|Emma (nextian) wrote,|
@ 2007-07-20 04:29 pm UTC
|Entry tags:||fic, harrowdown|
Why Switzerland insists on holding out, Felix is not paid to understand. Why his employers consider it a good idea to send some muscle against the government, Felix is not paid to consider. In general Felix is not particularly concerned with asking questions except for such important ones as "Where is the money?" and "Are you listening to me, fuckwit?" These seem to cover most of the necessities of the job.
Felix slouches on the steps in front of the library and regards the various architectural effusions of Zurich with distaste. He has been waiting here for a good ten minutes now. At this point, in Berlin, he would be meeting in a well designed bar with tracklighting and black walls and cocktails with short, expensive names. Then he would take the contact out back and kick the shit out of them. It would be very straightforward.
He is also not paid to consider impossible contingencies, but whatever, he'll do it for free.
The building across the way is built of many stories of granite and concrete. The sniper at the top of the building is dressed in the same shade of gray, to the same unpleasant effect. Felix raises an eyebrow, and the sniper shakes his head and withdraws, in a slow gesture of safety. Felix begins to relax, and then remembers how tall the library behind him is--
He throws himself behind one of the carved lions just in time, and the bullet ricochets off one of its ears, spitting out stone chips. Felix swears and turns and watches his own sniper get taken out with easy efficiency.
"You're late." The contact slides out of the shadows, easily, and Felix makes sure he's had his suave fun before punching him in the nose.
As the man clutches it and yelps, Felix adds, "I was an hour early."
"My nose!" It's started to drip red.
"I broke it." Felix squats down by him. "Let me let you buy me a drink, and then we can talk terms."
The man only wipes his bloody hand on Felix's jacket and swears in Schweizerdeutsch. Felix stands to go, and then kicks the man in the gut for good measure, making him squawk in pointed surprise.
"Be grateful," Felix says. "I owe you a drink now."
The bar they go to is more of a pub, and has GUINNESS printed on its side in letters as big as its name. There is no tracklighting, but the beer is German. Felix orders a draft and tries not to put his feet in the sticky patches on the floor.
"Twenty thousand," the man says sullenly. "Bring that back with you."
"I was told no more than ten."
The man spits a tooth into his beer. "Don't be ridiculous."
Felix shrugs. "Think of me as a symbol of my employers. What I just did to you--"
"Your employers will buy my country a drink?"
"Only after fucking it up." Felix shrugs. "If that sounds acceptable, I'm sure twenty thousand would be fine."
"Nineteen," the man says. It's going to be a long night.
He makes his weary way back to Berlin with the number seventeen and a quarter, refusing to think about the existence of Switzerland until he's home and can plan new and exciting ways to destroy the whole goddamn country.
"We think you may need backup on this one," Control says, steepling his fingers and leaning back. "We're assigning you a partner."
Felix swears in multiple languages inside his head. "How nice."
"He's an American, but it can't be helped."
"Even better," Felix says, and a man whose Hello My Name Is tag reads James Rogers slouches into the room. Control says, "I'll just leave you two to get acquainted."
"Morning, Adolf," Rogers says.
"Shut up, fuckhead," Felix says. "How much do you know about Zurich?"