Funny Farm
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Profanity, violence, possible sensuality/nudity, sexual innuendo, occult
Genre: General/Drama
Time Period: N/A, AU
Spoilers: None
Summary: Love affair gone sour, irritated detective without caffeine, plenty of occult, strange humor with a good dash of mystery! Where does karma fit in though? Kenyako
Disclaimer: No, I do not own Digimon. Damn you UPN and FOX!!!
Chapter One: The Day from Hell
You know, there are those days in which everything goes wrong. When you think that you've done pretty good things in your lifetime, at least not enough to get that bad karma, but then life decides not give a shit about karma.
Detective Ken Ichijouji was having one of those days.
First off, he had smashed his alarm clock (and may that sadistic hunk of plastic and metal burn in hell) and overslept. When his biological clock (unfortunately very slow) kindly reminded his sleep-fogged mind that he was going to be late unless he somehow gained the abilities of the Flash within the next ten nanoseconds, he promptly jumped out of bed, ready to grab his clothing.
And fell flat on his face.
It was ten minutes later when a very haggard, very irritated Detective Ken Ichijouji exited his apartment.
Only to stumble and fall down a flight of stairs.
It was his luck that Mrs. Yamazaki (also known, though discreetly, as the Old Bat) was at the bottom with her cats. And he just happened to accidentally step on one.
"You evil man!" she had shrieked and the next thing he knew, a string bag filled with countless tins of cat food went swinging at him. He was laid flat on his back, dazed and probably with a broken nose, while the Old Bit- Bat was cooing over one of her god-be-damned, mangy felines.
"It's okay, Mr. Fluff Fluff, the nasty cop isn't going to hurt you, not when Mama's here to protect you." She shot dazed form of the officer a nasty glare.
It was an even more annoyed Detective Ichijouji who left the apartment complex, with two bumps on his skull, a very sore nose, and the beginnings of a black eye, rumpled clothing, and a rising temper. His memory decided to enlighten him on his route to the station that he had forgotten his briefcase, with all the reports he had been working his ass off on the night before. Already very late and more than halfway there (also not particularly desiring another encounter with the Old Bat), he gritted his teeth and continued.
He then endured a thirty-minute lecture from the head of his precinct on being punctual (and to his irritation, the detective was not treated with at least a "What the hell happened to your face, kid?" during the half hour tirade.) and a fifteen minute screaming session following that from the secretary for having to put her through another night of begging for an extension on the reports. Ears sore, he limped to his desk, hoping to at least get a moment's respite for aspirin and coffee.
No luck.
The minute he raised a paper cup to his lips to sip at the glorious ambrosia of coffee, he was rudely jostled out of his seat. He was being sent out on patrol. Growling and wiping the hot liquid from his shirt the best he could, he stalked out, muttering obscenities.
The rest of the day was filled with every single irritating thing that could happen on a patrol, from dealing with two punks duking it out on the streets over a girl to attempting to calm a hysterical mother whose child had simply gone down to the corner store without telling her (Ken privately empathized with the kid; the woman was a harridan.).
Just when he arrived at the station, ready to take a half-day, go home, and fall into his bed, he was called over to his desk.
A woman was seated there.
She was not necessarily pretty, not by conventional standards, but she held charm. Her hair was lilac, and it was most definitely NOT dye, pulled into a neat bun on her head. She wore glasses, business style, most definitely suiting her handsomely tailored burgundy jacket and skirt and elegant cream silk shirt. She could have been any successful businesswoman, calm, cool, collected and very intelligent. If it weren't for the fact that her lovely amber (Amber? A most unusual color for eyes. And wait a second; did he just call her lovely?) eyes were silently crying, and a livid bruise crawled from the top of her left cheekbone to her jaw.
"Ma'am?" he asked, uncomfortable. Great, was his life becoming an old detective movie now? He wasn't feeling terribly like Sam Spade at the moment.
She sniffed, looking up. Then when she saw him, she gasped a little, jumping slightly. But she managed to calm herself down, breathing deeply, a hand on her chest. Her face was faintly blotchy, and her eyes were starting to redden. She reached into her purse, hunting for tissues or a handkerchief. But Officer Ken Ichijouji was used to this. He pulled out his own handkerchief (He never went anywhere without one, thanks to his mother. [1]) and offered it to her. She took it with murmured thanks and carefully wiped away her tears.
"Ma'am, could you tell me what's wrong?"
It was an office joke to send all the "damsels in distress" to him, because of his polite manner ("The 'chivalrous knight,'" some were fond of saying, snickering. "Always out there to rescue the damsel, whether she's a kitchen maid or princess." He usually got them to shut up, especially by primly pointing out hardly any women clung to them during frightening situations.) and because, most figured he needed to get laid ("He's an ice prince!" "You don't think he's- you know." "I doubt it." "But it's possible." "Hmm. Give him five months. If he's still frigid, we can consider that possibility.").
She continued to cry and he went to one knee in front of her after barking at a trainee for hot tea. If any of his colleagues had a good look at this, they would be laughing their asses off. Daisuke would be gathering bets, Takeru would be hooting, and Sora was be smiling much like a matchmaking mother. Thank God all three were out.
She shook her head quickly. The trainee came with the requested item, running off soon after. Ken offered her the tea, gently taking her cold, numb fingers and wrapping them about the cup. Robotically, she lifted the cup up to her lips and drank, as though she had not drunk in days, quickly draining the cup in a few gulps. Her chest shuddered in sobbing breaths.
"Breath, ma'am," he said. "You're going to be all right. I promise."
She looked at him and her eyes were blank. In his five years in the field, and years of experience before that, Officer Ken Ichijouji was used to reading people. As the old philosopher said, "The eyes are the windows to the soul." And these windows were shuttered so tightly he suspected something truly traumatic had happened.
"No, no," she whispered. "Never. It's not safe, not while he's about."
"Ma'am, please, calm down. Talk to me." Ken felt a twitch come to his left eye (A very annoying habit developed since entering the field that surfaced whenever he was agitated), yet something like dread started to chill his inner self.
She took a deep breath and put on a professional mask. Raising her hands to brush away invisible hairs away from her face, she looked at him, reaching for her handbag.
"My name is- Miyako, Kaiser Miyako. My husband is Kaiser Edward, or I suppose, Edward Kaiser[2]," she started, and Officer Ichijouji noticed a wedding band on her hand. He resisted the urge to arch an eyebrow; that diamond was HUGE.
Kaiser. Why was that name so familiar?
She pulled open her handbag, pulling out a slim leather booklet, a photo holder. Her beautifully manicured fingernails pulled out a professional wallet sized photo of a handsome man.
Ken gaped.
The picture was of him. But under closer scrutiny, there were subtle differences. Ken's hair was long; he had little time to worry about his hair with his hectic schedule and so let it grow to about shoulder length, framing his face with indigo strands that could easily be pulled back. This man's hair was shorter, reaching about the ears and slightly unruly. Ken's face was slimmer, the cheekbones a touch higher, the chin firmer The eyes were markedly different as well. Ken's eyes were deep indigo; one of his last lovers (contrary to popular belief he was NOT a virgin) romantically called them a mingling of sapphire and amethyst, long lashed like a female's (a source of constant needling and harassment for him) and almost too large for his face (giving an irritatingly effeminate look to his already soft face). This man's eyes were hard blue, like dark ice, and rather narrow. He was smiling faintly in the picture, but it was a cool smile, one that did not reach his narrow blue eyes. Ken mused that his almost twin was attractive enough, but something about him chilled him to the bone.
"He's the CEO of a recently established software company," the woman- Miyako, Ken reminded himself- said softly. "But before that, he was the heir to a substantial amount of money from his family. We once knew each other from high school. I was- struggling through college and he proposed. Money was hard to get and he was always kind enough so I accepted."
He nodded politely enough, prompting her to go on. She sipped at her tea, a professional mask soon starting to slide onto her face. "Lately, he's been distracted. Money's been suddenly showing up or disappearing from the ledgers, both company and personal. He's starting to ignore the social functions he has to go to and he's been coming home at times that are unusual."
"So you think something is up," Ken noted. "Ma'am, if you are fearing of his personal activities, shouldn't you contact a private practice?" After he said those words, he suddenly felt like a total asshole.
She looked at him, and there was iciness in her amber eyes. "I do not fear an affair, Ichijouji-san. If you have read the news of late, you will know of no fewer than three deaths that have happened within the last two months, all concerning powerful businessmen. All of them were partners with my husband's company. I have reason to think that my husband is up to less than scrupulous methods to gain power."
Ken then noticed scars and bruising on the woman's wrists and his blood ran cold. "Ma'am, are you in danger?"
She looked at him for a long moment and slowly stood up. "What happens to me doesn't matter. I just want to stop these deaths." She fumbled in her purse, pulling out a matchbook and a pen. Scribbling something on the matchbook, she handed it to him. "You can contact me at this hotel and at that number, Detective [3]. But I warn you. Be discreet." She then turned and walked out quickly.
Ken looked at the matchbook. It belonged to a very classy hotel, from what he could deduce from the royal blue cardboard and golden lettering. As far as he could deduce, the number he had been given was to a cellphone. How very shrewd of her.
He sighed, grabbing his jacket. What he needed was sleep and he was getting out of here as fast as he could so he could get it.
"Oi! Ichijouji!"
Shit.
[1] You'll get this if you've ever read Patricia C. Wrede.
[2]In case this confuses some readers, I'm using the Asian way of saying names, with last name first. As for Edward, he's a gaijin (a foreigner) and prefers his name the Western way (last name last).
[3]Let's just assume she saw his nameplate. It's me being lazy though and forgetting how the hell Japanese people address detectives or officers. I know there's a specific name though. --;;
Well... what do you think of the rewrite? I'll try to continue this. But it is rather difficult as I have a busy schedule and another story to write. I'm sorry! But Ken-kun wouldn't keep on bugging me to continue this one... Leave constructive criticism, please! It helps me considerably.