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| Scene Title | Kansas City Confidential |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A well-meaning thief does his part to ensure an increased national security. |
| Date | November 26, 2020 |
The lights in the manor are drawn low, waiting for its occupants to return. A slight tint to the windows obscures this fact to the outside world entirely. An observer from the outside would think the stately grey-bricked estate to be completely darkened for the evening— but no observers are supposed to be this close in the gated community to begin with.
The ghostlike presence centered on the front lawn observes anyway, incorporeal but curious all the same.
There are so many windows which are sure to be alarmed the same as the doors, and so the presence moves not for the windowed front of the house, but the arm off the side of it with far less windows — at least on the front side of the home. The intangible being moves through the brick itself to let itself right into this place where they really have no right to be.
But the outgoing President and First Lady aren't here tonight, making entry less-easily noticed by non-technological eyes. Raymond and Carol Praeger left home for a holiday meal on larger, more neutral grounds than this— the Capitol Manor not having nearly the differentiating space between personal and private space as the White House did.
And that suits this burglar just fine, he thinks to himself. For all that he loves a good drama, he's rarely been the sort to chance standing directly in the spotlight himself. Being here alone doesn't bother him in the slightest.
Ace Callahan smiles to himself as he corporealizes inside one of the manor's halls, mouth hidden behind a tight black-cloth mask he wears pulled up to just below his eyes. There's an opportunity to be relished here for just how intimate a closeness this opportunity provides him to the people who live here. When he feels himself become whole properly, he flexes the gloved fingers of both hands before curling them back into his palms, turning left, turning right.
His eyes narrow, and the outline of his form blurs before right-to-left he smudges out of existence again, deciding that whatever he's looking for is not in this room.
The attentions of the larcenist are drawn down the hall away from the game-room he phased into, toward a large, well-equipped study with dark windows facing the lake and trees behind the manor. When Ace snaps into being again, it's mid-glance for visible signs of cameras in the room. He spots none in this one, and decides to take a moment perusing the lineup of books on the shelves that he can make out in the light of a lamp that was forgottenly left shining on the ornate desk. He quirks his mouth to one side in a simple act of judgment on what he sees in the titles facing outward, in the other mementos present on the shelves.
When he makes it to the desk, he palms a thick luxury pen from its surface, and on turning over his shoulder vanishes again.
It'll do for his purposes, but it's also not enough. No, its presence will be missed, surely, but it's not the type of object he desires here. He would have perhaps liked to leave a note with his stolen pen— for flourish— but he also doesn't want to be found after this.
So off he goes in pursuit of something more satisfying— more fulfilling.
He dares his way closer to the main living space without reforming, wanting to wait until the last moment. It's his hand that comes into view first, reaching for an object on the wall. The rest of him follows after.
And the lights in the room suddenly flick on, bright.
Ace turns back to the greatroom void of other persons, looks up toward the camera positioned in the corner with its motion sensor that turned on the lights, and shrugs with both arms out. He lifts one hand to the beanie capping his head and hiding his hair, fingers pinching together around the air in an imitation of tipping his hat.
Then he turns back to the wall, reaching for one of the frames hanging on it. At least he'll have this. This will have to do. He lifts it up and away, hugging the face of it to the chest of his black sweater and the bulk of the duffel bag shoved underneath it to help obfuscate the true shape of him. Picture to chest, pen in pocket, he starts to look over his shoulder like he means to turn and face someone.
But by the time Secret Service agents slam the front door of the manor open, guns drawn, he's gone again. The sensor positioned on one of the bay windows in the dining room blips, its signal momentarily interrupted— the last farewell sign of Ace's retreat.
That, and the suddenly-missing statuette from the center of the room's eponymous table.