Repurposed 3.0

Interval 3.0
June 2, 1998
1130 Washington, DC
Exact location classified


He looked over the walls, they were stucco with a nice paint job. There were pieces of art on some, just sub-standard reproductions of boring office-style art, nothing to get worked up over. One of them had a safe behind it, the signs of wear when it had been moved to reveal the hidden slot were painfully obvious to eyes like his. Oh there was a mirror too, and he turned his eyes on it – indeed, eyes like his wouldn't miss something small like a scrape in an arc shape, under the corner of a poor reproduction of a Picasso. They didn't miss things like their own color, either, a stormy mix of blue and green, white and teal. He smiled at himself.

He did look good. No signs of wear and tear, the few strands of silver that were mixing with his black hair looked excellent at his temples, and that was why he kept them. At the moment, his hair was just on the edge of too long for the military look, slicked back, widow's peak still obvious and pointing down toward his eyes. He had dark eyebrows, over a long, somewhat hooked nose. Serious lines framed his lips, thin lips, he licked them. His perpetual five-o'clock shadow made his face darker toward the collar of his leather coat, though there was never anything to be done about that. He could shave five or six times a day, wouldn't make any difference. If he looked long enough, he could swear he saw it grow. Ah, his one flaw. Internally, he laughed. Time for the show.

He tightened his hand, releasing his fingers and sensing the fit of the leather gloves, snugged the other on a little, it was loose. His coat made a gentle sound as he moved, exactly as planned.

The sound of a chair creaking, big leather thing with large castors and thick padding, oversized copper buttons clamping the stuffing down, came to his ears, and he gently looked away from the mirror with just his eyes. That way, he could see both the chair and his own reflection. His reflection betrayed a very faint impish smile, gathers of skin around his eyes more than his lips. Half a moment later when the dark-haired man in the big leather chair realized he was standing in his office, his smile broadened and he couldn't repress a chuckle.

"Fuck!" The man in the chair blurted out, nearly jumping out of his skin, and almost clearing its armrests in his surprise. "I'd like it if you would knock first, Carver," he said, trying to regain any hint of composure, but it was far too late – Carver was already giving that obscenely self-indulgent smile. The man adjusted his tie, re-seated himself carefully. He tried to relax, as he had been just a moment before while taking a look out the broad windows of his office.

It was a nice office, he'd taken it over from his predecessor and hardly bothered to change anything in it. In fact he hadn't really even had the chance to settle in particularly, since the elections last November.

"You had asked to see me," Wilson Carver said, his voice was low and though he bore a smile, there was never a chance that his voice sounded anything less than menacing. "Senator." Carver glanced away, back to the mirror, swept his eyes over the room's reflection and noticed there was a second safe down below the roll-up writing desk. Antique, that desk. Like most of the items in this office, hardly ever moved, the desk was deeply embedded in the plush carpet. The carpet had a faint square outline where the safe was hidden.

"I –"

"You asked to see me," Carver repeated indelicately, "so here I am." As the Senator pulled in a breath and debated whether to argue the fact that he had not yet 'asked' anyone to summon him and in fact had only just a day ago even decided to bring Carver in on this, Carver took the two longish steps he needed to bring him away from the wall, and closer to the big oak desk that the Senator sat behind. "What manner of bad business might I be helping you out on, today?" He balled his hands into fists, they gratifyingly made the leather gloves upon them groan with a very slight sound – one that he was positive the Senator had heard because his eyes dropped down to look, then back up.

"Yes. Yes," David Hoyle closed his eyes, and prayed briefly that Carver didn't either vanish or kill him while they were shut. "I do have some business that needs attending."

"Then please, let us forego the niceties of showing off to one another, and get to business." Carver had to resist breaking into a broad smile at that – the blatant irony of it all was so amusing. He loved dealing in irony, after all. It was what he was created to do, and what he was best at. And he was good at so very many things.

Flustered, Hoyle put his hand on his desk and looked away, "Carver, I need you to make sure that some people remain silent about last month's hydro-dam fiasco." He glanced at a pile of papers next to his hand, "I'm sure that you already know who I'm talking about."

"I'm sure I do as well," Carver replied. "But for the sake of formality, and to ensure I don't make any mistakes, please do," he waved his gloved fingers at the papers, "enlighten me."

Hoyle quickly dug through and located a short piece of lined paper. It had been torn from a small notebook, and as Carver took it, looking to confirm a list of names he'd already been aware of, he scanned the desktop. "Where is the rest of this notebook?" He asked, and when Hoyle looked confused and gave that little double-blink he'd been apt to show, Carver elaborated with, "the notebook which has a deep imprint of these names on at least the next three pages worth of paper, which can easily be traced back to you, should this one," he waggled the paper in his hand, "be found?" Even with the glove he could feel how the pen's imprint had been left. He could probably emulate the Senator's bold handwriting, he had a feel for it just by the depth of the dots on the I's, the curve of a G. While he pondered the list of names themselves, Hoyle opened one of the desk's drawers and fumbled about. Clearly, this was something he would have forgotten. Clearly, Carver was right to ask for it.

Clearly, Hoyle thought, that bastard loves rubbing my nose in this.

He handed the small notebook to Carver, who glanced through the first few dozen pages, ripped them out, and handed those back to the Senator. "Why waste these?" He said with half a grin; they were doodles, obscene ones. Carver tucked the rest into his coat pocket, and took in a deep, refreshing breath. The air in the office was a tad stale, the windows hadn't been opened in decades. Painted over, most likely.

"I will get on this as soon as I am able," he confirmed, noting Hoyle's nod. "Was there anything else, before I go?"

Hoyle watched the predator standing in the middle of his office, as Carver continued to look around the room. "Actually, there is, now that you mention it." Carver did not look down to him, but he spoke again, "how are they doing? I can't get a word in edgeways when Aristide is trying to chat me up. Never get the chance to ask."

"They are magnificent, Senator. I believe I should be very proud of them. As you should, obviously, as it was your money that helped create them." For the first time in the conversation, it seemed that Carver was thinking on someone other than himself. "They are an investment worth keeping, I believe."

"That's how Genevieve would describe them, yes," Hoyle muttered.

"Why, Senator, I do believe you have a bit of an issue with Miss Aristide's mannerisms?" Carver smirked. "Everyone does, everyone does."

"Make sure that list gets taken care of," Hoyle abruptly backed up to his 'business mode' routine. "I'm sure you'll be discrete."

"I am certain you won't hear about it on the evening news, yes," Carver nodded, "pleasure as always, Senator. No need to get up, I can escort myself out."

As he turned, Hoyle's attention was diverted by a raucous crow outside the window. Those things always bothered him. Scavengers. He wanted to shoo it away, the other birds that came to the small flower beds on the manicured lawn outside were far more entertaining. He looked up to find that Carver was gone, and then furrowed his brows.

David Hoyle marched up to the office door, yanked it open, and glared at the woman behind her desk, just outside it. There was no sign of Carver, he was fast, that was for certain. Hoyle leaned down and said, "the next time that peacock shows up, you'd better buzz me before he comes into my damn office, you hear me?"

The woman was a bit shaken by this, "sir I…"

"You heard me, just do it right next time."

"Sir, with all due respect," she was flustered and pouty, bordering on genuinely disturbed by this. "I don't even know who you're talking about? You've been in your office for an hour since your last smoke break, and no one's been through here since then."