Investigator Extraordinaire

Ugh, god. Work was stupidly boring. Stiflingly, unbearably, idiotically, irrefutably boring. Why couldn't Dietrich just hand him a real assignment for once? The badge on his belt said 'IC-IC', just the same as all the other assholes out there breaking down organised crime syndicate leaders' doors and carrying out all the drugs raids. He hadn't signed up to IA for shitty, stupid, tedious, hectic, repetitive computer analysis work. He didn't even get a break! Four hours looking at a screen, an hour for lunch, and then another four hours. By the end of the day, his eyes felt like they were about to melt, and people suddenly became blurry and pixellated. Zen wondered how he wasn't already wearing blacked-out glasses.

Oh, yeah. Only the REAL intelligence operatives got those.

Maybe that file... hell, maybe it'd be a break. He'd been taught all this stuff upon his integration into IA, all these various styles of fighting, martial arts, specialist tactics when it came to CQC and even close-range gunfights... and hadn't got a single chance to use it. Hell, just maybe. He wanted a chance to really prove himself.

...but he was off-duty, now. He'd just come back from the meeting with the Prime Minister himself, and... well, he was doing his best to drown his sorrows, sitting there, cigarette in one hand, bottle of Amestrian Oettinger in the other. Maybe he'd find someone to talk to, perhaps someone to drink with. Ah, well. Who would come in this damn bar aside from old men and lawyers looking to take some time away from their nagging wives at home? It was stupid. This entire system, this whole vicious cycle... mind-numbingly stupid. Just thinking about it gave Zen a headache, but then again, so did a lot of things.

They were a generation of men raised by women. So they go to school, they learn. They get a job, they begin to make money. And, finally, when things can't seem to get any better, the world and its societal customs simply demand that they get married. An unmarried man at his age - or, well, at least a few years older - either meant you were a successful bachelor, introverted as all hell, or gay. Zen sure as hell wasn't any of those, so, maybe he'd become the exception to the rule, the outlier on life's grand old Venn diagram.

Hell, even the tipsy bald-headed loud fat men in their fifties would have rake-thin wives sitting at home stressing about the amount of calories in their daily salad. Hell, he'd seen enough of them working the beat as a city cop to know how it went. He'd spoken to most of the wives themselves, gaunt faces and teary eyes smudging make-up. It was cringeworthy, but you never wanted to be the person to inform them that they'd take in more daily nutrition through lying face down in pasta and attempting to trigger some form of osmosis.

"Psh, fukken salads," Zen muttered to himself, blissfully unaware of the strange glances he was getting from various half-drunk patrons, glances which definitely confirmed the first signs of madness in the bush-headed detective. "Overrated pieces a' shit, if ya' ask me," He swirled around the last two fingers of the pint in the glass, staring desperately down into the murky golden depths of the last of the drink.

After spending a few seconds being indecisive, he downed the last of the swill, and winced, setting the empty glass upon the bar and laying down a few crumpled notes on the table, waving thanks back to the bartender. He'd had just about enough to get himself feeling a little bit better about life, but just enough that he was still under the legal driving limit... the amount of detectives that got caught for driving under the influence was really unbelievable. You'd think that in their line of work, especially with most of them having been patrolmen already, that they'd have some form of common sense and discretion. Although, clearly, alcohol tended to eliminate whatever familiarity with the system whatsoever after you consumed enough of it.

Cigarette hanging limp from his mouth, Zen shook his head and exited the bar, sighing, letting a small cloud of smoke escape. Gah, they thought he was crazy, anyway. He'd only been in there a few times, and every single instance turned out to be a massive sausagefest. No women whatsoever, just middle-aged men discussing the latest soccer game and tapping cheap cigarettes over ashtrays.

Taking the butt of his from his mouth and flicking it off into the road, Zen propped himself up against the cracked paint of the bar's outer wall, the limbo between the entryway and first window on the right, stuffing a hand in his pocket and desperately fumbling for his keys. The Exige was only a few minutes' walk down the road, if he remembered correctly. Which he usually didn't. That car was probably the only thing in the world he actually had true, real affection for, and a hell of a lot of it, at that. Oddly, it was the only thing the Earth had been kind to him with; thus far, none of the hooligans in Creta's streets had even dared to go near the thing. And if any one of them did, they'd most likely be getting a visit from Calamity, the neat, compact, black-finished pistol sitting at his hip. Although that would just generate more problems and paperwork. Bad luck seemed to only beget bad luck in this stupidly vicious world that he lived in. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The entire thing was. As he'd said before. Lots.

Gah. Zen slapped his hand against the wood and hoped that the patrons inside didn't mistake it for vandals screwing about. Couldn't be too safe, really. Didn't want to jinx the only thing that had gone right in this world for him so far. Just about anyone walking down the street who looked hard enough would be able to see that Zen wasn't really happy with how Lady Luck had treated him thus far...

It was a cool day in Creta. The weather had be crisp and clear offering a slight chill to the air. The day had been filled with work. Trading some general documents over costs of war damage. And through out the day poor Emma would catch herself staring out the window in boredom sighing.

Now she was free from work to enjoy the sights of Creta. After an hour of getting ready the now well dressed woman stepped out of the hotel ready to explore. Dressed for the evening in a simple short black shirt with a grey shirt and white jackets on top. Her long slim legs hugged by brown knee high boots which the top was lined with a fringe.

rubbing her lips together as she headed to a nearby bar to get some directions to the high street with all the top brand store. A giddy giggle escaped her as she turned the corner before she stopped. Stood by the entrance was a tallish man who currently looked ready to hit his head against the wall. Blinking she walked over. "Sir...are you all right?" She asked softly. Reaching up to touch his arm she wondered if he had drank to much or was ill. “Do you need help?”

“Do you need help?” Now... there was a question. Did he need help? Of any of the many varieties it could come in? Financial, professional, mental, hell, even sexual help... y'know, to Zen, they were all the same: any one of them would be a boon right now. Life was constantly a ripe peach, ready for the taking, but it was atop the tallest damn tree in the garden, and all Zen had to climb it were sandals and a toothpick.

"Probably," He replied bluntly, sighing and puffing out the last of the smoke over his shoulder, resting his hands - keys now freshly held in the left - on the bar's windowsill and smiling as he looked up to the girl. Ah, well, at least maybe he could go fishing whilst he was here, eh? Get some use out of the day's excursion.

She had a strong Amestrian accent, but she looked... bubbly. Cheerful. Almost naive, but Zen wasn't quite feeling analytical enough to conclude that about her. Either way, she was attractive. Mid-twenties, sunkissed blonde hair, healthy build, body, and bust... not bad. Zen mentally began to nod, and then realised that his body was following, and trying desperately to pass it off stealthily, and not seem like some creepy human bobblehead, or a random crazy passer-by.

"Look, ya' were nice enough ta' actually engage in, ya know, decent conva'sation with me, so, I'll give ya' a lil' bit of advice," He casually jerked a thumb towards the door, looking oh so cool. Zen Howler, ladies man, with his elbow rested against the windowsill, stinking of cigarette smoke and grinning like an idiot. "Don't go in there. It's fulla' old guys and creeps," With that, he offered an uneasy chuckle, and took a long draw of the air through his mouth, and, moments later, his nose; that came naturally from being a chain-smoker, considering that the Officer almost always had one of the deathsticks propped between his lips.

It was filled with an odd, unusual foreign smell, definitely emanating; no, radiating from the foreigner. Sweet, honeyed, almost entrancing, like those blue-green eyes of hers... perfume. Mmm... it smelt really nice. Damn, he felt sorry for all the guys inside, all of a sudden. They didn't know what they were missing out on. She's tha' perfect lil' package, Zen said, grinning only growing ever longer and ever-so-slightly creepier.

She'd... she'd touched his arm. He looked down at her petite, feminine hand, catching another glimpse of her excellent hourglass figure as he did so, letting the grin settle back into a smile. This was... well, Zen was blissfully unaware of how awkward he could make it with his current actions, but... hell, hopefully the guy's luck would start to look up. Maybe she'd decide to look past the odd, strange exterior and perhaps indulge the man further in his conversational desires as he stared off into the middle-distance over her shoulder doing his absolute best to look as cool as he possibly could...

...and failed, just instead looking like a bit of a moron, really.

"Zen Howla'," He said, sticking out his hand and finally locking his gaze with her proper, those small, brown eyes fastened to her blue-green orbs. And then he said it. The one phrase which, time and time again, had foiled his many otherwise well-structured attempts at getting laid. "Investigata' extraordinaire."

"Look, ya' were nice enough ta' actually engage in, ya know, decent conva'sation with me, so, I'll give ya' a lil' bit of advice, Don't go in there. It's fulla' old guys and creeps," His accent was intriguing and she had to concentrate hard to work it out. More because she was tired and her Cretan was a little rusty. She nodded. "Thank you...though I was only going to ask for directions to where the Guuchi shop was... I heard in London you have an incredible fashion street." she tried to contain her excitement but this would be the highlight of her week.

This man was a strange one when he randomly started nodding but she smiled. It wasn't the 'he’s creepy get away' odd. Far from it he was rather interesting and she wanted to know more. His hand took hers shaking it lightly. "Zen Howla'," oh a name. Quite an interesting one too. "Emma Redderic." She returned hers to not only be polite but to start the bridge of friendship. "Investigata' extraordinaire." She giggled and chuckled before looking to him. "Seems I found the perfect man to help me, haven’t I?"

"Emma Redderic." Emma Redderic. Huh, she didn't sound too Amestrian. Ah, well; it was all in the accent, eh? Plus, she was polite and nice enough... Zen didn't mind. Didn't notice, really. Just stood there, blissfully unaware, as she spoke. "Seems I found the perfect man to help me, haven’t I?" Looking for the Gucci store? Excellent. Now this... this was work. If Dietrich had asked him to shepherd women to and from stores on the high street all day, then he would've obliged without any more questions. But, no, he got the bullshit job, as sod's law decreed. Fuckin' A.

"Well, Emma Redderic," He flashed her that smile. That smile which Zen claimed time and time again could make girls quiver and melt before him. Alternatively, that smile which would some day more than likely put him on the sex offender's register. "Ya've most definitely found tha' guy for that job. Consider me ya' street guide for tha' next coupla' hours." He looked up towards the sky; clouds were converging overhead, but they were thin and white, not thick, overcast, and an impending grey. The man stuffed his hands into his pockets and pulled out another cigarette and Sidney, the pet name for his black Zippo.

Engraved, embossed upon the front in white paint was the makings of a spade; as in the cards. It was fitting; considering the nature of the two decks of PVC-razor-edged cards he had sitting in his pockets, just itching to get out and be charged with alchemical energy and forced towards the nearest bad guy... damn, he hadn't even used the alchemy in months. He was probably getting rusty. Hadn't even fired Calamity, aside from at the range; he looked down into his shoulder holster and let the smallest, simplest of sighs escape.

Blissfully unaware of courtesy for that little moment, he propped the cigarette between his mouth and flicked open the lighter, rolling back the flint a few times until it caught light; the flame made a silent whoosh, and almost immediately, Zen threw a hand around to cup it from the gentle breeze as he raised it to singe the end of the cigarette and light the tobacco proper.

He clicked the top of the Zippo back into place and slipped it into his pocket. Grinning to himself, the detective knew that as immature as he was, whenever he used that lighter properly, it made him feel cool as ice. No, no, cooler than that... there ya go. Cool... cool as a cucumber.

Stuffing his hands back into his pockets as he finished pulling the longcoat around himself, Zen let a puff of smoke escape over his shoulder. Emma didn't look like the smoking type, at least; and as they'd began to walk, the lull in conversation had gotten eeeeever so slightly suspect. "So, Emma," He spoke out of half of his mouth, either drawing or puffing through the other half. It sounded as if his teeth were gritted or clenched together. "I can tell ya' ain't from 'round here, so, well... whatcha' here for, then? Business or pleasure, eh?" He flashed a wink at her, only teasing, not realising the rather unnerving connotations he'd just unnecessarily given that question.

So far, Zen had deduced she wasn't a native. For him, that was analysis enough for one person and one day altogether. Psh. Fuckin' bullshit. Too much work. Couldn't he just enjoy himself without having to think?

...too hard, at least?

She giggled softly at his accent. It was a odd one but not in a bad way. It was rather welcoming even. She turned her head as he lit the cigarette holding back a gag. Smoking was one of a pet peeves but she would hate for Zen to find her rude. After all he had offered to help her out. And he was kind enough to turn his head too. After all of that she couldn't get angry at him for smoking.

"So, Emma," The noise his teeth made was an odd one that made her mouth hurt. She winced herself cringing slightly. "I can tell ya' ain't from 'round here, so, well... whatcha' here for, then? Business or pleasure, eh?" She played with the hem of her jacket. "Well business but I couldn't turn down the opportunity to see the great sights and shops of London." She played with her hair nervously as they walked. "I always wanted to come here and now that I am...I didn't want to miss out on it..."

"Well business but I couldn't turn down the opportunity to see the great sights and shops of London." Zen flashed another smile, and rose his arms up to his sides, spinning and turning to face Emma, backpedaling at around her speed as he did so.

"Well, here ya' have 'em," He chuckled, and was sure to puff the smoke in the direction the wind was going - not Emma's face. "Tha' very streets a' London themselv-" Immediately, Zen, not looking where he was going, felt a rather large impact slam into his back. He stumbled and fell towards Emma, but luckily managed to keep himself from completely toppling; although he'd moved uncomfortably close. She could most likely smell the smoke; and either way, they'd only just met. It was odd.

After a few awkward moments, he swung back out in his own natural momentum, and somewhere down the road an angry Londonian shouted back at him: "Watch it, jackass!" Reaching up to scratch his head and chuckle uneasily, he spun back into line with Emma and flushed a bright pink, flicking the rather generous butt of his cigarette into a nearby bin - hey, smoking was killing him, but litter was killing everyone else - and puffing out the last drag as he shuffled to try and hide the redness. "I've definitely blown it now," He told himself. "Amestrian chick probably thinks I'm some kinda pervert,"

True as it was that Zen had an uncomfortably recurrent habit of losing every chance with even the most generous of women, he did actually mean well. Life just... really didn't have many positive surprises in line for him. Concentrating too hard meant stress; stress meant life got strained, life getting strained meant he couldn't be himself... and that was what had lead to the shit hitting the fan with Sidney.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying desperately to roll the unpleasant, ugly thoughts of his fight with a now long-lost brother back into the deepest, dankest locked pits of his mind where they belonged, he realised the entire train of thought had drained him of colour as the pair, locked in uncomfortable silence, moved past yet another shop which acted as a decent window for the detective. Score! Maybe he hadn't embarrassed himself completely. And, either way, if his eyes were working right - and they always were - he was looking fiiiine.

Emma tried to ease the conversation as hushed and irregular as it was getting. She was genuinely cheerful; well, he had his vices - smoking, gambling, the odd bit of drinking, alchemy, number-crunching - but... that wasn't what mattered, right? He shot an apprehensive look down towards the Amestrian and for the first time tried to analyse her, predicting and projecting. Perhaps she'd look past this bumbling, ignorant exterior, perhaps she'd look past all the bad luck... and maybe see him for what he wanted to do and how he wanted to help? It was... it was strange.

"I always wanted to come here and now that I am...I didn't want to miss out on it..." Zen nodded, slowly, doing his best to look much less like the comic-relief guide and more like a friend than anything. Desperately, he tried repetitively to rid himself that horrid smoky breath - he'd guessed that she wasn't a massive fan of it... most non-smokers weren't - into the wind as subtly as possible, but no matter how hard he tried, the taste of burnt tobacco continuously returned to his mouth, and, well, it seemed that all hope for hitting it off with this little Amestrian thing was slowly dwindling in the wind as he snatched for butterflies in a hurricane.

Trust his fucking luck, eh?

"Haha, an opportunist, are ya'?" He flashed her another smile; slightly more subtle. He was just... enjoying himself. No need to make it overtly cheesy, right? "Gucci shop's coming up," Zen replied pleasantly, gesturing to their left side as they turned to a halt at the nearest crossing. The light refracted from the silver raised letters of the shop's front from a distance away, the green light still glaring strong in front of the traffic lights as more collected into the crowd of those who wished to cross.

Her eyes widened as they entered the street lined with all the high chain stores. She had been looking forward to this for a long time she couldn't help the gasp of amazement that escaped her. What shop to start at? How much of her bank account could she ruin? She looked to Zen and before she knew it she couldn't stop herself from hugging him.

"Thank you!" She squeed slightly. The man had gone so far out of his way to help her she felt bad to just leave him. She let him go before shuffling. "I should repay you some how...." She murmured. Chewing her lip she taught before grabbing his arm. “I'll buy you dinner.” Cheerfully dragging him to the nearest store. “But after some light shopping.”

The soft jangle of her bangles that played on her wrist as she almost jogged beside him. Large green blue eyes shining into his as they walked together. Shopping alone was never as much fun as shopping with someone.

Excellent. So they were to shop. Riveting. Zen's favourite pastime. And, dammit, there was a small cards club down the road. Why couldn't they have gone there instead!?

He sighed and put on a brave face, seeming rather reluctant and awkward for an instant as she assaulted him with an early-phase tackle-hug barrage, but indulged her a few moments later, moving forwards into their brief embrace. “I should repay you somehow..." Now.... Zen arched an eyebrow. That didn't sound like a bad idea, in all honesty... "I'll buy you dinner, but after some light shopping.”

Oh.

He wasn't even going to bother cursing his luck.

Dinner was still a window, though. Despite the man's pessimistic attitude, and his idiocy, to a certain extent, he tried his best to see the opportunity for what it was, and reluctantly stumbled forwards in a lethargic near-drunken manner as she pulled him into the Gucci shop.

The stench of multiple perfumes filled his nostrils, sickly and sweet combined together. Ack, The man thought, trying desperately to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head and continuously pulling himself back from the brink of unconsciousness. Well, wasn't this fun? Ever the cynic, Zen Howler... he hadn't even taken the gentlemanly route, and dismissed her claims that she'd pay for dinner, and instead insist that it was his pleasure to.

Free meal, and, hopefully they'd get to know each other a little better. If she was here a lot, then maybe they could have a little something started... she was a stranger, but she was unusually warm. Zen, despite his idiocy and continual slew of bad luck, felt like maybe there was a space for the jackpot somewhere in the not-too-distant future...

He turned away and sighed gently, inaudibly, before returning his hazel gaze to hers, and smiling pleasantly. At least, as pleasantly as he could muster, his smirk weak and faltering beneath the gaze of those giant blue-green orbs of hers. "Uhm... so... uh... shouldn't we... uh... find somethin'?" Why was he fucking up now? He was an IA officer. Charisma was meant to be his specialty: he dealt with people. And now, underneath the true, honest glare of those odd, Amestrian, big blue-green eyes, he felt as if he'd been broken, shattered, and glued together again. He felt like a child in a candy shop. He felt happy.

And... and he liked it.