the smuggler’s bible

Lone

Lone sprints down the corridor, trying to gauge by the gentle rasping sound of scales against polished wood whether he’s gained sufficient distance to stop, turn around and take a shot.

This is actually extremely difficult and is complicated further by the ringing in his ears from the botched stun grenade he ricocheted off the doorjamb to land smack-dab at his own feet. A wasted opportunity, since this whole debacle began as an attempt to settle the question of whether or not the fucked up snake things in the greenhouse even have ears.

But, like, they have to, right? Right?

Lone

The mansion is quiet. Mostly. There’s groaning in the labs and the clock tower is chiming like every four minutes (way too often, be serious), but these things have come to mean quiet when taken together.

Lone stands in the ballroom and watches the piano play itself through a waltz, wondering if it’s just a new quiet sound to get used to or something to take seriously.

The music seems harmless, so he decides, provisionally, to leave things as they are. But (BUT!) he also doesn’t swap his grenade for the candelabra he suspects will work in the attic puzzle.

Lone

The medallion fits perfectly into a nook beside the door. Lone waits a moment as gears spin somewhere underground. Finally, a bell chimes.

“Bingo.” He tries the handle. The door is still locked up tight as hell. “What the fuck? Wrong key?”

He pries at the unicorn—thinking maybe he’ll switch it out with the skull medallion—but it’s cemented in place.

“HEY,” Lone shouts, “IF THE KEY’S RIGHT YOU GOTTA OPEN THE DOOR.” Nothing happens. “What a scam.” Lone fumbles in his bag, looking for his gun. “I got bit by like four mutant dogs to get that thing.”