Archive of Our Own ^beta

Falling, falling, falling.

The second-to last thing he can remember is falling.

Falling for what seemed like an eternity, the wind whistling past his face. Fabric whipping around his legs, his arms, his torso. The moon reflected on the glass windows of a building he otherwise can’t quite visualize, and the world that would never know his absence.

Moonlight. Darkness. Heights. The sensation soured in his memory. What was he doing, up so high?

His eyes close.

The real last thing he can remember is piles upon piles of jagged edges that gave way to a soft embrace (a mattress maybe?). The smell hits him soon after. The goddamn smell. He imagines what his perfectly laundered and ironed clothes must look like, now torn and stinking of garbage. A sharp pain stabs through his skull, briefly. He would definitely need a new tie after this.

After this.

What was this?

This.

He found himself unable to recall.

It was as if a hole had been drilled into his head, and thoughts poured from the cracks in his mind. Memories became less comprehensible; sounds faded to silence, sights blurred past recognition. In his mind’s eye he saw himself standing in a shin-deep sea of familiar images; their photons fading into the deep, dark end of the ocean. He could do nothing but watch as the pictures streamed past his legs, splitting to become particles of light, to be forgotten forever more.

Caught in the throes of his nightmares, he pays no attention to his real surroundings. Maybe he’s in the sea in the real world too. Would make sense, wouldn’t it? Dreams and reality. Not so different.

Amidst the sound of the ocean, a faraway voice reaches his eardrums.

“Are you dead, my man?”

A burst of pain jolts him awake. He inhales, the air slicing through his throat. He can’t quite muster the strength to lift his head, but he forces his eyes open, taking everything in while he can. Waves lapping against a shore made of sheets of paper. The salt-spray of the ocean intermingling with the fetid, rotting scent of man-made waste. Somewhere nearby, seabirds caw, their cries ringing in the air. With great effort, he cranes his neck to see the owner of the distant voice, a hooded figure looming over his supine body.

“Long night out? Had too much of the good stuff?”

“Where am I?” he rasps.

“They call this place Trash Island,” the hooded figure says, motioning to the large ‘Welcome To Trash Island’ sign behind him.

“How creative.”

The person gestures to the expansive waste-land. “It is what it is; and it isn’t exactly prime real estate. More landfill than land.”

“Who would want to live here?”

“Nobody, that’s why I almost didn’t notice you on the ground there. You blended in so well.”

The man’s ribs ache. He chuckles dryly. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

The hooded figure motions at the fallen man’s legs. “Can you stand?”

“I’m not sure.”

They extend a hand towards him. “Here, let me help you up.”

The man grabs it, his grip seeming looser than usual. He manages to stand on his shaking, uncertain legs, but they betray him after the first step. The other person barely catches him before he falls face-first into the ground.

“Whoa there, careful.” His arm is maneuvered around the shoulders of a person much shorter than him. An awkward arrangement. “Take it easy, my man. Can’t have you getting a concussion while we walk, yeah?”

The man nods. “Thanks.”

“How did you end up here, anyway? An island made of trash isn’t most people’s idea of a vacation destination.”

“I—” he starts. Good question, but he couldn’t think of a good response. “I don’t know.”

“Can’t stand, can’t remember how you got here… must’ve been a wild night for you. What’s your name, by the way?”

“My name?” A pause. “My god… I don’t know.”

“You can’t even remember your name? Man.” The hooded figure laughs. “You either attended a hell of a party or you’ve got some kind of brain damage.”

“Amnesia stories are the worst. I hope it’s not the latter.”

“Me too, me too. Well, by the looks of that name tag in your pocket, you seem to be some kind of CEO.”

“You went through my pockets?”

“No, well, come on,” the other person starts. He seems annoyed by the assumption, the tone of his voice more exasperated. “Listen, why would I? You couldn’t possibly have anything I’d want. It was next to you; I just put it back. End of story.”

“Sure, whatever.” The newly christened CEO sighs. “At least I’ve got something going for me.”

“Not unless it leads to people trying to kill you.”

“As if that’s going to happen,” he snorts. “So, what about your name?”

“Some call me Agent J. You can, for now.”

“Okay then, I will.” The CEO surveys Trash Island’s unremarkable landscape. “Where are we going, Agent J?”

The agent inclines his head upwards, at the other end of the island. “To my boat. We’re catching a ride back to civilization.”

The slowly approaching sound of the waves nearly drowns his words out; a lullaby sung by the sea. “That seems like a good idea.”

“Maybe you’ll recall some more about yourself along the way.”

“I hope so.”

Their trek is interrupted by a rustling coming from a nearby garbage pile. The two men stop dead in their tracks.

“Someone’s on our trail,” Agent J mutters. “Be careful.”

Papers scatter in every direction as a man leaps out of one of the trash dunes. He skids to a halt in front of Agent J and the CEO. The shield sunglasses on his head are askew, their antenna twisted at an oblique angle. His suit jacket is covered in sludge and dirt. He clears his throat.

“Freeze, terrorists!” he shouts, pointing a finger at them. “Hands up! Don’t move!”

Agent J shakes his head, relaxed as ever. “Terrorists? I think you’ve got the wrong people, man.”

“Don’t even think about trying to fool me, I’m in Internal Affairs. We know who you two are.” The IA agent casts sidelong glances at the CEO. “And you should have both died a long time ago… You’ve got guts trying to hide from us.”

CEO looks him in the eyes. “Why? What are you talking about?”

The shorter man holds his head in his hands, thrashing about like a fish gasping for air. “Argh, shut up!” he cries. “I’ll bring your heads to the Shareholders!”

“That ought to please them,” Agent J says, laughing dryly.

He reaches within his coat for something. CEO turns his head to see what it is, but in that short moment of distraction, the IA agent decks him right in the face.

“What do you think you’re looking at?!” the agent screeches. “Pay attention!”

CEO rubs his cheek. “Ow,” he hisses, out of habit more than pain. A warmth spreads through his face, into his chest, into every part of his body. His blood simmers.

Agent J, halfway through reaching for his item, directs CEO’s line of sight to a nearby wooden dock.

“Run,” he mouths.

“Hell no.” The CEO shakes his head. A wry smile plays across his face. “I feel just fine.”

“You’re not escaping on my watch!”

As the IA agent goes in for another punch, CEO blocks it with an open palm. He grabs the shorter man’s fist, driving his other hand into the agent’s stomach.

“Stop — ow — resisting!” The employee panics, slamming his briefcase into the side of CEO’s head, causing him to release his grip on the agent. The CEO staggers backwards, instinctively pressing a switch near the handle of his briefcase. A swift hail of bullets from somewhere inside his case catches the agent in his guts. Not to be deterred, he kicks CEO in the chest. An electrical current builds up in his sunglasses’ antenna and travels to his foot, exploding in a burst of energy right into the businessman’s torso.
CEO stumbles away from the attack, a little worse for wear, a salty taste lingering in his mouth. He swings at the IA agent, and misses. The pesky bureaucrat is too nimble to let himself be hit. CEO swings again, and misses again.

“Little shit,” he mumbles. “Stay still.”

Said little shit trips over Agent J’s outstretched leg right after. He rights himself immediately, but CEO takes this as a chance to deliver a third punch… which finally connects with the little shit’s head.

“Ow…”

With a terminal cough and sputter, the Internal Affairs agent collapses to the ground. Agent J nudges the body with his foot, but it shows no signs of life.

“Those fists of yours are seriously strong. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of your punches.” J sighs. He looks back at the CEO. “Are you feeling alright, though?”

“Mmm… I think so…” He wobbles unsteadily on his feet.

Agent J moves in to support him again. “My man, are you about to take a nap right now? It’s dangerous to sleep after getting a concussion. You could die from that, you know.”

The CEO waves him away. “I won’t, I won’t. I’m just a little tired.”

“Don’t let your guard down. I’m helping you, but who knows what would happen if you fell asleep around someone else…

“People these days are dangerous, full of nasty thoughts and malicious intentions. If you ain’t careful, the evil within them could burrow under your skin and seep into your very soul…”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“You’d do well to remember it.” Agent J nods towards the moored jet-boat bobbing in the water by the dock. “Now let’s get outta here.”

The wind always feels stronger on the open sea.

It swirls around CEO and the agent, lifting the hems of their clothes in the air. It caresses their faces with a rough touch. The sea churns like factory-made butter, but the engine of their boat chugs along all the same.

Some tall, remote structure, like an obelisk parting the ocean, draws nearer and nearer every passing second. It’s an overcast day today, and the rumblings of distant thunder bode worse weather to come. CEO keeps his eyes on the building. A large storm’s brewing on the horizon ahead.

“Just a little longer until civilization,” J says as he looks behind him, watching the boat trail white foam in its wake. Agent J looks back at the CEO. “Are you sure you can’t remember anything from before now, my man?”

“Before my fall?” CEO wracks his brain for something, anything, anything at all. In the depths of his brain, a stray thought worms its way to the forefront of his mind. “One thing, I guess.”

“What is it?”

“I…” He holds the thought close, but it’s already beginning to slip from his memory. “I think there’s someone I need to find.”

“A friend of yours?”

CEO hesitates, but after a moment of silent deliberation, nods. “You could say that.”

“We’re here.”

The boat arrives at a rocky island with a single building on it, a window-filled goliath of modern architecture that stretches to the heavens above. As the two disembark, light rain washes out the world around them.

Agent J stretches his arms out. Rain runs off his hood, pouring down his sleeves and pooling in the outer crevices of his coat. He grins.

“Welcome to the Hub Hotel, one of the only safe harbors left.” He points to the building behind him, somewhere high above ground level. The Hub Hotel is much more imposing when close-up, looming over the two men like a dormant concrete giant. “I’ll be going up to my apartment now. You’d better get in quickly too; you’re bound to catch a cold in this weather. I’ll try and help you with your identity crisis once we get inside.”

“Which apartment is it?”

“13-J. See ya there.” Agent J departs for the warm comfort of his apartment, leaving the CEO outside.

CEO sighs, letting the water droplets arc across his skin. Not so different from a cold shower. Some soap might be nice. God, he reeks. And his clothes, too. They’d need washing.
Well, any hotel worth its salt would have a shower in its rooms. And maybe a washing machine… he’d just have to ask Agent J if he could borrow it for a while.

CEO hears another peal of thunder, reminding him that the faraway storm from earlier could close in at any moment. As he hurries into the lobby, he looks back at the outside world one last time.
The sky is black and covered in clouds. A steady downpour of rain continues without him.
Seems like this rain isn’t going away any time soon.

In the residential area, CEO knocks on the door to 13-J, but realizes that it’s unlocked just a little bit too late to spare himself the effort. He lets himself in.

A humble domestic scene unfolds before his eyes, but it seems to be in slight disarray. For one thing, there’s no bed in sight. There is a well-maintained kitchenette and a living area, at least, but apart from that the place is barebones and probably infested with roaches. CEO suppresses a shudder at the thought. His eyes drift towards the window, which shows a nice ocean view, helping to quell his bug-related distaste somewhat.

In the living area Agent J is sitting on a couch in front of a TV, watching the news and drinking out of a bottle of distilled water. He waves at the sight of CEO in the doorway. The first thing the businessman notices is his voluminous head of curly black hair, no longer constrained by the hooded cloak he formerly donned. The cloak is draped on top of a nearby recliner, soaking the carpet underneath it with more water. There’s a nearly empty water cooler next to the window, and CEO wonders if water is all J has in the kitchen fridge.

“Welcome to the pad, my man,” Agent J declares. He takes another sip of his water bottle.
CEO looks around the room. The wallpaper is peeling off, revealing the wood below it, and the ceiling is cracked in places. Hardly a pad to feel welcome in. He grimaces. “It looks like a total mess, if I’m being honest.”

Agent J shrugs. “My bad, my bad. I was doing business in a different town for a while. Didn’t leave me with much time to tidy up around here.” He gestures towards an empty spot on the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable, change the channel if you want.”

“Much appreciated, but I’d rather not waste any time with these pleasantries,” CEO says, shaking his head. “I want to find the rest of my memories, fast. This world is far too depressing without them.”

The agent raises his hands. “Alright, alright. I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down, man. Just don’t expect it to be so simple.” J waves one hand in a circular motion. “We are on a literal Business Planet. There are thousands of CEOs out there.”

CEO rests his chin on his knuckles. “I see, so I could be any one of them… I hope I’m not a janitor CEO,” he says, punctuating the words with a bitter laugh.

“And that’s not all,” Agent J continues, raising a finger. “Finding someone with memories of you specifically would be an almost impossible task, and that’s even if we knew who you were.”

“I guess the first step here is to find out who exactly I am, then.”

“Which is where I come in.” J leans back, into the cushions of the couch. “I’ve got a proposition for you, my man.”

“Lay it on me.”

“I’ll help look for your identity, but you’ll have to fill in for me at my job.”

“Fair enough. What kind of job are we talking,” CEO says, gesturing dismissively, “Office Supply Sales?”

Agent J gives a shake of his head. “Not quite.”

“Customer service? Shoe shining?”

“Nope and nope.”

“Then what the hell is it?” CEO asks, his voice growing more shrill by the word. “Are you unemployed or something?”

“It’s assassination.”

“You’re an assassin? Yeah, right. As if.” He crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, exhaling harshly. “And I’m the long-lost son of the most powerful man in the world.”

Agent J does not respond.

“Come on, you’re joking. No way.”

J nods. “Yes way. It’s a dangerous job, but I can assure you it’s been perfectly legal for several hundred cycles already.”

“Uh, okay.”

“It’s easy. I just wait for my boss to fax over the target’s bio and some basic travel expenses. And then—”

“No, come on, stop.” CEO lifts his hand, signaling for the other man to shut up. “I don’t know, man. This is a lot to take in…”

A series of whirrs and clicks emits from somewhere around the window. Both men freeze, staring at the object emitting the noise.
It’s a fax machine, currently in the process of spitting out a piece of paper. CEO notes that the damn thing isn’t even plugged into an electrical outlet.

“Well look what it is,” the agent says, his voice filled with cheer, “we’re getting a fax right now. Hmm…” He takes the sheet of paper out of the slot. “Let’s see who’s on the menu this time…
“CEO Floyd Roberts, alias ‘the Dingo’. Currently located in Stocksford City Stock Exchange. Reclaimed CEO Chief of Sales, suffering from a crippling coffee addiction.”

“I’m…” CEO glimpses at the paper’s contents. It contains the name and basic information of the aforementioned, as well as a picture of the man destined to die.

Roberts looks, well, as normal as there can be on a literal planet of business. His clothes are well-fitted, his hair is brushed neatly, but his eyes are hollow and bloodshot. The eyes, the eyes, the eyes! He’s missing the typical white pupils and his sclera don’t seem to be the usual black, but then again it may just be a printing error. Or he saw it wrong. Or maybe it’s a sign of danger, to ward off would-be killers like him. “…not sure I can do this.”

“Relax, relax. Just take this train ticket and you’ll be fine.” Agent J places a crisp piece of paper into his substitute’s hands. “Don’t forget to head right back here after you dispatch the target. I’ll have some info ready for you by then.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” The CEO sighs. “At least I can take comfort in the fact that he’s probably a dirtbag, like everyone else in this world.”

“That’s the spirit; now get cleaning.”

“Was that supposed to reference something?”

Agent J shrugs once more. “I just felt like saying it.”

“Great. Okay.”

CEO opens the door and prepares to walk out. He makes it through the doorway before a flash of something important strikes his mind. He turns back to the man on the couch.
“Can I at least get your name before I go?”

“Oh, sorry. The name’s Jerome.” Jerome gives the businessman a two-fingered salute, a wink, and a winning smile. “Good to meet you, my man.”

Clink, clink.

The vending machine sends canned coffee tumbling toward the tray below its glass panel. CEO reaches for the cans, sticking his hand through the slot to get at the tray.
Sure, buying this much was a couple hundred bucks down the drain, considering the lack of any possible discounts, but it was nothing more than an investment to keep himself safe in the future. Better safe than sorry, and CEO never liked being sorry. Running out of supplies would only make things worse for him.

Getting into the Stock Exchange had been more work than CEO expected; hopefully the payoff might exceed his expectations as well. Would there even be a payoff? As CEO ponders the possible payments, a howl comes from the floor above; what that piggy bank he fought called ‘the penthouse’. He feels the noise pierce his ribcage, deep into the heart beating inside. It hurts in a way more emotional than physical.

“What was that?” he whispers.

Loading the cans of coffee into his briefcase, CEO wonders if hiding might have been the better option.

“R—records… the rrrecords… how could this be happening…?”

Stacks of envelopes and receipts litter the sides of the penthouse, yet the floor seems to have been freshly waxed. He doesn’t often see business this big.

“That voice.” CEO’s eyes follow the panting noises to the end of the penthouse. “I’ve heard it before.”

A strange beast, half-Suit and half-canine, stands at the other side of the room. Its hair, gray and matted, forms a mass of gnarled strands around its head and back. Hair so dense it resembles fur, but stringy and in severe need of a trim. Can he call animal control for this one?

“It’s been… nothing but grrrowth since the Monochromatian period…”

Locks of tangled hair obscure its face, but from what is visible, CEO gleans that it has a snout. It seems like the kind of bestial creature that should have a tail and ears, yet it has neither. Missed opportunity.

“So why is there… stagnation…?”

CEO’s eyes are drawn to a pale object on the lanyard hanging around its neck, with a familiar quote emblazoned on its side. A mug, perhaps? If it is, then…

A sinking feeling settles in his stomach.

Instinctively, his mouth forms the syllables of a name he once knew.

“Floyd?”

As soon as the word escapes his throat, he wants to take it back. Did he really say that out loud? The creature in front of him turns its head in quick rotations, searching for the source of the sound. CEO catches a glimpse of its eerily long digits, which taper to dangerously sharp points.

“Floyd… yes, Floyd.” Its nose perks up. “What is that smell?”

Ah, shit.

He has to get out before that thing gets him. Could he leave from where he came, maybe? Use the elevator? Screw the contract, the reward, the whatever. Maybe Jerome would understand. After all, anyone would feel fear when staring at the face of imminent death.

“My god… what the hell happened to you?” CEO mutters.

He takes a few apprehensive steps backwards; his footfall alerts the creature, which promptly turns to face him.

“An intrrruder?” it growls. “In my office?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, it’s my first day on the job. I’m just looking for the bathroom. You know, new hire and all that. Yep, new hire.” He adjusts his tie just to hammer the point in.

“You don’t smell like one. You smell…” the monster trails off, “…like garbage.”

“I just got back from an… uh… assignment on Trash Island. Very insightful. Much productivity.”

The Dingo’s eyes twitch.

“You mock me and you lie to me,” the beast says, pointing one of its claw-like fingers at him. It inhales, preparing to raise its voice. CEO recedes from the beast, anticipating its next move.

“There is no such place as Trrrash Island!” it yells. “Get out of my office!”

With that, the creature lunges at CEO, aiming directly for the businessman’s jugular.

Time stops.

The CEO senses a steady drumming in his chest cavity, pounding in his eardrums and slowly growing faster. He grits his teeth. His heart won’t be the only thing working overtime.
In the milliseconds that become eternity, CEO lifts his briefcase to block the monster’s attack. Once the beast hits home, time restarts and CEO tumbles backwards, knocked over by the sheer force of the swipe. Drops of coffee arc into the air where the slash made contact with the case.

The memory of the fall flashes briefly before his eyes, plunging the world into a nocturnal sea of identical steel-concrete-glass skyscrapers. He blinks, and it fades as quickly as it comes.

CEO lands on his tailbone and prepares for another endurance test. He wipes flecks of spit away from his mouth.

The fear that crushed him before was just now a bad dream. Even the pain from earlier is gone, leaving burning anger in its place. When was the last time something pushed him around like this? He wouldn’t let it happen again.

Heavy breathing lingers in the air. The Dingo, currently a short distance away, watches him with bloodshot eyes. It’s expecting something from him.

Expectations, expectations. Enough of those. CEO bares his teeth and beckons for the beast to approach. Come and get me, he thinks.

And come to get him, it does. The Dingo leaps off the floor, claws bared and ready to strike.

An opening? CEO swings his case directly into its face. Every split second matters.

Great, the hit connects! The Dingo staggers away from the force, swaying slightly. It snarls and spits a bloody tooth onto the marble tiling. Oh, it’s really pissed off now.

It drags its claws against the wall, walking forward with the intent to slice CEO into ribbons.

With terrifying speed, The Dingo pounces.

As if he’s going to let that happen.

Time passes all too quickly now, and CEO barely thinks before his next move.

Reflexively, he moves to block the next slash with his trusty briefcase. The beast’s claws stop their arc towards his face, piercing the leather case again. Confused, the Dingo attempts to prise its claws from the briefcase. With some effort, it wrenches its fingers free, spilling liquid everywhere.

CEO almost drops his case. He watches in horror as its contents leak from a large hole where the Dingo slashed it. All that money, wasted…

The Dingo, unoccupied by thoughts of pricing, continues its assault. As the wretched monster goes in to bite CEO’s head off, it finds its mouth stoppered by the last of the leather case. Gray liquid trickles down the fur around its neck. In the corners of its closed eyes, water accumulates.

Carefully, the beast releases CEO’s case from its jaws. It steps backwards.

“C—coffee?” the creature stammers. “B—boss, you brought me… coffee?”

What the fuck just happened?

CEO stares blankly at the thing in front of him. Shit. Think of something to say before it gets awkward.

“I did, just for you.” CEO lies. If his voice gets any shakier…

It falls to its feet. “You remembered… the kind I like.”

“Black as night and full of caffeine.”

“Ha ha, I’m sick of all that watered-down stuff, ha ha…” Roberts opens his eyes to a pool of coffee around his knees. “What am I doing here?”

“Beats me. What the hell happened to you?”

“I… don’t know. As for you…” Floyd tilts his head upwards to meet the CEO’s gaze. “What are you doing here, Boss? Did you lose to the new guy?”

“Lose? New guy?”

“The one you said to watch out for. Did you?”

CEO averts his eyes. “I don’t know…”

“You don’t know?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t remember.”

“In any case, we’re both going to be recycled if you hang around here!” Floyd springs to his feet. “The Chairman’s probably looking for you as we speak.”

“Recycled? Chairman?”

“You know, the Chairman, only the most important man in the world? Have you seriously forgotten everything but the kind of coffee I like?”

The CEO smiles. “You’re my oldest friend. I can’t forget you that easily.”

“Boss…” Saltwater drips from Floyd’s eyes. He wipes it all away with the cuff of his jacket sleeve.

“The Chairman’s looking for me, as you were saying?”

Floyd takes his friend by the shoulders. “And he’ll find you if we don’t start running!”

“Why, is he scared? Of me? Of us?”

“I don’t know!” Floyd shouts. “Sorry. I just remembered…”

“What now?”

He beckons for CEO’s attention. “Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Okay.”

Floyd fishes out a crumpled piece of paper from one of his pants pockets, gingerly holding it in the air with two fingers. He places it into the other man’s now-open palm. “I had to make sure this got to you somehow. I think it’s pretty important.”

“Let’s see.” With steady hands, CEO unfolds the note. It is wet, stained with smudged ballpoint pen ink and coffee. He pores over the text.

If this is the last message I can scratch out before the toxin takes over my body, so be it. If you’re reading this, it’s too late for me. I’ve fallen to the Chairman, but I refuse to die alone with the knowledge of his future plans. This planet will be liquidated. The Chairman is going to—

He looks back at Floyd. “Going to what?”

The man shrugs. “I can’t remember. That’s all I had time to write.”

“Are you forgetting anything?”

“Boss, I told you that’s all.”

“Nothing at all?”

“I can remember working for you, but everything else is a blur to me.”

CEO gives his subordinate a steely-eyed glare. “Are you sure?”

“I said I can’t, okay!?” Floyd shouts, his claws digging into CEO’s shoulders. “I can’t remember anything else! Even though I want to, I can’t get anything back no matter how hard I fucking trrrryyyyy!”

CEO winces. Seeing the pained look on his friend’s face, Floyd loosens his grip.

“Sorry, Boss, I…” he mumbles, “I didn’t mean to be so rough on you. It’s okay if you don’t believe me, but I swear I’m telling the truth.”

He draws his hands away from CEO’s shoulders, but the other man moves to grab them.

“It’s not your fault, Floyd. I was pushing you too hard.”

“No, I disappointed you,” Floyd says, his voice dropping in volume. “You’ve lost your memory too, haven’t you? I’m sorry, I… couldn’t tell you anything new.”

“Yeah, I’ve lost most of it. But I was never expecting you to have all the answers either. Nobody has all the answers.”

“I know.”

“You’re worried about the Shareholders, right? I…” CEO pauses. “I… no, we’ll find them, we’ll stop them, and we’ll make them pay for everything they’ve done to us. I swear I will.”

Floyd’s eyes stay fixed on the floor.

“Hey, cheer up.” CEO pats him on the back. “I know a guy who can help. Will the city be alright without you for a bit?”

Floyd sniffles. “Yeah, it’ll handle itself.”

“Then let’s get going. Hope you don’t mind taking public transport.”

As CEO steps through the door to Jerome’s apartment, the man with the afro gives him a warm nod. “Welcome back, my man. Was the mission a success?”

CEO flops beside him on the couch, crossing his legs. He jabs his thumb in the direction of the open door. “Depends on what you define as ‘success’.”

Past the open door is the indistinct silhouette of a tall Suit. It sharpens into focus as it steps through the doorway, shedding hair all over the carpet.

“Hi,” Floyd says. He waves energetically at the people on the couch, closing the door behind him. “Got anything to eat? I’m starving.”

Jerome sizes him up in a heartbeat. Recognition dawns upon him, and his pupils shrink into fine points. “Is that…”

CEO nods. “We had a heart-to-heart. I don’t think he needs to die any more.”

“That may be true, but the contract says—”

“If you bring your boss some proof it should count all the same. Tell him there’s been a change of plans.”

The confused look in Jerome’s eyes is replaced with one of concern. “My boss isn’t the kind of person you’d want to go against, CEO,” he says, emphasizing the ‘want’.

“I think he can afford to let one go.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s test your idea.” Jerome looks towards the former target. “Mr. Roberts…?”

“Just call me Floyd,” Roberts proclaims cheerily.

“You got any identification with you?”

“Um…” Floyd scratches his head. “I think I have my ID card on me somewhere… say you got it off my dead body or something.”

“Have a quick look and see where it is then.”

“Sure, just a sec…” He shuffles through the contents of his pockets, hampered somewhat by the length of his claws. At last, he finds his slightly-battered ID card. Beaming with pride, he hands it over to Jerome. “Here you go! I hope it helps.”

“Thanks, man.” Jerome accepts it with a grateful nod. “Now where was I? Hmm…” He rubs his chin with his index finger.

“You were going to tell me about my identity, right?”

Jerome snaps his fingers, pointing a finger gun at CEO. “That’s right. CEO, I need to tell you about that terrorist thing.”

“What about it?”

“You know the CEO that looks like you that the government is looking for?” Jerome pauses to let the words sink in, looking around the room for anything that might be listening in. When his search shows nothing, he sighs in relief and continues the train of thought. “Yeah, that’s actually you.”

“Wait, hold on.” It takes a while for CEO to understand the gravity of his statement. He stares at the shorter man, head feeling fit to burst. “What?”

“It’s true, Boss. I saw you everywhere on the news,” Floyd adds.

“Anyway, I’m almost out of water bottles.” Jerome lifts himself off the couch. He pats his cloak to check its dampness. Finding it satisfactorily dry, he puts it on. “Do you want me to pick some up for you two?”

“What? No. I don’t want any water.” CEO sits up stock-straight. “I want an explanation.”

“Hold that thought.” Jerome reaches into his cloak and hands a wad of dollar bills over to the CEO. “Here’s 500 bucks from the boss man. He knows I don’t really care for money, so he normally doesn’t pay with cash.”

A man who doesn’t care for money in a world of corporate cutthroats? How strange, CEO thinks. Floyd grabs the wad out of his fingers, flipping through the papers to check their validity. “Aw hell yeah!” he exclaims, counting the bills to confirm the payment.

“I…” CEO swallows his words. “Nevermind.”

“Something else you wanna say?”

CEO glances in Floyd’s direction. He has almost finished counting the bills, oblivious to CEO staring at him.

“You know,” CEO starts, turning his gaze back to Jerome, “some of my memories came back to me when I was out there.”

Floyd finishes counting. “You weren’t lying about forgetting everything, were you?”

“Is that so? Anything you’d like to share?” Jerome asks.

“Floyd…” CEO says, giving him another sideways glance, “…didn’t always look like that.”

Floyd is grinning sheepishly. “It’s true! I definitely wasn’t this tall before.”

“Those people did something to him. They turned him into a monster.”

“Some kind of werewolf, I think.”

Jerome raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like a recycling to me.”

“I think I’ve heard of those before.” Floyd taps his chin. “What were they again?”

“Recyclings make people disappear, replace them with more suitable things. I’m sorry you had to go through one, but it isn't the first time this has happened.” Jerome hangs his head.

“They’re after me, huh? I assume they’ll do to me what they did to Floyd.” CEO shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Because I’m really the CEO of Suits City, aren’t I?”

“Well, these days it’s called Sandwich City.”

“Excuse me?”

Floyd cocks his head to the side. “Why?”

“That’s not relevant right now. I’ve gotta run out and get some more water bottles.”

Is he serious?

CEO sneers. “What, are water bottles actually your highest priority right now?”

“It’s important to stay hydrated, my man. Especially if we’re going after your new enemies.”

“Can you get coffee flavored water for me?” Floyd pipes up.

“Uhh… don’t know if that’s a thing, but I’ll see if I can find some.”

“I don’t care about the water,” CEO butts in. “Tell me more about these enemies.”

“Well, it all depends on what you want to do next.”

“What are my options?”

Jerome raises a finger. “You could run and hide. Lay low for a bit, hope they don’t sniff you out, which is bound to happen eventually. Once they have a target, they never stop looking.”
He raises another finger. “Or you could fight. Get them back somehow, maybe help me out with this next contract.
“What’ll it be, CEO?”

“I’ll fight,” the businessman says, a smirk infesting his face. “Vengeance is my middle name.”

“Nah, CEO is your full legal name.”

The smirk disappears as quickly as it came. “Oh. Really?”

“Yes, really. I looked it up.”

CEO exhales. “Just give me the contract and I’ll get started.”

“One sec. I’m just looking over it again…” Jerome reads it to himself. Once done, he folds the sheet into a paper airplane, idly twirling it between two fingers. “Ah, Gamerica, City of Gamers. Renowned for its games, but it ain’t exactly a premier vacation destination otherwise. The city’s become a hotspot for all types of social outcasts these days.”

“A city of gamers?” Floyd sticks his tongue out in disgust. “Just imagining the smell makes me want to hurl.”

Jerome chuckles. “I wouldn’t spend any longer than a fortnight there.”

“How long is that?”

“About 14 days.”

“I said,” CEO coughs out, “give me the contract.”

Jerome throws the paper airplane at CEO, who catches it in midair. He unfolds it.

“Shareholder Charles Tendies, alias ‘VR Man’. Currently located in Gamerica, Gamerica Convention Center. Extremely reclusive robotics expert, a true man of the future. Obsessed with cartoons.”

“They say he’s a highly valued CEO tied to the powers that be.” Jerome snickers. “God only knows why.”

CEO’s eyes scan the paper. “Robotics expert… man of the future… city of gamers…” He looks up. “They don’t even have a picture of him. Are you sure I can take this on my own?”

“Boss, I’m literally right here, are you blind?”

“It’s not an individual assignment.” Jerome flicks lint off his sleeve. “Seems my boss wants you to take a friend with you. Going with a partner would be the best option.”

“Does that mean you’re coming with me? Or…?” CEO stares absentmindedly out of the room window, leaving the thought unspoken.

“I can’t be seen in public, sorry. Besides, someone’s gotta hold the fort down while you’re gone.” He winks to punctuate the latter of the two sentences.

“Alright, sounds fair. I prefer to work alone, anyway.”

“Boss?” Floyd yelps, confusion readily apparent in the rising tone of his voice. “Why?”

“Alone?” Jerome gives a gentle shake of his head. “Nah man, overruled. These kinds of jobs are better with two sets of hands.”

“Seriously, I don’t need anyone else to come with me.” There is a pervasive bitterness in his words, but even he doesn’t know why it’s there. “I can do it myself.”

Floyd squints in disbelief. “I’m right here, you know…”

“You gotta learn when to ask for help, my man. Take, well, your friend here. He seems smart, loyal, and probably wants to see this whole thing come apart too.” Jerome lowers the volume of his voice to a whisper. “I don’t think my lease allows pets, anyway.”

“Yeah yeah, I can also get you discounts if you buy coffee in bulk!”

“Bulk discounts…” Fingers on chin, CEO contemplates the offer.. “For coffee…?”

“Just take him with you.”

CEO sighs exasperatedly. “Alright, okay, whatever. Floyd, you can come along. You’re lucky I need the energy boost too.”

“Mmhm, that’s it. Traffic’s gonna be bad today, so just take the bus. There’s a bus stop on the Garage level. Real cheap, too.”

“Why exactly are we taking public transport? There can’t be that much interest in a city dedicated to just games,” says CEO, drawing out the ‘games’. Jerome laughs a little too hard at this.

“You’d be surprised,” he replies, wheezing into the cuffs of his shirt. After regaining his composure, Jerome clears his throat. “Lotta people equals lotta cars equals no parking. Any car would get wrecked in a place like that. Plus, public transport makes for good camouflage. Trust me, you’re not gonna regret it.”

“I hope not.”

“Trust me, trust me, it’ll be fine.” He gives the duo a two-fingered salute. “Good luck out there.”

“This is so stupid, Floyd,” the CEO sighs.

The two men sit side-by-side on a bus, one of many in the large fleets of Business Planet’s efficient public transport network. Floyd, kneeling on one of the bus chairs, has stuck his head through an open window to take in the highway air outside. His hair blows past in the wind, matted strands flowing in the breeze. He breathes a contented exhale.

Commuters on their way to and from jobs crowd the bus, and the odd person wearing something other than business attire can be spotted amidst the throng. The characteristic sound of driving, wheels rolling against tarmac, fills the vehicle.

“So stupid.”

On hearing the CEO's gravelly voice, Roberts ducks back into the bus, wrenching the window half-shut behind him. “How can you say that, Boss? We haven’t even gotten to the stupid part yet!”

He folds his arms in resignation. “The whole thing’s stupid.”

“Don’t say that; games are great!” Floyd looks around surreptitiously before continuing his train of thought. “But I’m not too sure about the people that play them…”

“Total waste of time. Let’s just get this over and done with.”

“Oh, nothing against you, Boss! I know you play those anime gambling games all the time even when you do work!”

CEO flinches. “What gambling games? You must be mistaken. I don’t…”

The bus screeches to a sudden stop, causing most of the commuters to lose their balance.

“What’s going on?” Floyd tilts his head towards the front. He can see a cavalcade of cars barring the road ahead. “A traffic jam?”

“Jerome was right. I don’t know what else I expected.”

With a hiss, the doors to the bus open. The driver motions for people to disembark. A display on the bus’s ceiling shows the location of their stop.

“Hmm, ‘Gamerica Downtown’… wasn’t this bus supposed to take us to the convention center?” Floyd whispers. “You’d think they’d tell us if there was a change of destination.”

“The road’s blocked. There must be some kind of event happening.”

“Guess we’re going for a walk, hey?” Floyd hops off his seat. “Time to get movin’!”

A steady stream of Suits files out of the bus’s open entrances. Floyd and CEO disembark, attempting to camouflage themselves in the crowd, as their fellow passengers disperse into the colossal throng of people.

CEO looks up.

The sky swirls with pale clouds, a crisp breeze blowing through the streets. Clumps of buildings rear their ugly heads skyward. The air is redolent with a vaguely musty scent that CEO absolutely does not want to know the origin of. Around him, Suits ebb and flow into the vastness of the city streets. Traffic has halted, and pedestrians are taking their time in crossing the road every which way. Above him, flashy billboards compete for attention with the sounds of conversation.

The sheer scale of Gamerica is awe-inducing. It takes him a concerning amount of willpower not to let his jaw drop. Floyd, on the other hand, does not have this problem.

“Whoaaaa, this place is huge!”

CEO appreciates his honesty. Floyd is right. He’s right, yes; but CEO doesn’t want to believe that a city of games, of all things, is this big.

“My god, what kind of hellhole have we stumbled into?” CEO mutters.

Transfixed, he almost gets bowled over by a passing pedestrian, which Floyd pulls him away from in the nick of time.

“I don’t know, but you getting knocked over isn’t going to help!”

“Sorry, I’m just getting accustomed to the place.” He dusts off his pants. CEO, standing on the sidewalk, squints to get a better look at the Suit that he collided with. The other person, now hurrying away from the scene, appears to be wearing the uniform of a maid, albeit with extra frills and ribbons adorning it.

Wait, what? Why?

CEO looks around the crossing to see plenty more dress code violations; a baseball uniform here, a crying pajama-wearer there, a leather jumpsuit here… and some dog-eared Suits scattered about. He squints even harder. “Why is everyone dressed so strangely?”

“It’s a city of gamers, Boss. They’re probably only allowed to dress like this.” Floyd shrugs nonchalantly. “We should focus on getting to the convention center.”

“Right, yes, the target.
“The contract said he’d be at the convention center… but with how big this place is and how many people there are, we might not have a chance to find him before it’s too late. Hell, we don’t even know where the convention center is!”

“I’ll ask for directions.” Floyd taps the shoulder of the person closest to him, who happens to be giving out promotional fliers. “Hey, do you know the way to the convention center?”

“Convention center?” The Suit handing out fliers nods happily. “Of course I do! Just head into the central business district and follow the path to the dome,” he says, pointing at a large dome-like structure in the distance. “It’s the biggest building for miles around, ya know; can’t miss it!”

“Alright, thanks for the help! Hope you get a promotion soon.”

“No worries. Want a flier while you’re here?”

“For sure!”

Fliers Guy pushes a flier into Floyd’s hands.

“Cycle-2222 Con…” murmurs Roberts, diligently inspecting the flier’s contents. “Wait, there’s a convention going on?”

“Yep, biggest one in town! Gamerica’s caught con fever as of late, ya know. What, you didn’t? You guys new here?”

CEO nods coolly. “Yeah, we’re here on business.”

“B… business? Business?!” Fliers Guy nearly doubles over in laughter. “Man, you really are new! You’re not getting any business done here, so just relax and take in the sights. C’mon, surely whatever it is can wait.”

“Well. Um,” Floyd begins. “It’s actually pretty important, but—”

Fliers Guy cuts him off. “Oh who cares, enjoy your stay anyway. This con’s going to be the best ever. They even got an idol hosting the auctions this time, ya know?”

“Auctions? Idol? Whuh?” Floyd looks over the flier for anything he missed. “Where does it say that?”

“It doesn’t, but that’s what I’ve been hearing at least. Big if true!”

CEO clears his throat. “Tell me about these auctions.”

“Some conventions like to auction off goods that are unique or rare in some way, like signed copies of prints and so on. You usually can’t win them unless you’ve got all the money in the world at your disposal,” says Fliers Guy, waving his fliers about. “A friend of mine said there’s supposed to be an auction for a limited edition Prince Flora figurine during the end-of-day event, but that’s all just rumors of course. I don’t know who the idol host is, but it has to be someone famous for sure. Someone with enough clout to contend with a figure like that.”

Floyd cocks his head to the side. “Prince Flora?”

“Prince Flora, the main character of Prince Flora and the Dragon’s Hoard — one of the most popular anime in recent cycles. I’ll bet everyone wants to get their hands all over that figurine… I just hope whoever ends up winning the auction won’t put it in a jar.”

“Why would you need to store a figurine in a jar?”

Fliers Guy’s face turns to stone. “I’m not answering that.”

“Why not?”

CEO coughs, tugging his friend’s sleeve away from the conversation. “Thanks for the explanation. Come on, Floyd, we’re leaving.”

“Okay Boss. We’ll get to that dome eventually!”

They get to the dome in a while, taking the scenic route at Floyd’s insistence. CEO keeps the dome in his vision at all times, not wanting to get lost.

Despite most of its residents not needing or wanting to go outside much, the city has surprisingly pedestrian-friendly infrastructure.

All for the sake of more profit, more sales, more money. On foot, Gamerica is a vibrant landscape of billboards and adverts for things that most Suits wouldn’t dare dream of buying.

Custom-built chairs, decked out consoles, packs of trading cards in large amounts… The excesses of Business Planet are on full display, exemplified by the commodification of fun that Gamerica represents. CEO can feel stomach acid creeping into his throat. At least the convention center entrance is close by, and therefore the job is almost done. Think about the reward, the reward… nothing else but the goal.

Suddenly, the advertisements change, synchronizing to show the same picture. A stylized figure in royal regalia juts from a corner of the screen, holding its plastic sword aloft. In attention-grabbing text, the ad shouts ‘Cycle-2222 Con’ at its captive audience.

“An advertisement for the auction…” Floyd says, his tone hushed. “Everywhere all at once?”
CEO surveys the area. Looks like the same thing is plastered on all of the screens, frozen in time. He scowls. “Something… or someone… wants us to go to that auction.”

“Maybe it’s fate.”

“Or maybe someone’s pulling the strings behind the scenes.”

“Isn’t there always a string-puller these days? I’ve heard it a million times before,” Floyd groans. “Shadowy figures controlling everything are so overrated.”

“Exactly my thoughts. I’ll flush that Shareholder out with gunfire if I have to,” CEO says, patting his briefcase to ensure the integrity of the weapon inside.

“Boss, don’t worry about it! I’ll buy you a new case later. Where do you think he’ll be, anyway?”

“Someone of his ilk will probably go where the most people are. Somewhere he can socialize.”

“Socialize? No way!” Floyd shakes his head emphatically. “The contract itself even said he was reclusive. That’s definitely not the reason. Besides… if he’s a Shareholder, wouldn’t he want to hide instead?”

CEO chuckles grimly. “What better place to hide than in plain sight?”

“Alright, it looks like we need tickets to get in. That boss of Jerome’s apparently didn’t think to buy them in advance.” CEO glances askance at his colleague. “I’ll buy ours. Stay here, okay?”

“Shouldn’t I be doing some recon around the area?”

“It’s dangerous to go alone.”

“Okay Boss, then I won’t go too far.”

While CEO waits for the tickets, in a line that seems infinite… he keeps himself awake by thinking about how Floyd must be getting on. Hopefully everything’s fine on his end.

CEO resigns himself to languidly staring at the billboards.

Funny, were there always this many ads for sandwiches around?

Floyd, as it turns out, is in a pickle of his own. After taking a detour towards an arcade, he notices the array of people flocking around him, and they aren’t leaving any time soon.

“Oh my gosh, great cosplay,” says a Suit wearing a headband with dog ears glued to the center of its arc. He strokes Floyd’s snout. “The muzzle especially, so realistic. That would be sooo good to have. How much did you have to pay for it?”

“Uh, zero dollars?”

“Luckyyyy.” Dog Ears points at the taller man’s hands. “What about those big claws, how much were they?”

Floyd shrugs. “Free? I guess?”

“And that wig too, so high quality!” Dog Ears lovingly caresses Floyd’s scalp, but the drastic difference in height makes it extremely uncomfortable to watch. “Who made it?”

“Hey, hands off!” Floyd swats him away. “That’s my actual hair!”

Dog Ears draws back in surprise, spurned. “Whaaat? Share some with the rest of us! Or are you saying we need to get body mods too?”

“Mods?”

“You know, modifications! Like in games and stuff.”

Floyd shakes his head. “Sorry, I only play mobile games.”

“What are you even doing here then?! Don’t tell me you’re just here to see Shi-K?”

“Who’s that?” Floyd cocks his head to the side.

“You know, Ken Shikoku! The virtual idol Shi-K! Well, I’m not sure if he’s actually virtual or not though. You know?” Dog Ears gestures forcefully to the… well, obviously, dog ears on his head. “He’s got these and a tail, he’s ‘man’s best friend’, he calls his fanbase ‘the lapdogs’… aren’t you cosplaying the werewolf AU version of him?”

“I don’t even know what an AU is!”

“Alternate universe, you dummy! For example, you’re alive in this universe, but according to multiverse theory you could be dead in any number of th—” Dog Ears stops talking. He places a hand underneath his chin… and hums. “Wait, nevermind, now that I look closer… you’re missing a couple parts. Who is this cosplay supposed to be of, then? Your OC?”

“What’s an OC?”

“Original character!” Dog Ears rolls his eyes. “Oh my gosh, have you been living under a rock for all these cycles? No, don’t tell me, this is your sona?”

Floyd stares at the cluttered floor and makes a strangled noise of confusion.

“You know,” Dog Ears says, making air-quotes, “your ‘per-sona’?”

“No I don’t!”

“Wow, you’re really out of touch. I almost feel sorry for you. Or was that just an act?
“Whatever, since you were kinda funny, take this headband and complete your cosplay.” Dog Ears snickers, sliding his headband off his head and onto Floyd’s. “These were a pain in the ass to find, so don’t let them get stolen!”

“Okay, I won’t?” By the time the words escape his mouth, Floyd’s conversational partner (and by extension, the other Suit’s associates) have fled the scene. He shrugs and resigns himself to checking out the arcade cabinets, the new headband sitting comfortably on his scalp.

CEO finds his subordinate standing before an arcade machine, transfixed by the flashing lights and loud noises.

“Ah, there you are…” CEO trails off. He looks a little closer at Floyd’s hands. “Wait.”

He’s holding a drumstick in each hand. The arcade machine has a corresponding drumset, and he hits the drums to the rhythm of an ear splittingly loud piece of music.

“Woop woop!” cries Roberts, as the song finally draws to a close. Floyd flourishes his drumsticks, twirling them around his fingers. “Full combo!”

“What the hell have you been doing?”

“Gaming!”

CEO inclines his head backwards. “Before that.”

“Oh, before? I don’t know either. A bunch of people came up to me and started talking about ‘OCs’ and ‘per-sonas’ or whatever, and that’s how I got these,” Floyd says, pointing to the pair of dog ears perched jauntily atop his head. “How do I look?”

“What.”

“Aw, Boss, why the long face? They were free anyway.”

CEO shakes his head. “The cost isn’t the part I’m worried about. We don’t have time for games, Floyd.”

“Seems like we never have time for games. Can I at least get something for the road?

“We can’t get this job done fast enough, in my opinion…” But isn’t it a good leader’s duty to let his subordinates kick back every now and then? CEO considers it.
He sighs. Might as well. “Only one thing. After that, we’re looking for the target right away.”

“Sweet!”

Floyd dashes off to another part of the arcade. CEO sits down, awaiting his return.
None of the game cabinets pique his interest, apart from a broken one shoved in a dim corner across the room. CEO squints at it.

Dust coats the outer surfaces of the cabinet. The logo on it reads ‘Shot In The Dark’. Well, it really is in the dark now. He doubts the arcade’s owner will let him play it; from the haphazard way it’s stored, he doubts that it’ll even be usable. And even if it works… no, arcade games on Business Planet should never be trusted.

Before long, Floyd re-enters, cheer spread thickly across his face.

CEO nods. “Let’s go. I’ve got our tickets.”

They arrive at the dome at last.

Inside the dome, the convention is, indeed, happening. Waves of people batter the duo this way and that, a sea of bobbing heads weaving in every direction at once.

It’s a hell for the senses there.

Wherever CEO looks, there always seems to be some strange new sight greeting his eyes; like those oddly patterned goods on display, or those garishly oversized statues of fictional characters, and always more dress code violations. People brush against him without caring for personal space. A wall of noise fills his mind, only barely filtered. So much new information, so many weird things — all in one place.

Truth be told, the inside of the dome isn’t that much different from the outside. It’s just the same weirdness, distilled, concentrated, and amplified a thousandfold. Speaking of the outside…

The stench CEO noticed before is now far less subtle; he turns around to see Floyd covering his mouth and trying not to gag.

“You smell it too, don’t you?”

“Yep,” Floyd chokes out. “You know, Boss… I can’t really… turn off… my nose.”

“I understand. We’ll get this done as fast as possible. The target’s in this building somewhere, and I don’t think he’s leaving any time soon.”

Floyd gives him a thumbs up with his free hand. “I… got it.”

The con cascades around the two men like a river rushing around two rocks in its center.

“We’re getting closer to the target,” CEO says, warily eyeing the passing strangers, “but we still don’t have any identifying traits or location details on him.”

“It’s gonna be a hard job, huh.”

“Yep. We’d better pay attention to everyone around us. Who knows what he looks like.”

Floyd nods. “Right, boss. I’ll keep an eye out for anyone suspicious.”

“In the meantime, we might as well do some sightseeing.”

And see the sights, they do. Immediately, out of the corner of his eye, Floyd spots a suspicious person walking around.

“Boss, check out that weirdo over there!” He says, pointing helpfully to the weirdo.

The weirdo in question has a generally disheveled appearance, not even including the whole-body tremors, catlike expression, and the headband in the shape of a 1. His entire outfit, mismatched as it already is, has mysterious dark stains all over it, and the ragged cape trailing behind him does nothing to help the overall impression of abnormality. Even stranger, he doesn’t seem to be wearing any shoes.

Despite all of this, CEO’s intuition tells him that this man isn’t worth the trouble. He shakes his head.

“Ugh, he reeks of corn chips and desperation. Absolutely disgusting.” CEO pats Floyd’s outstretched hand, forcing it downwards. “Now stop pointing before someone sees you.”

“Okay, sorry, I’ll stop.” the taller Suit says. He shoves his hand back into the recess of his pocket, rooting around in it for something beyond CEO’s comprehension.

“Better.”

“That reminds me, Boss… can you put these on?” From the depths of his pocket, Floyd flourishes a headband with what appears to be fake cat ears glued on top… what? Cat ears? What?

CEO raises an eyebrow. “Why did you get these and why would I ever want to.”

“Oh, I got them at the arcade. They were the last pair in stock. I think they’ll help you look more natural.” Floyd makes a sweeping gesture to the crowds around the company. “I mean, look at all these guys. You’ll blend right in with a pair of these on!”

“No way.”

“For me at least? Please?”

The CEO is silent.

“Not even for me…?” Floyd whines. His watery, bloodshot eyes don’t even come close to looking cute.

First a city of gamers, now his subordinate trying to wheedle him into putting on one of the most ridiculous items of clothing ever made… the whole thing is impossible to take seriously.

CEO snorts and attempts to stifle a laugh.
“Pff… haha…” A wheeze escapes his closed mouth. The attempt, unsurprisingly, fails.

“Wait, what’s wrong?”

Whatever. He can allow himself a bit of a chuckle every now and then. “Hahaha!”

“What? What’s so funny?”

Funny? It’s downright hilarious. He is doubled over in laughter, and his ribs ache from how hard he has been laughing. “Ahahaha!!!”

“Boss?” Floyd asks, distraught. “Are you okay?”

CEO wipes tears from the corners of his eyes. “It’s nothing.” He extends a hand towards Floyd, palm facing up. “Hand them over.”

“Ah, sweet! Here you go.”

Floyd smiles sweetly as he watches the grinning CEO put the headband on; his grin disappears the instant the band touches his head, replaced by a blank stare of despair.

“Now we match!”

CEO sighs. Maybe being sent to this wretched city was his punishment for cheating death.

A network of paths connects the different areas of the convention center. Along these paths are walls lined with various papers and advertisements. CEO casts his gaze across the walls…

“These posters,” he remarks. “Have I seen the face on these posters before?”

“There’s really only one face on Business Planet, so probably.”

“No, I mean…” CEO says, with a shake of his head. “I recognize that person. That’s…” The name doesn’t come to him at all.

“It says it right here.” After ripping a poster off a wall, Floyd reads out the text at the bottom of the paper. “Ken Shikoku?”

“That sounds about right. Maybe he was a guest on some late night show or something.” He strokes his chin. “Shit, I don’t know, maybe he was the one who pushed me in the first place.”

“Or maybe he was in one of those anime gambling games you like.”

“Floyd.” Roberts smiles as the CEO's sheet-white countenance flushes to a pale gray. “I told you already, I don’t even play those.”

“Okay Boss!” Floyd puts a finger to his lips. “Your secret is safe with me.”

After some fruitless searching, the CEO and company manage to find a clearing amidst the con-goers. They make themselves comfortable with what little space they have.

“So where do you think he is?” asks Floyd, pinching his nose with a pained look on his face.

“Good question.” CEO turns the inquiry over in his mind. Truth be told, he doesn’t know where to start searching, or even if the target is still in the building. “He’ll probably be where the most people are.”

“Well, I’m thinking about what this guy is like… and, Boss, I think you’re wrong about that.”

“How?”

“The briefing said that he was ‘obsessed with cartoons’, right? Most people that attend these kinds of events are too, so usually you’d be right about the socialization bit; but there’s another reason that people go.”

“What is it?”

“Merchandise.
“Don’t look so shocked! Everyone knows that money makes the world go round. They come here to get things they want; whether it’s a new sticker set, a shirt, whatever. The appeal of owning something related to something you like. So, I’m thinking that maybe…” Floyd gazes off into the distance, collecting his thoughts. “…there’s something here that he wants. Something he’ll stop at nothing to get.”

CEO fills in the punchline. “It’s cartoon merchandise, isn’t it. That Prints Floor show or whatever.”

“Yeah, I’m guessing it is. If it’s the most popular one this season, then there’s a high chance that he might have watched it. And, being a Shareholder, he might want to throw some of his money at it.”

“Of course. To keep the showrunners happy.”

“Yeah, yeah! All the money in the world can buy you anything you want, and if he wants something like that, then… people will be more than happy to give it to him. You thinking what I’m thinking, Boss?”

“The auction.”

Floyd nods. “Now all we need to do is find it.”

“Gamer Gasoline, Gamer Gasoline, get your Gamer Gasoline here… extra strength and 20% more caffeine so you can game all week without stopping. Gamer Gasoline…”
A lone vendor stands in the middle of the con, offering cans of a murky substance to anyone passing by. Floyd approaches him.

“Woo, an energy drink!” Floyd crows. “And you say this has extra caffeine in it?”

“It’s nothing but caffeine, sir! Would you like a free sample?”

“Free?!” Floyd reflexively gasps. The shock in his voice turns to glee. “Sure, let me try one.”
“Here you go, sir.”

The Gamer Gasoline vendor hands him a can of the drink, which Floyd immediately passes over to CEO.

“Oh, was it for your friend? I can give you another sample to drink now.”

“No, no, it’s for me. I’m just making him hold it so I can have some later.” Floyd guffaws. “I don’t trust myself with caffeine anymore!”

“Okay, whatever you say sir.” The vendor turns around, adjusting his branded visor. “Gamer Gasoline, Gamer Gasoline, get your Gamer Gasoline here…”

While they walk away from the booth, CEO examines the can of Gamer Gasoline, turning it over and over in his hands. He grimaces. “I don’t even want to know what’s in this.”

“If it does the job, then do the ingredients really matter?”

“I suppose not.”

CEO stashes the can into his case.

The poor thing is hanging on by a few shreds of leather. He wonders how much longer it’ll be usable for.

Usability, usability… Now that he knows his only weapon could fall apart right before his eyes, CEO doesn’t feel too comfortable letting it out of his sight. Floyd taps his shoulder.

“Oooh, that stand’s selling travel essentials. Boss, do you need anything from there?”

“Let me think.”

They trudge their way towards the stand, carried through by the eddies in the flow of people.

The thing at the forefront of CEO’s mind is a briefcase; a brand new shiny thing with waterproof leather and plenty of room to store whatever he had to store. It would eat into his wallet, sure, but what’s an investment without a little risk? “A new case would be nice.”

“It’s ‘cause I wrecked your old one, right?” Floyd scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry… but good thing we can afford a new one!”

“Ha, why am I not surprised you’re already budgeting things?”

“I like to be prepared,” Floyd says, grinning. The expression looks pretty goofy on him, despite the maw of sharp teeth it reveals. “Do you want your case in Gunmetal Gray, Laundry White, or Midnight Black?

“Surprise me.”

“Midnight Black it is.” CEO watches as the other man holds up a case for his approval. The case is, indeed, black. “Check this out, it even lights up!” Floyd presses a button labeled with a lightbulb symbol, lighting up several small LEDs embedded in the case.

CEO chuckles. “Nice. How would I move my gun into it, though?”

“Your gun?” Floyd taps his chin. “Hmm, I think you should be able to transfer the machinery if you open the case up.”

“Let’s see…” CEO pries the light-up case open, rummaging around inside its insides.“This part goes here, this part goes there…”

“Boss, wait! Not now! I haven’t even bought it yet!”

Floyd places a clawed hand on the CEO’s shoulder, whispering some choice words to the stand’s manager. A wad of cash exchanges hands, and Floyd cringes at CEO’s attempts to move his weapon into the new case.

“Sheesh, you’re getting it messed up even more. Boss, I paid already, so let me do the rearranging!”

CEO throws his hands up in mock offense. “Alright, you try it. I’ll keep lookout, then.”

As Floyd tinkers with his case, CEO watches the world swirl around him in black-and-white whorls. He lets his eyes move across the surrounding crowds, drifting this way and that.
Not too far away, a scintillating object stands tall amidst a group of cosplayers taking photos with it. CEO squints. It’s a metal statue of what he assumes is the main character of the Prince Flora show; a fancily-dressed man posing heroically, his rapier held high and pointed defiantly at the heavens. His wide-brimmed hat leans rakishly askew, and there is a cocky yet innocent smile on his face.

As the cosplayers pile in to pose with him, CEO admires the accuracy of their costumes. The statue and its acolytes look like long-lost siblings, down to the buckles on their belts and the shades of gray of their shoes. The people next to them, however, are all wearing the same thing. Shirts with the same design on them. And they all seem to be heading in the same direction…

CEO nudges Floyd. He jolts briefly at his superior’s touch.

“Ah… what is it, Boss?”

CEO points to where the coordinated outfit wearers are. “Look over there.”

“Huh, what about those guys?”

“Do you notice anything?”

“Um… no?” Floyd shakes his head. “They seem to be good friends. Probably. ”

“A friend group of that size couldn’t coordinate as well as that.”

“Then a fanclub, maybe?”

“But they’re acting exactly the same as each other.” CEO grinds his teeth. “Same way of
walking, same synchronized movements…”

“Hmm… yeah, I kinda see it.”

“What kind of fanclub would do that?”

“Looks like, ah, hold on…” Floyd clicks a couple of metal parts into place. “A Ken Shikoku fanclub?”

“Ken Shikoku…” CEO mulls over the syllables. It seems like the designs on the group’s shirts are the same as the picture on the poster from before; the shapes and patterns a familiar sight. “His name just keeps cropping up. Who the hell is this guy, anyway?”

“He’s an idol, apparently. Pretty famous. There were a bunch of fans of his at the arcade we were at.”

“Sounds like he’s got some clout to throw around, then.”

Floyd strokes his chin. “It’s got me thinking… that guy giving out fliers outside, do you think his friend was right about the auction host?” he muses.

“I’ll bet he was right; it takes scum to know scum.”

“You said it.”

“Those fans you met at the arcade, did they give you that headband?” CEO inclines his head to the top of Floyd’s head.

“Ah, this?” He pokes the dog-ear headband atop his mane of unruly hair. “One of them did. The others didn’t say a word the whole time, but now that I think about it… maybe they were kind of trapping me. It seemed weird to me, but I guess that’s what they’re like.”

“Silent and synchronized. That doesn’t sound like normal Suit behavior. You know, Floyd… I’ve got a good guess about whatever the hell is happening.”

Floyd is engrossed in fitting gun parts into the right places. “Really? What do you think?”

“I wonder if…” CEO shakes his head. “No, I’m almost certain. What if all this strange behavior is something to do with the idol himself?”

“You mean like… a cult of personality?” Floyd shrugs. “I don’t know, Boss. I think we’d better see one of his performances before we make any assumptions.”

“Then let’s hope that guy’s friend is right. If Ken is really the one hosting the auction, we can see him in action, try and intercept the figurine sale, and get to the bottom of this idiotic mystery. Kill two birds with one stone.”

“More like one bird and one dog. With a bullet.” Floyd snaps the case shut, passing it over to his boss.

CEO gratefully takes the case from him; the texture of the handle feeling both foreign and familiar at once. He laughs. “Is it you or Ken that’s the dog?”

“Oh. Um…” Floyd’s mind blanks out for a moment, but after a couple of seconds he laughs too. “Haha!”

“The main stage is just that way. Do you think we’ll find our target there?”

Looking past CEO and at the wall behind him, Floyd mumbles nonsensically. His eyes are half-lidded, probably from caffeine withdrawal. What a sorry sight.

CEO snaps his fingers in front of the other man’s face. “Pay attention.”

“Ah!” Floyd’s trance breaks with a jump. He rubs the drowsiness out of his eyes. “I’m awake, I’m awake…”

“What’s going on? You seem to be spacing out more and more.”

“I’m just…” Floyd hesitates. He makes an uncertain expression. “So hungry.”

“Hungry? Why? You could have asked for a sandwich at any time.” CEO pats his sleek new briefcase. “There’s plenty to spare.”

“No, they’re too small. Boss, you know what it’s like, don’t you? When you haven’t eaten in a while, there’s nothing in the fridge, and you’re too lazy to cook—” Floyd’s attention abruptly shifts towards the jostling crowd. His eyes bulge out of their sockets, veins spiderwebbed around the whiteness. “Do you smell that?”

“You good there?”

“I’m fine, but…” Floyd inhales loudly, drawing questionable air into his lungs. “Boss, do you smell that?”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s… it’s chicken…”

“Chicken?” CEO strains to smell it. Nothing strikes him as being particularly chicken-scented.
Strange.

But if Floyd’s senses are sharper than his…

He didn’t see a single person walking around with chicken in any way, shape or form… whatever. Maybe the place selling it is outside the center. He’ll come back to that line of thought later.

“It’s coming from that direction, Boss.”

CEO follows Floyd’s insistent stare towards the throng of people. Someone in the crowd catches his eye.
A persistent feeling keeps his eyes drawn towards this person; perhaps some kind of gut instinct. The figure, CEO notes, is quite rotund compared to those around it.
If so…

“I wouldn’t say it’s chicken.” A gut instinct this strong must be… no, it has to be… “But it’s something much more… advantageous.”

Floyd perks up at the sound of a better prospect. “Free food?”

“No, even better. I think…” CEO trails off. “No, we’ve definitely got our target.”
He squints to try and get a better look at the distant figure, but any further information than its weight eludes his sight. Despite the fuzzy detail, the gut feeling remains, stubborn and unshakable. “…and, well… let’s just say there’s a lot of fat on this one.”

“Great.” Floyd bares his sharp, sharp canines in a wide grin. “I’ve been wanting to sink my teeth into some fresh meat for way too long…”

For every step the CEO takes toward that distant figure, it seems to recede another two steps at least. There is no choice but to cut through the crowd, but whatever drastic action is needed… isn’t clear at all. CEO tries the nice approach. He taps the shoulder of the person in front of him.

“Excuse me, excuse me, I need to get through. Can you please start moving?”

The Suit elbows him in retaliation. “Sorry bro, the auction’s starting and I’m not gonna lose my place to you. Get lost!”

Oh, if that’s the way things are going to go…

“I’m not participating, dumbass!” CEO pushes back with full force. “Move, bitch! Get out the way!”

In response, the din of the crowd only grows louder.

“OMG! It’s really the Prince Flora figure! I saved like a billion paychecks for this!”

“So well made! Is he articulated too?”

“Another one for my collection!”

Arms, hands, legs, feet, and all manner of limbs shove the CEO this way and that. “Stop pushing me around!” he shouts. “I swear to whatever gods are out there I will break your spine…”

Once again, no response from anyone. The attendees are all lost in their own little worlds, immersed in the grand spectacle of the convention.

“Is that the limited edition figure over there?!” someone pipes up, presumably pointing ‘over there’. “Holy crap!”

Slowly but surely, in the direction of ‘over there’, the current of people carries the two Suits along to a clearing. CEO can see a large stage in the middle, with speakers around it and an empty table at its center. Spotlights line the ceiling, casting soft light onto the stage. There is nobody on stage, but a long banner hangs above it.

“Cycle-2222 Con Main Stage…” he mutters under his breath.

“Awwwright! It’s here!” Floyd yelps. “The auction! Now all we need to do is sabotage the bidding somehow, which I think we have the funds to— Boss? What are you doing?”

“I’m going to try and get as close as possible to the stage before it starts.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ve got a plan of my own. One that doesn’t involve spending shitloads of money on a goddamn cartoon statue.”

“Well, if you say so… I’ll trust you on this.” Floyd laughs nervously. “We are kinda tight on cash at the moment. It was a wonder we could afford that case at all—”

Just then, a lilting, buoyant voice resounds from the direction of the stage.

“Hello all my loyal lapdogs~! It’s so great to see you all~”

Floyd whirls towards where the voice came from. “Lap dogs?!”

“Is that Ken?! Shi Ken!?” someone shouts.

A crowd has gathered around where the shout was issued. The claustrophobia-inducing throng of people dips and bobs like a sentient wave of shiny bald heads.

Somewhere within the sea, CEO spots the distant figure Floyd so helpfully pointed him towards.

He pushes through the crowd to get to it, or at least tries to, anyway. Not like it’s helping at all; no matter how thoroughly he clears a path, at least five more people block it. Gradually, his line of sight fills up with too much visual noise, then comes the uncomfortable realization that all possible exits are sealed off.

“Ugh, I can’t see him…” Someone elbows his stomach, and CEO coughs, bending over in pain. “I need to…”

“Boss? You good over there?” Floyd asks.

“Doing… great…”

A hand topples CEO over, bringing him to his knees. He tries to scramble to his feet, but the uncaring crowd tramples his legs.

“Boss! Can you stand?!”

CEO shakes his head. “Not enough… room…”

“Grab my hand!” Floyd shouts. “I—”

He reaches for Floyd’s hand; despite the sharp claws, there are worse things to grab in a situation like this. As their fingers brush, a boot crushes the CEO’s hand before any help comes his way.

Floyd jumps back up, avoiding wherever that came from. He bares his teeth in a scowl.

“Geez, what was that even for?” Floyd pushes away whoever stepped on his boss. “Get lost!”

“Back off!” the con-goer shouts, decking him in the face.

Floyd rubs the tender site of collision. “You little—” he starts.

Before Floyd can finish his sentence, the con-goer goes in for a second punch.

Crunch.

CEO blinks. “Huh?”

In an instant, Floyd has bitten down on the other man’s arm, as if it were a piece of genetically modified celery in an industrial-grade food processor.

With that same ease, Floyd rips the arm out of its socket, spilling brackish fluid everywhere.

“What the—?”

For a moment, all activity ceases.

The convention center is as silent as a funeral. CEO hopes it isn’t his or his comrade’s.

Thousands of attendees, in perfect synchronicity, turn their heads to face the source of the noise; making a faint mechanical ‘clack’ as they rotate. CEO notes that only their heads have turned, not their bodies. Like flowers facing the light…

It’s quiet. So very quiet.

CEO’s train of thought stops dead in its tracks.

He holds his breath.

If he looks at the con-goers in just the right way, he can almost see the violence in their blank expressions, the hollow darkness inside those heads without any facial features. He gets the feeling of a school of fish biding their time, waiting for the right moment to feast upon the rotting corpse at the bottom of the ocean floor.

Except, no, the corpse isn’t quite dead yet.

A silent pin drops.

All hell breaks loose.

A part of the crowd starts piling on top of Floyd, toppling him over and attempting to press him flat. He slices his way out of the dogpile, of course.

“Stop it!” CEO hisses, his voice drowned out by the din. “You’re going to alert everyone!”

Claws dripping liquid, Floyd shows no signs of stopping, his swipes increasing in frequency by the second.

“None of these people are the target! We’re supposed to be laying low right now!”

That fool’s not in his right mind, but would trying to talk him out of it be worth it? The mission might as well be over at this point. He screwed up on his first assassination job already, and now he’s going to totally fuck up his second one.

But still, he has to try.

“Floyd, listen to me! We have to get out of here!” he shouts, putting everything he has into a final, desperate cry. “This isn’t you!”

Of course, Floyd doesn’t listen. CEO curses under his breath.

What did he mean by ‘you’, anyway? What was Floyd to him, other than just an assistant? He never gave it a second thought before now. The great, soon-to-be-late CEO of Suits City and his loyal retainer.

Less of a retainer and more of an attack dog now. The Floyd of old definitely wasn’t this easily agitated. Or this murderous.

The Floyd of old was… What was he? What was Floyd like? The memories don’t come to CEO as easily as they should.

Steadfast. Reliable. Consistent and predictable, unlike the market that so often fluctuated.
It sounds like he’s chopping vegetables, doesn’t it? There’s no point in looking.

Ha, chopping vegetables. How funny.

The fight unfolds in front of his eyes.

Amidst the continuing violence, Floyd seems hell-bent into destroying anything that moves, and it’s looking like he won’t be stopping any time soon. He rips and tears, rips and tears, rips and tears. Rendering unto them what they deserve.

Whatever the thing in front of him is now far too different from whoever Floyd was. This excess violence has to stop, before it drowns out everything else.

Floyd in his current state seems like a monster wearing the name and face of the man he once called a friend. Even if his personality was mostly unchanged… things would never be the same way they were before. Never, never, never.

Seeing the carnage before him, CEO can only assume that the Floyd of old is gone.

Recycled like just another piece of trash.

He grits his teeth. If CEO could just get his hands on the inventor of the process… he would flay whoever it was.

Despite this, leaving him behind is definitely not an option.

He can’t lose him again.

Not this time.

Bitter howls echo across the convention center, carried along by the acoustics of its domed roof. Long live the Dingo.

That’s right, not this time. He has a job to finish.

He reaches, again, pushing through the crowd to try and get closer to Floyd; closer, closer, just a little bit closer… even a few inches would help…

But it’s no use, again. The horde closes in around the two of them, and it’s getting harder to breathe.

“Stop!” CEO yells, his voice lost inside the dome. “We need to stay on track before the target—”

Someone’s arm flies off, landing on the ground next to the CEO’s hand. Bright sparks bounce off the floor, originating from conspicuous, frayed wires embedded inside the arm.

“—runs away?”

Sparks? Exposed wires? What?

As he tears his eyes from the mechanical arm, CEO glimpses a motionless man in the middle of the frenzied crowd. He is standing completely still, open-mouthed like a shocked toad. His hoodie and cargo pants are dotted with grease and food stains, and his face is covered by a visor of some kind. CEO scowls.

“What the hell is that bastard doing? Why is he the only one not moving?”

Of course he’s not moving. He’s got ulterior intentions.

With excruciating slowness, CEO brings himself to his feet. He works through the undulating masses, parting the sea to get to where he needs to go. A little talk with that man would be nice, a talk between the CEO’s fists and that man’s face.

Things fly at CEO from all directions; cardboard props, bags, bits of overpriced food. Through the deluge of sundry items, CEO hears Floyd murmur something under his breath.

It sounds like…

“Shi Ken?”

Floyd gives an emphatic shake of his head, his hair flying wildly around his face as he does so. He breathes in, harshly and heavily.

“Chickeeeeeen!”

Floyd throws himself at the unmoving man, but the sea of people gets between the two, an impassable current drowning the lycanthrope alive.

“Chicken…” CEO mumbles. “That better be our guy.”

Though at first they had the upper hand, no matter how large a swathe Floyd cuts into the crowd, more and more people fill in to take the place of the fallen ones. Ripping and tearing, slicing and biting, nothing he does has any effect.

He’s dealing with a beast that can regenerate itself, it seems.

CEO wonders how much longer he can keep this up.

Shrapnel soars and wires fly across the convention center, scattering sparks in their wake.

Not much longer, it seems. The surprises have all worn off already.

Right on time, the dogpile of strangers rises up to sink Floyd forever.

“Raaaarrrrrghhhhhh!”

Before he disappears into the sea of people, Floyd waves a hand towards the CEO. He points in the direction where the man wearing the hoodie went in.

“Thank you,” CEO says. “I’ll get that fucker for you.”

Then the crowd swallows him alive, and CEO’s heart skips a beat.

With everyone laser-focused on Floyd, CEO makes his way out of the crush and into a clearing with nobody around. As he adjusts to the new surroundings, CEO sees that there are a few speakers facing towards the main stage and what appears to be a microphone set up some distance from him. This must be the backstage area of the main stage, or at least a substage.

What luck, to stumble upon a lead just when he needs one. If this goes on, he’ll be winning the jackpot in no time. One Swiss-cheese Shareholder, coming right up.

Follow the money, as they say.

Cautiously, CEO walks around the perimeter of the backstage, keeping lookout for any stray convention attendees hanging around. Seems like the only people in this area are convention staff. He relaxes his tensed-up shoulders and exhales, attempting to blend in.
Nobody will question you if it looks like you know what you’re doing.

Eventually, CEO’s walk leads him to a certain part of the backstage with what appears to be a make-shift dressing room. Inside, a slender, dog-eared Suit is brushing his perfectly tousled hair, using his reflection in the dingy mirror in front to guide his brush strokes. His ears twitch at unnatural, evenly-spaced intervals.

It’s Shikoku Ken, the bastard. How dare he enjoy himself at a time like this?

“Tell me I’m legit~”

And he’s singing to himself, too. Humming quietly. A shame it’s not quiet enough to be inaudible.

“Kiss me~ kiss me with your eyes closed~ whisper that your heart shows~ all I want is you, yeah you~” Ken’s eyes wander across the room, finally resting upon the reflection of CEO’s imposing figure in the mirror. In shock, he drops his own-branded hairbrush; an act that seems more scripted than spontaneous, as if there’s a five second delay between his hands and his eyes. “Ah!? What the hell?! What are you doing backstage?!
“Are you a fan?” he whines. “Autograph signings are at 7:10 on the substage, so come back later okay?”

CEO takes a step closer to Ken. “I’m not a fan, just someone on the job. You’re Shi-K, right? I’m here to find VRMAN. Where the hell is he?”

“Um, what?” Shi-K’s ears spasm. “Who are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen you before, you know. You’re the one behind all of this, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, what? You’re freaking me out,” says Shi-K, shaking like a chihuahua in a handbag.

CEO strides menacingly towards him. “Give me some fucking answers before I make your insides outsides.”

“Leave me alone, I signed a nondisclosure agreement!” Ken yelps. He recoils from the CEO, scrambling to get away as fast as possible, and opens his mouth to scream. “Securi—”

“As if I’m gonna let that happen.” CEO seizes the idol’s collar, yanking it towards himself. “So we’re doing this the hard way, then?”

“H— hard way?”

Without further ado, CEO releases the collar and kicks Shi-K in his chest, ruining the stupid little outfit the stupid little idol has on.

“Kyaaa~”

The kick sends Ken flying across the room, causing him to barrel into a large speaker and knock over several pieces of recording equipment on the way there.

CEO readies himself for the inevitable counterattack, balling his hands into fists.
The idol merely slumps over without a word.

“Well… that was underwhelming.”

CEO sighs. He looks around for anything that could be useful. Finding nothing, he works up the resolve to head back out. His eyes might be deceiving him, but he can see something coming for him in the darkness at the edges of the room. He squints.

A silhouette gradually emerges from the shadows around it, forming the shape of a person.

The person is wearing a boxy headset and holding something that looks like the propeller blades of a smallish helicopter; the blades spin in the person’s hand, going round and round at an uncomfortably fast speed. Light glints off the blades, cutting swathes of white into the inky darkness.

CEO’s gut feeling returns.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the deposed CEO of Suits City himself.” The Suit wearing the headset draws himself to his full height, which is quite a bit shorter than CEO’s 6'1". It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. He starts counting on his fingers. “You come to this convention… you ruin my auction… you kill my darling surrogates… and you threaten to destroy my figurine, my trophy…
“You. Out of everyone it could have been, it was you. Why you, of all people?! You should be dead!
“I already had that weird mute guy put you six feet under a few cycles ago! Where is he, anyway?”

“What?”

“UGH, nevermind. Can you at LEAST tell me why you have cat ears on?”

CEO has all but forgotten the headband. “It’s… a long story.”

“Why are you even HERE?! Do you LIKE IT HERE or SOMETHING?!!”

CEO shakes his head. “I don’t want to be. What the hell are you babbling about?”

The Suit wearing the headset pulls at imaginary hair.
“You seriously don’t know? YOU don’t KNOW? You’re supposed to be dead! If anyone would know what happened it would be YOU!”

If only. But no, he doesn’t.

“Nope, I don’t.”

“Then…”

The incessant sound of chewing pisses him off. CEO squints, closely examining what the hell the other man has in his mouth. It seems to be a leg of some kind of pale meat, coated thickly in breadcrumbs and fried in an ungodly amount of oil. The air around it is almost glistening with how much oil it’s giving off.

Meat.

White meat.

It smells like chicken.

The headset-wearing Suit clears his throat; a rough, grating noise reminiscent of a gutter being cleaned. He raises the helicopter blades — which CEO can now clearly see are propellers attached to a boxy device.

“Let me enlighten you, then!” he shouts, gesturing dramatically outward with the twin objects in his other hand. “I am the man of many faces and names, the one who controls the masses… I am VR Man!”

Wow. Huge surprise.

VR Man smirks. “Ken, Leader, whatever… merely the tip of the iceberg! I contain multitudes! I am legion! I have the power of anime and the Chairman on my side—”
Here’s the target: prancing around like an idiot, practically presenting himself on a silver platter, and spewing bullshit all the while. Opportunities like this don’t come by every day.

Of course, for the utmost efficiency, CEO’s not going to let the fucker finish his speech.

“Are those things outside your puppets?”

“Well, I mean, of course! Why—”

CEO aims his new case at VR Man; the hidden gun’s reassuring weight at his fingertips.

“Then, Tendies, make my job easier and keep standing still for me.”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT! My name is—!”

“I really don’t care.”

“YOU DON’T CARE?” VR Man’s pale face flushes dark gray, his tiny mind probably delirious with anger. “You fool!! I know your past, your present, and your fu—”

“Still don’t care.”

“DON’T INTERRUPT ME!”

With one hand, VR Man releases his mystery machine, pointing at the CEO with the pair of rods in his other hand. A whirring sound fills the air.

Next thing CEO knows, something is barreling towards him; something big and loud and spinning and very, very fast.

CEO braces for impact.

The drone flies straight for the CEO’s head, trying to push him as far away as possible. “Did the short one put you up to this? Terrorists flock together, as expected!”

CEO blocks the drone, his arms crossed in front of his face. “I don’t know,” — he punches the drone away — “who you’re talking,” — and away again — “about.”

“Or was it the meatman? Filth like that getting you to do its dirty work?” VR drones on. “It makes me so mad!!”

“I, really, don’t give a,” — CEO parries, but not fast enough — “ow,” — he swings with his case — “shit.”

VR Man clutches his head in his hands. Under the hoodie’s now rolled-up sleeves, wires snake across his arms like varicose veins. There are folds like cloth around his forearms, like he’s wearing a full-body suit. “ARGH!! You’re always getting in my friggin’ way! My precious personas are being wasted and at this rate I might not even get the figurine I want!”

Figurine? You’re kidding.

“All this, over, that, old thing?” CEO pants. Almost out of breath, he finally evades the drone’s onslaught. “Have you ever considered that someone else might want it too? It’s an auction for fuck’s sake, there’s supposed to be more than one person involved in the bidding!”

“Who cares?! I obviously deserve it more!”

Does this moron not know how bidding works? CEO groans. “I can’t believe you take cartoons this seriously.”

“They’re not cartoons! They’re called anime!!”

“Does it look like I care?”

“No, but…” VR Man trails off, ‘umm’-ing and ‘uhh’-ing for a solid half-minute. At last, he finds a rebuttal somewhere in the pocket of his dirty hoodie. “At least TRY TO!! You’ll pay for disrespecting my hobbies, CEO!”

“I’m not paying for anything, idiot.” CEO reveals his gun, pointing it squarely at the idiot’s head. “I’ve got better things to do than this, anyway.”

VR Man laughs derisively, calling his drone back with the controllers in his hands. “Things to do?! Don’t be stupid! Once I finish what the Leader started, you’ll be dead meat!”

The drone lurches towards CEO again; luckily, CEO sidesteps the attack — but not the rush of air that comes with it, passing over his face and through to the other wall. The damn thing must weigh a few hundred pounds or so. Dumbass missed anyway.

“You’re not even fighting me yourself?” CEO snaps. “Do you eat chicken because you feel a kinship with it, you coward?”

“Shut up!!”
The drone circles back around, grazing the side of CEO’s torso as it passes him. Another rush of air cuts across his face. How does this hunk of metal move so quickly, what with all the wires attached to it and all…?

Maybe… no, it probably isn’t, but…

Maybe the wires are what’s making it so damned fast.

CEO notices VR Man robotically gesturing upwards. The drone hovers in the air, seemingly weightless. Entranced, CEO watches the blades spin from below.

“Go down!” VR Man yells. The drone obeys, suddenly dropping from above the CEO’s head with the full force of its weight. CEO jumps to the side, narrowly dodging the impact; tumbling head-first into an oversized speaker and other assorted Shikoku Ken-related debris.

The two combatants get up at the same time, but CEO’s hands are faster than the drone’s propellers, and his case is already aimed at the drone and ready to fire. This new case is so much steadier than his last one; he has to thank Floyd for the worthy investment. The thought of Floyd outside flashes briefly in his mind, steeling CEO’s resolve to finish this job as soon as possible.

CEO sprays the drone full of lead, causing a cloud of smoke to billow from the machine. The new case works like a dream; sturdy, steady, somehow making even the sound of shooting sound sharper. He never realized that Gamerica had such high quality products. This thing should inflict some serious pain…

The smoke clears, revealing a completely undamaged drone.

“What the fuck?” CEO whispers. His breathing grows shallower; the air around him feels heavier than usual. The air splits open, a tear in reality right before his eyes. It heaves with nebulae and distant planets, and it tastes like Gunmetal Gray. For an eternal minute, CEO can almost see himself reflected in the stardust, his mirror image fractured into a thousand different variations.

Then he sees the drone, heading right for his face. Like a fog machine in reverse, the drone swallows the illusions around it, patching up the scar in the universe. He shoots it, but for every shot he takes the drone simply doesn’t get hit; ripping more holes into the fabric of spacetime, coming at him from every direction he can imagine. The drone blinks into existence one moment and out the next, and CEO can never tell when or where it’ll appear next.

“How’d you like my REALITY WARPING, huh?!” VR Man strikes a pose, pointing his drone controllers to the sky. “Bet you didn’t think I could do that!”

Goddammit, goddammit, why do all these guys have some weird bullshit going on with them? At least the Dingo’s constant howling made some sense; this just isn’t fair at all…

CEO sneers. “That ability is wasted on someone like you.”

“UGH, shut UP!! Why won’t you die already?!”

“I could say the same for you,” CEO hisses, poison dripping from his voice.

“If you wanted an easy job, you should have told your underling not to BITE!”

“Underling?” VR Man, that bastard. Playing on CEO’s worries for his friend. But it does remind him… will Floyd even be alive when he gets back out there, or…?

The smell of chicken is closer than before.

“Whatever! Even without my proxies, I can still take you down!” VR Man readies an uppercut to CEO’s jaw. “Hi-yaah!”

The uppercut connects, hitting hard enough to knock the distracted CEO backwards. Not by much, but still a concerning amount, considering who delivered the hit.

“Shit!” CEO gasps. He rubs the site of injury, his eyes welded shut from the pain. His brain feels like television static, like fuzzy pinpricks of anger. “You…”

“Ha! For being the Chairman’s favorite, you’re not even that good in a fight!” VR Man gloats. Back turned, he scuttles away, making what has to be the goofiest exit CEO has ever witnessed. “See you never!”

“You asshole, I’ve had enough of you.”

Pain courses through the CEO’s body, concentrated in his spine like a spear through his back. Waves of adrenaline wash over the sensation of pain, dulling it to near-nothingness. CEO stretches his arm towards VR Man, and another, newer limb of his follows suit.

“W— what?!?” VR Man stutters, backing away from the other combatant. He shakes his head slowly, in utter disbelief. “No, you can’t be serious… corruption?!”

Several tentacles have sprouted from the CEO’s back, writhing and squirming in their sinuous glory. Mouths, like deep slashes full of teeth, cut all over the aforementioned tentacles. A layer of mucus coats the extra limbs, glinting in the backstage lights. The CEO’s face is patterned with lines, reminiscent of tattoos or scars. As VR Man tries to run, one of CEO’s tentacles wraps around his neck and lifts him towards the ceiling. CEO grabs the drawstrings of the man’s hoodie, yanking it towards him.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you? Afraid of what I could do to you?” CEO dons his best grimace, showing off as much of his teeth as possible. “You’d be right to be afraid. I could do any number of things to you, you pest.”

VR Man kicks and squirms pathetically in the other man’s iron grip. “Stop! I won’t let you ruin this any more than you already have!”

“Alright, then. Since you asked so politely, I’ll stop.” CEO drops the smaller man, letting him stand up once more. From behind the CEO, VR Man’s battered drone swoops in, aiming for his head once again. At the perihelion of its swing, CEO turns his head to eye it coldly; unmoving, he slams a tentacle into the incoming machine. “I’ll stop your heartbeat right here and now.”

The drone shatters, exploding into a burst of metal and carbon-alloy fragments that scatter across the backstage floor. All that’s left of what it used to be is a smoking husk of a CPU and bits of shrapnel littered around it.

“My drone!” VR Man cries. He runs towards the wreckage on stubby legs. As before, it would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. “The… I…”

“You’re nothing without your little toys, huh?” With one final kick to the Suit’s back, CEO knocks him over, sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Ow!”

Mission accomplished. Job well done.

Their purpose served, CEO’s tentacles retract back into the space from whence they came. The markings fade from his face, leaving sheet-white skin in their place once more. CEO blinks. His head is pounding harder than the bass of the shittiest club music ever, his mouth feels bone-dry, and he really, really needs to eat. But at least the job’s finally done. Noticing VR Man on the floor, CEO side-eyes him. “How does it feel, you scum?”

Lying prostrate on the filthy ground, VR Man hacks and wheezes. “It hurts… As expected from… the type of guy that comes to a friggin’ convention… just to laugh at the people there… you really do fight dirty…”

“Laugh at anyone? Nope, I came here to kick your ass and nothing else.” CEO squats down, grinding his case into the other man’s skull. “Now tell me everything you know.”

“Whatever you say,” VR Man sputters, “Mr. CEO… of Sandwich City…”

“Huh? Sandwich… City?”

No response.

“That bastard, dying before he could tell me anything good…” The CEO stands up. He kicks the corpse for good measure. “I hope that wasn’t too late.”

Back at the auction area, it looks like all the proxies around have deactivated.

“Floyd?” CEO calls out. “You there?”

The long-haired Suit stands knee-deep in damaged robots, facing away from the CEO; his whole body heaving with every strained, labored wheeze. A familiar, uncomfortable feeling lingers in the air, claustrophobic and humid.

CEO tenses up. He forces himself not to move a muscle; preparing for whatever comes next. His breathing is far faster than he’d like it to be, and he can feel his heart going a million miles an hour. Not this shit again…

He can’t let anybody know he’s losing control of himself. He can’t let the cracks in his armor of unflappability show, to neither his assistant nor anyone else. Efficiency, focus, capability, perfection. Be the pillar that those around you can lean on.

“Floyd?” he calls out, again. “Hello?”

“Can you… believe it…? Not a single one of these guys had any… food on them…” The other man says, his heavy breathing lightening up.

Oh, so it was just that…

CEO lets out a breath he held for much longer than he needed to. His worries wash away, like seafoam on the ocean of his thoughts. “I know, I’m starving too. We’ll hit up room service when we get back.”

“Sounds good!” Floyd turns around, grinning from nonexistent-ear-to-nonexistent-ear. The look on his face morphs into an uncharacteristic grimace. “Just…”

He drops to his knees.

“Please,” Roberts huffs, “Don’t order chicken.”

And with that, Floyd falls snout-first onto the ground.

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“The auction got canceled!”

“What are they going to do with the figurine now?”

“Maybe it’ll be discounted.”

“Doubt it.”

“They canceled Shi-K’s performance too.”

“Whaaat? Aw man, I was really hoping to see it. What happened to him?”

“He apparently just collapsed backstage, for some reason. They’re gonna have to find a new host ASAP.”

“Awww, poor Ken. Hope he gets better soon. Was it overwork? Does the agency that he works with have a track record of this kind of thing?”

“I have no idea; he doesn’t even have an agency listed anywhere on any of his profiles. I guess he could have been solo? Seriously though, it’s such a drag that the one guy everyone came to see is already gone.”

“Yeah, big yikes. Let’s hope Cycle-3333 Con goes better than this.”

CEO takes in the sights of Gamerica for the second time (and hopefully the last one).

Miraculously, the city outskirts seem almost unchanged from what he had seen earlier. Same ugly buildings, same musty smell; the billboards still flashing their bright patterns like deep-sea fish. Less clouds above, and slightly cooler air. Not like Gamerica was cool in the first place.

Floyd scratches the back of his neck. “It’s like nothing’s happened at all. Are you sure you got the right guy?”

“The convention’s only getting started,” CEO replies. “People here might see the mess we made, but they’ll forget as soon as a new shiny thing distracts them from it.”

“So all that’s gonna go unnoticed?”

CEO closes his eyes. “I guarantee not a single person back there is going to care about what just happened.”

“That’s life, I guess. Good for us?”

“Yep,” the CEO echoes, nodding. “Good for us.”

They wait for the bus together, shivering in the growing cold.

“Next stop: Hub Hotel. Thank you for choosing public transport.”

Despite the earlier horde inside the bus to Gamerica, the bus from Gamerica is totally deserted, providing the company with more than enough space to stretch out as needed.
CEO unsubtly takes the cat ear headband off, shoving it into one of his pockets. Meanwhile, Floyd has sprawled almost horizontally across a couple empty seats. Light filters through the bus’s dirty windows, motes of dust floating in the beams.

“Hey, Boss? Can I ask you something?” Floyd offhandedly remarks, batting idly at empty air.

“What is it?”

“I’ve been wondering… why didn’t you want to take me on this job?”

CEO shrugs. “You know I get things done better when I’m alone.”

“So it was never about me standing out too much, was it?”

CEO would laugh if he still had the energy to. “Nobody can stand out too much in that city.”

“Then…” Floyd pauses, straining to find the right words to say. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why ignore me and insult me to my face? I can understand not wanting to take me, but did you have to be so rude?”

Silence.

“Is there something you aren’t going to tell me?”

More silence.

“It’s okay if you don’t say anything. We all have our bad days.”

Yet more silence.

“Can I…” CEO ventures, an involuntary pause working its way between his words. He forces himself to finish the question. “Can I be completely honest with you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It’s because I was afraid.” Afraid, yes, that’s the word. Saying it feels like an admission of weakness, but leaving it at fear is stopping short of the actual problem. He must continue, for the purposes of effective communication. “Afraid of my luck running out.”

Floyd gives a quizzical head tilt. “Wait, really? How?”

“I was scared of letting you get hurt,” CEO says, trying to conceal the tiny wobble in his voice. “Scared of losing one of the only people I could actually trust, of losing one of the only people I could call a friend…”

“So it wasn’t anything to do with how I was before? Aw, Boss, you should have said so earlier.” Floyd grins. “It really seemed like it wasn’t about losing me, but that you were scared of me after all that. I was even worried that you hated me… especially after what I did back there.”

CEO smiles back. “Hate? I don’t think I could ever bring myself to hate you, you old fool. It’s just that getting you back was a stroke of luck, and everyone knows luck’s too unpredictable to count on in the long-term. For all I know, you could have bitten my head off after chewing on my briefcase.”

“Ha ha, at least I got you a new one!” Floyd snickers. He ponders the other man’s words a little while longer. “Luck this, luck that… all this talk about luck reminds me of your gambling days. Don’t tell me you’re relapsing…”

“Heh. Winning big again would be nice.”

“It sure would!” Floyd wags a finger at his boss. “But don’t go bankrupting us, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“Good, keep that promise.” Floyd concurs. “Well, if that’s all it is, there’s no need to worry. You saw what I did back there, right Boss?” He makes an awkward ‘OK’ sign with his long claws. “I can defend myself just fine!”

“Yeah, you definitely can.”

“Anyways, my job’s always been to take care of you. I’ll be by your side for as long as I can, Boss!”

“I appreciate everything you do, Floyd,” CEO says, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, “But you don’t need to worry about me so much. I can take care of myself.”

“Alright then, if you say so. I think I’ll take a quick nap.” Yawning, he stretches his entire body, then goes limp like a sheaf of wet papers. “All this fighting has me beat… Wake me up when we get back!”

Floyd dozes off in the blink of an eye. CEO adjusts his suit jacket and looks out of the window, keeping a quiet vigil over his friend’s sleeping body.

His friend…

Friend?

Who was the Floyd of old, the one who was with him from the beginning? By his side, filing papers and filling spreadsheets and spending lunch breaks with him? Making all the stupid trivialities of life in this shitty world of business seem more bearable?

What was he to CEO?

He never took anything too seriously; he did whatever CEO asked him to with a smile on his face and coffee dripping down his chin. At first, Roberts’ humor annoyed him, but CEO got used to it eventually, and he wouldn’t mind having a bit of it now.

But would those humorous words still ring true if they came from a dog’s mouth, all covered in slobber and who knows what? He wonders if he can ever get used to this particular change. Especially when it happened to someone so close to him.

Floyd…

He’s much more volatile than before, but deep down he’s still the same old Floyd that CEO knew and valued. His mind is somewhere inside that body, different on the outside but unchanged within. As the moon drifts across the horizon, the CEO wonders why he was ever worried.

The door to apartment 13-J opens with a dry creak.

Jerome’s smiling face appears from behind it, followed by the rest of his body. “Welcome back. You got any souvenirs?”

“Souvenirs? We risked our lives to eliminate a burden to society, and you’re asking us for a present?” CEO snaps.

“Haha, just a little joke. Sorry.”

“Wait, yeah, actually,” Floyd interrupts, “we do have a souvenir for you!”

“What is it?”

“These.” Floyd says, grinning as he pinches something from CEO’s pockets. As Floyd digs it out, holding it before him proudly, the other two can clearly see what it is…

It’s a cat-eared headband. Cheaply made, at that.

Stunned silence fills the air.

“Well, uh,” Jerome mumbles, smiling stiffly, “Thanks, Floyd. It’s the thought that counts. Did you have fun?”

“Yep!” “Nope.” the two simultaneously respond.

Jerome chuckles. “Gamerica’s pretty polarizing, isn’t it? Hey, at least it’s over now.” He beckons for the two to enter the apartment. “Come on in and kick your feet up.”

Floyd runs through the door, unceremoniously throwing himself into the sofa. CEO strides in a little more calmly after him. The sofa’s upholstery cracks, and loudly at that.

“Woah, just take it easy, man! Don’t break my couch!!”

After Jerome’s couch survives Floyd’s destructive power, things settle down for a bit. The three unwind a bit more…

“Here, let me clean that mug for you,” Jerome offers to Floyd.

“Ah, thanks!”

After a few rinses, it becomes apparent that something is wrong with this mug. For one thing, the inside is stained to hell and back, making it very clear that it hasn’t been washed in a long time. Jerome pours tap water into it and empties it into the sink, over and over, but every liquid he puts into contact with it comes out coffee-colored (i.e. gray). “Yikes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Floyd, have you been drinking nothing but coffee?”

“Yep!”

“That’s bad. This much coffee is, well…” He gives the cup another rinse. More gray, cloudy water. “Not good for a person. You should try drinking some water sometime, my man.”

“Hmm, maybe.” Floyd rubs his chin. “My throat closes up whenever I try to, though… even just thinking about it chokes me up.”

Jerome smiles stiffly. “I really don’t think that’s normal…”

Shortly after everyone’s settled down in the living area, CEO says something concerning.

“We need to talk about that last job, Jerome.”

“Ask away, my man. Is there something bothering you?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Something actually important.
“The target mentioned Suits… no, Sandwich City, just before he died.” CEO crosses his arms. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jerome?” He leans closer to Jerome, his stare fixed firmly on the other man’s face. “If that’s even your real name?”

“Ah. Sandwich City. There’s a lot I need to be telling you two about that place, but…”

“But what?”

Jerome shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t think you’re ready to hear it yet.”

“What can you tell me, then?”

“I can tell you about myself,” he says, running his fingers through his hair, “Or what little I can remember, anyway.”

“How is that relevant at all?”

“Just be patient,” Jerome gently admonishes. “The city and I… have a history together.”

“Fine then. Go on.”

Jerome clears his throat.

“You’ll have to forgive me for any gaps in my memory. This all happened in the time before you ever existed. Such a long time ago, now that I think about it.

“Before the cycles, I used to work for a satellite communications company. Well, it wasn’t just satellite communications, but it was what they mainly dealt with.

“One night at work, my partner and I discovered a strange, unnatural signal broadcasting from the middle of extra-terrestrial space.

“After weeks of fruitlessly trying to identify it, my partner beamed a message directly at the signal.” A pause. He looks out the hotel window, towards the brilliant moon hanging limply like a sheet of paper in the night sky. “After that… there was a flash of white light.”

Jerome looks back at his audience. “When I awoke, everything had changed without me. My family and friends, my life… all gone.

“I laid low for countless years, operating as an office supply salesman, mingling with the locals. What else could I do? It was all I had to hold on to at the time. Like an anchor for a wooden raft.

“One night, someone faxed me a message.

“It was a piece of paper with a photo of my face on it.” He fiddles with the collar of his shirt.

“What’s crazier is that the fax machine was never plugged in. Even now, the damn thing still isn’t.” He laughs. “I traced back the sender’s number and it corresponded to a set of coordinates just outside the planet. And the rest is history.”

CEO narrows his eyes. “Things are never that simple. There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

“It’s really nothing, okay? I’ve told you everything important.”

CEO squints even further. “I’m not stupid, Jerome. Give me the whole story.”

“No, man, I swear I’ve told you everything important.”

“The most successful partnerships in life are built on honesty.” He leans towards the shorter man. “Tell me what you’re hiding.”

Silence. Jerome breaks out into a cold sweat, his eyes shut tight.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” asks Floyd. “You look pretty uncomfortable there.”

“Yep, I am. I really am.”

“Just get it over with and tell me already.”

“If you insist. I didn’t want to tell you this so early, but… my past is… a little intertwined with yours, CEO,” he says, pronouncing ‘intertwined’ with a tone that brings to mind someone trying to reduce their prison sentence as much as possible. Jerome opens his eyes. “Later, after I found the coordinates… another fax came through.”

“Another fax…” CEO connects the dots in his mind. Dread sets in, seeping through his bones like the biting cold rain outside. “What was it?”

“It was a contract. For you.” Jerome points at him.

“Me?”

“You were to be recovered, alive.”

“Why?” CEO asks.

“Why what? Why would I do it? Why you, and why alive? Or why is a space signal looking for you?

“The reasons are all the same. Answers.” Jerome leans backwards, sinking into the recliner chair. “You and I are pretty similar. There are gaps in my memory that feel empty. Like someone or something didn’t want me to remember the past.”

“Someone didn’t want you to remember your past…”

A flash of memory, keen and shining, stabs into his brain. The CEO re-examines Jerome’s appearance, every inch of it bringing deja vu to his mind.

Had he seen him somewhere else before?

The shorter man’s distinctive hairstyle did seem familiar at first, but now CEO realizes he may have encountered him far earlier than their initial meeting on Trash Island.

Where, when, why?

He saw that moss-ball of hair bobbing amidst… a crowd? Somewhere in a tall building with other people… but why was he there? Why was Jerome there? What was happening; what even happened before that point?

Might it have been… no, was it just before he fell?

His head hurts just thinking about it.

For sure, there has to be something that belongs in the empty space where the memory was, but the piece is missing.

It feels like tonguing the area where an uprooted tooth used to be. It feels like there's something that's supposed to be there, but he doesn’t know what exactly it is. Almost, but not quite remembering it. A gaping hole in the puzzle.

How awful.

How frustrating.

Fed up with all these gaps and empty spaces, CEO puts his fingers against his temples.

“Great, not another amnesia story,” he sighs. “And I thought you knew what you were doing.”

“I know enough, CEO. Enough to know that your city was being investigated by the Shareholders even before I carried the contract out. Enough to know that the way this world is…” says Jerome, gesturing broadly, “…is wrong.
“Enough to know that, even after all these years, my old partner is still alive.”

Floyd straightens out his posture. “Then we have to find him! He could answer all our questions!”

“Slow your roll, man.” Jerome waves a hand dismissively. “We don’t need to worry about finding him.”

“That’s good. But why?”

“My old partner…” Jerome starts. He inhales and exhales deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with the breaths. “…is the current Chairman of the Board of Business.”

“You mean he’s the leader of all the Shareholders?! That Chairman?!”

Jerome nods. “The very same one. Proud leader of this bastardized world of business.”

“I, um… wow. The Chairman, of all people…”

“Yep. And another thing.”

“As if it couldn’t get any worse,” CEO whinges. “Do you ever have any good news to tell us?”

Jerome waves him away. “Just hold on, man.”

“I don’t know if I can for much longer.”

“By the way, Floyd, my boss said he didn’t need your ID, so I hope you don’t mind that I used it.”

Floyd nods excitedly. “All good with me! Never needed it myself.”

“Great, check out what I found… I was able to use the ID to access some deeply classified info.”
“What is it?”

“CEO, you and the Chairman share DNA…” Jerome pauses to let the information marinate in the other man’s mind. “…in a pattern akin to a father-son type of relationship.”

The silence is palpable, a quivering jelly-like thing that the CEO wishes he could reach out and crush. His eye twitches.

Jerome chuckles, his afro bobbing merrily with the laughs. “Guess you really were the long-lost son of the most powerful man in the world.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.” CEO puts his head in his hands. “I just can’t catch a break, can I?”

“Speaking of breaks! When are we ordering room service?”

CEO moves his fingers just enough to let one eye peek out from between them. “Whenever you want.” He covers his eyes again. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Hey man, if it’s bothering you that much, I’ll drop it for now. I need you at your best for what’s coming next.”

“The only thing coming next that I want to be ready for is a meal!” Floyd yaps.

“Well said, well said.” Jerome winks in assent. “I’ll call the front desk and have them whip something up for us.”

One phone call later…

“They said no room service for the apartments.” Jerome shrugs. “Guess we’ll order takeout instead. You guys mind waiting?”

“Nope, not at all!”

As Jerome dials the number of the closest Burger Baron, CEO sinks into the couch, his mind trying to process literally anything that just happened.

Soon enough, a knock at the door comes.

“Delivery for Mr. J?” a voice at the other end asks.

“Food’s here. Let me just get it…”

Jerome opens the door to a Suit wearing a motorcycle helmet and the classic Burger Baron uniform. The paper bag in his hand is dripping grease over the hallway floor.

“Thanks for bringing my order, man.”

“Yeah, no problem.” the deliveryman says, looking over Jerome’s shoulder into the apartment. His eyes widen when he sees the two men on the couch. “Weren’t you guys on TV?”

“Nah man, you must be thinking of someone else. Only way I can get on TV is if I stand on it, haha.”

“Huh, okay. Here’s your order.” The deliveryman passes his cargo over to his customer.

“Thanks, thanks.” Winking slyly, Jerome hands the deliveryman a wad of cash, which he accepts. “Have an extra big tip for putting up with that joke.”

The delivery man wastes no time in counting. “Whoa… $200? Just for that?”

“And the burger, man. The joke and the delivery.”

“Uh, thanks, dude.”

Jerome smiles a winning smile. “Don’t spend it all at once, my man.”

The Burger Baron deliveryman makes a speedy exit out of 13-J. Jerome turns back and closes the door behind him, shutting it with a low thud. He places the food delivery on the empty chair next to the couch.

“That was close,” he says, running a hand through his dark, curly hair, “but don’t get too comfortable, guys. Our work isn’t over yet.”

CEO rolls his eyes. “Oh, great. More random bullshit. Is this going to get us nearly killed again?”

Jerome starts taking out the contents of their order. “You know how it is in this line of work.”

“Yes, and I didn’t have a lot of other choices.”

“Yeah,” Floyd pitches in, raising a hand, “I didn’t either!”

Jerome hands him his burger, which he gratefully accepts. “Don’t worry, your next task won’t be too bad.”

“I just hope it’s not as stressful as the last one was.”

“Trust me, trust me, Gamerica was rock bottom.” Jerome assures him. “It can’t get any worse.”

Floyd shrugs, chomping off half his burger in one bite. “Yeah, I guess it wasn’t as good as it could have been. But seriously, another job this soon? I can't keep running around like this. I’m barely alive as it stands now. I’m barely even myself! I was supposed to be killed so long ago. Who knows if someone won’t show up to fix that soon?”

“That’s right.” CEO nods, pinching a potato fry from the greasy packet. “We’re both supposed to be dead. What worries me is when death will catch up to us, not if.”

Floyd starts eating the other half of his burger. “Yeah, can’t we just lay low for a bit?”

“I know it’s been a long day, but don’t worry; I’m the one giving you the job this time around. I’ll make sure both of you are safe.”

“Hmm, ‘this time around’?” Floyd tilts his head to the side. “What do you mean by that?”

“My boss… he’s given me some free time. Paid leave, if you will.”

“Free time to do what, go to the sauna and sweat our asses off?” CEO rolls his eyes. “No thanks.”

Floyd shakes his head emphatically. “Ugh, I’ve had enough of sweat for the rest of my life… I’d rather cut off my nose.”

“Haha, breaking a sweat already? Nah, man, nah, it’s way better than the sauna. This is just something I’ve been wanting to do for a while.” Jerome grabs his coat, unfolding it and drawing it around him. “I want to break into Sandwich City, and get an old friend back.”

“Why does everyone keep mentioning Sandwich City?” asks CEO.

“That’s… what they renamed your city to.”

“What a disgrace.”

Floyd shakes his head in disapproval. “You said it, Boss.”

“It seems they’ve upped the security a lot since you were the CEO; the rate of production has also increased too. The news is even calling it one of the fastest-growing cities on the planet. I heard they’re having to import meat now, so we’ll hijack a supply truck to get in.” Jerome points at the floor. “Luckily, there’s one down in the hotel garage. From there, we’ll sneak in the truck’s trailer and infiltrate the food processing facility once it arrives in the city. I’ll be coming along for this mission too, so you’ll have company.”

He sighs.

“Whatever happens next is up to us,” Jerome says, a bitter-sweet smile on his face, “but I believe we can do it.”

Somewhere in a certain food processing facility, a metal catwalk radiates from the center of its central room, suspended from the ceiling and dangling high above the floor. Two Suits tread its length; one wearing a waistcoat, and the one in front of him donning a long coat and eyepatch. Below them, a conveyor belt serpentines through the facility, like a single vein in the long arm of the food industry.

“This factory is quite something, wouldn’t you agree?” the man in the waistcoat says.

The man with the eyepatch nods, his coat blowing slightly in the factory’s air currents. “It is, it is.”

“It has flourished superbly under my guidance. All thanks to my supervision.”

“Yes,”— the man with the eyepatch nods again —“you’ve been a wonderful supervisor. The efficiency here is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before! I can almost forgive you for killing the previous CEO.”

“Mmm. Rest assured that any forgiveness is unneeded.” The man in the waistcoat flicks lint off his shirtsleeves. “In any case, I also went ahead with the reprocessing, ahead of schedule. Thousands of extra workers and materials, made cheaply and quickly to order. This efficiency… doesn’t it make you happy, too?”

“Happy?” The man with the eyepatch roars with laughter. “Seeing the finished products will make me happier!” He coughs, a rattling noise that sounds like a handful of microchips being put through a blender. “But, with all these new soldiers, I do admit things have been much better under your control! Maybe you can even become the new CEO permanently.”

“Permanently? Curious. Most people would kill to have a chance at gaining this level of wealth and power.” The man in the waistcoat grips the railing of the catwalk. “Are you any different? Are you satisfied with letting me remain the figurehead while you puppeteer me from the shadows? Are you satisfied without any grand displays of influence?”

“Now, your role is much more than just a figurehead. You’re an essential part of our plan.”

“I climbed to the top while you stood idly by and did nothing to assist. Your advice came far too late in my journey to be of any worth.” The man in the waistcoat stares blankly ahead. “If I am essential, then you are nothing.”

“Hey hey hey! Enough!”

The man in the waistcoat shakes his head. “You have yet to prove your worth to me, Leader. What is my role in this plan of yours?”

“Role…” The Leader waves a hand around, not looking back at his collocutor. “Look, we’re all comrades here, yeah? We’ll all have a slice of the pie. Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s where you and I differ. Your militia is”— and here the man in the waistcoat pauses —“expendable, isn’t it?”

The Leader shakes his head. “Not to me it isn’t. I may be the Resistance Leader, but I’m nothing without the support of my generals!”

“Well, it must be expendable,” the man in the waistcoat says, brushing dust off the catwalk’s railing, “To anyone else in your position, at least.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The man in the waistcoat nods in a direction over the side of the catwalk. “Look down there. Do you see all those moving parts?

“Ah, yes, the meatmen. What about them?”

“That word — ‘meatmen’ — what a misnomer it is.” He shakes his head. “Most of them are barely men, not much but meat; but I digress. Do you see them toiling away at the conveyor belts?”

Leader nods. “Well, yes. Why are you asking?”

“Let me tell you.” The man in the waistcoat drums his fingers on the catwalk railing. “The mindset of this world is that the useless and weak get crushed. They are made into food, deemed undeserving of even their very lives. Do you understand?”

The Leader nods. “Of course. That’s what we’re working to change, comrade. You agree that this is wrong, don’t you? Why else would you call me here today?”

“Why? I have a question of my own for you, dear Leader…” The sound of footsteps stops, as if waiting for a potential response. When none comes, the man in the waistcoat clears his throat and continues his train of thought. “Do CEOs make for good sandwich meat?”

“Hah, that’s strange of you to ask. You aren’t possibly suggesting what I think you are, are you?” The Leader frowns.

“Answer me.”

“We… I…” Leader falters. “Would you really sacrifice yourself for…?”

“Do you really think I’m stupid?”

The Leader hesitates, making a drawn-out “uh” noise.

“That was a rhetorical question,” the man in the waistcoat adds. “Of course you do. No sane person would help me for free, not in a world like this.”

“What?” The Leader turns around sharply at the word ‘free’; the smirk on his face has not disappeared, but its corners are bending down. “Comrade, what do you mean? We—”

“I am not your comrade.”

With frightening speed, the man in the waistcoat swings a briefcase directly into the Leader’s stomach; catapulting him over the edge of the catwalk and onto the conveyor belt below with a loud crack. The Leader’s coat billows upward, until at last his body comes to a sharp stop, not quite dashed to pieces on the assembly line beneath him. The Leader reaches a hand out towards the man in the waistcoat, as his body crumples and scrunches under the weight of a hydraulic sandwich press. A mechanical hiss escapes the Resistance Leader’s mouth. His face twists into a flower of iron, metal alloys bursting from beneath his silicone skin, steel skull breaching his eyepatch.

The man in the waistcoat can almost hear his final words, but the incessant rhythm of the factory drowns them out.

He turns and walks away. No point in waiting around.

Time is money, money is power, and there are still many things left to do.

The world can afford to lose one man.

The crack of the briefcase as it hit the Leader’s torso, the last hiss that left his mouth; those tattered scraps of clothing and stainless-steel components scattered across the assembly line, no longer of use… those feelings are all still fresh in his mind, like high-quality mincemeat straight from the grinder.

Yes, despite the fact it happened more than a hundred cycles ago, the memories linger in his thoughts as vividly as the day they were made.

The man in the waistcoat opens his eyes.

In front of him, the vastness of the city skyline spreads out, skyscrapers like butter sculptures towering above a slice of untoasted bread. A layer of thick clouds, like cotton candy, coats the ground. The moon, a pock-marked pancake, hovers in the inky-black sky; the stars around it like grains of salt on a dark tablecloth. The view at this time of day isn’t too bad, especially not when seeing it from behind a floor-to-ceiling pane of bulletproof glass.

Sitting at his desk, the man in the waistcoat unwraps the plastic packaging of his lunch. Under his rule, even the cheapest of cheap foods should be a satisfactory meal to someone of his standing, which is why he always buys his sandwiches from the vending machines placed outside his office…

Wait a damn minute.

He pauses in his routine task to note something oozing from beneath the pillowy cover of bread. Surely that isn’t what he thinks it is…
With a steady hand, he peels off the slice of bread from the meat and vegetables beneath. The underside of the bread is moist. It is dripping with emulsion.

An assassination attempt? God damn it all.

Mayonnaise. Why did it have to be mayonnaise? The most disgusting of all condiments, one of many things on this planet that would be better off not existing… the one thing he thought he’d never have to deal with again, at least not in his territory…
Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. The rancid smell, the unctuous texture, the artificial aftertaste… separately, none of those things on their own would displease him as much. But, beyond any rational reason, with mayonnaise, the whole thing makes him want to retch. Something like this has no reason to be here, in his domain, the city that he has worked so hard to acquire. Climbing the corporate ladder and reaching the highest rung entitles one to certain rights, and one of them is the right to reshape the world as one sees fit, no?

But enough with the introspection. He re-wraps the sandwich in its plastic raiment. Lunch will have to be delayed for the time being.

In fact, everything will be delayed for the time being. An insignificant incident like this could be symptomatic of a greater problem or a sign of worse things to come. For something this small to make it all the way to his office, the highest in the city, something would have to be dreadfully wrong. A chain with one faulty link necessitates that the entire chain must be replaced. Sure, it may be only a sandwich in the grand scheme of things — but it is not just the hundred-ton weight that breaks the camel’s back; rather, it is also the straw placed upon it.

Forget the metaphors. What’s worst of all is that this ridiculous blunder is also denying him the pleasure of a simple meal after all the administrative busywork of the prior days. This will not do.

He will have to make an example out of everyone he can find. Dialing his secretary’s number on the corded telephone sitting atop his desk, the man in the waistcoat makes his demand.

“Come to my office this instant.”

The person on the other end of the line coughs. “But sir, you…”

“Do as I say.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, sir,” the secretary replies.

The man in the waistcoat places the phone’s receiver back into its cradle with a click.

In about the time it takes to make five cups of coffee, the secretary arrives; flushed and panting heavily. He is a standard Suit with a few pens in the breast pocket of his shirt, and a growing blot of ink where the pen tips come into contact with the pocket’s fabric. The ink blot covers about a third of the logo on the breast pocket, which is only barely legible as “IA” now. The secretary adjusts his shield sunglasses.

“Sorry I couldn’t be here sooner, sir,” he says, catching his breath, “The trains were running late and—”

“Spare me the excuses. The trains are never late. It’s you that’s late.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I really am. What did you call me here for?”

“We have something important to discuss.”

The secretary nods. “Of course, sir. I don’t think you’d hold a meeting about something unimportant, would you?”

“Enough about what you think. Take a look at this sandwich.” The man in the waistcoat frees his former lunch from its plastic shell. “What exactly is the problem here?”

“I’m not sure… what’s the problem with it, sir?”

“Can’t you see it?” the man in the waistcoat says, his voice sharply increasing in volume. “Is it not extremely obvious?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t—”

“Look.”

The man in the waistcoat peels back the topmost layer of bread to show the mayonnaise underneath it. Recognition dawns on the secretary’s awestruck face.

“Oh my goodness.”

“This mistake must be rectified immediately, you understand? If mistakes like these can be made, what else will happen in the future? There is no telling how brave smugglers and other criminals will get, if even a city-wide ban against something so small didn’t work.”

“What do you suggest we do, sir?”

“It is obvious. Violating the ban is punishable by death. That much is stated very clearly in the legislation, which every visitor to and resident of this city is required to read. Ignorance is not a proper excuse; a lack of awareness will cause nothing but trouble in the future. Workers must be attentive; any more failures like these will cripple the city’s production rate and therefore its efficiency.” The man in the waistcoat clears his throat, unblinking. “Therefore, I want every single person involved with the creation of this sandwich recycled; the importers of its ingredients, the assemblers of the sandwiches, the distributors of the other sandwiches in this batch, and everyone else that contributed. We have the legal right to do so, since by violating this law they are forfeiting their rights to safety. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir. Loud and clear. Should I start tracking them all down?”

“Of course.” The man in the waistcoat gives a slight nod. “I believe that is what Internal Affairs employees like you are best at. Let those that you come for know that I don’t take very well to corporate contraband.”

After that, time passes uneventfully.

The man in the waistcoat presides over a constant stream of documents that fill his inbox, stamping and signing them to be sent away by the secretary. Most documents are invoices or orders from other cities; the meat his city produces is some of the highest quality around, and he takes a selfish glee in knowing that, although no trace of it shows on his face. The food in his city, too, is in high demand. As long as there are workers, they will have to be fed, and his job is to provide the solution to that problem.

Boxes arrive at his office in irregular intervals, labeled with the names of cities that he doesn’t recognize and overflowing with packing peanuts. He stamps and signs those too; after all, quality control is of the highest importance. It is in the nature of a city (or a business) to be wild and unruly when left alone, and unruliness requires a steady hand to be managed in proper fashion.

The man in the waistcoat sighs, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. Sweat, from this little work… surely not. He doesn’t need a break yet, does he?

Yes, the path to the top was grueling, and the work that awaited him here was still grueling, but he knows that these things are nothing but temporary obstacles to overcome. The war-march of industry must continue on.

His kingdom commerce will become perfect, slowly but surely.

News travels quickly on Business Planet. It’s important to stay in touch with everything.

As the man in the waistcoat chews on a freshly-purchased, mayonnaise-free sandwich, he boots up an old computer that must have belonged to the former CEO of the city. This ancient workstation barely functions, but replacing it would mean losing access to all of the former CEO’s valuable data, so the man in the waistcoat has dutifully maintained it for all these cycles. On the plus side, it can still connect to the internet.
The man in the waistcoat browses the news aimlessly, clicking around the website and looking for something to read.

A title jumps out at his bleary eyes. “Commotion at Gamerica’s Cycle-2222 Convention”.
A convention, at the city which purchased most of his supply… what’s more, a commotion there… A curious choice of words. How often do commotions happen on this planet? What’s more, wouldn’t something like that have the potential to disrupt sales, cause trouble in the city, and so on…?

This could prove itself to be quite interesting.

He clicks on the article.

As most readers may or may not know, Gamerica is a city known for its, well, games. Love it or hate it, Gamerica was announced as one of the most popular cities to visit over the last 100 cycles. Its conventions attract hundreds of thousands every cycle. Recently, the much-anticipated Cycle-2222 Convention has been thrown into chaos as its most prominent guest, the idol Shi-K (better known as Shikoku Ken), has died under mysterious circumstances. His fans are in an uproar over the whole situation, and social media has been flooded with photos and video clips of him before his death in memoriam. We’ve collected the most recent ones below; so maybe some armchair detectives can work this out for us? Share your theories in the comments!

The man in the waistcoat scrolls down.

Contained within the article are several different, equally blurry angles of a stage with a table at its center. The aforementioned ‘Shikoku Ken’ is probably the one onstage, sitting placidly behind the table. He is surrounded by crowds of adoring fans, kept at bay by the barricades around the stage.

The man in the waistcoat can see that Shi-K was a well-loved leader indeed. His eyes skim across the photos, skipping across the many faceless Suits in the blurry throngs.

Two people to the side of the crowd draw his attention; one that towers above the rest, and a slightly shorter one standing beside him. The taller of the pair seems to be wearing some sort of costume, with unnaturally sharp claws and a tangled head of hair. Most of the shorter one’s figure is blocked by other people in the crowd, and the picture quality doesn’t help with that… but, for some reason, the man in the waistcoat seizes up when he sees what little there is to see of him.

A cold, dense sphere of apprehension settles in the pit of his stomach. Those two give him a bad feeling, to say the least. The same feeling he got that time so long ago. The same feeling he gets when he feels a job could be done better, or when he fails to finish a job to his standards. A shiver, a chill, a sub-zero breath of air down his back, worming its way into his abdomen.

He squints at the pictures a little harder.

Something is wrong with those two; they don’t seem like the type to be at those sorts of events at all. Yes, Gamerica attracts all kinds of people, but the couple he’s now focusing on… aren’t the kind to be attracted. They don’t belong there, and that sickens him. A machine cannot function if even a single part of it is in the wrong place. A typo on an important document, an unnecessary line in a diagram, an out-of-place object in the background of a period piece; all wrong, all disruptive, all errors to be corrected. If the mayonnaise incident wasn’t convincing enough, this in and of itself means that the security of the city must be increased for sure.

The man in the waistcoat leans away from the computer. He thinks he can see the problem now.

Those two… are they both wearing cat ears?

The man in the waistcoat sighs.

Before he can upgrade the security, he must allow essential shipments in. The extra admin work after every increase in security was such a chore, so he would have to do everything important now, before the security tightens.

Silent and inert, the final document of the day to sign sits on his desk. The man in the waistcoat picks up a pen, ready to read it over.

“A request for approval to enter the city… from Truck 710420, ColdShipping Services Ltd. It seems like they’re carrying in more raw materials.” He taps the desk with the capped tip of his pen. “I suppose we need all the supplies we can get. Approval granted.”

He signs the document with a flourish.

Now, to check his schedule.

Ever since he switched to digital record-keeping, his diary is a few thousand cycles out of date; his old, clumsy handwriting can be seen scribbled up to the margins and spilling across the pages, reminders of a younger, more clueless past self. He glances at something carelessly penciled on the lined paper. ‘Meeting with Resistance Leader’.

Ah, that meeting.

It still feels like yesterday.
The crack of the briefcase, the shreds of fabric and steel, the final hiss from that fool’s mouth; everything about that meeting has been preserved perfectly in his mind.
It was, after all, the meeting where he seized true control of the city with his own two hands. The meeting where he secured his new throne for once and for all, the meeting where he took his kingdom for good. Not with a crime of passion or a spur-of-the-moment decision, but a calculated, fully thought-out plan.
What is a murder to a king? At the end of the day, it’s just business.

Enough reminiscing.

Time is money, money is power, and there are still many things left to do.

There is a knock on the door, and a voice coming from outside with it. “Sir! Sir!”

“What is it?”

“There’s someone here to see you, he says it’s urgent—”

The man in the waistcoat stirs from his repose. “One moment.”

Before the secretary can open the office door, someone else barges into the room. He is wearing a square cap and a cleaner’s uniform, but not much else stands out about him, other than the stupidly huge grin on his face. Striding confidently towards the man in the waistcoat’s desk, he twirls an envelope between his fingers.

“Hey, kid,” he says, dragging out the ‘hey’, “I got a letter for you.”

The man in the waistcoat stands abruptly. “What? Who are you, how did you get past security, and what are you doing here?”

“Questions, schmestions.” The man with the square cap slides the envelope across the desk. “Read it now and thank me later.”

“How exactly can I be sure this will not kill me?”

“C’mon kid, don’t you trust your old man?”

“My…” The man in the waistcoat hesitates. “My old man?”

“What, you don’t recognize me? Are you pulling my leg or something?”

“I am not opening this letter until you fully explain yourself to me.”

“Look, just read it,” the man with the square cap drawls, waving a hand about, “It’s from the Chairman, you know, very important, limited time offer while stocks last and all that shit, yadda yadda.”

“The Chairman himself…?”

“Yeah, it’s got his personal seal on it.” The man with the square cap moves his index finger in a circular motion. “Flip it over.”

The man in the waistcoat flips said envelope over, and confirms the presence of the Chairman’s seal. “Fine, then. I’ll read it in my own time.” Satisfied, he gestures dismissively at his unwanted guest. “Now leave.”

“Ha, I knew you’d come around sooner or later!” The man with the square cap throws up a peace sign. “See ya later, kid.” He wrenches open one of the office windows, sliding through the crevice to the outside, leaning backwards into a free-fall.

“Hey—” the man in the waistcoat starts, running towards the window just a little too late. Panicked, he scans the view outside the window, but nothing there is falling except a few scattered drops of water. Whatever body there might be is probably covered by the layers of clouds between the ground and the 99th floor.

Another lost cause, probably.

On his way out of the city, the man in the waistcoat brushes shoulders with an old friend.

“There you are, Kid. Just the person I wanted to see.”

The Kid in question is a Suit about the same height as the man in the waistcoat, with one arm grossly oversized in proportion to the rest of his body, and a face stuck in a permanent grimace. He tilts his head (which seems to be two separate ones combined into a single entity) to the side.

“It may seem sudden, but I’m leaving the city soon. Don’t fret, I have something to tell you before I go.”

Kid’s eyes widen, and his perpetual grimace shifts a little.

“Be vigilant.” The man in the waistcoat nods over his shoulder, in the direction of the city. “I fear our city will come under attack soon. It is up to you to defend it.”

Kid takes a small, thick notebook from the breast pocket of his waistcoat. He scribbles something on one of its pages, turning it around to show the other man.

“Where’s Jerome?” it reads.

“He and I have not been on speaking terms in a long time,” the other man says, a sigh hidden in the words. “However, I suspect he will make himself known to you, if not me. Do with him as you will.” He shakes his head. “I no longer wish to discuss him.”

Silence. Kid nods, dejected.

“Most importantly, keep the city, and yourself, safe. In the event where it is one or the other…” The man in the waistcoat brushes dust off his sleeves. “Well, use your better judgment to decide. You are a capable leader on your own."

Kid nods again, determination flashing in his eyes.

“One last thing.”

The determination in Kid’s eyes is replaced with confusion.

“Beware the Shareholder Killer.”

The man in the waistcoat pats Kid on the shoulder. Kid appreciates the touch of his compatriot’s pleasantly cool hand, but doesn’t look forward to the parting it forewarns.

“Farewell, Kid.”

Kid strains to respond to this, but in the end, settles on something nice and simple. “…bye, Guy.”

Back in 13-J, the trio of misfits enjoy the last of their meal.

Outside the room, ocean waves lap against the rocks at the base of the Hub Hotel. Above them, the sky is the same black it was when CEO first arrived, although spears of light pierce the canopy of clouds every now and then. The storm rages on.

“Mmm,” Floyd exclaims, licking sauce off his oversized claws, “those were some good burgers!”

Jerome nods in assent as he extracts himself from the recliner, throwing his cloak back on. “Yep, yep. For sure. Are we ready now?”

“Yeah!”

CEO nods back. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

As the hotel’s elevator chugs down to the basement level, the trio share a silence that feels almost palpable in the stale air.

“So,” CEO says, clearing his throat, “Who is this friend of yours we’re going to see?”

“The guy.” Jerome replies.

CEO’s expression sours. “And? What’s his name?”

“That’s his name.” Jerome makes air quotes. “The Guy.”

“Hmm, sounds familiar…” says Floyd, scratching his chin with a pointy claw.

“You’re kidding.” Strained and spread thin, something between a grimace and a grin appears on CEO’s face. “That can’t be his name.”

Jerome shakes his head. “Nope. That is his actual name.”

CEO emits a strangled laugh. “Why?”

Shrugging, Jerome puts his hands up. “Hey, I didn’t name him that, man. That’s just his name.” He lets his hands fall back to his sides. “I mean, why is your name CEO?”

“Tch.” CEO looks away from the other two for a brief moment. “Good point,” he continues, looking back, “but what does he do?”

“A lot, actually. He pretty much runs the whole place these days, so he should be around. If he isn’t, I’ve got another friend who we could try to convince for help.”

“Runs the whole place?” CEO’s eyes widen by an infinitesimal amount. “So maybe he knows what happened to me before that fall.”

“And also why I got recycled…” Floyd adds.

Jerome nods. “Yeah, yeah. All that and more, probably. I know you two are looking for answers” —and with this he looks away, away from Floyd and the CEO, towards the elevator doors— “so you’ve gotta know I’m looking for some of my own, too.”

“What happens if we don’t find anything out?” asks Floyd.

“Don’t worry about it, my man. We’re going to find something, for sure.”

“Now arriving at basement level,” a robotic voice announces. The elevator chugs to a halt, and its doors grind open.

Jerome flashes a wan smile at his compatriots.

“Well, that’s enough talking for now. Let’s get down to business, guys.”

In the basement level, the trio finds several trucks lined up in the parking lot, carbon copies stretching outward into the distance.

“You didn’t say there would be this many, Jerome.”

“That’s alright, I know which one it is,” Jerome whispers, his voice rock-solid and unshakable. “We’re looking for truck number 710420.”

“Could you say that again?” Floyd asks.

“7-1-0-4-2-0.”

Then comes a long pause, as Floyd commits each digit to his memory. He mumbles something in assent.

Meanwhile, CEO scopes out the surroundings. Dim lights dot the outer walls of the hotel, and to the right and left are exits towards Business Planet’s vast network of highways. The cool air down here sends shivers across CEO’s body. He looks to the cloud-studded sky for any changes in the weather, but the perpetual rain has only gotten heavier and heavier. Good thing they’re not traveling on foot, then.

His attention is diverted by the noise of something knocking on metal.

“Hey, there’s a weird smell coming from this one,” Floyd remarks, pointing at a truck closest to the right of the door they came in. He taps his knuckle against the truck’s trailer again, for good measure.

Jerome puts a finger to his lips. “Keep your voice down, my man.”

CEO turns to see the object of Floyd’s attention. “What does it smell like?”

“Hmm… it’s, like… metallic.”

“Obviously. Aren’t all the trucks here made of metal?”

“But it’s colder, too…” Floyd taps his chin. “There’s something different about it.”

“Colder?” Jerome peeks around the corner of the truck, inspecting the side of its trailer. Satisfied, he beckons the others over with a wave of his hand. “Check this out.”

CEO follows Jerome’s gaze.

Emblazoned on the truck’s trailer are the words ‘TRUCK 710420 COLDSHIPPING SVC LTD.’ A couple of metal latches bar the party’s entry to the inside of the trailer; other than that, security on the truck seems non-existent. Nothing is welded shut, and there is nary a padlock nor an alarm to be seen.

CEO rolls his eyes. “Wow, it really was that easy.”

“Jackpot, Floyd,” says Jerome, patting the taller man’s arm. “Nice one.”

Floyd beams wordlessly with pride.

“Alright, so we’ve found it,” CEO mutters, running his fingers over the latches, “now how do we get in?”

“Don’t worry about a thing, my man. I’ve planned it all out.”

In one fluid movement, Jerome unholsters his two staple guns and fires them at the trailer’s twin latches, blasting them in just the right way for the trailer doors to swing open.

A gust of cold air hits the trio’s faces. Floyd shields his eyes from the sudden drop in temperature.

“Huh? How did you do that?!”

“You learn a lot of things over two thousand cycles.” Jerome chuckles, looking around the parking lot. “Either of you wanna go first? Anyone?”

“What, you want us to get in there?” CEO snarls. “In the back? What with all the… meat?”

“It’s just meat, my man. They’ve pre-packaged everything.”

“Still, I don’t understand why we couldn’t just get rid of the driver and sit in the cab instead.”

“No way, we’d get recognized instantly. I told you their security was getting stricter, remember?” Jerome rests his foot on the floor of the trailer, leaning into the space with his hand propped on one of the trailer doors. “If it weren’t for The Guy, our plans wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell. Now are you getting in or not?”

Dead silence fills the parking lot.

“That’s fine, then.” Jerome shrugs. He swings his other leg into the trailer. “Looks like I’ll be leading the way again.”

The other two file into the back, letting Jerome close the doors after them. They sit in the cold darkness, doing all they can to stave off the chill. Floyd has curled up into a fetal position, while CEO folds his arms and Jerome crosses his legs. They are sitting close to each other, but not quite in contact — the fortress of packaged meat around them prevents any major movements. They don’t call it cold storage for nothing.

“I guess it really can’t be helped,” says the CEO, sighing without sighing.

Jerome nudges his arm. “Just try to put up with it. Won’t be for long.”

“I’ll try.”

The sound of footsteps, muffled as it is, comes from outside the trailer, getting closer to what CEO estimates is the front of the truck.

“Driver’s back,” Jerome remarks. He glances at the others, eyes narrowed. “Keep it down, everyone.”

The engine starts in a flurry of sound and vibrations. Whoever’s behind the wheel maneuvers the truck out of the parking lot and onto the labyrinth of highways beyond the Hub Hotel, executing a series of breakneck turns that nearly send the trio flying across the container each time.

Floyd snorts.

“What’s so funny?” asks CEO.

“It’s just that…” Floyd says, shutting his eyes, “this guy sucks at driving.”

Eventually, the truck gets on the highway, accelerating to a constant pace; the trio find that the steady rumbling of movement across tarmac proves conducive to both thought and sleep.

CEO in particular lets his mind wander, resting his head against the cool inner lining of the truck.

Like Floyd before him, he closes his eyes.

Jerome’s mysterious contact in Suits… no, Sandwich City… who was he, really? And how did a mere assassin get to know someone in such a high position of power? If his story of being old friends was the truth… then he and The Guy must have been friends long before CEO ever lost the city. Then, logically, The Guy must know what CEO was like before he fell. A living piece of the past.

Yes, alright, but CEO still can’t think of any way those two could have met. Even accounting for upward or downward movement in careers, there isn’t much that would make sense in the way the city was back then. At least, not if CEO is remembering the way it was correctly… which he probably isn’t. Sigh. The Guy remains a mystery. Think about something else to pass the time instead… Maybe the date labels on these pieces of meat, or where to find a comb/hairbrush for Floyd, or…

Hold on, didn’t Jerome mention one more person? That other person, what connection could Jerome have to them? And why didn’t he elaborate on it? Could he have just forgotten to explain, or was he withholding information from his current colleagues on purpose? Was he secretly a master manipulator, and his chilled-out persona just a facade? No way, how silly… but it does seem a tantalizing possibility.

Three people, connected by one city. A city that used to be his, that slipped out of his grasp and his memory… his downfall… Did he fall or was he pushed?

Besides, why would The Guy be ‘running the whole place’… if he had nothing to do with CEO’s fall from grace?

No, no, no. Surely, the fact that there were three of them could only be a coincidence.

CEO feels a headache coming on. Best not to pursue that line of thought right now, then.

So many questions, and so few answers.

But he should at least try to ask. Something, anything, anything at all.

“Jerome, I’ve been wondering…” CEO begins. What was he wondering, again? What would be the right thing to ask? Think, damn it, think. “How did you meet The Guy?”

“Oh, you know. I was just chilling alone when he burst into my place and started walking menacingly towards me. As you do.”

“No, I don’t. That doesn’t sound normal at all.”

Jerome shrugs. “Maybe it isn’t. But, I offered to help him out with whatever he was doing, and the rest is history.” A smile. “We had some good times together, real good times.”

“And what was he doing?”

“I dunno, man, his job?” Jerome laughs slightly. “I think it was a door sales thing, but I might be wrong. My memory isn’t so good these days, and it’s not like he ever spoke much about it. He also had a bunch of tax-related paperwork with him, I think. He said he was supposed to burn it all.”

Floyd’s head moves sharply in Jerome’s direction. “Door sales… burning tax papers…”

“Did that ring a bell for you?”

“Ah, sorry. Kinda. It’s probably nothing.” Floyd turns away, curling into a ball again.

“No need to say sorry, my man.” Jerome waves a hand. “Honestly, I don’t know what he’s up to these days, other than the fact that he almost never leaves the city. And you know I have to do a lot of traveling for work, so you can guess how often we’ve talked recently.”

“Not at all?” CEO guesses.

“Haha, that’s right. He doesn’t even call me anymore. But he’s still my friend, and I just want to fix whatever went wrong between us. Even though we haven’t talked in ages.”

Floyd glances back at the mention of the word ‘friend’. “What about your other friend in the city?”

“Oh, him? He’s a real sweetheart. He likes Guy way more than me, though. I don’t know if he even remembers me.”

“You’re quite distinctive,” CEO interjects. “He would have a hard time forgetting you.”

“Thanks? Was that… supposed to be a compliment?”

“How’d you meet him, anyway?” Floyd asks.

“Guy and I found him in the Food District and made him some linguini. It’s his favorite food. After that, he just followed us around like a puppy. The funny thing is, he towers over both of us. Probably you too, actually…”

CEO interrupts him with a harsh sigh. “Don’t tell me he’s got some stupid name too.”

“Haha… I’ll save the details for later, then.”

A pause in the conversation settles into the hushed air of the trailer, coating everything in a fine dust. Under them, the truck’s wheels continue to turn, and the highway below rushes past at an almost leisurely fifty miles per hour.

CEO closes his eyes.

Somewhere in his mind, a rogue spark of memory falls into the ocean; setting the world alight, awash in a blaze of bright recollections.

“So… here we are.”

Amidst the waves, he sees himself talking, chattering away to someone who might not be listening at all. The words make no sound, but he sees his mouth moving and knows exactly what he is saying.

Standing opposite him is… someone. Who is that? Who is he saying this to? Does it matter? He doesn’t know.

The words themselves ring silently through his head, clear as day and heavy as night.

“You, the young revolutionary, and I, the big bad corporate tool.”

Silent, unmoving, absolutely still. The other person does not reply, despite the many opportunities he has afforded them.

“Tell me, do you think yourself special? Do you think your trials make you something more than what you were before? In all the cycles that have passed, did you really think this one would be any different?”

The other person gives no response. He sees his past self sigh, shoulders heaving in a great display of fatalistic acceptance.

“I wonder if you even understand your place in all this, but it is of no matter. You will never understand me, nor the truth behind my struggles. I might as well be talking to a brick wall. But, you’ve sought me out for a fight; that much is obvious. So, the least I can do is give you one.”

A fight. Yes, a fight… of course, there had to have been a confrontation before he fell. There’s no way he could have just tripped by himself. He knows he isn’t that clumsy.

The memory skips past the fight, a video played at double-speed. He can make out a few words amidst the chaos.

“You will never know what it’s like to be me.”

Again, he tries to catch even the slightest glimpse of his assailant’s face, or any clue to their identity — but to no avail. The other person’s face is a mass of blurry features, a waterlogged photograph beyond recognition. His past self has his back to the window, and with the last of his strength he tries to negotiate a way to escape relatively unscathed.

“This is…”

He can see his thoughts play out on his face, the gears turning, the ideas forming. His breathing is shallow, the rising and falling of his chest out of order. He knows his time is almost up. He has to at least try and save himself, even if not his city.

“This is what the Shareholders want! They want the cycles to continue, so they can keep their power! Don’t you realize you’re playing right into their hands? The ‘Revolution’ is a lie, a show to give the people a false sense of hope! Soon after this you’ll become the new CEO and you won’t even know it!”

He sees himself, prone on the floor, extending a hand to his attacker. Ripples spread from his legs, half-submerged in the waters of memory.

“We need to stop the Shareholders… Join me and we can stop them together!”

His hand is slapped away with a nonchalant ‘nah’, dropping away into the sea along with the rest of his body.

“No, you can’t be serious…”

After that, the last thing he can remember is a solid punch to the face.

“Come on… wake up, CEO. Are you alive, my man?”

“We’re here, Boss.”

“You’re not dead, are you?”

“I’d definitely know if he was dead. Wake up, Boss.”

The first thing he feels, apart from the cold, is a gentle warmth in contact with his face. Eyes still shut, the CEO turns away from it, expecting another punch.

Seems like nobody will allow him time to marinate in his thoughts.

“Come on…” Jerome mutters.

A sigh, and a pinch to the cheek. Now would be a good time to do something, probably.

CEO brushes Jerome’s hand away. “Yes, I heard you the first time. No need to resort to violence.”

“Woah, didn’t expect that coming from you.”

“What do you mean? What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

Nearby, Floyd narrows his eyes. “I think I hear a door opening… big metal door…”

“Quick, get ready.” Leaning on a particularly sturdy package of frozen burger patties, Jerome assumes a combative stance, preparing to ram the trailer doors open with his foot. “We could be discovered at any minute.”

“Yup!”

CEO grips the handle of his case tightly. “Alright.”

The truck grinds to a stop. Footsteps circle around the back of the vehicle, and a lock clicks out of place. One latch, then two, then…

Jerome breathes in, deeply, breathing out to complete the process. He concentrates all the force he can muster into his lower body. Shouldn’t have skipped leg day.

At the first glimpse of light from outside, he launches himself towards it, feet-first. Ready or not, here he comes.

The poor truck driver outside takes a hit directly to his chin, falling onto his tailbone and completely failing the landing. Jerome, cloak trailing behind him, rolls gracefully out of the truck and dodges to the side of the driver in the process. He springs to his feet, aiming both of his guns at the unwitting driver.

“Where the hell did you come from?!” the chauffeur shouts.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, driver boy.”

Behind Jerome, CEO tumbles out of the trailer a little less gracefully, while Floyd heads face-first into the ground. The CEO dusts himself off as he rises from the ground, surveying the area as he does so. Floyd, on the other hand, takes a bit longer to recover, standing up on shaky legs.

The surroundings are every bit as gray and sullen as the rest of the world, with a more industrial tinge to them; more trucks line the sides of the area, each one looking identical to its many brethren.

“Gah!” the driver exclaims. “Is that the…?”

“Whatever it is, isn’t important. Tell me what the hell is going on with this city.”

“Terrorists… the terrorists are— !!”

Jerome exhales.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this so soon…”

Working quickly, he staples the driver’s mouth firmly shut. At the first sign of resistance from the other man, Jerome turns the driver over; stapling his arms together, and said arms to his back.

“We’ve gotta move fast,” Jerome says, gesturing to his comrades, “there are cameras everywhere.”

To demonstrate his point, he shoots at a high-up point on a wall directly opposite the party, revealing a smoking husk of metal and silicon.

“Paranoid much?”

Jerome nods. “It pays to be afraid, my man.”

Floyd runs his claws through a lock of tangled hair. “Wait, where are we going again?”

Jerome, humoring the question, points at the cloud-covered sky of the loading bay. “All the way to the top.”

“You don’t mean…”

“Mhm.” Jerome nods again, his eyes fixed on the CEO. “All the way back to your place.”

“Through here?” Floyd asks.

Pulling his cloak tighter around himself, Jerome nods yet again. “Yep, that’s how it went the first time around too.”

“The first time…?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. In the meantime, act natural — this is where the real meat is.”

Floyd performs a mock salute. “Gotcha, my man!”

“Nice…” Taken aback, Jerome stifles a chortle. He catches himself before he breaks into loud, unrestrained laughter. “Let’s do this thing.”

The three of them step through the factory’s open doors, the steady drum-beat of the factory’s sandwich presses beckoning them ever further.

Inside the factory, CEO’s eyes are drawn to the conveyor belt snaking through the cavernous central room. Lining its sides are an army of Suits, their hands moving to the rhythm of the machines. They go through the same motions, each and every one of them, stacking sliced bread and meat on the neat squares of the assembly line over and over again.

At least, they seem to look like Suits. From a distance, the workers are convincing enough imitations of the rest of the populace, but when up close the facade crumbles and only their differences are obvious. Body parts where they shouldn’t belong, limbs in mismatched sizes, flesh that bubbles and oozes… Eventually, the stitches holding them together fall apart, leaving their poor host a writhing mess.

One of the workers mistimes his movements, and a finger slips off his hand onto the bread underneath it. None of his coworkers seem to notice, and so the sandwich-in-progress continues its trek further down the conveyor belt.

Currently zero days since the last workplace accident, not like any of these mindless drones would be keeping track. CEO wonders how often that must happen.

Beside him, Floyd shifts uneasily forwards, his posture even worse than always. Good-sized drops of sweat trickle down his unusually sallow face. His breathing comes in irregular pants, spreading moisture into the already-questionable air.

“What’s wrong, Floyd?” CEO asks.

“Hm, it’s just… something smells… off. Rotten kinda.”

“Where do you think it’s coming from?”

“Dunno, Boss. I can’t tell if it’s the workers or the food. But something’s not right.”

“Hey, hey,” Jerome interjects, walking towards the other side of the room, “save the talk for later and get moving. We have a rendez-vous to make.”

Floyd wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Sorry…”

Meanwhile, CEO glances at Jerome’s destination on the opposite side of the central room, spotting a door to the next section under a poster promoting non-stop productivity.

There are motivational posters plastered all over the factory walls, each one spouting some kind of corny slogan about hard work. He notes the lack of advertisements or brand names, which means a lack of sponsors. Impressive that this section can remain untouched by anything but house-made propaganda. Sandwich City, or at least this part of it, must be raking in loads of cash. Is the city richer than it was under his rule? He hopes not.

“So, who manages this area now, Jerome? Surely The Guy alone can’t exert total control over a city as big as this. Even I had assistance.”

“That mutual friend I mentioned earlier, actually,” Jerome replies. “He’s what you might call a ‘meatman’.”

CEO gazes at the assembly-line workers in barely-concealed shock. Those things, ruled by someone cut from the same cloth? How, why, what?

“Wait, what?” Floyd says, mirroring CEO’s thoughts. “Who would give a meatman so much control over his fellow meatmen? It seems cruel to me. Like a sheep leading other lambs into the slaughter.”

“It was Guy’s idea, my man, and he tends to know what he’s doing.” Jerome gives a half-hearted shrug. “Maybe it’s more ethical this way.”

Sure, as if ethics were the biggest problem here. Out of the corner of his eye, CEO catches a glimpse of the unprocessed meat coming from the other end of the room; some parts are still whole, and he can make out hands and heads within the mass of flesh.

CEO grimaces. “I highly doubt it.”

“Me too, Boss. I think it’s even worse that way. Those who have been recycled over and over would lose their minds, wouldn’t they? How could they ever…” Floyd chokes on his words for a moment, shutting his eyes in a desperate attempt to stop any tears from flowing. “How could they ever be able to decide what others like them should have to suffer?

Floyd re-opens his eyes, his line of sight going directly to where CEO was staring just a second ago. “Wait. Boss, is it just me, or do those look like people?”

“I’m not sure. Jerome, what are…”

“They’re people, alright.” Jerome pulls his hood over his eyes a little more. “Well, not alright, and not people anymore… but they were, once. It’s pretty much an open secret these days; missing ‘city defectors’ end up in the city’s food, you know. All cities, everywhere.”

Floyd makes a strangled, indiscernibly irate noise. “You mean, those burgers we ate… that you ordered…?”

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but we don’t have time to talk about this right now. “

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?!” CEO shouts, forgetting their stealth mission in his blind rage.

Jerome puts his hands up. “Listen, listen, I don’t like it either! But don’t forget that the alternative is starving to death.”

“Ugh, I feel like throwing up…”

Jerome scoots away from Floyd. “Just don’t do it on me, my man.”

The three walk onwards, further into the belly of the beast. As the other two plod into the next section of the factory, Jerome manages to shoot yet another camera into obsolescence.

In yet another area of the factory is a room with a wall buried in screens. The air is stale, damp, and smells vaguely sweet. The only light in the room is coming from the screens — all other light sources are off. In front of the screens are two Suits wearing police uniforms, one sitting and one standing. The one standing jumps to attention when the video feed for a certain screen cuts out.

Standing Cop snarls. “Are you kidding me? We lost connection with another camera?”

“Eh, must be a technical error or something.” Sitting Cop crosses his legs, spinning idly in his office chair. “We can always call the Media District nerds to fix it.”

“Moron!” Standing Cop doles out a slap to the back of Sitting Cop’s head. “You know the new CEO’s not gonna let us do anything like that. He doesn’t want anything that gets in the way of more sandwiches! We’re lucky we still have our jobs after the shit you pulled last time!!”

Sitting Cop recoils from the force of the blow. “Hey, how was I supposed to know he remembered me?”

“You were totally supposed to know!!! How many people come into this office on a daily basis other than you or me??” Standing Cop points at the door to the room. “Come on, get with the program already!”

Sitting Cop rolls his eyes. “Whatever…”

Right on cue, another one of the video feeds cuts out, leaving only a black screen in its place.

“Damn it, we lost another one! This is all your fault!”

Jerome makes a sudden stop in the middle of the party’s impromptu tour, signaling to the others to follow suit.

“You know, I thought I heard some shouting behind that wall,” he says, pointing to the center of a concrete panel just in front of them.

Floyd taps on the panel. “Then there should be another entrance, right?”

“The funny thing is, there used to be a door there, and far as I know, that door was the only way in.”

“They’ve just concealed it somehow,” CEO says. “Most people wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and move that much concrete.”

“That’s exactly what I think, my man. Something that’s that well-hidden can only be important.”

Floyd traces the outline of a doorway in the concrete. Jerome gently moves him aside, and pushes the concrete into itself.

“Heave-ho.”

The concrete turns out to be nothing more than a thin layer of metal painted to blend in with the rest of its surroundings, and the group find themselves in a dimly-lit office.

Several crates of varying sizes litter the room. CEO notes that one of the office’s walls is covered in small screens that seem to display different areas of the factory, and that there is a higher density of crates in the half of the room without the screen wall. Two screens aren’t showing anything at all.

Staring at these screens are a pair of Suits in police uniforms. Their features are more canine than humanoid like their fellow Suits, but the same scatterbrained feeling is present in the duo anyway. One is sitting in an office chair, while the other is standing with his hands on his hips.

The one in the office chair eventually stops spinning, waving towards CEO and the rest. “Ah, feel free to look around… normally I’d stop you, but we’re on break right now—”

“Shut up.” His partner pokes him in the snout, his ears twitching.

The sitting officer rubs his injury with a clumsy paw. “Ow. What was that for?”

“Paws,” his colleague says, pointing at CEO, “don’t you think these guys look familiar?”

Officer Paws shrugs. “I dunno, maybe.”

“Moron!” Paws’ colleague jabs him in the chest. “Haven’t you been watching? These guys are terrorists!”

“Huh, that’s crazy… but I’m on break, so it’s not my problem. Go get ‘em, Play.”

Officer Play huffs. “Break or not, they’ve been ruining our security equipment, man! Get with the program!”

“Security equipment?!” Paws’ ears straighten up, and he flashes CEO and company a hateful glare. “Grr… that stuff’s expensive. You’d better pay up…”

Play grins, shifting into a more battle-ready stance. “That’s the spirit! We’ll wring ‘em dry in no time!”

Paws yawns, standing up from his chair. “Yeah, good thing my break’s over.”

“Hey, hey, easy there,” says Jerome, putting up a hand, “we don’t mean any trouble. We just wanna talk to the new CEO. He’s a friend of mine, and…”

Play’s tail wags rapidly. “Nope, not a chance! Why would anyone let you through with that shitty excuse of an alibi?”

“We’re just security guards, why would we even know where the new one is?” Paws squints at the party of intruders. “And how do you know there’s a new one?”

Play harrumphs. “Because he watched the news, obviously! Unlike you!”

“Sheesh, you guys have really gotta learn how to work together…”

“Don’t give them any advice right now, Floyd,” says CEO, discreetly preparing his briefcase for the oncoming fight. “Jerome, do you need our help?”

“Nah, nah. I got this. Compared to Floyd, these guys are just puppies.”

“Wait… are you seriously calling me a dog right now?!”

Pulling Floyd away from the direction of the fight by his shirt collar, CEO switches his case back into standby mode. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Meanwhile, Officers Paws and Play discuss battle plans at a louder-than-appropriate volume.

“Alright, Paws, you take his left and I’ll take his right! Got it?”

“Uh, okay, which left?”

“Which left?” Play crosses his arms, snarling. “Ugh, do you seriously need me to explain this?! It’s whatever side I’m not on!”

With that, they charge at the hooded man from both sides.

“It’s not gonna be that easy.”

Seeing through their ill-thought plan, he hops into the air with his staple guns at the ready. Play attempts to grab his leg and Paws his other leg, but Jerome fires off a couple quick shots at their arms.

Both officers keel over in pain, stumbling forwards as they do so. They collide into each other, which certainly adds to their many woes.

“Ow, shit, ow…” Paws mumbles, pawing at where the staple hit him.

With his opponents distracted, Jerome takes this opportunity to dodge-roll out of the pincer movement.

“What are you doing, you idiot?!” Play barks. “Don’t let him get away!”

Paws continues trying to get the staple out.

Officer Play growls at his colleague’s incompetence. “Ugh, do I have to do everything myself around here?”

Paws whimpers in reply. Ignoring him, Play rushes towards Jerome, feet pounding against the meager carpet.

“Focus on your friend, my man. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jerome sticks out a leg to trip his attacker up. Having accumulated too much speed to stop, Play crashes into the floor.

Behind the boxes, Floyd and CEO watch each movement with widened eyes.

“Damn, he’s fast.” Of course, he needs to be fast. The three of them could be captured any second now.

“Yeah,” Floyd laughs, tension simmering behind his bloodshot eyes, “I’d hate to be on the other side of those guns!”

At last, Officer Paws tears out the staple from his arm. His fur bristles, his ears twitch, and he winces at the sudden pain.

At the same time, Officer Play peels himself off the floor. He thinks about cleaning it, but saves that thought for a later time.

Paws dives towards the intruder in rage. Simultaneously, Play starts up a sweeping kick aimed at the intruder’s calves.

“You two have really gotta work on your coordination.”

As Play’s kick reaches the middle of its arc, Jerome backflips away, leaving Paws to take the hit in his place.

“Shit!” Play yaps. “Why can’t I hit him?!”

“I can’t either!” Paws barks back.

“Yeah, but I expect that from you!”

“Ugh, shut up…”

Jerome cocks one of his pistols at Officer Play’s head. “Don’t worry, I’ll shut him up for you.”

Play starts to say something, but his words are cut short by a staple to the face. He howls in pain, clawing at the injured area.

Paws smirks. “Heh, serves you r—”

A staple hits him in the stomach.

“Ow ow ow ow!!”

Amidst the dwindling chaos, Floyd and the CEO step out from behind the minefield of boxes.

“Good one, my man!”

CEO looks at the downed combatants. A look of scorn creeps across his face. “Is this really the best security Sandwich City can offer? Pathetic.”

Play hisses something about the safety not having changed, but CEO just tunes him out.

“We can’t underestimate anyone, my man. There’s always backup waiting around the corner with cops.” Jerome side-eyes the door. “Even if they are pathetic, there’s strength in numbers.”

CEO crosses his arms, remembering his little foray into Gamerica’s crowds. “Touché.”

“Kill me already…” Paws groans.

Jerome readjusts his hood. “Just let us do our thing and we’ll be nice to you, alright?”

“Oww… sure…”

“We’ll be borrowing the cameras for a bit, then.”

“Go ahead and look or whatever; not like any of them still work because you broke like all of them!!!” Play barks.

“Thanks.” Jerome focuses his attention on the wall of screens, going over all the active feeds.

The shipping area they were at in the beginning is mostly the same, with a few blurry figures in the region farthest from the camera helping another one up.

The meat processing area is completely unchanged, but Jerome spots a flash of movement past the camera.

The other cameras show mostly bathrooms, breakrooms, or admin offices. The cameras in the kitchen area are too low-quality to make anything out due to many cycles’ worth of heat damage.

The important part is that what he’s looking for is completely absent.

“Not here?” Jerome curses under his breath. “He’s probably in his office, then…”

“Did you see anything of note?” CEO asks.

The other man shakes his head. “Nope. We’re leaving.”

The trio leave the two dogs whimpering on the floor. As with the driver from earlier, Jerome has taken the extra precaution to staple the cops’ arms to their backs; Officer Paws in the fetal position, Officer Play face-down and struggling to get his paws free. However, unlike the truck driver, one of the cops has had some success in breaking their restraints.

Play grits his teeth and rips his arm away from the staple constraining it. Drops of dark blood splatter across the concrete floor. He claws his way into a sitting posture, reaching for something on his belt.

Paws gives him a funny look. “What are…”

At long last, Play grabs the object. Holding it towards his mouth, he begins to speak.

“Officer Play requesting backup! Requesting backup to Sandwich City factory district!”

There is silence, then a loud, swift banging on the door.

“These kitchens…” CEO drags his finger across a section of industrial-sized metal stovetop. He looks at his fingertip, and sees neither dust nor grease coating it.

The kitchens of the factory are a dismal place of diamond-tiled floors and stainless-steel surfaces that seem to go on forever. Utensils and cookware line the racks on the walls, arranged in some arcane order that makes total sense and yet none whatsoever. The stovetop burners are all induction, and CEO stares at them with veiled disappointment.

Floyd checks his reflection in the side of a large pot, fluffing his hair up to give it more volume (not that it needs more volume, anyway). “They’re spotless!”

“Bigger than I remember, too.”

CEO turns to face Jerome. “Jerome, is this friend of yours very… meticulous?”

“Guy?” Jerome looks off to the side, recalling a faint memory. He shakes his head. “Not when I last saw him.”

Back in the security office, two more canine cops bust down the door, one tall and one short.

“Play-y, Paws-s!” the shorter of the couple shouts. “T-There you a-are! What’s wr-wrong?”

Officer Play bolts upright, wincing in pain as he does so. “Rewind!? Thank fuck you got here in time!”

“Did-the-terrorists-get-you?” the taller one asks.

Paws nods feebly. “Yeah… we were beat up pretty badly.”

“Where’d they go?!” Play shouts. He wobbles unsteadily on his feet.

“Calm d-down, you’ve b-both l-lost a lot of blood-d.” Rewind frowns, his ears drooping. “Stay r-right there, alright-t? We’ll get some m-medical treatment-t for you once we’re d-done dealing with t-them, yeah?”

“They-must-be-in-the-kitchens,” says the tall one.

“Then we’ve got i-intruders to a-apprehend, r-right Fast-forward-d?”

Fast-forward nods fastly. “Yeah-let’s-get-going.”

Across the kitchen area’s tiled floor, Jerome spots a lone figure at the other end of the room.

“Is that…”

The person at the opposite side of the room is clad in a perfectly tailored dress shirt and waistcoat. Jerome knows it is tailored; no way a planet of only S, M, and L sizes sells shirts that are M for one arm and XXL for the other. There is only one person that fits this description, and he probably won’t be on their side for long.

It’s a good thing, then, that there is nobody else with him. Jerome might still have a chance at convincing him, as long as he doesn’t turn around first.

As long as he doesn’t see them…

“Psst.” Jerome nudges CEO and Floyd, pointing them in the direction of the other man. “I think I know who that is. You guys stay put, I’ll go over and try to talk to—”

Before he can finish his sentence, two cops kick down the entrance behind Jerome’s target.

“Stop-right-there-criminal-scum!” the taller of the two slurs.

“G-Get down, Mr. Kid! There are terrorists in the area!” the shorter of the two yaps.

Both of them stand in front of their odd ward, pointing their truncheons at the CEO and company. Jerome, meanwhile, takes a reflexive step backwards, away from the brewing conflict. He pulls his hood a little tighter over his afro.

“In… truders…” says the man with the large arm.

“More pathetic small fry?” CEO sneers. He puts a hand on Floyd’s shoulder. “You can take care of these, Floyd.”

Jerome shakes his head. “It’s not like that—”

“You got it, Boss!” Floyd grins. “I’ll show them who’s really top dog around here.”

“Don’t—”

Floyd lunges at the two police officers in one of his characteristic frenzies. “A-woooo yeaaah!!”

“Come on…”

CEO gestures towards Jerome, pointing at him then pointing downwards. “Stay where you are, Jerome. I’ll deal with the big one.”

“Seriously, don’t—”

Yet again, Jerome’s warning goes unheeded, and CEO strides away to join Floyd on the diamond-tiled battlefield.

“Oh, fuck,” he says. “Okay then.”

A standoff seems to be cooking in this corner of the kitchen. With the party’s guide on the other side of the room and nobody else holding him back, Floyd stands opposite the two cops and their charge.

“Freeze! Put-your-hands-in-the-air!” shouts the taller cop, stabbing his truncheon in Floyd’s direction. His junior follows suit.

“Aww, come on…” Floyd steps forward, shifting all his weight to his front foot. “Don’t be so uptight.”

“D-Don’t m-move!” the shorter cop stutters. “And p-put your h-hands in the—”

Floyd moves, leaping towards the shorter cop before he can say anything else. He extends an arm to scratch the officer, but his claws are blocked by a metal rod.

“I-said-put-your-hands-in-the-air,” says the tall cop, swatting Floyd away with his truncheon.

This fails to deter Floyd from launching another assault; the taller cop jabs at his assailant, repelling him for a moment. That moment is brief, as Floyd attempts another scratch soon after. Again, no success.

“You’re kidding…” Floyd mutters.

Another slash here and another block there. Claws clash against metal, over and over. Consecutive attacks parried in rapid succession. Neither parties lose ground, but neither gain any.

Floyd gnashes his teeth. “You’re fucking kidding me!”

Both Floyd and the taller cop are gripping the truncheon from either side; the cudgel shakes as they struggle to maintain the delicate status quo.

Finally, the taller cop manages to push Floyd back just the tiniest bit. Relieved, the shorter cop turns towards his ward.

“D-don’t worry, s-sir! Fast-forward and I have this under c-control!” he says, reassuringly. His charge does not respond verbally, but he does back away from the conflict.

“Focus-on-the-fight-Rewind!” Officer Fast-forward barks, turning away from his opponent.

Officer Rewind inclines his head. “S-Sor-rr-y!”

In that split-second of inattentiveness, Fast-forward almost misses the fact that a pan has just knocked his truncheon backwards. The pan clatters to the floor in a terrible state, dented beyond use.

His attention drawn by the sound, Officer Fast-forward whips his head back to find the CEO staring at him. CEO’s hand is outstretched from throwing something in his direction.

“Cut the crap and stop struggling.” CEO draws his hand back. “You’re not getting away that easily.”

The officer shifts his focus away from Floyd. “Do-I-know-you?”

“Th-that’s the…” Rewind splutters. “That’s the old CEO! The t-t-terrorist-t!”

So his reputation still precedes him. Currently, the only thing that precedes him is Floyd, who hasn’t turned around this whole time.

Floyd growls. With Fast-forward’s attention diverted, Floyd uses the opportunity to push a little more and bowl the officer over.

“Such-terrifying-strength…” Fast-forward remarks. He scrambles for his truncheon, but it has landed some distance away from its wielder. CEO, seeing the cudgel by his foot, kicks the weapon behind him.

Meanwhile, Floyd rises from leaning over Fast-forward. He leans on one knee, preparing to strike at any moment.

“One down, one to go…”

Holding his truncheon out, Rewind takes a couple shaky steps backwards, shielding his charge with his body.

“Oh-h j-jeez, is t-this really h-happening t-to m-me?”

Floyd lunges at the shorter man.

Officer Fast-forward, seeing that Floyd has moved on to another target, forces himself to sit up. His back is sore and his stomach hurts, but he’ll manage. What’s important right now is to get a weapon.

Think, Fast-forward, think… make them hurt, make them suffer, make them pay for how they treated you…

He glances over at the countertop of the table for anything useful. Unfortunately, the stovetop is empty, save for one heavy-looking pot.

Fast-forward wonders if he can even carry that. The pot looks to weigh about ten kilograms when full, but if he manages to make use of it then he could turn the tides in his favor. The question is if he can lift it at all…

He boosts himself into a standing position by leaning on the table to his side, holding his breath all the while. It’s a relief that his attacker is no longer focused on him, but he knows Rewind can’t protect more than one person at once.

Officer Fast-forward seizes the pot by its handles. Not caring about the temperature of the metal, he whacks Floyd with the pot, causing pasta to spill out of the vessel.

“Linguini?” Mr. Kid questions.

Floyd howls a bloodcurdling howl, spinning to face his assailant.

“Help-me-out-here-Rewind!” Fast-forward yells, beckoning the junior cop over.

CEO sets his briefcase on the floor. “Help yourself first.”

“What-do-you-mean?” says Fast-forward.

CEO takes this moment of confusion to strike, grabbing a loaf of bread from a cutting board nearby and hurling it at Fast-forward’s face. The bread hits home, of course, and CEO snickers at the thought of it being stale.

Mr. Kid backs away from the fight a little further, allowing Rewind some breathing room. The shorter cop, not to be outdone, rushes to his superior’s side. He plucks a wok from the hooks on the kitchen wall, holding it alongside his truncheon like a sword and shield.

“Fast-forward! I’m h-here!”

As Fast-forward prepares to tag Rewind in, Floyd rips his half-empty pot of linguini away, attempting to smite the dog-man in his moment of weakness.

“Not-so-fast!”

Floyd’s surprise attack is to no avail, as Fast-forward side-steps it entirely. The lycanthrope growls, making a guttural noise like a clogged motorcycle engine revving up.

Fast-forward and Rewind high-five with their paws.

“It’s-up-to-you-now,” says Fast-forward, moving behind his junior. This places Rewind between Floyd and Fast-forward, facing the former and away from the latter.

Officer Rewind holds his wok in front of his stomach and points his truncheon towards Floyd, advancing at a snail’s pace.

“I’m w-warning y-you, stop t-this at once!” the cop stutters.

CEO smirks, snatching a cleaver off a nearby cutting board.

How ridiculous that this skilled fighter thinks of his inept subordinate as anything more than a liability. Warnings from the weak hold no weight at all.

CEO throws the cleaver, aiming for Officer Rewind’s truncheon arm.

The cleaver embeds itself in Rewind’s shield, just a few inches away from the officer’s arm. It did not hit home whatsoever.

“T-that was p-pretty c-close,” says Rewind, tossing the wok aside. “Kinda-a sca-a-a-ry-y…”

Jittery yet agonizingly slowly, the cop grabs a head of lettuce, lobbing it at Floyd. The vegetable finds its target’s claws, and falls to pieces mid-air as Floyd shreds it.

“Come on, got anything else?!” Floyd taunts.

From the sidelines, Fast-forward pitches a rotten tomato at Floyd like he would a baseball — the tomato strikes the side of Floyd’s head, coating the lycanthrope’s face in plant matter.

“Nice h-headshot-t!”

Fast-forward pitches another tomato at CEO, but he manages to block the fastball with a cutting board.

The cop reaches for a third tomato. “This-is-getting-ridiculous…”

For once, CEO finds himself agreeing.

Amidst the volley of food, utensils, and other sundry kitchen things, Jerome picks out a path to the other side of the room.

“I’d better try and talk some sense into these guys… even if it is pretty funny to watch.”

Up ahead, CEO picks up his briefcase once more.

Within the storm of kitchen hazards, Officer Fast-forward signals to his colleague.

“Rewind!” he says. “Take-him-somewhere-safe! I-see-an-opening!”

Rewind glances at Mr. Kid, then back at Fast-forward. “A-are you s-sure?”

“Just-do-it!”

“B-but…”

Officer Fast-forward runs towards the CEO at top speed, his claws scraping against the ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor. His ears are pointed and his teeth are bared, and he’s coming in fast, and…

And in the milliseconds that become eternity, CEO recalls another dog coming at him in much the same way as Fast-forward.

A dog, huh? Where had he seen this before, and what had he done last time?

More importantly, how will he deal with this incoming threat? An incoming threat that will bring more threats, endless swarms of bodies spiraling outwards to infinity… No, that absolutely can’t happen. The thought of it gives him a headache. He needs to end it, and end it now. Stop this idiotic farce before it causes him any more stress. Before this blitzkrieg can become a drawn-out siege.

Where, what, how?

Yes, the last question is the easiest to answer. Somewhere, something, fast.

No need to think too hard. He will act in the only way he knows how to.

CEO gropes around for the hidden switch on his briefcase. At last, having aimed his case at Fast-forward’s head, he fires.

Bang.

Time restarts and CEO manages to keep his balance. The bullets from his briefcase graze Floyd’s snout, piercing Fast-forward’s temples.

Floyd, shocked by the noise and the sudden coldness so close to his face, recoils from the sound in time to avoid anything worse.

Fast-forward, meanwhile, is not as lucky. The officer falls backwards, hat slipping off his head and a spray of blood arcing from his head wound.

“Run… away…” Fast-forward gurgles. He slumps to the ground in a miserable, lifeless heap.

Beside him, Floyd casts a sharp glance at the CEO. “Boss, what the hell was that?!”

CEO thinks of a number of responses. It was only necessary. It was a precautionary measure. It was taking out the trash. It was…

He takes his finger off the trigger.

“Self-defense.”

Floyd cocks his head to the side. “What?”

So not even he understood, then. “Never mind.”

“F-F-Fast-forward?!” Officer Rewind shouts. Distraught and distressed, he clings on to Mr. Kid for dear life. “N-no… w-why?”

“Why, indeed.”

Rewind jerks toward the source of the sound. The city’s former CEO has approached him, standing just behind Floyd’s back and Fast-forward’s rapidly cooling body.

“Why are you so stubborn? Why don’t you just give up? Why are you so sad over someone so replaceable?” CEO brushes lint off his jacket cuffs. “Death is cheap in this world; we all know he’s going to be recycled as soon as they get to him. It’ll be like he never left.”

“N-no, I m-mean… W-why did you d-do this? You’re a m-m-monster!”

“A monster?” CEO smiles mirthlessly. “If that’s all it takes, then everyone’s a monster.”

CEO points his case at the junior cop. Floyd, sensing tension, steps to the side.

Rewind finds himself staring down the barrel of the same machine gun that killed his colleague. “N-no, p-please!” he pleads, paralyzed. “I d-don’t want to d-die!”

“Alright then.” CEO retracts the machine gun.

Rewind breathes a ragged sigh of relief as the gun’s pieces rearrange themselves. “T-thank you…”

“I’ll just knock you out.”

“W-what?!”

CEO swings at both Rewind and Mr. Kid, aiming for their heads with his briefcase. Rewind pushes his ward out of the way, narrowly avoiding severe cranial blunt force trauma. The attack misses Mr. Kid entirely, but Rewind’s spine takes the damage instead.

Rewind falls face-first into the ground.

Mr. Kid stands near the wall, frozen in shock. Upon seeing Floyd and the CEO, his grimace deepens, lending a taut gravity to the determined look on the rest of his malformed face. Putting his smaller arm in front of his chest, he braces for a fight.

Amidst the chaos, Jerome beelines for the eye of the storm.

“I need to hurry… I can’t lose him too…”

Back in the fight, Mr. Kid slams his hand into the floor. From the intersection of his hand and the tiles emerges a wall of flesh, spiraling outwards and twisting in on itself, separating him from the other combatants for however long it will last. How the hell does that work?

The structure irks Floyd. Something about it scratches an itch in his brain in the worst way possible, its undulating mass sending all the wrong signals to his mind. Saliva wells up in his mouth as the wall approaches him like a curious cat.

Floyd is in no mood to play. He lunges at the encroaching mass. On the other side of the wall, its creator flinches at the first impact. Claws rend flesh, teeth rip through meat, fluid pools on the ground.

And still the wall holds.

Anything he tears off simply regrows, anything he bites down will come back. The gaps he leaves are filled, and they fill so fast that they jut out of the structure of muscle. Several rounded spikes jut out quickly enough to knock Floyd backwards, sending him skidding backwards across the tiles.

CEO unloads a magazine’s worth of bullets into the flesh complex, the muzzle of his gun emitting a dizzying array of flashes. Holes dot the outer layer of meat, pockmarking it with perfect, even circles of darkness.

And still the wall holds.

The marks he worked so hard to leave are patched up as if the skin had never been pierced at all, swallowed by the pulsating mass of meat. CEO considers trying to hack bits of it off with a knife… but cutting has no effect, as Floyd’s earlier escapade proves. If the damn thing can resist a round of bullets no problem, he doubts that anything else they can do would damage it. Why the hell is this one man so strong?

CEO mutters a string of profanities to himself, while Floyd rights himself into a standing position. The besieged and the besieger, this and that. No matter, it’s hopeless. The tides have turned against them. They’re out of options and they know it.

Both of them notice that the flesh wall has stopped pulsing. Hearing heavy breathing from the other side of the wall, CEO halts for a moment.

“Wait!” a familiar voice rings out, no longer drowned out by the din of battle. “Stop fighting!”

As the wall retracts, a hooded figure appears between the fighters. All three combatants stop dead in their tracks.

“Look, look.” Staring straight at Mr. Kid, Jerome pushes his hood back to show his face. “It’s just me, man.”

Mr. Kid flashes him a narrow-eyed look of confusion.

“Back off, guys.” Jerome waves Floyd and CEO away. “I’ve got some business to settle here.”

Thankfully, they back off; Mr. Kid almost doing the same.

Jerome refocuses on Mr. Kid. “We need to talk.”

Mr. Kid says nothing.

“Do you remember when we were here with Guy?” Jerome steps a little closer to him with every word. “How he said he wanted to go get a pizza with us after we defeated the CEO?”

Mr. Kid, unsure of where this is heading, nods.

In the other corner is CEO, trying to conceal the boiling of his nervous thoughts under a layer of dramatic annoyance. “Did he say my name?” he whispers to Floyd.

“Sounds like it, Boss.”

Back to Jerome and the other guy now. “He never fulfilled that promise, did he?”

Mr. Kid shakes his head.

“Yeah, he didn’t. And now he’s under the control of something worse than the CEO.”

Now back to CEO. “Damn, he said it again.”

“I’m sure it’s no big deal…”

Meanwhile, Mr. Kid gives a quizzical tilt of his head.

“The Shareholders, my man. The Shareholders.”

Upon seeing Mr. Kid’s wide-eyed expression, Jerome continues on. “The guys that run the world. More powerful than any of us could ever imagine.”

Mr. Kid does not respond.

“For Guy’s sake…” Jerome trails off, his eyes drifting off to the side. He catches himself just in time before he drifts away completely. “What do you say we take them down a couple of notches, hey?”

Upon hearing this, Mr. Kid nods enthusiastically.

“Alright, alright. If we wanna save him, we’d better work together.”

Mr. Kid points somewhere.

Jerome follows the direction of his finger, and realizes it’s aimed at the CEO. “Oh, him?”

Again, CEO doesn’t appreciate the sudden thrust into the spotlight. “Why is he pointing at me?”

“No clue,” says Floyd.

“He’s…” Jerome struggles to find the words for this very delicate matter. “Well, he’s on our side. Not sure for how long… but he’s with us.”

Mr. Kid makes an ‘if-you-say-so’ face.

“Great, great. Let’s go back to my apartment later and talk things out some more…” Jerome trails off again, holding up a finger. “But, right now?”

Mr. Kid’s expression is replaced with a confused stare. Jerome smiles, radiant and angelic.

“The weather’s perfect for some pizza.”

Mr. Kid returns the smile with one of his own. “Pizza…”

And then he hugs his friend with all the strength he can muster, and then all the air leaves his poor friend’s lungs.

“Can’t… breathe…”

Mr. Kid, realizing the error of his ways, releases Jerome with an apologetic look on his face. The other man is damn near asphyxiated from the embrace, and has to stand there gasping for oxygen until his breath returns.

Jerome wipes sweat off his brow, gulping down air like a half-dead fish. “Alright, you guys can come back,” he says, gesturing to CEO and Floyd.

Once everyone has gathered together, Jerome pats Mr. Kid on the shoulder and gently turns him towards the other two.

“This is who I was talking about earlier, guys. Say hi to everyone, okay?

Mr. Kid waves. “Linguini!”

“His name is…” Jerome scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I think it’s Meat Kid. He hasn’t said anything to the contrary, as far as I know.”

Another stupid name, huh.

“I’m Floyd, and this is my boss CEO! Nice to meet you!”

“…nice to meet you…” CEO mumbles through gritted teeth.

Meat Kid nods, accepting the greetings.

“Now we’ve all introduced ourselves, let’s get this sorted out, alright?” Jerome taps Meat Kid on the shoulder. “Listen, could you make it so that nobody’s chasing us? I’m not supposed to be here, so…”

“O…kay,” says Meat Kid.

He bends gingerly over Officer Rewind’s supine body. With practiced efficiency, Meat Kid tears off a portion of his larger arm, his face unchanging despite this. Once satisfied with the amount, he gently pries Rewind’s maw open and begins feeding the strip of flesh into it.

Despite his state of incapacitation, Rewind still manages to chew whatever’s in his mouth. Slowly but surely, he regains consciousness.

Every single bone in his body aching, Officer Rewind crawls into a sitting position. One look at the carnage in the kitchen tells him all that he needs to know.

“S-s-sir!!” he stammers. “I’m s-s-sorry-y, I f-failed-d—”

Meat Kid shakes his head. “It’s… okay… problem is… solved. You… can go… now.”

“Y-y-yes s-s-sir, I’ll t-tell e-e-everyone!” Rewind salutes. “Th-thank you f-for y-your k-kindness-s-s!”

As the cop runs away, he shoots one last glance over his shoulder at CEO and the others. CEO wonders what thoughts he must be thinking.

“Pizza… time…?” Meat Kid asks the group, a smile on his disproportionate face.

“Hell yeah, man,” Jerome replies. “I’m starving.”

“One extra-large pepperoni pizza for Mr. Kid?”

Inside the Sandwich City franchise of the world-famous Pizza Pirates fast food chain, a quartet of misfits pick up a pizza order.

Meat Kid nods. He graciously accepts the box, carrying it in an underarm hold, and beckons for the other three to follow him outside. The automatic glass doors close behind them without incident.

“Oh man… was that who I thought that was?”

Sitting at the back of the restaurant, close by the counter, is a Suit wearing the trademark shield sunglasses of the Internal Affairs agents. He is halfway through a medium vegetarian pie, and is completely alone. Steam fogs up his sunglasses as he bites into another slice of piping-hot pizza. Through the fog, he watches the four customers leave.

“The Food District CEO himself, running around with some no-good terrorists?” The IA agent grins, pumping his fist in the air. “I guess today’s my lucky day! Regional manager, here I come!”

Remembering his rapidly-cooling pizza, he starts to chew morosely on the next slice.

“…Right after I finish eating this.”

“Excuse me, sir, this train is reserved for Media District employees only. I’m afraid it’s not open to the public at the moment.”

At the head of a long line of boxcars, Meat Kid is facing off with a train conductor.

“I… have… access.”

“Sir, you’re going to have to show me some proof of your identity. You’re holding up the line.”

Meat Kid gulps. There is nobody else on this train but his allies and this persistent public transport guy. He knows from the dead air and dead silence that there is no line behind him, no rush at all. But he knows, too, that these rules have a place. Without them, he would not be here to know that. So he will hold up the invisible line as best he can.

“My ID… wait, please…”

The conductor taps idly on the train’s steering interface. “Any day now.”

“Please, wait..”

He closes his eyes, rummaging in his pockets for the card he knows full well will be there.

“Hurry it up a little, you freak.”

Meat Kid pretends not to be listening. He will not let the words affect him, now that he knows what they mean.

He heard somewhere, once, that time is money. He is only buying time for his friends. Not the two from earlier, no no, but the ones he knows he can trust. Yes, he is doing this for his friends. That makes everything better.

As the conductor’s irritation melts into ire, Meat Kid finishes the act.

“Ah, here… it… is.”

In a nearby train carriage, an odd couple make small talk.

“Honestly. You think you know a guy, but next moment one thing happens and suddenly you don’t even know what you don’t know,” Floyd chatters, worrying his split ends. “Like, what are you supposed to do at that point?”

Jerome nods sagely. “I get it, my man.”

The two men sit across from each other, each one closest to the window with a pair of empty seats to the right of them. There is a table between them, but no food.

“You can’t rely on your memories at this age.”

“Age?” Floyd spits the hair out of his mouth in shock. “I never told you my… Wait, I guess you did look at my ID, didn’t you? Does it still say I’m old on there?”

Jerome smiles enigmatically.

Around the same time, CEO slides into the seat beside Floyd. He has just finished walking through the other train cars at a suspiciously slow pace.

“Whoa, hi Boss! Is Meat Kid still distracting the guy up front?”

CEO glances in the direction he walked in from. “Yes.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t be long,” says Jerome.

“So, what’s the deal then?” CEO shifts in his seat, inwardly cursing the lack of proper cushioning. “Your other friend, where the hell is he?”

Jerome gives a slight shrug. “I honestly don’t know. Last I heard, he was planning to stay in the city and reform things a little.”

“But you didn’t see him,” Floyd states.

“Yep, yep, that’s exactly why I can’t imagine where else he could be. Keeping this place running is his life now… and I don’t think he was planning to go on a trip when I last saw him.”

At this moment, Meat Kid appears in front of the group. Jerome waves the group’s fourth member closer.

“Meat Kid, has Guy said anything to you recently?”

“I… he…” The words failing him, Meat Kid takes out a notepad from his pocket and begins to scribble on it. Once done, he flips the notepad over for the group to inspect.

“He told me to stay safe,” the note reads. It is written in a shaky, childlike script.

“Anything about where he might be going, or why?”

“No…”

Meat Kid sits down across from Floyd, thinking of his next words. He finds none, and so he falls back on his previous method of communication.

“He told me to say safe and to beware the Shareholder Killer,” the writing continues, still in the same hard-to-read penmanship. The addition is underlined, presumably for extra emphasis.

“The Shareholder Killer?” asks Jerome. “Do any of you know who that is?”

“Nope.”

“No.”

Meat Kid shakes his head emphatically.

“…I think I might.” Jerome looks towards Floyd and the CEO. “Remember the target I had you go after earlier?”

“Why do you ask? Are you referring to that Tendies freak I disposed of?”

“CEO…” Jerome touches the tips of his fingers to his temples. “I’m pretty sure you’re the Shareholder Killer.”

“Me?” CEO makes an expression somewhere between contempt and confusion. “I can’t possibly be branded with that title from one kill alone. That pathetic loser was barely fit to be a Shareholder, anyway.”

“Think about it this way, my man.
“Taking down ‘just one’ of those people is an achievement in and of itself, no matter how incompetent they might be. Even if only one dies, it upsets the balance of the Board of Business until they can find a replacement… which would be pretty difficult, considering how much secrecy surrounds them.
“It’s like…” Jerome uses a pair of imaginary scissors. “Like cutting off a limb, or removing an organ. That’s reason enough in their eyes to see you as a threat.”

“So, like, every little bit helps, right?” Floyd adds.

Jerome nods. “Yep, yep.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep doing the best we can!” Floyd turns to CEO. “Right, Boss?”

CEO is staring out of the train’s window, watching the clouds billow past. “Mmm.”

“Were you even listening?”

“No comment.”

At that moment, the automated announcement system blares to life.

“Now arriving at the Media District. This is the last stop on the Media District express line. Next stop is the Sandwich City Transport Center. Thank you for riding with Sandwich City Transport.”

“Sandwich City…” CEO looks up at the speakers above. “I’ll never get used to that name.”

Once the train pulls into the Media District’s station, the quartet disembark using the farthest door from the conductor’s car.

The train pulls away, back to what used to be Suits City — leaving the four travelers on the station platform.

CEO takes in the surroundings.

Not much comes to his mind other than how barebones the station is. Merely a corrugated iron roof above the traintracks and a timetable, and not even an electronic timetable at that. No benches, but somehow that doesn’t surprise him at all. No walls to protect from the weather, either, but considering the altitude there probably isn’t much weather.

At least he can see the sky. The beautiful, boundless sky.

He trails behind his companions as they pass from the boundaries of the station into the Media District proper; only a narrow glass walkway separates the station from the rest of the district, but it is an all-encompassing walkway that could be classified a tunnel if it was rounder.

CEO looks down.

At his feet is a carpet of clouds — fat, swollen things gorging themselves on the smokestacks of the city. Smoke, fog, smog, particles of water vapor and ash in an unholy union. Above the thicker ones, layers of wispy clouds obscure the distance between the district’s floor to the ground below. Occasionally, gusts of wind send them scudding across the sky. CEO thinks about how the wisps would hide nothing when alone, but block out whole parts of the world when together.

Another thought worms its way into his head. At this height, dropping something as small as a coin could kill the unfortunate person below. He was never one for heights, even before his fall, so he looks forward again and tries to think of something different. He has never been more thankful that glass is stronger than it looks.

Before the company arrives at the other side of the walkway, CEO can already feel that something is wrong.

Jerome coughs. “Well, here’s the Media District…”

The Media District was never a lively place, but the oppressive silence of its central plaza feels about as unnatural as an unexplainable wound. CEO is sure there used to be a few stalls around the place, or at least people milling about. So why, then, is nobody around?

“Just how I remember it.”

The four towers of the district loom large in the distance, their tops fading into the cloudless sky above. Despite the lack of cloud cover, a dark shadow falls across the company.

“Aw, it looks the same as ever! ” Floyd exclaims. “Hardly feels like all those cycles have passed.”

“I… remember… too,” says Meat Kid, choking and stuttering on his words.

Silence. CEO drinks in the eerie quiet.

“Lot less people around, though.” Floyd prods a pile of dust with the tip of his shoe. “And what’s with all this dust on the floor?”

Jerome fiddles with the hood of his coat, especially the area around his collarbones. “No idea, my man.”

CEO pivots towards the shorter man. “Do you think that friend of yours could still be here?”

“Hm?” Jerome opens his mouth to answer. “I—”

Listlessly, Meat Kid holds out his hand to interrupt. “No. Guy… is… gone.”

Floyd nearly jumps out of his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “Gone?! Like, dead?!”

A shake of the head. “Left… town.”

“Ohhh, okay…” Floyd chuckles. “Jeez, you scared me for a bit.”

Jerome shuffles forward. “I guess I was right, then.”

“All this work for nothing, and your boss isn’t paying us, either,” scoffs CEO, toying with the cuffs of his shirt. “Just great. We should turn back now while there’s still time; I want a break.”

Jerome clears his throat. “It’s actually better for us that Guy isn’t around, you know.”

“What, did you come unprepared to sweet-talk him? Nobody in that position can be seen with terrorists like us. What good would it do him to partner with you again?”

“Guy’s a pretty smart guy. I’d like to think that he would have seen the long-term benefits of our plan and all…”

CEO’s voice raises a few decibels higher. “Benefits of doing something completely insane, like trying to kill the most powerful man in the world?”

“There’s a fine line between genius and insanity, as they say. You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss one for the other, my man.”

“You as well.”

A slow shake of the head. “I know enough to tell.”

“Not enough to ensure that your friend would be here? Not enough to be certain your plan would work?”

“No plan can guarantee absolute certainty, my man. Randomness is everywhere, and all we can do is account for it.”

“Yeah!” Floyd pitches in. “Boss, I thought you were the gambling type? Why are you going on about certainty all of a sudden?”

“I don’t want to gamble my life for free, that’s all.”

“You’re not doing this for free,” says Jerome, his voice hitching at ‘free’. “You were paid before, you’re going to get paid again.”

CEO turns sharply towards his colleague. “Even if I am being paid, if you couldn’t guarantee your friend’s kindness towards me, what point would there be in me doing this? I would have just died.”

“No, no, you wouldn’t have. I’d make sure he—”

Something glints in the former CEO's eyes, something cold and steely. “What would you have done if he no longer recognized you?”

At the sound of these words, Jerome goes dead silent. His eyes cloud over, and as he looks down the others can tell that many things are running through his mind.

When he finally speaks, his tone is downright explosive.

“I don’t know, okay?! I was planning to rely on the fact that we used to be friends! I didn’t even have a backup plan! Happy?!”

CEO stands there, slack-jawed. He mutters something, but that something isn’t anything near an apology. Jerome sighs.

“It’s just, you wouldn’t…” Jerome shakes his head. “Look, let’s just say you wouldn’t get it, alright?”

CEO moves to say his piece. “I don’t…”

“Sorry about that, Jerome!” Floyd chips in. “He gets all snippy like that sometimes—”

Jerome waves him off, turning away from the rest of the group. “Nah, nah, it’s alright. Let’s just keep moving.”

On the way to their destination, the party passes a pair of twin gatekeepers, metal alloy statues made of the same material as the coins used in the city’s commerce.

The statues, flexing in the most garish ways, stand opposite each other on either side of the narrow path to the final tower of the Media District. One is labeled ‘Corporation’, the other ‘Capitalism’.

Floyd cringes at the sight of them. “Those statues are way too realistic. It feels like they could move at any moment!”

“Haha, I thought Guy would’ve melted them down already. He used to complain about weird grinding noises coming from these things…” Jerome scrutinizes the statues from head to toe, waiting for something to happen.

“They remind me a lot of…” Floyd stares at CEO, but shuts his mouth as soon as CEO glares back. “Aww, maybe I shouldn’t say.”

At long last, the gang stops in front of the tallest building in the district.

“Here it is, the star of the show… the Central Media Tower.” Jerome nods towards it, letting its imposing front do the talking for him.

The building’s facade is lined with windows like a spreadsheet is lined with cells. Several entrances to the building exist, but four out of the five visible have been boarded up or similarly blocked off. In places, there are gaps where the windows should be. The gaps form the shape of a man, a man not unlike the CEO. He looks about the same, judging by his silhouette, but CEO knows in his heart of hearts that the man is no longer meant to be him.

A cascade of half-baked memories flood CEO’s mind, and he has to stop himself from keeling over from the sheer weight. Bulletproof windows, office supplies, clunky computers. Broken vending machines, taking plenty of coffee breaks, working late into the night and watching the stars with a cigarette in hand. These memories, as plentiful as they are, serve little if any function to him now.

“My old office building.”

“You recognize it, my man?”
CEO nods. “Of course. I spent so long inside that place that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen the exterior.”

“Yeah, you were always cooped up in the penthouse.” Floyd snickers. “Me and Loanrenzo had to drag you kicking and screaming into the other districts, like, so many times.”

CEO grins a stiff grin. Funnily enough, he doesn’t remember any of that. “Really now…”

“We’ll have more time for reminiscing once we’re inside.” Jerome taps Meat Kid on the shoulder. “Let’s do this, yeah?”

“Yes. Talk… later.”

Using his smaller arm, Meat Kid extracts a plastic keycard from one of his pants pockets. He taps it against a scanner by the main entrance. After he withdraws his card, the scanner beeps in a sequence of long and short beeps.

The door opens, uncertainty lying in wait on the other side.

Meat Kid gestures to the door with his smaller arm. “You… go first.”

Inside the Central Media Tower, the group are greeted by tiled floors and the smell of iron. Before them, the lobby room extends to both the left and right, as well as a hallway in the center leading to an elevator. At both sides of the lobby, fountains in the shape of dollar bills spit coins from their spouts; the lobby’s couches all face directly towards the fountains.

Several busts of a Suit with a stern expression decorate the room, impossible to ignore. CEO thinks they strikingly resemble him, before realizing they are him.

“Wow, I haven’t been here in forever,” says Jerome, pulling his hood forward, “Guess it hasn’t changed a bit.”

CEO stares blankly at the elevator. “Mmm. This opulence really takes me back.”

“Yep.”

Meat Kid’s grimace grows more intense. Jerome follows his line of sight, finding a statue at the end of it. He raises an eyebrow.

“Say, do you guys notice anything weird?”

Floyd scratches his head. “Nope.”

“Not really,” says the CEO.

“Look closer, CEO. All those busts of you… there’s something wrong with them.”

“Huh? They’re the same, aren’t they?”

Jerome points at a rectangle below the statue’s chest. “Check out the nameplates.”

“Hey, ‘The Supreme CEO, Guy’... definitely not the same.” Floyd’s eyes flit over the rest of the busts. “And it’s like this for all of them! The nameplates have been altered… but the statues themselves haven’t been changed!”

“Honestly, why not commission a brand-new set of statues if you’re that much of a megalomaniac? Changing just the nameplates isn’t worth the effort. With the salary of a CEO, he should have been able to replace me, un-person me, wipe me off the face of the earth…” The city’s former CEO crosses his arms. “So, Jerome, do you have any idea why the hell he’s kept so much intact?”

“I… don’t know.” Jerome sighs, wringing his hands. “Even I don’t really understand the way Guy thinks.”

“It might be because of the cost,” says Floyd.

“The cost?”

Floyd nudges his superior. “Boss, you said he’d be able to afford replacing everything with a salary like yours, right? That’s exactly the problem. He’s budgeting his salary for the city’s sake.”

“Of course.” CEO snaps his fingers. “The focus on one product alone is unhealthy for a city of this scale… he was probably only able to keep the city afloat through drastic measures.” His mind reels back to the Food District’s mind-numbing rhythm. “That maddening amount of meat… all of it coming out of his own pocket.”

“Yeah, well… even if it is successful now, it might not be in the long term. Doing well in one area but completely ignoring the purpose this city was built for—”

What the hell does Floyd mean by that? Does he know something CEO doesn’t? “Purpose?”

“You don’t remember, Boss? It’s…” Floyd strokes his chin, wide-eyed and incredulous. “Um, it’s… it’s…”

“Get to the point. What was it?”

“The, he, the…” Floyd grapples with the words, the veins in his eyes twitching. “Damn it! I can’t remember either! It was important, really important, so why can’t I…”

Jerome pats him gently on the arm. “Calm down, my man. We’ll figure it out in time.”

“I don’t know…” Floyd shakes his head, leaving hairs all over the floor. “Why can’t I remember anything useful? Why is everything just so, so blurry? I know I’m forgetting a lot of things, I, I, I—”

He’s interrupted by a gurgling sound coming from deep within Meat Kid’s larynx.

Jerome clears his throat. “Sorry, Meat Kid. We’ve been talking long enough. Let’s head to the penthouse already, shall we?”

The elevator ride to the top is as uneventful as an elevator ride in a 99-story building can be. At the moment, neither claustrophobia nor inconvenience are problems anyone is thinking of.

Soft jazz flows from the speakers. Easy listening music with subliminal messages, or something like that. Other than that, everyone is silent.

CEO is about to say something before a loud chime interrupts him.

“You have reached floor 99,” announces an artificial voice issuing from the speakers. “Have a nice day.”

The group steps out of the elevator. Floor-to-ceiling windows are a common sight, but CEO doesn’t want to look beyond their glass panes and inflict a bout of vertigo upon himself. A luxurious penthouse suite sprawls out in front of them, sickening in its grandeur; corridors branch out of its sides like dilated veins. Portraits of CEO line the walls, but some of them have been vandalized. He wonders how the man behind this is like in person.

Jerome claps to draw attention; once everyone’s eyes are on him, he breaks into a line that sounds more than rehearsed. “Alright, gang, let’s split up and search for intel.”

CEO scoffs at the words. “How cliched. Aren’t you worried about ambushes or traps?”

“We don’t know what kind of traps Guy might have set up, so it’s best if we aren’t all in the same place.” Jerome wags a finger. “There won’t be any surprise attacks, though, because Guy mostly relies on the keys to keep people out.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“He won’t let just anyone in, and out of the four or so people with access only Meat Kid and I are in fighting shape. The other two are him and his secretary of the week, and his secretaries have never been around long enough to put up enough of a fight.” Jerome holds his hands up. “The odds are in our favor this time, my man. I promise.”

“I suppose so.”

“Great. We’ll be in pairs then; I’ll go with Meat Kid, you’ll go with Floyd. Sound good?”

“Fine by me,” CEO reluctantly admits.

Jerome beckons to the other two. “Everyone else, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Okay, I guess. We could use some time apart for a while,” says Floyd, absent-mindedly scratching at his hands.

Meat Kid simply nods.

“Cool, cool. If anything happens, just shout. I’ll hear it no matter where you are in here.”

Floyd flashes him a thumbs-up. “You got it, man!”

With that, the pairs part ways.

The first half of the company ends up in a maze of hallways, a tangle of furniture and boxes structured in a similar way to the area they had just left.

Floyd peeks around a corner, squinting. “Sheesh, the new guy turned this place into a real mess, huh?”

CEO makes a non-committal noise of agreement.

“Something smells different around here, too.” Floyd sniffs. “Shoe polish, maybe… I can’t quite place it. Weird.”

“Must be a new brand of air freshener. Don’t get sidetracked.”

Floyd nods, glancing off to the side. “Right. Where do you think we should start, Boss?”

“Information, records, document storage…” CEO snaps his fingers. “Floyd, do you remember where my office is?”

“Can’t say I do, Boss. Why do you ask, anyway?”

“Earlier, you came to the conclusion that The Guy is the frugal type — so I’m wondering if, despite all these renovations,” CEO says, pointing at the mess around them, “he hasn’t changed where things are actually stored.”

“You think he might be using your office as his?”

Again, a snap of the fingers. “Exactly. Maybe it gives him some sick pleasure to have taken it over and made it his.”

Floyd shakes his head in abject disapproval. “We can’t really assume anything about why he’s doing things, Boss. Even Jerome doesn’t know half of what his bestie’s thinking, so I dunno how much we can infer about him.”

“Whatever the reasons are, we might as well follow this lead.” CEO does a flourish of the hand in the vague direction of the scent. “Can you tell which way that smell is coming from?”

“Eh?” Floyd scratches his head. “Uh, okay, I’ll try to see…”

On the opposite side of the building are the other half of the company, strolling towards a half-remembered destination. They have been walking in silence for some time, watching the insides of the passing window panes that serve as carapaces for the monolithic Central Media Tower. A few boxes are piled around the place, devoid of anything useful.

“Meat Kid, you haven’t been saying much lately — something wrong?” Jerome asks his companion.

Meat Kid scribbles in his notepad, passing it to Jerome after a while. “Please… read.”

At his friend’s behest, Jerome reads.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” says the writing on the notepad.

Jerome passes it back. “Which part?”

Meat Kid gestures towards the other side of the tower and tries to say something, scribbling some more when the words fail him. After another handover, Jerome scans the added text.

“He just killed someone”

“Ah, that…” Jerome frowns, his brows furrowed. “I’ve got my qualms with murder too, but surviving in this world is a lot harder if you’ve got strong morals. Can’t stick to your guns all the time, MK; I’d be dead if I didn’t have this assassin job going on. We need all the help we can get, my man.”

Meat Kid tilts his head to the side. “Qu… alms?”

“My, um, scruples. Issues. Problems.” Jerome punctuates each word with a little twist of his hand.

“Ah.” Meat Kid nods sagely. “Linguini.”

“Ha ha, yep… you always know just what to say.”

Meanwhile, Floyd and CEO follow the strange new scent. The duo walk through endless identical corridors dotted with boxes, quiet all the while. CEO never noticed how wide this place was when he was its master. He would’ve never allowed this level of disarray if he were still in charge.

They pass by a window with a good view of the sky before Floyd makes up his mind to talk.

“You know, Boss,” he trails off, scratching at the boundary between his face and his snout, “There’s something I’ve been thinking about lately.”

“What is it?”

Floyd points a claw at the other man. “It’s about you, Boss.”

“Me? What about me?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you” —and here his voice wavers— “was it really necessary to kill that guy?”

Do means justify the ends? Are there really such things as necessary evils? CEO knows the answer is obvious. “What would you have done in my shoes? It was only self-defense. I said as much myself.”

“Sure, okay, self-defense, alright. But did you have to taunt that other guy about the recycling afterwards?”

CEO shrugs. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I doubt he’ll remember.”

“You’re forgetting the fact that I was recycled, Boss.” Floyd’s voice cracks a little, peeling away around the edges. “You’re forgetting the fact that this whole place is built on recycling people. The food we eat, the cheap labor and the cheap products… it’s all people.”

CEO grits his teeth. He hasn’t forgotten; in fact, it hasn’t been long since he’d learned that. Or re-learned it. But, no matter what, some things can’t be avoided. Sacrifices must be made.

For the good of the masses and the will of the many, for the sake of convenience and prosperity, for efficiency and satisfaction, some people must suffer. To make everyone happy, someone must always be unhappy. Such is the contradictory nature of the world.

But, regardless, he can’t bring himself to talk. He can’t seem to find the right words, and so he stays silent.

“Hardworking people who just become meat for the next people in line so they can do the same,” Floyd continues. “People that work their whole lives at jobs that do nothing in the grand scheme of things but grease the wheels of this huge machine.”

Time seems to slow down, although not to the extent it did back in the Food District.

“People that—”

What does Floyd think he knows, anyway?

He was off causing a distraction during their previous sortie into enemy territory. CEO had to bust his ass to save him back then, which probably cost them both valuable time and privacy.

Floyd Roberts, the same man that tore through what he thought was a crowd of innocent civilians. The dreaded Dingo of Stocksford who could have killed anyone without question. What right does he have to be talking about morals? In fact, what right does this mangy mutt have to question his superior’s decisions? What right does he have to dare bite the hand that feeds him…

CEO forces his train of thought onto another track. He shouldn’t be too harsh on Floyd; they used to be friends, after all.

He finds the right words, or at least the ones he hopes are right.

“Life is cruel, Floyd.”

Floyd recoils, dejected at the interruption. His face morphs into something of a disappointed scowl, exacerbated by his ungainly snout. “Yeah, I know.”
There is an element of immaturity in his expression, as if he were a child that just got told something extremely obvious. “I know it is, everyone else knows it is; can’t we at least make it a little better? Do you have to be cruel too?”

CEO sighs. Well, he should have seen that coming. Oh well. He’ll just shrug it off and go on. Time is running out for both of them.

“I won’t pull any punches, but you’re free to do whatever you want.”

In a slightly farther area of the building, Jerome and Meat Kid rest their legs on an array of boxes. Their comfortable silence is interrupted by a cry ringing through the hallway.

“Come quick, guys! We found something!”

When the other pair arrive, Floyd has traced the source of the scent to an inconspicuous door set in the smooth paneling of the hallway’s walls. The lycanthrope smiles a toothy grin at his handiwork.

“Doesn’t this just look like an office door to you? If it’s hidden this well, then it’s gotta be important, right?”

“Yep, yep. Great work, my man,” Jerome says, patting Floyd’s back, “Now let’s get this thing open.”

Much to CEO and company’s surprise, the door opens without incident. Not even a creak or a screech, but a silent arc that ends just before a slam. What greets the four on the other side is a quiet office, although one that is far from little or humble.

As the party spreads out into the room, CEO allows himself a moment to assess the surroundings.

He looks straight ahead, into the distance. Opposite the entrance are several floor-to-ceiling glass windows separated by curved columns. The windows show a great view of the city, one only partially obscured by clouds. His mouth fills with salt. So this is what he was missing out on for all those cycles, is it? He can’t tell what the pang in his chest means, but it surely has to do with his long absence.

He looks down. Beneath the group’s feet is a well-kept obsidian floor with various circles inscribed with combinations of letters and numbers from A1 to Z9. Nothing comes to his mind of what their function could be, but the circles are very striking indeed. There is also a carpet in the center of the room, which depicts several bars beneath a large orb giving off rays. A stylized depiction of a city?

He looks to both sides. Cabinets with glass doors line either side of the room, containing various briefcases and sundry items of clothing. One of the cabinets is empty; CEO looks at the empty spot and feels a hole in his heart, as if something important that should have been there is now gone forever. Awards for Sandwich City’s performance in many categories dot the shelves, and boxes adorn the room as if they were proper decor and not just work left unfinished.

He looks forward again, at the desk in closer to the windows. It is cluttered, yet not messy; every object seems to be exactly where it should be, arranged by the invisible hands of a neat kleptomaniac. Atop the desk are: a corded phone; a pen holder containing a few pens of the same type; an inbox and an outbox, seemingly labeled with a label maker; an agenda with some writing on it; as well as a bulky, ancient personal computer.

If CEO ignored the boxes, the desk, and the shelves, the room would feel as barren as the day it was first used — a state of unnatural perfection just waiting for someone to disrupt it.
But he can’t ignore any of those things — can’t ignore the nothings where his things should be, the other man’s things where there should be nothings, and, worst of all, the claustrophobia-inducing desk with the things that were never his.

CEO saunters over to the table to get a closer look. Amid the clutter on his old desk is a book he’s sure never would have belonged to him. The signature on the cover is plain, without any sense of pretension to it, and smudged at the edges.

A signature? The synapses fire in his head, and CEO makes the obvious connection.

“Is this…” He picks up the book, turning it over to examine it from all angles. “A diary?”

Floyd prods CEO between his ribs. “Read it, Boss!”

CEO clears his throat.

“Cycle 404. The CEO is dead. Leader said I could be temp/acting CEO if none of his men wanted to. Accepted the offer. Have to make things better around here. Need to expand the factories. Will test recycling process first. CEO Roberts to be first subject. Breach of confidentiality? His fault if so.
“Cycle 420. Recycling a success. Shipped subjects out. First wave of factory expansion complete. Almost all unnecessary persons have been reprocessed. Everyone needs to eat. I don’t feel so good about this. Promoted MK to Food District CEO. Least I can do for him.”

Skimming through some more uneventful entries, CEO flips a page.

“Cycle 444. Leader says I’m doing well. Wonder how J is? Haven’t seen him in a while. Craving sandwiches but all the ones at the shop had mayo. I’m banning mayo.
“Cycle 500. There’s something not right about the Resistance Leader. He hasn’t been talking to me lately. I need to meet him at once. Perhaps we can figure something out.

CEO flips another page.

“cycle 666 they were all so young but i had to do it anyway. it was the only option”

CEO flips to the next page.

“Cycle 690. Is there some way to make food less bland, or are my tastebuds simply defective? Eating feels like a chore. Nothing tastes of anything anymore. I can’t take this much longer.
“Cycle 710. It must have been because of the mayonnaise ban. Victory tastes sweet. What do I fight against now?”

CEO flips a page. There aren’t many left.

“Cycle 1000. I have to see him. I have to see him at once.
“Cycle 1100. Meeting with Resistance Leader. Soon.”

The rest of the page is covered in largely incomprehensible scribbles, strangely at odds with the composed handwriting. CEO flips to the next page, again.

“Cycle 1111. Finally, the Resistance Leader and I had a talk at the factory. I made sure his efforts weren’t in vain, and that he could be of use a little longer. A fitting fate.”

CEO turns to the final page, noticing a gap of several hundred cycles and a drastic change in penmanship.

“Cycle 2222. The Chairman has sent me a messenger. The messenger begs me to come with him to the Board of Business’s headquarters. He is quite insistent for a lowly custodian, but I do believe there is something to be gained if I accept. Sandwich City will doubtless flourish in my absence; how can I possibly refuse? I only wish those two were with me. My parting gift to them is my eternal gratitude, for supporting me when I needed it most.”

“So,” CEO says, shutting the diary with a snarl, “nothing I didn’t already know.”

Meat Kid is silent as Floyd and Jerome mutter to themselves.

“Breach of confidentiality… unnecessary persons…” Floyd strokes his chin with his claws, staring intently at the floor.

“Eternal gratitude, huh?”

Floyd looks up from the floor. “Aw, what the hell do we make of all this?”

“That messenger he mentioned seems real sketchy. The vibes I’m getting from him are…” Jerome’s brows furrow, and he leaves the sentence incomplete.

“We’d better start hunting this guy down,” CEO says, filing the diary back into its place. “It doesn’t sound like we have much time left.”

Floyd gazes off into space. “We never have much time, do we?”

“Yep, yep.” Jerome nods. “Even so, I think it’s time for a break. We’ve all been working so hard. Let’s head back to my place and get all this in order, hey?”

Light rain drums softly on the windows of 13-J. The now-quartet of misfits are sitting around the apartment’s central table, chowing down on their well-deserved and piping hot box of pizza. Floyd is chilling on the floor, as Meat Kid and CEO have crowded him out of the couch and Jerome has reserved exclusive access to his recliner.

Between hasty breaths, Floyd mumbles something about how good the pizza tastes. A guilty look flashes across his face, but he swallows both the guilt and the pizza pie in one go.

Atop the couch, Meat Kid eats as normally as anyone, taking regular-sized bites of his slice and not whatever Floyd just did. Near him, Jerome savors the food with a twinkle in his eye.

“Whoa, the reviews weren’t lying. This place does some great pizza.”

Great pizza, huh.

Considering all the effort that goes into making the raw meat for the pepperoni, CEO chews on his slice of pizza with a mixture of apprehension and envy. Apprehension for the materials… but envy at the other man’s nonchalance, mostly.

CEO stares at the pizza box. Confusion, too, as to how it managed to stay warm for so long.

He takes another bite, trying to finish the damn thing as fast as possible. “I’ve had worse.”

“Hm?” Meat Kid points at the fax machine from his seat on the couch, a slice of pizza dangling from his mouth.

“Another fax?” Leaving his comfy place on the recliner, Jerome reluctantly saunters over to the fax machine. “Guess my leave’s up.”

He takes it out of the tray, scanning it for any vital information. “I see… hmm. This could be a problem.”

“What’s wrong?” CEO asks.

“This next mission might be one of the toughest yet.”

“Why so?”

“Check this out,” Jerome says, handing the CEO a sheet of paper fresh from the fax machine.

“Shareholder Brian Thinkus, alias ‘Biggus Thinkus’. Currently located in Genus. Smart yet eccentric.”

The man’s picture certainly looks the part. Dark circles have found a home under his eyes; his cheeks are hollow and sunken. A pince-nez sits in the space between and below his eyes, above his mouth. Through and through, a stereotypical scientist to the core.

“Genus, underwater city of science; rarely open to the public. Run by Shareholder Thinkus, a man with near-limitless intelligence and tons of loyal subordinates,” Jerome adds.

“Whoa,” says Floyd, scratching the back of his neck, “looks like taking him down won’t be a walk in the park.”

CEO folds the paper, storing it away in the inner lining of his suit jacket. “I’ll bet.”

Jerome nods. “To make matters worse, I won’t be going with you on this mission.”

“Why not?”

“My boss has requested a… private meeting.”

The expression on Jerome’s face suggests a deeper subtext to his words. CEO feels his core body temperature rise.

“This isn’t a normal meeting, is it? Why would your boss need to meet with you now? Who is this boss of yours, anyway?”

Jerome’s eyes dart towards the corners of the room. “I guess telling you this much wouldn’t hurt. The boss’s name is Mark Judy. We haven’t spoken directly since, well,” — and here he falters for a moment, dredging through the depths of his memory — “cycle 0.”

“Cycle 0? Jerome, what are you saying? No Suits even existed before cycle 1.”

“I definitely can’t remember a time before cycles,” Floyd chimes in.

“This might not make any sense to you, but…” Jerome draws his hood back, dampening his voice to a whisper. He runs his fingers through his voluminous hair, and for the first time CEO takes proper notice of the unusual protrusion in the middle of his face. “I’m not a Suit.”

Both CEO’s mind and face go blank. “That’s.”

“What?” says Floyd.

Meat Kid’s grimace morphs into a look of confusion.

“Mark Judy isn’t a Suit either.” Jerome places his chin on his hand, deep in thought. “If he’s summoning me now… that can only mean one thing.”

Meat Kid’s look of confusion becomes even more pronounced. Everyone is asking themselves the same question, it seems.

“The Chairman is planning on doing something that could lead to Mark Judy’s death.”

“So this meeting might be our key to facing the Chairman in person, huh?” says CEO.

“Yeah, it just might be. I’ll try and get as much done as I can. As for the target, there’s a bathysphere in the basement. It should get you to Genus in no time. Time is money, as you know.”

Meat Kid points at himself, then at Jerome.

“You want to come to the meeting too? Sorry, my man, but you’re gonna have to go with these guys.” Sensing the other man’s disappointment, Jerome adds another clause to try and salvage the situation. “I know you don’t like them that much, but things are different now.”

Meat Kid gives a reluctant nod.

Still unconvinced, CEO soldiers on. “How can we trust him? He only just stopped working for the new CEO. What’s to say he won’t double-cross us for the friend he likes better?”

“My man, you and I both know we need all the help we can get against our mutual enemies. He’s a good guy, you know. And real helpful.”

“Fine with me,” says Floyd. “The more the merrier!”

CEO crosses his arms, resigned to his fate. “I guess we could use the extra help. We’ll report back once the mission’s complete.”

“Yeah! Tell us how the meeting goes, okay?”

“Yep, yep, I will. And, hey…” Jerome winks, giving the others his classic two-fingered salute. “Stay safe out there, everyone.”

Jerome waves the rest of the company a little goodbye, ushering them out of the door to 13-J. He smiles upon them, all bright and charming.

Despite their earlier falling-out, CEO can’t bring himself to be rude to him again. No disparaging comments, no prodding of weaknesses. He’ll be sincere for once.

“You too, Jerome.” A smile and a nod, given in good faith. “We’ll see you soon.”

The door to apartment 13-J shuts with a dry creak.

In the basement of the Hub Hotel, at the end of a short corridor, at the center of a dirty room, lies a bathysphere in a maintenance shaft. In front of it stands CEO and his companions, confused.

“I mean, it’s here,” says Floyd, cocking his head in the direction of the vehicle. “He definitely wasn’t lying about that.”

CEO shakes his head. “That’s not the part I’m worried about. It’s the transport that’s the problem.”

“Oh! Yeah, some instructions would’ve been nice, but…”

Floyd looks off to the side, his eyes landing upon a previously-unseen terminal. It is a surprisingly large thing, all strange buttons and switches that serve unknown functions. There is a sign on the terminal’s side that says something along the lines of “CAPACITY LIMIT 2”, which Floyd does not deem useful enough to mention. CEO pays no attention to his lack of completion.

“How the hell do we use this thing?”

Floyd shrugs. “Maybe it works on its own? Like if we get in somehow it’ll start up automatically. You know?”

“Doors… are closed,” Meat Kid helpfully contributes.

Floyd shifts his weight onto his other foot. “Yeah, I can tell. Let’s just press these buttons and see what happens.”

Without further ado, Floyd smacks a couple buttons on the terminal, flipping a few switches and pulling levers for a little extra variety. CEO follows the other man’s actions with bated breath. Nothing seems to happen for a while.

“Let’s give it some time—”

At last, the bathysphere’s door opens with a sharp hiss.

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” says the CEO.

In the murky depths below the Hub Hotel, the trio are crammed in a claustrophobia-inducing orb of a vehicle. There is barely any room for any of them to move, and so they sit jammed up against each other with limbs tangled into spaghetti.

“Um, you guys mind moving a little? I think my legs are getting sore. Pins and needles, you know?”

“Sorry… can not.”

“I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.”

Despite the chaos within the bathysphere, the ocean around it is tranquil as can be. Water, water, but not a drop to drink, surrounds them in every direction.

Darkness encroaches upon the company’s collective field of vision, creeping in at the edges.

CEO turns backwards. Seeing the bathysphere cable extending behind the group, he thinks it looks pretty sturdy — but he could be completely wrong, for all he knows. The cable is their umbilical cord in this dark night, a safety measure in case all goes wrong. Although even if it did he wouldn’t know how the cable could fix it. Best not to overthink it.

He looks forwards again.

A pale strip of land, a fissure in the deep seabed, grows larger and larger in the bathysphere’s viewing window. As the scenery approaches, CEO takes a closer look at it. In this fissure is an assortment of rectangular structures, as well as a dome and a hexagonal thing placed roughly in the center of the rectangles. That last thing might be hexagonal or octagonal or something else entirely, but he’s not going to bother counting the sides.

“That must be Genus.”

Floyd nods. “Doesn’t look too scary, I guess.”

“I—” Meat Kid begins.

“That’s until you remember that we’re thousands of miles below the ocean’s surface and we could be crushed by the pressure around us at any moment wherever this bathysphere takes us to.”

“Hey, that’s a city of smart people though! Give ‘em some credit. They’ll have a solution for all the water pressure somehow, yeah? I’d say not to worry about it too much, Boss.”

“The—” Meat Kid attempts.

“You’ve seen the average intelligence these people have. This city of geniuses can’t be all that smart.”

“Well they’ve managed to survive this long, so their smarts probably aren’t too bad. They’ve built an entire city underwater — I couldn’t do that, you know?”

“Neither could I, but…”

Using what little personal space is available to him, Meat Kid finishes scribbling something in his notepad. He holds it up for the group to see, shaking it a little to get their attention.
The notepad reads “I can write too, you know”.

“Oh, sorry!” Floyd says.

Truth be told, CEO almost forgot. As he starts up an apology too, the sound of something straining comes from behind him.

Surely that isn’t what he thinks it could be, is it? He listens to the noise carefully.

It starts with straining. Straining turns into ripping… ripping becomes a snap.

A snap which reverberates through his bones.

The entire pea-shaped structure shudders, throwing the passengers inside it to and fro.

“Ah! What the…!?”

Amidst the chaos Meat Kid drops his notepad — he scrambles around to find it, tangling the spaghetti-pile of limbs even further into madness.

CEO groans, his head crashing into the side of the bathysphere. It’s going to be a difficult job, alright.

About an eternity later, the company’s bathysphere crashes directly into an oxygen-filled room and not the surface of the ocean floor.

The three men rise from the wreckage mostly unharmed but a little worse for wear. Floyd mumbles something about the smell of bleach.

“Even if it smells like bleach, it’ll be sterile, unlike those processing plants.”

“Ste… rile?”

As they free themselves from the spherical prison, CEO takes a few moments to assess the surroundings.

The walls are papered with monochrome double-helix wallpaper. The floor is covered with tasteful wooden floorboards, while an ensuite bathroom with a glass door lingers off to the side of the room. The bathysphere, CEO notes, has just landed on what could have been a bed (before it was crushed by a massive steel orb).

A pair of legs stick out from under the vehicle. Floyd gives them a brief glance. “I wonder who this room belongs to?”

“Whoever it is, we’d better get out of here before they come back.”

“Right.”

Making his way off the bed, CEO approaches a closet tucked away near the ensuite bathroom.

“What are you doing, Boss?” says Floyd, hopping off the bed and following suit.

“Getting a disguise, of course.” CEO yanks the closet doors open, revealing labcoats in various shades of gray stretched across metal coathangers. “These people are smart enough to check the news, but they’re probably too absent-minded to notice any similarities between those on the news and those off it. It’s perfect. We just need to keep them in the dark as much as possible — give them no chance whatsoever to notice anything at all.”

“Right, right, people will recognize us after what happened back in Gamerica.”

CEO extracts a lab coat off one of the coathangers. “Ugh. Don’t even mention it.”

“Aww, we had such fun there…”

“Fun for you, maybe.” CEO considers scolding Floyd about the mess the other man left for him to clean up, but decides against it at the last minute. “Now get in here and do something useful already.”

“On it, Boss.”

Trailing behind the other two, Meat Kid shambles wordlessly to the closet. Thus begins their long, tedious dress-up session.

“Right, one last check before we go.”

The results of the fashion show are less than stellar, with the company donning various items of clothing in an attempt to look like anyone other than themselves and not much fashion going on.

CEO adjusts a pair of spectacles on an elastic band running around the back of his head. “Can you still recognize me with these glasses on?”

Floyd hems and haws. “Eh, I dunno. Maybe. They look good on you anyways!”

Meat Kid shrugs.

“My turn, my turn!” Like CEO before him, he dons a lab coat. With great effort, Floyd straps a mask onto his face, compressing his snout in a supremely uncomfortable fashion. “How’s this for a disguise?”

Meat Kid flashes him a thumbs up. CEO nods in approval. “Like you never existed.”

“Perfect!” Floyd’s muffled voice proclaims.

“My… turn.” Meat Kid has already put on a pair of safety goggles. He sticks his regular-sized arm through the sleeve of a lab coat, letting the other sleeve dangle behind him. “How is… this?”

CEO squints. “Not quite.”

“Aw, Kid, you can’t go around looking like that!” Floyd chides. “I mean, one sleeve on and the other off? That’s way too noticeable! Here, let me just…” He ties it around the other man’s neck, making sure his claws don’t tear at the coat.

Meat Kid’s eyes widen a little.

“There, much better.”

“Agreed,” says CEO. “Are we ready to head out now?”

“Yep!”

And with that, they leave.

CEO pokes his head out of the doorway of the room, looking both ways before crossing. The door leads into a well-lit hallway which itself leads towards the rest of the city, taking a sharp turn to the right and disappearing into the building beyond. The sounds of many footsteps echo from up ahead.

He turns back, giving a nod to his companions. “Way’s clear. Act natural.”

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

The two others extract themselves from their hiding place, joining up with CEO at the corner of the hallway. Together, they round the corner.

Before them stands a rushing current of people, all moving in the same direction, all trudging onwards. The company integrates themselves into the current as smoothly as they can, following its course to what should hopefully be the underwater city’s main building. They keep going with the flow, their guard down for the moment. The stream thins out a little — before they know it, they’re in front of a wide doorway and…

“Halt!” says an unfamiliar voice.

A Suit in a plague doctor’s garb ambushes the company, holding their cane out to arrest their progress. Upon closer inspection, the title on their nametag reads ‘Inquisitor’ in a readable (probably printed) font, their name handwritten in even worse script than Meat Kid’s. Fitting for a doctor.

“Are you three heading for the once-in-a-lifetime-but-maybe-twice-sometimes Product Faire?!” the Inquisitor asks, rolling their ‘r’s to a ludicrous degree.

“Ah, yes,” CEO replies, “We’re…”

A tap of the cane. “I’m afraid I’ll have to check your identities before I can let you in. There’s top-secret information in there.”

An ID check? If only he had known. These missions always had a catch, always had something go wrong halfway through, always ended in disaster… somehow, something always failed to work. A shame he was never told of the ‘Product Faire’, whatever it was, and a shame he never thought to refuse Jerome’s offers even once. He hated the fact that there was often vital information withheld from him, and the only thing he could truly rely on was himself.

Lying came easy to him, at least.

“I’m, ah, Conner, and these are my colleagues Mark and Frank,” says CEO, gesturing towards the rest of the company. “We’re ambassadors for Gamerica’s Research and Development sector; I hope you don’t mind our intrusion.”

The Inquisitor leans on their cane. “Connor?”

“No no no,” says CEO, holding his hands up, “Conner with an ‘e’. Conner.”

“Oh, Conner. I see…”

Floyd giggles in mock amusement. “Seems like people always get his name wrong!”

The Inquisitor folds their arms. “And you are?”

“Ah, sorry, I’m Frank.” He cocks his head and narrows his eyes, imitating a smile without his mouth.

“What’s that all about?” says the Inquisitor, pointing at the facemask ‘Frank’ is wearing.

‘Frank’ shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s for medical reasons; I’m feeling a little under the weather and I wouldn’t want anyone else to get it.”

The Inquisitor loosens up, shoulders lowering. “Very well. Could I have your last names too?”

“Manfried, Conner; Tobey, Frank.”

“Thank you, thank you.” The Inquisitor glances askance at Meat Kid. “And you are?”

“That’s, uh… Mark…” CEO’s mind goes blank as he struggles to think of another real-sounding surname. Eventually, he settles on the first thing that occurs to him. “Meiwerds, Mark.”

‘Mark’ nods. “…hello.”

“Don’t mind Mark, he’s kinda shy so don’t expect him to be the life of the party. But we love him anyway!” ‘Frank’ pulls ‘Mark’ closer to him, trapping him in a one-armed hug.

“Ye… yes.”

CEO coughs. “Good old Mark, always knows just what to say. Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be off.”

“Well, sorry to bother you then.” The Inquisitor bows slightly towards the trio, gesturing towards the rest of Genus with their cane. “Enjoy the Product Faire!”

As the newly minted Gamerica ambassadors leave, the Inquisitor watches their receding figures with all the observation of a bank’s security camera.

“Hm… what an odd bunch.” They scratch their chin with the handle of their cane. “I’ve seen that Conner guy somewhere else before, haven’t I?”

Somewhere up ahead, Floyd giggles. “Wow, Boss, I almost forgot how good you were at bullshitting.”

“Don’t say it so loud, now.”

Past the wide metal doorway lies a city of science — or, at least, the city’s town square, if such a thing could be compared to a mere town. A bustling floor of people, not unlike the sight of the Gamerica convention center, spreads out before the company. Everyone is deeply immersed within their own worlds, hyperfocused on points of reference beyond their reach — passers-by bump into all three members of the company every now and then, completely absorbed in their personal business. Stalls stand tall amidst the sea of white-coated scientists, each advertising something new and unique and almost always completely impractical.

“We’re definitely going to get lost.”

“You said it, Boss.”

CEO casts cursory glances across the crowd. “First order of business is to find some way to communicate with each other. There has to be something useful at one of these stalls, something we can actually use…”

“Is it sightseeing time already?”

“Well, now that we’re here we might as well have a look, maybe see if the target’s around.” CEO gives a small half-shrug. “We’ve done this all before, so it shouldn’t be as bad as Gamerica was.”

No defining landmarks jut out over the vast ocean of identical heads and bodies — other than the promotional stalls with branding so nondescript they end up being completely indistinguishable from each other, same as their target demographics. Genus isn’t worse than Gamerica, but it isn’t better, either — the two cities are simply bad in different ways.

“I can’t make heads or tails out of any of this. Got any ideas, you two?”

“Geez, I dunno, Boss,” Floyd begins, ambling forward, “how about we just walk to the other side of the room and hit up every stall along the way?”

“Alright, whatever, but I’ll reserve the right to veto any of our visits.”

First, the company passes a stall with ‘ghost banishing equipment’ on display. Odd that such rational folk would believe in superstitions like ghosts, but you can’t expect much sense from most Suits in the first place.

“Hey, Boss, don’t these just look like regular cleaning supplies to you?”

“Yes, they’re more like ‘stain-banishing’ gear than exorcism equipment,” CEO scoffs, turning to leave. “Must be a scam of some kind. At least they’re free.”

Further on lies another stall with different wares, sporting a banner reading ‘Ctrl:Preview’. A cube-shaped device with a tube attached to its back is in the process of producing something rectangular, while a couple sandwiches and a miniature briefcase rest beside it on the stall’s table.

Next to the stall is a platform continuously assembling and disassembling a vaguely humanoid automaton in a perpetual A-pose. A placard at the construct’s feet reads ‘NEW! Extra durable model’.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the crowd around him, Floyd accidentally grazes the extra durable model’s shoulder.

“Whoa, sorry—” he says, stopping himself when the automaton crumbles into dust. “Oops.”

“Oops,” Meat Kid repeats.

“Sorry…” Floyd glances around for any witnesses. “Huh, this stall’s unmanned… where’s the stallholder at?”

“Bathroom break, I’d guess. Let’s get out of sight before they get back.”

Another stall, this time selling genetically modified foods. Sitting on its table is a fruit bowl with some apples, bananas and other assorted produce inside, while behind the table is another lab-coated Suit excitedly chatting with one of the other stallholders.

“I don’t have a good feeling about those,” CEO remarks, looking headlong at the items in the fruit bowl.

Floyd pushes his boss closer towards the stall. “Try one anyway, Boss!”

“Ugh.” CEO plucks a tomato from the fruit bowl, making sure the stallholder’s back is still turned. He takes the smallest of bites…

And that tiny bite alone is enough to disappoint him. Watery, tasteless, and mushy, as if it had already been chewed up and spit out by someone else.

CEO looks at the tomato in his hand, but finds that it has already regrown the patch of flesh it should be missing. Disgusted, he tosses the tomato back to its former spot in the fruit bowl.

“Raidcon, Raidcon, the best product for true shadowy legends! Get your wireless audio equipment here!”

After what feels like hours, the trio find a stall hawking some actually useful things for once. Manned by a Suit with thick black hair tied into a ponytail and a pair of headphones around their neck, an assortment of audio equipment has been spread out across the table for passers-by to admire.

“New and improved, get it now…” They perk up at the sight of CEO and company. “Hey, customers!”

The stallholder waves at the party, the cat ear attachments of their headphones bobbing with the motion. A metal nametag on the lapel of their lab coat reads “Dr. Johnson”.

CEO saunters over. “Ah, yes? What do you want?”

“Wanna try some top quality audio products? Once in a lifetime opportunity, never going on sale again after this!” Doctor Johnson bats away Floyd’s wandering hand, stopping it from making off with a pair of headphones (without cat ears). “Ah ah ah! Free demo, but taking them will cost ya!”

“Sure. Why not. Hand them over.”

Dr. Johnson snickers. “asjfkdkhgkfl it’s not that easy LOL. I’ll help you with the fitting.”

How the hell did they make a sound like that with their mouth? CEO dismisses the thought, as Dr. Johnson deftly fits both him and the other two members of his party with a set of personal audio equipment each. They step back to admire their handiwork.

“Looking fresh!” Dr. Johnson cheers. “Where are you guys from, anyways? I’m getting mad deja vu just by looking at you.”

Here’s a good moment to practice the alibis, touch them up a little too. “Haven’t we told you yet? We’re Gamerica’s R&D ambassadors, ah, Conner, Frank, and Mark.”

“Gamerica?” Doctor Johnson’s face lights up. “Sick! Me too! Great to see some fellow epic gamers out and about.”

“Yes, we’re—”

Johnson pushes the Raidcon products into CEO’s welcoming hands. “Here, here, have this stuff on the house, and, like, use the money to buy yourself a new console or something. This place is basically Gamerica 2 anyway.”

“I can see why you’d think that,” CEO remarks.

“Yeah, you do too right? Anyway, since you’re from there…” A scratch of the head. “This might sound a bit weird but do you have any Gamer Gasoline on you?”

“No.”

Doctor Johnson practically deflates. “Aw, my caffeine…”

“We’ll be off now. Nice talking,” CEO says, disappearing into the crowd.

One last stall, this time for a machine that claims to extend its user’s neck through stretching it for repeated periods of time. CEO isn’t fond of the idea, but he stops to look just to appear natural.

“We’re considering expanding into other limbs like legs and arms, diversifying our products a little,” says the stallholder, adjusting his scarf, “can’t put all your eggs in a single basket, it’s what I always think.”

Floyd nods. “Wow, how interesting!”

“Yes, very. What’s also interesting is… Aren’t you all a little too tall to be using the neck extenders? And that hair of yours, won’t it get in the way?” The stallholder cocks his head to the side. “You’re a strange group… very strange… Where are you from?”

“Aw, we’re Gamerica’s R&D ambassadors!” Floyd replies, jovial as ever. “Just came back from Sandwich City, actually!”

CEO bites his tongue. That fool, why would he reveal such an important detail—

The stallholder flips a section of scarf behind his elongated neck. “I’ve got a couple pals in Sandwich City, actually. Police. Say they’re looking out for someone about six foot one high and his pals.”

“Pals? Is that so? Then I’m afraid it’s got nothing to do with us, since we’re only research colleagues.” CEO glances over at Meat Kid. “Isn’t that right, Markus, er, Mark?”

‘Markus’, or ‘Mark’, as his fake name should normally be, nods.

The stallholder clicks his tongue. “Oh, maybe, but we can’t risk any danger to our wonderful city. This safety comes at a price, just like everything else. Here, let me measure your height, just in case…”

“I don’t think that’s going to help, in my humble opinion,” says CEO through gritted teeth.

“Don’t be silly. I’ve already got my tape measure at the ready.” The stallholder whips out a tape measure from underneath the stall table. “Stand still…”

“Me? Silly? You’re the one being silly. Fl— er, Franklin, sorry, Frank, let’s get a move on…”

“Yeah, get lost and quit bothering… um…” ‘Franklin’, usually ‘Frank’, crosses his arms, face scrunched up in thought. “Conner! Stop bothering Conner!”

Too late. The tape measure snaps into place. “Six foot one exactly, not including the shoes.”

“Well.” CEO tries to bullshit another excuse. “There’s your problem: ‘not including the shoes’. Do you know how much height a good pair of shoes can add?

“Sir, I know what a good pair of shoes looks like, and yours are perfectly fine. But don’t kid yourself like that. You didn’t get that tall from the soles of shoes alone.”

“Okay, so I am six foot one.” CEO sighs. “Lots of people are. That doesn’t mean I’m the one those good-for-nothing Sandwich City idiots are looking for—”

“Aha, I knew it! Security!!!”

Speak of the devil, and it comes. A pack of guards decked out in tactical riot gear arrive to ruin the fun, surrounding CEO and company without a sound.

“You’ve got the wrong people!” shouts ‘Conner’. “I swear, you—”

A sudden, sharp pain pierces the back of the CEO's neck, and he tumbles head-first into darkness.

From darkness, light emerges.

He stirs from the murky depths, muck falling from his person in rivulets.

A wide sea spreads out in front of him. No matter what direction he looks in, there doesn’t seem to be any land in sight. The world is blanketed in shallow seawater, and he is firmly entrenched in it. There are no waves, no ripples.

There is light coming from somewhere. Neither particularly weak nor particularly strong. He squints at it. He can’t tell where exactly the light is coming from. There is no sun, no moon, no stars.

The clouds above move so quickly — like a timelapse over many years. He looks down, and notices that he is kneeling.

Pillars made of television static float in the air. Bookcases, sheaves of paper, floor tiles, potted plants, glass cylinders… an assortment of detritus litters the airspace.
The phantasmagoric tableau is completed by what appears to be a fragment of a laboratory.

“At last…”

Two shining figures stand before him. They glow, radiant and otherworldly. He shades his eyes with his hand, but it’s impossible to stop looking at them. He can’t focus on their features, only make out their vague silhouettes, like shadows cut from the cloth of light. His retinae burn. It hurts to look, but not looking is worse.

“After ten years of tireless research,” says the taller figure, his voice ethereally distant and distorted, “Project Fogarty has finally produced some sought-after results.”

The shorter one chuckles. The world slips away around them all. “So no explosions this time? Might as well throw away my mop; won’t be needin’ it in the end.”

“Your humor is as timely as ever, Brother. This triumphant day is a turning point for our glorious enterprise, after all.” The taller of the duo moves a hand ever so slightly in the observer’s direction. “The firstborn of our workforce has awoken.”

The shorter brother produces a few wheezing laughs. “What’s so special about him? I wake up every day.”

“Don’t you see?” The taller brother gestures outward. “As the firstborn of my own superior DNA, he will be the forerunner to our army. The representative, the flagship… one whose essence will fuel the creation of thousands more in his own perfect image!”

“Heh, why don’t you cook up a couple thousand more janitors while you’re at it?”

The observer tries to say something, but the sounds stick in his throat. The brothers turn to face him.

“There you are. Our world’s first Business Class CEO…” The taller brother motions for him to stand up. “Rise, my son.”

The CEO rises.

The world turns to dust.

From dust, the embers of reality eventually emerge.

His eyelids feel like a hundred tons of lead.

A familiar feeling lingers within him, branded into his mind like it never left. How could he ever forget that? The day of his birth, he remembers, that day…

“Boss!” someone yells. “You awake yet?!”

That… What was that?

“The-ell,” he slurs, unable to pry his eyelids open. Grains of noise dance in the space between his eyes and his brain. “Wha-the-ell…”

“Boss? Are you okay?”

That voice can only be Floyd’s. There should be no harm in responding.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Relieved, Floyd starts his reply with a sigh. “You were out for a while. What happened?”

“I had the strangest dream just now… There was…”

As the words fall from his mouth, so too does the memory slip from his mind. He shuts his eyes a little tighter.

“Boss? What was it about?”

CEO shakes his head. “On second thought, I’m not really sure. My past, I guess.”

“Your past, huh? It’s no use thinking about the past at the moment.” Floyd’s tone gets a little more whiny. “We’ve gotta act, and we’ve gotta act now!”

“Act… act on what?”

“Linguini!” answers a third voice.

“What?”

The third voice jars him awake, acting as the last push for him to finally open his eyes. CEO gets off the ground and into a sitting position.

There is nothing beside him but thin air.

“Wait,” says the CEO, looking around, “where are you two?”

No luck. His surroundings, too, are barren. Above him and below him are pure white, to his left and his right are pure white. White upon white upon white. CEO traces the walls with his fingertips — they seem to be made of some kind of smooth plastic, imperceptibly worn by time. He has found himself trapped in a tiny room full of sharp corners and ruler-straight lines; separated from the outside by a mere pane of glass in front of him.

The glass, the glass… He gazes through the glass wall and finds another wall beyond it; a wall lined with rows and rows of other cells just like his, facing straight ahead at him. CEO notes their forms — every one of them a perfect cube. If he squints a little, he can make out the writhing shapes behind the windows of the other side.

Parallel to his cell, the other wall extends boundlessly upwards and to both sides. CEO doesn’t look down.

“What the hell happened?” CEO whispers.

“We got captured, Boss!” comes Floyd’s deafening reply, bringing with it a million staticky clicks and pops. CEO flinches at the sudden loud noise. “They’re keeping us in separate cells. I can see you guys from where I am, I think? I’m gonna wave!”

Through the window, CEO catches a glimpse of motion from one of the cells opposite his. He waves back. “I see you.”

“Good. I dunno how much longer we’re gonna be in here for. I think we might be getting experimented on before long…”

“Trust me, I won’t let them do that.”

“Haha, you better not!” Floyd chides. “Anyways, if that’s you, then that’s Meat Kid next to you. Hey man, are you listening?”

“Linguini!” says Meat Kid.

“I guess we’ll see how good these Raidcon things really are… hahahahaha!”

CEO notes the shrill warble hiding in Floyd’s laughter. “Do you always laugh like this when you’re nervous?”

“Hahaha…” Floyd laughs it up some more, his tone of voice back down to normal. “Boss, there’s someone down there.”

CEO catches another glimpse of movement at his feet. As he looks just the tiniest bit below him, a Suit in a lab coat strolls into view.

“A grant… where am I getting that next grant from…” They seem to be muttering to themselves about something, scratching the back of their neck as they eye the myriad of glass cases. This glass isn’t very soundproof, since CEO can hear everything outside… but the cell walls are much less receptive to sound, because he can’t hear anything from his fellow inmates.

“If anyone looks our way, we’re toast!” Floyd insists. “What should we do?”

CEO tries to hide the creeping panic in his voice, concealing it with a layer of authority. “Play dead.”

“You got it, Boss.”

Floyd flops onto the ground.

“Ooh, that specimen just moved. Perfect.” The scientist dials a number on their previously unseen mobile phone, smiling when the person on the other side picks up. “Yes, yes, it’s for research on the recycling process. I believe we could probe into it a bit more before we continue with the development of our new one…”

What?

“Yes, yes, I get it.” From CEO’s viewpoint, the scientist seems to be looking directly at Floyd’s cell. “I have a test subject prepared. Just give me the funding already.”

Wait, what?

“Boss,” says Floyd, his face still smushed onto the floor, “I don’t think that worked.”

“Okay, change of plans. We’ll—”

The cell retracts into the wall, taking Floyd with it. The cell above it shifts down one to take its place, and so do the others above that one, maintaining their seamless facade.

“—what the fuck?!”

“Hello? Hello? Can you guys still hear me?” Floyd’s panicked voice crackles.

The headset, does it still work even this far away? CEO bangs on the glass panel, despite knowing he can’t do a thing to it. “Floyd!”

“You’re breaking up—”

A burst of static, then silence.

Meat Kid warbles something. “Flo… yd…?”

“No, no, why…” CEO’s eyes dart across the room in search of a weapon, any weapon, anything to fight back with other than his bare hands. “My case… where the hell is my case? Shit, did they take our weapons?”

“Linguini.”

“Do you have some kind of plan in mind, Meat Kid?”

Nope, nothing, just incoherent mumbling from the other end of the line.

“Huh.”

He strains to hear anything more. Sounds like water being poured on a wall, then a sizzling… then a loud crumbling as if right beside him.

CEO looks to his left. The wall beside him has crumbled, scattered debris coated in a layer of some strange liquid. “Huh?”

“Linguini!”

CEO sighs. “That’s as good of an answer as I’m getting.”

Your weapons can’t be confiscated if you are the weapon. Lucky sonovabitch. Another look at the wall reveals parts of it still unbroken, so maybe Meat Kid didn’t have much of an advantage over him anyways.

CEO gives the wall a final push. Having removed all the obstacles, the two men meet in the middle, face to deformed face.

“So. Meat Kid.” CEO clears his throat. “Let me just get this out of the way. I know you’ve got your problems with me, but we really don’t have any other choices than cooperation if we want to get out of this stupid place.”

The other man gives a slow nod.

“Great, you’ve already accepted it. I like obedient coworkers.”

“Linguini.”

“Not much of a talker? Alright, whatever.” CEO rolls his eyes. “First order of business is to break out of this prison.”

He glances through the glass window beside him, and, for the first time, takes notice, really thorough notice, of just how far up they are.

“There’s a long way from here to the ground; we’d probably break our legs if we jumped from this height. Can’t run with a pair of broken legs, so no jumping it is then. If we had some way to cushion the fall, jumping would be great. Not great for me, though, I hate heights—” It’s at this point when CEO remembers who exactly he’s talking to, and clams up like he should’ve from the start. “—forget it. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Why?”

“So you can speak properly after all,” CEO replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Speaking… no good. Writing… better.”

“Fine, have it your way.”

Meat Kid nods. “Linguini.”

He might as well keep talking it out. “Getting to the ground is the problem here. If we had the right equipment we could dig through the cells below us somehow… Brute force can break the walls, but for how long? We’d tire out even if we had all the time in the world to do this.” CEO shakes his head. “Then there’s the matter of being caught. Breaking anything more might set off an alarm, and since you just broke the wall between our cells we might not have much time before we get apprehended again.” CEO crosses his arms. “Ugh, we might as well just sit and wait to die.”

“You… talk too much,” Meat Kid says, mirroring his companion’s constant head-shaking. “I… have… better idea.”

“Like what, huh?”

“I… go first.”

Flesh, strands and tumors of it, seeps through the tiny gap between the glass panel and the prison cell’s wall.

“What?”

By the time CEO has finished asking, Meat Kid is already halfway through the cell’s now partly-corroded glass pane, scattering shards of transparent glass like diamond dust in the air around him.

“Wait, hold on, you idiot—”

CEO reaches out for his coworker’s hand, but his fingers only grasp air. He looks down through the hole in the window…

And sees Meat Kid waving up at him from below, the ground beneath him padded with pulsating flesh. More flesh coats the ground as Meat Kid beckons for CEO to jump down too.

No, he can’t be serious, can he? He can’t be.

But he is. It doesn’t look like a safe or comfortable landing, but there’s no other choice.

“God damn it, I hate heights.”

CEO swallows his despair, cannonballing out of the window.

Genus is large and its labs are many.

In one lab is a certain Floyd Roberts, strapped onto an operating table, staring at the desk next to him. On the desk lie an assortment of surgical implements, some in better condition than others. All look quite sharp, though.

He gulps away the lump in his throat.

“How did I get here…” Floyd wonders aloud.

Having safely landed on the cushioned floor, the other two members of the company take a moment to marinate in their shared fate. CEO grabs Meat Kid’s shoulders and shakes them back and forth.

“You crazy bastard, what were you thinking?! You could have gotten us both killed!”

Meat Kid shrugs. “Worked out… in the end.”

“No, it didn’t! It hasn’t even worked out now, we could be caught at any mome—”

The clicking of heeled boots approaches the two. Around them, the air seems to sour and freeze, turning to dust in CEO’s throat.

“What’s all this commotion about?” says the person behind CEO.

CEO looks over his shoulder. Standing an uncomfortably close distance away is a Suit in a bulletproof vest, with a truncheon in hand (paw?) and a riot shield in the other. Goggles plus a face covering of some sort cover all facial features, although the contours of a snout can still be seen.

Great, not one of these guys again. Like cockroaches, if there’s one then there’s probably a million more waiting around the corner. Judging by the walkie-talkie on the guy’s belt, he won’t hesitate to call for backup like the other ones did. Just great.

“Hey!” the labrador guard barks, in apparent recognition of the two men. “What are you doing outside your cells?!”

Maybe his bullshitting can save him again. “Oh, no, couldn’t be us, we—”

In the five or so seconds that CEO took his eyes off him, Meat Kid has already smashed a cell window to bits. By the looks of it, he’s about to smash another.

“Shit!” CEO hisses, startled by the sound. “What the hell are you planning now, you overgrown toddler?!”

A second window has been broken. “Talk is useless. Need distraction.”

“Can’t you think of a better way to do it?”

Meat Kid shakes his head. “Hurry. Break glass.”

“Fine, whatever, they can’t catch us all.”

CEO, lacking Meat Kid’s outrageous strength, must look for some other way to release the cargo trapped within the cells. As he searches frantically for another method, his eyes finally land on the little gaps of wall between each cell’s window.

Of course. Control panels. How else would these cells move?

He gives himself an imaginary pat on the back before proceeding to hit each panel with every last ounce of strength. Behind him, the security guard flinches at the thought of what is to come.

And come it does. From out of the cells pour creatures of every shape and size — writhing, squirming beasts with carnage on their feeble minds.

Murmurings, almost human in their sound, resound through the jail. CEO wonders if perhaps these things were once like him, twisted into unrecognizable shapes by the madmen that man this disgusting city. Perhaps he, too, met a similar fate at the hands of the people here, once in another reality.

A limb here and a tendril there seize their jailor, pulling the guard deep into the midst of a monstrous festival of violence, barring even a single body part from sight.

That’s good enough. CEO doesn’t want to get up close and personal with what’s going on in there. Now, all that’s left to do is disappear…

“Run!” Meat Kid cries.

“You don’t need to tell me that!”

… and disappear they do, slipping out amidst the chaos to wherever the maze’s winding paths will take them.

Somewhere on the other side of the maze of specimens are CEO and Meat Kid, picking their way through the desolate quiet. An exit looms up ahead, the brightly-lit sign their only hope of escape… though wherever it may lead could prove itself worse than their previous tribulations.

As always, it’s their only option, so they take it.

“Alright now…” CEO mutters, dusting off his jacket. He glances around for any signs of life.

Around him, a series of sparklingly clean corridors stretch out, presumably leading to the various areas of the city, or maybe just the different parts of this area. Each corridor has a few doors dotted along its length, separated in sections that seem almost pre-made and simply assembled rather than built. The walls remind him of those in his cell, albeit colored a slightly darker gray. A few motivational posters with science-y slogans line the walls; CEO doesn’t get any of their jokes.

Behind him, an alarm siren blares, although its low volume makes it seem impossibly distant. That must be the guard’s doing, or at least an automated system’s. Beside him is a row of vending machines, stocked to the brim with Sandwich City™ branded sandwiches. A few scientists in crisp labcoats are milling about the machines, deciding on what to get.

“Where the hell are we?”

“No… idea.”

Should have known better than to ask a rhetorical question here. “Doesn’t matter. We have to get somewhere that nobody can see us.”

“O… kay.”

CEO holds up a finger. “Remember, act natural.”

The two walk past the vending machines, ducking into an empty corridor when they see nobody watching them.

“One of those corridors has to lead to the labs somehow,” whispers CEO, pointing at the many branching paths, “because it would be a real pain in the ass to haul things between the storage area and everywhere else. Either there’s a way to get quickly to the labs from the specimen storage, or there wouldn’t be much space between them in the first place. We have to be getting closer, and if we’re on the wrong path there should at least be a lift somewhere leading to the right one…”

“O… kay?”

CEO spares a glance at the man next to him. “You know what? I’m feeling lucky today, Meat Kid. We’ll take the first door we see… in this middle corridor.”

They walk down the corridor together. As CEO’s unreliable luck would have it, the first door in the middle corridor leads to a room with a single elevator in it. The only button to press is marked with an arrow pointing upwards.

CEO jabs the button with a finger, watching it light up as he draws away. “Alright… jackpot.”

The lift arrives with a ding. Good, nobody else inside. The two men get in, standing about a shoulder width away from each other.

CEO leans backward against the lift’s metal wall. Meat Kid stares blankly at the closed doors. Neither have anything much to say; without even soft jazz to liven up the mood, the silence feels downright oppressive.

Not like oppression is something they’re unfamiliar with.

“So,” CEO starts. He’s out of ideas for small talk, but there’s something that just occurred to him that he has to ask. “Why do you like The Guy so much, anyway?”

Meat Kid turns his blank stare onto him. He scribbles something into his notebook, showing CEO the finished page.

“Because he was the only one who understood what I was feeling,” the page reads. Not yet satisfied, Meat Kid writes in a second part. “And he was the only one who helped me deal with it.”

CEO crosses his arms.

Something about the way those words were phrased tugs just so on the indomitable CEO’s heartstrings, and for a moment he feels as if they aren’t so different after all. He can relate to that struggle, he can sympathize, but they only happened to be different because he had the good luck to start as someone powerful instead of weak. And maybe it really is his fault that Meat Kid is like that; the city’s machines were his fault after all.

Just like CEO, too, knows nothing about the person he used to be, perhaps Meat Kid, too, remembers nothing about his past.

He’ll have to make it up to him somehow.

“Hey, I’m sorry for being such an asshole earlier.” CEO pats Meat Kid on the back. “I know how it feels, not having people who get you. But eventually, things worked out for me, and they might for you. For now, you can count on us.”

The elevator stops at a mezzanine above a laboratory infused with the scent of bleach. Amidst everything around the company are the frantic movements of a hurried population almost disinterested in the churning of commerce that the rest of the world so readily offers up; something in the air is different here, oh-so-subtly different, tense and anticipatory and ready to lunge at the jugular of the day. Though that population has been reduced to just one person, the uneasy feeling remains — lodging itself firmly in CEO’s throat.

On the floor below the mezzanine is a familiar person behaving in an unfamiliar way.

“You, you can’t do this to me! Don’t you know who I am?!” Floyd slurs, struggling against the restraints placed upon him. “I’m CEO-fucking-Roberts!” he shouts, delirious and incoherent, kicking and screaming.

Next to Floyd is a less familiar person. CEO recognizes them as being the scientist from the maze, the one who was having that loud phonecall about funding and grants.

“Truly interesting to see… recycled subjects do retain some memories after all…” the scientist mutters, writing furiously on their clipboard. “Could some kind of stimuli be triggering it? We must research this in further depth…”

CEO nudges his compatriot. “Meat Kid, do you realize what’s happening right now?” he says, keeping his voice low.

“How…?” mutters Meat Kid.

“It’s Floyd. He’s hurt. We have to free him.”

“O… kay. How?”

“Well, we have to incapacitate that guy down there, so maybe we can just go in guns-blazing and…” CEO frowns. “No, that’s too obvious. The scientist might set off another alarm if we do that. And, of course, Floyd could see us and end up ruining our whole operation, the way he is now.”

Meat Kid tilts his head, squinting at the other man. “Go… back?”

“Maybe, but where to? Obviously not back into the maze. We barely made it out this time, and who knows what’s happening back there right now? What if security apprehends us again? A tactical retreat can only work if there are tactics to use… Ugh, no.”

“So… what?”

“I don’t know. We’re in a pretty tight spot. Can’t advance and can’t retreat…” CEO rubs his temples with his knuckles. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“We… have to… be careful.”

“Well, no shit. Do you see anything that could possibly help us?”

Meat Kid stares at CEO for much longer than is comfortable. “Chem… icals,” he says, making some kind of motion.

“Okay. I didn’t get that at all.”

“Just…” Meat Kid huffs, exasperated. “Let me do it.”

The scientist has set down a cup of coffee on a nearby table. Meat Kid sends tendrils of flesh into the walls, searching through cabinets full of chemicals in plastic bottles to find something useful. His flesh tendrils settle upon a bottle labeled with a pictogram of a skull, knocking it over in just the right way for its contents to drip into the scientist’s coffee. None the wiser, the scientist drinks deeply from the contaminated beverage, and immediately begins to foam at the mouth. In a few minutes, the scientist has keeled over, lying stone dead on the floor.

Damn. Maybe Meat Kid’s more useful than he thought.

“Good job.”

Meat Kid smiles, and despite the man’s deformed face, CEO finds the sight just the tiniest bit cute. Then he remembers the enormity of the other man’s recent act, and reminds himself not to let his guard down.

CEO clears his throat. “Right, let’s get this over and done with already.”

The two men come out from behind cover and swiftly release Floyd from his restraints. Although intimidating from a distance, the scientists have clearly neglected to invest in proper lab equipment, settling from some ropes and straps that look like they’ve been scavenged from behind a hardware store.

“Boss! Thanks for saving me!” Floyd cries.

CEO nods. “It’s no problem. I know you would’ve done the same for me.”

“Of course I would’ve!” Floyd notices Meat Kid beside the boss. “Aw yeah, thank you too Meat Kid!” He grins.

Meat Kid scribbles something on his notepad, holding the latest paper up to show Floyd. “You’re welcome,” the piece of paper reads, a facsimile of a smiling face drawn after the words.

“Though now that’s all over, I am kinda thirsty.” Floyd coughs. “Boss, do you have anything to drink?”

“Well, I have one thing. I don’t know if you can still drink it, but—”

Floyd makes a grabbing motion. “Aww, Boss, don’t do this to me! I’m parched!”

CEO holds out the can and Floyd snatches it out of his hands, chugging the contents of the can in a single gulp. He perks up instantaneously, almost sparkling like new.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm! That’s a LOT of caffeine!!!!”

“Did you seriously drink all of that at once?”

“Aw hell yeah I did, Boss!”

“Wow.”

A thin stream of saliva gathers at the edge of Floyd’s mouth. “Okay, I know I just downed that all in one go, but there’s just something in it that makes me want more…”

“Well too bad, that was the only one. Also that’s probably the copious amounts of sugar they add. Stick to regular coffee.” CEO takes the can from Floyd’s hands, dangling it in front of the other man. “You’ll get addicted to this stuff if you have any more.” He tosses the empty can away.

Floyd wipes the spit from his mouth. “Aww, you’re no fun anymore.”

“Linguini.”

“So true!” Floyd says, hyping Meat Kid up. He turns back to CEO. “By the way, Boss, your gun’s somewhere around here, I think.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw it next to the other confiscated items. I mean, it’d be a shame if we wasted all that cash on something we’d never see again!”

“You’ve got a point.” CEO nods. “Lead the way.”

Floyd points them in the direction of Genus’s item storage, a pithy little room by the laboratories. Neatly labeled and tucked away next to the other seized goods lies CEO’s briefcase, sitting pretty on a nondescript shelf.

CEO picks up the case. He flicks the switch to turn on the LEDs.

The lights refuse to do their job.

CEO gives the case a little shake, annoyed. “Why won’t it light up?”

“Maybe some of the parts got damaged?” Floyd shrugs. “Dunno.”

No helping it, then. CEO grips the handle and prepares to move out. They leave the storage room without further incident.

Back in the maze, the trio do some reconnaissance.

CEO squints. “Still no sign of the target. Where do you think he’s hiding?”

Floyd shrugs, again. “No idea. Maybe he’s at the center of this place… like a minotaur in a labyrinth.”

“Laby… rinth. Mino… taur.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gah, I don’t know,” Floyd says, shaking his head rapidly, “I just felt like saying it. But we must be getting close, hopefully.”

“I suppose all we can do now is press on.”

“You said it, Boss.”

The trio reunited, they pick their way out of the maze towards their ultimate destination. Back into the gray poster-walled halls, back into the veins of the city. Only this time, a lot less people stand between them and their objective.

“Where is everybody?” Floyd asks.

“Probably dealing with the aftereffects of a containment breach.”

“Huh?”

CEO coughs. “Probably having a staff party.”

The nearest exit is a metal door composed of two interlocking pieces, a neon sign above it reading “Print Zone”. The trio’s approach sets off its motion detectors. Onwards, they jaunt.

Through the doorway is another hallway, the floor covered in abstract-patterned tiles. The hallway snakes between tall structures containing heavy machinery, wires criss-crossing the floor and serpentining up the machines. Switches for unknown purposes appear sporadically on the machines’ surfaces, some labeled “ON” and “OFF” but others not labeled at all.

The lack of people persists even here.

CEO looks up at the tops of the machines, spotting dangling legs and grasping hands hanging from funnels near the ceiling. Above the mechanical complex is a lanceoloid object with a texture rather like a grenade, pushing substrate deeper into the funnels. Heavy-duty filters, presumably, catch any and all material too chunky to be used. A counter on the side of one machine tracks ‘flow rate’ in the double digits, whatever the hell ‘flow rate’ is.

Despite the massive amount of energy this industrial-scale process must be using, the process is virtually soundless but for a low thrum, deep bass vibrations felt through the soles of the company’s shoes.

“Huh, this seems familiar,” Floyd remarks. “What do you think, Boss?”

Machines at each section process the ‘material’ into meaty paste before sending it onwards to the next station; refining and filtering more and more at each step, finishing off with long spools of thin thread that pool together in giant steel containers. Like spider silk, or perhaps a filament of some kind. The perfect filament. Even if inedible, it’s perfect to make the goods that everyone else clamors for, to keep up with an unsustainable supply-demand equilibrium…

“I really wonder why.”

Meat Kid stares blankly into the processing complex. “Not so different… made of same stuff.”

Best not to think about the implications of that.

Trudging through the hallway reveals a final chamber, titanic in height yet miniscule in breadth. The floor of this room is covered in a metal grating, broken up by a central aperture. The ceiling is made of some transparent material, showing all the water above Genus; the pressure would be immense if it ever did decide to cave in. There are square shapes on the ceiling when CEO looks up, but he can’t tell what they are.

Sparks of electricity run through the floor, beneath the feet of the company.

If the convention area earlier was Genus’s lungs, then surely this chamber would be its beating heart. A thrumming noise, low and persistent, sits on the outer edge of CEO’s hearing.

This is the city of progress’s final progression. There’s no other explanation for it; the emptiness has to have a reason. Otherwise…

“Bio-scan initialized. Elements detected: Organic, Corruption, Unknown,” says a robotic voice. CEO looks for its source, but can’t see any speakers. Surround sound, maybe. “Threat Level: Grade H.”

A gigantic aperture in the center of the room opens up, its shutter receding to show the titanic form of the creature under it. Beneath the pane of glass squirms an indistinct mass, twitching in the most unnerving way. It seems to be floating in some kind of solution, lit from underneath by a huge floodlight.

CEO can’t make out a single detail of the thing. He squints, but the only things he can distinguish are a few veins connecting it to the depths below, and cables running the length of its form. Maybe a horse leg here and there. He’s not really sure. It disorients him, gives him the feeling of teetering over a bottomless pit. Makes him feel like he’s staring at something that isn’t supposed to exist.

The creature squirms slightly. Having apparently gained its bearings, it turns its massive eye upon the company, scanning every inch of their bodies with intense scrutiny.

“You…” the thing says, in the same robotic voice as before, “You are not like my children. You are destroyers.”

CEO wonders if it knows who he really is, if his information is redacted or if it knows everything there is to know about him.

“If we’re destroyers then what the hell are you?!” shouts Floyd.

Meat Kid backs him up with a nod.

The specimen under the glass threshes in indignation. It’s probably thinking about how to best manipulate the situation to its advantage, if it can even think. It’s not every day you see three CEOs in the same room, or three ex-CEOs for that matter. Maybe it’s feeling confident about its standing in the fight that’s sure to come. More likely it’s just repeating pre-programmed phrases that it doesn’t understand the meanings of.

“Right, what the hell is that thing?” asks CEO.

“I? I am what I am.” The thing in question twitches. “I am the Creator.”

The Creator launches another scan on the party, this time beeping and booping in a most annoying manner. CEO feels a little violated despite the inherent silliness.

“I detect particulate matter from more than four different locations on the surface of your forms.” The robotic voice’s tone doesn’t change, but CEO picks up a hint of sarcasm that he’s sure shouldn’t have come through. “Perhaps you are a destructive variable that could create more potential demand for me, and for that possibility I must grant my undying gratitude to you.”

The Creator wriggles in its enclosure. Perhaps it thinks that its mind is its greatest weapon. Some persuasive words could allow it to keep the situation under control until someone can be alerted… but that is a matter for later. Once more, it chooses its next words carefully.

“Your image, so very striking as it is, may serve as valuable inspiration for my designs in the coming age.” The machine’s voice drones on. “Tell me. Show me your personal vision of the future. How do you wish to be immortalized?
“What sort of title belongs to, nay, deserves the face of the… soon to be… late… great… CEO?”

Soon to be late? The CEO in question squints at the odd turn of phrase and sudden, suspicious stuttering. “What are my options?”

“A wise professor?” A hologram of a man wearing glasses materializes from thin air, life-size and lifelike. He bows deeply to the audience.

“A mighty general?” Beside the bespectacled gentleman appears another illusory man, this time clad in military regalia. With a curt nod, he salutes the party.

“A vagrant janitor?” Last of all is a lanky figure wearing a square cap. He rests his chin and hands on the handle of a mop — slipping and falling over just as his position started to seem comfortable.

“Take your pick. Tomorrow’s history shall be captured,” the Creator begins, its holograms dissolving into filaments of light, “by each and every strand of the webs I choose to weave.”

“A tempting offer.” CEO remarks. “I’ll pick, but first…”

“What is it? What could you possibly have to say to this?” Despite the lack of a change in tone or inflection, the Creator seems irritated.

“I never told you my name.”

Small bubbles fill The Creator’s chamber. It must be wondering how it could have let that detail slip, the damn thing. CEO presses the attack a little further.

“I take it you’re not just a harmless little science fair experiment, then?”

“Elaborate?”

CEO breathes in. Here goes nothing.

“If you knew my name before I told you… then you must recognize me somehow. You know my face or voice from somewhere else. Where else? Who knows.” CEO shrugs, hamming it up. “Could be almost anywhere.”

Next…

“But, the easiest assumption to make is that you have access to the news in some way,” he says, wagging a finger and continuing the line of logic, “like through the internet.”

That has to be right.

“I…” The Creator takes a moment to process all that, computing the speech in the tiniest of instants. The water of its enclosure begins to froth. “Of course I do! I have no flaws, CEO! Of course my mind is connected to the network. After all, my thoughts and Genus’s constant stream of advanced data must operate as one for peak efficiency! Don’t you understand?!”

Of course CEO understands. “I expected that much.”

The Creator writhes in even more indignation. Perhaps it’s rueing the loss of a potential ally, or the futility of attempting to persuade an unstoppable force to ally with him in the first place.

“And I also expect you’re trying to convince me to join you, because you can feel something you’ve never felt before.” CEO gives it a moment for the confusion to sink in. “A fight-or-flight feeling that only comes in the moments when death stares you down.”

By now, the writhing has turned into full-on thrashing. “Utter… utterly preposterous! I… I am the Creator! I cannot be killed!”

“If we can’t kill you, then we’ll just have to put you out of commission. I’ve busted up tons of useless junk today,” CEO says, grinning wildly as he cracks his knuckles, “so one more can’t hurt.”

“Are you insane?!?” cries the Creator’s robotic voicebank, peaking in volume at the last word. “Not even the most extreme forces can penetrate the alloys surrounding my organs!”

“If trying makes me insane, then I’m as insane as it takes to break you.”

“Break me? Nonsense. Your futile efforts at resistance are irritating.” At this point, the water in Ctrl-P’s chamber is filled with air bubbles. “This is the end of your story, CEO.”

CEO rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right. I’d like to see you try. Or are you scared of a little pain?”

“Scared? Of pain? Preposterous!” The Creator writhes madly in its chamber, churning the liquid around it like the seas around a hydrothermal vent. It is currently, for all intents and purposes, pissed the fuck off. “You know NOTHING about me! You are NOTHING, CEO! YOU are the only one here that’s scared of pain!
“You will wish you never set foot in this chamber. You will regret your actions. And you will never, never feel anything again but PAIN!”

“What?” CEO didn’t hear any of that.

“For my children’s sake. For the General’s sake. For the Chairman’s sake.”

The Creator’s aperture closes, but its voice lingers, omnipresent.

“I…”

The electrical current beneath the company grows a little stronger, making Floyd’s hair stand up a bit more. Around the company, walls move outwards, opening up the room to a massive size.

“will…”

The smell of burning plastic fills the air.

“not…”

All around the company, heavy machinery whirrs to life.

“DIE!!!”

The trio brace for whatever’s coming next — judging by the dark shadow hovering over them, it won’t be very pleasant.

Shit, is that shadow getting bigger?

CEO looks up.

“Incoming!”

Time does not slow down as it did for him once before. CEO barely manages to shove Meat Kid out of the way of the falling object, and with no small effort too.

Floyd is, fortunately, standing to the side and out of the missile’s range. “What the… what was that?”

They’ve escaped by the skin of their teeth once more. But their luck probably won’t hold up for much longer.

“Doesn’t matter, just move!”

“You got it, Boss! Where to next?”
“I was thinking that—”

Meat Kid points to a spot somewhere behind Floyd, making a “huh” noise.

“What is it? Do I have something on my face?” Floyd turns around and comes face-to-face with a faceless robot. Despite having a hole where its face should be, its gaze bores deeply into Floyd’s eyes. Its chest and torso are similarly hollowed out. “Oh shit!”

“Made a new friend already?”

Floyd grimaces, stepping away from the new friend. “No way Boss, that thing gives me the creeps.”

The creepy thing in question is looking noticeably brighter.

“That was a joke. Watch ou—”

The creepy thing explodes, ruining Floyd’s fluffy hair and mostly clean clothes.

Floyd shakes his head rapidly to dislodge any shrapnel. “Bwah!”

Meat Kid snickers.

“Now’s not the time to laugh,” CEO declares. “There’s more of them coming!”

Indeed, there’s a contingent of cloned soldiers hot on the company’s trail. But where from? How could they have gotten in here when… when…

When what? When the Creator hasn’t opened the doors? No, there’s no need for that. After all… why else would it be called a creator… if it didn’t create?

That mystifying metal-grate floor below him has a purpose, CEO realizes. It’s a build plate. A print bed. A hotbed for more of those plasticky things to be made. Or born.

And those things trying to crush them to bits?

They’re printing presses.

“We’re being chased,” says CEO. “That bastard can make its own backup.”

Floyd stares at him. “How are we supposed to deal with something that keeps calling for help and can’t be killed?!”

“It’s a war of attrition. Whoever gives up first loses. All we have to do is outlast it.”

“Guh…” Floyd gags, leaning on a nearby wall. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep on running.”

“What, did that drink not give you enough energy?”

Floyd grins wide. “I guess not!”

CEO makes a “tch” noise.

“So, do you have a different plan or what, Boss?” Floyd bats away an automaton, shredding it into ribbons with his claws. “I’m getting really tired here…”

CEO rubs his temples. “Just give me some time to think, damn it!”

No time to think, though. In the brief time where nobody was watching him, Meat Kid has managed to become the Creator’s target. A printing press inches closer to the top of his head, inch by agonizing inch. Here’s that slow motion CEO missed.

“Get out of the way!”

Meat Kid notices the press above him at last, and with CEO’s help he sidesteps it in the nick of time, albeit barely so.

CEO sighs. This whole endeavor is proving to be a lot more trouble than it’s worth. But if he got into it in the first place, there has to be a way out of it.

“Alright alright alright okay,” he rambles, kicking away another automaton, “here’s what I’m thinking. It’s unkillable to us… but maybe not to itself. What if its creations could hurt it? There’s got to be a reason why they self-destruct after a while.”

“Not gonna lie, Boss, that sounds…” Floyd makes a face. “Stupid. Why would any rational being make something that could come back to bite them in the ass like that?”

“I know it’s stupid, okay, but we don’t have the time to come up with anything better. The plan is, we lead one of its little creations on top of the window it’s closest to,” says CEO, stopping an automaton in its tracks with a well-timed block, “then bait it just long enough that the thing explodes above it.”

“O… kay…”

Floyd slashes CEO’s target to thin shreds. “Right.”

“Makes sense to you?”

“Don’t think either of us have any better ideas, Boss.”

“Great, great, great. You get it already, whoever’s being chased has to lead it.”

As soon as he finishes his sentence, the clone automatons set their sights on him, like sharks smelling blood in the water. CEO runs as fast as his legs can carry him, runs towards the open aperture of the Creator. This is fine, just fine. He can make it to the aperture with time to spare like this. The press will stop moving and slam down without ever knowing the difference, and his plan will work fine, just fine…

Something grabs the bottom of his jacket. He turns to see an automaton holding onto the fabric for dear life, or whatever semblance of life a thing like it might have.

He looks up to see the press above him, and looks down to see the taunting figure of Ctrl-P below him. If he can only get this thing off him…

“Let go of me, you piece of shit!” CEO shouts. He tugs at the automaton’s arm, attempting to wrench it right out of the socket. The limb falls out, thankfully, but instead of giving up the automaton simply uses its other hand to latch on. Persistent. Annoying.

That printing press is coming down fast.

Fortunately, Meat Kid is faster.

A chamber of flesh surrounds CEO, cutting off the automaton at the other arm. CEO uses the last of his time to free himself, leaping out of the enclosure and out of range. Meat Kid withdraws his barrier just before the automaton’s scheduled detonation. Time for the fireworks.

The automaton explodes.

The press slams down.

The glass of the aperture breaks.

Looks like the explosion didn’t do anything, but hitting itself afterwards seems to have had an effect. How utterly stupid that it would fall for that. Likely it didn’t have any safeguards in place against it. The creator destroying itself — ha ha ha, isn’t that funny?

“Error. Error. Error error error-erro-err—” goes the mechanical voice of the Creator.

“Boss,” says Floyd, slapping another automaton away, “did you hear that?”

CEO nods. “Yeah, what the hell was that?”

“Dunno. You think it worked?”

The Creator’s aperture has closed. Another one in a different part of the room has opened up. Perhaps it does this every time, moving between portholes like a particularly annoying cockroach. Who knows?

“We’ll do it again and see.” CEO gears up for another kiting, readying himself to bob and weave once more.

He manages to coerce Ctrl-P’s printing press to hover above the next open glass aperture, and, and…

…And it hit itself again. Same thing happens. Hilarious! The company revels in their victory with grins on their faces.

“Wait.” Floyd’s smile, however, disappears as quickly as it came. His eyes widen in response to something only he can hear. “Is it sending a distress signal?!”

CEO laughs cockily as the sirens reach him. “What’s it going to do, summon the ultimate nerd?”

Meat Kid stifles a giggle at that stupid excuse for a joke.

Once more, the three go through the same bait-and-switch routine, only this time…

The printing press stops short of hitting the glass. Instead, it screeches to a halt, spewing steam through the air.

“Ctrl-P? What’s going on?”

From an entrance hidden away on the opposite side of the room, a man in a labcoat arrives out of breath, his eyes as wide as saucers and his whole body shaking with worry. His spectacles are fogged up from exertion, and drops of sweat pour down his sizeable forehead.

“Oh no, oh no no no…” The man in the labcoat rushes over to the middle aperture with short, rapid steps. He drops to his knees, patting the glass. “Ctrl-P, you’re hurt…! Stop production!”

“Voice input detected. Verifying…”

All activity in the surrounding area ceases, a dull silence settling in like dust on long-neglected bookshelves.

“User Brian T. verified. Production stopped.” And now a whirring noise.

The presses aren’t moving now. CEO holds his breath. None of the others say a word, either.

Brian T. strokes the glass pane gently, a faint smile on his face. “There, there. Don’t exhaust yourself. The citizens need you. You’re a prodigy of biotechnology… and in a way, my only child… of course I won’t let you die. I’ll protect you no matter the cost.” Sing-song, soothing words, all of them meaningless. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll negotiate with the intruder.”

The man in the labcoat looks at CEO, his previous smile replaced with determined nothingness.

“What the hell? Who’s this airhead?” CEO asks.

“Airhead?” Brian pushes up his glasses, causing them to catch the light in just the right way for them to shine opaquely. “I am not—”

A look of wide-eyed recognition strikes his face.

“Not what?” CEO asks.

“You, Shareholder Killer…” In a flash, Brian’s passive shock transforms into harsh, sterile anger. “Why did you do this?”

“Shareholder Killer… that’s a new one. Is that what you cowards are calling me now?”

The man in the labcoat scowls. “You’ve rejected your place as the Chairman’s prodigal son and now you’ve begun slaughtering your former colleagues. What else is a more fitting title than the murderer you are?”

“I’ll accept that name with pride, then. These killings are a necessary evil, meant to purge you scum from the world.”

“But why try to destroy my creation and not just me?”

CEO lets his face show exactly how highly he thinks of this whole interaction. “Your glorified 3D printer was in my way. I guess it made for good bait.”

“Why you…” Brian rises to his feet. “Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to right now?”

“What does it look like? Is that big five-head of yours empty? Obviously I don’t know who you are.”

“Don’t you dare insult my cranial magnitude! I am Biggus Thinkus, the most intelligent being in the world! I know everything! You simpletons couldn’t comprehend even a fraction of my thought processes.” Brian took offense to that, apparently. Whatever.

Is this guy serious? “I don’t need to understand what you’re thinking to know that you’re afraid.”

“Me? Afraid? That’s unthinkable!”

Guess he’s serious. “It’s your day of reckoning, you moron. Everyone feels fear when they stare death in the face, and you’re no different. You Shareholders believe you’re untouchable, completely exempt from any form of consequence, able to destroy all you deem worthless. But now it’s time for you to face the music. Think about it. What do you think would happen if I decided to walk away right now? The Chairman, even your fellow Shareholders, they wouldn’t hesitate to…”

“Enough!” shouts the Shareholder, holding his hands out to shut the CEO up. He bares his teeth. “Cease your incessant chattering. The mere fact that I’m deigning to hold this conversation with you instead of immediately resorting to violence is proof against fear in and of itself.”

“So? Got something useful to say, big boy? Or are you going to keep spewing crap at me all day?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have something to say! Your presence here proves another thing to be true. The Chairman said your situation was under control, but…” He shakes his head with a sigh. “For the first time ever… he was wrong.”

“Nobody’s infallible, dumbass.”

“But he’s the closest to being so. I’m not one to believe in those types of things, but wouldn’t you agree that this is a rather fitting fate for the firstborn?”

CEO rubs a sore spot on the back of his neck. “Firstborn of what?”

“Unsurprising that you can’t remember. Even in your youth, the Chairman never enjoyed reprimanding you. You were his first creation, his grandest design. The perfect businessman. You might have even been the closest thing to his son.
“That’s why he left you unchecked. As all parents are, he was too weak to truly discipline you for your crimes; even now, with all the power in the world, he still did nothing to keep you in line. Why, in fact, he recused himself from the situation. As far as he’s concerned, the global crisis you’ve created doesn’t exist.” Thinkus sighs, shaking his head. “You know, I never once disagreed with that approach. That old fool’s after greater things than this simple planet.”

“This sounds like nonsense to me. I don’t care,” CEO says, walking closer, “and for all I know, this is just a cheap distraction so your oversized printer thing can crush me to death as soon as we stop talking.”

A vein on the scientist’s forehead twitches. “Have you any respect? I—”

CEO shakes his head. “No no no, you haven’t earned my respect yet. Shut up. Let’s get this straight, Shareholder. You got one thing right about me. I am the perfect businessman. Every job I’ve taken on so far has been a complete success. My current job involves killing you, and that’s non-negotiable, understand? So, to keep up my 100% completion rate…
“Can you hurry up and die?”

“You brat.” The scientist turns around, issuing another command to his creation. “Ctrl-P, resume production at maximum rate! Don’t stop until we kill the intruders!”

The machinery comes to life, hydraulic presses and pneumatic engines hissing like venomous snakes.

“Production resumed at 200% rate,” announces Ctrl-P’s artificial voice.

Brian turns towards the company. “Show me your power, firstborn of the Chairman! Prove to me that you deserve to live!”

The Shareholder draws a syringe from one of his labcoat’s voluminous sleeves, hypodermic needle gleaming pinprick-sharp under the fluorescent lights. As he casts away his labcoat, he jabs the syringe deep into a vein on his bicep.

His transformation is terrifyingly fast; his body morphing and restructuring itself in the span of milliseconds, bones breaking and snapping into place as his form twists into something utterly alien. The noise, too, is horrifically, ear-splittingly loud. The skin of his head seems to melt away as brain matter pours out of his skull like noodles expanding in boiling water. More brain matter streams from the Shareholder’s head until his figure is coated from head to toe in brain mass.

CEO can almost make out a set of veins, or something of the sort, before the blob of brain matter contorts into the shape of a horse and rider.

“The cavalry’s here,” snarls what was formerly the most intelligent being in the world, rearing up for a charge. “Time to end this little experiment.”

Then he gallops at them full tilt — like jousting without a lance, like a penniless Renaissance Faire Don Quixote, like a racehorse on steroids.

Hooves click against the ground in the most horrible way. CEO can only get a “huh” out before Meat Kid is dashed onto the floor and a clump of Floyd’s hair is ripped off. The equine thing nearly tramples CEO over, but it misses him by the skin of his teeth and the threads of his tie.

“Owwww oww ow what even was that?” Floyd yelps.

Meat Kid picks himself up off the floor. “Fast. Need to watch out.”

“That thing’s a lot more than just fast, damn it!”

No time for banter. Another attack heads their way, sending the motley crew scattering again. Being under siege from all sides could not be less fun.

As the former scientist gloats in his temporary victory, the company regroups further away.

“Well?” asks Floyd, between heaving breaths and scalp massages. “You’ve got a plan for this, right Boss?”

CEO shakes his head. “Nope, not really. We’ll just have to keep moving until we see a weakness that we can exploit.”

And so they keep moving, calling out warnings and directions whenever needed. CEO never thought he’d appreciate them, but those Raidcon™ headphones are coming in pretty handy.

Bob and weave. Bob and weave. Side to side, zig-zag zig-zag. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

After the first shock the company has learned all the scientist’s tricks, sensing his patterns of attack a good time in advance. The three of them are in the zone now, a flowing rhythm of battle at a bit of a stalemate. It’s not like they can land any hits on him, either. No ground gained nor lost on either side. Even Ctrl-P’s random flailing can’t touch the combatants below.

Random?

CEO looks up.

The machine doesn’t seem like it’s hitting randomly at all. Almost like the Creator is trying to avoid crushing its creator to bits.

So the little geek rigged it in his favor? Of course he would. He’s that smart, at least.

Guess the company will just have to beat him at his own game.

Up, hover, down. Up, hover, down. CEO knows the rhythm of the battle well enough by now to predict the machine’s next movements. As the scientist goes in for another cheap hit, CEO signals to the rest of his group to move. Floyd and Meat Kid get ready to run; the printing press hangs greedily in the air, waiting for its next victim.

Up, done.

Hover…

“Now!” CEO shouts.

The group scatters before the might of Biggus Thinkus… leaving the scientist completely clueless about the incoming aerial attack.

Down.

The Shareholder looks up.

“No, wait, stop! Stop stop stop!” screams Thinkus, his voice ragged and guttural. “Stop!”

The printing presses do not stop.

A moist squelch comes from where the scientist was just standing, followed by several ear-splittingly loud crunches. Dark fluid pools beneath the lowered printing press; as the press draws away, the company can no longer make out the equine form of the scientist’s last experiment.

Floyd blinks rapidly. “Wait… that’s it? One hit and he’s gone? Seems a little anticlimactic.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Corruption weakens the body’s defenses despite increasing its strength.” CEO sighs. “It might seem paradoxical but that’s just how it is.”

“Aw, so fragility is an unavoidable part of the process. I get it.”

“All power comes at a cost.”

“Makes… sense,” says Meat Kid, understanding it to the best of his abilities.

“So… if our target is already dead… what do we do now, Boss?”

“Finish the job, obviously.” CEO stares upwards. “We destroy the Creator.”

The Creator’s gigantic eye is criss-crossed by veins, bloodshot and just about ready to burst. Indeed, a few of its blood vessels have already ruptured; seems all its effort has taken a toll on its body.

“Gen— gene— gener—” Perhaps it’s lagging due to an unexpected outcome. “General!!”

“He’s not coming back, you know,” CEO calls out.

The machinery grinds to a halt at his words.

Then it restarts, the presses sucking in breath and preparing to exhale.

“Emergency! Emergency!” blares the artificial voice on the surround-sound speakers. “Production rate increased to 500%!”

All around the party, automatons assemble themselves from molten filament. This newest batch looks a lot worse for wear than any of the last, parts of them dripping onto the floor and cooling at a suboptimal rate, melting like scoops of ice cream on a hot day.

“Can’t— stop— until— intruders— are dead!”

Ha, the intruders are still alive… and, oh, looks like it can’t keep up with the demand, if it has to push itself to such an unsustainable speed. Maybe it’ll overload itself before long and self-destruct… but maybe there’s a better, surer way to destroy it once and for all.

Here, now, here and now’s an opportunity. CEO readies himself for some action. Exploit the gap in the market and make an opening for yourself, like so many times before.

CEO shoves Meat Kid out of the path of the printing press above, running towards the final aperture once he knows the AI has its sights set on him. He runs as fast as his legs can carry him, breath coming in ragged, panting gasps, nearly tripping more times than he can count. He can’t afford to fail now.

One more time, this time for sure, this last time has to do it…

As the printing press slams down, CEO rolls out of its way, sideways into safety.

At the moment of contact, the aperture’s glass shatters into a thousand tiny little shards. Impossibly, each one seems to reflect starlight — starlight from celestial bodies thousands of fathoms above the underwater city, starlight from a million miles away.

“Production ha— hal— halted—”

Ctrl-P freezes, eye wider than ever. Its cables and wires are a broken mess, its leg-like appendages snapped in half. The speakers pipe in its synthesized voice one more time.

“I— I— I—”

Maybe this time it’s really the last one.

“I— I didn’t choose… to be created.”

With that, its colossal eye flutters shut.

“Good night, Brian…”

As Ctrl-P sinks into the abyss below, the aperture above closes one last time.

And, maybe, thousands of leagues below the sea, a machine dreams of its maker.

“Looks like our job here is done,” CEO says, crawling into a standing position. “Let’s head back to the hotel; I need some sleep…”

Once more, the door to apartment 13-J opens. Same dry creak as before.

CEO’s heart skips a beat when he sees the room’s interior.

The coffee table has been broken in half. The kitchenette is in total disarray, the water cooler in a similar state. The fax machine is a smoking mess. Stuffing tumbles from the couch. Newspapers, water bottles, and other sundry goods litter the floor.

Shit, they’ve been trailed.

And what’s more… anything could have happened to Jerome after the company set out to Genus; it’s probably their fault for doing that ‘optional’ job and making themselves too visible. The Guy’s probably the vengeful, watchful type who doesn’t forgive or forget, the type to send Internal Affairs agents after his enemies to ruin their lives…

Will he have to rescue Jerome too, like he did Floyd back there?

Thankfully not, because the Jerome in question is standing at the center of the room, a potted plant sitting idly by his feet. There are leaves in his afro, oddly enough. It’s probably nothing.

“Jerome!” CEO exclaims, relief hidden in the cry. “Thank goodness you’re alright. What the hell happened here?”

“I’m not too sure. I got here just before you guys did.”

Meat Kid gives him a big hug. “You’re… safe!”

“Haha, easy there Meat Kid.” Jerome pats his arm. “Don’t break my ribs, please…”

Meat Kid releases him from the asphyxiating embrace.

“How’d the meeting go?” Floyd asks.

“It was… very productive. I made a quick detour afterwards and, uh…” Jerome inclines his head to the potted plant next to his feet. “Found this plant.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“She’s a…” Jerome gives a shake of the head. “No, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

“Where’d you go, anyway?”

“Oh, you know, the city of Beanus, only the most major site of coffee production in the world. I had some business there, and one thing led to another.”

“So that means you got some free coffee, right?” Floyd sniffs deeply. “I can smell it on you.”

Jerome chuckles. “Hah, was it my turn to bring a souvenir? Nah, man. I’ve seen things down there, horrible things. You wouldn’t want anything they had. Look, I’ll show you the news, if this thing still works.”

He retrieves the television remote from the tattered remains of the couch, then presses the ‘on’ button.

The television flickers to life.

“It’s no secret that unrest has been growing in the Bean Capital of the world.”

Ticker tape scrolls across the top and bottom margins of the screen, while a news anchor of some sort babbles vaguely in the background, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

“An internal clash of partisan ideologies had the city on the brink of a potential civil war. Nobody could have predicted the outcome would be so extreme. Moreover, as long as the coffee kept flowing, nobody cared. But things escalated quickly once nuclear weapons got involved…”

A mushroom cloud of spectacular proportions dissolves into view.

“Nuclear weapons? Jerome, what the hell were you doing there?!” CEO shouts, turning to look at the other man.

“Shh, shh. This next part’s the real kicker.”

“Contact with the city of Beanus has been lost. The board of directors has issued a national state of emergency.”

“Aw, what? The whole place got destroyed? I was hoping to visit it again sometime…” Floyd whines.

Jerome waves a hand idly. “Coffee’s too important, man. I’m sure they’ll rebuild it eventually.”

“In a historic first, the Chairman has made a public statement… announcing a revolutionary new technology!” The news anchor’s voice rises sharply in pitch, chirruping in an overly cheerful way. A photograph of syringes filled with gray liquid replaces the mushroom cloud. “Caffeine vaccines will be shipped out to every city in at least a week. Made from all-natural synthetic beans, they’re the latest and greatest way to get your caffeine fix! No need to spend time drinking coffee, just have an injection and be good to go for the rest of the month. Caf-Vax, coming to stores near you!”

CEO glances askance at the television. “Doesn’t sound like they’re rebuilding it if they’re replacing its main product.”

“Bummer.” Floyd sticks his tongue out, making a ‘bleh’ noise. “I like my coffee drinkable, thanks.”

The news anchor’s voice regains its former tone. “But we now return to our headline story: is ass safe to eat?”

“Welp.” Jerome switches the television off. He resumes the earlier conversation as smoothly as an oil slick. “But really, enough about me. How did your trip go?”

“Can I pass on answering?” CEO replies.

“I’m assuming you didn’t exactly have the best of times in Genus. You and me both, brother.”

“Why do you have a potted plant with you, anyway?”

“Look, she’s not just any plant. She’s the daughter of a Shareholder; the Shareholder who controlled Beanus, to be more specific.”

“She? Daughter?” CEO asks, confused.

“That’s right, she’s his child.”

“And… why are you keeping a potential threat around?”

“Everyone’s a potential threat. It’s just that she killed her father and…” Jerome shrugs. “Well, you know how these things go.”

“No, I don’t! That plant is a killer!? All the more reason to leave it behind!”

“Her name’s Eve, by the way. Besides, it was an act of mercy. That man was a hollow shell of his former self.”

“I can understand.” Floyd shuffles his feet, staring firmly at the floor beneath.

CEO stares long and hard at Floyd. What the hell does he mean by that?

“If I was in that condition… I’d be fine with dying at the hands of someone close to me. Someone I trusted…” Floyd nods, lost in the theoretical scenario. “Yeah, someone like that. It must have been hard for her to go through with it. I’m sorry she had to do something so horrible.”

CEO scowls deeply. “I guess if I had to choose, I’d prefer dying by my own hand than to have someone finish me off. At that point, I’d rather die with what little dignity I had left.”

“Come on, you two, lighten up a little; we’re not gonna die after getting this far. In fact, we’re closer to the Chairman than ever.”

“How so?”

“I got just the fax to prove it,” Jerome says, producing a rolled-up sheet of paper from his hair. The other members of the company crowd around him to get a good look at the fax.

“Destination: Moon. Begin launch sequence.” A grainy photo of two figures is placed next to the words. Both are in shadow, but their smiles can still be seen clearly; the one with an afro is smiling a lot wider than the other.

“No target this time?” CEO remarks.

“Begin launch sequence…” Floyd scratches his head. “Is that a command or just a statement?”

“If it’s from my boss Mark Judy… it’s definitely a command.”

“But how are we supposed to get to the moon without a rocket?”

Jerome looks down. “I assume Genus is a launchpad.” He glances around. “And we’re standing right above it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Then the hotel must be…” Floyd trails off.

Jerome nods. “I know, I know. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But Mark Judy’s prophecies have never been wrong.”

“Prophecies?” CEO asks, his tone of voice dryly skeptical. “Why are you talking about this boss of yours as if he’s some kind of deity?”

“Haha, it really does feel that way sometimes. But, well, if this hotel’s a rocket, I think we’re meant to take it for a ride.”

“How, though?”

“My boss gave me just the thing.” With a theatrical flourish of his hand, Jerome reveals a remote from the abyss of his pocket. CEO narrows his eyes at it.

“You’re telling me this whole thing can blast off at the press of a button?”

“Yep. I’d say it’s not rocket science, but in this case it actually is. Engineering really is amazing, huh?”

“I don’t know if it’s amazing enough to convince me to take a one-way trip that I’m not even sure I can survive.”

Floyd huffs. “What other chance do we have, Boss? We’ve gotten this far; we can’t stop now! If we want to take down every Shareholder, we can’t just quit when there are still more left!”

In his infinite sagacity, Meat Kid simply nods.

“But the status quo has been working just fine for so long, I’m not sure if changing it would make things better or worse,” says CEO, fidgeting with a stray strand on the sleeves of his jacket, “or even if we can change it at all…”

Floyd gasps in mock horror. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now, Boss! We have to at least try.”

“That’s right, my man. We’re in this for the long haul. Things can’t go on like this for much longer, and I think the Chairman knows it. This could be our only chance.”

“We have no choice, then.” CEO throws his hands up. “Alright. I’m in.”

Jerome presses the remote’s singular button.

An earthshaking rumbling begins, the floor beneath the company quaking like a glossophobiac presenter’s legs at a public debate. CEO steadies himself by leaning onto a nearby wall, while Floyd drops to the ground with his hands over his head. The other three seem to be perfectly unfazed by these circumstances, save for the potted plant’s occasional bounces.

Like a knife through whipped cream, the hotel slices past the gloomy clouds and into the clear skies above. Rain drips off the windows; all around the building the stars sparkle bright, like tiny coins in a velvet purse.

The moon comes into view through the glass. CEO can’t help but feel vertigo when he looks outside, at the impossibly close satellite and the impossibly far ground.

“I’ll meet up with you guys later. I have… something to take care of in the garage.” Jerome scratches the back of his head. “But trust me, I’ll be there in the end. I have to be there.”

“I have no doubt you will,” says CEO.

“Just draw things out for as long as you can, and I’ll help you out as much as I can.”

Floyd gives him a thumbs-up. “You got it, man. We’ll do our best.”

Meat Kid nods.

“Remember… Even if everything seems hopeless, don’t give up.” Jerome flashes the company one last two-fingered salute.

The door to apartment 13-J opens once more, signaling the beginning of the end.

It’s now CEO’s turn to bid Jerome good luck. The other man leaves, with the plant trailing behind him and the scent of earth dissipating as he goes.

“So this is it, huh,” CEO remarks.

Floyd nods. “We’re finally going to face the Chairman of the Board in person.”

“I suppose.”

“Don’t you remember? We’ve done this so many times before, Boss… but my throat still dries up at the thought of it.”

“Mmm.”

“It seems like a trap, doesn’t it? He always liked playing mind games with us.”

“Look at it this way. Either he dies or we do… and nothing will ever be the same after that.”

“Big changes will happen no matter what.”

“Revolution?” Meat Kid pipes up.

“You got that right. It’s a revolution either way.”

Floyd sighs. “Just another revolution.”

“I don’t know much for sure, but I definitely know that the Chairman’s a threat to everything I value. A life that’s worth living, friends that are worth having… But those at the top sold us the idea that strength is the only way to survive and that winning is the only thing that can make you happy.”

“Do you agree with them, Boss?”

“I don’t know,” says CEO, shrugging. “Maybe they weren’t wrong. Maybe they were, though. Maybe strength is just a tool. Maybe happiness doesn’t mean anything if there’s nobody to share it with.”

Meat Kid scribbles something into his notepad. “Life worth living?” it reads.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that a life worth living is varied and rich in diversity. The Chairman only seems to offer one thing… An endless, boring routine which serves some better than others, and others not at all.” CEO crosses his arms. “He’s… kind of a dick that way.”

“Only kind of? Hahaha!” Floyd guffaws.

“Ha ha. I’m ready to kill him, if that’s what it comes down to. But I…” CEO clenches his fists. “I don’t know if I can.”

“That corpulent fool… just what did he get himself involved in?”

Inside a boardroom somewhere on Business Planet, The Guy observes the screen of his personal computer with great interest. Splayed across his screen are the personal details of one ‘VR Man’, along with the escapades of a certain ‘Brian T.’ and a ‘Kyle B.’ In another window is a news website’s homepage, littered with clickbait titles and seedy adverts. Most of the headlines are about new caffeine vaccines and purported advances in science, neither of which Guy is particularly interested in. After the news about the chaotic convention, he finds it hard to be interested in anything at all.

“Well look at that,” a vaguely familiar voice proclaims, “seems like we’ve got our newest Shareholder already.”

Guy turns to see the face of the man who fell out of his window, still proudly wearing that square cap and wide grin. That lowly janitor, of all people…

Said janitor is, in a flagrant violation of personal space, staring intently at Guy’s screen. “Lord knows we need a replacement after what happened to the computer guy, ey? A real gluttonous gamer, that one. Heh heh.”

“You…” Guy withdraws from the other man, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. “What are you doing here? Why did you jump out of my window? How are you still alive?”

“Didn’t feel like taking the elevator back down!” the janitor guffaws.

“But you… you should be dead. How do you, why are you…”

“It’s a long story, but the Chairman and I go way back, y’know?” The custodian waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Enough about him, though. He’s a real piece of work. How’ve you been, kid?”

Of course they ‘go way back’. Of course this lowly custodian is a long-time friend of the most powerful man in the world. Because life has not been throwing enough curveballs at The Guy.

Nevertheless, Guy steadies himself, regaining some of his former cool composure. “I’ve been… all right. The same as usual.”

The janitor crosses his legs. “Aw c’mon, give me something to work with here. First you don’t recognize me, now you think I know what ‘usual’ is like for you? Someone I haven’t seen since the first few cycles?”

Guy stares blankly at his computer screen. “‘Usual’ is the same for most people at this stratum of power, I would think.”

“Ha! Look at me, kid, do you think I know what the hell it’s like to be you? ‘Course not. Just tell me how you’ve been, seriously. C’mon, you can tell your old man anything, can’t you?”

Guy sneers. “There you go again with that repetitive ‘old man’ talk. By now, it should be obvious that I don’t even know who you are. You are old, and you are a man, but you are not my ‘old man’. You are nothing like me, you fool. I do not buy anything you are selling.”

“C’mon, kid. You really don’t have to be so formal with me.” The janitor places a hand on Guy’s closest shoulder. “I’m here for you. I’ve always been here for you, haven’t I?”

“No, not at all. You were not always here for me — you have never been here for me. In fact, I have no idea who you are. You have done nothing whatsoever for me except confuse me and annoy me. I would suggest that you leave me alone as soon as possible.”

“Whaaat?” says the janitor, dragging out the ‘a’ sound, “I’ve done everything I can! Why do you think it was even possible for you to get to the top? Face it, you and your friends could’ve never defeated that CEO on your own, kid.”

Guy turns to face him, keeping his tone even. “It wasn’t easy at all, I’ll have you know. I alone became a pariah, I alone ventured through the Undercity, I alone rose to the top. I haggled prices with the BigBuy vendors for hours on end just to be able to afford the proper equipment. You weren’t by my side as I fought, you weren’t there to defend me against the eyes of the law; in fact, you weren’t there at all, so what could you have had to do with anything? I will not tolerate you belittling my hard work and making everything about yourself—”

The janitor draws his hand back from Guy’s shoulder, banging it on the table yet skimming its surface simultaneously. A couple drops of water coalesce on the surface where his hand touched it.

“Jeez Louise,” says the janitor, stressing the second syllable of ‘Louise’, “even if you didn’t know a thing, you couldn’t even play along just to be nice?”

When Guy doesn’t respond, the janitor simply shrugs, brushing water off the table. “Forget it.” He rises from his seat, pushing the chair aside.

Again, nothing. Guy bites his tongue to hold back any more errant words.

“You know what, Guy? The Chairman would love you,” the janitor says, spitting out ‘love’ like a bitter pill.

“Ex… Excuse me?”

“Guess that got your attention, huh?” The janitor rests his hand on the boardroom’s doorframe, turning back to look at the other man. “You’re just like the rest of them.” He shakes his head, still grinning. “Shame you turned out like this. See you later, kid.”

Guy, too, stands up, slamming his laptop shut. “Excuse me, where do you think you’re going?”

He chases after the janitor, but it proves to be both too little and too late; the door flings shut, hitting him square in the face.

How utterly like that man to evade confrontation in a similar way as before. Slippery, slimy, pathetic bastard…

No, enough.

Guy sets his hand upon the door handle. He will have to face the custodian inevitably. He can at least hurry it up…

He turns the handle, cracks the door open, and reveals none other than the oppressive figure of the Chairman himself.

Just one surprise after another today.

“Greetings, Chairman,” Guy says, nonplussed.

“Greetings,” replies the other man. “I see you’re up and about quite early. I haven’t called a meeting yet, you know.”

“It pays to be prepared, Chairman.”

“Then I have questions for you. Have you prepared your responses?”

“Ask me all you like, Chairman. Whether I can answer them is a different matter.”

“Take a seat.” He glances over at the boardroom table, where Guy’s things have already been splayed out. “Or retake it.”

“Yes, Chairman.”

The two men sit, taking places directly opposite from each other.

“Tell me about your city, Guy.”

“What would you like to know? The mayonnaise ban has a perfectly reasonable justification behind it, I assure you.”

The Chairman raises an eyebrow. “I’m not concerned with your preference of condiments.”

Oh, so it seems he jumped to conclusions a little too quickly. Time to recalibrate.

“Very well.” Guy keeps his face as neutral as he possibly can. “I presume this is about the previous ruler of the city, then?”

“ Correct. Tell me what happened to him.”

“I disposed of him in the most efficient manner.” Guy squints. “Surely the all-knowing Chairman would know as much as I did, yes?”

“The circumstances surrounding his departure are still unclear to me. You wouldn’t mind explaining them, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t mind,” says Guy as he gives a half-shrug. “Some time ago, I was enlisted by a group of revolutionaries to take the former CEO down. The CEO tried to convince me to join his cause against the Shareholders, but I simply pushed him out of the window of his office. I watched him plummet past the layers of clouds, and…”

The Chairman dismisses his statements in a blank, unreadable voice. “Yes, a fall like that would almost certainly be fatal. More so when coupled with a punch to the face.”

Guy nods. “Of course, it’s only common sense. The old CEO died, and now…”

“You do realize he’s not dead, do you?”

“What?” Guy asks, flatly.

“He’s been classified as missing this entire time.”

“Missing? Guy gestures to the boardroom window. “How could anyone survive a fall from that height? What proof suggests that he’s alive?”

“The lack of proof does.”

Lack of proof? Lack of proof? What does he mean by that? Has he found out some kind of grand scheme that proves… no, the evidence, the clues… what? It can’t be. It can’t be. It has to be fake, a trick, a way to get him to admit weakness. He won’t back down. Remain calm.

“A lack? But surely, there’s no way anyone could—”

“You didn’t finish the job properly, Guy,” the Chairman interrupts. “We never found a body.”

“I…”

“Even with those Internal Affairs agents you sent to retrieve it, even with the police force that you tasked with searching the city for him, there was no body ever found. Only a trail of destruction left in someone else’s wake.”

There’s only one person that could be. “The Shareholder Killer…”

“Excuse me?”

Oh no. Oh no no no no. He said that out loud, didn’t he? “My apologies, I must have misspoken.”

“A fitting name nonetheless.” The Chairman inclines his head towards the other man’s open laptop. “Several of us have already fallen at the hands of the ‘Shareholder Killer’, Guy.”

“I thought…”

“It doesn’t matter what you think. I get the feeling that someone here is to blame, and that someone is more likely than not you.”

“ I can explain, I—”

The Chairman holds up a finger.

“Guy, that was my son you disposed of.”

Cold lightning strikes Guy’s heart, gripping it in electrified digits. Is this entire conversation just a trap? It sounds too contrived to be true, but this is the Chairman — anything is possible at this stratum of power.

“Ah.”

Damn, damn, damn. If he says even one thing wrong, it could be the end of his life, his career… Everything he had strived so hard to work for, all gone in an instant. But, but… if he doesn’t say something soon, it could look like a sign of weakness, or even guilt. The best course of action would be to apologize, wouldn’t it? Get on his hands and knees and bow, over and over? Shine the other man’s shoes until he can see his reflection in them?

Guy bides his time, but the arrhythmic pulse of his heart continues despite his best efforts. His thoughts seem to go at a million miles per second, and he scrambles hopelessly to find the right words.

“My… condolences. If I had known earlier, I would not have acted so rashly.”

The Chairman simply shakes his head.

“Never mind. That mistake can be amended in due time.” A sigh. “Did you at least show him the package?”

“What package?”

“The one you were given.”

“By you, or…? Apologies, Chairman. I believe this is the first time we have met in person; I don’t recall any prior—”

“Open your briefcase.” The Chairman commands, pointing to the object on the table. “Now.”

“If you insist.”

With hesitant fingers, wracked with tremors that he tries his best to conceal, The Guy opens his briefcase.

An eye-wateringly bright light, piercing and painful, spills out of the open briefcase. It is warm and cold, both light and heavy, dark and white, all at once. The Guy moves to block his eyes, but he finds his arms unable to budge from their resting-places at his sides. It hurts to look, but it hurts even more to look away.

Beside him, the Chairman grins a taut grin.

“So it’s in perfect condition even after all this time. How fortunate.”

“What… is it?” asks The Guy.

Undeterred by the strange light, the Chairman plucks its source from the briefcase, holding it in cupped hands.

“The key to activating something with great power. Something that could cause even the greatest leaders to surrender, to raise their arms and simply give up their lives.”

The Guy’s eyes automatically follow the object in the Chairman’s hands.

“I’m not sure I understand,” he says.

“Have you ever dreamt of moving the stars, Guy? Do you see the limitless possibilities that sky out there holds?”

The most powerful man in the world smiles, his eyes sparkling like a child’s. The thing in his hands glows in pulses, like a far-off celestial body finally within reach.

“Could you elaborate, Chairman?”

“Once we conquer the stars, the long, dark night of this planet will finally come to fruition; dissolving into a pool of its own molten rock. Without the limitation of a home planet, we can evolve as quickly as we like. We’ll conquer solar systems, galaxies, maybe even whole universes by the hour. The divine economics of this world will finally be proven, and we will expand to the stars and beyond.”

The stars and beyond? Conquering galaxies in the span of an hour? Has he gone mad? He was supposed to be rational, wasn’t he? What happened?

“What…” Guy chokes down the lingering chill of doubt. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s simple. Very simple. All we have to do is use the thing in that package, and from there on out, every day will be a good day.”

Guy looks across at the other man. “Are you… lying to me? This sounds far too appealing an offer to be true.”

The smile on the Chairman’s face vanishes as subtly as it appeared.

“Why would I lie to my dear nephew?”

After that nuclear warhead of a statement, the Chairman leaves the room with the strange object squirreled away into some sort of lead-lined contraption. Guy forces himself to breathe, ignoring the chill embedded deep within his heart. He needs to eat. He can live through this if he just eats.

Food, he needs some food, damn it. A sandwich would be just the thing to have right now.
Preferably an evil one.

Out of his briefcase, he takes out an object wrapped in wax paper. Once out, he lays it on the table, meticulously peeling the paper off its cargo.

The lining comes off like a dream, revealing a delicious sandwich — perfectly toasted on the outside and just the right amount of cooked on the inside…

He takes a bite.

This, too, is one of the fruits of his labor.

Ah, how refreshing.

He used to despise this taste, but as the cycles passed he began to realize that evil was delicious in its own striking way. The pillowy, chewy, yet somehow crusty bread that contrasts delightfully with the spicy, tender meat and crunchy, tangy vegetables… truly a refined experience. As to what ingredient contributes to the unctuous texture, or the slightly bitter aftertaste… never mind. One mustn’t dwell on such things.

He takes another bite.

Oil coats the inside of his mouth.

The sandwich stirs something within him. He does not want to ponder what it could be. But it is sharp, and it is caustic, and it wants to break free. He reminds himself to buy another later, for dinner.

He takes yet another bite.

Tasty.

His mouth busies itself with chewing, but his mind ruminates in the gravity of the Chairman’s final statement. ‘Dear nephew’ was an immediate explosion of confusion, whereas the mysterious contradictory object would have to detonate a little later. Guy doesn’t know what feeling this statement will cause to arise in him, nor whatever consequences the fact entails.

But…

For one thing, related to the Chairman himself? Called his ‘dear’ relative? Then why had he been allowed to grovel in the dirt so long ago? Why hadn’t his rise to power been sooner, or faster? Why not more, or better? How ‘dear’ could he possibly have been to a man whose existence he didn’t know about until halfway into his term? And how ‘dear’ could he be to a man who had never bothered to acknowledge him until now?

The other thing on Guy’s mind is the fact that he’s the Chairman’s nephew.

If the Chairman is his uncle… then who, exactly, is his father?

Guy tries to dispel the thought. Never mind the questionable lineage. He must check his e-mails if he is to have any chance of maintaining this position.

He is greeted by a flood of unread emails when he checks his inbox. Scrolling through them to pick out the most relevant information reveals a few key messages.

One message is from an IA agent back in Sandwich City, a supposed sighting of the terrorists that have so frequently come back to haunt him. Though he can’t be too careful, the location of the sighting (a Pizza Pirate place? Really?) leaves Guy wondering if the agent replaced his standard-issue sunglasses with a blindfold.

The other important messages are a lot less frivolous and a lot more frightening. There are three, to be precise. Each one is about a Shareholder.

All three are obituaries.

“Three already? This is turning into a problem…”

Guy pulls his jacket on, letting its fabric drape over his shoulders and its sleeves fan out behind him. He sighs.

“I suppose the duty of taking care of this issue falls to me. It is, after all, my mistake, and therefore my responsibility.”