The Toy-Maker's Dilemma

[IamLEAM1983]

Once appropriately bound, the plaque was placed over Tam's chest. A short countdown was initiated and instead of a shock or electricity coursing through her, weariness fell onto her like a lead blanket. She'd feel herself falling asleep...

Waking up, however, would feel different from the general conscious beginnings of a dream. For one, she began as nothing but a lucid consciousness, awash in a hazy void. Over the next few seconds, proprioception returned. Then her eyesight sharpened, followed with the sense that her control over her body was growing sharp again. Everything felt precise and clearly defined, as opposed to the sometimes floaty nature of dreams. Between this and being awake, the only difference was the fact that lifting a hand to her eyes, she'd see pistons, wires and steel bars in lieu of flesh. As explained, however, there was still something like the sensation of her own warmth, something like feedback from nonexistent skin. As far as her hind brain was concerned, what was going on was completely normal.

She'd hear a sharp ka-thunk, followed by the sound of crackling speakers. Matthias' voice rang from them. "The armature's restraints have been removed, Miss Zainall. The puzzle box is on the stool in front of you."

There was a pause. "Good luck."

Just about the only problematic element would have to be the Clank's gravity centre and height. Standing up and walking might feel slightly awkward for the first few steps, but that wasn't more complicated than finding the new body's own point of stability.

***

Katherine would need to very clearly reject input from the left wing's nightmarish displays in order to ply her trade. As she knew, not everything tended to become charged with emotional intent. Being an empath and being a Diviner who could initiate astral voyages just by touching someone's precious relics were two different things. It didn't help that with the Firebird Gallery being a public space, most of what she'd feel amounted to a hazy blanket of mundane feelings and thoughts shared by the daily hundreds of individuals that passed through here. If thinking about buying bread or milk or paying your bills online after dinner counted as circumstantial evidence, she'd have tons to work with. Unfortunately, that wasn't quite the case.

It would take a while, but she'd find a rather small nugget of contrasting Emotion, tucked away with miniature dust devils in a far corner of the front's hub area. It was a small decorative brass cap, similar to the ones that covered Archibald's unused snap-on points for his removable beards and mustaches. However, she'd get no real sense of the Englishman's nature from it, suggesting that it belonged to someone else who used a similar set of decorative attachment points. If anything related to Archie Holden, she'd have enough experience to know this would be cross-feedback from her own emotional perceptions of the man; the unavoidable emotional interference that was part of the average empath's daily hurdles.

In fact, holding the little object, she'd feel this cap wasn't attached anywhere near someone's face, usually. Looking it over, the design wouldn't exactly fit, either. Archie's caps were featureless, this one was carefully embossed with a symbol that was so small, thanks to the cap's size, that it was hard to make out.

Squinting a lot, and maybe after spending a few minutes to get the right light to look at it properly, she'd see it: the same sigil Phyllis Laidlaw had drawn. The same gears and cogs arranged in the shape of a nightmarish skull.

The emotion that was tucked underneath that realization was frustration. Not the kind of contrite annoyance you'd expect Archie to feel; but the sudden, blazing stab of anger of someone who knew that his scent had been caught...

They'd need Tam's own investigative and research-related data to make the connections that so very clearly waited to be made.

In the meantime, Three combed the entirety of the gallery, inching past displays and kneeling down in tight corners to try and get a good look everywhere else. One of the public bathrooms eventually revealed something, with which he returned just as Katherine was starting to try and look the cap over.

"Found this in one of the bathrooms," he said. "It was stuck in the top drain of one of the sinks."

The object was obviously a tooth of some kind, and it very clearly wasn't a human or selkie tooth.

"It could be nothing," he said. "Some anthro shark's tooth, maybe. These guys keep losing 'em and I've seen plenty just spit loose ones out into sinks before. It's the shape, though. It feels off to me. This feels like more of a message to me than the paintings, honestly."

Off was one word for it. It felt like a purposeless clash between a molar and an incisor, as if Mother Nature hadn't really known what to do with the tooth bud this had come out of. They'd obviously need confirmation from someone specializing in dental forensics to either have it confirmed as being something weird, or infirmed as being just another shark anthro's rejects. Anthro sharks had been known to end up with hectic dental production before, it was an unavoidable product of having a body that was still convinced it was prone to losing teeth in the process of worrying meat off of struggling prey.

In any case, the emotional baggage attached to Drake's finding was rather conflicted. Whoever or whatever had had this tooth before had felt a mix of annoyance, had been trying to oppose their will against something, and was awash in what felt like a conscious and irrating conflict of values. There was a very dark undercurrent to this tooth, Katherine would feel that much - but there was also the sense of something just as strong: care and respect for emotions she could relate to, as a human being. Whoever had had this tooth had been both awash in some kind of dark and absolutely evil relish, but was torn up with their repeated attempts to beat that down and replace it with something that felt... quaint, if there was a word for it.

Metaphorically, you could say Three had given her the tooth of someone who was stuck carrying thoughts of mass murder and genocide around, while trying to beat them down with furiously gentle considerations, as odd as it might seem. Like a tiger desperately trying to be a good little and law-abiding housecat... Sincerity was attached to it, too, so whomever had felt that wasn't doing it in order to set up traps à la Serial Killer.

***

Bucky and Ciaran were led to the back of the restaurant, and up a locked staircase. Weasel's management offices occupied a mezzanine that looked down onto the restaurant, providing him with a one-way panopticon into the goings-on into his main joint. As far as his other franchises were concerned, he relied on phone calls from local managers and their mailed or e-mailed documents and status reports to keep going.

In keeping with his legitimate pursuits, Weasel's Donnola office was small and efficiently designed, suggesting more brand-appointed luxury than anything like personal inclinations. The floor was stylishly recycled industrial hardwood and the walls were stripped to the bricks. There was enough space for a desk and chair, two guest chairs, one loveseat and coffee table, along with a little supply of spirits in an alcohol cabinet.

As for Weasel himself? Well, everyone in town entertained some suspicions concerning his ties to organized crime. As frequently convicted as he'd been, nothing ever seemed to stick. The mobster look felt almost more like family-related considerations than anything that directly related to the Cosa Nostra, as he didn't quite act the part in everything he did. He was seated at his desk, a stogie waiting in his ashtray, and lifted sharp, if patient eyes to the two visitors, his hands' fingers threaded together atop the desk's surface.

"So," he said, his tone one of casual and succinct revision, "I've gone and disappointed the great Shamus Wallace. Not 'nuff salt in my carbonara, is there?
- Nope," placidly agreed the Clank.

Weasel shrugged and looked to Ciaran. "How 'bout you, sonny? Was everythin' to your likin'? Anythin' else you'd like me to remedy to?"

He was being polite, but it was also clear that this was a roundabout way of asking them what the Hell it was they actually wanted.

***

With their course of action laid out, what they had to do was fairly obvious. Percy asked for Benson's cell phone and keyed in a long number.

"Tidings, friend," he said after a few moments. "I regret to inform thee that thou stand beckoned by mine self, in my capacity as Viscount. The city is beset with new evils and I require your assistance."

Percival nodded once. "Aye. The sooner the better. One of my Knight Commanders has been slain and the menace is already well and proper seeped into the mortal realm. There are things I desire thee to gaze upon."

The gruff's eyes widened. "God's blood, how soon?! Well, er - thou finds me gladdened, then. The mortal realm's barometric pressure may not share my relief, however. We are in May, after all..."

He calmed down. "Aye, I would be grateful if thou wouldst make this effort. Rain seems more agreeable than a tornado. Think happy thoughts, as they say."

Hanging up, he handed the phone back to Benson. "So the Wisp is on its way?" he asked.

"Aye," replied Percy. "The White King had been made to leave Quantico by jet for affairs of mortal import, but a stop could be arranged. We have time enough to leave Faerie and make our way to the near-orbit flight airport."

Benson did a double-take. "What, what? Quantico? The Quantico? What the Hell is one of the King's agents doing with the FBI?!
- The Wisp King's mortal guise before the Accords was of one William Spector. He is one of the chief instructors in all paranormal affairs the Federal Bureau of Investigation handles, as well as the Archduke."

That puzzled the bugbear. "So, uh, how the Hell does that work? How does he keep matters of national security to himself if he's got a brood going on and the whole hive mind thing?
- He is legally authorized to continue using veils. We will see his true self, but no other mortals must know of his status as Archeduke or of his being of Winter. As for State secrets - his is the only sentient mind in all of the brood."

Harry scoffed. "Right. The only thing keeping him from tearing into everything in sight is Oberon's nice little collar of happy thoughts and friendship and shit, though."

He sighed. "I just feel so much safer, right now. Thank you ever so much, boss..."

[TennyoCeres84]

"Weird. That doesn't look like any sort of shark's tooth I've seen. There's selkie blade-smiths who use sharks' teeth in their work and put them in shops to be sold. Even if it belonged to an anthro shark, it'd still resemble their wild cousins' dental configuration," Aislinn responded, then opening her mouth and gesturing to them as an example. Her fangs were slightly curved and came to fine points. The rest of her teeth were jaggedly sharp, obviously meant for tearing into fish and the hard shells of crabs. "It belongs to a humanoid, but what kind? We definitely need to consult someone about it. I wouldn't want to be on the opposite end of whoever previously owned that tooth."

***

Ciaran shrugged. "You might have more sauce added to it. Otherwise, no. We're here to find out about what you might now about George Sanderson's death. Your cousin was squirmier than an eel when we approached him about it. We figured we could talk about it more directly with you," he answered. "His and others' deaths aren't natural. Have you heard about anything strange, even for Hope, on the horizon?"

***

"How will the White King feel about having a mortal around?" Neasa inquired. "I'm surprised that he wouldn't take offense to it."

[Karl the Mad]

Focused as she was on sifting out what was irrelevant and trying to find what could be helpful, Katherine didn't have anything to say aside from indistinct muttering as she went from random spot to random spot, her expression a curious blend of focus and unawareness. In time she found the button and was absorbed in it, at least until Three came up. "Nrg," she half-growled, her concentration broken for the moment. "Hush." She almost snatched the tooth from Drake and held it next to the button, her eyes once again sliding into and out of focus as she worked her abilities.

Eventually, after blankly wandering toward a window so she could get some sunlight, she sighed and looked up, gaze focusing on her companions. "This," and she held up the tooth, "belongs to someone with an identity crisis. Compulsive murderer trying not to be one, really trying. Or something. Not a trap, I know traps of this sort." She then held up the cap. "And this is something Laidlaw had something to do with; has her mark on it, but very small. Almost couldn't tell. Whoever wore this was on the edge of being sniffed, found out; thought they had pursuers on them."

Another sigh, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Us, maybe?"

[IamLEAM1983]

Three gave the gallery a once-over as he considered Katherine's deductions. "I'd say that's possible. We're fresh-faced, not entirely beholden to the realities of police Red Tape, form and created out of necessity for bigger responses to bigger threats. We've attracted attention over the last few months. Folks who remember the Golden Era wished us godspeed and just as many assholes figured we were just another one of the mayor's knee-jerk responses to bigger problems. Either way, we're important now."

He stepped aside and briefly texted a telegraphic overview of the situation to Archibald. There was some delay, but the Clank's response - complete with extraneous Stops, was rather cryptic:

"Most troubling. Stop. Go to Central Station. Stop. Find Forensics technician. In a bit of a pickle myself. Stop. Patient is proving to be rather lively. Stop."

Three replied with a more modern "U OK?"

There was a pause. "Quite. Stop. Nothing some caning cannot handle. Stop."

Scoffing, Drake keyed in one last message. "This is 2025. Telegrams are dead. Line breaks are useless."

No response came. He looked up to the other two. "Looks like we're off to get our tooth and cap analyzed. Arch says he's fine, he's just tied up at the local psychiatric ward. Sounds like Fulton is having some sort of psychotic break, but Arch is being Victorian on the guy's ass. My guess is a couple swats and more injections will calm him down."

***

As could be expected, Weasel parted his hands. "Yeah, Sanderson. Heard of that. Poor fucker, huh?"

Scoffing in what appeared to be sympathy, he shook his head and leaned back into his chair. "As much as I'd love to tell ya the family keeps all its cards in one hand, I don't know Marlon's roster personally. I knew Sanderson by name, but that was it. Big guy, kinda the loner type, right? Not too much luck with the missus or broads in general, so he figured he'd pull his own chain for release. Standard stuff for Clanks, from what I hear. S'a shame when that breaks down.
- Yeah," replied Bucky dispassionately, "sure is. I ain't buyin' it, though. We know what you do, Biggs - you're connected. Don't go and play us like we're ignorant."

Weasel gave Bucky a long look. "Now, officer, that's kinda uncalled for. Y'know what, though? I'm feelin', what's the word again? Magnanimous? C'mon, go for seconds," he said, a bit of a smile on his lips. "Only this time, do it politely. Don't presume shit in my office, Wallace; that's grounds for me to kick both o' you out."

Bucky seemingly did a silent double-take, but Weasel waved the matter aside. "S'alright, freshman mistake. Sanderson? I ain't got dick. I don't poke in the private lives of my brother's men, just like I don't in mine. What I've got, though, is hazy shit as far as shit goes. Rumours. Tall tales 'bout killer puzzle boxes being made to order for the right kind o' people, at the right price. If you've got some kinda sick desperation, they're supposed to make it seem like small fry.
- Who makes 'em?" asked Bucky.

Biggs lit himself a stogie in an almost painfully slow manner, and finally shrugged. "No clue. My boys or anyone else's haven't found shippin' manifests on these boxes, or order slips, or anything official we could kinda nick aside. If anythin', this means these boxes work like the snuff trade. Word of mouth only, and in channels so fuckin' tight they'd make a nun's ass look like the Taj Mahal."

***

"The Battle," reminded Benson a little bluntly. "Both Holdens saved mortal hides, we did our fair share - the White King pitched in, too. He wouldn't mind if you had pink polka dots, McCodrum."

[TennyoCeres84]

"You have any idea where such a channel might be? Like Bucky said, you're connected. You're bound to know of people who know people, the kind that make any "normal" person's skin crawl," Ciaran asked.

***
Neasa shrugged. "Sorry. You still made him seem alien no matter how well he's adapted or how loyal he's been. We should get going, though. For all I know, he's an extremely punctual guy," she said.

***

"Delightful. I'm curious to see what forensics will think of our find. It'll probably make their day," Aislinn responded with a scoff.

[IamLEAM1983]

Weasel sniggered. "Put two and two together, sonny. You've got a killer box ripped outta' Hellraiser, and a Clank who needed dates with Rosie Palms to keep goin'. Where would you check for more info?"

He paused, taking a moment to take a few puffs. "The Toybox ain't the only joint in town for toys. There's Gammell's production line, then there's everythin' else the X-Rated trade gets shipped in. Crops, canes, dildos, lube; the kinda stuff desperate or severely repressed types might end up usin'. That or, well, Carmilla vamps who lost the ability to get their freak on like the rest of us by virtue of overdoin' it."

Bucky blink. "So - a sex shop. You're sendin' us on a wild goose chase across the city's sex shops. Wonderful..."

Biggs clicked his tongue. "Ah-ah; not just any sex shops, Wallace! Skip the obviously boring ones, all the Plain Jane stuff you'll find downtown. Nobody who orders boxes like that has any kinda pleasure outta' Skinemax rentals. Whatcha' need's outside of my jurisdiction, so to speak. Esk's agency, her girls, her shops? All far too respectful for customers o' that nature."

As he spoke, he reached for a notepad and scribbled something. "Head up to Little Italy, across the Hillard. There's this guy called Flint; 'onna them Paradise expats, he's runnin' a joint called the Sin Bin. Cheap peepshows, bullshit vids like that old Spanish Simpsons porno - definite sleaze. He'll know. He's sufficiently off the mundane grid for erotica to start pickin' up the weird stuff."

Another puff. "Outside o' your current case, you'll realize the weird shit in town isn't just relegated to people and places. I'd betcha a twenty that you'll be going back to Flint's for snuff film investigations, eventually. That's another story for another time, though."

***

"That he is," confirmed Percival, as he made his way out of the Knight Commander's quarters and from there, out of Evergloam entirely.

It took a small while, but a few pedway intersections led them to within spitting distance of the local near-orbit airport. VTOLs being small and compact aircraft, no real ramp was required. Orion Shuttles didn't need much more than a slightly divergent helipad across its regional offices, and its own communications tower. As a result, the local airport wasn't much more than an adjoined building to the Amtrak rail that connected Hope to the wide world waiting beyond Point Judith. It made transiting from a near-orbit flight to a quick train ride all the more easy and appealing.

Thanks to the Viscount's size clearing the sidewalks, they made relatively good time, entering the terminal just as the whine of the cold fusion engines died down a ways above them, as the aircraft completed its shutdown procedures. They'd have time enough to make their way to the penultimate floor and turn towards the last flight of stairs leading to the helipad, that he'd emerge from the crowd.

Percival apparently singled out a surprisingly ordinary-looking Caucasian human of some fifty years of age, with thinning and greying hair, a fairly tall and lean build, and features that felt appropriate enough. Bill Spector looked the way you'd imagine a corpse to look if the corpse learned to smile again. His skin was smooth, too smooth for a man his age, almost entirely devoid of expression wrinkles. It made his wide smiles visually seem insincere. In a sense, he seemed unable to smile with his eyes. Even so, his tone and voice were also surprisingly human, he and Percival exchanging banter for a while. Spector's English was effortlessly East Coast American and informal, in clear contrast to the Viscount's permanent affectations.

After a few minutes, the gruff turned to face Neasa and Benson. "Your Grace, these be Neasa McConmara and Harry Benson, respectively of the Shield Group and of my corps of Knights."

The federal agent nodded, hands in his pockets. "I know; I've had a lot of time to spend reviewing Doherty's policies and how he's handled your Nexus stirring to life again."

He extended a hand. "Pleased to meet you.
- You're veiled. That's not actually your hand, is it?"

Spector's smile turned slightly frigid. "No, it isn't. You'll agree with me, however, in saying that fooling hundreds of rapidly moving mortals into thinking I'm human has to be taxing on the average mind. Ergo, I'd much rather you shook that illusory hand I've convinced your visual cortex and sensory centres of its existence. Or you could stand there, ponder the philosophical ramifications of it all and burn out my focus. At which point, Sir Knight, I'll be within my right to remove your mantle after numbing the minds of, oh, a few thousand commuters? A few hundred thousand? All so they'll forget my true self?"

Benson winced. "Er. Point taken, Your Grace.
- Good," said Spector, his previous smile not moving one inch. "Now shake the goddamned hand so we can get out of here, hm?"

Percival's smile had a bit of wry amusement to it. "Agent Spector is known for many things, Neasa, but dawdling is not one of them."

Spector's dark and flinty eyes turned to the selkie. "Unfortunately, no. There's only so much Oberon could do. He made me love your kind in the most general sense possible, but you'll forgive me if I admit that on the whole, I find people to be exceptionally stupid. Not that my job would be easily feasible if bright pennies like yourself and the rest of your group made up most of the force..."

Benson muttered something, but Spector shouldered him ahead. "Oh, grow up," he said, having apparently understood him. "If I make friends, I'll be sure to send them Christmas postcards every year. You'll forgive me if I lack the patience to appreciate schmaltz or pathos. As for being called dry - that comes with the territory. Federal agents aren't known for their excessively congenial natures."

[Karl the Mad]

"We shouldn't handle the objects more than necessary," Katherine replied, reaching for a couple of evidence bags. Each object was separately bagged, and she wrote a brief description of the objects, where they'd been found, and her own brief inferences on little stickers that she stuck to the front of each one. "There, safe and sound. No use contaminating evidence more than we already have." She gave the others a look. "If these do turn out to be good evidence we'll have to account for precisely how we handled them, or the courts could find some loophole and undo everything. Not even by the defense's efforts; people will just assume the cops and the prosecution are wrong if it comes out we screwed up even a little along the way, and then it's a real bastard convincing them otherwise."

She put the bags away and went on outside, stopping briefly at the security desk to inform them that Laidlaw's exhibit was to be quarantined. "You need directions, or shall I drive?" she asked once they were in the sun.

[TennyoCeres84]

"Lead on, if you want," Aislinn responded.

***

"I imagine it won't be. That'll at least send us in the right direction. So, thanks," Ciaran answered.

***
Understanding time was of importance to Spector, Neasa shook his illusory hand and followed along, "I take they're also not the type to beat around the bush when they're called away from their regular work. Sir Percival called you because of a case Shield was given. Several murders have happened where people were brutally murdered by strange puzzle boxes or tweaking devices, at least in the case of the clank victim. One of Sir Percival's men was flayed by a box with a very high iron content. The boxes can't be looked at very long, or they'll disorient you. It reminds me of the stories of Void Weavers my siblings and I heard as children, but they're usually not this forward. It seems like it could be related to Them in an indirect way," she explained. "We don't know for sure; we were hoping you could take a look and give us your thoughts on the matter."

[IamLEAM1983]

"This is your show for now," conceded Three with a shrug. "You're the one with some practice with criminal procedures, Starr. I'm a former grunt and Ais is a tattoo parlour owner. We're still learning as we go."

***

"My pleasure," replied Biggs. "Just - catch the fucker, okay? Say what you will about me, I won't give a shit - but twisted fuckers are outta' my line. Out of any self-respectin' line there ever was. Got old-fashioned dark meat in the family; mammas rearin' their Catholic asses up in my face and babblin' about the 'local great evils'..."

He rolled his eyes. "This ain't no Buck shit, that's as much as I know. I'd know it if the local American Gothic charity cases were in deep. All I know is I've got some of my Cubans and Puerto Ricans sayin' their patron saints; they don't like it here too much no more. So watch your backs.
- Sure, sure," dismissively replied Bucky, "we will..."

***

A black sedan parked near the spaceport, the driver looking even more blank-faced than Spector himself. As for the agent, he at least affected keen interest as he sat down.

"The Weavers being involved wouldn't surprise me. They've given the international community the proverbial finger on all accounts since the Vienna Accords. The general public knows nothing of them, communicating information is dangerous because anyone who's remotely curious to see them could be exposed to dangerous research material, and there's racial and cultural means for them to stay off the radar.

Death by Box seems to be a running theme in the neighbouring six closest States. One puzzle, a Priority Mail box, plus innocents. Every ten or twelve deaths, an odd divergence manifests. First your archetypal Cat Lady, then it's a known bookie. Two State lines later, a family of four bites it. A few days later - almost as if to atone - some Ukranian scumbag expat is disemboweled by some sort of Cryptex from Hell..."

[TennyoCeres84]

Ciaran nodded. "We definitely will. Again, thanks for the info," he said, heading for the door.

***

Neasa sighed. "Great, more bizarre murders. Yet, it's like the killer's conscience is conflicting with whatever or whoever is motivating him to kill through the boxes. The murders might actually be sacrifices, which would fit with the squids' or some cultists' M.O."

She frowned. "If the murders are forced, then perhaps the killer might leave some indication of finding him or give us a clue of finding the people harassing him," she mused aloud.