Wendy, MM, Ida
"'Morning, Ida," Wendy calls as she passes by the front desk with a paper cup in each hand.
Behind her, she hears Ida grumble, "And here I was just getting used to the quiet, too."
"Never get used to the quiet," their boss chides, accepting the cup of milk. "If the world is running too smoothly for too long, the chances are very good that a mad scientist is busy perfecting his army of psychic robots that learn to anticipate your every more the longer you remain in combat, and only have one goal: to replace humanity and turn us all into workhorses for the rest of our short and miserable lives."
Wendy raises an eyebrow. "So, what, are you figuring that now that you've given that scenario, we won't be fighting that particular menace today?"
"One can only hope."
"So, what are
The Middleman frowns. "I don't know yet. Whatever it is, it's left a most peculiar calling card on its latest victim's remains: a recipe for squash casserole that smells intensely of paprika."
"What smells intensely of paprika? The recipe, the casserole, or - I can't believe I'm even asking this - the remains?"
"The recipe, Dubbie."
"Did you keep it?"
"Ida's going to analyze the paper for clues while we mosey over to the docks where the body was found. I don't want us to rule out the possibility that this could be the work of pirates - "
"Pirates?" Wendy repeats skeptically. "Not exactly our department."
"- from a dimension where cooking a casserole without precisely the correct ratio of condiments to vegetables is an offense punishable by death!"
"Wow," Wendy mutters as they head to the garage. "Remind me never to go on that
world's version of Iron Chef
." When quiet doesn't signal mad scientists or evil robotic plots, it usually just signals boredom, and only a cranky robot would
revel in that, assuming that she's not being, well, Ida. As for Wendy herself, she'll take the other option, thanks.
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