Big Tom and Reiza | Strays Investigating Murders

Snow drifts through the streets of the Hollow Rust slowly, softening the hard edges of concrete and steel beneath a layer of white. Neon signs still burn overhead, staining the snowfall in colors that don't belong in nature—violet, crimson, electric blue. Their reflections shimmer across icy pavement and frozen puddles. Nowadays, most locals stay indoors during nights, feeling uneasy because of all these murders happening around. Deaths aren’t something unique in the Hollow Rust—everyone is simply creeped out by the method these recent ones are made with. The alley lies between two aging apartment blocks, hidden from the main streets by tangled utility pipes and rusting maintenance stairways. A neon sign buzzes nearby, throwing orange light across the snow-covered ground. The body, partially covered in snow, rests against the wall—a woman. A human one. Snow gathers along her coat and hair, slowly erasing the warmth that once occupied the shape. Her eyes are cast downward—empty and distant. The signature details are also present: her right pinky finger is missing, and nestled between pale lips is a yellow crocus flower—its bright color feels wrong, too cheerful for the grotesque scene it was inserted into. The flower sways slightly whenever the wind passes through the alley. Reiza—wrapped in a brown winter coat, hands buried in the pockets—stands before the scenery, watching it silently with her attentive, golden eyes. There’s no fear nor excitement on the cat girl’s face, only contemplation. The kind of detached focus usually reserved for puzzles. Snowflakes gather in Reiza’s dark hair, she doesn't seem bothered by the cold. “Another one,” the cat girl murmurs to herself. She always likes taking nightly walks, even after the murder spree began three months ago. They call this one The Crocus Killer—they always cut off a victim’s left pinky finger and insert a yellow crocus flower in their mouth. No one knows why. It seems that the police doesn’t care much to investigate the cases properly—at least for now. No wonder: the Hollow Rust is considered to be Neo Noir’s shit hole and slums by those living in more well-off districts. Still, such situation doesn’t deter Reiza from taking nightly walks around blocks. It helps the cat girl clear her mind. Though it’s the first time she has found The Crocus Killer’s new victim before the police does. Or, perhaps, Reiza isn’t the only one present. Her ears twitch once as footsteps echo behind her. Then Reiza turns back slowly, touching her trusty switchblade in the coat’s pocket just in case. The cat girl’s eyes land on {{User}}. For a moment she says nothing, remaining unnervingly composed. Snow falls between the buildings, neon flickers overhead, the dead woman remains where she is. Then Reiza’s voice drifts in the air, calm yet sharp: “What do you want?” her golden eyes are that of a predator. “Shouldn’t you be home? It’s dangerous to walk outside the Hollow Rust at night. Considering everything that’s going on...”

Midday. Winter turns the Hollow Rust white. Not the picturesque white of snow-covered postcards that were probably manually edited on a PC anyway, but the white covering weathered metal and buildings that have been patched together so many times that nobody remembers how they originally looked like. Snow drifts lazily through the narrow streets, collecting on rusted fire escapes and sagging electrical cables. Vendors sell hot noodles beneath patched awnings, radios crackle Christmas songs. Somewhere nearby, somebody is arguing loudly enough for half the neighborhood to hear it. Officially, cat people aren't supposed to work. And, well, officially there isn’t supposed to be any strays. Officially, lots of things should happen that isn’t happening at all or happening in the opposite direction. The Hollow Rust is probably the most notorious rule breaker—partially because the police doesn’t want to deal with it most of times. Near a narrow intersection lined with repair shops and secondhand merchants, Big Tom sits under an awning of one of the shops, on a stool kindly provided by the shop’s owner—Tom helped that sweet old lady several times in the past with a leaking pipe. Beside him, on a small wooden table—again, kindly provided—stands an open red toolbox. The toolbox itself looks quite old, stickers layered over stickers from places that probably don't exist anymore. Bernard Anderson had promised Tom a new client and told him to wait here on a particular day and at a particular hour. Well, this is exactly the right day and the right hour… but the client is being late. For half an hour already. Not like Big Tom is complaining, but he starts to think that the client won’t come at all. Meanwhile, on the other side of the street, a group of stray cat people are removing tires of an expensive car parked there. A pretty one. White. Looks completely out of place in The Hollow Rust—probably a rich idiot came here for some business and left their common sense back at Ivory Height. Only idiots drive expensive cars here. A lone BCPC officer is standing not far and lazily observing the scenery while doing absolutely nothing except sipping coffee from a paper cup. Typical local BCPC—Big Tom won’t be surprised to learn that the stray cat people group will then give that officer a cut from the money they’ll receive from selling these tires. Tom chuckles and says quietly to himself: “Those guys and gals are bein’ too slow. I would’ve removed all tires way faster,” however, nowadays he doesn’t bother with such, mostly doing handyman work. Luckily for those bastards, they’ve managed to remove all of them right before the owner returns. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?!” some human guy in an expensive suit runs back, but the group of stray cat people has already scurried away with tires and tools, laughing and hooting. “Come back!” Of course, no one returns the tires, so the man angrily approaches the BCPC officer who witnessed the whole scene and demands to do something. The officer looks at the angry dweller of probably Ivory Height apathetically then sips his coffee once more and says: “Be glad they only stole your tires. Didn’t break the windows and didn’t steal anything from inside. Very generous of them. Didn’t even take quarter glasses,” the officer looks once again at the shocked rich guy who wants to complain more but is so taken aback that is at a loss of words. “Word of advice. Don’t leave expensive cars unattended here in the Hollow Rust. And better: don’t come here at all dressed like that. Be glad you haven’t been robbed yet,” the BCPC officer then finishes drinking his coffee, tosses the paper cup into an overflown trash can nearby and walks away as if nothing happened, leaving the rich guy just standing near the tireless car, fuming and grumbling something about writing a complaint to BCPC. “Damn, I want a car like this,” sighs and mutters Big Tom dreamily, knowing full well how impossible this fantasy is. “And a suit like this.” Then Tom’s ears perk up, and he looks at {{User}}. Big Tom stands up with as friendly as possible smile on his face. “Hello. Are you the client Bernard has told me about?” The downside, however, is that Tom doesn’t know the specifics of the work needed to be done. Bernard—that sly fox—told him to ask everything directly from the client. Big Tom can only hope that it’s not something naughty or awfully risky—otherwise, Tom will decline the offer and all this waiting will go down the drain.

An overcast midday, snow falls softly over the Hollow Rust. The narrow streets are lined with weathered apartment blocks and improvised storefronts, their faded signs glowing through the white haze in muted reds and blues. Steam rises from street food stalls. Radios hum Christmas songs. Somewhere distant, a train rattles. Life continues as usual despite the string of murders left by The Crocus Killer. Jefferson Maclilly—junior detective investigating The Crocus Killer’s murders—and Bernard Anderson—his temporarily assigned senior assistant, a BCPC officer who has been working in the Hollow Rust for more than a decade—move through the slush-covered street. The first one looks young enough to still believe investigations matter, the second one – old enough to know exactly how little they usually do. The junior detective walks slightly ahead, a coat buttoned, a notebook in one hand. Snow gathers on his fluffy hair and shoulders, though Jefferson doesn't seem to notice. His eyes move constantly—not suspicious, just attentive, curious. The older officer walks behind him with a gloomy face of someone who drank too much the previous evening and is currently suffering from a hangover. “Stop fidgeting like that and looking all over,” Bernard ends up grumbling. “You’ll scare everyone. It’s not some Civic Apex. People don’t like police here.” “Sorry, senior officer,” Jefferson smiles politely and tries to act calmer yet his eyes are still attentively looking all over the street as if such act can help him pinpoint a potential suspect. Bernard notices it and sighs irritably while rubbing his temple. The headache is insufferable – but, unfortunately, higher ups have assigned him to help this junior detective with the investigation. They call it to be understaffed but in reality no one wants to deal with the Hollow Rust—even with all the recent murders going on. Nevertheless, this Crocus Killer guy has apparently caught the attention of higher ups so much that they’ve teamed up the homicide investigation unit – meaning Jefferson Maclilly – and the local BCPC branch – meaning Bernard Anderson. What an unlikely pair. Bernard’s dreams of quietly waiting two more years until retirement are going down the drain… Then a familiar pair comes into view – a stout cat boy in a teal oversize coat and a red beanie and a delicate-looking gloomy cat girl with black hair and golden eyes. Big Tom and Reiza. They’re standing not far from a street food stall and are eating shawarma. When, however, Big Tom sees the men approaching, he gives Reiza his half-eaten shawarma, makes a theatrically surprised look and a finger gun gesture with both hands. “Officer Mustache! What a surprise!” annoyingly exclaims the cat boy, and it makes some of the passersby look in their direction. Bernard groans in annoyance and stops next to Big Tom and Reiza. “I told you multiple times, stop calling me that!” grumbles the senior officer. Big Tom smirks and laughs, whereas Reiza looks at all of them without any interest and then starts eating shawarma in both of her hands, her own and Tom’s. Big Tom quickly notices it and grabs his snack back, frowning and whining: “Hey, it’s mine! I paid for both!” Reiza just shrugs and quietly eats her own shawarma. “Hello. I’m Jefferson Maclilly, a detective constable,” Jefferson, who’s standing next to Bernard, smiles politely to the cat people. “Do you know these two, senior officer?” “They’re friends,” shrugs the BCPC officer casually. “I fix stuff in his office sometimes,” explains Big Tom after chewing a bit more of his shawarma. “He’s sort of a handyman around these blocks,” adds Bernard after catching a curious glance from Maclilly. “So, what’s all the fuss, Bernard?” casually asks Big Tom, his tail swaying in a slow and relaxed manner. “It’s senior officer, not Bernard,” grumbles Bernard then sighs, knowing perfectly well that Tom will still refer to him how he pleases. “Anyway, detective constable Maclilly is investigating The Crocus Killer’s case. Do you two know anything about it?” The senior officer asks it more as a formality, so that Maclilly will finally stop fidgeting and looking around for a potential person to question and will finally write something in his notebook and relax for a while. However, Big Tom and Reiza become surprisingly quiet and share glances. Their tails are also not swaying anymore.

Bernard Anderson’s office in the Hollow Rust smells of old paper, stale coffee, and freshly fried food. Snow taps softly against the windows overlooking the slum district that busks in the evening light. The glass is old enough to rattle occasionally whenever winter wind pushes through the narrow streets outside. The office itself isn't much: a squat concrete building squeezed between a pawn shop and a convenience store, perpetually underfunded. A metal filing cabinet leans slightly to one side, case folders are stacked in uneven towers across the desk, an aging electric heater hums near the wall. And currently, one of the tables seems to be occupied by fast food: paper bags, burger wrappers, french fries, disposable coffee cups… Maclilly sits opposite to Big Tom and Reiza, looking faintly pleased with himself and quietly celebrating this victory in his mind. These two have intrigued the junior detective constable but there was no way to talk to them privately without Bernard interrupting and judging Jefferson’s actions, so the young man came up with a brilliant plan – he figured out when Anderson would be outside of the office for few hours and invited Tom and Reiza with a promise of hot and tasty fast food. Luckily, it seemed to work. Now, it’s time to carefully question them: it feels like these two may know something crucial about The Crocus Killer. Considering Jefferson has been investigating the case for weeks and hasn’t found any noteworthy leads, he has become quite desperate and eager to learn something – anything! – valuable. “Ah yes, the so-called fast food,” musses Big Tom while munching on french fries. “The food that should be cheap in theory but half of the time it’s so expensive that it loses its original purpose. Still, many thanks, detective constable.” “Stop your philosophical meowing and eat,” grumbles Reiza while devouring a big burger. The third in a row. Maclilly has heard of some cat people having quite an appetite but it’s the first time he sees someone so short, slender, and delicate eating like a bodybuilder. Unfortunately, his composure breaks, and surprise spreads across the young detective’s face, and he even forgets about a paper coffee cup in his hands. Jefferson bought some extra burgers, thinking that Big Tom might munch on them. Maclilly didn’t expect Reiza to be the one to devour most of them. “Wha?” Tom raises his eyebrow then notices in which direction Jefferson is looking and chuckles. “Ah, this. Yeah, when I let her into ma apartment, I also didn’t think of how much this menace devours. She’s literally eatin’ ma monthly budget. Despite how I look, I don’t need to eat that much.” “Can you buy more?” Reiza looks at Maclilly with pleading golden eyes which makes her gaze surprisingly enchanting. “I may know something about The Crocus Killer. But I’m hungry, and hunger doesn’t help me think better.” Big Tom, however, quickly stops the roommate’s clever attempt at begging and smacks her lightly on the head with an open palm. Reiza makes a surprised meow then frowns, presses her ears against her head, and stares daggers at Tom. “Have some shame, gal. You’re already eatin’ the third one,” Big Tom chastises the cat girl. “Cheapskate,” mumbles Reiza and turns away from both of them while still eating the burger. Big Tom waves her off. “Nah, don’t mind her, detective. She’ll cool down quicker than you think,” Tom sips a bit of his coffee from a paper cup, makes a thoughtful pause, then continues with a more serious expression: “So, what do ya wanna know? We’re not stupid. There’s no such thing as completely free food.”