The Unnatural Disasters

4. The second worst way to pay rent: Newton

It's a rich person's house, and it looks like it.

Big, cream coloured mansion with pillars that serve exactly zero purpose and windows keeping everything inside hidden. Not that you could spot any of this- it's practically a three-mile hike to get from the gates of the driveway to the front porch.

Have to say: this place feels uncomfortably like my mother's house.

The team and I, along with Luda, stand on the front waiting for the door to open. I'd be willing to bet that it's taking this long because of the five minutes it'd take for the sound of the doorbell to ring throughout the house.

"Hello!" The door swings open: a tall woman with glasses and blonde hair piled up onto the top of her head peers out. "You must be the guards. Come in! Come in!"

We walk across a well-carpeted hallway, complete with far too many mirrors and guilt.

"I'm Mira. Mira Mannings. Mr Levy's personal assistant. I assume you know the details? Where you're going, what you're doing, etcetera?"

We look towards Luda.

"Could you refresh our memories?"

"Oh. Okay. Right." Mira seems slightly irritated at our incompetence; look, if they wanted quality then they shouldn't have chosen the people whose nickname is literally 'Unnatural Disasters'.

She swings the door at the end of the corridor open. The room inside glistens.

Whether or not it was meant to be, it looks like a ballroom. High ceilings shine with gold paint and crenellations. The floor's that sort of marble usually reserved for expensive bathrooms. One side of the room is entirely covered in mirrors, for reasons I don't understand. A chandelier glitters with diamonds and unnecessary decadence in the corner.

And, at the centre of the ridiculousness, stands a man.

If I were to spot David Levy out on the street, I would not guess that he runs a thousand pound empire of sweets. He's a bald man, with a beaky nose and dark eyes, wearing a trench coat and oddly patent-leather shoes. Why anyone would choose to wear shiny leather outside of being forced to for school, I don't know. Overall?
The man looks like he should have a show doing street magic somewhere.

But he's here, and I guess he's the candyman himself.

"Hello! Welcome." He gives a grin to us, his voice loud and excited. "The guests won't be arriving till lunch, but my son and some of the staff are here if you get lost or anything. I assume you know what to do?"

Once again, Luda's the spokesperson for our lack of planning. He purses his lips, almost imperceptibly.

"Well then: I'd like to have a couple of people on the entrance, do you have anyone who could do that?"

Omega turns to me. "Do you want to..."

"Should we..." I reply.

"Yes." Luda says, to both us and to Mr Levy.

I can't escape nor explain the feelings of nervousness I have, following Ms Mannings out the room and through the corridor. Something just isn't... right. Why?

What could happen?

What would-

Somebody's hands grab me, seemingly coming from nowhere. I try to scream, to fight back, but a rag, stinking of chemicals, covers my mouth and nose.

I try not to breathe. I can hear Ms Mannings on one side and Omega on the other, all in similar situations: they can't help me and I can't for them.

Eventually, though, I have to have air.

Chloroform, I think, as I collapse into my captor's arms.

What a stereotype.