Since it seems people were actually interested in a FSN Buddy Cop premise (past the initial premise)... Well... Here it is. I'll be writing this during my other fics downtime so don't expect Arashi-level updates. But we'll see where we go with this. Flames and comments always welcome ^_^
Contents:
Prologue: The Cold Open
Chapter 1: Professional Arts Procurer
Fate/Buddy Cop
- Cold Open -
Emiya Shirou walked up the long stone steps towards the enterence of the Fuyuki Museum of History. The engineer must have enjoyed his Greco-Roman architecture because the towering pillars and all seeing statues would have fit right into Shakespeare's Julia Caesar. Looking along the sides of the large stone building, there were gigantic posters advertising the upcoming Gala this weekend. Something about Fuyuki’s three symbols of power finally returning or whatnot. He never really had time for frivolities like that. Cocktail parties and art festivals were things for the upper crust people with too much money on their hands. For him, he’d gladly trade those things for a decent drink and a good night’s sleep.
Finally getting underneath the museum’s archway, he took off his soaked fedora. It had been raining for what had felt like weeks on this dreary February morning. Looking at the large crowd of reporters mobbing the entrance, it looked like it was going to get worse. Giving a sigh, he pushed his way past the mob of reporters to the front of the crowd. Looking at the lone officer guarding the door, he guessed the kid just stepped out of the academy. Shirou didn’t recognize the rookie but from his slightly jittery posture, he looked less than a month on the job.
He raised his badge, “Detective Emiya Shirou.”
The officer glanced at his face before lifting the police tape and letting him through. He hadn’t even bothered looking at the badge. Evidently, his reputation even filtered down to the new recruits. That wasn’t good...
Walking through the ornate doors, he left the rookie and reporters behind him for the heated lobby inside. Taking off his wet trenchcoat, he examined the two story lobby.
In the center was a large globe of the world half submerged into the floor. Walking into the center of the lobby, he saw the construction company must have switched architects midway through construction. Though still made mostly of the same stone and granite materials the inside walls now switched to a nice Victorian flower motif. There were four exits per floor into the various sections of the museum from this cavernous main lobby. Above one entrance were the words “New Exhibition Coming Soon” in gigantic block letters.
Underneath that entrance was a flurry of activity as various uniforms and CSUs came to and from the stone archway. Standing underneath, with a cup of coffee in each hand, was his partner.
Due to police regulations, he no longer wore his cassock (priest clothes) anymore. In exchange, he simply wore the same completely midnight black attire Every Single Day. He hadn’t even bothered to change out his same old Navy blue jacket or golden cross. Shirou often joked that the fist-sized cross he wore acted more like a target than any divine protection.
As he moved with tempered haste, the former priest began to turn towards him.
“Oh please don’t. Don’t you do it. Don’t you dare,” thought Shirou urgently.
Finally spotting his partner the tall man spoke, “EMIYA SHIROU!”
His voice cut straight through the ambient noise and rebounded and echoed across the lobby. For a long moment, all eyes turned towards the two of them; Even the reporters outside seemed to have stopped talking. All Shirou could do was rub his forehead in annoyance.
It wasn’t really Kotomine’s fault. For most men it took an effort to annoy someone; something that could be switched on or off. It just so happens Kotomine was born with no switch. Whether it was with perps, uniforms, or his own partner, he got under their skin. He even had the power to make the great “Saber” scream in annoyance. However, it made him great in interrogations; maybe it was all that time in confessionals.
After that deafening silence, life returned to normal. By now, even the most junior of officers were accustomed to “the priest’s” outbursts. Walking over towards Shirou, Kotomine handed him a cup of coffee. He took the cup but ignored the priest's greetings. He'd done this dance enough times to know mentioning his annoying tics and behaviours only encouraged him. Instead, he returned to the business at hand.
“So where’s our vic?” asked Shirou.
“Over here,” motioned Kotomine.
They walked through the stone walkway into the new exhibit section. He took a sip from the cup while walking past several paintings and had to stop himself from spitting it on the ground. It tasted like the most bitter and foul remnants of humanity combined into a drink.
Kirei Black. A rank of coffee engine oil only wished it could obtain. How the man drank it everyday he would never know.
Looking back at the priest, he thought he saw the man hide a smirk. “I’m sorry. They did not have any tea available here,” said Kotomine. Shirou was sure he was lying. Waiting for Kotomine’s back to be turned, he carefully hid the foul concoction behind a pillar.
They entered a rather ornate marble room. In the center was a shattered display case, the cushion in the center empty except for pieces of glass. On the ground was the curator, dead on his back. He was wearing a suit that Shirou was sure cost more than his entire car. Squatting down, he saw the rather evident cause of death, a gaping hole where the man’s left eye used to be. Vitriolic liquid spilled from the empty eye socket and onto what was once a pristine marble floor.
“Talk about,” said Kotomine as he put on sunglasses, “a sight for sore eyes.”
“Yeah...” replied Shirou.
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by DreamsRequiem
