Secrat Copé could feel the decadent blood drip down his arm and off his elbow. Things hadn’t gone according to plan and the bastard wife of a merchant came at him with a knife. She managed to slash him a good one too, right after a punch to the jaw for good measure. This all, of course, happened before Copé had a chance to muffle her screams and end her days altogether.
It was a rash decision. Father Toucan Veras wouldn’t be happy about that. Subtracting from the world was frowned upon in The Red Flux, but Veras would have to understand the situation. Even still, Copé anticipated an inevitable shouting match coming his way when Veras found out. For now, all that was that he’d have to savor his heist and make it all worth it.
And so, he took time admiring his handiwork and appreciating his quick reaction time. If he had been one second slower, the woman would have squealed and blown the whole heist. After a small wince of pain, Copé looked at his bleeding arm and supposed he might not have been quick enough. His lock picking wasn’t nearly as discreet as it could have been either, making a lot of unneeded noise while he prodded at the lock. To his credit, Secrat had handled his mistakes well, especially given it was only his first time pillaging on his own.
These mistakes were to be expected.
He grabbed one leg and the other as he began dragging the unlucky woman’s dead body into the corner of the house that the moon’s glean didn’t bring to light. Copé looked around but could only see what the windows let the moon in the sky expose, and that wasn’t much. That didn’t bother him though, as he put one foot in front of the other, he already knew there wasn’t anything that would surprise him too much. A keen eye was mandatory for the task at hand, and he took pride in his intuition. For his age, he was already skilled. Very much so.
He felt around the pouch in his leggings for a light. A match was such an amusing contraption, far ahead of its time, white phosphorus on a pine stick that caused flame with friction. Some also used white phosphorus to poison or cause severe liver damage but that was neither here nor there. The latter fact made pine sticks both rare and particularly expensive in the major cities. The Red Flux often had to go to the Thieves’ Network in the Whispey Deserts to stock up.
The makeshift torch shed light on his surroundings. Secrat had known there was something beneath his feet beyond dirt. Now, he knew it was an Italinian rug.
If I wanted to rob pompous jackasses, I’d have gone to Italina, not Acera, thought Secrat to himself, but knew better than to say anything aloud. It was a playful joke to himself. He didn’t care in the least who he robbed, coin was coin. The rugs were expensive, anywhere between one-hundred coins to a thousand, depending on potency, purity, or vibrancy of fabric, as well as the artistic value in the design. He bid it adieu and paid it little mind as there was no possible way for him to steal it. The rug was much too heavy and awkward to move by himself. There was a wooden desk was to his left, a quill and inkwell atop it along with a piece of parchment, scrawled upon it were various names, presumably individuals the merchant had done deals with over the years. Secrat’s eyes skimmed through the names, a couple here and there he recognized, but they were far and few between.
The sound of ruffling leaves outside almost caused Secrat to flinch; a strong wind was picking up outside. Although he could afford to leave a dead body (so long as it couldn’t be traced back to The Red Flux), he could not afford to be caught. Although Acera and its civilians were softer than, say, Hardan or Urgway, meaning he wouldn’t be sentenced to death, their prisons were a real dump.
Copé continued walking through the house, noticing some of the abnormalities while doing so, such as the little trinkets of useless junk lining the walls. There were bizarre looking masks, crude illustrations, and other useless items that merchants tended to deem as absolute delicacies. Maybe they knew something Secrat didn’t, but Copé had no interest in such items. He was only looking for one thing and only had the faintest idea of where to find it.
All he knew was that people believed themselves to be cleverer than they truly were. In general, that is. They tried to go with eccentric and sporadic hiding places for their wealth and fortune, but oftentimes ended up choosing the same places as other citizens of the town would have. They had the same culture, similar lifestyles and influence, so it was understandable.
For larger cities, like Italina, Hardan and Jalint, it was easy to judge simply by using the popular consensus as a rule of thumb, but Acera was smaller, and therefore more individualized in terms of trivial things like where wealth was hidden. In part because so few of them had wealth.
While he was on the prowl, Secrat noticed one of the houses in Acera had an especially magnificent garden. If he was a betting man, it would be a safe gamble to assume if he kept ripping at flowers long enough, he would eventually discover a small fortune.
Before long, he hid his hand over the match, shielding the light from potential onlookers, and carried on his way through a small walkway, leaving the Italinian rug and welcoming cold, hard wood floor. As he traversed further, he was met by several illustrations – all gaudy stuff, really. Of it, Secrat didn’t see anything worth taking, rather, it was all tasteless trash that wouldn’t fetch a penny in most markets. As he continued, he eventually went onto find a more robust piece; at last, an illustration that looked to depict the Aeonian’s on top of the Mountain of Jalint. Veras would be pleased, Secrat joked to himself, recounting all the times Father ranted and raved about The Aeonians. There was nothing he hated more than how civilians worshiped the magical beings. Their presence was among the main reasons The Red Flux existed, acting as a rebellion against an inherently authoritative society.
The Thief clutched one of his wrists with his hand, keeping himself from the temptation of stealing the painting, knowing its quality wasn’t worth his debauchery. No, Secrat was looking to rob this bastard merchant blind, and that meant tackling his whole wealth. Pockets and pockets full, big pockets too, a big characteristic in most clothes worn by The Red Flux, and even both hands for good measure, whatever coins Copé would have the chance to leave with, he would.
There was a doorway to his right. He moved his hand away from his match and shined it over the door. This wasn’t your standard everyday wooden door with hollow insides. Something was very strange about it; elegant and kempt for an abode that was otherwise neither of those things. The door looked to be made from copper and appeared durable and resistant. Where would this room lead? Would it lead to the master bedroom, or was it his riches being hidden in plain sight? He inspected the door handle, for durability and strength meant nothing if the lock mechanism could be rendered useless, but … what was this?
There was no door handle for him to behold, and more importantly, no hole on the door to try at picking the lock. Instead, there was a small, circular device where the handle belonged, and it was every bit as small and feeble as a keyhole. Secrat brought his eyes closer to the contraption, inspecting it in disbelief and curiosity. There were three rows of numbers, each counting in order from one to ten, and capable of being easily rotated. It didn’t take very long for Secrat Copé to figure out what he was dealing with, he needed a three digit code that would provide him with the means to divulge the room’s contents. It was not at all uncommon for a safe, but was much rarer to see for an actual door.
The hand not toting the flame descended to his side and felt the hilt of one of his knives, resting sheathed in one of the many leather scabbards that made up his attire. There was one strapped to the side of his left leg, and two on each side of his waist. He came prepared. His training made him very accustomed to using knives. No doubt, he would be able to get the merchant to blurt out the code, given the right “persuasion,” but afterward, he would have to kill him.
Toucan might understand the lady as self-defense. If he would have let her live, there’s a chance she could have identified him and put himself and The Red Flux in danger. If too many wanted posters started popping up, before long an entire city could be off the market for his troupe of thieves.
With that knowledge, there was only one foreseeable alternative to help him unravel the means of entry and that was finding the numbers written down somewhere in the house. He didn’t even know for certain the merchant wrote down the grouping of numbers, but it was probable; a confessed insecurity against one’s ability to remember things. Unfortunately, Copé didn’t have the haziest idea where to look. His own intuition told him that the combination was probably written somewhere on a piece of parchment in the merchant’s master bedroom, but that was something he didn’t want to accept.
If this were the case, then, there was no chance whatsoever that he could finish the heist without killing a second special someone. And so, with a strong stubbornness, he backtracked to the Italinian rug and lifted it up. Beneath it, he found nothing, at the underside of the rug, shining his match down to see if he might have written it down there, he found nothing. There was the writing desk! Secrat went to it and began riffling through the pages and pages of scrolls. There were names and lots of information, but nothing that seemed relevant to Copé.
Worse off, Secrat found his finger cut by one of the papers, a stinging sensation more aggravating than having a sword thrust into one’s chest (or, perhaps not)! He brought himself back into the hallway of the merchant’s house and began plucking one precious item after another from his wall, quietly tossing them onto the rug. It could have been one mask or an item with sentimental value to the merchant where he had stashed the numbers.
It was a slow and quiet investigation, he only had one hand free, with the other carrying the aflame pine stick, but it had yet to yield any results. Secrat brought his knife out again and drove the blade into the Aeonian illustration, hoping to find something hidden behind the artwork. There was nothing…
Nothing. Nothing? Nothing!? That is, except the sound of a door closing at the other end of the hallway. Secrat blew out the flame of his match, bringing them both into the darkness. The merchant didn’t notice Secrat Copé in his dreamy stupor, or at least, he didn’t react in a way to suggest Secrat’s anonymity had been compromised. The man might have seen a light, but that was it, and as far as he knew, Copé was his wife. This was not the loveliest of images, but it was a logical line of reasoning. His lady friend either never came to bed or left and never came back. The merchant, curious about the whereabouts of his companion at such an ungodly hour, went looking for her.
This was only natural, but his reaction after finding her could be very bad for Copé. The footsteps of the merchant as his feet stamped the ground were loud. They hit with such an oomph that they surely would flatten whatever came in his path. The idea of tripping wasn’t even an option, his burly body crushing whatever might have made the attempt.
Before long that skill would be handy, thought Secrat, thinking about all the items that he threw on his living room rug. The thief moved haplessly in the blackened night, taking good care not to step in front of windows, or anywhere that could bring him in the view of the merchant.
He passed the desk but kept close to it as he walked on the rug, knowing for sure where he threw nothing for himself to trip on. At the end of the desk, he lowered himself to a crouched position and waited for the man to leave the hallway, and he did.
“Jen, Jen,” he whispered a couple of times almost quiet enough to be under his breath.
Secrat wondered why he was whispering, considering that it was his home, nobody was asleep, and it was Secrat that had to worry about being discovered.
The girl didn’t reply.
Odd, Secrat thought to himself sarcastically, remembering the smell of flowers on her nightgown. I wonder where she ran off to, Secrat jokingly said in his head, but then felt a certain reality enter the sanctity of his mind.
Where was it she had gotten off to? Or more accurately, where was it in the room Copé left her? His eyes followed the sound of the man’s breathing, if he continued in the direction he was heading, he would eventually come to his scullery, and thankfully, there were no dead bodies there (to Copé’s knowledge).
“Lady, where did you run off to? Left us all hot and bothered like that, it’s not good manners.”
There was a snort that followed soon after from the man. He didn’t make it to the scullery. Not right away, of course, because there remained the pesky fact that almost all the merchant’s decorations had been scattered about his house. The man stumbled over something or another, and Copé could hear him falling and crushing whatever it was he fell on. It sounded like a mask, but it could have been the shiny diamond encrusted skull or the glass Copé remembered pushing that way. Whatever, it mattered not, unless it somehow sent the man out of consciousness, but Copé doubted that fate would be so kind to him.
“Dammit, ah, Jen, what is this?” He yelled out, but there was only silence given to him as response.
Secrat stilled his breathing as he began to navigate past the desk, his sights set back toward the hallway.
“Where the hell, what did I just fall on, so, help me, if it’s what I think it is, then, but why would you even …? Dammit! Light up a torch or something!” The merchant yammered a few more mumbled words while he tried to return to his feet.
In that time, Secrat scurried quietly off through the hallway, hoping the merchant’s confusion would be enough to buy him some time.
Once passing the door with the number lock on it, Secrat lit another pine stick and hurried more toward the master bedroom. The combination would most certainly be in there, under his bed, perhaps, or his pillow? Maybe in a noticeable item of some sentimental value? It didn’t matter where, just if Copé would be able to find it before the merchant returned.
He grabbed the handle of the door and twisted, trying to be as quiet as he could. The door squeaked a bit, so he readjusted, opening it slower. It was densely lit in this room. That was the first thing Copé noticed. There were an assortment of candles placed all around the room.
Once his eyes were allowed the means to adjust, they beheld a more appealing decoration. Not one, not even two, but three broads resting, unclothed and naked atop the merchant’s fine, violet-colored blanket. They were marvelous and seemed to be endless with creases and crevices that couldn’t be described by words alone. The cover looked nice as well.
“Uh,” is the only thing that Secrat could muster the strength to speak.
They were asleep. That was good, but it didn’t change the fact they shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The merchant, … the merchant, Azlak Temps, that was his name, was married and (according to the Grandfathered who gathered information for the troupe) happily so, but happily married men didn’t usually fuck random whores. There was a hole in the plot, but Copé couldn’t find the logic to fill it. All that he cared about was finding the numbers, getting his loot, and getting out of sight. That was The Red Flux’s mantra, or at least, it would be if they were conspicuous enough to have one.
He crept quietly into the bedroom, waking the whores would bring nothing good. He admired their bodies from afar but tried his best not to get mesmerized by their lustrous figures. The bed was large. Big enough for all three sluts, one more slut, and of course, the merchant, but the ladies were being spacious with their limbs. This made it difficult to see whether there was anything hiding beneath a pillow. And so, with a heavy heart, Secrat began to wander more feverishly about the room; a decent size, the room, that is, enough that a bed made for a king would only take but a small portion. Otherwise though, there wasn’t a whole lot else to see.
Merchants oftentimes migrated from city to city. It all depended on where would pay more for whatever product they had in abundance. It made sense why his abode would be empty. Except Temps took the time to take out all his stupid souvenirs and set them all-over his hallway and even rolled out his Italinian rug. Why was this room so empty?
Secrat turned where he had shut the door behind him and the loophole filled itself for him.
On this side, the door had no handle. All it had was a large keyhole. The thief pushed at the door. He poked into the keyhole as if his index finger was part key. It was not. No windows in this room. Secrat couldn’t help but smile. He was screwed beyond repair. It would have been easy to knock down the door; one or two kicks and it would be off its hinges. This couldn’t be seen as an option though. The merchant would be alerted, and he’d absolutely wake up all five of the ladies. As skilled as he was, Copé doubted he could fend off and fight naked ladies coming at him. He didn’t know if he wanted to fend them off either.
A small jolt of fear struck his chest. He washed it away shortly. Certain necessities had their way with being a thief, and one of them was the ability to act even when it seemed all was lost. He stared around the room. If there was anything that could help him in the situation, he wanted to find it. He blew out the pine stick in his hand and threw it down on the ground. It wasn’t like he would need it. The only thing in the room was the bed, the sluts, and the candles.
Copé went closer to the bed, looking over the feminine tabbies. He expected one of them to wake up and make a jump at him at any moment.
His left hand touched the hilt of the knife strapped to his waist. He dropped to his knees and looked beneath the bed. A wooden box sat about midway underneath the mattress. The box was barely close enough for him to grasp with his arms stretched as far as they could reach. No combinations and no keyholes, Copé took refuge in that one singular fact. The numbers to the vault would most definitely be here.
The thief readied himself to open it. Everything felt slower, elongated, even. The moment was being preserved as if it were some kind of special occasion.
Secrat Copé heard the door handle turning behind him. He didn’t have to think about it. All he had to do was react. He shoved the box back down under the bed and crawled under the bed with it. He hid under the bed like a small child did from The Carvers. Azlak Temps opened the door, his feet being the only thing Copé could see. They were bare, without shoes, and dirty. His ankles were thick as well. Temps was a heavier fellow. Secrat was surprised the whores weren’t awakened by Azlak Temps’ knees crying out for help. Azlak crept towards them slowly, the integrity of the wood floors being put to the test with every movement he made.
“You’ll have to excuse me, ladies. Our dearest Jen has taken it upon herself to stray out of my ever so humble bode. I have to fetch her.”
He followed his words with a laugh. It was a nasally laugh that sounded more obnoxious than joyous. Copé wondered how much the man had to pay these ladies for their company. He thought about how that wealth would soon belong to The Red Flux.
Azlak walked deeper into the room. And then, something happened. The sound resembled a small twig breaking beneath the paws of a grizzly bear. Copé watched from under the bed while Temps moved his foot. The pine stick he had thrown down had shattered away into something like soot. He could hear the loud groan from the large man.
“Thief!”
Secrat felt every hair on the back of his neck spike. It was the shock of it all that really scared him. Once more, he knew he had to react swiftly. He rolled out from beneath the bed and leapt to his feet. Had he not, he surely would have been dragged out by his feet. He couldn’t afford to allow Azlak Temps anything more than the home field advantage.
“Aha, well to whom do I owe the pleasure?” the prodigious man yelled out.
Copé assumed that was what he said, but he wasn’t for certain. In truth, he was too taken by the sheer stature of the man to pay much mind to what came out from his mouth.
From under the bed, Secrat couldn’t even have begun to appreciate the weight that Azlak Temps brought with him. Now, he and all of his excess flesh stood naked in front of him in all his splendor; except for a small pair of tan-colored cloth that acted as shorts. His size was insurmountable by even all the broads and Copé combined. Copé wondered how Temps managed not to kill them during sex. He didn’t have long to envision the spectacle before Temps let out a grunt before going on the attack.
Copé moved out of harm’s way. His speed was an advantage he would need to make the most of. He readied a blade in his hands before making a stab to Temps’ ribcage. The knife pierced his belly. The blood shot out fast, but Temps paid it little mind. The large man simply threw a clubbed fist at Copé, sending the thief spiraling in a daze. Copé struggled, haplessly trying to regain his composure. If he couldn’t, the monstrous man would certainly bring an end to his life. He was turned around with his back to Temps, but behind him, Copé could hear the loud footsteps of his combatant racing toward him. He desperately threw a kick behind him. It connected, but whether it did much damage, Copé knew not.
The distinctive groan from Temps told him that it did. Secrat Copé turned around as fast as he could. His leg ached from having the large man rammed into it so heinously. The moment he turned, he was met by a wall of fat – Azlak had run toward him and rammed him with his full body weight. Secrat fell to the wood floor, the wind knocked out of him and a rib or two bruised. He reached over and touched the back of his head, wet. On inspection, he saw that his hand was now a crimson glove of his own blood. The view around him seemed to be fading. It was flickering on and off again like a candle at wit’s end.
He fought his way back to a seated position. If he lost consciousness then everything would be over. He looked up at Azlak Temps. The knife was still stuck in his gut like a splinter.
Copé let out a breath and watched the man hurl his burly body toward him. He rolled out of the way and shot back up to his feet in a last ditch effort. He winced, cradling his wounded midsection and still felt disoriented from the blow to his head. He had hoped Temps might have lost balance, but that was thinking too much like an optimist. As he waited for Azlak to turn around while he took another knife from his ensemble. This one had been strapped to his left leg. Once Temps obliged, Secrat threw the knife at him. It pierced his skin and went into his stomach, same as the other.
Remarkably, it didn’t seem to bother him. The man carried forward as though it were nothing more than a flesh wound or a mild inconvenience. The Thief sighed. He wanted to curse, but couldn’t find the ability to make words. He wanted to flee. Beyond all else and more than anything, he wanted to escape. His eyes went over to the door.
It was closed. The key was most definitely on Temps’ person, but that meant nothing.
“Stop your running, bug!” Azlak Temps yelled. “I’ll crush your skull in!”
The pain was worsening, making it difficult to concentrate. The ache from his head felt piercing. He could feel the blood dripping down his back.
Copé readied another knife in his hands. This one had been strapped on his right leg. However, before he could wage his next attack, Azlak punched him in the stomach. Copé leaned forward at his whim only to be taken down to his knees with two locked fists to his back.
The knife flung itself out of his hands as Azlak towered over him.
Copé looked in his eyes. They were eyes of ignorance and impractical strength. The look of somebody that knew he would always be on the offensive. Azlak stared back at him, a sadistic grin on his fat face. A grimace came to his eyes momentarily as he plucked one knife out of his stomach and threw it to the ground. He grabbed the other and pried it out as well. Blood dribbled out of him. In time, if untreated, the giant could bleed out. Unfortunately, time wasn’t something Secrat had.
Azlak didn’t discard the second knife. Instead, Azlak held it by the handle and made a fist. His hand nearly swallowed the knife whole.
Copé felt a spark of fear jolt in him. Things didn’t look good. It didn’t look well for his legacy either. Taken in by Toucan Veras off the outskirts of Italina, a boy with real potential, offed by some merchant in his very first solo heist. He was better than that. And like somebody that was better than that, like somebody with the utmost of class, he drove his head into the giant’s crotch like a whore lobbying for a tip. This seemed to get his attention, Temps dropped to one knee holding his groin.
“You fuck!”
The fuck mustered the strength to once more find his footing. His head felt like the Amisoic Seas, swishing and swashing in waves.
He walked toward the door where Temps threw one of the knives. He retrieved it and the one Temps had kept. After finding his third, Secrat readied his next attack. He threw a pair of knives back at Temps’ stomach. They punctured two more holes for blood to be let out.
The last one, he kept. This one belonged on the side of Temps’ neck. Copé moved toward him.
As the blood left his sides, Temps seemed to understand it as his end. Although relieved, Copé didn’t have the energy left to smile. The only energy Secrat had left would be saved for the killing blow.
However, before he could add the final nail to Azlak Temps’ coffin, the man fell flat, … he was dead. Secrat Copé sighed of exasperation. He was never seeing either of those knives again.
He let his eyes wander off the fallen man. The whores were there, lying unresponsive and lifeless to everything that had happened. Heavy sleepers. Beads of sweat fell from Copé’s neck. Sweat and blood, he supposed.
He dropped down. Under the bed, there was the box. That was where the combination numbers were. In the box was the key to all the merchant’s wealth. He slid it out weakly and opened it. Inside, Copé’s eyes wandered about the contents. Vials of all different shapes and sizes, all of them containing a brown powder Copé had never seen before. He flipped the box over, emptied it all out and looked around. No combination code to be seen.
He didn’t have the energy in him to be upset. He didn’t have the energy to do much of anything. The feeling of light-headedness overwhelmed all else. His fingers caressed the thigh of one of the ladies before he used her leg to pull himself up onto the bed. He crawled inside, beneath the covers, pushing and shoving between the drugged whores.
That is where Secrat Copé lost consciousness.
