Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Ken Ichijouji and the Case of the Divine Miss I ❯ The Tale Begins ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: ElJuno 
The beginning of the case...Miyako paints her nails, Ken argues and a mysterious woman starts a mystery.
Anime/Manga: Digimon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Mystery / Comedy | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.29.2002 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.7K | Visits: 246 | Status: Completed
The beginning of the case...Miyako paints her nails, Ken argues and a mysterious woman starts a mystery.
Anime/Manga: Digimon Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Mystery / Comedy | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.29.2002 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.7K | Visits: 246 | Status: Completed
Since I saw episode 50 of 02, I figured that some sick freak who'd watched too many film noirs in their childhood would take the opportunity to write a "Ken Ichijouji IS Sam Spade" fic. Just never figured it would be me.
Consider this my apology for not posting anything in...forever. It's the beginning of what looks to be a longish, strange fic, with more bad references and general weirdness than you can shake a stick at. It's un-beta-ed, a fact I figure Thornn will never forgive me for, (and, seeing as my computer is messed, it was spell checked via livejournal...) but it's not angst, which might help me get back in her good graces.
And I don't even think I need to say it'll have Yaoi(*cough*Daiken*cough*), Yuri and general strangeness, not to mention being a general AU.
And, without further ado, I give you "Ken Ichijouji and the Case of the Divine Miss I" part 1.
*******
It's half past nine on the kind of rainy Monday morning that makes you wonder if the gods REALLY do hate you, especially when paired with the fact that you begin to wish for a dictator because Mussolini DID make the trains run on time, when I finally make it into my office.
My secretary is already in, which does nothing to help my mood. I take the fact that she's absently painting her fingernails the same lavender as her hair as an excuse to take out my anger by mentally docking her pay.
"Mornin' boss." She slurs around a mouthful of gum, without even bothering to look up at me. "There's a lady ta see ya."
"Lady?" I ask, slowly.
She nods and blows a small bubble, which pops with the unexpected force of a gunshot. "Real looker." She mutters. "I think she has a case for ya." She looks at the backs of her hands, then nods happily and closes her bottle carefully before starting to blow over the nails to dry them. Her digimon, knowing its purpose in life, flies over to expedite the process with flutters from its wings.
Some days I pity that bird. Not today, though.
"I don't take cases from dames, Miyako." I growl. "And why in Hell did you let her in?" My own little digimon, sensing a possibility of a truly disastrous blow-up, moves slightly from his spot on my shoulders and nuzzles my neck comfortingly.
Miyako is a suicidal bitch. I've known this from the first time I met her, when she was working for the mob and undercutting them on every deal. She acts true to form right now, as she grins and pops another bubble. "One." She grins. "She is a REAL looker. I almost swallowed my gum."
"And two?"
"We have a mutual friend. Mr. Jackson. And these days that's more than you're giving me."
Added to that earlier comment is the fact that Miyako is a suicidal, corrupt little bitch. This might be one of the reasons I like her.
"What kinda case are we talking about?"
"I dunno. Didn't ask. That's your job." She gives the kind of grin that makes me want to pull out my piece and shoot her right there. Then, she moves her hands out from under the digimon, and Poromon settles back on her lap allowing her to return to her typing. Then she looks up slyly and grins. "But...she looked like she might have some real money, Ichijouji."
My sigh is cut off and I begin to move back past her to my office. On the way by, I happen to catch sight of the paper she's typing.
It's a resume.
Things are tough all over, I guess.
When I open the door, all I can see is the dame's back. She's sitting in one of my chairs, her long legs propped up on my desk. And...those legs...hell. I'm not really a lady's man (I leave that kind of thing to Miyako...) but...hell, she is a looker. Those legs seem to reach on to forever, the kind of shape that would make Fermat create a new Theorem. She slowly stands and turns and...well. Those legs are part of quite a package, leading up to a tight red dress which appears to have been painted on, nails and lips the same red, and long, slightly wavy blonde hair frames a pale, heart shaped face with a complexion like new paper.
I hate her immediately.
She looks me over slowly, then takes a long drag off her cigarette and blows a smoke ring towards me.
"Ichjouji..." She begins, in a low voice, huskier than a sled dog.
"No smoking, sister." I growl. "My secretary should have told you that."
She gives me the kind of grin that would make a straight man's pulse go over the speed limit. As it was, I found myself becoming surprisingly uncomfortable. Then, slowly, with the seductiveness of a snake, she wraps those lips around the butt for a last drag before grinding it out in the pot of my very dead plant.
I swallow, quickly, and make my way past her to my desk. She "just happens" to brush against me as I go past, and I catch a hint of lavender perfume. Settling myself in my creaky chair, I ask, "So, lady, what're you selling?"
She gives that grin again, and my stomach tightens slightly. Very strange. Then she leans over my desk, putting herself too far into my personal space, and raises an eyebrow. "I'm trying to sell you the chance to make some serious dough. What do you say?"
"I say continue."
She reaches down into her bra, very carefully I note, and pulls out a dog-eared photograph and hands it to me. "My...friend." She whispers again, in that voice. I begin to wonder if it's intentional, or if she just has some form of throat cancer...either way, there's something strange here.
"Yes?" I ask, taking a look at the snapshot. It's a wild-haired man, standing in a soccer uniform...something's trying to fire off in my brain, but not quite clicking.
"He's missing." She says. "I want you to find him for me. He left a few weeks ago and I need to finish some business with him."
I raise an eyebrow. "Okay, sweetheart." I begin. "First you should know that I don't usually take cases from dames..."
Her eyes twinkle like exploding supernovae at that. "Oh, I know." She says. "You...prefer the company of men." At that, without even a "if you please" she grabs the photograph of Daisuke off my desk and holds it in her hands, slowly considering it. "However...I'm willing to pay double if you wish. Money is no object as long as I can see him again."
Triple. I think. I don't trust you at all...not that that's unusual in my line of work. "$75 a day, plus expenses. And two days up front...$250 when I solve the case. And if this gets me into any sort of trouble I don't want to deal with, I leave, no refunds given."
She smiles again, and reaches back into that bra of hers...quite well packed, it seems to be...and pulls out three crisp fifties. With exaggerated care, she drops them onto the desk, one after the other. "If he's unhurt, I'll give you a bonus. $200 extra. I really miss him..." And then, slowly, she stands up with the exaggerated grace of an egotistical ballet dancer.
I reach for the money, then stop. "Hey, sister. I didn't catch your name."
She looks down at me through her eyelashes...quite a trick, that...and adjusts her bra as she thinks. "Call me...Miss I." She says.
"Miss I. Well, that's great. I can just go look that one up in the Yellow Pages. How am I supposed to tell you when I find him?"
"I'll know." She says with a knowing grin, and then she blows me a kiss and glides out, leaving only a reek of lavender purfume and bad French cigarettes. Through the door, I can hear Miyako practically breaking her typewriter as "Miss I" goes past her. That girl's got to learn some control.
I lower Wormmon to the desk top (he learned by now which snowdrifts of papers are safe and which are not...) and light my cigarette. Wormmon sneezes, but I don't really notice. "Shit." I growl. "Miyako? Has the divine Miss I left yet?"
"Was that her name?" Miyako breathes in a dreamy voice. "Miss I...how wonderfully mysterious."
"Answer the question, dollbaby."
"Yeah, she left. And don't call me 'dollbaby.'"
"Shit." I repeat, then stand, picking Wormmon up as I go. "I never got the name of this guy I was supposed to be looking for. Just this damn photograph."
"Let me see." Miyako says.
I frisbee the picture to her. She starts laughing almost immediately.
"I'm docking five bucks from your pay for every chortle!" I shout. "And what in the hell is so funny, anyway."
"You don't know who this is? You REALLY don't know who this is?"
"Sure I do...but..."
"Oh my god, you don't, do you!" She laughs uproariously at that.
"You've just gone below minimum wage!" I warn her.
"You LIVE with goggle-boy, and you have no CLUE who this is!"
I storm out to glare at her, glares being much more effective when the party in question can see them. Of course, when the party in question has taken off her glasses to wipe away tears of mirth, it doesn't help much.
"Spit it out, sister." I growl.
"Don't call me sister." She says, angrily, but then she starts laughing again.
"Miyako..."
"Ask Daisuke." She says, then starts to laugh again.
"And may I just take this opportunity to thank you for working for free this week?" That shuts her up quickly, and I grab the photo from her hands. "Come on, Wormmon." I say, settling him back on my shoulders as I leave.
******
Next...Motomiya Daisuke, short order cook, the man upstairs, and the case begins to twist.
Consider this my apology for not posting anything in...forever. It's the beginning of what looks to be a longish, strange fic, with more bad references and general weirdness than you can shake a stick at. It's un-beta-ed, a fact I figure Thornn will never forgive me for, (and, seeing as my computer is messed, it was spell checked via livejournal...) but it's not angst, which might help me get back in her good graces.
And I don't even think I need to say it'll have Yaoi(*cough*Daiken*cough*), Yuri and general strangeness, not to mention being a general AU.
And, without further ado, I give you "Ken Ichijouji and the Case of the Divine Miss I" part 1.
*******
It's half past nine on the kind of rainy Monday morning that makes you wonder if the gods REALLY do hate you, especially when paired with the fact that you begin to wish for a dictator because Mussolini DID make the trains run on time, when I finally make it into my office.
My secretary is already in, which does nothing to help my mood. I take the fact that she's absently painting her fingernails the same lavender as her hair as an excuse to take out my anger by mentally docking her pay.
"Mornin' boss." She slurs around a mouthful of gum, without even bothering to look up at me. "There's a lady ta see ya."
"Lady?" I ask, slowly.
She nods and blows a small bubble, which pops with the unexpected force of a gunshot. "Real looker." She mutters. "I think she has a case for ya." She looks at the backs of her hands, then nods happily and closes her bottle carefully before starting to blow over the nails to dry them. Her digimon, knowing its purpose in life, flies over to expedite the process with flutters from its wings.
Some days I pity that bird. Not today, though.
"I don't take cases from dames, Miyako." I growl. "And why in Hell did you let her in?" My own little digimon, sensing a possibility of a truly disastrous blow-up, moves slightly from his spot on my shoulders and nuzzles my neck comfortingly.
Miyako is a suicidal bitch. I've known this from the first time I met her, when she was working for the mob and undercutting them on every deal. She acts true to form right now, as she grins and pops another bubble. "One." She grins. "She is a REAL looker. I almost swallowed my gum."
"And two?"
"We have a mutual friend. Mr. Jackson. And these days that's more than you're giving me."
Added to that earlier comment is the fact that Miyako is a suicidal, corrupt little bitch. This might be one of the reasons I like her.
"What kinda case are we talking about?"
"I dunno. Didn't ask. That's your job." She gives the kind of grin that makes me want to pull out my piece and shoot her right there. Then, she moves her hands out from under the digimon, and Poromon settles back on her lap allowing her to return to her typing. Then she looks up slyly and grins. "But...she looked like she might have some real money, Ichijouji."
My sigh is cut off and I begin to move back past her to my office. On the way by, I happen to catch sight of the paper she's typing.
It's a resume.
Things are tough all over, I guess.
When I open the door, all I can see is the dame's back. She's sitting in one of my chairs, her long legs propped up on my desk. And...those legs...hell. I'm not really a lady's man (I leave that kind of thing to Miyako...) but...hell, she is a looker. Those legs seem to reach on to forever, the kind of shape that would make Fermat create a new Theorem. She slowly stands and turns and...well. Those legs are part of quite a package, leading up to a tight red dress which appears to have been painted on, nails and lips the same red, and long, slightly wavy blonde hair frames a pale, heart shaped face with a complexion like new paper.
I hate her immediately.
She looks me over slowly, then takes a long drag off her cigarette and blows a smoke ring towards me.
"Ichjouji..." She begins, in a low voice, huskier than a sled dog.
"No smoking, sister." I growl. "My secretary should have told you that."
She gives me the kind of grin that would make a straight man's pulse go over the speed limit. As it was, I found myself becoming surprisingly uncomfortable. Then, slowly, with the seductiveness of a snake, she wraps those lips around the butt for a last drag before grinding it out in the pot of my very dead plant.
I swallow, quickly, and make my way past her to my desk. She "just happens" to brush against me as I go past, and I catch a hint of lavender perfume. Settling myself in my creaky chair, I ask, "So, lady, what're you selling?"
She gives that grin again, and my stomach tightens slightly. Very strange. Then she leans over my desk, putting herself too far into my personal space, and raises an eyebrow. "I'm trying to sell you the chance to make some serious dough. What do you say?"
"I say continue."
She reaches down into her bra, very carefully I note, and pulls out a dog-eared photograph and hands it to me. "My...friend." She whispers again, in that voice. I begin to wonder if it's intentional, or if she just has some form of throat cancer...either way, there's something strange here.
"Yes?" I ask, taking a look at the snapshot. It's a wild-haired man, standing in a soccer uniform...something's trying to fire off in my brain, but not quite clicking.
"He's missing." She says. "I want you to find him for me. He left a few weeks ago and I need to finish some business with him."
I raise an eyebrow. "Okay, sweetheart." I begin. "First you should know that I don't usually take cases from dames..."
Her eyes twinkle like exploding supernovae at that. "Oh, I know." She says. "You...prefer the company of men." At that, without even a "if you please" she grabs the photograph of Daisuke off my desk and holds it in her hands, slowly considering it. "However...I'm willing to pay double if you wish. Money is no object as long as I can see him again."
Triple. I think. I don't trust you at all...not that that's unusual in my line of work. "$75 a day, plus expenses. And two days up front...$250 when I solve the case. And if this gets me into any sort of trouble I don't want to deal with, I leave, no refunds given."
She smiles again, and reaches back into that bra of hers...quite well packed, it seems to be...and pulls out three crisp fifties. With exaggerated care, she drops them onto the desk, one after the other. "If he's unhurt, I'll give you a bonus. $200 extra. I really miss him..." And then, slowly, she stands up with the exaggerated grace of an egotistical ballet dancer.
I reach for the money, then stop. "Hey, sister. I didn't catch your name."
She looks down at me through her eyelashes...quite a trick, that...and adjusts her bra as she thinks. "Call me...Miss I." She says.
"Miss I. Well, that's great. I can just go look that one up in the Yellow Pages. How am I supposed to tell you when I find him?"
"I'll know." She says with a knowing grin, and then she blows me a kiss and glides out, leaving only a reek of lavender purfume and bad French cigarettes. Through the door, I can hear Miyako practically breaking her typewriter as "Miss I" goes past her. That girl's got to learn some control.
I lower Wormmon to the desk top (he learned by now which snowdrifts of papers are safe and which are not...) and light my cigarette. Wormmon sneezes, but I don't really notice. "Shit." I growl. "Miyako? Has the divine Miss I left yet?"
"Was that her name?" Miyako breathes in a dreamy voice. "Miss I...how wonderfully mysterious."
"Answer the question, dollbaby."
"Yeah, she left. And don't call me 'dollbaby.'"
"Shit." I repeat, then stand, picking Wormmon up as I go. "I never got the name of this guy I was supposed to be looking for. Just this damn photograph."
"Let me see." Miyako says.
I frisbee the picture to her. She starts laughing almost immediately.
"I'm docking five bucks from your pay for every chortle!" I shout. "And what in the hell is so funny, anyway."
"You don't know who this is? You REALLY don't know who this is?"
"Sure I do...but..."
"Oh my god, you don't, do you!" She laughs uproariously at that.
"You've just gone below minimum wage!" I warn her.
"You LIVE with goggle-boy, and you have no CLUE who this is!"
I storm out to glare at her, glares being much more effective when the party in question can see them. Of course, when the party in question has taken off her glasses to wipe away tears of mirth, it doesn't help much.
"Spit it out, sister." I growl.
"Don't call me sister." She says, angrily, but then she starts laughing again.
"Miyako..."
"Ask Daisuke." She says, then starts to laugh again.
"And may I just take this opportunity to thank you for working for free this week?" That shuts her up quickly, and I grab the photo from her hands. "Come on, Wormmon." I say, settling him back on my shoulders as I leave.
******
Next...Motomiya Daisuke, short order cook, the man upstairs, and the case begins to twist.