Mastermind

by Steven Kelliher

  “Oh really?” I crossed my arms and tapped a booted foot.

  “When you took down Scale.”

  “I didn’t take down Scale.” I smirked. “You’re slipping, B. That’s something you shouldn’t hesitate to point out, since you’re so quick to find fault with my escapades.”

  “Your subjects defeated Scale,” B5 admitted, “but it was your plan that laid him low, and ultimately, which led to him being in your service… for the time being.”

  He couldn’t help but slide that one in.

  “In this way, your initial check, which was motivated by fear, was modified, enhanced even, by respect. Fear is something many Ythilian Generals inspire, but respect is reserved for the greatest among them.”

  “On with it,” I said, nodding.

  “Madam Post has power,” B5 said. “She has workers. She has an operation. But she doesn’t have significant wealth, nor the technology to protect her docks from some of the more powerful gangs and villains of War Town, should they make an attempt. Especially not now, with you leeching from her operation. Scale was merely a barnacle. You could be a disruption.”

  I smiled, but it was clear B5 didn’t mean it as a compliment.

  “We know the villain Blackstrike is lurking nearby,” I began. “He seems quite powerful, so why hasn’t he made an attempt on Madam Post and the docks?”

  Blackstrike was a villain player I’d been researching earlier. Well, I say ‘research’ in the loosest sense of the word. He was tier four, which meant his stats and superpower description and limitations were hidden from my Ythilian friend and me.

  Still, I had managed to get the gist of his abilities from video footage of previous encounters. He seemed fast, but not speedster level. More than that, he seemed somewhat lucky. Opponents just always seemed to miss him by a hair. I knew he had taken up residence at the nuclear plant that bordered Post’s docks on the east side, while our dam abutted her west. He had me uneasy, and I was guessing our NPC overlord felt the same way.

  B5 spent a long time considering his response.

  “If you’re going to say Blackstrike hasn’t attacked Madam Post because he’s intelligent, let me stop you—”

  “He is waiting, Despot,” B5 said. “Likely waiting to gain enough power to feel confident in the attempt himself, or else waiting for something to happen.”

  “Waiting for his fortunes to change?” I asked. “Hmm. Or perhaps for Post’s?”

  “Post’s operation runs largely on bronze and favors,” B5 said. “But the docks have few favors to give, aside from concealing occasional shipments from the authorities, and running a dirty enough assignment that most heroes from Titan City avoid the place. Still, she doesn’t wield any great influence in the wider boroughs of War Town.”

  “But she’d like to,” I said, thinking along new paths. B5 seemed to have changed the subject from Blackstrike, but if he really was beginning to encroach on her territory, it might be a good angle to pursue.

  “I can only assume it,” B5 said. “Her profile would seem to confirm it.”

  I pulled up her profile again.

  Madam Post of the Doom Docks

  Mind: 50

  Brawn: 1

  Agility: 1

  Armor: 1

  Charisma: 5

  Status: Independent

  Key Trait: Ambition

  B5 continued. “As you can see, her mind value is significantly higher than that of your thuggish companions. It could be that the combined threat of you and Scale will have her falling into line, but even then, she’d be working behind the scenes to subvert you, whether it be via betrayal to another villain or outright mutiny.”

  “She’s ambitious, apparently,” I mused. “Plenty of ways to appeal to that.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Favors, then. Madam Post and those like her deal in favors. I’m going to march into her throne room, put on whatever airs I please, and offer her some of those. Then… presto! Influence check successful. Ah, don’t look like that, B. You don’t know how charming I can be. And given Madam Post is a… well, a madam, I think we’ll be just fine.”

  Eight

  The Crow

  Things started out well. As we approached Madam Post’s warehouse, a pair of greasy-haired guards seemed to be expecting us. They moved aside, pulling two great barn doors open on squealing rails to admit our passage.

  After that, things didn’t go quite as swimmingly as I had hoped.

  I knew they wouldn’t as soon as I got a look at the old crone and her beady black eyes. That was the moment I knew all the charm in the world wouldn’t help.

  In my defense, I think the surroundings did me in. Not the most austere circumstances in which to make a grand entrance worthy of the new Lord of the Docks, Warden of War Town, Slayer of Leviathan.

  Sebastian stood just on the inside of the great sliding timber door we’d passed through. From the outside, the place had looked like little more than a dilapidated warehouse made of brick and wood and rot, same as the rest of the docks. Some of the cobbles had managed to spill themselves inside and had been walked over enough to press into the dust and dirt, but nothing about the place looked intentional.

  A part of me had expected the exterior to be little more than a mask, not unlike the one I wore now. The one I was very glad to be wearing now, the better to conceal my utter disappointment, and my growing unease.

  Instead, the inside was – if it were possible – even more disappointing than the outside.

  A cracked cement floor started up a few feet in front of me. It was covered by alternating haphazard patches of wet and white powdered dust. The whole place was either too dry or too wet, from the wooden crates that acted as benches and chairs for Post’s gathered soldiers, to the ropes swinging from the cracked timbers above, floating like creepers that reminded me of gallows.

  The appearance of the soldiers themselves made it apparent that Sebastian and the workers were the lower class of the low class. The folk in here looked more serious, and something told me they were carrying more than crowbars and cudgels in their waistbands and coats.

  You could have heard a mouse fart. And I’d guess you could see the ensuing dust clear enough.

  A glance at my Sphere of Influence helped me to recover quickly enough.

  Sphere of Influence – 8/15 Slots Filled

  Single-Slot Members

  1) Sebastian 2) Sascha 3) Hobb 4) Kayde

  5) Brooks 6) Mickie 7) Axel 8) Alex

  With Sebastian and my seven other courtiers in tow, I stepped confidently up onto the cement floor and started my walk toward the queen’s throne.

  Only, it wasn’t a throne. It was an old red leather chair with most of the brass buttons ripped out and more than a few critters skittering about its chewed legs. And Post wasn’t a queen, more a scrawny shell, leaning over a cane with a bone-handle head. Her beady eyes sat behind the black rims of too-small glasses that didn’t have lenses in them. She wore a purple suit that looked like it belonged on a small boy, and might once have been rich but now wasn’t. Now, it was moth-bitten and flea-ridden, and the motes swirling around it in the filtered beams of gray afternoon light could have been dust or flies.

  The only thing that looked sturdy about the woman were her gnarled knuckles, which gripped the head of her cane like a vice, unshaking, and which propped her bony chin up like a hen.

  Or a crow.

  I had planned to speak first. An obvious cough from B5 into the transmitter I had pressed between my ear and the side of my mask startled me into the realization that the silence was stretching. Of course, that didn’t make it any easier to find words, but I gave it a shot, clearing my throat as I reminded myself that these were simply NPCs I was dealing with.

  Madam Post spoke first. “You one of Blackstrike’s?”

  My mouth hung open behind my mask, and I could tell you she had no way of knowing it, but seeing the way she stared, and the way her mouth crooked into the beginnings of a smile
that didn’t touch another crag on her face, you’d know it wasn’t true.

  “Who?” I asked dumbly. Even before I heard the crackle of B5 coming back over the transmitter, I knew I’d ceded all control and every appearance of dominance with that question. I even glanced to my right and left, relieved beyond sense to see the white icons still emblazoned firmly over the heads of my troupe.

  I almost looked up, but B5 was back to his omniscient ways.

  “Scale is positioned on the roof, in case things get—”

  “Hairy,” I said, only realizing I’d said it aloud when one of Madam Post’s eyebrows twitched, and one of the leather-clad brutes standing off to the side of her wretched throne laughed, a sound like a Great Dane barking.

  “Seems… seems things have gotten hairy around here, what with Blackstrike moving in next door.”

  A maze of near-impassable canals and sewerage systems clogged the paths between the docks and the chemical towers of Blackstrike’s domain, but he was close. Close enough to cause Madam Post worry. I could read that on her face, even if the rest was largely inscrutable.

  “Blackstrike has no quarrel with us,” she said.

  “Not now,” I said, shrugging. “But that could change. Any day now.” I took a confident, easy step toward the dais, which was more a series of stacked pallets with broken-down boxes laid atop them. The thugs at the borders moved in, and my own flanked me protectively, but Madam Post held up one yellowed talon and the whole lot of them stilled.

  “It could,” Madam Post said.

  “Huh,” I said, not bothering to hide my confusion as I scratched at my porcelain chin. I’d expected to hear, ‘We have contingencies in place for that eventuality,’ or even, ‘Blackstrike knows he can’t hang with the Doom Docks,’ or something like that.

  Madam Post simply watched me, unmoving. I had the sense that she was more amused by me than put off. That wasn’t entirely bad, I told myself.

  Just needed to find the right opportunity…

  “I see you’ve made friends with some of my men,” Madam Post said, indicating Sebastian. I saw the big oaf swallow. He smiled nervously, reminding me of a golden retriever.

  “And women,” I said, tossing my head toward Sascha. “But we don’t discriminate here, as evidenced by your,” I indicated Madam Post’s throne, “getup.”

  That prompted more of a reaction. Post straightened. The resulting pop in her spine echoed in the dusky, damp confines.

  “Look,” I said, dropping my hands, “I’m here now, and I’m here to stay—”

  “For now,” Madam Post said and smiled, her lips parting to show pearly whites that stood at odds with her yellowed nails. “But… accidents happen. Lots of them at the docks. Sebastian knows.” The big man couldn’t suppress a shiver. “Scale knows, which is why he largely kept to himself before you came along.”

  I have to admit, that one threw me for a bit of a loop.

  “Scale?”

  “Green fellow,” she said, still wearing that easy smile. Her eyes widened suddenly, and she placed a hand to her chest, fingers splayed, as if she had just made the gravest and most unintentional of affronts. “Don’t tell me you thought I didn’t know of him.”

  “I figured you knew of him,” I said, trying to see where she was going. A tricky NPC indeed. No wonder B5 had been nervous about the encounter. “But—”

  “You’re wondering why I haven’t dealt with him before now,” she said with a nod. “Despot…” She purred the name out. Where she got it, I didn’t know. She must have had tabs on me as much as I did on her. “As you may come to find out, sometimes it’s best to keep those working for you under duress, so long as it’s kept at a… manageable level. Scale is a scourge on these lands.” She swept a hand out to indicate the warehouse and the trash-filled alleys beyond it, but she could have been talking about leagues upon leagues of unploughed fields and hills full of gold. “But he is our scourge, and he keeps us honest. Keeps us grateful of the protection we have here from true threats from beyond.”

  As she finished, she settled her eyes squarely on Sebastian. I’m not sure if he wet himself, but it wouldn’t have surprised me.

  I didn’t know if it was going to work. In fact, I figured it wasn’t, but I had to do something to regain control of the situation. I didn’t know exactly how my Influence worked – even B5 had trouble explaining it – but it seemed to operate on a command basis. Give an NPC an ultimatum or a suggestion, and watch the icon spin.

  I stepped forward.

  “Scale works for me now, Madam,” I said, inflating my chest. “Sebastian here,” I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder, “works for me now. This whole kingdom, every broken stone and upturned tile, is mine. You,” I pointed at her, feeling like a wizard and a charlatan at once, “are under my Influence, and I command you, ma’am, to come to your senses.”

  Almost immediately, that ghostly image coalesced over the old crone’s gray crown of split ends, and my heart swelled to see it. It went from misty to milky, and then from milky to… pink. Madam Post frowned. Her face looked as if she’d been caught between thoughts and was trying to push her way through the fog. The icon spun furiously, faster than I’d noticed in previous attempts, and finally, when it slowed, it shone a deep, bloody red.

  Madam Post raised one gnarled, yellow-clawed hand. The metallic sounds of guns being cocked and triggers pulling back on rusted springs filled the airy chamber, and I realized too late that this was indeed a throne room, and that the woman seated before me – NPC or otherwise – truly was a queen in her own right.

  I exhaled, waiting for Scale to either drop down and die alongside me and my men or to hear the clack of his talons as he skittered across the roof and leapt into the nearest waterway, the better to find new NPCs to rob.

  Madam Post’s face, which had been a tight cross section of wrinkles and rage, broke into a maniacal grin, white teeth gleaming. She let her hand drop, and I saw the barrels of the guns on either side of the wide aisle drop with it.

  And then the old bitch laughed. Howling, screeching laughter. You’d have thought she was murdering someone in a blind fit of ecstasy if you’d been passing by.

  When she was finished, every hair on my body stood on end. I was coated in flop sweat that had nothing to do with the muggy weather and stuffy mask and trenchcoat. I felt fear, but also humiliation… and anger.

  I very nearly called for B5 to send Scale in, to start the chaos that would likely lead to my latest build’s death, and hopefully Madam Post’s as well.

  And then she quieted.

  “I was going to… kill you,” she choked out between mirthful sobs. “But… I haven’t… laughed like—”

  “Glad I could be of service,” B5 said into my ear. It was jarring, but I repeated the line, even managing to sound relaxed as I said it. I swept into a mock bow, and Post’s black eyes followed me down and back up again.

  “But,” I followed up, “we really must figure out an arrangement that works to our mutual benefit.”

  The red icon over Post’s head faded from view. My Influence check had failed spectacularly, yet here I was, still attempting to bargain.

  “Brave fellow,” Post said, nodding with her chin in one hand, fingers covering her lips. “And maybe not quite as stupid as your actions would suggest.”

  “Good fellow to keep around,” I said. “Good fellow to work with, maybe, especially if our mutual friend Blackstrike comes knocking.”

  Madam Post raised her eyebrows. After a time, she shrugged, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the authenticity of the AI.

  “The villain Blackstrike does indeed pose a threat to me,” Madam Post said. “In our few skirmishes with him, my men claim that he dodges all attacks, even bullets at times. I fear I will need to improve my technology if I am to put an end to him before he gets any more powerful. Luckily, I have just the thing in mind.”

  Post did not seem inclined to share it with me, but what had me intrigued was the mention of B
lackstrike’s abilities. I couldn’t see Blackstrike’s superpower because he was a higher tier then me, but Post’s description suggested he was some form of speedster, maybe even a Precog. Given the footage I had seen, I was inclined to agree.

  “To that end,” Post went on, “I require a tinkerer and the gold to buy their loyalty. I have a man in mind. His name is Luther Smith, and he demands a high price.”

  I could almost hear B5 bashing at the computer’s command console through my earpiece, bringing up information on this new entity.

  A crackle of static signaled B5’s answer. “Luther Smith is a mid-level tinkerer. Mind stat of fifty. Not the greatest engineer in the game world, but likely the best Madam Post can hope to acquire.”

  I processed this information and the hawkish look from Post and put it all together for her.

  “So, you want me to bring you gold?”

  “Precisely,” Post said. “And quickly.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred gold bars or its equivalent, delivered no later than three days from now.”

  I baulked. “Three days is hardly enough time to—”

  “There are methods of acquiring such large sums in haste. The soft, poorly guarded branches of Titan Dominion, for one.”

  “A bank robbery?” I said, recognizing the name of the chain of high street banks in Titan Online. They were a frequent hot spot for new players starting out – a good old robbery being a classic villainous deed for heroes to thwart.

  “Precisely,” Post said, repeating the word with a delighted hiss.

  So, we’d got to the heart of the matter. It was a mission, a quest so to speak, but not the simplest by any means, seeing as Post needed me to actually succeed in making a getaway with the money before a hero intervened. And robbing a bank felt a lot harder without having a more traditional superpower at my disposal. I eyed the goons – my goons – I’d brought with me. Each had to have their uses. It was just a matter of discovering what they were.