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So here’s the thing.
Assassin-ing, assassinating, whatever you call it, it’s not… like… There’s a line. Martha’s got a line, is what she’s trying to say, a line in the… sand, okay, not that, bad metaphor, tide comes in, whoosh! No line. So not like that. A strong line. Like rope! Only not… cuttable.
Okay, so, metaphors, not really her strong point. Whatever.
Martha’s got a line, is the thing. A moral line. And okay, killing people, being moral, that’s a tough one to reconcile, she gets that, it’s a fair point. But it’s not like they kill just anybody. They hardly kill anybody these days! Just, y’know, bad guys. Guys who’re trying to kill them.
Ladies too, she’s all for equal opportunity murdering, but for some reason it’s always guys who come at them. Francis tried to tell her about this lady assassin once, but honestly she got a little distracted, okay, they only just got together, it happens! And it was a really hot story.
Anyway, look, the point is - this isn’t working, is it. Let’s start again.
#
It started with Monaco.
“Sweetheart,” Francis said, “Honey, dumpling, bumblebee-”
“Stop!” Martha said, joy bubbling up inside her like coke did when you threw a Mentos in it. Effervescent. It still caught her by surprise, the way he made her feel. Like a can of soda that’d gotten shaken too hard, somehow, just waiting to burst all over the next unsuspecting soul to touch it.
Ew.
“I have a concern,” Francis said.
“Hmm?” Martha pivoted on her heel, swiping three fancy cracker things off a passing waiter’s tray before the guy even noticed. People just didn’t pay enough attention to their surroundings.
“Kitten,” Francis said, his hand on her waist to help her finish the twirl. “I think we’ve been spotted.”
“Really?” She swallowed, and pressed the last of the crackers between Francis’ lips, glancing around. The woman by the champagne fountain did seem to be glaring at them somewhat more than a little liberal appropriation of hors d'oeuvre really warranted. “Well poo. I really wanted to see if it was real.”
“I know, I know, I’m disappointed too,” Francis said, pulling her into a loose waltz step. “We can always come back later.”
Martha frowned. One-two-three, one-two-three, out-two-three - facing the woman again at the end of the twirl, and she was talking urgently to two tall men in not-quite-expensive-enough suits, ugh, she hated it when they were pegged early. “Security will be way tighter, though,” she said, swaying into the hand at the small of her back. “What if we created a distraction?”
“Like?”
Step-step-step, and Martha dipped him, pointing Francis’ gaze straight at the crystal fountain. “So pretty. So fragile,” she said mournfully. “Such a shame you’re a clumsy dancer.”
He came back up grinning, that lopsided bit of fierceness that never failed to set her pulse racing. “Clumsy? Me? Never, kitten.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “But if it’ll make you happy, we can pretend.”
“Just keep them busy,” Martha ordered, watching the clustering security guards as they stepped closer and closer. “I’ll be quick. Meet up after?”
“Of course,” Francis said. “Spin me?”
“Always!” Martha flicked her arm out, the weight of him unfurling away and away and -
Amidst the sound of crashing glass and spilling alcohol and the thudding boots of security guards, Martha slipped away.
Her dress didn’t match the setting. Not really. Cute little polka-dotted a-line frock kinda stood out against the ballgowns, but she liked to keep her legs free. This was a fancy, fancy house. The kind of place you gotta be a multi-generation drug lord or land-owner or just real lucky on the stock market to even think of building. A private, intimate soiree, with just the owners and their scores of staff and a few hundred of their closest friends.
And the dinos.
They hadn’t been planning on sticking around. There was a dig in Peru Martha badly wanted to see - there was something about seeing fossils in situ that really gave her a thrill, made her feel connected to where they used to live and breathe and fight. But then they’d caught wind of this shindig, and the prize acquisition it was celebrating.
When you’re stupid-rich, you need stupidly expensive hobbies. It kinda figured - gotta spend that money somewhere. A lotta the idiots who tried to hire Francis dumped their cash on artwork, which she’d never really got. Sure, you could frame it and stick it on a wall and impress all your stuck-up friends, but it was so fragile. And ugly, most of the time.
This family, though. This family collected something else.
No gunshots yet. Probably wouldn’t be any. This was a strictly exploratory infiltration. No murdering required. Still, the guards were getting pretty excitable back there, and Francis was only one guy. She needed to be quick.
They hadn’t unveiled the new one. Plinths were scattered around the sparkling foyer - a beautiful matched pair of microraptors over there, a row of gasparinisauruses all behind the buffet, a gorgeous reproduction minmi under the arching staircase. She’d crooned over them earlier.
But that wasn’t what had brought her here.
Carefully, glancing around to make sure everyone’s eyes were where they were supposed to be, Martha lifted the corner of the black silk drape and slipped underneath.
“Oh. Oh, look at you,” she whispered, looking up into that pointy little face, those perfect teeth, the stumpy arms all wired up neat as you could ask. In the dim light filtering through the fabric, she couldn’t see the coloring, not clearly, but she could see the bumps, the crumbled edges. “You’re real, aren’t you. No one builds a cast like that.”
Dilong Paradoxus. The littlest tyrannosaur, less than six feet from nose to the tip of his curled-up tail. One of maybe four in the world.
It was like the first time she’d ever gone on a dig in postgrad, up in the Andes, and hiked up one evening completely on her own. The whole world had spread out in front of her like a giant jagged tablecloth, the clouds slipping across each other up above, and she knew. She knew.
She reached up, laughing, fingers trembling a little, and stroked along his jaw. “Aren’t you beautiful,” she said. “You’re way, way too beautiful to stay here.”
#
See, the thing Francis had realised, after Serbia, and the hospital, and Hopper and all that, was: you gotta have fun.
You gotta make it fun.
And he’d tried, he really had, with the nose and the reverse hitman gig and everything, but it had all been, y’know. Shallow. Surface.
And then Martha happened.
All of a sudden, it really was fun. Even the shitty stuff, the tedium, the bad guys - even sitting on a crappy ER bed getting lead shot dug out of his hand, with her curled up next to him all soft and, okay, sweat-smelling, it had been… Good.
He wasn’t the kinda person who had goals. Not really, not any more. But Martha, she wasn’t like him. She knew what she wanted. And there wasn’t a thing in the world better than watching the way her little face lit up when she got it.
So when Francis let go of her hand at the end of the spin and crashed into the fountain like a bowling ball knocking down pins, he did it laughing.
The thing was huge. Four, five feet high, perched on top a table like an accident waiting to happen. “Watch out!” he said, way too late, not even a little believable. He went in shoulder first, curling in a little - gotta keep the glass out your hands, your face, hell, even getting champagne in your eyes was no fun, all those little bubbles stung.
The woman who’d been watching them from behind it screeched like a pterodactyl, and Francis felt the whole thing tip, the supports snapping, crunch-crunch-crunch. “Oh no!” he said, high pitched. The guards’ heads were turning, the guests’ too. His kitten was already across the room and no one had noticed. Champagne everywhere, making the floor all slippery. Platters on the table. The guards had guns but they weren’t gonna draw ‘em, not here with all the guests. Glass shards from here to the wall.
“Eh!” the nearest guard said, turning, trying for a grab, slow as a rookie beat cop and 80% as flabby. “Qu’est-ce que tu-”
Francis dodged. “Sorry, sorry, so clumsy,” he said, ducking a second guard’s meaty hands. “But hey, really, that’s not safe, that’s some kinda safety hazard, you should talk to management about that.”
“Arrêtez-vous!” the guard panted. Francis dodged ‘round behind him in a neat little two-step, and the man lost his footing, taking out the second guard as he went.
“Oh, no, you gotta watch your footwork,” he said, “you gotta - whoa!”
She’d hit him with her handbag.
“...well, that’s a new one,” Francis muttered to himself, shaking out his neck. “Why’d you do that? It was an accident!” Okay, it hadn’t been an accident. He was a shitty liar.
She looked like she’d figured that out. Or that she didn’t care.
45, maybe 50. Tall and bony in the way you knew she’d worked for. Lovely long golden gown covered all over with irregular crystal beads - oh, no, no, those were fountain shards, weren’t they. Her hair was dripping, sagging down one side of her neck like a iceberg about to tip. Her dress was soaked.
Francis whistled. “Wow. Uh, really, really sorry about that. Whew. I guess you’ll have to buy a new - hey!” He jumped back, dodging her second swing, and right, right, the guards. Big Hands was still laid out, but Footwork had made it upright and was gonna be coming at him any second.
“Tu... tu..” The woman’s face was turning puce.
Glancing around, it didn’t look like Martha was anywhere visible. He’d pretty thoroughly distracted half the room. And unless he wanted to start hurting people - which, really, he never wanted - maybe it was time to skedaddle.
“Listen, real sorry, this has been fun, love what you’ve done with the place - really, huge fan, it’s gorgeous - but I’m just gonna - find a bathroom now. Get cleaned up. Sorry again!” He edged smoothly backwards, throwing in a bit of a moonwalk for style, made a quick box-step around Big Hands attempt at a grab, and fled back around a pillar and into the service corridors.
#
The current, the one Francis showed her, the flow that connects everything to everything else, it didn’t always work for Martha. A lot of the time, it did - in fights, when they’re in danger, sometimes she just knows. When to dodge, when to duck.
The rest of the time, though, well. A little attention and a good memory for details could go a long way.
The catering cart they’d been using to cart fresh ice to the seafood buffet had a squeaky wheel.
She’d noticed that earlier. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Very distinctive.
Very useful.
Martha ducked quietly out from under the silk and brushed off her skirt, patting down her hair. “Hi, yeah, excuse me,” she started as she rounded the pedestal. “There’s been a really big mess down by the ladies’ room, just terrible, really - oh!”
“Oh, hey, kitten!” Francis beamed at her from beneath one of those silly little caps they had on all the waitstaff. “I was looking all over for you!”
“Hey, baby! You brought me this?”
“I did!” He did a little shimmy, and it should be ridiculous, but it just set off dizzy fireworks in Martha’s chest. He was a dork, but it didn’t matter, because he was a dork who loved her.
Who loved aiding and abetting her somewhat morally dubious acquisition tactics when it came to paleontological specimens of significant interest.
“It’s perfect, thank you!” Martha rounded the cart and kissed him, just a quick peck, but he was so warm, and tasted so good…
“Is that champagne?”
“It is!” He grinned. “But, dumpling, don’t you think we should get moving? I think they’ll finish cleaning up the spill in a minute, and then who knows what we’ll be facing.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Martha said, pulling back and straightening his lapels. “Wait there.”
Francis leaned up against the cart, fiddling with the silver tongs as she flipped up the edge of the cover.
She’d already gotten him off the stand and carefully wrapped in a tablecloth. It was the work of a moment to slip the Dilong bundle onto the bottom of the cart, and replace him on his stand with the melting bowl of ice.
She’d duck out a side door a little later. If she followed Francis now, folks might realize his tux wasn’t a loaner from the catering company, that his shoulders were sticky with champagne. For now, Martha tapped twice against his ankle, and smiled as he clicked his heels in response.
The cart squeaked as it wheeled away.
#
Right. Morals. She’s making a point about morals. Okay.
See, good, bad, who’s to say at the end of the day which is which. Is it good that some people have so much money they could buy Picassos and Monets and Da Vincis to hang in their marble foyers? It doesn’t really seem so, but whatever, art’s boring. Who cares.
Dinosaurs, though. Fossils that rare and important and, okay, beautiful?
Those should be somewhere they could be studied. Somewhere they could be seen. A university, a museum, some kinda exhibit. Not a friggin ballroom. Not on her watch.
So, alright, maybe Martha’s moral compass has slipped a little these days. That’s not, like, a crime. Not as long as you don’t get caught.
And what’s a little grand theft dino between friends, anyway.
It’s not like they killed anyone.