This damn disguise had gotten out of hand.

Miss Pauling knew that she should have never left this task in the hands of her employees. They had no sense of practicality. All they did was buy this or that without any regards for prices. Hell, she was lucky the dress fit, for all the fuss they made about it. But this? It made her embarrassed. She felt less like a human being and more like some child's doll. If the constant bickering over cosmetic items didn't make her curious about their hobbies, this dress certainly did.

To be fair, she did need something formal. One wasn't about to strut into the Maroon Mansion, the home of one of the world's most profitable weapons manufacturers, wearing just jeans and a t-shirt. But she hadn't expected satin. Lengths of it were gathered on her hip, serving little more purpose than to flow from a fabric rose that cinched the material around her waist. The damn fabric kept catching beneath crystal-clear heels. Three layers of pearls were around her neck. She could scarcely breathe with them on. Gloves, earrings, shoes—the men had no idea when to stop. Worst of all was the strapless top that covered just a little less than she was comfortable with. She was only able to leave the base because the Engineer managed to find double-sided tape.

And most humiliating of all, it was pink.

At least they had enough sense to get her a stole for the frigid weather. She would understand where a man might not always pick up on the impracticality of stomping through snow and ice in high heels, but at least they understood that a strapless dress offered little protection against the cold breeze of Colorado's mountains. She wouldn't have to be outside for long, anyway. A black vehicle was taking them to the gates while the rest of the team got into position. It was going to be a much rougher night for them. The least she could do was suck it up and be an excellent decoy.

Adjusting her tiny earpiece, Miss Pauling prepared for a rough night. "Okay, gentlemen. Are you ready?"

The driver nodded. He was hunched over the wheel, looking like a gorilla in his small suit. "Da. Little lady, baby man make distraction. Coward Spy steals plans. Run off before alarms are raised. Easy."

The Spy was put off by the Heavy's attitude. He pulled his balaclava over the last of his chin, then growled. "Oh, yes. This will be a breeze. You all get to have a little tea party, and I have to work. I see how this is."

"Sometimes, you've just got to make sacrifices for your job," the Engineer smiled. He straightened his bolo tie, that insufferable grin failing to leave his face.

A growling voice snarled in the earpiece. "Least you wankers get to be inside all night. I've gotta sit in a snowbank while the rest of ya get cocktail weenies!"

The Engineer laughed at the sound of the Sniper's voice. "This isn't the kind of event for little smokies, Mickey."

"Call me that again, and I bloody will send you to Disneyland!" the Sniper barked.

"Gentlemen, could we try not to kill each other tonight?" Miss Pauling asked. "At the very least, save it for when we screw this up."

That brought a dark rumble out of the Heavy. "Is going to be a long night."

It was strange how the only optimistic one out of the active party was the Engineer. Usually, he was the one looking for holes in their plans. Now, he was laughing and beaming. In most situations that required fine etiquette, the Spy would have been the go-to man. As he was otherwise occupied, it had fallen to another man to create a social distraction. A man knowledgeable about weapon creation, soft with his words, unassuming in appearance. Or, rather, to be plain enough to escort the more effective social distraction.

"You realize the Scout is going to kill you when we get back," Miss Pauling said. "And the Demoman. And, to be fair, everyone else."

That didn't break the Engineer's smile. "Yep."

The limo came to a halt in front of their target's mansion. Miss Pauling gave it a quick glance over. Old money had built it. It had bold white columns and handsome red brick, balconies and large windows, the biggest of which was bent in a hemisphere around the ballroom. Standing in the front yard was a fountain of an amply busted mermaid. Her spigots had frozen over in the cold weather. Men were lounging on the cement porch beneath the pillars. The stench of whiskey and cigarettes was strong, even through the closed limo doors.

"Charming," the Spy grumbled. "I can hardly wait to get inside."

"Move quickly, then," the Heavy ordered. "I will wait for you below."

The Engineer opened his door, allowing the Spy to escape first. He disappeared into the cold mountain air with a little help from his tools. Closing that behind him, he came around to the side facing the mansion and opened up Miss Pauling's door. He offered his hand and helped her step out. The path was quite slippery, even after salt had been put down.

She gathered the pool of satin, and they began to walk forward. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the Engineer grinned. He flexed his mechanical hand, which whirred behind his glove. "This hand 'a mine? The steel in it's got a tensile strength of over forty-thousand PSI. There's no way you're slippin' on the ice tonight."

Miss Pauling nudged the Engineer in the stomach. "Keep talking like that, and your teammates will kill you."

The Engineer didn't seem concerned. "Somehow, I'll manage to go on."

They walked up the stairs, the gang of smoking drunkards parting long enough for them to enter. Men in brown suits and white gloves ushered them inside. The Engineer fished a faked invitation out of his breast pocket, then handed it to a busy man in the foyer. The butler accepted it, then had another servant take Miss Pauling's stole. It was like stripping her last shield away. Her shoulders and collarbone felt vulnerable as they were exposed to the air.

It was easiest to blend into the bustling ballroom. Neither idled long as they entered. All sorts of slick-haired men were milling around, talking with each other as women far too glamorous for them to attract were downing champagne like they were dying in the desert. A few loud women were amongst the crowd, laughing and exchanging ideas, their equally bored escorts making doe eyes at the drunken women. Happy couples were few and far between and stood together, hips pressed against each other as they shared their tales.

"Not a lot of dancing," Miss Pauling said.

The Engineer agreed. "Bunch of roosters crowin'. You know how bright minds can be. Little bit vain, sometimes. Once they establish a peckin' order, you might see a little more action."

The Texan gave the assistant his hand again, then led her further into the room. New smells bombarded the duo. Cheap cologne, heavy perfume. A faint stench of perspiration, grease, and gunpowder. Miss Pauling could barely smell the decorative roses over the cloud of noxious fumes. Another scent reached them—the smell of hors d'oeuvres.

There was a sad sigh in their earpieces. "And you said there wouldn't be cocktail weenies."

"Good gravy! I'll make you some when we get back," the Engineer growled.

Miss Pauling had to chuckle. "At least he remembered to turn his laser sight off when he was snooping around."

The Engineer nodded, his pleasant personality returning. "Sometimes, I wonder how that man ever lived in the outback."

"What man?" a new voice boomed in their ears.

Both Miss Pauling and the Engineer snapped around. A man as short as the Engineer and as wide and hairy as a bear tromped behind them. His suit was about bursting at the seams, his round belly forcing the cummerbund out as far as it would go. He was sweaty and red, his cheeks shining and framed with wiry sideburns.

The Engineer recovered much faster than Miss Pauling. He reached out with his robotic hand and gave the man a shake. "Why! If it isn't one Doctor Sam Clayton!" He quickly introduced Miss Pauling to the strange man. "Miss Paulin', this here is one of my fellow alumni from A&M."

"Pleasure to meet you," Miss Pauling said. She offered her arm, which was promptly shaken and smudged.

"Ah, ol' Dell's a friendly fella, ain't he?" Doctor Clayton snickered. "'Course, he went straight into engineering, and I went into hoplology. Not every day the two paths cross, you know?"

Miss Pauling shook her head. "More often than you would think."

The short, grubby man wrapped an arm around Miss Pauling's shoulders. She managed not to squeak in frustration as the doctor rambled on. "I like this one, Dell! She's feisty." He picked up her left hand, then tisked at the Engineer. "And no ring! What's the matter with you, son?"

The Engineer just about choked on his own tongue. He went flushed and started stammering. "Well, Sam—I-I like her an awful lot, but—"

"I'm his manager," Miss Pauling stated.

Sam rolled his head, then nodded. "Right, right. I get it. No workplace relationships." He leaned closer to the Engineer, then whispered poorly. "Would be hard to take orders from the same woman all day, anyhow."

The Engineer whistled, then reached for his colleague's hand. He pushed it away, letting Miss Pauling slip out of his grasp. She managed not to pull a face as she got a scent of herself. Now, she reeked like that crazy man. Sure, she hated this dress, but she hadn't put it on just to have it stunk up. She folded her hands behind her back, then regained her composure.

"So, what brings you here?" the Engineer asked the strange man.

Doctor Clayton bobbed his head towards the stage. "Well, we're gonna have ourselves a little presentation of new developments in the fields of weaponry and defense. Nothin' too fancy—can't launch missiles in here, mind you. But you ought to see what our host's got cooked up."

"Can't wait," the Engineer smiled.

Of course, that was the precise reason that both Miss Pauling and Mister Conagher were standing in this elaborate mishmash of inventors and bored dates. She decided to press the enthusiastic man for information. "What have you seen of Mister Maroon's latest work?"

"Well, last I've heard, ol' Tanner Maroon's been looking down any avenue to get his sales up. Gas, chemical, hell, even electrical. He tried getting in a partnership with one Miss Marian Grey, but it sounds like she was arrested in Brisbane on hazardous chemical dumping charges. Terrible shame, that was," Doctor Clayton rambled. "Of course, Mister Maroon's trying to catch up with Monsanto's Agent Orange, but between you and me, that's a war already fought and lost."

The Engineer nodded. "It's hard to beat someone with a government contract."

The fat doctor shrugged. "The private market can always do better, son. Still, it's hard to beat all of that taxpayer cash."

There was a hushed murmuring going through the crowd. To Miss Pauling's relief, it looked like Dell's old friend was finally distracted. "If you'll pardon me, it looks like we're getting ready to show our stuff. Maybe next year, we'll have to have you on stage, Dell!"

"I'm a private man, Sam," the Engineer disagreed. "I don't care much for others lookin' at my junk."

"Your words, not mine," Sam replied.

Everyone made way as a stage was set up at the north end of the room. The Engineer and Miss Pauling kept to the back, letting the others hustle around. She sighed, then searched for a restroom. She had to wash the greasy feeling off her shoulders. There was little she could do for her gloves, but she could at least take care of her smell.

"Do you see the little girl's room anywhere?" Miss Pauling asked.

The Engineer bobbed his head to the left. "I'll block the door, if you want privacy."

"I'll be okay," she said. "Just stay here, and don't get into any trouble."

The Engineer agreed to that. "Can do."

Miss Pauling made her way to the restroom as best as she could in her ridiculous heels. She was going to have to beat whoever thought they were an appropriate kind of footwear. She pushed the bathroom door open, happy to find only one other woman in here with her. These kinds of events usually had bathrooms packed full of women, yet completely open for men.

She peeled off her gloves, then began washing off her neck. The other woman in the restroom gave two sad tuts. "Someone get handsy with you, doll face?"

"You know how some men can be," Miss Pauling sighed.

The other occupant clacked over to her side. She produced a small bottle of clear liquid. "Let me help you out."

The woman spritzed a cloud of perfume around Miss Pauling's neck and shoulders. It was pleasant—definitely better than sweaty inventor, at any rate. Light, a little spicy, complete with a touch of lavender. Miss Pauling smiled. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the other lady replied. "Trust me—when you've been in the escort business long enough, you learn to bring your own toiletries."

Miss Pauling didn't know what to say about the assumption of her occupation. She let it slide and thanked the woman again. "I'll remember next time. Thank you."

The other woman left the restroom, her gold dress trailing behind her. Miss Pauling caught the door and let it slide free before shutting it again. She locked the knob, then went into one of the stalls and locked that as well. It didn't hurt to put as many locks between a target and herself when checking in with her men. She pressed inside of her ear, then sent a call out to her charges.

"How's everyone doing?" Miss Pauling asked.

"Freezin' my butt off," the Sniper sulked.

"Little man does not have more butt to lose," the Heavy chuckled. "Is dull here."

"All's fine out here," the Engineer murmured. "Looks like they're gonna start soon."

One critical voice did not report in. Miss Pauling waited for a moment, but there was no sound. She frowned, then knitted her eyebrows together. "Spy? Status report."

Nothing.

She rolled her head upward. Great. Nothing could ever go smoothly. Even if he was just blowing them off, she expected to hear some kind of sassy response. She could hope that he was being quiet as part of his work, but she was hardly so naïve. She reported back to the remaining men, "Be prepared. Something's up."

"Car is started," the Heavy reported.

"My eyes're on the ballroom," the Sniper stated. "Let me know if I need to open fire."

Miss Pauling sighed, then prepared to head back out. After finishing her errands, she re-entered the ballroom. The throng of people was pressed against the opposite end. She started preparing in her head as she located the Engineer. The Sniper couldn't make the clearest shot from his angle, but he could probably make it if he moved a little ways south. Exiting to the west would put them straight in the butlers' paths and mixed in with some very surly smokers. The east had a door that led directly into a frozen-over garden and a path into nearby trees. That seemed to be the clearest way to escape, but it left them vulnerable.

The Engineer welcomed her next to his side. "Feelin' better?"

"Don't think so," she replied.

The Engineer clicked his teeth. The same thoughts were going through his head. "Dagnabbit."

A quiet hush came over the collected audience as presentations started. Lights were dimmed throughout the ballroom. Hired musicians took a break, overworked and underpaid for the occasion. Miss Pauling and the Engineer squeezed their way towards the front of the crowd—not so far up to be spotted, but close enough that both short people could see what was being presented.

There was a soft roll of applause as a broad-shouldered man in a brown suit and dark red tie stepped on stage. His eyebrows sported wild, curled hairs. They created fearsome arches over his eyes, like the piercing gaze of an owl. He looked down his hooked nose at his audience. A cold chill went over the crowd as the applause died out. He maintained his terrifying gaze until each and every hand went still.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my estate," the host started. He finally cracked a smile, his teeth yellowed but straight. "I have a very special surprise for you all tonight. But, first, I think we ought to have our little invention exchange, don't you?"

There was nothing a bunch of secret operatives hated hearing more than the phrase 'special surprise'. Miss Pauling and the Engineer faked a smile, but they both knew something was up. They hesitated to speak out loud about this strange turn. It could have just been a case of nerves, after all. No need to blow the Spy's cover, if he was still deep under. Not even the Sniper or the Heavy radioed back at that sound. They did the only thing that guaranteed some safety—they kept playing along.

The presentation of inventions didn't last particularly long. Each individual that flaunted their wares had two minutes at most to show their items. Most of them had brought miniature recreations of their prototypes to share. Quite a few people lost their eyebrows during the presentation. If nothing else, these mad inventors were fond of combustibles.

Several showed bombs. A few had ICBM replicas. All sorts of flamethrowers and military-grade weapons were displayed, much to the gasping of the ladies in the audience. One crazy bastard had even managed to figure out how to keep a steady flame lit on a broadsword. Dell's friend gave a presentation on aggression-promoting chemicals that he was testing on lab rats. Miss Pauling saw more slides of rats gnawing on each other's corpses than she was comfortable in viewing. It didn't do anything to lower her tension. She tapped on her earpiece but received only grunts from her men.

She leaned over to Dell while another presenter showed off a custom machine gun build. "Heard them talk about anything worthwhile?"

"Yeah," he replied. He stopped, then realized what Miss Pauling was talking about. "Nope." He thought of another veiled line, then whispered to her. "Let me know if you've got to use the restroom again. I know how this upsets a lady's constitution."

"I can manage," Miss Pauling responded.

As the last presenter left the stage, party host Mister Maroon reclaimed the crowd's attention. Miss Pauling and the Engineer's stomach sunk again as he flashed another eerie smile. "Well, now. Wasn't that enlightening?" He clapped two gloved hands together, then began the pitch for his own presentation. "I have quite the show for you all tonight. If my servants would be so kind."

Two meaty butlers in brown suits and white gloves brought a large, rectangular box on stage. They heaved it over their shoulders, like twin Atlases carrying one coffin. They propped it upright as one more fetched Mister Maroon's contribution. It was hardly anything of particular note—just a small, black gun with orange nodes on its sight and barrel. He put it on an onstage-table as one butler placed a black boxy hunk of junk next to it.

"Gentlemen, ladies, I think we can all agree that the face of war is changing every day," Mister Maroon launched into his speech. "War is no longer fought on some barren field, across open seas, or in dirty foxholes. War has come to our hometowns. It is in our cities, in the alleyways that run perpendicular to our main streets. It reaches as far as the stars, coming to us straight through our television sets. And what do we fight for? Our families? The good of our country?"

He laughed, then emphasized a single word. "Information." Shaking one hand at his servants, he gave them an order. "Walker, Miller, if you would."

When the two butlers pulled back the cover to the large trunk, a body fell out of it. Several women and a few men shrieked. He was still alive, if his writhing was any indication. The man's hands and feet had been bound behind his back. Another gag was wrapped around his mouth. Blood was smeared down his nose and on the inside of the box's lid.

Both the Engineer and Miss Pauling flinched as the body was dragged upwards, revealing the crimson-stained visage of the Spy.

Author's Notes

Don't stop here! Keep reading!