The Negotiator sniffed and wiped the rain from his eyes. It was pouring; it hadn’t been when he left, but it started coming down while he was on the bus and he’d had to make a dash from the smelly little shelter when he got off. It took him a while to find the small plaza he was standing in now. This was a weird little neighbourhood at the very end of the bus route. He had been the only person left, sitting at the very back with his arms crossed, staring out the window. The set of shops must have been designed with someone very eclectic in mind, consisting of an antique lamp place, a shop that sold used books, and a small convenience store, all closed up tight for the night. Tables lined the small sidewalk, but nothing was on them. They must have predicted the rain.

Jabbing at the doorbell again, he wrapped his coat tightly around him. It was a tiny place called Fore and Aft (some reference to boats), and it had an awning just large enough to drip even more water onto his head. The lights in the front were off, save for the glow of the light inside the doorbell. The Negotiator wondered whether or not anyone was even there, or if they were just ignoring him. There was one car in the parking lot though, right behind him. It gave him a bit of hope. It was a boxy, old looking car, but in an intentional, classy kind of way. It wasn’t one of those used cars that only belonged to someone because they couldn’t afford anything better, but a well-kept vintage looking thing that the owner was clearly proud of. It was a white car, almost pure, but a few strange reddish-brown stains on the bumper kept it from looking too pristine. He didn’t think about what caused them. Either someone was there, or he could just open the unlocked door on the passenger’s side and wait in relative warmth. He pushed the doorbell rapidly and shuffled closer to the door, trying to avoid the runoff of water from above.

“Alright! Alright, I’m coming, knock it off!” Finally, someone made their presence known. He heard thumping coming from above, then getting closer; someone was coming down the stairs. Lights flickered on, locks on the door clicked and it swung open, making The Negotiator wince. It was dark out, and the lights inside were fluorescent and bright. He kept his eyes down and shuffled inside, dripping on the hardwood floor. The person who let him in shut the door behind him and locked it once more.

“That took long enough,” he grumbled, looking up at his new partner. His neat black coat dripped with rain, straight blonde hair plastered over his face. He generally didn’t mind the rain, except when he was kept waiting in it. He reveled in the warmth of the shop, full of unfinished model boats and half-empty cans of varnish. It smelled of pine.

“Yeah, well, you’re early,” said the man, busy looking him up and down. “I was still eating. Take off your shoes” He looked tired, the bags under his eyes clearly visible behind his thick square glasses. A graying goatee and a matching mess of thin hair stuck up in every direction. He pointed at a hook by the light switch, indicating that the blonde should hang up his coat.

“You could have still answered the door,” he replied. “I am The Negotiator. I trust you’re ready for our assignment?” He had a very slight accent, almost gone after years of being away from his home county, but unmistakably French. Shoes kicked off and jacket discarded, he followed the older man up the narrow stairs. He didn’t seem that intimidating or competent, dressed in a faded R.E.M. t-shirt and baggy jeans. No socks. The staircase was long and bare, no photos or posters on the walls: just white.

“Name’s Weston Grenwich. You got a real name then? I don’t deal with statistics, kid.” He took the stairs two-by-two, turning to the right at the top and disappearing into the room above.

“If you really need a name, call me Zero,” hissed The Negotiator. “I’m not a statistic. Or a kid.” He reached the top of the stairs, slipping a little on the hardwood floor in damp socks. His appearance was a sharp contrast to Weston’s, clothes freshly ironed and hair neatly combed (at least it was when he left earlier that evening). Weston stepped out of a bathroom at the end of a hall and tossed a towel at him. Zero snatched it out of the air with one hand and put it around his shoulders.

The tiny apartment was neat – almost uncomfortably so. Not a single thing was out of place in the room in which they stood. A dark wood table sat in front of a suede couch, nothing on it but a television remote and a small tree in a pot. The television was old and boxy, as if it were meant to match the car out front. Another small tree sat on top of it. A doorway by the couch led to a kitchen, everything compact and efficient. The other side of the living room led to a narrow hallway with a bathroom, and what Zero assumed was a bedroom. As he walked further into the room, he saw more of the little trees, set around the space unevenly as though there wasn’t enough room for them all. He frowned, a little unnerved by their seeming omnipresence.

“Alright then, Zero,” laughed Weston. “I’ll try and remember that. You want something to drink? Go ahead and sit down.” He sauntered into the kitchen, bare feet slapping on the hardwood. Zero perched carefully on the edge of a chair that matched the dark couch, near the kitchen door. He observed as Weston wandered around his kitchen, picking up the plate from his dinner and setting it in the sink. He was a tall man, a few inches taller than Zero. Sort of graceful, in a nit-picky, overly-organized kind of way. The blonde was almost disappointed. This man was supposed to be one of the best in the… ‘business’, for lack of a better word. Rooting around in his tiny fridge through leftovers and condiments, he seemed more like a lonely old guy who was just happy to have someone to talk to.

“Water, if you’ve got any,” he replied. Weston laughed – who doesn’t have water? – and grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filling it. Knocking the cap off an unlabeled bottle of something on the counter, he returned to the living room and flopped down on the couch. His bare feet rested on a dull spot on the lacquered table, presumably worn down by years of such misuse. When Zero reached for the water, he noticed the bony hand offering it was missing a finger; the middle one, to be exact. The other hand, holding the brown glass bottle, only had the first three fingers. Interesting. Maybe there was more to him than Zero thought.

“Go on, take it,” said Weston. “Nothing wrong with it, or anything.” He took a swig from his bottle and leaned back comfortably. Zero sipped his water and waited, saying nothing. He wasn’t here to make friends or get comfortable, they had things to do. Eyes lowered and fixed on one of the numerous little trees in pots, he didn’t bother thinking of anything to say. There was something that just seemed wrong about this little shop, and Zero didn’t like being there. He wanted to know what had happened to make this man loose his fingers, but that could wait. Several minutes passed.

“Right, not that this isn’t fun, but I think it’s about time to go,” announced Weston. “You do know what your role in all this is, right?” He sat the bottle down on the table and stood up, wiping the condensation on his hand onto his pant leg. Socks were currently his priority, and he wandered off through the apartment to find a pair. A door was opened and quickly shut behind him – presumably his room.

“Of course. I’m not certain what it is you’re supposed to be doing though.” The Negotiator drained his glass of water and placed it on the table beside the bottle. Weston came back out of his room, socks on feet, gun in hand. He took his glasses off and tossed them on the couch. Pulling his jacket off the back of the chair Zero had been sitting on, he grinned before heading back down the narrow stairs.

“Let’s just hope I don’t have to do anything.”

2 months later

“Get down!”

Weston dropped to the floor instantly. As he rolled to the side, a shot rang out in the rows of cubicles, echoing through the office building. The quiet thump against the floor and a clattering of a fallen gun were clear in the silence. A security guard laid face down on the beige plastic carpet, barely inches away. No red stain showed; the bullet must have gotten lodged in something. It was better not to think about that. There were no workers on the main floor; not many in the entire building at this late hour. The lobby they had come in through was dark and empty, abandoned for the day save for a few dim lights to guide stragglers out the front doors. Leon Brindle was the only person they were to deal with - and he had most certainly been dealt with. The door to his office was closed now. They’d find him later. He must have tipped off security somehow, which threw a wrench into what should have been a smooth operation.

“Fuck,” muttered Weston. “Thanks, kid.” He stood up and looked over the body. That brought the night’s count up to two, which was unfortunate, but unavoidable. When it came to choosing his own life over some unnamed security guard’s, West didn’t hesitate to make a decision. Until someone came and turned this man over, there would be no signs of murder, and by then they’d be long gone. He still frowned. The man’s hand hadn’t even reached his gun before he fell, yet he had heard one hit the ground.

“He was just doing his job...” Weston turned around and sighed. Zero stared back at him with wide, frightened eyes. Now? Now was the time he chose to feel remorse? The gun that had fallen to the ground was Weston’s own, dropped by Zero in a moment of shock. The young man stared at him like a lost child; worried and hopeless, arms limp by his sides.

“So were you. Come on, we gotta go.” What was he so freaked out about? They had shot plenty of people who were ‘just doing their jobs’ in the time they had known each other. Death wasn’t exactly a new concept to either of them by this point and Weston was completely unphased. This man was just another in a long line of people unfortunate enough to be stuck between him and his next paycheque.

“I killed him.” Zero gazed listlessly at the unmoving body, apparently frozen in place. Only his hands moved, trembling. “Grenwich, he's dead.” Weston understood then, and he was angry. They hadn't killed people: he had. The company had sent him some kid who had no kills on record? He wasn’t a therapist, for fuck’s sake, he didn’t have time to deal with this. He made it over to where Zero was standing in two strides, picking his gun up off the floor and sticking it in his belt. Grabbing his shoulders with bloody hands, he shook the younger man gently.

“He was gonna kill me,” he said hurriedly, looking over his shoulder as he spoke. “You didn’t have a choice, and you’re gonna have to deal with this later. There’s gotta be more guards coming.” Zero’s eyes widened even further when he was grabbed. Jerking away like he’d been shocked, he stumbled backwards and almost tripped.

“I shot him in the face, Grenwich!” Zero exclaimed. “I’ve never even held a gun before, that’s your job! How are you so calm?” He breathed heavily, backed up against a plywood cubicle wall like some sort of frightened animal. Although the reaction was to be expected from someone who had just made their first kill on the job, Weston hadn’t anticipated it from Zero. The Negotiator, cool and collected, seemingly showing no problem with brutally maiming a person on any other given day, was having a mental breakdown. Weston sympathized, but was more preoccupied with not getting shot by security than comforting his shaken coworker. Footsteps sounded from the stairs, smart black shoes clicking on marble steps.

“I am calm because this is what I do,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “This is not the fucking time, Negotiator! Have your emotional breakdown after we get out, or I’m gonna fucking shoot you!” The use of the title had the desired effect, snapping Zero out of his panic. They were there because the company needed them to be, and the company didn’t need them to get caught. He took a deep breath. The old man was right, for once. This could be dealt with later, providing they didn’t end up dead themselves. He nodded sharply at the glowing red exit sign in the corner and they sprinted out of the room, not caring that they set off one more alarm.

---

“They’re all just nameless faces, kid.” Weston interrupted the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers and pattering of the rain. Driving with one hand on the wheel, the other held a lit joint that filled the car with the cloyingly sweet smell of flowers. He had offered to drive Zero back to Norsat, saying that it would be a pain in the ass if he had to find a new partner because his current one got hit by lightening. It was a pretty bad cover story for his genuine concern, but the younger man accepted anyway. “You don’t know ‘em, they’ll never know you. If you do it enough, you’ll get over it.”

Zero slumped in his seat, staring lifelessly out the window. The blood on his hands mixed with the rain and dripped, diluted, onto the cloth seat of the car. He looked out at streetlights and identical suburbanite houses and normal people with their umbrellas, struggling to get to the corner store in the storm to buy processed white bread. They would get back home and throw the bread on the counter, complain about the weather as if it should stop at their convenience. They would head off to bed with only trivial matters worrying them, like report cards and business meetings. All those people were trapped in their own little worlds with no real problems, yet still able to make their troubles out to be the only ones that ever mattered; and he envied them.

“I don’t want to.”