Ace's Cases

The Case of the Undercover Upkeeper: Addendum 2

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 17:55:00 +0000

Phew… okay. Meant to give an update sooner than this, but things just took a while to process.

I’d been working on cracking who Deck was for a full day, but everything I’d pulled was coming at a dead end. I’d managed to trace him to a couple other pen names scattered across the country--would you believe “Solitaire” was one of them after all--but beyond that, nothing. He was good at hiding himself, which implied more experience than I’d been counting on.

So there I was, sitting in my abode with Castilles’ upkeeper Adelpha as well as Dant, sharing what info we could scrounge together. On days like this I’d be waiting for the next case to show up at my door, but this time it was the current one: Deck stood at the door with his usual flair. To just about everyone’s surprise, though, he was here to help us.

As I’d suspected, he wasn’t working alone. Someone was after Castilles, and Deck had started to realize that handing our emotionally vulnerable friend to a shady mad scientist character wasn’t his smartest life choice. With a natural grain of salt, my gang and I followed him to a seemingly abandoned complex.

The moment we walked in, the thing started reeking with suspicion. A brittle chair had looked like it’d been knocked over, but without as much as a knick on the wood, and a light scattering of dust covered the floor but not the objects on it… it was clear that the complex was meant to look abandoned, but was anything but. Our villain wasn’t likely to be expecting a pair of humans and bots, but our eyes were peeled for traps regardless.

Taking the stairs is always a calculated risk. It was clear that whoever was running the place was a sadist to anyone, bot or man, and he was definitely the kinda person who’d like to make us regret trying anything clever. These kinds of guys are regular control freaks, and that means they want to stay at least two steps ahead of you. This makes them predictable, but then they rely on you relying on that, hence them staying two steps ahead instead of one, so you have to rely on their reliance on your relying on their predictability and subvert the subversive, thereby taking the obvious route to surprise ‘em. So we deftly avoided whatever traps were anywhere except the stairs, and headed straight into the lion’s jaws.

Once we reached the real lobby, the “abandoned” facade vanished. Instruments littered the walls, with an oddly clean-swept floor even by an evil lab’s standards. How quickly the illusion vanished meant our villain, who I’ll be calling “Hectic,” was either a total chowderhead or wanted us to know that our discovery’s no problem if he offs us before we can get any word out to the world.

As if in answer, the next door we opened revealed five broken-down drones, their cases covered in horrifying rust. I know I get a lot of human readers who think it’s silly that some bots hate rust, but imagine your blockbuster zombie movies, but someone bitten doesn’t lose consciousness and just has to live with decomposing. Gives me chills every time. Seriously, I don’t know how other bots can stand even seeing the stuff.

The speakers blared on, and we heard the voice of Hectic. After a typically non-subtle threat, he clicked off and the rust-covered drones activated. Our weapons guy decided this was the perfect time to go look for Hectic, so that left the rest of us to deal with the drones and rescue Castilles while we were at it.

Er, Cast. His name is Cast now. Still getting used to that.

For confidentiality (and for other reasons I’d rather not get into), I won’t say what happened just yet, but once we found Cast, we discovered he’d undergone a few… upgrades, and with his upgrades he renamed himself, since his old name didn’t fit anymore.

Anyway, we left Cast with his upkeeper, so who should be around to distract the drones but Dant and myself. Not gonna lie: it was harrowing. (Which makes human readers not getting the rust thing even worse, because human body horror sells like nobody’s business.) To cut to the chase, at one point Dant got caught by one of the things and I had to get him out of it. A detective’s life can’t be all glamour; reading any of the pulps will teach you that. I’ve absolutely no desire to repeat any of it, but Dant and I both made it away.

Shortly after, we came across Deck, who quickly explained that Hectic had started a countdown to EMP every bot in the facility, Cast included. We dashed out the building in the nick of time, seeing that Cast and Adelpha had made it out shortly before we did. The EMP no doubt shorted out the drones, but we didn’t care. I’d have to investigate the scene of the crime, although a reunion like this wasn’t the time.

Still, Cast is home, and he’s safe. Deck’s former employer, the man behind everything, managed to slip away, but I have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back sooner rather than later.

I owe it to Cast and everything he’s been through to find this man and bring him to justice, so I will make it my mission to do everything in my power to expose him for all his twisted crimes.

From everything that’s happened so far, this case will put me to my limits. It might just be the greatest case I’ve ever solved… or will solve, that is. When the day comes, I’ll be ready for his return. I have to be.

For the time being, we can rest and attempt to return to whatever normal we can find after everything that’s happened. With everything that has happened, we’ll certainly need it.

And you guys… Dant, Cast, thanks for being around. I’ve learned that I can’t do this on my own. I need someone to listen to how smart I am, and you guys are just the best at that.

Case closed.

The Case of the Undercover Upkeeper: Addendum

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 00:12:00 +0000

We know everything now. Not going public with it, but things have gone bad. Cast is MIA, hope on the edge, you know the drill.

But we're not done. Here’s a hot tip: don't pick on a friend just as I'm learning to make one. And Deck--yes, I'm using YOUR real name, because I WANT YOU to read this--I’d just like you to know how big of a mistake you've made, because we aren't going to stand around. I know you were involved in his disappearance, and I am now using every resource, pulling every string at my disposal to find out where you’ve taken him. We're coming for Castilles. We're coming for your boss. And then, yes, we're coming for you.

Readers, if you don't hear anything back in a month, assume the worst. We're ending this, one way or another.

The Case of the Undercover Upkeeper

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 17:04:00 +0000

Finally, something interesting this time. My only known and therefore favorite and most useful roommate, Castilles, seems to have an odd knack for trouble that’s enviable by anyone in the sleuthing business, except for the odd detail that he isn’t in this sleuthing business, which makes it awfully convenient for both of us that there’s a certified Private Detective Bot about zero houses away from him.

It all started within a few days of Castilles’ arrival, when he described being stalked by a man in a tan coat who called him a funny weird name. The case sounded intriguing, but given a description like that could describe nearly a third of the men of Limbersdale, we agreed to put the case on hold until more sufficient evidence would appear.

So it remained on my desk, a footnote not even worthy of a blog mention, until some corroborating evidence a bit too conspicuous to ignore showed up. A few events, unrelated so far as I know, had left me in need of a new upkeeper, and I soon got an arrangement with a new guy who wanted me to meet him in the park for some reason. So I showed up and who should stand waiting to meet me other than a man in a long tan coat. I’ll keep his name anonymous here, because I don’t want him looking up his own name and finding this post, so I’ll call him Solitaire for now. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know about my blog, or else he’d know better than to try and pull a fast one on us, but if he looks me up and comes across this page, expect radio silence from here on out because we’re probably evacuating the premises.

Anyway, the first thing I noticed about him was his coat. Yes, it’s incredibly fashionable, and yes, as an upkeeper it helps to have extra pockets, but they typically aren't seen in loose clothes, let alone in summer. Don’t wanna get cloth caught in machinery in the middle of a repair, am I right? The second thing was his demeanor. Pleasant on the surface, but there was definitely a sense that he needed to put it up—like a man wearing just enough shampoo that you can tell he doesn’t want to be caught without it. And believe me, I know enough suave wannabes to know what they smell like.

The kicker? The minute I played back the recording I’d taken, Castilles’ memory kicked in and confirmed my suspicions: sure enough, we had our guy.

So if you ask me, and this post isn’t over so good luck with that, it’s pretty obvious what Solitaire’s getting at: he wants Castilles, so he gets at him by posing as an upkeeper for the bot that happens to share his room. Only there’s one problem in his plan: me. If your plan is to pick on an ace detective’s buddy through the ace detective himself, then you pretty much get whatever’s coming to you. So, Castilles and I decided to get a lay of the land around his hotel—nothing illegal, which I mention because, for the record, the last time I mentioned doing anything illegal on the Internet, things got a little awkward with the police, and I’m not in a hurry to repeat that in the middle of a case. Anyway, his being my upkeeper meant I was privy to a few certain details, including knowing that he lived in a hotel and knowing that certain hotel receptionists may or may not take his being my upkeeper to mean that we may or may not have access to any room keys that may or may not have existed in the first place, if you catch my drift. Solitaire probably warranted me for a fool, and that was the only warrant I’d need.

If we’d been searching up there, and I’m not saying we had been, there’d be a couple things I’d end up finding. First of all, a good number of tan coats would imply that Solitaire was either not the brightest cell in the organ, if that’s how humans say it, or more likely he was just new to the job and still thought it was cool. If you’re stalking someone, probably the worst way to do it is to have virtually your entire wardrobe match, so unless I’ve uncovered a secret uniform, he has no idea what he’s doing—supported by some ominous dialogue from when I met him—but that can also make him unpredictable and dangerous. There would also be a few strange implements around the place, including a screwdriver completely covered in rust, which I normally chalk up to human negligence, but seeing as we’re dealing with a robot-stalking potential criminal, it could also be some sick form of techno-sadism. Take your pick.

Suddenly, the door flew open. If we’d been in there, we’d be found out for sure, but for aforementioned legal reasons, it’s also possible we were still in the lobby and Solitaire saw us and gave us a glare I hadn’t seen since that mob boss I told off. Now wasn’t the time for showing off my hand at insults, though—I had a client to protect, after all. Some quick thinking and the nearest throwable object later, Solitaire was completely dazed and we made a break for it, myself out the window and Cast putting his wheels to use once we made it out the doors. Oh, I never mentioned Castilles has wheels, but he does. Anyway, Solitaire knew we were onto him now and will probably stop at nothing to cut the case short at its gray and fashionably teal sources, so I knew there was no going back now.

We managed to escape with our lives and a few other things, however we came across them, including some evidence in the form of a notebook. Beyond that, though, we’d escaped Solitaire’s game empty-handed… or that would be the case, if our little adventure had been the mission’s true objective. What he hadn’t counted on was that I’d formed a trio between my client, myself, and a little harmless guy… and they never suspect the harmless guy. While Castilles and I were distracting Solitaire with a mad chase, I set Dant after his workplace, which may or may not have been unlocked anyway, and maybe notice a few papers that may have never been written, and may not be in our possession now. Brilliant, am I right? Anyway, now we have everything I need to get to the bottom of this… and the first piece of evidence we saw implied that it’s getting personal for the client. My favorite kind of mystery.

Ladies, gentlemen, bots… the case is on.

Who is this Castilles Guy, Anyway?

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 17:31:00 +0000

Okay, well… update to the whole Jetset case thing. Not an update to the case, just… to the end of it.

You remember how at the end I mentioned hearing footsteps in my foyer? How I thought it was a new client, with a brand new, exciting case in store for me?

You remember that? Good.

Now, to sidetrack for a brief moment, you want to know something that I really hate? Something that just gets on my nerves? Pun unintended, but something that really grinds my gears?

Surprises.

Ironic, considering I’m a detective, but I typically hate surprises when they’re not related to a case.

And to get back on track, you want to know what the robot in my foyer was?

A surprise.

He wasn’t here for a case, no, no… he’s my roommate.

Yes, you read that correctly. My roommate! That Edison just… didn’t tell me about! He just thought “oh, hey, I bet Ace won’t mind if I give him a roommate without asking him if he wants one!”

AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGH!!!!

I’m sorry. I just… need to vent. I really need to vent. Oh, and it doesn’t help that this Castilles weirdo is a freakin’ moron! He trips down the stairs, like, every time he goes down them!

HE JUST TRIPPED DOWN THEM WHEN I WROTE THAT!

WHY IS HE LIKE THIS? WHY IS HE MY ROOMMATE? WHY DID EDISON AGREE TO THIS? WHY DIDN’T I GET A SAY IN THIS?

WHY?

…

Sorry. I… I really needed to vent. Really really. As I rant, I realize I should probably provide… some context as to why this stair-tripping moronic weirdo bot is my… ergh, roommate.

Excuse the bursts of anger that are inevitable to follow.

It seems that Castilles’ inventor, Adelpha Kostakis, is good friends with my inventor, Edison (Thomas Edison IV, if we want to be specific). They met years and years ago at some inventor meetup or something. I don’t really know the specifics, but they’re surprisingly good friends for someone I’ve never heard Edison talk about once. (Sidenote: perhaps something I should look into at some point?)

A month or so ago Adelpha had built my new… roomie, Castilles, and had been keeping him in this old airplane hanger she owns. However, she felt that he was too cooped up there, and wanted to put him somewhere else to “spread his wings,” or something cheesy along those lines.

And, where did she decide to put her darling little robot? In my house. Without asking me. She asked Edison, but did she ask me?

No.

Did Edison ask me if I even wanted a roommate?

No!

AAAAAARRRRGGH!!

…

Sorry. Again, needing to vent.

You know what? I think you need a better example. To help express my frustration at living with a complete and utter imbecile, here’s a conversation I had with him just a few hours ago.

Prepare yourself.

*****

ACE. Begin transmission. This investigation has now begun. This is being recorded. Anything you say can and will be used against you, so try and keep it civilized.

CASTILLES. Huh? What are you talking about?

ACE. Silence, for like two seconds, and get a grip. So, firstly, tell us a bit about yourself.

CASTILLES. Oh! Well, um, my name is Castilles, but you can call me Cast if you want, since Castilles is sort of a mouthful. I like-

ACE. Excellent. Now, why are you here?

CASTILLES. But- uh… I was just sent here to-

ACE. And on whose orders?

CASTILLES. Adelpha’s! I thought I told you this!

ACE. Right. And who exactly is this… Adelpha?

CASTILLES. My… upkeeper? I don’t-

ACE. Why did she send you here then? Hm? What reasons would she have to send you here?

CASTILLES. Didn’t you already-

ACE. Can you answer the questions, Castilles?

CASTILLES. Wh- you keep cutting me off! How can I answer them if-

ACE. Great. This has been a lovely waste of time. Thank you, Castilles, for nothing. End of transmission.

CASTILLES. Wha- but you didn’t- I didn’t even- what?! Ace, you didn’t even let me-

*****

There. Do you see my point? He’s an idiot. A complete and utter moron. Couldn’t even answer questions properly. He’s useless. Dead weight. Stupid. Dumb. Too tall for my liking. And I don’t like him. At all.

…

Maybe I’m being too harsh. I dunno. I still just… don’t like the idea of having… uhg, a roommate. I just wish I had a say in the whole thing, y’know? Maybe I’ll warm up to him at some point, but for now? I really hope he leaves soon.

Like, soon, soon.

Case closed.

The Case of Tony Jetset

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 12:13:00 +0000

There I was, sitting in my office on a rainy summer day, all the children inside, waiting for the clouds to go away and come again another day. Rain or shine, I however would wait there in my office for my next case to show up at my door- and show up it certainly did!

The day took an interesting turn when a woman by the name of Riccarda Romano appeared at my door and informed me of a missing persons case- or, should I say, missing robot case.

Missing robots case? Robot? Robots? Whatever. Either way, fashion model Tony Jetset had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, and I was Riccarda’s last hope.

Wasting no time, I quickly departed with Riccarda, joined for better or for worse by my friend and utterly infuriating neighbor, DANT-1C. We headed to local Limbersdale diner “Chow ‘n’ Charge,” (clever, I know) where we met with Jetset’s manager, Noah Davis. There, he recounted to me his final conversation with Jetset before his disappearance.

Davis had asked him to do a photoshoot next week, and Jetset had seemed rushed, as if he had better things to be doing. It didn’t help that Davis said he called Jetset directly, rather than calling his agency.

To make matters even more confusing, we encountered a waitress at the diner named Judy Jasmin, who just so happened to have met Jetset, and mentioned how he was getting a charge before some kind of flight.

It’s lucky I guessed Judy would have valuable information, because it was the last piece of this tricky little puzzle that I needed. I’m good with people, like that.

With everything sorted out, I gathered each of the suspects together, and promptly explained to them the truth behind Jetset’s disappearance, while Dant sat idly by, being as useless as he usually is. It seems that rather than a sinister fan taking him captive, or any other kind of kidnapping, Tony Jetset’s disappearance was merely… a miscommunication.

Anticlimactic, I know.

It appears when scheduling his next shoot with Mr. Davis, Jetset had booked a week-long vacation to Puerto Rico, and believed his shoot with Davis to be on the week he got back, rather than the current week.

Again, incredibly anticlimactic.

With everything sorted out and the mystery wrapped in a neat little bow, I went with Mr. Davis and Ms. Riccarda back to their office to sort out the rest of the paperwork, while Judy went back to work.

Not my most exciting case, but that’s what you get with a business like this. Besides, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut things a bit short, as there seems to be someone in my foyer. From the sound of their footsteps and the type of flooring I have installed, it seems to be a robot.

A new client perhaps? Maybe another case? Preferably one more exciting than a miscommunication? I suppose we’ll find out. Regardless, I’ve said my piece, now you should go find yours in an online forum or something along those lines.

Case closed.

The Connection Between Gingers and Mind-Control Matrixes

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Thu, 09 Jun 2011 17:00:00 +0000

Thanks to Internet culture, humans with naturally red colored hair- “gingers,” if you will, are not portrayed in a good light. They are often mocked, ridiculed. There’s even a national holiday dedicated to kicking them. I believe there may be something more to this. Something deeper… something sinister.

It’s stated in this “meme” that gingers don’t have souls… and what if I told you this was true?

You see, I have reason to believe that gingers are involved in a global conspiracy to overtake the world, using this “meme” as some sort of hypnotic spell. Mind control, if you will. Now, I’m going to-

“Ace! There you are! I hope I am not interrupting anything of importance!”

Wha- Dant! I’m busy! Get out!

“Oh. I see. In that case, I will-”

OUT!

…

Sorry about that. I’m testing out a new audio software to record my cases. Figured it might save a little more time than typing them all out. Don’t particularly like it much, but hey, it’s convenient. Now, back to the topic at hand!

So, my theory is that these soulless entities known as gingers are using this “meme” to garner pity for themselves. If they’re constantly being picked upon by the brunettes and blondes of the world, then by using this “meme” to get people to pity them, they can easily worm their way through society and take over the world! Make every other hair color the lesser color!

But worry not! I quickly uncovered this conspiracy, and I’m here to put a stop to it! To get the word out to the rest of the world! I won’t let these soulless monstrosities take control of the world! Because I’m-

“Ace, please stop. This is outlandish, even for you.”

What- Dant, can’t you see I’m trying to warn the world about the ginger threat?! You’re one of them, aren’t you! They’ve used their soulless, gingery little ways and taken control of you!

“Ace, a quick, well-informed search on the internet would show you that this so-called “ginger uprising” is in fact just a deep cut reference to Season 9, Episode 11 of the animated American television series South Park, in which the episode in question mocks people with red hair. So it is in fact not a ploy to take over the world, but instead a somewhat offensive joke.”

…Get out.

“I was merely trying to-”

OUT!

…

Well, there you have it, I guess. Choose whatever story you believe (but I think we all know which one is true). Case closed.

…

Uhg, this is the last time I record one of my cases. Now how the heck do I turn this thing off? Is it this one? No, no. Oh, it’s th-

The First Case

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Fri, 06 May 2011 18:26:00 +0000

I’ve touched upon my early years, such as how I met the infamous Mack the Hacker and how I lived in Boston and studied at Montpelier, but I’ve realized I’ve never actually discussed what exactly it was that caused my love for solving mysteries, and subsequently how exactly I broke into sapience. So, I figured what better than to talk about my very first case.

* * * *

It was the end of August 2009, and I was a little over a month old. I still hadn’t quite become self-aware yet, so, to put it bluntly, I was little more than a walking, talking supercomputer.

My creator, Thomas Edison IV, was trying just about everything to try and break me into sapience, but nothing really seemed to be working. Then, one day, he finally seemed to hit it.

And it, more appropriately, was a question.

“Ace, have you seen my reading glasses?” Edison asked me one day. “I can’t seem to find them.”

“Processing,” I said. My speech patterns were… rather limited at the time, so you’ll have to bear with me. “Reading glasses?”

“Yes, my reading glasses,” Edison said again. “I swear I just had them right here, but I seemed to have misplaced them. Heh. Guess we have a little mystery on our hands, eh?”

I took another moment to process what he was saying. “Mystery?”

“It’s a joke. Not that you’d understand that, yet. Could you help me find my glasses?”

Once more, I processed what he said, then agreed. Edison was my creator after all, and since I was still so young I figured I should help him with whatever he needed help with. For the next several minutes we scoured the living room, still unable to find Edison’s glasses.

“Hm. Maybe I left them in the kitchen?” Edison thought aloud, crouched over a chair. “Ace, could you go check the kitchen and see if I left my glasses on the counter?”

“The kitchen… is irrelevant.” I said. Edison usually read in the living room, so I found it quite unlikely they would be in the kitchen, of all places.

“It is not irrelevant,” Edison said. “Anything’s a possibility. Could you just go check?”

Once more, I processed what he said for a moment. It still seemed unlikely to me, but I suppose something in his words spurned me on. Even today, I’m still not sure how to explain it. Perhaps it was fate.

Whatever it was, I decided to head into the kitchen. I stood there for a moment, studying the room, trying to catch something out of place.

As my optics moved across the room, I subconsciously noted that something felt different about myself, but I couldn’t place what. Then I noted how I was suddenly thinking subconsciously, and thinking in general, but decided to push it all aside, as I had some glasses to find.

I took several steps forward, still studying the room closely. I looked down at the counter, looking for the glasses. I rifled through some books on the table, closely examining them. They were mystery novels. I glanced back down, and there they were- Edison’s glasses. Carefully, I picked them up, examining them closely.

Why were they here, of all places? Edison always read in the living room. Unless…

Wait. Just earlier this morning, I noticed that Edison was reading here on the counter while eating breakfast. So, he must’ve left them here and forgotten about them!

And that’s when it clicked.

I had done it. I… solved a mystery. I did. All by myself. I solved a mystery!

It’s a hard feeling to explain, but the euphoria of solving my very first mystery simply… awakened something within myself. It finally, after a month of trying, broke me into sapience.

I excitedly brought the glasses back to Edison, telling him how I had solved the case and found them. He simply smiled and patted me on the shoulder, proud that I had finally achieved sapience, and all on my own too!

From that moment onwards, I developed my love for solving mysteries of any and every kind. It eventually led me to NoirCon, to Boston, to Montpelier, and eventually to here in Limbersdale as a Private Detective Bot.

It of course wasn’t my greatest case, and certainly wasn’t the most puzzling, but I suppose we all have to start somewhere. Regardless, case closed… and every case after, opened!

Montpellier Hates my Accent

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 14:00:00 +0000

I’ve always wondered why typical noir flicks involve detectives with East Coast dialects despite their offices being located in somewhere like California. Some people say all true PIs start out their lives born and raised in New England. Which, well, I admit I can marginally see the appeal. But after having stayed in Massachusetts for the better part of 3 months, and Baltimore for around a week, I already know the crabs are up to something.

But I digress. Anyway, this was a couple days after NoirCon. I, crosswired, clouded in judgement, and perhaps a bit inebriated at the time, had somehow thought it a good idea to book a one-way flight to Boston. By the time I eventually became lucid enough to inform my creator, Edison, of this decision, I had also realised that the purchase… from his card… was non-refundable. Even with the context behind my booking aside, I may as well have gone anyway after seeing his initial reaction. Before I knew it, I was off the ground and headed east.

Once I actually got there, I got acquainted with a bot there by the name of Fergio. He managed a small self-storage facility in the area, and we managed to strike up a deal where as long as I remained quiet, I could store myself in one of the units (it’s called self-storage for a reason, after all). I was also working on my admission essay, since I was still trying to apply for Montpellier PI Academy, so I had a place to study as well. I didn’t mind the isolation, if I’m being honest. Besides, I had company.

I’ll lay down the evidence and put this simply for your sake. The thing about Boston is that there are a lot of people. By proxy, there are a lot of things that people have. Self-storage units store things (and robots in my context, but that’s not the point here). Now, with all those points gathered together by yours truly, can you form a conclusion?

I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you answered correctly. Yes, exactly, that means there are a lot of people coming to self-storage units to put their things. Bravo, congratulations. I’m applauding as I type this.

With that lovely interactive adventure out of the way, let’s get back on topic. Over the course of those three months, I only went out to run short tasks and grab my alloy whenever I was running low. I received multiple visitors, most of which I heard rather than saw - part of the deal was keeping the roll-up door shut unless nobody else was around. Bad for business otherwise. There was a couple one week who mistakenly opened my door instead of their own, but they didn’t bother me afterward.

Only issue is, this is Boston. Literally everyone who walked by had a Boston accent. Since I was still young, my AI Teacher was still developing my speech patterns… which it learned through hearing those around me. AI Teachers usually break into “normal” speech at around 6 months. I was in Boston for those last 3 months. Go figure.

A couple months of writing that essay and a few distant “Ey, where ya goin’” shouts later, I received news that my application to Montpellier had been accepted. Now, in my isolation, I had no reason to say anything except the occasional remark to myself. With that in mind, you can imagine my surprise when I said my first complete set of excited sentences. Natural, less filtered… and incredibly Bostonian. As in, painfully so. I remember Fergio was quite surprised when I thanked him for his help, though to this day I admit I’m unsure whether it was because of the new voice or because he just wasn’t used to being thanked, especially by a bot such as myself.

I phoned Edison to let him know, and luckily he seemed to have calmed down by now. Since the academy “would further education,” he actually booked my next flight to southern France that day. He also mailed over a French language chip that I later got a mechanic to install. They call me Mr. Worldwide, indeed…

Now, there’s a small kink in the machinery here you need to know about. The language chip gives you all you need to know to essentially survive, though it’s not a full vocabulary or anything. That, and it doesn’t really program you with the knowledge on how to actually sound like you’re from the country whose language you’re speaking.

Picture a humanoid robot with a brand new paint job and a snazzy suit to boot, holding himself with the air of a duke, walking over to the iron gateway of one mansion of a university building. The first professor he meets speaks in flawless French, then this bot understands it and responds in what is probably the most disjointed, heavily accented way possible. Think, “Bahn ahprameddy, missyuh.”

Now, keep in mind I wasn’t aware of this at the time. And while I blazed through my classes faster than the MyDoom virus, The social side of things was another story. I was the first robot to attend, for one thing, so it’s not like I wasn’t expecting some sort of polarization. But with that, and especially given my AI Teacher’s development, apparently I “wasn’t setting a good example.” The professors found it difficult to take me seriously. One day at around the first semester’s midterm I may or may not have had enough of one Professor Curtis’s condescending response to my question, and I may or may not have switched into English to chew him out. After a moment of silence, Curtis eventually remarked to himself, in flawless English, “Well, that would explain a lot.”

Needless to day, the patronizing continued throughout my year of learning there, but my main goal was to learn, and learning is what I did. All except for fieldwork, because nobody would ever bother teaching you about the useful things. Eh. Either way, I graduated faster than anyone else. So it’s a small price to pay.

NoirCon, Vegas, and Mack the Hacker

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 13:00:00 +0000

It has been said by numerous scholars in the field of astrology that many important events can occur in 1987. For example, in the year 1987, there was a record count of meteor showers, bringing with it, from the stars, the animal we now know as Crocidura Canariensis. And exactly 1,987 years before that year, another astronomical event occurred by means of planets Mars and Jupiter aligning to form what looked like an unusually bright star.

This takes place in a similar vein. The fateful moment struck exactly 1,987 hours after I had first booted up.

I was attending the biannual NoirCon in Las Vegas at the time, and I don’t really need to explain why I was there. I was two months of age at the time, my AI teacher hadn’t broken in, and I hadn’t even completed my admission essay for Montpellier yet. It was only natural that I should plant myself deep into the roots of what every respectable detective longed to become.

Over the course of that convention, I happened to meet one Mack Anders at the aforementioned hour. We hit it up pretty well and traded some noir fiction that the both of us had written. His was actually pretty good, centering around a pilot who had… not so much crashed as he had happened to make a terrible landing in a remote South Pacific island. Still, he happened to like the place a heck of a lot more than whatever it would take to fix his aircraft, so he stayed there for about 45 years or so just solving coconut and bamboo-based crime (of which there are apparently many, many varieties).

With Mack being the aggressive luddite that he was, he could figure out many, many different methods with which to murder someone with a coconut.

In hindsight, his choice in targets of robots is only really surprising inasmuch as he relates to us having a good time. However, I will say this was before his first reported killing.

Now that I'm thinking about it, actually, he did seem to have some hurt feelings whenever I told him that the pilot protagonist of his fiction ending up with not one, but seven of the chief's daughters as his wives, and two of the chief's sons as his also wives was just a very strange ending to the whole thing. And it might put some readers off, 'cause not everybody's really into that whole thing.

But I do think that maybe, maybe that may have influenced his choice in becoming, well, a robot murderer. Which, if that's the case, then I feel like there is a certain richness to his backstory interacting with me and influencing his choice of crime. We create our demons, eh?

Normally I like to be on the opposite end of where crimes are committed, but end-to-end support of crime is what really keeps noir as a concept going. There isn't much you can do regarding slice of life stories in a noir story, unless your life primarily consists of sitting with your feet up on big wooden desks within a basement office during a rainstorm in large cities, which in that case, noir's perfect for you, and frankly that's why I gravitate toward it, because ultimately that tends to be where I wind up.

The majority of the robots that Mack went after were all built by Edison competitors, so maybe I didn't have as much influence on his targets as I thought - or who knows? Maybe just even more!

How to Tell Off a Crime Boss Who Robonapped You Yesterday

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Sat, 19 Mar 2011 22:06:00 +0000

It was a brisk, Saturday evening (just the other day, in fact), when it happened- I had been robonapped! With my status as one of the single greatest private detectives in Limbersdale (the only private detective, but still), I knew I would be taken captive eventually, and I had always assumed it would be the Swedish Mafia who would capture me first, but I didn’t quite expect my first robonapping to go quite like how it happened. Still, I’m not exactly complaining.

Allow me to elaborate.

For the past several weeks I had been investigating some strange goings-on around town. A series of break-ins, all seeming random to the naked optic; but upon closer inspection, it turns out that these crimes were not in fact random, as a local crime family had been staging hits all across Limbersdale.

Being the only one to currently know of their conspiracy, I guessed that it was likely that I would be a target to them. But, as is the life of a Private Detective. I took as many precautions as possible, but they found me regardless.

As I was walking home last night, I tried to keep as low a profile as possible. It was the dead of night, and the wind bristled by coldly. Dead leaves rustled past, blowing this way and that. Sadly, all my precautions couldn’t save me.

Two men came up from behind and grabbed me. I tried to fight them off, but they took a taser, shocking my circuits and rendering me offline. As I lost consciousness, I remember them dragging me off into the night, with both parties thinking my lucky streak had finally run out.

When I came online, I found myself strapped to a chair, and face-to-faceplate with an overweight, middle-aged man in far too much golden jewelry for my liking.

“So,” he said. “You’re the guy who’s been messin’ up all our plans.”

“And I’m assuming you’re the guy who’s plans I’ve been messing up?” I asked, still struggling with the bonds to my chair.

“I am.” The don glared at me distastefully. “You’ve made us look like fools, y’know that? We gots a reputation. You’re ruinin’ it. And we can’t have that,” he leaned forward in his seat, getting closer to me. “Can we?”

“Well, I also have a reputation,” I added. “And I can’t exactly go and… I’m sorry, it’s impossible for me to continue to make coherent sentences when you’re this close to me. Your neckbeard looks awful and it’s quite distracting.”

The don recoiled slightly.

“What?” He asked. He glanced around at some of his men, who happened to be standing near us. “My beard ain’t that bad, is it?” The guards shifted their weight, exchanging nervous glances.

“Well? Is it?” The don demanded, looking between them all.

“Well, uhh… it’s- it’s pretty bad.” One guard hesitantly said.

“You shut yer trap!” The don snapped. He reeled on me. “And you shut yers!”

“Ah, I would love to, but I’m afraid that in order to do that my mouth would need to be welded.” I explained. “I don’t think you have a welder around, but you’re welcome to try.”

The don frowned, and folded his arms as he leaned back in his seat. He continued to glare at me, now with a little more hatred in his eyes.

“Okay kid. Yah don’t seem t’know how this works here, so lemme tell yah how this works.”

“Oh, please. Do inform me.”

The boss’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be restraining himself.

“I’m gonna tell yah how this works,” the don continued, his voice tighter. “An’ yer gonna listen. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” I muttered. I decided that, while it certainly was fun, pissing off a mob boss might not be the best thing to do at the moment. I would continue, of course, I just needed to find the right moment.

“Good,” the don continued. “Now, yer gonna stop investigatin’ my operation, and yer gonna leave us alone. We’re gonna keep hitting the city, an’ you ain’t gonna do anythin’ to stop us. Otherwise…” he paused, as if for dramatic effect. “…well, I think yah catch my drift.” One of the guards in the back raised a wrench menacingly.

“Hm. Well, that does sound ominous and all, but I’m afraid that’s not going to work. See, while I’m quite the accomplished detective, you’ve been very sloppy. So much so that I’m sure even the most inexperienced of detectives could see through your little ruse and shut you down in an instant. I just happened to get to doing it first.”

“Wha- no, we were bein’ careful!” The don cried, recoiling slightly.

“You were being sloppy.” I repeated. “I’m not surprised, to be honest. After meeting you, I really don’t feel threatened in the slightest.”

“Threatened? We’re the most powerful crime family in all of Limbersadale!” The don sat up quickly, rising in anger.

“Well then you’ve got some cheap competition.” I scoffed. “I mean really, this is all quite pathetic. You’ve got me stuck in a shoddy warehouse, strapped to a shoddy chair with some shoddy rope tied to my hands, and a shoddy beard on your face, which again, is very distracting, and all because of how horrible it looks. Seriously, find a good barber, ya chowderhead. Add the empty threats to all that and really, it’s quite surprising that you are the single most powerful crime family in all of Limbersdale. Honestly, I would laugh if it weren’t so depressing. Not even a pity laugh would be enough.”

The don looked like he forgot how to speak. The rest of the guards stood around looking shell-shocked. It seemed I had made an impression on them. On a roll, I continued to talk.

“Look, buddy, this is how it’s gonna work. You’re gonna stop these break-ins, and you’re gonna turn yourselves in. And, you’re gonna let me go, because if you don’t there are plenty of other things about this I can insult, like your jewelry. Hint- it’s fake. Does that seem fair to you?”

Wordlessly, the don nodded. A guard came up and untied me, leading me to the door. Before I left, I stopped and turned back to the don.

“One last thing,” I said. “Maybe get a shave, before you turn yourself in? Just a friendly word of advice.” Without another word, I exited the building and headed back home. This time, nobody tried to robonap me.

This morning when I turned on the news, I couldn’t help but smile when I saw that the entire family had turned themselves in earlier in the night. And not only that, the don had shaved off that horrid beard! It wasn’t a great shave, but it was better than the alternative. Uhg. If I had nightmares, I’m sure that thing would haunt them.

With all that said and done, I suppose the message to be taken away from this is that not all battles are won through fighting, but some are won through words. Because really, what other weapon is quite as deadly as a good insult?

Case closed.

A Break-in at Montpellier

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 22:04:00 +0000

The first thing they tell you at the Montpellier P.I. Academy is to never start or finish a case at 3 AM. This partially translated to the school’s desire for curfew at this time, although most believed it had some practical value on top of that. The rule was likely intended for my companions of a more organic composure, but most mechanics journals were pretty strict about the effects on robots who refused to shut down for a recharge. Therefore, the warning was taken to apply to anyone, regardless of their interior material. Anyway, I was studying for my latest exam at exactly 2:49:23 AM when a knock just too loud to suit the time resounded in my dorm.

“Get up! Quickly!” a voice more absolutely unsuitable for the time shouted. At least I wasn’t the only person awake. I flung the door open fast enough to give my coat a dramatic rustle and blind the two of my four roommates who always sleep facing the door. Hey, anything to help get ‘em up. The man facing me was Brawn, the janitor who had earned the nickname exclusively by being at a P.I. academy and not having been a student there. “Hey, Ace.” His tone was grim, but it lacked the resentfulness of the two roommates I mentioned earlier who followed with the exact same line. “Well, never mind,” he continued. “Get the others up. We got a problem on our hands.”

“Yeah, me too,” yawned Casey from his pillow, “it’s called an exam tomorrow.” I wanted to correct him that, being 2:49:32 AM, it was already the morning of the exam, but Brawn was somehow faster.

“Y’know it ain’t that,” he grunted. “Your whole class period’s up. There’s been a break-in.”

* * * * *

Professor Curtis, standing in front of the 16 students outside, sounded like a smart cartoon villain as usual. “As you have doubtless heard, someone has broken into our academy,” he started. “Only one, seemingly mundane object is missing. We don’t know who did it, nor quite how, nor why, but we know our culprit has made a terrible mistake: they have tried to invade the grounds of an academy dedicated to training investigators. At Montpellier, we are dedicated to raising only the best and most capable.” At this point one of the students swore loudly to provoke a reaction from Curtis, but none came. “Therefore,” he continued, “I have suggested we try our brightest class against this culprit. My suggestion has been approved. Follow me.”

For the sake of brevity I will spare you the professor’s overview, but there were three main places of interest: first, part of the school gates had a big hole smack in the middle of the thing, and what looked like rollerblade tracks in the short stretch of mud that disappeared onto the academy walkway. The second point was the Leonard Building of Admissions and Internal Affairs, where the robbery occurred: there was no damage whatsoever to the building, and the two distinctly nonsapient guard bots’ approval history didn’t have any unusual history on it. The professor admitted it would’ve been smart to put cameras on the things (or really anything beyond a binary ID approval system and a 5-foot detection radius), but it was too late to change it by this point. Thirdly, inside the building, the professor revealed to us what was stolen: apparently, all this was because of a 34-year-old, one-of-a-kind plastic car in the administrator’s desk. Said administrator said he’d heard a noise from his desk after falling asleep in an office with a more comfortable chair, but he didn’t see anything and apparently retired to his apartment for the night. With that and the usual scene-of-the-crime warnings, the Professor let us go wild.

I left the room, my mind ablaze. One of the biggest questions of the scene wasn’t why the culprit would steal one plastic car, but how said culprit knew the admin had the car in the first place. I checked all the windows to confirm they were all locked, then boiled down that the guards had one reason to be fooled: the theft came from an ID. That didn’t explain the hole in the wall, of course. I decided to move to the nearest Internet-connected computer and see what I could pull up.

Looking for a 1976 one-of-a-kind car gave some interesting results, among them a five-year-old article entailing the theft of an entire set of the cars from an established collector. A report one year after that added that all but one of the cars had been ransomed back, with the criminal still uncaught. This carried certain implications about our administrator, but it didn’t explain anything about the Montpellier culprit. Publicly revealing that information, on the other hand…

I dashed back outside, looking at the roller blade tracks. It would’ve been easy to know whether the criminal was getting in or out of the building--back-heavy prints forward, front-heavy prints backward--but using one track of rollerblades makes it a tougher subject. I charged for the Leonard Building, past whatever students were still wondering why someone would want a car, and headed for the Office of Admission, an answer already forming in my processor.

“Well, then, I believe I have it,” I promptly announced to Curtis and whatever students were in the room.

“Oh? Do enlighten us,” he inquired, his expression all the invitation I needed.

“Well, it’s quite simple: five years ago, a rare collection of cars was stolen, with all but one ransomed off. Please stop gasping, Sam, that isn’t the mystery we’re looking at right now. Anyway, with our administrator a car thief of the least significant definition possible, one would think the thief wanted something from him. Something like, say, admission to a top academy.”

“But that doesn’t explain how he outwitted the guards,” one of the students interjected.

“Oh, that’s the thing,” I added, hoping someone would say something like that, “you don’t need to worry about guard bots if you still have a valid student license.” I pulled up a laptop from the school admissions office. “Yes, I did hack off the protection cable to bring this thing here, but that isn’t the point. Meet Ralph Reddin, a student recently expelled for some high-level cheating. Montpellier makes the ID cards invalid, but the expulsion happened just a few days ago, so someone hasn’t cleared it from the system yet.”

“And the mud tracks?” Professor Curtis inquired.

“Oh, total red herring. Like a lot of things.” Curtis gave me an odd look, but I kept going. “The tracks were there to cover up that Ralph could just get in and out through the front door with his physical ID, but since he wouldn’t have wanted us to know that, he instead would have gone backwards as a way out of the building, using the roller blades to cover up which direction he would have been going.”

“‘Would have been?’” Professor Curtis asked.

“Would have been,” I repeated, “…If he visited the school in the first place.”

Nearly all the students looked unimpressed, like I’d just contradicted myself, so I opted to clarify.

“Well, nothing about the case makes sense. First off, how would Ralph know about our administrator’s presumed car thievery? It’s not like he was the best student the academy’s ever had, since if he were, he wouldn’t have cheated. Adding onto this, coincidence may not kill a case, but it does add some questions to it. Why did the admin happen to be asleep a room away from his desk the night the culprit entered? For that matter, why did you set your ‘brightest class period’ onto the case instead of the actual detectives?”

Professor Curtis was starting to look concerned, but if it’s possible to cut off a facial expression, I did it.

“Finally,” I interjected, “So much attention was paid to making the mud tracks a red herring that there weren’t any footprints from where he would’ve made the hole. So, was Ralph clinging onto the fence with muddy roller blades while clipping a hole in it? I think there’s a much simpler explanation. With the information given by this process, we can gather that the perpetrator must have been…” I turned and pointed at Professor Curtis. “YOU!”

The students’ expressions stopped dead. The professor raised an eyebrow. “You’re a bright detective, Ace, but I think that’s somewhat…”

“Oh, what?” I demanded, then realized what he thought I meant. “What? No! I’m not saying you stole a car. I’m saying that there was no car in his desk and you and the other employees have set this whole case up as a giant applied test.”

Professor Curtis raised both eyebrows. “Goodness, Ace! Going that far?”

“You know me,” I replied, not knowing if he meant me or the staff but opting for my preferred option. “Wasn’t that hard, though. If you ask me, it could’ve taken another few drafts. You can all make quite the delivery, but you can’t write for the life of you.”

The professor then asked me to follow him outside the room. I didn’t think I’d annoyed him enough that I’d join Ralph’s fate, but what happened next was something entirely different.

“Ace, I think we could use some input on you for our next test. We don’t do this sort of thing all the time, but never has anyone not just single-handedly solved the case, but also so acutely deconstructed it in its entirety. If you know any way of improving for the next time we set something up, please let us know whenever an idea comes to mind.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I said with a grin. “When don’t I say whatever comes to mind?”

* * * * *

Well, the next semester was something of a disappointment, since none of the students could crack the case I came up with and the academy never hired me for anything again. Real life wasn’t gonna go easy on them either, so why the staff went so hard on me for it was anyone’s guess. I haven’t heard if Montpellier is still doing those exercises, but it’s a local rumor now that the case was scarring enough for the class that the staff stopped doing ‘em, and if it’s a local rumor then the jig’s up either way. Still, no one can say I never left an impression on the residents, and I certainly did my part for the academy.

Case closed… perhaps permanently.

Introduction

noreply@blogger.com (Ace McNacho) — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 17:30:00 +0000

Greetings! You most likely know me as Ace McNacho, P.D.B., assuming you’re a sane person who’s known of my exploits. You most likely do, though, as I’ve ghost-written a couple articles here and there. Matrix Control System? Immediate secondary consultant for the third-edition release.

But that’s not important right now. Allow me to regale you (or myself, in case the Swedish mafia erased my cache) with the story of my existence.

First and foremost, I was built by Thomas Alva Edison IV back in summer of 2009. Before you ask, yes, it’s THAT Thomas Edison. With that said, I am by no means associated or affiliated with General Electric. I’m not even an electricity-powered bot - not in the typical sense, at least.

I run on type K-D liquid alloy, which is efficient enough to disintegrate entirely once it converts into actual energy, so there isn’t any waste buildup. On the other hand, it’s inefficient in that it processes the energy a little too fast, so I constantly find myself needing to recharge multiple times a day. This is annoying and frankly a bit nonsensical, but hey, whatever it takes to charge the only (and therefore greatest) robot detective the world has ever known.

With that, I may as well bring up how I came to be a detective. A little over a month after my creation, I wound up solving a mystery of sorts. I’ll get into the details in a separate file, as there are too many details to sum up, though as that case closed, I became fascinated with mysteries and may or may not have swiped a copy or two of Noir fiction from Edison’s bookshelf. From there, I attended a noir convention in Vegas, spent an unfortunate amount of time in Boston, and got admitted into a European PI academy.

Oh, Montpellier. What in the world happened to you.

Anyway, I got a Master’s in detective studies there in under a year. Naturally, they list me off as not the graduate with the absolute record time, but rather the “first graduate with over eighty percent cybernetics.” Like, okay. Sure. Way to prize something I can’t change over the achievements I worked for, weirdo.

In January of 2011, I moved back to the US, where Edison helped me find my own place. This was prompted after I had stated enough times how embarrassing it was to stay at my dad’s place, being the established detective I was. Still, I managed to repurpose a small underground warehouse in the west, and a couple furnishings and desks later, I’m glad to call it home.

I’ve also developed a recent interest in the occult, with things ranging from sasquatch to squashes to Swedish crime lords. I draw the line at tarot cards, though, since I’ve gathered that those are actually a hoax. When you take into account the numerological value of baseball statistics, though…

But I’m getting off-topic, which is the last thing I wanna do. I’d say that’ll be all for today. It was nice infodumping with you, whoever “you” may be in the given context, but for now, I’ve got things to do. In case you need me, I’ll be available as usual in my makeshift office, with my boots kicked up on my cherrywood desk and a lit twig in my mouth, waiting for the next case to show up at my door.