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Laocoön	By : TheDirtyEquestrian2.0 Category: +S through Z > Steven Universe Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Steven Universe or any associated character. No money was made from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 1
Midafternoon, Friday, downtown Empire City. North Julius Street, on the edge of the financial district. Noise and confusion. Blaring horns and rumbling engines and sunlight glaring on thousands of panes of glass. A thin blue haze of exhaust fumes hanging in the air.
Above it all, on the fourteenth floor of a skyscraper still under construction, two men wearing clown masks, with weapons and tools strapped to their bodies, were standing in a vacant loft facing a ten-foot-tall window. The first of the men, whose code name was Dopey, aimed upward, fired a silenced automatic pistol at the glass, and watched shards of it fall to the floor. The second man, code named Happy, stepped to the now empty window frame and lifted what looked like a spear gun to his shoulder, aimed, squeezed the trigger, and a hook trailing a length of cable, hissed across the street and buried itself in the wall of another building. Dopey secured his end of the cable to a naked I-beam and nodded to his partner. Happy hooked a bag to the cable and sent it across the emptiness. A moment later, Happy and Dopey followed the bag, dangling from wheeled devices that fit over the line. If anyone happened to look up and see them . . . Hey, this is Empire City, whack-job central. Just another pair of loonies doing something loony, and if it's interesting, maybe it'll be on the eleven o'clock news . . .
Below, and three blocks away, a black SUV with dark-tinted windows and out-of-state license plates sped between two school buses and jerked to a stop at an intersection. The front passenger door opened, and a tall man wearing coveralls dashed from a doorway and climbed into the vehicle. Once inside, he pulled a clown mask from his pocket, pulled it on, and turned in his seat to face another clown, code named Bozo, in the driver's seat. "Four for the win. Let's do this," he said, now going by the name Grumpy.
The man in the backseat, codenamed Sneezy, looked up from loading a compact submachine gun, and said, "That's it? Four guys?"
Grumpy said, "There are two on the roof. Every guy is an extra share. Six shares is plenty."
Another clown, codenamed Sleepy, said, "Seven shares. Don't forget the lady who planned the job."
Grumpy said, "Yeah? Please. She thinks she can sit it out and still take a slice. It's bullshit."
Back on the street, Bozo guided the SUV to a metered parking spot in front of the bank as Sleepy said, "Ok, we all got the plan. Lets do it."
Bozo switched off the engine and, without bothering to feed the meter, went into the bank. Grumpy, Bozo, Sleepy, and Sneezy carried assault rifles; they carried several empty duffel bags as well. Once inside, Grumpy fired a burst into the ceiling as Sneezy hit the security guard on the head with the butt of his weapon, and Bozo closed the door and lowered the blinds.
Sleepy fired another burst, and yelled, "Everybody down on the floor—now!" Customers and employees alike dropped to their hands and knees, then to their bellies. One of the senior tellers managed to press a silent-alarm button as she went down.
Fifteen floors above her, on the roof, Dopey stared down at a palm-sized electronic device and heard a faint ping.
"What's that?" Happy asked.
"Here comes the silent alarm, just like we figured," Dopey said. "And there it goes. Funny thing is, it didn't dial out to the cops. It was trying to reach a private number."
"Is it a problem?"
"No. Let's get going."
Happy grabbed his bag and Dopey took out an old-fashioned crowbar and went to work on the roof access door. In less than a minute, he had it wrenched open and the two were running down a steep flight of steps, lit only by red bulbs on each landing. When they reached the bottom, they opened a door marked EXIT and were standing in front of a shiny steel vault.
In the bank proper, Bozo and Grumpy were moving down a line of customers and tellers, who stood along one wall. Bozo handed each a hand grenade and Grumpy followed, pulling the pins. The hostages gripped the grenades in both hands, holding the tops to prevent the grenades from exploding.
"We don't want you doing anything with your hands other than holding on for dear life," Grumpy told the hostages.
Then there was a loud bang and the third robber, Sneezy, fell backward, his mask and the front of his jacket shredded, dead.
The bank manager, wearing an impeccably tailored brown suit and holding a shotgun, stepped from his office and fired again. The hostages, clutching their grenades, scurried along the floor seeking cover. Grumpy, Bozo, and Sleepy fired blindly in the general direction of the manager with the shotgun as they dived behind a desk.
"What's he got, a five-shot?" Grumpy asked.
Bozo nodded.
"He's got three left?"
Bozo raised two fingers.
Grumpy edged his gun around the corner of the desk and squeezed off a single shot. The bank manager fired twice. Grumpy looked at Bozo, who nodded.
Grumpy stood and aimed his gun over the desktop. The bank manager fired again and a hail of buckshot clipped Grumpy's shoulder. He fell behind the desk and the manager moved forward, pulling fresh shells from his pocket. Bozo stood from behind the desk and shot the manager in the chest.
Grumpy had pulled aside the flaps of his shirt and jacket over the place where the buckshot had struck him and was peering down at his wound. He rubbed some blood away with the palm of his hand and looked more closely. The damage was only superficial.
Leaning on the desk, he stood and turned to Bozo. "Where'd you learn to count?"
Bozo ignored him and started loading fresh shells into her shotgun as she started towards a downstairs room.
"Where're you goin'?" Sleepy asked.
"Boss needs me to do somethin' for her." Bozo replied.
"Well, make it quick."
Bozo didn't respond.
Happy clamped a drill to the vault and pressed a button. With a high whine, the drill blade bit into the metal and—
He found himself on the floor, dazed and shaking. It took him a few moments to realize that he'd been hit by electricity, a lot of electricity. They wired the vault?
"You ok, man?" Dopey asked.
"Yeah, I'm ok."
"What happened?"
He pulled his sneakers off, put them on his hands and, bracing himself on a wall, approached the vault once more. With a lot of fumbling and repositioning, he was able to operate the drill, the sneakers protecting him from the high voltage.
Sleepy entered the chamber from a side door. Happy glanced at him, and said, "They wired this thing up with—I dunno, maybe five thousand volts. What kind of bank does that?"
"A mob bank," Grumpy said as he entered. "I guess this lady is as crazy as they say."
Happy shrugged. The noise of the drill changed from a whine to a grinding sound. "We're almost home," Happy said.
He grabbed the large wheel and spun it. When it stopped, Happy pulled on it, and the vault swung open.
The four men stopped and stared at the mountain of cash at least eight feet tall. Grinning beneath their mask's, the men got to work.
The server room of the bank was the real treasure. In the vault there was cash, gold, illegal drugs and even some weapons. It was a mob bank after all.
The gold was absolutely worthless to her, being difficult to transport and harder to exchange for goods and services. In that aspect the paper money was much better suited to what she had in mind. The clown codenamed "Bozo" walked into the dusty, dry air of the server room and made a beeline for the nearest computer monitor.
Hitched up to an archaic late nineties computer were rows upon rows of state of the art, sophisticated server systems. Each tall bank, like an upright coffin provided beyond state of the art security encryptions.
The servers tracked global financial transactions, movement patterns in shipping as well as the locations and activities of both organized crime, military movements and clandestine spy operations. All three of those broad groups were deeply dependent on the globalized network of information distribution and managing; something which made the ancient library of Alexandria look like scribblings on a pizza box.
None of that was important to anybody but Bozo. None of her compatriots in the heist knew about this nor what she really was. None of them knew that she was the brains behind this operation and that their deaths would help to buy secrecy.
Delicate fingers danced across the stiff old keyboard at the monitor with enough speed that it would have torn human ligaments apart. Panels and subroutines were accessed and hidden backdoors put in place by bored or arrogant computer programmers were accessed. For a human such an operation would have taken days upon days of grinding, algorithm readjustment and just a bit of good old fashioned luck.
Bozo was able to accomplish such a feat in seconds, what passed for her brain running at hundreds of times the speed of a human's puny, carbon based CPU.
Lines of incomprehensible code reflected on the mirrored eye lenses of Bozo's clown mask. Continuing to type one handed, the thin female bank robber held out her left hand and extended her index finger. There was a brief glow before the tip of her pianist's finger became a USB compatibility connector.
Thrusting into the computer port, a glow from inside the mask shone through its black eyes. Information flowed from the computer system and directly into Bozo's mind.
Colonel Dr. Walter White—Head of Lattice, organization for studying SGO'S—Sentient Gemstone Organisms.
Subject has PhD's in X-ray Crystallography and Mechanical Engineering. Megalomaniacal. Unconcerned with losses. Highly intelligent. Prone to violent mood swings.
LATTICE: formed 1947 to study SGO's and safeguard United Nations members and allies from this threat. Nearly disbanded following the collapse of the USSR, currently reorganizing and rearming.
Sentient Gem Organisms: First recorded in 7000 BCE in cave paintings. Chronicled in detail by Bei-Fong under the Zhou dynasty in 1500 BCE. Much information about them destroyed during the medieval period.
1527, Ottoman Sultan Mehmet the conqueror uses several heavy bombard cannons to destroy an SGO threatening Constantinople, Rome. SGO brought down only by direct cannon fire with 1.5 ton cannonballs.
1863, The United states becomes aware of SGO'S after one destroys five thousand confederate soldiers and seven thousand Union troops in just one hour.
Bozo shook her head. This information was important and would be filed away but there was more important data to be had. She needed more. She drove her consciousness back into the computer system.
Ah. There we go.
Human anatomy.
It was visible to her. She could see that a skull took on average fifteen pounds of pressure to crack and shatter. Human eyeballs would rupture with two pounds of pressure per square inch. The larynx would collapse with five pounds of pressure.
Shallow cuts to arteries such as the jugular, femoral and others would be fatal. Hands are vulnerable and ligaments connecting hand bones are weak. Knees weak and unstable.
Every way to kill a human she could see, from the most brutal and basic to the fine arts of torture.
Nothing must be overlooked.
Bozo kept her mind halfway in the computer and half in the real world. The shootout in the lobby would only buy her so much time and she was on a schedule.
Gateways.
The servers, more than their total contents gave key positions in the deep web and dark web of the ports and access codes to military, espionage and more importantly Lattice computers. Even locations of non-digital information were wielded
These mob servers, used to hold leverage and curry favor with criminals, spies and terrorists was giving her all she needed to know everything that humanity knew. The total sum of the species knowledge. It was all there for her taking.
Knowledge about Beach City.
Knowledge about Steven Quartz Universe.
Knowledge about . . . Maheswaran? Interesting . . .
The click of a gun being cocked distracted her from her searching. Turing around, Bozo eyed her fellow heist mate but made no move to detach from the computer. She was still on schedule and she could afford to indulge.
"I bet you're thinking it was pretty smart, having us all with orders to kill each other for bigger shares until you were the only one left. I wasn't born yesterday, bitch. I know you're this, Pearl person."
"I thought you were getting the money."
"I got a little curious as to where you went. And now I know." Dopey said.
Bozo shifted, a sultry chuckle ringing from under her mask. "Well, I'm just the court jester, not some mastermind. And you're just a disgraced soldier; not even a real criminal. Besides, I don't remember telling you to kill yourselves. That's all you, honey."
Bang!
The hand holding the gun school and the man behind the clown mask trembled with rage. "You tried to set me up, you set us all up." He began to undo his belt buckle. "Maybe do me right and I'll let you live."
Bozo pulled her finger from the computer port, her finger shifting back to normal. "That's funny, but you don't have much practice as a rapist; I know, I read your report."
Bang!
The gunshot struck her in the abdomen . . . and richocheted off like her skin was made of concrete. But she still hunched over and stumbled back. After all, bullets did hurt.
The clown codenamed Dopey flinched as the bullet bounced off the concrete walls before fragmenting into nothing. In Bozo's torn t-shirt he saw a hole exposing her strange shade of dark pink skin. She hadn't been wearing a vest when he shot her. Psychotic ideas of rape and forced blowjobs left his mind. "What- what the fuck are you!?" The gun hand trembled from fear.
Bozo stood up, theatrically stretching. "Quartz's are the most fun to rape; they always think because they're big and thick that it'll never happen to them. They always look so surprised. And their warrior code tells them that rape is a defeat and they should commit honorable suicide; but I don't let them take the easy way out."
"Shut up!" Dopey shouted, preparing to take another shot. "Stay the fuck away!"
"I used to tell jokes," said Bozo, "Being a professional fool, my job was to tell the truth without anyone realizing it. I thought the laughs would never end until they did."
Dopey prepared for another shot when something struck his ribs with the force of an aluminum bat. The former soldier who'd turned to drug use and turned to crime to feed that drug habit saw the towering, lanky figure of Boz—no, Pearl through bleary eyes. How'd she gotten there so fast? He never even saw her!
An arm with the force of a speeding train threw him across the room. The impact made his head spin; he hardly even noticed when his hands were zip tied around a pipe and his pants were pulled around his ankles.
Pearl knelt before him, moved by freakish strength and speed that would tear apart even the sturdiest carbon based skeletons. “One day the laughs stopped my diamond, my deity was murdred. So I had to keep up the laughter. I keep laughing because the truth is funny; even if Homeworld is stuck in stagnation and dead patterns. Now that’s really funny!”
Without warning her shockingly warm hand grabbed Dopey by his semi-turgid length; gripping with enough strength to make clear she could do harm but chose not to.
“Let’s keep our masks on,” she purred seductively, “It’s better that way. Taking away someone’s power and identity makes me so horny.”
The plastic bag was zip tied around his head and over his clown mask before he could reply in any form. He tried to suck in a breath only to be blocked by the clear plastic bag, which allowed him to see the psychotic woman lifting her clown mask just enough to suck his cock.
She went to the base of his not inconsiderable length, which had hardened even as the air inside the bag was being filled with lethal levels of CO2.
The mask was a prison and the bag was his noose as he struggled to break free. The hot mouth sucking on his penis was an abomination; a devilish goodbye to the world.
Dopey thrashed against the zip ties and shook his head every which way trying to get the bag off. Blood vessels in his eyes and nose burst from the exertion and lack of oxygen and his skin turned beet red under the mask .
Pearl was starting to suck harder and harder; she had skill for this. If only her partner were consenting, it might not be so bad. She could suck nearly as hard as Dopey was sucking for air, his skin now turning a shade of blue and his struggling dropping off.
The body twitched and was wracked by spasms but now there was no conscious thought behind it. The frontal brain was gone. Odd twitches ran through the lower legs and the heart began to shudder and lose rhythm.
The dead man, reduced to nothing but a joke came in the mouth of the woman who was just a cruel joke. She slurped up the dead man’s seed just as the limbic system and hindbrain were all starting to die from oxygen deprivation.
She stood up and belched cutely beneath the mask, walking away from the dead, violated corpse and not spending another second thinking about it.
When it came to being a professional fool, you always had to be on the lookout for the next great thing, punchline or victim. Comedy was all about being dynamic; something that Homeworld desperately needed but could not seem to accept.
But Earth, on the other hand . . . The Earth would get a much needed dose of dynamism.
She'd guarantee it.
Ten minutes later, the men emerged into the bank burdened by several bulging duffel bags. They dropped them at Bozo's feet and laughed.
"C'mon," Grumpy said. "There's a lot to carry."
The hostages, clutching their grenades, watched as the robbers disappeared into the vault. Some of them glanced nervously at their neighbors, others stared at nothing in particular, while still others had their eyes squeezed shut, their lips moving silently.
Grumpy, Happy, Dopey and Sleepy reappeared, each burdened with several stuffed duffel bags. Grumpy dropped his bags onto the floor next to the first batch and said, "If this chick was so smart, she would have had us bring a bigger car."
"Is that everything?" Bozo asked, walking up to them.
"I think so."
"Could you double check please?"
"Yeah. Give us a minute. Better safe then sorry."
Bozo walked off and strode through the hall of the bank, all the cameras dark; her superhuman senses detected a lack of electrons flowing in and out of each device. The thing about the mob bank, they'd spent a fortune on lethal security measures; but there were lots of cost cuts. The concrete away from the vaults was crumbly as hell and the air vents were old and bugged out.
She took off her mask as Pearl walked right through the safe door that could have been knocked over by the wimpiest Ruby. On the other side, the remaining heist members were trying to make off with gold bars, sacks of cocaine, crystal meth and other goods that they thought would be valuable.
Like brave soldier boy lying dead in a pool of his own shit, they were all deadly but none of them had been career criminals for long or they'd have gone after the money that was everywhere.
They all opened fire at Pearl as she slit the nearest man's throat and their guns did less than nothing. Well they did something. A stray bullet hit the tank of chlorine gas she'd been keeping under her jacket this whole time.
Dense, yellow smoke filled the room and almost instantly the heist members started gagging and sputtering. They fell to the floor vomiting their last meals up, choking on bloody foam and weeping blood. The harsh chemical gas blistered their skin under the clown masks and made them swell up; making it impossible to take off said masks, not that it would help one little bit.
Every last man died with the masks on, reduced to anonymity in their final, gasping, gurgling breaths.
Pearl dropped the gas canister and started romping through puddles of vomit, blood and shit in order to grab a few sensitive computer discs and hard drives with sensitive information on them. Gingerly, she flicked some wet, soggy skin stuck to the side of a data stick. Somebody had clawed out their own eyes, the agony was so intense; Pearl stomped on the eye like it was a fallen grape.
With the goodies in her pocket, she was finally free to head back downstairs and take care of the last few loose ends.
Truthfully she'd been so worried. She had no idea before she logged into the servers that chlorine gas could kill humans. Most gems just showed up on organic worlds with zero knowledge about the local life. Even more regarded assassins such as Aquamarine just swung their hermaphroditic dicks out like they expected the world to fellate them at a moments notice.
That wasn't how the world worked. That wasn't how jokes worked. Payoff needed work, knowledge and a perfect mechanical sense of timing.
"And here we go," she said to herself, drawing her pistol again and putting on her mask, assuming her more or less human disguise.
Bozo heard the rumble of an engine and glanced at the nearest window and jumped back. The rear end of a yellow school bus smashed through the window, sending a shower of glass into the room. Bozo turned to face the bus. Another clown opened the bus's rear door, and Bozo walked up to him, shooting him in the throat. Blood splurted from his wound and he fell to the ground, twitching and spasming.
Sirens began to wail in the distance.
Bozo began loading the duffel bags into the bus.
The bank manager still lay where he'd fallen, his right hand splayed over his wound, his head raised to stare at Bozo. "Think you're smart, huh?" he wheezed. "Well, the guy who hired you'll just do the same to you. Sure he will. Criminals in this town used to believe in things."
Bozo stepped over to where the man lay and crouched beside him.
The man stared up at Bozo. "Honor. Respect. What do you believe in, huh?! WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE I—"
Bozo jammed a grenade with a red thread knotted around the pin into the man's mouth, saying nothing.
The clown rose and strolled toward the bus, the thread attached to the grenade unraveling from the red lining of her jacket. She climbed into the bus and shut the rear door, trapping the purple thread.
A moment later, the bus engine grumbled, and the bus jerked over the sidewalk and into the street.
The red thread yanked the pin from the grenade in the bank manager's mouth.
Hostages screamed.
The grenade hissed and began spewing red smoke. The managers bladder released, and he didn't even get to have a last thought as the grenade exploded.
A block away, a line of school buses left the curb in front of the Ferguson Middle School and edged into the traffic stream. A final bus, which came from the direction of the bank, joined them as five police cars, sirens screaming, sped past them on the opposite side of the street.
Suddenly, the bank was engulfed in a large fireball. Behind her mask, the Pearl grinned, chucking, which grew into a laugh. Eventually it turned into a full blown shriek.
- 1
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Laocoön