Disclaimer: Kenshin does not own the Yuu Yuu Hakusho characters (they are the property of Togashi Yoshihiro et al), and does not make any money from said characters.
What Kenshin does own, however, are all the original characters in this work. Any attempt to "borrow" these characters will be met with the katana, or worse.
The events in Idiot Beloved take place shortly after the Dark Tournament; Firebird Sweet directly follows that timeline. For reference, I use a combination of the subtitled YYH anime and the American manga, plus some of the CD dramas.
The mysterious Agency is first introduced in Operation Rosary. Farewell,Mr. Groovy occurs during the long timeline of The Book of Cat With Moon-just after Trade Secret and just before we are about to meet Kitajima Maya in Maya's Tale. Is it a murder mystery? A character study? Both? Neither? All we know is that it was inspired by a license plate, and an offhand comment from our favorite reader.
Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C1:In The Belly of the Whale)
Author: JaganshiKenshin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor
Rating: K+/PG-13
Summary: Hiei is called to the Agency's Tokyo office-again. But this time, there are no horses, no monsters, no exploding multidimensional contraptions, only an unusual request.
A/N: As always, I appreciate your reviews!
Laughing on the outside, crying on the inside?
Farewell, Mr. Groovy (1: In The Belly of the Whale)
by
Kenshin
Mr. Groovy was dead. Of that, Hiei was certain.
What was unclear: "What's this got to do with me?"
Hiei sat opposite Narita Shun, the vast expanse of Shun's executive-issue desk between them.
"Nothing," conceded N.
In the big window just over N's shoulder, worms of rain crawled mindlessly. Maybe the Tokyo Bureau chief spent his days staring out that window. Just not today.
Ceaseless, relentless rain may have been on tap this October morning, but N had turned his back on it. Hiei forced himself to look away as well. "Didn't that guy kill himself? And he's been dead, what, a month now? Why's this even of interest? Was Mr. Groovy suspected of espionage?"
"No." N swiveled his chair to glance at the rain, then back at Hiei. "And you're right. It has nothing to do with you. Which is precisely why I don't expect you to take the case."
Hiei lifted a disdainful lip. "Don't try to play me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The Mr. Groovy dossier lay on the desk in a plain, business-sized manila envelope. "Didn't that guy leave a suicide note?"
"He did," N confirmed. "D & D: destitute and depressed."
Hiei shifted in the armchair. N may have had that harmless demeanor, but he had been a top field agent in his day, steel-tough and gritty. You underestimated him to your peril.
And N was something of an enigma to Hiei. It wasn't merely a factor of N's usual self-control, but also that the qualities needed to become a top field agent, and those needed to be a top manager of said agents, are not often found in the same man.
Agents have to blend in and take orders, to be the hands and feet and eyes of the Agency; managers have to give orders and swallow the consequences.
If being a good agent meant blending in physically, N had that part down. A middle-aged man with benevolent-uncle features and a roundish build, he wore a charcoal pinstripe suit and burgundy pin-dotted tie. Under his cover as the head of Yoshikawa Industries, N could be any of a dozen executives you pass in the street without a second glance.
Hiei, with his black-flame hair, combat-toughened build and insolent crimson stare, was not designed to blend in. And as for his 'cover,' that was a joke.
He was in show business.
Hiei supposed that meant he was a bad agent. But he didn't like to lose, and that counted in his favor.
N glanced at the envelope. "At least hear me out."
Since the true occupation of 'Yoshikawa Industries' was not electronics but rather espionage, Hiei had to admit to a grudging curiosity. If Mr. Groovy was not suspected of spying, why go after a dead man?
Coughing, N began to shuffle papers on his desk. N was not the sort to shuffle papers. "Certain people... in the know... claim that suicide was impossible." He stopped, and looked meaningfully at the silver-framed photo on the corner of his desk: Mrs. N, elegant and ladylike, and their three boys, who were probably going to run the Agency some day.
"Your wife's a fan?" By and large, women hated Mr. Groovy.
"Just pay this little request no heed." N made a shooing motion with one hand. "You can be on your way. At least I can say I tried."
"I'm free this week." In a blur of movement, almost before he could stop himself, Hiei scooped up the dossier.
The manila envelope itself was quite ordinary. Nothing was written on it, and its featherlike weight barely registered in his hand.
"We'll pay you. Just this once."
Ordinarily the Agency only covered expenses. An odd ripple, part surprise, part caution, swept across the back of Hiei's neck. Was the timing of this job just a little too convenient?
Nevertheless, tucking the envelope into his coat, Hiei left the office. But as he waited for the elevator, N caught up with him.
"I'll go down with you," N said.
That, too, was a first.
The door slid open. They got in, and N pressed the lobby button. "You forgot your money," N explained.
"How could I forget what I don't have?"
N stared at the elevator floor. "Ahhh... just for the record..."
"You're the fan," finished Hiei.
"And it's not strictly an Agency matter."
"I suppose you're about to tell me why."
"Mr. Groovy had such joie de vivre!" N burst out. "He was too happy to even consider such a thing! He was-"
"Crying on the inside, evidently."
"I have a hard time believing that."
"No, it's the way of the world," said Hiei. "Take me. Inside, I'm just a barrel of laughs." But as the words left his lips, Hiei realized that, by way of a jest, he had spoken a profound truth.
He wasn't merely referring to his stoic exterior, though he was stoic by nature. But his terse replies, calm demeanor, and economy of movement were almost a role he could don as easily as one of the characters he played for radio or television.
He was not a barrel of laughs inside. He had been in a restless mood, the equivalent of ants crawling under his skin.
Why?
The Batman wasn't lurking around any corners. There wasn't a horse in the elevator with them. No one had tried to kill him all week.
Hiei's discontent had nothing to do with today's events. Being summoned to the Agency office was commonplace. N would call him in on an assignment, which he would automatically refuse, but then relent to take the job. Business as usual; move along, nothing to see.
Shayla Kidd, his Firebird, was in good spirits, singing at a nightclub. Their twins, Michael and Cecilia, were doing well in school, and in excellent health.
So why-?
Though Hiei was now at liberty, he was scheduled for work later that month: a voice-over for an industrial film, the sort of job which was always easy and always paid magnificently.
In fact he had more than one gig upcoming, including the stage production of Kitsune no Zorro, scheduled to start rehearsal after the first of the year. He did not, at the moment, want for money, unlike earlier lean times.
Why this-?
His friends were doing well. Kaitou Yuu was multi-tracking as a newspaper editor, publisher, and writer; Kurama was also multi-tracking as a student and medical assistant. Urameshi Yuusuke was neither in jail nor in the hospital. Even the idiot was advancing in school.
No. This mood had been building for a while. And Hiei could not put his finger on the cause.
Was there some arcane connection between himself and the outlandish, deceased TV star known as Mr. Groovy?
Maybe it was the weather. This rain could get to anyone.
N was saying something:
"Call it a hunch if you like. Even Bureau chiefs are allowed to have them."
"You learn something every day."
"Let me put this on plain terms." N slid a hand in his jacket, plucked out a similar manila envelope. But this one was fat with cash. "I'm hiring you as a private investigator."
"Unofficial? Can't work any of the conventional angles, then. Can't investigate the scene of the crime, or interview the last known contact."
"I know. If you can't turn up something in a week, I will still consider this money well spent."
"A week?" The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Hiei pocketed the money. "I'll have it by the end of this day."
But as he strolled from the elevator into the ozone-scented street, Hiel felt far less confident than he sounded.
(To be continued: A dockside dive and an old acquaintance may hold some answers)
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