The Case of the Mysteriously Absconded Canine
It was September, not nearly cold enough to warrant a heavy coat, but Lisa had brutally sacrificed her personal comfort on the altar of noir aesthetic. She'd chosen to wear a trench coat with the collar turned up, and she'd pulled the brim of a heavy brown fedora down over her brow.
She was standing outside the apartment building where Bob Ferricher, the hotdog vendor who had hired them against his better judgment, and his daughter Tonya lived. The apartment had, until his disappearance the previous week, also housed a puppy named Max.
Captivating as the mystery—their first real case!—ought to be, Lisa was too distracted by the Simurgh's outfit to focus. "Sam" had also chosen a trench coat, but it covered her wings as well as her humanoid form. She looked like a fifteen foot tall sack someone had stuck sunglasses and a hat on.
There was nothing inconspicuous about their presence, but that was fine.
A day had passed since Mr. Ferricher had told them his story, and that was enough for one of their contacts, an expert in the art of puppy location, to make the journey to New York.
She wasn't inconspicuous, either.
"Hey, Rachel," Lisa said. Her friend had arrived on Bastard, alone except for three other dogs.
Bitch nodded. "The fuck is the Simurgh here for?"
Lisa knew that Rachel wouldn't appreciate any lines about "Sam Stewart, the perfectly normal human," so she chose to be straightforward. "She's pretending to be a human. Says she wants to be a detective," Lisa said, hoping the Simurgh wouldn't retaliate. "I don't know why, but I think it has to do with an Eidolon clone. I'm too scared to tell her to fuck off."
Rachel digested this news. "I can tell her to fuck off."
"Thanks for offering, but I'm worried she might do something bad if I don't play along." Lisa pulled a photograph out of her pocket and handed it over. "We're looking for this little guy. I think he's a rotweiller."
Rachel shook her head. "Pitweiller. Rotweiller mixed with pitbull."
"Good to know," Lisa said. The woman the Ferrichers had bought from hadn't known about its origins (lied, her power interjected; the breeder had concealed the fact the father was three-quarters pitbull in order to sell the puppies more easily).
Probably irrelevant.
"Got anything of his to smell?" Rachel asked.
The Simurgh telekinetically directed a dog bed out from underneath her coat and over to Rachel.
Rachel took the bed out of the air without blinking and held it in front of the foxhound, bloodhound, and beagle she had brought with her. "Doon, Colbie, Reg. Nose."
Once Lisa had climbed onto Bastard and settled herself behind Rachel they set off, scent hounds leading the way and the Simurgh-sized pile of suede drifting after them.
It turned out that the dogs' noses were reliable—or, perhaps, the Simurgh was helping them along. In less than thirty minutes, they had passed from the shining, reconstructed housing area in Manhattan into a crumbling, still unrestored part of Queens. As they approached an abandoned warehouse, the dogs they were following started barking and sped up.
The beagle, partially enhanced by Rachel's power, easily charged through the corrugated iron door, snapping the padlock on the outside as it went.
She could hear a dogfight break out immediately, and Rachel leapt off of Bastard and barreled after her dog. Lisa took more time to dismount. By the time she entered, she saw their snarling attacker was chained up, emaciated, angry—a far cry from the smiling puppy in the photograph Tonya had provided.
Ziz's telekinesis intercepted him before his jaws could close on Reg's snout.
"Wow," Lisa said, keeping her voice entirely without affect. "A levitating dog. What a mysterious and unexplained event."
"Knock it off," Rachel told the Simurgh.
The Simurgh knocked it off.
Between Bastard, Rachel, the larger than life scent hounds, and its brief experience flying, the puppy realized it was overmatched and backed down, cowering.
"Fuckers," Rachel said, running her hands over his coat. "He hasn't been eating enough. He's got fleas. And he's hurt."
"That would make sense," Lisa said. "He got lost a week ago."
"Dog's not lost," she bit out. "Dog's been kidnapped and abused. Someone hit him, I think two guys or more. They've been making him angry, starving him, making him want to fight."
Lisa could see it. Max was an unneutered male from a breed that would grow large and, with the right maltreatment, aggressive. "They were using him as a guard dog," Lisa said. She swept her eyes around the warehouse, looking for anything her power might use to give her answers. "Which begs the question . . . What did they want him to guard?"
"Dunno. Steal whatever it is. Or wreck it."
She heard the Simurgh's text to speech converter from the next room over. "Lisa, come here and take a look."
Lisa was somewhat nonplussed to find the Simurgh holding a magnifying glass between one thumb and index finger and pointing it vaguely in the direction of the wall.
"I believe you've seen something like this before," Ziz continued.
"That's a wall, so, uh, yes, I have," Lisa said. "I get that most walls you've seen haven't been intact because—well, for whatever reason—but they are pretty normal."
The Simurgh stood still for a few moments. Then she turned and lifted her left hand, the one that wasn't grasping the magnifying glass, and pointed in the direction of the opposite corner.
Abandoned equipment, including microscopes, surgical implements, and two laboratory blenders, sat on the tables. Used dogs for security system instead of electronics, wanted authorities to think this site was still abandoned; used dogs for a security system instead of humans, avoided cameras, wanted to minimize witnesses.
She blinked.
Owner didn't want to be seen using equipment; lab-grade equipment for conducting tests; wanted to avoid scrutiny, illegal experimentation. Illegal experimentation, minimize witnesses . . .
She walked out the back door of the warehouse to an empty lot. There were mounds of gravel, crushed asphalt, and dirt all across the area, which spanned an acre or so.
The Simurgh followed her and spoke. "What are you thinking, Lisa?"
Lisa pointed at one particular mound. "I'm thinking it would be really nice if that pile of dirt was somehow somewhere else."
"It's a shame I can't help you with that," said the Simurgh, even as the entire pile of earth rose twenty feet into the air and flew across the yard.
"It is," Lisa agreed. "But look, it's moving on its own! What a neat coincidence."
The Simurgh nodded. "It does seem as though the situation has resolved itself, without any outside intervention."
Lisa whistled. "I guess dreams really do come true."
Then she looked in the hole Ziz had unearthed. She'd known what it was and that it would be bad, but this—she jumped back and only Sam's telekinetic intervention stopped her from falling.
"So do nightmares," the Simurgh said.
"Where's the Simurgh?" Legend asked.
Not "how are you doing" or "why did you call me" or even "what's with that mass grave," but where's the Simurgh.
Tattletale rolled her eyes, though she suspected the effect was spoiled by the fact he couldn't see underneath the brim of her hat. "Nobody knows where the Simurgh is. If you're asking about Samantha Stewart, the ordinary human woman I investigate crime with in a very un-Endbringerlike manner, she's with Bitch, returning the missing puppy we were hired to find to its owner."
"You called me here so that you could watch me play with your phone?"
Tattletale smiled and pointed. "I'm using my phone to take pictures of that," she said.
Legend looked into the pit and recoiled.
Two dozen bodies, twisted beyond recognition—not only because they'd been shot in the head and covered in slaked lime, but because the majority of the victims themselves were warped. Most were marked by some grotesque transformation—extra limbs, uncanny elongation, bulges and boils, parchment-like skin, animalistic features.
"What in God's name happened here?" he whispered
"Someone's carrying on Cauldron's legacy," she said.
"How?"
"Scion's body was big. When he died, parts of that body got all over the place."
"I personally destroyed all of the pieces I could find," Legend said. "It was one of the first things that I did after I got control of my body back."
"You ain't the only one who went looking. Someone else—rather, I think multiple someone elses—have made a point of finding what they could. They're experimenting with the body like Cauldron did."
"Not everyone here is a monster," Legend said.
"They were the ones with mental deficiencies. Think Doormaker."
"And the ones who weren't shot?"
"The formula killed them outright. I haven't figured out how they killed the brutes too durable to be shot yet, but I'm almost certain they did. Do."
"They're still active?"
"Mhm. I imagine this is one of many testing sites. I called you because the authorities need to know about it—and because you know better than most of us what can be done with parts of alien god."
"Yes," he said shortly. "I've sinned."
"Beside the point. I want to know what insight into Cauldron's operations you can provide. Is there anyone else who might have an idea how they operated, insights they gleaned—"
"Contessa," he said. "She could be behind this."
"No, ninety percent sure. This is going to sound strange, all things considered, but I'm pretty sure Contessa wouldn't willingly choose do something like this. We can check with Yamada—"
"Yamada won't say anything against her," Legend said.
"But I think the only reason these people are still in operation is that Contessa doesn't know about them. If she'd been able to detect them, I suspect they'd have already met a short and brutal end. Anything else you can say about how they worked?"
He set his jaw. "I never helped harvest the other's body. You saw more of it through Weaver's camera than I ever did."
Lisa sighed. She should have expected the Doctor would take those secrets to her—well, not grave, exactly, but smooshied blood puddle didn't easily roll off the tongue.
"Are you in touch with Contessa?" Tattletale asked. "I'd contact her myself, but I don't think she approves of my, um, new friend."
His lips thinned out so much that she thought they were in danger of losing access to the third dimension. "No," he said.
Something about that statement made her think he was lying. She allowed the barriers she put up against her power to come down.
"You sure about that?" she asked. "I can see her staying in touch, if only to leverage you in the future."
"The last time I saw her, she was in Jessica Yamada's office. I heard from her exactly once since then, and that was a five-word note."
"She did something to your family?" Lisa asked.
"You're smart enough to find out a way to talk to her," he said.
"Your son," Tattletale said. "Sort of. No, your daughter. Your daughter is one of her clones?"
He stopped pretending he didn't know what he was talking about. "One of—"
"Yeah, I met the other four a while back. Not bad, as far as omnipotent nine-year-olds go. Shy. Snuggly. Winkled a dog out of Bitch."
"Five," he said. His voice was quiet, as though awestruck—or too horrified to speak at a normal volume. Then he shook his head. "So, the people who run this business. What do you know about them?"
"They're small, probably less than ten even taking the parahumans they're creating into account. Based off of what I've read of the Wardens' files one the triggers going wrong lately and what I'm picking up on here, I'd say that maybe one in thirty, one in forty of their subjects comes out right."
"What else can you tell me?"
"For now? That's about it. Their security features were rudimentary. Nothing digital. The dog, rather than an alarm. If something went bad, they solved the problem with lethal force. Fuckers didn't even buy their own dog. Everything points to a few people who got an idea and wanted to keep quiet, build up power off the radar."
Legend nodded. "I'll put the Wardens' thinkers on it. What do you need in order to work this?"
"A paper trail. Deeds, utilities bills, neighbors' statements, statements from the Wardens' patrols that canvass this area—pretty much anything you have on this address." She could get all those things herself, but didn't see the point in tipping her hand to that extent. "Send me everything," she added, "even something that might seem trivial. I'll use what you send me to try and pinpoint other addresses with similar characteristics, find other test sites, get more information that way—"
"Anything else?"
"Ask Valkyrie if anything in the local capescape has been unusual," Lisa said. "She could tell the difference between natural and Cauldron capes. Maybe she can pick out the people who survived the tests."
Legend was already entering a number into his phone. "She's busy with her resurrection project, but I'm sure she could spare time for this. I'll see if I can reach her now."
"Yeah, sounds good," Lisa said distantly. She was already on her way; she needed to leave before too many heroes showed up, including one smart, paranoid, or rude enough to wonder whether she might be behind the slaughter.
As Lisa walked through the streets of New York, she reflected that, if the multiverse were a just place, it would be raining. The PI who had no leads and who was planning to drink her problems away deserved a rainstorm to brood in.
The sky remained sunny, presumably out of spite.
Lisa finally reached her destination, the Cutting Edge nightclub, and pushed open the door.
In a few hours, the club would be filled with the well-heeled and looking to get drunk and hook up.
For now, it was happy hour, and only a handful of professionals—that is to say, six functional alcoholics and eight budding alcoholics—were present.
She crossed the still-empty dance floor and sat at the bar. She didn't need her power to interpret the bartender's expression as a contemptuous sneer.
Lisa started her off at two-thirds of a grin. "Whiskey, neat," she said.
"No," the bartender said. "You're not of age."
Lisa opened her wallet and pulled out her private investigator's license. "I'll have you know the government says that I'm twenty-five. Miss Militia herself agreed."
"Well, if Miss Militia says so, then I stand corrected," the bartender said. She poured an amber-colored liquid into a glass and handed it to Lisa.
It was apple juice.
Lisa upgraded her smile to eighty percent of a grin. It was a good comeback, fake whiskey for a fake ID. Giving her opponent a sense of superiority at the beginning might make her more amenable as their conversation progressed.
Besides, she didn't want to actually become an alcoholic in the name of noir.
She'd concede the point, but only in the most irritating manner she could devise. "Smooth," Lisa remarked. "I'm detecting a hint of, hmm, you know, the woody aftertaste that indicates it was a good year for the corn crops. 1968, I'd guess? A stunning vintage. I'm surprised you can afford this."
"Get out," said Faultline.
Lisa held up the hand that wasn't being occupied by juice. "I will, I promise. I'm actually looking into something extremely important, something that might interest you."
Faultline's blue eyes narrowed. "Prove it."
She opened up the program on her phone that stored photos, selected one of the more grisly scenes from the grave she'd just found, and passed it over.
"This man—he looks like one of the monsters Cauldron made, but I don't recognize him."
"Yep. Someone's collecting parts of Scion and packaging them for consumption. Doing the same shit Cauldron did, only the ones that come out wrong are getting executed."
"I heard you and the Simurgh had become private detectives," Faultline said; Lisa's power chimed in to inform her that Faultline had sent Newter to investigate the offices of Simurgh and Snitch to confirm the truth of the rumors. "And this is, what, your first case?"
"Yeah, and my best lead went nowhere, so I'm stuck with second-best. Believe me, I'm as depressed as you are about it."
"Are you trying to make me angry?"
"Always, but that's more of a secondary goal today. This is something you need to hear."
"You've got until you finish your drink."
"You know Contessa, right?"
"She left an impression."
"Yeah, well, I did her boyfriend a huge favor a few months ago. In return she helped me refine and expand my operations. I was strong on my own before, but now I'm basically unbeatable. Doesn't matter if it's legitimate or illegitimate—construction, drugs, real estate, the black market in pre-Scion luxury goods—I'm there, not so much in on the ground floor but being part of the foundation of the new society across half a dozen earths."
"I'm wondering if that whiskey was a little too alcoholic, because you seem to be rambling."
"What I'm saying, Mel-Mel, is that I'm a big deal. There's not a major crime that happens in any variation of these five boroughs without my say-so. That's the unofficial bargain I've made with the white hats, although they don't acknowledge that bargain in so many words."
"You said you came here for my help," Faultline said slowly. "But all I'm hearing is that you want help in getting my boot lodged far up your ass."
"You don't understand?" Lisa asked. "I've found that there's another organization that's been operating under my nose, committing the worst of atrocities without me noticing. I don't know why they're doing this—power, profit, simple sadism, some sort of mad scientist compulsion to see what will happen—and I don't know who. I'm asking for help finding these people."
"That's not going to come cheaply," Faultline said.
"Yeah, yeah, the sign of the dollar is all that's holy, whatever, I get it. Three million."
"Six," Faultline countered.
"Ten it is," Lisa said cheerfully. It made Faultline more annoyed, which she knew it would. Lisa finished off the juice and continued. "You know, I make more money every day I sit watching the Simurgh be grotesquely maternal than you've seen your entire career."
Faultline's pride in her image as a professional prevented her from stooping to acknowledging Lisa's provocation, but only just. She had to take a moment to unclench her jaw before speaking. "The job you want done?"
"I want something like a retainer. Standing deal. Whoever's behind this doesn't have the ability to cover their tracks like Cauldron did. They will make a mistake eventually, and I want to know if they make it in front of you."
"What makes you think I'm going to end up involved in this?"
"You have a track record of being kind to the so-called monsters. A victim who escaped their tests might seek you out—tell me if that happens."
"I don't run a charity or take just anyone in," Faultline said stiffly.
"Yeah, but they might not know you like I do. Or they might be too desperate to care. Point is, I need information to work, and I'm paying you for any you might come across."
Faultline nodded. "I will let you know if anyone who escaped this new group's experimentation seeks me out."
"One other thing," Tattletale said. "Heading a loving home for Case 53s isn't the only reputation you have. You've made a name for yourself as a neutral party. The people who did this might end up being the ones who approach you."
Faultline seemed outraged at the very thought. "They'd be sent away," she said. "There are some people who can't be trusted to enter into a contract. Anyone who would do that is one of them. You saw me turn down Cauldron when they asked me to open portals for them during the first Khonsu attack."
"Two things. First is that Cauldron knew that you'd refuse," Lisa said. "They brought you to that meeting and publicly made an offer they knew you'd refuse so that other people would pay you to open the portals they wanted you to without having to pay for 'em."
Faultline's face grew darker, and Tattletale's smile grew wider.
"Second is that you might not know the people looking to hire you are behind this. I think it would be someone you haven't seen before, at least not before Gold Morning. A new face in town, or maybe someone you know is willing to work with others as an intermediary."
Faultline nodded. "Is there an expiration date to this retainer?"
"Until I do find the people responsible."
"You'll pay up front."
Lisa handed over the check she'd already written.
Faultline glared at it, as though each of the ten million dollars was being individually insolent. She raised her eyes to meet Lisa's. "You know you don't need me. The Simurgh could find them."
"Probably, but she doesn't seem inclined to, at least not directly. Not that she's involved in this situation in any way, of course."
"'Of course,'" Faultline said, audible scare quotes and all. "You're having trouble with your 'friend.'"
"I'm not, actually, and that's what's bugging me. She's acting committed to this—whatever you want to call it. Charade? Farce? She cloned Eidolon and the kid actually thinks she's his mom. I just—I know something is going to happen, but I don't know what. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is driving me crazy."
"Good," Faultline said. She put the bill down in front of Tattletale. "Now pay and get out."
"I love you, too," Lisa said, again opening her wallet. The receipt made her smile increase to one hundred percent; Faultline had charged her for a whiskey.
She left a $500 tip and walked home under an obstinately blue sky.