Carmen Sandiego: Vault Shadow ANIMATION

Lisbon That Would Not Stay

The tram bell rang twice where no tram existed, a bright little lie chiming from the fog above the Alfama. Carmen Sandiego paused mid-step, her red coat catching the wind like a flag that knew more than it said. The street beneath her boots had just decided to become a staircase. Stone treads unfurled, each step engraved with a harbor that slid away as she climbed.

“Old cities have manners,” she murmured, steadying herself with the brim of her hat. “They ask before rearranging your bones.”

The city did not ask. It listened.

Lisbon, usually a careful jumble of tiles and hills, began to behave like a thought someone else was having. Buildings leaned together to whisper. Balconies lengthened their shadows to snare ankles. Somewhere, the Tagus breathed salt into an alley that had never seen the river.

Carmen had come for a book.

Not a map—those she could read blindfolded—but an atlas rumored to be older than longitude, its pages inked with the patience of monks and the cruelty of kings. The Living Atlas of Old Lisbon, said to contain streets that remembered when they were water, stairways that knew the weight of the dead, coastlines that could curl into fists. Carmen had stolen harder things. She had never stolen something that wanted her.

She ducked into a narrow passage where azulejo tiles shimmered like fish scales. A woman waited there, leaning against a wall that rippled between blue and white. Her hair was pinned with a compass rose, its needle spinning.

“You’re late,” the woman said.

“I arrived exactly when I intended,” Carmen replied. “Which means you’re early, Sofia.”

Sofia Valente smiled without warmth. “The city woke up before dawn. It’s been restless.”

“Cities are always restless,” Carmen said. “That’s why we love them.”

“You love them,” Sofia corrected. “They love you back. It’s indecent.”

Carmen laughed softly, the sound a blade sheathed in velvet. “Tell me where the atlas is.”

Sofia gestured, and the alley elongated, becoming three alleys braided together. “The Biblioteca dos Mareantes. Or what it thinks it is today.”

“And the spirits?” Carmen asked.

“They’ve learned your silhouette,” Sofia said. “They crawl the margins now. They fold.”

A page fluttered past Carmen’s ankle, thin as skin. Inked on it: a staircase eating its own tail. It twitched, then slid into a drain.

“I’ll be quick,” Carmen said.

“Be careful,” Sofia said. “The maps are jealous.”

The Biblioteca had once been a fisherman’s guildhall. Today it was a lung. Shelves inhaled and exhaled. Atlases lay open like wounded animals, their spines pulsing. Carmen stepped lightly, each footfall measured, a dance she’d learned in cities that punished haste.

A voice breathed her name.

“Carmen.”

She turned. A man stood between two globes, his suit cut with old precision. His eyes were gray as erasures.

“Inspector,” she said, smiling. “You always arrive when the plot thickens.”

“Not always,” he replied. “Only when you make it thick enough to drown in.”

Inspector João Ramires had chased her through continents and rumors. He had never chased her into a city that was actively trying to eat her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“You shouldn’t follow me,” she said. “We both ignore good advice.”

He glanced at the shelves. “These books are…moving.”

“They’re stretching,” Carmen said. “Like cats.”

“Cats don’t have teeth like that.”

A map unfurled from a lectern, its coastline gnashing. Ramires reached for his gun.

“Don’t,” Carmen said. “You’ll offend them.”

“They’re paper.”

“They’re memory,” she said. “And memory bites.”

The atlas lay on a pedestal that had grown thorns. Its cover was leather the color of dusk. The title was not written; it was breathed. Carmen approached, feeling the city lean closer.

Ramires stepped in her path. “If you touch that, Lisbon folds. Streets will double back. People will get lost in rooms they’ve lived in for decades.”

“People get lost anyway,” Carmen said gently. “I just make the paths interesting.”

“You imprison the city,” he said.

“No,” she said. “It’s trying to imprison me.”

Carmen Sandiego: Jewel Hunter ANIMATION

Crimson Lanterns of the Shifting Maze

Carmen Sandiego arrived in Tokyo the way she preferred to enter any city—unseen, unannounced, and already three steps ahead of anyone who might be looking for her. She stepped from the shadowed belly of an alley into a drizzle-soaked district of Akihabara, her crimson coat brushing faint ripples from holographic advertisements that flickered like wounded fireflies. The lights were brighter here, harsher, but in them Carmen looked like a daring slash of red carved through a world designed in neon blue.

She paused beneath a roof of cables and snaking conduits, lifting the brim of her hat just enough to observe the wandering crowds below. They drifted through the district as if hypnotized, gliding from virtual café to gaming den, seldom noticing the glitches—flickers in the corners of their vision—like something was testing the edges of reality.

Carmen smirked. Glitches meant only one thing.

He was here.

CipherKoi.

The phantom hacker who’d spent months turning certain Tokyo districts into his private playground. His talent didn’t lie merely in codebreaking; it lay in transforming holograms from passive projections into predatory illusions. Pedestrians reported being trapped inside false hallways, led off rooftops, or taunted by shimmering avatars that whispered secrets they shouldn’t know. No one had been killed—yet. But terror wore away at a city’s soul. And Carmen, in her own mysterious way, guarded souls as fiercely as treasures.

Her comm pinged faintly—only once, as subtle as a wink. A message blinked across her lens: COME FIND ME, SCARLET THIEF. THE GAME BEGINS.

Carmen allowed herself a quiet laugh.

“So he wants a dance.” She touched the brim of her hat. “Let’s give him one to remember.”

Holographic Shadows

The deeper she ventured into the underbelly of Akihabara, the stranger the atmosphere became. Illusions shimmered between vending machines; streetlamps flickered between shapes; an entire crosswalk peeled upward like a page from a book before flickering back into place. Carmen assessed each distortion with a veteran’s calm, her senses sharpened.

“Nice tricks,” she murmured to the darkness. “Now show me something worthy of the invitation.”

A wall of light erupted in front of her. No, not a wall—an enormous holographic koi fish coiling through the alley, its scales reflecting fragments of Tokyo itself. Its eyes glowed with a strange sentience.

A voice echoed from the creature’s throat: “You trespass on my canvas, Carmen Sandiego.”

Carmen spread her arms theatrically. “Trespass? I was under the impression this city belonged to itself.”

The koi’s jaw split into a luminous grin. “Tonight, it belongs to the one who controls perception.”

“Hm.” Carmen tilted her head. “And I suppose that’s you?”

“For now.”

The koi lunged.

Carmen spun aside, vaulting off a crate just as the illusion morphed into a corridor of shifting screens. She landed lightly, boots sliding on rain-slick concrete. The corridor sealed behind her with a quiet chime.

The walls began shifting—images flowing like oil: Streets that weren’t streets. Doors that weren’t doors. Faces she recognized—her own, multiplied and twisted.

“Trying to impress me?” She walked forward without hesitation. “I’ve seen scholars build mazes far more complex.”

The hacker’s voice purred around her. “Oh, but have you seen one designed specifically to tempt you?”

The corridor split, revealing a crossroad lined with perfect replicas of rare artifacts—golden idols, emerald carvings, a jeweled astrolabe Carmen once stole from a locked vault in Prague. She paused, admiring the detail.

“I’m flattered you did your research,” she said softly. “But illusions can’t tempt me.”

“You say that,” the voice whispered, “yet you slowed down.”

Carmen chuckled. “Only to admire your craftsmanship.”

She strode forward, ignoring the glittering mirages. They dissolved into swirling code as she passed.

“Your traps won’t work.”

“Oh, these aren’t traps,” CipherKoi replied. “These are warm-ups.”

The Hunter in the Maze

The corridor widened into what looked like an abandoned arcade—machines flickering between states of decay and pristine brilliance. Their screens displayed Carmen’s silhouette in red.

In the muted grandeur of an opulent Parisian auction house, shadows danced over the marbled floor, adding an air of mystery that was palpable. A clandestine black-market auction was gathering its most daring and dubious attendees. The flickering chandelier overhead provided the only light, its crystals refracting an array of colors onto the darkened walls. Looming in the corner of the room, an enormous painting showcased a landscape reminiscent of a time long past, where lush greens and vibrant blues gave way to a sky that whispered secrets.

A group of well-dressed bidders murmured among themselves, a frisson of excitement palpable in the air. Among them was the infamous art dealer, Vincent Renault, a man known for his ruthless methods and keen eye for valuable pieces that had slipped through the conventional market's fingers. Eyes shaded beneath a crisp fedora, Vincent surveyed the room, his expression a blend of arrogance and cunning. Yet, unbeknownst to him, poised at the fringes of this extravagant event was a woman whose elusive charm and intelligence rivaled his own—Carmen Sandiego.

Carmen, a master of disguise, had built her reputation on her ability to blend in, to vanish like smoke whenever the noose of capture tightened around her. Her raven hair cascaded down her back, while a crimson coat, clasped at her waist, added an aura of danger and allure. In this high-stakes game, she wore a porcelain mask of confidence, her mind brimming with schemes as magnificent as the grand artworks on display.

The auctioneer, a gaunt figure with a voice that dripped with theatricality, called the gathering to order. Bidders shifted in their seats, some fingered their paddles nervously, while others exuded a predatory calm—a prelude to their battle of wills during this sinister art of acquisition.

As Vincent leaned into the whispered conversations around him, Carmen made her move. She floated smoothly from the shadows, her stride graceful, the red coat billowing like a flag announcing her arrival. A palpable gasp escaped from a nearby cohort as she glided past, her presence demanding attention.

“Mr. Renault,” she purred, her voice a honeyed challenge. “I’ve heard much about your renowned eye for—shall we say, exquisite pieces of art hidden from the abhorrent glare of the mundane world.”

Vincent turned slowly, his gaze sharpening as recognition dawned. Carmen Sandiego: the notorious thief who had evaded capture time and again, leaving only whispers of her exploits behind. His lips curled into a faint smirk, a dangerous spark igniting in the depths of his eyes. “Carmen, darling,” he replied, smooth as silk, “your reputation precedes you, but I must wonder—are you here to bid, or to play games?”

“Why not both?” she smiled, her lips curving tantalizingly. “I do love a good game, especially one where the stakes are as high as they are tonight. I couldn’t resist simply watching; the thrill is intoxicating.”

With a theatrical flourish, the auctioneer began the proceedings, his gavel poised as he introduced the first lot—a macabre sculpture, a figure twisting in agony, crafted from the remains of what seemed to be porcelain and bone. “And here we see horror turned art,” he remarked, setting an atmosphere thick with tension.

Carmen’s heart raced. Beneath the polished façade, she had a singular focus: retrieving a lost masterpiece rumored to be on the auction block tonight, a painting that held secrets of the damned. As the bids escalated, Vincent’s gaze remained laser-focused, calculating. This was not merely business for him; art was a drug, a means to bend the weak-willed, an avenue to power.

“Ten million!” Vincent’s voice rang out, a lion’s roar that silenced whispers. The murmurs grew faint, heads turning. For a moment, Carmen measured her approach, pretending to be engrossed in the bidding war but sensing the tremors of a greater dread lurking just beneath the surface.

With each increase in bid, uneasiness settled deeper within her. Shadows around the room began to shift, whispers echoing like ghosts; the art dealer sold pieces tied to people’s very souls. The auction hall was a temple of despair, and she was stepping into the depths of a nightmare.