THE DUMAS JOB 1
Roy adjusted his freshly dry-cleaned red tie, smoothing the lapels of his black suit, while carrying his coat on his elbow, as he climbed the stairs to the rooftop café. The muted hum of the city below filtered through the stairwell, accompanied by the occasional splash of rain pooling on the edges of the steps. Emerging onto the rooftop, he paused to take in the view. A sea of skyscrapers cutting into the red-tinted blue skyline. The air smelled faintly of ozone and coffee, mingling with the distant din of traffic.
He found a seat near the railing, choosing a vantage point with a clear view of the apartment building across the street. Leaning back, he let his gaze settle on the target’s residence.
“An apartment,” he muttered under his breath. “A government man living in a regular apartment on a rich street? You’d think someone like him would have a gated house or something more… exclusive.”
The café door opened behind him, and Roy glanced over his shoulder as Irya walked in. Dressed in a sleek black pencil dress paired with a casual jean jacket, she carried herself with effortless poise. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, and a pair of stylish round glasses perched on her nose. She scanned the room with a quick, clinical glance before spotting Roy and making her way over.
“Always this formal?” she asked, nodding toward his suit as she pulled out a chair across from him.
Roy asked. “Do you… like this kind of dress?”
“Like I said,” Irya replied, sitting down, “it’s practical.”
Roy leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “I was expecting something different for a job like this. You know, the usual safehouse routine. Maps on the walls, gadgets on the table. The kind of planning you see in movies.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” she said, folding her arms on the table, raising her firm chest. “This one’s about patience. Watching first, striking later.”
“Why not just hit him at the door?” Roy asked, miming an axe gesture on the table with his hand. “Like last time?”
“Last time was different,” Irya replied coolly. “Small-time thugs don’t have cops or private security breathing down their necks. This guy? He’s not untouchable, but he’s close. You get that, right?”
Roy nodded reluctantly. “Right. So… what’s with the glasses?”
She smirked faintly. “Recording our ‘date.’”
“Oh, so this is a date now?” Roy said flatly, raising a brow.
“Not in your wildest dreams,” she shot back.
Roy chuckled. “Okay, fine. But seriously, can’t we just ‘bam’—” he made the gun gesture again, smirking, “—and call it a day?”
Irya gave him a long, unamused look. “We’re professionals, Roy. If we wanted messy, we’d hire an idiot and let him botch it. But then the blues,” she gestured vaguely toward the street below where Roy saw men in uniform, “would come sniffing. Trust me on this one — we do it clean, or not at all.”
“Got it,” Roy said. “So, we’re putting in the extra effort for our friend. Really rolling out the red carpet.”
“Think of it as a retirement gift,” Irya said with a faint smile, handing him a pair of glasses identical to hers.
Roy took them, sliding them on. The lenses flickered to life, revealing a sophisticated Augmented Reality overlay. Data about the surrounding area populated his view. From building layouts, timestamps, and other useful information.
“Aw, matching glasses?” Roy joked. “You’re too sweet.”
“I’m generous,” Irya replied, her smile not reaching her eyes under those glasses.
The AR display highlighted the apartment building across the street. Twelve stories tall, situated on Lesna Avenue, northwest of their current location.
“Our friend really is a busy bird,” Irya remarked, her tone tinged with mockery. “Works too much, no time for anything else.”
Roy nodded as the glasses displayed a timestamped recording of Alexander Dumas leaving the Isle Front Apartment Building at precisely 6:00 AM.
“Early riser, huh?” Roy said.
The feed shifted to another clip, showing Dumas returning to the building at 8:00 PM. A third recording showed him arriving even later — 10:00 PM.
“Workaholic,” Irya murmured, shaking her head. “What a life.”
“So, how do we surprise our friend?” Roy asked. “He doesn’t seem like he wants his gift to be late.”
Irya gestured toward a highlighted time frame on the glasses’ display. “We do it between these hours — 8:00 to 10:00 PM. That’s when he’s most predictable.”
Roy frowned thoughtfully. “What about catching him somewhere else? On his way out, maybe?”
“Too risky. Could cause a scene,” Irya replied. “His coworkers might not appreciate us delivering his ‘gift’ during work hours. People tend to get touchy about that.”
Roy chuckled. “Fair enough.”
A waiter approached their table, his polished demeanor fitting the upscale atmosphere of the café. “Can I get you anything?”
Roy flashed a polite smile. “Crème Brûlée and two coffees, please.”
“Right away, sir,” the waiter replied, retreating toward the kitchen.
As they waited, Irya leaned back, her gaze lingering on the building across the street. “Keeping up?” she asked, her voice carrying a faint edge of challenge.
“Somewhat,” Roy admitted.
“Well, don’t fall behind,” she said, her tone as cold as the smile she gave him. “We’ve got more places to visit before the day’s done, darling.”
Roy suppressed a retort, watching as she adjusted the glasses on her face. Beneath the professional façade, there was something unrelenting about Irya as always, A razor’s edge hidden under poise and precision.
Outside, the rain falls in heavy sheets, painting the streets with shimmering reflections of the glass surface. The city hummed with life, oblivious to the conspiracy brewing on the rooftop café.
Roy took a sip of the coffee as it arrived, leaning forward slightly to peer at the apartment building.
“This retirement gift,” he said, lowering his voice. “Think he’ll appreciate it?”
“He doesn’t have to appreciate it,” Irya replied, her gaze fixed on the shared AR overlay. “He just has to accept it.”
Roy laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You’ve got a way with words, you know that?”
Irya didn’t reply, her focus unbroken as she studied the data before them. Roy sighed, leaning back in his chair.
It was going to be a long day.
----------------------------------------
The rain had stopped by the time they reached the next location. The streets gleamed under the faint sunlight filtering through the remnants of the storm clouds, a sheen of water reflecting the neon signs and sleek architecture of Alba City. Roy sat behind the wheel of Irya’s Lancia Stratos, gripping the steering wheel with exaggerated care.
He wasn’t nervous about driving. He loved old cars like this, a throwback to a time when vehicles had character and substance, unlike the electric, self-driving “crap” littering the streets of Alba City. No, his caution stemmed entirely from the silent threat sitting beside him.
Irya. She sat with her usual composed demeanor, one leg crossed over the other, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Roy could imagine the kind of punishment she’d dole out if he left so much as a scratch on her car. Probably something involving her axe.
When they arrived, he parked across from the target building. A towering structure that loomed over the street like a fortress. It was 10 AM, and the city was alive with the bustle of people moving about. They exited the car, and Irya looped her arm through his. To anyone watching, they looked like a couple on a casual outing.
They settled at an outdoor table in a nearby shop, their seats offering an unobstructed view of the building where their "good friend Dumas" was working.
“Lots of boys in blue,” Roy muttered, nodding toward the police presence.
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“They wouldn’t appreciate the surprise retirement gift,” Irya replied, her tone dry. “We’d be full of holes before we even got close.”
Roy adjusted his AR glasses as they highlighted defensive measures around the building. Turrets were mounted discreetly on its exterior, with deployable ones concealed in the street. The overlay flashed red warnings.
“This place is no joke,” he said.
“It’s the most well-defended building in Alba City,” Irya explained. “It’s suicide to try anything here. That’s why I’m sure that our good friend won’t appreciate receiving his retirement gift there.”
“Guess that’s a no,” Roy said, leaning back as Irya signaled a waiter.
While she ordered, Roy’s attention drifted. His gaze followed the waiter as he walked away, his thoughts wandering before he finally spoke. “Guess this isn’t going to wrap up in a week. Not that I mind, really. I get to eat free.”
Irya glanced over her glasses at him, then shook her head.
“What?” Roy said, feigning injury. “The way you looked at me — it hurts somehow. Like I’m a bum or something.”
“I’ve seen your apartment,” Irya replied flatly. "You are one."
Roy grinned. “Hey, I cleaned up. I don’t leave a mess too.”
“It’s a converted cleaning storage room,” she said coldly.
“Well, you’re not wrong,” he admitted, tapping his finger idly on the tablecloth. After a pause, he wondered, “I wonder how Earth’s doing.”
Irya leaned back, considering his words. “If the stories are true, it’s better.”
Roy raised a skeptical brow. “Really? We can barely manage things out here. What makes you think the homeworld’s any better?”
“Space changed the game,” Irya said, her tone even. “Making it accessible and cheap opened up markets no one could have imagined. Terraforming, space travel, new industries — it’s motivated humanity in ways that might actually solve some problems. Lots of people, means a lot of people to send to outer space."
“Sure,” Roy said sarcastically, “I bet poverty’s been eradicated and everyone’s holding hands, singing songs and dancing in circle.”
“It’s not perfect,” Irya admitted. “But it’s improving.”
Roy sighed, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. “I’d like to go home someday. You?”
Irya didn’t answer immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter.
“Maybe. Someday. We all have to go back to our roots eventually.”
“Wonder if my place is still a shithole,” Roy said, his tone lighter.
“Who knows?” Irya replied, her expression unreadable. "It might be under a sea now."
Roy’s attention shifted to Irya's Lancia Stratos parked nearby.
“Is that a replica?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.
Irya shot him a cold, sarcastic look. “Do you really think I could afford an actual vintage car and import it to Mars?”
“Good point,” Roy admitted, grinning. “Still, I’d love to get my hands on a muscle car someday. Maybe a Mustang.”
Irya snorted. “Muscle cars are overrated.”
Roy looked genuinely offended. “Overrated? Don’t disrespect the classics. The Lancia Stratos is amazing, but a Mustang? That’s—”
He stopped mid-rant as the waiter arrived with their food. The aroma of fresh bread and steaming coffee cut through the conversation, momentarily easing the tension.
Roy took a sip of his coffee, letting the warmth seep in before speaking again. “So, what is our good friend doing here, exactly?”
Irya adjusted her glasses, the AR interface springing to life. The function to see what she sees was fantastic to Roy.
“This building,” she began, nodding toward their target’s workplace, “is the hub for some major legislative reviews. They’re discussing the Mars Sustainability Act, negotiating treaties with Earth, and mediating a water resource dispute between two colonies. Busy work, but important.”
Roy frowned. “And we’re really planning to give this guy an early retirement?”
Irya regarded him silently for a moment. “It’s his life,” she said finally. “You want to back out?”
“No,” Roy said firmly.
“Good,” Irya replied, her tone brisk. She shared the updated schedule data via their AR glasses.
The overlay highlighted key moments in the target’s routine, marking windows of opportunity. Roy studied the data silently, his thoughts swirling.
“Guess we’ve still got some work to do,” he said at last.
Irya’s lips curved into a faint, fleeting smile. “We always do. Next up is the hydroponics farm.”
As they sat together, the city carried on around them. Bustling, vibrant, and utterly unaware of what they were scheming.
By the time their plates were cleared, Roy had already slid into the driver’s seat of the Lancia Stratos and was criticizing it, causing Irya to frown.
----------------------------------------
The Lancia Stratos hummed steadily as it sped along the red-tinted Martian terrain just outside the city, connected to a concrete road. The faint light of the Martian Sky cast long shadows across the ground, highlighting the red-tinted, grassy beauty of the terraformed planet. Roy sat behind the wheel, his grip firm but relaxed, the car handling with a precision that matched its design despite being a vintage replica with cheaper parts.
Ahead, the hydroponics farm rose into view, a massive dome shimmering like a mirage under the sun.
It looked almost alien, even against the backdrop of the city itself.
Irya leaned forward in her seat, her gaze fixed on the structure as they approached.
“The dome’s been here since the first settlers arrived,” she began, her voice carrying that matter-of-fact tone she used when teaching him something. “Before the atmosphere was stable, this farm was the lifeline for the colony. It’s probably the first structure of its kind on Mars.”
She gestured as they neared the entrance. “Beneath it, there are old settlements — bunkers, really. Safety shelters for disasters.”
Roy parked in the lot, staring up at the dome. Its translucent panels gleamed, refracting the sunlight and casting the interior in a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. The airlock door hissed as they stepped inside, revealing a space alive with activity. Rows upon rows of plants stretched into the distance, their green vibrancy a stark contrast to the sterile machinery around them. The air was rich with the scent of earth and moisture, almost intoxicating after the air they were smelling from the surface.
“Wow,” Roy muttered, his gaze sweeping the massive farm. “It’s like stepping into another world.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” Irya agreed. “Mars might be terraformed now, but farms like this are still essential. They’re backups — pragmatic contingencies in case something goes wrong and the atmosphere gets popped.”
Roy looked around. “I’m surprised they let tourists in.”
Irya adjusted her glasses, scanning the area. “It’s more than a farm. It’s a historical site. And one of the most advanced hydroponics systems in the solar system. They can make money from it. To boast and earn.”
“So,” Roy asked, a hint of mischief in his voice, “we’re definitely not giving our good friend his gift here?”
Irya pointed to the security systems embedded discreetly around the dome. “Unless you want to end up full of holes, no. We’d be swiss cheese.”
Roy smirked. “Swiss cheese, huh? Didn’t know that saying would persist. Doesn’t make much sense no—”
Before he could finish, Irya locked her arm around his bicep, squeezing hard enough to make him grunt in pain.
“Your biceps are surprisingly steely,” she said with a sickly sweet tone, her smile not reaching her eyes.
"Well, I do maxed stats," Roy laughed nervously. “You’re not angry, are you?”
Roy then saw someone looking at them and understood.
Irya released him, her expression neutral. “Let’s go. We’ve got a job to do.”
They made their way deeper into the farm, blending into the crowd of workers and visitors. Eventually, they spotted Alexander Dumas near the central control hub, engaged in animated conversation with the staff. He was surrounded by his entourage, several of whom bore the telltale signs of heavy augmentation -- enhanced limbs, cybernetic eyes, and the rigid posture of military-grade subdermal armor.
Roy adjusted his glasses, scanning the scene. “So much for small-time politician,” he muttered.
“He’s small-time,” Irya replied coldly. “But he probably knows he pissed off Devon and got these guys to watch his back.”
“Then he’s expecting us,” Roy said.
“Maybe,” Irya said, her tone measured. “But we’ll wait. Gather enough data. Find the right timing and give him a retirement gift he deserved.”
Roy fell silent, watching through his glasses as Dumas moved with purpose, his every gesture precise and authoritative. There was a focus on him, almost fanatical in its intensity.
“What do you think of him?” Roy asked after a while.
“Personally or professionally?” Irya asked, leaning her head on his shoulder for the benefit of onlookers.
“Personally.”
Irya hummed softly, pretending to gesture toward the rows of greenery. “He’s not a bad politician. Actually cares about his work. But he’s terrible at managing relationships. Honestly, Devon's family; isn’t as bad as most of the others.”
Roy snorted, thinking about how he first met Irya and their first work together… selling decapitated bodies to some doctor harvesting implants and organs.
“I’d agree if I hadn’t seen what I saw when we first met.”
“That’s nothing compared to what the others do,” Irya said. “What, you thinking about backing out?”
“No,” Roy said firmly. “As much as I’d like to preach about morality and say this isn’t right… I don’t have much of a choice--”
Irya’s gaze sharpened and cut him off. “You always have a choice. But you’ve chosen this. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Roy sighed, placing a hand on her hip, maintaining the facade of a couple, and whispering. “Maybe. But I owe Devon. They would’ve gutted me when they found me if it weren’t for him. I have to repay that debt.”
“That’s your choice?” Irya asked, her voice cold. “Or are you just telling yourself it is?”
Roy smirked faintly. “You sound pretentious when you say it like that.”
“And you sound naïve,” Irya replied with a cold smile.
“Point taken,” Roy said, steeling himself. “No backing out, then.”
Irya nodded. “No backing out.”
They watched Dumas a while longer, silently observing his movements and interactions. The man seemed utterly engrossed in his work, oblivious to the pair of eyes tracking his every move.
“We’re done for today,” Irya said.
“Good. Man, you do realize you could crush my arm with your arm, right?” Roy replied.
“I could,” Irya admitted.
“Try it, and I swear I’ll make an attempt to grope your behind before it gets crushed,” Roy teased.
“I dare you to try,” Irya challenged.
Roy hesitated, considering it seriously, then made his move. Before he could follow through, he was met with a sharp slap on the back instead.
“Stop fooling around, let’s go.”
Roy barked a laugh, before following her out of the farm.