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Charity (AAT and Atlas)
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Charity (AAT and Atlas)
by Uryurvkos June 13th 2017, 1:58 am
He pretended to be asleep.
The assassin had his arms folded, his feet kicked up and his eyes closed. The seat he sat at was pressed against the wall, and his legs placed against the desk he sat at in the small room. He wasn't tired, nor did he have an interest to sleep at the moment: rather laid as a guise where he could have excused himself from hearing something he shouldn't have been privy to. Two other people walked around the room carefully, and to the opened eye it would have been painted white with carefully lain tile and wooden chair rails and wainscots. They spoke in a low tone, as if to not startle the resting person of AAT-08317.
«I don't understand why the boss is here,» one of them said, «it doesn't make sense. He doesn't have business here.»
«Well he does.» The second replied, almost dumbfounded by the first's remark: «It is after all an international business.»
AAT-08317 shifted in his seat, quietly calling back to the information of who he was meant to protect: Pyotr Makarovich Moskvin. Aged twenty-three years old. Oligarch in the privatised defence sector of the Russian Federation. Produced varieties of missile defence platforms, sold and exported to more than thirty-seven different countries. Amassed a fortune from an empire he was able to wrestle control of, ousting the previous head of the company: Mr. Protopov.
Admired by the public.
The assassin would usually wonder the reason for his assignment, given Mr. Moskvin seemed more than safe enough. After all, he was a well known contributor to charity and was known to take time out of his week to visit the disadvantaged. Actually stepped down in Rostov-On-Don to work at a soup stand this past New Year. The sort of man who seemed too good to be real, the one who seemed to paint a detracting painting to something far more sinister.
Weapons and charity.
Ironic.
AAT-08317 tilted his head to one side as the two other guards glanced toward him, seemingly conscious to the idea that he might have been listening in. But the assassin had played his card, and they decided to whisper. It didn't matter in the end, as AAT-08317 had heightened senses and every attempt to make him deaf to something was near fruitless. And so he continued to listen.
«He is trying to initiate a deal with the Canadian Government.» The second explained: «You know, sell dangerous weapons?»
«Is that odd?» The first then asked.
«You didn't think he had business here!»
Such a statement seemed to frustrate the first: «Well of course I didn't!»
«So now you know he does?»
«Yes, I know—»
The door to the room seemed to open with a small creak and the whispering was silenced. AAT-08317 heard three distinct footsteps walk into the room, all adjusted to different weights and sizes. One rather light but tall fellow, and two big with one being short and the other tall. The assassin peaked his eyes open as he stared at the three men who entered the room, noting how they presented himself before his eyes met those of Mr. Moskvin.
«Good eve, gentlemen...» Mr. Moskvin spoke with a soothing voice, «I assume you are all ready for duty?»
«Yessir!» The first immediately responded, but Mr. Moskvin didn't give him much thought. The oligarch was looking directly at AAT-08317 with an odd smile. But the assassin only offered his furrowed brow.
He somehow knew.
«And what about you, Alexey Alexeyovich?» Moskvin asked AAT-08317 under his pseudo-name.
«Of course, Pyotr Makarovich.» AAT-08317 replied in a grim tone.
«No need to sound so grim, Alexey.» Moskvin responded with a smile, «Just another occasion to add to the number. It is a charity, after all.»
The repulsive use of that statement didn't register on AAT-08317's face, as he simply nodded his head and responded: «It indeed is.»
«Come then, let us not keep the crowd waiting.»
And with that Moskvin turned on a heel and exited through the doors he just entered through. AAT-08317 watched him leave, before he placed his feet back on the floor and pushed out of the chair he sat upon before he stood straight up. He offered only a glance to the first and second guard that had accompanied him in the room before he straightened his tie and suit jacket and took carefully calculated steps toward the door to follow the oligarch.
And thus, toward 'charity.'
The assassin had his arms folded, his feet kicked up and his eyes closed. The seat he sat at was pressed against the wall, and his legs placed against the desk he sat at in the small room. He wasn't tired, nor did he have an interest to sleep at the moment: rather laid as a guise where he could have excused himself from hearing something he shouldn't have been privy to. Two other people walked around the room carefully, and to the opened eye it would have been painted white with carefully lain tile and wooden chair rails and wainscots. They spoke in a low tone, as if to not startle the resting person of AAT-08317.
«I don't understand why the boss is here,» one of them said, «it doesn't make sense. He doesn't have business here.»
«Well he does.» The second replied, almost dumbfounded by the first's remark: «It is after all an international business.»
AAT-08317 shifted in his seat, quietly calling back to the information of who he was meant to protect: Pyotr Makarovich Moskvin. Aged twenty-three years old. Oligarch in the privatised defence sector of the Russian Federation. Produced varieties of missile defence platforms, sold and exported to more than thirty-seven different countries. Amassed a fortune from an empire he was able to wrestle control of, ousting the previous head of the company: Mr. Protopov.
Admired by the public.
The assassin would usually wonder the reason for his assignment, given Mr. Moskvin seemed more than safe enough. After all, he was a well known contributor to charity and was known to take time out of his week to visit the disadvantaged. Actually stepped down in Rostov-On-Don to work at a soup stand this past New Year. The sort of man who seemed too good to be real, the one who seemed to paint a detracting painting to something far more sinister.
Weapons and charity.
Ironic.
AAT-08317 tilted his head to one side as the two other guards glanced toward him, seemingly conscious to the idea that he might have been listening in. But the assassin had played his card, and they decided to whisper. It didn't matter in the end, as AAT-08317 had heightened senses and every attempt to make him deaf to something was near fruitless. And so he continued to listen.
«He is trying to initiate a deal with the Canadian Government.» The second explained: «You know, sell dangerous weapons?»
«Is that odd?» The first then asked.
«You didn't think he had business here!»
Such a statement seemed to frustrate the first: «Well of course I didn't!»
«So now you know he does?»
«Yes, I know—»
The door to the room seemed to open with a small creak and the whispering was silenced. AAT-08317 heard three distinct footsteps walk into the room, all adjusted to different weights and sizes. One rather light but tall fellow, and two big with one being short and the other tall. The assassin peaked his eyes open as he stared at the three men who entered the room, noting how they presented himself before his eyes met those of Mr. Moskvin.
«Good eve, gentlemen...» Mr. Moskvin spoke with a soothing voice, «I assume you are all ready for duty?»
«Yessir!» The first immediately responded, but Mr. Moskvin didn't give him much thought. The oligarch was looking directly at AAT-08317 with an odd smile. But the assassin only offered his furrowed brow.
He somehow knew.
«And what about you, Alexey Alexeyovich?» Moskvin asked AAT-08317 under his pseudo-name.
«Of course, Pyotr Makarovich.» AAT-08317 replied in a grim tone.
«No need to sound so grim, Alexey.» Moskvin responded with a smile, «Just another occasion to add to the number. It is a charity, after all.»
The repulsive use of that statement didn't register on AAT-08317's face, as he simply nodded his head and responded: «It indeed is.»
«Come then, let us not keep the crowd waiting.»
And with that Moskvin turned on a heel and exited through the doors he just entered through. AAT-08317 watched him leave, before he placed his feet back on the floor and pushed out of the chair he sat upon before he stood straight up. He offered only a glance to the first and second guard that had accompanied him in the room before he straightened his tie and suit jacket and took carefully calculated steps toward the door to follow the oligarch.
And thus, toward 'charity.'
Uryurvkos- Post Mate
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Quote : "No one should be allowed to violently trample on the law."
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Number of posts : 118
Age : 30
Registration date : 2017-01-21
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