Hours have passed since my return, and sleep remains an elusive quarry.
I sat in my dimly lit apartment, the weight of exhaustion pressing upon me, yet I've not succumbed.
I've employed my shapeshifting talent to alter a portion of my brain, enabling function without rest—a rather useful artifice, one that permits me to forgo slumber entirely.
Still, I don't want to surrender my humanity so readily for now; there's a line I've yet to cross.
I have tried every possible line of investigation—looked through documents, combed through information, and tried to find any glimmer of wisdom.
Yet all I possess is this solitary clue: a shard of mirror, glinting faintly on my table.
Why should such a fragment reside within a truck meant to transport weaponry?
The cargo manifest listed no glass-like materials—only steel and munitions, devoid of reflective surfaces.
I exhale, a sound of vexation, and retreat to my sofa, sinking into its worn embrace.
I have hit a dead end, a wall of futility.
My thoughts drift, unbidden, to a former life—nights spent engrossed in heist films, tales of cunning and deception.
One stands out: Now You See Me, which is a favourite due to its brilliant tricks.
As the memory unfurls, a spark ignites within me—a sudden, jarring clarity.
I stumble to my feet and rush back to the table with the shard of mirror on it.
"I have been a fool," I mutter to myself, berating myself.
"No—on the contrary, these robbers have shown themselves to be highly intelligent."
It should have gone like this.
The four cargo haulers stand idle at their origin point, a fortified Blacksteel outpost in Columbia's rugged interior.
The weapons—Originium-enhanced munitions worth a king's ransom—rest within, crated and secure.
Guards, seasoned Blacksteel sentries, patrol the perimeter, their detectors primed, their vigilance unyielding.
The drivers prepare to depart, papers in order, engines rumbling.
Yet unbeknownst to all, the thieves have already struck—not by moving the cargo, but by weaving a deception so deft it defies detection.
They wield Originium Arts, channelling the volatile energy through mirrors strategically placed within the trucks' interiors.
The arts amplify the reflections, conjuring illusions of laden crates—rows of weaponry shimmering in the dim light, a perfect facsimile of the real load.
When the guards conduct their inspections at the outpost, peering into the holds, they see precisely what they expect: munitions stacked high, their detectors registering the faint hum of Originium from the Arts' residue, masking the trickery.
Satisfied, they wave the convoy onwards. The trucks roll out, bound for the depot, but the cargo remains behind—untouched, secreted away at the origin, while the mirrors sustain the charade.
By the time the trucks arrived, the illusions had dissipated, the mirrors removed or shattered, leaving only a stray shard as evidence of their gambit.
"They probably removed it along the way."
The guards never suspected a thing.
I laugh, a sharp, unguarded sound that echoes through the room.
"Brilliant—utterly brilliant," I declare, shaking my head in reluctant admiration.
Mirrors in Terra, by their nature, cannot retain Originium energy for long; the power bleeds away swiftly, rendering it untraceable after mere hours.
My detectors found nothing because the arts had faded, the illusion long spent by the time I arrived.
The thieves exploited this flaw, leaving me to chase phantoms.
My ability soars; I now comprehend everything.
I've grasped the truth at last. Hastily, I put on my coat, the fabric.
I retrieve my phone and dial Blacksteel, pacing as it rings.
"This is Howard Leyman," I say when the line connects, my voice firm despite the hour.
"Dispatch a vehicle to my residence immediately—I know everything."
I end the call, slipping the mirror shard into my pocket.
An illusion wrought by Originium and mirrors, I reflect, a wry smile tugging at my lips. A heist concealed in plain sight.
The ingenuity gnaws at me, equal parts vexing and impressive. I stand by the door, awaiting my ride.
There was one last trick for the finale.
***
Howard Leyman sat in Frank Morrison's office at Blacksteel's headquarters, a stark, utilitarian room with steel walls and a desk cluttered with files.
The air bore the mingled scents of stale coffee and gun oil, underscored by a faint hum of machinery from beyond the door.
Morrison had summoned him, and now he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his prosthetic arm glinting under the fluorescent lights.
"Leyman," he said, his voice clipped and measured, "have you found your answer?"
Howard met his gaze, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "Indeed, sir. I have," he replied.
Morrison raised an eyebrow, expectant, but
Howard didn't elaborate immediately. Instead, his eyes drifted to a bottle of amber liquor on the shelf beside the desk—some aged Colombian whisky, likely a rare vintage.
He reached for it, uncorked it with a sharp thunk, and poured himself a glass, the liquid flowing in a slow, golden stream.
Morrison watched, his expression tightening, though he made no move to stop him.
Howard downed the shot in one swift gulp, the heat searing his throat, then set the glass down with a deliberate clink.
"Let us dissect this, shall we?" he remarked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and fixed Morrison with a piercing stare.
"Tell me, Morrison—do you trust your colleagues?"
Morrison blinked, momentarily thrown, then shrugged.
"I trust them as far as one can in this line of work. They're competent, loyal—mostly."
Howard let out a low, dry chuckle, twirling the empty glass in his hand.
"'Trust is rooted in faith, and faith is a transient visitor—present today, vanished tomorrow.'"
He quoted,
"There are times when even the people we trust the most will abandon us to death."
"People betray each other whether it is for money, fame, or jealousy. No matter how kind you are to someone, you can never be sure that they will fully trust and believe in you."
Morrison's brow furrowed, but Howard pressed on, his tone steady and resolute.
"Everything will be revealed tomorrow. I've unravelled it all. " He paused, allowing the weight to settle.
"Announce that we've apprehended the thieves. They are to be prosecuted later."
Morrison leaned back, confusion etching his weathered features.
"Why the deception, Leyman? What's your aim?"
Howard rose, stepping to the desk, and tapped it with a finger.
"It's bait, Morrison. Cast it out, and the rats will scurry to seize it. You'll witness it unfold."
Morrison studied him, a flicker of concern in his eyes—then it shifted, comprehension dawning as he considered the implications.
"Very well," he said, his voice gruff yet firm.
"I'll back your stratagem. But it had better hold firm."
Howard flashed a grin, this time genuine.
"It'll hold a veritable ocean, sir." He tipped an imaginary hat, grabbed his coat, and made for the door, the whisky's warmth still lingering in his chest.
As he strode out, he nearly collided with Liskarm in the corridor—her tactical gear pristine, her posture rigid as ever.
"My apologies," he murmured, brushing past, his hand deftly slipping a folded note into hers.
She didn't flinch, though her fingers tightened subtly around it.
Howard didn't look back; he kept walking, his boots echoing on the steel floor.
Once he was out of sight, Liskarm unfolded the note, revealing his hasty scrawl:
243 Liu Lungmen Shinxu restaurant, 7:00 pm.
She tucked it away, her expression unreadable.
The gears had begun to turn, steady and deliberate. Tomorrow, the trap would spring.