Perfect Heist
Featured relevant characters:
Obvious exit: http://farragofiction.com/PerfectHeist/
Origin: The link to this can be found in the EastEast rabbithole, if you submit "4".
The Watcher's note: The greeting text is "Click To Give Companionship".
The console says "JR NOTE: alone of all of them, he is not truly a monster."
There is a note in the code: "//i wrote this one and IC edited (normally ic writes)"
This image can be seen in the left, alternating with an other broken image link.
The mall was like a head trauma patient, left bleeding and confused, but hanging onto life by a thread.
It wasn't always like that, Witherby was well aware, but ain't that the truth for all of us?
Isn't. Isn't that the truth. He shakes his head. It isn't like him to fall back to childhood slang, even within the sanctity of his own mind. He must be tired.
He stares down at the motley crew before him: a carefully chosen group of thugs, not a single one of which he'd be sorry to lose. He's trying out code names again, this time, to emphasize the distance he expects to maintain. Randomly assigned, he assures them, when feathers get ruffled.
There. In the front row. Lamb raises his hand. "So.. uh. Boss." His accent is thick-- almost comically goonish. "Youse really expects us to believe that this here mall basement is... what. Alive? What kinda idiots you got us pegged for?"
The others gawk at the insubordination. He's trying out six total this time. He almost has the dynamic perfected-- he's sure of it.
The air in the room is thick. None of them had expected their boss to be so fragile-looking, so high-society. It aids to his power; all of them can't help but wonder what a man of resources might want of a place such as this. Rich men were mythical like that-- not like he's one of those.
He turns to Chick, who's gawking a bit more than the others. "And you? Do you find yourself similarly incredulous? Lacking faith?" His words are smooth and quietly assured as he stands over him, his shadow encasing the crook in solid ice. The man looks helpless under him. Weak. For these animals, that's enough to get them to listen.
The man nods nervously, his strong form a paradox of his demeanor. "Boss... I, uh... I don't think its. Unreasonable. To wonder if all this talk of. Spooks. And Ghosts. And all that. Is. Uh. Just to mess with us."
Witherby glances at Gosling, Cygnet, Piglet and Foal. Just as expected, they are simply waiting for the theatrics to be over. Good.
(Foal sinks into himself like Calf used to, his hands clasping and unclasping through nerves alone. He reminds himself that he doesn't miss him. That it's good he's left out this loop. That he was never meant for this kind of life.)
Time to move into the next phase. He straightens his tie.
"Lamb, there is no amount of mere words that will convince you. I can see you are a practical man. " Oh, yes. He can see the man is an incurable simpleton who will get himself killed. And, if Witherby is lucky, someone who will not take anyone else out with him this time.
He steps forward, arms outstretched as if in supplication. "I recommend you pass this opportunity up, if you can not commit yourself to following my simple rules." Witherby turns around soon after, his head trailing back to gaze at the crook as if he's merely an afterthought. Something he remembered on the way. "It would be a shame, though. The objects in this maze go for quite the penny. Academics, collectors... do you wish to go back to merely robbing pockets so soon, Lamb?"
The Sin of Greed wins out, as Witherby knew it would, and the man growls and shakes his head. "Nah. Nah Boss. I'll play nice! Just like youse says," he pleads. "We check in every ten minutes. We hide if we think we sees someone. We don't go too deep, no matter what we think we see. We get out if we start feeling weird."
With the Lamb placed on the slab, Witherby turns back to face them all for the last time. "Anyone else have any gripes they wish to get out of the way?"
Chick slumps back into a more submissive posture, his eyes losing interest. He's disappointed, but he'll not be the first to step out of line. Not with the public proclamation of good faith by Lamb. Things appear to be running smoothly.
All he needs to do now is wait.
"Then, all I can say, gentleman, is good hunting."
They trundle down the stairs, movements made awkward with bags and gear.
Witherby stares out into the main floor of the mall, on his own once again. The security lights serve only to make the shadows deeper. It's strange, he muses, how obviously different this public floor of the mall is from what lies underneath. Almost... tame. Reassured, well groomed, well fed. As if merely sleeping peacefully, secure in the knowledge that come morning, throngs of people will fill its hollows once again. A mall nestled in the fulfillment of its purpose.
He heads down the stairs not too far to his left. It's only two floors further down than it's supposed to when he can feel the bar under his hand change shape, each stair become uneven in length. Creaking, somehow. Howling.
The thick, familiar scent of abandonment wreath him like a halo. A strange twin of what lies above, this part of the mall is unsettlingly empty.... as if humanity has forgotten it. And yet, Witherby knows, in the depths of his heart, that it has not forgotten humanity. The patient going through the confused motions of a half-remembered life-- playing the part of what it used to be, IV drip tied to its arm, talking placidly to nurses with the faces of all its oldest friends. Even in its throes, it dreams of people.
The twisted shops and forlorn geometry get worse the longer it suffers-- more unnavigable, more wild, and less... real. The last word sits at the tip of the tongue. Almost like rot, but not quite-- just the inevitability of a brain left to its own devices for too long, untangled from the material plane.
It needs people. Like a body needs blood. Needs to have objects moved out of it, like blood cells moving oxygen. Helps it think better. Remember what it's supposed to be better.
And so, he provides: a team full of meat to wander it and hands to take things with. Basic attachment work really, filling this strange place's social needs. A bit of instinct as well, he supposes... but he was hardly terrible at that.
He's wandering the halls semi-aimlessly when the first scream rings out: hoarse, panicked, afraid. it's unmistakeably Chick's.
Ah. There we go.
He lets himself run, even sweat a bit. Every detail is a novel's worth of communication, if you would but look at it; his previous perfection in appearance allowed to falter to convey sincerity and effort. To teach them a lesson. To drive home the cost of failing to follow his commandments.
Chick is dragging a mangled mannequin forwards with great effort, even for his frame. The Sacrificial Lamb has played his part to a T, it would seem.
"What happened?" Witherby huffs out, only slightly exaggerating the effort he put into getting here so quickly.
"Boss! He... he...! I found him. He was turning, Boss, and I couldn't stop it, and.. and... Boss... I--!"
Ah. Chick was panicking. The Solemn stepped forward and held the man's gaze for several beats, his hand rising to touch the man's chin and lower his gaze. The temperature of the room dropped slightly as he waited for the mental corruption to fade.
Chick appeared to have no physical injuries. The Solemn refused to lose him this time. Mere fear was no worthy opponent for him. "Chick." he said calmly, evenly. Even as his suit wrinkles, he is immaculate. "I am here. You are safe. Tell me what is going on. What happened? Who is this?" The man swallowed, then gestured weakly to the obviously dead man. "I. I don't know. But... I think this is Lamb..." Witherby nodded, calm and assured, and bent down to examine the prone figure. He fails to fully repress a sigh. With genuine sadness, he touches the wooden chest. "I warned him. That going too deep was dangerous. But for him to go so far as to... ", he prods the jagged stumps where arms had been. "To provoke one of the living inhabitants. I'm sorry Chick. We have lost him. I wish I had been better able to warn him."
And it's true. He hates the calm coldness inside of him that found this solution. Wishes there had been a better way. But without seeing the consequences with their own eyes...without a Lamb to slaughter... It only ever goes worse. Better to lose one than the whole group. Those who remain get their ill-gotten gains, the mall gets its patrons, and Training gets a relatively coherent space to live in.
He gives the signal on the radio for everyone to regroup and begins the slow, grim work of helping Chick drag the body back upstairs.