A/N: I know, I know. Who the hell would trust me with another multichapter after virtually abandoning two of them? (Maybe one day those will get finished. Maybe one day.) The good news is this: this entire fic is already written. Whole thing, I swear. It has been a really interesting week, to say the least. I'm staggering posting chapters so A) you guys don't have to read 45k words in one sitting, B) so I have time to edit and revise and tweak, and C) so more people will see it. I have no shame in admitting option C, it's a truth universally acknowledged that fanfiction authors live for feedback. I'm probably going to post a new chapter every few days (I have this split into 9 chapters), so ! it's exciting for me. It's also the longest thing I've ever written, so, there's that.
This idea was sort of a weird one. It kind of crossed my mind after watching Fareed Zakaria's special about moonshots of the 21st century and this idea of technological progression to the point that - yeah - you can have conversations with the dead. Everyone's favorite foreign policy analyst Fareed Zakaria interviews this theoretical physicist Dr. Michio Kaku who talks about how, quote, "Perhaps one day we'll have a library of souls. Instead of going to the library to read up on Winston Churchill we'll see a hologram and have a conversation with Winston Churchill with all the memories and all the personality quirks. One day, our descendants may have a conversation with us because we live forever in a library of souls. (...) Well, just realize that today we're just at the beginning of this revolution. We're beginning now to record thoughts. And the very fact that we can talk about this in a scientific way means that we've all of a sudden crossed a watershed."
The possible repercussions of that were kind of mindblowing, for me. And it could be the stupidest idea in the world, but between Killian dying in canon and my own really weird experiences with grief, it sort of struck a cord. (Killian is not dead in this fic, even though I briefly considered it, I am not that much of a masochist.) I guess you could consider this fic sort of science fiction - even though, honestly, I usually am not really one for the genre - but I really try to ground it as much as possible. People aren't on hoverboards, everyone isn't on Mars, the world is very much similar even though it's set a decade in the future where… you can have conversations with the dead. As you can imagine, it's not all it's cracked up to be. There are still a lot of really current problems, from shitty family dynamics and emotional trauma to police corruption. I'm honestly more concerned about doing justice to those things than the actual technological perspective.
This is the world's longest author's note. I hope this wasn't too much to scroll past, guys. I really hope you guys enjoy this fic, too.
-/-
Being a private detective is really one of the best gigs on the planet.
In a city like Storybrooke, anyway, where what used to be an idyllic small town has transformed in the last decade into one of the most profitable and expanding places in the nation, let alone Maine. Business is booming.
Especially for Emma Swan.
There's something about cash flow that makes the people in this town willing to do what they ordinarily wouldn't - like cheat on their husbands and skip bail. This applies to the people that profit off of Storybrooke's newfound success, anyway. The people that don't… well. The exacerbated class differences make the other side of town - where she works, private detectives need cheap real estate - that much more of a hot spot for the less glamorous crimes. Those aren't as good for business.
Most of her cases are taken over the phone or online because of that. It's one thing to get their hands dirty hiring her in the first place, it's another to step foot in her side of town. She doesn't complain, of course. The less Emma has to interact with people, she's found, the better. They ask her to catch a cheating husband, she snaps a few pictures, and rent is paid for the month. Some guy skips out on a bail and her electricity bill is taken care of.
Most of the bail jumpers she's able to take care of using the tried and true online dating method. Emma gets herself matched to her perp, they meet, and she drags him off to the station.
(Tinder really lasted longer than most people thought it would, funnily enough.)
Her work is hands off, discounting that. A lot more hands off than her previous job.
Which is why it comes as such a surprise when a statuesque older blonde woman comes waltzing into her office, the clang of her heels on the wood filling Emma's much beloved silence.
That, and the fact that Ingrid Swan is one of the last people she wants to see.
"I need your help," Ingrid says curtly, not wasting any time in cutting to the chase.
"The only type of help I offer is on the sign," Emma mutters, not looking up from the laptop in front of her, where her latest case has been sent to her, "so unless you need me to sulk in some bushes or catch a bail jumper for you, I don't think there's much I can help you w-"
Emma hears a thud and looks up to see a large briefcase deposited on her desk. She raises her eyebrows.
"I need you to do some investigating for me," Ingrid supplements. "My client, a distraught mother is filing a wrongful death lawsuit against Robert Gold. Her daughter killed herself after a conversation with her dead father. I want you to figure out what's going on behind the scenes."
"You would know all about the distraught mothers, Mom," Emma mutters sarcastically. "Why don't you ask the dead girl about what's happening behind the scenes - isn't that the point?"
"I highly doubt the accuracy of anything coming from the company that got her killed," Ingrid stiffens even further, not that her already icy posture made that easy. "You made it plenty clear you didn't want me in your life."
"Look how well that worked out," Emma sighs, drawing a stack of papers from her desk, "seeing as you're here. Why did you come to me, anyway?"
"I wouldn't trust anyone else to handle this. Besides, you're the best in the business around here."
"Don't," Emma warns, voice sharp. "Don't try that proud mother shit with me, we both know that doesn't flatter either of us."
"I'm not trying anything," Ingrid fires back, but continues all the same. "Look into Gold. Find out what the hell is going on there."
Emma sighs, drawing the contract from the pile. "Fine. I require a $250 down payment."
"The sign says $200."
"Friends and family bonus," Emma replies sardonically. "It's not like you're hurting for money. What CEO is suing his employee for breathing his air this time?"
"All of them," Ingrid quips, signing the contract and taking out her checkbook with a sigh. "Can I trust you to do this for me?"
"We don't need to trust each other for this," Emma intones duly. "I just need to get paid."
Ingrid sighs, looking at her with something like regret. "So that's how it is."
"I'll text you updates," Emma says by way of answering, "As I do with all of my clients. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
-/-
Robert Gold's success story is the traditional sort. Isaac Newton discovered gravity when an apple hit him. Dennis Gabor invented holography at an electric company. Steve Jobs built a computer in his basement. And Robert Gold, in mourning of his dearly departed wife, made the city of Storybrooke rich as fuck by making it possible to have conversations with dead people.
And not in the psychic medium way, either. That would almost be respectable in comparison.
It's only a matter of time before his business expands beyond just the reaches of Storybrooke, but since the company is in its infancy the town gets to reap the benefits of such exclusive opportunities. From the flashy advertisements that have overtaken this city's every breath, she knows the gist of how it works. Using recovered brain matter of the corpses, Gold and his team of crazy fucking scientists make a fortune out of selling conversations with the dearly departed. Commercials include a mother tearfully explaining how she gets to talk to her son every Sunday over breakfast for the first time since he got hit by a car. A little girl whose mother died giving birth to her shows her mom her report cards.
The last one disturbs her the most, and it's probably why she's never been anxious to buy into that bullshit.
(Not to say she hasn't considered it, especially after -
No, she has never considered it.)
Her philosophy when it comes to it is more along the lines of: cheap bastardizations of people you love aren't honoring them, they're exploiting them. But at the end of the day, there's nothing shocking about it. Rich men making money off of vulnerable people.
What else is new?
-/-
She figures she should start off with talking to the mother of the girl, working her way up from there. Interviews - especially with emotional people - aren't her forte, but at the very least Emma is good at telling when people are lying. And she better make damn sure there's no better explanation before she starts nosing around the business of someone as powerful as Gold.
Ashley Boyd, the grieving mother, looks every bit as drained as one would expect when she opens the door.
"Emma Swan," she introduces herself. "I'm a private investigator working for Ingrid Swan, who I'm told is your attorney."
Ashley nods in recognition. "Yes, she is. Please, come in."
Emma gives her a half-hearted smile, trying to be careful not to track dirt on the linoleum as she walks in. The place is an idyllic picture of middle class living. The house is two stories high, there's a well-loved welcome mat, and she even passed a picket fence on her way onto the property.
You'd never guess a girl hung herself upstairs in it.
She buries the thought.
"So, Emma Swan, right?" Ashley begins carefully. "Any relation to Ingrid?"
"Nope," Emma answers quickly. "Just a strange coincidence, it's a common last name."
"Huh," she notes, a little awkwardly.
"I…" Emma trails off, not knowing where to begin when it comes to broaching the topic of a daughter's suicide with her mother. "Um, sorry. Can you tell me everything you know about...what happened with Sydney?"
Ashley nods, already tearing up a little bit.
Emma makes a mental note to charge Ingrid extra for this shit. Again, she isn't so great with emotional people.
"It started after my husband passed away. It was a few months ago and Thomas and Sydney were...they were so close. She was only 15 when he passed away after his fight with cancer, it all happened so quickly. One of the therapists we went to after...she recommended we try out Gold Inc. Said that Sydney could get some closure and talk to him for one last time."
"But it wasn't enough," Emma finishes, grimly.
"How could it be?" Ashley asks, tearfully. "I mean, this was her father. You could tell it wasn't really him, though, at least I could I loved him so much that I just...it was a cheap mimicry. They configured it after a few interviews with us about what he was like, said it was just a therapeutic measure - which I doubt because the only memories he seemed to remember were the ones he talked about."
"So the brain matter stuff, that's all bulls- made up?"
Ashley shrugs helplessly. "It was so expensive, those sessions. Hundreds of dollars for the first one, and the more you did them the more expensive they got. After Thomas died, finances were hard enough as it was. I work as a nurse at the hospital, but then I could barely pay bills for me and Sydney even without the sessions. But She was so heartbroken. I took out another mortgage on the house, I sold a bunch of my old antiques I inherited from my grandmother, I did everything I could. But past a point, we had to keep the lights on."
Emma nods along as she takes notes over the conversation. "So the sessions ended."
"And Sydney couldn't...she couldn't deal with it. She wanted to see her father so badly, even if it wasn't really him. She begged me and begged me but there was nothing I could do. I pleaded with the people at Gold Inc. to help me, help her, but while they were sympathetic...Robert Gold adamantly refused. Said he was running a company, not a charity."
"Stand up guy," Emma comments, sarcastically.
"I lost my daughter because of him," Ashley says, hardening. "His business - if you can call it that - did this to her. She was never able to grieve properly. All it did was get her dependent on these...these visions. They weren't real. None of it was real."
"And you want to see him go down," Emma observes. "Why not go to the police? Why a civil suit?"
Ashley scoffs. "Have you met the sheriff?"
Emma winces. "Unfortunately, yeah. Point taken."
"I want that company to have no money left to run itself. I don't want to see this happen to anyone else's children," Ashley says, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "Can you do that for me?"
"I…" Emma starts. There's something in this woman that's familiar to her, that reminds her of herself. She hates getting involved in cases (usually there's not much for her to get involved in with P.I. work, but back when she had another job she gave everything she had until there was nothing left of her - which is probably why she is the way she is now), but goddamn it, there's a small part of her that wants justice for this girl, too. "I'll do my best, Ms. Boyd."
Ashley gives her a hug, then. Emma sits there awkwardly for a minute, not sure of what to do. Eventually she pats her back in what she hopes is a reassuring motion. "I'm sorry for what's happened to your daughter."
Ashley leans back, looking more determined than tearful. "Don't be sorry. Just take this bastard down."
-/-
Emma can understand family being a powerful motivator, to be fair. Otherwise she wouldn't be caught dead in an overpriced cafe a block from Gold's headquarters.
What her cousin wants, her cousin gets. Emma ducks into the booth with her, face red and yanking her scarf and coat off. It's December and it's snowing, her least favorite time of the year. She's always been wimpy when it comes to cold.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," Elsa says in that earnest voice Emma has become so familiar with, her hands cupping a mug of coffee. "I know things have been rough with…"
"Let's not talk about it," Emma interrupts. "I hear Anna is engaged, let's talk about that."
"Emma," Elsa reprimands carefully. "It helps to talk about it, you know?"
"If I wanted to talk to someone about it, I'd see a shrink," Emma replies, a little too harshly. "Now, tell me about your sister's wedding or I'm leaving."
Elsa frowns. "All right, then. His name is Kristoff and they're ecstatic. Now, how is work?"
Emma narrows her eyes. "Work is work. Are we feeling nosy today?"
"A private investigator calling me nosy," she teases.
"Forgive me for wanting to discuss my cousin's wedding instead of catching people boinking in a Motel 8," Emma replies sarcastically. "Will never happen again."
"I'm sure work isn't just that," Elsa says, not unkindly.
She's always been a lot more level-headed than Emma. That's probably why they get along so well - by comparison. Elsa doesn't often get bothered by Emma's rocky exterior.
"You're right. It's not. Your sociopathic aunt hired me to get dirt on the most powerful man in town. Now, what's for brunch?"
Elsa blinks. "You want to repeat that?"
"Not particularly," Emma says, candidly. "Do I want an omelet or a grilled cheese? Which one are we closest to - breakfast or lunch?"
"Both, it's brunch," Elsa replies, distractedly. "But Ingrid hired you to go after Robert Gold? Why?"
"Is Kristoff at least better than that Hands guy?"
"Hans, and, yes, he's much better. I'm still giving him the third degree, though. You didn't answer my question."
Emma sighs in exasperation. "Wrongful death suit against Gold. Girl killed herself because Mom couldn't pay to talk to Dad anymore."
"Oh my God," Elsa's expression turns outraged. "That's horrible. Poor thing. How is the mother handling it?"
"I'm pretty sure she wants to put Gold's dick in a woodchipper, about now." Emma shrugs, opening the menu flippantly. "Not that I can really blame her."
"I've always thought that the concept of his company was disturbing, to say the least," Elsa adds. "Paying to talk to the dead? How can you really talk to the dead, anyway?"
"You can't," Emma finishes. "The dead are dead and you can't bring them back."
Elsa seems to think about that for a moment before replying. "So, you never thought about it, after what happened wi-"
"Elsa," Emma warns. "I love you, but I swear if you say what I think you're trying to say, I will order everything in this entire pretentious goddamn cafe and have you foot the bill."
Elsa puts her hands up in surrender. "Point taken. Do you want to hear a weird story about Kristoff's family?"
"Please," Emma answers.
-/-
It's back to work, after that. Emma has never really looked into Gold's company beyond a casual, cursory glance. She had no reason to. Now she's pouring over every single document she can get her hands on that so much as mentions it in passing.
Articles include the likes of "GOLD STRIKES GOLD IN STORYBROOKE".
She rolls her eyes at the lack of creativity. That one was courtesy of the Storybrooke Mirror.
Figures.
After the 20th piece repeating the same old line about Gold being a creative genius who is saving the city with just how goddamn smart he is, Emma starts to get a little sick of the research. That leaves her with one main option, which isn't much better, but it looks like it's going be be necessary.
She picks up the phone with a heavy sigh.
"Hi!" Emma puts on her best over-effusive voice over the phone. "I'm Elizabeth Nolan and I'm doing this project for my biology class at the University of New England. Is there any way I could get...I don't know...a tour of the headquarters over at Gold Enterprises?"
And that's all she really needs.
-/-
"Hello," a man, who looks a little younger than her, greets her at the front desk. "Welcome to Gold Incorporated. How can I help you?"
"Hi," Emma says, trying to sound as timid as possible. "I think we spoke on the phone. I'm Elizabeth Nolan? We spoke about a tour?"
"Elizabeth!" the man exclaims, as if they're long separated friends. He's so friendly, it's no wonder they keep him at the front. "Yes, I believe we did. I'm Merlin, I think I'm your guide here for the day."
"Awesome!" Emma replies, beaming. "I'm ready whenever you are."
The tour is a colossal waste of time, as it turns out. Sure, everything is shiny and new and the technology looks like it costs a fortune, but this isn't any new information. It's not until Emma and Merlin enter a hallway that - despite how shiny and titanium and clean it is - reminds Emma of "The Shining" that things start to get remotely interesting.
"So, are these like, the rooms where people can...y'know...talk to people? Like in the commercials?" Emma asks, making sure to sound as energetic as possible. Maybe she's overdoing to the cluelessness, but it's worked the best in the past to make people feel secure about divulging too much information.
Emma has this down to a science, at this point.
"We call them portals," Merlin supplies, gesturing to the doors. "To the other side, if you will. A comfortable experience for our customers and the people they wish to speak with."
"The holograms," Emma corrects, a little sharper than she should be given that she's supposed to be undercover as some ditzy sorority girl. "The holograms they want to talk to."
Merlin stiffens, looking a little uncomfortable. "We don't like calling them that, Ms. Nolan."
There's an awkward silence between the two of them, one she's not sure how to break. She almost considers making a break for it right then and there until a man in a lab coat walks by.
"Dr. Whale!" Merlin exclaims, gesturing to the man in question. Emma narrows her eyes at his stark, dyed blonde hair. What hairdresser armed with bleach wronged him? "Meet Elizabeth Nolan. She's doing a project on our latest developments here at Gold Incorporated."
"That's great," Whale replies, flatly. "I need to get going."
And just like that, he vanishes from sight just as quickly as he appeared.
Merlin frowns. "Well, our researchers are very busy. And they're hired for their brains in science, not their communication skills. Anyway, I'll show you our labs next!"
Emma's eyes fall on the doors that lead to the simulations with a frown.
"Sorry," Merlin apologizes. "I'd show you those rooms, but it's against our policy. Buying first, and all."
She smiles apologetically. "Sorry! I'd love to see the labs."
The labs are fucking useless to her. Emma isn't a science person, for one. Even if she was, she doesn't know how much she'd be able to interpret from giant machines and computer screens with complicated lines of coding. She just smiles and nods at everything Merlin says, which seems to just be piling effusive praise onto the facility rather than anything of real substance.
As cheerful as he appears to be, she can tell it's killing him. Emma just isn't sure if it's over a moral dilemma or typical exhaustion with his job. She can tell if a person is lying, but she can't tell their reasoning behind it.
The tour ends, after that. He leads her to the lobby, reiterating again what a pleasure it is to serve the community in such an enormous capacity.
The only thing that's being served in enormous capacity is Gold's wallet, but Emma swallows that reply. She's already said too much.
"Thank you so much for spending the time to explain all this for me! Our next big exam is over holography, and my professor recommended that we check this place out to get a better idea of it," Emma says, complete with a bright grin.
"Anytime," Merlin replies kindly.
"I hate to ask for directions yet again, but do you know where the restroom is?"
"Down the hall and turn left. Should be right there."
Emma thanks him, then turns to enter that hallway. She turns right, determined to get back to the long, creepy hallway full of rooms of dead people.
Maybe not literally corpses, but dead people nonetheless.
Emma stops by a door that looks like it's relatively secluded from the others, thanks to a protruding wall that casts a shadow over it and ridiculously dim lighting. She curses almost immediately. Of course, it's locked. And it's not just locked in the way that she can use a bobby pin and get it open. There's a scanner on it, likely for employee badges. Emma was just too distracted by potentially blowing her cover to notice it.
Not like she likely would've been able to figure out much once she was inside, but there's still something sketchy about Merlin not even being able to show her the inside of the room.
Footsteps sound not far behind her.
Emma nearly jumps, certain she's been caught.
"You'll never get them back," the man mutters darkly. "Whatever they're telling you, whoever you've lost, you won't get them back."
Guy sounds vaguely British, maybe Irish. She's never been good with accents. He's about 20 feet away from her, is all Emma can really judge based off of his voice.
Emma frowns. "Speaking from experience?"
"Something like that."
Emma squints, trying to make out the man's features. All she can see is the outline of his face and body, thanks to the dimly lit hallway. He's 6 feet, maybe, and his hair seems disheveled. Definitely not Gold, he's too tall for that and his voice is too different. There's something else about him that strikes her as familiar, though, and she could swear…
"Wait, who the hell are you?"
"No one of pivotal importance, love," he dismisses her, making a move to walk past her.
Emma is undeterred and she lifts a hand up to his chest to block his movement. Guy loves the unbuttoned v-necks, for sure, and doesn't seem to shave his chest. She can still feel even if she can hardly see. "Do you work here? Are you a customer? Well, former customer judging by the-"
He groans. "With all due respect, mind your own damn business - aye? Unless you'd like me to ask why you're here."
"Isn't it obvious? To see my dead loved ones, just like you reprimanded me for."
He stares at her for a minute and, in a subtle movement, shakes his head. "Mm. That's not quite the truth."
"Then inform me what is - oh great, sage, strange man," Emma replies dryly.
He laughs, but doesn't respond.
The stranger leaves a moment later and she watches him go, brow furrowed in confusion. The man leaves her with more questions than answers, and it's clear tall, dark, and mysterious wouldn't be much of a help for her even if she did chase him.
Reason #99 that this place is fucked up.