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Rick didn't think he'd ever been this clean in his entire life. He felt supremely awkward, crammed into a procured gray business suit that felt surprisingly comfortable, considering it was stolen and not fitted for him.
His hair and face were cleaned and scrubbed almost raw. He used an entire bar of soap, emerging from the room looking awkward but impeccable in the unfamiliar clothing. Even his fingernails were clean.
Five minutes after the initial groups left, a pair of individuals, including Rick himself, came out of the exit points, disguised in respectable clothing. They each carried a sidearm, but his companion, one of his best soldiers, named Jonathon, carried a briefcase containing something with a little more punch.
Rick walked along, patting the slight bulge on his left side. His .45's presence reassured him much more than the disguise did. He felt like a shining neon light glared all around him, emblazoned with the word, 'spy.' In reality, he looked fairly normal and innocuous. His appearance was very average and nondescript so that, without actually calling attention to himself, he was unlikely to be remembered.
However, his disguise aside, he appeared tense. He kept putting his hands in his pocket, taking them back out and wiping them on his pants legs, glancing around in all directions. He was looking for men clad in black sprinting in his direction to put an end to the entire thing. If anything, it was his suspicious demeanor and not his clothing that would call unwanted attention.
"I'm not cut out for this espionage crap," he muttered. The solider with him, Jonathon, chuckled. Rick marveled at how at ease the guy was but didn't comment on it. Maybe he doesn't think we're as screwed as I do, he thought. How are we going to keep ourselves from getting executed once the Citizens sort it out?
Rick himself didn't believe it for a second, but both Victor and Elijah had insisted. They said it would work, provided enough chaos and rioting happened to destabilize the regime and its people. Rick still doubted it.
That was the main objective of the other groups, the bulk of the forces led by Sergei and Isaac. Their job was to create panic, drive Citizens into the streets, and anything else they could do to make a mess of the surface and its population. Sergei, especially, seemed a little too excited by this task, but he and his soldiers seemed quite adept at creating panic in their foes.
Rick's objective was the Institute, and according to Elijah's information, the security there was restrictive of who came and went but lax enough that so that a proper application of force should be successful. This, of course, was provided that greater numbers of armed Inquisitors and any other soldiers or officers were elsewhere. This was yet another 'provided' that made Rick uncomfortable with the plan. Too many variables to account for, and too many things hinging on too many specific enemy troop reactions, he thought.
At least with the defense plan of recent days, there had been room for alteration and adaptation. Striking into unfamiliar territory with a limited number of troops. Attacking the actual objective with only a vague idea of how many enemy forces would be present, while the remaining group harasses the population to try and distract another unknown number of foes. Rick shook his head once more. I guess it's better than dying like rats in the gutter.
"Something wrong, boss?" Jonathon asked, hands in the deep pockets of his trench coat.
Rick gave a thin smile. "Nope. Everything's a-okay." He checked his watch. "Should be starting soon."
"Good." Jonathon glanced at his own timepiece. "I never liked wearing a suit."
From where they were, walking down the sidewalk, they could see the spire of the Institute rising above the buildings, easily the tallest structure in Haven. That and the rest of the Institute didn't comprise more than a few to a dozen floors, so it especially towered above the immediate vicinity.
Finally, they passed out of the business sector and crossed a street. They sat down on a small bench, and, off to their right, they could see the target. The Institute building lay flanked by a large park. Grass, small trees, rows of shrubs and several flower beds could be seen in the vicinity.
The Institute was only a couple hundred yards away from where they sat, and looking it over, Rick let out a low whistle. There were only a couple of bored-looking guards with sidearms at the entrances. Good God, he thought, Elijah was right; a three-legged kitten could get past them. One guard was at the end of the left wing entrance. Another was in the front at the primary entrance that led into the main lobby. The people guarding appeared distracted and non-threatening, easy to deal with. I suppose nothing ever happens here, he thought.
Past the first arm they could see extending into the park, Rick could make out the northern section. He knew that the top half of this double-armed cross was purely for the Inquisition headquarters.
He shook his head. Offices spread around the city and a central HQ meant lots of places for trained, armed people to swarm from.
"Not too worried about trespassers, are they?" his companion remarked, regarding the lack of outside security.
Rick shook his head. "They've never had to really worry about it before."
He did wonder about a long, square-ish building a few hundred feet in front of where he sat. It was nestled firmly into the park with no apparent sidewalks, clearly set apart from the Institute. It looked to him like a barracks. He frowned.
"I'm going to check that out," he whispered to Jonathon, who nodded in response.
Rick casually glanced in both directions. Seeing nothing to indicate any spectators, he sprang from the bench out of the useful range of the street lamp. He jogged, the grass soft and springy beneath his feet, and pressed up against the side of the building. It struck him as odd, but there were no windows. He sidled along the left, the direction away from the line of sight of the side entrance of the Institute. Along the back there was a plain door, again windowless.
As quietly as he could, he gradually twisted the knob and pulled the door, which gave the slightest of whines as it cracked open. He peered through the opening, a bit of illumination from an outdoor light spilling onto the tile floor in front of him.
A soft glow emanated through square windows set into double doors opposite him, allowing him to see the outlines of shelving units and objects. A supply closet? Up above, dangling from the ceiling, he saw a bare bulb with a short chain. Opening the door an inch wider and squinting, he could see towels, buckets, and bottles of what he guessed were cleaning products.
It clicked. Servant quarters. That's why it's tucked back here, out of the way, with no windows. No rubbish to insult the eyes, he thought. Rick slid into the room, curiosity getting the better of him. Stepping softly, he moved across and inched his way over to the dusty glass.
A couple of rows of bunk beds stretched out in the next room, and motionless shapes of sleeping figures sprawled out upon them. From what he could see, it looked like roughly half of the beds were empty. Rick assumed that night time was probably when a lot of the cleaning was done. At the far end of the barracks, he could see a pair of well-lit openings. One had a unisex bathroom symbol on it, and from a rough distance estimation based on his exterior observation, he guessed that the bathroom included showers but not very many.
He wondered what the other opening was for when a face appeared on the side opposite him. Startled, he jerked back, tripping and landing hard on his rear. He edged his way backwards, looking up at the window.
The face of a woman with short-cropped hair stared down at him. The sight was unnerving, however, as she appeared to be staring through him. Her eyes appeared unfocused, vacant, and she didn't move or speak. Slowly, he rose to his feet, her unblinking gaze following him.
He trembled from the surprise as he observed the woman. Her skin was sallow and lifeless, hanging loose from her bones. Her hair was thin and stringy, and dark circles lay under her eyes. She looked to be either middle-aged or incredibly exhausted. From the lack of obvious age-blemishes, Rick guessed the latter.
"Good God…" he mumble
d, unable to look away from the woman, "This is what they do to them…"
The woman spun around, and a shot of panic burned into Rick's midsection as he feared she would reveal his presence. He jumped forward and peered through the glass, watching her slow, shuffling gait. The woman turned once more and sat down on a bed. Rick breathed a sigh of relief, wondering what made him get so worked up. He shook his head and departed.
When he reached the bench, his companion was wide-eyed, looking rather concerned. At the same time, he tried to appear nonchalant, which made him look even more twitchy and suspicious. It was almost funny, but Rick didn't feel like laughing.
"What happened?" Jonathon hissed. "You were gone so long, I thought…"
Rick waved him off. "It's not a problem; don't worry about it." The other man stared at him, expecting more. "Servants not soldiers." Even as he said the words, a bitter sensation gnawed at his gut. Maybe we should be worrying about it, the realization struck. That stuff is sick.
His partner relaxed noticeably. "Oh, okay. Good."
Rick cast aside the feelings of doubt and bitterness. Worry about it later. We'll see what can be done for them if we manage to not get slaughtered here, he thought. He glanced at his watch. Not too much longer.
Uprising Page 80