Lago Santos lay sprawled on his bed. He was awake, relaxed, and his thoughts came to him with unusual clarity. Dawn was his favourite time of the day. He had not slept, he had no need for sleep. The drugs were wearing off, but they left him in a happy equilibrium. The sedatives balancing the amphetamines to create a state of serene contemplation. He looked down at his naked body. Although he was in his late fifties, he had the chiselled physique of a young man. He’d used to take cocktails of drugs, some even legal, to keep him alert and athletic. But thanks to high quality printed organ replacements and cutting-edge anti-aging treatments he was the healthiest he had ever been. These days Lago only took drugs for recreation.

He tentatively sat up. His body still trembled after the night’s exertions. He crawled to the edge of his huge bed, stood up, stretched, and went to the balcony. Faint pink shards of the approaching sunrise were just visible on the horizon. Above the toxic smog of the city, from the ninety-ninth floor of his BPI skyscraper, the air was clear. On windless days, the smog was sometimes so thick he couldn’t see down past the forty-fifth floor. Up here Lago had his own intimate level of atmosphere, a layer of unsoiled air sandwiched between whispers of pink cloud above and the sullen smog below. Lago looked up to where a few fading stars persevered, and the pale half of the crescent Moon floated above the horizon. He stared at the Moon frowning, then shook his head, dispelling unwanted thoughts. He scratched at some dried blood on his abdomen then turned his attention back to the carnage behind him.

“Goran!” he shouted towards the bed. “Get in here and clean this shit up.”

Goran Satanovich entered a few moments later. Lago watched as his ever-present sneer twitched at the metallic stench of dried blood. His big frame expanded and contracted under the expensive tailored suit jacket. He was top heavy, his long skinny legs propping up a barrel chest. Erroneous bulges in his suit jacket hinted at concealed weaponry. A blemished bald head sat on top of a muscular neck with thick wrap-around sunglasses that rarely came off. His thin mouth sneered with a contemptuous distaste for everything.

“Another clean-up then?” Goran asked without expecting a reply.

Lago ignored him and stalked off to the en-suite.

Goran rang for the cleaners and surveyed the bloody mess on the bed. Lago was getting worse, harder to satisfy sexually and his frustration being expressed more violently than ever. He turned away from the carnage as the cleaning crew scuttled in and went about their business escorted by two Masama.

Goran stood separate from the Masama as they supervised the clean-up. The cleaners picked up the torn pieces of clothing, empty bottles and broken glass strewn all over the floor. They used gloves and thick nylon sacks to handle the smashed mirror, empty hypodermics, glass vials and a couple of broken vases. Once they had cleared a path to the bed the messy work began. It was hard to tell what had taken place there. The remains of what used to be two young humans lay sprawled among the red silk sheets. Goran wasn’t sure if they were male or female as the cleaners wrapped up the entire congealing mess of limbs in the sheets and awkwardly stuffed them into body bags. There was no movement, but he didn’t expect any signs of life. Lago was very thorough.

Goran didn’t recognize the Masama. They looked like new recruits and were obviously nervous in his presence. There was no need for camouflage suits but the Masama wore them anyway. They carried weapons comfortably as if they were limb extensions and although just as big and intimidating as Goran, they didn't have the same unfuckwithable demeanour. They were there to make sure the cleaners disposed of any incriminating evidence discreetly and to make sure they kept their mouths shut. The cleaners would often end up in the same lagoon or landfill as Lago's unfortunate victims, just to be sure.

All the Masama soldiers had telepathic implants which rendered speech meaningless, so Goran was surprised when one strode purposefully up to him and said; “Ever been invited to one of these private parties, boss?”

Goran had the telepathy implant too but had no desire to connect with the soldier’s mind. He rounded on the man, raised his glasses revealing dark angry eyes. “No, and as far as you are concerned they never happen. If I hear any of you gossiping about this shit you will end up in the same fucking hole as those dead kids.”

“Ok, sorry boss.” The soldier realized he had overstepped the mark. Goran made a mental note; he disapproved of his minions being that familiar with him. Never mind openly discussing their employer’s proclivities. This soldier would be sent on a job from which there would be no returning.

Goran looked out over the hazy Manila skyline. He enjoyed the ubiquitous blanket of smog covering the squalid city ninety-nine stories below. He liked the separation. Serenity above, filthy chaos below. He kept his back to the cleaners as they finished their gruesome work in silence. Hearing their activities cease, he turned and inspected the room.

“Replace the mattress,” he ordered. “Another Ming vase here, another antique mirror here.”

The Masama soldiers nodded. One of them indicated to the cleaners who were standing with their heads bowed. Goran gave a minuscule nod, sealing their fate.

“You,” Goran said to the Masama who had spoken to him earlier. “Report to me tomorrow for relocation. That will be all.”

“Aaah, yes boss.” The soldier realized his own fate was also now decided. Goran turned back to the window, looking through his faint reflection at the fallowed pink clouds outside.

Lago strolled back into the bedroom and made a cursory inspection.

“I overheard your conversation with that soldier. The Masama are getting far too arrogant Goran, too disrespectful. They need to know their place. You need to remind them.”

“He is a new recruit, on a trial he has just failed. He will not be seen again.”

“Nevertheless, I am concerned. They are becoming far too overconfident and their telepathic link makes them unreadable, they need to be more subservient.”

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Goran did not reply. He continued to stare grimly out the window.

“Has our guest arrived?” asked Lago.

“Yes, ready when you are.”

“Good.” Lago strode to the exit with Goran following.

They entered Lago’s private lift and swiftly descended into the bowels of the building. Within seconds the lift doors parted revealing a brightly lit corridor. They walked in silence down the corridor to a heavy steel door. Goran entered the security code and the door swung open on a dark and cold room smelling of stale urine. Goran found the light switch and a harsh sterile light filled the room from the panels above. It was a square room with featureless white walls. In the centre of the room was a steel chair. A naked man sat slumped, his hands and ankles bound to the steel frame with cable ties. He had a black bag on his head and there was a pool of evaporating urine on the floor beneath him.

Lago studied him for a minute before Goran pulled the bag off. He grasped the man’s jaw and raised his head. His eyes were closed. Goran gripped his sparse hair and slapped him a couple of times. The man groaned painfully, and his eyes flickered open.

“Who are you people?” he whispered through cracked lips.

Goran held the man’s head up while Lago paced around the room. Eventually, Lago came face to face with his victim. “You don’t remember me, Mr Walker?”

Mr Walker squinted his red-rimmed eyes and stared at Lago. There was bloody mucous dribbling from his mouth and nose.

“No…No I don’t remember. Who are you? Why am I here?” he groaned.

“I suppose It has been a few years.” Lago resumed his pacing. Goran released his grip on Walker’s head.

“Lago...? Lago Santos?” he asked in a quivering voice.

“Yes! Very good Mr Walker. The fact you remember me should also answer your question as to why you are here.”

“Lago Santos…that was a long time ago,” Walker mumbled as he struggled to regain full consciousness.

“It was a long time ago, but unfortunately for you Mr Walker I have a long memory. I like to bear a grudge and I am partial to a spot of petty revenge when the opportunity arises.”

“I investigated you for…was it tax fraud? Embezzlement?”

“Business, just business Mr Walker,” Lago whispered from behind the chair. “I served two years at Lompoc penitentiary thanks to you, just for going about my business.”

“You ran a Ponzi scheme.” Walker twisted his neck around trying to see Lago. “You embezzled people out of their money. You preyed on old retired couples fleecing them for millions. I remember now, you ruined many people’s lives.”

“I was a smart and ambitious young man, it’s true,” said Lago, moving around to face his victim. “I had a good education, I learned how the desire for wealth could debase the most sensible of people, making them vulnerable to trusting those they had never met. People like me.” Lago studied his fingernails. “All I did was convince the morons I was the one capable of turning them into millionaires.”

“You were a skillful liar with absolutely no morals. You deserved everything you got.”

Lago paused in his pacing and looked around the soundproof room, it was unusual to be somewhere this quiet in Manila. The only sound was a sluggish drip of body fluid pooling on the floor between Walker’s stained shoes.

“Two years in prison did impede my plans but I emerged more focused than ever.” He gave the captive a cool look. “My arrest and imprisonment helped create the man I am today, Mr Walker. I suppose I should be thanking you.”

“You were a psychopath then and I hate to think what you have become now,” said a defiant Walker. “You didn’t pay out any dividends, you just shifted credit and debt between accounts, you thought you were above the law.”

“Now I am the law,” Lago smiled, enjoying himself. He started pacing. “For a while, I was the drug czar of Los Angeles. I partied with actors and rock stars like a celebrity playboy. My prison history even enhanced my reputation. The key was going underground, then embracing the technology. You wouldn’t be interested, Mr Walker,” he gave his prisoner a disdainful look. “But the business grew. There were no partners, no pretence of legality. BPI has grown so big it now dominates the global economy.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Lago bent down, they were face to face. “Because that was the beginning, I am telling you this, Mr Walker, because you contributed.” He stood back, looking down with disgust. “I want you to look at me before you die and know what you helped to create - the leader of Benevolent Progress Incorporated, the most powerful man in the world.”

“You’re insane,” Walker said as his defiance evaporated.

“Goodbye, Mr Walker. Goran take your time with him.” Lago casually left the room.

Goran stood in front of the doomed man. To his credit, Walker did not break down and plead for his life. His resolve had been broken, he had accepted his fate. Tears mixed with the bloody mucous and dripped from his bowed head. Goran would not derive any pleasure from killing the helpless husk of a man.

Walker groaned loudly, jolting Goran from his scrutiny. “Come on what are you waiting for,” he managed to shout.

Goran instantly grabbed the man’s neck with his prosthetic hand and crushed his windpipe. He continued to clench his metal fingers through the neck until his sharp fingertips met his thumb around the spinal column. Walker did not have enough time to cry out or even make any choking noises as Goran crushed the life out of him. He withdrew his hand and tried to shake the blood from it. He knew he was expected to torture Walker before killing him, but he could not see the point. There was no information to extract and he did not have the time or inclination to torture someone purely for sadistic pleasure. There was nothing to be gained.

Goran looked at the body and the blood. Another clean-up to supervise. Another corpse to dispose of. He flexed his prosthetic metal hand and wiped it clean on Walker’s pants. The flexing sensation felt the same as flesh and bone. His tendons were attached to carbon fibre strands that worked the long-fingered, titanium hand. It was beautifully designed. The doctor who created it in Lago's lab was very proud. A vast improvement on a regular human hand she said. It came with various weapon attachments, but Goran rarely used them. No point when you could kill with one punch. He held it up in front of his face and flexed again, feeling the latent automated power at his command. The itch where metal meets flesh never went away. But Goran felt a greater itch, he was bored. All this technology and high-tech weaponry. So many ways to kill and never a chance to satisfy the urge. He could understand the boredom of his soldiers; they were killing machines being used as glorified janitors. Their frustrations were manifesting in their disdainful attitudes. Both Goran and the Masama needed some substantial action to relieve the building tension.

He fondly remembered the beginning. The brutal Mexican drug wars had been stimulating, a contest of mind and body where either the strongest or most deranged would survive. Goran had earned his fearsome reputation by being adept at both. He was introduced to Lago while negotiating a drug deal and being a good judge of a bad character, decided to swap sides and go work for Lago in California. They soon formed a potent partnership.

Goran helped Lago build his empire which was now a legitimate global brand making Lago one of the most powerful people in the world. But he recognized the signs of discontent. Having to remind himself of the past to justify the present. Frustrated with inactivity and not satisfying his potential. Bored and irritable, as were his Masama soldiers.

His days were filled with administration, supervision, cleaning up Lago's mess and escorting him around his construction sites. Prolonged periods of tedium interspersed with increasingly rare moments of action. He wondered how much longer he would keep doing this, whether Lago would ever let him walk away. Whether he would want to walk away. He doubted either option would ever eventuate. He got paid well and Lago owned enough incriminating secrets from his past to see him imprisoned for a very long time. Not to mention all the illegal activities he had performed since in Lago's employ with Benevolent Progress Inc. But Goran was above the law and he didn’t dwell on past events; regrets were for the weak and witless.

He glanced back at Walker and wished there was a more formidable adversary to test him and his Masama. He needed the distraction.