A conversation over noodles…
“We got screwed?” Puddles asked rhetorically.
Whiskers slurped another chopstick full of noodles while shrugging.
Across the table, Eth looked annoyed, “Where is my bowl? Don’t they know who I am?”
Another slurp. Another shrug.
“How is it nobody knows nothing?” Puddles asked pointing at Eth.
“I know a lot of people, but I don’t know everyone,” Eth responded. “You need corporate contacts.”
“You have corporate contacts,” Whiskers responded around another slurp of noodles.
“I thought you knew everyone?”
“Hot and spicy bowl,” the clashing neon color garbed waitress announced, setting the bowl in front of Eth.
“About time,” he said. Picking up a chopstick full of noodles, returning his attention to Puddles and Whiskers, “I do,” emphasizing do, “know a lot of people. The people you two are interested in are beyond me.”
A conversation in an office…
Wringing her hands, glancing around the office, and generally behaving twitchy, the human woman sitting on the opposite side of their desk irritated Puddles. Her irritation could be traced to the cloying amount of perfume the woman wore or her annoying whining or well just about anything this potential client did. Ever since the “resolution” of their last case, irritation was her standard mood.
“Gathering evidence of your husband’s infidelities, should take us a week,” Whisker said while consulting his data-pad. Sliding the data-pad across his immaculately clean side of the desk, “Sign at the bottom and once the issta transfer is confirmed we will take the job.”
Puddles stifled an irritated grunt, catching cheating spouses-so low rent.
“Thank you so much,” the woman replied, “I hope I am wrong. I love him so much…”
“But you have a hunch,” Puddles interrupted snatching the data-pad back.
Whiskers grabbed the data-pad out of Puddles paw before the data-pad got lost in the mess of her side of the desk, “Thank you Camile. We will be in touch.”
As soon as the door closed, “What nickname did you give this client?”
Another conversation in an office…
“That’s funny,” Tanx’s laughter rumbled around his office, “Haven’t heard that one before.” Another rumbling laugh, “Spacious office, indeed. Detective Orte sent you to me because I might know something? Did I get that right?”
Until sitting in Officer Tanx’s office, Whiskers thought he was tall, staring up at Tanx’s face brought home lots of uncomfortable memories of sitting at the children’s table for holidays. “He thought you might know someone who could answer some questions of ours.”
“And what questions are those?”
Sitting straighter, Whiskers consulted his data-pad, “Recently, an investigation took us into Tumbledown where we found a well-equipped gang defending a clean room.”
“And you want to know who is providing the equipment and clean room?” Tanx interrupted while manipulating his holo-desk display. “Is this your investigation?” Tanx sarcastically asked, enlarging the holo-display; images of several dead gang members and a demolished clean room.
Clearing his throat, thankful Puddles was not there, “Yes. That looks like our investigation.”
“The gangers were members of Black Myst. Nothing special about them, another Tumbledown gang. The personal shield is an Oakenshield model. Again, nothing special. The clean room, by the time investigations arrived, was no longer clean.”
“Let me guess,” Whiskers began, “Nothing special.”
A conversation over…
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing,” Whiskers replied lazily stirring his bowl of noodles with a single chopstick.
“Some investigators we are,” Puddles said.
“You don’t have the right connections.”
“Shut up Chuck,” Puddles snapped at a black and white cat sitting third.
Setting his chopstick down, “Unfortunately, Chuck is right. We do not have the right connections,” Whiskers interjected.
“Whatever,” Puddles mumbled around a mouthful of noodles.
Ignoring Puddles, Whiskers continued, “We have a few cases to work. I suggest we move on from this and get back to work.”
“I like that idea,” Chuck said.
“Shut up Chuck.”
Establishing shot, panoramic view of Middle Stroud; make sure to get a shot of “The Cloud” and convergence of the elevated highways and flight lanes passing above and below “The Cloud.” On her retina screen, Talia watched her pet take the requested footage; directing her attention down to an alley behind a noodle shop, neon lights from the shop’s sign causing difficulty with the shot. Her pet, a baseball sized grey ball with the channel 18 logo on the side, hovering a few feet to her right, floated further away from her at her mental command. Looking around the ledge, Talia spotted a better location to continue her investigation. Checking her retina screen, between her vantage point and the pet’s completely covering the meeting. Two weeks of investigative working finally paying off; an opportunity to record a Red Hand’s exchange.
Adjusting her position to relieve the strain from being in one position for so long, Talia’s retina screen flashed; her pet recording four hover bikes enter the back of the alley. Finally, she thought, watching the bikers park and spread out along the back of the alley, she wondered who they were waiting for.