Michael checked his phone again, glancing at the short string of numbers as if they might have changed since the last three times he'd looked. Above his head, the smooth silver lettering of the corresponding address lay affixed upon the shining glass facade of the office building before him. The building was one of dozens, planted in the middle of the bustling downtown.
The short walk from the bus stop had been harder than it should have been, and his legs protested, still tender and sore. It had been half a week since the impromptu surgery, with the days spent lying in bed or hobbling clumsily around his apartment. During the moments he'd felt energized enough to work, he had busied himself with futile attempts to further grasp hold of the intelligence within the machinery, or searching for information online. The latter had at least proved more successful than the former, or so he hoped.
On either side of the busy thoroughfare, swarms of pedestrians flowed down the sidewalks, as the roar of passing cars joined the cacophony of sound that filled the heart of the city. A hundred different conversations drifted through the air, as restaurants filled their outdoor seating with the back end of the daily lunch rush.
Against all of his expectations, it seemed like he was in the right place. It was hard to believe; while the building in front of him was one of many, it wasn't exactly incognito. At one end of the street, the state capitol itself peeked out from between the lines of trees, and the Protectorate Headquarters was only blocks away. Yet, according to the instructions he'd been given, his destination was sitting almost smugly in front of him. Carefully, he tucked his phone away, pausing one last time to stare up at the looming structure. With a slight shake of his head to banish the last shreds of hesitation, he walked stiffly through the doors.
The sight inside was even grander than the gleaming exterior. Immediately upon entering, the ceiling rose upwards, opening up the lobby. Through the front and rear glass facades, natural illumination poured in. Enormous potted plants were carefully tucked around the edges of the room, blunting the sharp corners and drinking up the sunlight. As Michael walked further into the open area, scanning the room, he had to circle around curved benches and tables, each with television screens hanging on the walls above them faintly droning out the daily news. Compared to the crowd outside, the building was unsettlingly empty. A third of the way down, the wall vanished to connect a side room, hiding what was likely the elevators, or perhaps a security desk.
Most importantly, just ahead of him, the open doorway to a restroom lay exactly where he'd been told over the phone, one additional confirmation he was in the right place. It was a small relief, but served as a welcome bit of familiarity amid the cavernous, foreign space.
Through the doorway, the restroom was mostly what he'd expected. It was fancy enough for an office building, and matched the decor of the rest of the lobby, but his eye was drawn to a bank of lockers standing against the wall. The meeting ahead of him lent the ordinary metal frames a particularly significant air.
Shrugging off his battered backpack, he began pulling out a change of clothes. Within lay a pair of black jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt, the closest thing he had to a costume. It didn't even deserve to be called amateur; it was really just regular clothing, plain and simple. When he'd picked it out that morning, it had seemed utilitarian, if not particularly fancy. Looking at it now, though, it just felt inadequate. Along with the outfit he pulled on his mask, adjusting it around the back of his head, and from the very depths of his backpack he pulled out his tinkertech shield. For the very first time, it had left its shelf, and now he clicked it into place on his hip opposite the metallic scar. Even as it hung at his side inactive, he was far more aware of its presence than he'd ever been before.
He tugged on the edges of his sweatshirt, pulling out the creases as he fiddled with the hem in pointless delay. One last glance in the mirror confirmed everything was in place, before he stuffed his backpack into the locker and pocketed the key. Back out into the lobby, he scurried along the wall towards the alcove, footsteps once more echoing through the quiet. As he approached, it revealed itself to be the elevator he was searching for.
As the heavy doors slid shut, Michael leaned back against the wall, resting on the handrail. His fingers drummed against the cold brass as he watched the numbers rise, the only indication of his smooth ascent. The slow counter gave him a moment to think. Very soon, the instructions that he'd been provided with would be complete—he would arrive, and from there his mysterious contact would be expecting a quick sale followed by both groups parting ways. Now that the moment drew close, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd gone with the right plan. At the time, outright telling them what he was after had seemed too risky to guarantee a meeting.
After what felt like far too long, the elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors opened without a sound. The room before him wasn't anything like the lobby below. While the same professional atmosphere lingered, the space was smaller and much less warm. Before, bright beams of sunlight had drifted through the windows on the ground floor, but now his head was filled with the buzz of fluorescent lights, scratching at him like a faint itch beneath the skin.
On the opposite side of the room, a solitary door led to places unknown, and beside it protruded a steel panel. As he drew closer, he could see a single, flat call button beneath the wire mesh of a speaker, flush with the rest of the piece. Casting an eye around the room, he double-checked his phone and then pressed the button down with a faint click.
"Hello? I'm here for a two-fifteen appointment," he said cautiously as a green light lit up under his finger. Releasing the switch, there was nothing but silence from the other end as he stared, waiting. Clearing his throat, he had barely started to press it again when the speaker buzzed.
"Please provide your confirmation number," a robotic voice rattled forth. It was impossible to tell if it was a recording or a real person, the words stripped down to a distorted monotone. As soon as it finished, Michael leaned forward, carefully enunciating the string of digits that were practically burned into his memory. There was no further response from the speaker on the wall, but seconds later, a heavy thunk resounded through the room. With a push, the door swung open.
Entering the room, he almost stumbled at the now-familiar tugging sensation that pushed itself to the forefront. In the middle of the room, a large conference table sat with a single chair at either end, and he knew without a doubt that the seat that stood before him was more than it appeared.
Silently, he cursed his own inattentiveness. The two pieces of tinkertech already so close to him were a constant distraction, and his own tightly-wound nerves had only exaggerated the problem. He should have noticed the distinctive pull long before he was literally a couple of feet away from the thing.
Even worse, his momentary lapse hadn't gone unnoticed. The lone seat across from him was occupied, and his hope of avoiding suspicion withered and died as he met a pair of piercing eyes, staring at him impassively behind narrow-framed glasses. The woman they belonged to was dressed in a sharp sleeveless jacket, with long brown hair coiled tightly in a bun. Under her scrutiny, he approached the table. Logically, he knew that getting close enough to touch the hidden tech within the chair was the safest option, but every instinct he had pushed him away. The fact that he'd taken so long to notice it, the deceptive nature, clearly meant to remain unnoticed: he remembered that plain concrete wall with the pull of tinkertech lurking behind it, and he wanted nothing more than to back away.
Willing himself not to react further, he pulled the chair back and took a seat.
Over the course of mere moments, as a part of him ran through the motions of settling in place and adjusting the chair, the rest of his attention was busy flickering through the knowledge that had suddenly sprouted in his mind. Barely a blink later, and the details of the tinkertech emplaced beneath him fell under his grasp.
His overall nervousness ratcheted down a notch as the purpose of the device became clear. Whether it was a deliberate kindness on their part, or simply a limitation on what the organization had been able to acquire, their apparent safeguard wasn't dangerous. Effective, certainly, but he'd go so far as to call it harmless. It was some kind of slowing effect—a bubble centered on the chair that would, upon activation, give the woman across from him plenty of time to reach the exit behind her.
Even as the information flooded his mind, he didn't have time to investigate further, shoving it aside in favor of focusing on the upcoming conversation. He'd need every ounce of persuasiveness he could muster. Even now, he wasn't one hundred percent sure that the inconspicuous group represented before him was the one he was looking for, but what little he'd heard pointed towards the possibility. All the way back when he'd first had a scrap of tinkertech to sell, he'd found mentions of shadier buyers outside of the corporate realm. It hadn't been until very recently that he'd felt the need to look deeper, and it was there that the rumors of additional ties had first come to light.
As Michael finished taking his seat, seconds of silence passed in lieu of introductions, before the steely-eyed woman spoke. "Welcome," she said, giving a brief, sterile smile. "We appreciate your punctuality. I hear this is your first time with us. Do you have any previous experience selling tinkertech? If not, I can answer some questions you might have."
"No questions, thank you," Michael replied, mouth dry. Suddenly, he was dying for a drink, despite the familiarity of the conversation. On the surface, it wasn't anything different than the same buybacks present in each corporate venue, but here the very air weighed down on him. It shouldn't have been a concern; nothing they were doing was illegal since private exchanges of tinkertech technically didn't break any laws. However, selling certain technology to an unlicensed group was, and the qualifications for what exactly counted as one were intentionally, frustratingly vague.
"I've made a few sales through Remedy and Steadfast before," he explained hesitantly, receiving a tilt of the head in what might have been acknowledgement.
"I see. If I might ask, what made you decide to approach us this time around? We're always interested to hear what brings in new customers. Especially ones who take the time to find our team, specifically." Her tone was light, never veering from casual curiosity, but Michael shifted uneasily, unable to meet her gaze. His eyes slid around the blank walls, skipping from one patch of empty white plaster to the next. There was nothing to break up the expanse, save for a single vent, high in the corner of the room. Even there, a heavy grate barred the tiny hole. Out of things to look at, his attention sank back towards the table.
As uncomfortable as the thought was, she'd opened up the best opportunity for him to broach the subject. It would be better to get it out in the open as soon as possible, before she started thinking he was hiding something. He sighed. There really wasn't a good way to go about this, so he could only make an attempt.
"Well, that's the thing," he said carefully. "I'm actually not here to sell any tech." As he spoke, the woman's polite smile dropped into a smooth non-expression, and she leaned forwards ever so slightly. One hand vanished from the edge of the table, likely reaching underneath for the controls to the tech he was seated on top of.
"I'm looking for work!" he quickly explained, squeezing the words out. At the same time, he reached out with his thoughts to hold the tech beneath him immobile. Seconds dragged by, but no activation signal arrived.
Across the table came a scathing reprimand. "That was an extremely poor way to go about that," she said, impassive tone abandoned in a deliberate display of disapproval. Straightening slowly, her gaze never left him even as her hands returned to the edge of the table.
"Lying over the phone just to get a chance to meet in person is, in fact, the opposite of what we're looking for," she added a moment later. "Besides, we aren't hiring at this time." She made it clear that she wasn't very upset to lay out the rejection. "If you're interested in finding a long-term agreement, you should try one of the corporate hero teams. I hear they offer similar services."
"I didn't mean working with your company, exactly," Michael said somewhat evasively. "I meant—They're a certain group that you might have experience with. One that's very hard to reach directly without going through someone else." As his words continued pouring forth, her expression returned to that initial sharp-eyed glare. Lurking in the background, and what he hoped wasn't just his imagination, lay a spark of understanding.
"It sounds like this 'group' values their privacy," she finally said. "Besides that, I can only imagine a team so difficult to contact would take care of their hiring internally." He waited, but she failed to elaborate any further, fully inscrutable once more.
Michael fidgeted under the strain as his thoughts raced. The dismissal hung in the air, and with it came a surge of doubt at what he'd thought he had seen. Perhaps he'd gotten the wrong group after all. He had only one extra piece of information he was willing to offer.
"I think I have some specific strengths that they might be interested in," he said. "Something more than supplying tinkertech, a type of talent that isn't quite so common. A talent that three or four big groups in the city are always on the lookout for." With that last detail, he might have gone too far; it was practically impossible that she didn't know what he was talking about. Regardless, he had been prepared to reveal a small glimpse of what he could do. If that was what it took to get any further, then so be it. He tensed, waiting for the response.
"What exactly makes you believe you're qualified for this hypothetical organization?" she inquired, carefully backtracking from her previous dismissal, and Michael breathed a sigh of relief.
Now the challenge of proving himself was the last barrier in front of him, and he had a solution right at hand. Originally, he was planning on using his shield as a demonstration, but there was a far better method laying right beneath him. He'd been on the back-foot the entire time—nerves wound taut—but now that would finally change.
"I'm sitting right on it," Michael said abruptly, trying not to falter as he continued. "My qualifications, your insurance, all the proof you need is in the tinkertech trap I can feel right beneath me." He gained momentum, finally given an outlet for the building tension inside him. "Eight and a half feet, perfect sphere, centered on the chair. Nobody gets hurt, and the range is short enough for you to escape with plenty of time." The woman across from him didn't even flinch as he rattled off the information, and he pushed further, to the last, most critical piece.
"It's not perfect, though. Takes too long to trigger. There's enough time for me to get clear," he finished, suddenly wrung dry, and a small sliver of satisfaction remained.
That, right there, was the catch. However effective the trap he'd been seated on this entire time was, it took time to actually activate. He could feel the delay, an intrinsic part of the machine. It wasn't long, a little over two seconds, but it was enough. The fact that he knew about it, and had known about it, shifted the balance between the two of them. In the wake of his revelation, silence lingered, and he let himself smile, ever so slightly.
"An accurate assessment," the woman finally stated, glancing at him with a speculative look. "There was one small detail that you missed, however." As she stood, her right hand rose, holding a small black object, and as she placed it on the table, his grin collapsed. The blocky barrel of a heavy-duty taser sat between them as she placed it on the table, pointed safely away towards the side wall.
"'Escape' wasn't the correct word."
She smiled lightly at his look of dawning realization. "I need to make a call. Please excuse me for a moment." Turning, she walked purposefully out the door behind her, and Michael stared apprehensively as a heavy thud echoed through the room.
