Disclaimer: I don't own DP.
BGM: "The Cave" by Mumford and Sons.
1. My Legions of Terror will have helmets with clear Plexiglas visors, not face-concealing ones.
A brushed-steel elevator door dinged open, and Vlad Masters emerged. He swept down the hall to his office, all thick-pile carpet and immaculate green and gold paint. He glanced at his watch, frowned and shifted his gaze to a small desk at the end of the hall.
A thin, thirty-something man with a bad comb-over was staring intently at a flat-screen monitor, muttering something into his headset. So this was his new personal assistant. Vlad paused for a moment. The man turned, spotted his boss and went stock-still. Vlad rolled his eyes. He gave the walking bundle of nerves a week, at most, before he put in for a transfer to one of the less critical departments.
Vlad walked briskly past the desk, hardly breaking stride as the door's recognition software scanned and admitted the CEO, the door sliding open and closed without a sound. Smiling, he made a mental note to look up whoever had designed, or otherwise acquired the designs for, that particular bit of machinery and give them the usual small bonus. Good behavior should be rewarded. One could catch more flies with honey, and all that "popular psychology" cheese by-product.
Sighing, he settled into the high leather chair and started to go through the never-ending mountain of paperwork that appeared on his desk whenever he looked away. All his myriad powers and ridiculous wealth, and he couldn't find any way to eliminate red tape. Ridiculous.
Twenty minutes later, he was shaking out his sore wrist and glaring at the intricate wall clock – handmade, from Switzerland. A pointless expense, but it impressed some of his more affluent visitors, and he was never one to pass up an advantage, no matter how slight.
A hesitant, rapid knock. Speaking of slight, those were his idiot new assistant's chances of surviving the next ten minutes.
"Come in," he ordered.
The door slid open a few inches, and the man who'd been standing behind it jumped a good five inches into the air. He all but jumped over the threshold, looking nervously back as the door slid closed. Vlad smiled. Messing with the minds of lesser men would never get old.
"Yes?" he asked indulgently.
"Um, eh, sir," the little man stammered, gulping audibly. "I have the designs for the Master's Blasters uniforms."
Vlad just looked at his soon-to-be-ex-assistant.
The man lifted a piece of paper and pointed at a line about a third of the way down. "It says here that all new uniform designs had to be personally approved by you."
Vlad paused, pondering and verifying the claim. It was supposed to go up the change of command straight to his... his current personal secretary. Well, at least that explained why the little man had the papers in the first place.
"And you decided that the best course of action was to interrupt my work?" This question rather strongly implied: And get your worthless self fired?
He shook his head. "N-no, sir! I just, um…"
Painful silence.
"Outside, there's um, someone to see you."
A raised eyebrow.
"He says he's from a government agency, the Guys in White."
"Ah, Agent K, or perhaps O? Odd, they're generally joined at the hip," he mused. "Something about regulation 79-B subsection whichever-it-was."
The assistant just shook harder, undoubtedly waiting for the sword to fall.
Vlad just looked at him for a second, and then snapped, "Well? Send him in."
"Yes, sir," he chattered, relieved. The man turned to leave, and then stopped as if pinned in place.
"The designs, you."
The man whirled the rest of the way around and walked stiffly to the grand hand-carved desk at which Vlad held court, holding the papers out like a shield, or an offering to a capricious god. Vlad took the papers and waved the man away.
The man stood there.
"What?" Vlad asked.
"It's Thompson, not 'you.' I'm t-terribly sorry if I've bothered you, sir." As if disbelieving of his own actions, the man backed away a few feet, turned and walked mechanically out of the office at a pace just short of a jog, stopping only for Vlad to let him back out.
Vlad looked at the door and decided to put it out of his mind for the moment. Now, should he let the GIW lackey sweat for a moment, or just get it over with?
…He did not want to deal with any of those idiots any longer than absolutely necessary. Vlad pulled a flat display out of one of the many hidden compartments of his desk that showed the security camera feed directly outside his office. His latest visitor was on the thin side, vaguely Asiatic looking with hair in a military crew cut and the ubiquitous white suit and mirrored sunglasses, just one of many faceless minions making up the general staff of the Guys in White. Vlad let the display retract automatically, buzzing the man in.
The minion walked in, sharp shoes making no sound on the carpet, and stopped precisely three feet from the edge of Vlad's desk.
Vlad said evenly, "What do you have to report?"
A/N: Because of course Vlad has spies in the GIW. He has spies everywhere.