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“Five—five thousand? You’re fucking with me, right?”
Etho looks the man up and down. Cheaply tailored suit, loafers splattered with mud, and far too much cologne that doesn’t do much to cover the fact that this guy is sweating bullets. Definitely a step below Etho’s usual clientele, unfortunately. Even if he does have the money, is five thousand even worth it to be working with someone like… this?
“That’s my price, take it or leave it.” Etho says with a shrug, voice showing the disinterest that the black mask covering his face from the nose down hides. “If you can’t afford it you’re welcome to approach someone with less… qualifications than I have.”
“No!” the man yelps, face flushed as he tightens his tie. “Five thousand is… fine. It’s fine.” He grits out, avoiding Etho’s steady gaze. He looks like he wants to argue more, but doesn’t want to cause a scene in the lovely cafe they are currently sat in. This is, after all, the reason he conducts first meetings in places like this.
Etho smiles his best customer service smile, though he knows the man can’t see it. “Perfect! So you’ll go on back to your little office and scrape together five thousand, and I’ll have those files to you in five to seven business days.”
He stands, offers his hand for the man to shake, and is glad the mask hides his disgusted expression when the man's sweat-slicked palm slides from his.
Etho gets a coffee before he leaves, and has a thought that maybe he’ll frequent this cafe more often. It is quite cute, with bright decor and delightful looking pastries on display. And if Etho tips the barista extra because he’s also quite cute– well that’s nobody’s business but his own (and if Etho feels a flash of disappointment when he realizes the barista definitely has something going with the pink-haired girl behind the counter… well that’s also nobody’s business but his own).
Etho is the kind of person others would describe as “married to his work”, and he feels it’s an accurate description of his life. He has people in his life that he’s civil with, ones he can stand to be around for a few hours once every two months (usually helped by the fact that alcohol is involved), but he wouldn’t refer to them as friends exactly. Acquaintances? Sure. Alibis? Definitely. Friends? Not a chance. Etho prefers it like that anyway.
Besides, he has hobbies. So what if they’re the exact same as his job? Etho is very good at his job.
Need evidence to disappear before a court case? Give Etho a call. Need blackmail material to get that promotion you deserve? Etho can do that too. Need hard evidence that your husband is cheating on you with his new secretary (Spoiler: he always is)? 1-800-E-T-H-O!
Need someone stabbed? Well, he doesn’t do it very often, but for the right price of “large amounts of money,” there’s always a deal to be made about these sorts of things.
So that’s Etho, a man of many talents, and (if there’s enough zeroes on the check) very few morals.
Damn that’s a good line. He’d put that on his business card if it wouldn’t get him arrested.
Oh well.
It was supposed to be a simple job.
It wasn’t anything Etho hadn’t done before, a quick get in-get out situation and boom! Payday. He gets a pile of cash, and the little gang gets their many incriminating files back and goes on to live another day of threatening “protection” money out of casino owners or whatever the fuck it is they do.
It should’ve been a job Etho could get done in his sleep.
Dogwarts should have been like every other organization Etho had ever stolen from. A big, fancy security system that looked good from the outside, but actually wasn’t any more secure than a bike lock. Something meant to intimidate, not keep people out. Groups like that were cocky, they didn’t think anyone would dare steal from them, so they didn’t worry about anyone trying.
That’s how it had always gone before, so why would Etho expect Dogwarts to be any different?
It’s dark when Etho slips through a window on the lowest level, mask covering the lower half of his face, and the hood of his jacket pulled up to hide the rest of his face from the cameras.
He drops down into a surprisingly well furnished basement, and there’s just enough dim moonlight for him to make out the room around him.
It’s not at all what he was expecting—is that a pool table?
Well, even mafia grunts need to destress sometimes, Etho supposes. He’s more of an air hockey kind of guy, though.
Right, incriminating information. Get in, get out, blackmail some organized criminals, profit. A simple four-step plan that has never gone wrong.
Etho moves toward the door, opening it and slipping up a dark staircase. He’s been watching the movement in and out of the building for days now, and he’s confident that if there are some crazy workaholics still here, they will be easy to avoid.
He creeps along the hall, head down, and opens the first door he comes across.
A plain, cubicle-looking room greets him. Computer on the desk, filing cabinet and a plant that’s probably plastic in the corner; a generic calendar with pictures of puppies hanging on the wall. It’s drab and impersonal, and it’s exactly what Etho is looking for.
It doesn’t take him long to get into the computer, even less time to find what he’s looking for and transfer it onto a flash drive. He’s been in the building maybe twenty minutes and Etho is already congratulating himself on a job well done. He exits the office—
—and finds himself staring down the business end of a gun. The hand holding it is steady, and Etho’s eyes move past it to lock onto the owner. A bright green hoodie, unkempt blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes that seem to stare right through Etho.
The man is smiling pleasantly, and his tone is mild when he speaks.
“Well now, you’re not supposed to be here, are you?”
Etho tries to take subtle, deep breaths to calm his racing heart. This isn’t the first time he’s been held at gunpoint, and it won’t be the last, not if he has anything to say about it. He just has to talk (or bribe) his way out, and then never run into these guys again!
…Fuck. Etho’s going to have to move cities again, isn’t he?
The man speaks again before Etho has a chance to, his hand still unwavering even though Etho knows from experience that handguns aren’t the lightest things ever.
“I will admit,” he says. “You’re good. Took me, oh, at least three days to notice we were being watched.”
And isn’t that a kick in the guts? This guy knew Etho was there? For days? This must be how a mouse feels as the trap slams shut on its small body milliseconds after it’s sunk its claws into the cheese. He feels like an idiot. This was supposed to be a simple job! In and out! Dogwarts looks pathetic from the outside, what the fuck did Etho get himself into?
“Why–” he starts, but is once again cut off.
“Why did I let you follow through with your plan of breaking and entering?” The man shrugs. “Let’s just say, I was curious. I wanted to see what you would do.”
“Are you going to kill me, then?” Etho manages to keep his voice from shaking. There’s no doubt in his mind that those hands have killed before, and won’t hesitate to do so again, with Etho tacked onto the end of what is most likely a long list.
“Am I?” A slow hum. “I honestly haven’t decided yet. Do you have a reason I shouldn’t? Killing you would certainly solve the security breach in your hand there.”
Etho can feel the flash drive digging into the palm of his hand as he tightens his fist, fingers sweaty and—despite his best efforts—shaking.
“Look man—” Don’t sound desperate. Desperate people aren’t worth keeping around. “You can have it back, okay? I’m sorry, this was a mistake. Just take the drive and I’ll be on my way, yeah?”
Another hum. “We could do that.” A grin. “Or I could just take it off your cooling corpse. What to do? What to do?”
Etho is scrambling for words that he can use to get himself out of this, but his mind is coming up blank. What could he possibly—
“Unless…”
Etho grabs onto the man's words with the fervor of a drowning man clutching at a life preserver.
“Unless?” He repeats.
“Dogwarts could use someone of your expertise.”
…What? Is he—?
“Are– are you offering me a job?” Etho can’t help but sound baffled. Not to mention, there is still a gun pointed at his head.
The man chuckles. “Think of it as more… paying off your debt.”
“My debt?”
“Your debt!” He nods. “You almost cost us a lot of money, my friend. Don’t think I’m not aware how much you would’ve charged for your silence.”
Etho doesn’t answer.
“So! You work for us until you’ve paid off what we would have lost, and after that you’re more than welcome to skip off into the sunset with your tail between your legs.”
There’s a beat of silence as Etho considers the offer. Not that he has much of a choice, either he leaves as an “employee” of Dogwarts, or he leaves in a bodybag. It’s a simple decision.
“...Okay. Fuck, yeah, okay then.”
“Excellent!” The gun disappears and is replaced with an empty hand. Etho shakes it cautiously.
“Well then, welcome to Dogwarts. I’m Martyn, the Second.”
Because of course he is. When did Etho start having such shitty luck? He should buy a charm. Like a rabbit’s foot, or a gold watch.
“I’m Etho.”
Martyn slings an arm around Etho’s shoulder and steers him down the hall.
“I’m going to need that flash drive, by the way.”
“R-right! Yeah, sure, no problem.” Etho drops it into his outstretched hand and watches it disappear into a bright green pocket. “So… what happens now?”
“Etho, my good man, I am so glad you asked—!”
“-tho? Etho!”
He can see Skizz’s mouth moving, but the words aren’t registering. Everything has gone quiet, but his heart is pounding in his ears and nothing has ever been louder.
“Etho, you need to breathe.”
There’s a hand on his shoulder. Skizz steers him out into the hall, away from—from—he can’t—
Skizz’s concerned face fills Etho’s vision, blocking his view of M—of the person on the floor of the med bay. They sink to the floor together, and Skizz guides Etho’s head down between his knees, squeezing his hands tightly. Someone is gasping large, heaving breaths mixed with high-pitched whimpers and—oh, it’s him.
Slowly, Skizz’s voice breaks through the roar in Etho’s ears.
“-kay, you’re okay. Just breathe, buddy. You’re okay.” he sounds like he’s barely holding it together, but he’s doing so for Etho’s sake.
Martyn—Martyn is—he’s—
“It’s okay.” Skizz’s voice cracks, and Etho feels his whole body shudder as he cuts off a choked sob. “It’s—it’s gonna—gonna be—oh god.”
Etho wishes he didn’t know what Skizz sounds like when he cries.