Chapter 35: The Business Proposition
The footsteps echoed through the tunnel system, each one measured and careful. Tommy Kellerman had been with the Falcone family for fifteen years, but he'd never been more nervous than he was walking into this madhouse.
The stench hit him first—that same nauseating mixture of death and chemicals that made his eyes water. Then came the humming, some opera tune that drifted through the concrete corridors like a funeral song. When he finally reached the main chamber, what he saw made his stomach lurch.
The pig-masked figure didn't look up from his work. He was hunched over another victim, this one a middle-aged man who'd apparently been sleeping rough. The homeless bastard's chest rose and fell in mechanical rhythm, but his eyes were gone—replaced by empty sockets that wept blood down his cheeks.
"Busy, busy, busy," Professor Pyg sang without turning around. "Papa's got so much work to do. So many imperfect children to fix."
Kellerman cleared his throat, trying not to look at the rows of motionless figures lining the walls. "Mr. Pyg? I'm here on behalf of Carmine Falcone. We need to talk."
"Talk?" Pyg giggled, the sound muffled by his mask. "Papa doesn't like talking. Talking is how ugly thoughts spread. But Papa supposes he can spare a moment for the nice crime man."
He finally turned, his pig mask gleaming under the harsh lights. Blood spattered the white porcelain snout, and something wet dripped from the eyeholes. "What does the old man want from Papa?"
Kellerman fought down his revulsion. "We got a situation. This Architect freak—he's been picking off family operations one by one. Torrino's crew, the Hayden operation, some of our payrolls, that psycho Zsasz. Nobody's safe anymore."
"Oh yes," Pyg clapped his hands together like a delighted child. "Papa's heard about the Architect. Such interesting work! Though Papa thinks his methods lack... artistry like mine."
"Yeah, well, artistry don't keep you breathing," Kellerman said. "We're calling an emergency summit. All the families, tomorrow night. Problem is, normal security ain't cutting it anymore. This bastard, he gets through everything."
Pyg tilted his head, considering. "And Papa can help how exactly?"
"Your... things," Kellerman gestured at the Dollotrons. "They don't feel pain, right? Don't get scared, don't run, don't think for themselves. That's what we need. Atleast before the heavyhitters are hired."
"Ohhh," Pyg's voice took on a sing-song quality. "Papa understands now. You want to borrow Papa's perfect children."
He walked over to the nearest Dollotron—a young woman whose porcelain face bore the painted expression of eternal calmness. "But Papa's children are not toys to be borrowed. They are works of art."
"We're willing to pay," Kellerman said quickly. "Name your price."
"Money?" Pyg laughed, the sound echoing horribly through the tunnels. "Papa doesn't need money. Papa needs raw materials. Fresh canvas for his masterpieces."
Kellerman's throat went dry. "What kind of materials?"
"The homeless camps," Pyg said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Papa knows where they are, but rounding them up is so tedious. If the crime families could provide... delivery service... Papa might be willing to part with some of his completed works."
"How many?" Kellerman asked, hating himself for the question.
"Forty perfect children for forty fresh canvases," Pyg said, stroking the face of the nearest Dollotron. "Papa thinks that's very fair."
Kellerman looked at the rows of motionless figures, their painted faces all bearing the same creepy smile. Perfect soldiers who felt no pain, no fear, no hesitation.
"The summit's tomorrow night," he said finally. "Warehouse district, pier 18. Can you have them ready?"
"Oh, Papa's children are always ready," Pyg giggled. "They live to serve. Literally."
He walked over to a section of wall covered in photographs—before and after shots of his victims. "Papa will send his very best. Dollotron-12 used to be a policeman, very strong. Dollotron-18 was a boxer before Papa fixed her angry thoughts. And Dollotron-31..." He paused at a photo of a young man in military fatigues. "He was a soldier. Very good at hurting people. Now he's very good at hurting people for Papa."
"Jesus," Kellerman muttered under his breath.
"No, no," Pyg waggled a finger. "Papa doesn't like that name. Too many ugly associations for Papa. Papa prefers to think of himself as an artist. A sculptor of souls."
He moved to a corner of the chamber where several people lay unconscious on gurneys. "These will be Papa's payment. The crime families will bring more, yes? Lots more? Papa has such big plans for expanding his collection."
"Yeah, sure," Kellerman said, backing toward the exit. "Whatever you need."
"Wonderful!" Pyg clapped his hands again. "Papa does so love making new friends. And the Architect..." He paused, considering. "Papa would very much like to meet this Architect. He sounds like such an interesting subject for study."
As Kellerman hurried back through the tunnels, he could hear Pyg's voice echoing behind him, that same opera tune from before. But now it sounded different—hungrier, more bloodthirsty. Like a spider singing to attract flies.
Behind him, the Dollotrons stood in perfect formation, their consciousness trapped behind painted smiles, unable to warn anyone about what was coming.
Unable to scream as their creator selected forty of their number for tomorrow's assignment.
Unable to do anything but watch as Professor Pyg prepared to unleash his perfect children on an unsuspecting world.
NB : I'm portraying the Dollotrons as individuals whose consciousness is still trapped inside them. It's not strictly canon, but it works well for this story.
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DC : Architect of Vengeance
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