"Hi Mr. Doofenshmirtz!"
"Lovely day!"
"Excuse me, do you know when my prescription will be ready?"
You respond to the first two with an awkward wave in return. The third you've grown used to. Walking the streets of Doofania is… strange, and has been ever since the average person learned your name. While a few hold nervous smiles, the sort of fear you would expect and deserve as their ruler, just as many people look at you with what, as far as you can tell, is genuine like. It's… disconcerting, really. You remember back when everybody thought you were a pharmacist. Now, hardly anyone doesn't know who you are; not surprising, considering how many of your own commercials you appear in, and the free food you give out for everyone who follows your mandatorily followed social media accounts. The city block itself serves to remind everyone of the personality that made Doofania that way.
Even if some people still call it Danville when you aren't looking, it's hard to argue you haven't made your mark on this city. The public works projects that you funded after your company first took off have been deemed a pointless vanity project by many, but it still gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling when you look down the street and see a bunch of different architectural styles standing next to one another. That's your fault, and everybody knows it!
…It was a fit of pique, really, and if you're being honest with yourself, something to distract you from the more unpleasant consequences of your victory. Most of the local businesses couldn't exactly say no to the figures DEI was willing to drop provided they change their facade, and the ones that did say no only served to vary the image of your city even more! It's probably safe to say that your city is unique the world over, taking a bit of inspiration from other, far more famous cities with every passing block.
An art deco brownstone that holds some sort of accounting firm stands right next to another building done in a gothic style that your naysayers would insist belongs on cathedrals, both of them across the street from one of your cricket farms that looks more like a military bunker than anything else.
Doofania… Danville… really is a combination of everything, much like your company as a whole. Little Toontown, the half of a street that Agent Russ still likes to hang around when he thinks nobody's looking, has made just as much of an impact as the Performing Arts center downtown, home to your mildly successful musical and a Rockies haven for touring musical troupes. But that's not why you're here today.
Janna came to you yesterday, which was especially concerning because she never goes to people of authority. She's friends… students? With Kitsune, or at least has more of a relationship with her than anyone else in your company. She says she's been acting… weird. Er. Different weird. Bad weird. Concerning weird. And that's when she sees her at all, which is… less and less, recently. They haven't really talked since before she went to the Bazaar. You don't really know if you can do anything. You don't even know if Kitsune is actually her name, which is a bad sign for your chances of helping anything. But Technor's out of commission right now on the therapy front, and everyone else with social skills is busy. Janna doesn't know either, so. Here you are.
A bell tings as you step into the noodle shop. It's a quaint place, a real hole in the wall type. The kind you read incredible reviews for, but can never seem to find without someone to point it out. You only found it by checking the address you had against the building next door to it. It's easy to skip over it, if you're not looking. There's room for a door, a counter with a simple plastic curtain behind it, and a couple tables. Four of them, to be exact. The decorations are sparse, and simple, and the food here is some of the best you've ever tasted.
You know because only a few seconds after you come in, a bowl of hot noodles is practically being shoved into your hands. You'd really only come in here to ask after your employee who apparently lives… somewhere… here, but the old man at the counter absolutely refuses to stop until you take it. He turns, crook in his back, and goes back to watering the potted bamboo decorating the corner.
"Oh, uh, thank you?" You say, although you ate before you left. "But how much do I owe you?"
"No charge." The old man says, simply, without even turning around.
You surreptitiously check outside to see if it's raining or not. The last time someone handed you free stuff it turned out to be a rush of bad luck, and that batch of almond brittle was actually filled with paper snakes. After a moment of nothing else happening, you start to accept the fact that someone just gave you a free lunch. That almost never happens! Unless you mean every day where your staff send in your lunch while you're in the office, but that doesn't count because you pay their salaries.
You realize you're just standing there staring at nothing. "Uhhhh, thanks!" you say. What else can you say in response to being given free food?
The old man laughs. "I should be thanking you. For what you have done, Doctor Doofenshmirtz."
"Oh, you're welcome."
You pause. "Wait a second. What are you thanking me for, exactly?"
He looks at you for a moment, puzzlement in his eyes. Then he laughs. It's a deep, overwhelming laugh, one that starts in the core and sends the whole body heaving. It comes just short of becoming uncomfortable when he stops, wiping a tear from his eye and still gently chuckling. "Did you forget so soon?"
"Are you talking about the architecture stuff?" you question. Normally you wouldn't think about it but it has been on your mind for the last hour or so. "Because I think it looks great!" You're actually not sure if he updated his building or not, but it does look good.
"No, no," He chuckles, taking a seat across from you. "It was the food. I- we were able to keep this house because of your food."
You're not sure what to say next, but it doesn't matter. The man continues onwards, rambling now. "Prices went high, so very high, it was impossible to buy anything at market price, and this is a restaurant, yes? How can we feed people if we cannot buy the ingredients to cook for them? We have owned this place for fifty years, my wife and I. Ever since we came overseas. It is because of you that we were able to keep it."
"Wait." You say, as an odd feeling starts to suffuse your chest. "Do you means the crickets, and the kel-"
"Yes!" the man says, and points you towards both of those things, plus some sort of algae paste, sitting in containers among the other toppings and ingredients. Even when the famine ended, and more 'normal' food became available again, a decent number of people developed a taste for the stuff.
Your stuff.
You made it.
"When I first decide to take bottom price food supplies, my wife says 'yuck! Who would want to eat cricket?'
He chuckles. "Now? It is the third most popular item. Especially with her." He pauses for a moment, and then starts. "Ah! She'll want to meet you." The old man turns towards the back of the room, and you realize there's a set of stairs behind the plastic curtain. "老婆! Come down, the Doctor Doofenshmirtz is here!"
"The one from the advertisements?"
"Doofenshmirtz Evil Incorporateeeeeed!" The old man sings happily in response, then turns to you. "It is very good. Very catchy!"
There's a rush of sound as someone stomps down the stairs. A tiny old woman squints at you from the staircase as she makes her way past the counter.
"Ah! It is him."
"What, you think I am a liar?"
The old woman sniffs. "You lie about not smoking."
The old man wags his hand nervously. "That is different."
His wife rolls her eyes. "傻瓜, at least you paid respects." She leans down and kisses him on the cheek before turning towards you.
You look between the two of them, lost for what you suspect to be multiple reasons. "Uhhhh…"
The woman looks down at the half-eaten bowl of soup in front of you. "You like my noodles?" She asks.
"Oh, yes!" You reply enthusiastically. "They're great!"
The old man breaks into a smile. "You hear that, 娘子? Doctor Doofenshmirtz loves your noodles.
"Of course." She sniffs, but there's a look of gratitude on her face regardless. "Put it on the wall if you must."
"Great idea!" The man says, leaping into action. "Hey, can we get a photo?"
As the old man runs off to find a camera somewhere in the dusty backrooms, his wife fixes you with a look. It says a lot of things, that look. One of them is:
"Thank you." She says. "My husband, this shop… it is everything, to him. It was… his dream. American Dream, yes?"
You remember a boat from Gimmelshtump, and you remember a small stand selling bratwurst. You hadn't meant to come to this country, but you meant what you did afterwards.
Part of it, anyway.
Before you can be expected to respond the man comes back, an old digital camera in his liver-spotted hands. You try to smile for him, half as wide as he already is. With half the joy you feel radiating off of him.
There's a click, and a moment is made eternal.
"Now then." The man says, putting the camera down. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Well, actually yes!" You reply, eager for the return to even ground. "You see, I'm looking for one of my employees. She told me she lived here, and…"
The two share a look. "Ah, you want the guest in the spare room." The man says, the words having more weight than you might have expected.
"You be nice." The woman says sternly as the man beckons you back behind the counter, through the curtain, and up the rickety stairs behind it. "She is an excellent tenant."
The doorway is simple, made of hewn wood, unpainted. Like much of the decor in the private space these two have invited you into, it seems worked, not fabricated. Something handmade. Still though it is just a door, with a simple metal lock and burnished knob. It is like most other doors.
The old man bows to you once you reach it, and returns downstairs with his wife without another word.
You feel a bit apprehensive for some reason. You're no stranger to talking with your employees from time to time, but this is the first time you've ever made a house call.
You turn the knob.
Behind the door is nothing. Literally. You can't see anything inside at all, just a pitch black void.
You blink. Then you close the door and open it up again.
The void is still there. No light, no sound, at least according to your watch. You press a few buttons to see if it's just a sensor malfunction or if there actually is nothing inside. Results are…well, you're not sure if you should be worried or not because there's nothing there.
"Hello?" you call into the void. When no answer is forthcoming, you take a cautious step inside, making sure to test the ground with your foot and make sure there *is* an inside. To step on.
The effect is disconcerting, to say the least. It's one thing to look at numbers on a screen and see them say that there's nothing there, it's another thing entirely to experience it. Being met with silence leaves you to truly appreciate how noisy existence is, now that there isn't any. Even when there's nothing going on it's hard to say that it's silent. Even if it's just something like the wind or the building settling, you haven't often experienced true quiet. You can't even hear yourself saying all of that aloud.
Your musing is interrupted by a wall of fire shooting up behind you, burning from nothing. You jump, tapping at your power armor activation button. It doesn't work. That's probably a bad sign.
"Apothecary."
You've never heard Kitsune sound like this before. Inhuman, is the word that springs to mind. You remember that she's supposed to be five hundred years old, and what is in her native culture somewhat analogous to a god.
"Hi?" you ask, a bit cautious. You had a conversation starter planned out on your way over here but it's been long forgotten. Whatever topic you were going to segue into doesn't feel right to bring up now.
"Why are you here?" There is an echoing hiss to that last word, it seeming to bounce around the inside of your head.
"I wanted to see how you were doing? You seemed a little… out of sorts lately, if there's anything you wanted to talk about." Your words are a little apprehensive, not out of fear, but just a sense of quiet unease. You don't quite know what's going on.
She laughs. It's not a happy sound. "Your subject is doing just fine, Daimyo." The words scratch at the back of your neck.
The metaphor's meaning is clear enough, but you're confused as to why she made it in the first place. DEI plays fast and loose with the traditional work structure but you can't really say that Kitsune was ever that much of an employee in the conventional context. Around and doing important work, sure, but you always got the feeling she did what you asked because she wanted to. You're not even sure if she was officially on the payroll.
Being equated to a daimyo feels unpleasant, somehow. Normally you're over the moon at the idea of having subjects, but now that you're actually face to face with the fact- even in the abstract, metaphorical sense- it's kind of uncomfortable. Especially considering that out of all of your employees, your claim of lording over Kitsune is tenuous at best.
You're just standing there again.
"I'm not really all that much of a lord." you admit, trying to deflect away from the discomfort as quickly as possible. A year ago you wouldn't even be cognizant of the hypocrisy in that statement, but as of right now you make a mental note to bring it up with your therapist later. "I mean, sure I am the overlord of the Tri-State Area, but, you don't really have to stay here if you don't want to. I'd like it if you would, of course, that's why I've come to talk with you right now- but you could leave if you wanted to. Which you couldn't if I were actually a daimyo." You feel the need to clarify that for some reason. "Sort of a King of England not King of the English sort of… thing… I'm rambling." You realize, belatedly.
The silence stretches on. When she speaks again, it's from the fires. "What do you wish to ask of a Kitsune?"
"Is there anything you want to talk about?" you ask, a bit desperate to not screw up this conversation any more than you probably already have. You briefly consider some of your talking points again but discard them immediately. None of it fits, and none of it works.
You don't know what you're standing on, but it isn't solid.
"Very well then." This time it's a whisper, a willow branch tickling your ears. "I will tell you the tale of my birth."