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Spyglass to Worlds

Drabble Two: Irony At its Best

Alternate Universe

It was a quiet shop.

At exactly 7:01 PM, a man strode into the building. The shopkeeper briefly looked up to see the customer and at a glance only noticed that the person wore sunglasses.

The shopkeeper, however, thought such an occurrence was odd, especially considering it was dark outside. But then again, Italy just isn't quite what it used to be, the old store owner sighed.

At second glance, the shopkeeper also noticed the man (who couldn't have been over twenty-five) wore dark sunglasses, ones that didn't even flicker in the light. It was unnerving, and the elder gentleman wasn't even sure if the man was actually looking at him. Stranger than that, the man wore a business suit, which also wasn't something common in that town. It was a poor old town.

The suit was classy and expensive, by the looks of it, and it must have cost a fortune. It tailored to the man's lean form in a way that betrayed the powerhouse of muscle beneath, and also hinted at hidden firearms.

It was obvious; this man was to be taken seriously.

A cold, ominous chill ran down the shop keeper's spine.

"Excuse me, Sir?" the shop owner tried to say genially, but it came out tense and stiff. "Is there anything I can help you with?" The man had casually sauntered over to the old records. In his strong and tanned hands, he held an unmarked record.

"Actually, yes." The man's deep, tenor voice rang like a hollow church bell. He asked, "Do you have a working record player?"

The shop owner was only too happy to reply, "Why, of course!" His smile was timid and weary, as if expecting the man to viciously lash out with a hand gun. It had happened before, although such an event was rather rare. He shakily stepped from behind his counter, and waved his hand to his right. Even Italy had its fair share of psychotics. "This way please!"

The man followed behind him, and the shopkeeper could feel his penetrating, superior stare. It was unnerving, to say the least. The shopkeeper mentally decided that the man must have been a crime lord, or something equally as evil. As if the record in his hand hadn't been a tip off.

He showed the man the door that joined the two rooms, and then he backed away, stumbling out some generic saying about being around if the man needed anymore help.

One raised eyebrow from behind those glasses quickly shut the old man up. "I-I'll be b-behind the c-counter," he stuttered in fright. Something was strange about this man, and he didn't want to stick around to learn what it was.

Like a timid mouse, he quickly high-tailed it away from the mysterious man. His heart was pounding, and his eyes were wide with the knowledge of fear. That man had to be a crime lord; no doubt about it. The shopkeeper gripped the skin over his heart, desperate to calm himself.

He'd heard stories and legends like these. He could see it happening in his mind. The crime lord would enter the old Italian shop, listen to a record with confidential information to a mission, and then he would leave. But not before paying the store owner with a bullet.

To the heart.

Where's my blood pressure pills? he suddenly wondered.

But he couldn't remember, and so he resorted to searching every last drawer in the counter. It was a welcomed distraction. Every so often, he'd quickly glance over at the room, curiously afraid to know just what that crime lord was up to.

He brought out a pen and paper to write out his last will and testament. And somewhere, he heard his wife humming a happy tune, watering her flowers.

Meanwhile, the man quietly shut the door behind him. What a strange guy, he thought distantly, but he paid no more thought to the shopkeeper. He had an agenda to keep, after all.

The room he found himself in was large, filled to the brim with antiques and collectibles. So cliché, so much like Italy. A grandfather clock softly ticked away the time from the west wall.

And there, standing proudly against the clock-filled walls, was the record player. It was a red oak, stained with a glossy overcoat. It was marked on the side by a carved rose, and it was perhaps thirty years old, but the man cared not. Time was no longer a concern for him.

He swept his sunglasses away from his face, revealing crystal blue eyes. Setting them rather carelessly to the side, he picked up the record once more and slid it out of its envelope. Then, with practiced ease, he flipped it over and set it in the record player.

At once, the record player crackled to life, and the man casually leaned against a wall, content to listen.

"Good evening, Mr. Fenton," it played to him. The voice belonged to his mentor, his leader, and his only superior. "I trust you returned unharmed from your previous 'engagement?' You are, after all, my most valuable operative." The man on the record seemed to smile, although Mr. Fenton didn't find it so funny.

"Yet, I knew you were up to a challenge, so I'm giving you another assignment." Danny picked up the record case and shook it, photos unsurprisingly slipping out of the envelope. He turned them around and laid eyes on the picture of a middle-aged couple. The woman and man looked rich, snobby, and overall perfect. The woman was beautiful, even for her age, and the man was still handsome.

Danny thought they seemed vaguely familiar.

"The man and woman you see in this picture are stock holders for the American and Parisian Interpol. They provide money for the organization's missions, and they are repaid tenfold for every successful mission. They remained anonymous, however one of my other operatives recently managed to hack into Interpol computers. Manson is their name. Remember it, Danny. Breathe it. Hate it.

"They are the unspoken force that keeps us from maintaining our status, and they are the ones responsible for our dead comrades. The government believes that they now have power, and the Mansons have supplied them that confidence"

The man on the record paused. "Danny, it has been revealed to me that they have family; a daughter, to be exact. She remains within the shadows, and only a birth certificate proves her existence. However, she is the heir to the Manson fortune. The Mansons and their daughter must be killed before things get anymore out of hand, and they must be killed by any means necessary so that this incident is never repeated."

"Your mission, Mr. Fenton, should you choose to accept, is to repay the Mansons for their…thankless job." The man's voice absolutely dripped with bitterness.

Danny turned over the picture in deep thought, and he was surprised to find a security code on the back. "You have complete access to any resources we have to complete this mission, however I can not send back up if you are caught. You are the best we have, Mr. Fenton.

"This record will self-destruct in five seconds." The man hesitated for a moment, but then in genuine concern, he stated, "Good luck, Danny."

And with that, the record player grew silent, the actual record spinning with no more purpose in its short life. Immediately, smoke lifted from the disk, and it stopped in place. The disk melted straight to its central core, leaving the player untouched and unscratched.

Danny sighed heavily before picking up his sunglasses and the envelope. And just when I thought I had a break, he mourned silently.

The Mansons have a daughter?

Never would have guessed.

The hit man twirled the sunglasses with his fingers for a moment, as if stalling for time. Innocents are never fun to kill. But a moment passed, and he realized that he had better ways to spend his time. He carefully positioned the glasses back over his sad eyes, and he drew himself to his full height. As he walked out of the room, his steps grew more confident, more mysterious.

After all, he had an image to keep up.

For the Mafia was sophisticated and classy:

Always.

The Meantime, in Paris…

At exactly 7:03 P.M, a woman walked into a secluded bread shop. She wore an all black outfit, save for a deep purple necklace, and a silver gun that was strapped to her waist.

Not that everyone had to know that last part.

In any case, she hid it well; something that she had perfected. Her violet eyes swung up to meet the bored gaze of the employee behind the cashier, and a smile melted onto her face.

"Good evening," she greeted to the man, setting her purse down on the counter.

He nodded his head in lazy acknowledgement. "Evenin'. What can I get for ya?"

She knew him, and he knew her. She also knew he really wasn't a cashier, and he also knew she really wasn't there to buy bread.

But that was all part of the plan.

"I would like French biscotti please," she ordered automatically. "And could I have that from your freshest batch, or would that be too much trouble?"

The man merely replied, "We haven't made any new batches for 'bout an hour, but I could warm up a loaf in the oven."

"Well, could you possibly hurry a bit? I hate to be trouble, but I have a date tonight." Sam pulled out a wallet as the man nodded. And as he disappeared into the back to find a specific loaf of bread, she wrote a fake check.

It was a fair exchange.

After all, she wouldn't be eating the bread any time soon.

Once she returned to her apartment, she opened up the bread box, and took out the loaf. She broke it into two, crumbs tumbling to the floor.

And there in lied the device.

Her heart instantly jumped at the sight, and her eyes lit up. In curiosity, she cradled the device in her hands and pushed the switch, carelessly tossing the discarded bread onto the kitchen counter.

"Good evening, Miss Manson," came the famous line.

And the story began.

Facts, people, names…Sam listened intently to the recorder and committed every word to memory.

"Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to stop this rogue element of the Mafia permanently. This person is dangerous and is the Mafia's leading hit man. Should you or any of your Interpol force be caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. "

The recorder clicked a bit. "Good Luck, Miss Manson."

And with that, she shrugged off her combat boots and slipped on some high heels. As she looked for a black dress from her closet, she pulled her cell phone from her pants pocket and dialed a number. She suddenly remembered a vital piece of information, and she was sure that it would disappoint her team.

Missions were most of her life, but it couldn't match the excitement of something things…

"Hello?"

"Hey Tucker," Sam said. She wedged the phone between her ear and her shoulder so that she could use both hands to shift through her clothes. "Just called to say I'm not going to be able to make it to work tonight."

The voice on the other end of the phone sighed. "And why not?"

The woman's expression lifted into a smile, even though she knew the man couldn't see it. "I have a date tonight," she told him honestly.

"Sam, our work is more important than a-"

"-a date with my fiancé whom I haven't seen in months because of work?" she cut in smartly. "I'm sure this mission can wait one night." That heart warming smile found its way back to her lips. "I promise, Tuck, the world won't end."

That didn't seem to convince him. Tucker did, however, hesitate on his next words. "I understand where you're coming from…But what about our meeting? The Secretary has stated that this mission must be carried out immediately."

"Well, I wasn't exactly planning for my fiancé to be back in town this weekend," Sam pointed out, rather happily in fact. "He just called a while ago, you know, before the office called me."

Tucker mulled over that fact. "Fine," he finally deemed unhappily. "Go have your little play date. I guess even recluses like you have to have some fun once in a while."

Sam playfully stuck her tongue out at the phone, but then she softly smiled in gratitude. "Thanks, Tuck," she told him.

Some time later, the poor old shopkeeper saw the man stride from the back room. In his hands, he held an envelope that the elder hadn't noticed before.

Did the man have it with him from the beginning? Perhaps he was so traumatized, he couldn't remember. He certainly couldn't recall any details of his morning prior to his blood pressure spiking. My memory must be slipping again…

Either way, the man whom the shopkeeper had silently deemed a crime lord had reappeared from the shadows. And that fact was what truly scared him.

The young man casually sauntered up to the counter, and for a second, the shopkeeper was tempted to pull out his own gun. Was this the part where the crime lord killed him with a .40 Colt to keep him quiet? "Thank you for assisting me," the man said to him. Then, within a fraction of second, his emotionless expression fell into a frown. "But…"

The shopkeeper's heart skipped a beat. Is this the end?

"But I am afraid that I still have some unfinished business." The man slipped his dark sunglasses off, revealing his startling eyes. They were lit with a mischievousness that the shopkeeper hadn't expected, and he suddenly noticed that the man wore a lopsided grin on his face. "Do you know of a place in this town where I can buy roses?"

The elder's spastically beating heart stopped at the abrupt change of topic. He blinked in shock, I'm still alive? "W-what?" he managed to stutter out. He'd been so convinced that he'd be shot, he hadn't stopped to listen…

The man raised an eyebrow. "I asked if you know of any flower shops around here."

And at that, something clicked in the old man's mind. "Oh, y-yes!" He shakingly pointed behind him to where a hallway connected into another store, desperate to appease his mysterious customer. "My w-wife has her own fl-flower shop, right n-next to me!" The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end as he pointed, and for a moment, the sixty year old wondered if the man would try to kill his wife too.

As the man nodded in thanks and set upon the path that the shopkeeper had pointed out, the old man couldn't help but ask, "I'm s-sorry to interrupt you, S-sir, but…" he paused on his words, and then carefully added, "why do you need a r-rose?"

The younger man's eyes softened, and his lips lifted into a little grin. "It's for my fiancé. I'm meeting up with her tonight." And as he turned back around, he waved at the old man. "Thank you again for your help."

And suddenly, the man seemed much more human to the shopkeeper.

Paris 9:30 P.M.

"For you." The man held out a single rose and carefully handed it to his lover.

The woman looked back up at him in surprise, and she delicately cradled the flower. The thorns prickled her skin, but they never hurt. "Thank you," she whispered to him. She looked into his startling blue eyes and saw an emotion so familiar to her.

Love.

"It's beautiful," Sam told her fiancé with a bright smile, spinning it by its stem. Her heart swelled with happiness. "Perfect."

And with that the man smiled, the hint of sadness in his eyes completely disappearing. "So are you," Danny whispered lovingly in her ear.

Thus, she kissed him, and he matched the emotion in her kiss. Sweetly passionate, he told her through actions what he couldn't say in words. For just that night, he would show his true personality. Just for Sam.

He set his forehead against her's. "I have to go back to work tomorrow," he told her sorrowfully.

Sam's expression fell a bit. "Again? But why? You just got back!"

Danny stole another little kiss from her lips before replying, "I have to find someone for my boss…" He looked into her violet eyes. "I'm sorry." He embraced her small form within his arms. "I wish I didn't have to go back."

"I wish you didn't have to either," Sam said, resting her head against his chest. "But I guess I've got a little work to catch up on at the office as well…"

"Really?" Danny asked curiously. "I thought you got a new secretary to help you out?"

Sam shrugged. "It's nothing I can't handle by myself." She pulled away from him to look in his eyes. She smiled. "You worry too much, you know that?"

Danny just shrugged. "Someone has to." He looked down at her, his expression serious. "The world's a dangerous place, after all." He wrapped her tighter in his arms, almost protectively. "I never want anything to happen to you."

But little did they know the irony in his promise.

A plot bunny that has been stuck in my head for weeks. :) Glad I finally got it out...There's a pretty big possibility that I'll add onto this later one, mostly because these kinds of drabbles are really fun to write.

But anyway, enough of what I think. What do you think?

Thanks for reading,

Lightning Streak

Review and give me some feedback!

...Please? :)