Chapter Text
Abolish
Mr Veylocke’s job is unconventional, especially for someone of his status. A status which massively benefits his work as a paid killer, as it allows him to be invited to the most coveted party of the year as a legitimate guest, instead of having to resort to his usual disguise as a butler.
He hates wearing those goddam ties.
Abolish has enough experience (and money, technically, if everything goes to shit) to cover his back under suspicious circumstances, but playing the socialite makes him itch more than scratchy servants’ uniforms that at least give him some semblance of cover.
He doesn’t want to ‘play God’. Abolish is not the judge, jury, or executioner of anyone’s moral failings. He simply offers a choice: comply, and aid the Organisation in their goal of preventing further damage, or let him spare you the trouble.
This isn’t ‘perpetuating the cycle of violence’, it just so happens that the latter means he has to do less paperwork. If they didn’t want him to take someone down, why give him the incentive?
The task is simple: get in, do what he has to do, and do it cleanly. No in-and-out necessary, just stick with the crowd.
The car slows down.
Pulling up to the infamous Goldsmith residence makes it clear why architectural magazines keep favourites. Spiky battlements plead to the heavens like outstretched claws; dark smudges of spinning dancers are dripped in red through the rich stained-glass windows that mark the halls. Darkness settles on Abolish’s shoulders as he’s led inside the shrouded imitation of a castle, the corridors lit with sticks of molten wax in Victorian lantern cages. The air of mystery finds him in his element, weaving through the crowd with polite greetings returned with varying degrees of surprised recognition. Only a few curious eyes turn his way and he lets out a quiet breath, his muscles relaxing as he scans the visible attendees, noting the guards stationed in nondescript black as he enters where everyone is congregated.
Staff members aside, almost everyone in this room is a criminal.
Whatever. Abolish has his target. The rest will be dealt with if and when necessary.
He casts an eye around, paying little attention to the dark and decadent decor that crowds the walls. With no sighting of the target, his gaze falls on the closest thing— his doctor, and in more ways than one, if the rumours are to be believed.
A former war criminal, better suited to the clamour of violence than the blanket silence of a clinic. Innocent in Owen’s mass murder according to his sources, only trying to help the target with a chronic pain medicine can’t seem to fix.
Owen’s spree has been ruled a ‘crime of passion’, since he wasn’t overtly malicious before the jealous murder of his husband.
As he comes from a common background, the orphaned Goldsmith never paid him much attention as a peer. He wasn’t invited to events before he inherited Louis’ money. Ergo, it’s more likely the circumstances of his death will be briefly and performatively mourned and covered up instead of investigated deeper.
Analysis: Stubbornly fixated on revenge. Shows little regard for his own well-being and does not intend to stop until his grief is satisfied.
They both know it never will be.
Out of hearing range, Legundo clasps the hands of a beautiful redheaded woman with a gratified smile she returns in kind, and Abolish quickly looks away.
It’s hard to understand why an ‘unstable and highly dangerous individual’ would be so drawn to the straight-backed soldier, he thinks, continuing on through the swarm towards the large central fountain. Wine won’t do much to fill the hollow weight in his chest, but he’s less likely to be interrupted lurking in the corner if he’s holding a drink.
The night drags on with no sight of the target, so it’s a good thing that he’s used to being innocuous. Some of the other guests are amusing, and he listens with one ear to a satirical discussion lead by a vivid younger gentleman with a shock of blonde hair nearby. He seems to be earnestly trying to convince a man with an anxious smile that the diamonds of his cufflinks used to be made of coal. It’s not very clear how well it’s going, as his conversation partner agrees with every contradicting statement he makes. Growing bored of the pandering, the troublemaker innocently asks what he thinks of the party, and the man twitches like a hare.
“Well, it’s lovely! Scott always puts on a great— I mean, I wasn’t there last year of course, but he has such good style, wouldn’t you agree?” He smirks self-satisfiedly, fiddling with his collar. Another observer would be likely to miss the slight shake to his hands, look past the subtle gold-threading throughout his clothes, marking him as one of theirs.
The Goldsmiths have been known to bring a couple of middle- to lower-class people to their fancy events to boost their egos and encourage scandals they can use to tear down their valued guests. No regard is shown to the lives they ruin in the wake of their amusement, and it seems the young heir is no different; this is the second bright-eyed boy in gilded stitching Abolish has seen, the other parading on Scott’s arm like a monkey, jumping at the chance to appease him.
The man with yellow hair scrunches his nose, watching with unguarded distaste as the host clamps a soft manicured hand on Legundo’s shoulder.
“I don’t like it,” he says bluntly, unconsciously echoing Abolish’s own thoughts. He remains a shadow behind them— talking is his least favourite part of maintaining a cover, but they don’t tend to notice if you repeat their own words back at them. “Come on, you have better sense than that, Jack.”
Jack (?) stiffens and messily throws back his drink with a grin, red dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He dabs it away with a bundle of tissue that gets stuffed back in his waistcoat pocket.
“Have a nice night, now,” he says mockingly. “You don’t…”
…Something something. The rest of what he says gets blocked out as Abolish’s attention is swiftly pulled away, locking onto a dark head that dips into view to whisper to the doctor. Scott’s smile sharpens at his disregard for courtesy.
If Abolish weren’t on a job he’d spare a glance to see the hare— to see Jack take an involuntary step backwards. As it is, he sips from a near-empty glass, never looking away from the unfolding scene. That’s what he’s here to do. That’s his job.
It doesn’t pay to get invested in these people’s lives.
Legundo’s brow draws in concern, but Owen pulls away, barely seeming to excuse himself from the conversation as he moves swiftly towards the garden.
He lowers his drink. Time to mobilise.