The Case of the Inexplicably Nonexistent Clientele
Tattletale slouched back in her chair and propped her feet up. She had a hand-rolled electronic cigarette in her mouth, a rocks glass in one hand, and a bottle of Jim Beam in the other. A battered typewriter she had no ability or inclination to use and a trusty .38 special she hadn't loaded sat on the desk. The blinds and the lamps were arranged so that everything important in the room was cast into dramatic shadow.
Lisa was determined to descend into this madness with style.
She poured herself a bourbon, drank it, and poured another. Thus fortified, she allowed herself to mentally acknowledge the Endbringer in the room.
Despite the wide mirrored sunglasses, the floppy sunhat, and the pastel nightmare that Tattletale supposed was meant to be a sundress, the Simurgh was very obviously the Simurgh. She was generally pretty good about fitting her body in and around human things, but her wings still crashed into walls, furniture, and fixtures six or seven times an hour. Tattletale had rapidly learned to ignore the quiet repair by telekinesis that followed.
A biologically five-year-old Eidolon—she was supposed to call him David—was playing with blocks on the floor in front of her.
"It's been two weeks," the Simurgh said. Conversing with her was all the uncannier because the text to speech converter she had embedded in the gaudy necklace she wore didn't add emotion or inflection. "We haven't had a single case."
"I can't imagine why not," Tattletale murmured. She tried to keep the e-cig in her mouth as she spoke, like it was some sort of cigar she was chomping on, but her lips moved too much and she lost control. It bounced off her desk and fell to the floor, where an invisible force picked it back up and set it gently back down in front of her.
"I hope business picks up soon," the Simurgh continued. "I have bills to pay."
"No, you don't," Tattletale said. "My other job pays for everything we've done so far."
There was a pause as the Simurgh seemed to digest what Tattletale had said.
"Well," emitted the text to speech device, "I think I should have bills to pay. I can't very well remain dependent on you forever."
Lisa gave an elaborate shrug. "What's a little loan between friends?" she asked.
They were not friends. Lisa didn't like spending her days in an empty office watching the Simurgh fuss at Eidolon, she didn't like having to spend money indulging an Endbringer, and she definitely didn't like living in constant terror. No, they weren't friends.
But Lisa's power told her that the Simurgh wanted to be called her friend. She hadn't been able to figure out why, but every time she tried to collect information the little details always added up to the same conclusion: Ziz was really trying to sell the Sam Stewart guise.
This was inevitably going to end in catastrophe somehow, but Tattletale wasn't about to refuse the Simurgh.
"I think it's important for me to become independent quickly," the Simurgh said. "Perhaps we should hire ourselves to solve the mystery of why nobody is coming to us with work."
Tattletale sipped on her bourbon instead of answering.
The door opened.
Lisa was more than half-hoping for a classy dame with legs up to here and morals down to there, but it was only Legend.
"Welcome to Simurgh and Snitch, the premier P.I. firm in greater New York," she said. "What can we privately investigate for you?"
"I'm here to investigate you," he said. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Come on," Tattletale said. "I'm almost twenty-one."
"I'm not asking about the underaged drinking—though, yes, that's illegal, stop it. I'm asking about what the hell you're doing with the Simurgh!"
Ziz screamed. Everything in the room, from Tattletale's glass to Eidolon's blocks to Eidolon himself, vibrated. Her e-cig rolled off the table again and landed in her trash can. The very walls seemed to reverberate with the scream, and the words
I AM NOT THE SIMURGH
resounded in their heads.
Tattletale drained her glass.
Legend shuddered, but he soldiered on. "If that's true," he said, "and I'm not allowing for a second that it is—"
IT IS TRUE
"Then why are you calling yourselves Simurgh and Snitch?"
"Well," Tattletale said. "I am a detail-oriented thinker, much like the Simurgh, and Sam is fast and has wings, much like the snitch."
Legend took his mask off.
He sat it on the desk next to her revolver.
He put his head into his hands.
The Simurgh's text to speech converter chimed in. "The golden snitch is a flying ball from a popular fantasy book series."
"Iread my kids stories," Legend said, voice muffled. "I know what Qudditch is."
Tattletale smiled. She didn't think noir detectives were supposed to grin much, but life was too damn funny for her to change now.
"Imagine if Sam were the Simurgh, though," she said. "Imagine if, for some reason, the Simurgh did come to New York with the intention of being a private eye, of blending in with us and more or less trying to function as a human being."
"That would never happen," interjected the Simurgh.
"Obviously not," Tattletale agreed. "But imagine if it did. And imagine if we, humanity, responded poorly. Say we kept calling her the Simurgh when she didn't want to be called the Simurgh, or sent powerful heroes after her for merely opening a small business. Do you think she'd react well? Because I don't think she'd react well. Any veneer of benevolence she'd adopted might well just—vanish."
Legend lowered his hands and looked at her. "You're advising me to accept this."
"I'm saying that in that imaginary, hypothetical scenario, it would be unwise to provoke an Endbringer or try to dissuade her from . . . doing something differently," Tattletale said. "Surely you of all people can understand the impulse to turn over a new leaf. Turn away from past sins."
It was a low blow, maybe, but it wasn't like the Simurgh had moved into Legend's apartment or was wreaking havoc on his nerves.
"Unbelievable," he said. "You think the Wardens should take this at face value."
She smiled at him. "Sure do, Mac."
Legend shook his head.
He ran his hands through his hair. He sighed.
At length he put his mask back on.
"Well," he said. "Maybe people aren't seeking you out because you aren't properly licensed or correctly registered as a small business."
"Hear that, Sam? We've got our first lead!" She swung her feet from her desk to the floor and stood. "Let's go get some licenses."
Legend frantically gestured his disagreement.
"Though I guess I should take care of it," she continued. "Since you have to watch David."
"I have already contacted a babysitter," the Simurgh responded. "She'll be here presently."
"What does that mean?" Legend asked, clearly alarmed. He turned to Tattletale. "What does she mean?" he hissed.
Lisa shrugged. She hadn't guessed that the Simurgh had developed a childcare plan, but she should have, because Simurgh.
As she watched long strands of crystalline hair materialize out of thin air, she decided that she should also have known the Simurgh would pick the worst possible babysitter. The hair consolidated, strand by strand and ribbon by ribbon, into a familiar two-torsoed, three-headed, and four-handed figure.
"Hey, Sam," Tattletale said. "If you're not the Simurgh, then how come you have Tohu on call for babysitting?"
Needling the Simurgh for being the Simurgh was contrary to the advice she'd just given Legend, but it would have to be okay. She couldn't help provoking people.
Even if those "people" were the fucking Endbringers.
"Tattletale, this is not the Endbringer Tohu, but my good friend and sister Tara. Hello, Tara," the Simurgh said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
Tohu didn't say anything. All her faces were gray and blank.
"Please take good care of David while we are gone. There are snacks in the office refrigerator and you should call 911 if there is an emergency."
Tohu picked up Eidolon in one set of arms and started rearranging the blocks with the other.
"Oh, for—" Legend muttered before flying away, presumably to re-alert the authorities.
There was only one person in the entire county clerk's office. Vacant at this hour; Legend cleared everyone out before we got here.
The woman behind the counter was olive-skinned, Middle-Eastern if Lisa had to guess—which she didn't. Tanline across her cheekbones; used to wearing a bandana. Used to wearing a bandana, requested by Legend to handle a Simurgh-related situation; hero. Hero who wears a bandana—
Miss Militia, looking dour, which only boosted Lisa's mood.
Tattletale leaned on the counter. "Evening, ma'am," she said, as suavely as she could manage without bursting into laughter.
"It's ten in the morning," Miss Militia replied.
Tattletale shrugged. Daylight didn't exist in noir, let alone morning. "Me and my friend here, who is called Samantha Stewart and nothing else except 'Sam' and occasionally 'Mom,' would like to be licensed as private investigators."
"Indeed," Miss Militia said. She held up a piece of paper, the only one present in "her" workspace. "I happen to have a list of the requirements here."
"Hit me," Tattletale said. Miss Militia arched an eyebrow at that. "Metaphorically," she added.
"You have to be at least twenty-five years old," the heroine said. Her eye fell on the Simurgh. "How old are you? Almost thirteen?"
"Ridiculous!" Tattletale exclaimed. "She has a six-year-old son. Do you want to check your math, there?"
"I want to check both of your birth certificates," Miss Militia said humorlessly.
Lisa blinked. "Are you serious? We're from Bet! Scion didn't, like, destroy everything but the paperwork! Of course we don't have birth cer—"
"I have them both," said the Simurgh. She reached beneath one of the wings on her wings and brought forth two New Hampshire birth certificates. "Here they are."
"I need genuine birth certificates," Miss Militia said, not even glancing at the proffered papers. "Not blatant forgeries."
"Forgeries?" Tattletale said. "The very thought! You have no evidence!"
Miss Militia's eyes visibly crossed for a moment. "Fine. I guess those are also 'proof,' and I use that word advisedly, that you're United States citizens, which is the next requirement. Do you have high school diplomas?"
"I have a GED," Tattletale said.
"Of course we graduated high school," the Simurgh said simultaneously.
Miss Militia looked from Lisa to Ziz and back. "If you two expect to get away with any undercover work, you need to learn how to coordinate your story in advance," she said.
Lisa didn't have a comeback to that handy, and the Simurgh ignored it in favor of handing over two framed diplomas she'd also had tucked under her wings at some point, somehow.
"Wow, would you look at that," Miss Militia said wearily. "Same high school, same class. I don't suppose the school still exists or your classmates are still alive."
"Nope!" Tattletale chirped.
"Referencing our trauma is rude," the Simurgh added. "I'm shocked you could be so callous. I should ask to speak to your manager."
Lisa elbowed the Simurgh in the gut. Or she would have, but the Simurgh was fifteen feet tall, and so Lisa elbowed her in her harder-than-diamonds hip instead. "Sam, it's okay. No need to escalate the situation. I'm sure she's just overworked."
"I really am," Miss Militia muttered. "Alright, onto experience and education. Do either of you have twenty years of service as a police officer or fire marshal?"
"No."
"What about at least three years of full time experience supervising the work of at least three people who performed investigations?"
"Nah."
"At least three years of full-time investigative experience as an employee for a private investigator or a government investigative agency or police agency?"
"Can't say that I've ever worked for the government," Tattletale said.
"What about having three years full-time equivalent experience where your primary duties were to conduct investigations?"
"Absolutely," Tattletale said. "I investigated all sorts of shit. Security procedures at banks and casinos in Brockton Bay, how to take Coil apart, the structure and motivations of Endbringers, Scion's emotional weakness . . . Sam's super good at investigating, too. She's been at it since late 2001. Almost thirteen years, like you said earlier."
Miss Militia sighed. "This is so wrong," she murmured.
It was probably the kind of comment that would ordinarily be muffled by her bandana, but Tattletale heard it perfectly. She leaned across the counter. "Consider this, Miss Heroic Lady," she whispered. "Every second I spend running this business is a second I don't attend to my vast criminal empire."
Miss Militia rested her forehead on her desk. "It's a four hundred dollar application fee for each of you," she said.
Lisa was saved from awkwardly explaining they'd have to go to an ATM by the Simurgh producing a stack of twenties from beneath yet another one of her wings. Considering that the Simurgh had been complaining about how short on funds she was not an hour prior, Tattletale wondered how she'd gotten ahold of so many bills.
"Here," the Simurgh said as she dropped the money onto Miss Militia's head.
The heroine allowed the bills to settle before pulling a rubber stamp and inkpad out of the desk.
"Against my better judgment, I'm going to pretend these are applications you filled out honestly," she said as she stamped the birth certificates with APPROVED in big red letters. Then she printed out two licenses in silence. The Simurgh didn't deign to crouch down in front of the camera, so the picture on hers was mostly of her navel.
"Spiffy. Can we get badges to go with these?" Lisa asked, more to irritate Miss Militia than anything else.
It worked; an even darker look crossed Miss Militia's face. "Just get out of here," she said.
Tattletale bestowed her third-widest grin upon the heroine. "Thanks. You won't regret this any more than I will."
As they walked back to their offices, Lisa caught glimpses of people cautiously peeking through their blinds, of people ducking off the main road into buildings and down side streets, even of some drivers and passengers trying to hide by hunkering down in their vehicles.
Everybody knew it was the Simurgh. Nobody was brave enough to say so, let alone act on it.
"I think our next step should be advertising," the Simurgh announced, apparently oblivious to the terror she was spreading.
"Nah, we don't need any," Tattletale replied. "Everybody will know that Simurgh and Snitch was validated by the Wa—er, the county clerk's office by the end of the day. Probably on multiple planets." Her eye fell on an apparently abandoned hotdog cart. "We should get hotdogs instead."
"I do not think people simply knowing about us will bring in business," the Simurgh continued, following Tattletale. She was trying to make it seem like she was walking, but each step she appeared to take landed a half-inch or so above the asphalt. "We need positive attention, attention that will convey we are competent and responsible enough to be worthy of our licenses. Press coverage of a human-interest case should prove to be sufficient."
"Uh-huh," Tattletale said. She leaned over the hotdog stand and grinned at the paper-white man cowering on the other side of it. "Hey there," she said. "My good friend Sam Stewart here and I would like some hotdogs."
The man mumbled something unintelligible. It might have been a prayer.
"Hotdogs," Tattletale said slowly. "For money. Can you do that for us?"
"Yes," added the Simurgh, producing more cash. "We would like to celebrate our licensure as private investigators through the purchase and consumption of your wares."
Tattletale rolled her eyes. "That's weird, Sam, don't talk like that. Just say you want a hotdog."
"I want a hotdog," the Simurgh said, pulling the vendor to his feet.
"H-how would you like that?" asked the man.
"Chicago-style," Lisa said.
"Okay," he managed. His hand shook and he dropped the first hotdog bun he reached for. "S-orry."
"It's okay," Tattletale said. "Take your time. And, actually, make that four hot dogs. We'll pay double."
"Do most people eat hot dogs in pairs?" asked the Simurgh. "You have only ever eaten one hot dog at a time."
That wasn't ever something Lisa had told her, but it figured that the Simurgh had access to all her past experiences. She sighed. "Remember David? And your completely normal, completely human babysitter? I bet they'll want to eat, too."
"Okay," the Simurgh said. "Four hotdogs."
"So you two are private investigators now?" the vendor asked. His voice was quavering less.
"Yeah," Tattletale said. She flipped open her wallet to flash her newly minted license.
"Well," the hot dog vendor said. "My little girl lost her puppy the other day. Could you . . . maybe look into that?"
The Simurgh screamed quietly.
It was closer to a song than her earlier outburst had been.
"That's a yes," Lisa said, but her translation fell on deaf ears; their first customer had fainted.