Weaving the Tangled Web (Fuchu solo)

TOBY LIKENED INVESTIGATIVE WORK TO weaving a tapestry. It was the job of an investigator to collect seemingly inconsequential threads of information, each a different color, in order to create the bigger picture. Independently, these different components were nonsense. But it wasn’t the job of the investigator to discard these threads, so early in the game—they were the collector. They collected the warp threads as they kept their eyes open for the tie that bound—the weft upon which the tapestry was woven, that helped create the bigger picture—

On the evening of March 22nd, Tobias began to weave his tapestry.



Tobias had been watching the news, hunched over a plastic bowl of ramen takeout, his chopsticks working steadily to guide udon towards his mouth, when the broadcast was interrupted.



Toby’s hold on the chopsticks faltered, sending a splash of miso broth onto his shirt. He made no indication of noticing. His attention was rapt upon the screen, hand frozen in mid-air.

Twenty minutes later, the bowl of ramen was abandoned, the television paused at the exact moment the broadcast had been cut, and the spot that Tobias had previously occupied was vacant.

A call to action—the tie that bound—

All was quiet, except for the periodic rustle of papers and the gentle whir of a printer in one of the rooms upstairs. If one proceeded upstairs from the living room, they would arrive on a landing, which offered five doors to choose from. The door immediately across from the top of the stairs led to Toby’s bedroom and, just through the first door was a second door, which led to Toby’s office. The door to Toby’s office was currently flung wide, and the crimson gentleman was moving feverishly about his room, swiping papers from the printer’s tray.

“This is PSC Hashimoto—“ a mechanical voice cut through the silence, “—Informant, you are to stay put until further directions are received.”

“Understood. Standing by.”

As if a mind like his would be allowed onto the front lines. The receiver clicked, ending the call, plunging the room into a silence that seemed almost inappropriate, given the unfolding chaos of the world. Three long windows were devoid of light, given that it was the wee hours of the night. The room was lit by floor-standing lamps, fans of forest-green made apparent in their brilliance. Toby strode from an L-shaped executive desk, part of which had become overrun with papers, and contained a whirring printer and desktop computer, past nearly a half-dozen fireproof file cabinets, to a three-meter-by-three-meter corkboard where some papers had been meticulously spread on the hardwood floor.

The Informant, already clasping papers in his hand, stood before the blank canvas upon which he would begin to weave his tapestry.

The weft thread had been laid—and it glowed a neon pink—

Tobias selected a pin from his cup, and at the center of the board, pinned a still from the hijacked broadcast—Ishtar, Sumerian goddess of war and sexual love—how poetic. The villainess was filmed from below, her hands glowing brilliant pink, hair wreathed with a halo of energy.

To think that they’d briefly crossed paths, so many months prior, aboard the IOL Endeavor in Shinagawa. If only he’d known how deep this rabbit hole went, then, as he did now—

Tobias wove the first thread upon the weft. He stooped low, retrieving a collection of pictures from the floor. Each was pinned ceremoniously in the bottom, left corner of the corkboard. Each picture featured a cadaver, each cadaver with their own hand-shaped burn in a sundry of locations. Some pictures were taken on the coroner's table, others at the scene. Regardless of the location, each had been a victim in the Black Hand Murders-- isolated cases, run cold over time. The latest, a single homicide aboard the IOL Endeavor. The handprints were the only external similarities shared by the deceased, but internally there were other implications of a single killer—trace amounts of vomit and stool flecked with blood, elevated bodily temperatures, abrasions from stumbling and trying to catch oneself, and bald-patches uncharacteristic for the victims' age and health.

Having amassed a cloud of cadaver photos, Tobias pinned another image just below it—an infographic on radiation exposure, upon which handwritten notes had been jotted—circles around the symptoms present in victims, as well as a circle above 10 Sv on the level of exposure. In his untidy scrawl, the words, “Can we prove it?”

Presently, no. But the coincidence was too uncanny to ignore outright. Tobias retrieved a square piece of paper—like a sticky note, without the stick—from the floor, as well as a pen, and wrote “Prove it.” before pinning that reminder between the Black Hand Murder victims and Ishtar.

The second thread was laid—another still from Fuchu, an aerial shot of the prisoners, a sea of teal uniforms punctuated by Ishtar’s accomplices, who were spreading guns to the masses—large, military-grade weapons. This was pinned just below Ishtar’s image.

In the bottom right corner, a number of photos of Sunaho and the Dust Devil’s, dated digitally by the camera that the investigator had used to take the pictures. Each image featured similar, military grade weapons—perhaps even identical ones—all taken within the last few months. Lastly, a picture from Shinagawa, an aerial shot of the Dust Devils as they boarded the IOL Endeavor. In October, the Dust Devils had toted bats, pipes, chains, and bricks

But now, they—and Ishtar—had access to military-grade weapons? Who was their source?

Tobias wrote the word “Supplier = who?” on a square bit of paper, and pinned it between the photos of the Dust Devils, and the Fuchu prisoners.

The third thread was laid—chat logs from the Tokyo Underground, dating back to December of the previous year. Highlighted in yellow was every instance of the member “Ishtar”—and circled in red, any entries of note—

On the 9th of February, Ishtar offered a bounty for samples of M.A.R.I.N.E., advertised at Shinagawa, or a bounty and technology for the formula.

On the 12th of February, passing mention of having met, and remembered, the Dust Devils—of an affiliation with the Kobayashi gang—and an offer of services such as “clean-up, weapons, and prison transfers and releases”.

On the 9th of March, Ishtar made another offer of their services.

Another member, Fix, was routinely seen interacting with Ishtar, namely in regards to selling her some of his tech—as an afterthought, all instances of “Fix” were highlighted in pink.

Each of these three entries was laid out, face-up, in a triangle formation, before being pinned in the middle-top. Along the periphery, four names were handwritten and pinned—Ishtar, Sunaho, Thunder, Fix. Four players in the game, of varying notoriety—four potential accomplices. Lastly, Tobias wrote the word “Affiliation?” and pinned it near the names.

Having created a somewhat nebulous cloud of evidence, Tobias sank to the floor into a cross-legged position, procuring two different colors of square note-paper. On the first stack of note-paper, the pink sheets, he wrote the following in hasty shorthand—

“BHM #1: 14 January 2067”

“BHM #2: 27 July 2067”

And so-on, until—

“BHM #9: 25 October 2073”

The most recent of the Black Hand Murders had taken place on the IOL Endeavor on October 25th of the prior year.

Each of the nine notes regarding the time of death for each of the Black Hand Murders was pinned in a neat little line near the bottom of the cork-board, from earliest to latest. Then, Toby rocked forward on his legs, further fanning a sundry of articles before him.

Each article, as the title suggested, detailed violent gang-battles involving military-grade weapons in the Tokyo area. Each article was annotated, the date of the confrontation highlighted and notes scrawled in black ink. Tobias rose onto his knees, bowing as if in prayer as he retrieved the dates of each battle, and writing the following on each of the green sticky notes—

“Mizutani-kai vs. TPD: 11 November 2073”

“Yamaguchi-kai vs. Sumiyoshi-gumi: 28 November 2073”

The list continued until nearly a dozen gruesome brawls were detailed—then these, too, were added to the timeline. Upon the cork board, it appeared that the weapons deal began as soon as the Black Hand Murders ceased. What was the significance? Was it tech from Shinagawa? Or something else?

Whatever the cause, it was the fourth thread—an apparent timeline, of events with perhaps nor correlation— Tobias added a third note, of an entirely different color, that read, "Coincidence?"

Tobias raised stiffly from the floor, cracking his spine—before him, the beginnings of his tapestry, carefully woven from the information that he had so meticulously gathered. It was only the beginnings, filled with gaps, but... it was a start. He peered at the still of "Ishtar", aflame in righteous fury. Her words still rebounded in Tobias's skull.



A smile cracked at the corners of the man's perpetually-downward expression. A queer expression, given the situation-- but this stalwart felt no fear-- but rather, relief. Ishtar's actions had, rather than rendering his actions meaningless, given them purpose-- every paper he'd squirreled away, every photograph-- all of this was a pet-project enabled by his role as the Informant. Her show-- well, her show simply validated it.

Tobias padded back towards his computer, drawing the blinds over his windows, and he sank into the high-backed leather chair, the light of the screen illuminating the lenses of his glasses. He would watch, and listen, and gather more threads for the tapestry--

ft. nobody, solo thread

quirk: c-rank burn, durability, heat resistance; combat abilities: jujitsu (e), magma sleeves (e), regeneration (d), cinder sprites (f)(summon); etc.: info. sifting (f), problem solving (f), interrogation (f), first aid (e)

ooc notes: toby, big brain!!