Private FIDE EST FALLACIA

[Rolf Amsel]

FIDE EST FALLACIA

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Faith. What was faith? A belief in something? A feeling? A thought? Something more, deeper? No. Faith, was dead. Trust, dead. Friends, dead. Lovers, dead. All came from nothing and returned to thus. Not meaningless, no, but worthless? Perhaps. Years, decades, near a century of life given to the cause. The cause. What did that even mean? In the end? Nothing. Pale blue eyes looked emptily at a chipped mug filled with caf on the table in front him. Of medium build, russet brown hair and a six o'clock shadow adorned the man along with a worn black jacket. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, hands gently grasping a small datapad.

Biometric data enclosed. Known aliases attached. Payment: 50000 credits. Criteria: Low Profile.
​

It's amazing how exhausting it can be to do nothing. If you are unable to endure boredom, this work is not for you. It might not even be for me and yet, here I sit. Down went the datapad, a soft clatter as the mug replaced it in the stranger's hand. Closer to one hundred Galactic Standard years but he looked less than 40. The wonders of modern technology. More machine than man and yet - he clung to his humanity like a child to a prized toy, a toddler to a rattle, a drunkard to the bottle. A sneer had developed across the man's features, a soft gulp of the steaming black liquid from the mug burning its way towards his stomach. The pain was minimal. A flash of lightning, a crash of thunder, a torrent of rain against the transparisteel windows of the small diner awoke the man from his dormant state. Awake, alive, and yet barely living. It's time..

A small digital chit found its way onto the table, an agile shuffle putting the man on his feet. Ahead, a quiet jingle as a pair of persons departed. Intuition served him well, as it should have after all these years. The man followed, soft leather soles silent in the downpour of the night. It was cold and yet he felt nothing, cool blue eyes focused on the pair ahead of him. Stumbling, intoxicated, vulnerable.

The men shuffled their way through the street, arms upon each other's shoulders for support. This was more than intoxication. Narcotics. It was an easy in, an easy out, so to speak. The only complication is that there were two of them. One of him. He stuck to shadows, the lone man careful to avoid lights mounted along the walls, upon poles. Already the path ahead formed in his mind. Already he could feel the surge of adrenaline beginning to seep into his veins. He would call upon it when he needed it, not a moment sooner. Patience was a lesson hard learned and this man bore the scars to prove it.

No, faith was an illusion and those who claimed it were nothing more than mud men in a world of horrors and demons. What did that make him? What did that make Rolf Amsel?

 

[Rolf Amsel]

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I listen to music while I work. It calms the nerves, focuses the mind. It drowns out the whispers of errant thought that linger just beyond the pale. Step after purposeful step closed the distance ever so slowly as the pair of men shuffled along. Leave nothing to chance. Control your surroundings. Control. Control. Control.

​

An alleyway ahead, a dark corner of the street, an unlit building alcove. The man in black knew the men's destination. He knew how to get there, probably better than they at this point. Now. Widening his stride he came up swiftly now, footsteps masked by the downfall of rain and the crash of thunder. The rain made things slick. For all its benefits it added a certain level of risk, acceptable risk in the man's eyes. Close enough to touch, a swift heel found itself planted in the back of the left man's knee, Rolf's foot driven with an inhuman force sending the man crumpling to the ground as a scream escaped his throat. The other man tumbled and fell, now robbed of his crutch. Control. Another second and Rolf's foot found the crippled man's throat - scream becoming a choked gargle. The first taken care of, Rolf looked to the other... he was gone. Fuck. Looking left, then right, Rolf heard a splash from the nearby alley. I think not.

Grabbing the downed man's heel, Rolf heaved, dragging the man across the soaked pavement and into the small space between buildings before letting go. With a scowl, he advanced on the other man, now cowering against the side of a refuse container. "Please... what the fuck, man. Please! Stop!" His pleas fell on deaf ears. Raised hands did little to stop Rolf, a practiced soldier. Powerful gloved fist found itself bouncing off the man's skull, then into his jaw, blood and water mixing in the gutter. One. Two. Three. Stop. Four. Stop. That was enough. Slack jawed, bloodied, barely conscious, the man lay against the dumpster, a groan escaping his mangled flesh. Unceremonious, Rolf rifled through the mans pockets for what he knew to be there, a twitch at the edge of his lips as fingers grasped a small case inside the man's coat pockets. Good.

Crouching over the man, Rolf opened the small container and retrieved a small syringe from within. Intravenous. Interesting. Snapping the case shut, he tucked it back where he had found it, rolling up the man's sleeve to a pitiful cry of resistance. Five. Another jab with the fist silenced his victim, the needle piercing flesh in the crook of the man's arm. Standing back up he turned, returning his attention to the first man. With a quiet grunt, Rolf dragged the body over, then hoisted the man into the nearby container. The scene was staged, his works was done. To an investigator, if one even got assigned, this would look like any other mugging followed by an overdose. This work isn't glamorous, it's not the clean sniper kills you see in the holo-films, it's not soldiers dying in a heroic charge led by a valiant hero. The work is gritty, and hard, and I'm good at it.