some guys in the office. That Mr. Morgan you ran a piece on? Turns out, they just found his car in the Santa Ana River this morning. It'll run in tomorrow's edition."
That gets his attention, fast. "What?! What about Mr. Morgan?"
"Officially missing. They sent divers to investigate where they found the car, but they couldn't turn up anything. That area's got such a strong current, so things aren't looking too hopeful."
"Are there any leads at all?"
"This isn't a human interest piece, J.P. It's a possible homicide. This case is serious, and I don't want you anywhere near it, ok?"
"Come on, Dad. I'm just worried. But it's not like I have anything to do with it." Except that it happened not 48 hours after his article ran in The Examiner, he doesn't say, only 48 hours and suddenly sleepy, standby Mr. Morgan up and disappears.
Middleton U
Monday, 08:35
"As you all know by now, we've had a crisis at this school. Mr. Mor-- Mr. Morgan--" Mr. Butler visibly collects himself. Everyone in the room politely looks away. "Nevertheless, classes will continue as usual."
A man in a black suit, blue shirt, black tie strides in. The official uniform of men on Very Urgent Business. "Excuse me, is there a J.P. in this class?"
He stands up in surprise. "Come along," the man says, not looking back, and J.P. hurries to follow him. The suit leads him to the newsroom and steps aside, gesturing for J.P. to enter, before joining the bored-looking cop waiting outside and firmly shutting the door behind them. There's a lone man in the newsroom, a detective by the look of his trench and the lines of his face.
"J.P.?"
"Yeah, that's me. Am I in trouble for anything?"
"Not at all, I just wanted to ask a couple routine questions. I'm Detective Beaver. Take a seat." He flicks the record unit on his ear piece on and follows suit so they're facing each other. "What's J.P. stand for anyway?"
"Just playin'."
"You're lying."
"Nope."
"You're serious?" The detective's eyebrows do a mean, slow climb.
"As a heart attack."
"Come on. What's it stand for really?"
J.P. sighs, bored already. "Nothing." Jared Padalecki, actually, not like this pod or anyone else will ever find out. Information is everything in this game, and that one piece is his alone to keep. Uncle Krip made sure of that, and Uncle Krip's word is motherfucking law. Perk of the trade. Couriers are machinery, interchangeable parts, and they get every kind of access, so they have to be nameless, faceless. Nobody. The job's dangerous, and it pays dick, perfect for those that don't get code. You give Uncle Krip your life, and he gives you two names: his and your own. Not a bad trade, all in all.
"So I'm told you write a gossip column for the school?"
"Advice column," he corrects.
"Right, right. It seems that you might have some special insight on the relationship between Mr. Morgan and Mr. Butler, is what I'm hearing. Does that sound about right?" He notices J.P.'s fidgeting, and softens his gruff tone. "Oh, before we go any farther, I wanted to congratulate you on your article in The Examiner the other day. It was real impressive."
"Oh you saw it?" J.P. automatically preens.
"Oh, yeah. It was a great photo, really stood out. You take that, too?"
"Yep, that was me. You know, up until my article came out, I was the only know who knew how in love Mr. Morgan and Mr. Butler were. I mean, I didn't understand it, but it was pretty obvious to anyone who actually looked. Well, until Friday anyway."
"What happened Friday?"
"They broke up," J.P. says, offhand. "Actually, to be accurate, Mr. Morgan did the breaking up. Mr. Butler was pretty upset. Pissed, actually," he adds thoughtfully. "Not that I blame him. What was Mr. Morgan thinking? It is not conceivably possible that he could ever do better."
"Wait, wait. Back up. They broke up, huh? You saw all this?"
"Yeah, they broke up on the stairs out there actually, or maybe before then, but Mr. Morgan drilled the point home on the stairs. Pretty brutal. And then Mr. Butler said one of them would have to leave Millington, and it sure as hell wouldn't be him," he quotes back in memory. "Actually, Mr. Butler might be a big help."
Detective Beaver looks grim. "I'll be in touch. Thanks for your time."
When J.P. leaves, he sees Mr. Butler being brought in next. The suit leaves to presumably line up his next victim and the security detail's nowhere in sight. J.P. closes the door behind him, leaving it the slightest bit ajar. He leans against the wall nonchalantly.
Of course that's when Jensen Ackles strolls by. The guy is everywhere. He does that awful one eyebrow lift thing he loves to do. It's like his fucking trademark, seriously lame.
"Who're you eavesdropping on this time?"
He puts his middle finger to his lips and gestures Jensen over impatiently. "Quiet, bithead. Mr. Butler's in there with a detective."
Jensen crowds in close, too close, and J.P.'s heart starts doing funny things in his chest. "Jesus, mouthbreather. Save some O2 for the rest of us."
"Now who's too loud, shush." His arms are bracketing the wall around J.P.'s shoulders, which is causing his entire back to do this feline arch thing so he's looking up into J.P.'s eyes, way too close as previously noted. The side of his neck's sort of tilted, all submissive-like and stupidly close to J.P.'s lips, and--
"Holy shit, your body is one giant upper, what the hell. Is there any way for you to keep this all down?"
Distantly he remembers what he was in the middle of doing, and turns his head towards the door, thankfully breaking eye contact. He strains to filter the conversation on the other side of the door back in.
I have it from multiple sources that you and Jeffrey Morgan--
Yes?
That you were together. Romantically. Reality speaking. Is that true?
Yes.
And when did you last see him?
Friday evening.
How was he? Did he seem upset about anything?
I don't know, he was. Himself. He seemed fine.
Really? Because I heard from one of your students that the two of you had what sounded like a significant altercation Friday evening, that you threatened him about wanting him to leave this school. Does that sound about right? Mr. Butler? Would you mind coming with me for further questioning?
I think. I think I'd better call my lawyer.
J.P. slips out from under Jensen, hastily throws his plank down and glides off. Jensen runs after him in a daze.
"God," he groans, after they're finally far enough away. "That detective thinks Mr. Butler's got something to do with Mr. Morgan's disappearance now, and I think it's all my fault."
"Don't flatter yourself. He'd be the lead suspect, with or without your big mouth."
"Well I didn't help things any! And Mr. Butler is totally innocent, come on. The only thing he's guilty of is loving Mr. Morgan, which ugh, is the real crime here."
"He did threaten him, though. We both heard it."
"It wasn't a real threat. He was just heartbroken! I don't think Mr. Butler could've killed Mr. Morgan. He loved him."
"If it wasn't him, then who?"
"I don't know. I mean, who said he was even murdered? There's just a car, no body. Anything could've happened to him. He could have amnesia and is recovering somewhere, or maybe he was taken hostage, or shit, what if he pissed off Uncle Krip?"
"Okay, Hardy Boy, I think you've been sleuthing around a little too long."
"Huh?"
Joe and Frank Hardy, fictional amateur brother detectives. First appearance, 1927; major revamp, 1958; end of serial 2005. Rebooted in-- Mayhem's scratchy voice chirrups helpfully in his ear. "Goddamnit Chad!" Use of first name, significant. "I thought I told you to quit that--"
It's attuned to anachronistic pop cultural references only. Oh, and sexy times. I almost tuned in for a second there a few clicks back, but I couldn't tell if you were about to round first base or crap yourself, and I couldn't take the chance, you understand.
"Get the fuck out," he says through clenched teeth.
Jensen's looking at him funny. "You're being frequencied?"
"Just a bug. It's taken care of. Anyway, I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and it's going to be front page news."
"You don't know the first thing about Jeff. You wouldn't know where to start."
"Oh, it's Jeff now, is it?"
Jensen ignores him. "I'm the only student here who knows the guy, much less cares about him."
He tries to push past the disgust, clamps his mouth shut on the but he's so old! that wants to claw its way out of his throat. He focuses instead on the story. Jensen's hardon for Jeff will definitely come in handy. Making up his mind, he nods decisively. "As much as it kills me to say this, I think we should team up. Look into this together."
"You can't be serious."
"Oh come on. Get over yourself. If you help me, I know we can crack this case wide open."
Jensen's still hesitating and J.P. clucks his tongue impatiently. "I thought you said you cared about Mr. Morgan. What a funny way of showing it, all sitting back and doing nothing."
"No, I'm in, it's just." Jensen sighs. "Discretion, J.P., ok? Let's keep this between ourselves."
"Relax. Who am I gonna tell?" Mayhem hms speculatively in his ear while J.P. waves Jensen off, probably looking demented. We can bring along Red, can't we? Red makes things fun.
"Don't even think about it. Want to meet at the Mach Supply Shop for lunch?"
"Already there, bitch. Hurry before I buy it all."
They're browsing for upgrades. J.P.'s set on getting the new Mach Elevens. Those sprockets are supposed to be fucking magical.
"I knew it, by the way."
"Knew what?"
"That you liked him, that Jensen Ackles is an asshole kneejerk thing you did was a dead giveaway."
"What, no. No. This is strictly a professional thing. That reminds me, I just remembered we should check out Megan's spy shop. I should call him, tell him to meet me there first."
"Oho," Mayhem says cheerfully. "So you've got his number? Mmhm," he says over J.P.'s protests.
"What do you know about him anyway?"
"He's not a courier or a chick, so not much. Why the hell would I care? But you should."
"Wait, what do you mean I should? What're you talking about?"
"Jesus, J.P., get a clue. He likes you. I mean, hello, that's why he treats you like some Clint knockoff reject."
"That's real nice, thanks."
"Oh, come on, whatever. He's got girly lips anyway. That's kind of hot. Like, for a dude. If I could, if things were, well, you know what I mean."
"I think I'm really glad I don't."
Monday, 14:11
"How'd you find this place?"
"My kid sister's a budding spy. Fedhead in training. She got all the technogenes in the family."
"It's pretty cool, should have everything we need. Maybe start with a lockpick."
J.P.'s smiling and nodding happily when he hears the smooth roll of too greased wheels and looks up to see Mayhem and his familiar orange and blue coverall glide through the door, Danneel on his heels. He points Jensen to a far-off corner, and guides him in that direction. Jensen takes off agreeably, still taking all the displays in. J.P. stalks to the other side of the room. "What are you doing here?" he hisses.
"What do you mean man? I love this place! I was just in the neighborhood and couldn't leave without stopping by."
"What's she doing here?"
"Hm? Who?" Mayhem looks around before making a show of surprise as he turns around. "Oh, her?"
"Yeah, that would be the 'she' I'm referring to. I thought I told you not to tell anyone!"
"Ok, I admit this looks awkward on the surface if you were not privy to the very inside information that makes all this perfectly acceptable. There's actually a really good reason I had to tell Danneel--"
"Besides your neverending quest to get in her pants, go on. I'm dying to hear this."
She glances up and smirks. "Sorry loser. I've got the exclusive on this one."
J.P. scoffs. "Bitch, please. It's my story."
Jensen wanders back into range. "Hey," he blinks in surprise. "What's going on here?" He turns to J.P., frowning. "What are they doing here?"
"Our story," he amends quickly. "And yeah, what are you guys doing here?"
"No seriously, you're going to love it." Mayhem cracks his knuckles and beckons them to come closer. "Are you ready for this? Apparently Danneel lives across the street from Mr. Butler. Already got the perfect spot to stake out. Plus, people won't be too suspicious if they see us, since Danneel's a neighbor and all. It's perfect."
J.P. widens his eyes. "For once, you deliver as advertised courier. This is perfect. So we watch him for a few days, and if nothing sus turns up, maybe we can help clear his name."
"Or else prove he had something to do with Jeff's disappearance," Jensen adds.
Fortescue Heights #2007234, V10
"Make yourselves at home, guys." J.P. unlocks the door. "I'll get today's menu, so we can order some lunch."
Jensen stops at the entrance, eyes wide. He whistles. "Wow. So this is how the other half lives. I didn't even know people could still have houses like this."
J.P. shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable. "My mom works for McSoco. It's all standard issue for their employees. Every single one of the lots are the same."
"No kidding."
He busies himself with ushering Jensen in and making a show of locking the door behind him carefully, hating that he can feel his stupid cheeks heat for no reason whatsoever. He can't help who his mother works for. He could've fried himself three times over with the access he's had, that he never once wanted.
In the end, they decide to divide and conquer. It only makes sense for him and Mayhem to team up, couriers fly together, and Jensen can take Danneel along in his clunky box. Ugh, they're as bad as peds. Mayhem, however, has other plans and smoothly rejects his proposal to search Mr. Morgan's house together for clues.
"Isn't Ackles the one that's all butt-buddies with Mr. Morgan?"
"Hey!"
"And it's Danneel's house, so she obviously has to be there. I'll help her keep watch, and you and Jensen can check Morgan's place out instead." Mayhem says, all too reasonably, before he peaces out, gleefully falling into step behind Danneel.
Silence descends uncomfortably, before J.P. manages, "How about I meet you there?"
"Do you even know where there is?"
"Ok, no offense, but I can't go with you. I've seen what you drive, man. Cages make me claustrophobic."
"Um, I don't own a car, are you kidding me? I used Mr. Marsters's econobox back when I was helping him deliver old copy. And jesus, what, were you spying on me or some shit?"
"No!" He says, too loudly. I skitched a ride once, saw your ugly mug -- like that thing actually took me anywhere -- that's all."
"Okay," Jensen drawls out. "If you're done creeping people out, I've already recalled my bike. Let's go."
He's impressed. He knew Jensen was a hacker, but he figured it was all morgue stuff. Outfitting a bike with recall that can pass the enclave scanner codes? Not fucking bad. He revises his opinion when he steps out on the lawn. It's not exactly beautiful, but it's not like that's the point. It's a chopper, actually, lightweight and streamlined, a perfect inky black. It looks like a refigured Kawasaki Vulcan model, not that J.P. is an expert on bikes. What he does know are wheels, though, and those don't look like any he's seen on the Street before, not attached to choppers at least. They look like giant versions of his own smartwheels, actually, which is. Pretty fucking badass. So much so, he doesn't have spit in his mouth to complain about the bitch pad Jensen's patting pointedly behind him.
It's okay until Jensen twists the throttle and releases the clutch, springboarding out of the driveway. The engine's deadly silent, but the vibrations rocket up and down his body, curled in close to Jensen's, in a shocky imitation of rutting. Because then? It gets even better.
--
Mayhem's surprisingly graceful as he swings his way up onto Butler's fire escape, plank hiked securely under his arm. She'll never get couriers. It's like some goddamn fraternity. The endless adrenaline of rushing with the alum's sense of responsibility and all wrapped up in fealty. And don't get her started on The Code. Another delivery made, another satisfied customer and leave no brother or sister behind. She's surprised military hasn't tapped into them and then can't get the thought out of her head that they already have. She thinks of Mayhem again, and shudders.
"Head's up," he calls down, as he drops down the ladder slowly. She hauls herself up and starts rigging up the cam equipment.
"Gotta move," Mayhem's saying, all jittery.
"Just a second," she mutters. "Need to make some technical adjustments first."
Afterwards, they set up shop in her studio, and she's hooking up her laptop, so the camera's feed projects directly onto the screen.
Mayhem runs his fingers over the shelves of tapes. "Damn, woman. This is some library you've got here."
"Hm? Oh, yeah, it's my lifetime collection."
He looks closer at the very first title from the upper left corner. "Danneel's Birth?" He reads out. "Uh. You're not seriously telling me you have that recorded too, do you?"
"Oh, yeah. My dad got me started really young. Don't worry, it's tasteful. Very circle of life."
Mayhem's already dropped the tape back into place as if it'd burned his fingers.
She grins. "Anyway, I was practically born with a vidcam in my hand. My dad strapped one on my back while I was still crawling. Been recording ever since."
"Tape's cheap." Mayhem nods wisely.
"And information's priceless," she agrees, eyes on the screen.
Greater San Angeles, Southside
His body's still humming as they walk away from the bike, and he distracts himself, pulling up his GPS. "What're the coordinates again?"
"Relax. Put that thing away before you hurt yourself. I've been to Je-- Mr. Morgan's before. I know how to get there."
"Yeah?" He asks casually. "When would that have been?"
"Beginning of term. Came by to pick up his old laptop. He was giving it to me. Wait, there's the place right there."
"Dude, watch out!" He clutches Jensen's sleeve and tugs him down quickly so that they're both safely hidden behind a parked car. "It's Ms. Ferris!"
Jensen frowns. "That's strange. What's she doing at Mr. Morgan's? Wouldn't have thought she'd be down this south."
J.P. snaps his fingers. "Wait, I just thought of something! I remember them having a weird conversation the Friday before he disappeared."
"Weird how?"
"I don't know, I just got the feeling of weirdness. This whole thing has been weird, don't you think? Up till last Thursday, the most remarkable thing Mr. Morgan had ever done was somehow miraculously get Mr. Butler to actually look at him twice. Other than that, the guy's beige, total wallpaper. Then suddenly Friday hits, my article runs, and he's getting pulled into Ms. Ferris's office, breaks up with his perfect boyfriend, crashes his car into the fucking Santa Ana River and then disappears off the face of the planet! What the hell kind of chain of events are these?" He watches Ms. Ferris quickly disappear from view. "I looked him up, too. Jeffrey Dean Morgan. Well, Megan did."
"Yeah, so?"
"So not a single hit turns up. Danneel was right -- forget just yearbook photos, I can't find an imprint of him at all. He's a teacher, man. What does he possibly have to hide? It's not normal."
"I don't know. But the coast looks clear and we should check out his place already, start trying to find out. And he's not beige," Jensen mutters.
The door's unlocked and swings forward easily. Inside things are disheveled in a very controlled, dislodged to uncover something extremely specific manner. There's a laptop still plugged in, monitor flipped open. "It's as if he was just here," J.P. says wonderingly.
"Hey, look at this." Jensen snaps the briefcase he was shuffling through closed and taps the golden nameplate between the handle. "N.P."
"Wonder what that stands for..."
They split up, Jensen stays in the den while J.P. scrambles through the rooms, stopping at the bedroom. He rummages through the night tables on either end of the bed before he makes his way over to the impressive-sized armoire. He flings open the double door, pulling out shelves on the right side first to peruse before noticing the figure suddenly materialize in the mirror panel hanging on the opposite side.
"Son of a--!" he yells.
--
"Danneel, hey, wake up, look!" He shakes her awake. "Someone just came inside Mr. Butler's apartment. Can you get a better view?"
She fiddles with the remote control, moving the lens to the side and closer. "Who are you?" She mutters under her breath, then swears when a visibly distressed Mr. Marsters comes into view.
"This just keeps getting better and better," Mayhem says, whistling appreciatively. "Who knew there was so much professor-on-professor action at Millington going on, shit. Small wonder some injured party took out a hit on poor Mr. M."
--
"Detective Meany," the man introduces himself. "B and E," he nods to the two of them in turn.
"No!" He rushes to reassure. "I'm J.P., and this is Jensen Ackles. We're students of Mr. Morgan's. Just very concerned students."
"Very concerned students," Detective Meany echoes, disbelief clear in his voice.
Jensen does this thing with his eyes that make them look unusually large and overbright. "Is he alive, sir?" Sir, J.P. mouthes to himself, gaping.
Detective Meany looks momentarily thrown, before he clears his throat and snaps, "That's police business. But you two, on the other hand, if you know anything about this disappearance at all, I'd strongly suggest you to tell me right now."
"We don't. We don't know anything, sir." All the sir's seem like overkill to J.P., but it rolls off Jensen's tongue (too) smoothly and Meany seems to be falling for it hook, line, and sinker, so he's not one to judge.
"And you are absolutely sure about that?" Each word drips slow off his tongue like oil.
J.P. pulls a face. "Of course we're absolutely sure about that. This isn't something anyone's likely to forget."
"Hmm," the detective drawls out and crosses his legs. His newly raised right boot gleams in the mid-afternoon sunlight dappling through the open window.
What is with this guy? "Oh hey, do you have the time?"
Meany removes a stray piece of lint on the shoulder of his suit, eyeing J.P. meaningfully all the while. The metaphor is not lost on him. But Meany gamely raises his arm, sleeve slipping down from his wrist. "It's just after 16:00."
"How long have you been doing this anyway? You know, this, police work?"
"Did you say 16:00?" Jensen cuts in. "Because that would mean we're late for dinner."
Meany smiles, revealing smoothly capped teeth. J.P. thinks they should be pointy, it's a very Jaws-like effect he sees superimposed on. "It's a little early for dinner, wouldn't you say Jensen?"
"It's pretty far from here, and you know what traffic's like this close to the overpass. Bumper-to-bumper. Thrashers everywhere. Better to eat big meals earlier, too," he adds in thoughtfully. He ignores J.P.'s pointy elbow digging into his side and stands up.
J.P. follows, looking dismayed. "I guess we'll be seeing you, detective." He spits out the last word meaningfully.
Jensen turns on him as soon as they're both safely out of the house and already at the end of the street. "Just out of curiosity -- have you completely lost your fucking mind?"
"What? No, have you? You're acting all--" He flaps his hands. "What, you scared or something?"
"Because I didn't want to rock the boat? I didn't want to upset the detective! Get him on our tail. I don't know, he seemed strange. Intense."
"That's because he's not a detective, genius." J.P. scoffs.
"What? What makes you say that?"
"Come on. A detective working this district could never afford a vintage Pumoni suit, platinum watch and genuine leather boots, are you kidding me? Only suits have that kind of money."
"What if he's PD. He could have wealthy, megacorps clients."
"Maybe," J.P. says noncommittally.
"Besides, how can you tell a Pumoni suit from across the room? And all that other stuff."
"Trust me, I can spot a knockoff from a mile away, and that wasn't it, my friend. Same with the watch. The best. Platinum band, 18-carat accents, and mother-of-pearl dials that's the ultimate in time zone referentials. That's Before money, Jensen. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I would definitely know. Just call it my old world sensibility kicking in."
"Wow, I thought your not-so-secret WASP-iness would be a major detractor if anything. Who would've thought it'd actually come in handy like this?"
"I'll take that as a compliment, asshole. Hey," he says suddenly, thinking. "Do you think Ms. Ferris and this Meany guy are in on something together?"
"I don't know. We should run a bio-scan on him. Come on, my place isn't too far from here."
part ii