Chapter 49 - The Puppeteer
Continued

Fantômas observed how angry Robur was as he drove back to the Albatross, slamming the gear stick into place as he sped along the empty roads. Fantômas sat in the front, with Zenith sat in the back behind Robur. He could see both of them equally well. Zenith was quiet, and Fantômas couldn't help but wonder if Lupin had spoken to him, what he might have said. Zenith kept his gaze outside, looking out the window, thinking hard.

"What's on your mind, Zenith?" he asked with feigned concern.
"This just doesn't feel right," Zenith admitted, turned to look at him. Fantômas studied his face hard for any sign of suspicion, for the slightest hint of doubt. He looked conflicted, that much was true. Robur glanced at him but focused on the roads. He was too angry to be listening to this conversation.
"How so?" Fantômas continued.

Zenith pulled a face. "It's just not like Lupin to get things wrong, and he seemed so sure of himself-"
"He's always full of himself," Robur grumbled, "that's his problem. The pest!"
Zenith raised his voice slightly. "He's far from it. You know that Lupin wouldn't have agreed to fight no matter what the circumstances. He wouldn't have killed anyone- he didn't even want to shoot at the League when Hyde was about to leap onto the car. It's not his way and you know it. You can't expect him to change that."

"That's not the point," Robur barked. "It's not that he declined, it's that damned mouth of his, talking like I'm some sort of blood-thirsty tyrant. To say I'd killed Nemo's daughter!"
"Yes, he was out of line," Fantômas said. Even he had to admit it had been a harsh blow, and not very like Lupin, but he had loved seeing the look on Robur's face. Fantômas had his suspicions about why Lupin had been so harsh, but he was secure now at least. He trusted his man to keep him and Nyctalope there. He'd bound them well, and there would be no getting out of it.

Robur, a tyrant? Possibly, but he certainly wasn't the blood-thirsty one sat in the automobile. That was Fantômas, he had waited patiently for his opportunity. Nemo and Robur would die this night, it was only a matter of time. He'd been waiting to kill the stubborn old fool beside him for months now, ever since he'd laid his eyes on him.

Paris, France: July 23rd, 1899

Fantômas picked the lock with the silence and skill of a master. It was the dead of night and no one was around to interrupt his plans. Who would expect one neighbour to slaughter another in such an expensive complex? Still, he looked both ways down the impressive hallways before he carefully opened the door to avoid any creaking.

Inside was his target for the evening, Gustave Thomas, a crude businessman who's rival had decided he should no longer be in the picture, not that he cared for any reason. Thomas was just another target and Fantômas had every intention of seeing his task through. All he had to do was find him in the pitch dark and remain undetected. There were half a million francs waiting for him if he could do this, along with whatever he could swipe from Thomas's apartment.

Luxurious carpets made it easy for him to mask his footfalls. He walked incredibly slowly, making sure the floorboards couldn't creak beneath him. He masked his breathing as easily as he did his face. Even his heartbeat seemed to quieten in his chest despite pounding against his ribcage, desperate for the thrill of the kill.

He soon came to the occupied bed. Thomas was gently snoring from beneath the covers, lying on his back, lost to the world of sleep, a sleep he would not wake from. The blanket was pulled halfway over his face, so Fantômas would have to remedy that. He brandished his knife, a clean slit across his throat and the money would be his. It was that simple, that beautifully easy to make a living, to thrive, even if he did prefer more exciting methods.

Only when he very slowly peeled the blanket back to expose his throat, a hand reached up and grabbed his wrist, Thomas' other hand contained a pistol.
"Don't move, Monsieur," he said calmly.

Fantômas snarled, but he would still be able to finish this. He swatted the gun away from his body and made to stab him. "Now!" Thomas exclaimed. He was quick to adjust himself, to let go of the gun and use both hands to grab onto Fantômas's knife-hand. It was so, so close to breaking the skin, to going straight through his heart. He put all of his strength into it. Thomas wouldn't be able to last long. He could see Thomas straining to keep the knife away.

The lights almost immediately went on. Fantômas heard the creak of a door, the wardrobe he realised, but before he could do anything, he felt a blade press against his throat, forcing him to be still, to relieve the pressure he was putting on the knife. He had to relax. Thomas quickly retrieved his gun from the bed and took aim, but he couldn't get up due to the knife still held close to his own throat.

"Interesting," Fantômas murmured. "We appear to be at a stalemate."

The surprises weren't finished there. A large man entered from the connecting room with a gun in hand. Fantômas recognised his face, and he was glad he wore a mask to hide his shock. Was that Jean Robur?! He was supposed to be dead! He was never meant to have been given the chance to grow a single grey hair, and yet here he was.

"Who are you?" he ground out. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Perhaps you'd like to surrender your knife and step back to allow this gentleman room to stand up?" Robur instructed.

There was a tense moment of calm, of silence and stillness. Fantômas did not move, but the man he held at knifepoint didn't falter. The stranger who held the sword against his throat pressed harder, "Step back," he warned. He drove him away from Thomas, forcing him to slowly retreat. He cared little for the threat, but there were too many weapons aimed at him for him to deal with. Yet he did not let go of the knife.

Thomas climbed out of bed, dressed in a fine suit and stood with a surprising, but foolish calmness, dusting himself off. He brought the barrel of the gun level with Fantômas' chest.
"There is no need to be angry or concerned, Monsieur," he said. "My name is Arsène Lupin. The gentleman behind you is Monsieur Zenith, and awfully skilled with a blade, so I suggest you keep still."

"Good evening," he mumbled. He knew their names, he knew they were cowards who did not kill. He tried to slowly bring his hand up to his neck, to use two fingers to move the blade away from his neck, but Zenith pressed it in a little harder.
"Lower your hand," Zenith warned. Zenith didn't stick to that rule as much as Lupin did. Fantômas smirked and decided to obey.

Lupin waited a moment before he said, "Finally, the man you see to your left is Captain Jean Robur; he is in charge of this little company. I do apologise for our ploy, but I expect you'll be very interested in what we have to say. Perhaps you would like to follow us to the dining room where we can discuss our reasons for being here in more detail?"

Fantômas didn't move. So it was Robur. His night had just gotten very interesting indeed. He stared hard at Lupin, "I don't like getting tricked, certainly not when half a million Francs is involved."
"Trust me, Monsieur, when I say that my… recruitment was far less dignified than yours, but what Lupin tells you is the truth. It is a reasonable deal and a flexible one at that, I suggest you listen to him," Zenith said. "You can still get your money."

Silence followed as Fantômas studied Robur, then Lupin, and finally Zenith and the sword pressed against his pounding artery.
"You're being very careful," he pointed out. "What? Are you afraid of me? What an old man might do?"
Lupin shrugged, "You're a dangerous man, old or not. You can't say it's unreasonable to take precautions?"

With a deep breath, Fantômas returned the knife to its sheath. "Very well. I will listen." Zenith didn't move the sword until Lupin nodded at him.
"Wonderful, right this way if you please," Lupin answered.

Present-day: Continued

It had been then that Fantômas had snatched the strings out of the Mysterious Men's hands without them even knowing it. He had been the puppeteer, the one in control of everything that had happened. They had been fools to trust him, to think bribes like money and a chance to do good were what had made him sign up. Not at all, he didn't fear arrest, he could earn money in much easier ways, and he didn't care for others. Lupin wanted to give up all the power he had in France, but for Fantômas, the government would have to pry it out of his cold dead hands.

Robur cast another glance to Fantômas, "you're sure your plan will work, with the three of us and your men?" he asked.
"Yes," he said with full confidence. It was hardly a lie after all. "Trust me. They can all be defeated quite easily once you know what you're doing." The words dripped from his mouth like sweet venom, right in front of Zenith's face, and he had no idea. He seemed far too busy thinking about Lupin to see the answers were right in front of him.

Yes, he had a plan. The League could be defeated easily, that didn't mean that was his full intention. He had a plan and he was determined to see it through.