What court is really like

The K-pop/Sherlock Fusion that went nowhere

The thing about being in a boyband was, well, everyone underestimated them. They were performers: sexy and sultry, bright and shining onstage; awkward and goofy offstage. When the cameras (and cellphones and prying eyes) weren’t on them, they were insubstantial, like puppets with their strings cut. They were living embodiments of the Oscar Wilde notion that behind every exquisite thing that existed was something tragic. For them the tragedy was emptiness, shallowness - sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The other thing about being in a boyband - or being in a Korean idol group, at any rate - was that anyone who made it to debut was the equivalent of an world-class athlete. There were hundreds of idol training schools in Korea. Only a tenth of a percent of them made it to debut. They made it after years of training and multiple grueling auditions. Once they made it, their lives were eighteen-hour days: endless publicity, seven-hour dance rehearsals to learn the demanding choreography for their songs, and then personal training and other education (languages for when they went to other countries on tour).

It was a high-stress job. People had killed themselves as a result.

But each group represented the best of the best, that carefully-cultivated combination of talent, determination, and good looks.

One producer in China was trying to replicate the effect for Chinese idol groups, importing Korean dance and music instructors from some of the top trainee schools to train up his girls. Who were also doubling as star soccer players. In addition to singing and dancing, they had to be good at soccer.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, that another producer had the bright idea to have one of his idol groups double up.

Not as soccer players, though.

Assassins.

He got the idea from an old Japanese anime he saw once, about four, attractive young men whose day jobs were totally innocuous - florists - and whose night jobs involved tracking and slaying criminals. Vigilante assassins. No one looked at those florists and thought they were capable of that level of violence.

No one looked at those pretty K-pop idol boys, with their pink hair and lip gloss and glittery costumes, and thought they were capable of that level of violence either.

So when the Metro Police watched the footage of the assassination of a key political figure who was in London for a clandestine meeting with a foreign political figure, they were stumped.

“Makes sense, having the woman be the sniper,” Donovan said. “Women have steady hands.”

“Look at them move,” Greg said. “They’ve clearly been operating together for a while. A spotter and a shooter. Remington 700 bolt action. Military-grade optics. Sniper team.”

“You think they’re military?” Freeman asked.

Donovan snorted. “Not in that mini-skirt.”

The sniper certainly didn’t look like a military shooter. She was wearing a black-and-white plaid mini-skirt, a white blouse, a white-and-tan jacket, and long black socks that gave her a bit of a schoolgirl look. She looked like she was on a date with her spotter, who wore a black leather jacket, jeans, and a black billed cap. He had all of the sniper gear in a duffel bag slung on his shoulder, and they were holding hands as they approached the building where they’d planned to build their sniper nest. Both of them wore large dark sunglasses to obscure their faces.

“She’s wearing flat shoes, though,” Greg said. “That’s practical for maximum mobility in that outfit.”

The couple strode into the building, cool and casual - and arrived on the roof a short time later, both of them carrying their own gear and running.

“She’s got to be strong, to be carrying the rifle at that speed,” Donovan said.

“And to handle the recoil on that rifle,” Freeman added.

They watched the video over and over again. The spotter used his cap to shield his scope so light wouldn’t reflect off the front lens, give away their position. Both spotter and shooter had their scope and weapon set up in under a minute. They communicated almost entirely in hand signals.

The sniper made the shot in one go. She broke down her rifle, stashed it in the case, and then she and her spotter took off running. Vanished into the building.

When they emerged on the street, they both looked calm and unruffled, were holding hands. She laughed, twirled a lock of hair around her finger. He was carrying a single duffel bag once more.

They went down into the nearest Tube station and headed toward the loos and vanished. Junior officers had combed the security footage. They went into separate restrooms. Neither of them came out. Or at least, they weren’t spotted on any cameras. There were no alternate exits from those particular restrooms - officers had looked.

The assassins were smart, had scouted out an exit route the day before, figured out where the cameras were, possibly stashed changes of clothes, then used the crowds as cover to make their escape.

Greg and Donovan had squinted at the footage of people leaving the loos for the entire hour following the assassins’ approach, and they hadn’t spotted anyone who looked like either of them.

The Home Office was panicking, because an important foreign political figure had been murdered on British soil while British security services were in charge of his safety, and the country might be headed for international conflict, if not all-out war.

Greg was out of coffee, needed to go home and see his family before his wife filed for divorce on him.

Again.

It was his teenage daughter who gave him the breakthrough he needed. She spotted one of the stills from the security footage.

“What’s that for?”

“A case,” Greg said.

“You looking for a suspect?”

“Yes. She’s a person of interest in a current investigation.”

Emma laughed. “Dad, that’s not a girl - it’s a boy.”

Greg stared. “What?”

Emma tapped the photo, the one good shot they had of the shooter’s face, which was mostly ruined by overlarge sunglasses. “He’s got a pretty distinct Adam’s apple.”

Greg peered at the photo. How the hell had his entire investigative team missed that?

Because that shooter, whoever he was, made a very pretty girl.

Emma flipped through more of the photos. Greg should have stopped her - this was an active investigation - but she pointed to another.

“See? He has massive hands. Definitely not a real girl. Pro cross-dressing job, though. Judging by that pale skin and pretty pink mouth, I’m guessing Korean or Japanese.”

“How do you know that?” Greg asked.

“It’s a thing they all do,” Emma said. “Dress up as girls for gags and variety shows and other pranks. That short skirt looks Korean to me.”

Korean. That made no sense politically, but -

Greg kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a genius. Thank you.” He fired up his mobile, called Donovan. “Get eyes back on the footage right now. The shooter’s not a woman. It’s a man.”

“Shooter?” Emma asked, alarmed.

Greg dashed out the door. He poked his head back in the door. “Tell your mum I love her.” And then he dashed back out the door and to his car.

At the station, Freeman, Donovan, and a team of junior officers met him in the investigative lab.

“A man?” Donovan asked. “Are you -?”

“Adam’s apple,” Freeman said, pointing.

“Bloody hell,” one of the junior officers said. “She seems like such a pretty girl -”

“Look at those hands, though,” another one said. “I’ve worked drag clubs with Vice - birds don’t have hands that big. At least, not birds who were born birds.”

“Unless they’re cello players,” a third officer said, defensive.

The first one nudged him. “You thought she was pretty too.”

“Irrelevant,” Greg said, because they’d all thought she was pretty. “Get back on that feed and look for two men. A shooter of that skill would have to have military training, so at least eighteen years old.”

“If that bloke is in a wig, the hair color we’ve been looking for is all wrong,” Donovan said. “We’ve got no clue what he looks like.”

“Check for someone Korean or Japanese,” Greg said.

“As opposed to Chinese?” Freeman asked, skeptical.

Donovan eyed him. “Why, do they all look the same to you?”

“Like you can tell them apart,” Freeman snapped.

“All of you,” Greg said. “Search. Now.”

The junior officers nodded and plopped down in front of the computer terminals, began scanning the footage, each of them assigned to different ten-minute increments in slow motion.

Greg wasn’t sure why, but he had a good - and bad - feeling about this.

Four hours later, all of them had had numerous cups of coffee and gone over the security footage in slow motion, in fine detail, taken screen captures of anyone who looked even remotely East Asian, and sent those off for facial recognition.

“I think I found them,” Donovan said.

Everyone immediately crowded around her computer monitor.

She pointed to the screen. “There. Those two. See? He comes out of the ladies’ room at the same time as he comes out of the gents.”

“Cor - he really is a bloke!” one of the officers said.

“Capture it. Run facial recognition,” Greg said.

Donovan nodded, started typing rapidly.

“We’ve caught them now,” Freeman said quietly, his gaze intense.

“Maybe,” Greg said, “we should reach out to Interpol, see if they’ve had similar assassinations - distance shot, man and a ‘woman’ on a date at the scene. They’re quite practiced with their MO. And they waited in the loos for an hour to try to throw us off.”

“Silly of them to exit the loos at the same time.” Freeman shook his head.

“And get caught on camera,” Donovan added.

“London is covered with cameras - more than people realize,” another officer said.

Greg nodded. For law enforcement, that was usually a good thing.

Several hours later, after yet more cups of coffee, they received two reports. Upon reviewing footage of several other politically-relevant long-distance kill shots, couples on dates did appear before and after each kill. Not always the same couple, but always a couple. And the two men in the photos were older than Greg had thought (at least eighteen, for military training, but no older than twenty, for how youthful they looked). And neither of them was, by all reports, a military-grade sniper or spotter.

They were both Korean nationals, and they were in England for part of their world tour, because they were in a boyband. Neither of them had done their military service, were incapable - as far as the government was concerned - of handling firearms.

“Look at this, though,” Donovan said. She’d found a publicity shot of several of the young men in the band - ranging in age from twenty-two to twenty-six - dressed as very pretty girls. One of them was wearing the same exact outfit as the shooter from two nights ago. The one who’d been spotted leaving the women’s lavatory in the Tube an hour after the kill.

“He is really pretty,” one of the junior officers said, wistful and disgusted all at once.

Like Emma had said - pro job.

“Look at the number of kills they have.” Freeman pointed to the list. “All of them coincide with times the band was in town for publicity or filming or their world tour.”

“So we’ve got boyband assassins on our hands.” Donovan shook her head.

“There are girl band footie players in China,” one officer piped up.

“Up to this point, they’ve never even come close to getting caught, haven’t left even the faintest trace. What’s changed?” Freeman asked.

Greg nodded in agreement. “This isn’t their first time - or first kill - in London, and they managed not to get caught on camera nearly as much. It’s like this time they were asking to get caught.”

Donovan pulled up a video of all seven lads in the band playing with puppies while they answered interview questions. “Maybe they were.”

*

They paused in the alley behind the hotel.

Hoseok said, “I want a cigarette.”

Minhyeok made a disapproving sound. “If Hyunwoo smells it on you -”

Hoseok cast him a sharp look. “Why are you so calm?”

Minhyeok had his hands in his pockets, head tipped back to look at the sky. “Because we did the right thing.”

“You killed a man tonight.”

“You helped me do it.”

Hoseok drew in a sharp breath. “I know. I could have stopped you, or told you wrong -”

“And then we’d both be dead, and the others would be thrown away, and they’d do this to the next group of boys who came along, who wanted the dream enough.” Minhyeok bowed his head, swallowed hard. “I used to really love singing. But now every song tastes like blood.”

“And now you know why I want a cigarette.”

Minhyeok’s watch buzzed. Text message from Hyunwoo.

Sit rep?

Minhyeok scribbled out a reply. Almost there. To Hoseok he said, “We’d better go. We’re about to be missed.”

If there was one thing an idol should never be, it was missed by his handlers.

*

“Are you sure about this?” Donovan asked.

Greg tapped his radio. “Am I sure about taking my daughter out to meet seven trained assassins? No. But it’s the best we’ve got. Unless you can suddenly fake up enthusiasm for Korean pop music.”

“Well, no,” Donovan admitted.

“Then I’m going to be the best dad ever and take Emma to see one of her favorite bands in concert,” Greg said. “And if I happened to win some backstage passes so she can meet the band, well, like I said, I’m the best dad ever.”

It several birds with one stone: time with Emma; a demonstration to her mother that he was trying to do better as a father and husband (they’d had a lovely family dinner first, and he’d promised to get to all those household tasks Sarah asked of him); and an opportunity to get up close and personal with suspects in his case.

Greg had gone to his fair share of concerts when he was younger - Paul McCartney and Wings, Elton John, David Gilmour. Usually the crowds were pretty relaxed, people out to enjoy classic music, have a beer and maybe a bit of a smoke and remember good times. Most of the other concertgoers for those artists were Greg’s age, men and women alike, some even bringing their musically-educated kids.

And then there was a pop concert. Greg was pretty sure he was one of a handful of men in then stadium. He spotted a couple as he picked his way down one of the aisles toward the front. They made eye contact with each other, exchanged expressions of sympathy. Beyond a handful of men and a decent number of mums, the crowd was overwhelmingly teenage and uni age girls. Most of them were armed with posters, little lamps on sticks with the band logo on them - Emma had one of those - and what looked like the sorts of glow sticks air traffic controllers used at the airport.

Thanks to his connections at The Met (and the Home Office), Greg had managed to get really good seats for himself and Emma, right up close to the central catwalk on the stage. Emma was very excited, preened a little bit when the girls on the other side of him said they were jealous of how close she would be to the band.

Emma patted Greg’s arm. “My dad got the tickets for me. He has connections.”

The pink-haired girl beside Greg - was that her real hair? Or a wig? - eyed him. “So, do you like the band?”

“I am learning to appreciate all kinds of music for my daughter,” he offered, as diplomatically as he could manage. Truth was, Sarah was much more patient with Emma’s music, but Greg had to be the one at the concert for this.

There was no opening act. The lights went low, the girls screamed - Greg regretted not having earplugs, because he was wearing his earwigs in place of earplugs - and then a video started, some kind of movie. The narration was in Korean, but there were subtitles in English. Greg had thought there were only seven blokes in the band, but it looked like there were more of them in the film. His attempts at learning to tell them apart prior to this mission had been greatly complicated by the fact that none of them had the same hair color for more than a few months, and more than once two of them had similar hair colors at the same time.

The film ended, and the girls screamed more, and then seven figures rose from beneath the stage. The screaming reached an all-new decibel level.

The lights went low, and when they came on again, the boys were standing in single file. Music began to play, and the boys began to sing. They had clear, strong, radio-friendly voices, mostly tenor.

The girls sang along in places. Cheered along in places. They could even sing along in Korean. Greg stared at Emma, both amazed and appalled, because she didn’t speak French nearly as confidently, and she’d been studying it in school for three years.

Then Greg turned his attention back to the stage. He could pick out the two assassins from the other night. The one who’d dressed as a girl was tall, very slender, and had ash-blond hair that was obviously not his natural color. The one who’d acted as his spotter was much more muscular in comparison, had jet-black hair and a smoldering smile. Several of the other boys were quite slender as well, probably disguised as girls easily. No one would think such pretty girls were capable of that level of violence.

No one would think such pretty boys were capable of that level of violence.

But Greg watched them dance, their coordination, synchronization, and sheer athleticism to pull off those routines while they sang, and saw military training and discipline, saw the fitness and strength required to be world-class assassins. Which apparently all seven of them were.

After three numbers, the seven of them lined up at the front of the stage, spoke in unison and bowed as one. Then they all straightened up, and one of them spoke in surprisingly good English - with an American accent.

The girls cheered, greeted him. Then the boys introduced themselves one by one, some of them also fairly conversant in English, others of them clearly using up the majority of their English in a single Hello, how are you?

Greg hadn’t expected rap to be part of pop music, associated it with hip-hop and, well, rap, but two of the boys were passable rappers, best as Greg could tell. He didn’t know much about rap and couldn’t say anything in Korean beyond kimchi, but judging by the speed and the number of syllables packed in, the boys were pretty good at what they did. Greg couldn’t talk that fast in English without tripping over his words.

The seven of the boys were smiling, beaming, full of energy, looked pleased to be onstage. The one who spoke the most English was in charge of translating his friends’ responses, probably simplified them down for the sake of saving time.

After they introduced themselves, they sang a few more numbers, these ones slower and more sultry. Greg would be the first to admit that he tuned out Emma’s music most of the time. She was like her mother and liked to listen to music while she did the dishes or other chores, so Greg was pretty good at tuning her music out. But she must have listened to their songs a lot if she could sing along like she was.

There was another break while the boys spoke to the audience, kidding around, flirting and laughing and making fun of each other. They spoke in two groups, first three, then the other four, and then all seven of them were onstage for another song, this one more formal choreography again. Given the demands of their choreography, Greg supposed they needed breaks now and again, some songs less structured than others.

Greg was impressed that the boys really were singing, though. He could tell by the difference in sound quality from the thumping techno in the background versus the vocals.

It was a genius ruse. No one who looked at these boys would think they were deadly assassins.

Were they consummate performers? Because up on stage, they looked like they were having a grand old time. They looked sweet and happy, and between songs they were goofy, just like ordinary boys. Being sexy was obviously performative. Was it all an act? Were the seven of them just stone-cold killers beneath the singing and dancing and smiles? Or was killing the price of doing something they loved?

Emma was clearly having the time of her life, waving her light stick, jumping up and down, screaming and shouting, cheering and chanting along with the other fans.

There was a video, ostensibly of the seven boys getting ready to have a party with their fans - who had some kind of collective name that sounded like nonsense or baby talk - and each of them was introduced, goofed around and flirted with the camera. Greg was a straight man, but all of them were very cute. What followed was a number with just three of them wearing little sailor outfits dancing to a bubblegum sweet song and generally acting so sweet that Greg thought he was going to get a toothache.

And two of that sweet little trio were the two assassins in question.

Greg watched them beam and smile and figured that his daughter could be listening to worse music. There was rap, but it wasn’t about drugs and violence. He figured the majority of the songs were love songs, but they sounded sweet and innocent, and even if Emma could sing along, chances were she didn’t understand them if they weren’t all that sweet and innocent. If she was in her room listening to their songs and staring at pictures and videos of them, well, she was more likely to do her homework than get into trouble.

And then the cute song ended and two of the more muscular boys stepped out onto the stage, wearing leather trousers and singing a song in English.

About getting naked.

Greg wanted to clap his hands over Emma’s eyes and ears, because this was the opposite of innocent and sweet. It was sexual and sensuous and he was not okay with it.

Although - there was something a little bit gay, about how the two boys were dancing in synchronization with each other.

That amount of hip thrusting was wholly inappropriate. Hadn’t this been marketed as an all-ages event? Greg tried to squint at his ticket.

The girls went wild when one of the boys took his shirt off. Luckily he was wearing a tank top underneath, but still. Greg scanned his surroundings for some kind of administrative official so he could lodge a complaint, but there was none.

And then those two boys departed from the stage and the final two appeared. They were singing a song in English as well. It was far less hypersexual than the last one, and for that, Greg was pleased. Only that song ended and another started up and the two of them started dancing and -

Well. Greg had always heard the jokes and slurs about other boybands, like Boyzone and the Backstreet Boys and the like, how all boys in boybands were bent, but - there was an awful lot of getting handsy with each other.

Of course, if Emma was correct, these boys were also professional crossdressers when the occasion called for it.

(Like killing people.)

The way the girls screamed when they got very handsy with each other - Emma included - was rather alarming.

When the boys came down the catwalk toward Emma and the other fans, offering high fives, Greg’s heart sped up, because his daughter was within arm’s reach of a killer, but the boy just crouched down at the edge of the stage and smiled - till one of the other boys sneaked up behind him and jabbed him in the ribs and he started violently.

Then he froze, expression dangerously blank.

His friend backed away, grinning madly, hands raised in surrender, and the boy wilted, relief clear on his face.

Each of the boys went along the catwalk, smiling and waving at fans, and Greg was tense every time.

The entire concert was rather like a party, though, with conversation, jokes and laughter, lots of dancing and music. It ended on a very energetic note while glittery confetti rained down from the ceiling.

The closer they came to the end of the concert, the more anxious Greg became, because it was time to go meet a team of very deadly assassins. Freeman’s bored and deadpan countdown hadn’t helped Greg’s anxiety. Somehow he’d obtained a set list and would let Greg know, before each song, how many numbers were left.

Judging the way all the young men were panting and sweating profusely as they took their bows (and a selfie with the entire audience), they were exhausted, which boded well for Greg when he went to speak to them.

There was an admin-looking fellow in a black security polo shirt waiting at the end of the row when Greg started to show Emma out. He greeted Emma politely.

“Follow me, miss. The lads are waiting.”

Emma squealed in delight, and Greg flinched. He hadn’t realized humans could hit that note. The other girls who’d been around Emma - they’d all taken copious selfies and shared social media contact info - hugged her and told her how jealous they were and asked her to send their love to this boy or that boy.

“Dad, couldn’t you let one of my friends have your pass instead?” Emma asked.

“I’m not leaving you alone with any of those blokes,” he said, remembering those leather trousers and Versace on the floor.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Dad! They’re really very sweet and soft - totally pure.”

Greg didn’t believe that for one second. He offered the security fellow a tight smile, kept a hand on Emma’s shoulder as they headed for backstage. They went out a side door, down a brightly-lit cement corridor past various stagehands and other crew in black uniforms, a good number of whom were Korean, and then up a few steps.

The security fellow knocked.

The door opened, and there he was, the boy who’d dressed up as a girl to disguise himself while he was shooting at people. His eyes went wide when he saw Greg, but then he looked at Emma, and he smiled, bright and sweet.

“Hello,” he said in cautious English.

“Hi, Minhyuk,” Emma said.

Minhyuk - was that an actual name? Or a stage name? - started to open the door wider, but a chorus of alarm rose up behind him, and he yanked the door closed again.

“Sorry. The others are -” he fumbled for a word - “naked.”

“Not naked,” someone said loudly from behind him. “We’re just getting dressed.”

Minhyuk twisted to holler over his shoulder in Korean.

Greg had always imagined that Japanese and Korean and Chinese people were very - quiet and dignified, especially when strangers were around. Maybe that was just the older generations? Or maybe because these boys were performers they were supposed to be different. More flamboyant. Their music had sounded like a lot of other pop music Greg had heard - thumping beats and rap parts and Korean lyrics aside - so maybe they were more westernized? Because of the music they made.

Then Minhyuk tugged the door open all the way, and the English-speaking one was there.

“Hello,” he said to Emma, offering her a hand.

She accepted it, giggling and blushing.

He bowed over her hand and then drew her further into the room.

“Hi, I’m Emma, and this is my dad.”

“Hi, Emma,” the boy said. “Hi, Emma’s dad.”

Greg nodded tightly, incredibly nervous. On the one hand, he wanted to speak to one of them alone. On the other hand, he didn’t dare leave Emma alone with the others while he took a boy aside. They killed people in cold blood. He doubted they had any qualms about killing a teenage girl.

The boy turned and spoke to his friends in a flurry of Korean - Greg thought he heard Emma’s name in the mix - and they nodded, smiled, waved.

And guess what?

I write fanfic when I'm bored sometimes. Figured I'd give it a second home, in case something ever happens to the first home. You know how it goes.

So, bunches of stories, bunches of fandoms. Be prepared!

I am back-dating as many of them as I can to when they were originally posted, so have fun!

Every Day is Monday

Heartwarming moment of the day: the judge, a nice, old, conservative Christian man, defending my kid's right to be referred to by the gender pronouns of his choice by gently correcting court staff who misgendered my kid.

Surprising moment of the day: you cannot unhear your kid saying "Captain America's a pussy because he doesn't have a bitch" in open court.

Frustrating moment of the day: my kid telling me before court that everything was fine, and then in open court describing the vivid hallucinations that accompanied a suicide attempt.

Things they don't teach you in law school: how to decide on the fly whether or not the younger kids should stick around and listen to their older sibling describe hallucinations that have been plaguing him.

True fact: you cannot unhear, and it will always hurt, when you hear a kid talk about using heroin, about being forced to take it, about not wanting it and crying out against someone shooting them up.

Thanks, work.

Things They Never Taught Me In Law School #5

Sometimes you'll be sitting in a meeting talking about how glad you are that your client's grandfather is in prison, because finally he's pinned down to one place and the government can go get a DNA sample from him to find out, definitively, whether or not he is your client's biological father. And that won't be the worst thing you'll have to talk about in that case that day.

True Facts #4

Wearing a suit to court does not automatically make you look classy and/or trustworthy. Suits trimmed with any kind of animal print will, however, make you look like a pimp and maybe like I shouldn't trust you with any of my kids.

Things They Never Taught Me In Law School #4

You can politic accidentally. They harp on networking from day one, and for those of us who are introverts or have social anxiety, networking sucks, and we're at a disadvantage. Networking, however, is not the same as politicking. That being said, we are taught to manipulate to get what we want. Turns out I can do that accidentally. Did it accidentally the other today, in an effort to protect my posting so I don't lose my court team in the shuffle. Walked away from the encounter both pleased and frightened.