Crazy like a Fox:
An Interactive Pokémon Fanfiction by Kyra King, otherwise known as Phoenixsong Firebird
(This fanfic is rated PG-13 for occasional violent or disturbing scenes, cursing, use of alcohol and possibly drugs, and the occasional sexual innuendo. While they are normally not severe and will not appear in every story, the fact remains that they are present and young readers or those who are averse to such things might want to stay away.)
This story is dedicated to the memory of my uncle, Dwayne King (1956-2007). Just as Reinhardt Sterling always makes certain that justice is served in his world, may justice be served for you as well. I love you and I’ll miss you, Uncle Dwayne.
Well, howdy there, folks! I’m Phoenixsong, in case you weren’t intelligent enough to infer that from the little poster-info-sidebar conveniently located to your left. Then again, if you’re not smart enough to know that, perhaps you shouldn’t be reading this fanfic.
Not that I’m trying to insult anyone’s intelligence, mind you (though I’m sure we’ll all still have a good chuckle at those who were dumb enough not to know that, ahaha). It’s just that Crazy like a Fox isn’t your average fanfic. Quite the contrary, in fact. By clicking on this topic, you have decided to team up with oddball Saffron City private investigator Reinhardt Sterling as he does what he does best: solve mysteries. That’s right, people—YOU’RE going to be solving puzzles and mysteries as you go. And that, of course, will require some intelligence and logical thinking on your part. Confused? Allow me to elaborate…
This is how Crazy like a Fox is going to work. First of all, this work of fiction is not one long story (although it does follow a continuous thread, to be sure) but many short stories. Each short story is further split into two parts. The first part is the Mystery. In this first part, you’ll read a story about our hero Sterling and some sort of mysterious mystery, puzzling puzzle or other confounding conundrum that he has to solve if he wants to get paid. Peculiar as Sterling is, however (as you’ll find out once I’ve introduced you to him), he’s a genius, and he can usually figure out the answer by the end of the Mystery part. The question is… can you?
If you read through each Mystery very carefully, you’ll find that all of the clues you need to solve it are right there in front of you; you just have to know what you might be looking for and how to distinguish it from a red herring. The trick to solving the mystery can be one of a number of things, or sometimes a combination of those things. For example, while in one Mystery you might need to use process of elimination to find a culprit, in another you might have to rely on your common sense to determine what about a suspect’s story just doesn’t fit.
And, of course, since this is a Pokémon story being shared with a Pokémon board, it just wouldn’t be complete if some of those Mysteries didn’t have to do with a little Pokémon problem solving. You might have to draw on all of your Pokémon knowledge to figure out the answer, and it could be knowledge about almost any facet of the game. (Yes, I said the game. The world of Crazy like a Fox has absolutely nothing to do with the world of the anime [which I hate anyway], and as such no Mystery will involve knowledge of said annoying televised drivel. Also, as far as I can see right now, the only aspect of the games that will not apply to this fic is anything concerning humans. Humans do not exist in the world of this story.) You might have to think about type-trumping, the effects of held items or where a certain Pokémon can be found in the wild… almost anything is fair game as long as crafty little moi can find a way to translate it into this story. You’d best keep your wits about you and be open to any possibility if you want half a chance of solving the case. Also note that I make no promises or statements about the difficulty of solving any given Mystery. If you feel that the most recent ones have been either too hard or too easy, however, you can let me know and I’ll see what I can do for you. Not that I’m going to baby anyone, mind you.
After you’ve read the Mystery, you can take your time trying to work out the answer. If you’d like to take a guess at it, please PM it to me; don’t discuss it here, as you might spoil it for someone else or at least influence their answer. I’m not going to tell you whether or not you’re right, however; you’ll just have to wait. After three days have passed since the current Mystery ended, I will no longer accept submissions for the answer. Instead, I’ll post the second part of the story: the Solution. Sterling or another character will walk you through solving the Mystery, and as such you’ll be able to see how well you did. Then I’ll post the next Mystery and we can do it all over again! Sounds like fun, right? (Oh, and don’t worry about delays between the posting of the Mystery and the Solution. I write them both at once, as though they were one continuous story, and then post them one part at a time. I cannot, however, promise regular updates to the Mysteries. I’ll do my best to post them according to some sort of schedule, but don’t get your hopes up. Feel free to wing a stick at me if it’s been too long [say, three weeks to a month or more] and tell me to get my rear in gear and write another one.)
That’s all you need to know about how this fic will work; at least, it is until I come up with some other wicked and devious way to torment you. The last thing I want to say is that, quite frankly, I haven’t actually written any lengthy projects or fics in years. I like to pretend that I’m a “decent” author, but I’m so rusty that I don’t even know if I’m up to *that* standard any longer. Furthermore, I also rushed this first one just a little bit because I was determined to post this before the GPs. Not that I’m expecting a nomination or anything; that’s just the deadline I set for myself because I figured I needed one in order to get back into the swing of writing. As such, bear with me if my writing sucks at first. Just let me know (politely, of course) what I need to improve on, and hopefully each Mystery will get better and better as we go on.
So, uh, my apologies for the long author’s notes (I generally try to keep them short and sweet, if I use them at all, but sometimes that’s just impossible), but there you go. Are you all ready? Then grab your magnifying glass, set your brain on uber-logic-mode, pull on a trenchcoat and a Dick Tracy fedora and get to work solving crime!
~Crazy like a Phoenix
*~*~*
The Introductory Mystery: The Thief that Struck like Lightning
The polite adjective to use when describing Reinhardt Sterling was eccentric. The adjective used more commonly by the citizens of Saffron City was crazy.
Then again, what else would one call a man like Sterling? At first glance, he looked like a normal Ninetales: tallish, same luxurious, cream-colored fur with tan points here and there, same red eyes and reddish hair. He dressed impeccably; most people expected that from such an elegant-looking Pokémon, though. Sterling never bought designer clothing, as he considered it a spectacular waste of his hard-earned money, but the clothes he did purchase invariably looked just as impressive and dashing when he wore them despite their less-than-impressive and probably-not-that-dashing prices.
He talked funny, though. Sterling’s mode of speech was often very wordy, roundabout and somewhat antiquated; “I suppose I do have a tendency to be verbose and loquacious when I speak,” as he put it. It was not altogether too rare for Sterling’s various employers to have to break out the dictionary from time to time when he spoke to them.
Sterling could be pretty creepy, too. His manners were as gentlemanly as they come, of course, but he had a habit of popping up in places no one would quite expect him to be. The people of Saffron often felt like the fox was everywhere at once and could suddenly appear at any given moment; it made them all feel rather paranoid. Some said all Ninetales could do that, or something like it, at least. Most, though, said it was just another disturbing Sterling thing. Some even said it was some sort of psycho black magic he practiced… which the others dismissed as ridiculous before telling the ones who had made the suggestion to get out of the twelfth century. At least, they hoped it was ridiculous. One never knew with Reinhardt Sterling.
A similar debate cropped up over his smile. Sterling wore a slight but constant smile at all but the gravest times; it seemed at once friendly, haughty, knowing and slightly sinister. “All foxes smile like that,” people would reassure themselves. “They’re all sly and crafty, and they’ve all got that high-and-mighty smug look on their faces. It’s normal.” “Normal” as it was, however, Sterling’s ever-present smirk unnerved them. It gave them the impression that he was plotting something whenever his ruby eyes met their own, like he was going to… eat them, or something.
What really got people, though, was the hats. While everything else about the Ninetales gave him the intriguing air of a suave, debonair and moderately mad supervillain, the hats were what convinced them that Sterling was just plain crazy.
He had literally hundreds of the things in his house. Most people didn’t want to go inside there, mind you, but they’d all heard from someplace or another that he had whole closets, even a library room of sorts, filled with nothing but hats. And each hat was different. It didn’t matter how old the hat was, where it was from, what it looked like or even whether the hat was intended for use by a male or a female; if it went on your head, it went into Sterling’s prized chapeau collection. From fedoras to fezes to headdresses to mobcaps, the myriad hats were like Sterling’s children and he would do just about anything for them or to get his hands on another specimen.
He even wore those hats out in public, too, and every single day it was a different one. Monday morning Sterling might step out of his front door sporting a snazzy red beret; on Tuesday people would see him in a rainbow-colored propeller beanie; come Sunday he would have been spotted in a baseball cap, a top hat, a sombrero, a turban and a bicycle helmet, and of course he hadn’t even put a dent in exhausting his collection. Most of the time the hats did not match or even clashed violently with whatever otherwise perfect outfit Sterling wore, and he attracted rather more than his fair share of stares and snickers. It didn’t bother him, however; no matter what anyone did or said, he would go about his business with an intimidating smile on his face and a ridiculous hat on his head.
Yes, there was absolutely no doubt in the collective mind of Saffron City that Reinhardt Sterling was crazy. And yet, while he would have been something of a pariah in most other cities, or even asked (or forced) to leave town, the citizens of Saffron were glad to have their resident lunatic around. Crazy as Sterling was, they all knew there was a method in his madness. There had to be.
How else could he possibly be the best private investigator Kanto had ever seen?
*~*~*
“It’s… it’s… the… the… the maid, right?” John banged a heavy fist on Sterling’s desk and sat back with a satisfied smile on his short, thick muzzle. “The maid was lying because she said she didn’t know anything about the book, but she had been talking about it to the butler! Right, Reinhardt? Did I get it this time?”
Sterling looked across his desk at his friend, smiling as always but shaking his head. John Barrett the Ursaring was his assistant in his small, private investigation operation. John was nothing short of a six-foot three-inch and unnervingly muscular Teddy Ursa. He was generally pretty quiet, a bit slow on the uptake but very understanding, and without a doubt the best friend a man could ever wish for. According to several small children John had comforted for various reasons, he was also as soft and huggable as a Teddy Ursa. He was also one of very few people that actually called Sterling by his first name instead of his last. As much as Sterling enjoyed John’s friendship and company, however, that did not hide the fact that he was utterly useless as a partner in the business because he had the all the deductive reasoning of the cowboy hat-shaped paperweight on Sterling’s desk. As such, John used his degree in business to handle the money and other administrative tasks that Sterling considered rather beneath him.
“Not quite, John, not quite,” said the Ninetales, who at the moment wore a tall, black stovepipe hat atop his slick red hair. “You are right about the maidservant being suspicious, to be certain, but just because she knew where the book was located doesn’t mean that she took the money in it. The butler, if you recall, not only knew where the book was, but also cited the pages between which the money could be found. He said he saw it sandwiched between pages 121 and 122.”
“So?”
“So, John, the butler’s statement is false. A book is always numbered beginning with page two on the left, yes? Therefore, it is physically impossible, given the common design of books, for something to be between pages 121 and 122. They’re two sides of the same page.”
John pouted. “Aww, darnit. I thought I really had this one…”
“Not to worry, John.” Sterling reached underneath his desk and retrieved a bottle of his favorite Red Rayquaza wine. He uncorked the bottle with a claw and poured himself a glass, watching lazily as the dark pink liquid rolled around its sides. “Your error, my friend, lies in the fact that in every case I have presented you, you are either over-analyzing or under-analyzing the situation when in fact all you need to do is make good use of your common sense. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it; as with anything else, it does take practice.”
Business had been slow the past few weeks. Sterling almost found it annoying that no one in Saffron had been robbed, killed or through a divorce or separation for such a length of time. It meant, of course, that Saffron was experiencing a time, however brief, of peace and amity. Peace and amity were good things, to be sure. They were also things that meant Sterling was out of work for who knew how long. As there was nothing else to do, Sterling and John had been in his house all day—the frugal Sterling, not wanting to pay for both a decent-sized ranch house and the rent on an office space, worked out of his home—going over some of the annoying but necessary paperwork and then, when that was as done as it ever gets, talking about everything and nothing in particular. Eventually, John, ever ready to improve his investigative skills, had managed to persuade his Ninetales friend to give him mysteries to solve. And so it was that the pair had spent the last two hours discussing mysteries, Sterling either making them up off the top of his head or relating cases he had solved before John had started working with him. Each one ended in the same way—with John entirely unable to figure out the answer, and Sterling having to feed it to him or tell him outright. The fox was beginning to tire of their little game, but John piped up:
“Give me another one, Reinhardt.”
Looking over the top of his wineglass, Sterling arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Perhaps we should give it a rest for today, John. No offense intended, my friend, but I do grow bored.”
“Aww, c’mon, Reinhardt. One more. Just one more. And I swear to Groudon I’ll get it right this time.” John gave Sterling a pleading look that reminded him of a very disappointed two year-old.
“Hmm… I suppose if you’d really like another one… Very well, then, but this is absolutely the last one… let’s see if I can find a simple one for you, shall I?” Sterling closed his eyes for a moment, scouring his memory for a suitable occurrence. “A good story, a great story, perhaps I should just settle for a better-than-average story… ah, yes, John, here we go. Shall I tell you about the Emerson case?”
The Ursaring nodded enthusiastically. “Fire away, Reinhardt! And I’m going to figure this one out, too, you wait and see…”
Sterling laughed as he removed his stovepipe hat and began toying with it. “I’ll begin firing away as you wish, then, my friend. All right now…
“Are you familiar with that fancy estate out on Route 8, John? The one that was turned into a fine arts center a few months aback? Well, up until seven years ago the place was owned by one of those old-money families, the Emersons; the residents at the time were the kind of stereotypical stuck-up rich couple one might expect in such a fancy house, Nathaniel Emerson, a Raichu, his Infernape wife, Iphigenia, and their Monferno son, Ignatius. It so happened that Iphigenia had a younger sister by the name of Corinna. The two of them had never really gotten along as children, apparently, and the hostility had escalated further after Iphigenia married into money and Corinna married into… ah, shall we say, not so much money.”
Here Sterling paused to finish the last of his Red Rayquaza, letting it roll around his mouth a while before swallowing it and wiping his lips daintily. He refilled his glass and gestured at John with the bottle. “Would you care for some, John?”
“No, no, none for me, thanks, Reinhardt.” John shook his head deliberately. “I want to keep my mind completely clear and focused, you know. ‘Cause, you know, I’m going to figure this out this time. Really.”
Another laugh. “Of course you are, my dear John, of course you are. At any rate…
“What Iphigenia told the police later on was that she’d had enough of the constant animosity between her sister and herself, so she decided to give burying the hatchet a chance and invited Corinna and her family over for the weekend. So, Corinna, her husband Morris—strapping big Empoleon fellow, on store room duty at a general store in Pallet, if memory serves—and their son Terry arrive that Thursday, ready to make some sort of attempt at an enjoyable family weekend. Supposedly, they manage to get on well enough throughout the entire visit, and on Monday morning Corinna, Morris and Terry pack up the car and head back out to Pallet.
“Now, the Emersons were in possession of a large collection of valuable antiques, heirlooms and other such fancy baubles that owe their hefty price tags to whose house they’ve been in the longest in addition to what they’re actually made of. One such item was a small, golden ring with emerald inlays that had belonged to Nathaniel’s great-great grandfather; the ring, along with other trinkets of a lesser status, sat in a display case in the drawing room. About an hour after Corinna’s family left, Iphigenia went into the drawing room to look for something. That was when she noticed the broken glass. Someone had smashed through the display case and apparently appropriated the valuable little ring within.
“Being extremely possessive of their little trinkets the Emersons had gone to great lengths to protect their treasures, installing elaborate security cameras in most areas and rooms of their estate among other things. While their boy alerted the authorities, Iphigenia and Nathaniel checked the last night’s tapes.”
“What’d they see?” asked John, forgetting that he had not wanted any of the proffered wine and pouring himself a glass.
“The tapes showed a young Monferno enter the room shortly after midnight, break through the glass with a well-aimed Thunderpunch, pocket the ring and scamper off with it. When the Emersons showed the tape to the police, they claimed it was Corinna’s son Terry who had stolen the ring, pointing out that the robber was wearing Terry’s clothing at the time. They then produced a few pictures they had of their nephew in said outfit as proof that the clothes did belong to him. The police sent out an all-points bulletin for Corinna’s car so as to find the family and question them about the incident. Until they could be found, there wasn’t much else the police could do.” Sterling stood and walked over to one of his hat closets, replacing his stovepipe and picking up a ridiculous-looking pirate’s hat, complete with an oversized, garishly pink feather. “I haven’t worn this in ages, you know…” he mumbled to himself.
John was wracking his brains, trying his hardest to figure out what was wrong with the Emerson’s story; the expression on his face made it look as though it were a painful process. “Couldn’t it…” he began, scratching his head with a claw, “couldn’t it have been the Emersons’ boy, though? Couldn’t he have taken his cousin’s clothes and done it? I’m not sure why he’d want to steal it, seeing as it’d eventually be his anyway, but…”
“Ah, yes, John, very good!” Sterling swept the pirate hat off of his head and made an elegant, flourishing bow before sitting down behind his desk again. “That possibility did not escape the police, nor did it escape me. In fact, the detectives told me there was some information that suggested the Emersons might have prompted their son to pose as Terry and steal the ring. As you can probably imagine, everything the Emersons owned that was worth anything at all was insured up to the very gills. Should something happen to the ring, the Emersons would receive a tidy sum for it… well over one hundred thousand dollars, if memory serves. As such, they did indeed have a motive for taking it that seemed just as valid as the greed and jealousy motive Iphigenia had claimed for her sister.”
“Well, then, all the police would have to do is dust for fingerprints, right? If they’re Ignatius’s prints, it was him, and if they’re not it was either Terry or someone else!”
Sterling shook his head; the massive feather in his hat flopped crazily. “There were no prints to be found, my friend. Nothing at all, in fact, save some broken glass and the absence of a certain rare ring. As I said, until Corinna’s family could be questioned and a more thorough investigation and search could be done, the whole situation was, in fact, a sort of case of ‘he said, she said’—although, of course, Corinna and her family had not yet been questioned so as to have ‘said’ anything, but I believe you get the picture.”
“But… but…” John was fighting to find a loophole somewhere. “But…”
“But,” said the Ninetales, now examining each individual fiber of the ugly pink feather one by one, “I was confident that young Terry was innocent and that either his cousin or his aunt and uncle had set him up.” Sterling looked up at the straining, muttering John. “Well, there you have it, my ursine companion. Tell me why I was so convinced of Terry’s innocence. Explain to me what I had to explain to the detectives.”
Several minutes of silence ensued. John took another gulp of his drink, stood and began pacing across the room, determined to figure this one out without his friend’s help. Sterling remained fascinated by the feather and continued giving each strand a thorough inspection.
John finally gave up. “Gah,” he snorted, “I just can’t see it, Reinhardt. You haven’t given me enough information!”
Sterling looked up at his friend, still smiling that ever-present Sterling smile. “I have given you just as much information as I was given when I arrived at the scene, John. Very well, then. Terry could not possibly have been the one who stole the ring, and this is why.”
What did Sterling notice that proves Terry’s innocence?
Crazy like a Fox (ZOMG Phoenix is writing again! For the first time since 2004!)
My answer to this once shall be sent shortly.
