Underhanded Apostasy

Banal Tale

“I discovered recently, the Belgamonts were initially a band of insatiable mercenaries. They ransacked countless villages under the command of the highest bidder. Fear was something the Gods themselves had erased from their frozen hearts. Nothing dared to stand in their way, lest by the end of day, neither four limbs nor their spine would stay intact. Anyone who was lucky enough to escape uttered nothing but a tale of horror and agony.

Their flagrant crimes garnered the attention of the King. His Majesty Leonard III then proposed a life-binding contract to Jediah, the matriarch of the Belgamonts. He offered them a constant supply of wealth and pleasure as long as they gave up their philandering habit, settled within the borders of the kingdom, and protected the crown instead.

No one had ever gambled to trust the wildlings before. Jediah was touched by the King’s sincerity and decided it could be the beginning of her clan’s redemption. Despite conflicting opinions about welcoming a bunch of murderers as if their sins had been erased, by the end of the year’s summer and with an endless grace from the King, the Belgamonts began coalescing into society as proper humans."

“Sublime.” A man utters in passing as he gouges open a bottle of ale without care. The fragrance of esters wafts like smoke into thin air. He drowns himself in the first gulp.

The man's companion is peevish in her observation of him. “Dorian, did you get what I was saying?”

The sound of glass hitting wood resonates as Dorian surrenders his possession of the beverage. “Ah, yes. Of course, darling.” His golden irises offer the woman a carefree side-glance. The projected nonchalance, if not anything else, becomes what enlightened her of his lie.

She shakes the couch where Dorian resides with a mighty kick. “Take things seriously for once!”

The man holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Misha, my dear Misha. I thought our client has requested assistance in her private quest for glory, to form a liaison with the nefarious bambino himself. I fail to see where your fantastical storytelling has a place in this. Or perhaps, my memory has failed me somewhere along the way?”

Misha straightens her poise. The woman's hickory skin glows russet under the room's dim light. Annoyance flashes behind her bronze eyes. “It’s their history, Dorian! That man you called bambino is Sention Biotech's Clarison Belgamont, the direct descendant of Jediah herself!"

"Och, it's nothing but a legend." Dorian waves a palm in Misha's agitated face. He proceeds to reach for a mobile phone inside his back pocket with difficulties. The tightness of his trousers ought to kill him one of these days, but none can deny how dashing he looks in it, especially matched with the auburn color of his hair. "Direct descendants, warriors-"

"Mercenaries."

"Yes, yes. That tale is just a banal manifestation of a long forgotten pride. Rhadid Belgamont is dead, Misha. His bambino son inherits not an ounce of his finesse. I bet that company is on the precipice of a downfall. Furthermore, darling, I still can't see how your tale correlates to our work." He scrolls through the screen of his gadget, stopping to frown at a particularly gauche advertisement of a gun.

Misha exhales majestically, "This mission will be different from the ones we've finished. It might take months or even years to complete. You're gonna have to fit in. What's wrong with knowing more information that will provide ease with your mimicry?"

"It will help if it actually makes sense. What kind of delusional i***t came up with the idea to fancify a biotech company's past with legends of warriors and kings? Tell me they become firearms manufacturers instead and you'll have a better chance of me listening."

The woman gives up another attempt at reasoning with the disinterested rascal. She goes behind her own desk, which upon it sit three holographic monitors; one displays a set of bi-numeric algorithms that renew itself multiple times per second, the middle exhibits the volatile dynamics of a stock market graphs, and the last one, quite mundanely, has the homepage of a kitchen appliances store adorned with pastel colors. It looks bizarrely discordant with every other element of the room. Even the current occupants wear either dark or highly saturated colors that clash horribly against the website's visuals.

"Not trying to justify anything here, but I think the Belgamonts were highly adaptable people. Their centuries old experience of torturing countless enemies gave them a superior comprehension of the human body and how it works. I guess they built their expertise in biotechnology from there." Misha peeks at Dorian from the gap between her screens. The man's eyes are still pinned onto his gadget, but judging from how still his movements have become, Misha knows she's caught his attention this time. "Three hundred years is a long time. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised even if they ended up making toys. No one can predict the future, you know." She shrugs her shoulders noncommittally.

Dorian stays quiet for the rest of the hour. No one can guess what runs amok in his head. Misha has chosen to do her own bidding to leave the man pondering alone. At this point, it'll be vain to even attempt engaging him in any kind of conversation. Dorian Fraussen is an odd man like that. From the first time Misha met him, throughout their five years of being partners in crime, the man does things as he pleases, and only if he wills it. She's learned the hard way to stay away when Dorian emits an aura of tranquility, because when he does, she knows his mind is the farthest from being still.

Gulps and gulps of ale are consumed every now and then, it's a habit she's noticed he exhibits often, probably as a catalyst that helps Dorian with his thought processes. Misha is disapproving but she's never given him more than a warning look.

When the last drop of beer has been consumed, his mouth finally opens again, "So...I'll be joining the other recruits, then?"

Misha's eyes are glued to her holo-screen, "Uh-huh."

"Next week?"

"Yup."

Dorian makes an almost genuine melancholic smile. "I'll miss you."

The answer is automatic and monotonous, bordering on derisive: "Yeah, sure. I'll miss you, too, boss. Don't forget to contact me at least once a day, alright? You tend to get into some messy s**t as soon as you go off radar."

The man laughs heartily. "Sure thing, darling. I didn't know you fancy me that much."

She can't help but make a repulsed expression — a programmed reflex born out of being constantly stuck with the casanova, "Keep dreaming, asshole."