"Culture Shock"
by Skandranon
Chapter 2 : "Ellnoy"
They'd slaved the day away in the cramped interrogation room, grilling Captain Renolle for any information that wasn't immediately apparent from the paperwork. The Captain was not at all pleased to be dealing with an ornery Commander, but Irvine seemed to know all the right things to say to keep the conversation from dropping too far into hostilities. Squall almost begrudged him for that. But he just reminded himself that the sooner he had his facts straight, the sooner he could get out there and bust heads.
As the sun set and the nightlife woke up, Irvine and Squall suited up to head into the field. Irvine had stashed his duffel in the station and the police had been so kind as to give them a lift to Ruehights, but nothing had been said about picking them up. Squall preferred it that way. They wanted to be unhelpful, let 'em.
This part of Ellnoy was still in the Pontsy district, but a better part of it. The streets didn't have as much trash on them, and most of the architecture was intact. Three and four story buildings in brick smacked up against each other, each narrower than the last, and the upper windows were boarded up or sealed over with plaster. From any open door came the thumping of bass, and the streets were already filling up with people headed to their favorite haunts.
Irvine was strolling casually beside him in his change of shirt, vague smile and calm gait, but Squall couldn't help but notice he was still clutching his cellphone with white knuckles. He'd snuck away back at the station for a bit, and Squall had spotted him in a corner having a quiet but heated argument with the person on the line. Trouble was brewing at home, it seemed.
But none of that showed on Irvine's face, and Squall felt sickly relieved that of all people Doc might've chosen to stick him with, it was the cowboy. He could handle the 'talk to people' stuff Squall admittedly sucked at, and he knew when to shut up and mind his own business. He'd already dropped the subject of Squall's injuries, hadn't he? Something that would've taken days for Zell or Quistis, or weeks for Selphie. Squall would've had to bring in heavy threats to keep his privacy intact. But all it took with the cowboy was one comment, and he quit. Either he respected Squall too much to pry, or he simply didn't care. It was a toss up.
They scoped out the streets around the area before closing in on the bombed site itself. Near the end of the strip a building lay abandoned and half standing, one wall missing entirely. The locals were avoiding it. And beyond, a shallow crater blocked off with yellow warning tape.
Squall's instincts twigged the moment he saw it. The numbers calculated in his head. The amount of explosive needed to cause such a hole, the lack of debris, the fact that an explosion this big hadn't made national news or he would've heard about it. It didn't match up. Someone was lying to him here.
He snapped photos on the rim while Irvine slid below to collect samples. In the fading light his eyes spotted a water pipe hanging loose on one edge of the blast zone, part of it chopped off cleanly. The other half was lying ten feet away, not a scratch on it.
Bomb. Right.
He flecked off a bit of crumbling paint from a surviving wall. It came off in a large chunk, and he absently rolled it up in a stray plastic tumbleweed and put it in his pocket. The more samples the merrier.
Irvine clambered up the slope to him after ten minutes, carrying his evidence tackle box. They acknowledged each other with eye contact, and stood studying the crater silently.
"So," Irvine began, "I definitely got traces of ammonium nitrate, even after all this time-"
"You did?" Squall asked in surprise.
Irvine hesitated, eyeing him. "...Yes," he stated.
Squall waved a hand at the destruction. "Does this look like a fertilizer bombing to you?"
The cowboy tilted his hat up to gaze over the empty landscape in the middle of a bustling city. "...No," he admitted finally, "but I still tell you, I got traces of ammonium nitrate. See for yourself." He clicked open his box and pulled out an electronic litmus stick, and handed it over. Squall flicked through the readings until it said 'ammonium nitrate', and reluctantly passed it back. "There's some charring too, Squall. Maybe not to cause all this, but a bomb went off here, make no mistake."
Irvine replaced the stick, and slid the box neatly into one of his inner pockets without a trace of a bulge. Squall had to admire how well the coat hid its contents. He knew for a fact Irvine was also carrying at least an ammo chain, his lesser field kit, and his shotgun tucked into a back holster. But you couldn't see a thing.
"I'll run the full workup when we get back, and I should be able to call up SeeD and have them trace it to the supplier. In the meantime," Irvine pulled off his surgical gloves and slapped the gunblader on the back, "let's hit the dance floor, and see what we find there."
Squall grumbled at the idea of facing the chaos pouring out of the clubs. It wasn't so much the crowds, those he could just ignore. But he'd heard enough of the local music for his liking just from the echoes of it from distant parts of the city. Doc had told him to rest, not to induce voluntary deafness. But Irvine had latched a hand onto his coatsleeve and was dragging him towards the throng before he could voice any protests.
The Ellnoy club scene wasn't much like the things he'd seen in Deling. He remembered skimpy outfits, tattoos, and the constant smell of cigarettes, from when he'd done undercover work in the seedier bars of Galbadia's capital. There was a lot more clothing here. Or at least, he thought it qualified as clothing, or possibly marionette costumes, and whatever it didn't cover was hidden by hats and body paint. And the smell was a bit... clovier.
He braced himself in the entranceway of the first club, and glanced at the sign overhead. Wait, he knew that word, it was a Galbie ethnic word for... "Bordello? This is a bordello? I thought it was a dance club."
Irvine grin-grimaced and dodged some exiting patrons. "Gogol Bordello is the name of the band, not the club."
"They're hookers?"
Irvine waved a hand in exasperation, giving up on him and ducking inside. The music poured out after him, grinding and angry. And there was the distinct sound of an accordion. Suddenly Squall felt he was on the edge of the gates to hell.
He stood outside and watched the tide of people, gathering up the nerve to face what was surely the underbelly of all things Galbadian. And he already thought the upper crust of this rotten country were pretty godawful, so he didn't want to think what was waiting for him inside. A girl passed him in clown makeup and kneepads. He backed away slowly.
Finding a corner to crouch in away from the throng, Squall weighed his options. Irvine seemed happy to take charge of things. Already he was covering the evidence analysis, keeping the cops from crucifying the gunblader who wreaked havoc in their station, and now he was off interviewing witnesses. Or checking out the girls on the dance floor. Or both. Knowing Irvine, he'd multitask by interviewing only sexy witnesses. While dancing.
If Squall didn't want to put up with the unpleasant parts of the mission, he probably didn't have to. He could let Irvine do it, and Irvine would be glad to oblige. Odds were that the cowboy had received specific instruction from a certain doctor, or a certain headmistress, to take on any responsibilities that their Commander didn't feel up to. To give him time to rest. He scowled. He'd bet even money that if he did nothing, the cowboy would wrap up the entire case by himself and fluff Squall's pillows as well.
Leaving Squall with nothing to do but think. He stood up and stalked towards the entrance. Like hell. He had to take a firm control of the mission before too much of it was pulled out from under him.
The music inside was as much a solid wall of sound as he'd anticipated, and he rocked from the onslaught. All he could hear was string instruments, how did they create so much noise?
Squinting in pain, he searched for the recognizable hat, and soon picked it out. Irvine was leaning on the bar, handing a well endowed lady bartender some money in exchanged for a drink. A large note, he noted. Bribing for info already?
He joined them, and gauged the woman's reaction as she saw him. Wary, but a hint of a smile, like she knew something. Irvine didn't move from his spot, only nodding in his direction and sipping what looked like bourbon. Squall waited to be clued in, but neither seemed interested in talking.
Well fine, he wanted to do things himself anyway. He leaned over the bar. "What do you know about the bombings last month?" he shouted.
The bartender blinked intensely long eyelashes. "What?" she hollered.
"What. Do. You know. About. The Bombings. Last month?"
She pulled out a bottle and shotglass and filled it with a glowing green liquid, dropped in what looked like white marbles, and shoved it towards him.
"No, the BOMBINGS."
She nodded earnestly. "HERE!"
He gritted his teeth. "The BOMBINGS up the STREET!"
Rolling her eyes, she held up her hand in the wait gesture. Some twenty seconds later, the band finished off their song, leaving only cheers and a ringing in his ears. "Okay, say again?"
He clenched the edge of the bar and glared a threat at Irvine beside him, who was turned away to hide a smirk by pretending to watch the band. "Do you know anything about the bombings up the street?"
Her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked, and she pushed the shot further towards him. "Not supposed to talk to people unless they're customers. Drink."
He picked it up and put it in front of Irvine, but she just as quickly snatched it back and put it right back where it had been. "You asked, you drink, pretty boy," she snapped.
Oh come off it. There was only so much he could deal with. He smacked Irvine. "Talk to the woman."
"Oh look, there's a suspicious looking person on the dance floor," Irvine said mildly. "I should probably go talk to them before the music starts up again." And he was off, abandoning his partner with long strides that took him swiftly into the mix of people. Soon he was hidden from view, only his hat bobbing along in the human sea.
What? Damn the horndog's appetite! Squall stared blankly at the bartender, then around the room at the gaggle of dancers, and the band with their thick mustaches and headbands. Then up. To his surprise, he realized the room was three stories high. Cramped and tiny, but stretching all the way up the building. Along the wall were booths with railings, stacked one on the top of each other, several stories of them, and ladders for access. He watched a waitress put food into a dumbwaiter on the ground floor and press a button to send it to the customers above.
Then he looked back to the bartender, who only waited, her arms crossed. He could threaten the facts out of her. He was good at that. Except Quistis firmly encouraged he only apply force as a last resort. And she wasn't exactly withholding anything, she was just being cagey. Irvine had already bribed her, surely she'd be a good little civilian and tell him everything. Just as soon as he obeyed her stipulation.
He peered into the luminescent emerald of his glass. The marbles were fizzing. It looked foreboding. As many times as he'd been drugged or poisoned in his life, he didn't much care for suspicious liquids. But he'd seen other SeeD buy alcohol to ease their investigations before. It was a normal part of the process.
He glanced after Irvine, and scoffed in annoyance. The tall gunner was chatting up three blondes, and his grin had never been wider.
Matching the bartender's gaze, Squall accepted her dare and took a chug off the drink. Minty, he thought.
The music kicked in and kicked him in the head.
His memory got a bit hazy after that. At some point during the night the songs became the most wonderful thing he'd ever heard, and he completely agreed with the singer, he needed to start wearing purple right away. He checked out the upper booths and hung over the railing, scaring the waitresses. He might've even danced. There was definitely a blonde involved. And then Irvine had his arm slung over his shoulders and was dragging him down the street, and he was actually trying to fight him off so he could go back and get another of the green fizzy drinks that made him happy.
They struggled all the way to the ugly little hotel, and upstairs until Irvine tossed him down on the squeaking bed. His attempts to get up again were soundly defeated by gravity, and he lolled and listened to the cowboy moving things around, the music and its violent joy still pumping in his veins.
The familiar head came into view, upside down, brown bangs trailing close to his own cheeks. "Squall, did you have your bags here?" it whispered, dark eyes glinting blue from the light of the single lamp in the cramped room.
"Grnmn," he muttered.
"Somebody stole your equipment, Squall."
"Drwhe?"
The long lips smiled gently, but the eyes didn't. "Sleep it off, buddy. I'll figure out what to do with you in the morning." He moved out of view, and Squall accepted his fate and let the world slide away from him. A low murmur followed him into sleep.
"Why I agreed to this madness I'll never know."
Morning was the most evil invention of a spiteful Hyne. Morning in Ellnoy was infinitely worse. Every part of the city thrummed and vibrated at just the right frequency to shake his eyes loose from his skull, and drag his spine over fiery coals. And as bad as his dry, grimy mouth tasted, the polluted air filtering in the cracks in the window tasted fouler. He soothed his aches away with fantasies of traveling back in time and killing Mr. Ellnoy before he could found this bloody nightmarish place.
As his scattered memories returned, his instincts pinged and adrenaline sent him surging up, scanning the room. Empty. No duffel bags, no Irvine. "My fucking bootknife!" he yelped, furious.
Then he had to go lay down in the bathroom for awhile. Sweet, mercifully cool tiles.
He walked to the police station, once his head had cleared a little. He couldn't grab a cab. The money he'd stuffed in his jackets before heading out last night wasn't there this morning; he vaguely remembered buying drinks for whatever her name was. He couldn't remember Irvine talking him out of enjoying himself, though. Louse probably took advantage of the opportunity to catch some nookie, instead of doing his job like he was supposed to.
It was a long walk on cracked sidewalks, some of them at angles where weeds and roots had displaced them. He wasn't mugged once, even when he cut through the filthy backalley, which confused him. City as rough as this, you would've thought so, but no. Maybe the local criminals slept in. He did see more children, playing hopscotch with an empty cigarette packet as their throwing stone. He shook his head, appalled.
As he passed a small diner, he was hit with the most incredible smell he'd ever known, and his stomach reached up into his brain and grabbed the 'Food!' lever and yanked hard. It also reminded him that he hadn't filled it since the afternoon before. He found himself crammed up against the open door, gazing longingly at a deep frier like it was his long absent mistress.
He didn't even like fried food. And greasy food was nasty. Except his hangover firmly disagreed. Right now, the slowly bobbing bits of battered cockatrice were the most delicious, enticing-
A man blocked his view, short and aproned. The cook, no doubt. Squall backed up, but the man looked pleased rather than annoyed. "Poh fella, y'look 'alf starv'd, getcha innear 'n' getsum cookin'."
Squall blinked. It took him a moment to decipher the garble. He braced himself against the siren call of sizzling and turned away with a wave. "No thanks, I don't have any money."
The man laughed like a bark, his teeth yellow but intact. "Ai sayz y'get innear 'n' getsum home cookin', 'fore y'shrink 'tilya disspear. Won' 'ave no man looks tha' wayat my foodz don' getno plate fulluvit." And soon after he'd strong armed Squall into a stool and handed him so much fried trice that the grease had soaked through both the napkin and the disposable plate.
A greasier but happier Squall walked into the police station half an hour later, vainly trying to brush out one of the stains on his shirt. He knew he might eventually regret his breakfast, but right now he was content. Who knew there was one nice Galbie in the world? Even if he couldn't talk worth hell. Squall would have to remember the place and go pay off his bill once he'd gotten some cash.
He received only hostile sideways looks from the cops at the station, no doubt still emotionally bruised from his rough treatment of them the day before. He found Irvine in a back room, frowning into his cellphone. But the gunner gave a quick goodbye and hung up when he saw the gunblader, and strolled over to greet him cheerfully. "Slept in, did you?"
Squall snorted. "You just ran off this morning, without telling me where you were headed."
Irvine played wounded. "You were passed out. And I left a note."
"Where?"
"On the bed. Guess you just didn't see it. Too busy looking for painkiller, maybe?"
Squall snarled, and slammed the door shut to give them privacy. "That fucking bartender drugged me."
The look on Irvine's face was half amusement, half something else. "No she didn't, Squall," he said patiently.
"She fucking did. I took one mouthful and I can't remember anything else." He knew he shouldn't have trusted the eyelashes.
The cowboy chuckled, and made himself comfortable sitting on a desk's edge while he lit up a cigarette. "Squall," he mumbled around it, "you just can't handle absinthe, that's all."
"Ab-what?" he asked suspiciously. Cowboy was making stuff up now.
"Absinthe. The green fairy. It's fairly popular in this area. You were knocking down moth absinthe to be exact, I saw five of them, and you might've had more." He quirked his eyebrows suggestively. "The fairy's a powerful drink, hits you different than most stuff. I stick to bourbon, it's safer."
Squall scowled. He didn't need to recognize the words to get the gist of it. He'd been given very potent liquor, not kept his head on, and made a complete ass of himself. And considering how highly Galbadians prized drinking skill, Irvine probably thought him a pansy now. Was he sucking on that cancer stick like a straw to hide a condescending sneer? Did Irvine even think like that? It was hard to tell with him. "And where were you during all this?"
"Interviewing witnesses," Irvine replied pointedly, between tugged breaths, eyes ducked under his hat. "They didn't see anything. A few said they remember what felt like an earthquake, and the power went down for half an hour. Police report says the demolished building was empty, and a few were injured next door, but none of the bouncers, staff, or regulars knew anyone who'd been involved." He puffed a few times thoughtfully. "And then they really clammed up when they figured out I was working with the local cops. No love lost there."
"What do you mean? Seaki said there might be moles in the police, but-"
"No, it's not tied into any rebel plots. Just bad policing in this district." His eyes darkened with distaste. "At least one person called them the most corrupt in the city. Before they shut up, mind."
"And you just let me drink during all this? Why didn't you stop me?"
"You looked like you could use the relaxation." Irvine eyed his shirt where it covered bandages.
Squall stalked over to Irvine's duffel bag to hide his aggravation, and started ruffling through. "I'm fine. And you can forget what Doc told you, you don't need to nursemaid me. I don't need to 'relax'." He shook a jamming beacon at the cowboy as a warning. "You try that again, I'll drug you and handcuff you in a car trunk, and finish the mission myself."
Chuckling, Irvine put out his smoke. "As tempting as that sounds, I'll keep you out of trouble better by sticking where I can see you."
Squall scoffed, but glanced sideways at his taller companion. "Moth... absinthe?"
"Yeah. Because the sugars look like mothballs." Irvine was grin and teeth again. He always did that when someone else was the joke. But it faded into puzzlement, and he sniffed. "...You smell like trice."
"Yeah, I had some for breakfast."
The wounded look was real now. "You had Ellnoy fried trice and you didn't bring me back any?"
"You can go with me later, I still need to pay the tab." He'd spotted some pies in the shop as well, and now they were tempting him. Maybe for lunch. "You'll have to pay, I guess. My bags were missing this morning." He squinted, trying to rack his memory. "You... said they were stolen?"
"Remember that, do ya?" Irvine peered up from under his hatbrim, eyes glinting.
"Yeah, barely. Mother fucker." He knew he should've been more careful with them. I mean, this was Ellnoy for crying out loud, he couldn't just leave his valuables lying around and think they'd be fine. If he found out who'd taken them, though, he'd enact a gleeful revenge. He'd had some good shit in there. At least his gunblade was safe in his hip holster.
"At least we can use my equipment," Irvine consoled. "Speaking of which, chemical analysis came back."
Right, work. He could pine for lost stuff later. "And?"
"Traced the fertilizer to a specific producer in a town called Scraggle Brook. Way up the river. Company's called SB Farm Supplies." Irvine tossed over the hastily printed report. The logo was a happy sun and flowers. Squall was unimpressed. "They don't typically do much business down here, and I managed to call up Deling for their tax files, and wouldn't you know it, no sales to Ellnoy big enough for a bomb in the last year."
Irvine had called up the tax office and already gotten a reply? "Just how early did you get up?"
Irvine shrugged.
He must've charmed some secretary, to get it that fast. Hyne knows this country wasn't known for its efficient government offices. "We got anything else to go on?"
The cowboy waved a hand at a foreboding stack of unfriendly manilla folders. "Bits and pieces. The official report is shoddy, we won't get much from it. Plenty of data, just none of it thorough, cohesive, or reliable."
Squall nodded firmly in agreement. They couldn't trust these cops to do their job. After all, some of them were probably rebels. And he wasn't too keen on trying to wade through the massive files for a shred of a clue. He tossed the idea immediately; they were on their own.
Irvine continued, "We could stick around and do our own look at the structural damage, chase interviews some more. Or, we could take this one solid lead and go check out the fertilizer supplier ourselves." He smirked cheekily, and rearranged himself to give off a glimpse of his back holster in a move that Squall knew was completely intentional. "I figure, local cops could only call up the place, if they even checked the chemical, and would have to decide whether the cost of sending up a cop was prohibitive. We, on the other hand, can go right on up to the source, and get some answers. Our way."
His hint for emphasis was unnecessary; Squall knew exactly what he was talking about. Everyone knew what Balamb Garden's way of "getting answers" was. And he loved every minute of it. Potential violence on the horizon, his mood perked up like an eager puppy. Damn it paid to be leader of the most powerful mercenary force in the world. "Fine, let's grab an air shuttle and head right out. Fetch your equipment. But first we're grabbing a lunch to go. Gimme your wallet."
The cab ride back to the tiny restaurant was much faster than walking, and Squall marched in with wallet in hand, a bemused Irvine trailing after him, curiosity plain on his face. It would've been more sensible for him to stay behind at the station to call the shuttle and make the arrangements, but he'd wanted to see what it was that had caught his partner attention. Squall had to admit he was something of a picky eater, and greasy food wasn't usually anywhere near his plate. The novelty must've been amusing the gunner. And then he'd probably tell Selphie and then everyone back home would know, but that was the price of being SeeD : no privacy.
He wasn't expecting all the blood everywhere in the shop.
Weapons out, they followed the trail of gore to the back of the store, where the injured cook was slumped behind the counter, being clutched by a younger female that looked related, probably his daughter. She wasn't happy to see them.
Irvine stepped in and started talking in soothing tones to her, and Squall felt himself dropping into combat instincts. Check the exits, no threats, no sign of attackers. Wounds to the cook probably fatal, gun inflicted. No other sign of damage to the restaurant. Trail of blood suggested cook away from register at time, probably not a robbery. Cook still alive for the moment, but unconscious. Gut wounds, nasty, he didn't have long left. Still no threats around. No other customers, nothing overturned, so no signs of panicked flight.
He came back to ground in time to hear "-damned cops."
"What cops?"
The girl shot a hateful look, eyes red pain and years of fettered rage. "Your damned cops, kitten. I know you, I watch the news. Get the hell outa my shop."
Squall was thrown by the word 'kitten'. He'd never, ever heard it said with that much venom. She sounded like, if he was a kitten, she would be trying to drown him in the nearest sink. He didn't follow the insult though. He already had his cell out though, concentrating on what needed to be done. "I'm calling the hospital, your father needs immediate medical care-"
With a scream she smacked the phone out of his hand. Irvine had her pulled back before she could do anymore, but her voice was all screech and the clash of trains. "You don't call the hospital on the cops, brightburnt fucker! My father's dead, this is my shop now, get out of my shop!"
Squall was set to argue, but now it was him that Irvine was pushing, out the door. "You can't make them get help they don't want, Squall," he muttered, and bodily forced them out onto the sidewalk. Behind them, the girl stood in front of her dying father's limp body, defending him from the outside world.
Squall tried to shove past him to get back inside. "This could be involved with the mission, I was talking to him earlier-"
"No, Squall."
"This could be my fault, someone thought I was asking him questions and they tried to silence him-"
"Squall, no." Irvine's voice grated harshly. "It's just one of those things."
"The rebels could be-"
"Squall!"
Squall was broken out of it by the sheer hostility in his partner's voice. He was surprised at its intensity. Irvine was nearly as furious as the girl. He sounded bitter too, and enraged. You would think it was his father that was laying there. His fists were clenched sharply in the gunblader's arms, which he only now realized really hurt.
"Did... you know the guy?" He wasn't sure what spurred him to ask that. It was just so strange to see Irvine's composure so broken.
Irvine ground his teeth into his lip for a moment, and shook his head, the fire dimming. "No, never met him or the girl. I'm just... pissed off that the cops who were supposed to be helping us did something like this." His voice returned to almost normal. "I don't think it's connected to the case, Squall. The guy wouldn't have known anything. And like the girl said, they owed protection money." He spat literally spat on the ground. "Won't be any police report on this murder, you can be sure of that."
Squall had missed that part of the conversation in his combat haze, but he retrieved it from his memory. Yes, she had mentioned protection money. Damn.
They jerked together for a moment, Squall pushing to turn in the direction of the station, and Irvine holding him firm just as quickly, anticipating his motion. They met glares.
"Can't cure all the world, Squall."
Hyne he wanted to. He wanted to stalk into that station and rip the place asunder until he found whose gun it was, and then whoever the gun was attached to... "I didn't even get to pay for my breakfast," he mumbled.
Irvine's expression flashed a sad pity for a second, but he hid it well. Good for him. Squall wasn't in the mood to be pitied.
He gazed around him blankly. Across the street were a cluster of children examining a frog curiously. It had been cooked in the sun, and was a charred corpse now.
"I hate this fucking country," Squall grumbled. "And this fucking city. Let's get the hell out of here."
Author's Notes : Researching bombs always makes me nervous that the gov'ment's going to start watching me.
