BLACK INK SOCIETY {Sci-Fi Thriller} #Wattys2016

Part 3,2: Pick your Poison

Lupin headed through the kitchen, abstracted the first-aid kit in passing and locked himself in the bathroom before anyone could ask any questions.

This was truly an excellent turn of events.

His hand was throbbing, as if to enter an objection, but Lupin ignored the pain and slowly pulled out the shard. A beautiful tone of red dripped on the spotless white ceramic sink. He threw the sinister little object into the bin and bandaged the wound so the sterile fabric wouldn't hinder his movements. After all, his fingers were indispensable for this kind of business.

Lupin tentatively balanced the small keychip on his index finger. He couldn't help but congratulate himself for the masterpiece he had accomplished. The unexpected collision with the auction curator caused his brilliant escape plans and elaborated preparations to be of no avail, but he couldn't have hoped for a better occurrence. Now he could simply walk up to the safe, remove the painting and make his exit in all equanimity. It was almost too easy.

First, of course, he required a more appropriate attire. Lupin swung open the door and loped straightaway towards the cloakroom, where the honoured customers tended to deposit their over-priced coats. Designer cloaks and suit coats in all colours and shades.

Lupin sighed. Pick your poison.

It wasn't especially professional to kick his heels in front of the rail he was meaning to pilfer something from, so Lupin chose the next best piece of clothing that looked about his size. He grabbed the black suit coat before the bored-looking cloakroom guardian could become suspicious and quietly absconded from the room.

Well, that went off without a hitch.

He threw over the jacket and ran a hand through his hair, his gaze dropped so none of his colleagues could spot him and start to wonder about his sudden change of dress. Then he turned into a small dustroom on his left, carefully closing the door behind him.

"Birds flying high, you know how I feel," he quietly sang to himself, "Sun in the... in the..."

With the best will in the world he couldn't remember more than a few lines of the song. There is nothing worse, Lupin thought, than having a song in your head you can't sing along with.

He digged up a pack of InstantColour from the bottom of his pockets and carefully poured the viscous liquid over his sand-coloured hair. Opening the tab, he held his head into the ice-cold water until he felt the beginnings of a brain freeze creeping up his skull. When the dark-brown colour had spread to his hairtips he rubbed it dry with a spare dish cloth and smiled at his blurred reflection in the metal wardrobe. He almost looked good without the hideous dishwater blond.

If he was to wear camouflage, then at least he would do it in style.

Lupin made his way through the crowded restaurant, repeatedly muttering "Excuse me" and "May I pass?" to reach his destination more quickly.

Just this one job and I can finally leave all of this behind.He would have enough money for a fresh start. Somewhere warm, Spain maybe? Portugal? Irrelevant. As long as he could get out of this place as soon as possible.

He headed for a narrow black door to his right, anxious not to meet anyone's eye. An auburn-haired woman in a black coktail dress leant against the wall next to it, busy reading a small sheet of paper. Lupin nodded briefly and plugged the keychip into the slot beneath the door handle.

"Feeling Good."

Lupin flinched.

"Er... Beg your pardon?"

His heart was racing, so loud he could have sworn that everyone in the room was able to hear it.

"That melody you were just humming." She smiled. "Feeling Good by Nina Simone. Who would have thought that there are still people knowing it?"

Lupin cursed himself for this stupid habit of his. Sometimes he didn't even realize he was humming or whistling. That wasn't professional at all.

"Well... It appears so," he replied. "If you'd excuse me I've got... some important business to attend to." He pointed to the open door.

"Oh, of course you do," The woman said with a knowing smile.

How could it be knowing? She couldn't know anything. She wasn't supposed to know anything! Her eyes were strangely intense, like those of a falcon focusing on its prey, ready to swoop down. He shuddered. What was he doing, acting like a complete rookie? This was his last job. Never before had so much depended on his skill.

Lupin bowed his head slightly and disappeared through the door, which immediately clunked shut behind him. He took a deep breath and stretched his fingers.

Focus.

He walked across the hallway, tipping an imaginary hat to the security man lingering in front of the safe. The guard's crooked grin told Lupin that the man was even more anxious to get his promised share than he was himself. Which could, depending on the circumstances, be an advantage or a disadvantage.

"Shall I leave you alone, maestro?" The security guard continued grinning, showing his crooked, but very white teeth. Lupin didn't like his face, so he fixed his gaze on the safe instead.

"That would be lovely."

He could hear the decrescendo of steps as his accomplice did what he was told. Without the sinister grin in his back he could work much better. Lupin ran his fingers across the cool surface of the safe, searching for the slot, looking for the security systems he had deactivated a few hours ago. The painting was usually stored in a private gallery. No one except for the curator knew it was here, so there had been hardly any effort to store it somewhere burglar-proof. Surprise. The advisor knew about it. Lupin's boss was a legend when it came to gathering intel and using it to his advantage, and so it had come to pass that the last job included Martine Velec's masterful painting Crane in Flight. It wasn't actually his hardest job. But he was nervous, and luck had never really been his strong point.

Lupin inserted the keychip in the slot, silently praying to whatever deity would listen. The lock made a creaking sound and the door flung open. Voilà! Crane in Flight lay on top of a small stand, its loud colours exploding into the darkness of the hallway, shattering the silence. Lupin wanted desperately to finish the job, but he couldn't resist the urge to take a closer look at it.

"Now, look at you." he purred. The fine, coralline wings of the titular crane melted into a seaweed-green sky with a brilliant brushstroke. The painting was truly a masterpiece. He wanted it to hang on the walls of the National Gallery, for everyone to look at. Not for some snob to put it in his bedroom. Lupin sighed. He knew exactly in whose bedroom it was going to end up.

What a waste.

He unclipped the painting from it's frame and carefully tucked it away in a paper roll. Now. That was basically it. His last job was done, and as soon as he stepped out of the building, he would...

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"