The Heist: 2

The door. It’s now or never. Weasel took out glass vials and poured acid onto the lock. Sizzle. Click. “We’re in.”

It was truly a sight to behold. Thousands upon thousands of glass drawers, filled to the brim with valuable artefacts, jewelry, and heaps of money, stretched out along the walls in a bad imitation of an infinite mirror. “WOOOH! Jackpot!”, the guard cackled, both arms raised into the air in glee. He took out a bag from his pocket (how did that fit in there?) and began breaking them with a crowbar he pulled from the same pocket (seriously, what??).

They were filling up their bags respectively as much as they could, when Weasel heard a commotion, then caught something in his peripheral, coupled by a hand snaking around his neck and causing a twinge of pain. He spun around to the sight of the guard letting go of a button and running through a door with a small glass window. Red light flooded the room with a blaring alarm screeching ‘INTRUDER’ on loop. Weasel sprinted up to the door, banging his hand on it and shouting, “Open this goddamn door!” Behind the window, the traitor glanced behind himself quickly before returning his attention to Weasel, insincere sympathy smeared across his face. “Sorry, nothing personal.” With that, he vanished behind a corner. Frustration brew inside Weasel as he kicked and clawed at the door. He tucked at his hair trying to find a way through, frantically scrambling for the vials, and pouring the residue as a last attempt. Sizzle. Sizzle. Sizzle. Click. The door swung open. He hid behind a wall to avoid oncoming sentries. Then he ran. He passed door after door, passed the charred, holey corpse of his traitor companion. He hesitated, took the loot bag, and kept on running.

Outside, the area was crowded by sentries and guards. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” All eyes turned to him, eerily synchronous. Weasel hoisted his loot onto his back again, shifted his weight to regain footing, and ran. Rapidly approaching footsteps spurred him on. He vaulted over a barbed wire fence leading to the forest, earning him deep lashes on his arms and hands. He gasped flexing his fingers tentatively before balling them to fists. Now was not the time to dwell on some scratches. He’d deal with it later.

After putting some distance between himself and the armada, Weasel came to a halt at the edge of the forest. Huffing and panting heavily, he reached for the stone he sat himself on to gather himself. The trees gave way to a bright green field, glowing slightly as wildflowers were sprinkled amongst the plane like dashes of paint. Idyllic.

A laboured rattle in his lungs brought Weasel back. Right. He felt for his pill box, only to notice it missing from his jacket. The only thing he found was a hole he stuck his finger through. Great. Thanks. His stupid ventilator just had to be tampered with, and now this? At least he was surrounded by an oxygen-rich environment, but he wouldn’t be able to rocket back up to the Moniker in this condition. With utter contempt for life, he radioed Elmer, “Listen, you’ll have to get me here. Nothing major, but I can’t leave atmosphere without repairing my vent again. Just replacing a chip.”