"You've made a big mistake."
The words spilled out off of his tongue in the same way that you would see them in a meeting. But, as opposed to the business talk that his old, worn lips normally spoke of, the purpose behind these five words was far more grave. Instead of just going on about statistics and graphs, he was talking on matters of life and death.
It was, in some ways, fascinating how he maintained the same sort of composure that he did for costumers and stockholders. You could sense no shift of expression in his eyes. They looked friendly and inviting, but at the same time, serious and commanding. The perfect traits for a man in his position. On the other hand, the pair of startling blue eyes sent fear running up and down the worker's spine like little sparks of electricity.
He sat in the chair in front of the man. An armed guard had brought him there by the order of this other man sitting before him, and he had come simply out of obedience. But, after witnessing the guard cradling the gun at his side with his other arm leading him along, it gave him second thoughts. Why had he been called down?
The papers. They must have found the papers.
The mere thought of it sent his mind spinning off on things that he purposefully kept from thinking of normally. He tried to keep focused, but that was out of the picture the second his skin felt the cold, metallic firmness of the chair. To compensate, he kept on a brave face to mask his dwindling courage. If he jumped to conclusions, he could let the man know something that he didn't already.
"I was just doing my job. What you told me to do." It sounded to him as if he was being too professional already, but it was all that he could muster.
"I never told you to do this."
From behind the desk, he brought up a single, manila folder. It slid across the dark brown surface without resistance and stopped with precision right in front of him. On its way over, the folder let one of the papers it contained slip out. To his own dismay, he recognized it immediately.
The blue eyes were now scanning all over him. Unease flooded over him, and he shifted in his seat. It felt like he was being sorted through, inspected for discrepancies. Should he take responsibility? Perhaps they wouldn't get upset about his findings. Maybe they brought him into the room to congratulate him. …What was he thinking? They had made it clear that he wasn't supposed to have any knowledge of what was beyond the barrier of restrictions they had given him during research, but now that he did, he knew all too well what the consequences were for possessing that knowledge.
Of course, he should take responsibility for what he found, but in cases of life and death, couldn't that be overlooked? A simple white lie could be skimmed over when your blood was going to be spilt, couldn't it? He looked down at his worn hands and remembered.
It wasn't his life to give.
He took a deep breath, looked back up directly into the man's eyes, and replied. "You told us to find and report anything that we found that was wrong." He moved his gaze back down to the folder. "This fits that description."
He'd never thought it possible for his heart to beat so fast.
It almost seemed like thousands of volts of power had shot through the man behind the desk. He abruptly sat up, and in a split second, the professionalism that seemed to ooze from him only moments ago was gone. The only thing radiating from him now was rage, and it could be felt anywhere in the dim room. He was almost a completely different person.
His glare shot straight through the worker's plain, hazel eyes. He wanted to have the man burned alive, ripped apart limb by limb, shot down by a firing squad. Whatever it would take to get rid of him, he would do it. The information that he knew about, however he found it, was far too volatile. He needed to be disposed of, and fast. Rumors spread much too quickly, and when they found out that this one was true…
Loud and demanding shouts echoed all around the room and found their way faintly outside of the door, just within range of the guard's earshot. Within seconds, they launched into the room, ready to obey. The man frantically pointed at the worker and started barking orders out.
Maybe he yelled something like "Get him out of here at once!" or "He'll kill us all if you don't get rid of him!" Whatever it was, it didn't register with the worker. He didn't even struggle when they yanked him up, or when they tazed him repeatedly, or even when they clamped him down to the metal table and took out the sharp instruments of his death. The only thing he did was stare off and think. He was going to die.
But they would be safe.
"How do I cover this one up…?" he thought to himself as he sat back down. The plush black leather of the business chair was somewhat comforting. It's smooth metal frame and hand-sewn cushions were too far out of the average citizen's pay range. You wouldn't find something like this anywhere else but in the building that he was in, the building that he helped run. But more importantly, it signified power. And with power came money, which was easily one of his most favorite things. It didn't change, it kept its worth, and it could get you what you wanted, which were more than he could say for his wife.
He sighed and rested his elbows on the desk, cupping his face in his hands. "At least he'll be dead." But, it was the least of his worries now. It was always the same. The hardest part about a murder isn't the killing, it's cleaning up the mess.
The manila folder still lay out on the desk, only a single stray paper sticking out on the side. You couldn't see any text from the way the folder obscured it, only the upper corner of a photo. He picked it up and tapped it back in uniformly with the others, then bent down to slide it neatly into the incinerator underneath his desk.
"Could he have made any more copies?" he questioned to himself. A sigh escaped his mouth. If there were any more copies, he would need the files in his hand to make sure that he could identify them and make sure they were destroyed. This wasn't something that he could hire someone else to do. Too many liabilities.
He brought the folder back up on his desk and opened it, then got on his computer. Not only would it be easier to find the physical folders with the thorough sorting system his company had established, he could make sure any digital copies were destroyed. "Two birds with one stone," he thought. Then it occurred to him, he didn't quite get where that saying came from. At least he knew what it meant.
As he strove on in his search for the dangerous files, something glinted at him from the corner of his eye. He stopped for second to come out of his deep concentration, and then looked over to see what it was. A small, silver pocket watch was lying open on the floor. It was overall unremarkable, no accents, etchings, nothing that could identify it. Cautiously, he got up and walked over.
The watch dully gleamed in the minimal lighting of the room. Attached to the top of it was a chain just as simple as the watch, if not more so. He picked it up tentatively in his large hand and inspected it closer. The latch on the side of the timepiece looked crooked and near breaking, but still held together when it moved. Like the latch, the outer metal on the watch was dented and far from smooth, but served its purpose. Other than the latch and the place where the chain was linked to it, the watch had no instrument on the side to change the time. Puzzled, he opened the casing to look at the face.
The glass protecting the hands of the small clock was perfectly clear, like it was new. The face was simple enough, and looked just as perfect as the glass protecting it was. However, despite its seemingly convincing newness, the hands were completely still. He tapped it to see if it was just stuck, but to no avail. "Was this his…?"
On the inside of the clasp, a small picture was tucked inbetween the metal edges of the outer clasp. It was of a family. The mother kneeled off to the right, smiling warmly and proud. Her eyes were a piercing blue, and looked brighter and happier than any other mom's that he'd seen. Brown hair cascaded down around her neck and stopped at about halfway down her arms, which were wrapped around a small boy. If you weren't looking close enough, it almost looked like he was grimacing, but closely inspected, that wasn't the case. There was a fire in the son's striking blue eyes that seemed too bright to be unhappy. His brown hair was like his mother's in a way, but shorter and brushed back out of his face. If he was adopted, it was doubtful that even the parents could tell.
A baby laid in the arms of the father, clothed loosely in a pink shirt and small denim pants. Her small eyebrows were pinched together in confusion on her small face, as her deep chocolate eyes looked at the pink piece of fabric sitting helplessly in her fist. Small tufts of reddish-brown hair covered her tiny head and stuck up in wild tangles of a fuzzy mess.
The strong arms that held onto the small child were, at the same time, gentle and protective. His smile was almost reminiscent of his wife's, but in itself different at the same time. Surrounding his brown eyes was a web of laugh lines that stretched out to his temples, proving his body's age, but not his soul's. He was more than a family man; he was a father, a dad to those children.
And now he was dead.
The watch dropped from his hand and clattered to the ground in a moment of shock. If he heard it, the noise didn't register. Someone else's life had been prematurely cut off, and was now lying bleeding in his hands. Almost instinctively, he jammed them into his pockets. But no… he had to calm down. The worst thing that he could do was to get worried and make mistakes. Mistakes would make everything even worse.
In a frantic but controlled hurry, he scooped up the silver watch and rushed over to his desk. He shoved the chair back and got down on his knees, trying to hold back the frantic fear building up inside of him. In the shadow of his desk, he fumbled around to find the small drawer that was supposed to be situated right against the glass of the desktop. His fingers slid along the smooth surface for the telltale crevice that signified the small contraption he was searching for.
Sweat started to creep its way onto his forehead. It couldn't be gone… that was impossible. At least he hoped it was. After testing his patience far beyond where he thought it could go, the consistency of the flawless exterior gave way into the gap that he was looking for. Shaking with apprehension, he staggered to regain his position of comfort on the ground.
He pushed in gently on the small drawer and heard a faint click as it slid out of its mostly stationary position inside of his desk. A soft orange glow came out into the darkness that he'd been staring at for what had lasted to him an eternity. It flickered and morphed from dim to bright, confirming that it was still in working order. As closely fitted as it was to the top of the desk, you couldn't put anything into the top of it, so, instead, a small hole had been put into the side of it.
Hardly able to control his fingers, he managed to get the watch into the slot and all but slammed it shut. He slumped down onto his knees and covered his face with his hands, out of relief, and out of a growing need of his to hide from his actions. Then, he remembered. These weren't actions, but steps. Steps that got everyone closer and closer to an end goal that would be better for everyone. The details of this future were inexistent, all but the one fact that it would be better. And that was all the motivation that he needed to get working.
After composing himself out of his state of shock and relief, he rose and sat back in his seat, relaxed. With smooth motions, he commanded the digital space he resided in and erased every single trace of his killing that he found.
He looked down at a small, silver etched piece of metal on his desk that he kept at his desk at all times to remind him of what he was doing. In simple, blocky letters, it stated plainly: Back to business as usual. It brought a slight smile to his otherwise strictly straight face, and he turned back to his work.