Chapter Text
Hyperion City. It’s dark, dirty, crowded. The city never sleeps, and despite the near constant neon flashes it still manages to maintain a dark haze throughout the sky, day or night. I love it . There’s nothing like seeing the rush and bustle of the city, just watching the people go by with their business and their worries and their cares. The higher up you are, the more beautiful it is. It’s gorgeous; everyone’s struggles and their problems are so far down below you, and it feels like yours are just as small and tiny, like you could blow them away in the wind. Sometimes I get up onto the roof, and I watch the wind blow the clouds this way and that.
But Hyperion City can eat you up and spit you out if you’re not careful. I’ve seen plenty of good people get hurt--sometimes they were being stupid, sometimes they were taken advantage of, sometimes they were just in the wrong place in the wrong time. It can get pretty disheartening, of course. My boss, for one. He doesn’t have much faith in anybody these days. He’s been boiled rock hard by the crimes in the city, but I can’t really blame him for it. It makes him good at his job, even if he does get unpleasant on occasion.
He’s got lines crossing the entirety of his face, like the whole history of his life is written out there if you knew how to read it. His hair’s gone white since before I knew him--I like to tease him about it, sometimes. He likes to keep it cut real short, military style, I think. I like to tell him that he should keep what little hair he has on his head, but all he does is just growl back. It’s fun to rile him up.
I guess I should properly introduce him. Jack Morrison, Private Eye. He’s grumpier than a half drowned cat, and he’s got more scar tissue on him than regular skin, I think. He’s got a real intimidating look to him--sharp, piercing eyes; the kind of stare that can make even hardened criminals cry for their mommas. He’s a veteran, I know that much, but of which wars he won’t say. There’s a lot he doesn’t say about himself, as frustrating as it is, but he’s my boss, so it’s not like I can really complain.
“Morning, Hana.” He’s polite, at the very least. I’ve worked for a few PIs before, and they’re not usually the friendliest of people--not the good ones, anyway. But Jack always makes a point to be polite, even if he isn’t always nice. I’ve worked for regular bosses that don’t give that much thought to anybody, let alone a secretary. He’s my favorite boss so far. I really hope he doesn’t kick the bucket anytime soon. I try to tell him that often, so he has something to wake up in the morning for. I tell him this morning, too. Just in case he needs something to keep him motivated. “I’d hate to lose this job,” I add.
“Punk,” he growls, but I can see the corner of his mouth turn up. Jack Morrison isn’t an expressive man, and it’s taken me a long while to figure out his tells. I’d hate to have to start all over again with a new boss. He secludes himself away into his office, and the wait begins.
For him, anyway. Jack thinks we’ve got a drought of customers, but the truth is that I’ve learned how to weed out the cases that he wants. If it’ll keep the lights on, Jack will tail a cheating partner, or search out a missed connection. But when we’re not starving to death, sticking him with those cases is like holding his feet to the fire. He hates it, and I hate his moods, so we’ve come to an understanding. Well--understanding might be too strong a word, seeing as Jack didn’t really get to voice his side of the argument, but I know he agrees with me.
The sad truth is, most of these people who come in asking for Jack Morrison really only need someone who will really listen to them. These people are always at the end of their rope, with nobody else to turn to. They need someone, anyone, to validate their struggles and help them find an answer--whatever it may be. This is the third wife this week who’s come in just so: nerves frayed, emotions on a hair trigger, her hair a mess and her clothes either backwards or incorrectly buttoned.
“It’s--my husband,” she sniffs. “I--I just don’t know what to do.”
I keep a box of tissues under my desk for this reason. It would save more time to have it out, but I don’t want it to look like I do this for everyone. I give everyone a special, personal experience, and they leave without bothering Jack and remembering how helpful we are. It’s a win-win scenario, and I lean forward to listen to every word of her story. It’s a similar one to many others--he goes out early and comes home late, she can smell someone else’s perfume on him. There’s many breaks to cry and dab delicately at her eyes, and I listen to every word. Sometimes I take a few mental notes about what to say in response to what, to make sure I don’t stop space out and stop listening.
“He doesn’t respect you,” I finally tell her, and I wrap my hands around her nervously wringing ones to make a point.I look into her eyes, and I keep my gaze on her. “He thinks it doesn’t matter what he does. You need to tell him that he can’t treat you this way.” The pep talk continues on for a little longer--I help her straighten herself out, and by the time she’s ready to go she face the world with a brave, albeit slightly trembling, upper lip. I listen to a man sob as he bemoans the fact that his wife hates him. I listen to all the people and sift through their cases until I find one that Jack will like.
Jack is not so impressed at my selection process. “Just once,” he growls at me on his way out, “I’d like to be able to not be shot at while I’m doing my job.”
“I doubt it,” I tell him. “You’d shoot yourself from boredom if I send you on another wild spouse chase.” He only grunts in response and strides out of the office. He cuts an almost regal figure--from the military experience, I think, but who really knows? Not me, that’s for sure.
Just because the boss is out doesn’t mean that the clients stop coming. I listen to them all, and I write down the details of the important cases. Jack will appreciate some of them, although I’m not sure that I’m going to give him all of them. Jack likes to think that he doesn’t need to attend to his human needs--eating, sleeping, taking care of himself in general, and sometimes he needs...a little help remembering.
It’s a little old fashioned taking notes down on paper, but I think it’s more personable than typing it as they talk. The notepad is less intrusive, more portable, and plus--I like it. It takes some time to type up all the notes and send them to Jack, but. Well, the fact is, I know that Jack’s job is dangerous. I don’t know how many of his scars are from the war and how many are from his work, but keeping busy keeps me from worrying.
The line isn’t very active--more often than not, it’s bad news when it does ring. Jack likes to screen his calls, but I don’t let it get past the first ring, clients or no. If it’s Jack, he cuts to the chase. There’s a brief second while I wait to figure out if I should bother with the standard greeting.
It’s Jack. “Hana. Look into the CEO of Volskaya Industries for me, will you?”
“Sure, boss.” He says 'look into,' but what he really means is that he wants everything. Financial records, gossip, dirt--anything useful. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Sometimes he just needs the one piece of evidence to steer him in the right direction, and finding it is easy enough. But sometimes--
“Anything,” Jack says, and hangs up. Dammit. I’m jumping into a haystack to look for a needle, except that the needle happens to look and feel exactly like a piece of hay. Lucky me, I guess. It’s just like any other case for me, anyways. I’ll look up anything I can about the cybernetics corporation and when Jack hears something he likes he’ll go after it like a dog after a bone. And, at the end of the month, sweet compensation.
Volskaya Industries actually has a fascinating history. I spend the rest of the day engrossed in learning about the history of cybernetics, from prosthetic limbs, to wearable items, all the way to implants. Jack’s visor is a Volskaya product. Just another new thing I learned while on the job. On paper, Volskaya is a flourishing, prospering company. Nothing else I can find suggests otherwise. I could dig a little deeper, if I really need to, but first I take a dive into the tabloids.
Jack doesn’t like reading gossip rags, but even he can’t deny that they’re useful. Like this article, for example--the CEO of Volskaya Industries is supposedly about to leave her wife. No possible way to know if it was true, of course, but I’m sure Jack wants to know about it anyway. Romance is always a strong motive for--for, well, something, and he’ll be able to tell if it’s true or not if he confronts her about it. I send him the more interesting finds, and start the search for any dirty money or hidden financial troubles just in case it’s not enough. The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and at the end of the day I get a call from Jack telling me to lock up the office and pick him up out in the outskirts of the city.
I don’t ask him why. I keep a fully stocked first aid kit in both the office and the car, just for calls like these. He doesn’t sound hurt, so he should be alright. The drive from downtown, where we are, to the outskirts, is long--but it’s never boring. It doesn’t matter how many times I make the trip; every time feels fresh. Hyperion City is a city of movement, and nothing stands still. Not the people, not the businesses, not even the lights. Even in the stiffer traffic jams, I occupy myself with the scenery. A lot of people say that Hyperion City isn’t scenery. I tell them that they’re missing out.
To me, the city is a living work of art. The way the lights all bounce and compete for your attention, the languid flow of people to and fro, the natural hum of being alive --I feel it in my own blood, sometimes, the beat beat beating of Halcyon City. Everyone else gets angry in traffic. I enjoy myself.
That is, normally I enjoy myself. Today, Jack is waiting for me, and this there’s no time to take in the sights. Everyone always complains about my driving, but no one can argue with my speed. I can make the trip to the outskirts in half the time anyone else can, even in the middle of rush hour. Jack knows this. It’s half the reason he called me to pick him up. The other half is that there are no taxis in the outskirts.
I always find the outskirts fascinating. Despite its name, there actually isn’t much gradient between the city and the sand wastes. Almost as if it hits an invisible barrier, the city stops abruptly at the end of the street, and right up against highrises and skyscrapers is the bright red desert, rocky and hard. The rocky plains continue for a while until the entire thing becomes a cesspool of sand, and although some bored residents of Mars like to go camping in the plains, hardly anyone ventures out into the sand wastes without good reason.
Jack stands out against the red desert. I can see him immediately; tall, straight figure, impressive scowl, pale white stark against the red rock. I pull up next to him and flash him a bright grin. “The Hana Song Taxi Express, at your service.” That earns me a smile--a quick upturn of the corners of his mouth, and he huffs a quiet laugh as he slides in. “Thanks, Hana. Take me home?”
“Jack!” I make a fake, horrified gasp, and splay my hand over my heart. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”
He places his palm against the side of my head and shoves me, but gently. “The CEO of Volskaya decided to give me a one way trip to the outskirts, Hana. I wanna go home.”
I’m not above blowing a raspberry at him. But I do start the car, and we’re whizzing off again, to Jack’s dusty old apartment. I actually don’t know what Jack’s apartment is like--I’ve never been inside, but by the look of the building, I’m willing to bet a fair amount of credits that it was his apartment even before the war. It’s certainly old enough.
“Did she say anything interesting?”
“She’s definitely leaving her wife,” Jack says. He settles back into the seat--I’ve picked him up enough times that the seat is already adjusted for him--and his eyes slide closed, but he keeps talking. “All I have to do is figure out if she’s already seeing someone else or not.”
I want to complain about all the extra research I did for nothing, but I know Jack well enough to know that it’s useless. “I wanted to know all the facts, Hana,” he’ll say in a disapproving voice. Or, “I needed to make sure there were no other forces at play, Hana.” I don’t know if it’s better or worse than him just admitting that he’s jerking me around. “And then it’s case closed?”
“And then it’s case closed,” Jack confirms.