A Dangerous Possession

The pub smelled like stale beer and desperation, a familiar perfume Quinn had come to associate with university towns. Tucked into a sticky vinyl booth in the back corner, Quinn swiped through the dossier on a cracked datapad. Professor Silas Croft. A chemistry genius gone rogue, wanted by OmniCorp for stealing proprietary formulas worth a fucking fortune. The bounty was obscene, enough to retire for a year, maybe two. The university campus was his last known location, a rat's nest of drunken students and academic egos.

A shadow fell over the table. Quinn didn't need to look up. The scent of expensive cologne and gun oil was a dead giveaway.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite charity case," a smooth voice drawled. "Still chasing parking tickets and lost cats?"

Quinn slowly raised their eyes to meet Avery's smug grin. He was leaning against the booth, all tailored leather and infuriating confidence. His dark hair was perfectly styled, a stark contrast to Quinn's own functional, no-bullshit appearance. "Avery," Quinn said, their voice flat. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but I'd be lying. Did you follow me here, or is your tracking chip just permanently keyed to my location?"

Avery slid into the seat opposite, placing his own sleek datapad on the table. The same file was open on the screen. "Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing. I figured a high-roller contract like 'The Alchemist' would be a bit out of your league." He gestured to Quinn’s datapad. "Fifty thousand credits. You could almost afford a decent jacket with that."

"Fifty-five, actually," Quinn corrected, leaning back. "My reputation commands a premium. Unlike yours, which is mostly built on collateral damage and loud noises."

"It's called efficiency," Avery purred, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Something you wouldn't understand. You're too busy making friends with the local riff-raff." He nodded toward the bartender, who was studiously ignoring them. "So, what's your brilliant plan? Audit every chemistry lecture until you find him?"

"My plan," Quinn said, leaning forward and lowering their voice, "is my business. But since you’re here, I assume you’ve already fucked it up somehow. Scared him off? Set off a fire alarm? Tried to seduce a TA for information and got maced?"

Avery’s smile tightened at the edges. "Cute. No, I've just started my reconnaissance. Unlike you, I don't barge in like a bull in a china shop. I gather intel. I blend."

Quinn snorted. "You blend in like a shark at a petting zoo, Avery." They tapped a finger on the screen, on the grainy photo of Professor Croft. "He's slippery. Known for misdirection. A real showman, according to the file."

"A showman," Avery repeated, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Then maybe we've been looking in the wrong lecture halls." He glanced around the grimy pub, then back at Quinn, a silent challenge passing between them. The air crackled with it, a familiar, irritating hum of competition that always seemed to precede chaos. This wasn't just about the money anymore. It never was when Avery was involved. It was about winning.

Quinn’s fingers danced across the cracked screen of their datapad, cross-referencing Croft’s campus credentials with local entertainment listings. "A showman needs an audience," Quinn muttered, more to themself than to Avery. "And our dear professor has a very specific taste." They spun the datapad around. On the screen was a garish, blood-spattered digital flyer for a place called 'The Gory Gag.' The tagline read: Comedy So Dark, You'll Need a Corpse Light. Croft’s alias was listed as a frequent five-star reviewer.

Avery leaned in, his cologne an invasive presence in the small booth. "Performance art. How delightfully pretentious." His lips curved into a wolfish grin. "Lead the way. I'm sure your expertise in seedy basements will be invaluable."

The Gory Gag wasn't just in a basement; it was in the city's asshole. Tucked down a piss-stinking alley, the entrance was a single, unmarked steel door. The only indication they were in the right place was the faint, thumping bass from within and a fresh-looking red handprint smeared across the metal.

Quinn pushed the door open, and a wall of noise and stench hit them. The air was thick and cloying, a cocktail of cheap fog machine fluid, stale sweat, and the sharp, coppery tang of stage blood. The club was a cavern of black-painted brick, the walls and low ceiling glistening under red lights, splattered with what looked disturbingly like brain matter and viscera. The crowd was a freakshow of goths, punks, and a few unsettlingly clean-cut types who laughed with unnerving intensity.

On a small, elevated stage, a comedian dressed as a deranged surgeon was delivering a punchline while brandishing a bone saw. He brought the tool down with a wet, theatrical thwack onto a prosthetic leg clamped to a medical gurney. A spray of crimson liquid arced through the air, showering the cheering front row.

"Charming," Avery murmured, his eyes scanning the grotesque decor with an appraiser's detachment. "I can see the appeal. It's almost as messy as your usual jobs."

"Shove it," Quinn shot back, their gaze sweeping over the audience. They elbowed their way toward a less-crowded spot by the bar, the floor sticky under their boots. "We need to find a vantage point. He's got to be here somewhere."

The bartender, a man with a scarred face and a lazy eye, was polishing a glass with a rag that looked suspiciously like a used bandage. He didn't even glance their way. Quinn leaned against the sticky bar, their hand resting near the butt of the blaster holstered under their jacket. Avery stood close, a solid, irritating presence at their back. The comedian on stage was now using a large syringe to inject green fluid into the severed prop leg, which began to smoke and twitch. The crowd roared with laughter. The atmosphere was a chaotic blend of genuine amusement and palpable menace, a perfect playground for a man who liked to hide in plain sight.

"I bet you'd fit right in here," Avery said, his voice a low murmur against the din. "You've got the same lack of charm." He started to move away from the bar, his eyes locking onto a woman with neon green hair and a gas mask hanging around her neck. She looked like she might be staff, or at least a regular who knew the club’s rhythm.

Quinn watched him turn on that predatory charisma, the one that made TAs and informants alike spill their guts. Just as Avery opened his mouth to speak, Quinn pivoted, grabbing two glasses of some viscous, blood-red liquid from the bar. They feigned a stumble, bumping hard into Avery's back. The sticky drinks sloshed over the front of his expensive leather jacket and down the back of the green-haired woman's shirt.

She whirled around with a hiss, her eyes promising murder. Avery shot Quinn a look of pure venom. "My apologies," Quinn said, their voice dripping with false sincerity. "It's so crowded. And you're such a large, stationary target."

Avery's smile was a razor blade. "Don't worry," he said smoothly to the woman, wiping a smear of red goo from his jacket. "My friend here is just clumsy. A side effect of a limited intellect." He pulled a thick wad of credits from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. "For the dry cleaning."

Her anger melted into a greedy smile. "Whatever, man." She shrugged and disappeared back into the throng.

"That was cute," Avery hissed, turning back to Quinn. "Cost me two hundred credits."

"Think of it as an investment in your humility," Quinn retorted, setting the now-empty glasses back on the bar.

Before Avery could reply, the lights dimmed further and a screech of feedback ripped through the speakers. The surgeon comedian, now cleaned of most of the gore, shambled back on stage. "Alright, you sick fucks!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse. "You've been a beautifully depraved audience. But now it's time for the moment you've all been waiting for! The master of meltdown, the prince of precipitation, the man who puts the 'chem' in alchemy! Give it up for... The Alchemist!"

A wave of anticipatory energy surged through the crowd. Quinn and Avery froze, their petty squabble forgotten. They exchanged a look—a rare, unguarded moment of shared shock. It couldn't be that easy.

A single, harsh white spotlight hit the center of the stage. A figure emerged from the wings, not a comedian, but a man in a pristine white lab coat, his face obscured by theatrical smoke and a pair of dark welder's goggles. He pushed a cart laden with beakers, coiled copper tubing, and vials of brightly colored, bubbling liquids. It was him. The man from the dossier photo, Silas Croft, only now he had an audience hanging on his every move.

"He's the fucking headliner," Quinn breathed, the absurdity of it hitting them like a physical blow. Their high-value target wasn't hiding in a sewer or a fortified lab. He was on stage, basking in the adoration of a hundred lunatics.

Avery’s gaze was fixed on the stage, his mind clearly racing through the tactical nightmare this presented. "Subtlety just went out the window," he said, a dangerous excitement creeping into his voice. He glanced at Quinn, a predatory gleam in his eyes that had nothing to do with the bounty. "This just got fun."

The Alchemist raised a beaker filled with a shimmering, volatile-looking fluid. The crowd went silent. Grabbing him here, in front of his fans, would be a bloodbath. Their bloodbath. The hunt was on, and the stage was set.