Thieving was like riding a bike, in a lot of ways. Except the small part of thieving that was illegal. The mage academy was large and forboding, made even more so in the extreme shadow of twilight. Behind Tycho's mask, his eyes were alight and alive, his footsteps quick, as he made his way across the grounds, towards the little shack that the Gardener lived.
He was assuming.
'So, you have done this before, right?'
"Once or twice, yeah." He muttered, the cloth of the happy face mask pressing against his face. "Had a cooler mask, though."
'Just asking, because you look ridiculous.'
"Wha's that, bodiless spirit? I couldn' hear ya over th' fact that I have physical form."
'Physical forms are overrated. You have disease and injuries to worry about, not to mention the body odor. Speaking of, when is the last time that you had a bath?'
"Tuesday. Or somethin'. I don't know." He responded. His gaze was distracted, focused on the door of the garden house. Sidling up to the wall of the shack, Tycho dropped into an agile crouch, forming his body around the low-placed windows.
'Uh huh.'
"Hush. Trying to concentrate." Slipping around to the front door, Tycho was pleased to note the old fashioned, iron-wrought lock that sealed it shut. A slight tug had the door emit a soft and abrupt creaking noise, telling him that he couldn't monkey around with it. Withdrawing a thin metal rod from the inside of his cheek, Tycho snapped it in two and slipped both pieces into the keyhole, deft fingers working each piece of metal with precision.
'Who would have thought a drunkard could have decent dexterity.'
Tycho grinned around his tongue, which he was chewing on in concentration. "Tha's kinda th' point, ain't it?" He murmured, before the heavy lock released its hold with a faint click.
"And boom goes th' dynamite." He whispered into the night, letting the slickened metal pieces fall to the ground.
'As much as I approve of explosives, that may be overkill.'
"Says th' woman who made fire bear-hug a woman."
'I'm just a dead person. Don't look at me.'
"I can't. Yer incorporeal." With a sharp tug, the door slid open, revealing a darkened cabin.
'There see, that's settled then. Don't go blaming me for your spontaneous combustion problems.'
"If ya say so." Tycho muttered, getting a good look at the interior of the old man's home. The lights were all off, and all around the place there were instruments used in the common managing of grounds; large shears for grass, a rake, four different hammers of shapes and sizes, a multi-purpose screwdriver, and a chainsaw. Each of these were scattered over a variety of flat surfaces; the kitchen counter, a small table, and even in the sink, in the case of one of the hammers.
Tycho closed the door behind him, then moved further into the two-room shack, checking the bedroom for any sign of the old man. When he confirmed the clear coast, he allowed himself to relax slightly.
"Now," he said, smiling to himself. "where 'zactly would an ol' man keep actual valuables? Any ideas?"
'Don't ask me, you're the thief.'
"You're the one who suggested th' house o' pain." Tycho murmured, pressing a finger onto one of the sharp spikes of the rake. It was blunt and rusty. "Th' guy doesn't care much fer his tools, does he? How d'ya know this guy again?"
'Never mind that.'
"Fair enough," he muttered, his hand moving so the palm touched the spikes, resting directly over-
The hammer of the pistol bit deep into his palm, biting through skin and sending a shock to his nerves. He twisted, trying to escape the pain, his hand wiggling out of the cold metal hold, the blood that dripped from his hand like mucus from an unwiped nose making the transition easier, and the sudden explosion brought his eyes forward, eyebrows raised and wide to see-
Tycho threw himself backwards from the rake, stumbling into the kitchen table as he did so. Hip making contact with the wood, the chainsaw leaped upwards, falling to the floor with a clatter of metal and heavy plastic. Stumbling over the equipment, Tycho fell against the far wall, his right hand clutching his left desperately, pressing it against his chest.
'Jeeze. How much did you drink this morning?'
"Shut up." He snapped, rubbing his thumb over the spot.
'Yeah sure, that's one way to treat someone being concerned.'
Tycho growled lightly, raising his hand in the dim light to view the spot where the rake had touched. There was no pain anymore, no explanation for the sudden onslaught of images, but what he saw there shook him to his core.
A round, white scar, looking like an imprinted triangle on his palm.
'Hey, blockhead. Visitor incoming.'
Before he could contemplate that, there was a sudden turning of the doorknob, a protest of creaking hinges as the front door was flung open. Without hesitation, Tycho reached downward to grab the chainsaw, reflexes taking over.
Old man Jensing was a calm and happy fellow, and today was one of those days that left a happy and tingly feeling inside of his brittle bones. Good news was few and far between for the old fellow, what with the disease that was slowly eating at his body and dulling his mind. That morning had brought the usual aches and pains and dosage of medicinal herbs that the healers had sworn up and down would ease his pain. He didn't know about that. They only really succeeded in giving his bowels something to whine about, and they tasted like blackberries.
But the morning had also brought six letters from each of his six wonderful grandchildren, wishing him a happy birthday. Each of the letters had a card inside, loving hand-drawn, though the skill had ranged with the child's age. Little Lucy had drawn him with his rake, waving hello on top of a hill of roses, while Jeff, the true artist of the kids, had put his efforts into making a truly inspiring card that had wished him many days of well wishes. Each of the six cards were accompanied with apologies for not being able to see the man on the day he turned eighty three.
Jensing didn't mind. They had plenty to occupy their time then comforting a sick old man, and he wouldn't have it any other way. All of them had answered the phone when he had called after his work was done, and he had listened to them excitedly recount their day, shared in them the joys of youth and childhood. The six conversations were always followed by a brief talk with his kids.
"I have a gift for you, dad." Stewart, his youngest, had said into the phone.
"You've given me plenty enough, Stu. This was wonderful."
"All the same, Dad. You're way over the hill now. So I was thinking that maybe it's time to get you someone to help you. May and I worry about you being up there all alone, in that shack."
"Oh, hogwash. I'm fine."
"I know, Dad. But, see... We found this dog."
Jensing's heart skipped a beat, remembering all the times he had wished he had a four legged companion to help him drift off at night. His son continued chatting, making sure to talk loud and slow - Jensing's ears weren't what they used to be.
"Normally, May and I would keep hold of him, but he doesn't like all the noise. So I was thinking, if I brought him tomorrow, he could stay with you a while?"
Jensing's smile was so big and wide, he could've sworn his Marjorie could've seen it from in her grave. "Think that'd be fine," he said, voice gruff.
"Awesome. See you tomorrow."
The day improved even more, with his boss telling him to take the rest of the day off, go home, and get some sleep. "Dogs are energetic, Jensing. You'll need your rest."
As Jensing crossed the lawn to go into his house, all he could think about doing was curling up with a mug of tea, taking his herbs, and drifting off in his arm chair. He couldn't wait for the morning, when he'd be able to have a companion and see his son and repeat the amazing day he'd just lived out. Whistling softly, he didn't even notice the already unlocked door as he opened it wide.
To see a man in a large, yellow, happy face mask, wielding a chainsaw.
Old man Jensing's heart exploded.
When the bag of bones collapsed, Tycho panicked.
"Shit. Oh shit. Why is he home so early!?" Tycho yelled, dropping the chainsaw in his rush to get to the old man's side. "You said he worked!"
'Well what kind of idiot listens to me? I'm just a voice in your head, what do I know.'
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Tycho knelt beside the man, pressing two fingers to the side of his throat. "Oh, goddamn it. He's dead. He's fucking dead."
'Heh. About time the old fuck croaked.'
Tycho stood suddenly, gripping the old man's arms and dragging him further into the house, being sure to close the door behind them so a passerby couldn't see in. After a moment's hesitance, he dragged the man further into the cabin, going for his bedroom. He pulled the old man up and dumped him on the bed, yanking the covers out from under him and haphazardly throwing them over him. He stood there for a moment, staring down at the prone form.
"Well, we'd better make this worth it." he muttered, before heading over to the dresser in the corner of the room and opening it, pawing through underwear and socks. "Where are th' goods."
'... Seriously? You're going to rob the dead guy? Way to go, I didn't know you had it in you.'
"Thought you'd approve." He muttered, slamming the drawer shut. "He ain' got anythin'. Fat load o' good you did me, here. Thanks a billion."
'Again. How is this my fault? I'm just a voice in your head. You know there's a reason people aren't supposed to listen to those.'
"Yer a voice that shoots fire. Fire tha' tackles people ya don' like." Tycho paused at the man's bedside table, throwing open the drawer there. Inside, was a stack of papers and a pen -
My dearest Jessica.
'You had more reason to hate that psycho bitch than me. Why are we putting this on me again? Uh... Tycho?'
Tycho blinked. "Hm? Wha'?"
'Seriously, how much did you drink?'
Tycho rubbed at his eye, irritated. "Yer seriously askin' me about drinkin' habits when there's a dead guy not two feet away." He growled. He turned back around, then whipped around again in a full circle, lost and desperate.
'Oh come on, the guy was like ninety, you probably did him a favor.'
"Did him a favour, or did you a favour?" He queried. "Yeh seemed ta not be a fan of our dear old gardener."
'Uh huh. So I had you come rob him on the chance he would walk in and have a heart attack upon seeing your face? While admittedly, the latter part isn?t' too far fetched, I think you?re getting a little paranoid don't you think?'
"Paranoid." He muttered, putting his fists on his hips.
"Lets see. I'm havin' random flashes of a woman fallin' off of a cliff, I developed a scar from touchin' a blunt rake, an' theres a voice tha's inside m'head. Tha' can apparently make fire ride people like a cowboy. If there's anyone in th' world tha' deserves ta be paranoid, it's me."
'Hey, to be fair, I was here first.'
Tycho scrubbed his eyes again with the palms of his hands. "Yeah." he muttered.
"Yeah, you were. Weren' ya." His voice was contemplative, heavy with thought. "You were here 'fore any o' this started."
'Hey now, don't you go blaming any of this on me.
"Is there a better reason ya can give me?" Tycho asked the empty room. Well, almost empty. Discluding corpses.
'Uh... I'm a figment of your imagination, caused by excessive drinking and merely serve as a way to blame your shit hole of a life on someone else?'
Tycho waved his hand. "We've covered tha' theory aroun' th' time ya started shootin' fire at people, m'dear." He moved back towards the kitchen, opening each cupboard in turn, looking for anything to snag. In the third one he opened, there sat a single ornate glass bowl, with a small wedding band sitting at the bottom of the glass.
Tycho's movements slowed at the site of it. It was gold, shimmering in the dim light, and it felt heavy against his fingertips as he lifted it with the caring of a man who was seeing far more than a small gold ring.
Do you, Jessica, take Sherriff Darsin to be your lawfully wedded husband?
I do.
'And I thought we already covered the matter of your premature eruption issues not being my fault. Tycho? Fuck all, do you have any idea how not fun it is to insult you when you're not even paying attention?'
Tycho blinked again, shaking his head rapidly. "Fuck. What is happening to me," he grumbled, shoving the ring inside the pocket of his coat. "If it ain't fun, stop doin' it."
'Ugh, just hurry up would you.'
"There ain't anythin' here." he growled. "Yeh jus' sent me on a massive waste of time. Next time, I decide who we steal from."
He began making his way towards the door.
'Hey at least my decision didn't end up with a psycho bitch trying to knife you.'
"It also didn' end with us gettin' any money." He snarked, the ring feeling heavy in his pocket as he made his way into the night, slamming the shack door behind him.
'Neither did psycho bitch.'
"Least I got somethin'. Does it get lonely bein' a ghost?"
'Putting out the bedsheets and then passing out in a drunken stupor doesn't really count as getting squat you know.'
A pause.
Then, "Well, thank God for tha'."
'Probably would have walked away with gonorrhea or something.'
"Yer knowledge o' these diseases is tellin', m'dear." He strode across the lawn, headed back in the direction of the city, the gold ring weighing heavily in his pocket.
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Public release date: 19-Jun-2012
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