"Sir, this building is the scheduled location for the meeting. We are actually late." my subordinate informed me. His seat in the back was special, positioned strategically behind me, I trusted him a fair amount. With a quick glance over my shoulder, he showed me the phone GPS, illustrating our driver's trajectory toward the designated rendezvous point.
I nodded, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. "Hand me that." I commanded, extending my hand toward him. He swiftly passed it over to me. As I settled back into my seat, my gaze shifted to the uninspiring building looming on the phone. Its dull red walls and dilapidated parking lot hardly inspired confidence. Despite its lackluster appearance, it was a necessary stop. "It doesn't really matter if we're late, by the way. I'm not a representative for nothing." I remarked with a hint of defiance. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the phone back to my subordinate. As our car continued to navigate the empty streets, I braced myself for the impending meeting, the weight of responsibility heavy on my shoulders.
The car shuddered to a halt, the engine's low growl subsiding into silence as my subordinate flung the door open with haste, a sense of urgency propelling his movements. I wasted no time in following suit, leaping up from my seat with a determined stride. The building loomed before us, its façade just as unimpressive in person as it had appeared on the tiny screen of the phone. With a quick, assessing glance over my shoulder, I met my subordinate's gaze, conveying a silent command as he swiftly closed the car door behind me. Stepping forward with a purposeful stride, I approached the entrance, my arms folded across my chest.
Two imposing figures, clad in sleek black suits and sporting clean-shaven heads, stood guard at the door, their stoic expressions belying the tension in the air. Despite the building's outward appearance, they maintained an air of professionalism, a small comfort in the midst of chaos. As we drew closer, the guard on the left raised a hand, his palm outstretched. "What's the code?" he demanded, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through the air.
A smirk tugged at the corners of my lips, a silent challenge to their perceived authority. Sensing my angered amusement, my subordinate leaned in, his words a hushed whisper against my ear. "It's 'Bastard', sir." he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement.
Without missing a beat, I recited the code with practiced ease, the syllables rolling off my tongue in a fluid motion. With a soft click, the door swung open, granting us entry to the lit interior beyond. As we passed through the threshold, I caught the disdainful glances exchanged between the guards, their silent judgment a mere echo in the grand scheme of things. After all, what did it matter if I was late? Their opinions held no sway over me. I'll get them fired.
As I stepped through the door, my gaze swept over the room, taking in the sight of five figures arranged within. Each possessed a distinct allure, their presence commanding attention despite my familiarity with their faces. The opulent surroundings added an air of decadence to the scene, with an array of sumptuous food and drinks laid out tantalizingly within reach. The occupants lounged comfortably in luxurious chairs, their postures exuding a sense of ease and entitlement befitting their status.
However, amidst this display of affluence, one figure stood apart from the rest, not here yet, though. It was the individual who had summoned us to this gathering; a weathered samurai, his age evident in the lines etched upon his face. I gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment to my subordinate, silently dismissing him to attend to his own duties. Claiming the only vacant luxury chair, I settled into its plush embrace, steeling myself for the inevitable exchange that was about to unfold. Before I could utter a word, Forgery's mocking voice pierced the air, his words laden with thinly veiled disdain, "You're quite late, Avarice." Suppressing a sigh, I leaned forward, my tone condescending as I addressed him.
"I had to make a few decisions which doubled my revenue." I retorted, justifiably. "I am immediately useful to this organization, unlike you, 'Forgery'. You're barely top class at Digital." Forgery's grip tightened on the armrest of his chair, a silent threat of impending confrontation. Yet, before he could act, a sudden, unmistakable sound echoed from the north, causing him to freeze mid-motion. With a subtle shift in demeanor, he reluctantly eased back into his seat, his earlier resolve momentarily faltering.
With a knowing smirk, I addressed the strongest, "You're finally here, Division."
Division's entrance was a spectacle in itself, the faint glint of his sword catching the light as he strode into the room. His deep chuckle reverberated off the walls, commanding attention from all present, "Cease your quarrel, young ones." His mere presence was enough to quell any brewing tensions, his reputation preceding him. As he addressed us, his words carried the weight of a decree, his authority unquestionable in this domain. I could feel the tension ease slightly as his calming influence washed over the room, a stark reminder of the power he held over us all.
However, not everyone seemed as intimidated by Division's presence. Terrorism, ever the provocateur, seemed to relish the opportunity to challenge the status quo, "Haha, old man. You're scaring these two." With a cocky grin, he taunted the elder statesman, his laughter ringing out like a discordant melody in the hushed atmosphere of the room. Meanwhile, the women draped around Terrorism seemed unfazed by the unfolding scene, their attention solely focused on their charismatic owner. Their presence added a surreal element to the proceedings.
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But any semblance of normalcy was shattered in an instant as Terrorism's actions took a violent turn. With a swift motion, he brought his hands together in a thunderous clap, unleashing a torrent of chaos upon the unsuspecting women by his side. The room erupted into pandemonium as blood and gore splattered in all directions, the stench of death hanging heavy in the air. Reacting instinctively, I moved to shield myself from the onslaught, the crimson spray barely grazing my pristine suit. In the blink of an eye, Division's blade danced through the air, slicing through the carnage with precision and finesse. Even Forgery, positioned strategically to avoid the worst of the bloodshed, couldn't help but recoil from the grisly scene unfolding before him.
As the chaos subsided, a contingent of workers emerged from the shadows, their solemn expressions betraying no hint of emotion as they began the arduous task of cleaning up the mess. In the aftermath of the violence, a tense silence descended upon the room, each of us grappling with the grim reality of our chosen path.
Division's tone took on a darker edge as he addressed Terrorism, his words laden with a palpable threat. "Out of deference for your craft, Terrorism-san, I shall refrain from severing your head at this moment." he intoned. Terrorism, ever the provocateur, merely smiled in response, his bravado undiminished by the implicit threat. He's a battle freak. The meeting progressed relatively smoothly. We delved into discussions about our respective operations within Predator, Warrior, Front, and Digital, each of us providing updates and insights into our areas of expertise. Issues pertaining to North Carolina and Arkansas were raised, but we quickly determined that they fell outside the purview of our immediate concerns, relegated to the periphery of our collective consciousness.
Throughout the proceedings, Division remained standing, his relentless dedication to his craft and discipline viewable. It was no secret that he relished the rigors of training. Amongst us sat the unassuming lackey from Warrior. The hierarchy was Division, Terrorism, me, Forgery, and then the lackey. While he may have occupied the lowest rung on the ladder, he was far from incompetent, his insights often proving invaluable in our deliberations. In fact, he and I had often discussed the possibility of transferring to Front.
As the meeting progressed, one topic emerged as particularly pressing, its implications far-reaching and potentially game-changing for us all.
Terrorism's words hung in the air like a heavy shroud, each syllable laden with the weight of impending danger. "There is someone of interest that the Alliance is 'worried' about." he declared, his tone betraying a hint of apprehension. Division's attention immediately shifted, his piercing gaze locking onto Terrorism as he inquired, "Whom?" The name that escaped Terrorism's lips sent a ripple of unease coursing through the room. "Oren. He's actually in Arkansas currently, and he's taken out multiple deputies and one representative. Technically you could also say he took two if you count Time." Terrorism revealed.
The death hit me like a thunderbolt, threatening to shatter the fragile calm that enveloped me. "Time? He was taken out? Couldn't his stats go up to 600?!" I exclaimed, my disbelief evident in my voice. The people whose stats reach that are in the single digits..
Terrorism leaned back in his chair, his expression a mixture of frustration and grim determination. "Yeah, he could. It's kind of a last resort, but yeah. That's why this is important. My strength's only at 520! This bastard's insane. I want to fight him!" he declared, his eyes blazing with an intensity that bordered on madness. Division's response was swift and decisive, his confidence unwavering. "He poses no significant challenge. I can dispatch him effortlessly." he asserted, his tone brooking no argument. But Terrorism's rebuttal caught Division off guard, his words dripping with defiance. "That's what everyone else said, didn't they?" he retorted, his audacity shocking even me.
In an instant, Division was upon him, his blade poised at Terrorism's throat with lethal precision. "I am unlike the others." he growled, his voice low and menacing. Terrorism's grip tightened around the sword, drawing blood in a futile attempt to assert dominance. It was clear to all present that Division held the upper hand, his dominance unquestionable.
Yet, even in the face of certain defeat, Terrorism refused to back down, his resolve unyielding as he delivered his final, defiant words. "We are not such an idiotic association to get rid of one of the top ten representatives because he said an off-handed comment, right?" he challenged, his voice ringing out in defiance. With a swift motion, Division pulled back his sword, slicing Terrorism even more, but backing off. The room fell silent, Division saw his error. In the end, only one truth remained: there could be no room for weakness.
Terrorism clenched his hand around the wound, his muscles working to close the gash as Division made his way toward the door. "Is there anything else of significance? And as for the source, where was it drawn?" Division inquired, his tone laced with a hint of skepticism. Terrorism offered one last piece of information, "Uh, easy? The Shadows within the cops. If the cops are good at one thing, it's not recognizing spies. Oren will probably head through Oklahoma straight to here. No one in Oklahoma could stand a chance against him. No offense, Forgery, haha." he remarked, his tone casual despite the gravity of his words.
Forgery grimaced slightly at the jab but raised a hand in acknowledgment, telling him no offense was taken. Meanwhile, Division laid down his plan with a sense of finality. "I am in the midst of my ultimate training. If you lack confidence in facing him, bide your time until my preparation is complete." he declared before making his exit through the back door. I rose from my seat. "Is that all? I need to go make some money." I announced, my mind already racing with plans and strategies.
Terrorism shrugged nonchalantly, his demeanor betraying a sense of indifference to the gravity of the situation. With that, I made my way out of the building, my steps purposeful as I retrieved my phone from my pocket. Dialing an important number, I waited impatiently as the phone rang on the other end. Finally, someone picked up, and I wasted no time in getting straight to the point. "It's time. I have a hit to set out on someone. Oren Hashigana, Arkansas. Find him and kill him. This is on recommendation of the Representative of Division and Representative of Terrorism. Send at least a dozen deputies and a few representatives without operations. I'll hold responsibility for this. Go." I instructed. After my diatribe, all I heard was a deadpan 'understood' and the ceasing of the call.