NN1: Cloud of Mystery

August 1, 1930.  A black and white world, a place of innocence well known for its fun-loving antics and comical criminals, and a haven for happiness that would one day flourish and shine as an example of purity amongst the worlds:  such was Timeless River.  No rules, no cares, no worries, all of this and still no heinous crime to be had.

This harmony was about to be shattered.

A solitary light bulb rapidly fluctuated in brilliance above the heads of the two men.  The faulty wiring in the as-of-yet unfinished building was to blame, not that this was a concern of the room's occupants.  They had a different bit of business in mind besides fixing up their current stay.  "So, boss, what's the plan?" one of them asked.

The other, his hat pulled low over his eyes, replied, "The job is simple:  cause a scene at our competition's doorstep."  Smoke from his cigar leaked from his mouth with every syllable spoken.

"What kind of scene're we talkin' about?  Street fight, body dump, or Molotov Cocktail?"

"We should show as little involvement as possible," replied the boss.  "The thinking behind a Molotov Cocktail is good, but we need a more subtle approach, see?"

"So we are going to torch the place."

The boss sighed as he snuffed out his cigar in the ashtray.  "Yes, we're going to torch them.  The construction on our building site should never have been postponed, nor should its benefactors have shunned purchasing our services.  Us new guys on the block need to make a living too, see?"

"How are we goin' to do it, though, if we're not brewin' 'dem a Cocktail?"

"That's what we're decidin' 'ere," growled the smoker.  He pulled a fresh cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it, taking in a long drag.  "Seriously, stay on the same damn page."

"Sorry, boss."  Looking to his leader's cigar label he asked, "Are those your special imported brand?"

The boss raised an eyebrow as his eye lowered to his smoking Cuban.  "Ah, yeah, it is.  I got another four minutes on this, though."  Suddenly, the light bulb above his head shone with maximum brilliance, illuminating the widened smile on his face.  "I say we see if our friends are up for a smoke."

…

'WHOO-WHOO!'  The sound of Captain Pete's steamboat whistle signaled an end to the day, as it did every day once it pulled into the pier.  Also as usual, Mickey was the first to disembark.  As soon as his shoes hit the dirt, he started off for home.

"Sheesh, what do people see in that pipsqueak?" Pee gruffly asked himself, looking down on his deckhand with a brow down to his nose.  "Lazy as the dickens and hardly says a word."  Pulling up his pants and straightening his hat, he followed behind and made his own way to Cornerstone Hill.

By the time he arrived, all of the usual familiar faces were already standing there:  Horace Horsecollar and Clarabelle Cow, Clara Cluck the opera singer, the town police force of Donald Duck and Dippy Dawg, Mickey Mouse (of course) and Mortimer (his cousin), and Anthony Ant.

The warp windows had appeared as well.  Like a bus or a horse-and-cart, these windows were the way that everyone got to their various homes.  The Mouse cousins lived in Mickey's house (he actually did have his own place), but most everyone else stayed in a hotel relatively close to the house.

Once Pete stood amid the others, the window panes opened and allowed access to the abodes on the other side.  Mickey was already in his house before the panes were all the way open.  "He's always eager to go home, I'll give him that."

Some of the others, while awaiting their turn to enter the hotel window (why Clara Cluck always insisted on going first was a mystery), proved not so eager.  They would rather just enjoy the company of friends.  Or a cigar.  "There's nothing in life better than a good smoke," Mortimer mused, flaunting the Havana fag in his hand.

"Agreed," Anthony answered, pulling out a pair of cigars and lighters of his own from his trench coat pockets, one for each of his four hands.

"I don't get why some people find problems with them," continued the Mouse.

Anthony shrugged before taking a couple of drags.  "Eh, ya know what they say:  smoking kills."

"Heh, I'd rather kiss a sweet cigar than bite a bullet any day."

Pete snorted at them before blowing a smoke ring.  "Get a room, you two."  He snuffed his cigar on his one overall button before throwing it over his shoulder and climbing into the hotel portal himself.

Mortimer turned up his nose at the prospect.  "I wouldn't even set foot in that hovel, let alone stay there."  He took one last puff of his Cuban before flicking the butt into the window.  Muttering indecencies he climbed into Mickey's window.  Anthony had nothing else to add, having entered the hotel window from the end of the line.

…

The sound of a siren wailing in the night woke the hotel.  Flames had appeared in the lobby about an hour after the window portals had closed; now the first three floors were on fire!  A fire truck and trampoline had been called, the firefighters blocking off further access to the building that was bouncing in a futile attempt to put itself out.  Cries of alarm and smoke-filled windows signaled the magnitude of the job at hand.  A scream, a calming call, an airy bouncing, and the reset:  such was the rescue procedure repeated over and over again.

At last Pete vacated his window on the top floor, the last to leave; this was most definitely a good thing, since the trampoline broke underneath him.  The resulting (and unintentional) shock wave scattered the firefighters around their fenced-off field.  Pete picked himself up and dusted off his pants as he made his way towards the rescued crowd.  "What in the name o' Mark Twain is goin' on around here?" he thundered.  "Can't a guy get any sleep without waking up to some kind o' ruckus?"

"Don't look at me," Mortimer replied, lighting a cigar.  "We just got here, didn't we, Mick?"

The shorter Mouse nodded his affirmative.

"The fire's too intense," Dippy said.  "We can't find out the cause until it's out."

"Well, what does Donald say?" asked Clara.  "Does he agree?"

Dippy Dawg looked around, but there was no response.  "Uh, he doesn't say anything."

Mortimer tapped his foot impatiently.  "Where is that feathered fool?"

"Buck-gawk!  I beg your pardon?" Clara snapped.


"He means Donald, hun," Clarabelle said to console her.

"I think I saw him run back into the hotel," Anthony offered.

Horace nodded and added, "Yeah, I saw him, too!  I think he's searching for clues."

"In that case," sighed Mortimer, "I predict we'll be eating roast duck for breakfast tomorrow."

Clarabelle gave the taller mouse a slap across the face.  "Don't even say such things!"

Mickey had heard enough.  He broke from the crowd and rushed towards the blazing building; the fire had escalated to the fifth floor out of the six.  Looking in the direction of the worried shouts, the fireman working the hose lowered it, inadvertently pointing it at the doors.  The flames died down enough so that, when Mickey crashed into the brittle door, he remained unscathed.  The fireman was drawn back to the blaze by the crash.

Inside the fire wasn't as intense as the fiery windows would have let on:  there was ample space to move around with the floor mainly tile.  Still not seeing Donald, Mickey ascended the stairs at the back of the lobby.

Traversing the flame-littered rug on the stairs proved more hazardous than the lobby.  Even though the material wasn't easily ignitable, there were still patches ablaze every step or so.  The fact that most of the wooden doors had ignited prevented further searching of the hotel.

"BWAAAACK!"  'Crash!'  Only one door needed to be searched now:  the one in splinters.  With a clear target, Mickey hastened his pace.  It was to the top floor Donald had gone, through a door that only now was just becoming charcoal.  Hardly hesitating, the steamboat assistant bypassed the splinters and hurried after Donald.

The Duck's aim was a room on the other side of the floor, at the front of the building.  The door was slightly ajar.  Donald reached out a hand to push it open, when Mickey ran up beside him.  Frantic, the Mouse pointed back the way they had come from.  The Duck saw something other than an exit.  "Dippy?"

Before either Donald or Mickey could make an escape, the other officer barreled into them, broke down the door, and sent all three of them flying out the window!  The building arched backwards with this door being knocked off its hinges, giving the three a slide down which to ride the door.  That was, of course, until the wood sled crashed into the ground.  The three sliders landed in a heap right where Pete had dropped from the same exact window.

The group of rescues who had remained outside ran to their sides and eased them to their feet.  "What did you find?" asked Horace.

"Yeah," Clarabelle added.  "Do you know what caused this calamity?"

"It's actually more of a who," answered Donald.

"What are you saying?" demanded Mortimer.  "One of us did it?"

Dippy nodded and said in reply, "Yup, that's what he's saying, a-hyuck."

Pete stepped forward with a frown on his face.  "I don't suppose ya have proof?"

Bringing the pack on his back around to the front, Donald opened it and took out an all-too-familiar hat.  Along with it came a singular button.  "These were found in front of the fireplace in the lobby."

Promptly Pete's jaw dropped.  His pants followed soon after.  "You think… you think I did this?"

"There's some pretty strong evidence against ya," admitted Dippy.

"Ah, what do you know, law man?" Pete retorted.  "I can outmuscle any evidence against me."

Mickey held up a third object, urgently holding it in front of Donald.  "What's this?" the Duck asked, taking and examining it.

"That looks like one of the hotel doorknobs," answered Anthony.

Horace leaned in closer for his own look.  "You're right, but there's something different about this one."

"You mean how it's out of a door?"

"No, Mortimer," Donald snapped.  "This is Pete's knob, the one from the door we slid down."

"Wait, you three punks broke down my door!?" raged Pete.

Dippy shied away from him and said, "It was only an accident…"

"The point of this is that Pete's lock was picked," Donald said, drawing attention back to him and the knob.  He turned the incriminating side, with the large hole punched through the keyhole, upward for everyone to easily see.

"See?  See?  It wasn't me.  Wanna know why?  I have the key."  A smile returned to Pete's face as he brought a brass key out of his pocket.

Mickey nodded in agreement, as did Clarabelle.  "Not even Pete would lose the key to his own room.  It must have been robbed."

"What she said.  Now, if y'all will excuse me, I'm going back to my steamboat.  No one can sneak up on me in the middle of the night there."  Turning to Mickey he added, "I still expect to see you on time tomorrow."  Pete took back his button and donned his cap, marching down the road towards Cornerstone Hill.

"Do you have any other clues?" Clara questioned.

In reply, Donald dove back into his bag.  He surfaced with a burnt brown stub about the length of a finger.  "This is definitely what was used to start the fire."  His (and a good portion of the others') eyes narrowed on Mortimer and Anthony.

Mortimer's pair narrowed with anger.  "What, just because I smoke automatically makes me the bad guy?" he asked, taking the Cuban from his teeth.

"You've always hated this hotel," Horace shot back, "ever since you were denied an entire floor to yourself and banned for your perpetual smoking."

Clarabelle also stepped up accusingly.  "That's right, and you had a place to stay even if the hotel did burn down."

"Yeah, I couldn't say that," Anthony added, smoke of his own trailing from his mouth.

Now it was Mortimer's turn to point the finger.  "But you smoke the same Cuban cigars I do.  This could have easily been your doing!  Besides, I would never waste so much as an inch of any of my smokes:  look how much was left on that one!"

Would you leave this much of an exploding cigar?"  Donald's eyes were stern as he glared at Mickey's cousin.  Gasps from all around signaled the new severity of the situation.

"What are you talking about?  Exploding cigars?"  Mortimer regarded Donald with mockery now.  "Have the smoke fumes gone to your bird brain?"

"Bird brain!?  Why, you no-good—!"  Donald dropped the used cigar and rushed Mortimer.

Dippy restrained his fellow officer before the fists started flying.  "If that's the only clue we have, we can only sit and think this out, a-hyuck."  He eased himself down (restraining Donald easily with one arm) and took a seat right where he stood.

He immediately stood up again when he felt something on his butt.  Donald was dropped in Dippy's surprise, the Duck's concern for his partner derailing his frustration.  Looking around to Dippy's stub of a tail, Donald saw the culprit:  a disembodied hand was latched onto his butt!  "What is this now?"  The hand was definitely a prop when Donald took it off and inspected it.

"Heck knows if I don't," replied Anthony, crossing his arms.  "It must have come from Pete's—"

Clara Cluck's operetta scream cut him off.  "What happened to your hand?"  A frantic finger was pointed to Anthony's lower elbow.  Where one of his hands would have rested, there was nothing!

Peering down upon it, Anthony flinched; he had kept his lower hands in his trench coat pockets up until this point for this very reason.

"Weren't you about to say this came from Pete's room?" accused Donald, almost shoving the hand in his face.

"That would mean you were in Pete's room," Mortimer added, "most likely to steal his stuff to frame him for the fire!"

"Wait, wait, I can explain this," Anthony insisted.

"Tell it to the judge," spat Donald.  "You're under arrest for arson, attempted framing, and attempted murder by starting this scene of a fire."  On his order, Dippy stood at Anthony's back and held his arms fast.  "We have this situation under control," he said to everyone else.  "You should wait at Cornerstone Hill until the firemen put out the flames."

Mortimer sighed to himself before turning and walking down the road.  "This place lost its excitement anyhow."  None of the others even stuck around that long and were already ahead of him.

"Time for you to go to the station, Anthony," Dippy said at last once the others were away.

Anthony craned his neck up to him, disbelief written on his face.  "Really?  Is it that time already?"  He turned around front and spat out his cigar.  "I don't think so, since your time is up."

While the cigar was still airborne, a new smell trailed from it.  Rarely ever had he allowed this scent to escape, the odor of the black powder going off.  The explosion was only about the size of a watermelon, but the surprise and smoke cloud were more than enough to allow him to escape:  Dippy released him to cover his eyes with Donald doing likewise.  With no hands on him, he escaped into the burning hotel.

The duration of the smoke didn't trail on for long.  As soon as the cigar bomber was inside, the police's field of vision cleared.  They didn't remain that far behind the convict, either, once the firefighters pointed them in his direction.

…

The flames inside the building had definitely intensified since Mickey ran through this fiery gauntlet.  I mean, the Mouse was in and out of there in, like, five minutes flat.  There was no way he could have gotten around the flaming debris in the floor's center in that time and as unharmed as he was.  The floor above must have burned through.

There was definitely no escaping for me up the stairs, but hopefully I could lose the cops on the second floor. Playing jump rope with my good arms (this world truly was ridiculous…) brought them around to my front.  My two fakes remained behind me.  Hurriedly I worked the handcuffs with my fake pincers (finally the cumbersome things had a use) to free my hands.  I worked hurriedly because I could already hear the cops behind me.  "Give up, Anthony!" they shouted.  Geez, when would they stop calling me by that fake name?  It was Antonio Benedici, for God's sake.  Thankfully the cuffs soon clicked open and freed my hands.

I threw my jacket off of myself in due time.  After clearing the pockets of my effects (any Mafioso can quickly pick pockets) I threw the trench coat with my fake arms still attached onto the top of the flaming wood.  Enough of the flames were put out for me to use the pile as a ladder.  I was up on the second floor by the time the cops reached the pile's base.

My room was entered in due time.  The whole of the floor and the door had been soaked with the overflowing tub to prevent combustion; crude, but effective.  Immediately I locked the door and donned my hat that I always keep on the door when I go out.  It was nice to get out of that monkey suit (well, ant suit) and into my more comfortable one:  harder to conceal a Tommy gun (like the one on my bed next to my shotgun and the ice pick used to break into that fool Pete's room) but easier to shoot without the baggy sleeves getting in the way.

I went to pick my gun up, but there was something (or should I say some one) beside it.  "Benny?  What are you still doing here, let alone in my room?"

"I'm a heavy sleeper, boss, you know that," my lackey said.  "I knew your room was safe, since I couldn't escape."

It figures that the moron forgot that he could survive a fall from my window and escape unseen.  Still, it was too late to cry over spilt liquor.  "Grab your stuff and take up a defensible position," I told him.

"Got it, boss."  He slid a pair of brass knuckles onto his fingers and clicked his stiletto.  Why he insisted on working with those close-quarters toys was beyond me, when a firearm gets the job done so much better.  Still, he ran to the door to get the drop on whoever broke through it.

Surprisingly, a bang came from its other side within the minute.  I had thought it would have taken a bit more time for them to reach us between the fires and the numerous doors to check.  Another, harder one caused Benny to jump.  I remained calm, my Tommy gun trained on the door crack.  The third bash against it was even harder, causing it to split partially.  Did they have a bettering ram or something?  Again a thud rocked the door, this fourth one proving the finale.

The wood split completely, letting in a torrent of black creatures.  Their mugs were too sharp to be local backup; they must have been immigrants.  Despite Benny being shorter than me, even he was having his share of trouble hitting the crawling bugs.  By share, I meant that he had it all.  My Tommy gun proved more than sufficient.  Bullet after bullet tore into the torrent, riddling the whole horde full of lead.

Despite all the death I dealt, the body count hardly went up.  I expected the door to be all blocked up by the body pile by the time I needed to reload to my second drum.  I looked up from my reload to find that Benny had disappeared!  He definitely didn't flee:  his heavy footsteps would have been heard.  He must have been buried alive by bugs.

I wouldn't let that happen to me.  Pocketing my needle and taking up my shotgun (the Tommy gun held by its stock under my arm) I gave it a couple clicks before firing off one of the shells.  A good-sized path opened before me once they vanished.  By this time I figured they disappeared once they were killed.  Another shell fired into them completely opened a path into the hallway.  I gladly took it, switching up the Tommy gun's positions.

I ran through the hall backwards, firing into the crowd that had (somehow) gotten up the stairs.  A new face joined the party at this point, but the face was on a car!  It, too, had a design unlike anything in this world: it was on this that I concentrated my fire.  As I backed up, the car's windshield and beady yellow eyes disintegrated in a shower of glass.  The hood ornament came off next with one lucky bullet before I knocked the teeth out of its grill.

By this time I had backed up to the window at the end of the hallway.  I turned around to leap out of it and escape, but I immediately stopped myself:  down below me, fighting another group of creatures like the ones I had just killed, were the two lawmen!  Despite the more dangerous arms in their hands, I could still tell it was them.  I also saw and recognized the weapon held by the brat alongside them:  the Keyblade.  Were they really here for me?  Or had their attentions turned toward the creatures now attacking the building?

Either way, I didn't want to make myself a target:  I'd rather take my chances with many weaklings than a few strong street fighters.  I turned around to face the crowd.  In my indecision they had crept closer.  My Tommy gun would fix that.  My finger squeezed the trigger, and a hot line of lead and smoke exploded from the end of my gun's barrel.  More smoke formed for each bullet that brought down one of those black bugs.  This was my turf, and no group of Ellis Island flunkies was going to take it from me.  Only over my dead body would they get it.

That seemed to be fine with them.  Another car of the same make as the last demolition job I did appeared almost out of nowhere.  Its headlights were lit, and its teeth were gnashing with anger; a couple of honks confirmed its road rage.  I raised my gun to it, but it floored its own gas pedal and drove straight through its own ranks!  I've heard of "no honor among thieves"; but this, even for me, was overkill.

I wasn't about to let it outdo my killing spree, either.  Dodging to the side of its line drive, I centered my fire on it.  My cigar drooped when I noticed that its route remained unhindered; my bullets were bouncing right off of it!  This proved a problem.

Further complicating things was when it semi-stopped next to me.  I only say "semi-stop" because it went into a showcase-style spin before it could crash into the wall.

Suddenly, when its headlights once again lit me up, it charged forward again!  There was nowhere for me to go in that narrow hallway except backwards with the hit.  I knew of cars to assist with the hit, but this was the first time I knew of where the car performs it.

This car wasn't driven by a Mafioso, though, and didn't secure a kill (thankfully).  Instead, I flew back and crashed into the broom closet at the cross-T hallway's far end.  It wasn't the pillow storage, but it was survivable.  Of course, I could feel a bone or two broken somewhere; I was too out of it to know where.

I could still tell that the car intended to finish the job with its headlights shining on me.  Either way, it didn't come in any closer:  the broken broom handles at my feet must have deterred its tired feet.  The black bugs weren't so easily deterred; they were almost like cockroaches that way.  One of them wandered up to my battered body, climbing up onto my chest before it plunged its hand into me!  I coughed up a bit of blood and smoke with the shock; its stab wasn't as clean as my ice pick (more like a stiletto held by an amateur) but the hit was still there.  Its fingers soon retracted, taking with it my heart!  These guys might have had a different way of doing things, but they were alright at what they did.  Hell, maybe they could have been made men themselves in another life.  The world went black as I smiled at this thought.

…

Case File #23:  The Scene of the Fire
Date:  8/2/1930 Time:  shortly after midnight

Suspect appears to have started the fire using an explosive cigar in the lobby.  Motive is unknown.  Apprehended suspect outside the hotel and confronted him with evidence of arson, framing for arson, and attempted murder.  Suspect escaped custody and re-entered the burning building, unlocking his shackles and making it to the second floor.  Flames became too intense to pursue.  When the fire was put out, numerous shell casings were found, but there was no sign of the suspect; presumed dead due to asphyxiation or burned to death.

Reporting Officers:  Donald Duck and Dippy Dawg

Machelix read this report as he stood atop the burning building.  He scowled at it, the frown added to his other features' world form appearance coming off as more of a pout.  Never did he enjoy coming to this world; it was too cute and a downright bitch to enter from the Disney Castle basement.  Well, if he wasn't invited, anyway.

The Mysterious Mage had been called in specifically to resolve in aiding this eighty-year-old case on its anniversary.  This chuckle's worth of irony was long since spent; Machelix wasn't in the mood.  "Humph, talk about kicking a dude when he's down," he muttered.  "Just because I'm acting on my own again doesn't mean that they can summon me to clean up their ancient messes."

He crumpled the paper in his fist before leaping backwards and over the edge.  His staff appeared in his hand, the spikes hooking on the edge of the roof and allowing him to swing onto the sixth floor.

Looking around at the room he landed in, he made a note to always bring in Cajexin for a mission involving moving flames out of the way.  Even though she was the newest female Entourage recruit, he still should have remembered.

This fact soured his mood further.  Upon approaching the door he raised his boot and delivered a solid kick to knock it off its hinges.  The hallway outside reflected his mood:  heated with occasional flares but not quite all-consuming.  The levels below must have been furnaces compared to this.

Still, if he was to find the suspect, he would need to descend.  Being against the back of the hotel afforded him an advantage here:  the staircase leading down was right nearby.  This one Machelix needn't attack:  the door was already broken, splintered before he had even arrived.  Even without the wings of his Halloween Town world form he seemed to fly down the stairs until he reached the second floor door.  He might as well pick up where the police left off.

When he opened the door (this time with his bare fist) he was met by another annoyance:  an entire regiment of Shadow Heartless (all of their yellow eyes lifelessly leering at him) lined the hallway all the way to the window at the other end.  "Great, more crap to clean up," he groaned, taking up a battle stance.

Machelix didn't even give them the chance to regroup before he acted:  as previously mentioned, he wasn't in the mood.  "Twilight Strafe."  As he raised his staff arm, a few spheres of the compacted blend of light and darkness shot from the crystal ball and blew apart a part of the Heartless horde.  The lingering flames around the hole in the floor were extinguished by the forces as well.  Machelix was left a clear corridor down which to walk.

That was the case until Machelix leapt the gap and the final Heartless appeared:  a Hot Rod.  Against Kespix or Fexyregof, this Heartless could pose a serious challenge; against Machelix, an expert on magic as well as with his weapon, its minutes were numbered.  The Mage lowered his staff's crystal ball at its windshield.

The Heartless revved the engine under the insignia acting as the hood ornament.  Machelix hadn't fought too many Hot Rods, but that signal didn't usually mean a rush.  His call was correct:  instead of charging headlong, it eased itself back on its rear tires, treating them like feet.  There was a reason these Heartless frequented this world during Pete's raid, and this ridiculousness was it.

The cartoon antics were just beginning.  Moving relatively fast for a turtle on two legs, the Hot Rod rushed at Machelix.  Its two front tires were held like fists.

The Mage couldn't believe the Heartless had set a trap even one so simple like this:  if he stayed, he would be fighting in its court; if he leapt back across the hole in the floor, he'd be susceptible to a rushing attack the moment he landed (with its ludicrous speed it cold easily bridge the gap).

For now, he resolved to fight it at close-range.  When the punch came would be a bit of a surprise; there was only a split-second tell.  After that, its second part of the standard one-two combo was as predictable as anything.  The wait wasn't long in any regard.  First, the right jab came forward and struck Machelix's chest.  This was just the setup strike, so there wasn't much power behind it.  The punch to his pacemaker set off a calculated counter in Machelix's mind, during which time he readied his staff's spikes.  When the alarm sounded, the left hook came forward as the Mage's handheld spike strip came up.  The imminent blowout breezed through Machelix's hair but threw the Hot Rod halfway back to the window.

The wounded three-wheeler remained upright, its weapon-resistant charge lost to its arsenal (unless it had a spare).  Even without this advantage, Machelix kept his guard up.  It wasn't safe until it was severely departed; such was always the policy with Heartless or their Lords.

Gnashing its tooth-lined grill (to prove his point) the Hot Rod advanced again for a bite attack.  There was only so much Machelix could stand before he lost his patience.  "I don't have time for this," he groaned before lifting his staff again.  A single Twilight Pulse shot from his staff, this one even denser than those of the previous set.  In the Hot Rod's center a clean hole was punched through.  It didn't remain in the hallway long after that.

Finished for now, Machelix sheathed his staff and made his way to the end of the hallway.  If the Heartless were on this floor, then most likely his target would be as well; it was all a matter of searching.

His "hunt" proved both short and anti-climactic:  a figure was sprawled out in the broom closet at his far left.  Machelix soon arrived at the man's feet; it was obvious his heart was stolen.  Sure, he didn't look like much; but he was a lot more than the Mage expected this world would produce.  Underneath a lighter-gray hat the stranger had darker hair and the world characteristically wide eyes.  A bit of stubble marked his cheeks as much as his dental records proved low marks.  The rest of him was dressed in an expensive-looking suit of a shade between his hat and his hair.  Given the time period (and the Tommy gun beside his still-unconscious body) Machelix guessed he was a Mafioso.

It wasn't until the body stirred, sat up, and immediately reached for his lighter that the Mage chanced to confirm his guess.  "And what would your name be?"

"The name's Antonio, see," the new Nobody replied, taking a cigar from another of his pockets.  "Who the hell are you?"

The combination of Brooklyn accent and Cuban cigar confirmed it:  he was a Mafioso.  Knowing to whom he was speaking made his word choice easier.  "I run a different gang than the one you're most likely used to:  it goes by the name Espionage Entourage.  Mine is Machelix Mexilhann."

"Don 'Hann; huh, has a nice ring to it."

The Mage groaned internally; already this guy was cracking jokes and smoking, two of his worst temper-induced pet peeves (at least in the jokes' case; smoking was always a problem).  If the conversation didn't become more businesslike, Machelix might have been forced to seriously hurt the guy.  "One of the creatures that attacked you stole your heart, right?"

A pensive, smoky sigh escaped Antonio as he looked around his surroundings.  "Ah, yeah, now I remember.  One of those bugs snuck up on me after that crazy car hit me."

It was a good enough explanation, especially after what Machelix had already seen of the hallway.  "That would make you a member of the Nobody family.  Consider it something like a blood oath, only a little more drastic."  Antonio nodded to show that he understood.  It really was better on the transition (and the Mage's nerves) to use terms that the new Nobodies understood.

There was little need to wait before continuing.  "As a sort of baptismal tradition, it is also customary to give a Nobody a new name."  A wave of his hand brought forth the letters in Antonio's name made out of Twilight energies.  All of them were sent into a spin around the new Nobody's head with a circular swish of the Mage's finger.  All of the letters flew at different speeds, almost meshing together and forming a single, solid band.  After a few good seconds, Machelix formed a finger gun and "fired" at the band.  The letters ceased (or at least slowed to a crawl) to form a new word with an X in the place Machelix fired:  "Naxitoon, eh?  Perfect name for your case."

The newly-named Naxitoon raised an eyebrow at Machelix.  "What do you mean?" he asked, trail of smoke quite apparent in more ways than one.

"That's what I mean," replied Machelix.  His nose wrinkled when the smoke got to his level.  "You come from here, a world of 'toons; and you have a nasty case of dog breath.  It is also for this reason why your title will be the Smoking Gun."  A wave of his sleeve cleared the air.

Naxitoon sat up a little straighter, holding his cigar before his face.  "What, this?"  He turned his head away from Machelix and blew a smoke ring.

The new Nobody's next words were lost on Machelix; something was odd about the smoke ring.  It wasn't wispy like normal ones were:  it was perfect and almost a full inch thick.  No amount of practice or cartoony edge could cause this.  Machelix had found his newest recruit's element, even if he wasn't happy with it.

With his mind no longer working on the normal Nobody puzzles, his demeanor calmed but remained serious.  "Come on, we have to get going," Machelix barked.

"What's the hurry?" asked Naxitoon, picking himself out of the broomstick pile.  "The cops still aren't on us, are they?"  Machelix's lack of response was answer enough.  "Whoa, why didn't you say so?"  In a partial panic he picked up his Tommy gun, shotgun, and one of the thicker broom handles.  His rush prevented him from seeing their forms change slightly in his hands.

Once Naxitoon was packed, he and Machelix rounded the corner into the main hallway.  Another figure was already standing there.  Well, standing in a sense.  A column of smoke billowed out from the bottom of its suit jacket, a smaller curtain of smoke serving as the turned-up collar.  Claws acted almost like a third extension at the fingers.  Around the knuckles on either hand was a band of brass.  Completing its appearance was a dark gray hat on its head in the same style as Naxitoon's.  As soon as it spoke, both Nobodies recognized it for what it was:  'Boss, you're alright!'

"Benny?  Is that really you?" the Smoking Gun asked.  (It was definitely a cliché, but this Proof of Existence fit him on so many levels.)  "Ya look great!  Lost some weight, gained some height, and a new suit and a whole handful of stilettos definitely make ya look sharper."

"I take it that he's familiar to you?"

"Yeah, this is Benny, one… well, my only accomplice 'ere and a fellow Mafioso, see?"

"Yes, I do.  I also see what your minions look like.  This is another 'perk' of Nobodies:  minions that can be summoned any time you please.  Now come on," urged Machelix, "we really must be off."

Naxitoon shrugged his shoulders as Benny hovered behind him.  "Alright, Don 'Hann, we're comin'," he said.

Upon hearing his reply Machelix snapped his fingers to summon his own minion, Captain the Ninja.  "Take us back to base and teach the new guy the ropes; I have a meeting to get to."

'Yes, my liege.'  A portal of darkness opened up in front of the four.  Without hesitation, the Nobodies old and new stepped inside and out of the black and white.  A "colorful" new world awaited them.