The Jack of Hearts, also known as the Knave, is often associated with bravery and loyalty as a youthful exuberance and passion – Madam Tobin’s Tarot Guide

Operation Giga Pudding (D+.1 hour)

A red rooster rested quietly on a wooden perch. Nestled around him were his hens which he had protected since he was old enough to crow.

Something had disturbed his slumber. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary like a hawk or owl, but it was something predatory. The rooster opened its beady eye and peeped between the cracks of the shed.

A flash of movement caught his eye, but it was gone before he could turn his head. Whatever it was, didn’t make a single sound. The hens continued to slumber on their shelves.

Whatever it was, thought the rooster, it’s of no threat to my ladies.

Still, it was better to error on the side of caution and lose a bit of sleep to keep a watchful eye out, after all he surmised it was his duty to protect his flock. Just in case, he opened both eyes, as the insects continued their nighttime concert.

***

Whisper slid between two houses; her movements soundless as she approached the chain-link fence. In one fluid motion, she vaulted over it, her warrior's Lightning Speed ability propelling her forward with unnatural agility. A quick mental check confirmed her Feather Step was still active, keeping her footfalls light and silent on the damp ground. She took a deep breath, the night air heavy with humidity. Ten minutes ago, she had slipped into the Boardwalk and entered Queen Pin's territory.

It was enemy ground, and around every corner was another five-man squad on patrol. Her primary objective was to find the Jack of Hearts, neutralizing the patrols came secondary.

The patrols had been easy enough to evade—too easy, perhaps. Whisper knew better than to trust a predictable schedule. Was this an oversight? The regularity of their movements only heightened her suspicion. After all, Queen Pins weren’t known for overlooking small details. Complacency kills, she reminded herself.

As she rounded a corner, Whisper found herself in a dimly lit backyard, the faint glow from a nearby streetlamp casting shadows across the wet grass. She dropped into a crouch, the cold dampness seeping into her gloves. Her instincts screamed at her to stay low, stay hidden. Whisper slowly transitioned to a prone position, pressing her body against the earth as her senses sharpened.

The silence was deafening. Whisper's heartbeat echoed in her ears, each thump a reminder of how exposed she was. She scanned her surroundings, every muscle tensed, ready to react. The rustle of leaves in the breeze sounded like footsteps; a distant creak became the groan of a door opening. She stilled her breath, narrowing her focus.

She could sense it—a presence, faint but there. Was it a patrol she had overlooked, safe house, or something worse? A shadow moved in the corner of her eye, and she stifled the urge to bolt. Instead, she stayed motionless, her fingers flexing around the hilt of her blade.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly as Whisper waited, every second dragging out her uncertainty. The wet grass clung to her, but she didn’t dare move. She had learned long ago that patience was often the difference between life and death.

The sound of footsteps grew louder—steady, deliberate. They were close, too close. Whisper’s grip tightened, her mind racing through options. She knew she had moments to decide, strike preemptively or wait it out and risk being caught. Whisper knew one wrong move could end her mission—and her life—in an instant.

The chicken coop she passed grew silent. The occupants within stopped their shuffling around. The night bugs continued their musical concert.

“Pikes ahead,” she thought as a frog hopped across by, failing to see or acknowledge her presence.

She lifted off the ground and moved closer to the wooden paneled home directly in front of her. The window shades pulled down and didn’t offer a single sliver of light to peek through. Whisper waited for any signs of movement.

Mounted on a metal bracket above the door, Whisper noticed a pair of lights attached to a motion sensor. She clicked her tongue, and a black rat scurried out from one of the pouches.

His little whiskers twitched as he ran up to her. Whisper pointed towards the light fixture and the rat zipped towards the door. He scurried up the side of the door and along the wall. He stopped and began to chew on the cover then on the wires.

Whisper gave three more clicks with her tongue and the rat disappeared into the night. As she low crawled to the door, she wondered how many hours Heather spent teaching the rats to chew on wires without risking getting electrocuted. Once she reached the door she placed her hand on the glass panel.

It vibrated.

“If someone is inside, this must be one of the safe houses set up to provide overwatch to something important like a weapons cache or Diamond Anny’s concert,” Whisper thought. “Or a trap.”

Whisper checked the windows on the house. All were sealed shut, except for a window with a narrow gap leading to the basement. She pulled out a loose glass panels and pulled the locking mechanism from the rotted wood. Whisper took off her combat best and body armor then slid inside like a snake on glass. The floor was covered in dust and the room was filled with cobwebs.

She put her gear back on and adjusted her blue and white bore mask to fit better to her face. The black eyes of the mask scanned the cobwebs. The Witch Sight enchantment didn’t pick up on any passive or active magic on the webbing. So, she continued to low crawl along the floor and up the steps. Whisper tested the door, it opened just enough to allow her to hear what was on the other side. She pulled out a handheld mirror and looked around the corner.

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In the entryway by a wooden door with glass panels she saw a young man with butternut brown jacket sat by the door. The heavy canvas material crinkled every time he popped his head to check out the window and back down.

As he rested against the door, he adjusted the leathery gasmask. Whisper pulled her mirror back when she heard heavy boots stomp down the hallway. Whisper counted his steps and noted the instance when the wood would creak or groan with his footsteps. His mask rested on top of his head.

“Yo, Gold Finch, chill, we won’t get attacked till dawn,” the man said in a scratchy voice. “Intell says that Boss Cat Estelle don’t like getting up that early in the morning, an’ Wheels won’t do anything without her.”

“Yeah, but you heard what the Queen Pins told us, we need to be…well you know…ready just in case,” Gold Finch said in a muffled voice.

“I get that you are pumped up and all, but the other crews ain’t gonna startin nuttin’ till morning,” he said kicking Gold Finch’s boot. “Sides…Spray and Slay is gonna start till Diamond Anny starts her concert.”

He turned his head to the side and tapped his ear, showing off the hearing protection he had in his ears.

“I’ll be fine Captain,” Gold Finch said as he settled back down in his spot.

“You really should get some chillax time in before things kick off,” the captain said and turned around.

He walked through the hallway and into the adjoined room, closing the door behind him. Gold Finch sat up to check the window again.

“I want to be first to take out a Thornewood, I took out two Wheels last week,” he said chuckling. “I bet that crew is nowhere near as tough as them.”

“But we are sneaky,” Whisper said.

She used Feather Step to close the distance between her position at the basement stairs and the door. Just as Gold Finch turned around, Whisper pressed an auto-injector against his neck and depressed the trigger. Guillotine’s paralytic cocktail entered his blood stream as he froze in place. His body rigid and pupils widened.

Whisper pushed him to the floor and retrieved his side arm and rifle. She then removed the firing pins from the weapons. Next Whisper ejected the magazine and inspected the ammo.

“Wouldn’t want you accidently shooting yourself with…,” Whisper said as she removed a bullet from the magazine. “SABOT rounds?”

The SABOT round glistened with a sleek design that Whisper only saw a at a military trade fair featuring experimental tech. The front of each projectile was needle-thin, tapering to a sharp, tungsten-tipped point. Micro-serrations along the tip promised devastating entry or so the makers claimed. The body of the round was encased in a smooth, polished alloy.

At the rear, a ring of miniature exhaust ports surrounded the base.

“Do you vent kinetic energy and stabilize the round mid-flight or was that some bullshit marketing made up?” she wondered.

Whisper inspected the ammunition from the pistol—identical in design, each round weighed less than a single strand of hair.

“I thought these things were still in the development stage,” she thought. “This confirms my suspicions, but just to be sure.”

Not wanting to linger any longer and risk being found, Whisper pocketed the experimental SABOT rounds and crept toward the door where the captain had entered moments earlier. She eased it open, just enough to peer inside. The captain was slouched in a chair, facing her, with his feet propped carelessly on the table.

She backed away.

When she failed to hear any noise from movement, she looked again. His arms dangled loosely by his sides, and a half-burnt cigarette hung from his fingers, sending wisps of smoke into the air. His mouth was slack, his breathing heavy and slow—a deep snore signaling he was out cold.

Her eyes shifted to the kitchen counter. An olive-green canvas bag sat beside a toaster, with a single antenna protruding from it. It screamed of something more than just ordinary gear—a communication device, perhaps, or worse. Time was ticking, and she couldn’t afford to make mistakes or become distracted.

Whisper’s hand reached for the auto-injector. She checked the remaining fluid in the ampule—just enough. Her pulse quickened as she calculated the steps needed to silently open the door fully and inject the captain before he could wake.

As she inched the door further, the soft crunch of footsteps behind her made her freeze. Whisper dropped the auto-injector.

A side door from the connecting room opened and a sentry rounded the corner, a mouthful of potato chips crunching loudly. His eyes widened in shock, and the bag slipped from his hands. He was already reaching for his sidearm when Whisper moved.

Lullaby flashed in the dim light, and before he could react, she buried it deep into his throat. A gurgling gasp escaped him as his hand faltered, the chips scattering to the floor.

His skin turned pale, and with a faint shudder, he vanished into the darkness.

The silence returned, but Whisper’s heart raced faster. The captain still snored on the other side of the door, oblivious to the deadly game being played around him. She exhaled slowly, preparing for the final, precise strike. There was no room for error now.

"Sloppy, girl, sloppy," Whisper thought as she mentally chastised herself and retrieved her auto-injector.

The death of the sentry had been quick, but the nagging thought lingered.

"I really hope no one was monitoring his life signs."

There was no time for regret now. She slipped into the room where the captain still sat, unaware of the danger. She pressed the injector to his neck. His body jerked violently, muscles locking in a brief moment before he collapsed to the floor, his chair clattering beside him.

Moving from room to room and sticking close to the walls, Whisper checked the rest of the house. The next target she found was sitting on the toilet, completely absorbed in a magazine—an easy, silent takedown.

Upstairs, she found another sleeping, unaware of the storm brewing around him. The final occupant was in the living room, hunched over her wrist scanner, engrossed in a game of Candy-Candy Step, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the screen. Whisper’s lips curled into a cold smile as she injected her with the remaining liquid from the auto-injector.

"Success breeds complacency. Complacency breeds failure. Only the paranoid survives," she reminded herself, slipping back downstairs. "This would never have happened with the Drop Bears."

The house was eerily quiet now, the tension thick in the air as Whisper dragged the heavy table across the floor, the scraping sound as she barricaded the door. With a sharp breath, she turned to the unconscious captain, the chaos of his world about to close in.

“Time for a little chat, Mr. Captain,” she muttered as she filled a bucket with cold water. “But first, bath time!”

***