Chapter Text
The next day, Devineaux cornered Graham in front of a painting titled The Pompeii Clowns, a colorful abstract scene apparently depicting "the ruthless drama of contemporary living.” Or so the placard said. Graham had never been an art guy, but if the point of art was to resonate with the audience, the piece was doing a good job.
“Devineaux,” Graham greeted politely, “what’s up?”
“You are right, you know,” Devineaux whispered, quietly. “About la femme rogue, I mean. Chief is wrong. I don’t know what she does or why she does it, but she’s not evil. At least I don’t think so. Not anymore.”
Graham glanced around to make sure Zari was nowhere in sight. The coast was clear, so he leaned in and asked, “then what is everyone’s problem with her?”
Devineaux hesitated. “I was on a… hiatus when it happened. She stole something she shouldn’t have,” he answered.
“A hiatus?”
“Oui.”
Graham faintly remembered Chief’s argument with Agent Argent the night he was recruited. He had written it off as petty, internal drama at the time. But now that the drama was a part of his "contemporary living,” he was giving the exchange some more thought.
"Argent, she hacked into our database. She stole top-secret files. We've lost millions of international tax dollars on cars she's destroyed."
"Actually, that was Devineaux.”
“While he was in her pursuit! Regardless, she has picked her side, and she is no friend of ACME's."
… Graham wondered if those cars had anything to do with Devineaux’s “hiatus.” He wondered if those top-secret files were what convinced Zari not to trust her. He wondered why Carmen stole them in the first place.
“It’s not about whether she’s a good guy or not, is it?” Graham asked. “We’re after her because she’s not one of us.”
Devineaux looked surprised, like he had not expected Graham to say that. He considered the Australian's words for a moment. “No, she’s not. But… that may not be a bad thing. Maybe you’ll be the one to show them that.”
“Devineaux! Graham! What are you doing?” Zari asked, approaching them. She put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry Zari,” Graham said, taking a step away from Devineaux. “Don’t mind the two of us– I was just about to get back to the ruthless drama of contemporary living.”
Zari blinked. “The what?”
Graham pointed at the painting. “Painting,” he said.
“Oh. Yeah, that sounds like Beckmann,” Zari said with a nod. “What are you waiting for? Get back to it.”
Graham spent the next four hours strolling– nay, patrolling-- the museum. Devineaux had been placed on “outdoors duty” this time around. Graham enjoyed reading about artifacts. The museum was set up so that each region of the world had its own room. He found himself entranced by the lofty figures of Mediterranean statues, the bold colors found in indigenous American totems, and picturesque landscapes depicted in Japanese prints. Graham felt a twinge of homesickness as he strolled through the Australian Aboriginal art section, admiring the elegant twists in the weaving of fine tapestries. Truly, this museum had it all.
Every now and again, a visitor would tap him on the shoulder and ask where a certain exhibit was. Graham could only shrug and say, “Sorry mate, I’m a visitor too. The Egypt exhibit is cool though; limited time. Get there while it lasts.”
Graham wasted his lunch break watching the museum’s in-house film. Zari did not consider that a valid excuse to receive more time. That was fair, but no less upsetting. Nothing suspicious was going on in the museum, anyway. Graham was hungry, and hunger did not wait for Zari, or awesome museum movies.
Graham decided to go on a snack run. Afterall, a good agent had to have a full stomach to do their job well, right? Graham thought that was right.
The museum café smelled delicious. Even better, no one was in line for the food, save a young woman with a shock of white hair. She was examining her nails with her back to Graham. This was a strange choice, as they were covered in black gloves. She wore a grey trenchcoat that covered most of her body, so long that her boots almost looked casual. Almost.
They were black like her gloves, but with impractically pointy toes, and exceedingly high heels. Graham swore he could see a few spikes jutting from them, and even a few orange stripes painted on the sides. They were very scary boots– by the far the scariest thing Graham had seen at the museum. Did scary boots count as suspicious, or was this lady just making a bold fashion statement?
Graham laughed at his own thoughts.
At the front, a server recognized Graham and flagged him down. He produced a styrofoam box from behind the counter. "Here sir, thanks for all your help!" The beamed, handing the box of food to Graham. The Australian peeked inside the box to see a fresh sandwich made with ingredients from across the Pacific Northwest.
Graham was touched. "Wow, mate, you didn't have to do that! Thank you!"
He and the server began a nice conversation about the museum. The woman who had been standing in front of Graham got impatient, and began tapping her foot agitatedly as she waited for her order to come out. Graham still didn’t see her face.
"Ugh," she finally groaned, when the server went back behind the counter and to what Graham assumed was the kitchen, "why does he get his food early while I'm stuck waiting? Nnngh! Service is terrible here."
Graham wasn't sure about the terrible service part, but the complaint was sort of valid. "Sorry mate, I just work here. They're being nice,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
For a split second, the woman glared at him. Then she looked away like he was a dead bird on the side of the road, paying him no heed. But in just the two seconds that it took to glare at him, major alarm bells were set off in Graham’s head. He nearly choked on his sandwich.
She had big, blue eyes, and thick eyelashes on top of large eyelids. She accented them with heavy mascara, and coated her lips with wine-colored gloss. She had a small beauty mark on her chin. Most individuals would agree that she was good looking, but that's not what had caught his attention. Not at all.
"Er, have a nice day miss," he coughed out, and sped out of the café.
This was bad, really bad.
Graham's instincts told him this lady was no good. The problem was he had nothing to go off of, just a hunch. A really, really strong hunch.
Why did he think she was so bad? Everything pointed to her being a normal civilian, just some innocent bystander unwittingly caught in line with a hungry ACME agent. Except her boots, but Graham had been walking around in an "I ❤️ SEATTLE" shirt with floral shorts over a fancy suit. He couldn't really judge. Scary boots didn't equal scary people.... did they?
Maybe Graham was hangry. He was not thinking right. He glanced down at his barely eaten sandwich. It was delicious, but Graham had lost his appetite. But the nice server had given it to him for free. He sat on a bench just outside the café and stared at the sandwich, willing his hunger to come back. He took a bite. Suddenly, it tasted like sawdust. Graham preoccupied himself by trying to think of ways he could prove the random lady’s innocence… or otherwise.
After forcing himself to finish his food, Graham went back to patrol. He glanced inside the café to see if the Scary Boot Lady was still there. She was not. All at once, Graham felt a sense of purpose. He set out to find her.
It was mid-afternoon now. The museum would close in three hours, but Zari had already warned them that they would be patrolling overnight. CrimeNet– whatever that was– had apparently been going crazy with warnings about a VILE hit that would take place that evening. Graham supposed that they would see. He was not convinced yet.
He found Scary Boot Lady studying at a large totem poll on display in part of the Native American exhibit. Graham had enjoyed reading about that specific piece of history, but... she was doing something different. She was doing a convincing job at pretending to admire the artwork, but anyone looking closely could see her eyes dart above the poll’s top and to the ceiling. Graham glanced up, too.
Above the totem pole was a vent. Theoretically, it could open up from the ceiling and into the museum’s larger ventilation system. It was large enough for a person to hold inside– the museum was certainly chilly enough. It probably led somewhere outside, a perfect exit for someone to get out in a case of an emergency, or for an outside to…
Get in.
Graham still didn't know why he cared so much about one single visitor and her freaky boots, but it was too late now. If he was right about this vent, he had figured out how VILE meant to get into the museum without being detected by security. This had to be it.
Graham’s thoughts went to Devineaux, first. He rushed out of the exhibit, past the café, and to the front of the museum by the Hammering Man statue. Devineaux was sitting nearby, munching on a hotdog.
“Devineaux!” Graham shouted, earning himself a few miffed looks from visitors as he passed. One disgruntled Washingtonian gave him the bird. Whatever, they would all thank him later if he was right.
Devineaux fumbled with his hot dog. "What? What?!"
Graham grabbed Devineaux by the shoulders and pushed him into a secluded area by some bike racks. Devineaux was looking at Graham like he had spouted horns.
"Is there any security up in the vents?" Graham asked inbetween large breaths. He was breathing heavily from his run.
Devineaux seemed personally affronted by the question. "No! Of course not. Why would any be there?"
"Because! People could get in and out anywhere through the vent system!" Graham exclaimed like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Devineaux shook his head. "You are paranoid! I understand this is your first time doing the sophisticated work of an agent, you still have much to learn. So be sensible, and learn from great agents such as moi. No one would ever use the vent."
“VILE would,” Graham argued, totally certain despite never having seen the supposed Villains International League of Evil. For extra emphasis, he added, “Carmen Sandiego would.”
Devineaux shook his head. "We have cameras. Not to mention loads of security! The deader jet—"
"Deshret."
"Whatever! The Red Crown is safe and secure. And no one in their right mind would go to it through a vent. Now go back inside before Zari sees you talking to me instead of patrolling!"
Graham flung his hands up in the air. “What is the point of patrolling if no one is going to listen to anything I’ve found?”
But he still went back inside. He had resolved to take matters into his own hands.
He found the Scary Boot Lady in a different exhibit. She was not even bothering to pretend that she was interested in the artwork, anymore. She had secluded herself into an unassuming corner where she was speaking in hushed tones with… a mime! The very same mime from the day before!
She was jabbing her finger at the mime’s chest. She appeared to be scolding him about something as the mime crossed his arms over his chest and harumphed with an angry hair flip. Graham could not hear what she was saying, and the mime did not speak. He needed to get closer, so he grabbed a brochure to look natural, then hid himself behind an ancient Chinese gong to eavesdrop.
".... so quiet! What on earth are you here for? They should have given me Le Chèvre, then we could have been out with the stupid thing already!" Scary Boot Lady hissed.
This was it. If VILE really was real, these two characters had to be them. Scary Boot Lady and Seattle’s local mime.
“Seattle is weird, Graham!” Zari and Devineaux had said. “Don’t pay attention to the mime!” they had said.
Oh, yeah? Well take that, you two.
Graham had never been so mad that he was right. And he had to be right. Now he just had to convince Devineaux and Zari.
Graham found himself secretly playing a guessing game alongside Scary Boot Lady as the mime did what mimes do and pantomimed tiptoeing. Then he pointed at Scary Boot Lady and did a light switch like motion. What did that mean?
"Yes, I know!" growled Scary Boot Lady. "We'll sneak in, take out the lights and security, and get the hat. Your point?"
The mime put up a finger, indicating he had something else to say.
"Ugh, what?"
The mime did a jabbing motion, like he was a fencer, and then jazz hands. He added a fist pump and motioned at the two of them, and then showed another number on his hands. 5. He then put his thumb down for four, and pointed to the ground.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Scary Boot Lady groaned. “Is someone here?”
The mime gave her an annoyed look, did his performance again, but added the "coo-coo" motion, where you spun your finger next to your head near the end.
This time, the Scary Boot Lady got it. She took a step back, shocked, "No. Crackle is here?!"
The mime nodded his head ferociously.
Graham cursed under his breath. Great. There was another bad guy somewhere around the premises with the name "Crackle." Stunning.
The mime then made a box with his hands, and started moving one finger like he was pressing a button on a camera.
"Oh, so he's a tourist?"
The mime nodded again.
"Strange that he’s in Seattle. Okay, whatever. This doesn’t change anything, we need to be careful," she moaned, "Great. Now I wish El Topo was here."
The mime pouted and stumped his foot.
"Oh, get over it!" Scary Boot Lady grumbled. "I’ll see you at eight." Then turned away and left the mime on his own.
The mime sighed silently and walked in the opposite direction.
Scary Boot Lady was coming his way. Graham ducked behind his brochure. She did not notice him, passing him right by. But before she could get far, a switch went off in Graham’s head. He felt weightless. The world began to spin, and his vision tunneled on a pocket in the back of the Scary Boot Lady’s coat. He had no control, he had no conscience. He was on auto-pilot.
“Origami, the Japanese art of paper folding, is the surest means of perfecting the nimble touch…”
Graham snuck up behind her without making a sound. He extended his arm out. It was all happening so fast; he had no idea what he was doing.
“Essential for the successful picking of pockets.”
The next thing Graham knew, the Scary Boot Lady was gone.
… And now he had her phone.
"Oh crud," he mumbled, "I just pickpocketed."
Graham was freaking out. He just committed a crime! He was an ACME agent for crying out loud. Whatever that meant, he was supposed to be protecting people. Now he was a thief. He had stolen someone’s phone. A bad guy’s phone, sure. But still! He had learned that he could do some crazy things in the last few days, but why did his magic senses know how to pickpocket?!
Why?!
He turned the silver phone in his hand. For the first time, he had tangible proof of VILE’s existence. A decal had been placed on the back of the phone depicting a green hexagon with the word VILE printed on top of it. Crikey, these guys were as bad as ACME.
Graham fiddled with the phone a bit. It turned on without too much effort
“Enter password” the screen read.
Graham bit his lip. No doubt something bad would happen if he didn't get this right.
A date crept into his mind. Graham did not know what its significance was. But, his magical senses had gotten him this far, for better or for worse. He pressed the numbers in.
The phone unlocked.
He just unlocked a V.I.L.E. phone, and pick pocketed a bad guy. Crikey.
Graham explored the phone, finding sophisticated blueprints of the museum building, notes about the best entrances to “break in” from, a dossier of all the security Scary Boot Lady could expect to see. He scrolled through a database of weapons and tools she could use. To Graham's horror, he found notes on other museums and public buildings as well.
… Crikey, this VILE was legit.
To avoid panicking, Graham focused on what he knew. Scary Boot Lady was, indeed, a VILE agent, and the mime likely was, too. So there were at least one, probably two agents on the premises. Maybe three if this “Crackle the tourist” showed up. And they were coming at eight.
Yeah, Graham could work with that.
He ran to the Egyptology exhibit to find Zari, cutting the lines and weaving through the exhibit until he found her talking to a security guard not far from the Deshret.
"Zari!" He yelled, waving the phone in the air and interrupting her conversation.
Zari scowled, and quickly apologized to the security guard shooting him dirty looks. Bugger off, Jack.
"What is it, Graham?" She asked, like a teacher speaking to a child as the security agent sulked off.
"There's a VILE agent in the building!" He exclaimed.
Zari tensed. "Are you sure?"
"Yes!"
"How?"
"Oh... uh...."
“Graham.”
"Can we talk about this somewhere with fewer people?" he asked.
“And leave the crown without an ACME agent? No, not a chance,” she replied, curtly. She sounded increasingly like she wanted to stomp on him.
"Well, I can’t tell you. Not here," he said sheepishly, “but I just know, okay?”
“Not this again, Graham,” Zari sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I know you're good at guessing, but this is serious! Do not come to me with mere ideas or hunches, give me facts and evidence!"
"I have evidence! I heard her talking! Or... at least the lady, not the mime."
"The mime again?" Zari groaned, "Did you hear the entire conversation?"
"Well, no—"
"Then it may have been out of context. We can’t go arresting people on a hunch, Graham. Do you have anything else?"
Graham shoved the phone towards her, but it had shut off, and he had handed it to her with the screen upwards instead of the decal on the back. Rookie mistake.
"That is a phone, Graham. You can probably find a million of them in the lost and found alone!” Zari hissed.
"Look, how about you switch with Devineaux, all right? It’s been a long day, and you’ve been cooped up too long. Let's finish these last few hours strong," she decided aloud, and then she waved Graham away.
Graham found himself sitting on a bench near Hammering Man, swiping through the rest of the phone. Graham considered himself pretty decent with tech, but this was bizarre. There weren’t many apps, but the few that were there made no sense at all. At one point he found a list of names that could have been gamertags or comic book characters in all the worst, cartoon-villain ways. “Paper Star” and “Countess Cleo” were among the less strange ones. Graham found “Neal the Eel” on the list, and could not decide whether he felt happy or terrified that the slimy bloke was still around.
But those names were three of hundreds. Were these all VILE agents?
The museum closed, and the sun sunk behind the city skyline not long after, but the ACME agents were set to stay until midnight. Graham wasn't even halfway through the list of names when Zari and Devineaux found him sprawled out underneath the statue.
“Graham, do you have a report?” Zari asked.
“Depends, what do you want a report about?” Graham asked, crossing his arms with an eyeroll.
“Any suspicious activity or characters?" Zari clarified, narrowing her eyes.
Graham snapped his fingers sarcastically. "Oh, yeah! I saw plenty of suspicious things. A VILE agent with crazy boots, a mime in Seattle who I’m sure is also a VILE affiliate, and they’re planning to break into the museum at eight o’clock and steal the Deshret. I’m pretty certain they’re going to break in through the vents, but no one will believe me, anyway.”
“Graham, are you listening to yourself? I know you’re new, but this is ridiculous. You have no proof.”
"I have proof! I just couldn't show you in front of the museum security!" He protested.
“You mean that phone?”
“Yes! The phone that I stole from her!” Graham blurted.
Zari was taken aback. Devineaux's eyes widened, "Pardon? You stole a visitor’s phone?"
"Yes," Graham admitted, "I don't know what happened! She was just passing by, and next thing I knew I had her phone in my hand."
“That doesn’t just ‘happen,’ Graham!” Zari scolded. “You committed a crime.”
“Crieky, would you just look at it?” Graham said, fishing it from his pocket and shoving it towards her again. Zari was about to swat it away, but Devineaux stopped her.
“Zari, look at the back!” He said, gesturing for Graham to turn the phone around in his hand. Graham did so, and the VILE decal glinted in the lamplight. Zari paused. She looked from the phone to Graham, then at Devineaux, then at the phone again.
“Let’s get inside. We’ll take a look at it there,” she mumbled.
None of the three agents noticed the red van that rolled down the street a block away, or the woman wearing a cat suit who jumped on the roof.
“Do I even want to know how you managed to guess the password to this phone?” Zari asked, turning it in her hand. The three had staked out in a corner not far from the Deshret’s display, and had spent the last several minutes scrolling through the phone’s contents. It did not make any more sense to either of them as it did to Graham, though Zari had noticed some consistencies between former VILE targets and some of the pictures on the photoroll.
“Even if you did, I wouldn’t have an answer,” Graham admitted.
“Let me guess. You just knew?” Zari asked, handing the phone back to Graham.
“Uh-huh,” Graham confirmed. “Magical senses. You know.”
“You have instincts like mine,” Devineaux said, earnestly. He pat Graham on the shoulder.
“Let’s hope not,” Zari muttered.
“Hey!” Devineaux complained, “what is that supposed to–” but he was cut off by the low thumping of something in the ceiling. The three ACME agents glanced up. THen the lights went out, trapping them in darkness.
“The vents! They’re in the vents!” Graham yelled, fumbling for his tiny white gas gun. But it was useless, he would be shooting into the void.
A glowing orange circle was carved into the ceiling above where the Deshret was displayed. Someone pushed it out. Devineaux yelped at the sound of metal clattering to the ground.
“Get the crown!” Zari yelled. Graham could hear her footsteps running in the direction of the Deshret, but it was too late. Graham heard the clash of glass and knew that someone had broken the display box.
"No!" Zari screamed. He tried to run to the crown, but it was too dark. He had no idea where he was going, and was trying to avoid running into a wall, a person, or another priceless artifact. He heard the whoosh of someone jump, the zip and clack of a grapple hook being shot back into the vents.
Then the lights flickered on, just quick enough for the group to see the back of a red coat slip up the vent. The display case was empty.
"Sandiego!" Zari shrieked.
"La femme rouge!" Devineaux cried.
"Carmen?" Graham gasped.
“Oh, if it isn’t Carmen Sandiego. You have my crown,” the muffled voice of none other than the Scary Boot lady crooned from the vent.
“If it isn’t the cranky cat. What, are you looking for a toy?” a familiar voice quipped back. In a chorus of a thousand people, Graham would recognize Carmen’s voice anywhere. Crikey, it really was here. She had really stolen the Deshret.
The ACME agents listened to the sounds of an ensuing battle as they stared incredulously at the hole Carmen had burned into the ceiling. A lot of thuds and bumps, and the screech of claws on metal. Whatever was going on up there, it did not sound good. Graham supposed Carmen and VILE had the same idea about the vents. He did not like the similarity.
“You were right, Graham,” Devineaux mumbled, “sacré bleu, you were right.”
“I can’t believe…” Zari trailed off. She shook her head and regained her composure. A steely expression came across her face. “That’s definitely VILE, and definitely Carmen Sandiego. We’ll catch them outside– go!"
She sprinted out the exhibit door and to the museum’s entrance. Graham shoved the incriminating phone in his pocket as he and Devineaux followed suit.
And as he followed his teammates out the museum door and into the cold Seattle night, stomping across the puddled pavements, a harsh, sobering truth washed across him. He despaired at it. He had denied it before Chief, before Darja, before Zari, and perhaps before logic itself. But there was no denying it now.
Carmen Sandiego was a liar, and she was almost certainly not one of the good guys.