Robin Thorne enlists the help of shapeshifting actor Nemo and retired smuggler Jordan "Submarine" Raybon to steal evidence from the FBI.
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our inheritance is naught save an uncertain future and an unremembered past
May 28th, 2024
Docks District, Three Portlands
The docks are one of the many oddities of Three Portlands.
There is no ocean within the pocket universe. No sea touches the shores of the city-state. There are fish, somehow, but they should not be consumed.
The Docks District is in the middle of the city — although without an ocean it might as well be anywhere. It sits in the lee of Prometheus Plaza, halfway between the Periphery and Cambium Circle, the result of the city piling-up and splitting around the anchor point of the Plaza. Great chasms of unreality split the streets, tears in the underlying municipal substrate that lead directly to the Outside. Between them, reality folds over on itself in thick clumps, and the ontological dichotomy gives rise to the densest cluster of Ways within the multiverse.
It was Robin Thorne's least favorite part of the city. Not because of the crime — or rather, because of the crime, but not for any of the expected reasons. The cluster of Ways made the district a transportation nexus, which brought with it the usual array of smugglers, scammers, and racketeers. The giant gaping holes in reality which exposed the raw conceptual unspace surrounding EVERYTHING were perfect for disposing of evidence, competitors, and evidence of disposing of competitors. The combination was perfect for organized crime.
In many ways, the demographics and democratic governance of Three Portlands resembled nothing so much as gang warfare waged by debate. Different factions — religious, philosophical, corporate, political, and even criminal — held sway over different neighborhoods, arrayed aside and against each other by a complicated network of alliance and rivalry. Some had formal agreements with the city. Some controlled aldermen on the city council. Some were completely invisible.
In Memorial Park, ICSUT fostered an array of foreign embassies and interests on behalf of the Coalition. The Maxwellists were embedded in the hospital system, sometimes quite literally. Anderson had seized the vacancy left in Prometheus Plaza to establish a personal fiefdom, until the UIU had created a new power vacuum.
In the Docks District, the dominant power had been, for so many years, the Lighthouse Mafia. It was where they had started, it was where they had operated, and it was where they retreated when the UIU — led by Florence Thorne — had begun to close in.
Florence had dedicated herself to combating the Lighthouse Mafia, especially after the death of Vale Fairburn. As a result, she had spent a lot of her time in the Docks District, and it was where she had fought some of her fiercest battles.
It was where she had died.
So yes, it was because of the crime — that was why Robin Thorne hated the Docks District.
There was one part that did bring them joy though.
SUBMARINE SHIPPING
Imports, Exports & Transports
"You can't sink a submarine!"
The unhappiest that Robin had ever seen Florence was on the day she had been scheduled to testify against Jordan Raybon for his involvement in Vale Fairburn's demise. Although she had never been friends with Submarine, the rivalry between smuggler and special agent had been friendly, and neither had expected or wanted for it to end in such a manner. It was also an instance where legal and moral guilt were misaligned, and Florence's subsequent testimony as a character witness for the defense ensured that Raybon would eventually return from prison.
In the years since his release, Submarine had straightened his course, so to speak. He had opened an import/export business in his old stomping grounds, which was entirely legitimate — or so he claimed, and so it appeared under federal scrutiny. He made a modest profit, kept some, used some to repay old debts and past wrongs, and donated the rest to whichever beggar was nearest at the end of his walk home. He kept up a steady stream of business, but always had time to talk to old acquaintances. And every now and then, he would walk by the statue of Stephen King and have a quiet conversation with the federal agent waiting there.
And on the wall outside his business, he paid the local kids to protect and preserve a mural.
A peculiar battle was unfolding as Thorne approached. A large seal was flopped out on the pavement, steadfastly refusing to move, while Jordan Raybon attempted to move the obstinate pinniped with a heavy front loader. He smiled and waved from the cab of the vehicle when he saw Thorne. "Good to see you, Junior! Tell me, what can I do for you? I was just about to close up."
Thorne looked at the seal. Looked at Raybon. Opened their mouth. Looked at the seal again. Closed their mouth.
They shook their head. Looked back at Raybon.
"Jordan, I need you to help me commit a crime."
Jordan 'Submarine' Raybon — once the most successful solo smuggler in Three Portlands, the best intuitive Wayfinder outside of the Library, the real life Robin Hood from the Bottle Drop — considered the proposal.
Jordan Raybon, Doing Business As Submarine Shipping — small business owner, law-abiding citizen, and federal informant — answered.
"As entrapment attempts go, I have heard worse. Also better. Much better."
Thorne shook their head. "This is important, Jordan. There's something that belonged to my mother that never made it out of evidence. It was never given to me. I want to get it back."
Raybon frowned, then shrugged apologetically. "I think you got the wrong department, Junior. I'm not the one what's collecting evidence."
"I know that you found a Way that leads directly into the Depository."
His eyes narrowed. "Who told you that? I never used it — it had to have been Five—"
Thorne cut him off. "I guessed. You're the best Wayfinder in the city and you had enough things that had been inside the building that it would have been more surprising if you hadn't found a Way there."
He tried to look displeased by Thorne's trickery, but the man called Submarine was easily flattered. "Yeah, well, I am pretty good at what I do. It's no joke, making an honest profit in this business. Despite what folks say, crime pays good money. Being law-abiding comes with license fees, inspection fees, what they call compliance costs. Really, the default state of your average petit-bourgeoisie individual entrepreneur is being a thieving criminal cheat. I'm practically a Saint, ain't I?"
They nodded. "She'd be proud of you, Jordan. She really would."
He ducked his head, blinking tears from his eyes. "I appreciate you saying so."
Thorne watched silently as Raybon turned back to his battle with the seal. Despite the creature's bulk, the front loader was succeeding in pushing it back, inch by inch, towards a large circle that had been sloppily painted on the ground with what appeared to be ketchup. Once the seal was inside the circle, Raybon reversed the front loader, driving with his knees so that he could use both hands to give a two-fingered salute.
"Surf's up, ya legless git."
Saltwater began to flow up through the cobblestones beneath the marooned marine mammal. A faint ocean breeze blew through the alley. A wave rose up, suspended in motion, to hang over the seal. The cry of a gull echoed from nowhere. The wave crashed down, enveloping the creature and carrying it away through a Way. When the water cleared, the seal was gone.
Raybon cut the power on the front loader and stepped out of the cab. He walked over to Thorne, took a deep breath, then looked them in the eye.
"What's the plan?"
May 29th, 2024
Robin Thorne's Apartment, Three Portlands
Robin Thorne considered the assets available to them.
Assets
1 moderately talented thaumaturge. Miserable at evocation. Only one who knows where things are.
1 constructed intelligence bound as familiar w/ empathetic link. Manifests as small bird. Speaks many languages, can only speak English to Canadians (might only be in 3P — localized curse?)
1 humanoid shapeshifter. Cute ass. Good actor. Loyal. Reliable. Completely useless.
1 retired expert smuggler. THE Wayfinder. Definitely hates doing felonies now. Guilt-tripped onto team. Only one who knows where to go.
They considered the obstacles in front of them.
Problems
Access to the building is controlled.
1 or 2 federal agents are stationed as night guards within the building.
The interior and exterior are under constant video surveillance.
All surveillance video is recorded and retained until the end of the week.
If the night guards notice anything suspicious, the entire night of surveillance footage is marked for preservation and carefully reviewed.
Then they made a plan.
This type of planning was completely unlike the typical thinking Thorne employed in investigations, which always centered around answering questions rather than making tactical decisions. It was, however, the same object-oriented operational analysis that Florence had brought to the UIU when she had formed MOOT, which meant that Thorne was more than familiar with it. There was no situation for which it was better suited than the current one.
It suggested that there was a simple, obvious plan. All they had to do was perform the entire operation without arousing the suspicion of the guards, while also not leaving any evidence that would call for a review of surveillance tapes within a week.
A simple plan, honestly. All the complexity was in the details.
"Honey, I need you to hold still. I can't clearly visualize you if you keep turning your head." The shapeshifter paced around them in a circle, his gaze intent upon them as it wandered over their body.
Thorne rolled their eyes, but made sure to keep their head still. "Should I be concerned that you can't visualize me? I know you didn't have your eyes closed, we've made eye contact before."
Nemo continued to stare unblinkingly at them. "That's the problem, I know you too well. I need to visualize you as you outwardly appear, not as you actually are."
"Oh, you mean you idealize me and overlook my flaws."
"Something like that, yes. Such as, just to pick an example entirely at random, your inability to hold still for multiple seconds in a row. I take no notice of it. I think I'm good, by the way, you can put the rest of your clothes back on. Or the opposite, we have some time to kill."
Thorne grabbed their shirt off the back of the chair and pulled it on over their tanktop. "No, I want to go over the final plan."
"Ah, yes, the part where you make me a conspirator." He rubbed his hands together with feigned giddiness. "They do say you should choose your spouse based on who you most want to protect with the right to not testify."
"Is that why you haven't proposed?" Thorne finished pulling up their pants and looked back over their shoulder at him. "Are you really about to tell me that you're a narc right now?"
Hands raised, he spread his arms and gave a weary sigh. "Alas, while the dramatic timing would be incredible, it is only fiction. I didn't want to force you into a role you were uncomfortable with by presuming to initiate a proposal."
"You thought I was going to propose?" They grabbed their suit jacket and swung it across behind them.
"Well—"
Thorne rolled their shoulders, shrugging the suit on with an audible snap of fabric. "We are having the rest of this conversation later, Nemo. I can't believe you sometimes."
"I love you?"
"You too. Promise not to testify against me in court?"
"I do."
"Alright. Here's how it's going to work…"
The City of Doors (JCR-038)
Jordan Raybon bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Alright, I took a gander at our route, and it'll take us about three minutes to walk there I reckon."
The three of them — plus Crowe — were staging out of a sub-universe that Raybon called the City of Doors, which Thorne vaguely remembered reading about in freshman World Tree Theory at ICSUT Portlands. It was a deserted cityscape of confused, jumbled architecture, where none of the doors were capable of being opened — although later exploration showed that some doors could be opened, just not to places within the City of Doors.
As branch universes went, it was fairly well-documented, largely unsuitable for permanent habitation, and utterly unremarkable on all accounts, which meant few people had a reason to stick around. It was mildly popular as a clandestine rendezvous spot for teens from Three Portlands, and a few moderately busy Way-paths navigated through the minor nexus, but otherwise saw little traffic.
Thorne nodded. "Call it five minutes then, with a buffer. Nemo, that gives you enough time to change clothes before you start your part then. Have Crowe signal once the guard leaves the building."
"I still don't like that part," Raybon said. "Could be multiple guards."
"There won't be." Thorne sounded confident. "Every federal employee who gets paid by check just got theirs today. Everyone takes off if they can to spend the money."
Neither Raybon nor Nemo questioned why the UIU agents were getting paid by check. Everyone who lived in Three Portlands knew that electronic banking within the city was unreliable enough as to be non-existent; keeping the non-electronic banking working was already difficult enough.
Raybon looked at Nemo curiously. "Nemo… ain't you that bloke with the role in that Hooverite play? The one with the shapeshifting?"
J. was Blaschleigh Vlandersloon's newest experimental production, which had just opened that weekend. It was a one-actor dramatization and critical commentary on the life of J. Edgar Hoover, wherein every scene featured multiple characters interacting, demanding the talents of a shapeshifting actor. Nemo had defeated his main rival, Odysseus Complex, in the audition, and the unexpected popularity of the play — buoyed by the wave of anti-federal sentiment sweeping the city immediately after the Anderson raid — had earned him a number of laudatory reviews from the local ring of theatre critics.
"Not quite. We're actually a municipal production."
"No shit? You're getting paid out of the Fund?" The main purpose of the J. Edgar Hoover Defamation Fund maintained by the city was to finance negative propaganda against the man, which effectively functioned as a politically-awarded artistic grant. Although the total revenues were small, many an anartist in Three Portlands had gotten their start slandering Hoover at the behest of the City Council.
"Yeah. McClure was the deciding vote this year on whether they'd do a play or a sculpture, and you know he likes theatre."
"I thought he was big into monuments?"
"No, that was the original. This one's the clone, remember." After almost two decades of incumbency, the only person who had finally managed to oust Alderman Stephen McClure from the City Council had been his own clone, Steven.
Thorne coughed to draw attention back to them. "Jordan, once we get Nemo's signal, you're going to open the Way into the depository. We have no idea what the thaumontologics look like on the other end, so you're going to stay behind and re-open it five minutes after I go through."
Raybon looked concerned. "What if you miss it?"
"Trust your gut on whether to bail or keep trying. But the worst case if I get caught is that I have to talk my way out of a building I'm allowed to be in."
"Just, you know, after hours and potentially holding stolen evidence while I'm standing outside looking like you," Nemo chimed in.
"Look, this isn't even my worst plan involving a doppelganger of myself. I think we have a pretty good chance of pulling this off."
"Speaking of doppelgangers, I think that's my cue." Nemo shook his arms out, then closed his eyes and stopped breathing.
The first thing that happened was that he dropped about two inches of height. His arms shrank inwards to match a moment later. His hair retracted back into his scalp until it was in a bob cut, darkening as it did so to take-on a deep red-brown hue.
Then his skin started to bubble, and keeping track of what was happening to his features became impossible. But when it finally stopped a few seconds later, there was another Robin Thorne standing in his place.
"Well?" he said, and Robin's voice came from his mouth. "How do I look?"
"I'm too used to mirrors, I'm not a good judge," Thorne said.
"I'm seeing double," Raybon offered, clearly impressed.
Crowe hopped in place on Thorne's shoulder, looking between them and Nemo. It stretched its wings and flapped over to Nemo's shoulder. It examined his face curiously, then chirped lightly.
"What'd he say?" Nemo asked.
"Your aura's the wrong color," Thorne explained. "So try to avoid any wizards."
Nemo nodded. "Can you give me my motivation, Director?"
"You don't want to go to prison for impersonating a federal agent," they said, completely deadpan. "Everyone get ready to sync your watches on my mark."
Raybon laughed as he looked at his wristwatch. "Ain't that just classic. Real James Bond, Tom Cruise action."
Thorne ignored him. "Five minute timer, starting… now."
There were three simultaneous clicks as they each started the timer on their watches.
"Alright, Nemo, go break a leg. Crowe, keep him out of trouble. Jordan, you're with me. Let's do this."
They watched while Nemo and Crowe departed back through the nearest Way to Three Portlands, exiting via a door on a building that looked like what you might get if you asked Frank Lloyd Wright to design a Ziggurat.
Once he was gone, Raybon started leading them along the route that would take them to the evidence depository.
They started with a door about fifty feet away, which took them through a Way into a lower branch universe. The door itself was normal, but the Knock to open the Way involved a complicated sequence of whistled notes that Thorne wouldn't have been able to replicate.
They walked for sixteen paces through a field of blue roses, then stopped so Raybon could pull out a lighter, crouch down, and set fire to the nearest rose. The smoke revealed a hole to yet another world, which they passed through.
They continued down the aisle of an impossibly large tobacconist, with shelves stocked with every brand of cigarette, cigar, cigarillo, or other smokeable imaginable. Raybon selected one seemingly at random, cleared his throat, and said, "I will not buy this record, it is scratched."
Then they were inside a Sidhe discotheque, pushing through the throng of elves grinding to Celtic hip-hop…
… then floating inside a bubble over a forest of black obelisks …
… then finally standing in an alcove in the one place their path was guaranteed to take them — the Wanderer's Library.
"Here we are," Raybon announced. "Right on schedule. Just grab that Sherlock Holmes book and give it a good yank when you're ready to go." He pointed to a volume on one of the nearby shelves, The Cookbook of Sherlock Holmes. It was shelved between The Erotic Calendar of Sherlock Holmes and The Stand-Up Comedy of Sherlock Holmes.
Thorne checked their watch. They still had 137 seconds until Nemo was supposed to distract the night guard. From the brief flashes of sense and impression that Thorne was getting from Crowe, they could tell that he was putting on the last pieces of clothing he had borrowed to impersonate them.
Thorne and Raybon waited for exactly twelve seconds before he shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat. "So, the shapeshifting—"
Thorne sighed. "Are you about to ask if he does it in bed?"
Raybon looked offended by the accusation, probably because it was accurate. "I wasn't not going to."
They nodded. Everyone asked eventually. Even Bishop Bishop. "He does. And since I know you're thinking it, yes, he's done real people, no, he's never done me."
"Really? Not even curious?"
"No."
"I wouldn't judge. I'd be curious."
"Well I'm not."
Raybon nodded, although he seemed disappointed. His brow furrowed in thought. "Which real people?"
"Your mother," Thorne retorted.
He burst out laughing. "Fair cop, that's on me for asking."
Both of their wristwatches chose that moment to beep. Thorne winced as a sudden flash of not-yet-memory intruded into their mind through the link they shared with their familiar.
Nemo reached into the pocket of the borrowed suit and pulled out a small mason jar filled with a translucent green vapor. He unscrewed the lid and watched as the gas poured out, writhing and wriggling like a living creature — which, in a certain sense, it was. He watched carefully as the gas golem drifted away in the night air, then reached for the radio on his belt. He checked that it was still correctly tuned, then lifted it to his face, and hit the low-power transmission button.
"Local units, this is Special Agent Thorne. I'm at the corner of Al Capone Avenue and Nixon Street, attempting to capture a gas golem. Any assistance would be appreciated."
The response came a moment later. "Agent Thorne, this is Agent Brooks inside the Depository. I'm in here alone, but I think I can spare a few minutes for you. I reckon you're not gonna get anybody else on the horn this time of night, not nearby anyways."
Thorne breathed a sigh of relief. They had been luckier than they had dared to hope. Brooks was completely mundane, and just about the best guard they could have gotten for their little heist. He was a perfectly competent agent, really, but he was terminally unimaginative and notoriously lazy when it came to paperwork. There were very good odds that he wouldn't even bother to report leaving his post, which meant that Thorne didn't need to worry about intercepting it before it reached Spencer's desk.
Another flash of thought from Crowe told Thorne that Brooks was out of the building.
"I'm up," they said. They walked over to the shelf of Sherlock Holmes stories that should never have been printed and let their hand rest on the spine of The Cookbook. "Remember, open it up again in five minutes."
Raybon flashed a thumbs-up, then fired-off a sloppy salute. "Good luck."
Thorne nodded. They took a breath, then pulled on the book as hard as they could.
There was a sound like a page being torn in half as reality was torn in half.
Thorne stepped through the Way…
John F. Kennedy Jr. Federal Depository, Three Portlands
… and into the middle of the federal evidence depository.
They were in the deep stacks, amid rows and rows of filing cabinets stacked from floor to ceiling. The drawers were only labeled with case numbers from the UIU's internal indexing system, creating an impenetrable and unnavigable maze of orderly rows.
Unnavigable, that is, unless you knew the index.
Every case was assigned a seven digit numeric identifier, based on the date it was first opened — the first four digits for the year, with the last three assigned in sequential order.
That knowledge, on its own, would have been insufficient to find the evidence box for Florence Thorne. A reasonably clever person could have guessed that the file for her murder had a number between 2008-100 and 2008-200. That would have only led them to frustration.
When there were multiple case files for the same person, all of them were stored under the oldest file number. And only a handful of people knew that the first case file about Florence Thorne was older. Much older.
A whispered cantrip dealt with the lock on the cabinet. It slid open with only the tiniest creak from the ancient rollers.
There were half-a-dozen file folders inside, which Thorne quickly flipped past. The object of their search would be inside one of the boxes stacked behind the files.
They found it in the second box they checked. The sunstone seemed to burn with a dull inner light.
Thorne brushed their fingers across the surface of the orange gem. They could feel the energies bound within the crystal structure.
They lifted the necklace from the box, surprised that it wasn't heavier. It seemed like it should be weighed down by the enchantments laid upon it.
They slid their prize into a suit pocket and checked their watch. They still had almost four minutes until Raybon was supposed to re-open the Way.
They looked back at the files inside the cabinet.
There was no reason to do it. They had access to digital copies of all of them through the UIU's internal computer network, and had even read all of them on more than one occasion.
Thorne picked up Case File 2008-126 and opened it to a random page. They recognized the handwriting of Jesse Davis. This was the original copy of the incident report she had filed after Florence's death. There were several parts that had been noticeably crossed out, which hadn't made it into the digitized copy.
Suspect was a convict who escaped from Oregon State Penitentiary earlier this month. Suspect had been sentenced for armed robbery. Suspect has no known prior affiliation with the Lighthouse Mafia, organized paracrime, or any residents of Three Portlands. Captured members of the Lighthouse Mafia have denied any knowledge of the suspect. WHO THE FUCK IS THIS GUY?
Suspect was found dead at the scene, a short distance from Agent Thorne. Based on the trail of blood from her crawling across the floor bloodstain pattern analysis, suspect appears to have predeceased Agent Thorne by some time. Suspect displays no obvious cause of death, which is really fucking strange because if Florence lived long enough to kill him after being shot, there shouldn't have been enough of him left to bury which is inconsistent with the known operational tendencies of Agent Thorne.
There is no evidence that the crime scene was disturbed before being found by this agent. Forensics has conclusively proven that the suspect fired the gun which killed Agent Thorne.
There are no remaining leads at this time.
The remainder of the page was empty, save for the water stains.
Thorne stared at the words without reading them until their watch beeped. From several rows over, they heard the sound of tearing paper again.
"Junior?" Raybon called out. "Time to go."
Thorne snapped the file shut and placed it back into the cabinet. The lock clicked as the drawer shut.
"Coming," they called back.
Thorne had a lot of respect for Jesse Davis. The other wizard had ably led MOOT for a decade-and-a-half since Florence had died. She was smart, brave, and she had loved Florence — more than she would ever admit. There was absolutely zero doubt in Thorne's mind that she had done everything she could to try and solve their mother's murder. She wouldn't have said there were no more leads unless she truly believed it.
But that didn't mean it was true.
There was one person who knew exactly what had happened to Florence in the moments before her death.
And now Thorne had her journal.
TRUE KNOWLEDGE is the birthright of our children
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