"Sod off, Falk. You know gorram well that we've only got one chance at this, and you know we're short-handed. Besides, I'm the only one of the usual crew who could pull off blending in at the embassy gala without giving away what we're up to in under 10 minutes." Mal stared at his lieutenant and chief muscle with a stare that was pointed, calm, and implacable. Given the latter's tendency toward wanton destruction, that took more nerve than it seemed.

Falk looked away. "All right, Mal. So we've got 6 months. Raneedae ain't out of the joint for 12, and even you don't have the acorns to break somebody out of the Raft. It's 2000 clicks out in the middle of the farkin' ocean! Nova used to be the closest we've got left on the crew to somebody who might be able to pull it off, but with that ink from the Malay what tried to break her, she'd be too recognizable. How you gonna pull this off?"

Pygmalion Crown, known informally as Mal to his intimates, looked around at the other four people in the room. Falk was a near mountain of a man, tall enough his head brushed the door frame when he went in and out. Nova was petite, skinny, wiry, and blonde, face half-covered in tattoos and hands flying over the keyboard with a delicate rapidity that made it seem like she was almost thinking her directions into the computer system. Maybe she was, for that matter - she'd never been quite the same after getting away from the Malay. Then the twins, known as Otter and Weasel for so long that it was questionable if either of them remembered their real names. Mechanical geniuses, their aptitude with the inanimate was equalled only by their inability to interact in a normal social setting with anybody outside the crew. "Before we start planning - do we agree that it's worth hitting the Rom embassy when the collection comes through on its way to the museum? We've got one painting that was stolen in the 20th century and has been purported missing for near 300 years, and enough jewelry that even if we break it down and lose some of the value, it's fuck-you money for all of us. Fence some of it carefully and intact, and it's fuck-you money for your grandkids, if any of us survive long enough to have them." Mal looked at the others patiently, although he knew their responses were foregone conclusions.

Weasel surprised him by asking a question. "How you gonna work around that Rom thing about not pissing off their gods and insisting on balancing the men and women? You ain't gettin' in without a piece of ass on your arm."

A small smile crept across Mal's face. "I told you I've got a plan. Before we start working on it, are we hitting the embassy or not?" It was Otter's turn this time. "I think we go for it, but I don't think you can get yourself in the door there. Third of my share says you don't get that far. We're busted or abort and I don't lose anything; but two-thirds of fuck-you money is still fuck-you money."

Mal eyed the others. His voice was calm; upper-crust accent crisp and precise. "I'll take that bet if you agree we're in. Don't forget where & how I grew up. Get me in the door with a girl who knows what she's doing and I can get us the goods. Good thing we've got six months. Falk? Nova? Weasel? Are you in or are you out? I can't do this without you, even working around the arm candy bit."

Nova's slightly mechanical voice came out through the speakers. "If you can find your escort in a week, I'll go for it. Don't think you can find one what can blend in with the toffs there, though."

Mal nodded. "Leave that to me."

Five days had gone by, and none of Mal's extended contacts were brave enough to try the score. Sure, there was an insane quantity of loot on the line, but the way that the Rom dealt with people who double-crossed them scared the blazes out of any crook with a lick of sense. Maybe that was Mal's problem. He'd grown up in a privileged position, and had almost always been able to buy or bluff his way out of trouble. Even after his father - the fourth-richest or so man in the country, depending on what year you looked at the list - disowned him, Mal had a reputation for pulling scores that made most other folks green with envy. But a bad run of luck had left most of his crew dead or, worse, in the hands of the law. Falk, Nova, Weasel, and Otter were good, but none of them could blend in well enough to get them close to the art - and three of them were men.

So when he approached the Jackal about the look book, he had something different in mind. Something that only Pygmalion Crown could pull off. He was going to create his ticket in to the Rom Embassy Ball from out of whole cloth. And Jackal was the last pimp in the city left who might have somebody that could work.

"Too strung-out." flip "Too old." flip "Too scarred." flip flip flip flip "Really, Jackal - the quality of your merchandise seems to be sliding lately."

"Go sod yourself, Mal. You buying or not?"

The last page of the book. New, or at least newish. Still alive inside, to judge by her eyes. Something suggested some raw intelligence. "Her. Only one who might do for what I need tonight." Jackal pulled up his vidcom and paged her. She swore at him, saying her slate was done for the night. The pimp replied, "He went through the whole lookbook and the only one he wanted was you. You've got 5 minutes."

After Jackal closed the door behind him, Mal eyed the young whore up and down, appraisingly in a way that was unfamiliar to her. "Yes, I think you might do. Provided that Jackal hasn't drugged your brain into somnolence, of course, although that isn't his usual style. Tell me, young lady - would you like a chance at a job that could earn you enough money you could take that thug Jackal and tell him to go fuck himself with his own cock? It'll depend on you being able to keep secrets, of course - but no woman in your line of work lasts too long if she can't, unless her pimp uses her as a spy. Jackal usually just goes for fear, intimidation, and money."

So.... Leverage meets Steampunk meets Firefly. The loot, unknown to any of the crew except maybe Mal, is not only the obviously valuable gems and jewelry, but also Vermeer's "The Concert", stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in March of 1990. Either you can take the girl from Jackal's look book and we can share everybody else, or we can find people to take Falk, Nova, and the twins.

We start with pulling a Henry Higgins before moving into the actual con itself. You in?