The street outside Waylon's apartment is quiet. Except for the trees jutting up at regular intervals: their naked branches rattle together above dried up moss browning within the crevices of concrete slabs that make up the sidewalk. Temple throbbing, Waylon glances at the phone Albert gave him.

Nothing since Joel's text from this morning.

Joel: A car will come at 10AM this morning, be ready outside of your apartment for pickup.

Waylon swipes the text window away and clicks the power button. The clock flashes across the center of the screen at the perfect moment for 10:02 to change to 10:03. Late. Time marches on and the car is late. With a shake of his head and a clench of his teeth, Waylon shoves the phone into his pocket. As if his life was playing along to the timing of a popular drama, a black, unmarked sedan with tinted windows barrels around the nearby intersection and screeches to a halt inches away from him.

He should have put the phone away earlier.

The back door swings open and Joel appears, leaning over an empty seat with his arm outstretched and wearing a different — objectively ugly — sweater. "Hey, mister Ishii. Sorry for the wait. Albert changed where they wanted to watch the big game so we've been scrambling all morning."

Waylon buries his frustrations: be polite. In one movement, he stoops, slides into the seat, and shakes Joel's hand. "It was only a couple minutes. It's fine."

Joel jerks in surprise at the clasp of hands, but straightens up and returns the handshake. "O-Oh, ha. I was just opening the door for you. The handshake is nice though, great to see you again mister Ishii. M-My hands are a bit sweaty. Sorry about that."

He isn't wrong. Releasing hands with the waterfall of a man, Waylon wipes his own on his jacket. "Where are we going? Why couldn't I go meet Albert myself instead of you all coming to get me?"

Joel knocks on a dark, glass divider separating the backseat from the driver. The car jerks forward. "Standard procedure outside of a job, mister Ishii. Sorry if we've caused you any concern or inconvenience. There is a bar that Albert has grown fond of lately, so you're going to talk with them there. We'll be around to pick you up after and take you wherever you need."

Waylon tries to get a glimpse through to the driver's seat. No luck. "Why not the facility we met at last time?"

The tablet in Joel's lap flashes on with a burst of white light at the press of a button and Joel taps along its surface. "Albert's a busy person, mister Ishii! They have to be all over due to appointments and such. Can't say more than that! I'm sure you understand. Now if you wouldn't mind, I'm quite behind on some of my other work so I'm going to focus on that." He looks back up for a moment and tweaks a cautious hand toward Waylon. "Eh. Feel free to ask any pressing questions though."

Waylon loses himself in the hard-to-make-out signs, trees, and people passing outside his window. "The quiet is fine by me."

---

Bars are the worst. Drunk people, alcohol everywhere, not enough quiet to have a conversation. Why talk here? Waylon pushes through the door and... nothing. Quiet, no crowds. Still plenty of alcohol though.

The entire room is dim, only lit by weak faux sconces lining the walls and tiny clusters of globe-shaped lamps dangling above the tables and bar. There's no distinct smell of vomit and booze-riddled breath; no odd, acrid taste every time he sucks in air. Just pleasant lavender with a hint of honey. He squints his eyes, trying to make out anyone through the desaturated haze left by exposure to bright sunlight.

A couple moments pass, then the haze subsides and the occupants come into focus. Past the chairs and tables, two figures crowd around the end of the bar furthest from the entrance. Some baseball game flashes across the television perched above the bar. Within the dancing shades of green, brown, and white cast from the screen, Albert nurses an amber colored drink across from a bartender. In their odd costume getup. Trench coat, porcelain mask, full body black spandex, body armor. Chic.

Waylon's frustration melts away: finally, no more waiting. He weaves through the tables toward the villain. "Albert."

Swiveling in their chair, they shoot to their feet to tower over the space. "Ah, Waylon my lad. I didn't notice you come in."

"Let's get this over with."

Albert reaches out an open hand. "Now, now, Waylon. We've got plenty of time here. The game still has a whole two innings left!"

Hot frustration tingles anew around Waylon's temples and over his scalp. More waiting, then. He clasps hands with Albert. "How long does that take?"

They sweep their hand at the chair next to their own. "You can never rush baseball! Why don't you have a seat and order something? We can talk over a drink. Take the edge off, you know."

Waylon slips past Albert and into the seat. "I don't drink."

Albert plants themselves back in their bar stool and sends a curt laugh echoing around the empty bar. "Anything? Old Jacob here has water and soda, son! Order one of those."

Jacob steps to the side, directly in front of Waylon. He's a dinosaur. In fact, he almost looks like John Hammond himself stepped straight out of Jurassic Park. Just without the ridiculous straw hat. He watches Waylon: silent, studying.

"I'll have a water." Waylon says. He glances to Albert. "Does everyone working for you have a name that starts with 'J'?"

"Only most." They gesture at the television with their half-empty glass, splashing a drop of the amber alcohol over the edge. "Now look here, lad. The Ravens are down two, the bases are loaded, and we've got two outs. If we get a grand slam here, we'll be up two and we'll be in the perfect spot for the final inning. Stevenson is at bat. Highest home run count on the team, highest RBI: just a great batter. Do you think he'll make the hit?"

Waylon wants to tell them to drop it, to get to the point. They've got all the power though. He takes the glass offered by Jacob and sips. "Sorry, I don't know the sport very well. What do you mean we? Are you a fan?"

"You're telling me you live in Cordia and don't care about the local minor league team? The tickets are so affordable, lad! What price would you be willing to pay to see a game?"

"So you are a fan."

"A fan?" They scoff. "No. I own the team!"

Waylon chokes mid sip and talks through the sputter of water and air in his trachea. "Y—You own the team?" He coughs through more water. "Why?"

"Always been a fan of the game, I've got the money, so why not? Investments are all about diversification to protect yourself against risky moves in other areas. Baseball might not be the most popular sport, but the income is steady."

"I though that it was a dying—"

Albert inches a solitary finger off his cup and sweeps the glass toward the television with another splash. "One second, lad! The pitcher is at the mound again."

Letting his words peter off, Waylon goes silent. Play their game just a little longer and a door will open.

The pitcher rears back on one leg with the other cocking up toward his chest. His hands meet: glove hiding ball. In one smooth motion, his leg springs forward several feet and his ball-holding arm sweeps through a perfect arc above his head. The ball shoots from his hand, barreling toward number forty-eight: Stevenson.

Waylon doesn't know the game all too well, but that ball shouldn't be heading straight for—

With a sickening smack, the ball strikes Stevenson in the side just below his ribs. The man stumbles forward clutching at the spot and letting out a cry of pain. A spike of something in Waylon's mind forces him to flinch, to recoil from the screen as if the ball had hit him. "Ouch. Is that allowed?"

As Stevenson lumbers along the white line connecting home and first base, Albert sips on his glass. They speak without even a hint of disappointment tinting their words. "Of course it is. They opted for giving up a run and putting Stevenson on first instead of letting him drive the whole line home. Perfectly legal, just not very sportsmanlike."

Waylon rubs at his side where an imaginary ball might have hit, feeling around his own spongy mixture of muscle and fat. "Makes sense."

A scrawny man two sizes smaller than Stevenson steps up to the plate. He bounces his black and silver, checkerboard-patterned bat off the soles of alternating, hiked shoes. Albert taps Waylon's arm with the back of a hand and points to the television. "Number twenty-three: Corduroy Brawn. Worst RBI on the team, but best name. Even if he doesn't quite live up to it. The Ravens lose the championship if he strikes out."

"And you're not worried?"

Albert cackles. "I would be if I didn't place bets on the other team." They slap a black-cloth-covered hand against Waylon's back. "Diversifying, my lad!"

Awkwardness overcomes Waylon at their touch, sending cringe-inducing chills down his spine. Play their game. "Smart."

One. Two. Three strikes and Brawn drudges toward the dugout, bat dangling limp from his hand and the other team cheering and rushing the field behind him. Albert cheers and punches their glass into the air. "That's what I'm talking about!"

Waylon stares at the dejected baseball player that the camera operator refuses to pan from. "Congratulations, I guess?"

They clink their glass into Waylon's own, sending water and alcohol splashing over the edges and into Waylon's lap. "Damn right. Cheers, lad! That's the team's entire upkeep for the year in the bag! It pays for itself."

Now. Push it. Waylon leans over onto the counter. He swirls the last bit of water left in his cup, steeling his mind for the last bit of Albert's game. "Can we talk about the job?"

Albert plops into their chair like a flying squirrel coming to rest and swivels to face Waylon. "Before we get to that, how's Gina?"

Anger sparks in Waylon's chest, but he holds it back. It's just more stalling: they're playing their game. Stay calm. "You already know how she is."

"Alas, I do and I apologize. Keeping up the pretense is important sometimes, but I should have known better. Sorry, lad. How are you holding up?"

Waylon breaks; the frustration ignites with each bit of kindling Albert has been stacking up. He slams his empty glass onto the bar top. "Fine. Can we please get on to the job? You know I don't have time for this."

"Of course, of course." They place their glass down and shuffle around inside their trench coat. From within, they pull out a loosely folded packet of papers and slide it across the bar top. "There's all the information you need. I'll give you the gist though."

The paper is sturdy, thick, smooth. Higher quality than any printer paper Waylon has touched before. He lets his eyes linger on the blank, curling backside for a moment before flipping it over and unfolding it.

Albert gulps down the last of their drink. "The target is a piece of machinery at the local aquarium."

They're messing with him; that's the only explanation that makes sense. Waylon lets his confusion slip into his words as sheer disbelief. "Why would someone want a piece of aquarium equipment?"

Albert swirls their empty glass toward the barkeep, who jumps into action. Behind the bar, Jacob shifts through a flurry of elegant movements with equally elegant metallic equipment and ornate bottles; shaking and shifting. He drops two fresh-chilled whiskey stones into the Albert's waiting glass, then pours an identical amber alcohol from far too high up without spilling a drop.

Albert sips at it. Whiskey stones shift and tinkle: glass against rock. "I'm getting to it. You've got to let me finish, lad." They take another sip, clomp their tongue against the roof of their mouth with a sound like boots buried in mud, and nod toward Jacob. "Perfect, thanks. So why an aquarium, you ask? Are you familiar with Zava?"

"Yes." Waylon says.

"Then you know Zaza Kukava, the founder? He got his start around half a century ago as an FBH licensee filling requests for custom industrial equipment. That type of request is a lot more common to actually get completed these days with all these tech-crazed licensees popping up everywhere, you know."

The puzzle clicks in Waylon's mind and relief douses the fire of pain and frustration behind his temple. It makes sense. "So they have one of those machines at the aquarium?"

"Exactly! All of his old prototypes are highly collectible, but they're hard to get in your hands. Most all of them have been auctioned off as they age out of commission or as they age out of commission as they say. Like you said, one of those prototypes is in this city at the local aquarium: sitting forgotten by staff and — so far — unnoticed by industrious minds like our's."

Images of countless, tension-filled movies where spies dodge traps set by their villainous rivals flip through Waylon's mind. "Won't this all cause a giant fuss? Won't security be a ton tighter than that aluminum shipment? I'm not interested in going to jail because I didn't dodge an invisible laser or something." He tosses the packet back onto the bar top. "This sounds leagues above me. I just need money."

Albert scratches at something under their armpit, just inside their bulletproof vest. "No, no. It's nothing like that, lad. All you have to worry about are the run-of-the-mill employees, and not even that if you're smart. The only other bit is a local licensee that patrols that neighborhood: Barclay. Not a big worry. Something to keep in mind though."

"Okay." Waylon stares at the packet as it sucks up a nearby ring of water left by his now missing glass. "Why are you giving me all this information, though? I had to scrounge for the aluminum shipment."

"That's the beauty of coming under my wing, lad! We have all the personnel required to delegate responsibilities like gathering intelligence. You'll only be responsible for the actual plan and carrying out the job from this point forward. Oh! And putting together your team. Except your driver. I've already got one for you: Ronan if you remember him from your last job."

That prying dingus only worried about his phone? Waylon sucks in a deep breath and exhales, steady as a stream. "Does it have to be him?"