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“Are you sure that you’ve got this?”
Puppeteer seemed small in the front passenger seat, blending into the dark red of the leather with her darker jacket wrapped tight. It was the second time she’d asked the question in the last ten minutes of the drive; the silence had been interrupted otherwise, leaving only the bumping of the wheels on the road to fuel Whiplash’s trepidation. Puppeteer’s questions were bolstering it the rest of the way, but he was determined not to let it all spill over.
“I’ll be fine.” He pushed on the round door of the car until it swung out and backwards, masking his uncertainties with bravado. “I’ve been in this for a long time, remember? You just watch and learn.”
Yes, he’d been in it for a long time; long enough to know how to carry himself to ease Puppeteer’s tension, almost enough to take care of his own as well. He wasn’t fooled so easily, though, least of all by himself, and he resisted the urge to tap his fingers in a nervous rhythm against the car’s sleek chassis.
“I hear you. I’m sure.” Puppeteer was too smart to be fully assuaged. She was bright, that one; had a lot of potential. A little too bright. “I’ll wait here, like we went over, but you’d better hurry.”
“I’ll try. A thing like this, it can’t be rushed.” He winked as he slid out of his seat. She rolled her eyes at him even as she leaned over and reached forwards to shut the door behind him.
Whiplash straightened up, wincing at the crook in his back, and checked under his overcoat. His signature weapon was still there, coiled at his hip like a viper ready to strike, but he hoped sincerely that he wouldn’t need to use it- partially for his own sake, knowing the type of place that he was about to walk into. He was good with it, certainly, but not that good.
The house looming up in front of him only served as reinforcement for his concerns. It was more of a manor than a house, really, with marble-white columns and stairs leading up to a glossy front porch. Moss was just beginning to climb the walls, but it lent an aged feel to the place rather than a dilapidated one. There was a difference between the two; it felt lived-in, loved in an ironic way, rather than abandoned.
Despite the opaque windows, covered with curtains and nearly blacked out although it wasn’t even afternoon yet, Whiplash knew he was being watched. It was something of a sixth sense that he’d come to possess over the years; it was true that the feeling of unwanted eyes on you was like a tickling, an uncomfortable spark. Whiplash took his hands back out from under his coat and went up the stairs slowly, one at a time despite the fact that he itched to take two or three, until he paused at the door.
It was a large door, far taller than him, with an equally large metal knocker in the center, cast in the questionable shape of an animal’s claw or paw. Whiplash lifted his arm and closed a fist around the bar, bringing it down hard once and then twice.
There came no answer; reluctantly, he repeated the process, thrice now. This time, when he paused with his hand still on the knocker, he heard shuffling from behind the door a few seconds before it swung open.
Whiplash stumbled forwards, releasing the metal bar to pull his hand back. A girl stared back at him, no older than nineteen or twenty, but with a stern glare and hands placed on her hips in an intimidating fashion. “Yes?” she said, a bit bluntly.
Whiplash stared for a moment before clearing his throat. They hadn’t mentioned anything about a woman. A relative? The others back at HQ had already confirmed that the target had no sisters, but perhaps a cousin? A new girlfriend that they hadn’t been aware of? A maid? No, she carried herself with too much dignity for that. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “I’m sorry. Is there a Mr. Norton Campbell home?”
“There’s a Mr. Mole home,” she answered, emphasizing the pseudonym, “and if you’d like to speak civilly with him, I can take you to him.”
“That would be preferable. May I-?” Whiplash removed his hat and gestured towards the doorway; the girl stepped aside with a small bow, reaching over to close the door behind him. It shut with a loud noise, and his shoulders tensed reflexively.
“You can leave your hat and coat on the rack,” the woman told him, though he was already in the process of doing so. Her eyes traveled down to his whip without missing a beat, but she made no comment, only tilting her head to beckon him after her down the hall. Whiplash trod after her, feeling uncomfortably bare without the protection of his coat. He was perfectly aware of the possibility of a trap, but he didn’t think he was about to walk into one now; it would be foolish of- Campbell, or Mole, or whatever he wanted to call himself, to try anything so soon.
As he watched the girl in front of him, he took note of her precise movements, shoulders set back and arms crossed behind her back; it reminded him of a soldier’s march, though that couldn’t be true, could it? Once or twice she glanced back over her shoulder as if to challenge him; Whiplash found it difficult to meet her eyes full-on. It was only when she came to an abrupt halt outside another large door that served as a dead end to the hallway that he turned his eyes back to her.
She lifted her fist and rapped on the door; wood, perhaps black walnut, and carved with intricate designs and patterns. Unlike the front door, this one opened immediately; Whiplash, unprepared, nearly took a step back, though he forced himself to stay locked in place.
The eyes staring at him were two different shades; at first glance, it might have seemed a case of heterochromia, but a closer inspection made it clear that the left eye was blind, a milky swirl of gray and white. The other was slightly lidded into a bored expression, chocolate brown and almost black peeking out from behind too-long lashes, but half cut off at a horizontal line by the dark-lensed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose. A kind of pince-nez, though if Whiplash had to guess, they were likely sunglasses and not spectacles.
Before he could make any more observations, the girl spoke. “This person says he wants to speak with you.”
“Hmm.” Mole didn’t move at all, though his eyes slid from Whiplash to her and then back again. “Thank you, Behamfil. You can go.”
Behamfil nodded to him, gave Whiplash another glance that he now realized might have been one of pity, and turned to stalk back up the corridor. Whiplash watched her go until the creaking of hinges brought his attention back to Mole. He’d opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Please,” he said when he was evidently sure he’d regained Whiplash’s full scrutiny, “come in.”
With no other choice, Whiplash brushed past him into the room and allowed Mole to shut the door behind him. His eyes roved over the stately desk positioned at one side of the room, the books lining the built-in shelves on the walls, the twin leather chairs on the right and left; an office space, most likely. Mole circled back around in front of him and sat in the chair behind the desk. “Sit,” he invited, ordered. Whiplash sat obediently in the other chair, feeling like a small child in school.
Mole sighed and reached for the humidor on the desk, dragging it towards himself and flicking it open. “I hope you don’t mind?” he asked as he withdrew one of the cigars, with a bearing that suggested he really didn’t care what answer he would receive. Whiplash shook his head anyway and watched as Mole lit it up with a striker from his coat pocket.
After what felt hours rather than seconds, Mole finally sat back, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “I apologize,” he said with a slight tilt of his lips. “I wasn’t expecting guests today.”
“I’ll be out of your way soon, I just wanted to ask some questions-” began Whiplash, eager to get to the point by now, but Mole cut him off with a stony look. There was silence for a few moments before he spoke.
“I saw your car out front. 1925 model. Rolls Royce, New Phantom.” Mole reached up with his free hand, the one that wasn’t holding the cigar, and removed his glasses, tucking them into his breast pocket. “And I thought to myself, that can’t be someone coming to see me, because-” He laughed. Smoke curled up from the corners of his mouth. “Nobody drives a car like that unless they’re a fool, or unless they want to be noticed. But nobody who comes to me for help ever wants to be noticed.”
He rested his forearms against the desk, all semblances of hospitality gone. “You asked for my attention; you have it. You’re answering all of my questions before I even consider answering yours.”
“Now hold on a minute-” Whiplash started to protest, but Mole simply reached under the desk, pulled at a compartment, and drew out a Colt revolver. He laid it on the surface of a desk with a loud thump, just out of Whiplash’s potential reach, and waited. When Whiplash, brimming with frustration, couldn’t bring himself to speak again (it wasn’t that he was particularly afraid of Mole, but he knew that there were likely other people in the house who he wouldn’t be able to hold his ground against, and besides, he didn’t want to start a ruckus), Mole smiled pleasantly. “Now,” he echoed. “Who are you?”
Whiplash went over his options quickly. He’d been in far worse situations than this before. Right now, the best policy was honesty. “My name is Kevin Ayuso,” he said, partially avoiding the question.
“I didn’t ask for your name.” Mole tapped his fingers against the table. It was only now that Whiplash noticed the gold-plated claws attached to his gloves in place of the fingers. They looked sharp as knives, and Whiplash had no doubt that they could tear into skin easily. “I asked who you are.”
Whiplash sighed. It had been worth a try. “I’m with-” He paused. “A… certain institution. Government funded,” he added, just as a warning. Mole didn’t seem impressed, so he continued: “We’re investigating things that I legally can’t speak about, but we’ve run into a dead end.”
“So you do want my help,” Mole mused. “And how am I supposed to help you if you won’t even tell me what I’m helping you with?”
Whiplash shifted. He couldn’t exactly bring up the Abyss, not when he was sworn to confidentiality on the topic; even Puppeteer, newcomer as she was, didn’t know the full story of what they were really trying to do. “I really can’t tell you that-”
“No. You just won’t tell me.” Mole grimaced. “You know, Mr. Ayuso, I highly value full disclosure. It makes for good business; no loose ends to tie up, no misunderstandings.”
“This isn’t business.” Whiplash stood, patience wearing thin. “If you don’t cooperate, I could absolutely have you arrested.”
Mole also stood; Whiplash wondered if he was imagining the fact that he looked more tense than before. “On what grounds? Not answering your questions?”
Whiplash couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. “Come on. You know what I’m talking about. Conspiracy to commit murder, solicitation to commit murder, aggravated assault, actual murder… you’d be looking at a long time behind bars.”
“Please.” Mole waved a hand. “That’s already been dismissed. You don’t have enough evidence to find me guilty.”
“We would,” Whiplash snapped, “if you didn’t pay off the witnesses.”
“But I did.” Mole shrugged, looking entirely unbothered. “And I will again. So what are you going to do, really?” His eyes traveled down to Whiplash’s hip. “Are you going to beat me black and blue until I answer? Throw me out a window? You don’t strike me as the type.”
Whiplash took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. It didn’t particularly work, not with Mole sneering at him the entire while. “You’re right,” he agreed, “I’m not usually the type to do that. But right now, there are too many lives at risk. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”
It was a bluff, and a bad one at that; if Mole really didn’t cooperate, Whiplash would simply have to take him in anyway and watch as he paid a path back to freedom. Even so, as he rested a hand on the hilt of his whip, he watched as Mole hesitated.
“Well?” he asked once enough time had elapsed and he still hadn’t received an answer. “What’ll it be?”
Mole glanced back up to him, and Whiplash was startled by the fury clear in his eyes- or at least, in the good one. He barely had time to react before he was staring down the muzzle of the revolver, cocked and ready to fire.
“Hands up,” warned Mole.
Whiplash swallowed before lifting his arms up into the air. Mole crossed around the back of the desk to stand directly before him, keeping the gun trained on him the entire time. He leaned close, close enough for Whiplash to smell the smoke on his breath, though the cigar had been discarded several minutes before. “You,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “cannot come into my house to threaten me. Do you understand?”
Whiplash said nothing, though he now understood why the file he’d read about Mole had included the vague phrase ‘highly unstable.’ Mole knocked the gun against his temple. “Do you understand me, Ayuso,” he warned.
“Yeah. Sure.” Whiplash watched him warily. “You know, you don’t want to kill me. My friend’s watching us from the car. If I die, she’ll have a front-row seat to it, and there’s no question of whether you’ll be brought in then.”
Mole’s jaw clenched and unclenched. His eyes slid over to the office window, as if checking to see whether there really was someone else outside; it was only for a moment, but Whiplash took the opportunity as soon as it came. He stepped to the side and drew his whip, snapping it around the barrel of the revolver and yanking it out of Mole’s grasp. It clattered to the floor at his feet, and he kicked it behind him with enough force that he heard it hit the door with a bang.
Mole’s chest was rising and falling quickly now, and he coughed into his sleeve roughly, eyes trained on the barbed leather. He chuckled hoarsely once he was finished, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. “Fine,” he said, raising his own hands. “You got me. Ask what you want to ask.”
Whiplash kept a close eye on him, watching for any tricks, even as he withdrew a bad sketch (courtesy of Surveyor) from his pants pocket and passed it over. “Does that woman look familiar at all?”
Mole took the picture, snorting at the lopsided proportions. “Yeah, maybe. A little hard to tell,” he added pointedly.
“... Well?” Whiplash pressed when the silence began to stretch out. “Do you know who she is? Her name? Anything?”
“That’s Vile Blossom. She used to be famous, right? A model? Why do you need me to help you with that?” Mole turned the picture between his clawed fingers.
“Nobody knows her real name,” Whiplash pointed out. “I thought you might- well…”
Mole hummed, seeming oddly pleased by this. “You thought correctly. She also goes by Margaretha Zelle, though I couldn’t tell you if that’s her real name or another alias.”
“Thank you.” Whiplash exhaled, relieved to have finally gotten something useful. He held his hand out for the picture back; Mole paused for a moment before handing it to him. His claws were cold, even through Whiplash’s gloves.
“Is that all?” Mole asked, raising a brow.
“Almost.” Whiplash passed him another square, this time an actual photograph in grainy black and white. “What about him?”
Mole’s eyes flicked up to Whiplash for a moment before returning to the picture. “He used to be her partner, didn’t he? An artist.”
“Just answer the question if you know the answer,” Whiplash snapped, unable to hold back his irritation any longer.
Mole grinned, and Whiplash caught sight of a sharp gold canine. “I don’t know his name, but he used to work at a circus. The one that burned down about five years ago. I’m sure you know the one.”
Whiplash did, in fact, know the one, and it lined up with a few theories that the others had been tossing around. “Thanks,” he repeated begrudgingly as Mole passed the photograph back to him. “See, that’s all I wanted to ask. You didn’t need to point a gun at me.”
“Happy that I could help.” Mole’s tone was dry, though he did seem slightly chastised. “And that’s… unrelated. Nothing personal, though.”
“I’m sure,” Whiplash muttered. “I’m not taking you in, but it’s not because I feel obligated to you for this. I just have… more important things to take care of.”
“More important than me? Ouch.” Mole started to turn away, back towards his desk. “Well, what do you want me to do, thank you? Go ahead, get out.”
Whiplash retreated slowly, though as he reached the other end of the room, he stumbled over something on the ground. He glanced down and recognized the revolver, still sitting in front of the door. With a sigh, he bent to retrieve it, intending to replace it on top of the desk.
As he began to straighten up again, however, he felt a swift movement behind him, ruffling the hairs on the back of his head, and it was instinct rather than conscious effort that had him lashing out with his weapon before he’d even fully turned. It coiled tight around Mole’s wrist, stopping the track of the gold-plated pocket knife that he held above Whiplash’s back.
Mole stumbled against Whiplash, dropping the knife unceremoniously as he was pulled close. He chuckled, seeming far too excited for the situation. “Just wanted to see how fast your reflexes really are.”
“Fast enough.” Whiplash released him, stepping back to grasp at the doorknob behind him. He left the room without looking back, hurrying down the hall in his haste to return to headquarters and look into the information he’d gotten. As he reached up to unhook his coat from the rack, a small scrap of paper fluttered down from the top pocket of his shirt; he furrowed his brow, catching it before it could hit the ground, and unfolded it. Scrawled in hasty cursive was what appeared to be a telephone number, with a P.S. on the other side: Call me if you need anything else. I just might answer.
Whiplash stared at the paper, half perplexed and half incredulous as he retrieved his hat and made his way slowly out the front door. It was only when Puppeteer popped her torso out of the car and waved to him impatiently that he folded it up and stuffed it back into his pocket, shaking his head at himself as he went to rejoin her.