A World Unaware

 

 The streets were filled with a technicolour blaze of people, alive with their presence and bustling with a tangible sense of vibrancy and energy. The crowd were matched by the buildings around, huge neon edifices shouting their style into the streets and even into the dark, raining skies that buzzed with the heavy noise of SCAF pilots. The streets responded with music of all different kinds, all at a deafening volume. From the traffic filled roadways reverberating base came from the windows of the heavy duty, beaten cars of the Frothers, carrying their euphoria with their rhythm. It seeped out of the windows of the occasional Augustus, refined and polished. From tricked out roadsters came the melodies of the latest sensations on Mort's music scene. These were matched by the roars of the bars, nightclubs and various establishments that lined Long Street, a new would-be usurper to The Pit. It hadn't taken much to establish Long Street. A few corporates had come together and decided to enlist some of the larger entities within SLA's umbrella to try and make it a true rival. Much investment and cunning use of some of the more prominent contract killers, paid to drink in the area, a few bribes and tips to the media and the buzz had been created. Despite over two hundred different haunts now part of Long Street, it was still no match for The Pit. The operatives preferred The Pit, their own place, and stayed there and came only to Long Street for the change of pace. There, on that long stretch, they could mingle amid other ops, Contract Killers keen for a bit of exposure, corporates, the nouveau rich and even well paid civilians.

 

For 'Down-Size', Long Street was heaven. Clive Morrison was a darling of 3ird Eye. All his life he'd dreamed of being such, and now that he was it turned out to be everything he'd ever wanted. Power, wealth, acclaim... all of it. All he had to do was kill some punks and not get killed and it just turned out he looked good doing it. In The Pit, it lost some of its shine. Big fish he may be, but that place was a big pond – an ocean – and there were much bigger fish. The day that necanthrope had looked down on him and told him he was intruding on a private conversation and would he buzz off was the day he decided to make Long Street his. A few corporates had paid him to drink in their places even though he intended to do it for free and from then on that's where they found him. Quite often, he'd arrive quietly, incognito to avoid the media simply so he wouldn't oversaturate them with his presence. But not tonight. Tonight he was walking down the length of the street to his favourite haunt, the one that also happened to pay him most; “Milton's”. It was the largest club there and by far the most successful. As a rival to the night-life of The Pit alone, it was like a mosquito biting at a bison but despite that it had quite a bit of pulling power. Even if someone of higher standing than Clive turned up, the staff and the owners knew him and would always afford him V.I.P. treatment. Additionally, it operated an SCL policy. You had to have at least ten, or you didn't get in. No civilians, no nuisances, only those who were at least rising in the company's favour could get in. Just what Clive liked.

 

Walking down the street, Clive felt eyes turn. All the time he was being watched and in each instant it was recognition and admiration. Some wore jealousy, but that was just more flattering. Shouts and calls would meet him as he progressed, sometimes loud enough to draw him from the entourage of the one or two friends he brought with him and the dozen or so lackeys and hangers on. Most would be about his latest exploits, the latest soft company he'd taken down in bloody and professional style. Other times it would be an old, famous adventure and while, on the occasions he felt like responding, Clive would shout to get with the times and watch his new stuff (complete with a plug for whatever channel it was on) he'd adore the fact that they knew his past, still held earlier achievements in high regard. This was the life. An adoring fan broke through the press to throw herself on him, hugging him tightly and muttering about kill counts and the net worth of the illegal assets he'd destroyed and the possibility of sexual favours being bestowed, but Cling, Clive's long-standing, aptly named Wraithen friend, peeled her off his expensive Arducci outfit and pushed her back into the masses. The girl, who was wearing almost equally fashionable attire, was taken away by the group of friends she was having a night out with and showed no shame in her lack of grace, excitedly babbling to them about having just damn near molested 'Down-Size'. Clive took no notice, thanking Cling for the swift action. Amid the clamour of Long Street, practically no one else noticed.

 

“Hey, Down-Size!” came a voice form his entourage. “What about stopping off at Polar for a warm-up round?”

 

Clive ignored it. He assumed, quite rightly, that the entourage member was probably paid to get him to do just that. Cling caught his gaze, but Clive just smiled. They'd been in such situations before. At first they'd told the bribed hanger-on to get lost for being a corporate shill, there only for the money. Now, he didn't care. The mere presence of the man reinforced Clive's ego. They'd try so hard to insinuate themselves with him, to just get him to have a drink there that they deserved to be around him. Clive liked ambition, especially when it centred on him. A little bit of regret found its way in. The idea of a drink in Polar was quite inviting. The bar was heavily air conditioned to the point of being nearly freezing, catering for the Wraithen crowd, but the atmosphere was always intense and watching the undulating dance-floor filled with twisting, sinuous Wraithen bodies was hypnotic when combined with the small, warming cocktails that the bar specialised in. It was lost now, as going in would be giving the paid lackey what he wanted. Clive wouldn't afford him even that little victory. A figure appeared at his side. Becky, the MAL affiliated personal assistant. He'd not slept with her yet as MAL were too valuable a backer to piss off, but Becky seemed to have asked to be seconded to him. Corporates weren't immune to being fans either. It was an interesting dance the two were leading. Now, she asked him about yesterday's fracas with Falldown Incorporated under the guise of preparing a delivery for any waiting media agents further down the street, and how he should stress his use of their products, but a glimmer of her eye suggested she just enjoyed the attention and the one on one, even though the rest of the group were listening in.

 

“Excuse me.”

 

The voice butted in over his own with such impertinence that Clive snarled before he'd even looked who it was. A Shiver Sergeant and two more of the green-armoured scum. The street was lined with them of course, directing traffic and adding security. At any time there was about two thousand of them patrolling the area and the streets that fed it. They were not of the same calibre as Deth's guards, but one word from the directing captains could have the Disperals down on the Street in moments. It had never happened in Long Street's half decade of prominence, but the threat alone cut down the number of incidents.

 

“SCL 6D; piss off, Sarge.”

 

The reflective eyes sat in that grinning, green mask unnerved Clive. He couldn't read them. The smile seemed to be mocking him. Clive had never, ever found the Shivers anything but contemptuous and pathetic.

 

“Congratulations, Mister 'Down-Size'.” came the filtered voice. “Sadly I'm here on higher jurisdiction.”

 

Clive, despite the inner triumph of being recognised and also respectfully addressed, rolled his eyes and turned his attention to Becky, who seemed equally affronted that such would dare to stop them in their stroll up to have a nice, relaxing time. As someone a little more diplomatic, she was used to having to deflect the hoi polloi when they intruded. Before she could speak, the Shiver Sergeant raised his hand.

 

“I didn't want to intrude, Mister 'Down-Size', but we require a word with some of your associates, not you.” The Sergeant spoke politely. “I just didn't want to cause you any trouble by doing so without your knowledge.”

 

“Oh.” Clive was impressed. Such tact was beyond his usual dealings with the lesser security forces. “As long as it's not Cling, Becky, Tatterson or Richards...”

 

“No, sir.” The sergeant shook his head.”

 

“Right then, that's fine. Whatever. Do what you have then sling your hook... and take that A.V. Shiver or whatever that guy is with you.” Clive examined the Shiver stood behind the sergeant whose helmet bristled with more additions that the usual head mounted torch and Look-C camera with audio pick up that most Shivers wore. A veritable plethora of them. Creepy.

 

The sergeant saluted, then nipped past Clive to accost a couple of members of the entourage who protested their innocence. They watched and waited for the briefest of moments, but when it seemed the Shivers would be detaining the individuals for more than thirty seconds, they didn't bother any longer. A small scuffle broke out behind Clive as he walked off but it wasn't his problem. Becky placated Clive with a few insults about the Shiver forces before seamlessly moving back into a discussion of his latest victory. It lasted all the way up the rest of Long Street as they didn't-quite-avoid roving packs of reporters and camera crews trying to grab exclusives. A quick pose, a flashed smile and he was assured a few royalty payments for his image use in next week's celebrity rags. Finally, they approached “Milton's”, the huge edifice a sprawling testament to what could be achieved by throwing lots of money at artists who should have had more integrity. Steep white marble façades, artfully worked to become something beautiful and a direct contrast to the black of The Pit. Even the security doors were molded into the lines of the building, and the inner checkpoints no more obtrusive. The guards all wore designer uniforms that coincidentally had more stopping power than most private security forces and even had a dispensation to use FEN weaponry which hung tauntingly by their sides. A huge line stretched off down a side street where hopefuls all lingered, waiting to see if their looks and style would be enough for the meticulously dressed bouncers and door staff to admit them entrance. To the other side was the V.I.P door and the lingering crowd of news staff. One of them turned to face her camera crew and started chattering at the lens before rapidly approaching him. At her cue, the others realised someone of note must be heading their way. As they moved some of the other camera crew suddenly turned and blocked their path, stalling them or pushing them over. Anger erupted, but it was too late. The first reporter had the field to herself. Probably hired a few random bodies to pretend to be crew, just to give her this little boost. Instantly, Clive liked her.

 

“'ve an exclusive, Down-Size? Down-Size?” she was shouting as she approached.

 

“What's your name, honey?” Clive smiled at the woman. She was as tall as he, pushing just past six feet. Good looks, would probably go far. Might want to keep this one sweet. “Who are you with?”

 

“Denise Silverman.” she flirted at him. “We're from High Angle, bringing the people of Mort all the inside information on their diligent defenders!”

 

“I'd be delighted to help inform our discerning public, Ms. Silverman!” Clive lied.

 

While he spoke, taking care to emphasise the highlights of the footage that would be going out soon, Denise responded with fawning amazement and interest, feigned completely but both knowing it was part of the act and would gain from it. Cling, more practical than showbiz, went and announced the party to the doormen. SCL exceptions were made for some of them as one of the few exceptions to the policy that “Milton's” permitted. Even then, they'd only be allowed in the private guest rooms at the back. This was no issue for these lounges were far more luxurious, the bars better stocked and just as busy as the nightclub out front. With another performance done, Clive left Denise with his private number and a smile and headed in through the arch-way framed portal. He checked his MAL AR with the door wardens who performed a cursory search of him. Few people bothered with weapons and those that did, like Clive, were usually paid to do so. Hold outs, knives and other items that people “forgot to take off” were taken away too. Past the obstacles of compliance, Clive entered the pulsing, throbbing interior of the club. Not the dull, lifeless place that Uptown was known as in the slightest, but nor was it the sheer, vital intensity of the interior of the colossal Pit. No band was playing tonight and the music playing was electronic, thumping with the bass. The revellers inside were driven by it, moving as a single entity to its demands. Clive couldn't help but sway his head a little, pulled into the trance by the single minded devotion to the dance floor the music generated. Clive instead wound his way through the club goers and to the single, snaking stairway that lifted the lounges from the main body of the nightspot. The steps coiled around the lone glyph pillar that had been installed at great expense (and as a show of wealth) in the centre of the club. Though it dampened the ebb around “Milton's” it did nothing to suppress the energy. It was going to be a good night. Past the guards to the lounges without even them stopping him, Clive rejoined his entourage who had settled into a reserved corner of the club, adjacent to the bar but lifted by several steps to make an obvious zone of seclusion that no one could accidentally intrude without pulling the guests out of the room itself. The music from below was played through hidden speakers at a volume that made conversation vaguely possible but didn't diminish its potency. Clive was still clinging to earlier thoughts and made a note to himself to find out who had made this music and to get it played in Polar. 'Milton's' was too hot for most Wraithen and their cooling suits often impeded their movement so here the dance floor was filled with humans, ebons and Frothers. Few Stormers frequented Long Street though it wasn't clearly known why, the exception being the Vevaphons. While the brain wasters were just as present, few stayed in the lounges and preferred the heavier, louder and far more frantic dance floor beneath. Clive breathed deep of the thick air, of the sweat, booze and smoke and the faint perfumes and colognes that battled vainly against them.

 

“Going to be a fucking good night!” he shouted, his voice lost in the din.

 

Fired up, he headed over to his companions and was handed a can of Slosh by Cling, who knew how his friend liked to start an evening. Picking through the group, he took up the best seat and stared around him. Conversation buzzed through the others but it all circled around him, ready to be dropped at a moment's notice should their master want some company or attention. Glances darted at him, always ready to look for his favour. Becky was bolder than most, knowing her attention was never unwanted or at least fit for rebuttal. Taking up a seat next to him she sipped at her drink and watched the room with him. Clive would dance, but it would not be yet. First he would drink in the room, then his drink, and then when he was on the right wavelength he'd dive in. Yet tonight, Clive's attention didn't focus on her. He also had other things on his mind like any red blooded male and his roving eyes were seeking out talent amid the crowds. They found it close to him, sitting among his entourage. A small girl, pale, dark haired and striking with stern features offset by large, almond eyes. Her small figure sat nervously on a designer stool, a drink untouched in front of her. A boned corset was giving her otherwise petite frame hips and chest. The big eyes caught his and they fluttered away quickly, the girl shifting uncomfortably. Clive rose, intrigued.

 

“And who are you?” he asked as he sat down, smiling.

 

The girl made to answer but Becky cut her off.

 

“I don't recognise her, Down-Size.” the blonde said, disapprovingly. “I think-”

 

“Right, Becky, look around.” Clive said, impatiently. “How many others here don't you recognise?”

 

Becky did as told but with a sigh. It was true. Half of the entourage were made up of people who came and went, who were fleetingly in favour with 'Down-Size' through corporate means or simple chance. Clive waited for the PA to relent which she did swiftly. She knew that Clive had a preference for dark and mysterious girls, though for a man who could have whatever he wanted, the preference was merely that. Becky took a seat again and tried to be present but not intrusive.

 

“Sorry,” Clive said without meaning it. “What's your name?”

 

“Herman Fairweather!” the girl blurted out suddenly.

 

“No, that's...” Clive said, recognising the name of his agent. “Oh right, did Fairy send you?”

 

“Yes... I mean...” the girl gulped. “I'm supposed to shadow you.”

 

“He could have told me.” Clive growled into the air. Fairy, or Fairweather, did this sometimes. Reflecting the limelight, he called it. Annoying but no reason to pass up this little morsel.“So, what's your name, kid?”

 

“Gemini.” came the short response.

 

“Oh, you have a twin?”

 

Gemini returned Clive's smiling patience with a look of confusion and panic. A shake of the head. Whilst star struck was a response Clive enjoyed, it got old quick.

 

“Well, shit choice of name then.” Clive chuckled, watching the girl shoot him a dirty look. A bit more like it! “What's your real name?”

 

“Jody Saturday.” The answer came with a quick flash of an SCL card that also read 10A and gave a picture of the girl looking surprised and more of a mess. Clive didn't judge, his own was worse. No one looked good in those photos.

 

“Do you dance, Jody?” Clive asked.

 

“Um...” Jody looked around the room. She seemed to size up the motions of the dance floor. “Yeah.”

 

Clive took her by the tiny forearm and pulled her up, moving to the floor as the music had changed into something more urgent, something that called to him through his bones. The girl resisted at first but then was obviously keen to get dancing herself. It didn't stop her grabbing her drink and downing it before they got too far from the table. Clive laughed. At first, they began to move independently. The music wouldn't allow it for long, nor would Clive. The girl was dancing like a downtown brat in the style that a brain waster would appreciate. Coming from there himself, Clive could match her and what was lacking in finesse was replaced with exuberance and a keen ability to just follow the music. Obviously, his own moves and the force of his personality worked and the girl draped her arms over him, continuing her dance as he took her waist and making the two separate motions into one. The song changed, the dancers continued, driven along by the hot, heavy sensations of the dance floor and the beat. Only when Clive leaned in to taste the girl with a heavy kiss did she snap out of it and recoil, giving him a look of terror as she remembered where she was and what she was doing. It was like looking at a startled animal in a bright light. The situation was not new, and Clive didn't press his advance.

 

“Do you want another drink?”

 

Jody nodded, pulling herself together again. Following, they retreated to the den and sat at the same table they had left though 'Down-Size' now sat closer. Another moment was taken to admire the young operative though his eyes had done nothing but for the last few minutes. She was quite something but was much better in motion. Cling, ever watchful, had anticipated the moment and brought two drinks over.

 

“What does Fairy want you to learn from me, then?” Clive picked a mutual subject and began from there.

 

Jody didn't answer, just studied him, biting her lip. That look of worry and anxiety returned. She must not have expected such scrutiny from 'Down-Size', had probably been told to just hang around and make sure to get in all the footage and hope someone would notice. Something seemed to fall into place and she spoke.

 

“Tell me about Marker Square.” Jody said.

 

“Marker Square!” Clive responded, impressed. “Someone's been doing her homework!That takes me back. I was what... must only have been about SCL 8 then! That's almost two years ago.”

 

Clive sat up a little as he reminisced, giving Jody some space before composing himself, remembering his intentions. He pushed his presence on to the slender woman and took her hand under his.

 

“Marker Square was an excellent mission. A white BPN had turned up a soft company called 'Supply Chain'. They were out-sourcers. What they'd do is take over a role for another soft company and execute it. They're like props but multi-talented. They can do anything. Well, some corporate-boy-made-good had a hankering for his childhood home, went back there, found it was even more of a dump than it used to be. Right, he decides, I'm going to do something about this. Pulls a few strings but fuck all happens. No one gives a damn about Marker Square. It's an upper downtown dive like anywhere else and no one wants to spend the kind of money he wants making it better.

 

“So he thinks “Let's start at the bottom!”. He hires out Supply Chain who start running food and supplies and stuff into Marker Square buildings and helping out the shithole around where he grew up. From there, he starts embezzling funds to fix the buildings, do them up and starts pretending like SLA has authorised all this. The people know no different, he can flash his SCL card at Shivers and all the while he's also on the make. He's taking money from various divisions and giving them to legitimate companies he owns large amounts of shares in. Not only is his old home he's suddenly got a case of altruism for lucking out, but he's actually getting much more wealthy. This all turns up in the books and someone cottons on. The White BPN looking for the source of it finds all this, but it also turns out the construction workers and the security guards and the bloody meals-on-wheels service for the senior citizens are in fact heavily armed mercenaries. The BPN is sent back through the system and the pay is bumped up because the op taking it files a request to bring in additional forces. Station agrees and I get the jump on it. Fairy has all soft company BPN's flagged for my attention, filtered and shit, - you should ask him about it when you want to specialise, too – so I turn up and that's the start of the infamous Marker Square massacre. Anyone dealing or seen dealing with the Supply Chain staff are considered traitors and cos they're trying to hide their gear, none of them have more than DarkNight suits on. Head shots here and there for the look of the thing, but my MAL is chewing through them and the civvy traitors alike. In the chaos, I manage to knock out their head man right away, and the original op, some Frother chick, has found the corporate running the ring and taken him out. Half the Supply Chain try and get out of there, the other half have no clue and it turns into a rout. SCAFs take out any trying to flee and by the end of it Supply Chain are no more and a hundred and thirteen people are dead. Pure media gold!”

 

“Suck to be someone living in Marker Square, though!” Jody protested weakly.

 

“Sucks to be anyone in downtown though, right?” Clive shrugged.

 

Jody nodded, not looking any easier about herself.

 

“That help you at all, then?” Clive shot in the dark.

 

“Not really.” Jody downed her drink again.

 

“Let's go again!” Clive said, drinking from the glass Cling had got him though the Slosh was beginning to take effect. Talking with the girl was a pain, and he knew what he wanted from her. The metaphorical dance was failing, so the real one would do. Sometimes they could be talked round but this newbie was greener than the Shivers outside. Clive grabbed her hand and pulled her back out and though she went willingly this was immaterial to him. Once more they fell into the pulse, but now Jody was filled with a tension and unrest that made her motions hard to follow. Clive took her hips and though she protested with her body language his motions made her slip into his lead and while before they had danced as one now she moved like a thing on his leash. Clive could work with that. Again, he went in for a kiss and this time her flesh was his though he knew she was unsure. To him, it was intoxicating. The fear, the respect, it all heightened his sense of power. Exploring hands made their way around her hips, but were met with a slap. They returned back to the start, but only because Clive found the protest amusing. Now she'd see who was in charge, who was important. You only denied 'Down-Size for so long! He leant in close.

 

“Come to the toilets.” he instructed and started to move, keeping his wrist on her hand. There was no doubting his intent.

 

Jody stopped and shot him a look of frightened anger.

 

Clive returned to the whisper.

 

“You're coming, either willingly or not. I prefer the first. Let's not make a scene and ruin your career, eh? Look, I'll make it tempting. I'll put in a good word for you with a couple of my media contacts. Fair, yeah?”

 

Jody remained glued to the spot.

 

“Listen, you stupid idiot.” Clive snarled. “I want you, you should be flattered. You're weak, you're soft and you don't know how to play the system. I am the damned system and there's no use fighting me. I'm the fucking institution around here. I say, you do, understand? Without me you'll be nothing, you'll achieve nothing and you'll die like all the other pitiful idiots who don't have what it takes. Now move that arse!”

 

Something in Jody galvanised. The small woman took a deep breath, the corset straining against the motion and began to lead the way. Clive was once more impressed. Normally they just became obedient when slapped with the facts, but this actually seemed to have sunk in. There should be more people like her, who listened. And like that Shiver sergeant from earlier, who had respected him, who he was. Jody began to dance as she moved through the room, filled with some sudden revival. For the first time that night, she was smiling. Even in the dances before she'd worn an expression of dedication, intoxication, but not a smile. Barging through the men's toilet door, there were a few cries of protest but these were muffled when they saw 'Down-Size' following her. The few who minded shut up, knowing the whole place was this alpha male's haunt. The rest just made remarks about Clive being a randy bastard and laughed. The girl stood in the nearest cubicle door and smiled up. She went to speak, to say something, but tripped over her own words. Even from here, Clive knew she was still nervous, her heart was racing. He could see it fluttering in her eyes, her motions. She had tried to speak but only a little high pitched noise escaped her mouth. Blinking, she shook her head and started again.

 

“Get in here!” She piped up, taking Clive and pushing him in. “Quick, before I change my mind!”

 

Clive fell on the covered lid of the toilet and looked up as Jody sat down on his knees, door slamming shut behind her, hands pushing over his stomach and his muscled chest, moving round behind his neck and clasping there in his spiked, bleached blonde hair. Clive's own hands moved up on to her hips and round, trying to pull up the short skirt... but were slapped again. Jody moved her hands behind herself instead, moving to the corset. So the girl wanted to be thorough? Let her. This was kinky stuff in this tasteless place. Down-Size linked his hands behind his head where hers had been as her own hands fidgeted with her corset. She pulled an odd face of concentration as she struggled with it, but even that failed to kill 'Down-Size''s mood.

 

The double knives she came back with did.

 

By then it didn't matter. The tiny blades had been concealed within the design of the corset, within the ribs next to the buckles that held it fastened along the back, undetectable in their design. The girl jammed the slipknives into his eyes and the blades expanded, their memory-material tasting flesh and leaping out to meet it, shearing through the bone of the skull and ocular sockets and slicing without resistance through the grey matter beyond. Clive didn't even have time to say anything. Death was instantaneous, though the body twitched and banged against the cubicle walls. The girl panicked and pretended to moan until the motions stopped. There was a round of applause from some drunkards elsewhere in the toilet. Getting up, but leaving the weapons lodged in the dead operative, 'Gemini' slipped through the door, pulling it closed behind her. A Frother came up to peek in and tell Down-Size just what a dog he was, but 'Gemini', still shaking, slapped the man on his chest before he could manage.

 

“Let him pull his damn pants up!” she scolded. “Give him a minute at least, you perv!”

 

'Gemini' darted past the leering Frother and didn't wait to see if they'd listened. Head down, she moved through the club, trying not to be noticed and slipping outside without any hint of clamour or commotion from behind her. She fled “Milton's” and out into Long Street, darting down side alley after side alley before finding herself confronted by three Shivers, the sergeant of which had his arms folded and was looking impatient.

 

“Done?” he asked.

 

“Yes boss.”

 

“Well done, Squeak!” the sergeant clapped his hands together. “Wasn't too rough was it?”

 

Squeak mused this over, then shook her head.

 

“Not too rough, boss.” she said though her relief it was over was palpable.

 

“Fantastic. Just fantastic.” the man in the sergeant uniform said. “I told you, Cagliostro, didn't I tell you Squeak would manage this just fine?”

 

“You did.” said one of the other Shivers, the one who wasn't wearing far too much sensor equipment on his helmet. “I did have my doubts though, well done, Squeak.”

 

“I didn't. Not for one minute.” the sergeant attired man said. “The pick up is waiting just around the corner. It's difficult, isn't it, Squeak? The acting and the cover, not to mention the knife work. You'll pick it up as you go along, if we need you to do it again. Sorry to throw you in at the deep end, but there was a lot of people who were paying very much for this, and we ourselves had a bone to pick... bone to pick... like a bone, in a corset, that you picked... no forget I said that, not one of my best. Anyway, thank you very much, Squeak. Once again, well done!”

 

“He deserved it anyway.”

 

“No doubt, but what makes you say that, Squeak?”

 

“He was an asshole. He didn't like the name I picked either!”

 

Katja removed her forged SCL card out and handed it to Sunflower Smile who took out a lighter and set fire to it. Katja watched it burn and never once gave thought to who the real Jody must have been. The DarkNight Interceptor removed the helmet he wore and threw it into the side of the alley next to the three dead shivers and the two, back of the head bludgeoned corpses of the entourage of “Down-Size” that had their scanner had detected were chipped and walked off with his colleagues into the waiting, omnipresent rain.

 

~

 

“Operative Clive Morrison, better known as Down-Size, expert in the elimination of soft companies, was found dead late last night in Milton's night club. The cause of death was discovered to be a lethal overdose of a combination of drugs. His agent had this to say:”

 

“Clive was always on the cutting edge of the latest trends and lived life in the fast lane as we all know and respected. However, this lifestyle comes at a cost; it can be like balancing on a knife edge between chasing the latest high and overindulgence. We'd like to send this short, sharp message to those out there – use SLA's wide and excellent range of pharmaceuticals responsibly. We hope you get the point. Thank you.”