Try as he might, Rodrigo Ramirez could not help but be charming, to men and women, to enemies and friends. It might have made him endearing if he weren’t filled with enough bad habits to threaten negating that charm. He had also needed to build his operation from the ground up. It was no mistake that he was off everyone’s radar, because he had needed to work for everything he had ever gotten. His courtship of Delia was legendary, among his miniscule inner circle. Those he trusted were few indeed.
And with good reason. His climb had been a difficult one because he had done it all alone, and not because of his conflicting personality. His father had been a police commissioner, but he was disgraced and exiled, leaving the young Rodrigo, already a sensitive lad, expelled from the academy he had been at the top of the class in, and torn from the arms from his lover. For several years he was aimless, and when he tried to make the journey to America his raft was blown off-course, leaving him lost, afraid, and desperate. Some said his less savory instincts were developed then, and he held fast to them later as a badge of honor. When at last he came ashore, far from the usual landing places, he had forged himself a new resolve, to never again suffer the whims of misfortune. Inch by inch, favor by favor, union by union, he began to build his empire. Yet he knew to succeed he could not overplay his hand, not too soon, or bandy about his name. The timing, the circumstances, would have to be right.
Delenda would prove to be the last stepping stone that he would need. He had made two useful acquaintances during this time, men whose ambitions sprang from singular aims, and they gave him the confidence and the ability to fulfill his promise. He would make his father proud. He would have his redemption, at the cost of all those who had sought to bury him. Where his father had been a victim of corruption that ran too high for him to be anything but a scapegoat, Rodrigo built for himself a loft, where he would never be touched. He had learned from his father’s mistakes. He was strong, and his foundation was too.
Rodrigo sat alone now, in his office below The Complex. He played with a dollar coin, a habit of his, flipping it around his fingers, letting it dance. In his other hand sat a lit cigar, but he had not taken a puff for a few minutes. Periodically he’d tap it against a brimming ashtray, and action that did not in any way interrupt the coin’s recital. He made sure to hear its every movement, which bothered others but never himself. This extra effort did not in any way hinder its progress. He found it soothing, reassuring. It was a coin he had had for a long time.
It would not be long. Soon he would have everything he had ever dreamed about. He had taken measures to eliminate his chief competition, and that was all but accomplished now. His empire was waiting. He would no longer hide underground, but sit in a royal throne. The adulation he had received in the park was but a small token. Imagine, that he could receive that, by promising to those who would carry the majority of the burden for his perch things that were in no way to their benefit. All it took was his charm. Sometimes, but not often, he found it to be too easy, like his fortune was something fate had been keeping ready for him, for the right moment. He did not forget what it had taken, what had been taken away from him.
No, he was not a happy man, and he never would be. But he would settle for content. He found he could do that. He concentrated on his coin, and let the cigar burn. It was very late, but he could no longer sleep; no, he was too impatient for that. Fling fling fling sang the coin. He hummed along with it in his head, dreams no longer contained to rest. At this moment a bad dream was being put to rest, one that had been haunting his for months, hounding him. It had been his only hindrance, and happily his associates came tailor-made to take care of it. This dream was a shadow he was exposing to light, nothing more, and soon to be nothing less. It had been a dream filled with the same ambitions he had always had, the same strengths, the same weaknesses. It stood in his way because it was too close, too familiar. It was competition. And in a way, it had done itself in, just as Rodrigo had built himself for inevitable success. They had taken equal, opposite tracks.
The coin was becoming a waltz. Rodrigo felt like dancing, but Delia was asleep, along with everyone else. He had no one guarding him, and he didn’t need to be guarded. Why should he? He rested in the very lap of luxury. Soon he would be luxury itself. He would be his own loving embrace. He wouldn’t have to worry about Delia, sleeping or not. He would dance alone. It was a lovely thought. He enjoyed having those, and he supposed he’d miss them, after attaining all he had ever wanted, had ever been owed. As impossible as it seemed, he was feeling better all the time.
He took a puff of the cigar, but choked. It had spoiled. He threw it aside in disgust, vowing to never bother with such inconveniences again. Why should he need to? But it was lingering. He began to choke, to cough uncontrollably. The coin threatened to end its dance; he struggled to maintain it, and he succeeded for a time. One last, violent hack, however, and he slammed forward, his feet falling from his desk and his hands sailing to break his descent. The coin crashed to the table, spun for a time, spun right off the desk, clattering to the floor. He shook his head, adjusted himself, swept the cigar and the ashtray crashing after the coin, spreading black dust everywhere. He was too upset to care. What a frightful event. He was angry with himself for having let it happen; he swore off cigars that instant, and now couldn’t fathom why anyone had ever been enamored of them.
The black dust was settling, but a black cloud was taking its place, in Rodrigo’s mind. At least he thought it was in his mind; he hoped. He felt a presence. That could not be possible. Even without guards the compound was too well protected. It would take a genius to crack its security measures, and he had in his employ Traverse’s only genius. He sometimes wished he was, but he also saw the advantage in being in a position to lord over such men. He was stronger than they were, and that was better than smarter. Yet he was alone, alone in this moment to face this black cloud. What was it? It had to be his imagination. Yes, that was it; he was allowing the spoiled cigar to spoil his mood, to spoil his triumph over Traverse and soon so much more.
He hated to be so foolish. Yet the black cloud was here. What was it? It couldn’t be a man. That just wasn’t possible. Perhaps the winds that had been buffeting the city for much of the day, spoiling his hair when he went to the park to make his grand address, were hounding all the more harder. That could be it. Couldn’t it? It could. It could very well be. Yes, it was probably the wind. Rodrigo made a mental note to enforce the integrity of his next abode, the throne of luxury, and stooped to pick up his coin. He let it dance again, fling fling fling. He was calming himself. There was nothing to be concerned about. There was no black cloud, only an overactive imagination. He sat back and replaced his feet as well, the coin never being disrupted.
Something brushed up against him. He did not turn around, did not stop the dance of his coin. He had not heard anything. Perhaps he was imagining things. That could still be possible. What could happen to him now, on the eve of his ultimate victory? He scoffed at himself, and brought his feet down again. He calmly placed the coin down on his desk, savoring the clicking sound it made. When it came down to it, he was a man of simple pleasures, and of simple ambition. Where his life had taken him, he had followed. Maybe he helped himself along during rough patches, but that was life. Above all else, he survived.
The light in the hallway outside his office was out. No matter, he knew his way around. He could do without. There was still that uneasy feeling, that something else was there, but he was no longer letting it bother him, or so he told himself. He strode on, confidently, until he ran right into what seemed like a wall. But it couldn’t be. He was no buffoon. He would never be so careless, even in the dark. Being lost had given him a remarkable sense of direction. He reached out, his hand, the one the coin had danced in, trembling now.
It found another hand, one that quickly enveloped it, crushed it. A slow growl emerged in the darkness, and Rodrigo whimpered. "Eidolon?" he whispered. "Eidolon?" There was no reply, not for a few moments. His hand remained trapped, remained crushed. "Eidolon?"
Another hand struck him, knocking him onto his back. His hand was not released right away. Soon he was being struck, again and again. And again. And again. In the corner of his mind danced the coin. Fling fling fling. He lost consciousness, faded to black. The end.
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