Talon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
talonkarrde) wrote2009-12-20 04:31 pm
talonkarrde) wrote2009-12-20 04:31 pm
Entry tags:
Reprobate
"Do you ever think about it?" Toby asked me soberly, pulling on the short black wig over his bald head. He slipped the wife-beater over his stocky frame and then held out the reference picture for me to inspect. I nodded; he looked reasonably like the reference picture.
"No, I don't." I replied shortly; I hoped the the newbie would get the hint, as I put on my own costume. Ripped jeans, a black hoodie, the wallet that had someone else's driver's license and credit cards, and the red armband, as the news had been reporting. Finally, and most importantly, black gloves.
"You never think about what you'll do after the Agency lets us go?" I turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow incredulously. It should've been clear to everyone that these were 'limited-engagement performances'. Eventually, I knew that every one of us would be featured in the evening news, with headlines like "Terrorist Found" and "Murderer Brought to Justice.". Anyone who believed in getting out of this was a fool — the government would never let criminals go back to normal lives after working for them, especially when we knew their secrets.
"No," I said shortly. It was always irritating working with someone for the first time, especially the newbies, because they thought there was a chance at redemption.
My assigned character for tonight was a gang member, and I adopted a slow, steady saunter, shooting glares at everyone I saw. The boss had said to make a bit of trouble, and Toby shoved a few of the streetwalkers away — a good move, I thought, one that was sure to have them remember 'us'. The news would have no shortage of the descriptions of the gangbangers headed in the neighborhood of the incident.
"No, but really, Sam, don't you think they'll let us go, after we do enough of these jobs? All I ever did was steal a—"
"Stop." At least he waited until there was no one nearby.
"I...I'm sorry. I know talking about it is against policy, but I'm just worried. I'm new at this and I haven't gone on any real—"
"Stop, Toby. We have a job to do." I deliberately looked away; I had seen the expression on his face too many times before. The Agency needed to stop taking those that had only been convicted of lesser crimes.
Up two flights of stairs, and there it was, number twenty three. A newspaper editor and outspoken opponent of recent government policies, I wasn't surprised that we were here. The dossier said that he was also a white collar criminal, doing everything from fraud to insider trading, but it sounded like someone's weak attempt at concealing what the Powers that Be wanted, a bit of sugar to make the pill go down easier.
I knocked on the door. Our instructions were to make sure it happened inside, not in the hallway.
"Yes?" A little girl's voice, followed by her face as the door opened. She was probably six or seven, a strawberry blonde, and I saw Toby stiffen out of the corner of my eye.
"Is your papa home?" I asked, putting on my friendliest voice. She looked at Toby and me for a second, and in my mind, I almost asked her to shut the door on us... but children are innocent. Too innocent. She nodded and left the door open as she went to get her papa. We followed, stepping into the living room.
He had a large flat-screen television, leather sofas, pictures of him and his daughter at Disneyworld on the mantle... it was one of the nicer homes that I had been to, certainly a step up from the crack dens and gang hideouts of my childhood. The pictures, especially, showed a happy family, especially these last few years, and I wondered if he really deserved a visit from us. Whether we should follow the no witnesses policy to the letter.
But it wasn't my place to judge, I told myself. The last person who had questioned the targets was shown on the evening news the next night, killed by a SWAT team while supposedly holding a family hostage. Ours was not to wonder why, ours is just to do and die...
"Claire? I wasn't expecting—"
In a split second, he knew something was wrong and bolted, grabbing his daughter and sprinting for the bedroom, locking the door just as Toby crashed into it.
The door held for three kicks before bursting off its hinges, and there he was, behind the desk, his eyes darting around the room, his face red and sweating. He started babbling, a hysterical stream of questions.
"Y-you're the gangsters...why me? What do you want? Is it money? Power? Women? Men? I'm just an editor, I write stories, I can't help you. I haven't done a-anything! Why would you bother me?!"
They all said they were innocent, of course, but he kept talking, insisting that he had never done anything, that he'd give us his life savings, that please, would we just turn around and leave. After a few seconds, I realized something — the window was open, and I could hear footsteps on metal.
"Toby, the girl — the fire escape." Toby hesitated, looking at me.
"You have to," I said, not looking back. If only she had closed the door... maybe he would've never let us in, and maybe we wouldn't be here. Maybe it would be someone else's problem.
Toby left, heading for the hallway access, and it was just me and him.
-
"Why?" he asked, crying now. "Why won't you let her go?"
"Because she's seen us. We can't leave witnesses. We don't have a choice."
"She's only six, goddamnit! You have a fucking choice! She's just a kid, she's innocent, she..."
I broke policy, then, and said something I shouldn't.
"I know, and I'm sorry. I hope she gets away."
Two quick steps forward.
A silver gleam, a crimson splash.
-
Toby came back in a few minutes later and I didn't have to ask; I knew. We collected the valuables and dumped them into a bag — it was supposed to be a robbery, after all.
I finished going through Jonathan's wallet, took his keys, and then decided it was time to leave.
"Toby!" I called, pulling a gun out and pointing it at the door. He came in from the other room and froze in the doorway, looking up the barrel.
After a few seconds, he looked up at my face, and it was the look of someone who understood. He knew what the ballistics would indicate, why I had gloves and he didn't, why there couldn't be any witnesses. Why I didn't want to answer his question tonight.
"I get to be the fall guy," he whispered, looking past me now, at the man slumped in his chair, head hanging over his chest. "I'll be on the news as the guy who murdered a father and his daughter, who the father shot with his last breath. And...ah, of course. I haven't been using gloves on the other operations, so those break-ins and thefts will be tracked back to me too. The government silences a voice of the opposition, the public gets to feel safer, you get to keep living; it works out for everyone. Except for me. Except for him. Except for...Claire."
I tried to keep the gun straight. I guess he saw hesitation, because he charged, but I wasn't ready to die yet.
As I was leaving, with all the evidence in place, I heard a bubbling wheeze. I paused, halfway out the door, and then came back; I owed him that much. Toby wheezed a bit more, and I knelt down beside him, leaning in to listen.
"How many...children like Claire...is your life worth, Sam?" He asked, eyes bright.
I didn't have an answer.
"No, I don't." I replied shortly; I hoped the the newbie would get the hint, as I put on my own costume. Ripped jeans, a black hoodie, the wallet that had someone else's driver's license and credit cards, and the red armband, as the news had been reporting. Finally, and most importantly, black gloves.
"You never think about what you'll do after the Agency lets us go?" I turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow incredulously. It should've been clear to everyone that these were 'limited-engagement performances'. Eventually, I knew that every one of us would be featured in the evening news, with headlines like "Terrorist Found" and "Murderer Brought to Justice.". Anyone who believed in getting out of this was a fool — the government would never let criminals go back to normal lives after working for them, especially when we knew their secrets.
"No," I said shortly. It was always irritating working with someone for the first time, especially the newbies, because they thought there was a chance at redemption.
My assigned character for tonight was a gang member, and I adopted a slow, steady saunter, shooting glares at everyone I saw. The boss had said to make a bit of trouble, and Toby shoved a few of the streetwalkers away — a good move, I thought, one that was sure to have them remember 'us'. The news would have no shortage of the descriptions of the gangbangers headed in the neighborhood of the incident.
"No, but really, Sam, don't you think they'll let us go, after we do enough of these jobs? All I ever did was steal a—"
"Stop." At least he waited until there was no one nearby.
"I...I'm sorry. I know talking about it is against policy, but I'm just worried. I'm new at this and I haven't gone on any real—"
"Stop, Toby. We have a job to do." I deliberately looked away; I had seen the expression on his face too many times before. The Agency needed to stop taking those that had only been convicted of lesser crimes.
Up two flights of stairs, and there it was, number twenty three. A newspaper editor and outspoken opponent of recent government policies, I wasn't surprised that we were here. The dossier said that he was also a white collar criminal, doing everything from fraud to insider trading, but it sounded like someone's weak attempt at concealing what the Powers that Be wanted, a bit of sugar to make the pill go down easier.
I knocked on the door. Our instructions were to make sure it happened inside, not in the hallway.
"Yes?" A little girl's voice, followed by her face as the door opened. She was probably six or seven, a strawberry blonde, and I saw Toby stiffen out of the corner of my eye.
"Is your papa home?" I asked, putting on my friendliest voice. She looked at Toby and me for a second, and in my mind, I almost asked her to shut the door on us... but children are innocent. Too innocent. She nodded and left the door open as she went to get her papa. We followed, stepping into the living room.
He had a large flat-screen television, leather sofas, pictures of him and his daughter at Disneyworld on the mantle... it was one of the nicer homes that I had been to, certainly a step up from the crack dens and gang hideouts of my childhood. The pictures, especially, showed a happy family, especially these last few years, and I wondered if he really deserved a visit from us. Whether we should follow the no witnesses policy to the letter.
But it wasn't my place to judge, I told myself. The last person who had questioned the targets was shown on the evening news the next night, killed by a SWAT team while supposedly holding a family hostage. Ours was not to wonder why, ours is just to do and die...
"Claire? I wasn't expecting—"
In a split second, he knew something was wrong and bolted, grabbing his daughter and sprinting for the bedroom, locking the door just as Toby crashed into it.
The door held for three kicks before bursting off its hinges, and there he was, behind the desk, his eyes darting around the room, his face red and sweating. He started babbling, a hysterical stream of questions.
"Y-you're the gangsters...why me? What do you want? Is it money? Power? Women? Men? I'm just an editor, I write stories, I can't help you. I haven't done a-anything! Why would you bother me?!"
They all said they were innocent, of course, but he kept talking, insisting that he had never done anything, that he'd give us his life savings, that please, would we just turn around and leave. After a few seconds, I realized something — the window was open, and I could hear footsteps on metal.
"Toby, the girl — the fire escape." Toby hesitated, looking at me.
"You have to," I said, not looking back. If only she had closed the door... maybe he would've never let us in, and maybe we wouldn't be here. Maybe it would be someone else's problem.
Toby left, heading for the hallway access, and it was just me and him.
-
"Why?" he asked, crying now. "Why won't you let her go?"
"Because she's seen us. We can't leave witnesses. We don't have a choice."
"She's only six, goddamnit! You have a fucking choice! She's just a kid, she's innocent, she..."
I broke policy, then, and said something I shouldn't.
"I know, and I'm sorry. I hope she gets away."
Two quick steps forward.
A silver gleam, a crimson splash.
-
Toby came back in a few minutes later and I didn't have to ask; I knew. We collected the valuables and dumped them into a bag — it was supposed to be a robbery, after all.
I finished going through Jonathan's wallet, took his keys, and then decided it was time to leave.
"Toby!" I called, pulling a gun out and pointing it at the door. He came in from the other room and froze in the doorway, looking up the barrel.
After a few seconds, he looked up at my face, and it was the look of someone who understood. He knew what the ballistics would indicate, why I had gloves and he didn't, why there couldn't be any witnesses. Why I didn't want to answer his question tonight.
"I get to be the fall guy," he whispered, looking past me now, at the man slumped in his chair, head hanging over his chest. "I'll be on the news as the guy who murdered a father and his daughter, who the father shot with his last breath. And...ah, of course. I haven't been using gloves on the other operations, so those break-ins and thefts will be tracked back to me too. The government silences a voice of the opposition, the public gets to feel safer, you get to keep living; it works out for everyone. Except for me. Except for him. Except for...Claire."
I tried to keep the gun straight. I guess he saw hesitation, because he charged, but I wasn't ready to die yet.
As I was leaving, with all the evidence in place, I heard a bubbling wheeze. I paused, halfway out the door, and then came back; I owed him that much. Toby wheezed a bit more, and I knelt down beside him, leaning in to listen.
"How many...children like Claire...is your life worth, Sam?" He asked, eyes bright.
I didn't have an answer.