Arsène
06-18-08, 12:59 PM
Nine Inch Nails
A man's life was contained within the confines of a manila folder. It was a worn, filthy piece of paper with wizened wrinkles and stains from an enjoyable cup of coffee. The hand that clutched it was calloused and raw; it's knuckles red from morning boxing exercises and backhands planted squarely in its owner's wife's face the evening before, or one could speculate. The man across the table was shrouded in mystery. He had a festive look about him, with his plump cheeks and a finely trimmed auburn suit with matching tie. It fit the scenery well, as mercenaries were not often hired in the midst of an upscale gentleman's club.
As Arsène took the file, he couldn't help but notice the random scribbles jotted down on it. Any former official markings had been crossed out, including the symbol of an eagle grasping an olive branch in one talon and lightning bolts in another.
"What is this?" His pale fingers slowly slid inside the envelope to snatch the file. He withdrew it without breathing, revealing one sheet of slightly burnt paper. At the top was the image of a dashing young man in military regalia from the waist up. He wore a dim green uniform with matching cap, complete with gold trim and a number of strange medals.
"It's your job," said the man across the table. He had a grim smile to him that made his thin eyes all the more devious. "I need you to follow that man for me. It's of grave importance to my business, you see."
"Mr. Self Destruct?" Arsène read aloud, in bold lettering, the subjects dubious nickname. "That doesn't sound biblical."
"His real is name is Lieutenant Johnathan Trent. Johnny's an American, you see. It seems these days Corone is a mecca for all types of off worlders. Most, as you know, wind up dead. But the Lieutenant and two others have recently made it all too clear that they have no intentions of succumbing to their most unfortunate situation."
The man across the table relaxed for a moment. His serious tone melted back beneath this disturbing grin. The room, a private section of an upscale club, seemed to brighten a bit beneath the dim flicker of oil lamps. It was a small, warm place decked in red and brown fabrics and finely crafted furniture. As the man rubbed his bristled chin, Arsène couldn't help but get a deep whiff of his thick perfume of cinnamon. Tired of the silence, the mercenary tried to rekindle his inquiry.
"Why is he important?"
"A rich man is only rich so long as his resources are intact, you see." The serious air returned to the room as the man across the table's thin eyes grew dark. The very mention of trouble to his money seemed to spark a fire within him. "Johnny seems to have made powerful friends within the rebellion that threatens Corone. And as you can see by his file, he's an expert in demolitions."
He rose from his chair in one swift and graceful motion. "I am a very rich man Arsène, and all my interests are connected to Corone. Even my overseas activities can be tied back to my offices in Radasanth." He paused breathlessly without so much as a sigh. "This morning I received a letter, signed by Johnny, you see. It was a chipper-toned veiled threat at every business I own in the city." Another pause, more quiet than the first. "This afternoon I received reports of mock bombs planted in three of my offices. They were obvious fakes, but my bumbling workers wouldn't have reacted in time if they were real. Few people in this city understand the technology behind his attacks, and fewer still understand his training - "
"And why me?" Arsène finally interrupted. "You're influential. You probably have a good hundred henchmen to capture this man, many of whom are far more capable in taking him down than I."
"Yes!" The man across the table squealed with all the tone-deaf theatrics of an off-Broadway play. "But all those men are too well known, all those men have families, and all those men are too connected to me! Look, I'm not asking you to confront him. All I need you to do is track him down to a single locations, find out how he plans to attack me, and tell me what you find, you see. I'll handle the rest."
Arsène leaned back in his chair, shifting uneasily. "And I suppose there are no authorities involved?"
"Being rich and following the law don't often go hand in hand. I'm friends with a number of the viceroys, but it's a silent partnership at best." The man across the table sat down slowly and calmly, all the while retrieving something from his jacket pocket. His elbows on the table, his squinting eyes met Arsène's apathetic gaze. "I need your discipline. Of all the mercenaries looking for work, you were the only one who could read more than a children's book." Finally the man produced a checkbook from his pocket, along with a gilded pen. Scribbling at a madman's pace, he quickly threw down a banknote. Despite his earlier appearance of disinterest, Arsène readily picked it up.
"Five hundred pieces of gold," he read aloud. "Signed with a capital 'G'?"
"That's the name you'll know and contact me by," said the grinning G. "Five hundred now, another five hundred when your task is complete, you see. Are you and I agreed?"
The mercenary nodded. He needed the money desperately, and found happiness in slavery through the form of contract work.
"Excellent." Both men rose, sealing the deal with half-assed handshake and another nod. "When you reach the club's doorway, I have a man down there waiting for you. He'll take you where you want to go."
"Mr. Self Destruct," thought Arsène. "I am the bullet in the gun."
Without another word, the mercenary left G and the room, and headed for the staircase he'd used earlier; a downward spiral.
A man's life was contained within the confines of a manila folder. It was a worn, filthy piece of paper with wizened wrinkles and stains from an enjoyable cup of coffee. The hand that clutched it was calloused and raw; it's knuckles red from morning boxing exercises and backhands planted squarely in its owner's wife's face the evening before, or one could speculate. The man across the table was shrouded in mystery. He had a festive look about him, with his plump cheeks and a finely trimmed auburn suit with matching tie. It fit the scenery well, as mercenaries were not often hired in the midst of an upscale gentleman's club.
As Arsène took the file, he couldn't help but notice the random scribbles jotted down on it. Any former official markings had been crossed out, including the symbol of an eagle grasping an olive branch in one talon and lightning bolts in another.
"What is this?" His pale fingers slowly slid inside the envelope to snatch the file. He withdrew it without breathing, revealing one sheet of slightly burnt paper. At the top was the image of a dashing young man in military regalia from the waist up. He wore a dim green uniform with matching cap, complete with gold trim and a number of strange medals.
"It's your job," said the man across the table. He had a grim smile to him that made his thin eyes all the more devious. "I need you to follow that man for me. It's of grave importance to my business, you see."
"Mr. Self Destruct?" Arsène read aloud, in bold lettering, the subjects dubious nickname. "That doesn't sound biblical."
"His real is name is Lieutenant Johnathan Trent. Johnny's an American, you see. It seems these days Corone is a mecca for all types of off worlders. Most, as you know, wind up dead. But the Lieutenant and two others have recently made it all too clear that they have no intentions of succumbing to their most unfortunate situation."
The man across the table relaxed for a moment. His serious tone melted back beneath this disturbing grin. The room, a private section of an upscale club, seemed to brighten a bit beneath the dim flicker of oil lamps. It was a small, warm place decked in red and brown fabrics and finely crafted furniture. As the man rubbed his bristled chin, Arsène couldn't help but get a deep whiff of his thick perfume of cinnamon. Tired of the silence, the mercenary tried to rekindle his inquiry.
"Why is he important?"
"A rich man is only rich so long as his resources are intact, you see." The serious air returned to the room as the man across the table's thin eyes grew dark. The very mention of trouble to his money seemed to spark a fire within him. "Johnny seems to have made powerful friends within the rebellion that threatens Corone. And as you can see by his file, he's an expert in demolitions."
He rose from his chair in one swift and graceful motion. "I am a very rich man Arsène, and all my interests are connected to Corone. Even my overseas activities can be tied back to my offices in Radasanth." He paused breathlessly without so much as a sigh. "This morning I received a letter, signed by Johnny, you see. It was a chipper-toned veiled threat at every business I own in the city." Another pause, more quiet than the first. "This afternoon I received reports of mock bombs planted in three of my offices. They were obvious fakes, but my bumbling workers wouldn't have reacted in time if they were real. Few people in this city understand the technology behind his attacks, and fewer still understand his training - "
"And why me?" Arsène finally interrupted. "You're influential. You probably have a good hundred henchmen to capture this man, many of whom are far more capable in taking him down than I."
"Yes!" The man across the table squealed with all the tone-deaf theatrics of an off-Broadway play. "But all those men are too well known, all those men have families, and all those men are too connected to me! Look, I'm not asking you to confront him. All I need you to do is track him down to a single locations, find out how he plans to attack me, and tell me what you find, you see. I'll handle the rest."
Arsène leaned back in his chair, shifting uneasily. "And I suppose there are no authorities involved?"
"Being rich and following the law don't often go hand in hand. I'm friends with a number of the viceroys, but it's a silent partnership at best." The man across the table sat down slowly and calmly, all the while retrieving something from his jacket pocket. His elbows on the table, his squinting eyes met Arsène's apathetic gaze. "I need your discipline. Of all the mercenaries looking for work, you were the only one who could read more than a children's book." Finally the man produced a checkbook from his pocket, along with a gilded pen. Scribbling at a madman's pace, he quickly threw down a banknote. Despite his earlier appearance of disinterest, Arsène readily picked it up.
"Five hundred pieces of gold," he read aloud. "Signed with a capital 'G'?"
"That's the name you'll know and contact me by," said the grinning G. "Five hundred now, another five hundred when your task is complete, you see. Are you and I agreed?"
The mercenary nodded. He needed the money desperately, and found happiness in slavery through the form of contract work.
"Excellent." Both men rose, sealing the deal with half-assed handshake and another nod. "When you reach the club's doorway, I have a man down there waiting for you. He'll take you where you want to go."
"Mr. Self Destruct," thought Arsène. "I am the bullet in the gun."
Without another word, the mercenary left G and the room, and headed for the staircase he'd used earlier; a downward spiral.