“Allure is a complex city…” Despite the cat’s droning, a flash of brilliance set Tartalo’s neural-weave processors racing. Vermillion ribbons of code coruscated along his augmented intraparietal sulcus as he created the rudimentary framework for what was to come while simultaneously forcing his way through layers of network control matrices and overriding several multi-factor physical authentications through the Falcata subroutines devised by that clever Babazorro. 

<< Ekhi, download everything you can find once the Falcata is done cutting its way through. >>
<< Sir… These are… >>
<< Do it. >>

A sullen ping of confirmation. Tartalo took a moment to steel himself before continuing his interrogation.

“How disappointing what I am about to tell you must be, then. Ms. Iedereen certainly has ‘it’, if ‘it’ is a propensity for betrayal. Not only has she graciously agreed to our terms of unconditional surrender in exchange for formal recognition of her authority, but she has seen fit to provide us with more than enough information to delegitimize any claims of innocence you have tried to profess. 

Quite clever this Ms. Iedereen is. At least clever enough to recognize the gravity of her situation. Now, do you doubt me? Or was your faith misplaced?”

No response from the restrained felid. Tartalo pressed on, sure of his strategy.

“Perhaps it is proof that you require. I can accommodate that.”

The interrogation chamber’s environs bloomed with activity in the purlieu of Merse and the Aldaré. Austere fuliginous panels sighed heavily as the chamber’s dimensions succumbed to a kaleidoscopic whorl before settling into the gestalt of a luxurious and expertly curated parlor. The stubby legs of a burgundy chaise lounge scuttled across lush Persian carpeting, fleeing the anachronistic fixture that Merse’s recumbent form presented. A shapely figure swathed in yellow appeared to be quite annoyed, but not at the jostling trot of her mahogany steed. 

Her eyes, teeming with malice, were fixed on the imposing figure that stepped into Merse’s periphery as the intricately carved tentacles of an eastlake parlor table anxiously inched its way out of his path, an opaque alembic teetering dangerously with its motions. Pursed lips parted, and with an agitated tone she addressed the operative while undoing the clasp of her petite coach bag. 

“If you’re going to force me to wash my dirty linens in public, you could at least make yourself useful and go about gettings things prepared.” With a soft grunt she removed the framework of a large archway out of her purse and dropped it to the floor with a muted thud. 

“In Allure, there are territories which abide by the law, while others don’t,” she continued, returning to the contents of her bag. “Order was maintained out of the fact that opposing factions never openly collaborated against the state. I had other means of keeping the peace but due to unforeseen circumstances, I must play the situation with more finesse.” The woman turned, withdrawing a can with a no-sign stamped over a human figure. She gave the air between her and the operative a few furtive sprays before going on.
 
“To keep that peace, I suggest making the best of a dire situation and present both of our peoples with a proper bogeyman.” 

Merse’s perspective retreated as the operative moved past then knelt through the bottle’s mist, lifting the archway with ease as a modulated voice tinged with curiosity responded.  “Go on.”

“You’ve already got them in custody. I can arrange a meeting of very particular parties that might serve to resolve our current crisis.” Margaret rose from the chaise lounge and crossed the room like a volitant canary, stopping to nibble on a quivering cake that oozed a viscous green fluid. She dabbed at the taut crease of her mouth with the corner of a fuschia handkerchief.  “All parties involved would happily present a unified front against our deposed shyster, and with the cat in the bag all it should take is a bit of incrimination. 

“You can guarantee their cooperation?”
“Darling, nothing is ever guaranteed. Do you suppose I woke this morning eager to go about conspiring? I can hardly hold the need for evidence against you, though. Allow me to illustrate how… popular your captive is with the rest of Allure’s citizenry.”

Margaret returned to the chaise and undid the clasp of her purse once more, this time producing the ornate ivory receiver to a rotary phone, the reflection from its polished brass inlays reflected infinitely along a series of jasper decanters along high shelves that lined chartreuse colored walls adorned with tangerine neo-grecian motifs that undulated dizzyingly.

She gave a soft cough before speaking into the transmitter, watching the operative construct the archway with a penetrating gaze. “How do you do, Mr…” Her words were cut short by a deluge of expletives that audibly burst from the receiver for all to hear. 

“THAT FUCKIN’ CAT.. MY BOTTOM LINE. I’VE GOT THREE.. FULL OF FRIJJANS.. THEIR CREDITS WHEN THE WHOLE CITY GOES BELLY UP.”

“I understand your displeasure, given the circumstances. But how would you like to finally be free of Merse? Don’t answer. Just gather your composure and prepare for an all-black affair.”

Returning the handset to its cradle, Margaret rose once more and let out a “HOWARD” in curt exclamation. The minuscule form of a young boy clad in blue overalls blinked into existence in the spot that Merse occupied in nauseating superposition before they stepped forward, oblivious to the rippling effect. He had an archway similar to the one the operative was constructing in tow, already curiously aware of what was transpiring. 

“No need to yell, love. You’ve got my…. supppppppppport in h-h-hangiiiiiiinggg the cat-cat-cat-cat-cat out to drrrrrrrrrrrry.” Cherubic features collapsed upon themselves, creating an atramentous absence in the center of Howard’s face. The entire parlor seemed to be heaving with heavy breaths while the landscape of a schooner sailing atop crimson waters sprang to life, sanguine mists flecking felid fur. Perception became ultimate gamble as the walls began to close in on Merse’s restrained form. Tartalo’s voice bubbled up through the distortion created through the careful application of memetic agents. 

“Your time is nearing its close. If there were ever a time for full disclosure, now would be it.”