Dennis Raveley - chapter 18

Several thousand miles away from the cabin where Dennis is looking over the family tree while the rest of his new-found family argues about the legitimacy of the material around him, a meeting between two men is taking place in a locked room.
The room is part of a larger steel and cement complex that rents facilities for three hundred dollars a month, a rather cheap price in times of an economic crisis. The room is walled by tones of gray, and the dimensions of the prism are hard to distinguish by anyone short of a twenty-twenty vision. An iron table is placed right center of the room, which is almost perfectly cube shaped. Two plastic seat chairs are positioned opposite each other and on these two chairs sits the two men, both are in neat, black two-piece suits, but other than that, they are vastly different in appearance.
The man sitting on the chair facing west is in his forties, lines crisscross his deeply agitated face. On closer examination, it may be interpreted that he is a family man, married only once, and has been faithful for the most part. This man, named Mr. Vernon, is trying to explain an important situation to his companion, the figure seated facing east.
Mr. Vernon's counterpart is much younger, in his late twenties, though his face suggests a depth of character wise beyond his years. This man's most prominent feature is a disengaged frown, his natural facial pose; an expression he displays at the moment. In a keen gaze, this man may be perceived to be single, intelligent, subtle, and all-knowing, all prominent features of a man who works behind the stage, wielding the strings of a manipulator.
Mr. Vernon has just finished making a point, it will now be shot down by the younger man.
'The principle you must understand, my good colleague, is that you can serve only one of two masters, one of them you must travel far and away to reach, the other, quite frankly, is already in you.' The younger man's voice is a raspy, often eerie sound, it is the voice of a chain-smoker, but all his close associates know he doesn't smoke, it is as if the maker has destined this peculiarity to the young man to mark his identity.
Mr. Vernon is about to interrupt, the younger man cuts him off.
'Now, let me finish, it's a matter of convenience to decide which master you should serve, but if you're willing to go out of your way to serve the faraway master, be my guest, I won't stop you, I can't stop you, everyone is entitled to free-will, as the master made it so, but how do you suppose your other master will think of this deed?' The younger man raised his eyebrows.
Mr. Vernon is growing increasingly uneasy, he is meddling with his fingers, perspiration clings to his forehead, he drums up the courage to speak again.
'He will protect me.' He utters. In the face of such pressure, Mr. Vernon is confronting the manipulator with diligence, though that is quickly fading away.
'He? How should we know it is a he? Is it incorrect to call he an it? And not to mention, your new master is not surprisingly absent, in this world at least.' The younger man raises his hands, as if to embrace Mr. Vernon from across the small table.
'He is omniscient.' Mr. Vernon corrects.
'It's a He again! It's always a He! Why is that? You do not know either, I see. Anyway, we go back to the present question, what will your other master think of this, shall we say, change of heart?'
'The Lord is my shepherd!' Mr. Vernon shouts hysterically.
'Ah, the famous phrase, but only in the next life, Mr. Vernon, only in the next life.' The younger man gets up from his chair to stretch and simultaneously, the only door, almost obscured by the dull, identical color to the wall opens and a young woman enters. She shares many similar features with the young man, namely the identical natural frown.
'Chelsea's here, let's crack open the briefcase.' She announces with a flat, mildly bored voice a quip lighter than the young man's raspy one, but nevertheless desaturated of any cheerfulness.
'Right on time.' The young man checks his watch and says, then to Mr. Vernon, 'stand over there where the plastic sheet is spread, close your eyes.'
'No! You're mad! You're irrational!' Mr. Vernon shouts wildly, he forgets that he is still seated in his chair.
'No, no, you've misunderstood me, I'm only bringing you closer to the end of your journey, it will save you the walking distance.' The young man produces a silenced pistol from the inside of his jacket. 'And about your entire family, you can count on me too, you won't have to wait for them, I promise.' Before Mr. Vernon can run for the exit, the young man raises the weapon and shoots him, point blank, the bullet enters Mr. Vernon's forehead in a clean shot, almost bloodless. Mr. Vernon slumps forward onto the table.
'More blood on your hands than in most people's bodies.' Isla remarks.
'Spilling blood is only good as there's a good reason behind it.' Brian replies.
'All reasons, even no reason is a good reason to people in various degrees of depravity.' Isla smiles pitifully.
'That is the flaw of human philosophy.' Brian returns the pitiful smile.
It is unaccustomed in the old times for the command of an echelon to conduct executions themselves. They leave henchmen to do the so-called 'dirty work', but it is only through expressing violence oneself that satisfaction and reason can suffice, such is the principle of the infamous Wyatt twin-command, as they are dubbed.
Brian and Isla walk out of the room briskly and closes the door behind them. The light shuts off, and for now Mr. Vernon's body rests - hopefully in peace - in a temporary morgue of a room.