Mayor Bob Thompson stood at the ceremonial signing table, staring at his expensive, non-functional fountain pen with an expression of disbelief. The pen, a symbol of his power and prestige, had failed him at the moment of his ultimate triumph.
He tried to laugh it off, a forced chuckle that sounded more like clearing his throat. "Well," he boomed, his voice a little too loud, his politician's smile stretched thin, "it seems the ink of progress has run dry!"
The joke landed with a dull thud and died on the beige carpet. Not a single person laughed. Not even his most loyal cronies on the council managed a polite titter. From the back of the room, Chris heard someone mutter, "Crickets." The crowd just stared, their collective secondhand embarrassment palpable. The only sound was the continued, relentless click-click-whir of the cameras, documenting his public failure with indifference. Chris fought the urge to smile. Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh, he chanted in his head. AnArbiter shouldn't giggle at his own pranks. Be the Arbiter. The stoic, mysterious Arbiter.
The Mayor's forced smile tightened into a grimace of annoyance. His folksy charm evaporated, replaced by the raw irritation of a powerful man who had just been made to look foolish. He glared at the pen as if it had personally betrayed him, as if the small, inanimate object had developed a sudden, malicious consciousness for the sole purpose of humiliating him.
Chris, watching from the back of the room, used his [INSPECT] ability on the Mayor.
[Name: Robert "Bob" Thompson]
[Status: Publicly Humiliated, Enraged]
[Active Debuff: [Flustered] (-10 Charisma for 60 seconds)]
[Dominant Thought: "This cheap piece of junk! I paid a fortune for this pen! After all that, this is what happens? In front of the cameras?"]
The plan was working better than he'd hoped. He had landed a debuff. The boss's morale bar had taken a significant hit. The Mayor slammed the dead pen down on the table, the sharp clack echoing through the room. He looked impatiently toward the council chairman, his carefully constructed mask of political calm completely gone, replaced by the undisguised frustration of a man who was not used to being thwarted.
"Well?" he snapped, his voice sharp and loud, a clear breach of public decorum. "Does anyone in this town have a pen that actually works?"
The question, dripping with condescension, hung in the air. A new ripple of whispers went through the crowd. "Well, somebody's in a mood," a man near Chris murmured. "Guess the 'ink of progress' is a touchy subject."
This was it. This was the cue. This was the moment the entire plan hinged upon.
From the back of the room, Chris's heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic rhythm. His plan was now in someone else's hands. He felt anxiety, not for himself, but for his ally. Okay, phase two. This is it. This is the hand-off. The whole raid depends on the rogue getting the cursed item onto the boss. Please don't let her trip. Please don't let him get suspicious.
He focused his [INSPECT] on Jessica, who was standing by the volunteer's table at the side of the stage.
[Name: Jessica Lange]
[Status: Terrified (Heart Rate: 135 bpm), Resolute (Willpower Check: Success)]
[Dominant Thought: "Okay, Jess, you can do this. Don't look scared. Look helpful. Just a helpful, patriotic volunteer who happens to have a spare, cursed pen."]
Chris felt a surge of pride. She was terrified, but she was holding firm. She was a true ally.
He watched as Jessica took a steadying breath. She picked up the enchanted [Pen of Unwavering Honesty] from the folder of documents on her table. The pen, a black-lacquered fountain pen that had once belonged to Pete, looked official, respectable, and completely innocuous. She began to walk toward the podium.
Every eye in the room, including the Mayor's, turned to her. A helpful young volunteer, coming to the rescue. "Oh, that's nice of her," a woman in the audience whispered. Chris watched her move, his own breath held tight in his chest. To him, her slow walk felt like the most suspenseful, most important journey in human history. Each step was a lifetime. Okay, she's past the first row. Councilman Hardwick is giving her a weird look. Ignore him, Jess. Focus on the target. He's looking down, he's not paying attention. Perfect.
Jessica maintained a professional expression. She looked like just another helpful aide, a minor attendee in the grand drama of the evening, not a co-conspirator in a cosmic plot to save the town.
She reached the podium, her steps confident and sure. "Excuse me, Mr. Mayor," she said, her voice impressively clear and steady, not a tremor of fear in it. "You can use this one."
She offered the enchanted fountain pen to Mayor Bob Thompson.
The Mayor, too flustered by the public embarrassment and too arrogant to pay any real, meaningful attention to a teenage volunteer, didn't even look at her. He just saw a solution to his immediate, humiliating problem. He snatched the pen from her hand with a dismissive grunt, his attention already back on the contract and the waiting cameras. The switch was successful. A huge sigh of relief escaped Chris's lips. Switch complete. The item is in his hands. Phase two is a success. Now for the hard part.
Chris watched, holding his breath, as Mayor Bob Thompson turned back to the contract, now armed with the [Pen of Unwavering Honesty]. Jessica, her part in the plan flawlessly executed, calmly and professionally retreated to the side of the stage, melting back into the background like a secret agent who had just successfully planted a bug.
The Mayor gave the new pen a quick, impatient scribble on a scratch pad to ensure it worked. It produced a perfect, clean line of black ink. The curse, after all, was conceptual, not mechanical. Satisfied, he turned back to the official document.
Chris knew there was no turning back now. The trap had been set. The cursed had been delivered.
And the boss had just equipped the cursed item.