The Parlay

The elevator door opened. Out stepped a lithe athletic man riding out the tail end of his physical prime on an elevator car with the dead bodies of three security guards. As he exited the car, his boots squeaked, smearing crimson footprints on the white marble floor.

The penthouse.

The home stretch.

Ruben Trueblood looked around. Considered his surroundings.

The penthouse.

Crystal clear floor to ceiling windows peering down on the city below. Overstuffed leather furniture; each piece costing more than his car. Works of art lining the sterile white walls; each piece costing God knows how much. More money than he would ever make.

As he walked through the foyer, he considered this monument to self-aggrandizement. This fuck you to anyone still foolish enough to work for a living. Honestly.

Ruben stopped short. Looked down at his blood splattered boots. A subconscious response to a deep-seated feeling that he did not belong here. He resented that feeling.

He pressed on, venturing further into the penthouse interior, marveling at the difference between this opulent abode and his own modest home.

Home.

A modest home. But all they could afford. Until they couldn’t.

The trouble started when his brother died. An accident they said. But Ruben knew better. The word accident was not in his brother’s vocabulary. But the crash had to be an accident. Or insurance would not pay out.

Grief had eaten Ruben alive. And doubt. His brother was his model of stability, of certainty. If his brother couldn’t succeed in this life, what hope did he have?

Grief and doubt begat drinking. Heavy drinking. From there, the cliff came quick.

Laid off from his job. Struggling to make ends meet, he retreated inward. Started gambling. Sports at first. Just needed one big payday and everything would turn around. But that never came. Then his gambles became bigger, riskier. Before he knew what had happened, the bank had stolen their home. And all he had left in life was some empty drawers, missing suitcases and a handwritten note.

Ruben forced his focus back to the task at hand. Tugged at the tactical rig secured to his chest. An ancient artifact from the Alaskan War of 2049. Useless against modern weapons but still provided some measure of comfort, of reassurance.

He checked his weapon. Not an artifact. But not exactly bleeding edge. Hadn’t mattered so far though.

Ruben had fallen back into the comforting cocoon developed by extensive training from his misspent youth. His commanding officer’s words echoed in his head.

Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.

Make what you have work.

Even after all these years, Ruben still knew how to work.

The six rounds left in his pistol would do just fine.

Suddenly, from unseen speakers, eerily calm instrumental music began to play. Ruben snapped to attention, scanning for targets down the sight of his pistol.

No targets.

But he was definitely not alone.

Ruben blinked twice, engaging the thermal vision mode of the ocular implant nestled in his left orbital socket. A parting gift from a mandatory vacation to a sandy shitbox many years ago.

He scanned in front of him.

No heat signatures.

“Hello there. Did you have any trouble getting in?” an unseen voice asked.

Ruben jerked his head to the right. Towards the sound of the voice.

“No trouble to speak of,” Ruben replied, hoping to project cool detachment despite a dramatic spike in adrenaline.

The man had not shown up on his thermal scan.

And he seemed neither concerned nor surprised to be greeting an armed visitor tracking bloody footprints all over his marble floor.

The man walked closer. Dressed all in white linen, with his bronzed complexion and the expertly groomed stubble peppering his jawline, the man looked like he had just hopped off his helicopter after a month floating around the Mediterranean on his super yacht.

“Can I interest you in a drink?” the man asked, not waiting for a response, or breaking stride, as he walked across the living room to a well-appointed bar area.

Ruben scanned his surroundings for any surprises. Nothing obvious. He slowly walked over to the bar, surreptitiously securing his pistol to the magnetic plate on the back of his tactical rig, near the base of his spine, and pulled up a stool.

The man walked behind the bar and busied himself with the task of filling two glasses with an amber hued liquor. Ruben sat on the stool, watching the man’s movements intently. The man pushed one glass across the counter to Ruben. Then he took the other one for himself.

When Ruben made no effort to accept the drink, the man clinked his glass on its unclaimed counterpart sitting unclaimed on the bar.

“Cheers,” he said jovially.

Ruben never took his eyes off the man.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

“I had hoped you would make it this far. But I know you’ve had a busy schedule the last few days,” the man replied.

“What do you know about my busy schedule?”

“Enough. And I must say, you have acquitted yourself spectacularly.”

Ruben covertly reached for his pistol secured at the small of his back. Felt his hand on the grip. Eased the weapon from its resting place. Let the pistol fall to his side.

“Then you know why I’m here.”

The man smiled.

“I know why I wanted you to be here.”

Ruben snapped his arm upward, leveling the barrel at the man.

But he couldn’t pull the trigger.

The man reached out. Gently removed the pistol from Ruben’s hand. Laid the weapon on the counter. Then he guided the hand to the counter next to the firearm. Ruben lunged, attempting to grab the pistol with his left arm. But the man was too fast. Swiped his hand, sending the weapon sliding down the counter.

Out of reach.

His eyes on the sliding weapon, Ruben failed to notice the man retrieve a knife from beneath the counter. Then before Ruben could react to defend himself, the man, with a practiced hand, sliced from Ruben’s right elbow to his wrist, revealing a weave of titanium carbide cables where an arm’s musculature would normally have been.

“It’s been a long while since I’ve seen one of these. I actually had to go into the archives to find the patch notes in anticipation of your visit.”

Ruben glared at the man but remained silent.

“You seem to have a number of questions. I suppose anyone, finding themselves where you do now, would. Where to start?” the man mused.

“Why don’t you start with why someone would want to kill you? I mean, I’m starting to see the appeal of murdering you, but why don’t you tell me?”

The man laughed.

“A sense of humor. To the end. How admirable.”

“You think this is the end?” Ruben snarled defiantly.

“I know it is.”

“Then there would be no harm in telling me what the hell is going on, would there?”

“Too true,” the man replied, still excessively polite.

“So why does someone want to kill you?”

“I suppose there are many people, with many reasons, that want me dead. But none of them brought you here.”

“Someone clearly did want me here.”

“Yes. I did.”

Ruben tried, and failed, to mask his shock.

“Why?”

“The weakness of man.”

“I’ll show you just how weak I am,” Ruben growled as his anger overrode his uneasiness.

“Given the opportunity, I’m sure you would prove quite formidable. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then why don’t you hurry up and tell me.”

The man ignored Ruben’s impatience.

“I’ve made my fortune investing in the weakness of man. The things he buys but can’t afford. The desperate actions he takes to satisfy these debts.”

The man tapped the immobile arm resting on the counter.

“And the failings of the human form itself.”

The man took a sip of his drink before wandering into the living area, drink in hand.

“Today you killed three people. Had every intention of killing me. And in spite of that fact, you probably see yourself as the hero of this story. Complete your quest. Earn your prize. Redeem yourself in the eyes of your wife and child. Live happily ever after. Does that sound accurate?”

Ruben glared but remained silent.

“But what was taken from you was never yours. Not really. And the truth of your situation is you murdered three strangers for money. That’s no hero.”

“You think you know me?”

“I do. Pretty much everything worth knowing. That’s why I picked you.”

“The parlay. You created the parlay?”

“Parlay. What a silly way to describe a series of contract killings. But the nature of gambling does invite a certain disassociation from the underlying activity, doesn’t it?”

The man sipped his drink.

“Gambling on yourself. Could there be anything more noble? You stack wager upon wager. Your potential payday skyrockets until you finally arrive at the number. What you need to reclaim your over-leveraged existence. Success defined as a return to zero. And all you have to do is win.  And win you have. Filled with an overwhelming desire, an all-consuming need to complete your tasks. No matter the cost. No matter the perils. Every test needs a subject and you have more than fulfilled your role.”

“A test of what?”

“Human nature. Specifically, how much could be accomplished by inserting a desperate person into a miasma of gambling, violence and good old-fashioned greed.”

Ruben glared.

“The men you killed today were not strangers to me.”

The man finished his drink. Set the glass on a nearby table. And continued.

“The ostentatious little peacock…”

Ruben no longer heard the man’s word. Lost in thought, he relieved the first leg of the parlay in startingly vivid flashes.

Snuck up on a man. Walking his dog around the block. Plunged a knife into his chest, piercing his heart. Took his wallet. Left the dog whining, pawing at his owner’s jacket as he laid face down on the sidewalk.

“… his gambling website appealed to me. I offered to buy him out. But he refused. So I created my own. And… well you know the rest of his story.”

Ruben, never happy to play the pawn, lunged at the man. Grabbed him by the neck. Extended his left arm until the man’s feet dangled six inches above the ground. And squeezed. The man, gasping for breath, tapped the tip of his pointer finger with the tip of his thumb. Ruben’s right leg buckled. He lost his grip on the man’s neck and fell to the ground. The man smoothed his shirt. Regained his composure. Mostly.

“Please don’t interrupt again. Where was I? Oh yes. The do-gooder…”

A kindly looking older man in a suit. Getting off an elevator in a parking garage beneath his apartment. Never made it out of the car. As the doors opened, Ruben fired three times. Left the man bleeding to death in the elevator.

“… unhappy with the lending policies I put forth. He actually tried to get me removed from the board of directors at the bank. I rather enjoy that position.”

“And the third guy? With the security detail? How did he offend you? Did he steal your parking spot?” Ruben growled with desperate defiance.

The man glared at him.

“No, the third gentleman you murdered today did something far worse. He worked for the Taiwanese manufacturing firm that builds augmentations just like the ones you possess. He discovered the backdoor I installed in the firmware I developed for the augmentations.”

The man tapped the tips of his fingers together again. Twice.

Ruben’s right leg began rotating, contorting into a very unnatural, very painful position. His bloodcurdling shrieking brought a small, serpentine smile back to the man’s face.

“You can see why that bit of extraneous code could not become public knowledge.”

The man tapped the tips of his fingers together once again. The rotation, and the pain, stopped. Ruben sighed with relief. But his reprieve would be short-lived.

“So where does that leave us?” Ruben gasped as he asked a question to which he already knew the answer.

“You still don’t see it? I guess I need to spell it out for you. Your life was forever altered when an IED shredded your leg, ripped off your arm and pierced your eye. Though you were rebuilt with cutting edge technology, you were adrift. You took to drinking after your brother’s death. Started gambling. Lost everything. Your house. Your wife. Your kid. I guess today you finally had enough.”

Keep talking, asshole.

“And how do you plan to explain me showing up at your home?” Ruben needled.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I left out that part. Even though this is your end, the final scene won’t happen here.”

A door opened somewhere behind the man. A security guard, with a hypodermic needle in hand, entered the room.

“One last piece of business before I leave.”

The man tapped his fingertips three times. Ruben’s left eye went dark.

“It’s a pity you have a last-gen model of the ocular implant. The remote streaming functionality would have made your recording of my confession a lot more useful.”

The man turned to leave, and the security guard started to approach Ruben. Until the man stopped suddenly. Turned to Ruben.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this platitude expressed many times, but today, as I say it, you should not doubt my sincerity. Thank you for your service,” the man, a wicked smile forming on his face as he concluded.

The man left the room. Left Ruben to his fate. The security guard drew near. Brought the needle to bear.

But Ruben was not prepared to lay down and die. Not yet. Mustering what little remained of his strength, Ruben pulled a tactical knife from its sheath on his left leg and plunged the blade into the suddenly-too-close security guard’s trachea.

As the security guard struggled to staunch the bleeding, Ruben set to work. Utilizing his inert right arm as a makeshift hammer, he slammed its metal frame into his crooked, twisted right leg. After a few mighty blows, Ruben succeeded in straightening the leg enough that he could stand. Which he did. Awkwardly.

With all his weight on his left leg, his organic leg, Ruben hobbled towards the elevator. In the distance, he could hear the faint sound of fast approaching police sirens.

He pushed the call button and the doors opened.