Centropolis
Legacy Name: Centropolis

The dark-furred Terracoon leaned back in the worn leather armchair, a single ceiling lamp housed in a fan illuminating a tidy office. The wooden desk on which he rested his shoes was covered in papers, each detailing a possible job. Despite the lamp and the somewhat bright window to his right above some filing cabinets, the office seemed broody. Not gloomy, but the atmosphere of one who wanted to work and not be disturbed.

Glancing to the papers, the Terracoon sighed. A pity none of them held any interest. He needed money of course, but there was a limit to what assignments he’d accept.

A knock at his door let the detective know that his secretary had finished typing up another job offer, sliding it under the door after the gesture. ‘Secretary’ was rather generous. She was a good friend though, and managed both half of the apartment complex he lived in. In addition, she got paid to type up the random job offers that came his way to keep things organized. Many clients valued privacy; so they gave no name, only a meeting place to his secretary and a basic description. The more important clients contacted him directly. But even some of those used common means.

Reading over the simple report, the detective let out a huff, snagging a trench coat and small bag from a wooden coat hanger. It was a shortened brown garment, enough to provide protection against the foggy outside, but fashionable enough to not draw attention.

“See you later Mr. C.” His friendly secretary called out, prompting a simple wave.
‘Mr. C’s’ name changed depending what office he happened to be frequenting; and for the past while, he had business in Centropolis.

Well, at least he could make an information drop on the way. He had been putting it off due to the weather. Walking down the drizzly city streets, the Terracoon slid into an alleyway, withdrawing a small plastic tube. Barely breaking stride, he slid the paper-container into a hole in the wall, continuing on towards his objective. It was harmless information of course; he didn’t deal in taking or ruining lives. But the goings-on and warehouse activity of various businesses held a rather high premium to economists and governments alike.

Walking into a public park, Mr. C scanned the few individuals present. Two Torreys playing in the rain, a Rreign walking with some shopping bags, and a Kumos reading a newspaper under an umbrella on a damp bench…
...reading in the rain? Bingo. The job description had been vague; or rather, who to meet to get the job.

Sitting down at the bench, Mr. C glanced up at the drizzling sky.“Plenty of sunshine today, eh?” That was what the job offer had indicated he should say to his contact.
“Aye, plenty of sun now.”
Good, this was his contact.

“I’ll make this brief. There’s a warehouse, number seventy-two in the loading docks district. Inside, on the top floor offices are shipping manifests. We need copies. Drop them off here in one week. Payment is generous. I mean, this is a matter of national security.”
The Terracoon’s ears flicked at seeing the Kumos flash a badge. “…why me? Don’t you have your own agents?”
It was a simple question. This job was certainly an odd one…
“Well of course. But you’re better than most of them. And we need a…discretionary third party to complete this task. Deniability of course.”

Mr. C sighed and finally nodded. “Alright. I’ll have it within the week.”
The Kumos let out a satisfied huff, getting up and walking away with a single glance. “…If you are caught, we’ll deny it all of course. On completion a lump sum will be wired to your account.”

And then he was gone.

The Terracoon groaned as he walked back to his office, waving at his secretary on returning. This would be a tricky task…but not out of his league, not by a long shot.


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Two Days Later.

…Okay, this might be out of his league.

Warehouse seventy-two was more like a military base than a storage facility. At least as close as one could get to one without being conspicuous. There were guards on the roof and inside, complimented by security cameras at each corner and entrance. The entrance from the roof had two massive doors, on which received shipping containers from large cranes, and was the most heavily-watched location of the building.

And he had to get inside to get a copy of documents? He had been watching this place for two days, and so far, it was locked up tight. Getting out was easier, but in…

On seeing the door to shipping container flap open as it was being lowered by a crane however, gave him an idea. An incredibly stupid and risky idea, but it just might be possible.


-----------------


That night.

Well. It had worked.

Getting inside the warehouse by hitching a ride in a shipping container had worked; barely. To avoid being locked in, Mr. C had left the door slightly ajar, closing it once inside and the container left unattended. Hiding out for a few hours as the night lengthened, he had planned his route with ease. Up the stairs when the guards were at the opposite end, sneak into the office and take photographs. Then out a perfectly placed window…

Lockpick tool in hand, the Terracoon slunk up the stairs as he heard the guards round the corner in the massive warehouse on the second-story catwalk. They’d be hidden by a small wall-like partition for about thirty seconds…

Fifteen seconds to get up the stairs, and another five to suddenly realize he didn’t need to pick the lock. Someone had left it open. By chance or carelessness. Perhaps this place wasn’t as tight after all…

Closing the door to the office, he kept the lights out, scanning the various metal desks and filing cabinets. The wall to his left was a massive, slightly-tinted window, so he’d have to be quick. Or at the very least, quiet, as the guards passed. Locking his gaze onto a larger desk at the end of the room, Mr. C now employed his lockpicking skills; a small locked drawer underneath the primary desk area. Come to Mr. Spy, he wants to say hello….bingo!

Laying out the shipping manifests, the Terracoon ran each document through a digital scanner twice, making sure there were duplicates of each. He carefully placed the papers back in the desk, now musing over his escape routes as he pocketed the scanner. All of them required a diversion…

Finding a stapler, he crept to the door and after cracking it, promptly tossed the heavy item to the warehouse floor. He was rewarded by hearing the guards scamper after the sound.

The creak of a window was left unheard. The only window, in fact, that was just out of view of the security cameras.

Now on the ground, it took just a flick of the wrist for Mr. C to coil the climbing rope back into the small backpack he wore. Hearing some chatter, he slid along the side of the warehouse underneath the camera’s blind spot, drawing a small revolver. He hadn’t ever needed to use it, but better safe than sorry….

Thankfully, the chatter died away, and the Terracoon slipped into the night.

Another job completed. And enough money for another comfortable few months, or more. The question was, what would the next job be…
and where?