THE DUMAS JOB 5

The city lights flickered in the distance, casting a faint glow over the surveillance room. Roy stepped inside, the creak of the door announcing his arrival. Irya was already there, seated by the window, her red eyes reflecting the faint martian haze outside. She didn’t turn as he approached, her focus on the apartment building that was now swarming with even heightened security.

“It’s a dud, this one,” she said flatly. “And all it took was a few retards with something to prove. Mercs like them, Roy — they’re exactly the kind we try not to be.”

“The Guns blazing kind?” Roy asked, leaning against the windowsill.

“Exactly.” Her voice was cold and measured, her expression stoic. “You could argue we’ve been sitting on our asses, but we gave our reports. We showed Devon we tried. Funny thing, though — someone actually got close despite how cautious we were. Shot Dumas in the head and put four rounds into his chest.”

Roy’s eyes widened. “Seriously? And he lived?”

“Didn’t do a damn thing,” Irya continued. “Dumas tanked it like it was nothing, then punched the guy’s head clean off. You should’ve seen it. Quite the show. That’s what a military-grade augment from Uncle Sam will get you.”

“And the gangsters?” Roy asked, his gaze drifting toward the illuminated apartment windows.

“Dead,” Irya said bluntly. “Shot to hell. No arrests. Just a bullet for every last one of them.”

Roy winced, running a hand through his hair. “Yikes. So… that was educational.”

“You’re lucky,” Irya said, her tone aloof. “If it were anyone else, they’d have taught you to march straight to your death. Then again, I saw this coming. What concerns me is Devon’s angle — requesting a favor in this mess of a job.”

“I don’t get it,” Roy said, shaking his head. “This whole thing — it doesn’t make sense.”

Irya finally turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “It’s nothing more than a power play, Roy Inman. A game for people who Boss over folks like us.”

Roy crossed his arms. “Irya, you know what I think?”

“Enlighten me.”

“It feels like I was just… watching,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “Pointless. All of it.”

“Hmm. True,” Irya said, leaning back in her chair. “It does feel that way, doesn’t it? All that time spent watching, planning. Then some asshole decides to roll the dice and take a shot. If there’s one thing to conclude from this, though, it’s that Dumas won.”

Roy frowned. “We haven’t even met the guy, and he won! What a guy!”

“Exactly,” Irya said, her red eyes locking onto his. “Devon was poking the bear, while Dumas? He wanted to be poked. He wanted a reason to show everyone that Alba City is a shithole. Now CGOM will funnel more funds into the city, and Dumas gets to stand tall, proving that he was right and everyone else was wrong.”

Roy rubbed his temples. “So, even if we’d killed him, it wouldn’t have mattered?”

“Not really,” Irya replied. “Even in death, he’d have proven his point. Simple, but effective.”

“Devon knows this, right?”

“Of course he does,” Irya said tonelessly. “That’s why he hired us — to poke the bear and see if we could take a shot.”

“If we’d had the chance,” Roy asked, “would we have taken it?”

“Yes,” Irya said without hesitation. “That’s the job. But this time, we waited long enough for someone else to pull the trigger first.”

Roy scratched the back of his head, exhaling sharply. “I don’t even know what to think about all this.”

“Just think it’s over,” Irya said, cracking her neck. “This job’s a bust. At least we weren’t the idiots who got shredded by Dumas’s security.”

Roy nodded slowly, digesting her words. “So, would you have been able to take him out? If it came to that?”

Irya smirked faintly. “If I could get close enough to bury my axe in his neck? Maybe. But I’d probably end up as meat scraps before I got a second swing.”

“Must be one hell of augments he’s got,” Roy muttered.

“No doubt about it,” Irya said, standing and stretching. “Anyway, we’re done here. It wasn’t bad for what it was. You’re patient, and you’re not stupid enough to jump the gun. That’s why I can work with you.”

Roy grinned. “High praise coming from you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. Come on — we’re meeting Devon and tell him what he wants to hear.”

“Let’s,” Roy said, grabbing his jacket.

They left the room, stepping out into the crisp night air.

The lights of Alba City twinkled in the distance, the faint hum of the Maglev trains echoing through the streets as it passed.

As they walked to Irya’s car, Roy couldn’t help but the game was rigged from the start.

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The room reeked of cigars and air conditioning, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you left. Devon sat behind a broad, mahogany desk, his frame silhouetted against the faint glow of the city skyline outside. His eyes were as sharp as ever, glinting with an intensity that made Roy feel like prey under the gaze of a predator or worse, a ruthless businessman with no lines he wouldn’t cross. As always, Devon surrounded himself with Roman Empire artifacts, each piece meticulously chosen to project this kind of dominance and power.

A replica of a gladius rested on the desk, its blade catching the ambient light in a way that seemed almost deliberate. Behind him, a towering shelf displayed marble busts of emperors, their carved visages frozen in expressions of absolute authority. He recognized Caesar, Aurelius, and Augustus. Above it all loomed a bronze eagle, its wings spread wide, clutching lightning bolts in its talons, a not-so-subtle nod to the imperium he fancied himself embodying.

As Roy and Irya entered, Devon gestured for them to sit.

“Well,” he began, his voice low and gravelly, “you’ve seen how things are. Dumas is a crafty bastard. Always has been. And now? Thanks to those idiots who took the shot, he’s got every reason he needs to bring in more men, more resources, more everything into this city.”

Irya, her expression stoic as always, crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair.

“My favor’s done,” she said coolly, folding her arms.

Devon let out a humorless chuckle, leaning forward. “Favor? I’d call it a failure. You didn’t take the shot, and the job’s still unfinished.”

Irya arched her brow, unbothered. “The favor was not taking the first shot,” she replied. “And as it stands, I gave you what you needed — information. You’re welcome.”

Devon shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Fair enough. With the Cartel shooting first, it’s their mess to deal with now. They’ll be the ones drawing the heat. Not us”

He turned his gaze to Roy, who had been silently observing the exchange. “And you? You’ve done your part, too. Got me what I needed — Dumas’s schedule, the layout of his home, even the types of people he surrounds himself with. You’re clear, kid. You don’t owe me anymore.”

Roy exhaled slowly, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “That’s good to hear.”

Devon leaned back, taking a drag from his cigar. The ember flared briefly, illuminating the creases of his face.

“But listen here,” he said, his voice taking on a serious edge. “You’re still on the pigs’ radar. You keep working that janitor job, blend in. Don’t give them any reason to sniff around.”

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Roy nodded. “I was planning to. The pay’s not bad, and it keeps me out of trouble.”

Devon laughed, slapping his thigh. “You hear that, Irya? I like retards like this guy. Just roll with the punches, don't ask too many questions.”

Irya didn’t react, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Roy cleared his throat. “So… what’s next?”

Devon’s laughter faded, and he shook his head. “Who the fuck knows? The city’s gonna be crawling with cops for a while. Martial law’s not on the table yet, but CGOM’s upping their presence. You keep your head down, watch your sixes, and don’t do anything stupid.”

Roy nodded again, filing the advice away. “Got it.”

Devon reached into a drawer, pulling out a slim device. He tapped a few buttons, and a faint chime signaled the transfer of credits. “There,” he said. “Your payment. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Roy checked the balance on his PDA and gave a faint smile. “Appreciate it, Sir.”

He stood, glancing at Irya. “Are you sticking around?”

“For a while,” she said curtly.

Roy shrugged. “Alright. Guess I’ll see you around.”

He gave a brief nod to Devon before turning and heading for the door.

The city lights greeted him as he stepped outside as always.

It was goddamn raining.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind Roy, leaving Devon and Irya alone in the room. Devon leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and exhaled a long plume of cigar smoke. The ember glowed faintly, casting shadows across his rugged face.

“He’s a weird one, huh?” Devon said, his voice laced with amusement.

Irya remained silent for a moment, her red eyes sharp as they flicked toward him.

“He’s useful,” she said evenly. “That’s all that matters.”

“Useful, sure,” Devon replied, chuckling as he tapped ash into the tray. “But he’s got that ‘fish out of water’ vibe. Makes you wonder what’s going on in that head of his. Like he’s not really from here or anywhere. I was thinking he was some alien too. I still can't find where the fuck that guy is from.”

Irya said nothing, turning her attention to the sprawling cityscape outside the window. The lights of Alba City glittered like a bed of stars, their cold brilliance reflecting in her eyes. Always beautiful. Always dangerous.

Devon grinned, shaking his head. “Ah, well. He did what he was supposed to. Can’t ask for more than that. Honestly, I was half-expecting him to try and impress me — maybe pull some reckless stunt to prove he’s got guts. But nope. He’s patient. Get the job done. What’s your take on him?”

Irya leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable.

“Reliable and patient,” she said. “Follow orders without overthinking. Rolls with the punches, just like you said. If he’d taken a shot at Dumas, I’d have killed him myself. But he didn’t. That means he knows when to act and when to hold back. Professional. Careful. Isn’t that why you brought him in? To see if he’s worth keeping on your radar?”

Devon chuckled, nodding. “Partly. I was skeptical at first, but yeah, he passed the test. I mean, he’s no polished professional, but there’s potential there.”

He stubbed out his cigar, the embers hissing softly against the ashtray’s surface. “What about you?” he asked, tilting his head toward her. “Think this whole thing was a waste of time?”

“No,” Irya said firmly. “Dumas proved his point. The job gave him exactly what he wanted — a reason to flex his power and bring more resources into the city. Now we know what kind of firepower is going to be at his disposal.”

Devon leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. His brow furrowed, and his voice dropped a notch. “Yeah,” he muttered. “And we’ll get to see what he does with it, too. That’s the part that bugs me.”

The room fell into a brief silence, the hum of the city outside filling the void.

After a moment, Devon sat up straighter, brushing ash from his sleeve.

“So,” he said, his tone lighter, “I’m assuming you’re planning to keep working with Inman?”

Irya shrugged, her red eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe. Once in a while. He seems like the kind who’ll stay independent. No delusions of grandeur, no need to prove his worth to anyone and here for the pay. That makes him reliable.”

Devon grinned. “Reliable, huh? High praise coming from you.”

Irya’s lips quirked into a faint, humorless smile. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Devon laughed, the sound low and gravelly. “Fair enough.”

He leaned back again, reaching for another cigar. As he lit it, his expression grew contemplative, his gaze fixed on the glowing skyline beyond the window.

“Guess we’ll see how this all plays out,” he said finally, his voice tinged with resignation. “Mars isn’t getting any calmer, that’s for damn sure.”

Irya didn’t reply, her attention once again drawn to the lights outside.

The room grew quiet again, the only sound the faint crackle of Devon’s cigar and the distant hum of the city.

Irya then rose from her seat, her movements smooth and deliberate. She adjusted the bomber jacket that hung loosely over her shoulders, casting one last glance at Devon before heading toward the door.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Devon,” she said without looking back.

Devon smirked, taking another drag from his cigar. “You know me, Irya. Always ready for the next mess. Watch your six, Malkova.”

Irya stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking softly shut behind her. The rhythmic sound of her boots against the polished floor echoed faintly, a quiet counterpoint to the muted hum of the city outside.

The air hit her as she exited the building. Crisp and sharp, tinged with the metallic scent of rain. Droplets fell steadily from the darkened sky, streaking the neon-lit streets with a shimmering glow. Alba City was alive with its usual cold, detached energy, the downpour doing little to dampen its unrelenting pulse.

As she adjusted her bomber jacket and turned toward the parking lot, her eyes caught a familiar figure.

Roy was squatting near the curb, his shoulders hunched as he stared at the falling rain. The dim street lights illuminated his face, droplets clinging to his hair and the sleeves of his jacket.

“Thought you left,” Irya called out, her voice cutting through the soft patter of rain.

Roy glanced up, blinking as though pulled from a daydream. “Raining,” he said simply, gesturing at the downpour. “Didn’t feel like getting soaked. No cab stopped, so… here I am.” He tilted his head slightly. “Are you heading home?”

“To Haven,” she replied, her tone casual. “Wanna get a drink?”

Roy straightened, brushing off his pants as he stood. “I’ve got creds,” he said. “Was thinking about heading to Chinatown, but… sure. Why not? Would you mind?”

Irya shrugged, motioning toward the parking lot. “Come on.”

The Lancia Stratos was parked beneath a flickering street lamp, its sleek frame glistening with rain. Roy slid into the passenger seat, shaking droplets from his hair as he settled into the leather upholstery.

“Nice car as always,” he said, his tone almost admiring. “Want one.”

“Don’t scratch it,” Irya replied dryly as she started the engine. The low, throaty purr of the vehicle filled the silence, a sound both powerful and understated.

They pulled out onto the rain-slick streets, the tires slicing cleanly through shallow puddles. All kinds of signs reflected off the wet pavement, casting fleeting colors across the windshield.

Roy glanced out at the passing cityscape, his fingers idly tapping against his knee. “Haven,” he said thoughtfully. “Haven’t been there in a while. Still the same?”

“Depends,” Irya replied, keeping her eyes on the road. “What do you remember?”

“Good drinks, decent music, and a crowd that doesn’t ask questions since barely anyone’s there.”

“That’s about right.”

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt natural. Just two people accustomed to navigating the quiet spaces between words. The faint hum of the engine and the rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers filled the car as they drove deeper into the city.

Haven, as always, was tucked away in a quiet alley on Thorian Street, its entrance marked only by a flickering neon sign that buzzed faintly in the evening drizzle. The bar occupied the lower floor of a two-story building, its plain facade blending seamlessly with the urban sprawl. For those who knew where to look, it was a sanctuary — a place where you could breathe, even in the chaos of Albas City.

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle by the time they arrived, though the streets still glistened with its remnants. Pools of water mirrored the amber glow of streetlights, and the air carried the crisp, metallic tang of moisture. Roy followed Irya through the narrow alley, his boots splashing softly against the wet pavement. He pulled his coat tighter around him as the cold nipped at his skin, but Irya strode ahead, unaffected, her stride confident and always so sure.

Inside, Haven’s warm, dimly lit interior wrapped around them like a familiar embrace. Roy always liked this place. The hum of soft, ambient music mingled with occasional sounds from the arcade that remained turned on.

The bartender looked up as they entered. A burly man with a cybernetic arm and a weathered face, he nodded in recognition as Irya approached the counter.

“Back so soon, Malkova?” he asked, his voice a low rumble as he set a glass down in front of her.

“Just passing by for a drink before sleep,” Irya replied, gesturing toward Roy as he stepped up beside her. “This one’s buying. Where’s Kasi, Don? Does the Boss have business that requires you to be here? We can leave if you want to.”

“No, she doesn’t, stay,” Don shrugged, wiping a glass with a practiced hand. “Kasi Took a break. Said she had some event she didn’t want to miss, so I’m holding down the fort for now.”

Roy slid onto a stool next to Irya, shedding his coat and draping it over the back of his seat. “Whiskey,” he said, his voice hoarse from the long day. “Neat.”

Don poured their drinks without comment, his movements smooth and efficient, like a machine designed for the sole purpose of bartending. He set the glasses in front of them and moved on to other tasks, leaving them to their conversation.

Roy raised his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. “Hell of a day,” he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. “Failed, but we still got paid.”

Irya clinked her glass against his, her red eyes gleaming faintly in the low light.

“Welcome to Mars truly, Roy Inman,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of mischief. “It’s as generous as it is deadly.”