Human morality is a funny thing.
He got the call from the boss two weeks ago, containing the usual spiel – your name is Calen Satterfield, you're the representative of this laughably fruity sounding company and have been invited to a business dinner over a weekend stay, airplane tickets in the safe box on Harrows St, no evidence, in and out as fast as possible. He was happy to hear that he was allowed to keep his hair its vibrant red he was so fond of – apparently, Calen was 'eccentric', so it was passable. He spent the ride on the plane adapting to his new persona, testing it on stewardesses and even one of the flight marshals. It held up and he was never questioned – also as usual. He stepped into the city of Columbus with the air and speech patterns of a polished businessman, dampening the Brooklyn accent more with each word spoke.
When he arrived at the estate along the edges of the city line he met the wife, the twin daughters, the son. He got along with all of them, and fit himself into their presence so quickly they hardly even noticed they had a weekend guest. The wife ran an internet business collecting and selling antiques, as well as being involved in many charities. The twin daughters were in their senior year in high school, one aiming big to become a singer, the other wishing to study abroad and learn several languages, becoming a translator. The son was in college to join his father's business, and was surprisingly enthusiastic about it. He learned about each of them, blending seamlessly into the family's routine for the next four days.
They trusted him.
The business dinner passed without a hitch, the redhead able to build a rapport with the patriarch of the family for the first time since he'd arrived. The rest of the family he had worked so hard to gain the favor of spoke highly of him, just as they always did. This in turn made the businessman whom he was 'cementing a deal with' warm to him far quicker than was wise. Same story, different names. His day in the office. His mask of the week.
“How did someone your age get to be so successful Calen?”
“Well, I'm...fairly confident I'm older than I look.”
“Where did you go to school to become so successful so fast? There's gotta be somethin in that damn water.”
“Funny enough...it was the rival to the school you went to sir, so if you want to believe there's something in the water that works.”
“My wife tells me you just recently came off of breaking on an engagement – and I think I read about it somewhere as well, some big scandal about the woman embezzling your money?”
“Yes it's...not been the best time in my life, and certainly not my business life. Hence why I've somewhat thrown myself at your mercy – though, I expected far worse coming here, I daresay your home feels more welcoming than my own.”
“So I've done a little research into you, since I like to know my business partners before I agree to anything – there was something about you being in a
reality TV show or-”
“Oh, god, no, please – hahah – I was twenty-one and extremely...stupid, is the best way to put it, I promise, they say a lot of things about me but you won't catch me dead in such things anymore-”
“Why did you even want to get in the less-than-reputable line of oil collecting? We're not terribly loved.”
“Well, with all due respect sir, I never asked for a line of work where I'm loved – simply one I'm successful at.”
For all intents and purposes, he
was Calen Satterfield. After dinner he was taken to the study to discuss this supposed business.
It was quick and silent, a blade pressed against the man's throat and yanked at a strength where he didn't even have time to make a noise. Didn't have time to comprehend that the simple act of sending his newly appointed business partner to get more scotch from the cabinet behind his chair was his undoing. The redhead, unfazed, had stepped back as the body slumped forward, convulsing, oozing red onto the stark white of the papers on his desk. He checked his sleeves and the front of his shirt before he'd reached back to grab the earlier requested scotch, taking it with him as he strolled out at a leisurely pace. Not his favorite, but it would do.
The next morning was an uproar. He'd already bleached anything on his shirt when his room is broke in to by the security of the estate. He's questioned. He assures all of them, with his sincerest of blue eyes, that he sealed the contract, had a drink, and after a bit of small talk, went to bed. He begs to know what's happening, to know what everyone is panicked, to know why the wife is crying. When he's told the shock comes, natural in everything but his own apathetic mind. He clutched at the sides of his head with one hand, asking if this is a trick by Vallahan, who's been jealous of him for years, and if it is, it's not funny. He demanded to know how this will effect him, his company. He's told that obviously, whatever deal he made is dead with its owner.
He played off the rage and indignation of a denied businessman well, packing his things and storming out, slamming every door and aggressively calling a car to get him. He ignored it when the son attempted to speak to him. He ignored when the wife called out for him to stop as the car arrived and he'd slid inside.
“Port Columbus International, please.”
He called his boss while he waited for his flight. There was a missed call on the same phone on the way back, as cheap disposable cell phones never do well on planes. When he landed back in New York, before he could even hail a cab the same caller tried him again – this time successful. When the assassin had first answered, he was unsure how to handle it – he had never had the contractor of a job contact him directly. But surely, if the man had his number, the boss had approved – and he didn't want to deny the man's request, lest his fee get docked. So like a good employee, the redhead had told this taxi to take him to the address that had been given to him.
- - - - - -
It was an hour later that Lukas realized why he was so often told to let the boss handle all contact with those who sent in their hits. He cursed himself for being stupid, naïve – he'd done his job long enough to be good at it, but not long enough to know why all rules had a reason. Well, here was his first example.
“What do you mean it's too late?!” the middle aged man exclaimed, tone panicked.
The assassin did his best to keep his neutral mask, despite his annoyance and slight worry at what he'd walked in to.
“Why do you think I just got off a plane? I'm back from doing what you paid me to do.”
“Wha- but...” the client's face fell, and he began to wring his hands.
Lukas waited.
“I can't – I take it back I take it all back. Put it back how it was! I didn't want this it's been eating me up since I made the call how could I be so
stupid...” He'd stood up from his desk, pointing furiously at the redhead in an accusatory fashion, face beginning to redden from the effort of his steadily rising voice.
“I'm not paying you. Your your dirty cohorts, whoever it is I called to do this...this...
thing. Hearthen was a good man, and you
killed him-”
“Correction” Lukas interrupted, an apathy in his tone that didn't match the unease in his mind. “
You killed him.”
That, apparently, was not the right thing to say, as suddenly his face got redder and he lunged at Lukas, who instantly stood to avoid the physical assault.
“DON'T YOU DARE ACCUSE ME OF SUCH ATROCITIES YOU KILLED HIM! You...” he tapered off, and the tense rage that was fueling him seemed to drain somewhat. This gave Lukas pause, and he eyed the man up and down curiously. He'd heard of clients who'd attempted to back out before, but he'd never properly witnessed it. Why was he getting so worked up over something that couldn't be changed? It made no sense to him. For once at a loss for a social grace, Lukas did the only thing he new – reaffirmed what was
supposed to be happening.
“Look, bub, you paid me to remove the 'illustrious Carver Hearthen' your biggest business rival and drainer of your bank accounts, whatever. I did that. You have tons of employees working for you, so you should be able to comprehend the 'assign, pay, job gets done by them' concept. There's not really such thing as a take-backsies.” Despite his annoyance, he worded it all as he was trained to – vague, able to create loopholes. Recorders were everywhere, all the time.
“Never should have...it was a mistake. I don't pay people who do things I didn't want, that includes you.” he responded, leaning close to a broken record.
Sick of this game, Lukas put his foot down. “You know...it's not terribly good for your business to not pay those who you make very incriminating deals with.”
The client most certainly heard
that. He whipped around, anger renewed, pointing at the redhead again and gesturing with the other. “Yes you're one to talk about incriminating details aren't you, Mr.
Libertine? How dare you threaten me. I have you here, in my home. I could - I can turn you in, right here, now, call the police, call the government, even if you kill me, there's evidence everywhere! There's only so much one man can do! Admit it, you're at
my mercy, so why the hell are you threatening me?!”
Two things happened in the assassin’s mind in that split second – pure, unadulterated panic at the mere thought of the threat, and a chilly indignation. The two reactions warred with one another for a few moments, before the iciness won out, a deathly calm spreading through every limb and nerve ending, his posture losing all tension as he adapted into a state of wrath he'd never had occur on a job before...if every before.
How dare
he, huh?
In a motion his client had no hope of predicting, he shoved the weight of his upper body into the man, causing him to fall back into a wall, and while he was attempting to recover, Lukas had pulled a small derringer from his ankle, shoving the barrel of the gun harshly into the man's throat.
“You honestly believe you could pull that off? Hmm?” he asked, sadistically mocking a curious tone. “You think you can get around all my safeguards, think you can put me away instead of you. Lets say you can. Would that make you feel better?”
He was met with nothing but silence and terrified eyes bulging in their sockets.
“I suggest answering.” He ground the barrel farther up, into the man's jaw. This was followed by a small yelp, and the answer he wanted.
“Yes, it would! And you would deserve it!”
The redhead smirked. He wondered if the man knew how very unconvinced he sounded.
“Alright so all of this is my fault then. But just for my sake – mostly my reputation, mind you – lets run down this, shall we?”
The eyes bulged wider, and the man attempted to get out of the death grip. Lukas leaned his weight onto the hand that was near his throat, putting just enough pressure to remind him that was a bad plan. Then he continued, as if the rude interruption hadn't even occurred.
“You want your business rival out of your way. You ask around, get a few names – and finally you get a number. You're told to be very careful with it, and you're told exactly what will happen when you call this number and your down payment is accepted. Yet you do it anyway. Am I right?”
Silence, and guilty eyes. That's a yes.
“And how long has it been since you sent in this call?”
The silence proceeds for a few moment until finally, he opens his mouth tentatively. “Two- two months...”
“Plenty of time to stop what you started, mmm?”
“Y-yeah...”
“Well then. Now that we have that established, you being a big business guy and all, you know a little bit about me, yeah? 'My reputation precedes me' and all that?”
A nod.
“Then you know that if I don't receive the payment that was agreed upon, I have my ways to ensure the public finds every file that incriminates you, just as it has for so many others, correct?”
Another nod.
“Well then why are we even having this conversation.” he stated, pushing back and distancing himself from the man, but keeping his barrel pointing at his chest. His face was held perfectly neutral, emotionless – cold, posture matching the sharp, precise, businesslike attitude he'd pulled from somewhere he wasn't even sure he had. A voice in the back of his head distantly informed him
Vasha. That would make sense wouldn't it? The man had raised him.
“I-I don't...how do you feel nothing? No remorse? He had a family, kids – a wife – I-” the client was cut off again as he breathed deep, apparently attempting to hide his grief.
Lukas' expression did not waver. “I did what I was paid to. Am I supposed to regret doing my job? Do you regret yours?”
There was no spoken answer, but he saw it in his eyes.
“Well, above all else, there is one very compelling reason why I should feel no guilt – as much as you don't want to hear it.” He paused, lips thinning into a frown, expression hinting at irritation. “I may have pulled the trigger, but you killed him, don't doubt that.”
And with that, the assassin known as Libertine turned and strode out, accompanied only by the muffled sounds of his client's distress.
A four days later, the payment cleared. Yes, morality was a funny thing indeed. It could be bended accordingly so one man could overcome his regret at what he'd done, in order to maintain his reputation...and it could motivate another to continue his remorseless existence as a living weapon, knowing this thing called 'morality' was far more subjective than the world made it out to be, if his last client was any indication.
- - - - - -
A/N: Yep I have one of these note things. Theme is regret. First half is meant to feel a bit choppy/snapshot-y, as it's something that already happened, just in case anyone had issues with it. And if the tense switched in it I apologize u_u I don't know if I missed any when I went back and changed those.
