Chapter Text
The dimly lit basement buzzed with the quiet hum of old computers, their cassette drives clicking and whirring as they processed whatever was on them. The air smelled of stale coffee and burned wires. In the center of the cluttered space, Wittly the Slig wheeled back and forth, a blur of jerky motion as he zipped between his jury-rigged computer setup and the mountain of papers piled on his desk. His “chair” was less of a chair and more of an alternative lower body attachment—a set of wheels salvaged from a busted industrial dolly, bolted to where his mechanical legs would usually be. It let him scoot around at rapid speed, but the squeaky metal joints made it sound like an unoiled shopping cart.
Howler leaned against a rusted filing cabinet, arms crossed, watching Wittly’s frantic movements with an arched brow. Drill sat on the floor nearby, idly flicking a loose bullet between his fingers, watching Wittly with mild annoyance. Trip Hazard sprawled out on a torn-up couch, tapping his fingers against a box of explosives as if it were a drum. Slogmeat lurked near the door, surrounded by his two half-wild slogs, who panted and occasionally snapped at each other. Malpractice was the only one absent, standing by the door outside. He said that he wasn't a fan of being surrounded by machines. The gang weren't ones to question him.
“Alright, Wittly,” Howler said, her voice low and firm, playing with the barrel of a handgun. “You said you had something. Talk.”
Wittly spun around, nearly knocking over a stack of old magazines that he had cut clippings from. He adjusted the oversized glasses that sat crooked on his face, the thick lenses making his slitted eyes look like saucers. “Oh, do I got somethin'! The Miz Mayven? The fashion queen of Oddworld? One of the richest Prima Glokkas to ever live? She’s an oddamn ghost!”
Drill exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Yeah, no shit. Everyone knows she doesn’t make public appearances.”
“No, no, you don’t get it,” Wittly said, wheeling back to his computer and tapping furiously on a keyboard so old the keys had to be punched like a typewriter. The green screen flickered, pulling up archived footage of Mayven’s past media appearances. “Every time she’s ‘seen’ in public, it’s through a video fone. Every interview, every board meeting, even her own fashion line’s grand openings. And the only times she isn't on video is when she sends her personal crimp mud and some big bro bodyguards as representatives. No in-person appearances for years.”
“How many years?” Howler asked, narrowing her eyes.
Wittly spun again, grabbing a crumpled newspaper from his desk and slapping it against a corkboard already covered in red string and conspiracy notes. “Last confirmed physical appearance? Nine years ago. Nine! Since then? Nada. Just grainy video feeds, pre-recorded statements, and that’s it.”
Trip Hazard whistled, cracking open a bottle of cheap booze and taking a swig. “She’s either hiding from somethin’, or she’s a rottin’ corpse propped up like a weekend at Gurney’s.”
Drill snorted. “Or she’s just a shut-in. Not like Gluks need to go outside when they’ve got money and maids to do everything for ‘em.”
“Nah, see, that’s where it gets weird,” Wittly said, shoving a stack of documents onto the floor to make room for a new file. “She’s not just rich. She’s untouchable. Her company's one of the biggest luxury brands in Oddworld, built entirely on sweatshop labor. But even though everyone knows that, no one’s ever come close to takin’ her down. Y’know why?”
Howler leaned in.
“Because no one knows where she is,” Wittly said. “Her mansion? Fortified like a damn prison. No visitors. No leaks. No blueprints. Even the goddamn Magog Cartel keeps their distance. Only folks that go in and outta there are personal security. Nobody talks about what goes on in there. And those that do?” He ran a finger across his throat for dramatic effect.
Drill’s fingers twitched on his bullet. “So what, you think she’s dead?”
Wittly shrugged, the motion making his wheel-rig creak. “Or maybe she’s hiding something in there. Something big.”
Howler mulled it over, jaw tight. “Molluck’s disappearance didn’t cause a shake-up?”
“Oh, it did,” Wittly said, spinning back to his console and pulling up another poorly photocopied cartel file that detailed the financial information of Mayven and Molluck's marriage years back. “But not the way you’d think. She didn’t take over any of his businesses, didn’t make any moves to fill the power vacuum. She just.. stayed silent. Sent her crimp to make a public statement of "no comment".”
Trip Hazard scratched his chin. “If I was sittin’ on more wealth than an entire continent, I’d go silent too. Live out my days in a bunker, drinkin’ till my liver gives up.”
Howler ignored Trip, focused on the screens flickering in front of her. “You got any recent footage?”
Wittly hesitated. “..Kinda.” He tapped a few keys, and a grainy video feed popped up on the screen. It was a Mayvenne promotional ad, the kind broadcasted in the richer districts. Miz Mayven’s face appeared—a long, pale face, shoulders draped in silk and heavy jewelry. Her voice was smooth, rehearsed, talking about the “future of fashion.”
Howler frowned. “That looks normal.”
“Look closer,” Wittly insisted.
Howler squinted. Then she saw it. The way her movements looped, unnaturally smooth. The way her blinking was slightly off, like someone had spliced different clips together. The lighting, too perfect. The shadows, wrong.
“…That’s fake,” Howler muttered.
“Ding ding ding!” Wittly cackled, smacking the side of the monitor. “It’s a goddamn puppet show! Someone’s been doctoring all her appearances. You’re not seein’ Miz Mayven. You’re seein’ an edited ghost.”
Drill sat up, interested despite himself. “So what’s the plan, boss?”
Howler stared at the flickering image of Miz Mayven, her mind racing. If this was true—if she was really hiding something—then she wasn’t just another name on Howler’s hit list. She was a mystery.
And mysteries were dangerous.
“We find her,” Howler said, cracking her knuckles. “And we make her talk.”
A grin stretched across Trip Hazard’s face as he tapped the side of his explosives box. “Ohh, I like where this is goin’.”
Wittly wheeled himself back, eyes wild with excitement. “Then you better buckle up, gang. ‘Cause if Miz Mayven is hiding something.. we’re about to piss off a lot of powerful people.”
Howler smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The glow of the computer screens flickered in Howler’s eyes as she stared at the looping, edited footage. The eerie smoothness of her movements, the unnatural pauses—it all screamed deception. If this ghost of a Prima Glokka was hiding something, Howler wanted to tear it out with her own hands.
She placed a firm hand on Wittly’s bony shoulder, her grip making him jolt slightly in his wheeled rig. “Alright wits,” she said, her voice low and demanding. “How do we get into her fort?”
Wittly adjusted his glasses, his fingers twitching as he gripped the edge of his console. “Well.. that is gonna be a challenge.”
Before he could continue, Trip Hazard clapped his hands together and let out a loud, gleeful HA! “Ohhh, buddy, this is my time to shine! Why sneak in when I can just blow the whole damn place open? I got enough firepower to turn that mansion into dust!”
Drill rolled his eyes, still flicking his bullet between his fingers. “Yeah, genius, and get every enforcer in Nolybab on our asses? Real subtle. You could kill yourself now and save us the trouble.”
Wittly scoffed, shaking his head. “Look, it ain’t that simple. This place is locked down tighter than a Glukkon’s wallet.” He spun in his seat, rolling himself back to his desk, where he started frantically typing on his ancient keyboard. The screen in front of them flickered, then displayed a layout of Mayven’s mansion.
“Security was always tight,” Wittly continued, pointing at the blinking red dots scattered across the blueprint. “Guards, turrets, motion sensors—you name it. But after her last public appearance? It got worse. Much worse.”
The gang leaned in as he zoomed in on the mansion’s perimeter. “See these cameras? Hooked up to a radio link. Motion detectors, too. Nothing gets through without being seen.”
Howler smirked. “Not much more of a challenge than what we’ve dealt with before.”
Wittly chuckled nervously. “Yeah, see, that’s where you’d be wrong.” He tapped a few more keys, and the map glitched—the displayed layout cut off abruptly, leaving half the mansion completely undocumented. “This is where it gets weird.”
The gang was silent for a moment, staring at the blank space on the screen. It wasn’t just missing data—it was an absence, an intentional void.
“What the hell am I looking at?” Drill asked, frowning.
Wittly exhaled through his snout, tapping the screen. “Nothing. No blueprints. No electrical systems. No network connection. Every single cable leading into this half of the mansion? Dead ends. Every radio wave? Silenced. If you tried to hack into this part of the building, you’d find nothing. Like it doesn’t even exist.”
Trip let out a low whistle. “Damn. She really just cut herself off like that?”
Wittly leaned back in his seat, rubbing his chin. “That’s just it. She didn’t just cut herself off. She locked herself out. There’s nothing coming in or out of there. No signals. No surveillance. No outside world.”
Howler’s smirk faded. She’d seen tight security before, but this? This wasn’t just paranoia. This was someone who had deliberately erased themselves.
For once, Wittly was quiet, staring at the blank half of the map. Then, almost to himself, he muttered, “Kinda jealous, honestly.”
Howler shot him a look. “What?”
Wittly kept staring at the screen. “You know how hard I work to keep the Cartel’s tracking off my back? I gotta use ancient tech, make my own gear, jump through a hundred hoops just to make sure they ain’t got eyes on me. But her? She just.. vanished.” His fingers tapped restlessly against the desk. “No digital footprint. No radio signals. No nothing. I’d kill for that kinda privacy.”
Drill folded his arms, watching him carefully. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me,” Wittly snapped, his voice cracking slightly. He gestured wildly at the screen. “Do you get how insane this is? Even Lady Margaret don’t pull off this level of blackout. This ain’t just ‘rich Glukkon shit.’ This is something else.”
The room was silent for a long moment. Even Trip Hazard looked unsettled, his usual destructive enthusiasm tempered by the sheer strangeness of it all.
Howler tightened her grip on Wittly’s shoulder, grounding him. “We’re breaking in,” she said, voice firm. “I don’t care how deep she’s buried herself. If she’s hiding something we need, I’m gonna dig it out.”
Wittly swallowed, then let out a shaky laugh. “Heh. Yeah. Well.. guess I better start figuring out how the hell we do that.”
Trip Hazard cracked his knuckles again, a wide grin creeping back onto his face. “Ohh, I love a challenge.”
Howler glanced back at the screen, at the yawning blank space where Miz Mayven had erased herself from the world.
She had no idea what they were about to walk into. But she was damn sure they weren’t walking out empty-handed.
Drill had been quiet, staring at the screen with a scowl, fingers twitching against the side of his gun belt. Now, he stepped forward, his voice sharp and impatient. “Alright, enough of this mystery bullshit,” he snapped. “You’re telling me there’s no way to figure out the layout of that place? No archived blueprints? No stolen data? Nothing?”
Wittly threw up his hands. “I just said that, you little turd! It’s off-grid! You think I want to be tellin’ you we’re goin’ in blind? I like breathing!”
Drill didn’t flinch. “Then crack into it.”
Wittly let out a short, wheezy laugh. “Crack into it? Oh, sure! Let me just hack into literally nothing! You’re askin’ me to break into a vault when there ain’t no door.”
Howler crossed her arms, voice low and even. “There’s always a way in, Wittly. You just gotta find it.”
Wittly grumbled, rolling himself back to his desk and drumming his fingers against the metal. “Y’know what, fine. Let’s say I somehow do break in. Then what? You'll walk in blind? Get shredded by security drones? Gassed the second we step through the door?” He gestured wildly at the screen. “This is a suicide run!”
“Then figure out how to make it not one,” Drill said flatly.
Trip Hazard chuckled, leaning back with a smile. “Or, y’know, we just go with my plan—big fuck-off explosion, turn the whole thing into rubble, pick through whatever’s left.”
Wittly groaned. “Again. Not that simple. Security isn’t just people, it’s tech. If we go loud, every enforcer in Oddworld is gonna be on our asses before we even hit the front steps.”
Howler sighed. “I’ve taken on worse.”
“That’s what worries me,” Wittly muttered, but his fingers were already moving across the keyboard, pulling up more data.
The map flickered, shifting between different corrupted files, but it was useless. No entrances. No ventilation shafts. No weak points. It was like the second half of the mansion had been scrubbed from existence.
Wittly slumped back, rubbing his temples. “This is impossible.”
The room went quiet for a moment. Then Wittly sucked in a breath through his snout, his voice slower now. “At least, for me.”
Howler raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
Wittly hesitated, then pushed himself away from the console with a deep sigh. He spun in his wheeled rig, rolling himself over to the towering filing cabinets in the corner. His hand hovered over the handles for a second before he yanked open one of the drawers.
Papers immediately spilled out, years’ worth of scattered documents, coffee-stained notes, and conspiracy clippings all jammed together with no rhyme or reason. Wittly muttered curses under his breath as he rifled through them, flinging aside useless files until—
“Ah-ha!” He pulled out a crumpled newspaper clipping and smoothed it out on the desk. The paper was yellowed with age, but the image on it was striking—a blurry, grainy photograph of a shadowy figure, clad in all black, a gas mask covering their face. They were caught mid-motion, sprinting away from what looked like a building in dissaray.
The headline read: "Unknown Intruder Flees Financial Bureau Following Cyber Attack – No Suspects Yet Identified"
The gang leaned in, eyes narrowing at the image.
“I do know of someone,” Wittly said slowly, tapping the photo. “Someone who might be able to help you.”
Howler studied the grainy figure, a slow grin creeping onto her face.
“Well then,” she cracked her knuckles. “Let’s go find ‘em.”