“Hello out there, my good Metroslaves! I do hope you’re enjoying this fine day in the greatest city on this brown earth! First, the weather! You can expect a solid dose of smog, with visibility at five hundred metres at floor seventy, two hundred at fifty, and if you’re below that God save your souls ‘cause you’ll get mugged and not even see the faces of them that robbed ya. As for traffic, gridlock is the name of the game! Yours truly prefers walking, though the MetPo have been keeping my paunch down through their constant efforts to keep me off the air. Now, for the news…”

Mike Lee took off his headset and grinned at the man in the makeshift soundproof box across the room. Of course, his face was concealed, no one referred to him by anything but the pseudonym ‘Rhyme’, and Mike was sure that the protective technologies the man was wearing could stop a missile, so he truly could claim to know very little about the man other than that he and his co-host ‘Reason’ were the most inspiring people he’d ever met. Since he’d met them, his life had gained purpose, a goal, and most importantly had seen him able to laugh again. As the man in the studio continued to wax eloquent into the little portable sound set while simultaneously winking and making wild gesticulations as if he was presenting to an entire audience, Mike once again realized how amazing the man’s eyes were. Surely, they couldn’t be natural, but within the softly glowing electric blue orbs with overly large irises Mike could see no telltale trace of circuitry that usually betrayed eye implants. He chalked it up to another mystery and moved on with his work.

Mike’s job was two-fold. On one hand, he was an editor, monitoring both Rhyme and Reason during their broadcasts to ensure that they did not make any mistakes or reveal sensitive information that would jeopardize their base of operations. He very rarely had to cut broadcasts nowadays, but most of the time listened anyway both for safety purposes and because he genuinely enjoyed the lighthearted sarcasm and satire that made the living hell of Metropolis seem suddenly manageable. His other job, however, was to be a vanisher: essentially, he made sure that when they entered or left a location absolutely no danger of accidental discovery existed and no evidence would be left behind. He was the fourteenth such individual to play the role for Rhyme and Reason, but had by far been there the longest. All of his predecessors had died, at the hand of one faction or another, in increasingly inventive ways. It was the risk Mike took, but he was also the best. His methods were simplistic, and rarely involved the use of much technology at all: instead he managed people, people who never knew what was going on right inside the door they were guarding. And once they left, those people never imagined that anything more exciting than an illicit drug deal was going on. Desperation made for the most loyal servants, far more reliable than machines. That was truly the greatest irony of the modern age.

Still, Mike knew as little about the operation as most people; anything additional that he knew had mostly been picked up from accidentally overheard conversations and sheer exposure from three months of performing this job. He often wondered after each job why he was contacted again and again to set up the next location, but he welcomed each handwritten note like he welcomed a solid meal. It kept him going, and he thanked all the non-existent higher powers for it and prayed to them that it would continue, for all the good it would do. Truly, the only person who knew anything about the operation sat across the room from him, their tiny body completely concealed by a cloak and eyes closed in silence as they meditated. Rhetoric was their given moniker, and Rhetoric managed everything. And in three months, Mike had never been able to find out Rhetoric’s gender. They never spoke, barely moved, and rarely even opened their eyes, the only body part that Mike ever saw of any of the three. Yet every letter and instruction he received was written in gorgeous handwriting in a fiendishly difficult code that shifted every time and signed with Rhetoric’s characteristic flourish. Part of the challenge was simply figuring it out each time he got a message: many times those messages said nothing important at all, and were clearly just decoys.

Mike sighed; he knew Rhetoric was the reason the operation had managed to continue for so long, but their perfect silence made him feel deeply uncomfortable during the long broadcasts and he only wished they would open up to him to make him truly feel like a part of the team. But then again, the trifecta of Rhyme, Reason, and Rhetoric were like deities to him. He could never imagine matching their skill and could only see himself inevitably letting them all down. And thus, he would make do with his small part and take satisfaction in doing it well. With a small groan as he stood from the leg injury he had received a week ago while fleeing the MetPo, Mike carefully put on his clean white gloves and wiped down the table he had been sitting at with chemical spray. Nothing in this small cement room would be left unsanitized, and the components of the both as well as the radio broadcaster would be melted down and dumped into the Graveyard. No risks were taken.

It took Mike around fifteen minutes to clear the room. He timed his sanitation to finish with the end of the broadcast, as he liked to listen to Rhyme sign off (though he liked Reason’s farewells much more), but he never had the chance to put the headphones back on again. Out of nowhere, a soft lilting musical voice reached his ears, and he stopped dead.

“Michael Jacob Lee. We must run.” It was genderless, and it took him a second to realize that Rhetoric had spoken. The Vanisher whirled around to see the figure, barely standing five feet tall, pointing at the door and he instinctively reached for the heavy slug rifle that he kept slung on his back at all times. This was a good instinct; the door burst open seconds later and Mike was able to unload a full round into the two thugs that broke in. He swore as he did so, feeling the recoil jolt his entire body with the force of the shots. The damned crime lord had sold him out – he knew picking a location above floor fifty was a risk, but he needed variation and so had taken the chance. The fool he had paid likely had no idea what was going on here, and no idea that he would likely be dead before the next morning. He only wanted to interrupt it and make a profit doing so. He was already moving for the soundproof booth to get Rhyme out and destroy the last evidence of their presence before leaving when the voice reached his ears again.

“No, Michael Jacob Lee. We must run.” Mike stopped in his tracks and turned. The figure had not moved, and remained pointing at the door. He looked back at Rhyme, who continued broadcasting as if nothing had happened. And then he saw the object in the man’s hand: an implosion grenade. It would completely wipe out the entire room. No evidence would remain. But… why? Mike looked in confusion around him.

“We can easily escape! I’ve covered all the bases, don’t worry. Let me get him out of here…” Mike could hear tell-tale gunfire from outside. It must come from the independent defenders he had hired fighting the crime gang… or did it? His found the wide open orbs of Rhetoric and saw that they glow a pale electric purple. He suddenly trusted them implicitly, and turned away from the booth. Rhetoric answered his unasked question before he could even begin to speak.

“You made no mistake, Michael Jacob Lee. We must run. This threat is not of your creation, or a result of your failure. We must run.” The implications of that statement registered quickly in Michael’s brain, but he did not stop to consider them. He grabbed the pouch that contained his personal effects and moved for the door, but not before he heard Rhyme’s characteristic farewell echoing through the headset he had left on the table.

“Fare thee well, Metroslaves, I miss your silence and I welcome your violence!” The broadcast suddenly cut back to the static as Rhyme turned off the equipment which was quickly replaced by a popular music station crowding the same frequency. And then, Mike saw something he never wanted to see again: Rhyme exited the booth, reached up to his eyes, and pulled out what looked like a hellish contact. But what was more horrifying was the bloody mess that was left behind. Blindly Rhyme reached out towards Rhetoric with a growl of pain, and Rhetoric’s small hand took them and tucked them into a pocket. Then, Rhyme said the last words Mike would ever hear him say:

“Bye, Mikey. Fuck ‘em up good for me, it’s been a fun time. You’ll have to carry Rhetoric, ‘cause Rhetty doesn’t walk fast. And never stay in the same place more than once. Ever. Now for fuck’s sake run, boy, run!”

Again, Mike didn’t bother to say a word or process what he had been told. There was simply no way to manage that, simply too many questions to ask. So Mike did what he was good at, and followed orders. He reached down, slung a surprisingly light Rhetoric onto his back, and burst out of the door at full speed, firing down the hallway as he did so. Rhetoric had been right; the heavily armed figures down the hallway were almost certainly no group he had ever seen before. They dived for cover at his shots, however, instead of firing back, which gave Mike enough time to hurl a fragmentation grenade behind him as he ran. The subsequent chaos gave him more than enough time to get into the midst of the milling crowd of floor Fifty-Four, and by some chance he managed to not get shot while doing so. The crowd was already fleeing from the gunshots, so one strange figure entering their midst was not unusual. Or at least, that’s what Mike assumed.

“GET THE SERVANT AND THE PRODIGY.” The booming voice echoed throughout the block, leaving Mike no illusions about which targets they were hunting and his own ability to hide from his pursuers. It sounded distinctly inhuman, leaving him with a deep chill down his spine that only made him hurtle even faster across the rickety platforms, walkways, and ramps that made up this part of the Shinjuku district. After one particularly sharp turn, however, the concrete wall exploded into shards behind him, showering him with shrapnel and throwing him to the floor. Rhetoric cried out in pain and rolled off of his back, their blood already visible on their clothing. And then came the explosion as Rhyme presumably detonated his implosion device, and Mike drifted into unconsciousness.

~~~~~~

Mike awoke to darkness, but in that darkness he could see. And he could hear. And the voice he heard was Rhetoric. Rhetoric spoke.

“Rhyme is dead. Long live Rhyme. The Trifecta survives. You are the 100th Rhyme, Michael Jacob Lee, just as I am the 100th Rhetoric and Reason is the 100th of her line. We are the last of the Trifecta, Rhyme, and we must succeed.”

Andy Hughes stood against an alleyway wall, hood up, on the Thirty-Fifth floor of Metro-Tokyo. He had arrived in the city just weeks before, and was currently thinking of ways to start off his movie. He was thinking of starting it with a big turf war between some major gangs, but was a bit reluctant to send himself into the middle of one, knowing of the sheer brutality of some the big name organised crime syndicates. Maybe a bar fight would be a better opening, just to showcase his skills as a fighter against some (hopefully) drunk men. ‘Yeah, that’s what I’ll do,’ he thought, stepping away from the wall.

At the press of a button on a touchpad, reading RETURN & STOP REC, which he’d had attached onto the sleeve of his hooded top, he summoned forth his trusty camera, the Panasonic Paracam, which he affectionately referred to as Bill. The camera had been acquiring footage of the city streets, hopefully catching some dodgy, illicit activity as it unfolded, to provide the viewers of the currently untitled Ultimate Action Movie an idea of just how corrupt and unsafe Metropolis was. The small, sleek, compact drone hovered down towards Andy, lowering itself to the ground, keeping off it only by a few centimetres. Using the touchpad, he commanded Bill to focuse on him, pressing record as he walked out into the streets.



A certain bar had caught Andy’s eye, and he was hoping it would contain some sort of drunken thug itching for a fight. It was called ArcCorp Bar, owned by one of the many corporations that used Metropolis as their base of operations. Beverages were generally cheap there, though the prices went up the more drinks one ordered. Call it a side effect of corporate greed.

Andy entered through the bar’s doors, hood still up, head down, his hands in his pockets. Bill followed silently, his ventilation fans barely making a sound, lens aimed at his owner in an over-the-shoulder shot. The main bar stood in the centre of the building, the menu and a television screen hanging from its wall, bar stools in place in front of the barman, who wore a suit and sunglasses. On either side of the entrance were tables, drilled into the floor, surrounded by cushioned seats. All were occupied. Suspended from the ceiling were replicas of parts from the rockets that were once used in the ages of old, to add a touch of the past to all of the modernity in the building.



As Andy walked down the three steps leading to the bar, he got hostile looks from a group of four rough looking men. ‘Perfect,’ he thought, keeping a stoic expression, ‘they might be the first people to star as cannon fodder in the movie. Awesome.’

Taking a seat on a bar stool, he ordered a regular beer, paying the amount that was required. Keeping his head down, Andy emitted a brooding aura, recalling his acting lessons of the past. Looking over his shoulder as he took a sip from his beer, he saw that one of the rough men had gotten up out of his seat and was on his way to Andy, fists clenched and shoulders tensed. The man stopped centimetres from Andy, whose back was turned towards him.

“Aren’t you a little young to be in here, kid?” remarked the man, his breath reeking of alcohol.

“Aren’t you a little drunk to be talking, mate?” retorted Andy, prepping for an attack that may come his way.

The man, who shall be referred to as Cannon Fodder #1, suddenly snapped, the alcohol taking over his thoughts. He grabbed Andy by the shoulder, about to pull him off the stool and onto the floor. But Andy was ready for this, and he raised the arm closest to Cannon Fodder #1, turning towards him, knocking his arm off his shoulder. He followed this up with a punch directly onto the guy’s nose, the extra substance provided by the knuckle dusters on his gloves making it easy to break it, causing blood to spurt down Fodder #1’s face. And just like that, he was out of the running.

Seeing this, Fodder #1’s friends, Fodders #2, #3 and #4, got up out of their seats, stumbling drunkenly towards Andy. Fodder #3 and #4 made to grab one arm of Andy’s each, in an attempt to give Fodder #2 some easy hits. However, before they could even reach him, Andy let loose a combo of a roundhouse kick to the face followed by a spinning hook kick, the first attack connecting with #3’s cheek, the second with #4’s temple. They both crashed to the floor, landing one on top of the other, leaving only Fodder #2 to deal with. Seeing the drunken fear in #2’s eyes, Andy raised his arms in the air.

“I give up,” said he.

“W-what?”

“I give up.”

“O-oh! Good. Y-you’re no match for me anyway,” blabbered Fodder #2, stepping within Andy’s reach, not realising it was a ruse before it was too late, a fist meeting his face, knocking him out and thus ending the fight.

Andy then proceeded to placing some extra cash on the bar counter, before turning around and walking out of the bar. As he walked, he noticed that the entirety of the bar’s customers had watched the fight, and were still watching him as he exited the bar. Commanding Bill, which had filmed the entire goings-on in the bar in the best angles possible, to stop recording, Andy took a breath of not-so-fresh air.

“Scene 1 of an undetermined amount completed. I think we’re off to a great start, Bill.”

"For the third and final time, Mister Turl, I can't give you any funding for this design. I would love to help you, because it looks like a great idea, but the science behind it doesn't hold up." Grant leaned back on his Technothrone -- that was what he affectionately called his chair at the head of the FTL boardroom. It could call for a drink, control numerous smart screens on the table and above it, and, in times of emergency, fly for three hours with a self contained circuit.

FTL's management facility (FTLH) was several stories about the rest of the compound, surrounded by actual nature. With enough money, you could make anything look like anything else. A floating four acres of soil was supported constantly by FTL-tech, and within this plot of land was the FTLH. It was less of a business building, and more of a comfortable business home. Which it was. Grant spent most of his time there.

The man in front of him was crestfallen, but Grant couldn't give him anything. The device was interesting, to be sure, but it wasn't feasible. "Trust me, Turl: I've learned more about science and engineering than I ever thought possible. It just isn't going to work. Not as it is. If you can fix the cooling issue, then we'll talk. Have an excellent day."

Turl left. Finally. Grant tapped on the technothrone, activating the microphone concealed within. "Sandra, send in Tomas. please."

Tomas was not Turl. Tomas was a backstabbing lowlife who had defaulted on a loan. A massive loan. There was no way he could pay back the debt, and that meant he was no longer useful to Grant. Tomas knew that pleading would be useless. There were no words between the business exec and the poor man. Only stares. Then Grant pressed another key, and clicked on a function with his trackpad.

Tomas was taken away. The execution station powered up. Problem solved.

Grant stood, stepping to the window of his comfortable abode. Only one building rose up above him, the one he wished wouldn't. The Metropolis Over-Council of Intracity Affairs did their business there. MOCIA was his true enemy. But to get to the crown of this poor, misguided city, he had to be ruthless. Ruthless and strong.

He returned to his seat. "Sandra, would you bring me a glass of apple juice?"

Ruthless and strong, but tasteful, that is.

Rayne stood in the center of the small room, the scent of the mold surrounding him, the cracks in the cement making it obvious that it was not a safe building. He checked over the 37 different escape possibilities, just in case some scumbag was hunting him down, as well as readying the taser in his right hand.

"2 minutes." Rayne whispered to himself, as he glanced around the foul-smelling room. His phone began to vibrate in his hand, the sound barely broke the silence. Rayne activated the voice changer to randomize the sound of his voice, and accepted the call.

"Is this him?" , said the voice on the other end of the call.

"Yes, He is me." Rayne said this as he went over the short message, on the screen protruding from his arm, which stated the date and time of the confirmation call.

"Will you take the mission?" said the gloomy sounding voice.

"My price is 2 million, you sure you can pay?" said rayne, the voice changer making him sound slightly russian.

"We have the payment planned out. The target then, have you heard of FTL?"

"The Forward-Thinking Leader Collective, yes, I have heard of them, if that is my target, your going to have to at least double the pay, as its a pretty big target." Rayne said this with obvious hate for the target, he has been asked multiple times to find out some sort of info on them, and each time, the job was taken off, due to the request to double the pay.

"One minute please." there was a sound of a hand covering the phone, as a muffled voice said something, before the hand was removed and the man returned. "Accepted, we will up your pay. 5 million. Rayne's eyes lit up, as he realized the extra mil could help a good deal.

"Alright, do you want the information relayed or spread?" Rayne asked the simple question to decide what he would do with the information.

"Relay it to the Metpo if it deserves that kind of attention, otherwise, spread it." said the man, his voice getting slowly more bland and depressing.

"Alright, Job accepted, I will inform you upon completion."

"Pleasure doing business with you." the man hung up, and rayne did as well, the phone went instantly to a protocol, it stopped working, and began to fully overheat, it would melt in 2 minutes. Rayne exited the room, after changing his disguise with his EZ Change™, dumping a small bag with the liquified phone into the graveyard, before heading back through complicated routes, constantly changing his disguise, as to not be followed, making his way back to his home on floor 91, so he could begin researching his target.

To any passerby, the hotel would've looked like the most unsanitary and worn down place in the world. Rust and dirt lingered in crevices and corners. Semi working neon lights glowed softly, the metallic walls softly reflecting the red illumination. Those who wandered too close to the building were quickly cast away by the harsh glares and insults of sketchy looking groups that loitered by the entrances. The smell of cigar smoke intermingled with the stench of smog and trash to create a mind numbing scent that hovered around the building.
To anyone else, this was a place that should've been shut down decades before. To Trein Fallfer, it was home.

Or it was

Trein drummed her fingers on the rusted metal desk. Her brown eyes stared down at the floor to avoid the manager's harsh glare.

"I've had enough of you, Ms. Fallfer," the manager barked, his watery eyes squinting in disapproval. "You've caused me nothing but trouble during your month long stay!"

"I haven't done anything wrong!" Trein protested, looking up. Her small mouth was put into an almost childish pout.

"Oh? You've managed to break a total of twenty-eight windows, break down your door, and paint a nude man posing inappropriately at the back of the hotel. And let me just note that those were what you did last week," the manager pointed out.

Trein rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching upward as she remembered her little 'art project'. "I was just trying to liven up this dump."

The manager shook his head. "No, Ms. Fallfer. You're lucky that I allowed you to stay this long. But enough is enough. Get out of my hotel!"

"But-"

"Good-bye, Ms. Fallfer. You should be thankful that I'm not charging you with property damage or calling MetPo!"

Trein glared and clenched her fists tightly. Pure loathing blazed in her eyes. With an irritated huff, she stalked through the front doors and away from the hotel. She glared at the ground as she walked through alleyways and cursed at the manager under her breath. Once again, she had nowhere to go and no place to sleep.

Oh what a wonderful life.

If there was a Rhyme and a Reason, she was the Rhythm.

Skeet Lawless, called “FLawless” by 90% of the skidmarks that were trying to get into her pants, glided easily over a poorly constructed wall between platforms, landing silently on the other side. She shook her head. The MetPo really were idiots.

The shadow of a cruiser about three levels above her was hard to miss, even in the dodgy semi-shadows of the fifties. The platforms stretching between, above, below, and even through the levels cast all sorts of interesting shadows, but none of them could be mistaken for a cruiser.

Idiots.

With the grace of a lean wildcat Skeet used the nearest wall to push off and up, grabbing the edge of a wooden porch above. She swung her feet for inertia and disengaged, sailing with no difficulty to a window frame, where she crouched to wait out the cruiser. If she knew the MetPo (and she did), their puny reptilian brains would begin to itch when she didn’t readily appear, at which point one of the knuckle-dragging baboons would suggest to the others that they quietly and stealthily lower their altitude until they could see her again. After a bit of congratulatory grunting and drooling, they would carry that plan out. And Skeet would pay them an incredibly unpleasant visit.

The hum of the cruiser’s pulsar engines was low and could escape notice if someone wasn’t actively listening for it. The flashers were off and the siren was silent (for once; the MetPo loved their ear-bleeding toys) as the cruiser, facing away from the window, descended. A pair of officers hung out the side bays, sweeping their rifle barrels back and forth as they searched for Skeet with increasingly puzzled expressions. Sometimes Skeet wondered if having the I.Q. of a shovel was a requirement of joining the force.

She sighed and flicked her Kommando Se7en™ Wrist Blades into place. They were a custom order, one of the first things she’d spent cash on instead of stealing. They were beautiful ceramic daggers, each six inches of serrated pain. Skeet had even paid extra to have them colored red.

Diving out and away, Skeet slammed her blade into one officer’s shoulder, her weight carrying her under him as her feet caught the edge of the hatch and she flung him out into space. The other ‘Po spun at his partner’s surprised scream, and got his throat opened for his trouble. He staggered back and tipped out of the cruiser. That left the third twit, the one piloting the damn thing.

Skeet wiped her blades on the upholstery and raised her eyebrows at the pilot, whose weapon was in the back. With her. He himself was gawking over his shoulder, apparently uncertain how to proceed. “… Halt?” He finally asked.

She almost rolled her eyes, but smiled instead. “And if I do?”

The pilot’s face screwed up in thought. “Uhm, you’ll be given leniency?”

“No, you’ll call in backup and I’ll get killed,” Skeet snapped. Then he made the move she’d been waiting for; he reached for his ankle piece.

Skeet smashed her heel into the back of his head before he could lean back up. His spare service pistol skittered away across the floor and slid out the left-hand hatch. If he wasn’t concussed, he was at least unconscious. She took the joystick and twisted it, aiming the cruiser at a nearby business, then stamped on the accelerator.

The little cruiser bucked and shot forward, straight for the concrete wall, and Skeet leapt out, catching an electrical cable strung between a platform and a boutique. She sliced it and swung across the void. Behind her, the cruiser plowed into the wall, which buckled and crushed it.

Landing and rolling into a shaded alley, Skeet patted her Neo™. It beeped happily. The package was safe.

Rayne sat at his computer, using the set of programs he designed to search up any needed information on his target, as fast as possible. He began looking over the company information. "Grant Anders. Hmm, if anything note worthy would happen, this is the guy it would happen to."

Frantically searching, he found info on FTLH, and then began looking at any job offer that he could use to get close to Grant. "There has to be something here." Rayne began to get frustrated, looking through the hundreds of options. Desk jobs, secretary positions, Janitorial job after Janitorial job. All of these options were so far from Grant that they really didnt matter. And then, gold. They needed someone to fix some faulty wiring in FTLH.

Rayne picked up his phone, of course, this wasn't the same phone as the one he used to set up the hacking job. He dialed in the number listed on the website, and was delighted as his devious plan began.

Andy was broke. There was no doubt about it. Sure, he could afford a couple of drinks at a bar, or order some ridiculously expensive coffee, but if he did so, he would be completely out of money. And that could not be allowed to happen. He desperately needed funding for his movie. Desperately. So as he walked through the streets of Floor 76, Bill capturing some footage of the advertisment-filled cityscape, an ad for a certain corporation caught his eye: FTL. He'd heard about their funding programs. They were used to fund ideas that would, in the long run, help others in some way, shape or form. Andy's movie would help people, right? It would help them see exactly how bad things are in Metropolis. It would wake them up. Wouldn't it?

So, calling Bill down, Andy found a pay-phone, the only one he'd seen in the city during his time there, and called the number on the advertisement.

"You have reached the Forward Thinking Leaders Collective. Our line is busy for the moment, please stand by. We will be with you shortly," answered an obviously recorded message, before switching into what would be considered elevator music.

"Oh, well that's just dandy-" began Andy, before getting cut off by an attractive female voice.

"Hi, this is Angela from the Forward Thinking Leader's Collective, how may I help you today?"

"Oh, uh, hi Angela, my name is Andy Hughes, I'd like to apply a film I'm working on for your funding program."

"Okay, yep... I'm afraid that requires an appointment. Would you like to make one?"

"Yes please. Can it be today? In about an hour?"

"Yes, that can be done. Your pitch will be reviewed at FTLH on Floor 112 in an hour."

"Thanks Angela-"

She hung up before he could finish his sentence.

"Wow. Well, okay then. I guess we're off to the 112th Floor, Bill."

"I've told you before, Smythe, the cords need to be replaced, not just patched up. Does this limitless mountain of money I have count for nothing? I'm tired of the breaks!" Grant rolled his eyes and pushed down on the phone's receiver, ending the call. It was the third time this month that the data able had given out on his personal computer. His mafia relied on that personal computer for their data and their orders. Without it, they were both sitting ducks and helpless savages.

After a moment of reflection upon the dismal timing, Grant released the receiver. "Hey, Angela, yes. Who is our electrician on call?"

The sharp woman, whom he'd had the fortune to hire before the other corporations, responded in her usual calm manner. It was one of the things that made her so easy to work with: the worst either of them ever got was mild exasperation. "Currently, Mr. Anders, we don't have one. The Electrotechnic Union is striking again. It won't be long, but we'll need to hire a freelancer for today. I have an applicant on file, actually. Shall I give him a call?"

"Please do." After a moment, he added "and then call our Sweeper, after. Thanks." He hung up. Sweeper: the business-world term for a Bug-hunter. His Sweeper was one of the best: if it gave off a signal, the man could find it.

Freelancers weren't just hired willy-nilly. Not by him. He had a very strict security standard, and that security had served him well in the past.

The intercom blipped again. "Anders," Angela said, showing their mutual respect by dropping the "mister", "You have someone who's filed for an attempted investment of the FTL Improvement Fund. Will you see him?"

Grant sighed. More nonsense. "I suppose. Send him to Audience room C, would you? And call up Matheson while you're at it. He can be the interrogator."

The FTL-IF had strict loan policies. Strictness helped keep Grant from spending excess on con-artists or spies. The policy wasn't too strict, but Grant had confidence in it. Matheson would meet with this interested party. Grant would listen in from the technothrone. He waved over Sandra, his personal assistant. Without her and Angela, he'd have more gray hairs than brown.

"Please patch me through to our Courier, Sandra." And by Courier he meant the girl.

With his system down so often (something he meant to fix today), it had become necessary to hire someone to give orders to his teams in the field. And so he had settled on Skeet Lawless. She was his mouth when he needed something to reach the mafia quietly. Or noisily, depending on the day and the pay.

He dialed the one number he knew to reach her into his most secure cell-line. "Lawless, if it's not too much trouble for you, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop by my office for a moment."

---

He had caught wind of something troubling occurring within the Metropolis Police ranks as of late. They were actually doing their job, for once, and when that happened, they tended to get a bit too close to his secrets for his comfort. The Mafia's alertness would be the first step in his operation to regain control.

---

((Basically, the first/unification subplot is beginning now.))

The building was a like a corpse--broken, beaten, and dead. Numerous windows were broken, puke green ivy crawled up the broken walls, and a decaying stench hung around the area. The entire place made the hotel look like a five star resort. It had once been a thriving place full of people and life. Now it was just an empty husk used only by squatters and illegitimate drug deals.

Trein gazed around the decaying structure, a spray can in hand. The place, despite its lifelessness, was perfect for a bit of graffiti. No one to interrupt her, no one to yell at her, and all the room to paint. And since no one was staying here, she could camp in the building until she found a new home.

"Hello, Mr. Wall," she remarked with a smirk as she adjusted her paint's colour to a dark blue. "Prepare to be awesome-ized."

Before even a drop of paint could touch the wall, a murmur of voices caught Trein's attention. "Shit," she hissed, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. So the place was occupied. "Probably some stupid kids or whatever..."
With silent steps, Trein slowly made her way towards the voices. They were coming from a nearby room. She had plans to scare those kids. Not only would it give her privacy once more, but it was going to be hilarious seeing their freaked out expressions.

"...easy way to get billions of dollars. No one will no."

"But if we get caught?"

"We won't."

"But-"

"We won't. Trust me."

Trein's smile melted away as she neared the room and heard the voices. They were much clearer now. They were deep...too deep to be a kid's. They spoke in hushed, hurried tones, as if they were afraid to be caught. None of it sounded good.

"People will lose their jobs, Randall."

"People on the lower floors! Do you understand? They were born broke and will die broke, no matter what. With this money...hell, we could do anything."

"...We have a deal, then."

Trein paled. Those weren't kids, and none of what had been said seemed good. "Oh crap," she said before she could even think. She stumbled away from the door as two men, both important looking, walked out. The men froze, staring at Trein. The young woman stared back, her mouth gaping in shock. "I-I didn't hear anything, I swear!" she spoke quickly.

"No...you know too much already," one of the men muttered, reaching for his pocket. He drew a sleek gun and aimed it at Trein.
"We don't need any witnesses."

PartyBuzzDrugs Inc. 47th floor.
Main Drug Lab

“Romeros! Romeros! For the 50th fucking time dammit, ROMEROS!” Shouted a loudspeaker voice blasting thought the lab floor to get his attention, while he was trying to focus on keeping up with the others, as he did not want to back up the factory line or cause trouble.

“The hell do you want?” Drake shouted up to the sealing, knowing full well the supervisor heard him. His already sour mood turned even worse as he was working on the keeping the drug powder filling machine full as it churned out the nightclub drugs that the company specialized in. “I was working for chirstsake! Can’t I get a damn break from your yapping mouth?”

“Knock it off, Romeros. I need your ass right now!” barked the factory supervisor. His tone was not in a mood to argue as the supervisor watched Romeros told one of the free guys to take over his position as he headed up to the overwatch. He walked into the clean room to decontaminate himself and then to the main office where the heavily overweight supervisor sat in his wheelchair with his computer pad.

“Ok, fatass, I’m here. Is it something that needs my attention or am I playing messenger boy this time?”

“Today is your lucky day, shitbag.” The supervisor grunted as he pushed the lever on his wheelchair, pushing his large mass of the body towards Romeros. “Management has gotten eye on how you’re costing the company money, but your training has proved….”

“Just cut to the chase, amigo. I ain’t really interested in what you got to say because ever since I began working here, you’ve just been spitting or yelling in my ear and barking orders at from day one. So what is it?” Romeros huffed as he rolled his eyes at the tub of lard the man was made out of.

The supervisor sighed and glared at him as he clenched onto the arm of the wheelchair. “Pack your shit. Since you are too valuable to be simply fired, we have decided to trade you for an FTL chemist with more experience and is willing to do your job… CONSISTENTLY!”, roared the fat supervisor as he started to cough from the phlegm in his throat.

“Well... if you look at the company standards, you know that the ‘standards’ are pretty shit. I do quality, not quantity. Ok? Maybe management liked me enough so I…”

The supervisor growled at him and simply had enough of his complaining. Beside him, lunch scraps contained a empty styrofoam cup in which he grabbed and threw it at him giving his last warning to leave. Romeros ducked under it as it hit the wall causing ice to fly all over the place and startled him as he was cut off. “The fuck, man?”
“GET OUT!!!!” shouted the fat man, just as his coughing forced him to breath though the oxygen mask

“Ok… I’m gone… Jesús Cristo…”

Security only gave him a few minutes as he headed down to his locker and grabbed whatever he could carry. It only took him a while to get his stuff out and into his backpack just before he left the building and into the parking lot, prepping his facemask as he managed to walk to his bike and drive out to the FTL offices.

Andy sat in the FTLH lobby, Bill filming a short shot of his owner before hovering down towards him, awaiting the next filming commands he was bound to get given out. Angela, the attractive voice that answered Andy's call, turned out to be just as alluring as her voice made her out to be, and Andy found himself constantly needing to mentally slap himself to stop staring.

Instead of being a creep, he thought of how he was to edit the interview he was about to have with whoever it was that was interviewing him. He didn't want a scene where he talks about needing funding for the film, did he? But before he dwelt on the problem for too long, he came up with a solution. Editing programs had improved so much so, that all one really needed was a bit of footage. With that footage, he could do with whatever he wanted, for example: completely change what the actors were doing or saying. Problem solved.

Angela then spoke up.

"Matheson will see you know. He'll meet you at Audience Room C.Good luck."

Whether the "good luck" was meant to be encouraging or not, Andy didn't know. He hoped it was the former as he searched the building for Audience Room C, as Angela did not give him directions, not even after he asked for them. Eventually, he found it, straightening his outfit and commanding Bill to film before walking into the room. What he saw was less than cosy... It was furnished by only a small circular table, two seats sitting opposite each other, one occupied by the man called Matheson. He was a tall man, bulky, but whether the bulk was from muscle or fat Andy didn't know.

"Andy Hughes?" Matheson asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Yes, Mr. Matheson. Thank you for agreeing to see me."

"Oh, just Matheson is fine. And not a problem. Here at FTL we make it a top priority to make sure the Improvement Fund is available for all who may need it."

Something was off. The pleasant nature of Matheson's voice... it didn't seem real. But then again, almost any corporate businessman was bound to have that sort of falsity to his voice. It came in the job description.

"Now, Mr. Hughes, I'm going to ask you some questions about your project. What is it, exactly?"

"Well, my project could be described as a film, but I'd like to think of it as more than just that. When I was a kid, I loved, and still love, action, thriller and martial arts movies. I thrived on them, I guess. But they always lacked something. Either depth to the story, or to the characters, or, heck, the location. It's my aim to take the best of all these genres, and infuse them with real life. Life can provide the best stories: ones without plotholes, with plenty of character development. It can, and does, provide us with the most interesting characters; no one's boring. Y'see, Matheson, I want to make the best thraction-arts movie ever," Andy explained, uttering words he memorised as he made his way to the 112th Floor.

"I see. And why is it that the Forward Thinking Leaders Collective should give you the funding you need?"

"Uh, well... It won't just entertain the general public, but it'll educate them too. I mean, I hope to shed some light on how bad things are here in Metro-Tokyo. I want people to see how corrupt the MetPo are, and how crime's thriving at the moment. I guess the movie'll be a sort of Idiot's Guide to Metro-Tokyo."

"I'm not sure that this meets the criteria for an Improvement Fund candida-"

"Product placement. Lots and lots of product placement," blurted Andy, desperate to convince the man to give him the funding.

"Mr. Hughes, I don't think you read the terms and conditions for the Fund-"

"With all due respect, Matheson, no one reads the terms and conditions. Ever. And there were no terms and conditions on your ad, so... I can't really be the one to blame, Mr. Matheson. Sir."

A sigh of frustration escaped the interviewer's mouth. This insolent boy kept cutting him off, after all. Why were kids so bratty these days?

"Mr. Hughes, I'm afraid that your argument, quite frankly, is invalid. I can't say that I'm sorry, but your film does not meet the requirements of the Improvement Fund. It needs to be able to improve the lives of those who watch it, not just hopefully make a small impact and get you a contract in Metrollywood. It has not been a pleasure-"

"Oh, but Matheson, I don't want a contract in Metrollywood. I want to win a DiCaprio! A Metroscar! As far as I'm concerned, Metrollywood can just attempt at remaking my movie in twenty years time. And, uh, Matheson?"

"What is it, Mr. Hughes?"

"Where's Mr. Anders' office?"

"Down the hallway and up a flight of stairs. It can't be missed. Why?"

"Because you're a dick, and I want to talk to Mr. Anders now. Buh-bye."

And it was then that Andy and Bill left a bewildered Matheson sitting in Audience Room C, thinking in fear what Anders will do to him for letting a rejected client walk right into his office. Andy was steeling himself in anticipation for Mr. Anders' reaction, hoping that he at least won't be killed long enough for him to argue his case. When he reached the office, he knocked on Mr. Anders' door, opening it, not waiting for an answer. Grant Anders' reaction? Well...

Grant Anders had very little reaction to the young man bursting into his office. He didn't have a lock on his door, in an effort to foster trust and communicability within FTLC.

It also helped that he had multiple industrial-grade sonic cannons installed around the room. Each was on a swivel axle, and as soon as the door opened (without the opener announcing their arrival and their business), Grant casually reached under his desk and flicked the dial up to four out of ten. The cannons sent the proper amount of soundwaves at the intruder, while Grant heard nothing at all.

One on the dial was excellent for listening to music in a surround sound fashion. Four was the equivalent of a space-bound projectile's launch sequence. In other words, it was dangerous to toy with Grant when he was having a bad day.

After a few relaxed seconds of aural agony, Grant turned the dial back to one. One of his multiple relaxing playlists was what came out of the cannons next. Unless the intruder was wearing inch-thick ear plugs--or they were deaf--there would be at least some discomfort in the room, and not from Grant.

He waited for a moment, until his words would be heard properly, "I'm sorry about that, kid. I have a very strict policy about seeing people. I'm a busy guy." A little camera buzzed in, circling Grant like he was some B-Movie villain. It was a Panasonic model. Grant didn't much care for Panasonic.

"Since you've interrupted my schedule without a care in the world, why don't you take a seat over there--" he pointed to a few chairs in the corner of the room. "--while I finish up what I was doing. Unless, that is, you want me to call security." Grant returned to his throne, after which, two things occurred, both of them phone calls.

"This is Grant Anders, President and CEO of Forward-Thinking Leader Collective. I'm quite busy, so make it quick."

"Boss?" Grant sighed. It was Anton, from the Mafia. "We caught someone snooping around here that you might want to talk to. Randall was gonna off her, but I thought you'd want final say."

Typical mob tactics, try to gain favor with the important people. "Thank you, Anton. I would like to speak with her. Please hold her there until I'm able to make it to her." In truth, it would probably be a long, long time before he could be bothered to go see what they were talking about.

"No problem, boss. You have a good day." Grant hung up.

"Sorry about th--" the phone cut him off. "Damn. This is Grant Anders, President and CEO of Forward-Thinking Leader Collective. I'm quite busy, so make it quick."

"Are you okay, Anders?" Ah, it was Angela. What a woman. No fear at all.

"Fine, Angela, just stressed. What is it?"

"You have a new chemist down in the offices. And," she continued, taking the word right out of Grant's mouth, "He is the one who got traded over from PartyBuzzDrugs Inc." She said the name as if it was the most serious title ever created. "The one who we have no idea about. Point is, Anders, I think you should go down and take a look at him."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Angela, I'm already behind schedule, I can't be expected to look over every new person in the offices." Silence from the phone. "Fine. You know what, just send him up to me. It's not like I'm not getting enough visitors already. Make sure he identifies himself properly, please. I can't be trusted not to liquefy the next person who walks through my door unannounced." He glared very pointedly at the young man in the room.

"Very good, sir. I'll send the electrician up when they arrive, as well. Oh, and by the by, Lawless has yet to return your message. Thought you'd want an update." Angela hung up. Only a half-decade younger than he was, but she seemed to Grant the most efficient being to ever walk the Earth. Didn't mean she didn't infuriate him half the time.

He looked over at the kid. "Okay, you're here. Someone else is coming, so talk. Multiple someones, actually. If one of them gets here before you finish, tough."

It did not take long for him to arrive at the parking lot entrance and make his way in as he found a parking spot for his electro-bike near the FTL lobby. He usually carried his backpack with him, but only thought that it would be unnecessary as he only needed his notebook of formulas that he showed to people that were interested in his work. Drake considered it more or less of a portfolio and a summary of his knowledge, albeit some of the things in his notebook contained the various chemical compounds and recipes he learned during his time at his former employer, considering that he was walking with trade secrets contained in it. He left behind his backpack with the rest of the stuff, including his pistols that he always kept in the bike storage compartment under lock and key, and never under a code pad as they could be hacked in this day and age. Walking into the lobby, a few security guards escorted him to another room where he was gone through a scanner machine to see if he had any weapons on him to threaten Grant.

“Ok rat, just go through the scanner and no funny business”, barked one of the guards as he glared at him though his black glasses, watching him closely.

"Sure thing, amigo. I’m not really keen on a cavity search if you find anything”, sarcastically joked Drake as he stepped onto to the scanner platform. He had a sly grin on his face and stretched his arms out so the scanner can make sure it can properly scan him. It took a few minutes to find that all he had hidden was his lighter and his cigarettes on him that made it passed.

“Looks clean. What about the facemask?”, asked the guard working the machine.

“He can keep it. I don’t know why he would want to keep his mask at the 112th floor. Not like there’s smog he can choke on upstairs.”

“Still, I don’t see any reason why the hell he can carry his facemask up there.”

Drake rolled his eyes at the two guards arguing and decided to interject. “Because it’s my shit, puto. You really want to fucking argue?”

“No, you rat. You can keep your shit. Just don’t try anything stupid or we might as well shaft you to The Graveyard. And don’t smoke unless you’re given permission to. Get it?”

“Alright, just let me sign in so I can get to whatever post I’ve been assigned to.”
“The Suit wants to see you first. That’s why you got scanned in the first place, rat.”
The Suit… thought Drake. The head of FTL wishes to speak to me? I guess I must be important enough for a higher up to notice my skills or I might just be lucky enough for whatever he needs.

With his visitor ID to the 112th floor that was given to him, he was lead to an elevator that would lead right to the 112th floor where Grant was. Even though he was left alone, he could tell that a security camera stared right above him as he started to grab a cigarette from his cigarette case and lit it up, smoking it in defiance of the guard’s orders.

“No one tells me where I can smoke, amigo.”, he muttered to himself as he took a breath of the menthol favoring of the cigarette, just before the elevator took a brief stop to let in an androgynous looking young man as the person stood next to Drake and hummed along and ignored Drake as he carried papers, making it obvious that he showed little interest in him. Clearly, temptation was running though Drake’s mind as he took in the feminine body of the young person, wondering if he used hormone therapy to make a sex appeal in this consumerist hellhole, or worked with Fetish Inc. before such a sweet fag of a man started working as a white-collar paper pusher. Regardless, Drake took the cigarette out of his mouth and cleared his throat, as he tried to make small talk.

“Hey. I’m new here and was wondering if someone can get me a tour of this place?” Drake spoke in a calm and charming manner as he held down his cigarette between his fingers. Naturally, his focus was to get his number and go out for one-night stands whenever he saw someone that caught his eye.

“Sorry, I’m busy. Maybe next time.” spoke back the twink, as he mostly ignored him and simply walked out when his floor arrived, leaving Drake to be alone for the rest of the ride up the elevator.

Skeet shoved the door open with her hip and stepped into one of the largest and loudest multi-level superstores in Metro-Tokyo: MetroPop. Modeled after a period in the 2000's when "kawaii" things had been all the rage, the store boasted insanely bright pastel and neon walls, translucent many-colored walkways, and a constant stream of cheerful Japanese music blasting out of two-story-tall ceiling speakers decorated with fuzzy bug-eyed animals. Her long hair streamed as the in-store air conditioner quickly cleared up the cloud of smog from the outside, sucking it away to belch back out on some lower level of the city. Though she would never admit it to herself, much less mention it to someone else, Skeet actually didn’t mind the décor. She might even have found it cute, if she was inclined to think much about it. But she was there for a drop-off, and she didn’t have time to think about the cute stuffed animals and the frilly clothes.

Brushing into the stream of shoppers, Skeet followed the flow of traffic. One of the boutiques in the store carried perfume; she could smell jasmine and lilacs wafting from their brightly-lit display. Sometimes she wished she could wear scent. A salesgirl in a pink cheongsam was giving out sample spritzes to passing women. Skeet made a mental note to find such a dress somewhere in Little Shanghai. She could always store it in her Neo™, considering she didn’t have a stable address.

The drop-off point was on the topmost level, near a section devoted to mechanical toys and electronics. Almost everything there was Ciao Bunny™-themed. Ciao-Bunny™, an adorable rabbit with an orange bow, could be found on all sorts of things, from RC hover toys to—and this surprised even Skeet—guns and ammunition. Most of the top floor was dedicated to her merchandise. It was the only part of the store that attracted men, since it did carry a variety of non-Ciao-Bunny™ devices.

Skeet followed the winding walkway higher into the store; there were no windows to speak of, so she was forced to guess where she was based on what departments she passed and how far away the bottom floor was. The store spanned five floors, not including the ‘roof’, which housed a tea and cake shop. If everything went well with the drop, she might consider buying something sweet and eating it outside—they were high enough up that the air was clean.

The drop itself was an out-of-place Happy Ranger™ figure with voice action sitting alone on a shelf full of electronic pets. Skeet strode into the electronics section, scanning for the doll. As she moved, she adjusted her suspender—her Neo™ silently deposited the chip into her hand in the space of a second—and she turned a corner to peruse a display of life-like mechanical kittens and puppies. Lying on top of one of the boxes, like a careless child had discarded it, was a red Happy Ranger™. Skeet crouched to look at the different styles of pets and, pretending to tip a box forward to read about the toy, slid the chip into the Ranger’s Power Belt. After a moment more of reading, she got up and left the aisle.

Her pager vibrated in her hip pocket as she strolled back down the spiraling ramp. Skeet didn’t check it yet, stopping at the perfume booth near the entrance to buy a bottle of the brand they were sampling. As she left the building, she spritzed herself.

Then she stepped off the edge of the platform, tapping her Neo™ open and tossing the crystalline glass bottle inside. Dropping to the level below MetroPop, she landed without a stutter and faded into a long, narrow corridor between a clothing store and a mens’ accessory shop. Sliding the pager out of her pocket, she clicked it on and read the number.

Anders.

Skeet was never curious about her jobs. She’d worked for Anders before and knew he paid well, and that was enough for her. Planting a foot against the accessory shop’s wall, she shoved up and off, using the other wall to counter-balance as she moved up a level. After some tricky maneuvering, she made it to a tiny four-foot-by-eight-foot stall trapped between MetroPop’s back and the Urban Flayr™ flagship store.

The stall was basically a ghetto telephone/communicator dive—it was cheap, it dealt only in cash, and reaching the damn thing required you be on foot and able to jump four feet in the air. MetPo cruisers just couldn’t fit in the space, and the Metpo didn’t come back there anyway. She bought a satellite phone and, squirreling herself away in a recessed maintenance duct, called back.

The barrage of sound hurt. There was no doubt about it. Andy found himself on his knees the moment he walked into Grant Anders' room. The sound reverberated through his head, each time seeming louder than the last, the pain never ceasing until Grant changed the sound launching from the speakers to something a little more relaxing. Though the calm music was an improvement over the brain-sploding noise, there was still something about it that made Andy rather uncomfortable. After checking the touchpad on his forearm to see if Bill was still functional, Andy obeyed Anders' order to sit, waiting patiently for the intimidating head of FTL to finish doing whatever it was he was doing.

After a short while, Anders turned to Andy and told him to rest his case. The man seemed laid back and relaxed, but Andy couldn't help but feel the slightest bit threatened. 'Ooh boy,' he thought, Here goes my chance of getting funding.

"First of all, Mr. Anders, I am terribly, terribly sorry for barging in like this, it's just that Matheson was being a dick and I thought that you, his boss, would be more understanding of my need for the funding. Now, uh, for my proposal... I'm working on a movie, but I'm completely broke, and I really really believe in this project," Andy began explaining, his speech increasing in speed gradually as his nervousness grew. "The goal is to make the best action/thriller/martial arts movie ever, thraction arts, I guess, using footage taken from real life, which won't only add a bit more realism, but it'll also hopefully wake the public up to see how bad things really are here in Metropolis, and hopefully people will see enough of how crap it is here to take action against it and work together to make everything better."

Sweat trickled down his brow. His chest heaved up and down. Man, this persuading business was a bitch.

"I also have a camera drone, skills in martial arts and free running, which I can use to help you in I don't know what you need help in. Mr. Anders. Sir," he added, extremely desperate for the money. Hopefully it was enough. Andy didn't think he could argue his case any longer. Convincing was a very exhausting sport. All he could do was sit and stare at Anders in a respectful manner, hoping for the best.

The barrel of the gun lay cool against the back of Trein's head, making the girl uncomfortable shift around. She just had to stay and listen. She could've just found a new hotel or maybe make a little shack, but no, she had just stayed around and get screwed over. Trein crossed her arms and gazed around. A few feet away, one of her captors was talking on a phone. Tid bits of the conversation floated towards her and she strained her ears to listen for more. Unfortunately, she could only catch the brief goodbye before her captor hung up and walked towards her.

"Good news: we won't kill you just yet. Bad news: our boss wants to see you." He smirked at the glaring Trein.

Trein spat at him. "Well tell your boss to kiss my a-"

"When's he getting her, Anton?" the man holding the gun quickly intervened. "I'm getting sick of watching this brat."

"It'll probably take a while..." Anton frowned.

The gunholder scowled. "I don't have time for this shit." He roughly grabbed Trein and started dragging her away. Anton followed despite looking a tad nervous. This wasn't going to end well.

---

The elevator was surprisingly stuffy, though it was probably from the two men pressed against Trein to ensure that she couldn't escape. The gun was still held up to her head, making it more of a nuisance than a danger at this point. Glares were exchanged between Trein and the gun holder, whose name she had earlier learned was Randall.

"I'm gonna be real fucking happy when the boss decides to kill you," Randall muttered as they reached the correct floor. Trein flashed him a certain finger before they stepped out into the office.

Drake covered his ears in groans of frustration as he heard the sound that reverberated outside the elevator as it started to reach the higher floors to his destination. From where the ear piercing sounds and with the shock-waves that rocked the elevator, it must had come from the room where Grant was in. Even as it died down, his mind wondered if someone had invoked The Suit's wrath that lead to such an event happening. He checked around to see if the elevator was running smoothly before he noticed that he dropped and stepped on his cigarette during the fiasco. "Shit... another wasted fag... oh well..." he sighed. He picked it up and held it in his hand to prevent himself to invoke The Suit's wrath on him for littering and wasn't ready to piss him off on the first day on the job as he was personally seeing his new employer at first glance.

The elevator let out a dinged as it reached the floor and it started to open the door, figuring he was a short walk away from where Grant’s office was located. He looked around to find a nearby trashcan where he dumped the crumpled cigarette from his hand, and made his way to the office and noticed the door was already open for him as he heard Andy begging and pleading his case for his movie as smile cracked on his face as he let out a chuckle at the kid.

“Perhaps you should focus on gonzo journalism and make a documentary instead”, spoke Drake as he looked at Andy, sitting down, leaning into one of the swivel chairs in the room, and put his notebook next to him on the table. “Unless you want some pyrotechnics and explosions, you’re going to have bad time giving that suspense of disbelief. But that’s just my opinion, amigo.” It was only an opinion that Drake had for him, not as if he knew how to make movies, but it was something that Andy would might have to consider, but it was his choice, ultimately.

“Anyway…”, Drake turned his chair around and faced Anders with his hand on his notebook. “Since I am the new chemist you traded with from my shitty former employer, perhaps you want to know the reason why they traded me. Its because the only thing that they are consistent at.. is making is shit drugs. I make quality, amigo. But if you wish to know, I can make more than just things that can make you high in what I call my ‘cookbook’ right here.” He gave two taps of his notebook as he opened it up and passed it forward to Anders.

He heard the a silent ding from across the hall and took a look at the nice lady that was about to be dragged in, having a smile on his twisted face wondering if he would see The Suit’s wrath firsthand at someone who was asking for it.

Why had today, of all the days possible, been the one day that everyone and beyond had decided they needed to speak with him? First, this kid, (named as Andy Hughes by Grant's The Monitor) had decided to motormouth his way in here to ask for funding on a project of one kind or another. Great. It was something he could deal with. Let the boy down easy, or kick him out. Not a huge problem.

After that had been a chemist. The chemist he had asked for. An arrogant young man with a notebook full of ideas that would have to be carefully reviewed. The Monitor named him as Drake Romeros. Formerly worked at a shithouse. Lovely.

And as if that wasn't enough, issue three burst in only a few seconds later. A young woman, flanked by Anton and Randall. Idiots. Now witnesses had seen his dirty works. This was not good. He'd either have to kill them, or swear them to secrecy, then kill them.

His phone rang. What could possibly be going on now? He picked up the phone, never letting the blank look on his face waver. With a single finger he forestalled any speech by the entourage in front of him. "Grant Anders."

"Really, Grant, you should know who's calling you by now." Angela.

"I'm a bit busy."

"And that's why I'm not inviting you to lunch with me, sir. I just thought you'd want to know that...well, the electrician got hit by a MetPo Skyrider on his way over here. Completely his fault, they assure me. The repairs are going to take a few more hours. I've already lined up a contract, but it will be some time." 'You're welcome' were the unspoken words.

"Anything else?" Grant's fingers tapped together in a random, strange pattern. A thinking movement, something he never noticed until someone pointed it out.

"Lawless is on line four. One of your mob bosses is on line three. The board members are trying to call a meeting to discuss the Improvement Fund project. I have a regional Metropolis Police Captain on line one. Line two is clear, as are six through ten."

Grant wanted to jump out the window and end it right then and there, but he was a man with a mission. "Thank you, Angela. Hold for a second, would you?"

"Of course." The call went into a dial tone.

Grant looked up from the technothrone. "If you could all just wait for a moment, I'll be with you shortly. Anton, Randall? Get out. I'll deal with you later." His hand toyed with the dial to the sonic cannons. The two knew that leaving was in their best interests.

Next wast the Board. He picked up the phone. "Line 2," he said. "Call: Secondary Board Room.". The phone rang only once before being answered. "Hello? Smythe? Hi. It's Anders. We're not holding a meeting to review the IFP. I've looked over the incomes. We're profiting. A great deal. The IFP is my way of giving back. Don't bother me with this again." He refused to let the board interrupt the first part of his company to do good for the world.

That was always his goal, in the end. It just required focus, dedication, and ruthlessness.

Next was line three. "I'll talk to you later, an interesting proposition is here." Code for "shut the fuck up, there's people in front of me". He hung up. Lastly, the MetPo. "Officer Jameson, how nice to hear from you."

The gruff voice on the other end responded instantly. "It's about time, Anders. We've been waiting to question you about the incident for months!" Ah, the incident. A botched job by his mafia, and now the MetPo was on his case.

"Later, Jameson, I promise you. Good day." He hung up. "Now," he said, looking at the group arrayed before him. Andy, I think-" A lightbulb went off inside his head. Here he had three people. Talented. A filmmaker, a chemist-well, explosives expert, and a climbing painter. He could use this.

"I think Matheson was having an off day. Your proposition is very interesting. I accept. You can head downstairs at your earliest convenience to pick up your first stipend." He tapped in a few keys on the throne. "There it is. The basic monthly funding is thirty thousand omnicredits, so everything you need should be within reach. After the first month, A group of the board members will review your project, and then I will see if we will terminate or up your contract. I expect you to start immediately.

"However, you can't do it alone. These two will help you. On one side, you have an excellent chemist and explosives expert, as I gathered from his file, and on the other, you have a woman with an excellent eye for detail." The meaning was unmistakeable: if Trein kept her mouth shut and worked the job, then she would be allowed to live. "Naturally, both of you will receive your own stipend as well. Mister Romeros, this will be in addition to your salary, so don't disappoint me."

He reached under his desk, pulling out a trio of headsets. "Seeing as I've taken something of a...person interest in this project, I expect regular correspondence. These will show my what you see, and transmit to me what you hear. When you're working, wear them."

---

After a long moment of reflective silence, he continued, "I've heard that a nearby Metropolis Police station has been dealing in some...uncomfortable enterprises. Weapons trading and smuggling are serious offenses. I suggest you start there. Captain Jameson has been called a snake before, but you may just the three to really catch him on it. You're all dismissed."

Once they had left, he finally opened up line 4. "Skeet Lawless," he said, working the name around his mouth before saying it. "If it's not too much trouble, meet me in my office as soon as you can. I have a proposition for you. Think about this question on your way over: What is it that you want in this life, above all else?" He hung up. Plans made, plans set in motion. Not a bad day.

If only he could get the board off his ass.