I looked toward the annex. Smaller, older, probably running on the same security grid. Time to try something new.
I crossed the plaza at an angle, sticking to the edges where the shadows held steady. No movement behind the windows, no light leaking from the cracks.
Looked like the place hadn't seen regular use in weeks.
The side door was metal, scratched, poorly repainted. A quick check confirmed what I hoped: mechanical lock, no alarm plate. One shim and a firm push later, I was in.
Old tiles, dusty air. A utility hallway stretched ahead, unlit. A paper sign on the wall listed storage, HVAC, and—bingo—Security/Systems Access.
On the way in, I'd passed a maintenance closet left half open. Took a flat pry bar from the tool rack—nothing fancy, just the kind janitors use to pop stuck cabinet doors.
It fit easily in my jacket.
I moved fast but quiet, turning corners with my presence suppressed. Not invisibility, but close enough in a place like this. Most people wouldn't notice me unless I stepped on their shoelaces.
The security room door was shut, but the light inside was on.
Someone was there.
I leaned in. The hum of an old monitor. A chair creaking. Slow breathing. Just one person, probably a midday shift with nothing to do.
I could leave and just smash the cameras—low risk, quick exit.
But I was already here. Might as well clean it properly.
I eased the door open. It didn't squeak. Inside, a bored man in a faded polo shirt sat slouched in front of a bank of monitors, half-asleep with earbuds in. A can of soda was tipping in his hand.
He didn't see me.
I stepped closer, steady and quiet.
A bit of focus—just enough to trigger the hypnosis.
The guard slumped forward in his chair.
I caught the soda can before it hit the floor.
With him out cold, I scanned the room.
Two monitors. One showed live feeds—main building and annex. The other had a basic control panel: camera labels, power toggle, timestamp scrub. Old software. No password prompt. Probably hadn't been updated in years.
I shut down the feeds one by one—just display, not power. Safer that way. Nothing went black, just static on the output.
Then I opened the archive menu. Local storage only, no cloud sync. I scrubbed back and deleted the last 30 minutes. Just enough to cover my entry and movement inside.
No alerts. No logs popping up. Either it worked, or no one was watching close enough to care.
I unplugged the external drive for good measure and left it resting on the desk.
Then I backed out, closed the door behind me, and retraced my steps through the hallway.
Clean exit. Nothing dramatic.
And no one the wiser.
I circled back.
Same route, same shadows. Stealth technique still active, keeping my presence low and movements quiet. The difference now was simple: the cameras were out of the equation. I didn't have to worry about angles or timing.
If something was worth taking, I could just take it.
Back inside the main exhibit hall, I moved toward the central displays—the ones I'd skipped before.
High lighting, center stage. Pure glass. The kind of cases made for guided tours and overfunded school groups. And right in the middle of one: a heavy gold pectoral, inset with green stones and a delicate woven pattern that looked handmade.
Definitely not a replica.
I tapped the glass with one knuckle. Solid, but not alarmed. The base had a basic magnetic lock—cheap museum standard.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the slim pry tool I'd snagged earlier—basic, flat-edged, probably meant for maintenance work.
I slid it into the side and popped the case loose with a soft click.
Inventory attempt: Ceremonial Pectoral (Gold, 74% – Jade Inlays).
Stored:
Added to Stack A – High-Purity Gold (60–93%)
• Entry noted: Ceremonial Pectoral – 74% purity, jade inlays
I stepped back, reset the lid, slid the wedge out cleanly.
Stack A was turning into a decent collection. Coins, bars, scrap—now actual craftsmanship. Almost felt like curating a portfolio.
I kept going.
The next display case was lower to the ground—probably meant for school tours or accessibility.
Inside: a ceremonial dagger with a heavy gold handle and an obsidian blade.
The placard read:
"Ritual Blade – Mixtec Origin. 15th Century."
No pressure sensors. No alarm wire. Just the case, the stand, and the bad judgment of a museum budget committee.
Same wedge tool. Same angle. Soft pop.
I lifted the dagger. It was heavier than expected. The obsidian blade had that rough texture—primitive, but effective. The gold handle, dense and slightly warm to the touch, said it all.
Stored:
Stored in Stack A – High-Purity Gold (60–93%)
• Entry noted: Ritual Blade – 62% purity, obsidian blade
I reset the case, smoothed the lid, tucked the tool away again.
Next up: a tall glass column near the rear wall. Inside, a set of thin golden discs suspended by wire, each stamped with pre-Columbian glyphs. Could've been ceremonial currency, or just fancy status tokens. Either way—gold.
Same kind of lock. Same lazy design.
One wedge. One lift. Easy.
I tapped the discs.
Stored:
Stored in Stack A – High-Purity Gold (60–93%)
Entry noted: Gold Discs (5x) – average purity 68%
A few steps over: a rectangular pendant, rough emerald jammed into weathered gold. The tag called it "Amulet of Agricultural Favor – Provenance Unverified." Yeah, sure. But the materials checked out.
Stored:
Stored in Stack A – High-Purity Gold (60–93%)
• Entry noted: Amulet – rough emerald embedded
This was starting to feel less like theft and more like cleanup.
One last case.
Tucked into a side wall near the exit. Small, clean, unassuming. Inside: a golden bracelet, thick but simple, coiled like a snake with tiny turquoise eyes. No tag, no backstory. Just sitting there like it had been forgotten.
I popped the case open and tapped it.
Stored: Bracelet (Gold, 66% – Turquoise Inset).
Added to Stack A – High-Purity Gold (60–93%)
• Entry noted: Coiled bracelet – turquoise detail
That was the last one.
I sealed the lid, pocketed the wedge, and slipped out without looking back. The museum faded behind me, all glass and silence.
Next stop: Plan B.
A nearby National Guard depot. Outdated perimeter, barely any foot traffic, and a side shed that looked like it hadn't been locked properly in years.
Probably filled with whatever gear didn't fit standard issue. Old stock, surplus, maybe a few things that fell off inventory. Could be useful.
I wasn't expecting much. Just something sturdy, practical—something to fill the gaps the museum couldn't.
The depot wasn't far—ten minutes on foot, staying low through back streets and fenced lots.
I slid my earbuds back in as I moved. Music low, steady. Not for focus—just to stay distracted enough to train.
Keeping Mystical Infiltration active while multitasking was part of the routine now.
Something I'd have to get used to.
Two blocks out, I paused and took them out. Tucked them away. No distractions now.
The depot sat ahead—two squat buildings behind a chain-link fence.
"Floodlights were off—not that they were needed at this hour. The dimness came from age and bad upkeep, not actual darkness."
Perfect.
I scouted the perimeter for a full minute—counting breaths, scanning corners.
No one.
Then I looked up.
Camera above the gate. Fixed angle, low-res housing. Looked active. The cable ran along the wall and into a small side structure marked COMM / ELEC. Same layout as the museum, more or less. Security would be routed through there.
I moved along the fence line, low and quiet, until I reached the far side.
The service door to the comm shack was old and rusted, barely latched.
I pulled out the same pry bar from earlier. Thin edge, still solid. Slipped it into the doorframe and pushed—quiet, steady.
Inside, the room wasn't dark—just unlit. Pale sunlight slipped through a dirty window pane, mixing with the electronic glow of standby LEDs. It smelled like dust and insulation.
I slipped in and closed the door behind me.
A narrow room with breaker panels, routers, and three monitors. One showed exterior cameras. Another covered the interior—storage aisles, back entrance, loading area. The third screen was dark. No chair, no guard.
Good.
I disabled the live feeds. Same method as before. No beeping, no alerts. The screens flicked to static. I scrubbed the last ten minutes of local storage, just in case, then unplugged the external drive and left it behind the rack, out of sight.
Done.
Once I stepped out of the comms room, I scanned the hallway again.
Off to the right—an old metal door with peeling paint and a half-legible stencil:
"SUPPLY / ARMORY – Authorized Access Only."
I checked the handle. Locked.
But judging by the rusted hinges and the battered keyhole, this wasn't where they kept live weapons anymore. Probably just old uniforms, maybe expired tear gas canisters.
Still—worth checking later.
But right next to it, sitting on a bent electrical panel, someone had left a ring of keys labeled "TOOLS + GEN / STORAGE A."
I pocketed them without a word.