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More crime stuff:
Victor's arm pained him. The graze had closed up, but straightening the arm tugged on the skin and it seared like hell. Lifting the arm hurt almost as bad; he'd taken to folding it inside his jacket a la Napoleon, and he was aware he couldn't gesture, couldn't glam things as he was wont. He'd practiced all Saturday night after Amanda had fallen asleep - the pain had been keeping him up anyway - and on Sunday after he returned to his current apartment. He could skim his hands over things, but his control wasn't perfect, and the objects would turn inconspicuous rather than completely invisible. He would have to get over this before El Hazard noticed.
This meeting, by way of contrast with the previous one, was in a meat locker; or rather a labyrinthine cold-storage warehouse abandoned some fifty years. El Hazard was in his professional garb with the heat dialed down to toast; all the same, there were some sparks coming off the pale orange tongues of flame. Victor was unpleasantly aware of the century-old cork insulation dry and rotting behind the walls. He suspected he was being tested, but didn't know if it was his intelligence or his nerve that El Hazard was uncertain of. Perhaps the boss just liked living dangerously; or perhaps he liked having a building few could find their way in or out of and that could be torched to a crispy shell at the drop of a flame-thrower helmet. He tried not to shudder, because he wasn't sure if it was the right response, but he scuffed his boot in the sawdust that lay half-an-inch thick upon the floor.
"I can incorporate your talent in my plan," began the older supervillain. "I suppose it would not be too difficult for you to conceal a couple of tunnel entrances?"
"I could conceal flats that would block the view of the tunnel entrances, as long as they didn't have to move." El Hazard furrowed his brow:
"They'll be made to work that way."
"Much also depends," Victor added carefully, "on where the tunnels are." El Hazard looked up with an expression Victor guessed was wry humour.
"Show him the map." One of the more skilled thugs unrolled a diagram on a butcher's block.
Thunk thunk thunk thunk!! With the grin of a man who never got tired of this particular trick, El Hazard rapidly hurled a stilletto into each corner. It was Victor's turn to wear the wry expression, but he didn't move a muscle otherwise. He did, however, wait for his host to approach the block before drawing any nearer himself.
The map, he saw, was of a block in Gradient's downtown core, showing the sewers - no, the old brick storm drains - and the small, exclusive contemporary art gallery that lay in the middle of the block. The Wet Sheepdog Gallery was currently showing mkrvjtkr's high-profile installation piece, The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Visitors to the gallery found its usual display space full of large antique mirrors. Those who searched carefully enough (the staff would usually whisper "hot" or "cold" to those who had difficulty) would locate the cellar door behind one of the larger mirrors and descend to the building's boiler room, the floor of which was completely covered in women's old shoes, or rather castings of shoes. The artist had collected shoes from her friends and family, purchased anonymous ones from thrift stores and famous ones from ebay memorabilia auctions. One pair had belonged to a notorious murderess, another to the artist's kindergarten teacher. Yet another, small pair had belonged to her sister who had died before completing puberty. All the shoes were cast in solid gold.
Some critics and visitors called the piece morbid, some a garish display of materialism. Some called it profoundly touching. A few visitors, for various private reasons, burst into tears at the foot of the stairs. El Hazard's plan was to grease the palm of a city inspector to order 'repair work' in the basement of the business next door (a by-appointment-only bookshop with a hard-of-hearing owner); tunnel into the already underground location, remove the shoes, then tighten the safety valves on the boiler, creating an explosion that would cover their tracks until they could smuggle the gold over the border.
Victor's arm pained him. The graze had closed up, but straightening the arm tugged on the skin and it seared like hell. Lifting the arm hurt almost as bad; he'd taken to folding it inside his jacket a la Napoleon, and he was aware he couldn't gesture, couldn't glam things as he was wont. He'd practiced all Saturday night after Amanda had fallen asleep - the pain had been keeping him up anyway - and on Sunday after he returned to his current apartment. He could skim his hands over things, but his control wasn't perfect, and the objects would turn inconspicuous rather than completely invisible. He would have to get over this before El Hazard noticed.
This meeting, by way of contrast with the previous one, was in a meat locker; or rather a labyrinthine cold-storage warehouse abandoned some fifty years. El Hazard was in his professional garb with the heat dialed down to toast; all the same, there were some sparks coming off the pale orange tongues of flame. Victor was unpleasantly aware of the century-old cork insulation dry and rotting behind the walls. He suspected he was being tested, but didn't know if it was his intelligence or his nerve that El Hazard was uncertain of. Perhaps the boss just liked living dangerously; or perhaps he liked having a building few could find their way in or out of and that could be torched to a crispy shell at the drop of a flame-thrower helmet. He tried not to shudder, because he wasn't sure if it was the right response, but he scuffed his boot in the sawdust that lay half-an-inch thick upon the floor.
"I can incorporate your talent in my plan," began the older supervillain. "I suppose it would not be too difficult for you to conceal a couple of tunnel entrances?"
"I could conceal flats that would block the view of the tunnel entrances, as long as they didn't have to move." El Hazard furrowed his brow:
"They'll be made to work that way."
"Much also depends," Victor added carefully, "on where the tunnels are." El Hazard looked up with an expression Victor guessed was wry humour.
"Show him the map." One of the more skilled thugs unrolled a diagram on a butcher's block.
Thunk thunk thunk thunk!! With the grin of a man who never got tired of this particular trick, El Hazard rapidly hurled a stilletto into each corner. It was Victor's turn to wear the wry expression, but he didn't move a muscle otherwise. He did, however, wait for his host to approach the block before drawing any nearer himself.
The map, he saw, was of a block in Gradient's downtown core, showing the sewers - no, the old brick storm drains - and the small, exclusive contemporary art gallery that lay in the middle of the block. The Wet Sheepdog Gallery was currently showing mkrvjtkr's high-profile installation piece, The Twelve Dancing Princesses. Visitors to the gallery found its usual display space full of large antique mirrors. Those who searched carefully enough (the staff would usually whisper "hot" or "cold" to those who had difficulty) would locate the cellar door behind one of the larger mirrors and descend to the building's boiler room, the floor of which was completely covered in women's old shoes, or rather castings of shoes. The artist had collected shoes from her friends and family, purchased anonymous ones from thrift stores and famous ones from ebay memorabilia auctions. One pair had belonged to a notorious murderess, another to the artist's kindergarten teacher. Yet another, small pair had belonged to her sister who had died before completing puberty. All the shoes were cast in solid gold.
Some critics and visitors called the piece morbid, some a garish display of materialism. Some called it profoundly touching. A few visitors, for various private reasons, burst into tears at the foot of the stairs. El Hazard's plan was to grease the palm of a city inspector to order 'repair work' in the basement of the business next door (a by-appointment-only bookshop with a hard-of-hearing owner); tunnel into the already underground location, remove the shoes, then tighten the safety valves on the boiler, creating an explosion that would cover their tracks until they could smuggle the gold over the border.
