As you have noticed, or if you're new, this story has been re-edited. I was quiet displeased with the way it was done, so I've re-written the whole story again, hopefully more appealing. This story was inspirited by a book I still haven't read, but give credit for idea (not the story, thank you, I didn't that myself) is from the book by Christopher Brookmyer 'The Sacred Art of Stealing.' There have been made some drastic changes in this story, but obviously, many things are still the same, the message of this story. You will understand if you read this story (see if you can spot the similarity) enjoy the chapter, whether you read the first version or you've just decided to read it now, I hope you enjoy it.

Stealing Hearts

Chapter One - A Small Gift

Night had fallen quickly over the active streets and hubbub of Escatopia, the heart and capital of one of the most prominent lands, Fanelia. It was cradled between mountains and blessed with lush vegetation. People from all over the country sought a place in one of the world's largest cities, busily working throughout the day to rise in life. It was well past three in the morning, when most night activity lulled into a stop, the night very silent and peaceful. The air was cool and ruffled the grass and leaves as it made its way south, stars twinkling high in the sky, scattered randomly in a sea of darkness.

High buildings stood towering above houses and gleamed slightly with the light of the moon. Escatopia was the centre of culture and wealth of the country. So naturally, it had museums. Museums of modern arts, of Ancient artefacts, Museum of the history of Fanelia and many others. Among the many museums scattered around the city, one of the most famous museums of Fanelia, The Museum of The Great War, stood quietly and vigilant and such time of hour at the centre of the city.

It had once been an old mansion, owned by one of the wealthiest lords of the land given to the city after he passed away a widower and childless. The Museum was large, having elegance many museums lacked. Large windows circled the museum, and with two grand stone colons on either side of the entrance, and the museum styled in a baroque fashion.

Inside a silence filled the air, except for the quiet humming of the alert system and the air conditioner. The floor was marbled and shone brightly, with creamy walls on either side clean and bare. The lights were turned off and there wasn't a soul in sight. After the entrance the Museum was divided into many sections: portraits scenery, armoury and weapons, treasures and, of course, the shop.

Cameras turned leisurely from side to side capturing everything around it, positioned throughout the vast museum. Hidden inside the museum was the surveillance room, where all cameras transmitted their films inside a small, obscure place with its glass tinted black and only a few selected were honoured with the key. Outside the door written in bold letter 'Only Staff Permitted.'

Inside, a man no older than forty stood seated engrossed watching the small television to the side of the security cameras. He was a thin man, his hair was sleeked back and a few fine strands of silver streaked his dark blonde, almost ginger hair. His eyebrows were fair and his crystal blue eyes stood transfixed at the program, with a donut at hand as he munched on it every once and a while with the a box filled with others close by. He wore the uniform of a security guard, navy blue pants and white shirts with a hat similar to that of a police. A gun was strapped to the waist loosely, and under the light the badge on the right breast read Larry O'Dell. From time to time his eyes would stray from the entertaining box and glance and the films, but quickly return to the program when everything that he could see were empty rooms, save for his partner, a round man slightly older than he was with a bushy moustache and equally bushy brown hair, Mr. Bill Brown.

Bill Brown was a heavy man, when he walked his shoes clattered loudly against the cool marble, his large belly bouncing slightly with every stride. His beady eyes examined the rooms carefully, and sometimes reached for his gun at his hip and flashed the brightness of his flashlight when he saw odd shapes or heard a noise other than his footsteps. His flashlight guided him inside the place, almost as if he were inside a car with headlights. It was a boring job indeed; both Larry and Bill had to agree.

One would think that it would be a bid more exciting, as in every movie museums are robbed, security guards are saviours and alert the police and become heroes. Unfortunately, that was not the case with those two, whom have been working for the museum for much longer than ten years. It became quiet tiring, repeating the same routine every night, the urge to flee from the ominous and empty museum almost unbearable. So, it was with great effort that Bill dragged his thick legs around the museum, sure to pass every room and exam not as enthusiastically as he had the room before.

The wind outside grew more aggressive, and scratched on the windows, flew inside the museum and made a swishing sound in its darkness. Bill sniffled and rubbed his moustache as he left the last door from the armoury section, ready to repeat the same process with the treasure section. Bill rested one of his plumb arms at his waist as he punched a few numbers for security and waited until it blinked green and allowed him access inside Treasure section. Much the same fashion as the section before followed the previous one, every room empty and untouched. The large man sighed tiredly as he made his way to the last section of the museum, the Portrait Scenery.

His hands grabbed his communicator and spoke gruffly, "Larry, pal, I'm going to check through the last section of the museum, Portrait Scenery. Finish those donuts of yours, but make sure you save some for me too, you greedy bastard. My legs are aching and I can't wait to leave this forsaken place," Bill looked around with his eyes and wrinkled his nose in dislike at an obscure painting.

The communicator crackled, and moments later a voice chuckled, "Don't you worry, Bill. I've got enough donuts for you. Couldn't agree with you more, it kinda gives me the creeps in this place." Larry lowered his voice, as if someone might hear their conversation and said in a hushed tone laced with trepidation, "They say that the old man was murdered, forced to give up his land to the government. Some say his family was murdered and after death his soul roams around this old place in search of the ones that took his life and his family's, perhaps looking for revenge. Just the thought brings a chill down my spine."

"Don't be stupid, you old goat," Roared Bill and his voice bounced off the walls, the momentarily quiet museum suddenly filled with Bill's booming voice, "You have to daft to believe that. Even if he had been murdered, ghosts do not exist." Bill said seriously and looked to the side, and jumped slightly, the portrait of a madman galloping in his horse with red-blood eyes swirling with fire in them. A sort of a manic expression, following Bill wherever he went. He coughed loudly and shook his head, "Just be ready in 20 minutes or so."

"Roger that." A sound of shuffling sounded on the other line and Larry said in an excited voice, "Hey, Bill, did you read the news lately?"

Bill continued to look around him and replied gruffly, "No, spill."

"You know that thief, you know, the one they always talk on the news? Yeah, well, it seems like he did it again, Bill! Emerald strikes again!" Larry almost seemed like a child in a candy store for the first time. "This time he went for the National Museum of Fine Arts, can you believe it? And they took the Smile of Celena no less! The most precious painting in the museum! Unbelievable! I always thought they had excellent security." Larry said thoughtfully.

Bill snorted, " Never really thought they were well guarded anyways. But we make a good team, don't we?"

"Yeah, we do." Said Larry, and as an afterthought said, "That's all."

Bill nodded but said nothing; the communicator made a clicking noise and went dead. Bill stored back on his belt and continued his walk under the dim light from the moon that seeped inside the museum. It was almost in a trance that Bill reached the last room; glad the work was done for the night. Bill entered the room slowly, flashlight flashing, gun nearby, he scrutinized the painting and would stop a few times and look at paintings he had seen many times in different angels, curious if the next day it would seem different. The room was gravely silent, even as Bill breathed he could hear himself, a sort of silence that a normal person would have felt uncomfortable.

There was a soft sound, one that was slightly different than what Bill knew, a normal person would disregard and it would most likely go unnoticed. But thanks for many years of work, Bill sensed it and paused for a moment, he titled his head to the sight as if to listen to something, and than scrunched his face in a scowl. Quickly, he reached again for his communicator and whispered urgently, "Larry! Have you seen anything different lately? No moving objects or cameras stopped recording?"

There was a cause on the other line, but it soon crackled and a puzzled voice responded, "Whatcha blabbering about, Bill? There hasn't been a soul in sight the whole night! And for most of the nights I've been working here. Why, you heard something?"

Bill eyed the corner of the exhibition and walked towards it warily, knowing nothing would be there, "When did that genitor creep leave?"

Larry answered after a short pause, "Dunno really, wait…´bout two hours ago. Did you see anyone?" A tint of excitement could be noted on his voice.

Bill roamed his eyes again and sighed heavily; "I guess it was nothing, I'm getting too old for this, Larry."

"It gets us paranoid, that's what."

Bill laughed hoarsely and shook his head with a wide grin, "You got that right, and my wife is always complaining how nervous I seem at every moment in the house at night."

Larry laughed along, "Are you done?"

Bill nodded, even though it was impossible for Larry to see that, "Yeah, looking through the battle scene paintings."

"Roger." And once again the communicator went dead.

He hummed slightly as he made his way out of the last section and on his way out punched the numbers to close the doors security. Bill walked with a certain bounce as he made his way towards the security room, almost gleeful to call his partner and leave. He stopped in front of the door promptly at fifteen past four. With eyes dropping slightly he opened the door. Larry turned his head and regarded Bill for a moment; he smiled, a crooked smile with some teeth yellowing, and stood up from his seat. With bony fingers he straightened his shirt and pressed down his trousers. Bill looked around the room and eyed the donuts for a moment, "Ready?"

Larry nodded and turned off the TV, crossed the room, grabbed the box of donuts and left in a huff with Bill at his side, munching on a chocolate covered donut. They took their coats from the hanger and zipped up, glanced one last time at the museum and went through the backdoors.

The door creaked slightly, the cool air hit their flushed cheeks and they stepped outside. Every once and a while one would turn their head over their shoulder and glance back at the museum, almost in fear it would disappear. The two men conversed lightly and walked brusquely away, eager to arrive home. They hadn't bothered to wait for the next set of security guards, it didn't make a difference if they weren't there at the right time. They complained how young guards weren't as punctual as they used to be. The air had calmed down and slowly the museum began to distant itself, forgotten in their memories as they headed home.

Suddenly, a sound very odd to them, a high pitched like shrill rang from behind them. It was a distant sound, one they had heard before, but not often. They slowed their paces and looked at each other. For a moment, they stood staring, uncertain what the sound was, and than, as if woken from a dream, both sprang from their spots and ran towards the museum. The sound became clearer, and it seemed almost like bells, ringing violently fast. By the time they arrived at the museum their breathing was laboured, their blood pounding in their ears and the ache from the ear-shattering ring. Their legs wobbled slightly, the exercise not common for them, and rushed inside.

Larry was the first one to swiftly walk in the security room and call the police, regardless if the alarm had been ticked-off from a falling leaf. Once reported, Larry slammed the phone down and rushed to Bill's side, suddenly not as eager about the adventure as he had dreamed countless times. With much difficulty, he asked, "Bill, do you think…?"

Bill breathed uneasily and wiped his red face from the sweat it trickled down his round face, "I don't know, Larry. All I know is that this is something completely different from what we are used to."

Larry looked frightful for a moment and gripped his gun tightly, the shrilling sound of the alarm already accustomed to him. Bill scanned the security room and looked at one of the radars. His eyes glided through it and he smirked, "Filthy bastard, they went for the portraits."

Larry looked alarmed for a moment, "Than it was really a robbery."

Bill puffed and looked at him, "It might. Let's go."

Both man walked as fast as their throbbing legs could take them, which wasn't very fast. When once Bill was thankful the museum wasn't as big as others, he now cursed all rooms that seemed to only distant themselves as he walked faster, almost ran, with Larry right behind him. Down the corridor a bright red light was blinking, the last room on the exhibition. Bill and Larry burst into the room and gulped lungful of air, very breathless and head quiet dizzy.

With some trepidation, Bill looked towards the place were he felt would be empty. His eyes rested on an empty wall, the marks of a frame marked by the sun. Bill walked slowly towards it, Larry close by, and stood in front of it, looking at a once filled space. Bill´s eyes dropped to the golden label and he inwardly winced. The famous painting of General Dilandau was gone. It just so happened to be the most valuable painting in the whole exhibition; it was even as advertised for the museum.

Bill gulped audibly, even with the high pitched alarm, and glanced towards a very pale Larry. He parted his dry lips and half yelled to be heard, "You know what this means, don´t you?"

Larry nodded gloomily.

Bill nodded sadly along with Larry and noticed a small piece of paper innocently stuck to the side of where the portrait should have been. Not quiet certain if it had been there before, Bill reached for it with clammy hands and squinted at the sloppy hand written note. Silently, he read the words to himself and dropped the note with eyes wide. Larry picked it up and read it too. Both guards looked at each other and sighed tiredly. Bill placed his hand over his forehead and Larry looked at the note again, the sound of the alarm numbing their senses and both waited for when the police came, and both would fall with dignity and do their duty to the very end.

Clutched between Larry´s slender fingers was a piece of paper, no bigger than a palm, and no more than ten words.

Thanks for the gift boys, better luck next time.

Emerald

hoped you liked the first chapter, or should I say prologue. And don´t forget to review before you leave, thanks!

Hitomi-chan

30/08/03 (new version 10/02/05)