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English is the Worst Language

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Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you pride yourself on being the (second) best detective around! You have an adoptive daughter named Rose, a case full of important files, and you got 99 problems but a lead on this case ain't one! You never would've gotten it without the help of your sugoi partner-in-justice, either.

You're on your way to arrest and interrogate the supposed twin brother of the leader of a rowdy gang of robbers, and you sure as heck are going to solve this case quickly. You bet the bronze vacuum that came with the house on it. (You really want to get rid of it anyways. Really, who bronzes a vacuum? Your mother, apparently.)

Your thoughts are cut short as you stand in front of an old door, with the surname "English" in swirly, gold lettering, the odd green and red porch lights glinting off of the surface. A brisk knock is all you need before a shouting match occurs inside the house.

In a moment, the door is opened by a tall man in- what is that, oh my god is that a Cairo overcoat? And a gold cane? What a fashion disaster. The second thing you notice is he's bald. His fashion sense makes you wonder if he's ever actually left his house before. He sternly stares at you, and strike three is his heterochromia. One eye is deep forest green, the other a rusty brownish red.

You raise an eyebrow and cough, shifting in your uniform. "Roxy Lalonde, Skaia Police Department," you manage to say confidently, though you might've mispronounced "Skaia" again. "I'm here for Caliborn English."

He chuckles, revealing a gold tooth. You can smell cigar smoke and alcohol on his breath, though he towers over you by at least half a foot.  You inwardly shudder, but keep your poker face. You were taught this skill from the best of the best. "Of course, officer." His voice is gruff and deep, matching his apparent age and height. 

He turns and calls out, "Caliborn!" and you inwardly wonder if he and his wife were drunk when they had the twins. 

You weren't expecting Caliborn to be so small, but when he stomps down the stairs to join his father, they look almost exactly alike, besides Caliborn's angrier look and outfit. He's bald too, though. However, no gold tooth in sight.

And he's wearing suspenders. Green suspenders. Kanaya would have a field day with these fashion don'ts. However, your partner Dirk would probably tell him he looked kawaii desu or something. He never really grew out of his weeaboo phase.

"What do you want."

His voice is high-pitched and raspy, and you almost crack a smile.

"Officer Roxy Lalonde," you say, proudly donning your badge. "I'll need to be takin' y'all into custody under suspicion of being affiliated with Calliope English." The name easily slides off of your tongue, and you find it a sweet name. Ironic, a sweet name for a sour lady.

"That's my sister!" He barks, and he looks like he wants to actually tackle you to the ground and bite you. His father lays a hand on his shoulder, and he calms down considerably. He must be isolated from the rest of the world if he didn't see the name all over the news. You wouldn't be surprised, again, fashion sense.

"'Ey, we ain't gonna put y'all in the slammer if you let us interrogate you and you got an alibi or somethin'. I'unno, that's all the real police's job. I'm just a detective." You shrug, and he hesitates to nod. "Come on, we gotta go if I'm gonna get back before lunch break."

He scoffs, but you take him by the wrist and begin to drag him. The car ride to the station will certainly be an interesting one.

-–—•—–- -–—•—–- -–—•—–-

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and it has been one full month. One full month since Incident Caliborn, as you call it, two weeks and three days since him and Dirk met, one week and four days since they started messaging each other. You suppose that must mean they're friends. Good for Dirk, not for Caliborn. Soon enough he'll be subjected to the full wrath of bad anime costumes and rude convention-goers.

At least now you don't have to put up with that.

It has been exactly three hours, and fourteen minutes since you got the call. You get to deal with Calliope English, with the only detective that can best you as your temporary partner. Teresa Pyrope, the creepy blind chick with synthesia, girlfriend of your legitimate partner's brother.

She's rad when she wants to be, but those teeth of hers could belong to a shark, and she has a cackle that puts the Wicked Witch of the West to shame.

The thought of her sends chills running down your spine. No criminal escapes the wrath of justice, she says. The wrath of justice is actually just her walking cane. She's whacked you with it more times than you can count.

You're pretty sure Dirk's brother is only dating her because she's attractive. Even though her fashion sense is pretty ridiculous, too. Dave is probably all over the "irony" of it. He's all about irony. Maybe a little too much.

And speak of the devil, Dirk is behind you and before you can blink he has you thrown over his shoulder. You hiss and blindly swat at his kamina shades, and he promptly straightens them out after pushing your hand back down, but not before you catch a glimpse at bright orange eyes that have got to be color contacts.

"If you don't get up and moving you're going to be late," is all the explanation he gives as he carries you across the room and plops you down in front of the door.

"I can walk just fine, Dirk." You cross your arms and look up to glare at where you assume his eyes are beneath his shades.

"Then go. And tell TZ Dave says to check her Trollian messages." He keeps staring at you without the slightest hint of emotion in his voice or face, and it never fails to make you want to turn and run.

"Fine, I will. Go woo your new yoi dude or whatever." You lightly push him, and do in fact turn and run.

"It's yaoi!" He calls back after you, but you aren't listening to his weeaboo talk any longer. 

You round corner after corner, conversing with anyone who happens to briefly walk your way, until you slip inside the designated room. Both Teresa and Calliope turn to look at you, and Calliope is /pretty/. Electric green eyes contrast against a pale face and white wig, and her entire outfit is black and forest. You want to smack yourself in the face for looking at her like that, and by the way she smirks, it's clear she knows.

You clear your throat, and take a seat in the empty chair beside your coworker. You can feel both laser red and neon green eyes on you, and your own pink eyes stare back into the latter. (You have color contacts; Teresa has ocular albinism, you've learned, but you have no idea about the English sitting across from you.)

Calliope leans forward on her elbows, smiling.

"Why even bring me here? You know I did it."

Her voice is gumdrops laced with licorice, and it's amazing. You would never say that out loud, though.

"'Cuz we wanna hear you say it." Teresa's scratchy voice fills the near-silent room, and she runs her tongue across black-painted lips. There's a large contrast between the sugary tone of Miss English and the bitter scratch of the voice beside you.

Calliope glances at the security camera in the corner of the room you can't see, but know is there. "Fine," she begins with a drawl, her eyes locked on yours. It makes your stomach twist in an uncomfortable way, one you really would rather not dwell on. "I did it. I single-handedly robbed three banks and a frozen yogurt shop. You all are making such a big fuss, though. Is the news slow enough for that?"

It's odd how someone so skilled in thievery would bother with such a place as a frozen yogurt shop, but girls will be girls, and yogurt lovers will be yogurt lovers.

Teresa cackles, and you think would rather claw your ears off than have to listen to that as much as you know Dave does.

"That's all the confession I need." She gets up, and leaves. Now you're alone with the pretty criminal.

"I'll take that as my cue to leave." You get up yourself, and quickly slip out of the room after fumbling with the lockpad. She won't get out by herself, so you figure you won't have to worry about that.

You just can't take that gaze any longer.

And, well, the woman in the wig confessed everything, and that's all you needed her to do.