Well! Enough has been published now that final re-branding may be done without "this hasn't appeared yet" spoiler-syndrome.

This began as a Nice/Art fic, and still is because I promised so. If you're not interested, don't worry, they're idiots so it's very eventual. The fic is more to do with character exploration – much more.

(original thanks go to naite [naitenaitenaitenaite at tumblr], for dealing with my initial mistakes and getting me into this dumb show.)

Every day, at 5 PM, Security begins making its first evening rounds within the Prefectural Police Headquarters. The rounds are like clockwork; they begin exactly on time, follow random routes exactly generated the minute before by an algorithm drawing numbers from a server that uses the true randomness of atomic decay, and Art knows that – once the second hand passes twelve – there is an hour's window in which a guard will peer through his open doorway, perhaps stop and greet him, before heading off again.

Art doesn't expect the knock on his door at 5:38 PM. The only people who knocked on Superintendent Art's open door were those in their first two weeks. Their newest recruit was already well past four.

"Come in," he calls, there's a few soft footfalls – by the time Art looks up, they're already in front of him.

His visitor is a man in a jumpsuit that was once blue, though any blues that remained were now washed to pale gray. There's a smile on his face, under a hat and fuzzy brown hair. A brown cardboard box the size of a toaster is tucked in one arm, and a clipboard held in the other.

"Delivery," says the stranger.

Art realises he's staring at the three very distinctive bandages on the person's face and blinks when the parcel is placed before him.

"Strange," says Art. "I'm not expecting anything."

The shrug he receives only draws his attention to the cord of an earphone snaking up beneath the jumpsuit and tugging at the stranger's ear. There aren't any logos on the clothing, nor are there any stickers of any sort on the parcel. It's completely plain.

The glint of a watch on the stranger's left wrist is tucked into memory. Art assesses with one glance. His expression doesn't change.

"How did you get in here?" asks Art.

The stranger's smile shifts. Like he knows just as well as Art does that any and all deliveries are handled internally after being dropped off at the front desk, and like the stranger can see through solid wood to where Art is slowly feeling for the alarm beneath the table.

Art's question is ignored.

"The serial bomber you've been hunting left something behind yesterday," says the stranger. He turns to the door, pulls his hat down, and tilts his head in such a way that mysterious blue eyes demand all attention. "I'll be back next week for my tip. Enjoy your evidence, Superintendent."

The stranger is already out the door when Art presses the alarm. By the time Art reaches the doorway, arms locked in position for the pistol in his hands, they're already gone.

"So he knew," says Gasquet, hawk eye narrowing sharply as if it could hone in on its prey.

Art nodded. "About the serial bomber, yes. Even though nobody outside our team should know about yesterday."

It's only the two of them outside one of the laboratories, and the hour hand on their watches are creeping ever closer to the ten. Both men would have been home by now, resting; yesterday, after weeks of relentless investigation, they'd miraculously had a breakthrough in cracking the serial bomber's plans. Relief at finding the bomb before it detonated had quickly transformed into panic at the hyper-sensitive light and shock sensors, a countdown timer counting hours as if they were seconds and a bomb squad stationed too far away.

It was only because of Art's custom night vision goggles, Gasquet's trusty Swiss blades, the fact that Art was barely able to fit beneath the vehicle and the systematic instructions in his ear that no new lives had been taken.

The team had congratulated Art for resourcefulness and foresight. Art had smiled, didn't mention that he always carried the goggles on him. Made notes in the corner of his brain to study bomb disarmament too some time in the future.

If he'd known, he wouldn't have needed to send the stranger's package to the team assigned on standby, to make sure it was safe before opening.

Gasquet hmms.

"Three bandages, you say?"

"Male," says Art, like he's reciting. "Fair, slightly tanned. Height approximately 180cm. Brown hair, blue eyes. Distinctive features: a bandage on either cheek and another across his nose. Likely right-handed—"

"—because he's got a watch on his left wrist. Right," says Gasquet. "Keep thinking. Do you remember anything else, maybe a Minimum?"

Art's already formed his reply of No, I wish I did, as the question is predictable. After all, the two of them haven't been talking about much else for the past few hours when the only thing on their minds is bringing the serial bomber to justice, especially after the delivery of evidence implied to be more than tossed crumbs.

"He has to be a Minimum Holder," says Art instead, knowing well he's repeating a topic they'd talked about around an hour ago – but somehow hoping they'll get someplace this time. "The corridor is straight for dozens of metres on both sides and there is no way an ordinary human would vanish so quickly."

"S'not invisibility or sight-distortion. Thermal scans were negative and all exits were locked instantly on the alarm."

"Except the windows."

"The cameras outside saw no-one leave."

"Then instant movement." Art gestures to the blurry figure in the single freeze-frame they'd found whilst combing the feeds, from one of the corridors on the path to his office. They'd found it two hours ago.

Gasquet shrugs – and for some reason, Art stares. There's something about the slight roll of the head, the slight tilt of the shoulders, and the movement of the mouth and brow that reminds him of—

The sudden intensity in Art's gaze doesn't go unnoticed.

"You onto something?" says Gasquet.

Art tries not to blink, in case he'd miss it once more. "Do that again."

Gasquet does. This time there's an extra hint of laissez-faire, a special laxness that comes with releasing the reins and letting the creature of chance choose its own course. Art doesn't see anything again until he blinks, involuntarily, and when his eyes open there's an after-image of shadow directly beneath Gasquet's right ear—

"Earphones."

"Voice?" prompts Gasquet, without pause. "Music? Radio?"

Art shakes his head. "I couldn't hear anything. But he wore a single earphone from under his clothes and up to his right ear. Black, probably to be hidden by his hair."

"Three bandages," mutters Gasquet. "Brown hair, blue eyes. An earphone…"

Whatever else he may have wanted to say is cut off by the door opening beside them. A technician steps out. There's a strange lump of purple on her lab coat.

"All clear, sirs," she says. They exchange pleasantries; Sorry for the wait. It's no problem. Better to be safe.

Art enters the room behind her, Gasquet half a pace behind. The parcel sits alone atop an empty table to the side; it's closed as if it were never opened, though the tape keeping it shut has been sliced apart by a sharp blade. The rest of the room is busy as equipment is cleared up and put away.

They reach the parcel. Art glances at Gasquet, who nods, and soon the lid is prised open.

The box is empty save for two things.

Art points at the mess of purple gloop sitting in a plastic container, which is in turn atop a crude catapult-like device from which hangs an elastic string. "What… is that?"

"…Jelly," replies the technician. "Grape flavouring."

Art blinks once. Twice. Realises with no small confusion that the purple substance, the grape jelly, is the root cause of the hours-long delay. No doubt they would have had to test it thoroughly for any suspicious or organic materials.

Whilst pulling on a pair of gloves, Gasquet huffs a few private chuckles.

"Besides that smooth jelly," says Gasquet, reaching down and picking up the second item by its lanyard, "we have this."

The stopwatch spins, reflecting the light. One rotation, two rotation, three rotations, four.

That's when Art sees them.

"Fingerprints," he breathes.

Tomorrow, if the stopwatch checked out as legitimate, when they received the fingerprint data and matched it against all the other evidence they had in their possession, the case would be as good as done.

The lobby of the Prefectural Police Headquarters is empty so late at night, save the few guards on security. Art and Gasquet nod at them respectfully when they step out of the lifts and onto the ground floor.

"The winds are in our favour," says Gasquet, suddenly. Neither had spoken since handing out thanks for the technicians' work.

Art glances across. "Mr. Gasquet?"

"Have you paid him yet? For the delivery?"

"I meet him next week…" A spark; Art feels the chase after answers nearing its end, and his index finger curls in anticipation. "You know who he is, Mr. Gasquet?"

Gasquet nods. "You know the broker Mao?"

"You've mentioned, yes. That's him?"

"No – he's the guy who started working with him. Some say two, some say five years ago."

"As a… team?"

"Apparently so. Mao is the best – so good, he has to be a Holder. To hear he's working with someone else… well, you can imagine."

(Art couldn't.)

"Who is he, then?" asks Art, because he's only ever met the stranger, so that's all he really knows about this supposed duo – the stranger who'd appeared, handed over a parcel with potentially critical evidence, and even included a small prank should he have opened it immediately.

The mysterious stranger with three bandages, a gaze of sharpest blue, and who knew the food Art liked to eat but hadn't bought since the serial bombing case began.

Gasquet shrugs, so much like the stranger again that Art sees two in his partner's shadow.

"They call him Feng, the Wind." is the reply. "There one minute – the next, gone."

01: the wind rises

/TBC/