FBI. Night shift.

[im_just_the]

The Italian restaurant is liberally surrounded with "Police Scene. Do Not Cross" tape. The tall man in the Eisenhower jacket walks right past it and opens the door. Apparently the police have accounted for this possibility as there is an overweight man in a patrolman's uniform with a donut in one hand and an almost empty donut box in the other. He looks up, hand frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Can I help you?"

The Middleman flashes an easy grin. "FBI," he explains, flashing a badge. "Night shift."

The cop nods in acceptance, then holds out the donut box. "Donut?"

The Middleman shakes his head in disapproval. "That would ruin my appetite, officer."

This draws a blink, a shrug, and a thoughtful donut munch or two. The Middleman has already dismissed the officer and is walking slowly around the restaurant examining things through an odd black device of some sort.

Comments

[im-just-the.livejournal.com]

He shoots her a "please" look. "What makes more sense, that a monster trashed a science lab or that a gas main exploded? If I hadn't planted your Zippo, some pink-skinned normal would have still come up with a rational explanation."

"People want to believe reality's normal, the ones who don't are freaks." He pauses pointedly. "And no one believes them anyway."

[define_hinky]

It's quite a little speech, made especially surreal by the fact that he's standing, Wendy has just noticed, in front of a wall pockmarked with bullet holes.

As he pushes past her, intent on some part of his investigation, she asks, "Well – who do you work for?"

[im-just-the.livejournal.com]

He shrugs as he turns his attention to the room rather than Wendy. "I got recruited the exact same way you did. When the last Middleman hired me, he never said and I never asked. Ida was already there. So were all the weapons and gadgets and things. Sometimes a box comes in with more weapons and gadgets and things, I don't know where they come from, they just do."

He stands up to look over at her. "Maybe Ida runs the show, maybe it's the conspiracy. Maybe it's God." Then he flashes that infuriating grin. "I'm just the Middleman."

As if it's the natural thing to do after this long spiel, the Middleman bends down to pick something up and stands back up shaking his head. "Doggone cops," he sounds rueful and fond, "they always miss the big clues."

He holds his big clue out for Wendy to inspect.

[define_hinky]

She tables her questions as she examines the big, yellow, floppy object that will apparently crack the case.

"A banana peel?"

[im-just-the.livejournal.com]

The look he levels at her is slightly disappointed. "Someone is eliminating mobsters in an algorithmic way. This pattern suggests an advanced intelligence; something far more sinister than simple wise guys."

[define_hinky]

"Define 'sinister'."

[im-just-the.livejournal.com]

He smiles like a kid in a candy store.

"You wanna know? You gotta sign up."

[define_hinky]

Wendy takes a moment to envision the possibilities.

She'd get her own Eisenhower jacket, of course, and her own weapons and gadgets and things. They'd team up, fight crime; she'd be the Riggs to his Murtaugh, or possibly the Lowrey to his Burnett. He'd be a little bit country, she'd be a little bit rock and roll. He could teach her all that action hero stuff and she could teach him how to dress. It wouldn't be an even match, that's for sure, but if a lifetime of being saturated in the pop culture ephemera of modern civilization has taught Wendy anything, it's that those are the best kind.

Eventually she shrugs.

"Yeah, why not."