Chapter Text
“I’m suspicious already.”
Sherlock did his best to ignore Watson as they stared at the Alpine resort hotel. French dominated the conversations around them, though he heard snippets of German, Italian, and even some other more exotic languages that he couldn’t place without straining to hear more. From all appearances, this was a very well-maintained resort. Clean. No spots of obvious disrepair. Hospitable staff. Snow cleared where it ought to be. Nothing seemed to be terribly amiss.
Except for the rather glaring fact he shouldn’t be here in any fashion whatsoever. For starters, it was 1983, a year where he was barely even a toddler, let alone able to rationally resolve crimes and mysteries. Secondly, Watson shouldn’t be here either for almost the exact same reason. And yet, somehow he was here. Somehow, someway, he had found himself transplanted to France in 1983, with nothing but a vague direction to check in at this precise resort under his own name and read the envelope enclosed with his previous instructions. To say Sherlock thought the entire affair was patently absurd would be quite the understatement. His first thought, of course, was that he was the victim of some sort of extravagant prank, a ruse put on by somebody who wanted nothing more than to try to get one over on him. When the driver spoke fluent French, arrived in a car better suited for 1974, and refused to take euros and demanded francs instead, his concern only grew. Now that he had seen this place, he knew full well he truly was in 1983. Somehow.
“We can determine the how and why much later,” Sherlock tugged on his jacket. Bitterly cold, even for September in the Alps. “We need to figure out who this mysterious client is. They must be inside.” Sherlock barely passed a glance at the Japanese family next to him that approached the resort at the same time that he stepped off to head in. The cold and chill of the outside made way for the tastefully done interior, all showing the hallmarks of the latest trends of the 1980s. Befitting the resort, rustic but still opulent and garishly geometric. Meant to impress. Stone and granite pillars where, quite frankly, few needed to be. Pastel blues and pinks on sofa fabric in the lobby, and carpets that featured a dizzying array of squares. Ahead of him and Watson, the Japanese family moved on to their rooms. May as well get this charade over with.
“Room for Holmes,” Sherlock said in French.
“Suite for two, yes sir. Your keys, gentlemen.” The concierge handed Sherlock and Watson two actual physical keys – no keycards yet – and gave directions to their rooms. Second floor, to the right, room 244. Sherlock said nothing as he immediately diverted to their suite. No sense in wasting time when he needed to work. He passed by French tourists, German skiers and a confused American trying to converse in Cajun French with a less-than-enthused hotel employee on on his way through the halls. A million possibilities were running through his mind as he hastily shoved the key into the lock and twisted the handle open. What did it mean that they were in 1983 France? What had even caused all of this to happen? Who was this client that somehow had the ability and means to transport people through, supposedly, time and space? He still strongly believed this was all a clever ruse and he just hadn’t seen behind the curtain yet.
“Well, at least we’ve got a nice view,” Watson commented as they entered. Sherlock cared not for the view. He had only one thing on his mind. The letter. He tore open the envelope, ravenous for its contents as the paper meekly unfolded before him. Here we go. The proof would undoubtedly be in here that this whole misadventure was an elaborate stunt drunk up by somebody with far too much time, money and paid actors on hand.
Mr. Holmes,
Unsteady hand. Writer wasn’t a native English speaker – some sort of Eastern language? Nervous? Excited? Over what?
You are one of the world’s greatest detectives, of this I am sure you are aware and that your ego needs no stoking. I have called you here to solve a particular case, to retrieve an item of great importance for me that has gone missing , for which we must meet at once. The finer details we will discuss in person, as I cannot entrust all of them to a simple letter. What I can tell you is that your efforts will save countless lives, including mine. Now, I do not know your face, so I will need a sign that you have received my letter and those standing with you are trustworthy. For that, I will need you to obtain a particular pamphlet from the resort’s front desk. Please ask the concierge for a copy of the most dangerous Alpine slopes found on this mountain. He will know what you speak of. Present yourself with the pamphlet in the resort’s pool hall at 1400 precisely. I will be waiting for you there.
- Bojan Trkulja
Cyrillic was definitely on the board. Some of his Is were inverted and hastily rewritten to conform with English. Syntax was off in some parts… Serbian, or Macedonian. Bojan sounded Balkan in some fashion. Heavy handwriting. A pamphlet? He had seen a collection of them behind the concierge when checking in. Which one would he give? No other way to find out.
“Let’s go,” Sherlock said, immediately discarding the paper as pointless.
“But we’ve just gotten here!” Watson protested. “What was even on that letter anyhow?”
“Slopes!” Sherlock shouted as he ran out of the room. If Watson could keep up or not was beyond him and he cared little. He needed to know what the hell was going on here. Contrary to his expectations, the letter gave him no insight into this client’s intentions or goals, but he was intrigued now. The letter answered nothing but only gave him more questions. How did he know how to write Sherlock if he didn’t know his face? Why didn’t he know Sherlock’s face? Surely it had been plastered halfway across the world seven times over by now. Why the cloak and dagger? Why did he need to trust Sherlock’s associates? Why meet at the pool hall? Why 2 o’ clock? What did a Serbian have to do with anything that was happening at a French ski resort in the middle of September 1983?
The concierge noticed Sherlock’s rapid approach before he even had a chance to speak. He looked very apologetic, to the point of conciliation when Sherlock grabbed onto the front counter to stop himself. “Yes, sir? Is the room not satisfactory?”
“The room is fine,” Sherlock said. “I would like one of your pamphlets on the more dangerous slopes in the Alps.”
“Of course, sir.” If he was surprised by Sherlock’s question, he didn’t show it. Professional. He spied a glimpse of a pair of golden keys on the concierge’s lapels – a member of Les Clefs d’Or. Highly skilled concierge. Smoker. Unsteady gait in left foot – some sort of malady affected him and his left shoe’s polish had become dull. Recent injury? No, chronic pain of some kind. Gout, perhaps, or arthritis. Mark where a ring would have been – once married but no longer. Divorced, perhaps, married to his job now. “Anything else I can help you with, sir? Reservations, perhaps? Suggestions for optimal times to ski?”
“What do you know of Serbian guests staying here? I have a friend coming from Yugoslavia, and I’d like to meet with him.”
“I am sorry sir, but I am afraid I cannot divulge that information. I can leave a message for your friend if you would like and I can deliver it to him when he arrives?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Sherlock immediately turned around to head back to his room. Two and a half more hours before the designated meeting time. He may well have to study everything he could of the letter and this pamphlet, try to divulge as much information out of them as possible. He passed Watson on the way back who gave an exasperated sigh. Sherlock closed his senses to all possible distractions as he studied both the letter and pamphlet in detail, striving to uncover any and all secrets that hid between the lines. He had to know everything.
Benoit Blanc found the hotel… overwhelming was perhaps the best word. Certainly not as in-your-face opulence and grandstanding as the Glass Onion, but that in itself was worth a book and a half on the sheer variety of words one could use to describe its status as a monument to unfettered egotism and one man’s dream to be famous. This French resort was more dignified in its posh demeanor, and though Benoit didn’t feel he had a stellar command of the French language, he knew enough to get by with the hotel staff and in the end, that’s all that mattered. What truly confounded him and ruffled his feathers, though, was this mysterious letter he had received in the mail. Truthfully, it made little sense, just a handwritten note to get in the Uber that just happened to be outside his apartment building. Somehow that had gotten him to France, in ostensibly 1983 judging by the calendar on the front desk wall, but that couldn’t be right.
Well, right or not, Benoit Blanc was not one to turn down the chance to have some good French food. Granted, he much would have preferred to have Phillip with him, but if he’d known perchance that this whole trip would have taken him to France, then maybe he’d have thought to invite Phillip along! But the past was done and did, and he didn’t because as far as Benoit knew, he was going to meet a client. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten a mysterious client that wanted a little drama before divulging the case to him. So, after checking into his room and preparing himself accordingly, Benoit headed to the resort’s attached restaurant, secondary letter in hand with strict orders in the first note only to open it when at the resort.
“Welcome, sir,” a waiter said as he took a seat. The menu all looked very good, if he could read the descriptions of most of these dishes. Well, no better way to find out than to ask.
“Thank you, sir, uh, you’ll have to excuse me,” Benoit explained, his words not quite as confident as if he had been speaking English. “My French is a little rusty, you see, um, what does the chef recommend?”
The waiter’s eyes lit up, like he had been waiting all day for somebody to ask. Maybe he had. This resort didn’t look particularly popular. Save for the ivory host at the bar, the restaurant was rather devoid of any other people and he didn’t recall seeing any other staff hovering around the kitchen doors. “Well sir, our special today is onion soup if you would like a starter or a meal. Our beef bourguignon is always a popular dish, as is ratatouille. If you would care for a dessert, sir, we do offer crêpe Suzette prepared tableside. Would you like a wine menu?”
How could he resist? “No thank you, have you any Pinot Noir? I’d like that with the beef bourguignon, please, no dessert for me today. I think I’ll take you fine gentlemen up on that another day.”
The waiter nodded, taking away the menu and disappearing behind the double doors into the kitchen to place his order. Benoit took this time to take in his surroundings further, yet again noting he was quite legitimately the sole customer in this entire restaurant. It was a bizarre subliminal space, one he felt he didn’t belong in and rather uneasy in. He had seen plenty of others outside when he was walking out of the car, so why was there nobody inside other than employees? Now, granted, he had seen two other fellows, but they looked rather preoccupied with finding their rooms than interacting with anyone else, a reasonable modus operandi when arriving at a resort or returning from the slopes. But this resort felt strangely… empty. It puzzled him to no end. Benoit tutted and headed to the bar, where the bartender was rather stereotypically polishing a glass with a rag. He glanced up at Benoit as he approached but seemed otherwise solely focused on his duty.
“Excuse me, I understand you must be rather busy,” he said, “but I’m just… I’m just intensely curious. I feel like I’m the only person in this entire building. Do you ever get that sense some days?”
The bartender did not give him a second glance. Instead, he seemed to ignore Benoit entirely and continued to polish the glass, only setting it down to immediately replace it with another one that looked perfectly immaculate by his judgment.
“I’m sorry, I know my French probably is not very good,” Benoit apologized, laughing a little to try to ease the tension. “It’s the Louisiana in me, I must admit. But I would very much like to know, am I the only customer you’ve had today?”
Once again, the bartender ignored him. Stonewalled. This bartender was good, Benoit had to give him that.
“Alright, I admit defeat. Thank you, sir, for your time.”
Just at about that moment as Benoit turned back to his table, the waiter emerged from the kitchen with his lunch. Both the food and the wine came out at the exact same time, a remarkable effort in good timing he scarcely got in some of the restaurants he had been to in the past. Benoit thanked the waiter for doing his job and began to dive right into his food. No sense in waiting around, and boy was this food well worth whatever had managed to bring him here. The beef bourguignon was perfectly braised, fork-tender and when combined with the parsley and thyme, just a real treat to enjoy on a chilly September day. Adding in the pearl onions sauteed to near perfection with just enough brown and finely cooked chopped carrots brought the dish to a level he barely knew possible. Of course, good food and wine could not be properly enjoyed without knowing what this whole case was about. Thus, with no particular flair as he finished his lunch, Benoit opened the letter and began to read its contents. It was a simple missive intending only to inform him of… well, a rather curious game. He was to obtain a pamphlet from the concierge and meet with his mysterious client at two. Well, perhaps another small glass of wine couldn’t hurt…
Nancy Drew found herself quite frankly astonished she had been invited to the French Alps. An all-expenses paid trip was certainly a rarity for her, even more so given she had a plethora of cases to attend to back home. However, this client being a friend of Father’s and rather insistent made the choice fairly easy.
“Before we get there, Nancy,” Carson Drew said, navigating the car through the narrow French roads that twisted and doubled back on themselves with alarming regularity, “I wanted to remind you that Mr. Trkulja is a bit… eccentric, shall we say.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so I’d have to agree, just from this odd letter alone,” Nancy replied. “What should I prepare myself for?”
“I trust whatever he wants you to do for him isn’t terribly dangerous,” Dad said, a knowing smile on his face. “He’s an odd fellow, but he’s helped me quite a lot with some international contracts, and I urge you not to judge him too harshly. He’s the sort of man that likes things done in a particular way.”
Nancy couldn’t help but wonder if that included the instructions on his letter.
However, this client was rather insistent and she was not one to turn down a challenge when it presented itself to her. The resort was unlike anything she had ever seen before, a grandness she was not accustomed to back home and radically different from what she knew. It felt almost as if she had stepped into an entirely different era altogether. Thankfully, French didn’t seemed to have changed much and she was able to handily navigate her way around the French staff and its social trappings. Which, of course, only left this strange letter she had received. Well, she’d hoped to find some time to see the sights of the Alps, but detective work left her no choice but to relegate this to a secondary concern.
The letter was from an unknown author, definitely European judging by his name, who asked Nancy to investigate the disappearance of an important object. What that object was, frustratingly, he did not clarify on. What she needed was to obtain a particular pamphlet from the concierge and use that to meet with him later. Intriguing! Nancy left her room after depositing her things and headed to the front desk.
“Excuse me sir,” she said. “Might I have one of your pamphlets on the difficult courses?”
“Certainly, madam,” he said, immediately handing her the pamphlet.
“Oh, and one more thing. Where is the pool hall? This is my first time staying at this hotel.”
The concierge nodded. “It will be down that hall and to the left, sixth door.”
Nancy headed back to her room after checking the time against the clocks in the lobby. Nearly 1:02 PM already. Not much time for her to prepare! What intrigue! She hadn’t had a mystery that had compelled her so in quite a while!
You open your eyes to a blinding white. It sears the backs of your retinas like the harshest sun imaginable. This place is so obscenely white, it may nearly well scar you. As your eyes begin to adjust to the oppressive glare, colors begin to emerge one by one. From the white blizzard comes the horizon stained blue. Then, gray smoke from a chimney, followed quickly by the aged brown of hardwood. Garish neon greens and yellows and pinks make up snowsuits and goggles and various accouterments of snowboarders and skiers. In short, it’s a tapestry of color that reminds you both of your best times and your worst times, of drunken benders fueled by hard drugs and the day you got your first promotion all rolled into one. As familiar as it is, you don’t know this place. It’s as unfamiliar to you as a stranger in the night. Yet somehow, it beckons, it calls to you.
ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] – You’re at a resort. The sort of place most people tend to come to for fun and vacations, to sail down the slopes at breakneck speeds and enjoy good food and alcohol at the end of several near-death experiences.
But you aren’t here for skiing and snowboarding. There’s no time for trivial matters like that – you need to do a job. You’ve got an envelope with your name on it and are definitely not in Revachol anymore, little Harry.
1. - “I don’t like this place. Its smug aura mocks me.”
2. - “New places means new drugs! Fuck yeah!”
3. - “It’s almost like Revachol, but too foreign. I don’t like it.”
4. - “Kim, what do you think we should do?”
YOU – “I don’t like this place. Its smug aura mocks me.”
KIM KITSURAGI – “It has a bohemian quality to it. I wouldn’t mind living around here. Perhaps a bit too cold for my tastes, maybe.”
KIM KITSURAGI – “That said, we really should head inside and check in. That was part of our instructions, after all.”
As you enter the lobby, the harsh fumes of cleaning fluid masked by an excessive amount of aromatics assaults your nose. Fake plants sit next to live ones, the fountain produces an inane babbling, and there’s something so very not disco about the décor. It feels like disco, it looks like disco, but in your heart you know it isn’t.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – This place is wrong and right at the same time, a cognitive dissonance that you’re going to need some heavy duty stuff to handle. Get yourself some good stuff.
1. - I need some drugs.
2. - I need some alcohol.
3. - “Kim, I need some good stuff.”
4. - I don’t need any of this.
YOU – “Kim, I need some good stuff.”
KIM KITSURAGI – The lieutenant looks at you oddly. “What exactly is good stuff, Detective?”
YOU – “You know. Drugs and shit.”
KIM KITSURAGI – “Let’s check in before we descend into debauchery, perhaps.”
1. - “Fuck you, I’m a superstar! I do what I want!”
2. - “You’re right.”
3. - “Okay, but what if the instructions were fake and what we really need to do is get some drugs? And alcohol, too? Or both at the same time?”
4. - Say nothing.
YOU – “You’re right.”
The concierge looks at you with nary a hint of judgment. He keeps his face neutral and stiffens his back as you approach.
HALF-LIGHT [Easy: Success] – He knows. He knows what you can do if cornered. If you’re unhappy. If you’re feeling… ornery. He’s seen it all and knows how to handle it. If you wanted to – and I know you do – you could punch his smug, smarmy face in right now, beat him to a bloody pulp, and nobody would dare lift a finger to stop you. You should fucking do it.
CONCIERGE – “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Checking in?”
He has an accent, but not one you fully recognize. It’s similar to some you’ve heard in Revachol, but different at the same time. So close and yet so far. Next to you, the Lieutenant clears his throat.
KIM KITSURAGI – “Yes. We should have a reservation here.”
CONCIERGE – “Very good, sir. Name?”
DRAMA – You’re up, superstar. Come on, pick a cool name! They’ll totally know who its for. You’re in a new world with new people and new things to explore. Be bold, be brash!
1. - “Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau.”
2. - Think of a different, even cooler name.
3. - “Harrier Du Bois.”
YOU - “Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau.”
DRAMA – There he is! Now that’s swinging for the fences, champ.
CONCIERGE – The concierge does not give a second glance at you nor appears particularly impressed with your cool name.
KIM KITSURAGI – The Lieutenant sighs.
CONCIERGE – “Very good, sir.” He hands you a set of keys, one each for Kim and you. “Your room will be on the second floor to the right, number 261. Please, enjoy your stay.”
You take the keys in hand, stumbling away towards your room.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Or do you? You got time to par-tay, baby. Let’s get some drugs in you!
VOLITION – Now isn’t the time. You’ve got to keep your head on. There’s a case waiting for you, after all.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Oh, forget about that silly old thing. Cases are like laundry, you can always put them off if there’s something way more interesting to do instead.
LOGIC [Easy: Success] – Cases most certainly are not like laundry. There’s no benefit to procrastinating on something that’s got a time limit.
KIM KITSURAGI – "Detective, if you don’t mind, may I take a look at the envelope you received?"
1. - “What do you want it for?”
2. - “Sure.”
3. - “I better keep this safe Kim, it’s addressed to me after all.”
4. - “I’ll trade it for some booze.”
YOU – “Sure.”
KIM KITSURAGI – The Lieutenant smiles slightly as he takes the envelope from you.
EMPATHY – Gratitude. He likes that you’re not trying to extort him for drugs or alcohol.
KIM KITSURAGI – “Truthfully, I don’t know what exactly I expect to find just from the outside of the envelope. I was hoping I would be able to find a return address or a clue to who managed to get us here… wherever here is.”
1. - “Should we open it, then?”
2. - “Damn, no clues.”
3. - “Fuck this, let’s just go home. I don’t wanna be here.”
YOU – “Fuck this, let’s just go home. I don’t wanna be here.”
KIM KITSURAGI – “I’d rather not be here either, but we do have a job to do. Here, I’ll just open it.”
Kim carefully tears at the envelope’s seal, before running a finger along the top to free the contents. A simple folded letter, handwritten, comes out on Kim’s fingertips.
THE LETTER – The letter is addressed to you, asking you to help somebody named Bojan Trkulja find something of importance to him. Your next instructions are to get a pamphlet from the concierge and meet Bojan at the pool hall at 2 o’clock.
DRAMA – Intrigue! Drama! Mystery! It’s all here! Finally, something interesting worth your time and effort, sire!
KIM KITSURAGI – “A pamphlet? And two…? It’s already 1:30, Detective, we should head back to the front desk.”
YOU – “Disco, baby.”
Shinichi Kudo took in every detail of the hotel. Naturally, Kogoro was overjoyed at the “free vacation” paid for by his client, wondering where the bar was and ogling over a Frenchwoman that had glanced favorably at him. Ran was suspicious of the entire thing like him, but seemed to keep it to herself as they headed towards their room. Shinichi would have to be careful here. The Black Organization undoubtedly was about, and if he was right, this trip was an elaborate trap to kill him. Were they waiting for a quiet moment, or was half of this resort staffed by secret agents each vying to have their shot at him? He wasn’t sure, and that unnerved him. The resort seemed peaceful enough, and full of what might legitimately be people on vacations, but the air of suspicion was still thick around him. Only one truth prevailed, after all. Upon entering their room, Ran began to flip through a brochure she had gotten from the concierge, while Kogoro was already loosening his tie to head to the bar. No matter – Shinichi had his own task he had set himself to.
“Oh, Conan! We could go snowboarding! Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Dammit. Time to cover. “I’ve never tried it before! Is it like skateboarding?”
“I think so, I’m sure you’ll catch on quick,” Ran said. “Look, they’ve got bunny slopes for learners!”
Shinichi tried his best to fake interest. He’d been snowboarding since he was an actual kid! He didn’t need any bunny slopes! He could probably even take on the worse this mountain had to offer and come out alright! But doing that would undoubtedly expose himself as Shinichi and not Conan Edogawa, and he couldn’t have that happening. “Cool!” Conan laughed nervously. Come on, Ran, find something else… She flipped the brochure to another page and began gushing about the food. Perfect!
Reaching into his bag, Shinichi tore at the envelope containing a letter for him. Somehow the author knew he was Shinichi and not pretending to be Conan Edogawa, an unnerving first line to read on its own as his bones chilled harder than the freezing cold winds outside. The author said he wanted Shinichi to find a particular item which he believed to have been stolen from him, but said he wanted to verify he had arrived at the right place and time. What? So, to prove he and those around him were trustworthy, he had to get a pamphlet from the concierge about the most dangerous slopes in the Alps… strange. Why all the secrecy and arcane rituals? Why was he so focused on time?
“I’m going to go look at the lobby again,” Shinichi said, putting on the persona of an excited kid again. “They had some cool fountains out there!”
“Okay, but don’t wander too far,” Ran said. “I’ll come by in a while and we can go find something fun to do, okay?”
“Okay!” Sorry Ran, but this is going to be more important than skiing or snowboarding. The letter promised crucial information for Shinichi as well. Could this be a lead on the Black Organization? Or a clue to reverse the effects of this poison that had rendered him a child?
Shinichi headed into the lobby where a rather haggard-looking man with unkempt hair, a horrendous tie and the most unnerving grimace Shinichi had ever seen in his life stumbled away alongside another man with thick-rimmed glasses and an orange coat. Both had severe-looking eyes; were they assassins? Probably best to keep his eye on them. They paid him no mind as they passed, and as such Shinichi kept up his charade as he approached the concierge. “Excuse me, mister!” he said, causing the concierge to peer over his desk to look down on him. “My uncle said he wanted to find some cool slopes! He said something about how France has some really dangerous ones and told me to go find a piece of paper for them! Do you have anything like that?”
The concierge nodded knowingly and disappeared behind his desk for a minute. He reappeared with the pamphlet in hand, letting Shinichi leap up to grab it. “Be careful, little boy,” he said in Japanese to him. “Let your uncle know that he should be very careful on some of these trails and if he’d like anything else, he should call the front desk, okay?”
“Okay!” Shinichi said. Just as he started to head back to his room, another man came rushing past him and started having a fast-paced conversation with the concierge in French. Must be an unhappy guest. Time for Shinichi to head back to his room and see what this pamphlet could reveal.