Summary: Post-TWAU Season 1 and Pre-Fables. Three years after the Crooked Man incident, things have returned to something resembling normalcy in Fabletown. Glamours are still overpriced, Snow White is still laden with demands of a restless public (even with help from the newly appointed Boy Blue), and Bigby Wolf still smokes like a Bristol chimney. Frustrated by a lack of action, Bigby gets his wish for more chaos when Fabletown comes to him with a case only he can solve.
Disclaimer: The Wolf Among Us and Fables belong to Telltale Games, Bill Willingham, Vertigo, DC, and a whole host of other people and factions that I simply am nowhere near cool or talented enough to be a part of.
The Wolf Among Us
Season 2: A Wolf at the Door
Episode 1: "A Quarter Gone"
Part 1: "Half a League"
The snowfall had turned into a blizzard since Bigby retreated into his apartment all those hours earlier. It was an early winter, surprising considering how warm the summer had been. Snow took point down Bullfinch Street, Bluebeard easily in-step with her, and Bigby followed behind the two like a sullen schoolchild, dufflebag in hand. Somewhere in the shadows, a scent of cinnamon carried through the howling northerly wind.
Good. Cindy wasn't too far, at least someone on his side was nearby.
Turning his attention back to the two ahead of him, Bigby observed: he had been on the receiving end of Bluebeard's holier-than-thou smirk several times in the past few minutes, but Snow didn't bother looking back. Ordinarily, this would have offended the wolf, if the winds hadn't carried her own scent to him, revealing her shame and embarrassment over something. She seemed to be debating an apology.
Bigby would accept, but he still didn't know what was going on. Snow had told him that The Adversary, the faceless ruler of the Empire that had sent all Fables running for the Mundy world, had a spy within Fabletown and then they had ushered him back into the elevator. Snow then revealed an astounding bit of information as they traveled back to his floor that he could grab his coat and pack a change of clothes in case they spent more than one day away from Fabletown:
Two years earlier, a Fable had made it through the Canada Gate to the Homelands, a dimension gate that Bigby thought had long been closed, by The Adversary's forces, no less. They had taken all the necessary precautions and placed him in a home of his own, well-guarded and far from the prying eyes of Fabletown, and he was given a handler. When that handler went to visit this Fable earlier in the day, the Handler found him dead.
All well and good, but why was the Fabletown Sheriff kept out of the loop?
Having decided he had stewed upon it long enough, Bigby finally spoke. "Why wasn't I told about this when it happened?" Snow stubbornly kept her head faced forward, though Bigby could sense the shame in her double. Bluebeard, on the other hand, had no problems with informing Bigby of his shortcomings, dropping far enough back to be out of Snow's earshot.
"Because she doesn't trust a cowboy like you," he said, and though he faced away, Bigby could sense the sneer on Bluebeard's lips. "Tweedledum, Georgie Porgie, The Crooked Man? You see things one way only—your way."
"I didn't see anyone else's way stopping them," Bigby shot back, "yours least of all. All you ended up doing was beating on the innocent. Besides, you're one to lecture me on pragmatism; you always think the only way to solve something is through murder."
Bluebeard seemed unimpressed by the retort. "And yet you did the same, Wolf. You left a river of blood running through Fabletown, and you didn't do it for justice, you did it because you know you like it. Perhaps we're not so different in the end."
The kneejerk response, one of sanctimonious outrage, quickly died on Bigby's tongue. Why bother convincing Bluebeard, of all people? He'd never win, regardless of whether or not he shared the same penchant for sociopathy as the once-pirate. So, he merely reached into the breast pocket of his coat, drew out a cigarette, and lit it. It worked like a charm: Bluebeard had never liked cigarettes, but he liked Huff N'Puffs least of all; disgusted, he recoiled away from Bigby, causing the old wolf to smile at the return of his personal space.
Bigby took this chance to speed up toward Snow, where he fell in-step behind the once-princess:
"Snow?" He asked. "Are you going to talk to me at all?"
"Not right now, Bigby," she answered lowly. "Wait until we're alone."
"It's the middle of a blizzard, Snow. There's no one around for miles; I'd be able to sniff them out if there were."
"Still," she held steadfastly. "Just, please wait, Bigby. I'll explain everything soon."
He was unsatisfied by Snow's response, but Bigby relented anyway. "Alright. I'll take your word for it."
She smiled reassuringly and patted him on the arm, the most intimate action between the two since that night he had taken a silver bullet from Bloody Mary's Colt revolver. They continued in the snow for five blocks north on Kipling before veering wildly to the right down a side alley to a run-down, decrepit-looking garage. Snow sighed at Bigby's quirked eyebrow:
"It's nicer inside," she defended.
"I know," replied Bigby as they made for the door, "but did you really take this guy that far out?"
"Yeah," deadpanned Snow, "why do you think I made you pack extra clothes?"
"I don't know, because you tend to be a bit psychopathic when it comes to preparation?"
Snow ignored Bigby's quip and procured a key for the latch on the garage door from her coat pocket, unlocking it with surprisingly deft grace given the temperature. Then again, Snow had always had an affinity for the cold. Makes sense when you think about it, Bigby mused idly as Snow lifted the door with ease. Bluebeard gave Snow an appraising look, as if he had expected her to ask one of them to do the heavy-lifting.
Bluebeard also doesn't know that door is charmed to be feather-light to an administrative Fable, thought Bigby as what appeared to be a small garage expanded into a veritable showroom for all the cars Fabletown had accumulated over the years. From a slowly withering Ford Super Deluxe in the far corner of garage to the racing green Jaguar E-Type Bigby had purchased in 1965 (four-hundred years of having a stable job did end up paying dividends) for the day he finally learned to drive. 21 years on and Bigby was still as road-illiterate as he was on that spring morning in 1908 when he was nearly run over by a careless Mundy in a Model T.
Maybe someday.
Bigby stopped, a whiff of something in the air besides Snow's distinctive aroma and Bluebeard's expensive cologne. As Snow and Bluebeard looked around for a car, Bigby found himself in inexplicably drawn to a black Aston Martin at the front of the pack, but off to the side where it might be ignored by most passersby, which had been purchased for the Mayor via Bluebeard's "donations", being one of the few to escape the Homelands with his fortune intact.
Moving to the rear, Bigby dropped down to the exhaust and sniffed. Exhaust fumes, he mused, this car's been used recently. He stood and moved to the front of the car, feeling the hood. Cold as ice, someone drove it recently, but not within the last few hours. He bent low once more, to the shade around the tires and dipped a finger, feeling cold water. That confirms it. Definitely been driven through snow.
Snow looked around for a car that could fit the three and apparently had decided a Toyota was the way to go, to the eternal disgust of Bluebeard, a man more comfortable on the galley than in the backseat of a compact car. Bigby stressed backseat because that was all Bluebeard was going to get. Snow opened the door to the car and peered inside, then reaching in a withdrawing a set of jangling keys, upon which she flagged the prodigal wolf over from the Aston:
"Still don't know how to drive, Sheriff?" She asked, holding the keys out.
"Road-retarded, I'm afraid," the wolf quipped, stalking off to take the passenger seat before Bluebeard could. Hearing another set of jingling, Bigby could only assume that Snow had then offered the keys to Bluebeard, who would be offended at even the thought of grasping the wheel of anything but a pirate frigate.
Sighing, Snow got into the driver's seat as Bluebeard slunk into the back. "One day, Wolf, I'm teaching you how to drive."
"You're welcome to try," Bigby shrugged.
Bluebeard, however, seemed more in the mood to complain: "Why am I confined to the brig?"
"It's not the brig," Snow countered exasperatedly, "it's called the back seat. Where have you been the last seventy years?"
"As far from you two as physically possible," Bluebeard drawled.
Bigby snorted, he may have been a bastard, but sometimes Bluebeard's dry sense of humor had to be appreciated from time-to-time. "Believe me, Bluebeard, the feeling's mutual."
For the umpteenth time that night, Snow sighed.
It was a long drive to Rochester, where Snow claimed the dead Fable was, so Bigby took the time to catch up on his sleep, which had been woefully lacking over the past few weeks. It wasn't that he was too busy, quit the opposite, in fact. But he could never fall asleep for more than a few minutes at a time, living as a functioning insomniac.
Somehow, the drive put him to sleep like a stone. He would later attribute the ability to sleep a byproduct of being so near to Snow and her calming scent.
It was with a shake of the arm that she awoke him some time long after dawn had come and gone. Bigby jolted awake, being unused to deep sleep, even during the days he had been safe under his mother's care in the Homelands.
"How long have I been out?" He asked, blinking groggily.
"Near six hours now," Snow said, looking similarly bleary-eyed, though it was apparent she hadn't gotten six hours of sleep like he had. The car was parked in front of a motel somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere. "It was the best our contact in Rochester could do on such short notice, unfortunately."
It was a shoddy apology, but Bigby guess Snow meant well and gave her a reassuring nod before stepping out of the car, where Bluebeard already awaited them:
"Two rooms," he said exasperatedly, "the idiots at the front desk gave me two keys because we only have two rooms."
"A double and a single?" Bigby asked.
"Yes."
"Then why are you complaining? Everyone gets their own bed."
"He's right, Bluebeard. We can't be choosy right now," Snow said. "What room numbers are they?"
"113 and 114," Bluebeard replied, "follow me."
They passed rows and rows of hotel housing units, each punctuated by a deep-red door with a cheap knocker affixed to it. Numbers whizzed by 102, 105 109, 111, and finally, 113 and 114.
"So which is the single, and which is the double?"
"Double's 113, single's 114," Bluebeard said.
So that means Snow gets the single and I get stuck with Bluebeard. Well that's a shitty thought, but I guess I can live with it. As Bigby opened his mouth to offer the single to Snow, Bluebeard tossed a key at Bigby and simply took Room 114 with a grin, leaving Bigby and Snow with the double. This, normally, would be great twist of fate for any man that knew Snow, but for Bigby, it was a nightmare.
Trapped in a room with just her scent. At all times. It was disturbingly easy to imagine he might pull a Crane and cross the line from attracted to obsessive.
Snow, on the other hand, didn't seem to possess the same patience as Bigby did to stand outside a door and think. "Bigby. Are you going to move or should I get the front desk to call an ambulance?"
Reverie interrupted, Bigby slid the key into the door and turned until the lock clicked, allowing the door to swing away into, well... fairly elegant lodgings for a shitty roadside motel. He was more surprised than anything by it, and Snow pounced on it:
"Were you expecting something different?"
"Yeah, blood and flowers on the bed," he deadpanned.
Snow narrowed her eyes. "Not funny, Wolf."
"Understood, ma'am," Bigby saluted the deputy mayor sarcastically and shut the door behind them once both were inside. Snow made for the bed and kicked off her heels with a pleased sigh:
"They'll be expecting us around noon. Our contact wanted time to look at the crime scene herself."
"Herself? So it's a she?"
Snow continued as if she hadn't heard him: "So we can get a few hours rest before heading over."
"Right," Bigby replied, setting down his dufflebag and fishing through it for another set of clothes. "Do you want the shower?"
"No," Snow declined. "I think I will get an hour or two of sleep, then we can go fetch some breakfast."
Bigby nodded. "Alright," he paused as she relaxed onto the bed in her work clothes and closed her eyes. He watched for a few seconds, observing her now-peaceful expression. "Say, Snow?"
"Hmmm?" Was the slow response.
"Did King Cole travel anywhere within the past twelve or so hours?"
Snow blinked her eyes open. "No, not that I'm aware of... why, is the Mayor a suspect?"
"Everyone's a suspect," Bigby laughed, "the only person who I know for sure hasn't killed whoever this secret Fable is, is me. And maybe Jack, because he's a fuck-up. But I'd be lying to you if I said the Mayor was very high up my list of suspects."
"Then why ask?"
"Does anyone else but you and the Mayor have access to the garage? I mean, some of us from the Woodlands store our cars in there but we don't all have keys."
"Yeah, some people do. There's a short-list back at the Business Office. What's wrong?"
"Nothing for right now," Bigby said, "but I'll have to check on that list once we get back to Fabletown."
"Oh. Um, okay. But you're going to have to tell me what this is about, Bigby."
Bigby shrugged as he pulled off his jacket. "I'll explain everything soon," Snow frowned at his deliberate parroting of the words she had given him earlier on the topic of the Fable who had escaped the Homelands. "For now, get some rest; you look like hell."
Snow smirked, half-amused, half-offended. "Thanks, Bigby. Because you're such a looker yourself."
"That wounds me, Miss White."
"Mmhmm," she intoned disbelievingly, before taking a closer look at Bigby. "Wait, Sheriff. What the hell is that?" She pointed at Bigby's shirt, currently covered by a straps over his shoulders that most certainly weren't suspenders.
"They're shoulder holsters," Bigby replied, withdrawing something from near his side. "For, you know, guns. .44 AutoMag, these things are hard to find these days." He brandished a large caliber, metallic handgun with a comfortable wood-grained grip.
"That's not a gun, Bigby, that's a cannon," chided Snow. "And what do you need a gun for, anyway?"
"You made me promise not to use my wolf form. I gotta defend myself somehow," shrugged the wolf. "Some Fables are stronger than me when I'm in human form. Even Woody could kick the shit out of me if I don't have a weapon of some sort."
Snow raised an appraising eyebrow, but seemed to accept it. "Just... don't cause too much trouble with it. I already get enough about you as it is, Bigby," she sighed, as she collapsed back onto the bed and shut her eyes once more. Bigby shook his head and headed into the bathroom, once again, surprisingly elegant for a roadside motel, carved and smoothed tiles, a porcelain washbasin with what appeared to be golden taps, and a bath that looked far too large for the room.
He suspected someone had enchanted this room overnight, or perhaps, this was a Fable hotel Bigby wasn't privy to.
Somewhere outside the bathroom, Snow seemed to be attuned to his thoughts, for she answered the questions running through the wolf's mind from the bed: "It's an enchantment. Any time a mundy walks in here, they get the classic roadside motel. When a Fable comes around, they get this."
Well, that explained a lot.
He quickly set to changing, opting for a black shirt and khaki-colored trousers, loosely affixing his typical black tie to the ensemble before stepping out of the bathroom. Snow's breathing had evened out as she slumbered peacefully over the covers. Bigby had gotten sleep during the ride to Rochester, but it hadn't been anywhere close to enough to make up for the weeks of insomnia beforehand, so he shuffled over to the other bed, clambered atop it, and slumped over onto the pillow, allowing Snow's scent to carry him to sleep.
When he awoke, it was at Snow's insistence.
"Bigby," she said when he blinked awake, "Christ alive, you were out like a light. How much sleep have you been getting lately?"
"Not much," Bigby replied shortly, content to leave out the fact that Snow's aroma was like inhaled valium, so sweet that it could put a Cloud Kingdom giant in a coma. He also refrained from mentioning how much easier he'd sleep if she were nearby him at all times; that would likely put him firmly in 'creep' territory.
"Well, I've gotten enough sleep to function. Now, just to get some breakfast."
They gathered Bluebeard and made for the car, and this time, Snow forced Bluebeard to take the wheel. It was all well and good to see Bluebeard sneer at the very sight of the driver's seat, but the change-up had forced Bigby into the back as Snow took the passenger's seat. The ignominy of being shoved into the 'brig', as Bluebeard called it, didn't last long, however, as they grabbed a late breakfast at a Burger Chef and made their way into town.
And then they made their way out of town to a small white house not more than a five minute walk from Lake Ontario. There was an element of the surreal to it when Bigby stepped out of the car: he hadn't seen architecture like this since the Homelands; even the castles of Europe he had observed from afar never looked as... idyllic as the cottage that stood before the three. A woman stood outside the door, on the porch of the cottage, a rather fetching blonde with bewitching green eyes and an anachronistic dress who spoke with a European accent Bigby couldn't quiet identify:
""Hallo, Miss Snow," she greeted through the thick dialect; it wasn't exactly unpleasant. "Shall we go inside?"
"I think that will do, Yvonne, thank you for all the help," Snow replied with a sincere smile.
The blonde, Yvonne, apparently, responded with an even lovelier smile. "It is my job, no?"
Bigby was content to let Snow deal with the woman while he watched. It was a loose, flowing dress the woman wore, but it wasn't entirely featureless. A pleasant aroma of tulips followed her wherever she went, too. Bigby's eyes followed the sway of her hips as she turned, that is, he did until a sharp jab of pain stabbed through his side. Rubbing his side, Bigby turned to his side, only to come face-to-face with a glaring Snow.
Bigby rolled his eyes and stared straight forward, which seemed to appease the raven-haired woman.
"It would do you well to continue keeping your eyes off her," Snow muttered as they crossed the threshold. "That woman's The Maid of Amsterdam," at Bigby's confused look, she continued, "her husband is the jealous type."
"Noted," Bigby replied lowly, finally understanding what Snow meant.
Yvonne led them into a small but charming foyer, ignoring the curving staircase and pushing into a light, airy room of which nearly a whole wall was taken up by glass. It seemed as though the room had been set up as an artist's studio; canvasses stood on art stands at every corner of the room. Ironically, in a bizarrely macabre fashion, the greatest work of art lay on the ground: a pale white man decapitated at the head. Yvonne immediately left the room, so as to give Bigby ample space.
Snow grimaced at the body. "Reminds me of Faith," she commented slowly.
"Yeah," said Bigby, leaning down toward the body. "except the victim's a man, and this certain wasn't caused by a ribbon. The cut's too jagged to be magic. There aren't any defense wounds either, surprisingly, suggesting this was either a suicide, which is just stupid, no one decapitates themselves, the assailant was able to stay just out of arm's reach. Seems like a swordsman, if you'd ask me. A skilled one, but one working with a mundy blade."
He inspected the body further: jaundiced, bloodshot eyes stared out from under short-cropped reddish-brown hair; his arms were much too thin, though his legs seemed powerfully built. Despite the suggestion of liver failure from the eyes (An alcoholic? Wondered the Sheriff), Bigby would have guessed the man was a runner in life. He sniffed, sweet and spicy scents mingled around the house, of cinnamon and ginger and honey.
"Human fable or under glamour?" Bigby posed the question to Snow and Bluebeard behind him.
"Glamoured, ridiculously so," replied Bluebeard. "If he hadn't received one, I doubt he'd be safe even on The Farm."
"So, what's the deactivation protocol? Where's the glamour tube?"
"Back left pocket," Snow replied. "Or, at least, that's what Yvonne told me."
Grunting, Bigby stood up, traveled around to the other side of the dead Fable and fished out a glamour tube from his pocket, uncorking it and watching as reddish-brown hair dropped out of it. A brilliant flash lit up the already-bright room, and when it receded, Bigby found himself more befuddled than anything. The man's skin had turned hard and brown; his mouth, once set in a thin line had painfully contorted into an empty, manic smile; and his jaundiced eyes? Well, there were no eyes at all, just two holes gaping from the fragrant corpse. Him? Seriously? He thought. Looking up, Bigby speared both Snow and Bluebeard with an annoyed glare:
"You brought me all the way up to Rochester to investigate the death of a fucking cookie?" Bigby growled indicating the brown, baked dough formed in the image of a human.
Snow gasped, looking mortified at Bigby's behavior. "He preferred being called Gin or 'The Gingerbread Man'."
"I don't care if he wanted you to call him Sally Brown, he's a goddamned pastry! The murder isn't so difficult to solve now, maybe somebody was hungry."
"Much as I agree with you on this whelp's relative by-and-large uselessness," Bluebeard said disdainfully in regards to the fallen cookie, "it is important, Wolf. This Fable was the only source we had on the Empire."
"And someone came in here and killed him with a blade, Bigby," Snow continued for him. "This isn't a mundy robbery gone wrong or 'someone who was hungry', as you put it, this was premeditated. And it was likely done by a Fable. And no Fable in Fabletown besides us in the Business Office knew about him."
Bigby blinked. "Only those in the Business Office knew?"
"Yes," replied Snow, before her eyes widened at the implication.
"Then that makes you both suspects, as well as King Cole, Boy Blue, and even fucking Bufkin," Bigby said, shrugging his shoulders callously. "I want you both off the premises while I conduct my investigation."
Bluebeard's eyes bulged at that, a sight that almost made Bigby's day. "You what!? How dare you—Miss White, you can't possibly—!"
"Sorry Snow," Bigby cut above the old pirate's outrage, "them's the rules."
"No, Bluebeard," Snow answered, offering a tentative smile in Bigby's direction. "Bigby's right. We are suspects because we're the only ones that knew. If leaving the crime scene is what it takes, then we'll do it."
Bigby returned her smile. "Thanks, Snow. I'll be back in no time."
Snow nodded softly and turned, heading out back the way she came. Bluebeard, all his indignation spent, gathered himself up and stormed off in huff behind the raven-haired beauty. When the door shut behind them, Bigby walked back to the spiral staircase and called up:
"You can come out now."
Soon, the soft padding of feet reached the banister of the second floor and curled around down the stairs:
"That sense of smell is no fun," Cinderella smirked, wild honeyed hair falling in all directions as she did a slow, jazzy dance down the stairwell. "And would you look at that?" She pointed at the staircase. "How this evokes memories long forgotten! If only I had a Prince to kiss me!"
"Can't do a Prince, but if you need a Wolf..."
"Oh my, Bigby, whatever will Snow say?"
"Probably not a lot," Bigby replied shortly. "She's as attracted to me as I am ants. Did you know about the cookie?"
"Yes," replied Cindy as she waltzed up to the wolf and stopped just before him.
"And why didn't you tell me about it?"
"If I told you The Gingerbread Man was providing Fabletown with information on The Adversary, would you have believed me?"
Bigby paused for a beat. "Point taken."
"But not is all as it seems," Cindy remarked, thrusting a sheaf of paper at Bigby. "Found this upstairs while you were berating Snow for making you waste time on a cookie. Take a look." Bigby did exactly that:
Gin,
Tinker is in on Plot A. Sailor is in on Flat 6. Slinger in 12. Intrusion prepped for A, R, F. Exfiltrate "Exile" ASAP.
Circus.
"This sounds like gibberish," Bigby commented as he followed Cindy back into the studio room. "Is it code?"
"Of a kind. It isn't any type I've seen before, Bigby. Believe me when I say there isn't a Fabletown code, cipher, or Sudoku puzzle I don't know about, because there really isn't. I can tell you right now that we have no one in Fabletown going by codenames Tinker, Sailor, Slinger, or Circus. A, R, and F also appear to be other agents, but they haven't been inserted wherever they're going," Cindy said, leaning into a hip.
Bigby quirked an eyebrow. "You don't think—? They can't be that incompetent, can they?"
"They didn't have you vet ol' Ginger over there, so they're not exactly winning awards in the competence department," the blonde replied, shrugging with a scowl marring her usually lovely face.
"So he could have been playing double agent for The Adversary all along," Bigby said, "Snow has always had a habit of believing the best in people. She could have been fooled by the cookie, but even if she was, I don't think Bluebeard would be fooled. He may be an asshole, but he can tell with that sort. And it still doesn't make any sense. Why would the Empire want their own double agent killed? Especially one that has successfully inserted themselves into the Mundy World?"
"That's the question, Wolf. Any ideas?"
Bigby had a few, but he'd keep them close to his chest until he was sure of what was going on. "I don't think anything yet, Cindy. This letter is... strange, to say the least, but it doesn't confirm anything until I've conferred with Snow and Bluebeard. For now, let's keep looking around."
"You're the boss," Cindy quipped. "What do you want me to do?"
"You're the spy, I'm the detective. I'll give the house a once-over while you go do something Sean Connery would do on a shitty day in Rochester."
"Make myself a Martini? Can do, Sheriff," with that Cindy sauntered off, leaving Bigby to survey the cryptic code once more. There was next to no useful information on the paper, though perhaps he would be expected to divine its mysteries by season's start. Realizing he was getting nowhere with this, Bigby sighed and placed the letter in a pocket. The letter could wait, there was a whole house to slink through. And who knew, maybe he'd find something that would actually help with the decoding of the letter.
Since the letter was first discovered upstairs, perhaps there was more letters of lesser obscurity saved away for a rainy day, And Bigby found himself traveling up the staircase Cindy traipsed down no more than a few short minutes earlier.
The stairs underneath his feet creaked and groaned as Bigby stepped up to the second floor landing. Beyond the pretentious spiral staircase, the Gingerbread Man's dwelling was built like a typical country ranch house, not ugly, but not overly-ostentatious either. The floor was made of dark, glazed hardwood, the walls of simple, clean colors. Paintings and portraits littered the walls, in the space between doors, and hung up like an altar in what Bigby assumed to be the dead Fable's bedroom.
Bigby was by no means a student of art, but he didn't recognize a single painting, most of which seemed to be of airy landscapes and sweeping horizons, so he was inclined to think these paintings were the fruits of a new-found hobby for the Gingerbread Man.
The bedroom was meticulously organized: The desk was clear and free of clutter, the bed was made, and the small floor-rug at the foot of his bed was freshly vacuumed. He's verging on neat-freak, thought Bigby as he shuffled over to his desk. The books were all Mundy in nature: Gulliver's Travels, The Sun Also Rises, Crime and Punishment, The Art of War... eclectic reading, to say the least. There was even a well-worn book of fables, the Mundy version, at least, without all the clutter of their real lives. A bookmark was stuffed somewhere in the middle of the tome; Bigby opened up to that page, which revealed itself to be a short dossier on the Gingerbread Man himself.
The last few lines of the legend, which, coincidentally, had to do with The Gingerbread Man being eaten by a fox, were underlined in red pen:
I'm a quarter gone...
I'm half gone...
I'm three-quarters gone...
I'm all gone!
Musing on death? Bigby wondered. It seemed a strange thing for the Fable to highlight those mortal lines of his. He'd get nowhere in a hurry trying to decipher anything from that story, so Bigby set down the book and moved to the drawers. He found nothing in them save for pens, a calculator, a few notebooks marked from end-to-end with drawings, and finally, a half-empty can of Ready-Whip.
Bigby wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was doing there.
The rest of the bedroom yielded nothing but scraps of papers, old drawings, a couple of dollar bills, and one or two VHS tapes of Bob Ross's The Joy of Painting. Evidently the penchant for art that 'Gin' had picked up was recent. Gritting his teeth at the lack of any meaningful information, Bigby slipped out of the room and back down the spiral staircase, where Cindy waited, two glass tumblers of amber liquid in hand.
"I wasn't being serious about the drink," Bigby commented with an amused look. Cindy merely shrugged waifishly in response:
"Perhaps you were, perhaps you weren't. I poured it anyway," she offered one of the tumblers to Bigby, who accepted the drink graciously. He took a slow, relaxing sip, feeling alive as alcohol hit his stomach once more:
"Well, there's jack-shit up there," the Sheriff said gruffly. "There's not a whole lot to look for or do here, is there?"
Cindy smiled a mischievous smile. "We could always pull a 1906."
"A 1906? Really?"
"It was a good year," the blonde defended with a reminiscent smile.
"I'm guessing you forgot 1907, then," Bigby countered with a smirk. "We're not exactly... compatible."
Cinderella shrugged. "Yeah, I know. It's Miss White or the reaper's scythe for you. But it was a good year, wasn't it? When you take out everything else?"
"It was."
A silence flooded the room, comfortable and nostalgic of years long past and passions once ignited, now cooled for all eternity. Cindy, however, had never been the type to dwell on the past for long and drew herself up with a smile:
"Then we finish looking around here together. Two heads are better than one, you know," she said as if that made everything right in the world. "I'd suggest taking a second look at the room he was killed in?"
Bigby made a sound of assent. "That's the best option. For now, we assume Ginger over there was a loyal citizen of Fabletown until we find something definitive proving otherwise."
"Any suspects besides Business Office Fables?" The blonde questioned, taking a sip of her own drink.
Bigby ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "None yet. Come on, let's go check out the studio again and then see if we can't have a conversation with the fair Maid of Amsterdam."
"Right behind you, Wolf," Bigby's companion said as he took point down the entrance hall and into that bright, airy room once more.
The body still lay on the ground, no less absurd than it was when the glamour was first disabled. The cut that killed the Fable was clean, indicating raw natural talent, but was jagged enough to suggest the swordsman was somewhat out of practice. Judging by the way the body had been laid out and the blood spurted onto the fresh white walls, he had been killed in glamoured form. Bigby stepped to another desk that was cluttered with scattered papers, poems, and drawings. A sensitive soul, no doubt.
What could have possibly driven this Fable to escape from the occupied Homelands?
Bigby ruffled through the papers, until red ink caught his eye once more. This time, it had nothing to do with The Gingerbread Man himself; it was a poem by Tennyson.
"Half a league, half a league, half a league onward..." Bigby began and trailed off until he reached each bleeding underlined portion:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"The Charge of the Light Brigade," the Sheriff muttered, wracking his brain for something, anything to make sense of this.
"What was that?" Cindy's full, liquid voice carried from the other end of the room.
"I don't know. It seems like our friend the Gingerbread Man's been going around underlining random phrases in poems and stories with a red pen. Lots of death and dying, but I'm not really sure what they're supposed to mean."
"You should take that up with Snow; if anyone knows, it's her," the spy responded quickly. "She's always been the type into poems and plays. I prefer a little bit more adventure in my life."
"Hmm..." Bigby grunted in assent, reaching into his coat pocket for his pack of Huff N'Puffs. He pulled it out, but misjudged the amount of space he had to stretch and ended up knocking over a half-dried painting of Dover Beach at sunrise: "Shit!" He growled as the canvas careened to the floor and landed with a great big thud. The curse, however, was swallowed when a second sheet of paper, no bigger than loose-leaf, fluttered down atop it. It must have been hidden behind the canvas, thought Bigby as he picked up the curio and read:
Circus,
Exile is a go. Risk identification in prolonged exposure. Must send envoy to Canada G. for request of exfiltration or risking lives.
Gin.
"Exile? Risking identification? Exfiltration? And the Canada Gate?" Bigby wondered aloud as Cindy sauntered up and read the missive over his shoulder:
"Well, that confirms it," Cindy shook her head sadly. "Looks like the Business Office were made for fools: Gingerbread was a spy for The Adversary and had never defected from the Empire!"
"Are you sure?" Bigby questioned, eyeing the suspicious note, but with nowhere near the same surety as Cindy. "To me, it looks like everything else in this house: nonsensical gibberish."
"There are only two options when someone writes a letter like that: they're writing to someone working for The Adversary or, at the very least, someone like him in the Mundy World. And since they're talking about the Canada Gate for exfil, which leads straight into Empire-controlled lands, so I'm guessing it's likely not the latter."
Bigby frowned, looking from the typewriter paper to the body and back before issuing his orders: "We'll have to hold onto that thought, Cindy. If this is true, we'll have to get out ahead of this. Find out if the way they're communicating is in person or by dead drop. If you can, get his hair to either Frau Totenkinder or Greenleaf, and absolutely no other witch on the 13th floor, do you understand me?"
"Oh, I love it when you're decisive, Sheriff Wolf," Cindy winked as she leaned into her hip. "Any other instructions?"
"When they're finished with it, glamour up and see what you can find out about whoever 'Circus' is."
Cindy quirked an eyebrow. "Sure that isn't stepping on the Business Office's toes?"
"Look, either the Business Office is completely inept and was given the runaround by one Fable, in which case I'm taking over this investigation entirely," Bigby said, "or, they killed him to keep any secrets from leaking, which doesn't seem like something Snow would let abide."
The blonde spy nodded, allowing Bigby ample room to pace and maneuver around the room. He walked over to the window and noticed a dirt drive-up not completely covered in snow or slush:
"I have to go outside and check something; you're welcome to keep looking, just make sure you're invisible by the time I get Snow and Bluebeard," he said to Cindy, who gave him a gauging look but had no reaction beyond that. The wolf slid past her through to the foyer, opened the door, and stepped outside, where Bluebeard and Snow stood waiting with Yvonne, the pretty Maid of Amsterdam.
Snow was the first to notice him. "Have you finished, Bigby? What did you find?"
"I'm not finished; Yvonne, I'd like to speak with you," he responded shortly and went on his way, curving around the house, barely waiting for the pretty young woman to follow him. Eventually she caught up to him when he stopped at the second dirt drive-up to the house and crouch down over tire tracks:
"You wished to speak with me?" She said in that alluring accent of hers.
"Yes," said Bigby, sniffing the air for the faint scent of gasoline. "Did you shift anything between when you discovered the body and when we came by?"
Yvonne looked scandalized at the very thought. "I beg your pardon, Sheriff! I would never do such a thing!"
"Alright Lady, calm down. It was just a question," Bigby assuaged her outrage with a puff of his cigarette. "Did you see anyone last night? Anyone in a car, anyone who might have come nearby this house?"
"Unfortunately, no, Sheriff. I was with my husband all day yesterday. Gin and I met infrequently."
Bigby nodded, he had all he wished to know from the blonde. "Thank you, miss. You're welcome to return to Snow."
Clearly confused at the Sheriff's method of procedure, Yvonne stepped off with a bewildered look in her eyes. Bigby once again crouched low to examine the tracks. Had there been dirt on the Mayor's car? He couldn't remember. He would have to get back to Fabletown soon and hopefully decipher what Gin had been speaking of in his letters.
So he trotted back to Snow and Bluebeard with some half-formulated theory cooked up.
"Well, Bigby?" Asked Snow. "What did you find?"
Bigby's judgment was quick and harsh: "Either you're all idiots, or one of you is significantly smarter than the rest."
To be Continued in Episode 1, Part 2:
"Snow White, Snow Bright"
Next time on The Wolf Among Us:
"Counter-espionage?" Snow remarked with some level of skepticism as she leaned back in her chair.
"Wave of the future, Snow," Bigby replied, seating himself on the corner of her desk and placing his hands on his lap as he spoke. "It's really the only option we have. If The Adversary is thinking about spying on the Mundy world, we better be prepared to give him hell."
"You read too many spy books, Bigby," Snow said with an unsettled laugh as she propped herself up on her elbows and covered her face entirely. "What a nightmare. Is this going to keep happening to us?"
Bigby did the only thing he could, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, hoping she'd draw some fortitude from human touch.
-/-/-/-
"Well, I've got the glamour tube," Cindy said brightly, "now to get the bastard whose sending these letters."
"Want me to come along?" Asked Bigby, quirking an eyebrow in wait for the blonde's response.
-/-/-/-
The AutoMag was a handgun, but when modified and given to the right man, it had the stopping power of a short-ranged shotgun at medium range. In hindsight, it wasn't so surprising, then, that the bullet ripped and shredded through Bluebeard's stomach.
A/N: To make chapter sizes more manageable, I think I'll break each episode into two parts, if I can. A lot went on in this chapter, and a lot of it will be explained next chapter, if it's a little confusing at all.
Chapter Notes:
1906: To put any possible rumors of Bigby/Cinderella to rest, no. There will be no subplot, there will be no love triangle. This is simply two friends reminiscing on a past, failed attempt at a relationship.
Canada Gate: In the Fables graphic novel, this is the gate that allowed the Fables to escape to the mundane world, and it was closed from the other side by The Adversary's minions, as he made to 'consolidate' his territories. If someone escaped through the Canada Gate, it was likely by The Adversary's choice, which is why Bigby and Cindy are skeptical about Gin's allegiances.
Charge of the Light Brigade: Is a poem by Tennyson concerning a suicidal charge by Lord Cardigan's Light Brigade during the Crimean War based off miscommunication of orders from higher-ups. The poem highlights the honor and strength of character it takes to follow an order that surely would kill you in the end.
The Maid of Amsterdam: Is the subject of an English sea shanty of the same name, in which a sailor courts a beautiful Dutchwoman from Amsterdam, only to find out she is married to a jealous, quick-tempered husband.
AutoMag: There's no handgun more eighties than Dirty Harry's other gun. He's more famous for carrying the Smith and Wesson Model 29, but this gun makes an appearance in 1983's Sudden Impact.
To better envision the environment, the Aston Martin that belongs to the Mayor is the original V8 Vantage and the compact Toyota Snow takes Bigby and Bluebeard in is an AE86, which is best-known for being the Corolla from Initial D.
Nerissa/Faith: I know I said she would be discussed in this chapter, but since I split Episode 1 into two parts, Nerissa will have to be pushed back until next chapter.
Random thought of the Day: If The Wolf Among Us is set in the eighties, why are the clothes Bigby wears contemporary? Nobody wore the skinny tie from about 1975 to about 2005, and Bigby's shirt and pants are way too fitted for anyone in the eighties. Even if they are built like a solid mountain of muscle like Bigby is. And it seems to be schizophrenic on that front, too: The Crooked Man dresses like Leisure Suit Larry during an acid flashback, Snow's blazer has the ridiculous eighties' shoulder pads that made women look like misshapen NFL Linebackers (though they toned it down with her), and Beast dresses, well, like a male dancer from Rick Astley's magnum opus. But Bigby, Beauty, and Bloody Mary? Straight out of the twenty-first century, dudes.
Thanks for reading, and be sure to leave a review!
Geist.