Chapter Text
Address: 110 Irons Street, District I, Tulip Avenue
Subject: Victoria Punk Wrenchworks
Person of Interest: Eustass Kidd
Filed by: Loffler Residence, Wallace Residence, Takeda Residence, Trinidad Residence, Sokolov Residence, Costa Residence
Nature of Complaint: Repeated noncompliance with zoning regulations and local noise ordinances. Reports indicate unauthorized late-night operations (past 10:00 PM) involving high-decibel mechanical work, welding, and revving of modified engines. This is the fifth violation in the past six months. Additionally, the business has not submitted its updated occupancy and fire safety clearance forms, despite multiple notifications. Person of interest refuses cooperation in lowering volume and showing courtesy but states, “It’s a mechanic shop. Not a damn library.”
You ran your fingers through your hair, it’s always this name, this mechanic shop, this same complaint. You leaned back your swivel chair, your limbs stiffening from the shitty backrest they installed in your office despite you carrying the official ‘Atty.’ in your name with your name plaque plastered on your office door. Apparently, the city hall can’t afford a decent chair enough to cushion the assess of the attorneys that fund their city. You twist your heel to turn the chair to the side so you can stand up, you need not to read further down to know that this case requires an in-person legal follow-up by none other than a freshly bar exam passer to do the low-ranking errands. The case was forwarded to you as your first case and now that you're six months into holding your license, this never left your array of cases and came back like clockwork.
After fetching yourself some watered down coffee from the attorneys’ break room, because you’ll sure as hell need it, you got in your white, SE corolla with a labored breath as you backed out the sun-baked parking lot of the firm you’re working at. The South Blue operated as usual—heat lines dancing off cracked sidewalks, children crossing pedestrians as it's a little past one, and traffic crawling down seventh street. You recoil from stepping on the break, aimlessly watching the 120-second timer of the red light as you have a sip of your coffee remedied by four packs of sugar.
One more turn from the highway after sneaking in some deadly, sharp curve—Victoria Punk Wrenchworks will be in its full glory. It was impossible to miss, it’s a sight for fucking sore eyes. It was sickeningly gaudy even in the bright scorch of the Southern sun. The massive jagged lettering of the signage welded by a precision in rage-writing casted a blood-colored glow onto the cracked pavement below. It was a full demonstration of the mechanic shop’s loud identity and the owner’s flamboyance, his annoying lack of subtlety as the shop begged to be looked at, asking people to take a double look and take in the explosion that is his shop.
There lay the skull-shaped exhaust fan, a mural of a flaming engine with a crown on top on the adjacent walls that framed the wide, foreboding entrance of the garage where two cars and two bikes were seemingly filling up the front of the house. You can’t forget the insufferable muffling and revving of engines, roaring audibly even when you’re still inside the comfort of your own car. You took a deep breath, clutching your steering wheel to gather your thoughts, your composure, and your drive.
As you got out of your Corolla, you padded down your pencil skirt in red, tapped the tip of your heels in the pavement to fit them properly, hung your matching red blazer on one arm, and fished out your iPad to pull up the complaint form you knew by heart but were needed for formality’s sake. You were five minutes in the garage with the ear-splitting amount of metal scraping against each other and the awful smoke of gasoline and machinery filling your nares yet you already yearn for the comfort of your air-freshened car. Another back-and-forth, another signature you’d have to fight for while forcing yourself to stick to the legal way and not forcing your fist down this man’s ribs.
The receptionist, who was busy blowing gum while painting her nails, already knew your purpose just from meeting her eyes when you parked on the driveway. “Boss is deeper in the garage, pink Rolls Royce. You’d see him, Attorney.” She gave you a playful smile, not an inviting one but a mocking one. You coming here regularly has maybe become an inside joke, a gag, a comical relief for the entirety of his gang.
And you hated the chuckles you receive waltzing across the array of cars and the sparks that barred your periphery. Rows of souped-up bikes, gutted cars with exposed engines. You didn’t miss the elbow nudges exchanged between grease-streaked arms, guys perking up from the sound of your heels clicking on concrete. The constant greeting of ‘Hey attorney , back again?’ from the other mechanics was met with a contemptuous smile as you gradually approached the pink Rolls Royce in the back of the garage. You, the uptight city attorney, was a giggle that tickled their throats because they find their violations so damn interesting. The sheer guts and mindset that you can talk sense into the asshat that sits at the center of the lion’s den. In this case, lied underneath the Rolls Royce carcass with his lower extremities peeking out of the vehicle.
It didn’t take long for the culprit to notice you when his men suddenly became louder and the familiar sound of your heels meeting concrete reigned over the drilling and revving across the garage. He rolled out of the creeper he was lying on, sitting up as he smiled shittily at you with his grime-stained cheeks. The paleness of his skin contrasted the red fury of his hair pulled up haphazardly by a bandana. A signature look he always donned. “Well, well. If it isn’t Miss Attorney, lookin’ extra rad today, ain’t cha? I like the red in you. Looks good.”
He propped an arm up with one knee, eyes tracing the length of your skirt down to your legs before meeting your fake-corporate-smile he knows all too well. He pushed himself up the creeper, fetching the towel hanging down his hips to wipe off the sweat dripping down his temples and shining down on his neck. “What is it this time? Engines’ too loud or did my aesthetic scare off brats again?” He placed his hands on either of his hips after placing the towel on one shoulder as he towered over you, the whiff of smoke, sweat, and pungent gasoline wafting over your nares as he approached you. “Or maybe,” he got a little closer, way too close for your liking you had to recoil a bit as he leaned down. You see his brows soften when he got a whiff of your perfume before holding up your gaze, yellow irises adamant in telling you the passion this man holds. “With the way you keep showin’ up, I’m startin’ to think you like seeing me all greased up, aye?”
You shut your eyes, taking a step back and a deep breath, Kidd returned to his original height with a satisfied grin on his dark-stained lips. You lifted your iPad to view the list of complaints laid out by each of the residences involved in the case. “Six noise complaints—two of which are under the 10-PM curfew of loud noises, three zoning infractions, and one very colorful letter from a grandma who swears your signage causes migraines. And more importantly, let’s not forget about the unsubmitted updated occupancy and fire safety clearance after your garage underwent major renovations as a special case that houses combustive materials. To add more to your violations, you had the nerve to throw a sharp tongue at an inspector asking you to tone it down.” You showed him the list but all he did was give it a swift lookover and had his eyes fixated on you the entire time you were reciting his violations with crossed arms, weight shifted on one leg, and a subtle tug on his dark-red lips. “I’m sure you know this by heart just as I do, Mr. Eustass. But if these complaints keep coming back to the city hall within 14 days, your shop will be forced into critical situations—a formal hearing for immediate closure of your establishment will be at bay and with the majority of the city being obstructed by your daily activities, I’m sure you know the consequences.”
Kidd chuckled, stepping closer to keep the same distance you two had earlier. A vein twitches in your forehead by the sheer audacity of this man. “Two weeks,” he rubbed his chin, clicking his tongue and pretending to think. “A lot can happen in ‘em, right, Attorney? But we both know that these complaints can easily go away if I want to. Hell, I could get that inspection done before the day ends, aye?” He shrugged, smiling as he looked around. “But where’s the fun in that? I have to admit, I like it when you storm in here with your adorably, neat self all proper and pressed, breathin’ down my neck like I’m your biggest problem.” He scrunched his nose at that last bit, canines tugging down his lower lip after wetting it with his tongue. You saw a glimpse of the metal ball dancing on the middle tip of his tongue.
“But alright, I don’t want your efforts to go to waste. I appreciate the sentiment of going all the way here, in the damning heat of South Blue. Maybe I’ll behave if you agree for a date or two.” He used the towel hanging on his shoulder to run it down his face. “I promise, I may wear a shirt next time. Maybe.”
With the amount of times you’ve visited, seeing him shirtless was nothing out of the ordinary. Your nose flared, you brought your fingers to the bridge of your nose to pinch it. The sun was already hot enough to give you a headache and this motherfucker is skillfully making it progressively worse. “Mr. Eustass. I don’t go out with the citizens I work on, much less the person of interest that disrupts the serenity of the city.”
He bent down to his tools, seems to be done talking to you as he plans to get back to work. You couldn’t see it but his grin got wider, “Mm, got it. So I just gotta clean up my act then maybe I’ll qualify, huh?” He picked up a wrench, trying to catch your eyes. Hoping to maybe elicit a reaction other than contempt and irritation from you.
“I’ll be back in two weeks. I’ll send in an inspector tomorrow and I expect some development.” You turned around, on your way out as you ignored that last bit he said. He was always a cheeky bastard trying to flirt his way out of a violation. Well, with you—you don’t know about the rest that calls him out on his bullshit. But that’s the thing, nobody calls him out on his bullshit just as frank and bravely as you do. Much more an interesting one like you.