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Favors Aren't Free

It was another brisk morning in the city, but D hardly noticed the chill as he strode through town, his feet confidently following a well worn route to the broker who had hooked him up with his buyer.  Although the customer himself he had never met, Packrat highly recommended them- and even if he didn't trust the man himself, he at least trusted his judgement.

Packrat is the broker, by-the-by, and even as far as underground dealers of anything go, he's a bit of an oddball.  His information gathering skills are almost second-to-none, and his network of spies and informants crisscrosses the entire city, county, and surrounding area. He even has networks spanning the nation and contacts in other countries. His word, once you got it, was invaluable in forming your own underground connections and gaining the respect of the others in the business, and he had a reputation for being able to stand his own in a brawl, despite his occupation.  Where most others would hire bodyguards, he waves his hand and dismisses the thought as "a waste of my resources", and has no qualms about dirtying his own hands. Outwardly, he seems as reliable as an unreliable backstabbing informant can be.  However...

D pulled up short of the doorstep to the warehouse that was Packrat's base of operations, carefully eyeing his surroundings before stooping to pick up a rock and tossing it at the door.

BANG! A shotgun shell blasted it to pieces before it even hit the door, followed almost instantaneously by the sound of the slide being racked back to reload. D cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "It's D! Put the goddamn artillery down and open the door Pacman!" There was a short silence, followed by a scuffling noise as said owner of the artillery got down from their snipers nest and banged their way down the stairs. There was a brief cacophony of mechanical noises, bolts being slid back, combinations being spun, and a final metallic click  as the door handle turned down to open it the tiniest crack. Like a goddamn movie, every single time, D thought exasperatedly as he opened his jacket to reveal that he was not, in fact, carrying any weaponry (besides the spare knives he kept in his pockets, but he didn't need to know that) or other, possibly harmful device. Finally, the door opened wide enough to admit him into the darker interior, where he was greeted by suspicious eyes and twitching fingers. "That was not funny at all, Mr. D. I know I have reminded you on countless occasions to call at least fifteen minutes before your arrival to alert me to your presence." said the twitching-fingered owner of the shotgun, who was already locking the entire affair back up. Who was this paranoid freak you ask? Why, none other than the famously infamous Packrat, of course.

"It doesn't even take fifteen minutes to get over here, Pac," D replied, resting his thumbs loosely in his pockets and heading further into the warehouse.

"That is no excuse for not following procedures. They are in place to maintain safety, and I will not have you violating said measures in my establishment, Mr. D." he retorted, placing the shotgun back on a well worn pair of hooks on a peg board wall, surrounded by dozens of other guns in varying shapes and makes.  Leaving the gun must mean the customer was already here, so he arranged his face and clothes before entering the "business room" where the deal were sealed.

A quick scan of the room revealed it's occupants, who were currently seated on the far side of a pair of sofas. They were male, unarmed (per Packrat's rules) and numbered only two. One was the muscle, the other was the big shot looking to hire him for whatever nasty need was required by him or his company. D kept his face flat as he sat across from them and Packrat led the introductions, continuing to survey the man's faces for any tell of their intentions or habits. It's easier to find and kill traitors, after all, if you know exactly what they look like.

" This is Mr. X, and his associate Paul," said Packrat, gesturing quickly to the men, only the thin one with the briefcase returning a nod.
"Their company is in a bit of a tight spot at the moment, what with their incompetent chairman running things, and they'd like to collect the life insurance a little early. Mr. X, the details, if you will," said Packrat, easing into his worn armchair set between the ends of the sofas, and no doubt filled with extra arms and ammo. The thin man, presumed to be Mr. X, cleared his throat and set the briefcase on the low table between them, opening it with a pronounced click and removing a sheaf of papers. D leaned forward to take them, noticing Paul's slight movement to match him. His fingers twitched where a gun would be, but no doubt Paul had already had his confiscated, so they twitched on empty air. Mr X passed the papers and D shuffled through them as he continued to speak.

"Our company deals primarily in healthcare, Mr. D, but as of late our director has taken what we believe to be rather ill-advised investments that venture outside of our companies intended purpose. Granted, it is within the research field, but, " he paused to cast a glance at Paul, who said nothing in return, "well, we would like to end this little expidenture before it causes some permanent damage."

D had stopped listening intently after the words 'our company', and opted to peruse the documents instead. He had no interest in the reasons behind his hiring. He had sat across this table from thugs in wife beaters and in suits, from cheated-on lovers to those seeking to make an opening for their love, from those suffering injustice to those seeking to deal it, from drive by shooting victims to underground dogfight ringleaders to prostitutes, politicians, loan sharks and back. He had run the gambit of what humanity had to offer and was left utterly unimpressed. He expected this job to be no different, and thus attributed what little attention he was willing to part with on the documents. His silver eyes scanned the pages with the color and fluidity of mercury, sliding past graphs of stock value and spending reports before stilling n the short paragraph denoting the details of the research their director had poured the company fuds into. A bemused look, consisting of nothing more than a crease around his eyes graced his features briefly as they summed their disgust up in a few flowery sentences. "Illegal human experimentation via misuse of company property... fallible research with no foreseeable profit in the future... Repeated failures, etc. etc."

D tossed the papers back on the table with a sanguine flick of his wrist, his relaxed posture seeming to exude contempt for the men and their cause that lay before him. Paul seemed to bristle a bit at this unspoken insult, but Mr. X gratefully snatched the papers back and said, "So you'll do it?"

For some reason that Mr. X couldn't understand, he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, because then D's gaze was on him. In all his business transactions and unsuccessful closings with unwilling investors or angry patients, he had never before wished to avert his eyes as he did now. The man's gaze was piercing and frigid, like twin steel coins that had never known anything but an Arctic frost. He felt them, down in the dark places inside oneself that are supposed to be untouchable; sacred grounds not meant to be tread upon. He felt the gaze freeze them over, filling the void with howling winds and unholiness and leaving a stain that would be impossible to remove. Mr. X turned away first, and when he brought himself to meet that icy gaze again he was relieved to find nothing but the flat gray of a murderer- a thug, yes- staring back at him, replying coolly, "Yes. I will do it. Are there any particular circumstance you believe I should take note of or special requests you would like me to honor?"

Paul cleared his throat and Mr. X- no, he was nothing more than Steven Carlson, not after meeting those eyes- jumped a little and hastily replied, "No. You will receive payment upon completion of the job." With that, he and his companion stood, whispered a few words to Packrat about their weapons, then the whole party left in the direction of the exit. D remained seated, thinking about the look in the little mans eyes when he had met his in unguarded irritation at the unwarranted question. He knew the look well. Finally, he pushed himself up from the couch and also followed suit of the previous group, returning the way he came with a customary farewell wave to Packrat before stepping back out into the cold airs of winter.