THE FARGO FILES, VOL I.
1. DANGEROUS DAMES
Nights like this never brought anything good, he thought, chewing on the stub of his trademark red-label cigarillo. It was the last one, too. He'd have to see Vinnie about replenishing his supply. That man could get anything, legal or not, it all depended on whether or not your money was the right color. He dropped the blinds of his office window, partially shutting out the heavy rain soaking the city below. The old blinders half-worked at best, only partially covering the window as they bound up. The footsteps striking a sharp staccato toward his office door said it all.
A dame. If the shadows visible through the single pane of frosted glass in the thin door were anything to judge by she was a one hell of a looker too.
She paused at the door, reading the imprint on the outside. He knew the words well, and was proud of them. In gold foil lettering they read:
Doug Fargo
Private Investigator
"Your Problems Are My Problems!"
In a city this corrupt, his image and reputation were everything, and the slogan was part of it. He heard his caller snort in disgust, a rather unladylike noise, and disconcerting to boot. Deciding to see what Lady Luck had to offer tonight, he moved over to his desk chair and kicked back, putting his feet up on the hardwood desk.
The door opened, revealing his caller's silhouette, the brighter light from the hallway clinging to her frame, highlighting the curves of her body. She paused to survey the room with the swift assessment of a professional, and then entered; each step in those tall heels suggesting so many things, and yet promising nothing.
Her raven black hair spilled over one shoulder, setting off the fitted scarlet dress. The neckline promised paradise, but denied entry. The middle clung to her waist, showing that she was trim and fit. You could bounce a quarter off that stomach! And lower? The dress sheathed her legs like a second skin. He resisted the urge to bite his knuckle.
Her dusky skin fairly glowed in the yellow incandescence of his single overhead lamp, and some little voice inside his head wanted her to purr, "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way!"
The only problem, Doug noticed, dropping his feet down off the desk and sitting up in the swivel chair, was that she was looking neither desperate, scared, nor in any need of his assistance. In fact, she looked downright pissed. Worse, it was clear from the heat of her stare that she was angry at him!
The fierceness of the glare instilled in him a vaguely familiar sense of abject terror that seemed out of place. Why would a woman, especially one that looked like that, instill terror in him? Why, he was no stranger to the gentler sex, if anything-
"Fargo!" she demanded, stepping closer. He noted once more wonderful things those heels did for her gait. "What the hell is going on here?"
He blinked, stuck dumb for the briefest of moments. Yeah, that was terror. The queasiness, the jittery sensation caused by adrenalin beginning to flow.
But terror didn't track. Not on Doug Fargo! Not the man who gave made men reason to fear. "Now see here, sweetheart-"
"Sweetheart?" she exploded. The rage boiling off of her was palpable… and somehow familiar. Was she a former lover? No, that would be one rodeo he'd never forget! "I swear to God, if this is another 'El Otro Hombre' fantasy I'm going to skin you alive!"
El Otro Hombre? he thought. The words were familiar, and the association tickled a memory. The tickle, combined with the woman's seething glare, became an itch that had to be scratched.
He analyzed what he knew, trying to place the phrase, place her familiarity. It seemed as though there were a knot there before him, hopelessly tangled. He picked at it, and soon the strands untangled, loosening the threads of memory. Fact and conjecture fought briefly, and then a torrent of information flooded over him.
Not Doug Fargo, P.I., not the greatest detective in the city… No, he was Douglas Fargo, PhD, and most recently Director of Operations and Research at the secretive Global Dynamics headquarters.
And the broad- Oh, shit… That's no broad, that's Jo… my head of security… Oh this is so not good!
"Um…" he said, biting his lower lip. "Hi… Jo?"
"So now you remember me?" she demanded. A flush, one he thought rather pretty before hastily chastising himself, crept into her cheeks as she looked down at herself. "What the hell is going on and why am I dressed like this? I look like a cheap 40's Hollywood slut!"
"Hey now!" he protested. "Those were some classy ladies, Jo. And besides, there's nothing cheap about how you look."
She sighed. "Forget me, why do you look like that?"
"Like what?" he asked, his indignation causing his voice rising in pitch.
"Like… Dick Tracy… or something." she said, and the set of her features, the contortions, said that she wanted to laugh, but he caught a flash of heat in her eyes.
He looked down and analyzed his garments. A suit, three-button jacket, white cotton shirt with (he could feel) a stiff starched collar and a tie of inoffensive gray and black. The tie was loose and the top button on the collar left open.
She sighed, the gesture laden with frustration. It looked to him as though she were making an effort to set aside her anger. Shaking her head, she slid into one of the office chairs in front of the desk. He couldn't help but notice the way the dress moved as she sat. Jo was a very beautiful woman when she wasn't intentionally hiding it behind uniforms or casual intimidation. The dress rode up to unseemly levels, but she adapted smoothly, crossing her legs as she sat. Her whole style looked as if someone had intentionally dressed her up for a movie set. If she noticed his attention, she let it slide without further comment.
"So, what's going on? And do not tell me this is your idea!"
Fargo shook his head and sat back in his chair. "I'll say this though, if it's anything like Founder's day, it sure beats winding up naked."
She laughed, snorting slightly. He did to, though he tried to hide his embarrassment. Of the five time travelers he'd been the only one to wind up stark naked in front of a crowd of armed soldiers.
Realizing what he'd just said, Fargo clumsily moved on to say, "Not that, you know, I wouldn't um..."
"Save it, Fargo." she said dangerously. "So we can rule out time-"
"Nnnzzz!" Fargo uttered while making shushing motions.
Jo's eyes widened a little and she looked around, "-ly interventions?" she finished weakly, shooting him an apologetic glance.
"Let's agree to 'Not like Founder's Day' shall we?" he asked.
Jo nodded, "Fine, not like that." She was silent for a moment, clearly suddenly uncomfortable. "Um, what's the first thing you remember?"
"What?" he asked
"When you woke up here," she clarified. "What's your first memory?"
Fargo thought back. He recalled dropping the shades in disgust, but try as he might he couldn't remember the exact act of, say, shutting the office door, or hanging up his (very stylish) trench coat on that rack. And yet, at the same time, he knew unequivocally that he had, just as he knew that he'd had steak and eggs for breakfast this morning at Gerti's Diner down on 37th; except Eureka didn't have a 37th anything, and no Gerti anywhere in town that he knew of. Not to mention that the only multi-level buildings of any note were underground. He glanced out the window again, or what he could see through the crappy shades. They were very clearly at least five floors up.
"I remember closing those shades. I have an impression and a really weird certainty about breakfast, and how I got here, but they don't fit with Eureka at all." He frowned, leaning forward and steepling his fingers on the desk. The beautiful hardwood furniture looked very empty at the moment, and he realized it was missing a computer. It was plain to see that there was no hope of finding one any time soon, considering the time frame they were apparently stuck in.
"What do you remember, Jo?"
She blushed, and not just a little either! It was an instant emotional reaction. "Um." she said, coughing uncomfortably into her hand and shifting. Her eyes were anywhere but on his face.
"Oh come on, Jo, you've got to remember something," he pried, his voice harder than he normally used with her, determined to have an answer.
"Well… about that… I remember getting out of the elevator and heading down the hallway. I… um… well, my emotions were wacky. I felt scared, and was looking for help, but then I realized how ridiculous that was. Two mob thugs I could dust in my sleep? Please!" Scorn dripped from her words.
Fargo snorted, casting a wry look her way. "Right, like I could ever protect you." At least he tried for wry and self-deprecating. Even he could hear the hurt that had slipped unbidden into his voice. What man wouldn't want to protect Jo? Sometimes-just sometimes-he was so frelling jealous of Zane that it hurt.
"Fargo!" she protested. She looked surprised, then sadness came over her face.
"It's fine, Jo, I-" he began, warding off her protest with a raised hand.
"Douglas!" she interrupted, reaching out and grabbing his hand. "Listen. I'm Special Forces; I wouldn't run to Carter for protection! But seriously, who busted me out of a cell with quick thinking and ingenuity not so long ago? Who put himself to the hazard in the rage incident? And what about hacking security so Carter and Stark could rescue Allison and Kevin a few years back?" she smiled as she said the last.
He knew he was blushing, and it got worse as she finished up, saying, "Listen, Douglas, believe it or not I do respect you. You can be annoying sometimes, but you're quick thinking, easily as smart as Zane, maybe even smarter, and you're a good friend. Don't take that comment wrong, all right?"
He nodded, not trusting his words as he locked eyes with her. She was serious.
"So, you 'woke up' with false memories too?" She nodded in response. "Then whatever this is it's tied into our brains somehow. While it might be like Founders Day, at least a little, it isn't the same. It feels like some noir crime drama: I'm the private detective; you're the damsel in distress..." He trailed off, nervously.
Jo's displeasure at the description was obvious. "You know," he said defensively, "The 'man in black' shared dream wasn't me! We proved that!"
She sighed, blushing again, and shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine, fine!"
Fargo treasured that memory. A dream it may have been, but he had indeed bested Nathan Stark at swordplay and been Jo's protector and more.
"Alright, whatever this is, if we've got implanted memories then we have implanted clues. I've read these books before, have you?" he asked.
"No, not my type of story." she said, looking away and blushing a little. What was it with her and the blushing bit? Jo normally didn't do that. It didn't seem like something to bring up at the moment, so he filed it away for later.
Fargo looked around the office as he continued talking. "With a noir thriller the formula is that the damsel comes seeking the hero's aid. No comments from the peanut gallery, please!" he responded to Jo's quiet snort. Of course the other half of the equation was that if she didn't need help, she was a femme fatale sent to lure the hero into a deeper trap. The real question then became, was this really Jo or a hallucination?
While he pondered the mystery he stood and started pacing the room, and though he could tell his nervous energy was agitating Jo, he couldn't still the urge to move. He noted again the high heeled shoes she had on, they were stylish, impractical, and probably cost a fortune. "Why are you still wearing those? Don't they hurt?"
She arched an eyebrow in confusion, and looked down at the shoes. "Um… that's weird."
"What?"
She shook her head, looking back up, "I haven't really noticed them at all. You're right though, they should hurt, but my feet feel fine."
Fargo grunted noncommittally. While he appreciated high fashion and how it looked on ladies, it just never made sense to him. Of course, sense wasn't the point…
Framed newspaper clippings, all from the so helpfully titled "City Gazette" hung from the wall. He stopped in front of them and started reading.
"Private Dick Fargo busts open Case of the Canary Stone!" and "Detective Fargo Shows Commissioner Deacon How It's Done!" Interesting… The picture with the so-called Canary Stone showed a really fine looking version of him, standing next to what looked like Nathan Stark in a police officer's uniform; that was odd. The other clipping had him shaking hands with Allison Blake, in a well-appointed office. The caption there read "Mayor Blake congratulates Private Detective Douglas Fargo on a job well done."
"Hey, Jo?" he said, drawing out the words. "Look at these."
She stood, walking over. He schooled his thoughts away from the predatory as he watched her move out of the corner of his eye. She stopped next to him and looked at the pictures and articles, snickering quietly. He kept silent.
"That's odd," Jo said "Those are people we know in different roles, and Stark's been dead a while..."
"Right." Fargo confirmed. "I wonder… We both suffered from that hallucination a while back, and Carter was seeing Doctor Stark. We might be in something else like that."
"Okay, maybe," she said. She wasn't buying on to it though, apparently. "What about… oh what was it… an alternate quantum state?"
"Alternate quantum universe." he corrected. She nodded. "Maybe, but it doesn't really hold up. If we were visitors why would we have memories of this universe? Besides, most quantum states are hostile to one another. Even under n theory we probably wouldn't be able to exist in another quantum universe. We just don't mesh."
"Alright, break it down a little more. What's the upshot?" she asked.
"Oh, right. Uh…" he floundered, looking for an "easy" way to say what he just said, but the problem was that the way he'd just said it was the easy way.
"It's alright, Fargo, I'm pretty sure I get it. We'd go boom in another universe because it wouldn't like us, right?" she asked.
"Right! Or, at least close enough," he said, relieved. He'd been about to launch into a mini-lecture on dimensionality and parallel universes, not something he thought Jo would appreciate at the moment.
"So the question is, are they caught in this with us, the ones that are alive anyhow-" she began.
"Or are we alone?" he finished. Or worse yet, he thought, Are you even here or just a part of whatever this is?
They both noticed the noise at about the same time, turning to look as a pair of shadows moved up toward his office door. Jo gasped, and swore urgently. "I think those guys are after me!" she whispered.
"Oh great…" Fargo muttered. Something inside wondered why it was always dames like this that brought trouble around. The incongruity of the thought froze him. Was that his voice? He'd never had a thought like that before…
Jo was rifling through the small clutch, swearing hotly. She spun on him and hissed, "Gun!"
Her outburst jarred him back into reality. He cast about, his thoughts a jumble of Fargo the Private Eye, and Fargo the Scientist. He was about to tell her to go for the middle desk drawer, and the police special .38 inside when a heavy booted foot powered by a mountain of muscle smashed the latch on his office door.
A huge bruiser dressed in a cheap suit stepped into the room, fists tight, but empty. He shifted toward his left, clearing the entryway while glaring at Jo and Fargo. Another giant followed and moved to cover the other half of the room. This one had remarkably dark skin and wore no hat, his bald pate shining in the light. His over-large eyes, bloodshot and angry, seemed to glow in contrast.
They were followed by a fit young man dressed in an impeccable suit with a white dinner jacket, straight out of "Casablanca". He pulled a lit cigarette out of his mouth and tipped his fedora back and up, and grinned at them with the lazy confidence of a predator who's cornered his prey. "Now, now, Miss Lupo; Not even the brilliant Detective Fargo is going to keep you from giving back what you stole. Boss Carter really hates getting the short end of the stick, you know."
"Zane?" Both Jo and Fargo stared incredulously.
"That's Mister Donovan to the likes of you two." he said with a dangerous edge in his voice. He turned to the two bruisers, who Fargo vaguely recognized as guards from G.D. Zane's command though was decidedly not familiar. "Bust up the dick, get the girl."
Oh, great, just great! Fargo thought.
Disclaimer: I don't own Eureka; its characters, or its concepts. I'm just playing for fun and an educational experience.
Author's Notes: I've always wanted to do a Fargo centric story. This one came to me quite some time ago, but when I hit a block over on Project Archimedes I decided to keep working. I read the other day that the Muse only visits during the act of creation, if you aren't creating, she'll never stop by. You just have to keep creating, you'll only fail if you quit.
Thank you much Sydnew, for your critical eye on this! Check out her awesome work here in the Eureka section of this website (since I apparently can't even type fan fiction dot net).