Soldiers [Detective Conan] [Crow series 1/2]

downtown.

[sent: 5/8/10
06:55 COT]

Para: A. Vico [encrypted: claret@blackmail.corv]
De: mí [encrypted: kahlua@blackmail.corv]
Asunto: Update - Grand Marnier

Artemisia:

Your lady will be happy to hear that I've finally managed to reestablish contact with Grand Marnier. It seems that not only was my comms channel interrupted in some way, but her own blackmail.corv address had been modified. This was not a bug: her new address <jenever@blackmail.corv> indicates that her alias/codename has been completely changed. (I also seem unable to forward the email she sent me, to you.)

So much for the reasons. The details of her reassignment remain mostly obscure to me. Grand Marnier (or Jenever, now) appears safe and sound, and in high spirits as she works with the Crows in her new space (whose identities she did not reveal). She was cagey of course, but this isn't unusual: as you know, she never liked to talk about herself. For now, we will have to be satisfied with just knowing her new email and codename, and that she seems generally happy with her posting.

Best,

    F.

[received: 5/8/10
07:55 EDT]

-x-

5 August, 2010
Koto City, Tokyo, Japan

At 20:55 exactly, Gin pulls into what seems like an abandoned compound of dockside warehouses. It's much darker here, but in the Regenfrosch's headlights Jen can just make out some heavily weathered signage declaring that this land was bought in 1998 by the Carasuma Corporation.

That's one of those shell companies that kept cropping up in Tequila's records. I guess they're bigger here...

As they're parking up, Jen notices several other vehicles in the vicinity. She recognises Vodka's dark green old timer Porsche, meticulously parked; but the others are a much more eclectic mix. She counts two sexy black sports cars (one with a distinct scorpion logo, the other with honest-to-god race stripes), a cozy Honda motor scooter, a hefty Suzuki motorcycle, and a truly shabby Toyota pick-up truck with flame decals.

"Ah," Gin says as he's opening his door, "Tak, I should mention..."

"Yes?" Jen coughs in shock, partway through sneaking the stolen spoon into her backpack.

"At this PT, you'll be meeting several of my other soldiers."

Her head shoots up. "...what?"

"Pfah, all the shit you've seen and done, and this is when you choose to look so scared?" he smirks and slaps the car roof. "Davai, davai, Jenever."

Smug bastard, she thinks frantically as she follows him to one of the warehouses, labelled B12. Not only does he have to see my legs, but now a bunch of strangers do, too?

(He makes a point of showing her the access code, 9440. She comments that number codes alone are relatively easy to crack – he challenges her to do better – she says she'll have an equipment estimate by next week – he scoffs and asks her to forward it to Vodka instead.)

The warehouse has been stripped of its old interior and entirely replaced by something closer to a makeshift gym, lit up by bright white halogens. In the centre some kind of boxing ring has been set up; racks of weights and gym machines are shoved against the side walls, and most of the rest of the floor is covered in puzzled-together judo mats. There is a prominent gun cabinet too.