Martin sighed, at 2:37 AM on the dot. It was just another night of strolling through the Museum of Priceless Heirlooms. From all across the world, royal families and clans of wealthy ancestry fell from power or descended into a drastic decline. Such was history. Therefore, some of these social groups decided to house their heritage into a collective gathering and lock them away so that their legacies could at least be remembered.
As a result, the museum was practically a hodgepodge of various clothing, jewels, sarcophagi, wood carvings, stonework, bones, mummified patrons and matrons, sceptres, weapons, armors, cannons, paintings, busts and statues... the list went on. It was impossible to keep track of absolutely everything, and the collections shifted from time to time. But the attraction that seemed to grab everyone's attention was a curious Diamond Skull. It was a human skull, emblazoned with flawless diamonds upon every facet save for the teeth. Those were lacquered, perfectly preserved against the ravages of time at the cost of permanent discoloration. But it was a small price to pay for the inhuman beauty of the object. It was altogether morbid and entrancing.
Martin honestly didn't much care about it. He saw the words "actual human skull" and grimaced. The story behind it involved a king or warlord who was obsessed with diamonds and fed his enemies to crocodiles. The king kept the heads in salt to preserve them, and when he was finally dethroned it was no small irony that he was himself decapitated. The second irony was that those same diamonds he coveted were put into his skull. During that time the stones were practically worthless and his skull was kept in a rival warlord's court for generations. Only now did it come to America.
The security guard kept moving and passed George. He was another guard, an older man.
"Quiet night?" he asked. George nodded.
"Yeah, the statues aren't moving so..."
"They'd be moving faster than you if they did," Martin laughed.
George shuffled by, huffing in response.
Martin continued into the Hall of Portraits. He hated this part. The paintings were mostly of cruel-looking people, no matter how softly the artist put them to canvas. Dark eyes always stared out from the higher echelons of the room. Even the closer pieces seemed to glare at him from the shadows. His flashlight was the only source of illumination he had. The Hall had no windows to let in moonlight, so he was alone in this. Each time he swayed his lantern, the shapes he left behind caused his eyes to instinctively look back to make sure nothing was moving.
But, much like every night, the factor of creepiness to the room dissolved once he left leaving nothing unusual behind him. He decided to go back to the Diamond Skull just to see how far George went in the time it took him to clear the Hall. He was curious, and wanted to make sure that the old guy was alright. He rounded the corner, and froze. There were only a few things that squealed like what he heard. He instantly reached for his pistol. Sure enough, as he came to the Diamond Skull, the glass was being cut into. He was confused, though, and kept his firearm aimed down.
The old man lowered the Diamond Skull into an insulated duffel bag. He was moving faster than he usually did, and his back was straight. But... there was something else in his hand. A mask? A mask that looked like his face. That's when Martin saw that George, despite his uniform, was thinner. His face was concealed by another, completely featureless, mask. Martin raised the gun again.
"Freeze!" he commanded now, but he didn't dare fire off any shots from this range. He might hit something he would have to pay for until he was in the grave.
The figure knew this, and used it to his advantage. He bolted from the scene. Martin's only saving grace was that he forced the trespasser into activating the silent alarms he had somehow evaded during the actual robbery. The security guard ran after him and answered his walkie talkie once police started to patch into it.
"Suspect is about six foot tall, 170 or 180 pounds. White mask," he grimaced. "He can turn into people. I don't know how."
It didn't seem natural.
Heathen crawled out from the air ducts, his contortionist's body folding out with the intent of emerging from a chrysalis. The Diamond Skull rested under one arm, the mask of George Langcraft sitting idly in his vest pocket. He ditched the uniform in the museum hall, hooking it specifically to convey the illusion of him having run out the front door despite it being tightly chained up. The vent he escaped through was twenty feet up a wall with no grip. He had already slithered through that same duct, and kept the screws. It was difficult to do in a hurry, but the ascent was made absolutely trivial by the Typhon mask - one that granted him flight, amongst other powers. He couldn't use it for long, but the fact that it made escapes practically guaranteed was a godsend.
Now Typhon rested next to the others in his vest, and Heathen unzipped the bag to make sure of his prize.