Chapter Text
-Shortly before the events of Alice...
“This had better not be a false trail like the Tulip Rout ended up being,” huffed Number Ten more to himself than to anyone around. “An onion ring was all we found smuggling Happy Tears rather than anything about that rumored Caterpillar.”
His mantle flapped about him like crow’s wings with a monstrous attitude, but anything monstrous was what was hanging over his head if the current results proved counterfeit. Anything that drew attention to one’s head had a risk of ending in the loss of it, and that was no figure of speech.
Sure as paint, no one would deny that the leader of the investigation was the heir apparent himself, but the queen would go after the next in line under him in rule of importance. Right now that was Number Ten. Why the king asked for him to accompany Prince Jack, he could not quite surmise. Fancy, perhaps. The pressure made Number Ten very unsociable to the point that stretching one’s legs out in the fresh air was no consolation no matter how stifling the casino could be.
Number Ten was well trained with a revolver, this was true, but the Spades were meant for such field work. As a Club, by rights he should remain at court for clerical duties or tech support no matter his number rank.
“Isn’t that when we lost Number 7 of Clubs?” asked an Ace of Spades.
Number Ten jolted to have his muttering answered, but he did not change his pace when he flung him a scowl. He turned away more tense than ever in his aim for Curiouser Hall’s infamous great hall that housed the Looking Glass of Wonderland itself.
Not on the field had they lost Number Seven. Outside or in, Number Ten reminded himself, it did not save a person from the queen’s ill temper. The Resistance did more against the Suits by getting them blamed for ridiculous things (or just standing around at the wrong time as in the case of Number Seven) than any person they ever captured or killed in the line of duty.
Sometimes Number Ten was quite certain that should Caterpillar exist he knew what he was doing. The more of her own men the queen beheaded the more of a chance the Resistance had. It was a means of whittling away the confidence as well as the numbers of the Suits. Was it paranoia to think that way? It was not Number Ten who had first whispered the idea of a cold dark genius surrounded by magic mirrors to see the hands he was up against!
Number Ten threw in the doors with a bang so sudden that some of about a dozen fresh Oysters were awake enough to look his way in muddled confusion. Impatient workers, fearing the worst, snatched up their dream-prods to glaze the Oysters back to sleepwalking easy as pie, but Number Ten received just as many sulky glares from the workmen for his door banging.
Rolling his eyes disgruntled Number Ten pacified his manners. It was nothing to the eggshells he had to walk in the throne room of the Happy Hearts.
Such dear happy hearts! Here was one of them smiling now. Full of unwarranted good humor Prince Jack lost no poise of professionalism no matter how impish he looked.
“Calm down, Number Ten. Nothing’s happened yet.”
“Majesty,” sighed Number Ten in submission, but he had to ask, with a minimal nod toward the Oysters, “Are we sure about this? Running operations while the investigation is on.”
“Well,” said Jack as he led Number Ten further into the hall. “We don’t want to arouse any possible suspicion, of course.”
Suspicion! thought Ten.
Half the deck was crawling at the seams of Curiouser Hall, and Prince Jack was talking about suspicion!
But for the sake of not arousing suspicion, Number Ten just gave a passive, “Of course.”
Jack put his hand on Number Ten’s shoulder like he was an over-flustered governess instead of what he was: one of the most well-trained, well-informed, most trusted servants. They were not that far apart in age, but he felt like a haggard old man dealing with a young teen as he mocked the duress his dear mother’s servants.
“The queen wants to make sure,” said Jack loud enough for everyone to hear without troubling Oysters to denote that their cover was in process, “that the possibility of an open menu for the lords and ladies has no hitch before we start hiring builders. The Oysters and the aristocracy must be as apart as possible while still allowing a good view for the requests at the Casino for personal Oysters.”
There is such a thing as getting too personal with Oysters, Number Ten thought.
The lack of face was the only way some people could stomach it, but the gluttony of the lords and ladies was beyond mere addiction. It was becoming obsession.
One could hope that the Resistance believed the Suits were as stupid as they claimed, but there was a fluke in Prince Jack’s cover story that the smarter members might notice. That was that after the first couple drains of an Oyster, the amount of liquid produced from induced emotion grew slimmer and slimmer. The chance that one Oyster’s emotions differed from another’s was slim in and of itself, as far as Number Ten knew. Either way, the idea of going to the Casino to ask for the results of a particular Oyster, would cause a customer to have to wait longer for results rather than making anything more personal.
If this cover-story had been meant to be put into action in any sort of reality, it would end in being another lie among so many the Suits had to keep up. Other Oysters would be needed to add to a main ‘favorite Oyster’s’ drainage so that nothing would be specialized. Just a lot of busy work.
It was all unneeded confusion, but the prince specialized in confusion and delay when he set his mind to it. Sometimes, it was hard to say whether he was mystifying the Resistance or the Suits more. In such cases those under him were forced to follow Jack blind.
“Her majesty desires,” the prince went on, “the best experiences for her people, so everyone here who is not on duty with the Oysters is asked to inspect any possible shortcomings to the idea of her majesty’s automated tour: the trawly design, and the escort-alator, the sampler automaton— all are supposed to work like clockwork along the proposed track. You’re all familiar with the needs of the aristocracy more than any builder so I expect this to be a short inquiry.”
In a flippant turn he began to strut away, but he took less than two steps before he returned to his audience and lifted a smirk on his cocked head.
“Oh, and do try not to upset the fresh Oysters while you’re here. They have not been yet fully processed.”
Number Ten shook his head as the prince swept off as before. He did not care if the prince saw him either.
What they were really doing was following a lead of a possible arson attempt supposed to have been leaked from the deepest plans of the Resistance. There could be explosives and flammable dangers. Water was at the ready in every available spout and hose in the area. At the moment Number Ten himself was equipped with a personal fire extinguisher alongside his revolver, but the most curious bit of information and something that may send all of Wonderland into a new stage of this rather cold war was the fact that there were whispers of Caterpillar overseeing this arson attempt himself.
Should Prince Jack not think of what his people had done for him, he could at least one day take serious the utter lawlessness that the Resistance would stop at nothing to achieve whether their mastermind leader Caterpillar existed or not.
Why is it that I doubt the evidence that that phantom will be here?
Agents risked their necks to have gotten that supposed information sent to the prince first in case of upsetting the queen. She had found out anyway from a servant being far too helpful. Number Ten would not name names, but it was a shame to the Clubs that the slip had occurred. Maybe that was why Number Ten had agreed in such readiness to accompany Jack. It was a case of honor.
So back to the beginning of his concerns, Number Ten relented and straightened before the other Suits loitering about, as grave as they were uncertain. Some were downright shuffling like dimwitted fools.
“Well,” said Number Ten in a tone of colorless contempt at the incompetence of his fellows, “you heard Prince Jack.”
And he too swung away to oversee their results as he adjusted his bowler hat. He had to decide mid swing his next move, as after his plan for a dramatic flight in exit he was not sure where he was flying too for certain. He looked to the steps out onto the terrace, but he had not taken more than a few steps in that direction when something far more theatrical took flight.
KLANG!
A readied pipe exploded— its cover flinging into the hall and would have struck a Suit right through the middle like cardstock if he had not fell backwards just when he had. The water pressure on full blast was an angry geyser bursting in.
Number Ten could do nothing but squeak as he beheld the horror bring his hunch that there was something amiss to life right before him. He should have been more persuasive about his thoughts to the prince. The poor prince could not have suspected this sort of trick! And in a place as critical to their operations as Curiouser Hall?
Screams whirled around Number Ten, but all he could do was stand there gaping for a few seconds more before one of the few agents of White Rabbit that were here snarled behind him, “Secure the ring!”
The ring!?
The notion of the Stone of Wonderland being washed down into Memory’s Lake more lost beneath its glossy surface than had it been lost through the Looking Glass itself burst his body back into motion. He spun around, water sloshing at his feet.
Had they secured it?
Before he could know, another violent burst of metal and water exploded as potent as a mine into the hall. The lights stuttered and sizzled. Then most went out leaving the hall in more confusion.
“Majesty!” he wailed.
He turned again when he thought he had caught sight of the prince. He was stopped in his pursuit when he ran right into someone. Both he and the other fell splashing amidst the chaos of falling electrical equipment threatening to electrocute the jumbled masses every which way. He heard the cry of the other person too— muddled and stifled— a half-awake Oyster.
Scrambling for his feet, Number Ten had no time to fear it before he sensed how very awake she was for how she was getting up and fleeing faster than he was.
Just another mistake to add to this fiasco.
Just image if all the Oysters in the hall woke up?
Had that been the Resistance’s plan?
As yet a third pipe burst, he felt more than saw the Oyster falling back in his direction. She screamed almost in Number Ten’s ear.
They should not have routed up so many pipes. One would have been sufficient. There had to be a hookah-smoking Caterpillar watching all through a veil of magical smoke screening the whole of Wonderland.
Not knowing what he was doing for certain, Number Ten used all his frustration to try to grab the ankle of the fleeing Oyster. It was a short woman scared out of her wits. Could not Number Ten just get one silly Oyster under control?
More shouting was washed under the sound was rushing water. Another White Rabbit agent? He could not sure. No one else saw the Oyster, though. Anyone still in control of his or her faculties was following the direction of the shouter.
The Oyster was running through the first available doorway to her, which led down to the Underpass, the main artery for the hauling of Oysters to be loaded into Scarab transports. Those were in the attached Scarab portion of White Rabbit across the lane from Curiouser Hall.
He plunged through the wide corridor after her.
One loose Oyster was one Oyster too many as the queen would be apt to remind anyone who dared think such an escape trivial.
Under a flickering ceiling light the Oyster’s silhouette scampered at a spark of a wire.
Number Ten ripped his revolver from his holster and attempted to fire a warning shot near her. Of course this was when he slipped just five steps past the arch. Flat on his stomach splash! Cold water bit rather than cushioned, and he lost the grip on his weapon like a wet soap bar.
The Oyster slipped around the corner ahead just seconds after his lifted his head. He was not going to lose her. Forcing himself upright despite half strangling himself in the chain of his own Club livery collar, he staggered on, correcting his balance as he went. Then he ran straight through the wide round doorway into the Underpass itself.
Despite the water, the Oyster ran down the ramp to the bottom of the Underpass instead of crossing the main walkway or conveyor belt. Perhaps she hoped to escape through the water, but this was no sewer or underground waterway of any kind attached here. She trapped herself down there. The only way out was into Scarab.
Number Ten smiled, and it was quite unpleasant as he thought of all the traps for loose Oysters White Rabbit laid in the labyrinth of their own domain.
The Oyster made for an open workman’s door where she might even fall into a honeycomb if it was not already occupied.
He let a breath of a brittle chuckle escape the corner of his mouth, but just to make sure she was as trapped as she seemed, he crept along the edge to the steps of the lowest catwalk just under the conveyor belt. It would be just his luck if there was a camera still working that could be shown later how he let an Oyster go.
His catwalk descended into the water, but it was not too deep to follow. The noises of commotion were drowning out his sloshing, and a new sound added to the audio chaos.
A machine hummed to life. He took a chance to look about. It was an automatic drainage system, after all. Tiny shafts at the bottom released the flow of water. The cylindrical walls began to rotate very slow and heavy so as not to miss any liquid getting trapped, but the doors on either end were left unmoved. He made sure that the catwalks and the conveyor remained in place before moving forward with a firm nod of satisfaction.
It had been designed by White Rabbit’s finest. He supposed they had thought of everything.
But architectural design was not the only thing to be accounted for.
He stiffened at the dunk, dunk of footsteps from the main doorway he had entered through. Swiveling, he wanted to make sure he knew whose side the person was on before following the Oyster again. Yet another set of movement abruptly closed in from the other side of him far closer. The gears of the conveyor belt were not moving but someone was scampering about them like a chimpanzee.
Panicked Number Ten almost lost his balance on his wet shoes, but he snatched the rail. Steadying himself, in that moment he forgot about Oysters.
The face he faced was cast in flickering light and obscured beyond later recognition in the swiftness of the climber’s movements. There was no uniform. A Resistance lunatic: young, wild and angry! He had something in his hand that was heavy, and had Number Ten had his gun he would have not been fast enough to react.
WHAM!
#
CLANG!
There was no spray of water, and it was nothing like the sound of the pipes this time.
The echo was cold and deep in the marrow like the clang of a ship’s anchor against a metal deck. He choked; though he might have choked anyway for the pain throbbing in his skull long after the reverberations subsided.
When Number Ten lifted his woozy head, his eyeballs crossed and rolled upwards. The nausea had him sinking into the curved floor at the bottom of the Underpass. Wet but drained of any substantial water, it was cold glass beneath him like an emptied fish bowl. It smelled a little like that too, and he submerged into blackness again.
He did not know how long it was before he lifted his head back up, but he was not quite roused at first by what he felt were living shadows creeping of any number of ruffians. Hovering, shapeless fears examined his prone body like jackals, but as he focused yet again, he knew that it had to have been a mere fancy while unconscious.
The first clear thing he thought now was that they had already had their chance to kill him and had not. Maybe the youth he had faced had had no weapon other than the crude pole; or maybe it was wrench? It was possible, like some of the Resistance, the young man who could not be out of his teens had felt he was heroic for not killing an enemy when he was down. They felt they were noble like the ancient Knights upon which they based their so-called “chivalry”.
Instead they had just humiliated one of the top servants of the Hearts and left him with a head welt that would not heal for weeks… if he still had that head to heal at all in that amount of time.
Clang!
“Mmph…” Number Ten recoiled.
It was not as loud as the other clang. It was more like the sound of a bird— granted a very large one— trying to get out in a bird’s frantic way from a great metal box.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Number Ten held his head. He managed to get to his knees. The glass bottom of the Underpass was a long strip of window from one end of the cylinder to the other along the stretch. It looked straight down through the city right into a small bay of Memory’s Lake. His faint reflection breathed once or twice back at him steaming the glass. Then he used those knees as he had nothing else available to him to get to his shaky feet.
From down here, he could see that the wide round door was sealed the way from which he had come. He had but to step just a few paces out from under the conveyor belt to see that the matching door on the opposite end was also sealed. Had the clangs been the extra jamming of these doors?
The main doors maybe, but there were many side doors, and a hatch or two they might have missed.
Once he was walking for the door into Scarab, his strength returned to him more or less. As long as there were no loud noises, he felt he should be alright. The silence was quite a deep one at the moment. Too quiet, except for the echoing of his own footsteps, which made the place feel twice as big as it was.
He ignored such fancy. As he tried the door, he was not surprised that it was locked. He sighed. Then he turned around to try another door up along one of the catwalks.
For whatever dignity he had left he picked up his hat from the glass floor along the way. He was already damp. The discomfort was complete. A damp hat was not going to make much of a difference. To defy the ordeal he straightened himself and made his pace firm as he marched for the nearest ladder, but he stopped.
Movement. Human-sized.
Into shadow he ducked and tried to look up at the conveyor belt at the same time.
Shuffling.
It sharply cut off just after he settled.
Number Ten was not alone in here.