that was you.

maddox is almost surprised when the assassin doesn't simply turn around and leave, right there and then ( it's happened before, an unsuspecting mission partner grown irritable by his flippancy ). but then again, his partner seems like the kind to see a job through, and though maddox would scarcely admit it, he is grateful for that.

he shrugs, taking the words as an indication to move towards the house in question. "i mean, it's not like we're gonna have to knock out five politicians again and pray that no one notices," he remarks lightly. "at most it's gonna be, what, a butler? a guard dog?"

the ostensible lack of human targets this time round, the assignment promises to be deceptively easy. there is no way that a man who keeps encrypted codes within scattered within an extensive collection of books -- not only hidden but a puzzle! maddox has a love-hate relationship with puzzles -- organises his home in any way less governed by paranoia. though perhaps it is understandable in emerson's chosen profession. enemies lurk behind every corner.

still, maddox can't really bring himself to pity emerson, instead clings on to the hope that, some time ago, the politician had woken up with a dreadful headache.

his pace slows marginally, a thought suddenly crossing his mind. "wait, so how're we getting in this time?" he looks almost hopeful. "through a window?"

that was you.

the laughter is new; he raises an eyebrow slightly, and does not bother in masking the glee he feels in inciting some semblance of amusement. he refrains from saying, "we are not known to have the best of luck," and instead follows in comfortable silence. the stillness of the air does not promise to last.

"it should be easier, however, to pick the lock of the back door than that of the window," his partner suggests, and maddox's face falls marginally, though he cannot deny that logic; he gives a nod as they begin to skirt the edges of the house, looking for their way in. emerson must make a hefty salary for a house this big. he strains to pick any hints of activity, and in neither hearing or seeing any, is mildly comforted about the prospects of the mission ahead.

the backdoor, when they do finally locate it -- sticking to the shadows is a time-consuming effort -- is locked, as expected. but there's something about the lock that sticks out to him; mana clings lightly to a cold iron surface. a basic trap or activation enchantment, he thinks. "emerson's put some sort of alarm enchantment on this," he explains briefly, kneeling to inspect the lock. there's a brief moment where maddox does not breathe, eyes intent on the invisible strings of mana wrapped around the lock.

a moment passes as the enchantment is reset and dissolves; he relaxes, stepping backward, suddenly conscious of the fact that he is, frankly, terrible at lockpicking. hopefully, his partner isn't. "right, that leaves the actual lockpicking. all yours, buddy."

that was you.

he watches, curiously, wondering why he had not picked up the skill himself -- it is, by all means, rather useful, though perhaps maddox as a person is not inclined towards stealth ( and he is well aware of the fact ). the assassin, on the other hand, deftly works his way through the locks with the ease that can only come with experience. had he the luxury of time, perhaps he would have asked -- how did you do that? -- but the corridor ahead yawns into existence, stretching into the sprawling luxury of a lounge.

with some effort, he resists the urge to throw himself onto the sofa. it looks tempting, so very, very comfortable. instead, he forces himself to look around, casting a critical eye over the dimly lit interior, and laments his inability to see in the dark. for a moment, a potted plant looms out at him like some clawed eldritch horror ( he almost jumps, almost! a yelp dies in his throat before he can make any sound ); maddox glares accusingly at it until it recedes into mere leaves once more.

"study or bedroom, huh." he traces the spiraling staircase upwards, and considers the possibilities briefly. "split up and regroup at the top of the stairs later? i'll take a look at the study -- he was hiding some stuff in the books in his office, he might have done a similar thing here."

but the stairs are but one corner of the mansion; he can see further corridors stretching out into what he assumes to be the kitchen, a dining area, and whatever unnecessary luxury a man of such wealth could think of. he squints out of a tinted glass window. would people hide confidential information in a well-kept garden? "we can look at the rest of the house after we've covered those two."

then, as he's moving away, a sudden grin as an idea crosses his mind. "hey, i bet he's got some sort of secret room. first one to find it gets treated to a drink from the other!" and he's off.

that was you.

he catches a sight of his partners familiar just before he spins the corner and disappears out of sight, and for a moment, once more laments the fact that moosely is possibly the worst candidate for any stealth-related excursions.


maddox eyes a delicate-looking marble bust staring out at the wide corridor. "yeah, but i don't think fredrickstein von musel klossowski emerson the third would survive the stampede," he tells the moose silently, wondering: who on earth keeps marble busts of their ancestors like that? the eyes almost seem to follow him as he moves, and he can't help but have to suppress a shudder as he moves past.

the fact that the study is at the end of a long corridor does little to settle his nerves, of which are an odd occurrence already, and he really doesn't know why he's even remotely anxious about infiltrating an empty house. some part of him insists that the idea of setting traps in one's own mansion is ridiculous; some other part reminds him that the lock on the backdoor had been enchanted.

the atheneum interface shimmers into vision beside him, and already, he's sketching out a rough map of the mansion ( he'll need it ), pulling up information from their previous mission as he pushes the study door open. it isn't a particularly large room, but it is no less impressive than the foyer below. bookshelves line the walls, stretching further than he would like; a desk lies at the end of the rectangular room, illuminated softly by the light shining through the window behind, of which is partially open, he notes with a twinge, loose pages held down by heavy tomes fluttering slightly in the wind.

he doesn't even know where to start. "damnit."

that was you.

a moment passes; he has since ventured two steps into the room, still at a loss for where to search. the bookshelves are tempting, a ladder propped up by the side is almost inviting, but, after brief contemplation, maddox realises he has little desire to begin his search balancing precariously on a narrow wooden ladder, leafing through books that will certainly lead him off the trail.

he looks mournfully at the books as he walks on past. so many unread stories, so many. the pages flutter once more in the breeze, and the rustling paper draws him onwards. he spares only the briefest thought for why the windows are open -- simple carelessness, he thinks, probably unavoidable in a house this large. he hadn't spied any maids nor butlers either. ( yet, moosely reminds him. ) perhaps emerson simply enjoyed his privacy.

there are papers scattered across the desk, held in place ( poorly ) by what appear to be a haphazard selection of books. an encyclopedia secures the corner of one sheet, its spine worn, engraved letters fading to illegibility. a series of thinner autobiographies spread across a lower corner of the desk, one still lying half-open. shifting as little as possible, begins to comb through the documents he can find. a fair amount seem to be records of trade and accountancy, money changing between hands; crime is a lucrative business.

a few more minutes pass as he leafs through the documents, each appearing no more than your standard, run-of-the-mill reports. they are returned to their original positions quickly, frustration dictating brusque movements; he leaves the desk and begins to scale the ladder. the atheneum interface floats silently beside him, illuminating titles in a dim green-blue light.

and then -- there! a title more familiar; he picks this, and, like before, finds a page riddled with markings. he allows himself a whispered, victorious, "oh, finally." and so begins the process of transferring them over, copying them out to the best of his ability.

that was you.

the minutes stretch by longer than he expects -- atheneum has a way of distorting time, he finds, but with the information stored securely in the interface, he makes his descent back to the ground. and, after a brief pause, returns to the table. if his memory serves him right, the politician is fond of secret hiding places. he crouches, frowning at the sides of the drawers ( there is something odd about this, but he can't quite place it ) his hand brushes against a snag in the wood -- closer inspection reveals a clumsily replaced panel.

a breath -- he checks it for traps, finds none discernible -- and slides it open. his reward: a thin manila folder with a neatly typewritten list of names and places. he reads on; the names are aliases, he concludes upon the third mythological allusion in a list of seven. one name catches his eye.


perhaps there are more people named 'sirius' than he knows of in this world ( and he laments the lack of interaction with them -- oh, the potential in those names! ) but there is only one face that comes to mind. and, perhaps, it is not entirely implausible that a corrupt politician keeps a list of assassins at his desk, for those 'just-in-case' moments where someone becomes an inconvenience. it is interesting, at least, so he takes down this list as well.

he scarcely catches the sound of footsteps, not until the telltale shadow flickers across the line of light at the bottom of the door. a silent curse, and he ducks behind the table, holding his breath, cheek pressed against the ground in a bid to perchance catch a glimpse of the stranger. what he gains is the fact that the butler, an elderly man who walks with a mild limp, has a pair of very clean and polished dress shoes. the butler stops some distance from the table to retrieve the ladder for some other task, presumably, and totters off once more, pausing only to brush some dust off the bookshelves.

maddox dare not overstay his welcome; there is a chance a second escape will not come as easily. he waits for the step-drag-step paces of the butler to fade into the distance before he returns to the corridor, this time setting off to locate emerson's bedroom.

why on earth did this house have to be so big?