Chapter Text
With a click of a lock and a twist of a knob, Ed Henderson finds himself back home.
After the events of last night, Ed finds himself with a newly gained appreciation for the comforts of his humble apartment. He slips off his worn-out sneakers, feeling the shag carpet through his socks. He grabs Electriclarryland and the toy phone in his pocket, plunks them down on the coffee table, and sits down on the couch, exhaling and closing his eyes.
Home is nice and placid at this time of day. Faint rays of sunshine pour through the blinds, warming his face. The AC faintly hums overhead, making the room nice and cool. And the couch is nice and soft. Something about the scene fills Ed with a deep sense of triumph.
Ed has managed to survive this long in the city through a combination of skill, good judgment, and just plain luck. Even after the disaster last year made everything f*cky, he’s scraped by with some ingenuity, along with Electriclarryland. All throughout his life, though, he’s mostly been scraping together odd jobs, playing games, and joyriding.
He’s never really been living.
But in the past day, he’s become embroiled in the bizarre world of Stands, and he’s excelled. It’s more action than he’s seen in the past few years combined, and it was definitely scary in the moment. Looking back on it now, though, he’s won three Stand fights, snagged himself a real job, and made a cool new friend. He won.
For the first time in a while, Ed feels like he’s genuinely good at something.
The toy phone on the table suddenly buzzes, snapping Ed out of his reverie. He reaches down and raises it to his ear. “Hello?”
“Morning, Ed,” says Cecilia. “How’s your day going?”
“Oh!” Ed’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hey, lady! Uh, not too bad so far. Spent the night at the Watchtower, but now I’m back home. How about you?”
“Huh? The Watchtower?” says Cecilia incredulously. “What’d they bring you there for?”
“Apparently the chief administrator wanted to talk to me?” says Ed, scratching his head. “I, uh, talked to him this morning. Pretty chill guy.”
“Ohhh. He gave you the recruitment spiel, huh?” asks Cecilia. “That’s good. I guess that means you’re hired. Anyway, are you free today?”
“Uh, yeah, pretty much,” says Ed. “I don’t usually have much happening on weekends. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if you’d want to check out this antiques store with me in Center City,” says Cecilia. “It’s called Paul’s Boutique. I buy a lot of my clothes there, and they’ve got a lot of weird, cool stuff. And no pressure if you don’t want to go, of course,” she adds quickly. “Last night was rough, and —”
“Yeah, I’ll go!” says Ed, nodding rapidly. “That’d be super fun. You got a time?”
“Really?” A note of happiness enters Cecilia’s voice. “Cool! Wanna meet at noon?”
“Works for me,” says Ed. “Got an address?”
Cecilia rattles off the address of the antiques store as Ed scribbles it down on the back of an old receipt. “It’s right by a subway stop. Should be pretty easy to recognize — it’s got a distinctive look.”
“Awesome,” says Ed. “See you there, lady!”
“Yeah! See you soon!”
The call disconnects, and Ed puts the phone back in his pocket.
He exhales. This will be fun, he thinks. An antiques store definitely sounds like it’ll have cooler stuff than the average boring-ass shop. And going there with Cecilia will be pretty sweet; thinking about it, Ed doesn’t know all that much about her. This will be a nice way to get to know her better, especially if they’re working together from now on.
There’s still some time to kill, though. Ed surveys the stained plastic dishes in his sink, the dust on his floor, the random cards and trash on his coffee table. This isn’t the sort of the apartment someone working for the feds would have, is it?
Ah, well. He cracks his knuckles. Time to get cleaning.
— — —
The idea behind Paul’s Boutique started in 1997, after the elderly Mildred Yauch abruptly died of a heart attack.
Mildred was something of a local legend in the lower Twelfth for her vast collections of dresses, books, tea cozies, quilts, kettles, stickers, cookware, baseball cards, wheat pennies, painted eggs, hand mirrors, throw pillows, moccasins, microwaves, hand fans, wooden nickels, festival pins, porcelain dolls, postcards, bobbleheads, and other assorted memorabilia. The death of her husband triggered a further increase in her collecting proclivities, and she threw herself entirely into the acquisition of various things. After her apartment door went unopened for two weeks, a concerned neighbor made a welfare check. Mildred’s body was found face-down in a six-inch-deep carpet of marbles covering the floor of her guest room.
Put bluntly, Mildred Yauch was a hoarder. And when her entrepreneurial son Paul was faced with the question of how to deal with her collections, he hit upon an ingenious solution: why not sell them? After a down payment on a storefront and some light renovation, Paul’s Boutique first opened for business.
Remnants of Mildred’s hoard still remain in Paul Yauch’s present collection almost fifteen years later, but by now, most of her legacy has been bought, bartered, and sold. Because of Paul’s business acumen, the store has been able to turn a tidy profit by buying and reselling used goods. Its location in the Center City district means that it receives substantial amounts of foot traffic, and the hand-painted sign above the awning gives it an iconic, homey touch.
It’s the sign that first catches Ed Henderson’s eye as he walks down the block in Center City.
The sign reads Paul’s Boutique in cursive, black paint on white wood. Compared to the polished corporate logos on the stores surrounding it, the sign immediately stands out. The storefront is even more distinctive: with brick walls, a bulky metal door, clothes-laden racks on the sidewalk and knickknack-filled shelves in the windows, the Boutique has the vibe of a mom-and-pop shop. Ed likes it immediately.
Leaning against the front facade of the store is Cecilia, clad in a knee-length black skirt and a polka-dotted blouse with her purse slung around her waist. She stares out at the passing cars, nursing a lollipop contemplatively.
Ed waves to Cecilia. “Yo, lady!”
Cecilia’s face lights up when she sees him approach. She bites down on her lollipop and pockets the stick. “Hey, Ed! I hope it wasn’t too bad getting here.”
“Not too bad at all,” says Ed. “That outfit is pretty sick.”
Cecilia grins. “Thanks! I bought all this stuff from here a while ago.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “We should get going. There’s a lot of stuff I gotta show you.”
Ed pulls the front door open, then sweeps a hand down theatrically. “You take the lead. I’ll follow.”
Cecilia smirks. “You really are a gentleman.”
Ed follows Cecilia into the store. Inside, the store’s walls are paneled with dark wood. The effect is only heightened by the tables heaped with assorted items and the bursting clothing racks that fill the room. It’s cramped, but the smell of weathered paper and old clothes in the air gives the room the feel of a library, or some ancient vault.
In the back, a balding man with earphones in works through a stack of papers. He looks up at Ed and Cecilia, nods, and puts his head back down, scribbling away.
“What the hell is this thing?” says Ed, picking up a mysterious, rusted appliance that resembles a cross between a melon baller and a pencil sharpener.
“I dunno,” says Cecilia. “Looks like some kind of torture implement. But check that out.” She points to an old-school diving helmet resting on a table.
“sh*t, look at that!” says Ed, pointing to a weathered typewriter with keys plated in gold leaf. “I could bang out some novels on that thing!”
Cecilia and Ed fan out through the thrift shop, pointing out various curiosities on their way: a box set of the 1965 Oxford English Dictionary, a two-foot-long pencil, and a box full of dubiously human teeth. Eventually, they make their way to the clothes in the back, where they converge on a rack of gaudy outfits.
“This place has some crazy stuff,” says Cecilia. “Find anything nice?”
“Hmm…” Ed pulls a dark blue shirt off the rack. He looks at the text on the front: Nixon/Agnew ‘72. “I’ll consider it,” he says, returning the shirt to the rack.
“Oh, damn…” Cecilia pulls a teal bathrobe off the rack and regards it with awe. “This is so hideous. I need to get it.”
“That looks cozy.” Ed feels the material. “What’s it made of?”
“Silk, probably. Some rich guy had bad taste. Good for me, I guess.” She slings the bathrobe over her arm alongside the boa.
Ed pulls out a pair of sunglasses shaped like 2001. He closes his eyes and takes his sunglasses off, swaps the new ones on, then looks up at Cecilia. “How do I look?”
“Terrible,” says Cecilia approvingly. “I’ll totally buy them for you.” She reaches out a hand and plucks them off Ed’s face.
“Ah!” Ed recoils involuntarily, screwing his eyes shut.
“Oh, jeez! Sorry,” says Cecilia sheepishly. “Are you okay?”
“...It’s fine,” says Ed, placing his sunglasses back on. “My eyes are just a little sensitive.”
They browse the shelves in awkward silence for a moment before Ed spots a supremely ugly shirt covered in orange and black zigzags.
“Hey, look at this!” He grabs a shirt off the rack and holds it over his chest.
Cecilia looks at the shirt and laughs out loud. “Oh, that’s terrible! You’ve gotta wear that sometime.” She takes the shirt and adds it to the growing pile on her arm.
“Do you shop here a lot, lady?” asks Ed.
“Oh, all the time,” says Cecilia. “Especially since last year. I’ve been going to thrift shops even before I got my Stand, but because of its ability, I can’t live without these clothes.”
“Oh. So are you, like, talking to your clothes all the time?” Ed rubs his chin.
Cecilia sighs. “I’m able to control my Stand to the point where I only hear the voices if I want to. But touching an object still gives me a general vibe, if that makes sense. And the vibes I get from regular clothes…” She gestures vaguely.
“Not good?” asks Ed.
“Not good at all. Mostly a lot of underpaid Bangladeshi workers and boring storefronts. They just feel gross on me. But these clothes…” Cecilia picks up a purple feather boa, placing it around her neck. “These clothes have history. Even the ugly-looking ones have interesting personalities and complex thoughts. And that makes them feel really nice to wear.”
Ed whistles. “So you’ve got, like, magically good taste. Makes sense.”
“You could say that.” Cecilia smirks. “Wanna get some more stuff? I’m sure we could find something that suits you.”
“I’m down,” says Ed, smiling as he dives back into the rack.
After a whirlwind half hour of exploring, Cecilia plunks down an armful of clothes and assorted knickknacks on the counter in the back.
The man in the back takes one of his earbuds out. “Brought a friend today, Cecilia?” he asks.
“Sure did, Paul,” says Cecilia, putting a hand on Ed’s shoulder. “This is my coworker Ed. I wanted to show him around.”
Ed waves. “Yo.”
“Ed, this is Paul,” says Cecilia. “I’ve been buying from his store since he still had hair.”
“Cecilia’s one of our biggest patrons,” says Paul, smiling as he punches in a few numbers on his cash register. “Whenever she comes here, she cleans this place out. She’s got a real appreciation for history.”
“Yeah, I could really tell,” says Ed, casting a side-eye at Cecilia. She smirks back at him.
“Your total will come out to… eighty-nine dollars and seventy-six cents,” says Paul, placing the clothes into a pair of crinkled plastic bags.
Cecilia swipes her credit card, then pulls her bags off the counter. “See ya later, Paul.”
Paul snaps off a mock salute, popping his earbud back in as he returns to his paperwork.
Cecilia turns to Ed, clothes-laden bags dangling from their arms. “There’s this really cute little cafe a couple blocks over that makes amazing sandwiches,” she says. “Wanna grab a bite? I’ll pay.”
“Sure thing,” says Ed. No sense in turning down a free meal.
After a short walk, Ed and Cecilia arrive at the cafe, situated on an innocuous street corner with sleek metal paneling covering the walls. They punch in their orders at a terminal: Ed orders a grilled cheese, while Cecilia gets a BLT. In a few minutes, their orders are ready, and Ed and Cecilia chow down.
“So,” asks Ed between bites, “how long have you lived in the city?”
Cecilia swallows. “Why do you ask?”
Ed shrugs. “I’m curious,” he says. “You sure know your way around Center City, lady. Better than I do.”
“Well, my dad sent me here for school two years ago. He cracked down on high school to make sure I got into a good college, and Gillespie ended up fitting his criteria. He’s really big on academic excellence,” she says, her voice taking on an acerbic bent.
“Where’d you live before?”
“With my nana in Florida. My dad’s a big executive. Moves around a lot. Doesn’t have time to deal with his own daughter.” She rolls her eyes. “So my nana basically raised me. I haven’t seen her in a while, but I always think of her when I look at her parting gift.”
“Parting gift?”
Cecilia pulls the handle of her pistol out of her purse, and Ed nods in recognition. “Oooh. That guy.”
“Yep. She said Vicious was for self-defense. ‘You gotta be prepared for anything in the big city,’” she says in a faux-papery voice, wagging her finger. “Thankfully, I never had to use him — well, until all the Stand stuff started, but…” She waves her hand. “Whatever. What about you, Ed? How long have you been here?”
“I’m born and raised, lady,” says Ed, wiggling his eyebrows. “Lived here all my life and never left.”
“Really?” Cecilia swallows a bite of her sandwich. “What’d your parents do?”
“I dunno,” says Ed. “I never really knew them.”
He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, and swallows. The bread is toasted, the cheese is melted just the right amount, and there’s a hint of something else — bacon, maybe? Cecilia really has some amazing taste, he thinks. He’s definitely gotta come back here sometime.
Midway through another bite, he looks up and realizes Cecilia’s eyes are locked on him.
Ed swallows. “What’s up?” he asks.
Cecilia looks at Ed for a second longer, her brow furrowed in confusion. She taps her fingers on the table, then finally asks, “What do you mean… you didn’t know your parents? Did they get divorced or something?”
Ed shrugs. “No, like, I have vague memories of them from when I was a little kid. I’m sure they were there when I was small. But I don’t remember their faces, or their voices, or anything about them, really.”
“Did something happen to them?” asks Cecilia, concern creeping into her voice.
“No idea.” Ed shrugs again. “They just were outta the picture by the time I was six or seven. My uncle helped get me to school some days and left me food and money for stuff, but I’ve mostly been on my own.”
Cecilia shakes her head, momentarily speechless. “Jeez, Ed. That’s… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Ed finishes his sandwich and sits back in his chair. “I think I turned out fine.”
There’s a long moment of silence. A taxicab turns the street corner beside the restaurant. A few stores down, construction workers shout orders to each other and jackhammer the street. Vast crowds of people pass by, their shoes beating out a fluctuating rhythm on the sidewalk.
“It just… kinda sucks to feel alone,” says Ed suddenly, the words forming themselves in his mind. “Especially in a city this big. I guess you must feel the same way, being away from your folks and all. But when I feel small, I like to think of all the cool sh*t I’ve experienced. Even if your parents aren’t around, I still am, y’know? And I can see and do so much.”
He shakes his head. “Just since yesterday, I’ve done and seen a lot of crazy sh*t. Some of it’s been awesome, and some of it’s been scary, but what matters is that I was there. I did it. As long as I live, no one can take that away from me.”
He picks the zigzag shirt up out of Cecilia’s bag. “Like buying this sh*tty shirt. That’s an experience I’ll never be able to lose.”
“…” Cecilia tilts her head. “You know, you kinda make a good point. I’m glad I could help you get some good experiences, then.”
“Heh.” Ed grins. “Glad I could share some with you. Also…” He taps his empty plate, raising his eyebrows. “This restaurant is f*cking amazing , lady. I had no idea this sh*t was here. How do you find this stuff?”
“In my freshman year, I ate out at a different restaurant every weekend,” says Cecilia.
“Really?” says Ed incredulously. “Why?”
Cecilia shrugs. “Because I wanted to find the best one.”
“You’re nuts.” Ed shakes his head. “How’d this place rank?”
“It’s definitely not the best, but it’s up there. Top ten, maybe.”
“Where was the best, then?”
Cecilia folds her arms. “That’s confidential.”
Ed groans. “Come on! The least you can do is tell me!”
Cecilia raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I should take you there sometime?”
“Sounds good to me, lady,” says Ed, feeling a smile cross his face. “That’d be really nice.”
“Let’s do it, then,” says Cecilia, smiling back. “Wanna get out of here?”
Ed motions towards the door. “After you, lady.”
As Cecilia rolls her eyes and gets to her feet, Ed looks out the window next to their table. His surroundings look less hostile than usual — the sun shines pleasantly on the street, and the people walking down the sidewalk look jubilant. It’s as if the city itself is spurring him on.
Ed feels his smile broaden. For once, everything seems to be going his way.
— — —
The next morning, Ed wakes up to the sound of buzzing.
Groping at his nightstand, he first grabs Electriclarryland, then fumbles his way over to the toy phone. He picks it up and gives a groggy “Yo?”
“Mister Ed!” says a jovial, accented voice. “Finally awake, I suppose. I hope your morning is going well so far.”
Ed racks his sleep-addled brain. Come on, he knows who this person is. This is… “Edna, right?”
The voice laughs mirthfully. “Oh! You’re simply a riot, Mister Ed. Remember me? Your supervisor at the Bureau, Misti Mountainhop?”
“Riiight, yeah. The monocle lady.” Ed yawns, excavates himself from his gruesomely tangled sheets, and begins to get dressed. “So, uh, what’re you calling about?”
“We have a new operation for you and Miss Cecilia,” says Misti. “It’ll be carried out this afternoon. Your briefing will be at the Soul Kitchen at eleven.”
Ed pulls his arm through his jacket sleeve and looks at the alarm clock on his bedside: ten thirty-four. Damn, he needs to get his ass in gear!
“Sure thing,” he says, grabbing the toy phone and hauling it onto the sink. “Anything you can tell me about the gig now?”
“Your team has been assigned a complementary partner from a different unit,” says Misti. “The job is to requisition a dangerous, Stand-possessed painting from an art gallery. You’ll be paid extra, as this is a time-sensitive mission.”
Ed spits toothpaste into the sink and rinses it away. “Got it,” he says. “Soul Kitchen at eleven? I’ll be there.”
“Excellent,” says Misti. “Be seeing you, Mister Ed.”
Ed pockets the phone. He steps back into his room, grabs Electriclarryland off his nightstand, and heads out the door in a rush. There’s no time to waste.
After a short subway ride and a walk, Ed arrives at the Soul Kitchen, panting with exertion. A flock of pigeons scatters from the sidewalk as he steps off the street, walking past the outdoor tables. He sees Misti and Cecilia sitting at a table, along with a young, curly-haired dude.
Wasting no time, Ed pulls out a chair and sits down. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I hope I’m not too late?”
“Of course not, Mister Ed,” says Misti, patting him on the shoulder. “We’re in no rush. But now that everyone’s here, let’s begin the briefing!”
Cecilia smirks at Ed. You’re fine, she mouths, giving him a wink.
Ed gives her a covert thumbs up, then sizes up the dude. The man has long blond hair down to his shoulders, and he wears a bomber jacket covered in wing patterns. The man’s eyes are a piercing green. As he looks at Ed, a faint grin crosses his face, and he nods, putting both his hands on the table.
“So!” Misti claps her hands. “First things first. We were very impressed by your performance against Betterman yesterday. You two make a quite formidable combination. Miss Cecilia, I’m glad to see our training paid off. Mister Ed, your defensive work as most impressive. I’m proud to say we can skip the trial phase and put you to work as a full-fledged contractor.”
“Hell yeah,” says Ed, pumping his fist. “Does that mean I get paid more?”
“Indeed,” says Misti. “You’ll receive a pay bump, and you’ll be assigned to more high-priority jobs. In fact, this is what I’ve gathered us all here to discuss today. Mister Henri, would you mind explaining the mission that we’ve assigned these two?”
“It would be my pleasure, Misti!” Henri clears his throat. “Well — as I’m sure you both know, the organization of renegade Stand users known as the Million is the current top priority of the Bureau of Containment,” he says in a bright voice. “Judging by their choice of targets, one of the Million’s goals is gathering as much power as possible. They usually get this done by recruiting Stand users, but occasionally they look for other methods. Recently, they’ve shown off a high level of interest in urban legends, suspected supernatural stuff, yadda yadda — probably out of curiosity that there are Stands involved.”
He looks around the table. “All good so far?” he says.
“Yep,” says Ed. Cecilia nods.
“Awesome!” says Henri, beaming. “So, most of these leads look like dead ends, but sometimes, it looks like the Million really did get something.” He grimaces. “Never a good sign. But recently, we’ve been trying to lock down these targets before the Million attacks. A few weeks ago, we became aware of a potential target at the Numan Institute, a private gallery in Financial Row.” He spreads his hands. “And we’ve arranged a pickup this afternoon!”
“So we’re going there to figure out if they’ve got a Stand on their hands?” says Ed.
“Not quite, Mister Ed,” says Misti, wagging her finger. “It’s beyond ‘if’ at this stage. We’ve definitively confirmed that the Numan Institute is in possession of ‘Rhapsody in Blue,’ a painting with a very hazardous, perception-based Stand attached to it. Luckily, we’ve also been confirmed that it’s been placed in a case that should make it safe to transport.”
“From what I’ve seen, it’s real nasty,” says Henri, nodding in agreement.
“So!” Misti claps her hands. “You both have been assigned to visit the Numan Institute. Your mission is to establish contact with the curators and secure Rhapsody in Blue. It’s entirely possible that you will be attacked by Million operatives during the process; if so, incapacitate them if possible, flee if not, and make your way back to the Watchtower. Protect the painting at all costs. Do you understand?”
“Yep. Grab the painting and get out.” Cecilia nods, her eyes flicking over to Ed. “Seems pretty straightforward, right?”
Ed shrugs. “Could be a lot worse.”
“And one more thing.” Misti’s eyes sparkle as she leans over the table. “For this mission, you will be under the supervision of Mister Henri Lavigne, the Bureau’s newest White Satin Knight.”
Henri ducks his head modestly. “It’s my trial mission, so I’m hoping this goes well,” he says. “But to work with the pair who took down Betterman? I mean, I couldn’t ask for anything better!” He flashes a pearly white smile.
“Mister Henri’s ability is usually better suited to surveillance, but we’re putting him on a frontline mission to provide him with some experience,” says Misti. “Ideally, he won’t be engaging in direct combat, but his ability is well-suited to support. Mister Henri, would you care to give a demonstration?”
“Sure thing,” says Henri, closing his eyes. “Just gimme a second…”
As Ed watches, a boxy headset glowing with Stand aura materializes over Henri’s eyes and nose. He raises his fingers to his temple and taps it several times, his lips screwing up in consternation.
“No… no… no… Ah! Here we go.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Henri points upwards. “Is this good?”
Ed looks up, and his jaw drops.
Holy f*cking sh*t.
Dozens of birds fill the air above the Soul Kitchen, flying in concentric circles. Most of them are pigeons, but there are other types among them; Ed sees a few doves, some robins, and even a falcon towards the middle. Their pattern is unnaturally perfect, and their motions display a pinpoint precision.
Goddamn, Ed thinks. Now this is one sweet Stand.
Misti claps her hands jubilantly. “Brilliant! As you can see, Mister Henri is quite proficient.”
“You’re too kind, Misti!” Henri lifts a hand, and a pigeon descends from the pattern, landing precisely on his finger. “Basically, my Little Wing lets me control birds and see through their eyes,” he says. “It’s pretty useful, but as you can probably guess, I’m basically blind to my direct surroundings while it’s active.” He waves his spare hand over the table to demonstrate. “So you won’t see me facing off directly against enemy Stand users — but my birds can help you in a pinch!”
“Additionally, I believe I’ve given all of you access to my Parallel Lines by now,” says Misti. “Should you need to split up, you should be able to seamlessly communicate amongst yourselves. Mister Henri will warn you of threats that he sees through his Stand, and you can discuss strategies and request backup. There’s no resource more valuable than communication, after all.”
She looks at Ed, then Cecilia, her monocle glinting in the sunshine. “Now. Your mission, once more: Report to the Numan Institute, retrieve Rhapsody in Blue from the curators, defend it from any Million members you face, and return it to the Watchtower for safekeeping. Mister Henri, are you ready?”
Henri gives a thumbs up as his Stand dissolves from his face. “Ready as I’ll ever be!” he says, beaming.
“You have had time to rest up from the Betterman fight, and I trust you are prepared and capable enough to handle this mission. Miss Cecilia, Mister Ed, are you ready?”
Cecilia nods. “Absolutely.”
“Hell yeah I am,” says Ed.
Misti claps her hands. “Good. Then let the mission begin!”
— — —
Jim Palmer, a security guard working the day shift at the Numan Institute, has never had much of an interest in art. Yet ironically, he’s employed at the most prestigious art gallery in the city.
Jim’s inability to comprehend art has been a constant source of vexation for him in the past: he’s only capable of perceiving a subject, not its significance. When he looks at a painting, all he sees is a man on a horse, or a pond, or a bunch of fruits. Because of his curious disability, he actively avoids seeking out art if he can, preferring photographs instead. But when he was fired from a meatpacking plant two years ago, he’d gotten a recommendation from a friend, who mentioned that the billionaire donors behind the Institute paid handsomely. So he’d applied for the security guard post, figuring that his imposing frame would give him a boost.
After some paid training and a few weeks of acclimation, Jim finds himself sitting in the break room, sipping a mug of coffee and working on today’s crossword. All things considered, it’s not a bad job, he thinks. The gallery is relatively quiet, the rest of the team is competent, and the benefits are good. Sure, some of the curators can be pinheads. But compared to the meatpacking plant — well, almost anything’s better.
The door creaks open. One of the other guards, probably. Jim stays focused on his crossword. 37-across: “compulsory wedding equipment,” seven letters. First letter S, second letter O, last letter N…
K-chak.
Looking up, Jim sees the twin barrels of a shotgun pointed directly at his face.
Jim freezes up for a moment before the panic sinks in. He raises his hands, leaning back reflexively in his chair. “I – I – I –”
He swallows, suddenly wishing that the training had prepared him for this.
“Don’t… don’t shoot!” he whimpers. “Please! I-I’ll do anything?”
The shotgun lowers, revealing a darkly tanned man with white hair. He wears an open Hawaiian shirt over a bare chest, revealing leathery skin that resembles jerky. “You wanna die, you meathead?!” he says in a crackly wheeze.
“Don’t, Grampa,” says a young woman, who steps into the room behind the man. She wears a pair of denim overalls over a floral-patterned top. Her face is pierced with studs in several places, and twin red flowers are woven into her blonde hair. She sizes Jim up, putting a hand to her chin. “He might have information on the handoff.”
“What’m I supposed to do, then!?” croaks the old man, tapping his palm against the barrel of his gun. “She’s gettin’ restless!”
“Round up any more guards around here. I’ll interrogate him. Discoman isn’t paying us to wait,” says the girl.
“Got it, kiddo.” The old man leaves the room, clutching his shotgun in one hand as he scratches his beard.
Jim looks up at the girl, who folds her arms and looks back at him impassively. Something about the look in the girl’s eyes scares Jim even worse than the shotgun.
“You know, this institute is so immoral,” the girl says out of nowhere. “Charging a hundred bucks for a ticket to see all of these works. There’s something wrong about that, don’t you think?”
“...What do you mean?” asks Jim.
“I mean, art is a public good. Every person in the city deserves to see these works! It’s a crime that Numan codger could hoard all this beauty for all his life, and now his estate is price-gouging it even harder.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I guess this job must pay well, huh? Being a dog for these damn corporate leeches.”
Jim balls up his fists indignantly. “Hey! I’m not a —”
The girl suddenly snaps her wrist forwards. Something whizzes in front of Jim’s face, and he flinches violently. What the hell!?
“Look, don’t play around.” says the girl, looking irritated. “I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to, okay?” She lowers her arm and sighs. “Now. What do you know about the handoff?”
“The what?” asks Jim, his mind racing furiously. Is this girl hiding a gun or something? Are they part of the mafia? But what would the damn mafia want with this museum?
“Don’t play dumb with me,” The girl leans forwards, staring directly into Jim’s eyes from close range. “My boss’s boss intercepted an email received by the head of the institute. They didn’t say what exactly was being handed off, but we know it’s going down today. Tell us what you know, or else.”
“I — I have no clue,” says Jim. “The curators probably know, but I just…”
“They haven’t told you anything about a handoff?” The girl co*cks her head to the side. “Giving an art piece over to the feds? Nothing at all about that?”
Jim shakes his head, feeling a wave of relief wash through him. He doesn’t know anything! He’s in the clear. “No! No. Nothing at all. I’m just a security guard.”
“These leeches sure are incompetent. Ah, well. It was worth a shot.” The girl shrugs as something begins to ripple under the skin of her face. “At least you’ll make a good canvas.”
“No. Please don’t,” pleads Jim. “Wait! WAIT—”
“Scarlet Begonias.”
Something sharp pierces Jim Palmer’s face, and he freezes.
Slowly, his arm twitches, then his leg. One foot jerks outward, his toe tapping the ground exploratorily.
He rises to his feet jerkily, facial muscles hanging slack and unmoving, and shuffles over to the girl’s side.
The girl nods, patting Jim on the shoulder. “Sturdy guy, huh? You’ll make a good start.”
The shotgun-toting man steps back into the break room. “Saw two more bastards on the way here.” He hocks up a loogie, then spits it on the ground. “Got ‘em tied up in the damn broom closet. You’d think they’d give these guys tasers or somethin’!”
“Nice work, Grampa!” The girl cracks her knuckles as an intangible presence manifests beside her. “This is too easy. At this rate, we’ll have this whole place locked down before the feds get here.”
“So?” The man picks his teeth with his thumbnail. “What’s the plan, Jan?”
“Stick to what we discussed, Gramps,” says the girl. “You sweep the upper floors and try to herd people downwards. I’ll assimilate everyone below. The feds are coming for some art, after all.”
A malicious gleam shines in the girl’s eye as something shifts beneath her skin.
“So let’s get painting.”
