Missing

The following takes place following: The Outcall

The Waldopolis Chronicle office bustled with the routine of late morning, the clatter of keyboards and the murmur of conversations creating a lively backdrop. Master Devlin lounged in a chair, his feet propped on Travers' desk as he flipped through a Fabergé egg catalogue, his focus entirely on replacing his stolen collection.

Across the desk, Travers puffed on his cigar, absorbed in the latest Page 3 picture featuring Greta and Hilda, two of his favourite new Chronicle Girls, posing together. Ermintrude enters.

Ermintrude: “Mr. Travers, I have some updates for you... The city council meeting got heated this morning—reports of a new development in the proposed housing project. I think it might ruffle some feathers.”

Travers: “Uh huh...”

Ermintrude: “Also, there’s been chatter about another local woman going missing...”

Travers: “Ah, good, good. Wait—another one? Hmmm. Where’s Wally with that story already?”

Ermintrude: “He’s chasing down leads, apparently.”

Travers: “Well, it’s almost lunchtime. Call the agency and see if Felicia is available, would you? I’d like to meet her for an hour.”

Ermintrude nodded, picking up the office phone. After a brief exchange, she turned back to him, her expression shifting to concern.

Ermintrude: “I’m sorry, Mr. Travers, but Felicia isn’t available today.”

Frustration mounted as Travers snatched the phone from her hand to talk to the agency himself.

Travers: “When can I see her?”

Agency Receptionist: “I don’t know, sir. She hasn’t been in touch.”

Travers: “Hrmmm. This is completely out of turn... Well, what about Stacy then?”

Agency Receptionist: “Stacy is fully booked today, I’m afraid.”

Travers: “Fine. I’ll take anyone who’s free!”

Agency Receptionist: “I’m sorry, but we only have a few girls on this week and they’re all booked this afternoon. Apologies, but we’ve had several no-shows in recent weeks, including Felicia — we haven’t heard from her for a couple of days.”

Travers: “Hmmm... That’s out of turn for her...”

Agency Receptionist: “I know, but sometimes these things happen, I’m afraid. Some just leave without warning...”

Travers sighed as he hung up, unhappy with the turn of events. As he considered potential alternatives—perhaps Daisy or Helen—he sank back into his chair and switched on the television, hoping for a distraction. Meanwhile, Ermintrude decided to swiftly but subtly leave the room before he asked her to take her top off again.

WBC News 24 flickered to life. A news banner at the bottom of the screen read: FORMER MINISTER MISSING.

A senior policeman appeared, giving a press conference.

Police Spokesperson: “...the search for the forty-five-year-old mother of one, who was last seen Wednesday evening when she left her home in Wexley. We have reason to believe she may have taken the bus and gotten off in Waldomere around 9:45 PM. We are :appealing to anyone who may have seen her on the night of October 2nd in either area to come forward with any information.”

“Now, we have a brief statement from Fiona’s family: ‘Fiona, if you’re out there, please let us know you’re okay. Your family loves you and is worried sick. We just want to hear from you and ensure you’re safe. We urge anyone who might have seen Fiona to please come forward. Any information, no matter how small, could help us find her. Thank you for your support.’”

Newscaster: “Again, our top story this hour. Widdlington Police have announced that the former government minister and MP for Wexley, Fiona Malone, has been missing since Wednesday evening.”

Master Devlin, hearing the name, looked up from his chair, curiosity piqued.

Travers: “Fiona Malone... Why does that name sound familiar?”

Just then, a photo of Fiona appeared on the screen. The cigar fell from his mouth, hitting the floor as realisation struck.

Travers: “Felicia!”

Adverts…

Master Devlin: “You’re unbelievable, Travers. An absolute fucking moron... HOW COULD YOU HAVE NOT KNOWN??”

Travers: “She was using a different name!”

Master Devlin: “Christ, Travers, how many fucking brain cells does it take to realise that the woman you’ve been paying to suck you off was the same minister whose face was plastered across every news channel and newspaper for weeks?

Travers: “Well, I... I just... didn’t put it together. Didn’t recognise her. She looked different! She was all sexy hair, makeup and boobs and stuff. Not like she looked on TV. And besides, it’s not like she showed up and said, ‘Hey, I’m the disgraced minister from the BOAC scandal — would you like to see my résumé before I change your oil?’ I just thought she was some random call girl... How was I supposed to know a politician could also be a prostitute?”

Master Devlin: “We ran six front-page stories about her. Six. You had Ermintrude send her flowers and a balloon on the day she got canned. Yet somehow you couldn’t manage to connect the dots in that sex-crazed skull of yours.”

Travers: “Oh yeah... so we did. It’s all coming back to me now.”

Master Devlin: “It should have come back to you when you were blowing your load down her fucking throat.”

Travers: “Alright, alright — settle down, Master Devlin. No need to get graphic. And frankly I don’t appreciate being judged in this manner. You know I can’t function without regular maintenance... I don’t like that being held against me. But okay. Maybe I should have caught on sooner. It happened. It is what it is. Now let’s just move on. Frankly, I don’t see why you’re getting all bent out of shape about this...”

Master Devlin: “I’m bent out of shape because this paper has finally started doing some real journalism recently in spite of your sleazy efforts, but if it gets out that the editor-in-chief has been fucking around with a disgraced minister-turned-hooker — that we exposed, who has now gone missing — it could really hurt the reputation we’ve desperately tried to claw back as a serious newspaper.”

Travers: “Hmm. I didn’t think about that...”

Master Devlin: “Of course you didn’t. You don’t think about anything other than yourself and getting serviced every five minutes. We should be running this story on the disappearances, not covering up your dirty little secrets!”

Travers: “So what do we do?”

Master Devlin: “Well, we have to run the story. Everyone else will be, and it’ll look strange if we don’t. I’ll start digging into this — discreetly. But if I find even a shred of evidence that ties you to her disappearance… you need to resign, Travers. This paper’s not going down because of your disgusting little ‘oil changes.’”

Travers (sighing): “I was thinking... perhaps I should just go to the police and tell them straight away what I know? If they know the full picture, maybe they can figure out where she was that night. Can't rely on the agency to be forthcoming...”

Master Devlin: “You can, if you want. You might have to. However, I’m not sure it’ll help. You’ve seen what the police in this town are like. They’ll build a case against you with zero evidence — especially if Jamie MacDonald has anything to do with it... These disappearances though — I was looking into this before. Not sure whether it’s linked, but it could tie to a series of murders I’d been investigating. The last one occurred months ago when you and Waldo were locked up in Dr Shawn’s ward. After that, the trail went cold.”

Travers: “I see. Well, we should try to find out what happened to the minister. Do some digging... She was a good person. I liked her! And now it turns out she was supporting a family the whole time... If someone did something to her, I want to know what! And if the police can't be trusted, then we should find her killer ourselves! Not just for the story. For justice! Justice for fellatio... I mean, Felicia... Fiona...”

****

Later, in a Masters Council office, Master Devlin stood, staring at a large corkboard bristled with photographs, maps, and pieces of string connecting countless points. Travers lingered by the door, shifting uneasily. In the centre of the room, an imposing evidence board commanded attention, its surface plastered with grisly crime scene photos and newspaper clippings spanning more than a century. The murders traced on it formed a pattern both precise and terrifying, a chilling rhythm that seemed to mock the passage of time.

Devlin pins Fiona’s picture under “Possible Victims.” Travers notices Widdle Frunkut’s photo under potential suspects.

Travers: "Wally?"

Master Devlin: "Yes. I’ve always suspected him, but there was never enough evidence. He was always just… around."

Travers: "Wasn’t this the serial killer you were hunting? The one Wally said was obsessed with dragons, leaving brutally tortured victims, pouring molten gold in their mouths?"

Master Devlin: "Indeed."

Travers: "And Felicia—Fiona—how does she fit into this?"

Master Devlin: "This isn’t just a string of disappearances. It’s older, darker. Fiona could be the latest in a long line. Every seven years, a woman vanishes. Weeks later, they’re found dead in alleys—bisected, internal organs scorched, molten gold poured down their throats."

He gestures to a grainy black-and-white photo of a woman in an alley, bisected.

Master Devlin: "This has been happening since at least 1887, maybe longer. The gold is their signature."

Travers: "Why gold?"

Master Devlin: "It’s ritualistic. A message, perhaps. Calculated, precise. Dr. Waldo believes it’s some disturbed dragon boy."

The Master shows articles and photos from 1914, 1921, 1928, 1947, and 1993—all victims killed in the same way.

Travers: "So this isn’t a copycat?"

Master Devlin: "No. Same killer I believe. Operating for over a century. Fiona’s disappearance matches the cycle. She’s been missing a week—we’re on borrowed time."

Travers: "Wait… so she’s going to end up like this? With molten gold down her throat?"

Master Devlin: "Possibly. Unless we find her. And fast."

The Master pulls out a city map marked with red dots showing body locations in a precise pattern. The latest is near where Fiona disappeared.

Master Devlin: "The locations aren’t random. The killer moves methodically. This sequence focuses on Waldobury Heights. If I’m right, Fiona will turn up here in the next couple of weeks."

Travers: "You’ve known this was going to happen? You’ve been sitting on it?"

Master Devlin: "I’ve been tracking it for years. No forensics, no witnesses—just a trail of bodies."

Travers: "Master Devlin, if anyone finds out I’ve been using her services, they’ll think I’m involved! The paper, the reputation—we’re all fucked!"

Master Devlin: "This isn’t about you! Fiona Malone is the next victim. We need to stop a killer, not worry about your stupidity."

Travers: "What do we do?"

Master Devlin: "Catch him in the act. Before it’s too late."

He turns back to the evidence board, scanning decades of victims.

Master Devlin: "If we can find where he plans to dump her, we can stop him. If we’re wrong… another body will appear—"

There was a knock at the door. Another Master requested a quick word with Devlin. After stepping away briefly, Devlin returned to Travers.

Master Devlin: "I have some business to attend to. Stay here and try not to upset anything. I won’t be long…"

Half an hour later, Travers stared impatiently at his watch. He hadn’t received his lunchtime oil change and was growing fidgety. Being kept later than expected was frustrating.

To distract himself, Travers studied the large evidence board, lingering on a gruesome crime scene photo from months ago. The image was horrific—but he couldn’t help noticing the woman was topless, her breasts prominently displayed. A flush of desire crept over him.

Feeling bold, he began to reach into his underpants. His eyes flicked back to the photo, and in a moment of desperation, he decided to grab it. The little goblin glanced over his shoulder at the open door, ensuring the coast was clear, before attempting to scale the evidence board, using the drawing pins as makeshift handholds.

Just as he snatched the photo, the entire board toppled, taking Travers with it. The crash echoed through the office, drawing the Master’s attention. When Devlin returned, he lifted the board to reveal the chaos beneath and found Travers sitting in his heart-patterned boxers, clutching the crumpled nude photo. The Master just stared at the guilty little goblin with a mix of rage and revulsion.

The Waldoverse continues in Big Stinky Fear