"I do not think I am an unreasonable man, Mister Dauvien."
Dauvien knew that tone. He had not spoken with it many times before, but each time, he had killed a man, or at very least ordered him to his death. Beady, greedy eyes flitted around the room, to the dark shapes that obscured the lazy orange sunlight that made the Venetian blinds glow. They were dark, simple eyes but for a spark of flame and a spark of gold, and they were full of raw, unfiltered terror. He felt his throat constricting and his eyes leak, and his lips pulled to make that keening noise, that whining wail that can only accompany crying. His legs shook and the center of his forehead hurt terribly.
"Would you say I'm unreasonable?"
He looked up at the figure nearest to him and rose, shaky sweaty fingers clutching his jacket lapels to beg him - he was backhanded, punched in the side, unsure who did it, and tossed back into his seat. He cowered under his own arms.
"We made an investment in you in good faith. Faith, Dauvien - you know what that takes from the likes of you, the likes of me."
He sniffled loudly, wiped blood from his nose with his sleeve. He'd been slapped hard, and tested his nose carefully.
"We trusted you enough to give you every penny and let you go back, settle the score, be with your family....whatever excuse was true, if they weren't all lies. We trusted you....and you walked back into my office with a gun in your hand."
The nearest figure struck him over the back of the head, loudly, and made him cry out.
"Think, Dauvy! Men like you and me, you know how it is....and you thought you'd just walk in and, what....Shoot me?"
From the other two figures, there was laughter. Dauvien rubbed at his nose again and looked at the blood on his fingers, his lower lip trembling....and the man nearest, the speaker, took his hand to cradle, to brush his fingertips.
"Don't you worry about us....When it comes to our investments, we always get a return."
He didn't hear the man behind him, only felt the blow to the back of his skull, saw stars, and blacked out.
* * *
That night, at Geneva Finances, the lights stayed out. The blinds were shut, the doors were locked and stayed that way, and no cars were parked outside. In the morning, like clockwork the accountants showed up to prepare an hour before opening, and in the afternoon, a dozen cardboard boxes marked as financial records left in the company van.
Mister Dauvien, offworlder, gambler, and celestial mutt, was never seen again, known in RhyDin City only two separate nights by the same bartender and the same callgirl, and missed by none.
Dauvien knew that tone. He had not spoken with it many times before, but each time, he had killed a man, or at very least ordered him to his death. Beady, greedy eyes flitted around the room, to the dark shapes that obscured the lazy orange sunlight that made the Venetian blinds glow. They were dark, simple eyes but for a spark of flame and a spark of gold, and they were full of raw, unfiltered terror. He felt his throat constricting and his eyes leak, and his lips pulled to make that keening noise, that whining wail that can only accompany crying. His legs shook and the center of his forehead hurt terribly.
"Would you say I'm unreasonable?"
He looked up at the figure nearest to him and rose, shaky sweaty fingers clutching his jacket lapels to beg him - he was backhanded, punched in the side, unsure who did it, and tossed back into his seat. He cowered under his own arms.
"We made an investment in you in good faith. Faith, Dauvien - you know what that takes from the likes of you, the likes of me."
He sniffled loudly, wiped blood from his nose with his sleeve. He'd been slapped hard, and tested his nose carefully.
"We trusted you enough to give you every penny and let you go back, settle the score, be with your family....whatever excuse was true, if they weren't all lies. We trusted you....and you walked back into my office with a gun in your hand."
The nearest figure struck him over the back of the head, loudly, and made him cry out.
"Think, Dauvy! Men like you and me, you know how it is....and you thought you'd just walk in and, what....Shoot me?"
From the other two figures, there was laughter. Dauvien rubbed at his nose again and looked at the blood on his fingers, his lower lip trembling....and the man nearest, the speaker, took his hand to cradle, to brush his fingertips.
"Don't you worry about us....When it comes to our investments, we always get a return."
He didn't hear the man behind him, only felt the blow to the back of his skull, saw stars, and blacked out.
* * *
That night, at Geneva Finances, the lights stayed out. The blinds were shut, the doors were locked and stayed that way, and no cars were parked outside. In the morning, like clockwork the accountants showed up to prepare an hour before opening, and in the afternoon, a dozen cardboard boxes marked as financial records left in the company van.
Mister Dauvien, offworlder, gambler, and celestial mutt, was never seen again, known in RhyDin City only two separate nights by the same bartender and the same callgirl, and missed by none.