Brightfield Town
Morning sunlight spilled across Brightfield's cobblestone road, bathing the entire street in a warm, peaceful glow. The kind of glow that made people believe nothing terrible would ever happen here.
Which, naturally, made it the perfect battlefield for Bella's child-squad.
Two of her tiny operatives skipped down the road and stopped right in front of the butcher shop. They began playing catch with a small ball, tossing it back and forth with dramatic enthusiasm.
"Kyaaaahahahaha!" they laughed.
The laughter was loud. Bright. Infectiously adorable.
Inside the butcher shop, the butcher himself paused mid-chop over a massive slab of pork. The man was built like a walking wardrobe—thick arms, heavy beard, permanently tired eyes.
Then he glanced toward the window.
His expression melted instantly.
"Cute little things…" he murmured with a soft smile.
Reconnaissance data report: The butcher has a fatal soft spot for children.
Satisfied with the peaceful scene, he returned to chopping meat. Outside, the giggling continued, echoing down the quiet street like a morning soundtrack.
Everything was calm.
Everything was predictable.
Until—
CRAAAAAASH!
"WAAAAAAAH!"
The butcher jumped so violently he nearly chopped his own thumb off.
And then came the crying—raw, panicked.
The butcher bolted out of the shop.
One child sat on the ground crying uncontrollably. Another child lay sprawled motionless on the road. Beside her lay a shattered clay pot.
"Blood" pooled under her small body.
The butcher's face turned completely white.
"A–are you hurt!? What happened!?" he shouted, already halfway into a panic.
"WAAAAAHHH…" the crying child sobbed, clinging to the unmoving girl like the world had ended.
The butcher looked up.
Above them, a rope dangled from a balcony. Its end was freshly severed.
The pot must've fallen.
A terrible accident.
An unfortunate coincidence.
He was far too panicked to notice the crayon X-mark drawn neatly on the cobblestone beneath the impact spot.
"Don't worry, child," the butcher said urgently as he scooped the limp girl into his arms. "We'll bring her to the healer right away!"
The crying child sniffled dramatically and nodded, following him with flawless pathetic sincerity.
The butcher sprinted down the street toward the healer's clinic, the girl in his arms dripping what he believed was blood.
It was grape juice.
Thick.
Dark red.
Extremely convincing grape juice.
Unfortunately for the butcher, the healer wasn't home.
The healer was currently traveling to another village after being summoned by a very urgent "emergency patient" that did not exist. Courtesy of the Misfit Party's planning board.
High above the street, inside an attic window overlooking the road, Bella lowered her suppressed MP5. The barrel was still faintly warm.
The rope she had shot through swayed gently in the wind.
She grinned.
"Team Two, you are green. Move to extraction," she whispered into her earpiece.
Right on cue, a wooden cart rolled around the corner. It was being pulled by a disciplined fourteen-year-old.
The moment the cart stopped, children began pouring out.
The older kids jumped down first and immediately started loading meat from the butcher shop into the cart with practiced efficiency.
The smaller ones spread out along the street.
They played.
They laughed.
They skipped around in casual innocence, forming a perfectly natural barrier that makes any passerby difficult to pass.
Up in the attic, Bella watched the operation unfold.
"Maintain rhythm, Bravo. Ten minutes max," Irving's voice crackled through the comms.
The heist—official difficulty rating: Easy—was proceeding exactly according to plan.
---
Fairview Town
Inside the tavern, the owner stood behind the counter polishing glassware, preparing for the evening rush. At this hour, the tavern was nearly empty.
A few travelers here and there. Nothing unusual.
Then the door slammed open.
An adorable child stood in the doorway.
The tavern owner looked up, mustache scratching thoughtfully as he sized up the situation.
"Huh? What is it, kid?" he asked. "Looking for someone?"
The child looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
"Mister… is this the place where grown-ups can forget their sadness?"
The tavern owner blinked.
"I… guess?" he said slowly. "Usually, yeah."
The child nodded once.
Then immediately sprinted out the door.
The tavern owner stared at the empty doorway.
"…Okay?"
A few seconds later the child returned—this time dragging an adult man by the arm, assisted by two other children.
The man looked completely defeated.
Eyes wet. Shoulders slumped. Expression hollow in the way only long-term emotional damage could achieve.
The children guided—no, shoved—him into a chair at one of the tables.
"Father! We are in the tavern now!" one child cried, voice trembling.
"Yes!" another added dramatically. "Now you can stop being sad!"
The tavern owner slowly put down the glass he was cleaning.
"What… exactly is happening here?"
"Father is sad because of Mother." One of the boys said.
"Mother left us because Father is poor." The girl sniffled loudly.
"So Father works three jobs to get more money." Another boy said, voice shaking.
Then all three children spoke together with flawless tragic synchronization.
"But now Mother is with a rich man."
Silence filled the tavern.
The tavern owner's face slowly darkened.
Reconnaissance data report: The tavern owner had survived two brutal divorces.
"Say no more," he growled.
He slammed the largest mug of ale he owned onto the table.
"Kids," he said firmly, pointing toward the door, "go play outside for a couple hours."
He leaned toward the broken man with grim determination.
"Uncle here is gonna help your father forget his sadness."
The children exchanged glances, then nodded quietly before marching out the door.
But they did not go play.
Instead, they calmly circled the building and regrouped behind the tavern with another squad.
Waiting there was a wagon.
The wagon contained empty barrels and a hand-pump.
Half the children slipped quietly through the tavern's back door and descended into the cellar carrying coiled hoses.
One of them tapped a barrel.
Another checked the hose connection.
A third gave a small OK sign.
Outside, the pump crew began working the hand-pump in slow, controlled motions.
Alcohol flowed silently into the waiting barrels.
"Very good, Team Alpha," Irving whispered through the comm.
"Maintain noise discipline. Slow and steady."
The heist—difficulty rating: Medium—was progressing flawlessly.
---
Rockdale Town
Inside Rockdale's quaint little jewelry store, the owner examined a diamond through his loupe while humming quietly to himself.
A peaceful morning.
Then the bell above the door rang.
And then—
"OOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!"
Sunlight exploded into the shop.
Or maybe it only felt like sunlight.
The jeweler squinted at the sudden brightness.
Elegant dress.
High-pitched noble laughter.
A maid following behind her, arms full of boxes.
"Let's see what a simple little backwater shop can even offer me."
And the unmistakable arrogant tone.
The jeweler's spine snapped straight.
Decades of professional experience fired warning signals directly into his brain.
Noble lady.
Very expensive noble lady.
Buying noble lady.
He bowed so fast he nearly headbutted the floor.
"WELCOME, OJOU-SAMA! TO THIS HUMBLE ESTABLISHMENT!"
Robert—currently playing the role of a spoiled noble girl—flicked open his decorative fan with practiced elegance.
"Oho? At least someone here understands proper manners."
Reconnaissance data report: The jeweler is a world-class butt-kisser.
"Please, my lady, how may I assist you?" the owner asked eagerly, rubbing his hands together.
"Hmph. Why don't you tell me what this shop can offer," Robert replied, lifting his chin.
The jeweler hurried to a display case and presented a necklace with trembling reverence.
"How about this? A high-quality Maiden's Tear ruby from—"
"Boring," Robert said immediately. "I'LL TAKE IT."
The jeweler blinked once.
Then his face lit up like a festival lantern.
"Wonderful choice, my lady!"
He rushed to the next display.
"This pair of earrings, my lady—"
"I'll take those too."
Another item joined the growing collection on the counter.
"Perhaps this bracelet—"
"I'll take that as well."
From Robert's earpiece, a calm whisper arrived.
"Very good, Robert," Ivy said through the comm. "Stick to the script. You're doing great."
---
One by one, the jewelry piled neatly across the polished surface of the counter.
"Robert, proceed to Act Two." Ivy's voice returned, "Fat lady is en route. ETA three minutes."
Right on schedule.
Robert casually scanned the wall shelves.
Then he pointed his fan toward a small pink box resting on a display rack.
"What about that one?"
The jeweler froze.
"Ah… that is…" He cleared his throat nervously. "A custom order for another customer, my lady."
Those were exactly the words Robert had been looking for.
Robert slowly narrowed his eyes.
"I want to see it."
The jeweler hesitated. A bead of sweat appeared.
"W-Well… I suppose it can't hurt just to look…"
He carefully retrieved the pink box and opened it.
Inside sat a tiara. A ridiculously gaudy, aggressively glittering tiara.
Robert gasped dramatically.
"OOOH I WANT IT!"
"I-I am sorry, my lady, but this one—"
"I SAID. I WANT. IT."
The glare Robert delivered could melt lead.
"Or I cancel everything today." He pout.
Before the owner could even form a reply—
The door burst open.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS? O~HOHOHOHOHOHO!"
Another noblewoman marched in—beautiful dress, fan, maid, aura of entitlement, everything.
"C–COUNTESS! WELCOME!" The store owner went pale.
The Countess snapped her fan open with a sharp flap.
"Owner," she hissed, "are you attempting to sell my order… to someone else?"
"N-NO!"
"YES!" Robert answered immediately.
Both noblewomen snapped their fans open, glaring at each other over the edges.