Divine Deception"Guilty Conscience"
The mindset of a destroyer is a simple one: we are there to balance life's scale. For every action an equal and opposite action is sparked. But in the end, always the guilty will fall. Like dominoes, one chain reaction that hits another until all that's left is one powerful affliction. To turn your back on it gives guilt the ability to sneak up on you while running away from it forces it into a game of cat and mouse. So sometimes one needs to embrace their guilt, feeding off it until all that's left is the ability to let go.
"Are you sure we should trust Whitman?" Nathan asks from beside me. His soft voice pulls me from my thoughts and I turn to look at him. "I mean, he's got connections with Paragon, sure, but what's to stop him from finding a way to burn us when we're not looking?"
I look down at my hands. He's got a right to be concerned. It wasn't like Whitman had immediately said yes last night when I pitched my idea of taking down Paragon for my mother's sake. And it's not just that. I know that it's the fact that these captures haven't gone completely to plan since we started them how many months ago. We have captured many worthwhile people and been given their stamp of approval to say the least. However, we have hit snags from time to time too. We've just been lucky with those ones. He must be waiting for the penny to drop as my mother would say. When things go a bit haywire. Luck can't live forever.
"You said that you'd be here for me through the thick and thin, Nathan," I say to him. "Has something changed?"
"No, of course not. You know I'd follow you to the ends of the earth. I'm just worried that one of these captures is going to lead us down a road we don't want to go down."
"I understand. I just don't see this happening right now. As timid as Whitman might have been last night, he didn't sneak out and hightail it back to Paragon. That's got to say something."
"Hmm, I guess you're right."
I hear Whitman's footsteps up above in the bedroom, to the bathroom and back. I hope my optimism in Whitman doesn't backfire. While I didn't get a direct yes or no when I asked him to join us, he didn't leave either when I offered it. In fact, he stayed and asked about my mother. How she'd been over the last few months before her death and if she'd ever found happiness. Whitman told me what I had already gathered, that being a destroyer was a sure way to ruin oneself to a point where a life of happiness could never be achieved. But to be honest, I think my mother had been able to conjure a small piece before she met her end. She'd reunited with Vic, got engaged, returned to a life of normality. If only the small tidbits gathered into something bigger before Paragon stepped in again.
Whitman makes his way down the stairs and I stand, walking around the table to the living room where I motion for him to take a seat. Nathan follows and takes a seat next to me on the sofa.
"How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?" I ask him.
He nods slightly. "I guess so. That cocktail did absolutely nothing for me, though."
Knowing that he would have a difficult time sleeping and dealing with everything, I created the same concoction that my mother gave me when I ended up on her doorstep so long ago. It was a serum that she'd learned from Master Lee to take away stress and anxiety. It doesn't take long to make and after seeing how quickly my captures stress out, I always make sure I have the ingredients in the house.
"Well, as long as you were able to sleep."
He waves away my words. "Why don't we just cut to the chase, shall we? You don't care about my well being—"
"I do, actually."
"But you care about my answer more." He's got me there, but I neither deny nor confirm this. "Sleep was out of the question last night and when insomnia hits me hard I find it best to read." He gives me a look. "Your books are terrible. You don't live here, do you?"
I squint at him. "Why would you think that?"
"Coffee books, that's all you have here. Books that are strictly for decoration, placed in convenient places like on coffee tables, picture books on bookcases, some even in the loo. There's nothing real here. Not a picture of you two together or your family. You two have a son, right?"
The fact that he knows so much about my family makes my insides twist in horrible directions. That's not all. What also bothers me is that he's right, I don't live here. This is just a flat that I use to bring my targets to so that I can get them on my side.
Whitman takes in my expression that I find difficult to fake. I can't say he hasn't caught me off guard. "But there's one thing I found last night that I don't think I was supposed to. Hidden behind the bed, behind the headboard to be precise. A photo album with everybody you've ever loved."
I bite my cheek. What I said about my mother last night is true. Whitman was the only person that kept her feeling when she destroyed the families on her target list. Losing feeling and emotions is one of the most difficult things my mother once said. When destruction turns into a series of motions one just goes through. I don't want to turn into that and the photo album is one of the things that keeps my grounded. When I have to stay the night in this flat, when Nathan can't be here with me, it's nice to be reminded of why I am doing all this. It's nice to still feel something.
"It reminded me of why your mother and I decided to join this organization in the first place. When we thought we were doing more than destroying. When we thought we were balancing out the scales of life." Whitman pauses and contemplates his words. "I loved your mother. She was a good woman caught in a terrible position, led down a path nobody should ever have to travel... That's why I have decided to help you."
I don't let my joy show on my face right away. I'm waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me or be told that this whole conversation's turned out to be some sick joke of his that is far from funny. But it never comes. He just sits there, straight faced, waiting for my reply. Finally, I say, "You will?"
"Your mother told me years and years ago, when I was still in my early days, that she never believed she was a good person doing what she was asked to do. All she believed was that she was the middle person who righted wrongs. And now I see that I am meant to be the same person."
We speak for hours afterwards, discussing what we think we should do and how we should do it. Whitman hacks into Paragon's servers and lets me browse. Everything is on them from personal emails sent from person to person to all employee profiles. Whitman motions to one for a man named Sean Barread.
"If this is what you guys really want to do then I suggest going for him. I warn you that Sean is a bit of a pig, like the arrogant jocks in high school, treats women like objects. You know, that kind of thing. But, he knows Paragon like the back of his own hand. There are four tiers in Paragon. You've got the slave rats at the bottom who do the paper work, the scheduling, everything the higher ups don't want to do. Above them are the managers and technical engineers, like myself, who make sure everything runs and works. Above us are those a part of Outlook—"
"They work for Microsoft?" Nathan butts in.
"No, they are the group that looks over the organization as a whole and makes the big decisions. I've only met them a small handful of times, but I know Sean is the middle man between them and those below. Get Sean on your side and you'll be flying."
"I thought you said there were four tiers," I remind Whitman.
"There are, above them are the big guys. The head honchos. The big cheese."
"There are a lot of them?"
Whitman shrugs. "I have no clue. I've never spoken to the top. There could be one. There could be one million."
"Let's hope for the former," I say. "Heck, maybe there's nobody above this Outlook and once they are taken care of there is nothing else to do other than go down."
"Wishful thinking," Nathan says with a smirk.
Don't I know it."Sean frequents Eugi's during the week," Whitman informs me.
"On 27th Street?" I see Whitman nod to me and I nod back. "I better get ready then."
I've been to Eugi's a handful of times. It's always been a busy joint, though tonight has proved to be much busier than usual. They have a live band, and from the sound of it, they're actually pretty good. With a mix of folk and pop, they seem to have almost everybody on their feet. I take a seat at the bar and order a drink while I wait for Sean to arrive.
It's almost as if he's heard my thoughts. He walks through the door not three minutes later. Greasy hair frames his face and the strong scent of cheap dollar cologne meets my nostrils. Whitman told me before I left that Sean lathered up in the stuff if he missed a day or two of showering. Today must be my lucky day.
I watch as Sean orders a drink and heads over to a table in front of the stage. I follow suit a few minutes later.
The first thing that comes out of my mouth is how the band stinks. From what Whitman said, Sean is as Type-A as it gets. Heavy metal, drinking hard liquor, drowning in his own misogyny perhaps? I honestly couldn't say, though from my comment, he seems to have taken it with a liking.
He lifts his glass. "Drink to that."
We fall into small talk. From if he comes here often to how I don't see a ring on his finger. He plays it just like I think he will: Marriage isn't for him, it's for the weak, blah, blah, blah. But one thing does catch me off guard and it's that he mentions how he likes to keep his options open. It may sound pretty vague—and I really think it is—but there's something behind that wall that he won't let me see.
We talk for a little longer, grab another drink for the both of us and he starts questioning me, trying his moves. He calls me pretty. Supposedly, according to him, I have a rocking bod. He comes off as if he's not even trying, but I just go with it.
So when he asks me to dance, I don't hesitate for a second. He leads me to the dance floor with a strong hand holding mine. He whips me around into position. If I didn't work with the unexpected everyday and think quickly on my feet, it is very possible I may have hit the floor. I stay with him, though, as he pulls me around like some marionette, showcasing how desperate he is to lead, to stay the dominant one between the two of us.
As we're dancing, he's in my ear. His dirty jokes slowly morph into dirty talk.
"Are you always so forthright?" I ask as we sway side to side. I don't really know what else to say, and the moment I speak, I immediately hope he doesn't get offended and leave.
"I like what I like."
"And what else do you like? Is it always the domineering lead?"
He gives me a look and then grins. "No," he whispers again, his voice husky and his breath tickling the inside of my ear. "I don't mind letting others take control from time to time."
We dance for a little longer and I finally ask him back to my place. "I don't know if I believe somebody as big and strong as you can let somebody like little me take control. I would like to see this."
I allow him to drive us back. Nathan dropped me off so I don't have a car. Sean is a bit of a aggressive driver—
Surprise!—yet we get to my flat safe and sound. I kiss him as we wait for the elevator. He tastes like alcohol. He grabs my sides as we stumble into the box and make our way up. Thankfully there is nobody in the lobby or in the elevator. At the top, we break away from one another and I open up the door, waving him on in. Nathan isn't waiting for us like he was with Whitman. I made sure of that before I left earlier today. With everything we knew about Sean, I knew coming in hard and aggressive wasn't going to get us anywhere. I need to work with his personality, his traits.
I walk him up to the bedroom and push him onto the bed. "Make yourself comfortable," I say and grab a small bag from the top of my dresser.
"That's a tiny, little bag," Sean comments.
"Tiny, little outfit." I wink at him and slip into the bathroom to get changed.
I return completely transformed. My dress has been changed into a fitted suit one would only find at a top-of-the-line lingerie store or possibly a costume shop. I look over at Sean. His eyes widen. Not in fear but surprise. It mellows out in a matter of seconds while he looks me up and down. He must be happy because he gestures for me to come closer. I pull out my braid and shake my hair out. I saw this once in the movie
Mr. & Mrs. Smith when she plays a Domme. I've never been in a position like this and that's why I try to recreate the scene here. Hopefully Sean isn't into shoot 'em up action films and won't catch on.
"You've been a bad boy, haven't you?" I say, putting a hand up to stop Sean from advancing. "Haven't you?" I insist.
He gives me a look and then decides to play along. "I think I have."
I lower myself to the floor and grab a whip from under my bed. As I straighten up, I point it at him. "You know what happens to bad boys?" I smack the end of the whip off the dresser side, sending a crack into the air. "They're punished." I watch as Sean licks his lips. "Undress."
He doesn't wait for any other order and goes about taking his clothes off. They pile on the floor and as he's going for his boxers, I stop him.
"No, leave them. Lie down."
Sean was right, he doesn't always have to be the one in charge. It shocks me how he goes with the flow so easily, taking my every order. He must be really into it it too because I know I sound like an idiot and nothing is natural by any means.
"You're a bad boy who needs to be punished, yes?" I say, running the end of my whip over his bare chest.
He breathes with effort, like he's anticipating the hit. "Yes," he answers me.
"Uhuh." I hit one of his pecs and listen to him groan. It's not of agony. More like an,
"Ooooo.""Punish me."
I hit him again.
"Ooooh."
From my angle I can see the enjoyment Sean is getting from this. He doesn't look at me. To do so would be provoking and showing aggression. So he looks at the ceiling, takes the next hit that he gets off on. I lower myself to my knees so that I am next to his ear. I place the whip so that it rests over his throat. I run my hand over his chest. I can feel the beat of his racing heart. I breathe into his ear and then I say, "You've been working with bad people, haven't you?"
Sean's face becomes screwy. It's clear that what I've said has come out of left field, yet he doesn't really know how to respond.
"Where are they, Sean?"
"How do you know my name?"
Dammit! I think, smacking myself inwardly for misstepping. "I..."
"Who the hell are you?" he demands, trying to straighten himself. I press down on the whip against his neck to keep him down. This only makes him more angry. He pushes back against me, the whip digging into his Adam's apple, but it doesn't matter. He's fighting the pain just so that I'll let go.
Throwing his hands around, he catches me. His force too strong, I fall to the floor. Sean is free and the whip in my hand has been snapped in two. I toss it away and run after Sean, who's stormed down the stairs, through the living room and out the back door to the patio. He spins around at once—he knows I am right on his tail—and shuts the door behind him. He tries to hold it there so that he's blocked my path to him. I give it a good kick and it doesn't budge. Sean must know that his strength has and will always overpower me. However, when I grab my nearest fire extinguisher and am about to throw it through the glass, he backs off and hightails it across the balcony in search of an escape route.
I open the door and make my way out, spotting Sean running back and forth. I am taking aback to last night with Whitman doing the same thing while Nathan and I watched. Nathan was right, they do always head for the balcony. With the front door our captures know that they will waste time trying to unlock the door and wait for the elevator. Time, precious time being wasted. At least with the balcony there is some hope. I pity them for thinking this way. I also wish Nathan was here with me. I've always worked better with him at my side.
Taking a deep breath, I walk closer to Sean. He's bouncing off railing and railing, looking over for what I guess is the nearest escape pad. Everybody does the same thing. I try to follow the same procedure I have with my previous captures. "Sean, we can work together. My name is Delilah Lawrence. I need your help. Where are Paragon's top tiers?"
He's not listening. Running around in his underwear, he zooms from one end to the other, though, from close observation, he always keeps a good distance from me.
"What are the names of your leaders?" I persist. I take a few steps towards him and contract the space between us a good chunk. "Give me a name or where they are." I walk closer again. "Give me something—"
He spins around on me so quickly I think I may see insanity in his eyes. And he moves. Fast. I barely can comprehend it. He's coming straight for me, shoulder angled so that it can be used as a battering ram. I've backed up so that my back is up against the opposite railing. I can see a furry in his expression. This isn't some bluff. He's actually going to try and strike me into the air like some wild bull in Spain.
With adrenaline on my side, I spot my opening when he's mere two feet away from me and I dodge his attack, spinning him and giving him a good push with my own hands.
He twirls in an unbalanced motion, whimpering as he flips over the railing, hands out in front of him, trying to grasp anything. Railing, the lip of the balcony, anything!
I gasp, throwing my hands out to catch him. He's managed to catch the lip of the balcony and I am there to grab his hand. He looks up at me, fear—real fear—on his face, tears in his eyes. I can only wonder what I look like in return. Even if I am staring into Sean's face, all I can see is Daniel that night in the pool and how I let him drown. I don't intent on letting myself do the same thing to this man.
"Give me your other hand," I tell him, panic in my tone, hysteria on the rise. His hand is sweating like mad. Mine is too and I don't know how long I will be able to hold onto his one hand.
"Anna Lane, Danny Ferris," I hear him mumbling as he looks down at the ground so many floors below him.
"Don't look down, Sean. Give me your other hand."
"George Lappel," he continues, "Trisha Udenaff, Samantha Malonee, Jonathan Smith."
"What? What are you going on about?"
It looks like it takes all of his effort, but he looks up at me again. "Those are the names you wanted."
"No, forget about that. Give me your other hand!" His weight it overtaking mine and I don't know how much longer I can hold him.
"I'm done for anyway."
"No, give me your other hand!" I am yelling now and his hand is continuously slipping from my grasp.
And then it's gone.
Sean's hand slips from my grasp completely and I watch him fall through nothing but air. He doesn't scream. He doesn't cry out. He's just gone. I barely hear the thud as he hits the pavement below. But I still sit there, my hand stretched out, staring at the air in front of me because I don't know what else to do. Sean is gone. My capture is dead. The realization dulls every fiber in my body and everything turns into slow motion. I pull myself right side up and listen as men and women scream in terror and the once empty street down below begins to fill with horrified pedestrians.
