“This timing is suspicious. There might be something there. I want you to clear up everything about him—who’s backing him, what he wants. If a little effort can’t make his interests line up with ours, we may have to consider wiping him out.” - Manfred Beriam to Spike on Nader, 1935-D Luckstreet Boys
‘Hem... Just a thought, but uh, in the event that Beriam does decide to “wipe [Nader] out” after all...
...y’think he’s going to order Sonja to shoot Nader? (In addition to whoever or whatever he already intends her to shoot.)
Massive, 100% speculation under the cut.
Well? I think there’s a real chance he might. He did say he doesn’t care “who does what” so long as it gets him results. This route could potentially have the room for a lot of ~emotions~, that’s for sure. There are two big (potential) issues with it, though, which may explain why it didn’t occur to be sooner:
Problem 1: Beriam told Pamela he didn’t plan for Sonja to kill anyone in 1935-C.
The obvious counter to this is that he was lying, which I would not put past someone for whom the ends justify the means. He’s no stranger to lying,after all.
Even if he weren’t lying...again, plans change as needed, and just because he didn’t plan for Sonja to shoot doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have her do it if he deemed it necessary.
If the original Japanese for “wiping him out” definitely implied killing than ignore this point, but one could interpret “wiping him out” as “putting him out of commission” - something that doesn’t necessarily mean ‘death’. A sizable injury would be enough to render Nader unfit for gambling.
Problem 2: It would surely occur to Beriam that Sonja would, in principle, not want to shoot her childhood hero. Welp, that’s that, then. On second thought...
It’s not as if they’d tell her point blank (heh), “Shoot Nader.” Spike just has to tell her what to shoot when the occasion arises. “But wouldn’t she recognize Nader through the scope?” Maybe, but...
...Then again, Nader’s appearance is radically different to the one in her memory. He’s grown out his blond hair and dyed it black, he wears a hat to cover his face, he has a prosthetic hand... (he covers his facial burns with makeup, but that could wash off.)
Given all that, and given that she’d be looking at him through the limited vision of a scope, I think it’s possible she might not initially recognize him. In fact, I think Spike would reach the same conclusion through his investigation...
...If someone (presumably former Felix) is assisting him, that is. Sure, Nader looks different to when Spike knew him, but how the hell would Spike know if he’s blind?
It’s possible that Spike’s investigation will unearth Nader’s connection to Eve, but let’s assume for the moment that Spike’s investigation will lead him to personally confront Nader (given the inevitability of a Spike-Nader reunion, I’d say it’s highly plausible). Or, at the very least, involves spying on Nader.
The smart move on Beriam’s part would be having the former Felix accompany him, just like he did in Madison Square Park in 1934. Y’know, ‘cause Spike is blind. That way, the former Felix could confirm Nader’s presence/describe what he’s doing (if they spy on him first before entering negotiations.)
In (Beriam’s) an ideal world, Former Felix would describe Nader’s appearance to confirm he’s “Spike’s” Nader. Spike would presumably be confused by the discrepancy with his memory, but said confusion would be cleared up by confronting Nader in person. Thus, he might just realize he could use Nader’s radically changed appearance against him.
...Well, now. While I do think Sonja might not recognize Nader at first, my Narita-senses (or plot-senses?) envision the possibility that she recognizes him at the last second. Say, right before or right as she’s pulling the trigger.
This scenario could go a few different ways from here; we don’t know where exactly she’d be shooting from, or when exactly Spike would have her try to wipe Nader out. Since this is already pure speculation, I may as well envision a path with a lot of tension/emotional drama...
(Hypothetical play-by-play)
Now, since this scenario presupposes that Spike personally confronts Nader as part of the investigation, we have to remember two things: 1) that Beriam is interested in at least seeing if Nader is willing to cooperate, and 2) that Nader knows via Pamela that Spike has taken Sonja under his wing.
Which means that Nader is...uh, not going to be happy to see Spike in more ways than one. In fact, he’d probably reject outright the idea of helping Spike in any form (before fear could get the better of him), and really, with his and Spike’s history you start to wonder if maybe it’s not so smart for Spike to confront him after all...
...Except maybe that’s exactly why. In a way, Spike knows Nader better than most people, knows the aspects of his past and personality that he’s ashamed of. He’d try threatening him, maybe, using Beriam as an intimidation tactic. (”You know who my new master is now?”).
He’d likely use both Nader’s faults and Sonja against him, e.g. “She thinks you’re a hero and that you’ll save her, but you and I know the truth, right?” and “I’ve done more for her than you ever did,” and “This is a job for the sake of the state, you know. I’m only in it for the money, but if we pull this off...she’ll be more of a hero than you ever could be. She won’t need you anymore.”
Whatever he says, we’ll assume that he leaves unconvinced that Nader won’t try anything funny, and Nader all the more paranoid about Sonja’s sharpshooting role.
Back to the scope. Sonja recognizes Nader at the last second, and either she manages to not pull the trigger or does but manages to throw off her aim. In the case of the latter...paranoid!Nader might immediately think Sonja and tear off in search for her....or hesitate, remembering Pamela’s plea for him to “stay away” and Spike’s taunts.
In any case, if Sonja does shoot, we’ll assume Spike asks if she “got him”. (If she doesn’t, maybe “what’s the hold-up”). I imagine he’d probably be able to tell if she tried to lie, but given that she idolizes him I think it’s more likely she’d tell Spike the truth (that Nader is her friend and she doesn’t want to shoot him) and expect him to be understanding.
This is where it gets hazy, or rather, where I become more reluctant to speculate on the grounds that there are no more canon grounds to stand on. I can certainly come up with “possible paths,” but I’m not necessarily more confident in one than the other.
Maybe Spike tries to wheedle with her, asks her to “trust him” and that Nader will be okay if her “aim is true.” Maybe he loses patience and tries to threaten her or physically manhandle her into shooting (I don’t want this to happen, but unfortunately Spike might do it as a last resort...maybe). Whatever happens, Sonja hopes for Nader to save her...
...and just when things are looking dangerous, Nader shows up to confront Spike for real.
Don’t you just love pure speculation far beyond canon’s limits? Ahahaa....this is the stage I’ve reached in the 1935-E waiting game.
There is a major alternate route that last bullet point could take...and that entails the Former Felix just...never describing Nader to Spike at any point in time. You’d think he would, right? It seems like the logical thing to do. But, you know... it’s not as if the former Felix knows Nader looks different to Spike’s memory. He would have no idea that Nader’s hair wasn’t always black (as long as Nader is wearing his hat), so why ask?
Why ask indeed, especially when there’s a far more unique identifying feature at hand? (heh). That’s right; Nader’s prosthetic. Spike was there when Chané cleaved Nader’s right hand; I’ll bet you anything that’s the main ‘visual confirmation’ he’d be asking after. Former Felix is sharp enough he’d probably recognize Nader’s right hand to be false.
In other words, it’s theoretically possible for Spike and Former Felix to have a full conversation with Nader without Spike ever picking up on Nader’s other visual differences.
I’m....not sure what this would lead to, actually. (Can you tell I thought of the “Spike learns that Nader looks different and uses it to his advantage” first?). There is, I suppose, room for a case of mistaken identities (which @esperanzacboronial once pointed out has a good chance of happening with Dallas and Claire)?
Like, who else do we know is blond and has a prosthetic hand (arm)? Ladd. Granted, Ladd’s is his left hand and Nader’s is his right, but ehhh technicalities am I right? While I can’t come up with the details, I think it would be relatively Narita-esque for Spike to mistakenly come into contact with Ladd - aka a second reunion with another FPF survivor, following his reunion with Claire in 1934...
...and for Ladd to potentially throw Spike off [whatever rooftop or vantage point he is on], just like Claire threw Spike off the FPF. It’s possible that Spike would recognize his voice, given that he watched at least some of the Ladd-Chané-Claire fight. The interconnected quality would be there even if he didn’t.
(I know I’ve wondered before whether or not Spike will die in the 1935 arc, but honestly him surviving being thrown off something twice would be oddly satisfying, I think. Amusing? Coming full circle?)
IN ANY CASE, I....wow, this really was long for something that’s nothing but speculation, but what can I say? It’s fun to think about, and I do think there’s all sorts of emotion and tension that can be wrung from such a sequence of events. I can’t wait for 1935-E to stomp this into the ground.
Summary: October 1933. Victor seeks out Senator Beriam after the events of the Mist Wall and demands answers.
Characters: Victor Talbot; Manfred Beriam; Spike; the Former Felix Walken; Victor’s subordinates
Word Count: ~4300 words.
Notes: I was nervous about writing this, because I'm not sure if I have the best grasp of Senator Beriam and I haven't yet written anything with Victor as the main character before. But I really wanted something written about them one-on-one, since I feel that Victor would take Beriam's actions fairly personally/react to them quite strongly, given his personal belief in justice and the responsibilities he has as a federal employee. I don't think I did the concept justice, but...I tried. Would really like to Victor confront Beriam in 1935-E.
Art: @garbosought drew Victor and Brown based off the opening scene to the fic here, please go revel in it.
Read on AO3
Victor took it upon himself to deliver the first calling card in person. “The first of many,” he’d said, scowling over his beer at Donald Brown the previous Friday, “Trust me, it’s gonna be the first of many pretentious fucking calling cards. I’ll bet you one whole dollar that the first one’ll be rejected right off the bat.”
“Betting is illegal, sir,” Donald had noted, totally deadpan. Victor scowled at the memory and slammed his car door shut from where he’d parked it in the long, long driveway leading to the Beriam manor’s front door.
“Goddamned estates,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, squinting against the October wind. “Too much land lying around going to fucking waste.”
Why anybody in their right mind would enjoy having their front door three whole minutes away from the main road was beyond him. Everything about the Beriam estate – its gated driveway, the manor’s large porch with its marble pillars and elegantly sculpted shrubbery, the entire goddamned shooting range somewhere off to the manor’s back – reminded him of the stuffy aristocrats’ villas back in England, villas that he’d visited more than once in his quest to argue their owners over to the anti-slavery cause. Damn blowhards.
It also reminded him of the Dormentaire estate, a reminder that he didn’t want to be reminded of for an entirely different reason. Really. We’re really doing this now? He shook his head, and trudged up the porch steps with one hand on his hat to keep it from blowing off his head.
A servant opened the front door before Victor’s foot touched the final step. Probably a butler of some sort; stiffly dressed, with two deep wrinkles on either side of his mouth and the beginnings of crow’s foot around either eye.
After Victor tucked his hat under his arm, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an ivory case, opening it just enough so that he could retrieve one of his calling cards without the wind carrying the rest of them off. As soon as he’d gotten hold of it, he snapped the case shut and returned it to the pocket. This card was one of his older, high-end cards – ecru, with Mr. Victor Talbot engraved at its center in elegant gold script. He fought a smirk. An old, stuffy card for an old, stuffy practice.
“Please convey my intentions to the ma – to the Senator and his wife,” he said, handing the butler his card. I almost said ‘master and mistress.’ Jesus. When was the last time I dropped a calling card off at someone’s place?
The servant arched a thin eyebrow, taking the card between two gloved fingers. Uneasily, Victor wondered if maybe he’d read the Beriams wrong. They were new money after all, maybe they’d find his calling card laughably outdated instead of gratuitously polite. But the butler opened the door wide as he stepped back inside the entry hall, and Victor managed to catch a glimpse of a silver salver on a stand by the opposite wall, displaying four other calling cards for all to see.
He smirked openly this time, already descending the steps before the butler had even closed the front door. Ha. There was no reason to doubt it. Natalie Beriam was a woman of impeccable good manners, after all. Now to sit back and wait.
Three days passed with no Beriam calling card in sight. On the fourth day, Victor brought his morning’s post with him to work and dropped a few bills and charity requests unceremoniously upon Donald’s desk with acute glee.
“Ha! What did I tell you? What did I tell you? Nothing! Where’s that dollar, Brown?”
Donald laid his pen down and looked up at his superior with a cool expression. “To see a federal employee encourage betting…I’m ashamed, sir. Permission to take a break so I can go hang my head in shame on your behalf?”
Victor placed both hands on the edge of Donald’s desk, and leaned over it to give his subordinate a wide, fixed grin. “No.”
“Sir,” Donald said, once Victor had withdrawn, “May I ask why you’re so happy about being rejected?”
Victor snorted. “What, you think I’m happy about this? I mean, sure, it’s not as if I’m actually going to enjoy visiting the Beriams, but happy? Well, maybe I’m just a little satisfied that I get to reaffirm every personal opinion I’ve ever had about Senator Beriam. Now, who’s the nearest off-duty rookie, Brown? I need him to run an errand for me.”
“Isn’t that sort of lazy of you, sir?”
Victor puffed out his chest. “I’m the Vice-President, Brown. I don’t have the fucking luxury of ‘time’ that all the young people seem to have these days. Beriam’s going to keep rejecting my cards one right after the other and I am not going to waste several hours of my life every few days driving out to the middle of the fucking countryside to hand-deliver a card I know they’re going to fucking reject!”
Donald shrugged. “If you say so, sir. I believe that Langsley down the hall is going off-duty at five.”
“Langsley…” Victor nodded, and strutted over to the open office door. “Oi, Langsley!” he bellowed. “Look sharp. I got a job for you.” Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll get that dollar from you later, Brown.”
Donald scratched his cheek. “Sir, aren’t you forgetting something?” He picked up a few papers from his desk, and waved them pointedly in Victor’s direction. “Your post?”
Victor flushed, stomped over to Brown’s desk, and swiped his post out from Donald’s grasp. “No.”
“Gee…looks like you’ve lost your winning smile, sir.”
“Brown,” Victor said, already retreating back into the hallway, “Remind me to rescind your sarcasm privileges as soon as I’m back in the office.”
“Yes, sir.”
Langsley dutifully dropped off the calling card at the Beriams’ manor the next day, and then another one four days later when Victor received no response in the mail. The next delivery after that was done by Patterson, and two days after Patterson’s delivery Victor finally received something new in the mail – his very own calling card, returned to him in a high quality envelope.
Cheeky bastard!
He took lunch with Bill Sullivan later that day. “I’m tempted to just break into their manor at this point,” he complained. “I could do it, you know. Easy as pie.”
“Erm, that would be illegal breaking and entering, sir,” Bill reminded him.
Victor stabbed at a cherry tomato with his fork. He missed. “I’m not saying that I’m going to do it,” he amended. “Just that I could.”
Bill offered him a slow nod in response. “This, hmm, this has been going on for a while, sir… I think you’re going to keep getting rejected if something doesn’t change.”
“Yeah, which is why I’m going back there in person today.”
Bill arched an eyebrow at him.
“You heard me, Sullivan. Screw manners at this point – I’m going to force my way in there no matter what that butler guy says or does. Camp out in the foyer until Beriam caves.” Victor speared the air with his fork to emphasize his point. “My persistence will win out over his bullheadedness in the end. That’s a fact.”
His subordinate considered this. “Aren’t persistence and bullheadedness similar, sir, if not the same?”
“No. …Yes. Maybe.” Victor scowled at his plate, and then jabbed his fork in Bill’s direction. “Either way, mine is better than his.”
Bill hemmed and hawed for a while, and then shrugged. “I’d say you’re definitely tenacious, sir.”
Victor slammed his fist against the table. The impact left a stinging mark on the side of his hand, satisfyingly red. It faded within seconds. “You’re goddamned right I am. And I’m going to meet with him whether he likes it or not – I certainly won’t – and I’m going to get this over with the sooner the better.”
He’d planned on storming the front stairs and arguing his way past the butler, or maybe physically intimidating him into letting him pass, but before he’d even gotten out of his car one of the front doors swung wide open and the butler stepped outside and held his arm out in the direction of the manor’s interior.
In an instant, the majority of Victor’s bravado withered behind his ribs and died a sad, pitiful death behind his liver. Shit. They’ve been expecting me.
Whatever upper hand he’d thought he’d had no longer existed. Maybe it’d never existed.
The wind nipped at his ears and ruffled his hair as he slammed the door shut, more viciously than he had the last time. When he reached the porch, he yanked his wool gloves off and stuffed them into his coat pockets – and when the butler tried to take his coat he curled his lip and arched his right eyebrow with as much ill will as he could muster. Just try it.
Thankfully the butler took the hint, and he withdrew his arm without any ado. Once he closed the door, he looked Victor up and down appraisingly and nodded his head. “If you’ll follow me, sir – Mister Beriam is expecting you in his study.”
“Right,” grunted Victor, trying and failing to keep the sourness off his face. “Can I get your name, or something? I keep thinking of you as ‘the butler’ and it makes me feel guilty. Plus it sounds stupid.”
With a furrow of his greying eyebrows, the butler pursed his lips and replied, “Parrish, sir. Norman Parrish.”
“Parrish, then.” Sweat clung to the small of Victor’s back, and he grimaced as he unwrapped his scarf, letting it hang loosely around his neck. As Parrish led him around a corner, down a carpeted corridor with ornately framed mirrors and paintings decorating the walls, Victor kept his gaze trained on the back of the butler’s head and wondered if the man was happy here. “You from East Anglia?”
Parrish’s gait slowed, and he turned his head slightly to the left. “Yes, sir.”
“Mm. You’re doing a pretty good job of hiding your accent, but I thought as much. The Senator’s not expecting you to sound posh, is he? RP or whatever they’re calling it nowadays, that’s not him forcing you to or something, is it?”
Parrish shook his head as they turned another corner. “The job industry, sir,” he corrected, a hint of amused resignation to his tone. “’Posh-sounding’ English butlers are all the rage these days. “
Victor deliberately scuffed the carpet with his shoes as he walked. “Pricks,” he muttered, and shared a look of irritation with his reflection in the mirrors they passed. “Pricks.”
Parrish came to a stop outside a dark brown door, and turned to face Victor with a neutral expression. “Here we are, sir.”
“Right.” Victor took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back, a few bones cricking with the movement. “Thanks for the escort. Oh, and I’d rather we just…not with the ‘sirs,’ yeah? That’s something for my subordinates to say, and you’re not one of them.”
Parrish frowned, and (perhaps wisely) reached for the door handle instead of replying. He curled his fingers on the handle, and pushed downward.
“Wait,” said Victor. “What about Mrs. Beriam and the little one? Their daughter. Are they around?”
Keeping a firm grip on the handle, Parrish shook his head. “They are currently out and about, sir. Mister Beriam saw to that.”
He pushed the door open, and Victor stepped inside.
Senator Beriam’s study was large, and its black carpet and mahogany desk served to give the room a dreary, austere atmosphere. Only a single lamp served to illuminate the space, which didn’t help matters.
Victor swallowed upon spotting the Senator, who stood facing the window behind his desk, his hands folded behind his back. He turned at the sound of his door closing, a cold chill to his expression. The immovable glacier, or so the saying goes.
“Victor Talbot.” Beriam greeted him with the affableness of a cement block. He’d said Victor’s name as if it were an inevitability. He’d said it without warmth, without distaste – a totally dispassionate delivery.
Victor licked his lips. “Senator,” he replied, moving forward and coming to a stop just behind two chairs in front of the desk. His gaze swept over a dark discolored splotch in the black carpet, and his eyes narrowed. “New windows, I take it? The frames look new.”
Beriam shrugged. “A little home improvement.”
“Home improvement,” Victor echoed, flatly. He resisted the urge to fiddle with his scarf. “I’m glad you’ve decided to finally accept my calling card, Senator. We’ve been long overdue for a one-on-one conversation.”
Victor couldn’t decide if he should nod or shake his head at that. He settled for a tilt of his head. “Your association with Nebula falls under my bailiwick, for one thing. And then…” He flexed his fingers, and tensed imperceptibly. “Your involvement with last month’s incident at the Mist Wall.”
“Oh?” The inflection at the end implied a question, but Beriam’s expression remained stone-like. Victor inwardly sneered at him in response. At the study, too. Had the Senator been wearing a white wig, and silken justaucorps and brown breeches – why, he could have easily fit in with the rest of the eighteenth century aristocratic twits whom Victor had cajoled and wheedled and argued with at all hours of the day over two centuries ago. A white wig would have suited Beriam, suited all his pomp and augustness.
Victor swallowed. “Senator, we have eyewitness accounts of you entering the Mist Wall while the commotion on upper floors was taking place.” Very quietly, he added, …I have reason to believe that you had a personal hand in making all twelve hundred Mist Wall employees incomplete immortals.”
Beriam gave him a level look – and then, deliberately, he shrugged. A vague, hazy fury welled up in Victor’s throat, coupled with something like desperation. “I don’t understand what you could possibly be planning, Senator,” he said, resisting the urge to move, to take the senator by his shoulders and shake him into talking. “We’re – we’re both federal employees. We’re supposed to be on the same side, you and me. I admired your stance on anti-crime when you first campaigned – hell, I admired you. Finally, I thought. Finally someone who hates criminals as much as I do.”
Victor eyed the sword-shaped letter opener on Beriam’s desk as he talked. “So what I don’t get is why you’re working so closely with Nebula, or why you’re taking such an interest in immortals. You’re toeing the line of legality, you know that, right? Just…tell me what the hell’s going through your mind. Tell me – tell me that we’re still on the same side, Senator. Please.”
The senator was silent for a long moment, and Victor’s heart beat a loud staccato that seemed to fill the room in lieu of dialogue. Finally, Beriam picked up the letter opener with both hands and contemplated it, turning it over and over again as he opened his mouth to speak. “Yes…sides. Humans, and immortals. Humanity…and inhumanity. The world I strive for is a world without criminals, yes, but it is also one ideally without monsters like yourself, Mister Talbot. There are indeed sides, and by our natures alone I cannot say for certain that you and I share one.”
A faint chill ran down Victor’s spine. “If you hate immortals so much,” he countered, “then why did you make twelve hundred humans incomplete immortals? What do you possibly hope to achieve in creating those whom you despise?”
Beriam’s hands stilled, as did the letter-opener. A slow, malicious smile spread across his face. “That is none of your concern.”
“Yes it is, Senator!” Victor snapped, and without thinking, advanced toward the desk. The Senator moved his chair back, it scraped against the floor, something glinted in the tree behind the window and Victor stepped to the right seconds before a bullet whizzed through the spot where he’d been standing.
“Hey,” a voice called, rough and low. “Hey. Did I get him?”
Beriam turned to look at a black-haired man emerging from the tree’s foliage, a blindfold covering his eyes. “You didn’t,” he replied.
The man swung his legs over the side of the branch he was sitting on, letting his feet dangle over nothing while he leant forward to feel the glass, grunting in affirmation when he found the small hole in the windowpane. “Shit. I didn’t miss him, did I?”
“No,” interjected Victor, the fury from before now bubbling behind his eyelids, boiling hot. “You would’ve gotten me had I not moved in time. Employing a blind sniper, Senator? With all your money, that’s the best of the best for you?”
“Hey!” With a scowl, the sniper hoisted up his sniper rifle and made as if to aim it at Victor. “You say that to my face, asshole.”
“Please, not this again,” called a new voice, behind Victor, and he whirled around to see a man clad all in black peeling away from the wall by the doorway, his face obscured. Victor’s blood turned to ice water – he hadn’t noticed this man when he’d come in. Had he been standing in the corner by the bookcase this entire time? “You would have hit him, and that’s enough for now.”
“Finally got bored of the whole lurking in shadows, thing, eh, Felix?” the sniper called, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“It isn’t Felix,” countered the man, without a hint of hesitation.
“It is until you bother to come up with an alternative for me to use,” Beriam said, sending Not-Felix a sharp look from where he stood behind the desk.
“Boss, you want me to take another crack at the guest or what?”
“No, not yet. Now–”
“Now nothing!” Victor exploded, wrenching aside one of the chairs in front of him with one hand. “You listen here, Senator. You thought I wouldn’t notice the blood staining your carpet? The blood on the letter opener? Maybe you thought I wouldn’t notice the sniper either, but noticing things is part of my goddamned job description. Whatever you’re up to is wrong, Senator. It’s – it’s wrong.”
A beat. Not-Felix coughed into his hand. “The blood on the carpet is mine. I tussled with an intruder trying to accost Senator Beriam last month.”
“Yeah, and the blood on the letter opener s’mine too,” chimed the sniper, leering at Victor with a waggle of his eyebrows and a cocky smirk that pulled at the scars on his face. “Sliced my thumb open last week. You know, ‘cause I’m blind.”
Victor ran his fingers through his hair, pulled at the ones at the back, told himself not to plead. “Look, Beriam. I realize that to you I’m just some immortal monstrosity who sold his soul to the devil centuries before you were even born, but…Nebula is bad news. Whatever you’re planning – what if it threatens innocent bystanders? Hell, those twelve hundred Mist Wall employees – I’d bet my bottom dollar that they didn’t choose immortality. How far are you willing to go?”
Beriam seemed to seriously consider this question, judging by the furrow of his brow and frown. Victor held his breath. Finally, the senator said, “I said that my ideal world is one without monsters, Mister Talbot, but I did not say that I intended to eradicate them all. Those who live as humans do will have my permission to exist. What I will not tolerate are those immortals who treat humans as their playthings, just like the mafia do. It is not so unreasonable a sentiment.”
“That doesn’t – you’re not explaining anything, you haven’t answered my question you – you –” Victor trembled with indignation, and then got a hold of himself. Unable to keep the strain out of his voice, he repeated, “How far are you willing to go, Senator? We share the same goal, right – to clean up the United States, to eradicate crime – but you’ve got to do it properly. We’ve got…to do it properly.”
The near-pity in Beriam’s eyes made Victor’s skin crawl. “In order to achieve any goal, sacrifices must be made.”
Victor’s throat had closed up a long time ago – he struggled for breath. “Senator,” he asked, panic buzzing at his fingertips, “What do you mean?”
“I think our time has come to an end,” Beriam mused, toying with the letter opener once more. “Mister Walken, if you would.”
“Senator!” Victor shouted, struggling against Not-Felix’s iron grip on his arms. “What do you mean?”
“Rest assured, Talbot,” Beriam called, as Not-Felix hauled Victor through the now open doors of the study, “I include myself in that statement. My family and I are sacrifices just as much as the next civilian.”
The sniper’s coarse laugh was the last thing Victor heard before the doors slammed shut, leaving him alone with a newly arrived Norman Parrish.
“I have been instructed to escort you to your car,” Parrish told him, sympathy written all over his face. Victor nearly lunged at him before he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall – wild-eyed, red-cheeked, glasses askew and scarf lopsided. A total fucking mess.
The walk back through the corridors was filled with an awful, tense silence as Victor struggled to regain his composure. When they reached the foyer, he mumbled, “You know, I was physically thrown out of more than one manor back in my day. In comparison, this went a lot better. At least I get to walk out the front door this time.”
Parrish opened the front door for him; Victor fumbled for his gloves and decided he didn’t care enough to put them on. “You’re a good man, sir,” Parrish offered, as Victor stepped over the threshold. “I must apologize for my employer’s brashness.”
Victor shrugged, looking at Parrish over his shoulder. “Not like you had anything to do with it.” He held his hand up in the air in farewell as he descended the steps, and got into his car with as much dignity as he could muster.
Three minutes later, Victor drove through the opened front gates and as soon as he turned a corner he pulled over and parked his car. With a wordless cry of frustration, he slammed the palm of his hand against his steering wheel and hunched over it, his shoulders shaking.
It took him several minutes before he finally pulled himself together and started the long, lonely drive back to the office.
Edward Noah was the first to greet him upon his return.
“Agents Sullivan and Brown stayed late to wait for you,” he said, and his expression darkened as he took in Victor’s appearance. “Did things go south, sir?”
Shame and helplessness warred within Victor, and he did not immediately respond. “…Brown and Sullivan are here? Good. Call them into my office for a private meeting.”
The other two men were quickly fetched, and all three of his subordinates gathered in his office with a collective grave air. Victor had entreated with a United States senator after all – they couldn’t afford brevity.
Victor sat on his desk, and rested his hands on his thighs as he collected his thoughts. “I guess you can tell just by looking at me that we have an awful lot to be concerned over,” he began. “Starting tomorrow, I want intel on Senator Beriam to be a priority. Tails, tracking correspondence – I don’t care how you do it, all I know is that we can’t afford to pretend he’s not up to something any longer. He has a sniper working for him – let’s start there. Blind, scarred to hell. There’s another guy, a ‘Felix Walken’ – except he doesn’t seem particularly attached to the name. I don’t know who he is, but he’s powerful.”
Bill and Donald exchanged a wary glance, and Edward set his jaw. “That’s it, then?” he asked. “Beriam’s really up to no good?”
Victor shook his head, abnormal fatigue settling in his limbs. “He has goals, and he doesn’t care about the methods he uses to obtain them. I hate to say it, but he really doesn’t seem to give a damn about whomever’s caught in the crossfire. Don’t get me wrong – Huey Laforet is still a priority – but we need to investigate all of the Senator’s comings and goings.”
“Should we divert resources from the search for your crewmates, sir?” asked Donald. “We still don’t have any leads on Denkurō Tōgō’s whereabouts, and the historians are still trying to track Nile through the historical literature.”
The suggestion was a reasonable one, but it twisted Victor’s stomach all the same. “No – no, that’s still a go. Some of the rookies haven’t been given long-term assignments yet, right? Let’s get Langsley on Beriam, along with Fletcher and Moynahan. I don’t know, I’ll take another look at the roster tomorrow. For the time being, we need to ensure that anything on Beriam remains confined to this department. No leaks, understand?”
All three men nodded, as he knew they would. He expected no less from the men he himself had handpicked to work for him. He nodded as well, mostly for his own sake rather than theirs. “All right. It’s late – go on and go home to your families. I want you all at full throttle tomorrow.”
They all hesitated, but in the end did as he’d asked them. Finally alone, Victor slid off his desk and sank into his chair, unable to rid the senator’s face from his mind. “We’re supposed to be on the same side,” he murmured, scrubbing at his face with his hand. His heart weighed five stone, his arms lead, and he eyed a stack of papers in his inbox with visceral antipathy. “Damn it.”
Victor snatched one of the papers, took out his pen, and set to work.
One of my WIP oneshots involves Victor aggressively trying to contact/arrange a meeting with Manfred Beriam, and has involved a lot more research into calling card etiquette than I expected. Fun research, though. Totally unnecessary research, could have easily been avoided. I admit it.
There’s around 1200 words of it written so far...it’s one of the two oneshots I mentioned I was despairing over when I shared chapter one of The Honeypot Affair. I say despair because the whole idea of this fic sort of needs the author to know what they’re doing, and I do not know what I’m doing.
