Young Writers Society

An hour had passed since he arrived at the office, a maze of cubicles and receptionist desks situated on the top floor of a sky-rise building in downtown. The first half hour had been spent pacing in front of the receptionist’s desk, twiddling his thumbs and reading the mind-numbing magazines lying around. After tiring of that, he sat in one a chair and counted the holes in the wall. So far, twenty five.

Tristen glanced at his wristwatch, then buried his head in his hands. A long while ago, time used to matter, and a day was more than work and sleep crammed into hours of emptiness, but now there was nothing to live for, nothing to see ahead.

He threw the magazine off his lap, and resumed the pacing across the confined section of office. One solitary window presented the view to below and beyond, a tangled checkerboard of streets winding their way in an untraceable map, where even the GPS got lost. Tristen looked over the entire expanse of city, and shook his head. Up here, he could see the world.

The city was flung out into the horizon, extending out far past what he saw. Just past where he looked out, standing like fortresses to combat the world, lied the Capitol. Medieval facades merged with new-age architecture built the Capitol to endure, the white stone walls and tall pillars standing proud, ringed around the dome rising from the center of the Capitol like a geyser of stone. A park of green encircled it, as though nature was there to protect it from danger.

Tristen turned away from the window, turned away from the image, knowing how fire would wreath it all too soon. It, like most else surrounding it, would be turned to ash. He saw the heat, the raging inferno surging from beneath the cavernous monuments, wreathing all in smoke and flame. A beautiful, but deadly vision—one that filled his heart with at least something, even if it was hollow in itself.

The receptionist glanced at the plastic clock hanging on the wall, then shrugged. “Should call you in any minute now.” He knew by her stare that she wasn’t impressed with him and his flower shorts and half-way unbuttoned shirt, everyone else in the building wearing slacks and blazers, ties choked up to the neck.

Tristen slumped against the wall, clenching his hands in his pockets “That’s what you said twenty minutes ago, damn it.” This wasn’t the first time his boss had called him in, but it was the first he’d ordered him for a meeting and left him waiting in the hall for an hour. And Zah—left out of a meeting of a group he belonged to? No one else waited with him. Besides the receptionist ignoring him in her corner, the bling from her phone the only sound in the room, he was alone.

He would never leave. If he walked out the door and out of his boss’ life, it would be the end of his. Zah had seen the results of that once before—a handcuffed drive into a forest you never come out of. Those who know never leave.

“Excuse me… sir,” the receptionist coughed. Tristen glanced over at her to see if she was talking to him, and then remembered he was the only person there. “You can go in now.”

“About time,” Tristen mumbled to himself, but he smiled at the receptionist and pushed away from the wall. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” She glanced up from her phone for a millisecond, then back down. “Good luck.”

Tristen stopped with a frown, thought about asking her what she meant, but sluffed it off when he saw her face bent over the phone. She was pre-occupied.

He stopped in front of the door, hand hesitating before turning the knob. Even the door was intimidating, a solid slab of oak stretching nine feet tall. The knob creaked with each micrometer of turn, the door swinging open to the inside.

“Tristen, come on in—take a seat. Want something to drink?”

The room was devoid of any furniture or pictures save for one desk set against the far wall. A single picture rested on the surface—one he saw only once, but had memorized it. The plumes of flame wrapping around the building were impossible to cut from his memory, and too detailed in the torture beneath the flame to continue staring at it. He tore his gaze from the photo and to the man sitting back behind the desk, taking a deep breath before making eye contact.

“Shut the door, would you?”

The man standing inside was darker than the ebony desk in front of him, small with a delicate figure. His hair was cut tight against his balding head, making his ears stick out like flags. His nose could’ve belonged to a young girl, small and dainty. A glass of wine was held in his hand, a single ring encircled with thorns on the index finger.

“Of course, Mr. P.” Tristen pushed it closed behind him. As he walked into the room, he fingered the buttons on his hawaiian shirt, feeling uncomfortable in the present of his boss’ perfect suit.

Oh, Tristen, not among you and I.” Mr. P poured him a glass of wine, making his way over and throwing an arm around him. Tristen felt the chill sink into him when his skin touched his shoulder, but held on. “Not among friends. Remember—Lais.”

Lais motioned him towards the chair in front of his desk, took a sip from his own glass, and sat back with a sigh. “So, how are you and Zah coming along?”

Tristen took a sip of wine under Lais’ intense gaze, nodding in appreciation even though the bitter flavor rose in his throat. He cleared his throat. “We’re on the last building. Almost done, and on schedule.”

“You’re not being smart enough,” Lais said. “If you two mess up on this last mission, everything will be ruined—all plans destroyed.”

Tristen licked his lips, sitting up as tall as he could in his sunken chair. Even though Lais was a small man, his seat held him high so he towered over Tristen. “I’m sorry, sir, but, well, what are we doing wrong here? We’re following the plan, plenty of time ahead.”

“Let me explain something to you… son.” Lais leaned over his desk, hands folded, face sincere, his smile condescending. “When I tell you something, you don’t question what I say—only what you can change. Understand?”

“I understand.” Tristen’s mouth felt dry. “What needs to be done?”

“You get a chance to do what you were trained to do,” Lais said. “Remember what you told me about your work in the marines? And then your work as a bouncer, all those years working for that terrorist group?”

Tristen nodded in silence, his mind blank of reasons why Lais would be bringing this up now. That was a chapter of his life tucked away in the past, in a closet dark and locked and hidden where it could be forgotten. Too many nightmares came from those years, and what ensued because of it.

“All of those security guards you saw in the Library?” Lais stopped as if to allow Tristen to re-boot, pushing the memories away once more to focus on the present. “Most of them need to be gone.”

“But they’re—”

“Tristen! Listen to me.” Lais reached out and turned the photo of destruction so it angled towards him, stroking the flames curling sky-high. “I’ve been watching it for weeks, looking at how it’s arranged. There’s only one way—arrange accidents for a few, give a few others better jobs, and leave those who aren’t aware.”

“So is the job on hold until that’s done, then?” Tristen stared down at his hands, clenched so tight his fingers were white. Even though their plan was to kill many people, set bombs beneath these buildings, causing destruction on a wide scale, he didn’t want to kill any more people with his hands. There was enough blood on his hands. He hesitated before speaking, but found the words after a moment. “I thought I was a bodyguard, an advisor. Not an assassin.”

“You’re whatever we need you to be, Tristen,” Lais whispered—almost in a gentle tone. “Remember what you were like when I found you? What you promised me?”

That day came back to Tristen in a flood of regret, but loneliness found its way into the crevices, too. “I said I’d do anything for her.”

“And no one remembers that better than I do.” Lais reached across the desk and patted his arm. “We both have promises to keep.”