Miraculously, the first Felt member you see is not Crowbar - it’s Fin. He’s obviously drunk, being helped along by Die, and that’s probably the only reason why he didn’t remember or expect you coming, or whatever the hell it is he does. You don’t have the time or the brainpower for technicalities.
He goes down easy with a fist to the gut, your other elbow snapping out and knocking Die aside. Fin collapses with a retch; you ignore him in favor of grabbing Die’s collar. The slender gangster yanks out his doll and opens his mouth - you fill it with steel. You don’t have to be a mind reader to tell what he’s thinking; you can pull the trigger before he can pull a pin.
You plant a foot on Fin’s back to keep him from getting up and drag Die in close. He whimpers; a dark curl of satisfaction twists in your belly. “I’m gonna pull this away real soon,” you murmur, eyes like poison reflected in the unlucky Felt’s own, “and you’re gonna say one thing. Know what that is?”
He shakes his head best he can, gaze locked on your face. “Crowbar’s location,” you say, sure to enunciate. Die’s eyes widen but he nods slightly, and you pull the barrel until it just clears his lips.
“T-the mansion,” he whispers, trembling, “p-probably in one of the basements, he might be visiting Stitch-”
Eventually you let the two go. You’re tempted to take out some of your wrath on their helpless forms, but a red hat and stick of steel fill your mind’s eye, and you decide not to waste your energy. You leave them with concussions and head for the Mansion.
The doors are large and imposing, and you want nothing more than to slam them open, drag them off their hinges and toss them at whoever’s unlucky enough to get there first. But you can’t fight every green bastard at once, and you want to spend some time with the brains of the bunch.
Well. Relative brains.
You find one of the side doors, rusted shut and more or less ignored. And why not? Their main competition is the Midnight Crew, and Slick is a fairly direct thinker.
You find a shovel in an equally forgotten shed not to far away and pop the door open; it clatters loudly, sending you into the bushes for about twenty minutes, waiting for someone to investigate. When no one does, you carefully sidle in, keys drawn and ready.
You get most of the way down the hall before Eggs and Biscuits turn the corner.
You’re firing before Eggs can even reach the timer, the second shot piercing Biscuit’s nose and exiting his skull as you turn on his buddy. Without the thirteenth's interference, the twelfth goes down easy - but loudly. You freeze, waiting again to be detected; once more, luck is with you.
The first three basements are empty. The fourth is paydirt.
Stitch and Crowbar are conversing quietly, oblivious to the danger. You shatter their calm with a bullet to each man’s kneecap, vaulting over Crowbar’s cursing form in order to drag Stitch away from the effigies.
You reflect on how fortunate it is that you had to kill the Felt’s twelfth and thirteenth members only, as you put another shot into Crowbar’s left shoulder and kick Stitch onto his stomach, as otherwise the two might have been alerted by the dummies going up in flames.
Stitch is cursing but not dying, and you quickly tie him up - you might need him for later - as Crowbar wheezes in shock and pain. “Problem Sleuth?!” He looks at you like you’re a demon, as if of anyone he would expect this attack from, you were dead last, or not even on the list.
You think of wasted confessions and nearly end him right here.
“Yup,” you say mildly as you divest the ninth Felt member of his sewing tools. He tries to bite you and you slam the butt of your key into his mouth. Crowbar stares, and you realize that you’re smiling, very slightly. Like you’re amused.
“W-what the fuck?” He looks up, a little more wary now, as you stride over to him. “T-the fuck is this about?!”
You grab his collar. Lean in close.
“Spades Slick,” you breathe.
His eyes widen and his mouth twitches, half a smile and then a grimace. “You’re joking, righ-” you yank him up and slam your face between his eyes; both of you see stars.
You drop Crowbar on the ground, tying his wrists and ankles as he gasps for breath. “But mostly for me,” you add, as an afterthought.
He gapes. “N-nev’r.....nev’r did a fucking thing t’ ya,” he mumbles. The expression on his face fills in the rest: apparently, for damn good reason.
“Maybe not directly,” you murmur. “But you hurt something of mine-” you yank the bonds tighter than is strictly necessary, “and I don’t forgive easy.”
Dawn has come and gone by the time you leave the mansion. Your suit is entirely ruined and it occurs to you that maybe your mind is, too. But you walk home with thoughts of sex like falling down the stairs and confessions whispered into the black hair of a heavy sleeper, and you think maybe that’s okay.