The Brewing Storm

The Deal

I gulp before following him into the dimly lit room. A million thoughts race through my mind. What if he knows? He's going to kill me, or maybe maim me until he gets the information he wants. But I don't know anything! Oh no, what if he throws me out a window? He'd have to make one first, that would give me time to escape.

Sure I have convinced myself that he isn't a mob boss or an FBI agent, but that doesn't mean he isn't something else, something more dangerous. 

As soon as I step into the room the door magically closes behind me. I flinch at the sound cutting through the palpable silence in the room. I turn and glare at it before looking around the room. 

Apparently this man doesn't know what the phrase "interior design" means, because the unfortunate absence of furniture carries over to this room as well.

His office is also lacking in the window department, much to my disappointment. There is a desk in the center of the room, and not much else. On the desk is a typewriter - I kid you not, a typewriter - and a lamp. I can't see anything else from here but I assume there are things in the cabinets. There is a large chair behind the desk which I would be able to see a lot clearer if there was not a shadowy figure standing in front of it, and a very small chair facing the desk.

When I finally finish looking at my surroundings, I look up at him. I almost flinch in surprise at the intense look he's giving me. 

"If you're quite finished, it's about time we get started." He says it very impatiently, as if we have this meeting planned and I decided to stop for donuts beforehand. Sure it made me late, but boy those delicious rings of dough were worth it. Or they would have been, if that was what is happening, but seeing as I'm here without warning I'm just confused. 

Cautiously I sit down, not knowing what to expect from this obviously crazy person. Obviously hot too. I mentally tell my inner voice to shut it and focus on said totally-not attractive-in-any-way man. 

Once I'm sufficiently situated, Ambrose speaks, "Normally I wouldn't trust the word of a stranger who burst into my office uninvited, but Elseworth happens to be a very terrible liar. And I-"

"-Don't tolerate liars." I mutter, finishing his sentence. He may be powerful, but it doesn't excuse him from being a hypocrite. 

He glared at me in response before continuing, "-don't tolerate liars. I also don't tolerate mumblers or interrupters as you'll soon learn. I'll overlook it for the moment. So, Mr...."

"Linton," I say, "Victor Linton." The name comes out of nowhere and I marvel at my fine improv skills.

"Mr. Linton. Why are you here? I'm a very busy man, and I don't have time for useless transactions."

Why am I here? It was something important, surely. Yet I really can't remember.

He takes my dumbfound staring as an answer, and clears his throat before continuing, "Right, well then. It doesn't matter now anyway."

Wait, I'm beginning to remember. Wasn't I here for something like an evil plan? A plan for Revenge? Yes! Revenge!

"You've proven that you are up to the task and require sufficient talents." He continues, unaware of my inner monologue.

Talents? What? What revenge did I have planned? I can't remember. But then I see the slim piece of metal, hiding just behind the ancient typewriter. My eyes widen with realization and fury.

"The job is yours, Mr. Lin-"

"Phone!" I shout, leaping to my feet. Then his words sink in, and all objections die on my tongue. "What?"