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Blades in the Dark
Jun. 11th, 2017 01:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_informantThe thing about it is that it's not a big deal. Florida's heard people talk about it when he's been out in cafes, watching his targets. About how some such and such person who worked with whatever company got offed which helped his rival or something. Florida usually just brushed it aside. No one ever thought to look at him as the one who slipped poison into a cup or put a knife between ribs, or overloaded just the right computer panel to cause someone to be electrocuted when they were trying to open their fridge. It wasn't his concern. That was what people outside thought about. The importance of getting colors to match in the walls of their houses, or what way chocolate was best consumed, or even about some guy sending pictures to another woman. None of it was important.
What was important was bumping into a charming young woman in a suit, 'accidentally' scalding his hand on her coffee when she spills it on him, and ordering her another cup. The lawyer is leery, but she has no way of seeing him flick open the bottom of his fake wedding-band to spill peanut oil, which she was highly allergic to, into her cup. He hands it off and walks away with cheer, and knows she'll be dead before he's a block away.
That's the job, of course. While other people content themselves with frivolities, Florida practices his art, perfects his execution, and catches the first cab back to one of the highest spires in the city where, on floors seventeen through twenty-five there is a business with no name that can't be accessed but with bioscans and neural net imprints. There is a rooftop area that belongs to them too, and an underground area Florida is not fond of because that is something he has never needed to be put into (too good for bioenhancements or punishments like that). And it's to this tower that he returns home, to his friends, his family, his place. Here to which, when the elevator door opens on the twentieth floor where he will be debriefed, he finds one of the handlers (they preferred to be called guides of course, Florida didn't care), along with a man that he didn't recognize. Someone with the mark of the Training.
"Welcome home," the 'guide' greeted in the bland tone they always used. They were not very welcoming, but Florida was always happy to see them. It meant he was home and safe and he could go to his room and do what he wanted soon.
"Well thank you," he breezed cheerfully. "I hope your day has just been spiffy, sir. I expect my debrief awaits? I don't want to hold you up with my young brother here, on whatever task you're about. Have fun, friend."
What was important was bumping into a charming young woman in a suit, 'accidentally' scalding his hand on her coffee when she spills it on him, and ordering her another cup. The lawyer is leery, but she has no way of seeing him flick open the bottom of his fake wedding-band to spill peanut oil, which she was highly allergic to, into her cup. He hands it off and walks away with cheer, and knows she'll be dead before he's a block away.
That's the job, of course. While other people content themselves with frivolities, Florida practices his art, perfects his execution, and catches the first cab back to one of the highest spires in the city where, on floors seventeen through twenty-five there is a business with no name that can't be accessed but with bioscans and neural net imprints. There is a rooftop area that belongs to them too, and an underground area Florida is not fond of because that is something he has never needed to be put into (too good for bioenhancements or punishments like that). And it's to this tower that he returns home, to his friends, his family, his place. Here to which, when the elevator door opens on the twentieth floor where he will be debriefed, he finds one of the handlers (they preferred to be called guides of course, Florida didn't care), along with a man that he didn't recognize. Someone with the mark of the Training.
"Welcome home," the 'guide' greeted in the bland tone they always used. They were not very welcoming, but Florida was always happy to see them. It meant he was home and safe and he could go to his room and do what he wanted soon.
"Well thank you," he breezed cheerfully. "I hope your day has just been spiffy, sir. I expect my debrief awaits? I don't want to hold you up with my young brother here, on whatever task you're about. Have fun, friend."
