Vector's Memoirs; The Chaotix That Was (Part One)
VECTOR'S MEMOIRS: THE CHAOTIX THAT WAS (PART ONE)
by Foxy Boy
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Shit, I've never been good at these.
Still, no sense in putting it off. I didn't pay a therapist half my net worth for random advice.
I'm Vector. A crocodile, and the head of my own detective agency. Or at least I was, until it all hopped the 7:10 for hell.
But that's jumping ahead of things just a little.
First things first. I'm 5' 10", most of that muscle. My two most treasured possessions are an oversized gold chain, and a set of headphones. Neither ever comes off, for anything. I know none of that matters, since no interested nutjob will ever cross paths with me, but what the hell. Once in a blue moon, it pays to be thorough.
I'm sure it's obvious by now, but this auto-bio shit wasn't my idea. After the almighty nervous breakdown, I cruised into therapy, and the cute broad whose job it is to dissect my mind for a few hours a week told me, in her own Master's-degree way, that this would be a great way to burn off steam. I don't see how; so far, it's just plain annoying to sit before an ancient-ass computer, pretending any part of me is worth the time. And I guess that would be my "feelings of inferiority" rearing their ugly head... If I'm out a hundred bucks for one session, you can bet I'm using every shred of advice she dispenses.
But, back to reality. Money, in spite of my groans, wasn't always a problem. Once upon a time, this dilapidated office whose roof I'm typing under was full of paperwork stacked halfway to the ceiling; so much that, on an average day, there was no way you could squeeze past to look out that ominous twenty-third-story window three feet to my right. Not that you'd want to; urban blight's always had a deathgrip on most of the view (gotta love those inner-city smogominiums). Every sheet of eight-by-fourteen legal that spared me that ugliness, came from a prospective client only too eager to toss their troubles at me and my associates. And the pay? Well, I used to drive a Camaro, if that tells you anything.
I'm not even sure why I picked here to do this; it was the mother of all struggles to smooth-talk security into letting me back in, three months after I lapsed on the lease. The only reason I got the go-ahead, was because the building manager knew me, and must've understood why I can't do this anywhere else; even if I didn't. The place has sat empty since we left, and I can still smell the pencil shavings and that residue of black ink that could never come out, even if they took a sandblaster after every surface in reach. I guess it's not a total loss; this seat helps me remember alot of things, maybe even all but why I'd want to.
I should probably give my broke buddies some paper time. Back when we still had it, they were just as responsible as me... Maybe even more.
First, there was Espio. A short, purple chameleon, and wannabe ninja. He had the skills to back it up, but I've always held that you're no ninja without Asian blood... Like how there's no such thing as a white rapper that isn't a wigger. God help me if this is is ever published... The tabloids will be all over me like a red carpet titty-slip.
He had a way of seeming half a world apart, no matter what he'd engaged... The man could microwave a fucking burrito and make it look like some kind of spiritual journey. Everything in the world sat beneath him; and by that, I don't mean he was haughty or prideful. He just lived on a higher level than everyone else... Like he'd always known the enlightenment of a Buddhist's better dreams. Sometimes, it built walls around his conscious, making it impossible to carry an exchange. I've never liked the feeling of intimidation, and he could've made a living from nothing but that. It was the kind of fault that persists through life, just out of someone's nature. I've always thought of him as cursed, in exchange for such a clear and matchless vision.
But no matter how loose his screws, he always outshined what he tackled. If he could be any help, his ass was right beside you for the long and short of it. Countless, the times we would've botched a case without his keen eyes, and reflexes that shame any pedigreed cat. It's just too bad we went under; he's the only loss I really mourn, besides myself. In detective work, he had the all-important gift, more than able to ferret out facts like a... Well, a fucking ferret. He had a great future in this business... But if you're in this business, it's only a matter of time before luck pushes you across the 'tipping point'. The less work you get, the harder it is to replace, and the less you find, the less you get. So if you start slipping, there's nothing in the whole fucking galaxy that can save you from hitting bottom. After it ran the clear course, he followed it right down the crapper; Close to a year past, I'd understood he was plumbing for a living. I still laugh, picturing his lithe figure bent over a sink, trying his ninjitsu-ready hand at battling stubborn washers. I could say it's disappointing, to know he quit the field he could've redefined; but it goes far beyond.
Then, there was Charmy. As most would say, your typical under-teen bumblebee. Bright kid - without the depth and focus of Espio - but always a fountain of pep... like some long-lost branch of the Tinkerbell family tree. He would fly around, make you laugh, and do his part when the situation called; but when it came to life, he just didn't get it. Not that I could name what it was, but whatever it was, it skipped him.
In effect, it only showed his unquenchable optimism; like he never saw the bad in anything. Long past, it drew tons of respect from me, as a trait more than useful. Often, it proved the difference between a dead end, or success through some kind of unexplained miracle. That lasted us a sweet while, but started to age when the case files stopped flowing, and the bills started piling, and the eviction notice gave its own flavour of hurting. Hypothetical question: how would you expect the picture of tween-hood to end your problems when he's constantly convinced they live in your imagination?
Our last goodbye found him conquering the greasy platform of the F-monorail, headed for downtown with dreams of steady work and settling down. There aren't many times in my life where I'd say the moment seared its image into my mind, but that's the greatest memory would allow; watching him wave goodbye, not even trying to hide how his whole world was crumbling around him. I saw him fighting back tears, and with them, the last gasps of his childhood. I knew, as the doors shut before him, I'd watched the birth of a man... And it wouldn't have the same effect, if I'd ever heard back from him; but while contact escapes us, I'll wonder if he made good. He was more than just some airheaded kid, and even through his share of fuck-ups, I knew he deserved better... Better than for life to have skull-fucked him, like it does to all of us by the end of the race.
Oh, and way, way back before any of this shit even happened, there was Mighty the Armadillo. But Mighty knows what he did... The dumb shit knows what he did. And when those cue-ball street thugs bared the inevitable, I had every reason to stand back, and let them pull the trigger.
It wasn't easy, shedding a life I'd built from the ground up, but at least I had the luxury of experience. Since I'd started it, and managed it for its whole miserable life, I had something to fall back on. Not that the options were glorious... Right now, I work three days a week as assistant supervisor of a pet store. No migraine headache, save for when a shipment of hedgehogs rolls in... There's alot of bad blood between us, stupid as it sounds. But I'm jumping the gun again. It's no mystery why I'll never be the next Orson Scott Card.
In any case, I should probably skip to the meat of this little tragedy. At least then, I can count on some form of sympathy, from the bookworms wasting time on my private pity party.
It all started last year, September the ninth. I have no ungodly memory... I just recall the office door's squeak as I crossed the day off the calendar, taking a sharp whiff of Sharpie. Sometimes, if I stood too close to the page, that smell would latch onto me, and see the day through to sunset. I'd buy a new tie and striped shirt every month or so, just to keep brain damage at bay. Give me those, and a broken-in pair of olive dress slacks, and I was on my way.
It must've been the first morning Espio ever reached the office more then five minutes after me... Bastard was always there on time, and he picked the first day after that all-night celebration to break in a new late habit... By a full hour.
No way I could ever forget his suit that day, either... Some ten-dollar thrift store three-piece. The whole thing, from neck to ankle, was a nauseating orange... Like an old lady went to town with pumpkin fibers. Once the door shut behind him, his day-glo keister shuffled around like the undead. I know what you're thinking right now, and yes, of course I said something... My grandpa, God rest his soul, taught me three strikes means a guy is out. Besides, I was still holding half a mugfull of espresso in one hand, with the other half long past my stomach. So much, that my brain had now been formally introduced. In essence, I was on the ride every coffee addict lives for... The kind where you believe you could take on a sumo wrestler if you really, really wanted to.
Most of me screamed how good it would feel to play a few mind games, as revenge for his timing... But logic killed that in no time, and I decided to keep it short and to the point. "Been somewhere!?", I almost yelled as he staggered over to his work area. His head hung low, staring holes through the floor like a death row inmate on the way to his sentence, and he didn't seem to notice the Matterhorn of files on the left side of his desk waiting for him. And, while crawling around to his seat, he shot me an almost eye-rolling glance. Some would take that opportunity to proceed with babying or twenty questions; I was waiting to kill the rest of him for spazzing like an addict. So after he kind of fell into his wooden chair, I did what any stable adult in that situation would do; I walked over and banged my hands down on the top of the desk so hard it made his ears ring.
I chuckled, watching him hold his head in pain, but I somehow found the power to keep a straight face after his eyes flew open, and stared me down like I was Satan himself.
"Jerk", he moaned, "Can't you see I'm suffering?"
Wow, what an easy setup. "Nothing like business does while you're out there goofing the fuck off. Maybe those case files read themselves in La-La-Land, but this is reality, and in reality shit needs a little outside influence!" I ended with an introduction: the desk, and my fist. Just as loud, just as painful to his ears, and just as gratifying.
"I have my reasons, Vector", he tried to appeal, after squinting hard enough to exorcise the demons from his forehead.
"Oh? Well, then by all means, share the secret! And while you're at it, tell the three-foot stack of wood pulp to your left. The one with your name on it." I'm sure my asshole gear was burning in its tracks... That same stack would usually be half-size at nine any other morning, but after the coup we thought we landed - when the notorious Dr. Eggman hired us, then weaseling out of payment before Espio caught up - our picture made a few magazine covers, and the offers poured in. If I'd been smart at the time, I would've hired temps to make a dent in the backup, pink-slipped after their use ran out, and been swimming in dough... And I guess it goes without saying that I didn't - otherwise, I'd be typing business font on this dinosaur right now, instead of a soul-food, post-infirm diary.
But anyway, back to Moneyland. I was still stuck with a mountain of choices, and everything but ready for them, which was bad enough without my help zoning out on me. Even so, he had no problem finding my good side, and as dumb as it seems, all it took for that was to let me know the truth.
"I couldn't sleep at all last night", he kind of bellowed weakly. "The lights and noise from Station Square were horrible."
It made enough sense to satisfy. My apartment - twenty floors up in this same building - faced away from the square, but it had bothered me too, enough to craft a little sympathy. Fuck you, you star-throwing freak, for cooling my anger so easily. "I'm not surprised", I replied through a smirk. "Half the city was a circle-jerk over Sonic, Tails and Knuckles. There's no better way to say 'thank you for saving our collective ass' than to yell, scream, and down spirits like it's five days to prohibition."
"I'm sure it was nice while it lasted", he groaned, showing few signs of life. "Why couldn't we have been a part of that?"
"Because we weren't invited. They shunned us for the same reason they shunned Shadow, Omega, Rouge, Amy, Big and Cream. We didn't keep their city from getting vaporized, and they know it. We just helped the 'real' heroes do their job."
"That's not what I meant." He snatched a file from the stack and started through it. At that point, I'd pretty much lost interest in what he had to say (Yes, I'm an asshole), and was ready to cut the workload myself, so I headed for my own desk on the other side of the room, where another massive stack was waiting for me. He must've been aching for drama; I no sooner sat down, than he snapped the unwelcome finish. "I meant why could we not have joined in the revelry? If we're going to live and work in the city, we should take advantage of what fun we could procure, as well. Timely, of course, but more than once a year."
I smiled, shaking my head, and took a random pen from the twenty or so standing in a cup beside me. "Fine. You go out and bake your brain cells away tonight, then come back in the morning and tell me if you feel any better than right now. And you should thank me for being that nice about it, and not lynching you for that caution-orange suit."
"This suit has a history you would never appreciate", I heard him mutter, saving the explanation. By then, my nose had already buried itself in a page, so I if he shot me a dirty look for giving him hell, it went unpunished. He must've, though; there's only so many reasons for a dead silence. My eyes didn't skew again, until about thirty seconds later, when Charmy flew in.
Yes, you heard me right; he flew in. I'd opened the window on arrival that morning (had a box of Hot Tamales on the way in), and somehow the little nutjob spotted it from the ground. Way to save your wings for important shit, I thought. So doors must be too retarded for you? That aside, I was used to him on the late list. With Charmy, an hour after I got there was right on time.
"Mornin', guys!", he practically screamed - into my ear - as he flew past to his corner of this white-collar Alcatraz. Espio, though still one of the undead, burst out in gut-wrenching laughs at me waving my arms in panic. Pixie Boy knew damn well I hated being surprised... And that's my lot in life.
Bad morning for it, naturally. "What the hell gave you a chubby on the way here?"
He sneered like a kid full of sarcasm before giving an answer. "A little girl came up to me on the street and told me I was her hero for what I did with you guys to help Sonic, Tails and Knuckles." His chest swelled with pride, and a head-swimmingly deep breath. "I guess that means I'm an important detective now."
I mimicked Espio's change, and with plenty of reason; it's a good laugh to watch his cute little cheeks puff out red when he's pissed. I waited until that little show to explain. "Well, if all it takes to be a top-notch gumshoe is the approval of a little girl, then line up the Brownie troop and start promoting yourself!" I set my eyes back on my papers. "You're not a hero to her because you're a detective. It's because you're a kid and a gumshoe. Why else would your first fan be so far under smoking age?" I looked up just long enough to view that same 'You're the devil' look Espio gave me, no more than three minutes prior. Now, while I enjoy being an asshole, I sure as hell don't go for feeling like one. And besides, I wasn't so ill that it slipped my mind how little he deserved that. So, like a bitch, I caved.
"I'm sorry", I sighed. "I guess all this overtime's getting to me. God damn our stupid policy of never turning down work that pays." Talk of smoking brought the urge to light up, so I fumbled through my pocket for a pack of menthols, then went for the gun-shaped lighter in my desk drawer. After seeing Return Of The Pink Panther, I knew I had to get one - and it was too great knowing every time I used it, Espio and Charmy stared like Oliver Twist for a few seconds to make sure I hadn't cracked under pressure, with the real gun and thoughts of double murder.
"You know cigarettes are bad for you, right?", Charmy shot from his corner, after voyeur of me taking the first puff.
My drag was so huge I went crosseyed. Not surprisingly, he laughed, until my retort. "On the rare chance that you make it to your teens, you'll understand. Nine in the morning is too fucking early to start feeling the squeeze, and there's only so much you can legally do about it." He just nodded emptily, slumping down in his seat. I went back to the files, but that morning it went a little differently. In the past while, I've lied awake every night thinking; if I could've broken the laws of nature - or at least sidestepped them somehow - I could've stood only feet away and watched as I drove a big stake through my future's heart. It was the moment I made a decision: one that poisoned all of what Team Chaotix Detective Agency could be. I thumbed through the files, only caring how much the sender was willing to pay, and ignoring the smaller amounts. Beyond worry over each of them, it didn't hurt that I knew they couldn't all be done right away.
After no less than thirty people's hopes were tossed screaming into the trashcan, I scanned the next one, and liked what I saw enough to halt the cycle. "Here's something that looks promising," I thought out loud, feeling their glances centering on me. "Request your world -famous services for an important dilemma. More info will come after contact. Choose to accept, and meet me at 1246 East Sadler Boulevard, no later than 8:30 tonight. Money is not an object."
It was no less than spellbinding how 'accept' was written as the only clear choice. I looked up at Espio, stupidly thinking he'd have the same enthusiasm. Instead, I got a skeptical stare. "I don't see this as a good idea. What kind of honest victim would strike the very cause to commission us?"
I smirked like the idiot I was. "The kind who would even write the last part. The more a guy knocks fists with big players, the more he'll need his secrets, for a shitload of reasons."
"Maybe", Charmy added, flying slowly over my shoulder with eyes on the same file. "But Espio might be right, too. It never hurts to be safe."
I took another drag from my cigarette, to reply through the exiting smoke. "Only trust-fund babies and soap stars have a life by playing it safe. Look at us; we're finally at a point where we can start to be a little choosy, and you're not jumping at a windfall like this? I mean sure, I see where you'd get your doubts, but how would you feel if we tossed this, and then a week later headlines spilled the fuck over with scoops about another private dick because he took the chance we didn't?"
Not a damn word in return, for what seemed like an eternity. When Espio finally spoke up again, it was a clear sign my logic only irritated him.
"I... Can't agree with you on that, Vector. We've got our hands full as it is with legitimate requests. We shouldn't delve into gray areas like that just to stay afloat."
I smirked leaning back in my seat, while my shoes hit the desk with a deep clunk. "Then that's why there's three of us."
My repose was short-lived, as Charmy zoomed in front of my face only seconds later. "Vector, you're not serious about what I think you're serious about, are you?"
"Why not?", I returned, hands resting in comfort behind my head. "I figured you would be happy to hear it. By branching off, I'm showing that I trust you both to tie up any loose ends in your own work. If we can each juggle a client, we'll be in penthouses before you know it."
"But... But..." He stammered, close to crying - thereby christening me King Asshole. "We've never split up before! It's always been us together, solving crimes, righting wrongs! That's what makes it fun!"
Maybe for you, kid. I had my own ideas of fun, and none had anything to do with cases or clients or this God-forsaken twelve-by-twenty rat's nest. But, after watching his lips tremble like a two-story IHOP with an elevator, the fire went out of my belly. "Yeah, sometimes. But if you ever learn how to grow in this business, you'll know it only comes certain ways, and this is easily the best." As his fear seeped out, my confidence took its place. "Shit, you know I don't like the idea of flying solo any more than you; we all bring a little something different to the table. But there's no other way to cover backlog without wasting time and grief on awkward temps, and I think we'd all enjoy a heavier wallet. It'll be a damn-good test of our skills apart, on top of that. Am I right?"
His head hung lower than Espio's. "I guess."
"Then it's settled," I announced, taking one more huge puff before flicking the butt across the room and out the window. "You'll both pick your own cases. If you need me for anything after eight or so tonight, you can find me at that address on East Sadler." I shuffled the file, before letting it fall onto the desk. "It won't hurt to save a half an hour."
No replies, save for a pair of distant nods. It was clear they didn't like the idea, but I had other things to worry about. Like how I would ensure they didn't fuck up their own assignments, once their choice was made. It came to another hour before Espio settled on a mid-scale offer, the doctor at a free clinic whose house had been robbed while he practiced. Charmy left about ten minutes later, headed for a family in the poor section of town whose life savings fell to a neighborhood scam. I had to admire him, if only for aiming high... Good luck fighting a business you know absolutely squat about, kid.
While they set off on their maiden voyage, I stayed behind most of the day to file away the crippling stock of leftover cases. I at least wanted to make it so that, when we came in the next morning, it might prove a bit easier to tackle. By some miracle, I finished before 7:30, and was out the door in plenty of time to make Sadler before the moon.
Outside, the city was still a giant landfill, not that it surprised me. Local government honchos are magnets for failure, and in that proud tradition they'd come up worlds short on the cleaning effort. So - of course - it hadn't stopped looking like a different city than even twenty-four hours before. Empty bottles, tons of confetti and the lingering smell of beer and bad perfume were all the masses left in their wake... But sadder than that, was the reason for that sort of night in the first place. Sonic and his two amigos were national heroes, so why wouldn't they get the New Year's Eve treatment from the boozing, hedonistic trash known simply as 'urbanites'? And for that matter, why would we; the martini-and-Lexus crowd has no love to show a trio of private dicks, and the blue-collar world barely knows we exist. Unsung, as always, but vital.
And I knew damn well why I didn't feel worse than simply pissed, despite so much proof of the blind worship showered over those dime-store superheroes. It's hard to feel disappointed with something you grow to expect every day. Besides, it was more than a little funny how fucking surreal it all made itself... Every third or fourth street corner held a token homeless guy, at home in his natural habitat, peering through discarded bottles with hope that one of the more careless sinners had called it a night before killing his Bud.
I would never have admitted this to Espio, but if it wasn't for the huge workload dangling over my head, one of the filthy vagabonds might've found my own brewski among the night's debris. When you're still standing on your own two feet, it's hard to ignore a party, even one thirty floors down that doesn't miss you at all while your head warms a pillow. Before sleep robbed me of my eyes and ears, I'd almost decided to bolt up and hit the town, but nothing could make me forget what waited for me when the sun kissed the vomit-stained asphalt. Why yes, I'll down a Salty Dog for the men of the hour, even though they're dry-humping a spotlight I should've penetrated. Not a chance.
Keep it together, I thought; just a few more blocks, and you'll be off spotted pavement shooting the breeze with your next paycheck. You didn't buy three hundred horses in your Z/28's 4.9 with regrets and emotional baggage, anyway. My head knew all of that - while I hammered it home at every doubt - but my heart must've never listened in. Funny, it wound up the first domino in a long line, one that only ended after toppling Team Chaotix like a bloody glove.
A big downside of living in a northern city, is that Jack Frost seems to overstay his welcome every fucking year. The mercury sat on 45, and my business-casual was no match for an early visit from Canada. It was a blessing the address fell within four streets of the office, otherwise my frozen shell might've fallen to break apart on a longneck, or a rock-hard puddle of iced upchuck. By the time I closed in on Sadler, I was practically running to keep warm.
It wasn't until I made it within a building of 1246 that I started to think of what I might be getting into. East Sadler was out of the main business district by less than half a mile, but the difference was night and day. From my corner on, urban blight claimed most everything I could see. The white-collar suits and fruity fashion mavens had thinned out considerably, and in their place walked your typical thug-of-all-trades. Most businesses that survived around me were of the 'adult' or 'alcoholic' variety, and didn't seem to be hurting for customers. I half-jogged a bit further, taking in all the beautiful decay around me, when I spotted 1246... And realized it was the only well-kept, honest-looking storefront I'd seen for several blocks. Some kind of grill and bar, nestled in the footprint of an office mid-rise. At that point, I didn't care who or what I could be meeting inside... All that mattered was the legally-mandated heating system.
In through the revolving door, under a sign that flashed "Sadler Sundries" in red and blue neon. I remember thinking how catchy a stupid name can sound, before my eyes went around in the place... And met the man who would seal my fate.
To be continued...