Realistic or Modern By Night, Known As (Closed)

[Obuzeti]

Japan, 20XX
Shizuoka Prefecture, Jaku City
2:36 AM
OST: Forest Swords - Crow

---

Sarkian closes his eyes and rubs his fingers against them in a futile attempt to get them to stop aching. It's been a long stakeout.

Below the streets are neon-lit. Jaku is a hive of illicit activity in modern Japan; not all of it necessarily illegal, but all the businesses and trades that flourish best out of the eye of administrative attention. Folk medicine, chiropractors, fortune telling, chemistry of every sort, flophouses and sweathouses, the churn of a thousand cheap air conditioners and the scent of a dying city on the breeze. Jaku had been a port city before a major villain attack had left the harbor too wrecked to fix - since, the city had slowly moldered into nothing, with a population of eight hundred thousand and dropping. If Mustafau and Fukaku are up-and-coming cities, this is the failed, rusted armpit of what had been Japan's industrial quarter, before shifts in trade tariffs had make the business of manufacture unprofitable.

He sniffs, rubbing at his nose with one wrist, and then freezes as he spots a new face. Tall, unusually broad shoulders, Quirk-gifted. Scales across the face, an unfriendly grimace, hoodie thrown up around his head. The amber eyes trace across where Sarkian is hidden on a mid-floor fire escape, his patterned, mulch-and-brick camo blanket blending in with the smoke-stained wall the Underground Hero sits beside, and keeps on moving.

Sarkian's peerless memory goes to work. No one local for him, but he keeps up on perp sheets throughout the country. This one's from Nagano, actually: Gaboon, a snake / crocodile mutant mix that usually pulls hired muscle for one criminal org or another. Not especially smart. On instinct, Sarkian keeps his eyes moving, and spots a van the muscle had stepped out of earlier, mentally reconstructing his route. The driver is no one he recognizes, either. Crates come out of the back, delivered by roughs into the back of a nondescript gas station that Sarkian knew for a fact was actually closed.

A dropoff, then. His eyes flick to the van's license plate and memorize it. More crates come and go. Gaboon climbs back into the van; it takes off. Sarkian waits several minutes more, as a second crew comes in and picks up the dropoff. He memorizes those faces too, as each of them enter and exit in heavy coats, stealthing out whatever the contents had been. It takes most of two hours before the final ones step instead, come out with the broken pieces of the crate, and stuff it into a fire barrel before leaving.

Another half hour elapses before he dares to move.

Finally, he descends from the freezing-cold fire escape, wincing as stiff joints pop from long stillness. In his heavy fatigues, the cold isn't so bad this late at night; almost five in the morning, the city starting to wake back up. His eyes ache from sleep deprivation as he trots into the abandoned gas station. The crate is gone and the shelves are empty, but someone on these gigs is always sloppy. He tilts over the trash can inside and digs through it with gloved hands.

And there it is: a fresh-glass injector, still with a droplet of black Trigger glistening inside of it. Sarkian baggies it and then ambles out, affecting a stumbling stagger, which, combined with his ponytail-length hair, makes him a convincing hobo heading home in the twilight hours.

He's got to catch up on his sleep, and then he's got numbers to call.

---

It's most of a day later when he's recovered and decent enough for a phone call. Rabian Anglov - by day, known as Sarkian - is a big, beefy man, broad-shouldered and tall, even by foreign standards. He'd grown out of the criminal-adjacent dockworker's union, pushed his way through a third-rate hero's academy, and come straight back home to cut a line against villainy in his home town.

So far, success has been middling, but the city loves him for it, even if as an Underground Hero, he doesn't publically acknowledge that, or even have a public identity proper. Too much trouble, and too many local enemies for that. Like most local celebrities outside the capitals, he's not that well known outside the prefecture - he hovers maybe - twenty-eighth in the rankings? He doesn't check often. Should.

Rabian grunts and reaches up from his computer desk, across the cramped space of his office, and scribbles offhand onto a post-it note: check rankings.

Meanwhile, he looks up the police bureau's number in Nagano and asks who's in charge of Trigger cases in that area. It's not the actual police themselves, but another underground hero that faintly tickles a bell. Something with senses? Missception, maybe? Or had that been the clue villainess?

If he can't recall it, then she's been making serious efforts to stay off the airwaves. Or she's new.

Her business either way. He thanks the officer for the number he rattles off, hangs up, and starts typing out a text.

(Direct calls to a hero for anything less than emergency reasons are heavily frowned on. There's no way of knowing when they're tied up in critical or life-saving business.)

Salutations.

The Nagano police linked me to this number in relation to an outstanding Trigger investigation that leads south into Jaku City, which is my jurisdiction. I spotted a perp that comes from your area, so I'm linking you in. I found evidence of a Trigger delivery at this address, and Gaboon as mook security along the way. Found a trace of the Trigger. It's not the high-grade stuff, but still, it's a push to distribute in a new area. Here are the license plates and facial images of the goons at the dropoff. If you can get a trace on any of them, let me know; if you've got a lead on current residences or places of employment, we've probably got enough evidence for a bust. Let me know if you're game.

- Sarkian
#28th Hero, Hero ID#219967 (verified)
Shizouka Prefecture
Official Email: XXXXXX.gov.hero

 

[thelivingvirus.exe]

Imai slouched backwards, internally cursing the existence of these damned plastic chairs. She had been waiting for well over an hour by this point, in the police station waiting area. Her legs were being stretched to their limit and her heels digging into the sticky tile flooring, the only thing preventing her from shifting uncomfortably in her seat every few seconds. She was a patient woman, by all rights. However, waiting in discomfort was not her ideal way to spend her afternoon. She already did this often enough during her patrol hours and during stakeouts and rendezvous'.

Nevertheless, it was a curse that came with the job it seemed. Her leaden eyes traced the patterns of the wall absently, gaze flicking back toward the clock perched over the front desk occasionally. Unfortunately, it seemed every time she looked over at the time, it seemed to peculiarly move slower. She could have sworn once or twice it even went backwards. She was more than familiar with criminal interrogations, and how lengthy they could be. The longest she had ever witnessed was a titanic seventeen hour questioning. Of course, the majority of that 'questioning' had been standing outside, making the suspect think that there was some deep investigation and legal proceedings going on. In reality, it was mostly the officers shooting the shit in the break room, and waiting to see if the perp broke a sweat and begged to confess. Most of the time, they did within the hour - sitting alone in a blank room definitely wore down any determination. Evidently this kid was a bit more strong-willed.

Her jaw tightened, grinding her teeth together as she resigned herself to her fate. Another insipid thirty minutes dragged along, with only the droning chatter in the office to entertain her. The temptation to listen in on conversations grew ever-present, though typically she could ignore such urges. It was only when she heard very identifiable footsteps nearing her that she broke from her trance. Immediately straightening up, her hands habitually ran themselves over the loose fabric of her shirt, gaze darting toward where she anticipated her partner to emerge from. As expected, the loudly clicking heels approached, giving way to a tall, well-dressed woman. Imai stood to be respectful, head tilting to properly look at the woman. Though she herself was quite tall, standing well above average at 174cm, she always felt quite dwarfed by the statuesque woman.

"Crickette, is there any news so far?" Imai absently straightened her jacket once again, breaking eye contact after a few moments to try to peer behind the Pro hero as if it would give her any additional information. It didn't.

"Nothing yet, Miss Sensational," Crickette answered with a slight sigh, her antennae twitching lightly. She understood how invested Imai was, and wasn't happy with the lack of progress either. Miss Sensational sighed, before giving a curt nod. "It will probably be awhile yet, you should probably at least go get some dinner, Mumu. I promise to call you if he so much as squeaks." Crickette - or, known more personally to her, Kozato Chihoko, or 'Chirp' placed a hand on her shoulder in an attempt at a soothing motion.

Imai's lips parted, eyebrows pinching together slightly as she prepared to argue with her. After a thought though, she simply nodded. Straightening a bit, she placed her hands on her hips and stretched out all the kinks and tension in her shoulders and neck. "Fine. I'll check in a bit later," she promised, forcing an appeasing smile. "Want me to bring anything back for you?"
Kozato waved a hand dismissively, head shaking. "No, no, I'm fine. I brought my dinner with me." Turning on her heel, she took a few steps away, her heels echoing on the tile. "I'll call you if anything comes up."

Imai gave a more genuinely satisfied nod this time, turning to exit the station. Almost the moment she did, her phone pinged. She ripped it out of her pocket, immediately turning around as she expected it to be from Kozato ore one of the officers. Instead though, as she looked down at her phone, she stared blankly at an unknown number, and a text that was too long to be summarized on her lock screen. Quickly swiping, she opened the message, curious at exactly who it might be.
Upon reading the message in more detail, her heart began to hasten, eyes widening. She wasn't entirely sure what Daboon was doing running with this particular group, but the information Sarkian sent her was exactly what she needed right now. Immediately, her fingers flew to type up a response.

Hello Sarkian,

I will throw out a facial recognition check for the images and have all of the plates run this evening. We have a suspect in custody as well for possession and distribution of Trigger, will see if he recognizes any of the faces. Regardless if he does or not, hopefully we can get a warrant to search the property. Cases have been steadily growing but no real leads until tonight, hopefully this will be a catalyst for the investigation.

I can send you my files so far as well as other suspects that seem to be somehow obtaining and distributing a lightweight form of Trigger. If we learn anything else from the detainee I will keep you updated. Let me know when you would next be available to meet and collaborate on our cases. The next three days are likely to be the most convenient for me.

- Miss Sensational
Hero Identification: #xxxxxx
xxxxxx.gov.hero

Her finger hovered over the send button for a moment, before tapping it and exhaling slowly. Turning around, she resumed her walk towards the more populated area, in search of a food establishment, texting as she walked. She constructed a message to the chief, forwarding the information quickly. Sliding her phone back into her pocket, she resisted the urge the check it obsessively, waiting for that telltale chime of an incoming message. She didn't want to get her hopes up too much, in case it turned out to be entirely unrelated.

 

[Obuzeti]

It was definitely less than five minutes later when his phone buzzed back, and Rabian blinks at his phone before he reclaims it and swipes a finger. Her response is both timely and efficient, immediately promising processing - a suspect in custody means that he'd struck with good timing. Possible collaborators, a chance to flip him with some supporting evidence - he nods, pleased. It's best to move quick when opportunities like this come through, and Trigger is currently the largest scourge facing his district. Other drugs still have their own market, but Trigger is unique in its violent applications, and trafficked almost exclusively by networks willing to use it themselves in a scrap; the regular police have trouble dealing with the power output and aggression of a squad of red-eyed Trigger junkies. It's the business of trained heroes.

He types out a response:

I will need today to request an extension of jurisdiction into Nagano, but tomorrow I will be in the area following up my own leads. I chemically tested the Trigger sample I obtained and this batch was mixed with high quantities of 1-Phenylcyclohexylamine (or Eticyclidine). Chemically speaking, it's a close relative of ketamine and PCP, but less useful and with more side effects; it's made very little as a result. I intend to track down chemistry labs and pharmacies in the area that either have been synthesizing high amounts of it, requesting the soluble components thereof, or have reported it stolen. It's a long shot, but if it leads me to a supplier, it'll be worth it.

Work your suspect; I'll interrogate him myself when I get up there. Would a meeting at 6:00 PM at the Nagano Chuo Station be acceptable? I tend to work night shift, and I expect to have a full night ahead of me once I get tracking.

- Sarkian

Productive! Even if he reads like a particularly nebbish chemist, even on this side of the email. Rabian grimaces, but clicks Send anyways. While he doubts this Miss Sensational is, herself, a biochemist, maybe she might mention it to someone who could have an inkling. You never know what cases and reports are percolating in the bowels of a police station at any given time. In the meantime, he spins back to his computer and starts typing up inventory requests to be sent out.

Detective work is, mainly, a game of careful and plodding footwork, and he's got a day full of that to get through before he can suit up again.

---

Japan, September 6th
Nagano Province, Nagano Chuo Police Station
5:46 PM

Sarkian grumbles, dissatisfied, as he steps out of the police car and heads up for the entrance of the station. His hero outfit is nakedly practical: a camouflage mix of greys, blues, silvers, and blacks meant for urban concealment, thick and plated underneath like motorcycle leather. Thick black gloves cover his hands, and reinforced steel bands, dulled by matte black paint, reinforce his outfit at the knees, elbows, and knuckles. His mask is a cloth covering, with telescopic lenses arranged in front of one eye for long-distance surveillance work, but his sole identifying feature in costume is an elaborate mandala sprawled across the entirety of his facemask, hand-painted in delicate black and white. His eyeslits peer through the East and West temple gates. His only other accoutrements are a utility belt - invaluable for any hero - and a back satchel loaded with gear.

He doesn't spot Miss Sensational yet, but that's not a problem; he's early, and the meeting had been an express one in the first place. He pads over to the receiving room couch, an uncomfortable little edifice already manned by a trio of perps awaiting processing, two of them teenagers in too much denim and ball-caps, the bright red splashes of the Rejection Clan emblematic of their allegiance, the third an older, disheveled man sprawled out and snoring. Druggie, most like.

Sarkian ignores all of them; big and broad-shouldered, swathed in dark colors, his mute outfit gives the distinct impression of a government legbreaker. Which, to be fair, he technically is as a professional Hero. It's just that the public tends to look down on actual leg-breaking, these days.

Give it time, he thinks.

He exhales, and sinks into motionless stupor, eyes tracking officers and perps as they flow by, the reptilian patience of the professional stakeout artist.

Miss Sensational is likely to make a - louder entrance, most like. Judging by the name, anyways.

 

[thelivingvirus.exe]

Sensational stared at his response idling, parsing the information. The formulation was a different one than she was accustomed to, she would need to get a breakdown of the drug from someone more educated on the matter. She had seen the breakdowns of several different confiscated products in her area as well. And though she couldn't personally identify each component or what it did, she knew one thing; it was evolving, it was being made stronger and stronger. And more dangerous, it seemed. And unfortunately, it was evolving faster than she was comfortable with. Her fingers drifted across her keyboard, occasionally rewriting her messaged as she constructed it on a whim. After a few moments of appraising the completed message, she tapped send.

I'll make sure to include our current chemical analyses in my file as well, I'm sure you will be able to make use of it. I should also be able to get the results of the tox screen from our perp as well by tomorrow. 6:00PM will be fine, see you then. -Miss Sensational

Setting her phone face down on the table, she clasped her hands together. A small sigh escaped her, as the realization sunk in. She was glad to have finally picked up a lead, but this was going to be a long night. C'est la vie.

The next day, Imai had gathered all of the relative documents - case files, the chemical analysis for the previous samples, arrest records, among other things. Her appointment with Sarkian was approaching rapidly, however there was still information she needed to collect. As such, she was already walking into the precinct with an hour to spare before the clock hit six. One hand held a large binder, while the other desperately clutched a disposable cup of coffee as if it were her only lifeline. Her gray eyes were fixed forward, as she walked down the hall way, in search of Chihoko. Stopping in front of the Officer's door, she awkwardly rapped on the wood with her foot. 'Come in!' was the quick response, and awkwardly pinching it between her elbow and her chest, she cracked the door open. The first thing she noticed was the small stack of papers already set out on her side of the desk.

Stepping in to close the door behind her, she moved close enough to the desk to set down her coffee and free up one hand. "Hey, Sarkian should be getting here in a while, have we gotten anything back from the labs or the identification checks yet?" Chihoko nodded, briefly glancing up from her computer to cast a small smile at Mumu.

"On the desk. Two hits on the goons aside from Daboon, but all of the license plates belonged to cars that were reported stolen." She announced. Imai winced, she had figured as much but it was worth a shot anyhow. After a moment for her to process that much, Chihoko continued; "But interestingly, one of the reports that came back seems to be related to the kid in custody."

Immediately Imai straightened from her previous slouch, squinting as her eyes shot to the files on the desk. Dropping her folder on the desk, she hastily snatched the reports. "Wada Makoto. He's been arrested on unrelated charges, however he's our Wada's older brother." Chihoko turned back to her computer, resuming her tapping away at whatever report she was typing up.

Glaring at the page, Imai scanned it fervently as if she could intimidate it into giving her more information. It didn't work, but it did intrigue her that this seemed to be a family endeavor. It also explained how a kid so young was dabbling in something as serious as this. Though she had seen her fair share of addicted kids, or high schoolers who dealt to make some cash on the side, that didn't seem to be the case for him. None of the schools reported a spike in drop outs, drug use, or particularly out-of-character students. This was something outside of petty trading or pocket change. After thoroughly reading through the reports, she slipped the papers into her binder with a nod. "Thank you, this will be useful. And nothing else from Wada?"

The officer shook her head, pursing her lips. "He's not talking. He hasn't requested a lawyer either." Interesting. Imai made a note to pursue information on the parents, before picking up her book and cup. "Very well. I'll touch base with you after, alright?" Without waiting for a response, she turned to slip back into the hallway, hearing Crickette call out affirmatively after her. Moving back towards the front of the building, she tipped her chin up as she saw a man that was undoubtedly Sarkian already waiting. She hadn't seen him before, as expected of an underground hero, but she had heard of him, a decently well rated hero. He was early, but she supposed she couldn't fault him. Taking a preparatory swig from her cup, she plastered a subtle smile on her face, approaching him.

She didn't offer her hand, as both of them were very obviously already occupied. She instead offered him a small bow out of respect. "Sarkian. I am Miss Sensational, I'm glad you were able to meet with me on such short notice." Her appearance didn't precisely align with her name - then again, her name didn't precisely line up with her occupation, either. Her outfit was rather understated, a simple black and gray jumpsuit with cargo pockets dotting the legs and torso, and a currently-empty belt around her waist. It had secure metal clips spanning the length of it, but no pockets as her suit already covered that much. As for her physique, the only truly notable thing about her was a faint scar across her eyes and nose. The fading betrayed the fact it was a very old scar, one acquired over a decade ago, but still deep enough to be noticeable if you were scanning her face.

Her eyes briefly slid over to the others in the room, before moving back to Sarkian, the corners of her lips drawing taut. "Lets step into one of the free interrogation rooms to talk freely," she offered, waiting for him to stand, before guiding him back down the hallway she had just emerged from. She rapped on the first door she came to, and upon there being no response, opened the door. It was empty, as predicted and she took advantage of the free table to plop down her binder. "Have a seat."

She herself took a seat as well, flipping open the binder to draw out the folder she had already organized for him. Slipping the additional reports regarding her suspect, and the identity checks in it as well, she slid it over to the man. "Here's all the relevant information I gathered. You can look over it while we talk if you'd like, or just read it later." She would be summarizing most of the information anyhow, but she understood a detective's curiosity about the details. It was like an itch.

"Wada Shingo; A seventeen year old I picked 26 hours ago for possession of an illicit substance and under suspicion of intention to distribute. Before this the kid had no criminal record, but apparently he was prone to being disruptive in school and starting fights. That said, he's a straight-A student." She lifted her drink to her lips, letting a moment of silence pass, foot tapping absently. "There was no luck with the license plates you sent me, unfortunately. All stolen. However, I did get two names based on the photos - one of them being Wada's older brother." She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs and raising a brow as she waited for a reaction to that information. Shock, surprise, confusion - or absolutely nothing, based on how stoic he seemed to be.

"Arrested for grand theft auto when he was a minor. Interestingly, his parents were the ones who charged him for stealing the family vehicle. He has been off the radar since getting released from jail, but I anticipate with a mark like that on your record, there isn't much else to pursue except for crime." Her words were punctuated with a slight shrug and her lips being pursed. She viewed it as a sad fact of the criminal system, though not necessarily one she could address. "No contact with the parents yet though. Seeing how two of their children turned out, I think locating them is going to be an important step so far."

Unfortunately, it seemed said parents wanted nothing to do with their corrupt child. They had yet to answer any phone calls, however visiting their home would have to wait for now. She waited, if Sarkian had any questions, he could pose them now before she continued. If he had begun reading the files, he would likely have already been through all of the previous arrests in the area for possession of Trigger - he could also note that it was a much milder form though. Only slightly stronger than the medicinal drug, but that slight difference meant that it was either being tampered with, or wasn't simply some doses someone had snagged from the pharmacy to distribute on the streets. It was clearly the sinister first stepping stone in an increasingly dangerous issue, as evidenced by the charges getting more and more severe.

 

[Obuzeti]

Sarkian's head raises, and he mutely looks over Miss Sensational before he gives a deliberate tip of his head, deep enough to be respectful. "You're prompt," he says, as both explanation and compliment, and stands when indicated. He has a much longer stride than her, but matches her pace in an almost ambling gait, whisper-quiet despite his boots. Inside the interrogation office he promptly seats himself and starts double-checking the offered information as Sensational talks. His head turns towards her as she makes the familial connection, but the mask makes most facial interpretation difficult - until he reaches up and unbuckles it, setting it aside as she talks now that there's a door between them and the criminal element.

His face is strong-boned, with sharp cheeks and a strong jaw, a pair of faint surgical lines tracing down from the corners of his mouth towards his chin. A thin, neatly-trimmed line of hair runs the length of his jaw, more a black shading than a proper beard, and his features are swarthy, darker than any tan would set him, almost olive. That sets him as foreign-blooded - Japan doesn't get enough sun, even now, to force that complexion - and that dark, curly hair and blue eyes reinforce that impression. There's a heavy touch of Mediterranean in him, perhaps Greek or Macedonian, and his skin is boyish-smooth despite a working record of almost a decade and a half; sailor's skin, used to much worse conditions and treatment than the shelter of a mask.

"I'm guessing that if the family brought charges against the son that their record is clean," he murmurs, eyes flicking across the file back and forth. "Parents might be good to get some back history, but I doubt we'll find any leads from there if they've disavowed their children so firmly. No, first - any reports to cross reference with his time in juvie? Who'd he associate with? Any behavioral issues there?"

He taps a finger on the rap sheet, naked but for the Grand Theft. "With a mark like that on his record, and with evidence of moving drugs, he's got to have gone for one organization or another for shelter - look for associates in his time behind bars. Records of visits, where was he released to. You work the angle of the younger brother - interrogate his friends, who he's been seen with, try to shake loose a connection. Even if he doesn't give anything up, tail him, see who he runs off to report to about heat coming his family's way. I'll swap out and talk to the older. See if I can rattle him."

His investigatory logic is smooth and logical - associates, evidence, patterns of behavior, clicking smoothly through possible avenues of approach; an investigator Hero in his element. No fist swinger or barn burner like All Might or Endeavor, but one that does his work behind the scenes, putting away villains smart enough not to strike in the broad light of day.

Sarkian glances over at Miss Sensational. "Let's pass the ground info to the Nagano police, let them do the ground work. Spread the net wide. See who panics and runs. If we've got two members, cracking one means we can compare stories against the other. We've got 72 hours before we have to charge them with anything. Let's hold on and see what we can rattle loose."