By 8 o’clock at night, the office building falls empty. The automatic lighting system switches off, leaving any late night stragglers to work under lamplight until they finally head home for the night. They’re eager to get home to a daughter, a girlfriend, a partner, a mother-- the family they work this cubicle job to support. But for a few, there is no family beyond the sense of it that exists in business; and there are exchanges that are better done after hours than in the light of day.
A young man in his mid-30s swipes through a variety of digital blueprints. Some he expands and analyzes, before shaking his head and pushing them away. He’s never been one to dive head-first into a project that he doesn’t expect much reimbursement from.
Quenlin Driscoll was a household name only for a few people. If your mother needed vision enhancements or your son needed a brand-new arm for his upcoming tournament, Quenlin was the man for the job. With the nature of Los Angeles, there’s never been a shortage of people who want to improve their appearance. But after a harsh layoff that took dozens of scientists’ careers, he asked himself if going corporate was really in his best interest. Why stick it to the man, when you can become him? Quenlin thought. Underdog bionicist became underground bionicist. He’s paid a lot of money for this sector of the complex, and a lot more for some select people to keep their mouths shut about it.
The door to his office opens. A younger man walks in. “Dr. Driscoll,” he says. “We’ve been monitoring news outlets and social media, like you said, and there doesn’t seem to be any leads.”
“Good,” Quenlin responds, still swiping through the blueprints. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“Except for this one.” The assistant mirrors the device in his hand to Quenlin’s monitor. Three figures are present in the video that plays: two in black, wearing helmets, and one in the middle. Quenlin recognizes him immediately. A detached voice, vocoded to hide the identity, speaks up.
“We’re hoping this message has reached you,” it says. “Because our offer is urgent. It’s come to our attention that Amiran Marcello is in your possession, and we have reason to believe you intend to put him into one of your fights. You should advise your champions to cover their tattoos better when they’re about to commit a kidnapping. I understand that his recent win makes him a desirable candidate for your game, but I’d like to present someone with even more under his belt.” The figure tilts up Leon’s chin. He halfheartedly looks at the camera, too tired to fight back. “Leon Anastasio. Three-time national champion. State-of-the-art bionic arm. Intoxicates an audience with his charm. Give us Amiran, and he’s yours. Plain and simple. You’re on the clock. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t seem like much of a fair trade to me,” the assistant comments.
“That’s not important to me.” Quenlin settles back into his desk chair. “I could care less about his combat capabilities. He’s a socialite and a showoff. But that arm is something I’ve been looking after for a long time. I’ve had others keeping tabs on this boy for years.”
“You haven’t… had a man on the inside this whole time, Doctor, have you?”
Quenlin chuckles. “Something like that.”
The car ride to the rendezvous point is silent. “Do you really think I intoxicate a crowd with my charm?” Leon asks.
“Shut up,” Nate says. Leon sits back in his seat and rolls his eyes. When his gaze briefly meets Reese’s beside him, he glares. She glares back. It seems that putting these two in the same room is like throwing miscellaneous chemicals in a beaker; they will either sit in harmless dissonance, or they will explode, destroying everything in the room. The latter has yet to be seen.
The car comes to a slow stop in an alleyway. Zion moves into the driver's seat in case they need a quick getaway, while the other three team members exit the vehicle. Reese and Nate put on their helmets. Leon leans against the bumper of the car.
“This is pretty bold,” Reese says, “even for you.”
“The ACA suspended our jobs and we were vigilantes for a year. That makes this operation look like child’s play. Plus, my brother has historically had ways of getting into trouble when I’m not looking.”
“Crazy how much can change so fast.” Reese cocks her pistol before holstering it. She hesitates, lowering her voice before she continues. “Does he know? About-- you?”
“No.”
Reese sighs. She places a hand on her colleague’s shoulder. “Nate. You go out of your way to make sure everyone knows who you used to be. Leon’s not an exception. If anything, he deserves to know the most.”
Nate takes a long, deep breath. “When Goddard first accepted me into their rehabilitation program, I promised myself I’d be honest with everyone about the shitty things I’ve done. I planned to tell him,” he says. “I just never thought it’d take me this long.” He smiles a little, trying to raise his own spirits before diving head-first into what’ll likely become a firefight. “You know, you sound like Adya when you do the ‘motivational speech’ thing.”
Reese chuckles. “That tends to happen when you live with someone long enough.”
Nate sheaths his batons in the holsters attached to his back. He closes the visor of his helmet. “Let’s get this over with.”
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