Chapter 3 Switch

 

Roach lit a cigarette and walked through the streets of Brixton-on-Dom. His odd outfit didn’t stand out since hundreds of cultures from Lumina and Earth lived in New London; shady characters lingered on every corner. He headed for the Top Train Station and began climbing a set of loud metal stairs. There was an elevator but guards, wielding magical rifles and nightsticks were standing against it with red tape sectioning it off—a usual occurrence in New London.

The Top Train linked the Outers; it was built ten years after the city was declared New London in 2027. Since then, the iron beams had rusted and gang markings were present in spray paint all over. Still, it was the veins of the city, currently shuffling hundreds of thousands around.

He emptied three coppers into a machine without a working screen and input his destination from memory. A yellow ticket was printed out that read, ‘One-Way/Southwalls/07:12’.

Throwing his cigarette on the ground, he headed through the ticket barrier and sat down on a dirty seat in a carriage. Many more people crammed on. Most of the passengers consisted of office workers, labourers, mercenaries and the homeless. On the Top Train, you find people from all walks of life.

With his cap pulled over his eyeline, he folded his arms and closed his eyes.

“Oi, don’t touch me you fackin’ cunt!”

“I didn’t touch you, sir, I was merely pushed by the movement.”

“I don’t fackin’ care you posh cunt. Touch me again and I’ll fack you up, got it?”

Roach opened his eyes.

“This station is East Southwalls,” a monotone voice said through a crackly speaker.

As Roach hopped off the train, shots rang out. Everyone flinched but him. They didn’t run in fear, only get on the next carriage.

“Pathetic scum like you are nothing but a parasite to this new world!”

Roach descended the metallic staircase, his boots clanging against each step until he reached the bottom. In front of him was the main street of Southwalls, a neighbourhood slightly superior to the infamous Brixton-on-Dom, but still bore a lingering stench in the air. The streets were more open and filled with a greater number of cars; the morning routine unfolded as parents escorted their lucky children to school. The presence of gang markings was noticeably reduced, replaced instead by a heightened guard presence placed strategically throughout the area.

Roach stepped onto the bustling main street, cigarette pursued between his lips. Looking around, his gaze landed on a jewellery store. The passage of time had not been kind to this establishment. The once-bold letters on the sign had faded, their colours muted by years of exposure to the elements. 

Entering, he spotted a glass counter. Taking the earrings out of his pocket, he placed them, displaying them for the clerk who had a dissatisfied look on her withered face.

“What you want?” an old female dwarf questioned, peering over a set of thick glasses while puffing away at a cigarette. She was resting a thick beard onto a pushed-up chest.

“I want a swap.”

The old hag rolled her eyes and then dropped her feet from a chair onto cracked tiles. She picked one of the earrings up and pressed against it with her fingers, feeling the denseness of the metal, then sniffing it. Huffing, she pulled a set of keys out from her bra and unlocked a case under the counter. 

“I got 12 and 14 Karot. And the swap will still cost ya.”

“Fine,” Roach replied, looking at jewellery present.

“You got a lady then? Don’t want her wearing some dead whores earrings?” she questioned, slamming down a musty black box and opening it up.

“Something like that,” Roach muttered, picking up a pair of small rose gold hoops.

“They’ll cost you more, you know?” 

“I know.” Roach’s eyes drifted over to a pair of silver earrings he thought the recipient might adore; storm clouds that swirled around a blue centre. “This isn’t silver,” he noticed upon smelling it, looking up at the woman.

“Aye, it’s dyed gold. Some fancy transmutation. You know, so it doesn’t get pinched.”

“Sounds like a conman’s dream,” Roach told the old dwarven lady while meeting her eyes.

“I may be an old bint but I’m not a con. Test it yourself.”

“It’s alright; I know where your shop is,” Roach told her. Unfortunately for Roach, his emotionless tone and lacklustre enthusiasm didn’t sit well with most people.

“Threats don’t work on me, merc.”

“It wasn’t a threat,” Roach reassured her while studying the earrings. “How much?”

The old dwarf scowled as she peered at the earrings. “Four silver for the swap. Five for the blood on ‘em, and six if you want the CCTV deleted.”

“Let’s call it seven and you forget my face.” 

“Deal.”

 

With his grandad cap pulled low over his brow and a cigarette dangling between his teeth, Roach manoeuvred through the bustling thoroughfares of Southwalls. Reaching the end of the main street, he abruptly pivoted on his heel and retraced his steps, repeating this pattern multiple times. Yet, each time, he subtly altered his route, adding an element of unpredictability to his meandering. After approximately twenty minutes of purposeful wandering, he found himself standing before a dimly lit alleyway.

With a satisfied glance to ensure no one was tailing him, he entered the alleyway. Jingling a set of keys, he unlocked and lifted the shutter partially before swiftly closing it behind him. After flicking a light on, he found himself in a small storage room.

Within the confines of the cramped space, the kitchen stood as a testament to neglect, its walls adorned with signs of mildew and decay. Surprisingly, there was an absence of dirty dishes, suggesting an unusual tidiness. A solitary mattress, bereft of any sheets, lay haphazardly on the bare floor, while two scratched metal lockers leaned against a worn-out wall. Yet, it was the unassuming presence of a car that dominated the room's limited expanse. The four-by-four vehicle, painted pristine white, seemed like the type that an ordinary, mid-society individual would drive to work. Immaculate inside and out, it contrasted the interior of the room.

First, he accessed one of the lockers and stowed away his revolvers and daggers, accompanied by their holsters. Lastly, his cloak floated on top of them. Retrieving a bucket tucked away in the corner, Roach proceeded to fill it up from the kitchen. Stripping down, he commenced the task of scrubbing away the stubborn remnants of bloodstains from both his body and clothes. He appeared to be swift at it. 

Roach eyed the dishevelled sight of scraggly dark brown hair sprouting from his neck and chin. His hair now rebelled in all directions, further adding to his unkempt appearance. Reaching for an electric razor, he set it to the '1' measurement. Methodically, he commenced the task of shaving off the unruly beard, followed by the act of shearing his head, leaving behind a smooth chin and tidy angles, with an undercut style on his head.

Rising to his feet, he caught sight of his reflection once more in the cracked mirror. Countless black tally marks covered his body, excluding his neck, feet, hands, and head. Some marked singular instances, while others appeared in clusters. Taking a moment to examine his own body, he gently traced his hands along his ribs and stomach until he discovered the latest addition. He tapped it twice with a sombre expression, then emptied the bucket of water into the sink with a resolute gesture.

After drying himself, he opened up the second locker, finding everything an ordinary person might wear in a day: high black socks, simple white pants, dark navy trousers and jacket, and a pair of plain black shoes.

He carefully put on the garment, ensuring his shirt was wrinkle-free and neatly tucked. For the last time he caught his reflection, he couldn't help but notice his emotionless expression. It was like he was staring at someone who wasn’t himself. However, he forced a bright toothless smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.

 

“Right,” Spike slurred, pint in hand and a cigarette in the other, “would you rather watch your ma and da fuck every night for the rest of your life or join in once to stop it.”

Pointy pondered on the question, giving it more thought than needed. “It wouldn’t be very exciting - they’re dead.”

“Yeah, but what if they weren’t.”

“Oh, well, I suppose I would join in once.”

“What?”

“You would watch your parents engage in intercourse everynight for the rest of your life?”

“You’d fuck your own mother?”

Pointy, Goliath, Mute and Spike sat in an old Luminian drinkhouse, perfectly reimagined from before the Great Merge. The seats were made of growing wood, light crystal lanterns hung from low-hanging beams and slave-bound girls carried drinks to the regulars in their corners. Soft Luminian music was playing out of a speaker near the bar to mask the depressing nature of drinkhouses.

“That’s all I’m saying. What are you saying?” Spike asked Mute who was holding a half-pint of ale. Though she didn’t speak, her head swayed in a circle.

She still had the white cloth covering her eyes and was wearing her outfit from the job previous. Thankfully and suprisingly, there was no blood splattered on it. Pointy was in black jeans and a blazer, Spike was in his usual get up and Goliath was wearing an XXL grey hoodie that was still too tight. They stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the rest inside. Then again, most would assume they’re the average, run-of-the-mill mercenaries.

“He shouldn’t moan about Kill of the Month,” Goliath agreed to his own thoughts out loud, stretching while yawning. Even the living, woven chairs still creaked for him. “You deserved that,” he told Mute, adamant in his belief.

“Where the fuck is he anyway? That bastard shoots off the first chance he gets,” Spike angrily asked, kicking his feet up on the table.

“Privacy is important to him. We all took the vows,” Pointy countered, taking a small sip of wine and wincing. “By the Three Moons, that is volatile.”

Goliath was about to agree with the eccentric bard but was cut off by Pointy. “No,” Pointy said, putting his foot down, “when you drink you start agreeing with him and that’s a recipe for disaster.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” Goliath complained. He clicked his fingers to a waitress who scurried off behind the bar. “I do wonder where he goes. You reckon he’s got kids?”

Spike burst out laughing. “He hasn’t even seen a cunt!”

“I think wherever he goes it's very sentimental to him,” Pointy stated, “but I have never seen him show any emotions at all. We can do nothing but speculate. I, for one, believe he’s part of a cult which involves you know what.”

“Oh, shit, really? You need to calm down on the cranberries, mate, they’re goin’ to your head,” Spike told him, lighting a cigarette.

“But to not die? Whatever Black Moon Worship could manifest such a power?” Pointy argued, having to take another wincing sip.

“Blessing?” Spike questioned, leaning forward, downing another drink a waitress brought over. He took a long breathe in before he said, “That ain’t no blessing my autistic little di, that’s a curse if I’ve ever seen one. I think he—” Spike’s eyes drifted to the back of his skull and his head slammed against the wooden table.

“Why does he always become unconscious when he’s about to say something remotely intelligent?” Poitny grudgingly muttered to himself.

Goliath yawned once more. “I think that’ll do it for today.”

“Quite right,” Pointy agreed while checking his wine. “I would like to stay to finish this—”

Mute’s head then fell on the table while still clutching her one-and-only half-pint of ale, and it was half-empty. The two loud noises had drawn attention to them, and the owner of the Drinkhouse was staring daggers at them from behind a puller.

“That’s our cue to leave,” Goliath announced. He reached into his jumper and dumped six silver onto the table. “I’ll take him.”

“And I shall her,” Pointy said.

With Mute slung over Pointy’s shoulder and Spike over Goliath’s, they strolled out onto the busy morning streets of Brixton-On-Dom. The sun was no longer a young orange but a beacon yellow. The dirt streets were packed with people of all different races. Mothers and slaves were running between the stalls in a hurry, trying to find the best bread, meat and vegetables for their husbands or masters.

“How long do you think we’ll be on the children?” Goliath asked Pointy, moving to the right to let a motorcycle through.

 Pointy pouted and stared at the three faded moons in the sky. “Difficult to say. We haven’t any idea about them. Even I can’t wrap my head around their strategies. Though, I am interested in what Mercy wants us to do with Lady Evergrand.”

“Seems wrong,” Goliath added. “Why us? We ain’t polite and we ain’t proper.”

“Whatever Mercy is doing I completely trust him. He may be a bit mysterious but he was the fastest person to reach Elder rank after all. Then again, that does sound suspicious when I say it aloud,” Pointy rambled on, re-adjusting Mute on his shoulder.

“Do you think it's got anything to do with the children then?”

“Perhaps. I don’t want to divulge in any detective work. Alas, my brain would melt at this moment.”

“Halt!” a guard announced, charging forward, magical assault rifle drawn and pointed at the two. “Put them down and step away!”

“It’s a rookie,” Pointy sighed upon noticing the perfectly ironed uniform with every gadget equipped on their belt. “It’s just our luck.”

Another guard ran up behind the other without their weapon drawn.

Goliath just looked at the fresh-faced recruit then turned his attention to Pointy. “I should just dump him in a brothel,” he grunted at him.

“What are you doing with these two?” the rookie inquired, finger on the trigger.

Ignoring the guard, Pointy replied, “No - But—No, we couldn’t do that.”

Spike opened his right eye with his fingers upon hearing the commotion and stared at the many strange faces looking at him. He then realised he was upside down and his head was lying just below Goliath’s right butt cheek. “Help!” he falsely exclaimed. “He’s kidnapping me! He’s gonna stick his big giant cock in me!”

“He’s not being kidnapped, he’s just drunk and a prick,” Goliath reassured the rookie and the wary crowd that had gathered.

Spike started silently laughing and his hands found their way to Goliath’s very firm but plump buttocks. With a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, he squeezed them as hard as he could. “So firm. Soooo round. You really work on your glutes, giant.”

“Brothel it is,” Goliath grunted, chucking him on the dusty ground at the foot of one. “Coins are in his left pocket,” he told the working women outside.

“I’ll pay double if you carry me in!” Spike announced with a finger in the air, clutching his head soon after. He vomited on the dusty ground and the working girls looked at him with disgust. However, their faces changed when he produced silvers between his fingers.

“What about the other one?!” the rookie questioned, aiming his rifle at Pointy.

“I think that’s enough,” the other guard stepped in, lowering the rookie's gun with their palm. “On your way, you two.”

Goliath gave him a nod and the two walked passed the rookie and through the crowd that had gathered.

“I swear we are cursed,” Pointy remarked, “everytime.”

“I’d give it two months before he’s taking bribes,” Goliath retorted.

“In this area, that’s generous - I’d estimate a week. Anyway, should we grab some food?”

“If they got enough for me,” Goliath huffed. He nodded to the unconscious Mute. “Some food would do her some good.”

 

Roach was travelling on one of the many highways through New London. He was heading towards the North of the Outers, to a place called Warren’s Green. Taking a slip road off, he quickly came to a set of large, steel gates. To the right of it was a guardhouse with men patrolling with guns and spears.

“Good morning, Mike,” Roach said with a neutral accent while his window came down. “Any problems since I’ve been gone?”

A man in a navy uniform sat inside the guardhouse, engrossed in a newspaper. Recognizing the familiar voice, he glanced up. "Ah, Mr Thorn, been a while. Not much, just a couple of drunks and hopeful thieves - you know the drill. If you're headed towards Galley Street, there are a few new shops worth checking out."

“That’s great, Mike, keep up the good work. And I’ll check them out if I have time.” Roach reached into his blazer pocket and pinged a silver over to the guardsman. 

“Thank you very much, Mr Thorn.”

“You’re always welcome, Mike,” Roach said, smiling without his eyes.

The steel gates swung open silently, and Roach exchanged a nod with the man before revving up the engine. Once he had driven through, Roach’s happy expression left his face immediately.

Warrens Green was a gated community on the northern side of New London. Though New London consisted of three main areas, there were also giant walls that closed in on the Overground. Warren Green was located after the first of the inner walls. It was a beautiful place where children could walk around freely. It was expensive, but nowhere near how much it would cost to live in the Overground. Warren Green had everything a small city would need: shopping centres, a Top Train, swimming pools, grocery stores and most importantly, security. It was sealed off from the rest of the city and only a pass or your face could let you in. 

Cars were present on every paved street, many of them brand new and sporting magical modifications. Sprinklers watered luscious green grass and gardeners snipped the hedges to perfection. Compared to the Underground, Warren Green was a utopia.  

Roach drove down the main street of Warren Green for a few minutes until he turned off down a windy, paved road with trees on either side. He drove past multiple large houses until he pulled into one. After slowing down on a gravel driveway, he came to a stop at an old Victorian townhouse. However, it was once terraced; the Great Merge had knocked down all the other houses on the street, leaving it standing by itself. The architecture and colours were still the same, though, multiple extensions had been added on the back, including a grand conservatory and a gym.

Yawning, he opened the door and placed the car keys into a marble pot. He walked down the hallway and found himself into a large kitchen, fitted with the most modern styling and technology. Eggs and bacon quickly began cooking in a pan.

Within a matter of minutes, the staircase emitted a gentle creak, indicating the arrival of someone lured from slumber by the aroma of breakfast.

“Good morning, June,” Roach said upon hearing the footsteps.

A young woman descended the stairs, wearing a plain oversized t-shirt that attempted to hide a pair of large breasts. Her black, curly hair was wild, and she wore thick, weighty glasses that dominated her petite, round face. Her fair skin contrasted with her black, hairy arms. She was of medium height for a woman, standing at five feet and six inches, yet her build was unathletic.

“Did you just get back?” she asked, stretching, creating a weird swan-like pose. Her accent was upstanding despite her visage.

“Did you just wake up; it’s ten you know?” Roach questioned while flipping bacon.

“It’s my day off, Sol, leave me alone,” she moaned. Plopping down on a stool at the breakfast bar, she groaned while scratching her scalp. “I thought you weren’t meant to be back until next week?” she inquired.

“Work got cut short. How’s the apprenticeship going?” he questioned, his tone filled with fake enthusiasm.

“My favourite colleague has been on holiday for ages. It’s so boring.”

“Don’t you like it? You worked hard to get it.”

She groaned loudly. “Yes, of course, but I got moved onto the fiction section and they’re all terrible. They follow the same plot - blah blah blah - good guys kill the bad guys and don’t even get me started on romance novels. Ugh, and thrillers! The only respectable genres are mystery and horror.”

Roach faked a chuckle. “You’ll be moved on soon when they see how intelligent and hard-working you are.”

June didn’t respond. Instead, she placed her head on the cold marble countertop.

Another set of footsteps came down the stairs.

“Good morning, May,” Roach said. “Bacon and eggs?”

The kind offer was met with a grim, horrified face at the bottom of the stairs. Another set of footsteps stopped just behind her.

“Go!” May screamed.

“Why?” a man’s voice questioned innocently. “Are you married?”

“No, worse, it’s my brother!”

Roach calmly pulled out a serrated knife from a drawer. “Having fun while I’m gone, are we?” 

A man in his birthday suit ran out of the front door clutching his belongings. The door slammed behind him and the distant sound of barefoot running on gravel could be heard with the odd “ooh” and “ah”.

“You said you wouldn’t be back ‘till next week!” the woman complained from the bottom of the stairs. 

Her name was May; a woman of slender stature and athletic build with wild ginger hair, which infected her eyebrows and dotted freckles around her face. Usually, her hair was ironed straight, but her hair was much like her sisters in the morning. She too wore an oversized shirt - a borrowed item from her friend who ran. Her legs were shaved and despite cramped toes, they looked to be well-kept with white nail polish coating them. Around her hazel and slim eyes were smudges of mascara, hinting at the activities of the previous night.

Roach placed the knife back inside.

“June!” May screamed at her sister. “Why didn’t you tell me Sol was back?!”

“I didn’t even know someone was here!” June replied, matching her decibels.

“May, I don’t care. I just don’t want thieves in my house,” Roach explained to her as he poured more oil into the pan.

“That’s rich coming from you,” May chatted back while rubbing her scalp through her hair.

“New boyfriend?” Roach questioned. “If so, I’ll need his name and where he—”

May shook her head adamantly, dismissing it with, “It was stubby too,” while holding up her pinky finger

“You just needed to say no, May.”

May rolled her eyes and strolled up to the breakfast bar like a zombie. She sat down on a black leather stool and scratched her scalp.

“Anything I should know about since I’ve been gone?” Roach asked them, turning the heat off and meeting both their eyes.

“Oh!” May exclaimed. “I got the main part in that play.”

“Times of Old and New?” Roach wondered. He bent down and picked two square plates out of the cupboard.

“No - that was two months ago, and I didn’t get that. It’s The Tragedy of the Great Merge at the Royal Albert Hall. The first show is in five days. That reminds me, can we go shopping? I need a dress for the after-party.”

“Uh, what? Five days?” Roach became flustered as he thought about his undetermined rota for the next week. “On the ninth?”

May nodded. 

“I think I’m free. I’ll have to check. Can you get us tickets?”

“Of course, I’m the main lead,” May boasted, twirling her fingers around her crazy ginger hair.

‘I’m the main lead’ June mouthed, teasingly twisting her hair around her fingers.

“Well, congratulations, May,” Roach complimented, ignoring June. However, May wasn’t paying attention to him.

“Jealous much?” May asked her sister, bulging her eyes threateningly.

“Jealous of making a fool out of myself? Oh no, definitely not.”

“I just got back,” Roach interrupted, banging the plates onto the counter, “can we not argue for ten minutes?”

“Fine,” May sighed, rolling her eyes again.

Roach dumped the bacon and eggs onto the plates, giving them equal amounts. He skidded cutlery across the counter to them and they tucked into their breakfast. Roach poured himself a glass of orange juice and waited for them to finish.

 

“June, do you want to come to May’s show this time?” Roach asked.

June nodded eagerly as she wiped eggs from her mouth.

“June only wants to go because a guy she likes is going,” May broke the news, pointing aggressively.

“I do not!” June exclaimed at the top of her voice. “I don’t need constant compliments from men unlike you.”

“That’s just another term for saying you’re lonely,” May teased.

“I have friends!” June declared, bolting up.

“Who, clit and clunge?” May teased, holding up two fingers and curling them.

“ALRIGHT!” Roach bellowed, slamming his fist down on the black marble countertop. “Can we just act like a normal fucking family for a single day . . . Please.”

The two sisters looked meekly to the side without a thought of muttering an apology. Roach ran a rough hand through his shaved head and scratched the bottom of his neck. Eventually, he sighed and said, “We’ll go shopping today. If you two argue at all, and I mean at all, I’ll take you back.”
“You don’t control us,” May tutted, folding her arms.

“You’re right about that, but I pay for food and your education, and both of you don’t pay rent.”

“I’m still seventeen,” June protested with a wail of her arms towards May. “She’s nineteen!”

Roach closed his eyes and held up an open palm. 

“We’re going to go out like normal—”

“Orphans,” May corrected with an eyebrow cheekily raised. 

“Like three normal orphans then, got it?”

The two sisters nodded for a truce, but in truth, it wasn’t going to last. Roach was all too familiar with how these scenarios played out. Despite the eventual argument, he looked forward to spending time with his ‘sisters’.

 

In Gravebourne Borough, located in South New London, Goliath was down a quiet street. In front of him was a kebab shop and a metal staircase that led above it. Giving a wave to the workers inside, his hand dived around his pocket, stopping the jingle of keys. Heavy feet climbed the creaky wooden stairs until they stopped at a metal door. He put the key in, twisted it, then leant his shoulder into it, removing the unwanted safety measure. He was met with dust and an ungodly smell that made his eyes water. Patting away the cloud, he entered in and closed the door behind him.

It was a small apartment. It was bare; wooden floors with cheap, plain drywall. No paintings, no pot of keys, not even a glass of whiskey above the mantlepiece. He was inside the living room, kitchen and bathroom. Yes, a toilet sat in the far corner with a rusty metal tub and sink adjacent. Before Goliath sat down or even took his shoes off, he entered one of the other rooms.

Upon opening it, he was hit with the same smell as before but tenfold worse; body odour, rotting food and the stench of stale sex. The room itself had a single bed inside and a chest of draws. Chinese food boxes littered the bare wooden floor, some empty and some half-eaten. Stains from alcohol, semen and cigarette burns were ever apparent inside. There were no blinds on the dusty window either and the sun had been cooking the smell for a month.

Closing the door, his behind quickly found the crusty sofa in the main room. Taking a long deep breath, he closed his eyes and rested his mind. However, it was short-lived.

Goliath’s phone rang. Without opening his eyes, he picked up. “Yes, sir.”

“How was the team?” Mercy asked.

“Overall, sir, good. Roach did become uneasy as time went on - he was beginning to see it was pointless as did we all. Pointy enjoyed himself, Spike is Spike and Mute was the same.”

“Another job for your record, Goliath, well done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The SPD for Elora Evergrand has been greenlit for the 8th with pick up at her residence at 0700. I’ll need you all in for 0500. Intelligence will be sending you the required information and Boseman will be organising your vehicle and equipment. You will be transporting her to Pettywell for a charity ball - a handover has been agreed upon by her security team and the Guardsman of Pettywell so it is only the transportation you will be responsible for.”

“How sure are you that the Children are after her?”

Mercy hesitated to reply. “You know I do not trust complex machines spitting numbers, Goliath, so I will only tell you it is designated as imminent.”

“If it’s imminent, sir, wouldn’t we be walking into a trap?”

“You are correct, Goliath. We have told her father but he does not believe or trust us. We have pulled every string inside the Lord’s House and practically kissed the king’s feet for the go-ahead. It seems pathetic to me, Goliath, that New London’s idol has a threat against her life and they are not taking it seriously.”

“I understand, sir, but why us? For someone of her calibre, a team of Combatant Elders would be best.”

“If we show them what Raptors can do, we can let their imagination wonder what an Elder can.”

“Seems risky, sir,” Goliath offered his opinion.

“Yes, it is, but your team has a 99.87% mission success rate. I could not think of anyone better for protection and for a show of force. We need the Lord’s House to revere us if we are to expand and become more public.”

“Not a fan of this public thing, sir - we’ve all been hearing rumours at base.”

“It is what the Administrators want, Goliath, even I don’t question it. Did you manage to get a date with the Bookkeeper?”

Goliath’s phone pinged - he pulled the notification down. “Now, actually.”

“Good. I’ll have a Fodder run out the payment to you. He is pricey so double the normal amount would be sufficient.”

“Yes, sir, we’ll head over as soon as we can.”

“Keep well, Goliath.”

“Likewise, sir.”