Chapter 46: The Unlucky Tequila
"Oh, right," Cointreau said, her voice casual as she leaned back in her chair. "I heard a newcomer earned a codename in less than a month recently. Research Division, wasn't it? Send me his profile. I want to take a look."
Gin lingered near the doorway, his cold green eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his fedora. "Sending the file isn't an issue. It is hardly classified information." A dark, dangerous edge crept into his voice, the thrill of the hunt bleeding through his usual apathy. "But I am rather curious. Why the sudden interest in a rookie? Did you find a rat?"
Cointreau rolled her eyes, utterly unimpressed by his bloodlust. "Why do you always get so excited at the prospect of a problem? Prepare for disappointment, Gin. I haven't found anything. I am merely interested in the Energy Compensation Medicine he invented to earn that codename." Honestly, she could never fathom what went on inside that silver-haired head of his, nor why he harbored such a manic obsession with catching spies.
"Tch." The murderous glint vanished from Gin's eyes instantly, replaced by sheer boredom. "I will send you the file later." Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out into the shadows.
Later, within the quiet security of her safe house, Cointreau stared at the glowing screen of her phone. A heavy sigh escaped her lips. "Tch. It really is Alhaitham."
She had harbored a sinking suspicion ever since she overheard the lower-ranking members gossiping about the newcomer's striking appearance. Now, staring at the detailed dossier, the crisp photograph and the attached name extinguished any lingering doubts. Ash-grey hair, sharp teal eyes, and an unmistakable aura of academic arrogance. It was absolutely Alhaitham from Sumeru.
She rubbed her temples, a dull ache beginning to throb behind her eyes. "If he sees me, it means Lumine will know too," she muttered to the empty room. "Now is definitely not the time for a reunion. It looks like I will have to avoid him for a while."
Miles away, the atmosphere was entirely different. Neon lights flashed in vibrant hues, and the chaotic display of arcade sound effects echoed through the massive hall.
"Wow! So this is the game conference venue!" Natsume's eyes sparkled as she took in the endless rows of gleaming arcade cabinets and virtual reality stations. She turned to her companion, a bright smile on her face. "Ran, thank you so much for inviting me along. This is my very first time attending an event like this!"
Inwardly, Natsume knew perfectly well that this conference was destined for disaster. Her memory of the plot served her well: this was the exact event where the Black Organization operative known as Tequila would make his first—and spectacularly final—appearance. As far as the timeline went, Tequila was the only organization member directly involved in today's mess, and his demise was nothing more than a stroke of incredibly bad luck. An accidental death by a misplaced bomb.
Glancing at the clock, Natsume calculated that she still had a decent window of time before the explosion rocked the building. She fully intended to exploit every single second of it. Once the murder occurred, the police would undoubtedly lock down the venue, and her chance to play all these unreleased games would vanish in a puff of smoke.
Ran waved her hands dismissively, her smile warm. "Not at all, Natsume! If anything, I should be the one thanking you for throwing that early celebration party for my dad last night."
Natsume rubbed the back of her neck, a sheepish expression crossing her face. "Ah, speaking of the party... I am really sorry I didn't keep a closer eye on Mr. Mouri. I let him drink way too much. He looks like he is suffering a terrible hangover right now."
"Natsume, what are you talking about? How could you possibly blame yourself? It is clearly Dad who doesn't know how to control himself." Ran maintained her pleasant smile, even as she turned and delivered a vigorous, open-palmed smack to Kogoro Mouri's back.
The resounding slap echoed over the arcade noise. Kogoro, already looking green around the gills, lurched forward, nearly knocked flat on his face by his own daughter's monstrous strength.
Standing a few paces away, Conan watched the scene unfold with deadpan, half-moon eyes. A distinct sense of schadenfreude bubbled up in his chest. 'Heh. When Ran was lecturing me for my hangover a few days ago, you sure had a grand old time joining in on the scolding, didn't you, Uncle? How does it feel now that the shoe is on the other foot?'
For the next hour, Natsume made absolutely no effort to scan the crowd for Tequila. Instead, she threw herself entirely into the festivities, dragging Ran from one glowing arcade cabinet to the next. She had zero intention of saving the doomed Black Organization member. All she had to do was enjoy the games, wait for the inevitable explosion, and then step in to solve the case.
"Come back to me—Shinichi!"
The sudden, furious shout snapped Natsume's attention around. She watched in awe as Ran screamed Kudo Shinichi's name, her fist blurring as it slammed into the padded target of a heavy-duty boxing machine. The impact sounded like a gunshot. The digital numbers on the screen spun wildly before locking into place with a cheerful chime, displaying a flawless high score of "400."
Natsume blinked. If she recalled correctly, that was the absolute maximum score the machine could register. Hideaki Nakajima, an employee from the Mandarin Heaven development division who had literally been in his college boxing club, had only managed a "348" earlier. Ran truly lived up to her terrifying reputation as a martial artist capable of shattering concrete utility poles with her bare hands.
Amused, Natsume shifted her gaze toward Conan. Right on cue, the shrunken detective was staring at the machine with a look of pure, unadulterated horror, cold sweat beading on his forehead as he likely imagined his own face replacing the punching pad.
But that raised an interesting question. How many points could she score? A spark of competitive curiosity ignited in Natsume's chest.
Catching the eager gleam in her friend's eye, Ran cheerfully unstrapped the oversized red boxing gloves and held them out.
Natsume slipped her hands into the worn leather, securing the straps around her wrists. She rolled her shoulders, stepping up to the machine while rapidly calculating the physics of her current vessel.
'Hmm. I should probably cap it at half strength.' After all, she was currently inhabiting the body of the Traveler. Maxing out her physical power would attract far too much unwanted attention. Worse, she might actually punch straight through the machine's motherboard, and she really didn't want to pay for the damages.
Decision made, Natsume planted her feet, twisted her hips, and snapped her fist forward. The glove connected with the pad in a sharp, controlled burst of kinetic force.
Ding!
The digital counter whirred into a frenzy before freezing on the exact same maximum score: "400."
A collective gasp rippled through the small crowd that had gathered around the booth. The onlookers stared in utter disbelief, shocked to see yet another seemingly delicate girl effortlessly max out the heavy-duty machine.
At the edge of the crowd, a towering man dressed entirely in black paused. The sharp crack of the punch had caught his attention, and he cast a subconscious glance over his shoulder. His dark eyes lingered on Natsume's face for a fraction of a second, a flicker of vague recognition crossing his features. But the thought dismissed itself just as quickly, and he turned away, melting back into the sea of attendees.
'Seriously,'the man grumbled internally, adjusting the briefcase in his grip.'What the hell is wrong with girls these days? Are they all this violent?'
"Ran-neechan, I need to pee!" Conan piped up, his childish facade firmly in place. He simply couldn't handle the sheer destructive aura radiating from the two girls anymore, seizing the first available excuse to escape.
By sheer coincidence, Hideaki Nakajima was passing by and overheard. Needing to use the facilities himself, the game developer politely offered to escort the young boy.
As they handled the crowded corridors toward the restrooms, a massive figure in a dark suit suddenly collided with them. Conan stumbled back, his sharp eyes immediately locking onto the man's imposing silhouette and the distinct, suffocating aura he carried. The boy's breath hitched. It was the same scent of danger, the same chilling presence as the men who had poisoned him and shrunk his body.
The man didn't even bother to apologize, a bulky cell phone pressed to his ear. Conan strained his ears, his blood running cold as he caught the tail end of the conversation—and the lethal codename the man casually dropped.
Tequila.
Annoyed by the child blocking his path, Tequila scowled and delivered a rough kick to shove Conan out of the way. But the miniature detective used the momentum to his advantage. In a flash of practiced sleight-of-hand, Conan slapped a microscopic eavesdropping bug and a tracking transmitter directly onto the sole of the giant's leather shoe.
Picking himself up from the floor, Conan brushed off his shorts, his eyes narrowing into determined slits. He shadowed the man into the restroom, silently preparing to extract whatever dark intelligence he could glean from the syndicate operative.
Miles away, Cointreau slowly lowered her phone from her ear, staring at the screen in absolute, stunned silence.
Was this truly the standard capability of an Intelligence Division member? The sheer incompetence was staggering. The idiot had just revealed his own codename directly over an unsecured cellular line. Worse, he had managed a spectacular buy-one-get-two-free deal by casually dropping Gin and Vodka's names in the exact same breath—all while standing in the middle of a crowded public venue!
Cointreau pressed a hand to her forehead, deeply thankful that Rum had kept her own identity hidden from this walking liability. If Tequila actually knew her codename, he probably would have blurted it out to the entire convention hall by now.
Through the open line, she had distinctly heard the sound of a child. And while most operatives would dismiss a kid as background noise, Cointreau knew better. You could never, ever underestimate children in this universe. Her memories of the original plot were slightly hazy, but she knew for an absolute fact that the protagonist of this world was currently trapped in the body of a grade-schooler.
A chilling thought crept into her mind. Could the kid Tequila just kicked be the kid?
'No way,'she tried to reassure herself.'Tequila couldn't possibly be that unlucky. Right?'
Despite her rationalizations, a gnawing sense of unease settled in her gut. She couldn't shake the feeling that things were about to spiral out of control. Reluctantly, she dialed his number again.
"Hello? What... is... it?" Tequila's gruff voice crackled through the speaker, dripping with impatience. He clearly had no idea who he was speaking to. Rum had only arranged a brief, anonymous meeting between them prior to the operation, explicitly withholding her codename and simply stating she would be his contact for the day. Naturally, Tequila assumed he was dealing with some lowly, un-codenamed rookie, and his tone reflected his utter lack of respect.
"Did you encounter anything unusual just now?" Cointreau asked, smoothly ignoring his abrasive attitude. Given his apparent lack of brain cells, expecting him to grasp the nuances of operational security was a lost cause. Arguing with him would only waste her breath.
"Anything... strange?" Tequila grunted, the sound of running water echoing in the background. He paused for a moment, thinking. "Well, does seeing a girl who looks a hell of a lot like you out there on the convention floor count?"
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