September 14th, 1997
The waning sunset paled the sky, painting it a sickly dull silver as the remaining sprays of pink and orange were swallowed by the horizon. Fields thick of trees of all sorts closely bordered this daily descent, swinging their branches as farewell to a now absent sun when near tempest winds struck them from the south.
All this caught and framed ornately in plate glass, guarded by twin rolls of silken maroon.
The common rarity of the sun's slow passing heeded attention from the rooms small occupancy: a sum of two.
A formal man sat, black tweed to tie, behind a prominent desk bearing a sizable as varied collection of office paraphernalia. A manila folder, no more innocuous than the rest, sat in a ceremonious position before the man, alluding its imperative into the air.
A second man sat, or rather laxed himself on the study's easy chair, holding himself in a lethargic lean of silent patience. He clothed himself in substantially less authority than his counterpart, a detraction he redeemed through innocuity's utility.
Both men were dressed for their business: as the former's suited form accentuated his professionalism, the latter had garbed himself with a long traveler's coat, tailored to his security and tinted an earthy tan. Beneath this his features were normally muddled, though when associating with high profile clientele the hood obscuring his identity was laid back; the front of the base left open with the low trailing bottom swung aside for comfort and ease of movement. The man, feeling the cause for his presence ignored long enough, cast a narrow glare across the table to draw his acquaintance's attention from the dying light.
A small box was produced from beneath the desk upon the behest of the former's attention. It was ornate in design, lacking in prominent coloration and showing signs of much use. The box appeared to be in the vice grip of a crawling vine,snaking around each side indefinitely and parting only to grace the edges of its emblem: Navarrete & Auburn Cigars.
The former man threaded two between his fingers and, with excessively proper alignment, clipped the caps from both. The second cigar was tossed and both were found in a toothy vice as the men produced separate packets of matches. Twin sunsets and a cloud of smoke were added to the rooms natural ambiance in short succession; the glow revealed the tell-tale lines of eager minds on each of their faces.
"Now,"
Began the latter man in an introductory tone, silently thankful for the time to compose
"what is your concern?"
The former man drew again from his smoldering poison, averting his gaze and stalling the air for a moment longer.
"I've heard fondly of you... from a friend of mine."
He gave his cigar a shorter draw before speaking through the smoke. His tone was judgmental, and not unjustified.
"I've had a recent addition to my problems; one I'd expect my employees quite capable of handling. I've since ascertained that this is not the case..."
The man's choice of words was picky, his style indiscreetly guarded. The man was either unsure of his offer, frustrated beyond a tolerable point, a combination, or something else all-together.
"Explain, if you will."
The latter man extended a trio of fingers from balancing his head in a gesture of 'please continue'.
"My company... My organization"
the former man turned abruptly to face the latter.
"-has suffered the loss of an expensive asset; a living asset, if you will, and I-"
"-And you would like me to return this asset to you?"
The latter man interjected.
"No... and yes, if you understand."
"Bits and pieces?"
"No, no. Perhaps it would be better if I provided some detail."
"Perhaps..."
The latter man granted approval amid a mild impatience
The former shimmied his tie before dunking his half extinguished cigar into the empty snifter beside him. He glanced down at the folder that had stagnated the air of his study since its arrival earlier that afternoon.
As a businessman of some infamy and acclaim, he was no stranger to closely guarded secrets, though rarely was he forced to confront them. Now, with one of his most sensitive, and indeed most expensive secrets loosed to prying eyes he was surely confronted: he was confronted with a choice. Great loss necessitated further expenditure before they could be turned to profit again, and the extension of such sensitive information to an outside party was an expenditure that now necessitated itself in force. The man gave the folder a hesitant toss, only enough to land it edgewise along the opposite end of the table.
Miming intrigue with his eyebrows, the latter man scrunched the ashes of his cigar into his sleeve before depositing them into a nearby wastebin. He retrieved the folder from the table's end with mild control, not allowing himself to appear too hasty to its contents, or too ignorant to its importance.
The folder was dense, the accumulated mass of its years seemed eager to escape the hands of anyone who dared to handle it. As the latter man quickly surrendered a second hand to hold it, an errant photograph, still clung to by its attending paperclip, flew from the upper lip of the file.
The former man nearly jumped, holding back his hands by sheer force of will, relieved that the folder did not completely collapse under its own weight. The latter man quickly snatched the picture from the floor, turning it over in his hands.
The picture itself was poor in quality; grainy and muddled, it displayed all the tell tale signs of an hard aged 35mm camera. The pictures contents were of the barely discernible type, near sepia tone. All that could be made of it in the current light was gray framed by green and brown, possibly taken in a wooded area, based on the sheer amount of foliage present. He quietly tucked the picture back into the file, hoping it was at least near its original position.
The former man made a small grunt or murmur; which of the two the latter man was unsure, but the meaning was clear: 'Hurry up'. Taking the cue, the latter man opened the folder hesitantly, not wanting to spill the contents to the floor.
The first object to catch his attention was a much larger photograph; of a mercifully better quality than the previous picture. It occupied the bottom half of the folder's cover sheet, easily dwarfing any other detail that might have been present. Though it was not the size nor the placement of the photo that caught the latter man's attention, it was its occupant.
Framed dead center in the photo a man stood rather proudly, or at least as proudly as one could look with their face bearing such a frown. Both the face and the frown were familiar to the latter man, a brief but lasting memory of a past time in his life, the parts he'd hoped were well and buried in the dark pits he'd left them in.
The man in the picture was, well, not a man; not in the same sense that the latter man was. No, it was more a creature, a chimera of the human form. From its felid features to its ermine coat, to the digitigrade stance of its posture or the tumorous tail that hung behind it, little could be construed as human past an initial glance.
The former man must have caught the fading focus of the latter man's eyes, as he began to speak with a hurried tone.
"I suppose you see the call for my initial hesitation."
He made a gesture with his hands to draw the latter man's attention from the folder.
"The market for, lets say tailored organic products, is vast and unmet, regardless of what laws the Diet imposes, and we do more than just sheep. I was assured you are a man of caliber and discretion, however the offer I have for you is a strange one, the target is not exactly human. I was not sure if you had any... objections to an offer like this."
The latter man quickly regained himself, mentally chiding himself for his nostalgic lapse. Personal ties should never detract from one's professional obligations; regrets are commodity for the dead.
"Objections? The PMBC is full of rivals and petty money. Killing an animal is nothing new."
Such business as usual was not the former man's paradigm for blood money.
"Right..."
He dismissed the comment as a 'no'.
Of all the shady dealings he held council to: Larceny, counterfeit, blackmail, embezzlement, public deceit, political bribery - all in the name of good business of course - murder was the single vice he refused to attach his name to, not directly anyway, or at least only in rare cases. Following in the footsteps of the past only walks in circles.
"Either way, this particular animal is of a special interest to my organization. You see, we... made it, so to speak. It is the product of nearly a decade of human genetic research by a very close friend of mine. Its escape represents a considerable loss to him and one of our third party R and D's."
The latter man nodded.
"So you would like it returned to you?"
"Like I said, not exactly, though you weren't too far off when you suggested bits and pieces. What I want is a sample of its tissue; a blood sample to be specific."
"So if you don't mind me asking,"
The latter man posed, turning a page in one of the file's many detailed reports
"why do you want me to kill it? This thing must have been expensive to make. You could probably hire the JSDF to solve this for less than half of what it cost to create it."
The latter man's question posited in the air a second guessing of the former's judgement. Capturing the subject alive was considered, many years ago. Trial and error proved that lethal force was necessity here. Besides that point, the subject had proven itself no longer worth its price alive. Once captured it would simply be put down and salvaged. Why the latter man cared at all the former could not discern, though his tone in asking seemed to imply.
"This... model, I suppose, is more of a prototype than a finished product. It was the only specimen to survive to term, and I'm afraid that during its growth period it developed certain mental defects."
"Such as?"
The latter man interjected, flipping through some of the numerous charts and graphs.
"Rashness, blunted response, violent tendencies, asocial behavior and negative development, narcolepsy, all from early and limited testing, but still. Its caused us quite a lot of damage before escaping; now I'd just like the matter resolved."
"Minor halts it sounds like to me. Something you'd expect in an early production."
He finally broke his gaze from the case file.
"I'm sure that with enough conditioning and therapy it could be made an obedient and docile like every other trainer bait animal, that is if it is what you say: just an animal. Have you tried those new capsule's SILPH is testing; the pocket ball I believe? You of all people should have access."
"You're obviously unaware of exactly what this creature is, though that is a moot point. And you seem rather resistant for a man with no inhibitions."
"I have no inhibitions, only questions. I like to practice good business whenever possible, I'm just questioning the point of killing your only surviving specimen."
"The point is that this model is lost to us. All that's left to do is pick up the pieces and try again, I just need you to pick up the pieces."
The latter man conceded. If it were a normal day he'd be arguing price instead of questioning the validity of his work, though normal days were scant in these high places.
"So in order to get those pieces, I'll have to track this animal down, kill it, and return a sample of its blood to you?"
"Tracking it down will not be necessary, some trusted employees have already discerned its position, how tentative that position may be we do not know, but that leads me to my other request."
The former man gave himself pause
"It seems to have taken shelter in the ruins of one of our older research facilities. Most of the facility and its contents have been leveled but it is likely that some of the initial data and tests done there still remain. Any information you could retrieve would be greatly appreciated. We'd clear this matter ourselves, but I'd like it done in a manner that won't draw attention back to us."
"Is there any incentive?"
"Twenty thousand Yen per file. I'd also like it if you could dispose of any remaining evidence that we were there; an extra fifty-five hundred thousand Yen for that."
The latter man smiled. Talk of money always pleased him; finally arriving at his end of the deal only pleased him further.
"So seven million base fee; that covers the primary job, fifty-five hundred thousand to level the place, and twenty grand per file for any file I find?"
"Correct"
The former man considered the expenditure.
"While we're on that, how do you accept payment? Cash? Account? Collateral?
"Three certified checks, bank of your choice, in the name of whatever organization you'd like represent. One for fifteen percent of the total, one for forty-five and one for forty. Sign them, number them, date them and hand them to me, I'll handle the rest."
"I'll have them ready for you when I receive the detail."
"Well then Mr. Giovanni, I believe you have yourself a final arrangement. The only matter left is the matter of time. Well, time and place. I still don't know exactly where I'm going. But other than that, what sort of time frame will I be operating in?"
"I was hoping you could start tonight."
The latter man turned abruptly as two knocks were issued from the study door. Following their echo was a tall, slender man; couldn't have been older than 30 – at least not by his face. His dress was paramilitary, unmistakably.
Over his black shamble of hair balanced a similarly charcoal black beret bearing a single solid red band around its left lip. No insignia to speak of.
He wore a half sleeve sweatshirt of a matching dark shade – all signs of proper tactical tailor were present: form fit and flexible, a partial face mask sewn into neck, currently bunched - further enveloped by a minimalist load bearing harness, equipped with all the odds and ends one would expect to be utilized for combating crime rather than perpetuating it.
Looking him up and down, the latter man failed to spot any armaments. No pistol, no rifle, a single utility grade knife on the waist though hardly combat serviceable. The man was not expecting confrontation, but he obviously wasn't an office regular.
"Mr. Giovanni, the chopper is fueled and waiting. All the supplies you requested are on board."
The RIS troop addressed him with haste.
"Good, Good. Stay, will you."
Giovanni pulled himself up from his desk, flexing a bit at the elbows to re-stretch the sleeves of his jacket. In some few swift moments he had returned the lid to the cigar box and emptied the glass of ashes into the wastebasket, now rounding the desk towards the latter man, who himself had taken initiative to gather and realign the myriad of files from the folder.
"I trust these are agreeable terms?"
"Fair, yes, I'd say so."
Giovanni extended a veritable blade of a right hand to the latter man, though only to receive a folder in return. Not quite rebuked, he returned the folder to its proper position on the desk and swung an arm back round, this time meeting a marksman's grip in a gloved hand.
"So we're agreed. You'll handle our problem-"
"-And you'll hand me my money."
"Agreed. Follow our lieutenant here, he'll fill you in on the fine details."
The latter man released Giovanni's hand in a mild sort of toss, not unlike how one would discard a common rag or cloth. Par on course for his social acuity.
Professional work was by no means few but face to face meetings and office interludes were utmostly far between. It was at these times and places where his element was in least supply. Quiet parks and the voiceless destitute were traded for glass obelisks and manorial grounds. The open ears and closed mouth of a bartender gone to make way for round-the-clock security and the ever present law.
He always supposed that the lawyers, politicals and chief executives - those higher echelons of his clientele – must feel untouchable in their pillars of wealth and industry. Same as he felt secure behind a wall of pedestrian normalcy. Though by experience and observation, he had learned what fatal assumptions those could be. The fingers of the law – when properly provoked – dug deeper than any bullet and spread faster than potassium chloride in the blood. Not that he wished fellow members of the criminal element to exercise any more care with their endeavors, no. Obvious threats clear to the public far overshadowed his own exploits, vastly expanding his window of opportunity.
Regardless, he payed some momentary consideration to his new employer as Giovanni motioned the slender man towards the door. A quick about-face and a passing 'Follow me, sir.' and they were in the hall.
The hall itself stood no further out from the daunting regalia of the previous room, nor any other room for that matter. The wallpaper still indulged in sweeping shades of dull hunter's green, glints of gold and excessive ivory.
The floors were hardwood, though through the center there was carpet. It must have been cared for well; two men at an upwards of two hundred pounds each and the only sound was the mutable 'Phut' of heavy boots.
"Sir, I'm lieutenant Mauro. I'll be coordinating transport for this contract."
His tone was markedly military, a surprise to hear from someone with as young a face as him.
"At ease trooper,"
A quick bout of sarcasm from him, happy to be on his way.
"The only people watching here are the cats."
Indeed, trailing them close behind – ever since the door at that – was a slim Persian cat, making broad strokes but keeping its pace and distance. The probable house pet of one Donald Giovanni. It kept the same smugness of countenance as its master, no doubt conditioned into it from a life of luxury.
"The walls have ears in this house Mr. ..."
The lieutenant gave a short pause before disregarding the fact that his charge had yet to give him his name.
"... would you doubt that the cats do too?"
"On the contrary, I'd say they're far more obvious."
The latter man felt a sharp buzzing in his pocket.
Just the call he was expecting.
"Actually, do you have a restroom around here?"
"Oh, it should be..."
The lieutenant made a double take right before deciding on his left
"Just left down this hall, first on your right."
The latter man swung past him, ducking into the uneasily large door on his right. As to be expected, the bathroom too was garish, though there was no time to take in the details.
He pulled the still vibrating block of plastic from deep in his pocket, reaching through the opening in his cloak trailings to reach it.
"I assume he has offered you the contract"
An oddly grave alto of a voice snipped at him just barely after he had accepted the call.
"We're shook and settled. I'm on my way out now."
"And he trusts you?"
The latter man crouched down, peering under the door frame. No shoes left. No shoes right. No one withing immediate earshot, hopefully.
"As far as I can tell. He seemed guarded at first, played close to the chest. Whatever you sold him on though, he bought it as quick as he did me."
"Excellent. Continue with the contract he has given you, retrieve the items he specified. Once that has been done, proceed as you see fit."
"It'll be done before sunrise, though I'll be expecting payment not not long after. Make sure you have it."
"You'll see payment once I see results, don't worry yourself over it. Just try to focus on the task at hand."
The phone gave him a dull click and a flash of light:
'Call Disconnected-'
'Unknown Name'
'Unknown Number'
'0:18'
The lieutenant was thankfully still statuing himself in the intersection he was left in: arms folded on his chest, eyes narrowed for a specific point down the way, feigned ignorance for the large feline hawking at him for attention. With inspection, the latter man could at least be half certain he wasn't listening. His face showed no signs of complex thought or consideration. If he had heard anything then he wasn't in any mood to care.
They passed the hall through to the outside along an extended catwalk – though the cat itself had been left to its own devices in the hall – that reached from the manor's rear foyer landing to a modest servant's quarters across the way.
The walkway would no doubt offer an impressive view of expansive gardens under any normal circumstances, but two stories up in the dead of night and a storm gave more the impression of a solid void.
The wind was a howling, whirring, whipping force from the south. It tossed the latter man's hood round his face with all intent on blinding. It tore the Lieutenant's beret from his head with forceful greed, only stopped by by a saving catch from its rightful owner.
It was fierce, but it was not the source of the whirring, nor the periodic gusts from in front of them. Atop the external quarters of the garden perched a stark black helicopter – well, stark aside from the blatant kanji that blazed its side, though several attendant operators in similar garb to the lieutenant's were pasting black patches over this.
"That's a Mil-8."
The latter man raised his voice just shy above that wind and whirring.
"We can't fly that out of here!"
"Why not?"
"It's PRC hardware. The second you take that over a city center it's gonna be on the morning 7 news."
"I wouldn't worry about it. Weather like this, and where we're going, as far as civilians are concerned we're Coast Guard. Nobody asks questions anymore."
"It's a bit on the large side for a covert transport don't you think?"
"If you want to fly open canopy oversea in this weather that's your choice, but you can do that on your own time."
The cargo ramp lowered itself as Mauro pulled around to the rear of the chopper, allowing the lieutenant to up step the entry gate and bark orders to presumably the pilot. The two grunt militia heeded the same call to action, following their lieutenant's wake into the helicopter's hull. At the cue and moment, the latter man followed them as well into the cargo hold, ducking the door frame to sit on the bench. The hold was nowhere near as big inside.
Lining the netted compartments and under the narrow seats were cases upon cases of Flora pattern duralumin, all stamped with mandarin script and distinct serials; there was no question to the vehicle's origins.
Whereas the lower militia had taken up seats beside the latter man, the lieutenant stood halfway in the cockpit, directing the pilots takeoff. A sudden crash of metal on metal rang through the craft. A hard gain in altitude with a southbound lean of 35 degrees shook the cases in their bindings and the occupants in their seats, heavy wind resistance sheared at the frame.
"Hey Mauro."
"Yeah?"
The latter man grasped for the safety railings to steady upon standing before making for the cockpit.
"I need to give the pilot some directions. Your boss didn't give me a chance to pick up my tools. We need to make an extra stop."
"Where at?"
"Just tell the pilot to head east from here. About thirty five miles. There'll be a long strip of grassland – deserted – land there."
"Yes sir, on it now."
The lieutenant leaned further in over the pilot chair.
"Langley! Extra stop, due east from here. Make it around thirty five and keep an eye out for long stretches. Keep us low over the forest."
He rolled it over in his hands again, always time for further inspection. There were some few scuffs and scratches in the forward hand guard, stretches of worn finishing where the rifle had abraded against his gloves. The stock displayed similar signs of abuse through the cracks in its butt-plate.
Pushing down the magazine release allowed the attached box to slide easily out of the receiver. Thumbing the spring produced a reassuring scrunch and clank as it coiled and jumped.
He gave the bolt handle a nice, solid tug, ratcheting the bolt open. It had been some time since he'd cleaned or oiled the gun proper, as evident by the light fouling on his glove after a quick barrel swab. Though there shouldn't be any serious misfires or jams for a good 200 or so rounds.
Pulling on the bolt hold reciprocated a jarring slam forward. Judging by the little jump it gave the militia grunt next to him, this gun was ready to fire. All in all it was probably in as good a shape as one could hope for from a gun made in 1963, although a good shooter should never forget the rifleman's inverse:
'The less necessary an inspection appears, the more imperative it is that you inspect it'
-or as more jaded shooters would say, 'The nicer your gun looks when you check it, the worse it's going to cock-up when you don't check it'
A clogged barrel or a loose receiver could ruin any semblance of accuracy. A mis-fed round and a shoddy discharge could ruin the weapon all-together. All that'd be left of it at this point would be a usleless aluminum club.
The latter man reached down between his legs. Beneath him was a small, snap lock briefcase; the one for holding a fairly large syringe and a portable hard drive, though for the purposes of convenient carry also held his bullets, scope, mount and other tactical appliances. He snatched up a large hand-full of bullets - all .308, all jacketed to kill – and pushed them one by one into the magazine, finishing it off with a quick rap on the side to ensure none were loose.
Feeling at least mildly accomplished for his troubles, he traded a glance with the militiaman on his left who'd been observing his progress with shy eyes. Judging by the sudden lack of external light pollution - and from peering past the lieutenant out into the inky abyss of ocean that melded with the horizon in the windshield – he gathered that they had just passed through Yokohama Bay. Mauro pushed back into the cargo bay, addressing the latter man with his eyes.
"All-right, we're currently thirteen miles out barring forty from the drop point at Atarashii Island. I'll be briefing you on the finer details of your mission."
"As an immediate matter I've been asked to inform you that the target is suspected to possess developed telekinetic and extrasensory abilities and is to be regarded as extremely dangerous. Known dimensions for the target's appearance have it at approximately two meters tall and one hundred-twenty kilograms. It has both humanoid and animal features in equ-"
"-I'm well aware of the mark's looks and abilities. It's file gave me a good frame of reference. What I'm interested in hearing is exactly how you expect me to bring the facility down."
The lieutenant produced a stack of thick metal plates – dark green and weighty – from the store compartment overhead. The latter man counted 7 in the stack as Mauro set them beside him. Taking one in his hands, he ran a finger under the prominent label below what could be assumed to be the radio receiver.
'Caution: Octahydro-tetranitro-tetrazocine High Explosive'
Military HMX. His new clients never ceased to impress.
"We only have long range images and old blueprints, but given the speculations on internal architecture, one of these on each of the primary support columns and load bearing walls should suffice to cripple the structure."
"Fair enough."
He handed Mauro the stack who returned it to a smaller duralumin case
"Is there anything else?"
"You've been informed about offers for remaining test data?"
"Yes."
"Then just a curious question. How do you plan to get in undetected? Your equipment tells me that you plan to engage the target from a distance of no more than 600 meters, but given what we've been told it should be able to know your coming for at least a kilometer."
"You see, that's what this-"
The latter man removed a miniscule blue radio transmitter from a pocket beneath his neck
"-is for. I've got this set up to pump out a multi-frequency signal between 3 to 30 hertz, around the same frequency as brainwaves. It's empty signal, so this will effectively make me a blank spot in space to anything feeling for a brain. A little patch of white noise. It's the closest you can get to mental invisibility without wearing a Faraday Cage on your head, but it won't blot out five people and a helicopter. How are you going to get me in without being detected, I take it you have a plan?"
Mauro half canted back into the cockpit.
"Hey Langley!"
"Yeah lieutenant?"
The pilot's answer seemed distracted. No doubt by the storm
"How far are we from the drop zone?"
"About 13... 12 miles. Why?"
The lieutenant apparently didn't feel it was necessary to answer, instead gesturing the second militiaman to a spot above his head.
"We're not dropping you off on-site. We're going to get within visual range of the structure but that's as close as we get until you've finished the contract."
"I know you're not expecting me to swim."
The militiaman, finally managing to pry the cube of fabric and plastic from the shelving, set his find down beside the lieutenant.
"No, this should get you there fine."
"An inflatable? You're joking right?"
"Don't worry, this is PRC military too; class four protected. It's got an outboard motor and wave cutters on the front."
"You're lucky I'm getting payed obscene amounts of money for this, I should just have you dive bomb the bastard with the helicopter."
"Don't think we have the authorization to do that... but Langley here could probably do it no problem. That right Langley?"
He cajoled back to the pilot
"Damn straight, though I wouldn't be the one to clean im' off the rotors. But I guess that's why we have Jaime."
"Hey, piss off!"
The first militiaman near instantly chimed in
"I'm not good with blood. Jorge would have to do it."
The second militiaman brought himself into the conversation with a strong posture. Rough but subtle all in one. He was darker than Jaime who, despite his lack of accent, was most likely asian. Jorge looked to be latino – maybe south european – in descent.
"That's Corporal to you private; corporals don't clean."
"Ease up kids, you'd just have to leave the rotors on for a bit and he'd fly right off." The latter man added
From the cockpit, Langley cracked a lightening 'HA!' to no one in particular. This prompted a small sniffle of a laugh from none other than Mauro, though Jaime on his right visibly winced.
"Heh heh, all right. You might want to hang on to something, we're coming up on our first stop."
The latter man and the lieutenant grabbed hold of the overhead railings as the two militiamen grappled the wall netting. The corporal took a firm grip on the cube-form inflatable, catching it by the support bar of its outboard motor.
The helicopter jerked back almost a full 45 degrees, violently rattling the stored cargo and nearly tossing the case of explosives had the lieutenant not slammed a boot down on it. The suitcase toppled in a surprisingly controlled manner, wedging itself and the rifle against a bench leg. After leveling out, the helicopter began a slow descent towards the water below.
The corporal tossed the uninflated inflatable to the lieutenant who, passing by the latter man, set the motor bearing cube onto the closed loading ramp and unbuckled the binding straps, allowing it to unfold is limp frame down the ramp. The attached pump automatically began working air into the raft, quickly bringing it to full size at around seven feet long.
"All right lieutenant, we're air solid. Any time your boy's ready."
The latter man had already started tossing his various details into the raft; Mauro laying them out and securing them to the side. The suitcase first, then the box of explosives, his rifle last.
Finished, the lieutenant approached the latter man with what appeared to be a green box radio, small enough for a pocket though a little large for a hand.
"Okay, once you're done here radio us back and we'll fly you in an extraction. Our frequency is O four three O three point fourteen. You can also use this to detonate the bombs, just set the frequency on the receiver and then signal that frequency when you want to detonate them. I'd recommend somewhere in the thirty-seven hundreds, they aren't widely used around here."
"I have a number in mind."
"You might want to get in, I'm lowering the ramp."
The latter man climbed into the relatively large raft, propping his Shoulders over the rear as to not slam against the motor on his way down. Regardless of how secure it may have been, he still wrapped his arm around his rifle, just to be sure.
The raft lowered gently with the door at first, but took at heavy tilt once the door was all the way down. Mauro put his foot over the jumping bow of the raft, pinning it as the other two joined him. The wind outside howled monstrously, ripping past the now open doors and turning the stomachs of the occupant's from the rapid pressuring. The waves below could only add their own fury to the clustered cacophony of the outside.
A true storm of the century... or at least it would have been if the Hoenn-Johto coastline had not been ravaged by Hurricane Tokage in '87.
"You ready?"
"As ever, just push!"
"Hey, by the way, what do you call yourself? Just so we can verify who's calling in."
"To you? … It'd be Gavial, now push!"
Mauro, Jaime and the Corporal gave a simultaneous shove, sending the raft sliding back down the ramp. For a moment, the raft seemed to hover in the roaring air; the Gavial could see the faces of the three men as they watched him plummet down into the black expanse of foam and rage.
He thought that the drop would be harder. Still, he landed with considerable force, enough to brain anyone below, but it was only enough to jostle him in his seat. The waves, however, were doing nothing good for his balance.
Looking up he saw that the helicopter was already gaining altitude over him, the loading bay closed; he was alone now. Taking priorities as priorities, he fumbled at his neck for the transmitter, switching it on.
Against his inner ear he felt sudden, dull tremors. Barely noticeable normally, though here – against the roaring waves and the howling wind – the noise, or distinctive lack thereof, found its own niche in his senses.
The constant stream of ELF against his head would not disrupt his thoughts in any way, so long as he did not focus on them. They only played to one of the senses, though it was enough to disrupt any transmission of brainwaves to or around him. Try as they might, any practiced savant of the extrasensory arts could not see him, and vise-versa.
To his south – or at least what he could assume was south – a beacon of light shone near the horizon. Gavial wasn't sure what the lieutenant's idea of 'Visual Range' was, though it certainly wasn't 'Close'.
Though the waves reached a peak of around 5 meters, often stalling at 2, the inflatable miraculously managed to keep relatively stable; the front end sliced through the whitecaps and parted the lines. At least the lieutenant didn't stretch the truth about the raft.
Gavial flipped the locking switch on the engine, prompting it to sputter as the electric ignition spun the engine. Pulling the lever full right cranked the propeller up to its maximum speed, around 21 knots. The inflatable started its course, speeding off towards the light in the distance, skimming over entire lines of a wave to keep steady.
Though the spotlight seemed to be miles away when he had first landed, he could see now that it was a trick of the eye. The protruding lights shot straight up into the air, giving the congregation of spires that now poked up over the waves a constant appearance of distance.
Upon making his final approach – there was at least still a quarter mile between him and the structure – Gavial began to take in some of its truly bizarre architecture. It emanated an old world feel, possessing what amounted to steel parapets and spire-cap towers. It appeared to draw its power from the numerous wind turbines mounted to its frame.
Furthering it's alien appeal, the walls of the main structure, no, the entire structure sloped inward onto itself, appearing to fall away from all angles. Numerous panes of cathedral-esque design dotted the primary tower, spilling its alabaster glow out over the entryway. An oddity of an entry way at that; there was no obvious way to enter through the front.
Coming up under the impressive feat of geography Gavial could see a covered stairway up with an attendant dock, though entering through the intended entrance was was not conducive to stealth. No, off to west there was a low overhang of oceanic basalt, just low enough to meet with the rocky protrusions of the ocean.
He was close now. It was time to say hello to an old friend.
The waves, renewed in fury, threw great mounds of seaweed and carcasses upon the rocky outcroppings, Gavial's inflatable among them. In the water below, a great school of juvenile jellyfish writhed into a pulsing squishy mass, occasionally being tossed upon the rocks themselves. Something had disturbed them greatly, entering the water would be unpleasant at best.
Having finally untangled it from its strap, Gavial belted the lanyard to its grip and stock and slung it over his back. A quick reapproapriation of the security belts would hold the case of explosives to the suitcase, effectively making them one item, easy to carry.
Climbing the inky basalt gave surprisingly little challenge, the craggy fragments made for excellent handles. Though he supposed that to any other climber, the basalt would prove to be a painful climb, scratching and cutting into their arms and legs. Gavial's cloak and gloves reprieved him of such inconveniences though.
He finally reached the highest point, though there was no direct connection between the rock and the island itself; he would have to jump to climb any further. Above him, on the island's edge, a steady flowing of water poured out onto the rock, creating a veritable river down into the ocean. This was no doubt from some manner of drainage pipe, a viable method of entry.
Gavial first laid up the box and suitcase, managing to land it on the ledge above without it tumbling back down - a fair start. A serviceable set of hold points were off too his left; thin pieces of the outcropping that would support his weight. He steadied himself for a jump, weighting his back foot against a disproportionately large excess of boulder that clung by friction to the rock island.
He managed to grab hold of the ledge firmly enough not to swing off when his whole body flew right. He instead managed to use his accentuated momentum to catch his foot up on the lip. Once up, he grabbed for the box and case, finding it wedged in a hollowed nook of erosion, caught by the buckle of its strap. Marking his pace for good time, he tracked the stream of runoff inland to its source; his guess was luckily correct, a gaping pipe jutted out from a plateau of basalt upon which the literal palace stood.
The pipe was one of filtration, clogged up with seaweed and muck and other substances that refused to be identified. This gave an indication that the facility's generator was water cooled, though the maintenance hatch and ladder at the end suggested that this was a remnant of whatever had been before. Down further was nothing but darkness, nowhere to go but up.
Where ever he'd ended up... it was definitively disturbing, in a small way. The room held a sort of alien familiarity, he could make several good guesses to its purpose, though any definition attached to the architecture still failed to strip it of its vertigo.
Computers mounted the walls, the walls mounted trusses of exposed wiring, the wiring flooded the columns and bore into the ceiling. This was a laboratory, if anything. Gavial sought out the primary computer; a massive pillar of cables fastened to a room filling dome... dome-ish. Any other day he would have passed if for the outer shell of a generator, but the conveyor belt leading in prevented any false assumptions.
With moderate difficulty, the computer was persuaded to power on, its overhead monitor flickering to a static wave. Without any prompting, a video recording flickered up on the screen, cut with intermittent bouts of static and interlacing.
'This is-sshhstshh-ficial replication sys-tsshhshhhztzt. System ac-kztzzshtzt-ed'
"Ripurike-shon?"
'Of course' he thought 'what Giovanni said'
"You see, we... made it, so to speak"
"Mesu ken no musuko wa kureijī de wa nakatta."
Regardless, he thought, if there was anywhere he was going to find any remnant files, it would be here. He opened the suitcase and removed the jump drive. By the looks of the computer, there was no guarantee that it even had a compatible input or USB, but seeing as how the system still had its old operating procedure hard coded in, he could assume that it would give him what he needed.
An accessory to his luck so far, there was indeed an open port on the back – several actually – where the jump drive would fit with ease. The computer responded to the sudden invasion with a tell tale ping of 'Hardware Found'.
Back at the screen, the setup was odd. There was no further glitches or artifacts on the screen but it did not appear to have a standardized user interface as most computers would. Fortunately, the command line still gave him a prompt for the external drive.
'Device "Silph E" found'
Gavial began typing. Having no prompt for the computer hard drive itself, he wagered a guess.
'mount c:'
' 'mount' is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.'
"Kuso..."
Computers were never his strong point, this was going to take some time.
… …
… … …
'xcopy c:\ /e:'
''
' 1/428 File(s) copied'
"Fakku che, sueni!"
Gavial's eyes widened noticeably to the screen. 20000 times 428... 20000 by 428... just over 8 million, more than the base cost. He couldn't stop his mouth from miming 'Jackpot'; booze and large bills were just on the horizon.
'Hope that drive holds all this'
The copy procedure seemed intent on taking its time. In the few minutes since it started it had just ticked up to 4 files.
'Eh, it should keep for a while'
He gave himself pause to take in the surroundings once more. Aside from the computer and the ... replication device, there stood a wall of large tubes, all originating from the same spot over the device. The three closest of them held fairly large sized balls of what appeared to be organic material, fetus sort of things.
In their current state, what they were to become was indecipherable. They all three appeared as a mass of flesh and veins, though their doubled over stance was telling that they were not clones of humans.
Gavial took a quick inventory of architecture. The ceiling was domed, supported by extensions of the wall though there did not appear to be any load bearing supports. The room would have to come down regardless, its contents were too important not to explode.
The inner wall would have to suffice. Crippling its less fortified internal structure could cause it to at least collapse in on itself, leaving only uncertainty and ruins.
He retrieved a single block of HMX charge - probably enough to blow out the entire wing – and adhered it to the outside wall; between supports, of course, to maximize potential damage. After a good few firm pushes, feeling confident that it would hold, he pressed the switch for the receiver power on. A rudimentary digital display flickered to life above a small set of buttons, mostly ups and downs.
"Hmm..."
What was that number again?.. of course
"Rei Kyuu... Futatsu Itsutsu Kyuu Futatsu."
Irony was in prime demand at these moment; laughs in short supply. The display gave a short series of clicks before beeping in conclusion, a red dot of light popped into existence above the screen, the screen itself popped out.
The fortress grounds were expansive, though away from the remnant lab and the grand stadium in the center, most of the fortress was either sinuous expanses of hallway, elevated walkways or decaying remnants of the previous facility.
Gavial returned to the drainage passages beneath the far wing of the facility to place another charge, gathering that a good blow to the underground could very well cause the unstable island to form a sinkhole in on itself.
Gauging by the heightened moon and the increased sensitivity to the frequencies churning from behind him, he'd been here for a good amount of time. This only bothered him in that he'd yet to see the attendant host of this alien architecture anywhere he'd gone. Nor any semblance of life at all. There had to be someone here; the lights were on, the equipment was running. He'd obviously expected someone to come, otherwise there'd be no dock.
Even more, he knew that his target was here. Gavial could feel even through his shroud of jamming frequencies that someone – someone strong of mind – had taken notice. For a while he felt a slight probing for thoughts, a sort of metaphysical hand reaching out to feel what is before them. The feeling one may get when standing next to a powerful electromagnet, or when alone in the dark. Though the feeling had stopped after a good few minutes.
Gavial had taken a watchful perch atop the arena stands – another oddity, why would he have any need for an arena? - in hopes of spotting anything resembling the resident mark. He'd not made it to the main tower yet, or anywhere below it for that matter; all hallways toward the main building ended abruptly, the arena only entered from the back beneath the stands, the elevated walkways ran along the parapetted walls, providing an excellent view of the ocean outside but leading nowhere of any use.
So he sat, waited, watched. He'd been provided enough time to mount and sight his rifle's scope – 3 times over at that – but all the time in the world was of no use if he couldn't find his mark. He'd considered demolishing the wall into the main building, the far one opposite the arena entrance, though the explosion could cause unprecedented damage to the structure as a whole. Given that his mark might be inside, the wall could be load bearing, the main tower could come crashing down on the rest of the facility. And even given that he could clear himself from the immediate danger zone, picking through the debris to get the blood from whatever pile of pulp was left would not be a time effective method.
Gavial checked his scope again. Sighted for 600 meters, no left or right orientation. Though his arms must have been getting tired, the scope was beginning to shake.
No... that was the stands. The stands were shaking?
Over at the far end of the arena, the massive wall between the stadium and the primary building was retreating back into the structure, leaving a 6 story hole between the arena and what appeared to be a foyer. There was movement inside, light and movement though he was too far to make it out clearly. Even through his scope – the crosshair bobbing over the opening, ready to fire – he could only see a vague ensemble of fountains and lanterns with a coiling ramp leading far up into the tower.
There was no fire position here, not from a lateral position. He darted off west, away from the new opening and towards the far tower. At least 11 stories tall, it would provide the best view available. On his peripheral, several figures took to the field. Gavial crouched low as to avoid detection, the off chance he might draw attention at this point was not a risk to take.
Once within the tower walls, he darted up the stairwell taking no less than two at a time. Slow and steady may be the most viable tactic when performing reconnaissance, though when the call for action is made it is not to be ignored.
Top floor, almost 40 meters up. Gavial slowed over to the railing, letting his eyes take in the immediate area. He propped the rifle flat against the wall and removed its suppressor from the suitcase. Screwed on, the polymer cylinder gave the rifle a fair extra 13 inches to work with. Through this length the muzzle velocity of the round would drop greatly, rendering it merely another bump on the night wind.
Gavial ground the rifle fore-guard first against the railing, angling down to the arena. Sighting once... twice... 200 meters, no less, 400 meters, no more. Wind speed... high, though completely blocked less than half way down the shot; not a factor. Angle of shot... 24 degrees, roughly. Time from discharge to impact... .547 seconds, recalculated with suppressor decrease in velocity, .629 seconds.
He set the sights proper, down over the field. The crosshair bobbed slowly around its target, resighted 2mm against the wind, just in case.
By count, there were 8 in the arena: 7 civilians... and his mark. Why the civilians? What purpose were they here to serve? In 7 seconds it wouldn't matter, why care now? Gavial edged the crosshair back to his target, standing – floating – stiffly on the far end of the field, though far was close to Gavial.
Even at such a range, Gavial could pin-point every familiar detail. The jutting ears, the bulbous tail, the limp stance – like floating in water, as he'd always appeared – were he any closer, Gavial might have even been able to make out the sunken welling between his shoulder blades, or the sickening twitch of his second neck; still a freak. He couldn't see from behind him, but Gavial was certain that his eyes were glaring - as if they'd ever stop – sure that, at his sides, his hands were balled into fists, and sure that somewhere, not too deep within his mind, was the ticking clockwork of the sociopath he'd left him as.
His shot was trained on his head, just a quarter above his neck. Back of the brain, long dead before he hits the ground. This single shot would have to take him, if he missed the odds of making a clean kill would become – while not impossible – less than favorable.
Gavial tightened his grip, sinking his eye closer to the scope. The bobbing stopped, he move his finger from the guard to the trigger. The wind died down, he held his breath...
Three...
Two...
One...
"Kuso!"
Gavial swung back, startled, jerking the trigger as he did so. The bullet snapped off into the night, leaving only hot gas and a smell of smoke in its wake. In an instant, the occupation of his view shifted from the rear of a dead man's head to an enormous blue iris.
Perched atop the Barrel, laying forward towards the receiver, was a small, violently white cat. It was tiny, smaller than the gun itself, though it possessed a tail at least the length of its body once over and its eyes dominated the greater two-thirds of its face. It was peering dazedly into the rifle scope with the most curious of looks on its face, its movements mirrored those of an infant flawlessly.
"Donna... Ikan?"
Gavial began to say, not really thinking so much as recouping from his eagle eye. From the barrel he seized it by the neck, letting it squirm paw over paw before limping. In a way it reminded him of the fetuses in the tanks, but unless this used to be a kitten farm of massive proportions, that was likely not the case. Just an errant blob on an errant pile of rock, at least as much could be assumed. He settled for tossing it offhand towards the stairs.
Looking back over the arena – he felt no time to reset to his position, instead now aiming while standing – he spotted his mark. He hadn't moved, as if he'd not noticed at all, but Gavial would have had to have taken a bullet to the head himself to assume he'd hit him with that shot, or that the bullet's stray impact would not be heard.
He took aim...
Three shots, center mass
Two shots, upper torso
One shot, cranium, the apricot's nest
Something had changed... in an instant
Something new...
A new sensation
Apart from others...
Apart from overwhelming worry and confusion
Leaking from his visitor's minds...
Apart from pressure
Constantly shifting with the winds...
And apart from voids of static in space
Burning in his ears as he traced them with his mind...
Something new had come – in then out again – instantaneous
As it had already left – no longer visible to his mind – it had come as physical
Not mental
Reinforced that in the physical – something was leaving him
Liquid pouring from his throat...
He moved a hand up along his chest – took in physical sensation – a rarity
First felt cold – then warm
Warm liquid running down his chest – flowing onto his fingers
He stole his gaze downward – away from his guests – down to his hand
Red-
Again-
Then again-
And again a sensation – the sensation
Three spouts of his blood shot from him – carried on a force he failed to see
He knew these forces though – he'd seen them used many times – used them once himself
A name called from the back of his mind – if only he could reach it
The wake of these sensations had left his mind adrift
Bu-
Bull-
Bulle – Bulle something
Bullets-
Twice more – two in his chest
Though he saw them this time – time - it seemed to crawl by him now
Two cones of glowing copper tore through his chest – one through his hand
He watched them take bits of skin and drops of blood – then fly off into the night
The space around him darkened - as if the clouds had-
… … …
A sudden ringing – a fragile crack
He was floating – not any more- but he was before
He remembered floating – thinking – feeling nothing
Now he felt – not thought
Felt the dirt – the mud – the cold – the warm
Felt his body screaming – crying in pain
Felt his blood washing away from him – pooling around his face
With what force he could – he shifted his head from the ground
It settled facing the field – his guests
He could not tell – they're faces were dark – but they're actions were clear
Some moved forward – some stepped back – one ran
They seemed to fall away – darkness overtook them – overtook him
He was floating again – in his body – in his head
Against his will – he called – tried to call – help...
Anything – against the darkness – he'd known this before
He had called – he had cried – help – anything
Floating there – men and women of science – cheering – celebrating
No one would help – no one heard...
He called again – he thought he did – thought – nothing happened – no one came
No one moved – only sank into the darkness around them – around him
He was alone now – in his own world – apart
No longer open to the outside world – shades of night around him
No senses felt the ocean of blood – pooling where he lie
Nor the mists of rainfall – washing over his back
Only aware of what he had – his own – how little
Felt the pressure dissipating in his skull – leaving him
Felt his lung sucking for air – lapping blood through its new found hole
Felt his heart giving its all – desperate for blood and oxygen
Beat Beat... Beat Beat...
Beat Beat...
… …
Beat Beat...
Darkness invaded him – cleansing – departing
Beat Beat... …
Beat Beat... Beat Beat...
… … …
Beat Beat...
… … …
Beat... …
… … …
He didn't move, didn't budge.
30 seconds, he didn't move. That was good enough.
Gavial shifted his sight upwards, four civilians remained in the courtyard. They'd have to go before any work could be done. He opened fire, three shots, loose grouping.
The civilians scattered and ran, darting back into the building's interior. Hopefully they'd leave. Behind him, the little blob and tail of a cat was frailly creeping back up the stairs, slipping over the final step towards the door. Gavial bent down to pat its head.
"If that was your friend down there, you'll be joining him in none too long little guy. Hanabi no tame ni chotto yasun de itte kudasai, heh."
Several pensive stairways later, Gavial found himself beneath a modern portcullis, the archway into the arena. Light rains had resurfaced in the clouds above, now washing gently over the clay flooring. He spotted his quarry, lying about 40 meters in, stiff as he'd left him.
He circled the corpse – or more circled the pool of blood washing outwards in the rain – before crouching down behind it. He flipped the corpse to face upwards and, drawing from his impromptu attache the hefty syringe, Gavial prodded with his fingers at the various points of entry.
His torso was out of the question. Blood had flowed profusely from the twin holes punched through his chest, evidenced by flowing red lines through matted fur. His entire midsection was in a bad way, so much of his insides had been exposed to the outside air that the veins no longer shown their tell tale blue. He ran his fingers up towards the neck and traced the light coagulation lining the hole in the throat; no dice here either, the secondary neck had been torn and long since drained, the subclavian artery of the shoulder completely blown out.
Moving his hand to the head only succeeded in covering his gloved fingers in putrid red mixed with a viscous, clear fluid. Gavial moved back further down the body, searching for a point – any point – left undamaged.
Finally, down at the leg he found a saving grace. In the crook of the heel was a bulge of blue; the prone state and lack of pulse led the blood of the legs to pool in the lower tibial vein. With little care towards the sanctity of the corpse, Gavial rolled the body flat and pushed the tip of the needle deep towards the anterior and drew back the plunger. A lively shade of red shot through the plastic hull before quickly settling on coagulated brick.
Gavial capped the silver point of the needle and returned it to the case. He stood upright, ready to continue, but in doing so he caught the faintest of expressions in the corpse's face. It was not unusual for the dead or dying to take on a peaceful appearance, though for the subject in question the look bore no familiarity. Gavial noticed through the thin layer of fur that his face was no longer creased with lines of stress and focus, the skin lay itself where it fell. No emotion, ill or benevolent, permeated his restful appearance.
He approached the head of the corpse an knelt beside it, studying the features etched into it by time. It was in and of itself familiar, not much would change over the few passed years, but seeing it again offered a fresh outlook over the soured image that he held previously. Of course, at such close range in its condition the spell endeavored to break itself, betraying the peace around it. His eyes were narrow and shiftless, rolling back into the lids. His mouth hung open just enough to drip blood and secretion down his jaw.
Though still the eyes stared at him, mercifully weak, forgiving even.
"Well..."
Gavial considered granting his late friend a eulogy, a small something, if nothing else could be done before profiting from his death. Though there was little to say.
"If it means anything now, I guess you were right... I should use hollowpoints more often. Less pain, more cavity..."
He was unsure if he'd turned his head away because his thoughts were to himself, or if it was because of the smell; it was probably the smell. The corpse's small intestine was now an open air bacteria farm; the smell was... less than pleasant. Time was ticking away, money was calling.
"Yes, the whole damn thing, all of it."
Gavial twirled the drive in his fingers, pacing the room in a short half circle.
"... You'd know about as well as I do... there's well over four hundred files on here, I need to speak with-"
Gavial moved over to the charge still firmly on the wall and tapped it. He took care to find suitable homes for the others: One inside the base of the tower, one on each support column inside the foyer, one at the dock and one in the coolant pipe to ensure a structural collapse, and the one in front of him.
"... Look, just tell him that he can have the sample, the files, and the whole place gone and we'll even the price out at ten million Yen okay... Yeah, whenever you're ready, just be quick, this place isn't exactly an island paradise."
Gavial clicked off his radio and produced the final charge of HMX. With the small working knife from his pocket, he took to the 4 screws fastening the front plate to the base.
With all 4 out, he carefully removed the faceplate from the rest of the charge. Thankfully, instead of the mess of wires that would usually inhabit at military charge, the internal workings were remarkably simple, if primitive. The detonator was connected directly to the blasting caps, themselves stuck into the explosives. The whole thing was secured to the base only by electrical tape.
Gavial shook his head and sighed.
"Made in China..."
With the explosives removed, he moved over to the suitcase from which he had already removed the filler that held the syringe and drive, revealing a hollow. He removed two sticks of HMX from the bundle of four, figuring it would be enough to do the job, and pocketed the rest; no point in being wasteful.
Gavial reset the filler with charge underneath and locked the suitcase once again.
Gavial flagged down the incoming helicopter from the balcony on the west face. The storm had since subsided to a whisper, allowing the helicopter to hover with impunity. Mauro extended a welcome hand from the lowered ramp, drawing him up into the hold.
The hold was bare of the two grunts-for-hire, in their place sat Giovanni himself. His eyes and expression were calm but a slight grin let on his expectation. Gavial took a seat across from him and kept silence, letting the aging businessman talk on his own terms. The helicopter steadily rose towards the sky, the calm winds and closed partition between the cockpit and the hold allowed a quieter environment for speaking.
"Show me."
Gavial unclasped the suitcase, revealing the detail of his work.
"Blood, bytes..." He withdrew the radio
"And bombs."
With a short click, the island shrinking behind them erupted in a shroud of smoke and light. Faint glimmers shone from the rain of glass that poured over the water. Within seconds, the tower frame buckled left, creaking, parting the smoke in its wake. The supports moaned dully under their own weight and the tower's ruins plunged into the waves.
The scene was over in an instant, the smoke took off now east on the winds. From their shrinking view, the island sank into the horizon, no longer lit. Gavial turned back to his employer, satisfied.
"When you're sitting in you're skyscraper, or corner office, or mansion or ... whatever, do you ever just lean back, think for a second and say 'I love my job.'"
Giovanni did not turn to face him, still fixated gently on the churning sea outside. From his coat pocket he pulled a blank envelope, unsealed with its lip bobbing in the draft. Gavial took it as it was passed to him, fingering through the three checks inside.
"Ten million, right..?"
Gavial nodded and handed him the briefcase. Giovanni ran his hand over the lid, sighing.
"Ten years... Ten long years, only four of them mine. It's just good to have it all back."
He turned to look Gavial in the eyes
"It's good to feel satisfied by your work, isn't it? To feel ratified, that at the end of it all, you've gained something, even if its just money?"
His tone and demeanor were pensive, nostalgic even.
"So it's not the money for you I take it?"
Giovanni hung his head with a disheartened laugh.
"Ha! The money? I could afford it all again and again... and again. It's time, time never comes cheap, if at all. It's not like you have much of it to start with. A hundred years, long enough to seem like forever; surprising how quickly you can waste it. To many spend the first half trying to enjoy life, then it's gone and you've got nothing left to enjoy..."
He paused a bit, broke for words. He didn't look but he'd imagined the other man's cheek had found a pillow in his palm again, judging from his silence.
"Yes, I suppose I'm saying. The work is … repeatable, the money is infinite ... Time is worth any Pound, Euro or Yen I can scrounge for it."
Gavial waved the envelope before him.
"For this, I suppose it'd have to be. Especially in these kinds of times."
"Well … with the right persuasion "
He patted the briefcase knowingly
"What we've got here might just change all that."