Chapter Text
By the time Charles Archer, CEO, turned around to rearm the expensive security system in his penthouse apartment, he was dead. Of course, he didn’t know that yet.
But the figure waiting for him in the shadows did.
The man dressed head to toe in black waited patiently, watching as Archer dumped the contents of his pockets on the entryway table, missing the basket that waited there for him. He toed off pristine leather shoes that hadn’t ever seen day’s hard work, leaving them beside the shoe rack. He discarded his briefcase next to the shoes and ambled further into the apartment, loosening his tie as he went.
“Alice, babes, what’s for dinner?” he called, beelining for the luxurious couch in the living room. Had he taken the time to put his briefcase away, he might’ve seen the figure in black waiting in his office. Had he taken the time to look for his girlfriend, he might’ve noticed that all the shutters were drawn, keeping the penthouse suite and its inhabitants hidden from the outside world.
“Grab me a drink, would you?”
Archer tossed his tie over the back of the couch, his suit jacket following. He flicked the television on, flipping through channels as he kicked his feet up on the polished coffee table.
“You wouldn’t believe what Arnett told me today,” he continued, voice echoing through the apartment. “Apparently, some people aren’t content with their pay anymore. He said they’re talking about going on strike if they don’t get better wages. Can you believe that? I told him to fire all the lower level management staff. That’ll teach ‘em. Alice? Are you listening?”
Before Archer could turn around to look towards the kitchen, a gloved hand reached over his shoulder and delivered a short glass, filled with a finger of amber colored whiskey and a few ice cubes.
“Ah, finally. What’s with the gloves? Anyway, he said that we can’t do that - something about labor laws or some bullshit. That it’d be ‘retaliation’.” He made air quotes around the last word, gesturing with his drink and rolling his eyes. “So I told him to do it, or he could join the list of people to be replaced.” Archer paused, taking a sip of the whiskey. He grimaced a bit. “Ugh. Use the good ice next time, babes. The shit from the dispenser ruins it, you know that. I can’t believe this is the second time this year they’ll have to fill these spots.”
“ You won’t be filling anything, actually.”
The male voice startled Archer so much that he nearly sloshed the expensive alcohol on his suit trousers. He struggled to his feet, fighting against the deep sofa. When he managed to get up and turned around, his heart felt like it was in his stomach.
A man stood behind the sofa, staring evenly back at him. His clothes were black and tight, and he had a mask pulled up over his nose, obscuring his face. Only his eyes were visible: blue, unwavering, cold. A shock of grey hair poked out from his hood. He wore black gloves, held carefully in front of him, at his waist. In those gloved hands was a gun, pointed at the ground.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my apartment?” Archer spluttered, taking a lurching step back, knocking the backs of his calves against the coffee table. “Where’s Alice?”
“So many questions,” the man purred, unmoving. “Your girlfriend is fine, though I’m sure she’d love to know that you didn’t even look for her when you got home. What if I had her tied up somewhere, hm? You would’ve left her there for hours, I bet.”
“I- that’s not true, I- what did you do with her?!”
The man’s eyes crinkled, as if he was smiling beneath the mask. “She isn’t the one you should be worried about, Charles. Besides, there’s no need for the worried partner act. You and I - and Alice, for that matter - all know it’s just to save face.”
“Who are you?” Archer demanded again. His hand was shaking around the whiskey glass he still held, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the man in black to set it down.
“Does it matter? I think you know what I’m here for.”
Archer’s eyes flickered back down to the gun, and the man smiled again.
“Yes, good job Charles. What a smart boy.”
In a flash, the gun was up and trained on Archer’s face. He didn’t know anything about guns, outside of how to shoot them - years of hunting trips had taught him that much. However, Archer could tell that this handgun was abnormally long, the barrel seeming to have two parts, skinnier at the second half. He had seen enough action movies to conclude that that was a silencer screwed onto the gun.
“Before we get to the good stuff, I have a question for you ,” the man continued. “It would do you good to answer truthfully, and I’ll know if you lie. What do you know about Burgess, Pennsylvania?”
“What? N-nothing, I’ve never heard of it. You’ve got the wrong guy!”
The gunman laughed. “No, trust me, I’m still here for you. Luckily, I believe you. Unluckily, it doesn’t change anything.”
“L-look,” Archer stammered, his hands coming up in a placating gesture, palms out, one hand still around the glass. “There’s a safe in the office. The combination is written down in a password book on the desk - 032561. Take whatever you want, just don’t-”
“ Take the money, take the jewels, just don’t hurt me ,” the man finished in a mocking voice. “God, you couldn’t even try to be original? And really, Charles, your own birthday as the combination? How conceited can you be ?”
“How do you know that that’s my birthday?”
Archer was a well known man in the city: as the CEO of a large distributor of medical equipment, his company provided a lot of local jobs. It wouldn’t be difficult to find his apartment, he thought: that was why he had a top of the line security system. And it was reasonable to assume that he had valuables in his home - it wasn’t outlandish at all for him to be the victim of a robbery.
But, the look on the man in black’s face planted that seed of doubt, that first thought that maybe this man was something more than just a robber.
“I know a lot more than your birthday, Charles. I know that you have a hard time remembering things that don’t have something to do with you, so every code you use is the same: March 25th, 1961. Your safes, your computer passcode, your alarm system…” The man began moving, taking even steps to the right, never letting the gun waver. Archer took a few stumbling steps back, away from the advancing gunman. He let the whiskey glass drop, spilling across the plush rug. “I know that your company has reported record profits every quarter for the past four years. I know that the people on the ground, the ones that make this company run, haven’t made a dollar more than minimum wage that whole time. I know that you’ve taken a vacation abroad every Christmas, every Memorial Day, every Labor Day, every chance you’ve gotten ever since daddy handed the company over.”
The man had advanced around the couch now, backing Archer up far enough that brick from the fireplace took the place of rug beneath his feet.
“I know things about you that even you don’t know. I know that your last girlfriend used to argue with you about the way you ran your company, so you dumped her and tried to sue her for defamation when she posted about it on Twitter. I know that she and Alice have been chatting about you for the past three months. I know that they had a lovely conversation with a few of your warehouse managers a couple weeks ago. I know that they were able to pool together a few grand to get someone to take care of their mutual problem.”
Archer’s back was pressed against the fireplace now, having officially run out of room. He dug his fingers into the brick, as if he could tunnel his way out.
“You’re lying,” he said weakly. He felt like he was going cross-eyed trying to keep the end of the silenced handgun in his sight, only a foot or two from his face now.
“What would I gain from lying right now, Charles?” the man laughed. “It’s so fun to see you squirm. Go ahead, try to defend yourself. Tell me how good of a man you are.”
“I- I… what are they paying you to do this? A few grand? I can beat it. Cash, right now,” he stammered, wracking his brain.
“Oh, that’s cute.”
“How much?” he demanded. “There’s… there’s at least ten grand in the safe. There’s no way they could be paying you more than that.”
“Oh, no, I mean that it’s cute that you think I’m doing this for the money.”
Archer’s blood ran cold. The gunman smiled again.
“I’d do this for free,” he continued. One gloved finger moved from its place along the side of the gun to rest gently on the trigger. “I’d be lying if I said everyone sends their regards.”
The last thing Charles Archer, CEO, saw was a pair of blue eyes, crinkling in a hidden smile, one finger squeezing the trigger.
-
Jack was moving before the body hit the ground. The blood spray was still a shock, even after years in this profession. It took everything in him to not wipe off his face immediately, but he still recoiled in disgust. Jack had a process to stick to. An important one.
The first thing he did was click the safety on his gun - a .22, unremarkable in every way. He pulled a rag from his back pocket and carefully wiped the blood splatter off the gun, then reholstered it. Next, he found the shell casing, tucking the hot metal into his pocket.
The hole dead center in Charles Archer’s forehead was proof enough, but Jack took the time to crouch beside his body and carefully feel for a pulse, two gloved fingers against his neck. He waited a few moments - when no beats came, Jack moved on.
He carefully looked at the ground at his feet, checking the blood spray. It had coated his boots, so, still crouched beside the dead body, Jack untied them and stepped out, sock-clad feet touching down on the clean rug. He collected the boots with one hand, making sure no blood dripped off of them, and retreated to the office.
There, his bag waited. Still holding the boots, he pulled out the piece of plastic he kept in the side pocket. He spread it out as best he could on the carpet, finally setting the boots down. On the plastic, he stripped the rest of his bloodied outer layers off, letting them fall to the plastic, scrubbing the blood from his face with their clean insides. He replaced them with the new set of clothes in his bag: not all black this time, but a blue hoodie and a pair of jeans, along with a disposable facemask, winter gloves, and a pair of Vans. A completely normal outfit for a 26 year old: unremarkable in every way.
The bloodied clothes got wrapped in the sheet of plastic and carefully stowed away back in his bag. The gun and holster went in a different, hidden pocket. From that same pocket, he pulled another of the same gun and a clean holster, fastening them at his hip beneath the hoodie.
Jack zipped the bag, making sure no blood had made its way to the outside of the canvas or onto the carpet. Satisfied, Jack shrugged the bag on, tightening the straps. He grabbed a tissue from the desk in the office and carefully wiped off the door-handle, the only thing in the room he had touched. Out in the kitchen, he did the same thing for the bottle of whiskey.
It was an abundance of caution: Jack had been wearing gloves, but it was that meticulous attention to detail that had kept him going for so long.
With barely a glance for the cooling body by the fireplace, Jack studied the apartment once more, making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. At the alarm system, he took a moment to erase the history before rearming it, pushing buttons with gloved hands through the tissue. Finally, he slipped out the door and pressed the lock button on the keypad door lock, sealing the greedy CEO in.
There were no cameras in the apartment building: Charles Archer had a penchant for bringing women who were not his girlfriend home and had ordered all cameras removed several years ago. Still, Jack made sure to move casually, steadily, like he belonged there. He took the stairs down, popping out in the parking garage without seeing another face.
An image of his route bloomed across his mind like a map unfurling. Out through the eastern entrance, across the street. Up one block, then through the alleyway that everyone cut through to get to the next street over. Another two blocks north would put him at a bus stop, where a bus would be arriving in - he checked his watch carefully - seventeen minutes to take him to the main bus station, where he’d change clothes again, then hop on another bus, then another, before finally going home.
Jack set his teeth, tightening his backpack straps again. This was the hard part.
He set out into the dusk, leaving the apartment building behind.
-
“Alright, I’m heading out. Don’t forget to lock up behind yourself.”
“When have I ever?”
“No need to be cocky, you toothpick.”
“ Goodnight , Gobber.”
The older man grumbled as he ambled out of the main shop, stopping in the office to don his coat. Hiccup remained at his station, head bent intently over the project on his table. He continued working, filing carefully until he heard the front door slam and lock, signaling that the shop’s owner - and Hiccup’s boss - Gobber had officially left for the night. Hiccup was the only one left in the shop: the other guys had wives and kids and girlfriends to go home to and had left as soon as the clock hit 5. Gobber had stuck around doing paperwork and pestering Hiccup for another half hour before he too took his leave.
As the slam of the door echoed through the shop, Hiccup sighed and straightened on his stool, letting the metal file clatter to the countertop. He carefully inspected the seam he had been working on, running one finger over the filed ends and looking for burrs. When he found none and deemed the work acceptable, he placed the metal in the pile of similarly shaped pieces at the end of his bench and put the file away.
With a big yawn, Hiccup arched his back and stretched his arms above his head. At this rate, his posture would be as bad as Mildew by the time he was thirty. If he concentrated, Hiccup could hear his dad griping at him from beyond the grave, nagging him in that heavy accent to do something more with his life than working in a metal shop.
What Hiccup wouldn’t give to hear those complaints again.
Before he could spiral, Hiccup shrugged off his gloves and work apron, leaving them crumpled at his bench. He’d deal with the shavings and putting the rest of his tools away tomorrow. It wasn’t like anyone would beat him to the shop in the morning anyway.
He did take the time to make sure Gobber had locked the front door and shut off the lights. Once that was done, he slung his coat over one arm and his bag over the other and headed out the back door, to the alleyway that ran behind their shop. He clicked the lights out as he went and locked both latches before turning to face the alley, phone in hand. The alley dumped out a few blocks from the bus stop, but Hiccup had no clue when the next bus was coming. He had intended to check the schedule to figure out how long he’d be waiting, taking a few steps out into the alley as he did so, when another body bumped into him, knocking the phone from his hand.
Hiccup’s phone skidded face down across the pavement as he stumbled, thrown off balance in surprise. A hand shot out to grab his elbow, steadying him before he could fall, but the abrupt change in momentum caused Hiccup to lurch the other way. He instinctively caught himself on the stranger’s hoodie and finally, finally got his feet - foot - under him.
“Jesus Christ ,” he cursed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there at all, I-”
Hiccup’s words died in his throat when he finally looked at the stranger. Light blue eyes staring back apprehensively, the rest of his face hidden behind a facemask. A hoodie pulled up over his hair, a few strands escaping to fall over his forehead and into those eyes. The hoodie that Hiccup was still gripping, pulled up a bit when he straightened to his full height: a few inches taller than the stranger. Hiccup’s eyes wandered down without his permission, over the unassuming hoodie to the slim hips and the edge of a black t-shirt poking out and the gun and-
Hiccup froze, eyes locked on the gun at the stranger’s hip. Black and clipped in a holster, but unmistakable nonetheless.
The stranger seemed to go still too, and Hiccup knew that he knew that he knew.
With slow motions, Hiccup flicked his eyes back to the stranger’s and relaxed his hands, dropping the fabric he still held. The hoodie dropped unassumingly, covering the gun again. Hiccup kept his hands half raised and tried to take a stumbling step backwards, but the stranger still gripped his elbow.
The hand tightened slightly, keeping him in place.
“Look, I’m j-just trying to get home,” Hiccup stammered, his hands still splayed. “I’m sorry I ran into you. Let’s just… I’ll go my way, you go yours.”
The stranger had yet to look away from Hiccup. He tilted his head slightly to one side, as if considering.
“One of the more convincing arguments I’ve heard tonight,” the stranger eventually said, dropping Hiccup’s elbow. He took two quick steps back and finally released Hiccup’s gaze, taking a moment to peer carefully down each direction of the alley. He pulled at his oversized hoodie, settling it so it hung straight to his mid-thighs, fully obscuring the gun and holster at his waist again.
Before Hiccup could respond, the man was bending down to the ground, then holding one hand out towards Hiccup again. Flat in a gloved palm was Hiccup’s phone, screen shattered.
He carefully took the phone from the stranger, curling his fingers around it securely. The man nodded once, eyes crinkling above the facemask.
“Try not to run into anyone else tonight, yeah?” he said in a lower voice than Hiccup had expected.
The man turned on his heel and walked away before Hiccup could say anything else. Though the man never turned back to look at him, Hiccup felt like if he had moved, the man would’ve known. Regardless, Hiccup remained rooted to the spot until the man reached the end of the alley, stepping out confidently onto the waiting sidewalk and street lights. He turned left, disappearing fully from sight.
-
Hiccup had stayed in that alley for what must’ve been fifteen minutes, mind reeling with the countless ways that interaction could’ve ended differently. Most of them ended with his body in their dumpster, with the metal shavings and discarded projects. He had missed the next bus and ended up waiting twenty minutes for the next, unable to check his ruined phone for the schedule. By the time he made it into his apartment, his hands had been shaking.
The next day was worse, after a sleepless night, unable to be soothed even by the comforting weight of Toothless slumbering on his chest.
By the second day, Hiccup was largely back to normal. When he made the trip to the bus stop after work unscathed on the first day, he relaxed a large amount. He was being silly, he reasoned. There was no way that a random stranger would shoot him over a simple collision. Besides, the concealed carrying of a gun was legal, so long as the paperwork was done. There was no reason to suspect that the blue-eyed stranger had been doing anything other than commuting, just like Hiccup.
So when Hiccup got home just over 48 hours after his run-in with the stranger, he felt well enough to cook dinner, as opposed to hiding in his bedroom like the night before. He clicked the TV on and found the evening news channel, just to have something on in the background. He turned it up loud enough to hear in the kitchen, then set about starting dinner.
“-has been found dead in his apartment,” the newscaster’s voice droned. “The authorities were called to Mr. Archer’s apartment on Maple Avenue this afternoon after a downstairs neighbor reported a red and brown stain appearing on her ceiling. Here is the Chief of Police with a statement.”
Hiccup listened a bit closer as the police chief spoke: Maple Avenue was only a short walk from the shop.
“We can’t release many details at this time, as the investigation is ongoing. I can confirm that Mr. Charles Archer passed away in his apartment at least two days ago after sustaining a gunshot wound. There is a strong indication of foul play afoot, and we will be devoting our best detectives to the case, given Mr. Archer’s position. We can’t disclose a description of the suspects yet, but if anyone has any information regarding the incident, please call or text the police hotline.”
“That was the Chief of Police on the death of Mr. Charles Archer. Archer was the CEO of Health Supply Co., a company which has been at the center of several scandals in recent history. HSC and its CEO were the subject of scrutiny just this spring after large-scale layoffs swept through the company. Archer was also one of the largest supporters of sustaining the current minimum wage when it crossed ballots last fall, publicly backing several state representatives up for election who shared his view. He is survived by his girlfriend, Alice Barnes, who is requesting privacy in wake of his passing. Next, we’ll go over to Jake, with the weather. What’re we expecting for the weekend, Jake?”
Hiccup tuned the weatherman out, focusing on chopping half an onion. Toothless jumped up onto the counter and took one sniff at the onion on the cutting board, instantly jerking back and squinting his eyes. He retreated to the far corner of the counter, glaring at Hiccup as he went.
“Sorry bud,” Hiccup said, his own eyes watering. “That’s wild stuff about that CEO,” he continued. “You’d think for a guy who just got shot, they’d have nicer things to say.”
Toothless trilled, tail swishing.
“That’s what I’m saying. Hey, if I got shot, you’d tell them good stuff about me, right bud?”
The cat gave a squeaking meow, which Hiccup chose to take a yes . He moved the diced onion to the waiting pan on the stove and added a few spoonfuls of minced garlic from the jar in the fridge. As he stirred the onions to keep them from burning, his mind drifted back to the CEO.
Hiccup hadn’t heard of the guy, but then again, Hiccup didn’t pay much attention to politics. If he was thinking of the right building, the guy’s apartment was indication enough that he was loaded. And from the way they had phrased it in the news story, it seemed like someone had had it out for the guy, especially if he had been killed in his apartment and not found for two days.
Two days.
Not just killed in his apartment, but shot.
In the apartment just around the corner from the shop: a right down the alley, a left onto the main road, and across the street to Maple Ave.
Hiccup’s hand stilled in stirring as blue eyes flashed across his mind.
“That’s… I’m overthinking this, aren’t I, Toothless?”
Toothless was licking his paw, paying no mind to Hiccup.
“It’s a coincidence that a guy with a gun was walking down the alley, away from that apartment building, two days ago, right? That’s… there’s no way. That guy was barely 25, there’s no way that he could’ve… yeah, no, that’s stupid. I’m being stupid.”
Hiccup forced himself to laugh, shaking his head. A nagging feeling settled in the back of his mind that whispered that there were too many coincidences to just brush away like this, but he did his best to squash that feeling.
When he looked down at the pan, the onions had burned.