(Vanessa's Pov)
Why's my life so horrible?
In the mirror, I see the tall, miserable-looking French she-wolf. A scar slit down right across her left eye, stretching across half her face. The pale fringe of hair covers her right eye, contrasting with her black fur coat. You'd be able to see her darkened eye bags, but unfortunately, her whole furcoat is too black to notice the difference.
But still, you'd see from the first glance at this muscular, broke, young she-wolf that she's a depressed officer working in the investigation department of Birkwood in her late 20s. Unforgivably miserable salope.
She's me.
Spitting out the toothpaste from my mouth, I quickly wash my snout with water and step out of the bathroom, the wet towel hanging over my shoulders.
The moment I step out into the hallway, I hear the giggling of that damn Puma, fiddling with my ex-husband, Jared.
How can life be more miserable than it is for me now? You have to live with your gay ex-husband and see his new boyfriend play with him every day.
As always, ignoring the rolling Wolf and the Puma on the couch, I walk through our living room. I fling open the doors to the icebox, searching for the canned meat chops I left inside it.
I wake up to them making out before work every day, and it is barely an inconvenience for me now. Life in Birkwood changed me. At least they don't eat my food.
"Mmm– Hey, Vann!" Jared calls out to me, breaking out of his kiss. "You've got mail this morning, from your General."
"Mail?" I chew on the beef jerky, turning to my ex-husband. "Where?"
"I put it on the table –" The Puma grabs Jared by the collar and pulls him in before he finishes the sentence. Chewing the jerky, I gaze at the two big buff men going at it on the couch, rolling on each other – fighting, big gay muscular Animagi, fighting.
Fuck my life.
Pouring myself a coffee in the kitchen as my roommates passionately make out, I rip out the letter to read it. A full page, addressed straight to my name. It has the seal of Butch – it's certified.
I read through it and I realize it's an official offer for the job he's discussed with me earlier. The one related to magical beings and things like that, or if we're using the official term for it. It's an investigation about the Eldritch.
I avert my gaze from the letter to the shaking couch. A memory of that bag of gold Butch showed to me comes to mind – and I'm almost salivating for that money. A few pouches of that gold, and maybe I can even afford an apartment, a life out of this miserable room right beside my ex-husband. I won't be at his mercy, suffering from his sympathetic offer to live beside him despite the separation.
"Mmmf~ mmrgh~ Ray, I have to go to work, you stupid Puma."
"I know, but you're so hot in that shirt, Wolfie."
Fuck my life. I sip my piping hot coffee, keeping my gaze away from the two love birds, attempting to avoid the sight I'm seeing in the background. But it's too noisy to avoid. And I'm used to it.
No, it's not even weird anymore. It's just normal now. It's normal.
…
5:00 P.M. In front of the Birkwood Police Department, Aether.
I get off the peddler right when the grandfather clock fixed to the clockmaker's shop at the corner of the street hits five. A peddler, the old version of that mechanical caterpillar which carries a few official workers at Birkwood, barely capable of affording it, clutches through the street, its dozen mechanical legs clanking at every step.
It's leaving a trail of warm oil leaking out of its engines. As I said, those good peddlers that run in Aether's Luminaré aren't available here.
Our police station doesn't follow a strict dress code. We simply have a leather jacket with the proud symbol of Birkwood on our back, the birchwood forest as the icon, symbolizing the prosperity that we humbly lack. Mine is decorated with the weapon master badge, the copper badge and the inquisitor's badge.
Under my leather coat, two revolvers are strapped to my belt. The sawed-off shotgun is strapped to the interior of my jacket. Which they call the Lancaster these days. And can't forget mon bébé, Mort. Mort is the 6-foot-long claymore strapped to my back, sheathed in its leather scabbard.
It's an investigation of an Eldritch monster, so I came prepared.
The tiny old squirrel, Mr. Jenkins, smiles at me as I walk by his old and crafty clockwork shop. A barely 4-foot rat walks past me and curses as I step by his tiny presence.
I'm already sweating. Thanks to the sparring session I had with Cinder earlier. The only person who's generous enough in this town to be a Swordmaster and not be a piece of shit that attempts to kill you with those skills.
Only a few feet more and I'd arrive at the station. It's only a few feet from the station – and just as I'm about to enter through the doors of the station – I pause.
In front of me, there's a 5 '6 fox, pale fur, blue eyes, silver earrings, and dressed in a pale shirt that stinks of beer and smoke. Unbuttoned shirt, like a common drunkard. A pinnacle of the representation of what's wrong with most males in Birkwood.
And he's just standing there– staring back up at me, like I'm some apparition that's about to enter his life. His blue eyes meet mine, his thin slit – weirdly smiley looking eyes.
"May I go in, Madame l'officier?"
Ugh, his preposterous French accent, mixed with the dull English tone. Such an awful actor.
///
(Renoir's Pov)
She's judging me, for some unfathomable reason that my mind cannot comprehend. Just standing there, this tall, dark furred wolf, an emo fringe over her right eye and a scar slitting her left. I can't be cocky with it right now – she's like a fucking tower, I have to look up just to see her looking down at me. And with that huge sword in her back – it's an obvious no-no.
"Excusez-moi, Monsieur."
A native French accent – good God, I must've looked so pretentious in front of her.
She stepped backwards, letting me step inside. Usually, ladies first. But right now – small fox first, big wolf after.
I step in through the door, and the bell rings. The wolf steps in right behind me. Every damn police officer in this department is huge. A polar bear's at the reception, a tall moose clad in the signature leather jacket of Birkwood, seated at the corner where they file complaints.
A place to file complaints on crime in the slums where crime is a habit. I don't understand the minds of the Animagi sometimes.
An officer walks by me, but one who contrasts with the entirety of the police department. A dachshund in a bowler hat, even shorter than I am.
"Evening, Mister. How may I help you?"
"Butch, I'm looking for Butch. The commissioner."
I've been here a couple of times, but the place is riddled with office tables and loads of files lining every desk. It's packed to the brim with the scent of stressed Animagi.
"Oh, you're the fox. I thought it might be you."
"Yeah, I probably am." Butch must've mentioned me already.
The towering she-wolf walks past me and both the dachshund and I step aside for her to walk through. Her presence is so demanding – big damn cunts.
"Right ahead on that path Madame Forêt is going. She's probably meeting Commissioner Rotwood, too."
Oh shit. The big damn cunt she-wolf. Fate has brought us together at the front steps, it seems. She's my partner.
"Thanks, and have a good evening, sir."
"Wish you the same," the proud dachshund tips his hat and continues on his path.
I push through the crowds in the office and all the officers dressed in their official jackets eye me, a Fox, in a place of justice, dressed in shitty beer-scented shirts. I can't complain.
Ding. The bell rings atop the office, which reads "Commissioner B.Rotwood" as Madame Forêt walks inside. I step into the office right behind her.
Butch is seated on his chair, his back turned to us. A cloud of smoke rises into the air from the other side of his seat. I've smelled that tobacco he smokes with that briar pipe too many times. I can smell that it's him.
"Commissioner, I'm here. I hope I didn't keep you waiting," Madame Forêt announces her arrival.
She's standing in front of me, her black bushy tail remaining still. She barely notices that I have followed her inside.
Butch turns around in his seat. I barely see him, with the magnificently tall Wolf-lady in front of me.
"Oh, you're both here. Great then," he says, pulling out the drawer beneath his table.
"Both?" The Wolf-lady mutters to herself, her ears flinching, searching for another presence. She turns around, her nose catching the smell of the spilled beer on my shirt – probably.
"Oh, excuse me –" She squints her eyes in slight confusion upon seeing me. She probably did not expect that I was to be her partner upon first seeing me at the door. I look up at her confused expression and it puts a smile on my face.
"Monsieur."
"Madame." I grin.
Butch gazes at us curiously. "So I guess you two have already made your acquaintance. And I hope it does not affect this case that I have prepared for you two, as you are in it for the –"
"No, we just ran into each other at the entrance only a few minutes ago, Butch." I correct him before he wastes any more words on his misimpression.
"Yeah, I've never made any acquaintance with him before, sir." The she-wolf announces, standing to attention before her commissioner.
I calmly walk to the side of her, hands in my pockets. Butch carefully examines her eyes and shifts them right after to mine. I raise my brows, signaling him that she's telling the truth. He probably assumed that I've slept with her before – he always does when he sees me with a female.
"Perfect then. You two can get to know each other in this case as much as you prefer," he says, standing up, his grand stature matching the height of the she-wolf.
Butcher looks normal now, unlike his appearance this morning. He's clad in his official dark trenchcoat, the silver badge of General hanging on his right pocket, and the rest of the coat decorated with badges he'd earned in his career.
And most of all— the one thing that strikes this doberman out in a crowd for me— the titular police cap tipped over his head, resting neatly between his upright ears.
He opens the case file, which he has shown me before, and slides it towards us on the table.
"I'll give you a perfect explanation of what you two have to do in this case right now, and the only conditions are that you two act on it together as a team." He starts his speech, laying the briar pipe down on his table. "I've chosen you two because I know I'll be coming to you two if I take this case by myself. And Renoir here is a dear friend of mine, whom I trust is very much capable of this case."
He lowers his arm toward me, and the she-wolf gradually lowers her gaze to the side. I look back up at her.
She does not judge. She can't. Rotwood is the General, and his orders are what she follows.
"If you two haven't met before, there's your introduction," Butch continues, raising his hand towards the she-wolf. "She's Vanessa Forêt, my best investigator in this department, and the most proficient Weaponmaster in our department also. If your wit and her skill can't solve this, I won't be solving it either."
Vanessa remains calm, chest heaved forward – or is it her massive bosom? She's definitely blushing to the compliment from her General, though, I see her tail wag in appreciation. The tail is truly our weakness at times.
Butch stares at us two, standing like statues in our initial positions.
"You two gonna take a seat?" He signals us to sit down.
The wolf takes a seat and I do too, right next to her. The top of Butch's table reaches right to my collarbones, but it's short enough for me to have a peek at the files. Vanessa awkwardly coughs, noticing this.
Butch notices, and a simple smile draws on his dumb snout.
Butch places his big paw on the images strewn across the table. The first image within the open file depicts a black and white image of the splattered corpses, which I have seen before. I've already taken a peek at it earlier.
"Just in case, let me explain the case to you once again in more intricate detail since both of you are here," he begins.
"This here is the murder that you will be investigating. The case was filed five days ago in the middle part of our capital, Winchester. That's where all our ambitious counterparts are, and I need not tell you that, right?" He drags his paw across the table to the picture of the refined looking Frog in a bowtie.
"Here's Mr. Williams, the only survivor of this brutal murder scene and the witness to it. And he's an integral part of this grand orchestra. His role is on the organ. Now I know we folk from the slums don't really listen to this rich booming music only made for those gold-plated lives above, but –"
"Mm," the she-wolf let out a soft groan.
I eye her from the side, confused. What did Butch say wrong?
"Something wrong, Vanessa?" Butch asks as politely as his rough Doberman voice can sound.
"No, sorry, sir. Papa used to take me to an orchestra from the exclusive seats above the theaters in Winchester, it's just a little hurtful – since we're being open in this case."
She stands up for herself in front of Butch. Not many females I know do that besides Fae.
"I apologize," he sighs, disappointed in himself. "Moving on without any further biases, the Williams fellow here is our main lead. And since all of us are alone now, I'll give you the confidentials of the case. The person who assigned this case to me is –" he drags a picture from underneath, this one, a very familiar face.
"Our King himself, Lucas the Third, the Stag King." The image of the Roi, the King, warmed underneath his royal robes and his antlers spread in a glamorous fashion, rests on the table.
"He came down here to meet you?" I ask him, dumbfounded. It's hard to believe. A topper – let along the King himself, walking down to the slums to assign a case for us.
"Well, not exactly," Butch adds. "He sent his royal guard into the police department yesterday, closed my office and handed me the case alongside a bag of gold with the official letter bearing the Stag's seal."
The she-wolf continues to stare at Butch, just as dumbfounded as I am.
"Anyhow," Butch slides the picture of the King underneath the file and spreads out more black and white images of corpses, littered across a stage.
"Our department was set on sealing off this murder place that very moment, and the one thing that we noticed is that the bloodied corpses of each individual seemed to be battered into mush by guitars, stabbed with the bows, and bent clarinets. All of the damage done by the very instruments they play."
So they just murdered each other? One guy was left – a psychotic breakout? Too much alcohol or the new powder that's spreading through the streets?
"Yes, I know what you're thinking, Foxy." He pulls out the more horrifying image from underneath the scattered images, of a raccoon, dressed to impress – but its eye sockets are empty, pouring trails of blood out of them. "One raccoon had its face fucked like crazy, as you can see."
The she-wolf winces in disgust, so do I. It's quite disgusting to look at, really.
"So, what did the witness say about these blown-up eye sockets, sir?" Vanessa asks.
"Yes, that's the most interesting part. The witness has not clearly witnessed any of this murder firsthand – we transcribed his confession into paper here, if you both need a clearer depiction of his firsthand witnessing, which isn't much." Butch places the transcribed confession over the images.
"In short, his memories formed images of dark, strange tendrils which emerged from all around him, which he describes as otherworldly and horrifying. His mind, as he played his organ, which he had done thousands of times before in his life, blurred – as if a dark mist had encumbered his eyes, to quote his own words. He said a dark entity suddenly took control, he felt like it stretched its claws and reached into every soul within the orchestra, and when he blinked once." A dramatic pause, as Butch notices the fixed attention in our eyes. "They were all dead, with his best friend's eyes popping out of their sockets."
Haunting. That's the first thought that comes to mind. A word that can perfectly describe the mysteries of those of us Eldritch who remain in our society, only descriptions that I've heard from others. Not many of what I've seen myself.
"Anything that could've affected the frog? Anything going on in his life – which is related to this encumbering situation?" I ask, before the she-wolf places her question.
"And, more importantly." Emphasis on the importantly. "How do you think it is related to the Eldritch, sir? I've honestly never seen something of the Eldritch in my life – people all over Terra, or at least the Kings' Isles, believe that it's just folklore or myth at this point, right?"
Butch cautiously looks down at my face. He knows I'm part of the Eldritch. One of the very few who know. And obviously, we can't reveal it to Vanessa.
Vanessa looks at Butch, and then at me, I notice from the corner of my eye. She's already feeling left out.
"Sir?"
"Yeah, yeah," Butch shakes his head, focusing back on the face. "First of all, good question, Foxy. The frog is about to get married next week. Do with that detail as you may."
Vanessa tilts her head, confused, again. Butch turns to her.
"And how it is related to the Eldritch is left to you two – and the Fox here was selected by me precisely due to his knowledge of it up and down throughout the entirety of Aether," he explains.
Vanessa looks at me again, a slight restoration of faith in me – a curious wag of her bushy tail. "If I am being honest, sir, I was going to ask why you hired a confox for this case."
"I'm glad I cleared your doubts then," Butch heaves a sigh of relief. I stare at the Doberman, without turning to the Wolf. It's ok – when you're at the bottom of the bottom in a social hierarchy, you have a tendency to withstand the judgment an Animagi with an official job would give you.
It feels easy to evade judgment when you know you're a scumbag. It's even easier when you choose to be.
"Well, what is the first place that we're gonna start our investigation on?" I ask Butch, taking into my hand and observing the details on the middle-class frog more closely.
"Obviously, you're going to investigate the house of Mr. Williams first. And keep an eye out for any animagi who would even whisper about the Eldritch. The Stag King himself gave us the case, and from the many wars that he's been winning in the Kings' Isles these days, I can deduce one thing. He won't send us this case if it's not a serious matter, meant for us."
Agreeable. The King, no matter how much of a superficial asshole hypocrite he may be, is a smart young stag.
I nod, and so does the she-wolf. The case is strange and my interest has piqued, just from the descriptions given by Butch.
"Before you two leave, two more things," Butch grabs another picture of a goose – a familiar goose with a viola in his hand. He slams it on the table. "First, you see this fucking goose, you tie him down, and you come right to me with his tied-up body. And that room right next to me is going to be your office for the time being that you two are on the case."
He points his finger toward the left side of his office. Through the glass, we see a small space with a couch, a table, two chairs, and an empty evidence board. Butch's own investigation office.
And the most interesting of all, a bag of gold coins, its shingling metal shining through the open mouth of the bag as if it is inviting us to grab it.
"A worthy price," Butch says, smiling. "A worthy price, if you two can solve the puzzle."
The she-wolf and I glance at each other. For the first time, it feels like we agreed on something. She nods at me. I nod back.
A new partner. A new job. A permanent escape from this fucked up economy because I will be spending the next damn years in a blender from all that gold.